by D. R. Perry
Well, hopefully. I’m auditioning for a production of Nine with the Cranston Community Troupe, the only Community Theater production with a rehearsal and production schedule that fits my nocturnal nature. So, there are no guarantees, but I’m gunning for at least a spot in the ensemble. Nah, who am I trying to kid, here? I want the lead role. And if that’s going to happen, I need to get out of the bathroom and get dressed.
I’m toweling off, not bothering with the mirror. Can’t see myself in it anymore, which was a huge shock at first, but something I’m getting used to after four months. Going anywhere in public where there might be mirrors and mortals means I need to wear a full face of makeup. Even though I’ve had all the theatrical practice with applying the stuff, it’s not so easy to put it on when you can’t see yourself. Technology helps. Digital cameras don’t have the whole mirror problem for people like me.
I wrap the towel around my waist and head into the big room that makes up the rest of my apartment. Seconds later, I’m back inside the bathroom, pulling on the pajamas I discarded before getting in the shower. Because I’ve got an unexpected guest in my apartment. Again.
When I emerge, Stephanie McQueen is still sitting at the tiny breakfast table, drinking warmed blood from my favorite mug with the local news rag The Cranston Call in front of her. Typical behavior, not surprising. I really should expect her to turn up more often, especially after she lived here on and off when Rhode Island’s entire vampire court got deposed this summer.
And before you get the idea that she’s my girlfriend or something, ew. She’s definitely not. Steph is the vamp who turned me and more like an eternal mom-friend than anything else. Well, if mom-friends were mysterious, highbrow, and five foot nothing.
“Tino, what in the world do you think you’re doing?” And judgmental. Should have mentioned that part.
“Um, trying to get a shower, get presentable before going out.” I shrug then head to the dresser to get my clothes. “You know. In my apartment. With privacy, like a normal person.”
“Oh, goodness, no.” She shakes her head, looking up from the newsprint under her dainty hand. “I’m referring to this.” One manicured nail taps a circled entry in the Classifieds.
“Um.” I definitely haven’t forgotten what it says, but I pretend to be in one of my brain-fart modes anyway. “Huh?”
“Valentino, vampires shouldn’t put themselves in the literal spotlight like this. It only leads to trouble in the long run.”
“I’m more than a little magnetic as far as trouble’s concerned, Stephanie.”
“All the more reason to refrain from activities like this.” She curls her hands around the mug of blood.
“Look, you definitely know how boring things can get for us. I only want to stop that from happening.” I’m lying.
“Oh, Tino. I wasn’t turned yesterday.” Stephanie makes that clucking noise. You know the one—the disappointed mom sound. Yup, even the ones with fangs do that, and it makes you feel just as lousy, too. “You’ve still got guilt over everything.”
I have a choice here. Accept that she knows better and confess my true intentions. Or keep right on lying because sometimes Stephanie’s got the wrong idea about modern times and how to navigate them. It should be an easy choice, but ever since the night down in the catacombs under Providence, followed by helping create a literal monster in the courthouse, I have trouble deciding much of anything.
But refusing to reply is a choice, too. I set the clothes on top of the dresser, fill my second-favorite mug with blood from the coffee maker, and sit across from my sire in my pajamas. Her eyebrow is sky high, but instead of commenting, I just drink my breakfast.
“Are we having a conversation here?”
“It’s too early in the evening.” I feign a yawn.
“So, it’s a regression back to your adolescent years.” She sounds like a shrink from the Freudian era. Which she might have actually been, for all I know.
“Whatever.” If she’s going to treat me like I’m sixteen, I’ll play along and act like it, dammit.
“Be aware that this is dangerous.” She taps the circled listing again. “For you personally, among other things.”
“This is what I love about you, Stephanie.” I try smiling, but my mouth rebels and makes it a sneer I hope comes across as ironic. “Your plain and simple yet shockingly cryptic warnings of imminent danger.”
