Lust for Life (3 page)

“Very subtle, Lori.”

“Sorry. David and I just got home. We heard it on the police scanner. For once I’m
glad he’s started playing that thing every night before bed.”

“That’s weirdly vigilant of him.” I wonder what prompted his sudden protectiveness.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the office. Wedding powwow, remember?”

“Of course I remember! This time, don’t forget to bring the binder.”

“Riiiight. I won’t.”

“I’m so glad you’re all right. When I heard there was fire . . .” Lori makes a weird
gulping noise. “I gotta go. Sick again. Sorry.”

Blinking at the strobe of ambulance lights, I survey the chaos. Half a block away,
flames lick the sky above the bar. Through the smoke I see police redirecting traffic,
which obeys with only a few honks of protest.

Stuart is stalking past the front of the Smoking Pig, face streaked with ash and sweat.
He’s ranting at someone on his cell phone, maybe his insurance agent.

He hangs up and strides down the street toward us. “You guys okay?” We’ve barely nodded
when he erupts. “What is wrong with you people? This is the second time the Pig’s
been firebombed during a WVMP gig. How can one radio station make so many enemies?”

“Wait, Stuart.” Shane lays a hand on the bartender’s shoulder. “The bomber could’ve
been after anyone at that party.”

“They weren’t.” Stuart shrugs him off—no easy feat. “Whoever called the police to
warn us said the bomber was out for revenge against WVMP.”

“What’d we do n— I mean, we haven’t done anything.” Not in the last several months.
“Did they say who they were?”

“It was anonymous.” He catches himself and glances to both sides. “And I think I wasn’t
supposed to tell anyone it was a threat against the station. So don’t spread it around
until you hear the police announce it, okay?”

I begin a mental list of enemies we’ve made. It’s a long one, but my mind latches
onto the most recent addition: our former sixties DJ Jim, who was taken into
Control custody after attacking and almost killing me and my sixteen-year-old cousin.
Maybe he escaped, or has an ally on the outside.

Stuart, Shane, and I watch the husk of wood and metal that was once the Smoking Pig
collapse into rubble. It feels like somebody died.

“If I ever rebuild this place again, I swear I’m changing the name.” Stuart gives
a heavy sigh. “There’s the fire chief. I better go hear the bad news.” He shuffles
off, a broken man.

“You think it could be the Fortress again?” I ask Shane. “They did firebomb the Smoking
Pig three Halloweens ago.” The religious cult that sprang from a schism in the Control
seemed so pious on the surface, but they were secretly slaughtering vampires to “purify”
themselves with undead blood.

“It’s not their MO.” Shane rubs my back soothingly. “They threw a Molotov cocktail
through the window after all the customers had gone home. That attack was a warning,
but this”—he gestures to the wreckage—“this was terrorism. Whoever did this doesn’t
care about the lives of vampires or humans.”

Hmm. Jim was psychotic, but his targets were very specific. I can’t see him endangering
innocent civilians in his rage.

But who called in the warning? Was it the bomber’s accomplice, a fellow terrorist
with a conscience?

Shane breaks my sleuthy reverie. “Are you supposed to be Courtney Love?”

I examine what’s left of my dress. “I think the bombing enhanced my costume.”

“It’s perfect.” He lays an admiring glance on my torn
stockings and combat boots, one of which was stripped of its laces. “You wore this
for me?”

I answer with a smile much too unironic for the woman I’m impersonating.

“I love you.” Shane draws me close. “I missed you.” He kisses me with starving lips.
One hand threads through my hair, his fingers lighting up the nerves all over my body.

When we finally take a breath, he murmurs, “I’m not letting you out of my sight until
we know who’s behind this attack. I know you like your independence, but—”

“Shh.” I press my face to his neck, inhaling the mix of skin and smoke. Later I’ll
be annoyed at his overprotectiveness and worry that the Control has turned him into
a robot soldier. But for now I just want to be with him. Preferably naked.

And after living without him for eight weeks—after almost going up in a whoosh of
flame and fabric—independence is the last thing on my mind.

•  •  •

I lie in bed with Shane’s arms around me for the first time in two months. His sleep
is light, since it’s only five a.m. My limbs are languid from lovemaking, but I don’t
want to sleep. I want to imprint the feel of him upon every cell of my body and brain,
dwell in this moment of gratitude.

