Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 (41 page)

Glynn’s jaw didn’t so much ease as unhinge. Then he simply closed his eyes and nodded.

Note to self. Breasts make
great
sales tools.

I grabbed his hand and headed for the door. We swung out into the hallway just as the rolling mass of vampires knocked over the tallest tower of liquor boxes.

At the top was a case of Grand Marnier, the pricy special-edition stuff. It hit with the
thock
of thick glass shattering, tinkled with the nerves-edge flaying of almost ten dollars an ounce.

On the plus side, a pleasant orangey smell covered the stench of vampire rotgut and the lethal injection of Gorgon’s Ola (leaking past the room’s seal, another sign of shoddy construction. Cousin Herbort in the assessor’s office would have to have a little sit-down with Camille).

That’s when it hit me. I could actually see. Which meant… I looked up. The door at the far end of the hallway was open, held by Camille’s red-tipped claws.

She stood like some heathen idol, golden hip cocked, liquid-gold-covered breasts heaving. “Kill them,” she ordered in a ringing contralto. “Kill them
all
.”

Glynn whipped into fighting stance.

Redoubling their efforts, the rogues rolled nearer. Snarling, Camille herself entered the fray. Before the door swung shut, I saw her jerkily slashing, like a monster in a sixties Hercules movie.

I pulled the start cord on Freddy and…

Nothing.

The door clanged shut. A flame flared in the darkness near me. One of the vampires, lighting a match. I wondered what kind of vampire couldn’t see in the dark, decided it had to be a newbie, confirmed when the light flicked his claw of stylish gelled bangs into view before sputtering out.

In the darkness, I pulled on the cord again, harder. Nothing.

Maybe I’d flooded the engine. I set Freddy down on the wet floor to get purchase, put my foot on him and pulled that starter rope with everything I had.

Just as the vampire lit another match too close to his bangs. His hair caught like dry grass. He yelled and dropped the match to slap his fiery do—Freddy started up.

I’ll never know if Freddy sparked, or if the dropped match did it. Glynn said it was the match and his vision was superior.

But a liquor-infused box caught fire.

Liquor doesn’t normally burn very fast. Mixed with cardboard in that hot, enclosed space—well, even then we might have been okay. Even when the burning newbie Lestat panicked and tried to escape into the cool room, releasing noxious hydrogen cheesefarts, we might have been fine.

But mannitol hexanitrate is an explosive.

I heard a
whoosh
from the cool room, the rush of H2-charged air toward the flame-licked vampire rotgut. I released the FRDe 5000 with my suddenly nerveless hand.

Bo and Julian shouted. Seized their pregnant wives and ran for the exit.

The only exit. My exit—except a dozen Lestats clogged the way.

Glynn lifted me off my feet and set out at a dead run. I screamed at him. No matter how strong he was, he couldn’t bowl through the sheer mass of vampires in our way.

He was running the wrong way. Away from the exit, toward the boxed canyon end of the hallway.

Yellow flame burst behind us. Lestats scrabbled like cockroaches, screamed as they caught fire. Nikos grabbed the three slowest and simply tossed them out of danger before shimmering away. Thor and Rebecca, inside the storage area, dissolved into mist and shot out the door.

Glynn couldn’t mist and get away, not with me. I shouted something stupid like, “Leave me and save yourself.”

He ignored me. Spun, curled protectively around me and hit the wall with his back. He blasted through, wallboard and wood rupturing like paper, brick shattering like sand. More shoddy construction. Cousin Herbort was going to have a field day.

Glynn hit the alley running.

Fangs To You exploded.

He cradled my spine and put on a burst, was out of the alley in milliseconds. When he finally slowed a couple blocks away, we were both breathing hard.

Black smoke plumed in the sky. Flames started showing above the surrounding buildings. Fangs To You’s marble wouldn’t burn, but anything frame was toast. Sirens shrieked.

“My folks!” I struggled to get down.

Glynn set me down and misted away. I ran after—straight into his chest. He’d returned in seconds. “Your parents are fine, Junior.”

