Suck It Up (13 page)

With her nerves calmed and her strategy clarified, she began. “Do you have a thing for firehouses?”

“No,” he lied. “I thought someone recognized me on the street and I ducked inside.”

“After this morning, it's going to be impossible to hide.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Before she could lob another question, a limo screeched to a halt in the street. Penny hopped out of the back. “Get in!” They obeyed. Inside, Penny leaned toward the driver. “Take us to Teterboro.”

“What's Teterboro?” Morning asked.

“A private airport,” Portia answered, turning to her mother. “Where are we going?”

Penny's eyes darted to the driver's rearview mirror. She caught him watching before his eyes slid away. “We're going on tour.”

“But, Mom,” Portia protested, “I need to pack.”

Morning raised his own objection. “And I need my—”

Penny shushed him. “Your protein drink, I know. It's in the trunk, along with Portia's suitcase.”

She stared at her mother. “So you knew all along—”

“That I'd need an assistant I could trust? Yes. It's all part of the playbook.” Penny turned to Morning. “And here's what I need from you.” She punched each word. “No. More. Wandering.”

He sighed. It sounded like being the first ambassador to people of mortality was going to be a 24/7 gig. “Okay, no wandering.”

18

The Rendezvous

In the White Mountains of California there is a sparse forest of bristlecone pines. Mortals call it Patriarch Grove. Vampires call it the Mother Forest.

Since midnight, when a gibbous moon began climbing the star-choked sky, Loners had been arriving in the forest. They came in flying forms, from bats to vultures. Some still perched silently in the bald, twisted branches that made bristlecone pines look more dead than alive. Others had shape-shifted to human form, and stood in the rocky grove wearing nothing but moon shadow and starlight.

Being naked didn't bother the men, women, and few children. Loner vampires weren't shy; they didn't care what anyone thought of their bodies. It's not like they were in the business of attracting a mate. Besides, when you could transform into thousands of creatures, the human skin was just another cloak in a closet the size of the animal kingdom.

What did trouble the growing throng, and had them whispering in small groups, was not knowing why the Rendezvous had been called. After all, their night of hunting had been cut short by the silent alarm. Those close to San Francisco felt the call like mortals feel the shudder of an aftershock. Those farther away sensed it the same way elephants pick up sounds below the range of human hearing. They felt a subtactile quiver of the earth, dropped whatever they were doing, or drinking, and flew to the Mother Forest.

It was the first Rendezvous in almost fifty years. The previous one had been a Grand Rendezvous of all Loners in the world, and it ended with the armistice that ended World War V.

The Loners lost the long war because they were a scattered band of solo warriors fighting an organized army of vampires led by Luther Birnam. The lone predator can thin the herd, but he can never wipe out the entire group. While Loners had considered banding together in a killer pack, they also knew that a pack of Loners was no better than an army of generals: all would lead, none would follow. So, before being wiped off the earth, the Loners negotiated a truce with the Leaguers. And all of them signed the peace treaty. All but one.

Ikor DeThanatos had been the first to arrive in the Mother Forest. Having made the trip as a peregrine falcon, he remained in Flyer form. He perched on a bare branch belonging to the oldest tree in the grove. It was called the Matriarch. From there, he had watched the flock of Loners swell to over fifty.

The falcon's turretlike head, armed with steel gray eyes, swiveled to the eastern horizon and perceived a paling beyond the ridge. Hearing the whoosh of wings, he turned as a golden eagle landed on the branch of another tree. More Loners were still on the way, but to allow time for everyone to return to safety before sunrise, the Rendezvous had to begin.

He swooped down off the branch, transformed midair, and landed silently on the rocky ground.

The closest group of Loners turned to him. One of them recognized DeThanatos. His name was Bosky. He was short and square-built, and his torso was covered in a thicket of dark hair.

“DeThanatos,” he said with a mocking smile. “What's it been, a century, or two?”

“Not long enough.”

Bosky ignored the surly answer. “You were missed at the armistice.”

DeThanatos sneered. “When the war begins again, why give Birnam the privilege of knowing my face?”

Bosky raised his bushy eyebrows, and his voice. “Oh, do you know something we don't?”

“Yes.” DeThanatos was done with sparring. “I saw it on streaming video.”

