Suck It Up

by Brian Meehl

The first thing Portia noticed was a smell. But more than one. It rose from the ashes like a braid of scents. The dank bloom of a dirt floor—the sweet surprise of honey-suckle—the pungent sour of grapefruit.

  She stared in awe as the ashes began to stir.

  Birnam let out a relieved sigh, then turned to Portia. “With your blood in his veins, he will share your hopes, desires, and the beat of a heart surrendered to love.”

  The ashes suddenly swirled up in a dust devil.

  She shielded her eyes. When she lowered her hand, Morning stood before her, wearing his Epidex. She wanted to leap forward and hug him, but something stopped her. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, lifeless.

  “One other thing,” Birnam said. “He won’t remember this. Not for a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The memory of what happened to him out here will only come back to him as his DNA reasserts itself over your blood.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A couple of days, maybe longer.”

  “What about his ‘heart surrendered to love?’” she asked with a single-digit air-quote. “Will his DNA erase that too?”

  Birnam gave her a crafty smile. “That’s up to the two of you. Now, slap him.”

  “Slap him?”

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to?”

  Even though her insides thrummed with excitement, she eye-rolled What a dumb question. “Well, yeah. Of course.”

  “Then do it.”

  She gave Morning a stinging slap.

  He came to with a start. Recognizing Portia, he broke into a jaunty grin. “Thanks, I needed that.” He eyed the smear of dirt and tears on her cheek. “Whoa, looks like someone tried to make a mud pie on your face.” Before she could respond, he saw the disc of wood in her hand. His face pinched with anger. “Where’d you get that?”

  “I found it on—”

  “It’s mine.” He snatched it from her and turned to Birnam. “C’mon, we got a shot to get.” As he strutted off, he flipped the wooden charm in the air, caught it, and began running his lines with swaggering confidence. “You know me, Morning McCobb.”

  Birnam emitted a satisfied chuckle as he turned to Portia. “You have strong and willful blood.”

  She stared after Morning. “Is that what I’m like?”

  He gave her a benign smile. “Not all the time.” Then he started after Morning.

  Portia wiped her dirty cheek and frowned. “I’ll never give blood again.”

  In case someone suspected a connection between Morning’s disappearance and the truck in front of the studio, Golpear drove down the road and parked behind an abandoned building. At sunset, he would go back to the studio, rendezvous with the friar, and tell him how he’d conveniently reduced Morning to a pile of ash; then they’d finish Morning off with step number three, whatever that was, after which he would collect his final payment and get back to L.A. by midnight.

  In the meantime, the thrill of whacking his first vampire with a flamethrower had burned up all his powdered donut calories and put him in the mood for a power nap.

  He was still napping as the setting sun slathered the western sky with red icing.

  Golpear woke with a start when DeThanatos poked him with the empty crossbow. “Where’s the stake?”

  “Good news,” Golpear reported, pawing sleep from his eyes. “It got incinerated when I torched Morning on the golf course.” He didn’t see the point of mentioning that he’d skipped step one: Staking.

  “I told you—”

  “Hey, he’s toast,” Golpear interrupted. “Sometimes you gotta whack when you gotta whack.”

  DeThanatos didn’t like being interrupted. But instead of biting Golpear, he bit his tongue. “Did you scatter the ashes?”

  Golpear’s eyes lit up. “So that’s the third step!”

  “Yes,” DeThanatos growled. “Now explain this. Why is Morning in the studio right now, shooting a commercial?”

  Golpear’s mouth dropped. “You’re kidding.”

  “Would you like to see for yourself?”

  Golpear held up his hands in protest. “Okay, Brother, listen up and listen good. This isn’t working for me, okay? I’ve whacked the kid twice, and I’ve only been paid half. I’m gonna need to see some more green before whack number three.”

  DeThanatos flashed a disingenuous smile. “How about we make it red and call it a night?”

  Golpear’s puzzled expression lasted a nanosecond before setting in the mask worn by so many of his victims. The mask always asked the same question. Is that a weapon?

