To Catch a Vampire

by Jennifer Harlow

  I maneuver through the now moshing crowd, past the go-go dancers, to the bar. An arm wraps around my waist. “I did not know you could dance,” Oliver says.

  “I was a teenager once. I’ve been to my fair share of clubs.”

  I order a fifteen dollar rum and Coke, Oliver a vodka rocks. Not that he can drink it, but he’d stick out without a drink. When the bartender brings back the drinks Oliver shouts, “Excuse me. We are looking for our old friends, a tall black woman named Serena and a man named JR. Thin, with black hair?”

  “Sorry.”

  Long shot anyway. This time Oliver takes the lead, walking past the dance floor, up the stairs with a gothic metal fence along it. Luck smiles upon us as a boy with green spiked hair and girl in red corset stop making out and rise from a velvet couch. We snag it before anyone else can. Oliver sits close, draping his arm on the back of the couch. I lean back so my head rests on him. Just another happy couple. “Rest your head on my shoulder,” Oliver says. I do, cuddling against his chest. We can talk without screaming now.

  “Do you think they’ll actually show up tonight?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.

  “It is possible,” Oliver says. “This type of nightspot always attracts my kind. Especially the younglings.”

  “And why is that?”

  “They are able to live out the fantasy, the stereotype. The elders enjoy it as there are so many willing donors. I think you will find that the majority of the clubs frequented by this set are owned by vampires as well.”

  “I’m just learning so much, pookie.” I take another sip. Strong. “How many vamps do you think are here?”

  “Just upstairs? Five. Two in the far left corner.”

  I look. Two thin-to-the-point-of-starvation girls in low-cut corsets with short, short skirts sit at a table playing with their neon colored drinks, watching the drones below. They have all the hallmarks of vamps: pale, full drinks, holier-than-thou attitudes.

  “They look bored,” I say.

  “That they do. The man in the corner does not.” Oliver points to a man with bright orange hair and stocky build, trailing his finger across the collarbone of a nowhere-near legal girl with brown hair. She giggles, pushing his hand away.

  “If she’s eighteen, I’m Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “My darling, you will have to fight your urge to arrest everyone here. We do not have enough handcuffs, at least not since we left the Costarellos’ condo.”

  “Ha ha.” I sip my drink. “So, do we have a plan? Ask every vamp here if they’ve seen our bad guys?”

  “No. We let them come to us. We must not arouse even a hint of suspicion.”

  “I’m not good at patience, you know that. I can’t just sit here.”

  “I could stand it a bit longer,” he says, taking a wisp of my hair between his fingers.

  “You are enjoying this way too much.”

  “And you are not?”

  No comment.

  The twig and stick vamps glance our way, then again. I raise my glass to them, smiling. The girls turn away again, chatting. They then pick up their drinks and walk toward us. That didn’t take long. They must be bored. Up close they’re even skinnier, like on the cusp of organ failure if their organs still worked. Their cheeks sink in so the dark circles under their eyes look almost like makeup. And they’re young, about sixteen when they turned. Forever sixteen, what a living hell.

  “Hello,” says Stick, the taller one with blonde hair.

  “Good evening,” Oliver replies.

  “Can we join you?” Twig asks, pinning a tendril of her curly chocolate brown hair back.

  “Of course,” Oliver says. He and I scoot over as the girls sit beside him. He replaces his arm around my shoulders, fingers hovering centimeters from my boob.

  “I’m Denise,” Twig says. “This is Pam.”

  “I am Oliver, and this is my wife, Beatrice.”

  “She’s human,” Pam says in disgust. “Is she your consort?”

  I stop myself from asking what a consort is. “No,” I respond. “I’m just his favorite walking lunchbox.”

  “I totally didn’t mean to be rude,” Pam says.

  “I will just assume it is the hunger. Have you two fed tonight?” Oliver asks like a father to his child.

  “No,” Denise says. “We’re trying to cut back.”

  “Younglings like you need to feed at least three pints a night, otherwise you might accidently kill.”

  “We know,” Pam says.

  “How long ago were you turned?” I ask.

  “Like two years?” Denise asks Pam.