“
Streaming
video?” Bosky exposed a partial fang. “Please, you're making me thirsty.”

Several vampires laughed.

Bosky's eyes narrowed. “You called the Rendezvous, didn't you?”

DeThanatos started up a rocky slope.

Dark shapes silently swooped down from treetops, expanded, and dropped gracefully to the ground in human form. By the time DeThanatos turned and looked down the slope, the clearing in the grove was crowded with curious and agitated vampires.

“Who convenes this Rendezvous?” a voice called, officially beginning the gathering.

“I, Ikor DeThanatos, called you to the Mother Forest.”

And with that, the formalities were over. Loner vampires didn't stand on ceremony. They liked to get to the point. “Why?” several shouted.

“Haven't you seen it?” DeThanatos asked.

“Seen what?”

Their ignorance didn't surprise him. Loners weren't big on current events unless the current was red and flowing. “A boy, a Leaguer boy,” he explained, “shape-shifted into a Drifter, a mist, and he was caught on video.”

The vampires stared in breathless shock.

“He has made himself known to mortals,” DeThanatos announced, dispatching any doubts. A wave of alarm swept through the crowd. “He has broken the third commandment. He must be punished!”

Bosky stepped out from the crowd. “You mean destroyed.”

“Yes, according to ancient law.”

Bosky started up the slope toward DeThanatos. “That's
our
law, not Leaguer law. If you had bothered coming to the treaty-signing you might know the terms.” He turned and reminded his fellow Loners. “We agreed to let Leaguers live by their New Commandments as long we could live by the Old Commandments.”

“And you wonder why I wasn't there,” DeThanatos mocked. “Our sacred laws aren't carved in clay, they're carved in stone! There is no ‘old' or ‘new.' There are only
the
Commandments!”

Bosky continued his appeal to the crowd. “We also vowed to slay no more Leaguers. If we enforce the law and punish this boy, we'll break the peace!”

“And the Leaguers will resume the war!” someone hollered.

“A war that will destroy us!” another yelled.

As the crowd shouted in agreement, a sandhill crane sailed in, flared its wings, transformed into a woman, and landed on the slope near DeThanatos. “Are you talking about the boy named Morning McCobb?” the latecomer asked.

“Yes,” DeThanatos hissed.

“About an hour ago, he did it again,” she announced. “He took the Form of a Hider on television.”

The crowd rumbled with concern.

“What did he become?” DeThanatos demanded.

“A tree.”

The Loners gasped.

DeThanatos saw his opening. “He not only breaks sacred law, he threatens our deepest secrets!”

“He threatens the Mother Forest!” someone bellowed.

As the crowd shouted for Morning's destruction, Bosky strode up the slope, coming even with DeThanatos. “Wait!” he thundered over the mob. “To shape-shift in front of a mortal once might be an accident. To do it twice can only mean one thing. Luther Birnam is finally making his move.”

DeThanatos scowled. “What move?”

“I've heard Leaguers talk about a plan to emerge from the
selva obscura,
” Bosky explained. “To shed their secrecy and try to live in open coexistence with mortals.”

The Loners clucked and laughed at the absurd notion.

DeThanatos wasn't amused. “What if they succeed? Imagine what mortal scientists could learn if they had a chance to examine one of us. Imagine what will happen if mortals relearn the secrets of vampire slaying.”

As fear rippled though the crowd, Bosky countered. “Birnam won't let that happen.”

“What makes you so sure?” someone yelled.

“Because he's not suicidal,” Bosky declared. “He's far worse. He's shape-shifted into the lowest form of all: a politician. His bloodlust has mutated into power-lust, and he will never risk the army of Leaguers that feed his power.” Bosky had the crowd's undivided attention. “I believe the day Leaguers come out and make themselves known to mortals could be the beginning of a new night for us.”

“What do you mean?” the vampiress asked.

Bosky's voice rose with excitement. “Imagine it. What if the mortals accept Leaguers as harmless, law-abiding citizens with—how do they like to say?—‘special needs.'”

The crowd shared a ghoulish laugh.

Bosky grinned, revealing a fine pair of fangs. “Maybe that's not a bad thing for those who practice the old ways.” His eyes gleamed. “Imagine how much easier it will be to hunt if mortals think vampires are harmless. Their guard will be down. Imagine how much easier it will be to satisfy our bloodlust when we become Loners in Leaguers' clothing.”

