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Fangtabulous © 2013 by Lucienne Diver.
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Acknowledgments
I first have to thank my wonderful family, especially my husband Peter and my son Ty, who endured lots of “I can’t do XYZ until the book is in!” You’re all so supportive, and I love you.
Next and very especially, I have to thank Don “Vlad” Deich, who does a great Gothic Magic Show like the one featured here, for showing me around Salem and introducing me to the behind-the-scenes reality. (BTW, you should totally check out more about him at www.gothicmagic.com.) I want to thank Deborah Blake for her invaluable input and equally invaluable friendship, and so, so many other people for being my readers, friends, and cheerleaders over the years: Amy Christine Parker, Lynn Flewelling, Su Minamide, Faith Hunter, Martha Ramirez, Joshua Kane, and Abby Feder-Kane. I also want to fall at the feet of Rachel Caine, Rosemary Clement-Moore, Marley Gibson, and Mari Mancusi, who gave me great quotes to kickstart the series and who are lovely people and writers to watch. And my fans! OMG, you keep me going with your letters and emails. Please keep them coming. I love to hear from you!
Some of the many places I visited in Salem that you might want to check out include Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery, the Witch Dungeon Museum, the House of the Seven Gables, the Witch House, and the Old Burying Point cemetery. Also, if you’re a goth (or a closet goth, as we begin to suspect Marcy might be), you might want to visit Fool’s Mansion and Life and Death in Salem, which may have inspired the Morbid Gift Shop in Fangtabulous a teensy bit. Enjoy!
To all of my drama club friends—
for friendship, belonging, and continued fabulosity.
A Brief and Bloody, or Fair and Fabulous, or Short
and Stylish … History of Salem, Massachusetts
Everyone knows that Salem, Massachusetts, was if not founded then at least overrun by a sect of colorblind cultists* who had never seen a single episode of Project Runway or What Not to Wear. And that a batch of bad bread or boredom led to some young girls cavorting around like they were in the throes of Bieber-mania and blaming it on women (mostly) who they claimed consorted with the devil. Really, these women had the audacity to be different or to tick off one of the girls. One was even, wait for it, known to wear red.** That’s right, the Salem witch trials claim fame for one of the first true fashion victims. By the time the ghoulish girls finally accused just the wrong person and lost their approval rating, twenty people had been put to death on their say-so alone, and almost that many more had died or gone mad in prison.
Oh, yeah, a lot of other historical stuff went on in and around Salem too, like international trade on the tall ships, which led to America’s first millionaire long before anyone thought to ask who wanted to marry one and to televise the answer. And like Nathaniel Hawthorne, who you reader-types might know for stuff like The Scarlet Letter and “Young Goodman Brown,” but who I remember best for a horrifying story we had to read back in the eighth grade where a woman’s psycho husband performs surgery to remove her one imperfection and ends up killing her instead. Like perfection and woman couldn’t survive together on this earth or some sexist thing. (“The Birthmark,” in case you’re wondering.)
But now? Modern-day Salem? One of the most haunted places in America and somewhere, we hoped, where a few vampires, a mad scientist, and a reformed Fed with a touch of magical mojo could blend in without drawing too much attention. As it turns out, we were wrong. But it wasn’t our fault. Really …
Bobby’s notes:
*The Puritans were not colorblind, but were—how should I say it?—ascetics. (Gina’s giving me a huh look, so let me try again … If it looked good or felt good, it was probably a sin.)
**This was Bridget Bishop, first person put to death in the trials. Not only did she have red hair and clothing, she was said to drink and was known to play that morally bankrupt game of shuffleboard, still beloved by the sea-worthy over-sixty set.
1
Did you know that Nathaniel Hawthorne added the w to his last name to distance himself from his ancestor, Judge John Hathorne, who participated in the Salem witch trials?” Bobby asked—the world at large, I guessed, since no one in the van was actually listening. He’d had his head buried in a visitor’s guide—damn vampire night vision—since he’d picked it up at the last rest stop and kept spouting these pearls of wisdom. “When asked what it stood for, he answered wicked.”
Marcy gave me a look that practically begged me to get my guy under control.
“And did you know that—”
“Stop!” she said finally. “You’re giving me a history headache. Just because you’re dating my BFF doesn’t mean I won’t end you.”
That got Bobby’s attention. He popped his head out of the book and looked around the van at the rest of us—Eric, the mad scientist of the group and our getaway driver; Nelson, his nephew who’d been body-swapped with a vampire twice his height and was still getting used to his new body; my gal pal Marcy, who put the vamp in vampire; her boyfriend Brent, telemetric and former Fed; and last but so not least, me, Gina Covello, fashionista of the fanged.
“You going to let her talk to me like that?” Bobby asked me.
