Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 (18 page)

At the Ancient One’s words, Junior’s taste rang on Glynn’s nose and tongue, clear as a bell, individual as a fingerprint. He could even sense her from here, as if she was a part of him.
 

He shook himself. All vampires could locate a donor by the unique blood-taste/blood-scent. Though the distance varied by vampire age, Elias and his infernal training had made Glynn one of the best. Of course he could sense Junior. He’d tasted her. It was nothing special. And Elias’s words meant nothing special.

Glynn gritted his teeth. Sometimes Elias played his Wise Ancient persona to annoying perfection. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

“Never mind. I really called to let you know I’ll be offline for a few days.”

“Still working to keep vampire households from going bankrupt, sir?”

“The economy’s hitting us all hard. I’m infusing what liquid cash I can, but we’re hemorrhaging money.” He made a deep sound of disgust. “I’d rather be funding Mishela’s musical, but I suppose vampire civilization takes precedence.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.”

“Luck. We all need it, but especially… Well, good luck to you as well, Rhys-Jenkins.”

Glynn hoped he was imagining the pity he heard in Elias’s voice.

Chapter Eight

The sheer terror of nearly getting caught with a man in my room (even at my age—my parents guilted me early and often, and like an inoculation it’s become part of me) gave me a brain-popping burst of adrenaline. As my parents clumped out of the room, everything—Dirk’s vampires, the howling, the attacks, Julian and Glynn’s unnatural handsomeness, and especially Glynn’s teeth at my throat—everything came together with a bang.

Vampires were real. And Glynn, who’d sunk fangs into my throat, was one.

I should have been afraid. A vampire had bitten me. I should worry that it would turn me into a minion.

But hadn’t it triggered a kickass climax?

No, no. I needed to be frightened. Glynn was an evil, blood-drinking creature of legends. He’d
bitten
me.

Yet when I put fingers to neck, my skin was smooth and whole. No blood, no holes. And he’d wiped his climax off my belly with his own T-shirt.

Kinda tidy for an evil creature.

I gave myself a mental slap. Vampire. Monster. Not Mr. Clean with an overbite. I needed to be scared, to report him to the authorities. Glynn, and all the vampires, like Julian…

Although what about Julian? If he was a vampire, shouldn’t Nixie be paler? More zombielike, less sassy? Infinitely less pregnant? Fear started to fade.

I gave myself another slap. Glynn was a predator. Vampire. When he drank ginger ale, he used real Ginger.

But I wasn’t named Ginger, wasn’t even a redheaded Brit. And compared to abusive boyfriends, axe-murdering husbands, SOs who picked their noses in public… So my boyfriend was a vampire, so what?

I brain-slapped myself so hard I nearly gave myself a concussion.

My
boyfriend
?

Vampires were not suitable for boyfriends. The whole biting thing, though extremely sexy, was dangerous, especially neck bites. The brain’s blood highway ran close to the surface. One wrong poke and I’d be headed to the great Sausage Store in the Sky.
 

So, okay. I needed to stay out of Glynn’s bed.
 

But both he and I were stuck in Meiers Corners for the moment, me in the pit until Mr. Big Broadway Backer hit us with his money wand and sent us to New York, and Glynn guarding Mishela. Business Truth #3 was “If you can’t run, gut it out.” I’d just have to suck it up and deal.

Although Business Truth #6 said “Keep your eyes open and on the customer.” Being stuck here didn’t mean I couldn’t keep alert. My eyes were definitely staying on Glynn. On his square jaw and miles-broad shoulders and tight butt…

Maybe I should have stuck Business Truth #2 in there. Focus, Junior.

Business Truth #4 was “All’s well that ends well”. Glynn might be a bloodsucking creature of the night, but so far all he’d done was protect me, comfort me and give me the best orgasms of my life. Things could have been worse (with a nervous finger-wave to Murphy). Glynn stopped when I said no. He was considerate of my parents. If that didn’t prove his self-control, nothing did.

So maybe the bed thing could work after all?