The crowd sounded their approval.

DeThanatos shouted over them. “I don't need more disguises to hunt. I can drink or kill anytime I want. You're no different. We must enforce sacred law! It's what has kept us alive for tens of thousands of years, honoring the Commandments!”

Bosky answered his finger-wagging lecture with a hearty laugh. “DeThanatos, sometimes you really sound your age. What are you now? A millennium-something?” He rode the surge of laughter. “You're so old-fashioned. Sacred laws, Commandments, blah-blah-blah.” He turned to the crowd. “I prefer the term favored by today's mortals: core values. And the only
core value
I've ever had is this: to serve myself and my appetites.” His voice rose, inciting the crowd. “So if Luther Birnam wants to put his Leaguers on display, and make hunting that much easier for us, I say, let him do it!”

The mob of Loners shouted in agreement.

Before DeThanatos could protest a voice sounded, “Who ends this Rendezvous?”

Bosky bellowed the traditional answer. “I, Theodore Bosky, declare that we depart the Mother Forest.”

The crowd ballooned outward; vampires transformed into flying forms and rose into the air. Within seconds, there was nothing but a veil of dust settling to the ground.

Still on the slope, Bosky glanced at the graying behind the eastern ridge. He flashed DeThanatos a full-fanged grin. “Good to see you again, Ikor. Sappy hunting.” He laughed as he strode down the slope. His thick torso compacted, his arms punched wide, and a condor lifted off the slope. His huge wings kneaded the air, cutting a majestic silhouette against the paling sky.

DeThanatos loped down the hill toward the Matriarch. The great tree's trunk, over thirty feet wide, was not one trunk. It was seven trunks twisted around each other to form the mother of all bristlecone pines.

Reaching it, he pressed his hand against the bare reddish bark. “Sacred Mother,” he intoned, “on your seven trunks, on the cradle and grave of the Old Ones, I, Ikor DeThanatos, the last true vampire, will enforce your immortal law.”

As sunlight streaked the top of the tree, DeThanatos shriveled into the Fourth Form: the Climber. Where his hand had rested on the trunk was now a tarantula. The huge spider crawled into a dark crevice of gnarled pine. He would spend the day sleeping in the Matriarch's protective fold. At sundown, he would begin his hunt for Morning McCobb.

19

Small Talk

The private jet carrying Morning, Portia, and Penny reached cruising altitude and leveled off. The jet belonged to Gabby Kissenkauf, the host of
The Night-Night Show
in Los Angeles.

Penny sat in the front of the roomy cabin. She was on her cell phone talking to a
Night-Night
producer about Morning's appearance on the show the next evening. It was going to be taped at the grand opening of Okeanos, a huge new aquarium in L.A.

In the back of the jet, Portia returned to her seat with a bottle of water from the snack bar. Morning sat across the aisle. He was wearing
The Night-Night Show
sweatshirt he'd found in the goody bag that had come with their flight.

During the limo ride to the airport, Portia had done some multitasking. She had stuck to her starter plan of keeping it to small talk with Morning, even when he'd asked to see her video of his interview with Ally Alfamen. While he had a good laugh over her oblivious shot of a camera cable on the floor, she had brainstormed a new title for her documentary on Morning McCobb, the first outed vampire.
Out of the Casket.

Portia opened her bottle of water, glanced out the jet window, and reminded herself that there was no point in firing up her laptop—which her mother had thoughtfully packed for her—and designing the opening credits to “A Portia Dredful Film” unless her small-talk plan led to more footage of her star.

She pulled out her Handycam, pointed it out the window, and got a shot of the countryside below.

Morning watched her. “What are you shooting?”

“Clouds.”

“Can I give you a tip?”

Still recording, she shot him a dubious look. “Oh, so you're a vampire
and
a cinematographer?”

“No, but after the camera-cable-on-the-floor thing, I just wanted to make sure you were shooting more than the wing.”

She threw up a hand. “Go ahead, make fun, but this video project is going to make or break my college application.”

“What kind of college asks for a video essay?”

“Film school.”

“You wanna be a filmmaker?”

