Suck It Up

by Brian Meehl

  She continued. “You’re showing people that you don’t want to hurt anyone, you want to help them understand, to rescue them from their ignorance.”

  One of her words hit him with the shock of a late raindrop falling off an eave. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” he muttered. “To rescue people.”

  She smiled with relief. The Morning she knew was back. “And that’s what you just did.”

  He answered with a rueful look. “Sure, but what kind of hero comes to the rescue after he set the fire.”

  She sat up, jolted by a connection. “Ohmigod. That’s why you went to the firehouse. Before you were turned, you wanted to be a firefighter, didn’t you?”

  “No!” he blurted. “I didn’t.” The lie startled him, but he didn’t regret it. The way she said it made it sound like such a childish dream, an embarrassment he wanted to hide.

  The rising color in his cheeks was all she needed to catch him in his lie. “You could still be one.”

  “Even if I did,” he said with a scowl, “you have to be eighteen.”

  “Are you nuts? With your skills, they’ll rewrite the rules.” She jumped up and began to pace. “Think about it. As a dolphin, you could be a rescue diver. As a bird, you could spot people on the roofs of burning buildings. As a cat, you could go up trees and talk down other cats!”

  While Portia circled the room and continued her litany of rescue animals, Morning was distracted by another sound. It began as a dim thud. At first he thought it was the thump of Birnam’s chopper overhead. But the thumping didn’t come from outside. It came from within. Inside his head. And it was more than a sound. It was a sensation. A dull throbbing in his mouth, under his upper lip. It reminded him of the tension he’d felt the night before which he’d written off as the ache of grinding his teeth. But this was different. It felt like his gums contained two tiny beating hearts. He had read about it, and heard about it. It was the first sign of dentis eruptus.

  A riffle of fear shot through him. Not the kind that makes your hair stand on end. The kind that drains your strength. The kind that swells in your gut. The kind of fear that rises on a tide of pleasure.

  The bass chords of his cell phone rang, yanking him back to the room.

  Portia stopped, looked at him, and caught his tight smile.

  Sliding his tongue across his throbbing gums, he spotted his cell phone on the side table. “That’s probably my visitor.”

  She headed for the door. “Then I’ll give you some privacy.”

  Watching her go, his eyes drifted over her slim figure. After she shut the door, he opened the phone. “Mr. Birnam—”

  Birnam brusquely cut him off. “I got your message. I’m sorry you want to quit.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Obviously.”

  “No, I mean I don’t want to quit. I want to keep going.”

  After a pause, Birnam’s voice sounded relieved. “So you don’t want to move to Borneo?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. But I’m curious, what changed your mind?”

  Morning fished for an excuse. “I think I was just exhausted from the double CD and flipped out. But after a couple of Lites I feel much better.”

  “And no one’s twisting your arm?”

  “Not at all. I mean, Portia just reminded me that I’m doing more good than harm.”

  Birnam let out a pensive grunt. “I see.”

  His tone made Morning regret bringing her up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Birnam. Everything’s cool.”

  “Good,” Birnam said, sounding convinced. “Try to avoid the double CDs, and keep up the good work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you need more Blood Lite?”

  “No, I still have plenty.”

  “Excellent.” Then Birnam added with a chuckle, “Wouldn’t want you suddenly deciding to drink something else.”

  After hanging up, Morning wondered if Birnam had mind-reading powers and knew the real reasons he wanted to keep going. Portia had reignited his hope of becoming a firefighter. And, as dangerous as he knew the throb in his gums was, he wanted to feel it again.

  25

  Merder Sink

  DeThanatos tightened the cord around the monk’s robe he now wore, and moved down a street in L.A.’s warehouse district. As streetlights flickered on, he resisted the urge to stalk one of the workers scurrying from the sweatshops. He kept his eyes on the ragged parade of signs above small factories, discount stores, and bodegas. And he kept his mind on the new plan: Hire a hit man; mentor him through the three steps of vampire slaying; off the hit man for knowing too much; and show his fellow creatures of the night there was one vampire who had the fangs to enforce the law.

