Vamparazzi

by Laura Resnick

  “No, Victor’s got it.” I presented my half-naked back to the befuddled assistant. “It pretty much works like shoelaces.”

  “I’m wondering whether to phone Daemon,” Victor said anxiously as he started working on my laces. “What do you think, Esther? The mood of the crowd out there is so ugly, I feel I should warn him. But at the same time, I don’t want to distress him unnecessarily. And, after all, it’s not as if he can skip work tonight. The show must go on.”

  “Well, he’ll have to come through that crowd, anyhow, Victor. So maybe telling him about it ahead of time won’t help or change anything.” As the assistant finished tying my laces, I added doubtfully, “Though if he wanted to avoid attention tonight, I suppose he could try coming through the fire exit on the other side of the stage.”

  “The way he left,” Tarr said with an amused snicker, “when the cops hauled him away for questioning.”

  “There’s not as much police presence near that door,” I said, “but there usually aren’t many vamparazzi hanging out around there, either.”

  “Vampa-what?” Victor asked.

  Tarr guffawed. “I get it! Good one!”

  “That door doesn’t open from the outside,” Victor said.

  “So wait by the door and let him in when he pounds on it, genius,” Tarr said rudely.

  I gave Tarr a cold glance. “It might not be such a good idea, after all, Victor.”

  “No, I think it is. I’ll call Daemon and suggest it.” Victor pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial. “He can phone me as his car pulls up, and I can be waiting right by the door to let him in.” He held the phone to his ear, then said a moment later in disappointment, “It’s going to voice mail.” He glanced at me. “Well, I’ll leave you to finish preparing. Thank you, Esther.”

  “No, don’t go,” I said to his retreating back, unwilling to be abandoned alone with Tarr.

  Victor didn’t hear me. He was leaving a message for Daemon, suggesting my plan.

  “That guy gives me the creeps,” Tarr said to me. “No life of his own at all. Just exists to cater to Daemon’s every whim, twenty-four-seven, and is grateful for the ‘privilege.’ I swear, I think he’s in love with Daemon.” Tarr leaned forward and confided, “Between you and me, I think Victor leans the other way, you know what I mean?”

  “Your keen insight into human nature is always a revelation, Al,” I said coldly.

  “God, I love your zingers!” he said with a chuckle.

  I sighed. Why me?

  I went back to my makeup table, privately considering Tarr’s comment more seriously than I was willing to let him see. If Angeline’s killer was someone obsessed with Daemon, that didn’t preclude the person being someone Daemon knew—even someone close to him. Where was Victor when the girl had been murdered? I had no idea. No one had ever said.

  Admittedly, I found it difficult to picture the high-strung, effeminate assistant as a rogue vampire prowling through the dirty, dark, spooky tunnels beneath the city, preying on other victims and also slaying an experienced vampire hunter in combat.

  Then again, what did I know about rogue vampires? I supposed if you were endowed with mystical power and driven by your homicidal blood addiction, being high-strung and effeminate were probably just minor eccentricities.

  “Oh, my God, I can’t believe what it’s like out there today!” Mad Rachel boomed, coming into the dressing room. “I swear it took me twenty minutes for my cab to get from the corner to the theater! People aren’t even staying behind the police barricades anymore!”

  I was packing up my makeup. Tarr was watching me. A moment of blessed silence descended on the room.

  Then Rachel said, “What am I, invisible? Are you two even listening to me?”

  We both looked at her in surprise. My jaw dropped when I realized that she had been speaking to us.

  Tarr voiced my thoughts. “Where’s your phone, Rachel?”

  “In my bag. Why?” She dumped her hold-all on the counter and continued, “The cops have not got that situation under control. Something bad is going to happen out there. I can feel it!” Noticing that I was still staring openmouthed at her, she said, “What?”

  “I’m just not used to seeing you without a phone glued to your ear,” I admitted.

  “Me, neither,” said Tarr.

  “Whatever. Oh! I read your story today, Al,” Rachel said. “And I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “You are?” I blurted.