“Yeah.” She eye-rolled. “Doesn't everybody?” She stopped shooting and lowered her camera. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

He looked away with a rueful smile. “Maybe you didn't get the memo. I'm not the growing-up type.”

“Oops,” she said. “I forgot, vampires are like Peter Pan. They never get older.”

“Yeah.”

“Wizzywig,” she added.

“Wizzy-what?”

“It's a computer term. Short for What You See Is What You Get.”

“Yep, that's me.” He opened his arms in hapless resignation. “What you see is what you get.”

“But you weren't wizzywig before a vampire came along and—”

“Of course not.”

“Can I ask you about it?”

His mouth tightened. “About when I was normal, or when a vampire came along?”

She took a swig of water. “To be honest, I want to know about both.”

He shrugged away his tension. “They're both boring stories, especially the one about me getting turned.”

“Oh really? As boring as the ones about paper boats and the Williams Bird Bridge?”

“Just about.”

She lifted her camera. “If it's so boring, can I tape it?”

He pulled back. “What makes you think I'm going to tell it?”

“Well, if it's such a
boring
story you certainly don't want to tell it to Gabby Kissenkauf on national TV. I mean, nobody survives bombing on
The Night-Night Show.
Not even a vampire. So, here's what I think we should do for each other.”

“I can't wait to hear this.”

“You tell me all your stupid and mind-numbing stories, like how you became a vampire, and save your best stuff for the spotlight. That way, everyone gets what they want. You become the first vampire superstar, my mother becomes the most famous PR agent since George Bush, and I make a quiet little documentary about you that wins the Oscar.”

He shook his head over her chutzpah. He also realized how short a documentary on him might end up being. After all, the welcoming committee in L.A. might include a bunch of Loners, armed with stakes, eager to turn his next CD into Cell
Destruction.
If that was the case, the least he could do was help Portia get into film school by giving her a little more footage. “Okay, fine, but don't blame me if you and your camera are disappointed.”

She flashed a triumphant smile. “That's what I like about you, Morning. Your ‘disappointments' keep getting bigger and bigger.” She turned on the camera and found him in the viewfinder. “So, Morning McCobb, one day you're cruising along as a normal teenage kid, the next you're undead.”

“I was never undead.”

“No?”

“It's one of the things about us that's not true.”

“Undead equals untrue,” she chimed in. “Got it. So what are you?”

“When you become a vampire you don't die and rise from the grave. You get really sick. You crawl into a corner and
wanna
die, and you almost do because your insides are being rearranged. Then you feel better, and you think you're back to normal. But then your gums hurt, and you have this overwhelming thirst for blood. That's when you go, whoa, this is new.”

Portia raised a hand behind her camera. “Okay, I got the basics, but can you go back to the beginning, you know, the day or night you got turned?”

Morning was already there, flashing back on the horrifying moment he realized his body craved blood. That was when he decided not to succumb. That was when he decided to starve himself to death rather than drink blood.

Through the viewfinder, she saw the change in his face. It was taut, pained. And his eyes seemed to have retreated to a nightmare. She suddenly realized she was asking too much too soon.

She flicked the camera off and set it on the seat. “Listen, if you don't want to talk about it, don't. You don't even have to talk to me.” She threw a hand toward the back of the jet. “Want something from the snack bar? If you want, we can just sit here, eat candy, throw peanut M&M's at each other, and get fat.” She cringed. “Oops, forgot again. You don't eat, you don't get fat, you don't change.” Her eyes popped wide. “Ohmigod, you
don't get fat
!”

Her verbal spasms pulled him back to the present. He watched, baffled, as she yanked a notepad from her tote bag and scribbled something on it.

She ripped the paper off the pad, and shoved the note and pen across the aisle. “You have to sign this.”

He took the note and read it. “Should I, Morning McCobb, ever be tempted to turn Portia Dredful into a vampire, I promise not to do it until she has a chance to lose seven pounds.” He rocked back in laughter.

“Not funny,” she mock-protested. “If I ended up seven pounds overweight forever, I'd kill myself.”

He signed the paper and gave it to her. “Please, turn on your camera. At least when I do the talking I know where the conversation's going.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

She grinned. Christiane Amanpour couldn't have done it better.