Fangtabulous (8 page)

I focused on going insubstantial … or maybe
unfocused
would be more like it …

Then I felt it. Just ahead of me, there was movement. Something darted around Jenny Coggs’s headstone and seemed to huddle there. The something was small … child-sized and radiating freezy-cold fear.

I solidified again, because all I had were my words, and no way to use them when I was in mist form.

“Can you hear me?” I whispered toward the huddling form. “Knock once for yes.”

I was hoping that since she’d been solid enough for me to feel her touch, she could do this as well. I listened hard, straining my ears to hear, and was rewarded by a small knock.

“Are you afraid of something? Is it me?”

A knock, and then, in a second, two more. Oh, right, that had been two questions. Okay then—afraid, but not of me.

“I wish you could tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”

The wind stirred a little then, enough to ruffle my hair. I thought it carried with it the words “don’t let him get me,” but I couldn’t be sure.

Him? Sheriff Corwin’s ghost? Someone else?

“Gina,” Bobby hissed.

I felt the cold patch that was, I was now certain, the spirit of a young girl, retreat even farther from me and then wink out. It left an imprint in the night like the images on old TV screens that lingered a second after they were shut off.

My head snapped around toward Bobby, ready to give him a piece of my mind, even though he couldn’t have any idea what he’d interrupted, when I saw the light. The same light I’d asked Rebecca about earlier—the caretaker, Tommy Haskins, headed our way.

“We’d better get,” Bobby said.

I was debating the slower but stealthier crouch and slink toward the exit versus the faster and flashier flat-out run when the voice behind the lantern yelled, “You two. Stop right there.”

That decided it. For the second time that night, Bobby and I were making a grand exit, racing against discovery. It was a good thing I’d worn my calf-sculpting sneakers. Oh sure, I was supposed to stay eternally young and fit and all that, but a girl couldn’t be too careful.

As I dodged around a grave that seemed to spring up out of nowhere, Bobby pulled ahead of me. No matter. I knew that with our super-speed, we’d both be out of the way before Old Mr. Haskins could catch us, but his voice seemed surprisingly close when I heard him mutter, “Not in
my
graveyard. I’ll catch you this time, you fool kids.”

Bobby had paused at the gate, holding it open for me like a true gentleman and waiting to make sure I got out. I blew him a kiss as I breezed past, and he slammed the gate shut behind me. We dashed together into the night, but I caught Bobby’s hand and pulled him behind a nearby tree to glance back.

Apparently, I’d watched way too much
Scooby-Doo
as a kid, because “Old Man Haskins” was surprisingly young. It’d only been my own expectations that had painted the caretaker as doddering. Truly, he was more like twenty or thirty, not much older than whatever kids he was grumbling about. I couldn’t tell what his face looked like, because he sported the same haircut as Johnny Rzeznik from the Goo Goo Dolls—choppy patches of hair falling in front of his eyes. It was a wonder he could even see. His breath puffed out in curling clouds, an indication that his mouth was where you’d expect to find it, but that was about the best I could do as a description besides “tall” and “lean.”

There were no other lights in the cemetery, and from outside of it I could no longer sense my little girl ghost. I wondered who the
he
was that I was supposed to protect her from. Tommy Haskins? Sheriff Corwin? The Salem Strangler? (Or were the previous two one and the same?) I was going to have to find out.

“I’ll be back,” I whispered, a promise she probably couldn’t hear.

“What’s that?” Bobby asked.

“Let’s get the others, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

A quick call around, and everyone agreed to meet up at the brew pub, where Brent and Marcy would soon be going off shift.

We arrived just half an hour before last call. The pub looked like an old warehouse or fire station that had been converted: square and brick, with newer-looking stained glass windows replacing the boring old ones. Matching stained glass lamps hung above each booth, and flickering red tea lights were set on every table, giving the room a warm, firelike glow. It was cozy, except for the industrial-grade carpet that crunched, rather than gave, beneath our feet.

We ordered beers we were too young to be served, and incapable of drinking anyway, as an excuse to take up a booth. Way back when I’d first been vamped, me and some others had tried to drink something besides blood and were forcibly introduced to our insides. It wasn’t something I wanted to repeat any time soon. Or ever. Unfortunately, we weren’t seated in Brent or Marcy’s sections, but the blond barmaid who did wait on us (with the kicky blue streak in her hair) had a nearly empty area and seemed to appreciate our influx of business. Eric and Nelson got there about a minute after we did, and Eric tried to make up for the rest of us by ordering a burger and cheese-fries, only to be told the kitchen had closed at midnight.

