by Mary Hughes
“Set Guns and Polkas up on the second stage,” I told him.
“What good will it do?” Lob asked, pulling on his already-spiky hair. “The speakers are wired to the main stage. Nobody will hear us.”
“The speakers are wired to both stages.” That was Woofers ’R Us’s idea, but I thought it was pretty froody.
The sound equipment was set up so either stage could use it. While one band was playing, another could be setting up on the other stage. When the second band was ready, the system would switch to the new band. Slick.
Lob made a face. “Yeah, but the equipment is preset. It switches every half-hour—and it starts on the main stage!”
“Great. Simply lucking fovely.” I cast an eye over BTK and the Ruthiettes. The guy with the mullet had grabbed an electric bass. He hung it upside down from the strap around his neck. He tried to plug into his preamp by sticking one of the tuning machines in the socket. When the tuner didn’t even come close to fitting, the dweeb decided to be clever. He used his mighty vampire strength to strip off the knob. Too bad his brain power hadn’t increased with his muscle power. When he stuck the denuded pin into the amp, a zap of current lit him up brighter than a light bulb. His eyes turned red and his mullet stood out like the bill of a baseball cap. He jittered around the stage for a bit, until the guitar came unplugged. Then he just stood there, the occasional zap quaking his body, bits of smoke rising from his nostrils and ears.
BTK was smarter, but not by much. He plugged in his guitar okay, but the volume knob was dialed all the way down. He hit the strings and nothing happened. He fiddled with all the keys on the guitar including the tremolo bar—in fact, everything but the volume control. Still nothing. That pissed him off so much he broke the guitar over mullet guy’s head. I winced but the growing audience applauded.
Josiah Moss, the alderperson for the bands, jumped on the stage where Julian and I stood. “We’ve got to do something,” he said. “I don’t know who these guys are, but they don’t listen worth shit. And they’re stronger than hell.” He rubbed his arm, where I saw four distinct finger-shaped bruises.
Julian started purposefully forward. “I’ll take care of it.”
I put a hand on his arm. “There’s already too many people here. Somebody will see.”
“I’ll be discreet.” The tips of Julian’s fangs were just poking out his lips.
“There are five of them, Julian. One of you.”
“I’ve done five against one before.” His chest muscles, just visible between the edges of his jacket, were pumped up like boulders. “I can handle them.”
“I’m sure. But five bodies…twelve pints each? That’s a huge mess, Julian. I’ll be a good little wifey, but I ain’t cleaning up all that.”
His fangs disappeared like slingshots. “Wifey?”
Oops. Talk about Freudian slips. Julian would run like the wind.
So I was utterly shocked when he pulled me tight and kissed me like he’d like to crawl down my throat. “Yes,” he said.
“Yes?” I echoed faintly, not even knowing what the question was.
At that moment the Ruthiettes struck their first chord.
We both flinched. It was so bad it hurt. They had figured out how to plug into the sound system but they still didn’t know how to make music. Bass, lead, rhythm, and keyboard all joined in a cacophony of tsunami proportions.
They clashed like they’d thrown their instruments in a blender, along with a sixties Volkswagon bus. And the bus sounded best.
All around us people were staring at the band on the main stage. Not upset or unfriendly, exactly, but confused. Apparently they thought this was simply a new style of garbage rock. One or two tried to dance to the beat, but as the Ruthiette drummer entered the fray, it became obvious the beat was the musical equivalent of thrown paint.
“We’ve got to do something!” Lob and Josiah wailed at the same time.
“If not my solution,” Julian said, “what, then?”
“Can we cut their power?” I asked Lob.
“I tried. There’s a backup supply on each stage. It’ll die, but not before we do.”
“Where’s the backup?”
Lob pointed at a dark gray box nestled between Billy the Kid’s feet.
Shizzle. As friendly as BTK was with that backup power supply, even Julian couldn’t get to it.
Julian pointed to the crowd. “You’d better come up with something soon. We don’t have much time.”
People were milling restlessly, some starting toward the door. We were counting on a full night of bands to keep the people—and money—hopping. The Ruthiettes could shut us down before we even started.
