Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (99 page)

The song fades, and rather than Regina, it's Shane who comes on the air. “94.3 WVMP. Twenty minutes past midnight. Evening,
Drastic Plastic
listeners. Regina's gone on a bit of a bender, so I'm taking over early for her tonight. Letters of complaint can be sent—hold on, where, Regina? Oh, right. Up your own ass.”

I admire his ability to hold it together on the air. It's like an act of defiance. I want to reach out and touch the speaker, connect with him through the low vibration of radio waves.

“Anyway,” he continues, “it appears that some people out there, and you know who you are, are taking this vampire gimmick too seriously. Our situation's gotten a little ‘stalky' as the kids today might say. At least I think they might. So for everyone out there listening: once and for all, we're not—” He clears his throat, which I've never heard him do on the air. “We're not vampires. Okay? Moving on. This first song isn't from my time, but it's by a guy many call the ‘godfather of grunge.' It was a favorite of a friend of ours who is no longer with us.”

The first quiet strains of Neil Young and Crazy Horse's “Running Dry” trickle over the airwaves.

“Great song,” Jim says. “Bet it was David's request.”

I speak to Gideon without looking at him. “We can go now, right? He's made the announcement.”

“It's a promising start. But I need proof of a more permanent
commitment.” He finally lets go of me and stands up. “I'll return before sunrise. I suggest you sleep.” His fingertips graze my chin, bringing ice to my veins. “Tomorrow night might be a long one for you.”

Gideon and the three guards exit, leaving the radio on.

Neil Young's slow, reverberating guitar mourns with a keening violin. They hold each other up like siblings at a funeral.

I used to think that this song's subtitle, “Requiem for the Rockets,” was for people who had died. But Shane told me the Rockets were the band that eventually became Crazy Horse. Their “Requiem” meant abandoning what they used to be and moving on to a new beginning.

Which means that there's more than one kind of death in this world.

I try to take Gideon's advice, but I can't sleep. Despite having consumed both joints, Jim is anything but calm. He paces the floor, rubbing his cheeks and eyes and mouth, a sure symptom of bloodthirst. He glances over at me, lying in bed.

Great. He's got the munchies.

“Don't even think about it,” I warn him. The secondhand marijuana smoke is the only thing keeping me from a fear-induced aneurism.

“I can smell them.” He points to the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling. “The others are drinking, everywhere. But not me.” He rubs his hands on the sides of his jeans. “It's like that time before I died, when I tried to go vegetarian to impress a girl, and all my friends were still eating burgers and steaks.”

The doorknob rattles, then turns. The door opens to reveal Lawrence standing next to a short plump redhead. I recognize her as the cigarette girl from the party upstairs.

She beams up at Jim. “Room service?”

“Thank you,” he groans in Lawrence's direction. He yanks the woman into the room and drags her to the bed.

“Hey!” I leap out of the way of their bodies and retreat to my original corner. Lawrence sends me a grin on his way out.

The room fills with moans of pain and pleasure. I crawl to the radio and turn up the volume, then lie on the floor beside it, folding my arm into a hard pillow.

Shane's voice is the lifeline I cling to as the scents and sounds of sex and bloodshed surround me. He must know I can hear him, because he plays every one of my “last songs” in order, starting with “Hard to Handle” and going through the summer, twenty-some tunes from the late eighties and early nineties. “I'm No Angel” by Greg Allman, Matthew Sweet's “Girlfriend,” Cracker's “Low.”

In the middle of Springsteen's “Human Touch,” the room goes quiet. The door opens. I yank my mind out of my musical sanctuary.

Lawrence comes in and lifts the semiconscious girl from the bed. As he exits, Gideon enters, alone.

I stand and move behind the bed, as if Jim—naked, stoned, and satiated—can somehow protect me.

Gideon shuts the door. “Sit.”

His will is like a hand reaching out. I sit on the bed and cover Jim's, uh, self with the bloodstained sheet. He
stirs and shifts, then his eyes move behind his lids in REM sleep. So much for my knight in tie-dyed armor.