No, no. This was what was most dangerous about vampires. I wanted Glynn so badly I was talking myself into believing he was harmless. Which he definitely was not. Even if his bite didn’t bleed me out, a couple more might make me a minion or worse.
 

So no going to bed with Glynn anymore, despite Mishela’s and my plan.

Our
plan
. Crap-ay diem, crap the day. Without a bed, how was I going to convince Glynn to go along with our plan? He’d never leave Mishela open for snatching. Not the guy who was Mr. Protector Universe.

But how else were we going to flush such an unusually strong, fast kidnapper from hiding?

Unnaturally strong and fast, almost faster than Glynn…wait. If Glynn was a vampire, didn’t that argue the kidnapper was too?

Well, phooey. With all these vampires in Meiers Corners, how would we plain humans defend ourselves?

My mind started wandering, the way it does before falling asleep. Glynn could rescue me, but I’d rather rescue myself. Superstrong, superfast vampires were not the usual enemy, but maybe there were special techniques.

Hmm. Maybe ask Mr. Miyagi. Tae kwon do, hapkido and vampido.

Somewhere between wondering if it would feature kicks, punches or stakes, I fell asleep.

Thursday was the VIP opening, but I didn’t remember that when I got
my carcass up at the usual half-past ohcrap. My brain was freewheeling on vampires and orgasms, and the gray, drizzly day didn’t help. I taped my numb toes, drank a full mug of coffee on autopilot and stumbled downstairs, hazier than a fog machine set on stupid.

No sooner had I turned the sign to
geöffnet
than Rocky Hrbek ran in, sans flute, shockingly enough. But she said, “Junior, quick. I need a pound of blood sausage to go.”

“But…but you’re a vegetarian.”

“It’s not for me.” She wiped hands on her neat slacks, streaking them a little. “It’s for my supervisor at CIC. She goes nuts for the stuff. You know I wouldn’t ask just for me, and I certainly wouldn’t disturb you before your second cup of coffee.”

“How did you know…?”

“Your eyes are cracked open a third. They raise a third for each cup.”

Either she was more observant than I knew or I seriously had to consider twelve-stepping caffeine. “I think I have some
blutwurst
left.” I did, but not much. I dug it out, weighed off a pound and wrapped it. Made automatic customer service small talk. “So how’s the new job?”

“Tough. Interesting. Disturbing.”

I stopped wrapping. Disturbing, like vampires disturbing?

“They’ve raised the rates.”

“Oh?” I finished wrapping sausage, hospital-corner neat, no mean feat with unboxed product. “On the insurance policies?”

“Yes. But only on Meiers Corners business policies.”

“Can they do that?” I snicked off tape, sealed the package.

“Yes and no. It’s supposed to be about risk. A car stored in Windowsmash City will cost more than the same car in SafetyRUsburg.”

“Meiers Corners is high risk?”

“Well, maybe because it’s near Chicago. But that’s not all. I overheard a couple billing clerks talking.”

I made
tell me more
noises as I rang up her sausage.

“They were ordered to change the premium payment method for all Meiers Corners businesses. Especially the Sparkasse Bank.”

“Payment method? Like from check to credit card?” While she dug for money, I snapped out a bag, slid the sausage into it and held it out to her.

“No. Like from monthly to yearly. Due
immediately
.”

I nearly dropped the bag. My folks’ insurance was a thousand bucks a month. If we had to fork over a year’s worth
right now
, we’d have to do without little extras, like food.

“I’m sure it’s just a mistake.” Rocky grabbed the bag. “That’s what this is for. I’m hoping to sweeten a few dispositions.” She paid and ran off.

Mulling over Rocky’s info, I wandered back to storage to get more
blutwurst
. Opening a refrigerator, I stared at empty shelves, my stock sadly depleted. Sure was a lot of blood sausage getting sold, to Twyla and Rocky and Julian…

Blood
sausage.
Vampires
. It should have scared me, or at least disgusted me. Idiot that I was, I only thought ooh, a new potential market.

I had my second and third cups of coffee, which helped but not enough. The day was so dreary. Even when the rain finally stopped, it was gray, a fog cloud settled on the street. I wandered to the front windows, thought about being depressed but couldn’t summon up the will to care.

