Suck It Up

by Brian Meehl

  “The fire department logo.”

  “More than that, it’s a Maltese cross.” He took another chomp of sandwich.

  Morning stared at the stubby cross with FDNY worked into it. “I thought it was a four-leaf clover.”

  The fireman laughed and sprayed sandwich dust. “It’s your lucky day, son, ’cause I’m here to set you straight.” He tapped his shirt. “The Maltese cross has been the symbol of all firefighters since 1095.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The First Crusade.”

  Morning watched the fireman place the sandwich on his knee. Obviously, this was too important to chew through.

  “The Knights of St. John were fighting the Saracens in a battle to take back the Holy Land. As the army of crusaders advanced on the walls of the Saracen city, the Saracens started catapulting glass bombs at them. When the bombs broke they released a stinky, jellylike liquid. Then, when the crusaders were soaked in the stuff, the Saracens launched a volley of burning arrows which ignited the liquid.”

  “Was it napalm?”

  “No, a crude form of gasoline. Hundreds of knights were burned alive, while other knights risked their lives to save crusaders from fiery deaths. When the battle was over, the Knights of St. John were recognized for their heroism and given a badge of honor in the shape of a Maltese cross. The Maltese cross was chosen because the Knights of St. John were from the island of Malta.”

  The fireman pressed his hand to his chest. “Any firefighter who wears the cross knows three things. He lives in courage, a ladder rung from death. He lives knowing he may lay down his life to save others. And he lives knowing his life is protected by all firefighters. That’s the code. When you live by it, you’re a knight at the fire table.”

  Morning was transfixed. And stunned that he’d never heard this before. It wasn’t in the books. It was something you learned after being initiated into the brotherhood.

  The fireman lifted his sandwich and took a bite. “If you still wanna be a fire knight when you turn eighteen, come back and see me.”

  The words slapped Morning out of his reverie. You had to be eighteen to get into the Fire Academy. Being sixteen forever didn’t cut it. He could never live by the code, or sit at the fire table.

  “Morning!” a voice shouted from the sidewalk.

  He jumped up and saw Portia standing outside in the sun. His skin prickled with anger. If he were Plastic Man he would have shot out a thirty-foot arm and cuffed her for butting in.

  “Whoa,” the fireman said, eyeing Portia, “that’s a harsh way to start the day. Is that your girlfriend?”

  “No.” Morning doused his irritation, and extended a hand to the fireman. “Morning is my name.”

  Shaking hands, the fireman’s wrinkles deepened as he searched for where he’d heard it before.

  Morning started out. “Thanks for the story.”

  “Come back anytime,” the fireman called after him. “The chauffeur will give you a ride.”

  Joining Portia on the sidewalk, Morning told himself that Birnam was right. It was too late—too late to be a fire knight; too late to be anything but the first vampire to come out, for better or worse, for superhero or supergoat. And for whatever Portia was about to hit him with.

  She surprised him by apologizing. “I’m sorry I shouted, but I—I—” She cleared her throat and reminded herself this was no different than when Jake Gyllenhaal had visited her school. If she could talk to Jake Gyllenhaal when it felt like he was holding her heart in his hands, she could talk to Morning McCobb when it felt like he was holding her entire future in his hands. “I thought I might never see you again.” She cringed and shot up a hand. “Don’t take that the wrong way.” She caught a quick breath and tried to collect herself. Gyllenhaal had been a cakewalk compared to this. “Look, I’m a little nervous, and I just wanted to say, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

  Her confession blew away his lingering annoyance. Under her tough-girl armor maybe there was a human being after all. He shrugged. “Hey, if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t have believed me either.”

  She dug into her jacket and pulled out his Yankees cap and sunglasses. “You better put these on.”

  She was right. Passersby were beginning to stare. He slipped on the hat and glasses.

  “We should walk,” she added. “It’s harder to recognize a moving target.” They started back toward the studio. “Do you mind if we do something?”

  “What?”

  “Hit the reset button. I want you to forget that I thought you were some lowlife trying to take advantage of my mother.”

  He pressed an imaginary button on his forehead. “Bzzt. Reset.”