“You shouldn’t need the details, Tino.” She shakes her head and picks the newspaper up, folding it. Then, she sets it aside to reveal something in the middle of the table. “But if you insist, read this.”
And of course, she had a book hiding under the newsprint. I know the basic story, which is why I never actually bothered reading the dog-eared and yellowing used copy I’ve owned since middle school. Any theater geek worth his salt knows the one about the guy in the mask. Phantom of the Opera is a classic of late twentieth-century musical theatre as well as classic literature.
“Every time I play along with your surprise book club suggestions, something bad happens.”
“Have you considered that perhaps it’s your actions that predicate my suggestions?”
“Can’t you ever give me a straight answer about this kind of stuff?”
“Most of the time, no.” Which is some of the plainest speech out of Steph’s mouth the entire time I’ve known her. Because of course, it is.
“Okay.” I shake my head and grab the book. “Look, I need some privacy, and then I’m going out.”
“To your audition.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not stopping you from making your preparations.” Her hands curl more tightly around the mug, slender fingers failing to cover the theatre mask design on its sides.
Stephanie’s gazing down into the red liquid inside the cup instead of at me. Which, I suppose, must be her idea of giving me privacy. But I’m Catholic and too modest for that, so I bring my outfit into the bathroom. I try not to be too put out over her refusal to take my hints and leave. I need the mirror in there to apply my makeup anyway.
With four months of practice, the whole routine takes about fifteen minutes to literally put my mirror-friendly face on. Flesh-tone greasepaint fills in the visage that wouldn’t otherwise show in the mirror. I make use of an eyebrow pencil and mascara that match my hair. A bit of contouring with other shades out of my stage makeup kit gives me the finishing touches I need. My hair’s already been taken care of with dye. With Just For Men, no one can tell you’re a blood-drinking creature of the night.
Most vampires I know avoid actual mirrors as much as possible. And that’s fine for them, because things like shiny cars don’t give us a problem. But mirror-loving me needs help in this department. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve always been more than a little vain, and I like looking at myself. Nobody’s perfect.
When I get out of the bathroom, I catch Stephanie doing the weirdest thing I’ve seen from her. She’s bent halfway at the waist, rummaging in my fridge. Half a pot of warm blood is still in the coffee maker, too. I clear my throat and she slowly rises, turning her head until she’s giving me the frostiest fish-eye ever. But I’m not falling for the shame game this time.
“What gives? Whitby’s court not giving you enough for DeCampo and the rest?”
I’m talking about the deposed vampire king, our friend Raven, and Maya, who all unlive with Raven’s mortal-yet-magical family in Warwick.
“You know how much they give me, Tino.” And she’s right. We get a supply because of an agreement she hoodwinked me into paying for, after all. For two months in a row.
It’s important to stay on the good side of the vampire authorities for a number of reasons. One of these is, there’s some kind of age test to determine who’s the king, so it’s almost always the oldest and most powerful vamp in the area. Which of course means you don’t want to piss that person off. But the other reason is being able to get enough blood to survive without freaking the mundanes.
Feeding
directly from people is seen as barbaric nowadays because it pretty much blows our cover completely. Back in the day, Vampires used to have human allies in the know they fed from in exchange for knowledge and aid, but modern times are different. Someone in Providence has an understanding with the blood bank, so we get donations the hospitals can’t use for whatever reason. Or at least, the court and the king do.
Us rank-and-filers need to offer favors in exchange for a monthly allotment. And that’s where things get tricky. DeCampo and Raven don’t dare attend the monthly Blood Moots because they’re both older than the guy who stole the throne. They used to be the head honchos so hanging around with the new king and his brainwashed entourage is a risky proposition. Besides, they can’t exactly beg for blood when De Campo’s claiming to be king of Warwick. Technically, he is, I guess, because the five of us are the only vampires there.