  The last thing he saw were two glistening fangs rushing toward him. Golpear’s gold tooth glistened in return as he gasped for air and life.

  A few seconds later, he drifted into the opposite of a power nap. The Big Blackout.

  35

  Flirtation

  As much as Morning wanted to get the shot in one last take and be done with it, he faced new problems. His refreshing and reinvigorating break in the desert had him so pumped he flew through the obstacle course too fast for the camera to follow. And he was rushing his lines. It took several takes, along with adjustments on both sides of the camera, before the director, Birnam, and Morning reached a happy medium.

  Climbing to the top of the set for what he was sure would be the perfect take, Morning spotted Portia talking to a stranger. He was a head taller than her, had longish blond hair, was built like a swimmer, and looked about nineteen. He was the hunk Morning knew he could never be. It sent a pang of jealousy knifing through him. But it was more than jealousy. Since fighting off the urge to feed on Portia in his dressing room, another feeling stirred in him. Possession. He had spared her. If anyone had a right to her, he did. He decided to deal with blondie-boy after he nailed the take.

  DeThanatos had acquired his preppie look after visiting the studio’s costume department. He had swapped his monk’s robe for chinos, a crisp white shirt, and a tie. He had also procured a blond wig. Even though he had never come face to face with Birnam in the centuries they’d both haunted the earth, he didn’t know if he had been spotted by whatever surveillance Birnam might have on Morning.

  DeThanatos had convinced Portia he was doing a college internship at the studio, and had slipped onto the closed set to see the famous Morning McCobb. Portia had told him how difficult the shoot had been, but that Morning was on the verge of the perfect take. DeThanatos was more intrigued by the nasty looks Morning was shooting him as he climbed to the top of the set. They were looks DeThanatos hoped to fashion into a weapon: Jealousy. Mortals called it the green-eyed monster. For vampires it was more like the white-fanged monster. In either case, jealousy could make you do things you’d regret later.

  DeThanatos decided it was time to go for the jugular. Figuratively, of course. “To be honest,” he said to Portia with a casual smile, “Mr. McCobb doesn’t interest me as much as you.”

  She answered his flirtation with a dubious look. Just because the guy was older, and hot, didn’t mean she couldn’t see right through him. A cocky guy was a cocky guy. And it was only a matter of time before he took his first swing at getting to first base. “Oh, really? What’s so interesting about me?”

  DeThanatos coolly backpedaled. “Not you personally, what you’re doing.”

  She’d seen that move before too: step from the batter’s box of intention to the batter’s box of indifference. This guy was smooth; he was a switch-hitter. “What do you think I’m doing?”

  He glanced at her Handycam, which she had fired back up after Morning had turned into the full-of-himself actor. “If I had to guess,” he said with a lazy shrug, “I’d say you’re making the movie of the making of Morning McCobb.”

  His clairvoyance impressed her. “How did you know that?”

  “From the camera, of course, but the real giveaway is in your eyes.”

  “Really.” Despite his leap back into the batter’s box of blatant intention, her curiosity kept her in the game. “What
do my eyes give away?”

  He glanced up at Morning glowering down at them, then back to her. To fan the flames, he studied Portia for a long moment before speaking.

  She felt uneasy under the heat of his gray eyes, but she refused to look away.

  He broke into a teasing smile. “Your eyes have the look of those women who go to Africa and devote their lives to studying lions or gorillas.” He looked back up at Morning. “Or some other wild animal.”

  She laughed.

  DeThanatos laughed too, for Morning’s benefit.

  “You’re right,” she said, watching Morning accelerate his climb toward the platform. “I’m fascinated by my subject.”

  “But there’s more than burning curiosity,” he added, resuming a serious tone. “There’s also a hunger in your eyes.”

  “Are you saying I’m a vampire?”

  “Of a sort. You’re a psychic vampire. You feed on people’s stories.”

  Portia stared at him, not sure if he meant it as an insult or a compliment. Most guys she could talk circles around. This one was different. But she wasn’t sure how.

  “Hey,” he added with a casual shrug, “it takes one to know one.”