  “And I’m going to totally forget about the video project I thought I was making.”

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Portrait of the Con Artist as a Young Man.” He laughed as she hit her own reset button. “Bzzt. Forgotten.”

  As much as she wanted it to be that easy, she knew it wasn’t. If rule number one when it came to guys was assume the worst, when it came to this guy, she no longer knew what worst was. The guy she had thought was coming to the plate without a bat was not doing it because he was sneaky-clever or gay. He didn’t need a bat. He had fangs. The only comforting thing about that was knowing he hadn’t sunk them into her or her mother in the last thirty-six hours. Maybe he wasn’t the bloodsucking fiend he claimed he wasn’t. Whatever, the chance to make an up-close-and-personal film about the first outed vampire far outweighed the risks. For now. But pulling out the camera would have to wait. As well as asking him everything he knew about vampires. First she had to earn his trust by talking to him about everything but vampires.

  With her nerves calmed and her strategy clarified, she began. “Do you have a thing for firehouses?”

  “No,” he lied. “I thought someone recognized me on the street and I ducked inside.”

  “After this morning, it’s going to be impossible to hide.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Before she could lob another question, a limo screeched to a halt in the street. Penny hopped out of the back. “Get in!” They obeyed. Inside, Penny leaned toward the driver. “Take us to Teterboro.”

  “What’s Teterboro?” Morning asked.

  “A private airport,” Portia answered, turning to her mother. “Where are we going?”

  Penny’s eyes darted to the driver’s rearview mirror. She caught him watching before his eyes slid away. “We’re going on tour.”

  “But, Mom,” Portia protested, “I need to pack.”

  Morning raised his own objection. “And I need my—”

  Penny shushed him. “Your protein drink, I know. It’s in the trunk, along with Portia’s suitcase.”

  She stared at her mother. “So you knew all along—”

  “That I’d need an assistant I could trust? Yes. It’s all part of the playbook.” Penny turned to Morning. “And here’s what I need from you.” She punched each word. “No. More. Wandering.”

  He sighed. It sounded like being the first ambassador to people of mortality was going to be a 24/7 gig. “Okay, no wandering.”

  18

  The Rendezvous

  In the White Mountains of California there is a sparse forest of bristlecone pines. Mortals call it Patriarch Grove. Vampires call it the Mother Forest.

  Since midnight, when a gibbous moon began climbing the star-choked sky, Loners had been arriving in the forest. They came in flying forms, from bats to vultures. Some still perched silently in the bald, twisted branches that made bristlecone pines look more dead than alive. Others had shape-shifted to human form, and stood in the rocky grove wearing nothing but moon shadow and starlight.

  Being naked didn’t bother the men, women, and few children. Loner vampires weren’t shy; they didn’t care what anyone thought of their bodies. It’s not like they were in the business of attracting a mate. Besides, when you could transform into thousands of creatures, the human
skin was just another cloak in a closet the size of the animal kingdom.

  What did trouble the growing throng, and had them whispering in small groups, was not knowing why the Rendezvous had been called. After all, their night of hunting had been cut short by the silent alarm. Those close to San Francisco felt the call like mortals feel the shudder of an aftershock. Those farther away sensed it the same way elephants pick up sounds below the range of human hearing. They felt a subtactile quiver of the earth, dropped whatever they were doing, or drinking, and flew to the Mother Forest.

  It was the first Rendezvous in almost fifty years. The previous one had been a Grand Rendezvous of all Loners in the world, and it ended with the armistice that ended World War V.

  The Loners lost the long war because they were a scattered band of solo warriors fighting an organized army of vampires led by Luther Birnam. The lone predator can thin the herd, but he can never wipe out the entire group. While Loners had considered banding together in a killer pack, they also knew that a pack of Loners was no better than an army of generals: all would lead, none would follow. So, before being wiped off the earth, the Loners negotiated a truce with the Leaguers. And all of them signed the peace treaty. All but one.

  Ikor DeThanatos had been the first to arrive in the Mother Forest. Having made the trip as a peregrine falcon, he remained in Flyer form. He perched on a bare branch belonging to the oldest tree in the grove. It was called the Matriarch. From there, he had watched the flock of Loners swell to over fifty.