Gideon sits at the end of the bed, for once not trying to overwhelm me with his physical presence. I rub my arms to ward off the chill.

“Admit it,” he says. “We fascinate you.”

I can't speak and look at him at the same time, and right now his shadow-eyed face glues my gaze.

He grunts and continues. “You wouldn't be working at the station if we held no attraction. Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to be one of us?” He holds up one finger. “Before you answer, you should know I can read a lie even better than you can.”

Of course. He can hear my heartbeat, probably feel my body temperature rise and fall.

I clear my throat and look away. “Of course I've wondered. Everyone does, even people who don't believe in vampires.” With an effort, I speak to his face, though not his eyes. “But I don't envy you. I like sunshine, I like food. Plus, I wouldn't want to outlive all my friends and family.”

“Family?” His dark gaze sharpens. “You're close to your family?”

“Not now. But maybe someday. If I were a vampire, I'd have to leave them behind forever.”

“No.” He stands and begins to pace, slowly. “My father was a vampire. Rather than abandon his children, he turned each of us at the age of thirty-three. For me it was 1918.” He smooths his brown, pinstriped waistcoat, regarding it like a window to the past. “Later that year I did the same to my son. He took ill with the Spanish flu and within a day was at death's door. It was an easy choice. He was only fifteen, with his whole life before him.”

“Is your son here with you?”

Gideon slides his hands into his trouser pockets and regards the floor. “He was always intractable, especially after death. I tried to teach him to keep out of humans' way, and for several decades he stayed at my side, though never satisfied. Ten years ago he left me, headed west, and began hunting people indiscriminately, like a rabid animal.”

Gideon turns the radio volume down to near silence. “The Control and I came to an agreement, that upon his capture, they would bring him here, where I would deal with him. In exchange I allowed them to inspect my compound to ensure I wasn't harming humans.”

His hands form fists inside his pockets. “Naturally the traitorous worms double-crossed me. One of their agents staked Antoine in Memphis.”

Antoine?
My heart gives a sudden pound.
Memphis?
David said Elizabeth's maker was a teenager in human years. It couldn't be ...

Gideon pauses, examining me, then begins to pace again. “They claimed it was a rogue agent going against orders, but they wouldn't give up the man's name, so I could never confirm their story. I had no choice but to believe it a sanctioned assassination.” He stops and looks at me. “Now you know why I staked Elizabeth, why I lured her here in the first place.”

He knows who she was. He staked his own—what, granddaughter?

I try to stay calm, keep bluffing. “I thought you brought us here to threaten the station into anonymity.” Fear makes my lips flub the last word, so that it comes out “anemone.”

“That as well. I've ended your silly and dangerous campaign, and avenged Antoine's death. You could say I've killed two birds with one stake.”

I lower my gaze, my mind racing. So he murdered Elizabeth because she was a Control agent, not because of her relationship to his son, which he doesn't seem to know about.

But he could find out. I have to warn David. He and Elizabeth wouldn't have come here if they'd known Gideon was her maker's maker. Someone in the Control's upper ranks got careless or arrogant or both.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Gideon says softly.

I shiver, but keep staring at the floor at my feet. “I was just thinking, I didn't know vampire lives could be so dramatic. It's terrible what happened to Anthony.”

“Antoine.”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

Gideon's silence seems to consume all the air in the room. He moves toward me, closer and closer, until his shoes enter my line of sight, less than a foot away.

When he speaks, his voice is low and soft. “Today you will learn that with a few exceptions, we are not so monstrous. Perhaps you will decide to stay.” When I don't respond, he turns for the door. “And Ciara. Should you entertain any thoughts of escape, know this: If I don't find you in your room at sunset, your gentleman friend here will be staked. Slowly. Have a pleasant day.”

As soon as the door shuts and locks, Jim sits straight up in bed.

I yelp and nearly choke on my own breath. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was faking it to maintain the element of surprise.”

“It worked. On me.”

“Besides, that girl was so coked up, I may never sleep again.” He runs shaky hands through his curls. “We're in deep shit, aren't we?”