  “I have a lot of questions.” She pulled up a chair and sat down close to Tarr, which obviously startled him. “Do you really think we’re working with a killer? Because if Daemon’s murdered someone, then I’m calling Equity. I don’t think I should have to share the stage with him, do you?”

  I noticed the open, partially empty bottle of champagne I had left sitting here the night before, and I seized on it as an excuse to flee the room. “I have to go put this in Daemon’s fridge. Bye!”

  Tarr said, “Wait a minute, toots. I wanted to—”

  “I’ll be right back,” I lied.

  I made my escape, pleased to realize I wouldn’t have to go back in there before intermission, when I’d need to do a quick touch-up to my face. For now, my make up, hair, and costume were all ready. I’d go wait in Daemon’s room until he arrived, when I’d ask him to sniff my hypoallergenic self and make sure we were good to go. Then I’d go hang out in Leischneudel’s room until curtain. This strategy would also have the advantage of making it harder for Fiona to find me, if she were around. She hadn’t cornered me yet about the stain on my hem, and she might make the effort tonight.

  Halfway down the hall, I realized I had left my cell in my dressing room, which meant that I wouldn’t be able to check for an update from Thack. Oh, well. I certainly didn’t want to go back in there to fetch it. Besides, I should be thinking about the show for the next few hours. The latest update on the Lithuanian connection could wait until I was finished with work.

  I saw Bill approaching from the other direction, looking frazzled. I remembered my promise to Lopez and decided I’d better speak to the stage manager now about that door that led into the tunnel system.

  “Um, Bill, I have kind of a strange—”

  “It is a madhouse outside,” he said heavily. “I swear, it’s gone from crazy to dangerous.”

  “I know. It’s pretty bad tonight. Listen, there’s something I need to—”

  “The cops really have their hands full. And I don’t know how we’re going to manage to open the house and get people seated,” Bill continued morosely. “The house manager says they’re about to have a riot in the lobby.”

  I frowned. “Seriously?”

  “People are trying to break in to the theater out front,” he said. “And, actually, I think people have broken in back here. I’ve just called the cops and told them we need some of them inside tonight. We might have intruders backstage.”

  “What? How?”

  Bill held up a finger as his cell phone rang. “Just a minute, Esther.”

  I thought through the possibilities while he answered his call, which seemed to be a follow-up on his request for assistance inside the building. The only ways into the backstage area were through the front-of-house, which was still closed (but apparently under siege); via the unloading area, which was always securely locked if the crew wasn’t moving sets and equipment; via the backstage fire exit, which could only be opened from the inside; and the stage door, which was guarded.

  My stomach sank as I realized there was one more way to get in here—via the underground tunnels.

  Oh, no. Had I waited too long to follow Lopez’s instructions? Had the killer infiltrated the theater from below? Was he stalking the cast and crew even now, preparing to pounce, slay, and feast?

  Bill ended the call with a demoralized sigh. “The cops understand our concern about the intruders, but they can’t spare anyone from duty outside the theater. Things are too out of hand out there, as it is. They’re goi
ng to try to shift more officers from other duties to the Hamburg, but that’ll take a while.”

  “Somebody has broken in backstage?” I prodded in alarm. “From the basement?”

  “The basement?” he repeated with a puzzled frown. “No, I think someone’s come in through the roof.”

  “The roof?”

  “There’s an old ventilation shaft way at the back of the stage. We’ve just found a couple of rappelling ropes dangling down from it. They weren’t there when we reset the show last night, I know that much.”

  “Whoa.” The ceiling there must be thirty feet high. “You’re saying that someone climbed onto the roof and rappelled down to the stage?”

  “I know. Even for these people, it’s crazy, isn’t it?”

  “How did they get up there?” I wondered.

  “I have no idea. But it’s been dark for well over an hour, so I guess they were able to do it without being spotted.” Bill added, “That’s a long fall to the floor if someone doesn’t really know what they’re doing. I hope they chickened out and went away after dropping the ropes down.”

  “So do I.”