  The falcon’s turretlike head, armed with steel gray eyes, swiveled to the eastern horizon and perceived a paling beyond the ridge. Hearing the whoosh of wings, he turned as a golden eagle landed on the branch of another tree. More Loners were still on the way, but to allow time for everyone to return to safety before sunrise, the Rendezvous had to begin.

  He swooped down off the branch, transformed midair, and landed silently on the rocky ground.

  The closest group of Loners turned to him. One of them recognized DeThanatos. His name was Bosky. He was short and square-built, and his torso was covered in a thicket of dark hair.

  “DeThanatos,” he said with a mocking smile. “What’s it been, a century, or two?”

  “Not long enough.”

  Bosky ignored the surly answer. “You were missed at the armistice.”

  DeThanatos sneered. “When the war begins again, why give Birnam the privilege of knowing my face?”

  Bosky raised his bushy eyebrows, and his voice. “Oh, do you know something we don’t?”

  “Yes.” DeThanatos was done with sparring. “I saw it on streaming video.”

  “Streaming video?” Bosky exposed a partial fang. “Please, you’re making me thirsty.”

  Several vampires laughed.

  Bosky’s eyes narrowed. “You called the Rendezvous, didn’t you?”

  DeThanatos started up a rocky slope.

  Dark shapes silently swooped down from treetops, expanded, and dropped gracefully to the ground in human form. By the time DeThanatos turned and looked down the slope, the clearing in the grove was crowded with curious and agitated vampires.

  “Who convenes this Rendezvous?” a voice called, officially beginning the gathering.

  “I, Ikor DeThanatos, called you to the Mother Forest.”

  And with that, the formalities were over. Loner vampires didn’t stand on ceremony. They liked to get to the point. “Why?” several shouted.

  “Haven’t you seen it?” DeThanatos asked.

  “Seen what?”

  Their ignorance didn’t surprise him. Loners weren’t big on current events unless the current was red and flowing. “A boy, a Leaguer boy,” he explained, “shape-shifted into a Drifter, a mist, and he was caught on video.”

  The vampires stared in breathless shock.

  “He has made himself known to mortals,” DeThanatos announced, dispatching any doubts. A wave of alarm swept through the crowd. “He has broken the third commandment. He must be punished!”

  Bosky stepped out from the crowd. “You mean destroyed.”

  “Yes, according to ancient law.”

  Bosky started up the slope toward DeThanatos. “That’s our law, not Leaguer law. If you had bothered coming to the treaty-signing you might know the terms.” He turned and reminded his fellow Loners. “We agreed to let Leaguers live by their New Commandments as long we could live by the Old Commandments.”

  “And you wonder why I wasn’t there,” DeThanatos mocked. “Our sacred laws aren’t carved in clay, they’re carved in stone! There is no ‘old’ or ‘new.’ There are only the Commandments!”

  Bosky continued his appeal to the crowd. “We also vowed to slay no more Leaguers. If we enforce the law and punish this boy, we’ll break the peace!”

  “And the Leaguers will resume the war!” someone hollered.

  “A war that will destroy us!” another yelled.

  As the crowd shouted in agreement, a sandhill crane sailed in, flared its wings, transformed into a woman, and landed on the slope near DeThanatos. “Are you talking about the boy named Morning McCobb?” the latecomer asked.

  “Yes,” DeThanatos hissed.

  “About an hour ago, he did it again,” she announced. “He took the Form of a Hider on television.”

  The crowd rumbled with concern.

  “What did he become?” DeThanatos demanded.

  “A tree.”

  The Loners gasped.

  DeThanatos saw his opening. “He not only breaks sacred law, he threatens our deepest secrets!”

  “He threatens the Mother Forest!” someone bellowed.

  As the crowd shouted for Morning’s destruction, Bosky strode up the slope, coming even with DeThanatos. “Wait!” he thundered over the mob. “To shape-shift in front of a mortal once might be an accident. To do it twice can only mean one thing. Luther Birnam is finally making his move.”