Disgruntled, he followed the barmaid as she left with the drink orders and surreptitiously grabbed a bowl of mixed nuts off the bar when she turned her back. He returned to the table, mouth full, hugging the bowl to his chest as if any of us might wrestle him for it. Like even if I’d been alive I’d have gone where a thousand barflies had been before me—no telling who hadn’t washed their hands before diving into the mixed nuts. Besides, all that salt made you bloaty.

The waitress gave a knowing smile but didn’t say a word when she spotted Eric with the nuts on her way back with the drinks.

“Just let me know if you need anything else,” she said as she set the last glass down. “My name is Olivia.”

As soon as she left, Bobby asked, “
Now
will you tell me what happened back there?”

Everyone looked at me. “I think we should wait for Brent and Marcy,” I said, not quite ready to tell him I was feeling all maternal about some little ghost girl I couldn’t actually see.
Me
. Maternal. The two things went together like polka dots and paisley.

“We’ll fill them in later. Spill.”

I stared at my hands, which now that I looked were sorely in need of a new coat of polish. Or some remover, if I really wanted to get into my role at Haunts.

“Gina,” Bobby prompted.

“Okay,
fine
. Our apartment isn’t the only thing haunted around here.”

“Well, we knew that,” Eric started, but Bobby shut him up with a look.

“There’s a little girl spirit in that graveyard behind the Old Jail who doesn’t want me to let ‘him’ get her.”

“Him who?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know,” I moaned back. “I wish I did. She was so scared.”

“You
saw
her?” Eric asked. “Talked to her?”

“Not exactly. I
sensed
her and yes, she spoke to me.”

“Do you know who she was?”

“I was standing in front of the gravestone of a six-year-old girl, Jenny Coggs. It could have been her.”

“But you don’t know.”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

If he said so. What mattered most to me was whatever was threatening her. She’d already grabbed me by the heartstrings, and whoever she was, I knew I’d have to find a way to help.

“What else can you tell us?” Eric asked.

I gave them everything I had, which wasn’t much, and Bobby picked up the story when I switched to the part about the Old Jail. He skirted around exactly what we’d been doing up against that dryer, but then, I supposed, it wasn’t any of their business.

“Now you,” he said to the others when he wound down.

Eric had already finished his beer during Bobby’s retelling and had just taken his first gulp of the one we’d ordered for Nelson, so his nephew began the tale.

“While Ulric had everybody at the shop mesmerized with the flaming wallet trick, we slipped into the main part of the store and found the laptop under the counter. It turns out the coffin was bought from JC Theatrical Supplies, labeled ‘authentic Victorian coffin of man buried alive.’ The body was sold separately, I guess.”

“Any indication of how JC got away with selling the human remains?” Bobby asked.

“It was listed as ‘skeleton—medical specimen.’”

“Bull crap.” Strong words, coming from Bobby.

“Yeah. But the question is, did they know it was crap?” Eric asked.

“Well, that was our question,” Nelson agreed. “We searched around on the Internet.” Since we’d had to leave all our smart phones, laptops, and anything else traceable through data plans, IP addresses, and GPS signals behind when we went on the run, we were reliant for the moment on public and borrowed access. “JC Supplies does everything from props and costume rentals for theatrical events to procurement of authentic clothing and artifacts for recreations and collectors. A partial list of clients includes the Secret Salem Historical Society, Boston Battle Reenactments, the Puritan Players—”

“Could this seriously be the Salem Strangler?” Bobby asked, very practically. “I mean, we’re talking about the remains of a guy who died, like, two centuries ago. If the spirit was going to act up, wouldn’t he have done it before now? All he’s done is give Brent a scare.”

“So you think it’s the ghost of Sheriff Corwin, like everyone says?”

“I don’t think it matters who it is. We have to stop him.”

“Let’s break it down,” Eric cut in, like he was the dad of the group, which was about right. He turned his place mat over to use as notepaper. “Anybody got a pen?”

As we frisked ourselves for writing utensils, Brent and Marcy approached and loomed over us. “We took care of your check,” Brent said. “You all ready to go?”

“Join us for a minute?” Eric asked, coming up with a pen himself. Brent and Marcy slid into the booth, squeezing us all pretty tightly together. Eric grunted, as if put out, even though he was the one who’d invited them to sit down.

Grown-ups.