Suddenly Julian snapped his fingers. “Star Trek.” He motioned Josiah Moss over.
“What?”
“Wrath of Khan. They may be stronger, but music is our world.”
I was surprised that Julian knew any pop culture but wisely kept my mouth shut.
“We’ll take advantage of their ignorance.” Julian shouted instructions in Moss’s ear. Then he pushed him toward the door. “Hurry!”
As Moss ran out, Julian clamped hands to ears. Apparently his vampy hearing was even more sensitive than mine.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
He told me.
“Shit. You’re kidding, right?” Our fate rested in the hands of the most frightfully unreliable people in the world—teenagers. And worse. Drunk teenagers.
“Can you think of anything else?” Julian winced at a particularly loud Gm7 with added 13, 19 and yowling cat.
Josiah Moss returned in short order. Twenty drunken teen math geeks reeled in behind him. But not just math geeks, applied math geeks. That was what Julian was counting on now.
The lead geek was Bill Like Bill Gates. The one who’d kept smooshing me with kisses. “He likes you best,” Julian said to me. “You’d better explain.”
I glared at him, and I think my eyes turned red. I know I was snarling. But I did it. This responsibility thing was no fun, but it did get easier. “How much do you know about acoustics?” I shouted in Bill’s ear.
“Enough to know when waves are seriously clashing.” Bill closed one eye like he was getting a hangover. “Why?”
Twenty, drunk, uninsured teenagers. Maybe this wasn’t the only solution. Maybe—
As I hesitated, three people near the door left. Another two started after them.
I took a deep breath. “We need some help.”
“You need help from us?” Both of Bill’s eyes snapped opened and swung to me. “Do I get a kiss?”
“No,” I said. Julian growled.
My voice was lost in the overwhelming ruckus, but the growl cut through.
“Okay,” the kid said, eyes switching to Julian. “No kiss.” A beat. “Nice earring. Engagement present?”
Julian opened his mouth to answer. Since I did not want to hear what he would say, I yelled, “So do you? Do you guys know anything about acoustics?”
“Sure,” the kid said.
“Great. Here’s what we have in mind.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Billy the Kid and the Ruthiettes had control of the main amp and speakers until nine thirty. Lob had set up our equipment on the second stage.
Normally our speakers wouldn’t make a dent in the hell-sound that the BTK posse was spitting out. Even our five-foot Big Daddy was seriously underpowered compared to the six-footers.
But I had a secret weapon. Twenty little technogeeks. They combined and boosted our small amps and speakers. Serious boosting. As the final fillip, Bill-not-Gates whipped out a black Sharpee and drew an extra click on the volume knob.
He’d ramped us up to eleven.
At least half a dozen people had already left. The rest of the crowd was heading toward the door. I gave the nod to our singer and frontman Cob, and held my breath.
“Are you ready to rock, Meiers Corners!” Cob boomed.
People stopped in their tracks. Turned
hopefully.
Guns and Polkas started our signature tune, fast and furious, at about five thousand decibels. It was so loud it had to be good.
The crowd started wandering back. I crowed with triumph. Of course, with our style of music my crow sounded like a duet with Cob.
We ripped out that tune like we were American Idol megastars. Manic energy poured from us; we were light-years better than our very best. We were tighter than tight, louder than loud, driving music out like a speeding semi.
And Julian was amazing. It was as if he’d played punk all his life, complete with muscular riffs and rippling abs. The audience was blown away.
The intent however was to blow away BTK and the Ruthiettes. We were counting on vampire hearing being more sensitive. I was hoping we were so loud the bad-guy vamps would stop playing and run away.
Half the plan worked. They stopped playing.
They didn’t run away.
When Billy the Kid saw the audience returning, he smashed another guitar over mullet-boy’s head. I guess he was pissed. So I gave him a friendly, one-fingered salute.
BTK, sprouting fangs, came straight at me.
I wasn’t worried. The ramped-up speakers were pointed strategically toward the vampire band. When Billy TK leaped onto the edge of our stage, it put him right in front of our Big Daddy.