I wondered if the weather would help us attendance-wise or hurt. Maybe help. If people couldn’t garden or have cookouts, why not go to a show?

Store traffic was down, but the few times the bell did tinkle my body tensed, still hoping for Big Dark and Dangerous, I guess. Although he probably wouldn’t show up during the day, since vampires supposedly roasted in the sun. On the other hand, it was cloudy. Probably just a legend anyway.

Then I remembered the burning scent in the limo last night and nearly spat coffee. Not a legend. That woke me, finally.

I by-damn didn’t want Glynn hurt, so at six fifteen I tugged on my pink satin jacket (puke pink, and my mother bought it for me when I was in eighth grade, which tells you about the style, but it’s my only spring outerwear that’s waterproofed) and parked self and instruments on the sidewalk. The instant the limo materialized out of the fog, I tossed my sax inside, catching Glynn square in the breadbasket, which stopped him from getting out and frying.

I didn’t have the proper privacy to promote the kidnapper-trapping plan, and I really didn’t want to discuss last night. So I slid in with a lot of nontalk, empty pleasantries to fill up the space as I sluiced my braid and shucked the damp jacket. Glynn sliced me a look so narrow I nearly bled and Mishela frowned, but I kept it bright and vapid and kept my hands busy pinning the braid in a giant black cinnamon roll on the back of my head until we pulled into the underground lot at six thirty.

Tonight’s performance was for patrons, complete with posh reception. Since their VIP-y review of the show determined whether seats were filled for the general opening Friday, which in turn determined word-of-mouth to pack seats through closing, which finally determined if the Broadway backer was impressed enough to infuse our show with mega amounts of lovely cash, I’d have thought they’d be pouring champagne and caviar into the patrons before curtain. But the reception was after, and they were going with beer and cheese balls, the Meiers Corners equivalent, I guess.

The parking lot was already half-full, which was great. Hopefully that’d mean sell-outs for the weekend. Friday and Saturday were especially good for funny shows because precurtain dining and drinking helped make happy crowds.

Helped, but you never knew. No matter how logically you thought it out, how well you planned, success in the arts always contained an element of luck. That’s why theater people are so superstitious.

How superstitious? Just think of the “Scottish Play”, which to anyone else in the world is
Macbeth
. Think of “break a leg” instead of a simple “good luck”.

I know, I know. In this day and age, how can anyone be that irrational? But there’s a perfectly logical explanation.

Now bear with me, please. I need to get this out of my system. Smile and nod and make an uh-huh now and then, and we’ll both be happy.

Like weather, performance is a chaotic system. Night after night you put in the same ingredients, but you’re never quite sure what’ll come out. Exactly the same gestures in exactly the same voice, and one night the audience will laugh and the next it won’t.

Oh, we make up reasons. The audience has been drinking and will laugh at running water. Or it’s had a fight with its boss/spouse/stupid fuck on the road and is ready to hate everything.

We blame it on the FUBARs of fellow performers. The actor who jumps lines like a drunk Chihuahua. The followspot operator who screws your solo spot by lighting your left ear. The telephone that, after you pick it up, keeps ringing because the sound gal’s texting midshow. The singer who drops measures or misses the starting pitch and does the whole solo in the wrong key—don’t get me started.

But those are rationalizations. Simply put, audience reaction is out of our control.

Magic seems the only way to control it.

Theater folk are superstitious because Murphy reigns. Not the imp-of-irony Murphy either, but the mean mutha bent on ruin. And yeah, not to sound the wah-wah-wah brass of doom, but this is unfortunately going somewhere.

Why doesn’t life have a soundtrack so we know what’s coming?

I kept up the blank chatter as I hauled instruments through the underground parking. I chattered nonstop to the room backstage that the orchestra shared with props. There I waved buh-bye, dropped my revolting pink jacket, turned my back and assembled instruments. Glynn hovered and I thought maybe I’d have to parry a couple pointed questions, but Mishela reminded him she had to get ready and they left.