“But the explosion…the fire—”

“The explosion was in back of the club. Bo opened the fire hydrant in front almost immediately. The fire department’s arriving now, getting the worst under control. There’s some smoke damage to buildings next door, but the ones across the street weren’t even touched. Everything’s fine.”

“Except Fangs To You.”

He grinned, savagely. “Except that.”

I took Glynn’s hand and we walked to my place, stood on the street for a bit, watching the fire department work.

Camille stormed by, eyes red in her sooty face. I would have tackled her to see if she’d rescued Glynn’s tchotchkes, but I could see from here she wasn’t carrying anything, not even a purse, and her clothes were so tight they wouldn’t have hidden a credit card. Catching sight of me, she shouted, “I’ll sue. I’ll sue Meiers Corners, I’ll sue the Alliance. I’ll sue every-fucking-body!”

Behind her trotted Toto. In all the fuss, I’d forgotten about him and was glad to see he’d made it out all right.

“I’ll sue the makers of Gorgon’s Ola,” she shouted. “And I’ll sue the pants off that show of yours.”

Toto nipped her heels.

Camille shrieked, started running. “I’ll sue you—and your little dog, too!”

Toto made a truly prodigious leap for such a small dog. Teeth bared, he caught her in her golden globe.

Heh. Our first award.

Whether it was my plan bringing Meiers Cornersitians back to their senses or the sudden lack of competition, Saturday’s show (in the PAC with five thousand bucks of newly bound insurance) played to a sold-out crowd. We had money to make up, so we added a Sunday night show to the matinee. I was worried we wouldn’t have enough people, but word of mouth advertising whooshed faster than even the fireball. Sunday’s matinee was packed and the evening was SRO. Not only was it SRO, ticket scalpers were getting fifty bucks a head until Mayor Meier scolded them, guilting them into returning all the money.

Meiers Corners was back, baby, and it was good.

During the runoff music, as the house lights started coming up, I caught sight of the backer himself. Big bushy eyebrows and the kind of smile you find only on a Texan. Gene Roddenberry looked a lot like the
Star Trek
producer Gene, but of course couldn’t be.

Director Dumas, watching from the wings, saw him too. Dashed out onto the stage, waving at the Roddenberry clone. “What’s the good word, Gene?”

Mr. Backer made no indication that he heard Dumas. As the house lights rose, Gene shimmered, his body twinkling in the half light as if he were caught in an alien beam or a transporter effect or was a vampire misting—and disappeared.

What kind of life did I lead, that of aliens, future technology and vampires, the last was the most believable?

Just before Mr. Backer disappeared, he raised two thumbs up.

We were going to New York.

Camille made good on her threats to sue everyone and anyone, but Julian managed to hold off any proceedings for several months.

A glowing review of the show in the
Tribune
brought in advance money for the next PAC production. Someone leaked the story of Camille’s club and her addictive cheese curds to the alternative press, bringing in tourists on the weird-places circuit. We never found out who told, but the headline was “Explosion Has
Der
Vampire Drug Club Ge-Leveled”, in the mayor’s best Eng-Glitch. A video of the fire had gone viral on YouTube. Curiosity seekers came from as far away as Japan and left laden with all things Quainte and Costlye. Money poured into the coffers and Elias called off his war. The only bad thing was I didn’t have time to recover Glynn’s tchotchkes. I hoped they weren’t destroyed in the explosion.

Glynn didn’t mention them, but he was busy in the aftermath of Friday. It took him and the older MC vamps the whole weekend to convince Friday’s traumatized audience that they’d only seen bad dentistry.

We were both busy, so we didn’t talk much, especially not about us. But we were intimate several more times, the kind that’s more love than sex.

So as I packed instruments that Sunday evening, I was cautiously optimistic. I had another plan.

This one wasn’t cunning, but rather straightforward and sweet. After taking my stuff home, I’d go to Emersons’ townhouse. I’d talk to Glynn and convince him to come to New York. Not to stay, and definitely not to give up Wales, but to visit me. I figured all we needed was some time to come to an understanding.