  Shortly after sunset, DeThanatos had paid a visit to a local gang leader, who, with a little persuasion, had referred him to a hit man who had grown tired of whacking people with the same old lead delivery system and preferred unusual weapons. After the gang leader had coughed up the hit man’s whereabouts, DeThanatos did the City of Angels a favor and sent him to the devil. For services rendered, DeThanatos collected his full fee: five quarts of people gravy.

  The vampire disguised as a friar spotted what he was looking for: a bathroom supply store called Merder Sink. He entered and strode through a mushroom farm of dusty sinks. He stepped to the counter near the back.

  Behind it sat a barrel-shaped man with long gray hair tied in a ponytail. He had a deep tan and tattoos covering his massive arms. Each tattoo depicted an instrument of death, from blowguns to guillotines. “Hello, Brother. What can I do for you?”

  DeThanatos recited the line the gang leader had given him. “How do you pronounce Merder Sink?”

  The man’s eyebrows climbed his corrugated forehead. He flashed a smile, revealing a gold tooth. “There’s only one way to pronounce it: Murders Inc.”

  DeThanatos uttered the next line. “If I order a custom-made sink, will you install it yourself?”

  “Only if the customer is home to receive it,” the man said with another grin, then offered his meaty hand. “The name’s Golpear.”

  DeThanatos shook his hand. “Friar DeThanatos.”

  After Golpear escorted him to a back office, DeThanatos explained that he was an exorcist who had been given a task he couldn’t complete himself. Although he was familiar with exorcising demons, he had no prior experience in slaying vampires. While he had learned the proper steps from ancient texts, he needed an associate with slaying experience to carry out the actual vampire slaying. He then named whom he was hoping to give a “custom-made sink.”

  Golpear’s eyes lit up when he heard the name Morning McCobb. “And what kind of tool should I use to install this sink?” He watched as the monk reached under his robe and pulled out a three-foot wooden stake.

  Golpear was impressed. “Now, that’s a stake.”

  DeThanatos handed it over. “Right through the heart, pin him to the bed, and I’ll be there to take you through the rest.”

  “The rest? Doesn’t a stake do the trick?”

  “Not quite,” DeThanatos replied. “But don’t worry, vampire slaying is as easy as one, two, three.”

  “So what’s two and three?”

  “You’ll find out after one.”

  Golpear hefted the stake and studied its sharp point. “Okay. When’s this installation gonna take place?”

  “Tonight.”

  He shot the friar a dubious look. “Really? And how am I supposed to get into the Babylon Hotel on such short notice?”

  “I have a plan.”

  It was after midnight when Golpear turned the hijacked bread truck into the Babylon’s service entrance and parked it at the loading dock. He stepped into the back of the truck and made sure the wooden stake was wedged among the French baguettes in the large quiver of bread. He grabbed another bag of bread and carried the two bundles into the kitchen of the hotel’s Hanging Garden Restaurant.

  The plan was simple. Golpear was to
enter the hotel in the guise of a delivery man. He would then make his way to the roof, where he would meet DeThanatos, who would help him rappel down to Morning’s window. After he staked Morning to the bed, DeThanatos would join him with the necessary equipment to finish the vampire demolition.

  As soon as Golpear entered the back of the kitchen, unforeseen circumstances intervened. The bread delivery man was immediately spotted by a panicked French chef. He thrust a finger at Golpear and shouted, “Le pain! Le pain!” A half-dozen kitchen workers rushed forward before Golpear could take evasive action or pull the stake from the quiver of baguettes.

  “Give us the bread!” one of them shouted while the other workers tugged at the bags.

  Golpear tried to hold on to the bag hiding the stake, but found himself in a tug-of-war with a trio of workers. “You have to sign for it first!” he shouted.

  “No time to sign!” one yelled.

  Another tried to explain. “Drunken Porta Potti sales group having food fight because no bread on cheese plates!”

  “Give it!” the third screamed, kicking Golpear in the shins.