Whitby and his enforcers only invite Stephanie and me to attend meetings if Whitby wants something. They do let us pick up a reasonable monthly allotment of blood, however. Eventually, the pretender to the throne will have to invite us to all of the Providence shindigs. Vampires are supernaturally bound to follow the rules, and the new guy’s about to run out of excuses for barring me and my sire entry on what’s supposed to be a blanket invitation. We won’t be biding our time for much longer.
“Hey Steph, can you maybe wait until after my audition before we hit Whitby’s fake court up for more blood?”
“It’s not that simple, Tino.” Stephanie pauses. It’s one of those stops where I can tell she’s finding the right words. “How do I put this? We need another source that better fits certain needs.”
“Okay.” I shrug on a sports coat over my t-shirt and grimace. The role I’m going for is a guy who’d wear that kind of thing, but I’m definitely not. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m not a fan of method acting. But I’ll dress for the part I want if it means getting my foot in the door.
“’Okay’ is all you have to say?”
“Well, I can go to Kent County Hospital later. Ask Doctor Maris if we can make a deal, maybe.”
“Maybe isn’t good enough, Valentino.” She gazes at my fridge like it doesn’t contain the long-lost family member she’d been searching for. “This is too important.”
“Look, I’m new. Not sure what to do or how to finagle it anyway, but at least I’m willing to try.”
“You do have a point.”
“Right. So give me some tips on what to do and I can help, okay?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Tino.” She shakes her head. When Stephanie says she can’t help, she means it. “But perhaps Maya can. I already arranged for her to meet you.”
“What?”
“Valentino, I know your ears work perfectly.” She taps the newspaper, then drinks the last of the blood in my favorite mug. “She’ll find you here. I’d best be off. I’ve got obligations of my own, you know.”
“Uh.”
“There’s not much more I can say.”
And she’s out the door. Stephanie’s cryptic speech is the real reason I have a hard time dealing with her. But my mind goes back to something Old Man Fergus Fitzpatrick said to me a couple of months ago. Vampires are only bound by the vows they make. So what demented cat has got my sire’s tongue this time?
I’m not sure I want to find out. But with my luck, I’ll probably have to wrangle with it in the near future anyway.
Chapter Two
I pull my car up in front of the playhouse that belongs to the Cranston Community Troupe. It’s dark out, thank goodness. The streetlights outside are the new LED kind. No weird sodium orange coating everything, which is a nice touch. Rhode Island loves its arts community, so these lights are probably courtesy of some grant or other available to talented individuals or creative organizations in the state.
There’s a sign pointing the way to the stage door, so I head in that direction. It’s not the first time I’ve been to an audition here, though the last time was during the summer between high school and college. I got in, and Grease was supposed to be my last show. But here I am again.
I stop walking in the middle of the parking lot. Maybe Stephanie’s right, and this isn’t a good idea. There are so many things on my plate right now, how can I find time to play the lead in a show like this? I mean, I’m a foster dad to three kids, technically. What if Leora, Levi, or Sarah have some kind of emergency right before I’ve got a performance?
“Tino?” I turn at the sound of the unexpected voice.
“Zack. Old pal.”
No, he’s more like a situationally benevolent frenemy. I am not happy to see this guy right now. Yeah, we just buddied up and mended fences after I did a case for him. But he can only be going up against me for this role. And every time we compete, he wins just about everything. Zack Milano’s not an asshole, he’s just more talented than I am at performing arts. And supernaturally. Yeah, he’s a magician. The most powerful kind, too.
“You’re seriously auditioning for Nine?” He chuckles. “Aren’t you a bit, uh, rusty for that?”
“Yeah, it’s been years since my last appearance. But I practice all the time. So I figure why not? It’s only one of the most challenging roles for a baritone. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
“Same here.” Zack flashes his perfect bleach-whitened smile. Okay, maybe it’s not bleached. He always had uncannily good looks. Which is why he’s Rhode Island’s favorite news anchor, of course.