“Okay,” he started. “In a way, Bobby’s right. It’s not like we’re putting together a case against the ghost. It’s not so much about who-done-it as about how, and why now. A spirit should not have the kind of power we’re talking about here, which means there’s got to be some kind of human or inhuman force behind all this. That’s what we have to track. We have to cut things off at the source. As I see it, we’ve got a few different things to explore: the Spectral Strangler, the Ghosty Girl, and the Very Active Artifacts.”

“Whoa,” Brent cut in. “How much have we missed?”

“Only everything. Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in later,” Bobby promised.

“Well,” Brent said, catching us all with a look that said whatever came out of his mouth next would be significant. “Marcy and I have news of our own. The rest of the Ghouligans crew arrived today. They came in tonight for dinner.”

“Crap,” I said.

“Don’t these types of shows usually scout locations weeks or months in advance? Don’t they need time for permissions, research, release forms, and all that jazz?” Bobby asked.

Brent shrugged. “They must have fast-tracked this one because of the murder. You vamps have to watch out. We’ve monitored—I mean,
the Feds
have monitored—the Ghouligans program. They’ve got all kinds of high-tech equipment and special monitoring devices. If they figure out you’re vampires, I don’t know where on earth you’ll be safe … from them, or from the fangs, or religious fanatics, goth groupies, you name it.”

“Good Lord,” Eric said. Then, “Do you think the Ghouligans would let me get a look at their equipment?”

But I’d stopped paying attention right around “fangs.” Mine were extended, fully at attention and getting pokey with my bottom lip.

“Uh, guys,” I said with a lisp, “we’re going to have to stop for a bite on the way home.”

Eric’s eyes got wide. “Do you think that’s a good idea? With the Ghouligans in town and everything going on? Maybe Brent and I should—”

“Should what? Feed all four of us?” I asked. “You’d be, like, anemic in no time. And knocking over a blood bank would draw too much attention.”

“Okay, but maybe you could hunt a town or two over, ye
s?”

I looked at Bobby. Now that the hunger had made itself known, I couldn’t
not
be aware of it. I felt so hollow it was like I’d deflate if I couldn’t find blood to fill me out again soon.

“Fine,” Bobby said, looking back at me, “but I think we’d better go now.” I noticed, when he spoke, that his fangs were fully extended as well, and wondered if it had just been too long for all of us, or whether the scent and the remembered taste of food all around us was making it worse.

Either way, I needed food, stat. It had been far too long since I’d eaten.

7

T
he next night, I
came to with a start—literally
came to
. While daytime doesn’t send the fangtabulous into a deep sleep so much as it sucker-punches us into unconsciousness, nighttime comes on like ice water in the face, bringing us suddenly and shockingly back to the land of the “living.” It was like that every damn time, though Bobby always seemed to weather it just a little bit better than me.

But never
this
well.

The first thing I saw when my eyes burst open were his eyes …
way
the freak too close. So close that it looked like he only had one eye. One deep, dark pit of shadows. The kind that held secrets imprisoned on some trumped-up charge without the benefit of a trial. He had me trapped, his lower body resting over mine, his upper body held off of me by his arms, which pressed into the mattress to either side of my head like he was doing push-ups.

It was so … so … un-Bobby.

I tried to scuttle away from him, and when that didn’t work, because I’d come to the very end of the pull-out couch, I pushed at his chest.

He didn’t budge.

I was starting to freak now. I’d been claustrophobic ever since waking up in my coffin months ago and having to claw my own way out.
Also Bobby’s fault
, at least the waking up part. Someone else had been responsible for my actual death, though I still wasn’t sure whether to blame my evil ex, Chaz, or the car that intentionally side-swiped us.

This was
not
the boy I knew. Something had gotten into him.

“Bobby!” I called.

His head jerked back like I’d slapped him, confusion in his eyes—two of them now. But they were still dark and angry. Not his brilliant blue. Slapping him suddenly seemed like a very good idea.

So I did.

His head whipped left from the force of it, even though I’d been careful not to use my full strength and, anyway, his vamp reflexes should have let him roll with it.

When he snapped back to look at me, there was still bafflement, but it shone from his true-blue, beautiful eyes.

“Gina?” he asked uncertainly, as though he didn’t even know the question he was reaching for but figured I’d fill in the blanks. But I only had questions of my own.

“Bobby,” I said. “Where did you go?”

He put his hand to his reddened cheek. “I didn’t go anywhere. In fact, I was right here when you … did you
hit
me?”

I looked away. “You were”—
looking at me funny
sounded so lame—“not yourself for a minute. I woke up and you were staring at me like a creepy guy on a street corner who I’d normally hurry past.”