  “Oh, you’re a psychic vampire too?”

  “Yes and no. In truth, I’m just a plain old people person.”

  She scoffed at the funny sound of it. “‘A people person.’ If you want to bring it to the twenty-first century, maybe you should try ‘a peep’s peep.’”

  He shook his head. “No, I prefer a people person.”

  His stubbornness impressed her. Even if he was a guy on the make, at least he wasn’t twisting into a pretzel to please her. “How many times a day do people tell you you’re weird?”

  He grinned. “None.” It was the most honest thing he’d said yet. “But I’ll admit, I’m old-fashioned. I mean, if I change my ways to impress you, you might think I want something.”

  Her insides jumped as his clairvoyance struck twice. This guy was more than a switch-hitter, he had a corked bat. She started to speak but was interrupted by Morning’s shout.

  “Let’s do it!” Back on the platform, Morning was ready to go. This time he didn’t touch the wooden disc for good luck. He didn’t need it. Watching Portia flirt with the tall stranger had charged him with all the motivation he needed. He was going to blow both of them away with his performance.

  As the director shouted orders, DeThanatos walked away.

  It caught Portia by surprise. “Aren’t you going to watch the shot?”

  He kept moving toward the exit. “No. I like to see things when they’re all wrapped up, neat and tidy.” He tossed her a friendly smile, and sauntered out of the sound-stage.

  She shook her head. “Preppies. They can be so twisted.” Her words contradicted the squishy feeling in her stomach. She hoped to see him again. Brushing the thought aside, she raised her camera and zoomed up to Morning at the top of the set.

  The take was perfect. After Morning uttered his last line, the studio burst into cheers and applause. His only disappointment was that the blond invader had disappeared.

  During all the backslapping and congratulations from Birnam, the director, Penny, and the crew, Morning looked for Portia. He spotted her at the row of tables where dinner had been served earlier. She was picking at a salad. After the celebration died down he walked over. Trying to look unaffected by his triumph, he pulled out his cell phone, turned it back on, and pocketed it as he joined her. “Glad it’s over? Or do you think I can do better?”

  She flashed a smile. “No, that was incredible!”

  “You sure?” he asked with a sneer. “I could do another take if you’d like more hang time with blondie-boy.”

  Her face fell. “Blondie-boy?”

  “Yeah. Who was that guy?”

  She pulled back, trying to figure him. For someone whose circulatory system was supposed to be churning with her hopes, desires, and the beat of a heart surrendered to love, he had a rude way of showing it. “I didn’t get his name. Besides, I thought we decided to be friends.”

  “Right,” he said, then air-quoted with his index fingers. “‘Friends.’”

  She gawked, waiting for him to realize what he’d just done. He was oblivious. Birnam was right. He had no clue what had happened in the desert. She just wished his heart were as obedient as his fingers.

  Morning’s cell phone bleeped, signaling a message.

  Portia was glad for the excuse to get away. “Hey, that’s probably from Tiger Woods, crowning you the new king of commercials.” She turned and walked off. She also wanted to go outside and grab a shot of the spot where he had been reduced to ashes and reborn as the blood brother she wasn’t sure she wanted.

  Watching her go, he flipped open his phone and got his voice mail. There was a message from the fireman. He listened with irritation as the old man explained that he was running into resistance from the fire department’s brass. While they loved the idea of having Morning join the FDNY, waiving the minimum age requirement for one sixteen-year-old might lead to a flood of lawsuits by other sixteen-year-olds wanting equal treatment. As the fireman promised to keep working on it, Morning saw Birnam coming toward him. He shut the phone and stuffed it in his pocket.

  Birnam joined him at the food table. For a long moment they watched the crew break the set apart like a giant green iceberg. Birnam ended the silence. “I know I said this was the last thing you had to do. But before you go back to New York, would you like to see the final product? We’ll be debuting it in Leaguer Mountain tomorrow night. It would be great if you were there.”