“Well, someone had to. Besides, I’m giving you credit. I figure that if it comes to a cage match, you can take her.”
Brent snorted and Marcy protested. “Hey!”
“Children,” Eric said through gritted teeth, “don’t make me pull this van over.”
“And what?” Marcy challenged. “Spank us?”
We all looked at Eric.
“Well, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” he answered, sparing a glance from the road to all of us. “But I su
ppose I could start with an impromptu lecture on the very painful and public ways they used to deal with fighting in the Middle Ages … ”
We all groaned, and Eric turned back to the road with a smirk.
I smacked Bobby. “See what you started? Is that what you’re going to be like when you’re older, because I have to say, totally not attractive.”
“Gee, thanks,” Eric said dryly.
Bobby looked at me with those big blue puppy-dog eyes, the ones that had made me throw caution to the wind back at our after-prom party, where I’d ended up necking with him in the broom closet … a make-out session that led to some eerily eternal consequences. Giving in to Bobby’s magical mojo had lost me my old life and set me up in a new one, as a super-spy/slave to the Feds. Until I’d bought a clue. It turned out I really didn’t want to be part of any club that would have me as a member, especially when we discovered they performed experiments on my kind for fun and profit. So we’d destroyed one of their torture chambers and were now on the run, public enemies #1-6. Yeah, giving in to those baby blues hadn’t exactly done wonders for my social life so far.
On the plus side, I finally had minions.
“Oh, stop with the eyes already. You know I lo—adore you,” I said testily, turning to look out the window. Some days I was convinced that while men might be from Mars, geek-boys were from farther off, like a galaxy far, far away. The fact that I’d even made a reference like that—a Star Wars reference, for goodness sake—meant that maybe we’d been spending a little too much time together. Maybe the true test of a relationship was whether you could spend two days cooped up together in a van and not kill each other. The jury was still out on that one.
“So, Eric, I just gotta ask—are we there yet?” I crouched at the console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, staring at him hopefully. Nelson was playing copilot as the rest of us banged around in the seatless area at the back of the van.
“Almost.”
“How ’bout now?” Marcy added.
Eric growled and she grinned, tension diffused.
Bobby read the visitor’s guide silently after that, and I continued to squat oh-so-ladylike at the console, watching road signs and trying to get the lay of the land. I hadn’t learned much in super spy club training beyond lockpicking, a certain amount of stealth, and the punishment for giving my fatigues a miracle makeover, but I’d always known how to pay attention. Except maybe in history class. Or physics. Or … anyway, I’d never been to New England before. I’d always thought of it as a place where squinty-eyed fishermen smoked pipes, wore cable-knit sweaters, and talked like Captain Ahab or Popeye the Sailor. But, of course, none of them were materializing out of the midnight mist draped in seaweed and babbling in gibberish about the one that got away. Nope, the ride was not nearly so interesting. We were on a road like any other. Signs and signals, uninspired waystations, and the occasional billboard. The most exciting thing I saw was the sign that announced
Salem 10
Danvers 13
Miles, I presumed, and not some kind of grudge match scoreboard.
“Salem can’t be very big then,” I said to Eric, nodding toward the sign.
“It isn’t. Not that I recall,” he answered.
Danger signs flashed before my eyes. “You’ve been there?”
The whole idea of running off to Salem was for anonymity. It was supposed to be a place where no one would think to look for us. Not the Feds and not the vampire council that, I admit, had plenty of good reason to want us dead and out of their fanged fraternity.
“As a kid,” he said. “Don’t worry. It was a family road trip and we were just passing through. There’s nothing to connect me and no one to remember.”
I relaxed and watched as we turned off, finally, onto a smaller street that slowly gave way from diner/gas station combos to New England–type houses, mostly one or two stories with sharply sloped roofs to encourage the snow to slide off. Maybe it was just the darkness, but the town color palette appeared to be grim and grimmer-er. Grays, browns, and brick.
The streets were narrow and seemed to change names inexplicably—from town to town?—without a turn or any other sort of indicator. Eric just kept following the signs for Salem Center.
“Nelson, you have the directions?” he asked.
His nephew reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Loose-leaf, covered in scrawl. So retro. “Got ’em.”
“Good.”
Bobby came up and settled beside me as Nelson read out twists and turns. We watched silently as we passed signs for the Witch House, the Witch Dungeon, the Old Burying Point cemetery, the Witch History Museum. I was sensing a theme.
Bobby put a hand to my neck, gently sliding his fingers through my hair and caressing my nape. I tingled everywhere he touched. He had that effect on me. There was magic in those hands. And lips. And … well, everything. It was just that sometimes I was reminded that we were from two different worlds. I could debate the finer points of style, while his fashion IQ stopped at admiration of Princess Leia’s bronze bikini. Gah, two Star Wars references in one car ride. It was like the road trip from hell. But still, those hands … I moved away from them before I could start purring and totally embarrass myself.