“Do you think Gideon knows who killed his son?”

“No, but the fact that your pulse skyrocketed when he said Antoine's name probably made him suspicious.”

“I couldn't help it. What are we going to do?”

He looks around. “First we're going to find my pants.”

I retrieve them from the corner and turn away to look for his shirt while he puts them on. I find it under the bed—a VMP Lifeblood of Rock 'n' Roll T-shirt.

“We'll have to stop selling these.” I hand it back to Jim as he zips up his jeans. “T-shirts, bumper stickers. It's all over.”

“But now that Elizabeth's dead, at least she can't sell to Skywave.” Jim pulls the shirt over his head. “Right?”

My stomach plummets to the vicinity of my knees. “Elizabeth told us she decided not to sell.”

“Did she tell Skywave?”

“I doubt she had the chance yet. It sounded like she'd just decided tonight.” I sink onto the bed and put my head in my hands. “If she's dead, with no next of kin, then the business will be liquidated and its assets auctioned off.”

Shane's voice returns to the radio. “It's five fifty-four on a Tuesday. Thanks to everyone who called in to express support—”

“Liquidated?” Jim says to me. “You mean it would be—”

“Turned into cash. Hold on, I want to hear this.” I go to the radio and turn up the volume.

“—asked about VMP merchandise,” Shane continues. “Sorry, but we won't be selling any more, so hang on to what you have. You got yourselves some sweet collector's items.”

Jim seizes my shoulder. “The station'll be sold for parts? Like a broken-down car?”

“Pretty much.”

He curses and starts to pace. I lean closer to hear Shane over Jim's muttering.

“—official press release later today detailing the disturbing incident that made us decide to end the campaign. So look for our pretty faces on the evening news.”

“All these years I put in,” Jim huffs. “I'm not a fucking asset!”

I turn to glare at him. “You're less than an asset, you're an employee. Now would you shut up for two seconds?”

Jim's rant grows louder. I press one ear against the speaker and plug the other with my finger.

“This last song goes out to those of you who greet this morning wondering if this could be your last sunrise. I've been there, many times. Parents, preachers, and politicians think rock music is the source of young people's despair. They don't understand it's just a reflection. They also forget that music can be a source of hope, a reason to live.”

“I gotta get out of this place.” Jim rattles the knob, then pounds on the solid wood. “Hey! Open the goddamn door!”

I press my ear against the speaker. What if it's my last “last song”? I think about falling asleep in Shane's arms last night, and a ball of anger forms inside me. If I die and miss out on sex with my hottest boyfriend ever, I'm going to be so pissed.

Jim slams the door again and again with his shoulder. I close my eyes and soak in the voice from afar.

“—music still has any power left in the world, I hope it can bring you strength. Good morning, and good—”

Jim picks up the radio, yanking the cord out of the outlet, and hurls it against the door. The radio shatters, but the door stands solid.

I stare at the silent, splintered pieces of what used to be my lifeline. “You are such an asshole.”

Jim cracks his knuckles and nods, his breath slowing. “But I'm an asshole who feels better now.”

“You couldn't wait ten more seconds?”

“Sorry.” He sighs and sits heavily on the bed. “It's not so bad, you know. Being a vampire. It's actually pretty far out.”

“Did you do it on purpose?”

He stares at the ceiling. “Hard to say. It just kind of happened, and I went with the flow, you know?”

“How much do you remember?”

“I remember the Doors were playing onstage. It took the whole set for me to die. They took their time with me. They took turns.”

“The Doors?” I had no idea.

“No, the vampires.”

I hold my wrists in my hands, feeling both pulses. “What's it like to die?”

“For me it was really psychedelic. But it's probably like any trip—you get out of it what you put into it. Spiritually, I mean.” Jim regards me with an inscrutable expression. “If it happens, I'll make sure you don't get hurt.”

I give a bitter laugh. “Not hurt. Just killed.” He seems dismayed, so I add, “Thanks for staying with me.”