I slipped behind the head-high speaker. Nodded to Julian, who squished in a set of earplugs.
Then I hit Billy and his homies with a seriously ramped-up power chord.
Set to eleven, the amp smashed that chord through the air like a hammer. Waves of sound pumped out so big and hard even I could feel them. They would pound a vampire’s brain to mush.
The vampires screamed. Jumped off the main stage like deserting rats. They headed straight for the backstage area, darker and cooler than the rest of the warehouse. They didn’t bother to take their instruments.
But even though his head should have been hollowed out by my power chord, Billy the Kid came straight for me.
I saw it with the clarity of a nightmare. BTK mere feet away, fangs extended and dripping saliva. Cob, nearest me, had just seen the fangs and was paralyzed, shock clear on his face. The rest of the band hadn’t even seen the danger.
Except for Julian. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Julian leap toward me.
But he was on the other side of the stage. Billy the Kid was within spitting distance. I knew there was only one male who could protect me now.
Oscar.
Heart breaking, I slammed Oscar into the stage. Oscar broke, his rosewood fingerboard separating from his body. As BTK ran toward me, I swung Oscar’s neck up to my shoulder like a bazooka.
We were invisible to the audience, behind the Big Daddy speaker. Good thing, because the Kid had dropped any semblance of humanity. His face was plated, his fangs and claws were flared. He absolutely dripped rage as he lunged for me.
I stood stiff, Oscar’s headstock braced against my shoulder.
Billy the Kid impaled himself twelve inches deep. His eyes widened. He took one gaspy breath. His claws closed and opened spasmodically, then disappeared. He didn’t vanish in a poof of dust, but no more breaths followed. His eyes rolled back into his head. Slowly he collapsed.
I stood there, heart pounding. Bo would be proud. I had done it. I had staked a vampire, the old-fashioned way. Without a bazooka.
The Kid fell off the back of the stage with my improvised stake still embedded in his chest. Oscar’s neck slid from my grasp. Hell. I wish it had been a bazooka. A tear ran down my cheek.
A hand gripped my shoulder. I jumped, only to freeze when Julian’s warm voice sounded in my ear. “Ruthven’s gang is escaping!”
I shot a look toward the door, but the Ruthiettes weren’t there. Then I remembered they had run toward the back of the warehouse. Toward the dim, dark corner where our coats and cases were. “What do you mean? There’s no escape that way. No doors, and the windows are a story up. Unless they can fly?”
“Not old enough. But if there’s no escape, why did they run that way?”
“I don’t know.” And I didn’t care. Oscar lay broken at my feet. Behind me, Lob and Rob had finally figured out something was going on. Well, with half the band not playing, they were bound to sooner or later. Cob was still paralyzed.
“We’ve got to follow them,” Julian said urgently.
“We can’t.” Oscar was gone. And while I could play on a borrowed guitar for the rest of the set, the guitar wouldn’t play itself. Take away rhythm, take away lead…“Guns and Polkas sounds like a kindergarten band without guitars!”
Raising both eyebrows, Julian said, “Is the band’s sound more important than catching vampires?” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Sorry, I’m being buckets of stupid. Of course it is.”
A muddy rasp turned both our heads. “Am I late, Nixie?” Dirk Ruffles, his sax hanging from his neck, climbed onto the back of the stage. He gave BTK a glance as he passed. “That’s a funny place to take a nap.”
“Dirk!” Here was an opportunity marked quack. “Do you remember ‘Take Five’?”
“Of course,” he said. “Why?”
“Lob! Grab the keyboard off the main stage. Hook it in and use the auto-chords. You want E-flat minor/B-flat minor.” I turned to Dirk. “Okay, wing it until I get back.”
“You got it, Nixie!”
Julian and I rushed after the vampires. Back of the warehouse, no way out. It should have been like a box canyon. We should have confronted four mean and fangies.
But when we got to the unlit corner, all the Ruthiettes had disappeared.
I stared, disbelieving. It was like a locked room mystery. Three walls, a ceiling, and a floor covered with wooden pallets piled with instrument cases. No doors, no windows, nowhere to go. Yet four big vampires were gone.