  “Yeah. We were in New York for fashion week and went to this party. They turned a couple of us.”

  “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s cool. At least we were at our goal weights,” Pam says. “Can you imagine being over a hundred pounds for, like, all eternity? Gross.”

  I’m about to open my mouth to rip the beanpole a new one, when Oliver pipes up. “Do you reside in Dallas?”

  “Yeah,” Denise says. “My brother lives here. We were crashing in his basement until Lord Freddy got us our own place.”

  “That was nice of him,” I say.

  “I know, right?” Denise asks. “Like, all we have to do is sleep with some of his clients or whatever sometimes.”

  Or not no nice.

  “Have you met Lord Freddy?’ Pam asks.

  “No,” Oliver answers quickly. “This is our first night in town.”

  “You should meet him, he’s totally super,” Denise says. “He has the best parties. Blood fountains, the yummiest donors. We could introduce you!”

  “No,” Oliver says. “That is alright. We are only in town for a short time.”

  “Actually, we’re looking for some old friends of Oliver’s. You might know him. JR. Tall, thin, black hair. Hangs out with Rick and Serena?”

  “Sounds kind of familiar,” Pam says. “Didn’t we see them at Purgatory a few times?”

  “I think so. We didn’t, like, talk or anything,” Denise says.

  “Any idea where they might be?” I ask.

  “Sorry,” Pam says.

  “Oh my G, I love this song!” Denise says. I tuned the music out, as a person screaming at the top of their lungs to a beat isn’t my cup of tea. Leaving her drink on the floor, Denise stands up holding her hands out to me and Pam. “Let’s dance.”

  I glance at a grinning Oliver. I hate him. With a fake smile plastered on my face I stand up, taking her freezing hand. Pam follows as we descend the stairs onto the dance floor. I’m sure I look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow woman next to these two, but we do get approving looks from the men as we pass. I can barely move on the dance floor; it’s packed like the bathroom of a modeling agency after lunch. The music, if it can be called that, changes to something I recognize, “More Human than Human” by White Zombie. At least this has something of a beat. I move my hips side to side without moving my feet. I wish I lived in the days of disco with dance moves instead of pretend sex on a dance floor.

  Someone grabs me from behind, and immediately a strange pelvis grinds into my butt. It is not a pleasant situation to say the least. My head spins around and at the same time the offender, some skinny kid in a leather jacket, stumbles back as if pushed by invisible hands. And he has been—mine. Confused, the kid looks around for the answer, but of course doesn’t find the cause. I’m mysterious like that. He just moves onto the next victim.

  “What a total loser,” Pam shouts over the music.

  I look at her, smiling. “Clumsy too.”

  The girls chuckle and continue dancing together, bumping and grinding like something out of a porn film. All the surrounding men glance or downright stare as they nuzzle and lightly touch each other’s bare skin. With her fingertips, Pam runs her hand down Denise’s arm. I pretend not to notice.

  “How long have you two known each other?” I shout.

  “Like, all our lives,” Denise shouts back. �
��We grew up together.”

  Pam smiles seductively at her friend, then plants a kiss on her lips. It is soft at first, then grows deeper and rougher. I can actually see their tongues massaging each other. Holy macaroni. They keep making out as I stand and watch with my mouth agape. It’s not the fact two women are kissing that gets me—I mean I’m from Southern California, for goodness sake—but it’s the fact they’re friends. I love my best friend April to bits, but the thought of doing anything like this with her is just plain creepy. Like getting to second with your sister. And I’m not the only one watching a live version of Girls Gone Wild. All males within sight stop dancing and watch, some laughing and smacking their buddies on the chest. The women roll their eyes and continue dancing alone. Pam and Denise separate, smiling at each other. I pretend to find the disco ball above fascinating. Very … spinney.

  Pam grabs her next victim, a twenty-something with blue hair and enough piercings to set off every metal detector within a mile. Simulated sex to a beat follows. Denise eyes a few boys but takes my hand instead. She’s not getting as much as a peck from me. The song changes to Depeche Mode’s “Halo,” a song my brother loved for all of five minutes.