  DeThanatos scowled. “What move?”

  “I’ve heard Leaguers talk about a plan to emerge from the selva obscura,” Bosky explained. “To shed their secrecy and try to live in open coexistence with mortals.”

  The Loners clucked and laughed at the absurd notion.

  DeThanatos wasn’t amused. “What if they succeed? Imagine what mortal scientists could learn if they had a chance to examine one of us. Imagine what will happen if mortals relearn the secrets of vampire slaying.”

  As fear rippled though the crowd, Bosky countered. “Birnam won’t let that happen.”

  “What makes you so sure?” someone yelled.

  “Because he’s not suicidal,” Bosky declared. “He’s far worse. He’s shape-shifted into the lowest form of all: a politician. His bloodlust has mutated into power-lust, and he will never risk the army of Leaguers that feed his power.” Bosky had the crowd’s undivided attention. “I believe the day Leaguers come out and make themselves known to mortals could be the beginning of a new night for us.”

  “What do you mean?” the vampiress asked.

  Bosky’s voice rose with excitement. “Imagine it. What if the mortals accept Leaguers as harmless, law-abiding citizens with—how do they like to say?—‘special needs.’”

  The crowd shared a ghoulish laugh.

  Bosky grinned, revealing a fine pair of fangs. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing for those who practice the old ways.” His eyes gleamed. “Imagine how much easier it will be to hunt if mortals think vampires are harmless. Their guard will be down. Imagine how much easier it will be to satisfy our bloodlust when we become Loners in Leaguers’ clothing.”

  The crowd sounded their approval.

  DeThanatos shouted over them. “I don’t need more disguises to hunt. I can drink or kill anytime I want. You’re no different. We must enforce sacred law! It’s what has kept us alive for tens of thousands of years, honoring the Commandments!”

  Bosky answered his finger-wagging lecture with a hearty laugh. “DeThanatos, sometimes you really sound your age. What are you now? A millennium-something?�
� He rode the surge of laughter. “You’re so old-fashioned. Sacred laws, Commandments, blah-blah-blah.” He turned to the crowd. “I prefer the term favored by today’s mortals: core values. And the only core value I’ve ever had is this: to serve myself and my appetites.” His voice rose, inciting the crowd. “So if Luther Birnam wants to put his Leaguers on display, and make hunting that much easier for us, I say, let him do it!”

  The mob of Loners shouted in agreement.

  Before DeThanatos could protest a voice sounded, “Who ends this Rendezvous?”

  Bosky bellowed the traditional answer. “I, Theodore Bosky, declare that we depart the Mother Forest.”

  The crowd ballooned outward; vampires transformed into flying forms and rose into the air. Within seconds, there was nothing but a veil of dust settling to the ground.

  Still on the slope, Bosky glanced at the graying behind the eastern ridge. He flashed DeThanatos a full-fanged grin. “Good to see you again, Ikor. Sappy hunting.” He laughed as he strode down the slope. His thick torso compacted, his arms punched wide, and a condor lifted off the slope. His huge wings kneaded the air, cutting a majestic silhouette against the paling sky.

  DeThanatos loped down the hill toward the Matriarch. The great tree’s trunk, over thirty feet wide, was not one trunk. It was seven trunks twisted around each other to form the mother of all bristlecone pines.

  Reaching it, he pressed his hand against the bare reddish bark. “Sacred Mother,” he intoned, “on your seven trunks, on the cradle and grave of the Old Ones, I, Ikor DeThanatos, the last true vampire, will enforce your immortal law.”

  As sunlight streaked the top of the tree, DeThanatos shriveled into the Fourth Form: the Climber. Where his hand had rested on the trunk was now a tarantula. The huge spider crawled into a dark crevice of gnarled pine. He would spend the day sleeping in the Matriarch’s protective fold. At sundown, he would begin his hunt for Morning McCobb.

  19

  Small Talk

  The private jet carrying Morning, Portia, and Penny reached cruising altitude and leveled off. The jet belonged to Gabby Kissenkauf, the host of The Night-Night Show in Los Angeles.