“What did your guy say about our contact in Salem?” Bobby asked, reluctantly letting me go.
“I have an address, a name, and the fact that he runs the Gothic Magic Show. There really wasn’t time for anything else.”
“What with the biting and all,” Bobby said, avoiding eye contact.
I stared at him until he looked at me again. “Are we back to that?” I asked. “The whole kiss-of-death thing was the price of admission. You know that.”
“Yeah, I also know how well that worked out for you last time.”
Okay, looking back, the first time I’d bestowed the kiss eternal had been a mistake. Rick-the-rat, one of our former classmates, had gone over to the dark side—aligned with the council vamps, who thought humans should be beaten and eaten without even the benefit of fava beans and a nice chianti. But Hunter, one of the Tampa-area vampire lifestylers—also known in medical circles as Charles Orloff, DDS—was different. I hoped. And anyway, when you turned against two really powerful groups like the fangs and Feds, you weren’t left with a huge pool of potential allies. Hunter had been willing to help us … for a price.
“Sure, rub that in,” I huffed. “Anyway, since you turned me, and I turned Rick, he’s kind of your grandbaby, so don’t come crying to me about the way he turned out.”
“By your logic, I’m macking on my own daughter,” Bobby said, licking his lips at me.
“Okay, ewww.” I pushed him, and he tumbled over onto his butt. “Let’s just call me a self-made vamp.”
“Agreed.” He reached out a hand for me to pull him up, but when I grabbed it, he yanked, and I went sprawling down beside him. “Ha, gotcha!”
“Oh, you think so?” I knew all his ticklish spots, and I wasn’t afraid to use them. Oh yes, vamps can giggle. Fear us.
“Children,” Eric barked out.
“What?” Bobby asked, gasping for breath. “She started it.”
“We’re there.”
Bobby sat up, suddenly no longer ticklish. When I pouted, he raised my fingertips to his lips and kissed them. I got all warm and tingly in the general vicinity of my heart.
I looked around. We were in a parking garage like you’d see in any big city, which was weird. Even weirder, it was almost to capacity, even at the midnight hour. We were on the top level before we found a parking spot. But like in any civilized city on the planet, there was a sign on the wall saying This Way to the Mall, so it was easy enough to find our path.
“Mall!” Marcy and I said together.
“Holla!” she added, and we clapped in an explosive high-five.
“His friend does a magic show in a mall ?” Bobby asked.
“You have something against the mall?” I asked, giving him the evi
l eye. “Not highbrow enough for you?”
It was so much fun to watch his face contort as he tried to come up with an answer that I had to laugh. “Nevermind, let’s go shopping!”
“Down, girl,” Nelson said, like he was as old as the body he wore. “Contact first. Besides, we’re not exactly rolling in dough right now.”
“Rolling—dough—I get it,” said Marcy dryly. “Really, you’re a laugh riot.”
“Children,” Eric said again.
“Okay.” Brent’s voice cut across the banter like a lash. “Everybody move out. Go, go, go. Nelson, you take point. I’ll bring up the rear.” He opened the back panels of the van and waved us through.
We all looked at each other, shrugged, and followed orders, although Bobby whispered in Brent’s ear on the way past.
“Fine,” he barked. “You bring up the rear then. Everyone else, move out.”
Made sense. Brent was, after all, human, and thus vulnerable, while Bobby was, if not bulletproof, then at least bullet-resistant. He had some really major mojo and could stop stuff in its tracks if he knew it was coming, and he could also influence and cloud men’s minds like some comic-book super hero. Plus, if anything did get through to him, he’d heal, as long as it didn’t decapitate him or pierce his heart with wood. Of course, that healing part was something all of us vamps had in common, which was probably why Nelson took the lead. Marcy and I would have done just as well, only we were at least half a head shorter than Nelson’s hulking husk. The vamp that Nelson’s body used to belong to was named Xander; Nelson’s own body, piloted by Xander’s consciousness, had gone on a little killing spree and was now enjoying down-time in some Federal facility. As far as we knew.
“What kind of mall is this?” Marcy asked.
“A tourist-town mall,” Bobby answered reasonably. “At the shore you get seashells and beachwear. In Salem you get witches and pentagrams.”
“Oh, that Salem,” Marcy said. “I was thinking about the place where they make the cigarettes.”
Brent coughed, and we all immediately looked to see if he’d covered the smile quickly enough or if he was about to get whapped … or both. Marcy didn’t seem to have caught the smile, but she pounded on Brent’s back to help him over his cough. From the way he winced, I figured she’d forgotten about her vamp strength.
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