  Before the shoot, Morning had planned to don a disguise, catch a flight back to New York, hide out at St. Giles, and start studying for the entrance exam to the Fire Academy. But there was no point in studying for an exam they might never let him take. “Who’s going to be there?”

  “Thousands of Leaguers,” Birnam said. “And your graduating class.”

  Morning flashed back to the cheer the crew had given him minutes before. It was a cheer his class had denied him. The runt of the litter would be returning as a conquering hero. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go.”

  Birnam nodded with pleasure. “Good. That way we can all thank you for leading us out of the selva obscura, to the very edge of the dark wood.”

  After Birnam walked away, a wave of bone-deep exhaustion engulfed Morning. He sagged with fatigue as a scent slithered into his consciousness. The smell pulled him to the source.

  A platter on the table held a decimated roast beef. The hunk of tattered meat sat in a puddle of greasy blood. He pushed the meat aside, lifted the platter, and drank. Even polluted with fat, it was the best thing he’d tasted in a long time.

  36

  To the Mountain

  After returning to Ducats, Morning tumbled into the abyss of sleep. He wouldn’t climb back out until the next afternoon.

  Portia had a fitful night of sleep, followed by a morning at the hotel pool where she continued her mental tossing and turning. She was mystified by the changes in Morning since reviving him with her blood. If her hopes and desires were supposed to be running in his veins, why were they coming out so twisted? Where was the heart that Birnam said would be surrendered to love? If Morning was supposed to be a reflection of her personality, at least for a couple of days, why had he become conceited, jealous, and hard-edged? Was that who she was? Or was that who she’d be if she were a guy?

  But the biggest change she noticed was in his eyes. She used to take pleasure in catching his averted glances. Now she found herself avoiding eyes that were harsh and accusatory, like she had done something wrong.

  The more his personality change gnawed at her, the more the dreadful truth emerged. The fun, good-natured vampire next door she thought she was falling for had become like so many other guys: predictable, egocentric pillars of testosterone. Once upon a time, he had shape-shifted into a fog, a tree, a dolphin, a pigeon, a puppy, and a wolf. Now he had transformed int
o just another jerk.

  Fortunately, Portia was back to Assume the worst.

  Unfortunately, Morning wasn’t the only one running through her mind. Another guy kept popping into view: the stranger she’d met in the studio. While Morning slogged through her mental labyrinth like a spent marathoner, the stranger flashed like a sprinter. And there was no doubt which one made her heart beat faster.

  But Portia knew herself well enough to know where the intriguing stranger fit in the astrology of guys. He was the eye candy, the talk taffy, that made a girl feel good when there were troubles with guy number one. It didn’t make him guy number two. He was more like cough syrup. Good to get you through a troubled night, but not something you wanted to swig every day.

  Besides, she kept reminding herself, there were far more important things to obsess about than Morning and yesterday’s crush. She had to come up with a new film title. After Morning almost lost it in his dressing room, and then got so cocksure and abusive after the blood transfusion, the whole Jackie Robinson–sainthood thing didn’t fly. It was more like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Several new titles came to mind. A Tale of Two Mornings. Morning McCobb: Creature of the Lite or Creature of the Night? Or if she wanted to go with an autobiographical slant, How I Juiced the Jackie Robinson of the Vampire League into Barry Bonds.

  While Morning slept, and Portia vacillated between guy angst and title brainstorming, Penny had a long breakfast meeting with Birnam. After telling her that Morning’s role as the first Leaguer ambassador was almost over, Birnam congratulated Penny on a job well done and gave her a fat bonus. Then he filled her in on the next volume of the IVL playbook. Lastly, they went over the talking points she needed to cover when she met the media mob still gathered outside Ducats Hotel and Casino.

  In the last twenty-four hours, the news dealers who supplied celebrity junkies with their daily dose of gossip had grown anxious without a new headline on Morning. To fill the void a rumor had been started: Morning had been destroyed by a vampire slayer. Penny’s job, as Birnam made clear, was to assure the public that Morning was safe and sound, and would be making an important announcement that evening during a commercial break on America’s hottest new TV show, Based on an Urban Legend.