  As Golpear cringed in pain, the bags were ripped from his arms. He watched helplessly as baguettes were spilled on a counter and set on by a half-dozen bread slicers. In the explosion of crumbs and flashing knives, he saw one slicer try to cut into the stake, and curse its hardness. Golpear started forward to reclaim it, but the worker pitched the “stale loaf” down a garbage chute.

  Golpear nixed the idea of finding where the chute emptied and rescuing the stake from a night’s worth of garbage. It wasn’t the first time he’d been separated from his intended weapon on the way to a hit. Once, he’d had to procure a backup crossbow; another time he’d had to replace a vial of poison. Finding a backup wooden stake would be easy. And knowing a thing or two about the Babylon, he knew exactly where to find one.

  Ten minutes later he was on the roof being helped into a climbing harness by DeThanatos. They were dimly lit by the landing lights on the helipad above them.

  “You’ve got the stake?” DeThanatos asked.

  Golpear patted his bulky jacket. “Good to go.”

  “When the rope goes slack, I’ll know you’re in,” DeThanatos said. “After you’ve staked him, give the rope a tug, and I’ll come down.”

  Golpear scanned the surrounding shadows. “Where’s the rest of the equipment?”

  “It’s around,” DeThanatos answered with a hint of irritation. “One step at a time.”

  “You’re the boss.” Golpear disappeared over the edge of the roof.

  26

  Mistakes Happen

  Morning slept on his back with his mouth slightly open. His breath quietly sawed in and out.

  The stillness framed in the window was broken by the dancing end of a rope. A moment later, Golpear reached over, opened the window wider, and pulled himself into the room. As he silently stepped toward the bed, the rope tether stretching behind him scraped on the frame.

  Morning groaned and rolled toward the window.

  Golpear froze.

  Outside, a large bat landed silently on the awning and hung there, upside down. DeThanatos wanted to watch.

  Morning’s breathing resumed its steady rhythm.

  Golpear wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. He stepped back to the window. As he turned, the bat dropped and disappeared in flight. Golpear guided ten feet of slack rope through the opening, then quietly made his way to the bed.

  The bat landed on the awning again.

  Golpear reached into his jacket and pulled out his alternative stake. It was much smaller than the original. It had colored rings painted on the top half. A croquet stake. He had stolen it from the Babylon’s croquet court in the inner courtyard. To the best of his knowledge, no one had ever been whacked by a croquet stake. He even liked the name it might earn him: the Croquet Killer.

  Morning rolled onto his back.

  Golpear smiled with a glimmer of gold. His victim couldn’t be more cooperative if he’d worn bull’s-eye pajamas.

  In the suite’s dark sitting room, a robed figure shuffled toward Morning’s bedroom door. Portia put her ear to the door and listened to see if he might be awake.

  Inside the room, Golpear raised the stake over his head.

  Seeing the skinny stake with its colored rings, the bat flared its upturned nostrils in anger. Its mouth opened with a fangy hiss.

  Golpear turned toward the sound, but by the time his eyes fell on the awning, the bat was gone.

  With her ear still pressed to the door, Portia heard a thunk. “Morning?” she whispered.

  Morning writhed and thrashed on the bed. His hands clutched the croquet stake impaled in his chest. His mouth stretched open in a silent scream.

  Golpear’s delight over his perfect blow was cut short by the rope snapping taut on his climbing harness. He staggered backward, knocked over a chair, and was vacuumed out the window.

  Portia whispered louder. “Morning, what are you doing in there? Playing horseshoes?” She waited. No answer. She grabbed the door handle and was shocked to feel it turn on its own. The door swung open, accompanied by a “Shhhh.”

  Morning stood in the doorway. The croquet stake protruded from his chest. The bloody sheet hanging from the stake looked like a disheveled toga from a production of Julius Caesar.

  Portia opened her mouth to scream.

  He threw a hand over her mouth and yanked her inside. “Don’t scream. Promise not to scream,” he rasped.

  Wild-eyed, she nodded.