“I was?” he asked. “But—why would I do that?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t remember.”

Salem was
really
starting to flip me out.

Still without answers, Bobby and I reported for work at Haunts in History. Ulric pulled me aside as soon as we arrived. Bobby looked like he was going to protest, but he subsided at a look from me. Maybe it was trust. Or maybe he’d decided that with his super-vamp hearing, he could just listen in any old time. Which, now that I thought about it, wasn’t the most comforting idea in the world.

Ulric closed the curtain behind us and looked me straight in the eye. A surprising little tingle went through me. It was a good thing I’d fed the night before. I was still a little buzzed from it, actually. We’d cruised one of the nearby bars just as it was closing down and kicking everyone out for the night. I still wasn’t sure we’d taken in more blood than booze from those veins we’d tapped, but it was enough to stave off the hunger. Otherwise, Ulric might have been in danger of becoming a tasty treat.

“You’re looking at me like I’m dinner,” Ulric said, as if he could read my thoughts.

“Oh—sorry!”

“No, I like it,” he said with his wolfish grin. “Makes me all hot and bothered. Want a taste?”

He offered up his neck, and while it was a very nice neck, and I knew exactly how tasty, I declined.

“You didn’t pull me in here for necking, did you?” I asked, not nearly as impatient with him as I probably
should
have been, darnit.

“I could have.”

I put my hands on my hips, which really tested the spatial limits of the dressing room.

“Okay,” he said, hands up in a defensive gesture like I’d just offered him violence … which wasn’t out of the question. “Chip is sure someone got into his laptop at the gift shop. His browser history was cleared.”

“So?”

“So, what do you know about that?”

I laughed. “Are you actually accusing
me
of knowing anything at all about computers?”

“Maybe you delegated.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that you need to be careful. I don’t know what you’re after, but Chip is now on the alert.”

“How much do you know about him?”

“Chip? He’s a good guy. Surly, but straight-up, you know.”

“So then, not the type to, say, traffic in human remains or buy illegal grave goods?”

Ulric’s eyes got bigger than Lady Gaga’s boots, but he actually gave the question some thought. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “He might consider it a victimless crime. Does this have anything to do with the ghost who grabbed you?”

“Not sure yet. Do you know anything about a place called JC Theatrical Supplies?”

“I know Kari bought our costumes from them. Half the stores in Salem buy or rent gear from JC. Why?”

I debated how much to tell him, but I’d already said enough that he could probably guess the rest. “The skeleton in the Morbid Gift Shop—it’s authentic.”

“Well, of course. I never thought it wasn’t. You can tell just by looking they’re real bones.”

“We’re not talking about a medical specimen here. We’re talking historical and probably not terribly legal.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Then there’s no way he knows.”

“Because he’s too honest?”

“No, too smart. If he knew he had actual historical remains, he’d probably be looking for a private collector or something. He wouldn’t have the skeleton caged like Madmartigan from
Willow
.”

“Who from what?”

Ulric looked embarrassed, so I suspected it was something more geek than goth and should never have slipped out. I’d have to ask Bobby.

“Nevermind. Anyway, you could just
ask
Chip about it.”

“Maybe I will. You got anything else for me?”

He grinned.

“Anything
not
dirty or hormonal?”

“Nothing dirty about it,” he said, reaching for me.

I ducked out through the curtain, leaving him clutching air.

“You want to know more about JC Supplies?” he called after me, pushing the curtain aside. “Check in with Olivia at the brew pub. Her mom runs an antique store, and they do a lot of business back and forth.”

I stopped and turned. “Olivia? Blond, about yay big”—I held up a hand to indicate—“bright blue streak through her hair?”

He looked surprised. “You know her?”

“Small town,” I said.

“You should see it in the off season. Empties to half. But Olivia’s a year-rounder. Her mom owns Ancient of Days over on Warren Street. I see the JC truck out in front of there sometimes.”

“What does JC stand for, anyway?”

“Don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”

All I could think of was one of the ultimate religious symbols (last name Christ). That didn’t bode too well for any future meeting.

My footsteps slowed as we neared the front of the store, and I saw what waited for us there—Bryson Seacroft, the Ghouligans guy from that very first tour. Beside him were four other men, one holding a camera at rest … at chest rather than eye level. My heart sank. Bryson’s dark eyes locked on me instantly, and there was no chance to duck back out of sight. I felt pinned like a bug on a board.

“There she is,” he said.

Kari turned from them to me, that eternal smile bigger than ever. “Great!”