  “You’re a great dancer,” Denise says.

  “Thanks,” I say, swinging my arms in the air.

  “Your boyfriend’s, like, really cute,” she says. “You can tell he totally loves you.”

  Really? “Thank you.” I don’t even correct her by pointing out that Oliver is supposed to be my husband.

  “He’s old, like really old, right? He’s kind of scary.”

  “Oliver’s a pussycat.”

  “I bet Freddy’d like to meet him. He so likes hanging out with the old ones. Always gives them, like, the freshest blood and great parties. I could totally introduce you!”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  A semi-normal looking boy in khakis and black shirt smiles at Denise, who smiles back. She spins away from me to start grinding on the boy. I take this opportunity to slip off the dance floor and back up the stairs, where Oliver sits talking to a handsome African American man sporting long cornrows, sunglasses, and tight leather. Both look up from their full drinks as I approach.

  “Did you enjoy yourself, my darling?” Oliver asks. “We certainly enjoyed watching you, did we not Phineus?”

  Phineus smiles, showing off his fangs, white as snow. We’re just making friends left and right tonight. I sit beside Oliver, who immediately drapes his arm over my shoulders, pulling me to him.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt you two,” I say.

  “We were just comparing the nightlife now as opposed to back in the eighties.”

  “The 1880s,” Phineus says with a thick Southern accent.

  I grab my drink and sip. “Right.”

  “A simpler time,” Oliver says.

  Just what I need. Two old farts talking about the good ole’ days. We’ll be here all night. “Fewer people too, I bet. It’s so hard to find people nowadays. It seems that even the vamp population has boomed. We’ve been trying to find some old friends of Oliver’s, and it’s been near impossible. Maybe you’ve seen him. JR, thin, black hair, hangs out in a group?”

  Phineus isn’t paying attention. He waves to a Nubian beauty in a gold dress on the other side of the room, and then stands up. “Sorry. Excuse me.” Our new friend walks toward the woman.

  I scoff. “Are all vamps rude? I mean, did all their manners get sucked out with the blood?”

  “It would appear so,” Oliver replies with a thoughtful smile. “I am sorry you are not enjoying yourself tonight.”

  “We’re working. It’s not supposed to be fun.” I sip my drink. “So, now what?”

  “You dance more. I do enjoy watching you.”

  “My feet are killing me.”

  “Then we sit here, taking in the ambiance, and wait for others to come.”

  “How do you know they will?”

  “I intrigue them. They can feel my power.”

  “‘Your power?’ Conceited much?”

  “I am an elder. With age comes power. That is why there is no Lord or Lady under three hundred years old ruling a territory.”

  “Then why aren’t you off ruling Hawaii or North Carolina or something?”

  “I abhor politics.”

  “Speaking of politics, why don’t we just go talk to this Freddy guy and see if he knows our people? I mean, he’s the ruler, he should know what’s going on, right?”

  “It is not an option.”

  “But he—”

  “It. Is. Not. An. Option,” he says, drawing out every word.

  “Okay! I won’t suggest it again.”

  My female intuition is tingling. There’s a story here, and I’ll get it out of him yet. Until then, I need another drink.

  _____

  Three hours, two rum and Cokes, and a glass of water later, we pull into the garage of the Dauphine. And I am tired. I haven’t been up until two clubbing since I was nineteen. I remember why now. My feet throb. My legs ache. I smell like a locker room. Who knew I’d feel so old at twenty-six?

  And it was boring. So boring. We sat there for the most part waiting for vamps to approach and make polite conversation. About once every half hour one or two join us, talk for about ten minutes, and then go back to hunting. One after the other these impossibly beautiful creatures paid homage to us. And with over a thousand years between them, what did they talk about? The Black Death? The Sixties? Nope: fashion and celebrities. Maybe they’ve spent too much time playing human, I don’t know, but I was surprised Oliver knows so much about The Real Housewives.

  Some knew our vamps, though. Either seen them around or shared a meal with them. We got the name and description of two more: Liang and Ken, both skinny Asians with matching pixie haircuts. All were at the club Purgatory on multiple occasions, where Linda and Don were last seen. Guess where we’re spending tomorrow night? Maybe there will be a staking to break the monotony.