  He removed his hand, shut the door, gathered the sheet, and moved back to the bed. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Not as bad—You’ve been staked!”

  “Sort of. It’s more like a bad case of heartburn.” He lay down on the bed. “Help me get it out.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not any different than tying a string between a baby tooth and a doorknob, and shutting the door.”

  She cringed. “I could never do that.”

  He propped himself up on his elbows. “Look, if you don’t help me with this before my body heals around it, I’m going to spend eternity looking like I lost a game of extreme croquet.”

  Portia hesitated. It wasn’t the blood, it was the weird objects-sticking-out-of-people part that turned her stomach. She clenched her jaw and moved to the bed.

  Morning lay back and gripped the stake with his hands. “Grab on and we’ll pull together, on three.” She clutched the top half of the stake and clamped her eyes shut. “One, two, three.”

  The stake came out with a squishy slurp.

  Torn between wanting to upchuck and wanting to know, Portia took a peek. Luckily, her mind won the race to her mouth. “Shouldn’t you be destroyed?”

  He held up the bloody stake. “This is oak. Oak doesn’t do the trick. It’s gotta be the right type of wood.”

  Unable to take her eyes off the bloody stake, she fought off another wave of nausea with know-it-all bravado. “Right. Anybody who’s read Vampire Slaying for Dummies knows that.”

  He tucked the stake out of sight. “Give me a hand.”

  “What?”

  There was no time to explain the procedure he’d learned in Vampire First Aid. He grabbed her hand and held it over the wound in his chest.

  She watched, transfixed, as the blood on the sheet receded and disappeared under their hands. She felt a strange heat as the hole in his chest healed. The tingling warmth ran up her arm and radiated through her body. The sensation was like nothing she’d ever felt. She’d known guys who’d made her weak in the knees, but this was something else. A quavering current that ran from head to toe like an underground river. A river she wanted to ride. A river she wanted to dive into and never come up from. Something yanked her out of the tumbling current—the sight of Morning’s hand lifting her hand off his chest.

  They both stared at the bloodless hole in his T-shirt. The only evidence of a wound was the pinkness of new f
lesh. Even Morning was impressed. He’d seen a video in health class, but never the real thing.

  She spoke in a shaky whisper. “You really are immortal.”

  “Yeah, it’s like our bodies have an invisible finger on the reset button.” His mouth twisted into a bittersweet smile. “Nothing ever changes.”

  She heard the regret in his voice.

  He realized he was still holding her hand. To his amazement, his palm was cool and dry. He didn’t want to let go. He found her eyes. “Can this be a secret?”

  She wasn’t sure which secret he meant. His immortality? Her secret ride on the underground river? Her fear that everything had shifted? That he was becoming more than the star of her movie? The only thing that hadn’t shifted was her skill at covering up by cracking wise. “Cross my heart and hope to die, no one will ever know we held hands.”

  His palm flushed with heat. He pulled it away. “I mean the part about the stake. Nobody can know.”

  The request startled her. “That’s crazy. This wasn’t some whacko fan wanting an autograph. Someone wants to destroy you. You need bodyguards.”

  “No,” he insisted. “Your mother can do all the fan security she wants, but I have to handle whatever slayers come at me.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t explain. But you have to promise me, not even your mother knows about this.” She still looked skeptical. “C’mon, Portia, you have to trust me on this. Promise me.”

  Before she could speak, the door swung open. Penny swept into the room. “Young lady, what are you doing in here?”

  “Young lady” was always the opening shot in a knock-down-drag-out. The kind of knock-down-drag-out that ended with Portia getting grounded for a month. “The truth?” Portia asked, buying time for her brain to concoct an explanation.

  “The truth,” her mother demanded.

  Under normal circumstances, Portia’s hyperspeed synapses would have whipped up a credible story. But the multiple shocks of the staking, the unstaking, and Morning’s bizarre request to keep it secret were still overloading her circuits. She had to go with the unthinkable: the truth. “If you really want to know, I couldn’t sleep.”