“Is there a back way out of here?” I asked Ulric out of the corner of my mouth.

But it was already too late. I felt someone come up behind us. Bobby, I knew instinctively, emerging from his dressing room, undoubtedly all suited up for the night.

His mental touch confirmed it. Just as Kari grabbed me by the arm and put her other hand behind my back to guide me toward the Ghouligans, Bobby asked in my head,
What should I do?

That
was
the million-dollar question. Despite my desire to escape, if I bolted now I’d only make the Ghouligans uber-curious about me: unwillingness to be filmed, only seen at night, running at the sight of them. Guys like them, who ate the paranormal for lunch with a side order of science, tended to notice such things. If I ran now, I might as well keep on running, because I couldn’t wait around for them to catch up with me.

Nothing
, I said in my head.
I’ll manage
.

I knew Bobby could read and influence minds. Could he make the Ghouligans forget anything iffy they might see tonight? Or
not
see, when they replayed anything recorded on their equipment? By the end of the night, we might have to find out.

I pasted a shy smile on my face and stepped forward with Kari. Bryson’s gaze continued to bore into me. It made me totally uncomfortable, so I moved on to sharing my smile with the cameraman and others. All but the sound guy smiled back. But maybe he couldn’t see me through his really thick lenses with their retro dark frames. Or maybe his baseball cap, on backwards as if to protect his neck from the moon’s harmful rays, was too tight. I decided to call the others Clipboard Guy, Cameraman, and Sidekick. The tall, shaggy-haired guy with the blue eyes (my weakness) and dimples I knew to be one of the regular onscreen Ghouligans. Ty … something. You’d think I’d
know
. Half my high school friends had been crushing on him.

Karl introduced me to the crew:

Lloyd Bender=Clipboard Guy

Kaleb Margolin=Cameraman

Ernie Boyd=Sound (and no wonder he scowled, with a name like Ernie; I wondered how many times a day people asked after Bert).

Ty was Tyler McClellan—Ty for short. Was the “Mc” Scottish? Irish? I had no idea. Something from that neck of the woods. His eyes sparkled with mischief, a far cry from Bryson Seacroft’s piercing gaze. In a game of good cop/bad cop, the casting would be no contest.

Then Rebecca came through the outer shop door behind them, already in costume but with her gorgeous red hair free-flowing behind her. Or, maybe not so free-flowing, since it seemed to be curled and shellacked into place.

“Sorry I’m late!” she said breezily, then stopped cold at the sight of everybody, as if she hadn’t expected them. I was betting she had, based on the air and the entrance. Nice that Kari had given
her
a heads-up. In her possible defense, though, I hadn’t even thought to check for messages on my disposable cell phone, since I already shared an apartment with everyone I knew in town. It never occurred to me that anyone else might be calling.

“Not late at all,” Kari said. “I was just making introductions.”

She began them all over again, which was good, because I’d already forgotten, like, half the names. She closed with, “You’d better get your bonnet out and get going. Any later,” she explained to Bryson and crew, “and the Old Jail and Cemetery will be thick with other ghost tours.”

“Do I
have
to wear the bonnet?” Rebecca asked, grabbing the attention back to herself. “So much more dramatic with the hair down, don’t you think?” She shook her helmet head out to show it off, and, to my surprise, it actually swayed luxuriously. I’d have to ask her what she used … right before I clubbed her over the head for stealing the spotlight.

Okay, so I’d given it up. Insult to injury.

Kari’s smile dimmed, and for a second, I could see the hard business woman underneath. “You’re representing Haunts in History,” she said, sounding suddenly prim. “We pride ourselves on authenticity.”

Rebecca looked at the Ghouligans in appeal, and Bryson shrugged. “We’ll film it both ways and see what looks best. Either way, we’ll do a really nice intro to Haunts and link to you on our website. Should be good coverage,” he assured Kari. Then, to Rebecca, “My two cents, though … with strangulation, we want to see the throat. Hair back or up, with bonnet, will probably be best.”

Rebecca turned her disappointment into a cute pout. “Whatever you say,” she responded, in a tone that clearly meant
I’m sure you’ll come to see it my way; I can humor you for now
. “Just let me ditch my purse.”

If a small purse meant a simple life—and it did, trust me—hers was as complicated as they came. Her purse could easily have doubled as a small suitcase. You could tell a ton about a person from the contents of her purse. A bag that size … but I didn’t suppose jealousy gave me enough cause for a search and seizure, especially with witnesses.