But his return, combined with my near death, takes me back to the night Jim attacked
me, especially the moments after my maker Monroe staked him with a handful of pencils
to save my life.

Jim lay thrashing on the floor in agony. Like all vampires,
he wouldn’t die until the stakes were pulled out and his body sucked itself through
the wound. But we couldn’t finish the job—Jim had told me that he’d drunk my sixteen-year-old
cousin Cass to the point of death. We needed him to bring her back as a vampire.

Or so we thought. He lied about that, like so many other things. When Shane showed
up a moment later, he knew Cass was nowhere near dead. He could’ve ended it all.

But he didn’t. Halted by my misguided pleading to spare Jim’s life, Shane hesitated.
That one moment of suspension was long enough for the Control agents to restrain Jim
and take him away, still “alive” with a half dozen pencils through his heart.

Jim remains in Control custody to this night (I called to confirm, eliminating him
from our list of bombing suspects). No doubt they’re now studying him, a half-dead
vampire, to see how much we can take without dying, studying our tolerance for pain.
The thought of our former friend trapped in a Control lab hurts worse than the thought
of him dead.

I stroke the curve of Shane’s upper arm, feeling the contours of his triceps even
at rest. His lashes flutter, then his pale blue eyes open, long enough to take in
the room with one sweeping glance. He closes them again and pulls me closer to his
chest. His hand splays over the inside of my left shoulder blade, as if to protect
my heart against an assault from behind.

Has the Control turned my easygoing grunge boy into a hypervigilant soldier? Or did
Jim do that the moment he set his sights on me?

And if it means I can survive, do I even mind?

3

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows

I’m a big fan of organization. I have to be, living with a vampire whose OCD-ness
manifests itself in sorting. But the
Brideosaurus rex
binder is a bridge too far.

“T minus six weeks!” Sitting beside me at her desk, Lori slaps open the lace-edged
three-ring binder, then licks her finger and turns to our current to-do list. “Second
fitting for your gown is scheduled for next Tuesday.” She glances at my figure. “At
least we don’t have to worry about you changing weight before the wedding.”

Lori went through all of this less than a year ago. I was her maid of honor but was
fortunate enough to be away at Control orientation—Indoc, it’s officially called—for
most of the final month. So I missed her bridal gown’s progressively more tearful
second, third, and fourth fittings (Lori’s weight fluctuates when she’s stressed).

When it came to the actual wedding, though . . . okay, I missed that, too, thanks
to Jim killing my cousins a few minutes before we were supposed to walk down the aisle.
He called a Code Black, which meant the rest of us vampires had to come help him “clean
up” the evidence.

The forsaken joys of Lori’s wedding—and the troubles our friendship endured when I
was first turned—are my prime motivation for letting her micromanage my own ceremony
and reception. That and the fact that she’s an excellent (and free) wedding planner.

She pulls out another list. “These are the standard songs people usually dance to
at receptions. I crossed out the father-daughter one but added an in-law dance so
Shane can dance with your mom and she won’t feel left out. When he dances with
his
mom, you can dance with Monroe. Since your dad is . . .”

“In federal prison. Right.” Monroe agreed to walk me down the aisle. I’m not crazy
about the whole idea of being “given away” like a prize cow, but it seemed like a
good maker-progeny bonding opportunity. Maybe it’ll keep me from crying over my rat-bastard
father. I don’t usually miss him, but the bridal magazine father-daughter photos are
getting to me.

A knock comes at the station’s front door, which is locked from the inside to keep
vampires safe. Even indirect sunlight will roast us, so we stay indoors until civil
twilight, roughly half an hour after sunset and before sunrise.

“It’s Franklin,” says someone who sounds a lot like Franklin.

Since it’s nighttime, I open it wide. “You look like hell.”

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment.” He winces as he climbs the last two stairs,
leaning on the iron rail with the hand not holding a cup of takeout coffee. “By the
way, fuck you for saving my life.”

Coming from him,
that’s
a compliment. “You’re welcome. I expect a weekly donation of your best blood.
Slightly chilled with a shot of vodka and a dash of Tabasco sauce. If it’s convenient.”

He raises his middle finger as he shuffles away to his office. Lori flutters about
him, concerned.