“Cool.” It’s not.
“See ya inside!” Zack Milano paces away, throwing a wave over his head as he goes.
“Well, this is frigging great.” I roll my eyes at no one and nothing. If only Maury was here. We always used to have a laugh or three about Zack’s uncanny good luck to make ourselves feel better. Which would have been mean, I guess, if the dude wasn’t so pompous about it all.
But Maury’s at the hospital, getting chemo. I hang my head and stare at my shoes, watch them pace the rest of the way over cracked and tarred asphalt. My best friend’s fighting for his life and I’m having catty thoughts about Zack Milano. One of these things is more important than the other. Fuck cancer. I’d punch it in the face if I could.
I look around for Maya before pulling open the door because Stephanie said she’d be there, and my sire hasn’t lied to me yet. But there’s a first time for everything, I guess. Or maybe Maya didn’t want to come and watch a bunch of borderline amateurs belt out tunes on cue.
But when I follow the signs leading from the green room to the audience seating, I see her sitting in the fifth row, a reasonable distance away from the mostly female crowd waiting to audition. And of course, Zack is sitting in the fourth row, completely turned around and chatting away like they’re old friends instead of acquaintances who met one time over the summer.
I tell myself that Maya, definitely an older vampire than I assumed at first, isn’t going to fall for a mortal guy, magician or not. But Zack’s so…well, how do I put this? He’s pretty. His dark hair sits neatly in glossy waves without a hint of early gray or receding hairline. The traces of laugh lines around his eyes have near-perfect symmetry, like the rest of his face. He escaped the fate of the classic Roman schnoz, and his skin’s that healthy olive mine used to be in the summers before I got turned. Maya laughs at whatever he’s saying, too.
Once again, Zack Milano’s positioned himself to make a play for who and what’s important to me. Which, to be fair, he’s used to getting. But I just went through trying to avoid that from another direction in my supernatural life. Yeah, I’m going for this role and this show as a form of escapism, so no wonder I almost turn around and leave.
“Tino! Hi!” Maya stands up, smiling and waving as she navigates the row to move toward me.
We meet in the middle, and she takes my hand. Which is sort of a big deal because she’s got touch-telepathy. The image she gives me of Zack as a vainglorious peacock having a bucket of water dumped over his head is just too funny. I bark a laugh, eve
n though the real deal is stepping up behind Maya.
“I was just telling Maya here that she’d be a perfect Carla.” That’s about the smarmiest backhanded compliment he could have given her.
Zack’s talking about the lead role’s mistress, who does a literal strip-tease on stage and is the reason this is an evenings-only production.
“And I said I’m not here to audition.”
“Well, you ought to.”
“Can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“Carla’s a dancing part anyway. And you’ve got the figure for it.” Ew. Smarmy, like I said.
“Two left feet, too.” Which I happen to know is a blatant lie. Maya’s got more grace and physical coordination in her pinkie than I do in my entire body. And I’m a fencer, so no slouch in that department, either.
“Oh, well.” Zack glances along the rows of other ladies there to audition, rolls his eyes at me, then saunters off in their direction.
He’s got a smirk that I think I know all too well. I guess he’s going to hit on one or more of them. Except for the gal with the asymmetrical haircut who looks like she’s falling asleep in her seat. But my gut says there’s more to the woman’s drowsiness than that, maybe something magical. I shake it off because more than likely, I’m just jealous of Zack and trying to distract myself from confronting that emotion. Again.
“That guy, seriously.” Maya shakes her head. “Incapable of taking a hint.”
“Captain Oblivious?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” She peers toward the table set up in front of the first row, where the directors sit. “Great magical power, itty-bitty emotional intelligence. You going for the same role as him?”
“Yeah. This show’s only got one part for a guy.” I jerk my chin at the clipboard sitting on the edge of the table, pen perched atop the paper on it. “I’d better sign in.”
“Well, break a leg.”