  “But I’ll feel better when we get a cop or two patrolling back here.”

  “Me, too.”

  Bill said, “Look, if you see Daemon before I do, please warn him about this. If someone has broken in, then he’s bound to be the person they’re trying to see—or to harass.”

  “Of course.” I started to add, “By the way, there is another way to get into . . .” But Bill was already halfway down the hall—and much too busy and stressed for me to show him the tunnel door right now, anyhow.

  Hoping that Daemon would get here soon, I walked to his door, opened it, entered the room—and came to a surprised halt when I saw Leischneudel standing in front of Daemon’s little refrigerator, with the door open, revealing its empty interior. He was drinking a bottle of ruby red liquid.

  He flinched guiltily, lowered the bottle, and gaped at me in openmouthed alarm.

  My first thought was that he was so stressed-out by the hysterical vamparazzi tonight that he was filching Daemon’s last bottle of Nocturne, despite being a nondrinker. I started to hold up my open bottle of lukewarm, flat champagne, to offer it as an alternative . . .

  But then I realized that wasn’t a Nocturne bottle he was now trying to conceal behind his back. It was one of the decorative little bottles in which Daemon kept his own blood.

  I also saw, with a horrified chill that raced straight to the pit of my stomach, that the sticky red liquid clinging to Leischneudel’s lips and teeth wasn’t wine cooler.

  “Oh, my God!” I dropped my champagne bottle as I gaped at him. It hit the floor with a heavy thud and spilled tepid bubbly all around my feet.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said quickly.

  His mouth was bright red with blood. I uttered a horrified gurgle of disgusted fear when he unconsciously licked and smacked his lips while staring at me in quivering, guilt-ridden anxiety and trying to think of what to say.

  “You’re a vampire?” I cried.

  “Oh.” Leischneudel blinked. “Well. Yes, then maybe it is what you think.”

  “A vampire?”

  “Keep your voice down,” he said anxiously. He set down the bottled blood and glanced into the hall to see if anyone had heard me. “Close the door.”

  Taking all factors into account, I let out a bloodcurdling scream—which stuck ineffectually in my terror-constricted throat—and turned to flee. I slipped on the spilled champagne and flailed madly in the doorway, trying to get traction.

  “Esther!” He was on me in flash, his arms around me as he dragged me back into the room, faster and stronger than I had expected.

  “No!” I screeched. “No!”

  Leischneudel slammed the dressing room door, shoved me against it, and pinned my arms to my sides when I tried to fight him.

  “Esther! Listen! Listen to me.”

  I looked at his reddened lips and teeth, and I screwed up my face in disgust. “Oh, my God! You’re the killer! You murdered that girl! It’s you! How could . . . umph nnng!” My voice was reduced to panicky grunting when he covered my mouth with his hand and pressed hard, trying to silence me.

  “The killer?” he blurted, clearly horrified. “Oh, my God! How could you think that?”

  Panting frantically through my nose, I grunted out my answer beneath the pressure of his hand.

  “Well, yes, I’m a vampire,” he said. “But I’m not a psychopath. All right, I have to drink a little blood now and then. But I certainly don’t go around killing people.”

  I stared at him, my heart pounding, caught off guard by how normal he seemed—well, except for the blood on his mouth. I grunted inquisitively.

  “No, of course not! How could you possibly . . .” His expression was shocked and hurt. “I don’t even kill spiders! You know that ... Well, okay, there was that one time—but it was really big and hairy, and it was in my tub, and it scared me.”

  I was still breathing hard, torn between frightened suspicion of this newly exposed vampire and a desire to believe my friend. “Ung oong imayay?”

  “What? Oh. Sorry.” He removed his hand from my mouth. “I guess I freaked out for a minute there. I was afraid you were going to run all over the theater screaming that I’m a vampire.”

  “Well, I was.” I winced and touched my cheek, which was still tender and slightly inflamed beneath my makeup.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” He leaned closer to inspect my skin.

  “Stay back!” I snapped, seeing that bloody mouth coming within range of my jugular vein. “Don’t come near me!”