  I climb off the bike and pull down my skirt before Oliver turns around. I can breathe again when I pull the helmet off. My hair’s plastered to my face by a thin layer of sweat covering my whole head. It is eighty degrees at two a.m. I hate Texas.

  We walk—well, I hobble—up to the house without a word. I open the door and a blast of cold air escapes. The house is quiet. If I’m lucky everyone is out doing their bloodsucking thing. It looks as if I did luck out until we reach the stairs; Marianna steps out of the library, blood-filled glass in her hand.

  “Hello, you two,” she says with a sly grin. “Enjoy your night?”

  “We did, thank you,” Oliver says.

  “Not turning in for the night, I hope? We have so much to catch up on,” she says, licking her lower lip. I have the strongest urge to take off my heel and stab her with it.

  “Later perhaps. Come on, my darling.” He lightly presses on the small of my back. I start up the stairs with him close behind. I don’t open my mouth until the second lock clicks on our door.

  “What a b-word,” I say, peeling off my boots. Dear Lord, does that feel good. Tomorrow I’m burning these darn things.

  He drapes his jacket on the chair. “Only to some,” he says.

  I sit on the bed with a sigh, and start massaging my poor feet. I’ll have to do this for hours to make them even ten percent better. “Oww.”

  “Would you like me to—”

  “Absolutely not,” I snap. “I think you’ve touched me enough for one day, thank you.” Three times he lightly ran his thumb across the mound of my breast. I’ll admit, the first time I got the tingles, but by the third I wanted to bite the finger off.

  “I have had centuries to perfect my technique.”

  “So you keep reminding me.” I start pressing on the other foot. “I’m sure Marianna would love to let you practice your technique.” This isn’t working. I’m too tense. I know what I need, something I’ve been dying to do since I set foot in this crappy state. “Why don’t you make our
report to Kansas?”

  “Very well.”

  I pull out my suitcase and root around until I find my pjs and swimsuit. I’ve never been one to pass up a pool, and luckily most of the hotels we stay at have one. I’ll swim, shower, and then crash. I purposely packed my ugliest pajamas: a Wango Tango oversized shirt and white cotton pants. The swimsuit is a black one-piece that hides my tummy. While I do this, Oliver retrieves his cell phone and dials Kansas. I shut the door on the bathroom.

  Yikes. I haven’t seen a mirror since we left. Wish I’d continued that streak. My makeup is blotchy, the eyeliner and mascara cover half my face, and my hair either sticks up or remains plastered to my head in random places. I’m scarier than any vamp. I have to literally peel off my clothes. The boning on the corset has created some funky indentations on my flesh, almost like welts. I can’t look anymore. I avert my eyes as I pull on the suit. After wrapping a towel around me as tight as a mummy, I step out.

  Oliver sits on the bed talking into the phone. “They were very helpful. We had no problems getting access to the files.” His eyes follow me to the door. “Hold on a moment, Wolfe. Trixie, where are you going?”

  I open the door. “Swimming.”

  “Wait!” But I close the door. As quiet as I can, I creep down the hall to the stairs. Nobody accosts me as I walk down the stairs, through the house, to the backyard.

  It’s as beautiful out here as the rest of the house. The same lawn furniture from the upstairs porches sits around the nearly Olympic-sized pool and hot tub. Trees and grass surround the pool, providing extra privacy. Like any body-conscious woman, I step into the blissfully cool pool before tossing off the towel while simultaneously plunging in. I instantly feel better. There is nothing like cool water on a hot night. I sigh as I just float on my back. We’re far enough outside of the main city that some stars shine through. A distant half moon accompanies them. I wonder if Will’s staring up at the same moon this very minute. Probably not. He hates looking at the moon. It must be like gazing at the seconds ticking by before a bomb goes off. Or maybe he is. Maybe he couldn’t sleep and instinctively knows what I’m doing right now, so even though we’re a thousand miles apart, we’re together. I wasn’t lying before. I miss him something fierce. He—