Of course, if he balked at straight and sweet, I had a backup sales plan. No bra. And I’d written “New York” on my breasts.

If that didn’t work, well, I wasn’t flying out until Thursday. Four days, with that big bed at Emersons, would be plenty of time to convince him.

As I walked to meet my vampire, I wondered if he could smell me coming. If he’d meet me at the door. When I arrived, the door banged open. I raced the last steps to throw myself into the arms of—Nixie. Running into a pregnant one hundred thirty pounds was like hitting a sandbag. That wasn’t the only shock to my system.

“You should’ve been here earlier.” She hugged me. “The Iowa group’s already gone.”

“
What
?” Glynn’s sweetness loving me, his frequent glances and secret smiles…were all my imagination? Beneath trees and in alleys and in his bed…had it been only sex after all, no love required?

I nearly slapped my face. Of course it had.
I
was the one to insist on it. No commitments. No claim, no foul.

“Isn’t this kind of sudden?” My voice was disturbingly pitiful.

“Mishela had to get back to Iowa before dawn.” Nixie led me into a small den, pulled a beer out of a refrigerator and handed it to me. “Apparently, she’s got this stupidly strict curfew. Douchebag Ancient. Glynn went straight to O’Hare.”

“But…he didn’t…
they
didn’t say goodbye.”

She knew what I meant. “Glynn apologized for dipping out. He’s off to Wales for his two months.” She handed me a folded note. “He did arrange floodlights for your walkway before lamming. Said he knew you were jonesing for New York or he would’ve asked you along to Wales.” She paused, considered me. “You okay?”

“Dammit, Nixie, before Glynn, everything was black and white.” I rubbed the cold can against my forehead. “Duty was first, my dreams on hold. Now I have a chance to fulfill the dreams…but I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“That’s why you’re here? Good-bye sex?”

“I
was
going to ask him to go to New York with me.”

“Instead he’s gone home.” She watched me closely, her blue eyes shrewd. “Dorothy said it. There’s no place like home.”

“But what makes a home?” I popped the can, had a long, cool drink. Went on, a little calmer. “I was thinking about that during the show. To Dorothy, home is Aunt Em as much as the farm. Uncle Henry and the farmhands, people as much as place. Home is safe people who love you even if you’re you. Somehow, in the last couple weeks, Glynn’s become my safe place.”

I set down the beer and opened the folded note. It said simply, “Junior, Be happy in New York. I love you. Glynn” I drew a tearful breath. “I wanted a chance to become his safe place too. I was hoping…I wanted to be the place his heart called home.”

“Awww. Embroider that on a pillow. Call him, you moron.”

I managed a smile. “That’ll work.” I slid the note inside my shirt next to my heart, then pulled out my cell and punched up Glynn’s number.

It went straight to voice mail.

That wasn’t good. I left a terse, “Glynn. Call me,” clapped my phone shut and stuffed it into my pants. “His phone’s off. Why do you think his phone’s off? Do you think he got in an accident? You think he’s okay?”

“Settle, girl. He probably powered down for flying.” Nixie paused before adding, “But he may not turn it back on during vacation. Two months until you’ll hear from him.” She whistled. “
Two
months.”

If she did it for effect, it worked. “I’ve got to reach him. Does he have a land line in Wales?”

“Dunno. I can ask. Julian!” She bellowed the last, loud enough to make my ears hurt. She’s small, but as a punk singer, can drown out a whole barroom. Give her a mic and she’s been known to rupture eardrums.

Her husband shimmered into the room, solidified from a stream of mist. Even in the midst of my frustration I thought,
Wow. Way cool.

“Ice cream?” he asked her immediately. “Chocolate? Or pickled artichokes this time?” His eyes closed. “Not the yogurt and smoked Thüringer hash again.”

“Junior was asking if Glynn has a land line in Wales.”

His eyes opened, blue lasers targeting me. “Probably. Do you want me to find out?”