  His eyes misted with tears. “See? This is exactly why I never tell anyone.”

  “Where were you on the night of the murder?”

  “I was with you until four o’clock,” he said.

  “Oh. Right. And then?”

  “You know where I was! Home in bed. Mimi woke me at six thirty, and we were at the twenty-four-hour clinic by seven. You can call and ask them!”

  I stared at him in consternation. “Are you Lithuanian?”

  “No.” His eyes widened. “You know about Lithuanians?”

  “You’re made, then?”

  Based on what I had learned from Max about made vampires, I now recalled various revealing moments during the three months I had known Leischneudel—none of which had ever before struck me as noteworthy. In particular, I thought of his uncannily acute hearing.

  He hesitated to answer my question, then let out his breath and nodded. “Yes, I’m a made vampire. And if you know about Lithuanians, then you know you mustn’t tell anyone, Esther! It’s very dangerous. They’d kill me!”

  “You didn’t get a permit?” When he shook his head, I said, “What were you thinking?”

  “I didn’t know what was going to happen!” he said defensively.

  “What did happen?” I demanded.

  He gave a weary sigh. “Well . . . you remember my telling you that I was very sickly growing up, right?”

  “Yes.” I put a hand over my pounding heart and tried to steady my breathing.

  “I was born with a congenital immunodeficiency disease. And the older I got, the more things went wrong with me. In college, I couldn’t even complete the second semester of my sophomore year. I wound up dropping out of out school. I even broke up with Mary Ann. It was a very dark time for me, Esther.” He glanced hungrily at the bottle of blood on the other side of the room, and said, “And I began ... experimenting.”

  “With vampirism?”

  “No, with alcohol. Cigarettes. Marijuana. I even tried . . .” Shamefaced, he blurted, “Magic mushrooms.”

  “Leischneudel!” I said in surprise.

  “I know it’s no excuse, but I was very depressed and angry. Anyhow, one night, I got really drunk with this guy I hardly knew, and one thing led to another . . .”

  He looked so uncomfortable, I decided to just say it for him. “
And you had sex.”

  “No, he convinced me to drink some of his blood.”

  “Oh!”

  “He told me it would heal me. Change me. Make me strong, and healthy. He was ... very persuasive.” Leischneudel paused. “You know how some things seem like a really good idea when you’ve had way too much to drink, but then you wake up the next day and wonder what you could possibly have been thinking?”

  “Oh, that’s never happened to me.”

  “At the time, I was just worried about AIDS,” he said. “It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later, when I noticed I had become obsessed with everybody’s blood, not just the blood I had drunk, that I realized something weird was happening to me. So I knew I had to face this guy again and find out exactly what he had done to me.”

  “Was he Lithuanian?”

  Leischneudel nodded. “It turned out he was even more appalled than I was the morning after, when he woke up sober and realized what he had done. He was also terrified. He told me he wasn’t allowed to do this without special dispensation, and if anyone found out, we’d both be killed.”

  “Oh, Leischneudel,” I said in sympathy.

  “I was really shaken up at first,” he admitted. “Almost suicidal. But, of course, as soon as I went to Mary Ann in despair and confessed everything, she straightened me out.”

  “Oh?” How did a girl straighten out her boyfriend after finding out he had just accidentally become a vampire?

  “She made me see what was important. What actually mattered.”

  “Which was?”

  “The transformation did heal me!” he said. “It did make me strong and healthy. It completely changed my life! I got back together with Mary Ann and could be a real boyfriend to her. I also returned to college, finished my degree, graduated, and moved to New York to become an actor. I’ll be able to marry Mary Ann, be a good father to her children, and grow old with her while I spend my senior years doing character roles.”

  Leischneudel’s blood-sticky smile was glowing with grateful happiness as he recognized his blessings anew. “And now I’ve got a major role in a sold-out Broadway show. Okay, it’s a show about an evil vampire who kills people, which is a little disturbing for me . . . And we’re mauled nightly by vamparazzi, which I find a pretty stressful.”