“Did they mist?” I asked, remembering Ruthven, and Julian’s easy-off clothes.
“Billy was the only one old enough.” He cast around him, nostrils flared. “They’re not far.” His eyes were so red they almost glowed.
Red glow. Like an exit sign.
And I thought, what if?
There’s an old story about PT Barnum. He put together a museum of exhibits and live acts—Tom Thumb, the Feejee Mermaid, various stuffed animals, and the like. People came to see them, but were so enthralled they didn’t leave. And even in the dark ages, you hadda have throughput to make money. So PT posted signs saying, “This way to the Egress”. People thought “egress” was another exhibit. Maybe some kind of bird. But it’s not—it’s an exit. In PT’s case, an exit with no way back in. And people would exit, whether they intended to or not. Instant throughput.
PT Barnum’s egress was an exit that didn’t look like an exit. What if there was an egress here? Not a door, or window, or something we’d normally think of as an exit. But something else? I dove to my knees in front of the mountain of cases, and pulled them aside to bare the wooden pallet underneath.
“What…?” Julian crouched down beside me. His eyes widened. Something was under the pallet.
Or rather, nothing was under the pallet. I had revealed a big hole in the concrete floor. “WTF…a tunnel! This must lead to the Blood Center. This is how they planned to get the blood out.”
Julian nodded grimly. “Call Elena. I’ll contact Bo, have him send us Logan and the rest.”
The calls took less than thirty seconds. After we passed the information on, Julian dropped into the hole. “Jump, Nixie.” His voice sounded echoey, like he was far away.
I squeaked. “Don’t you want to wait for Elena and Bo?”
“No time.” Julian’s voice floated up from the pitch black. “Ruthven’s lieutenants will know we’re not far behind. With the element of surprise gone, they may decide to break the blood out another way. They may even destroy it, if they can’t have it.”
“But they won’t know we’ve found their tunnel.” It was so dark down there. And…deep-sounding.
“They’ll figure it out. Come on, Nixie. Jump. I’ll catch you.”
I couldn’t see a thing. I didn’t know how deep the tunnel was. From the far-off sound of Julian’s voice, I was afraid it wasn’t just a few feet.
I would need to trust him to catch me.
Did I trust him that much? Did I trust a man I’d met less than two weeks ago to keep me from jumping to my death, or at least a couple broken bones?
Fuck. Yes. Yes, I did. I jumped.
The fall was longer than I expected. My stomach flew to the roof of my mouth. Nothing, nothing…suddenly Julian’s warm arms caught me.
Then, to my utter shock, we dropped more. But slower, gentler. We floated like a feather to a stop. “Can you fly?” I gasped.
“Not exactly,” Julian murmured, setting me down. “It’s a form of shape-shifting.”
The blackness engulfed me. I grabbed for him, caught his jacket in my fist. Gently, Julian disengaged me, murmuring soothing nonsense. I seized his hand instead.
He curled his fingers protectively around mine. Led me forward, slowly. I started relaxing. It was so much like the night at the Kosmopolitisch I nearly laughed out loud. But there were four big vampires somewhere in the darkness. I didn’t want them hearing me.
Or maybe, I thought with a pang of panic, more than four. After all, some of Ruthven’s gang would have to be inside. Inside, passing blood down from the Blood Center. Carting the blood back this way, to pass it up into the Roller-Blayd factory. But only after the tourists had been scared away. I choked back my laugh.
The tunnel went on for what seemed like miles. Any second I expected to run into Ruthiettes. I couldn’t hear anything above my own pounding heart, so I strained my eyes, hoping for some light. I thought a couple times I could see…something. But no. Nothing except my own eagerness and fear playing tricks on my brain.
So it was a complete surprise when a small golden glow appeared, and didn’t disappear when I blinked. “Julian. Is that light?”
“Shh. It’s the Blood Center. Nixie—we don’t know what we’ll find. I don’t suppose I could convince you to wait here?”
“NFW.” No fucking way.
“All right. Be careful, please. Remember that though they’re young, these males are vampires. Their reflexes are still light-years faster than yours.”