“Franklin, you should’ve taken the whole day off. You need time to recover.”

He eases himself into his desk chair with an audible grunt, sounding much older than
his thirty-nine years. “Phoning a few advertisers isn’t exactly bricklaying.”

She stops on the threshold to his office, where his gruffness creates a psychological
barrier few dare to cross. “Couldn’t you call them from home in bed?”

He looks past her at me. “I have other business.”

I turn away before he can see my smile. He was checking up on me.

“Did the FBI talk to you guys yet?” he asks us.

“Shane and I were interviewed last night. Of course, they brought up the Fortress
bombing from three years ago. This one was totally different, but I wouldn’t mind
a free investigation to see if the Fortress still exists.” After we fought them, most
of their members ended up in jail, in comas, or in the ground.

“The FBI and Homeland Security were here this morning.” Lori rubs her arms. “Makes
me so nervous when cops come to the station. One of these days they’re going to search
the DJs’ apartment.”

“Not without a warrant,” I remind her. “The media wants to turn it into another War
on Halloween story. Talk about a manufactured controversy.”

“I hereby declare war on every holiday except Labor Day.” He winces as he reaches
for his Rolodex. “Who’s in David’s office?”

“David and Shane are interviewing Adrian,” Lori tells him. “The new vampire DJ.”

“Do we have to hire someone to replace Jim? Can’t we just pretend the sixties never
happened?”

“As a history major, I say no.” Lori gestures to the heavy-duty cardboard cutout of
Eric Clapton near the front door. “Sixties music is the lifeblood, no pun intended,
of any classic rock station.”

“We’re not a classic rock station,” he says. “You can tell because we have more than
a hundred records in our rotation.”

I smile, partly at his snark and partly over Lori’s use of the word “lifeblood.” Funny,
I never used to like puns.

“At least this one’s a vampire,” Lori says.

“Like that’s a good thing.” Franklin adds in my direction, “No offense.”

I wave off his insult. “It is a good thing. I’m tired of playing the ‘gimmick’ for
the human DJ fill-ins. I’m tired of pretending that we’re pretending to be vampires.
It’s like every day’s a Code White.” That’s when we meticulously scrub all evidence
of vampire existence from a room or building. Like a Code Black without the dead humans.

Franklin nods. “It’s like keeping your house buyer-ready all the time. Feels like
it’s not even your place anymore.”

“When did you try to sell your house?”

“This summer. I needed a change. The memories were getting to me.”

Of Aaron. It’s been six months, and the hurt is still fresh on Franklin’s face. As
much as it ever was—he’s pretty stoic. He and Aaron were together longer than Shane
and I, and if anything ever happened to Shane . . .

“I de-listed the house two weeks ago,” Franklin says. “Market’s complete shit right
now. Anyway, what do we know about the new guy, not that I care?”

Lori recites Adrian’s personnel file. “He was turned in 1965. He’s originally from
Phoenix, but his last gig was in Albuquerque. He worked at an independent station
there for ten years before he had to move on.”

“Because of the whole not-aging thing?” I ask her, curious if his departure had a
more scandalous reason.

“Pretty much. His focus is more on folk rock, like early Dylan, Mamas and the Papas,
Peter, Paul and Mary. Super granola type.”

Franklin’s lip curls. “A real hippie? Actual peace, love, and understanding? Not the
fake shit like Jim?”

“It’ll be good for our image.” I rub my throat. “Besides, having almost been killed
by a psychopathic psychedelic, I’ll take a crunchy folk rocker any day.”

“We already have Noah.” He pours the rest of his takeout coffee into his favorite
mug, the one that says
FUCK OFF
. “Rasta Man brings enough peace and love for one workplace.”

“It’ll be nice for Noah to have a kindred spirit.” I hear David’s door open. “Ooh,
there he is now.” I wave Franklin to join me. He mimes shooting himself in the head.

“Ciara, Lori, Franklin.” David comes out of his office. “Come meet our new DJ.”

A tall vampire glides past my boss and stops next to Lori’s desk. He looks like he
just stepped out of the Woodstock movie—after a long shower. His thick, wavy, golden-brown
hair falls almost to his waist. White daisies are woven among the strands, stems intertwined
with small loose braids. The tassels on the sleeve of his white jacket sway as he
reaches to shake my hand.