Lust for Life, Page 3

  “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.

  “Hi.” I meet his mahogany eyes, then out of habit look down. I’m not as easily mesmerized as I was when I was human, but older gorgeous vampires still turn my brain to goop. “Welcome to WVMP.”

  My gaze falls on his bare feet, sticking out from under the frayed cuffs of his blue jeans. Vampires are fairly insensitive to cold weather, but still, for November, that’s hard-core.

  Lori lets out a soft giggle, falling under the new vamp’s spell. “Yeah, welcome to . . . here.”

  “Thank you,” he says in a voice like velvet. “I’m looking forward—”

  Something crashes behind me. I spin to see Franklin standing over what’s left of his mug. Creamer-laden coffee has splattered against the front of my desk.

  Franklin’s not mourning the mug. He’s staring at Adrian, slack-jawed. Slack, period, like he overdosed on muscle relaxants.

  I look back at the hippie vamp, who seems just as captivated. I’ve never seen anyone look at Franklin that way, not even his late boyfriend.

  “Hi,” they say in unison. Then they laugh the same laugh, the same length and pitch. Weird.

  David clears his throat. “Um . . . Adrian, this is Franklin, our sales and marketing director. Franklin, this is—”

  “Adrian.” Franklin puts his hand out, fingers stretching like he’s fallen off a cliff and reaching for that saving grip.

  Adrian takes Franklin’s hand between both of his own. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Yes,” Franklin breathes, and it sounds like he’s agreeing to a lot more than this being a pleasurable meeting.

  I look at David and Lori, whose foreheads are as scrunched-up as mine feels.

  Adrian speaks again, his voice resonating against the walls. “Thanks, I’d love some coffee.”

  “Good.” Franklin drops his hand and stares some more, then realizes Adrian just made a joke. “Oh! You mean this.” He surveys the damage around his feet. “Shit.”

  Since Franklin doesn’t seem capable, I collect the four largest pieces of the mug. FUCK and OFF are in separate pieces. I shove them together and try to make an anagram.

  Huh. There’s no anagram for FUCK OFF.

  “So!” Lori says brightly. “David tells me you’ve been working in Albuquerque. What’s it like there?”

  “It’s beautiful.” He’s still looking at Franklin.

  Vampire stares always have at least a spark of predatory threat. It’s what lots of humans get off on: that danger mixed with seduction. They think they can tame us (they can’t).

  But Adrian’s stare contains only pure, helpless fascination. With Franklin, of all things.

  David babbles, since no one else will. “Adrian was turned when he was twenty-seven, like the rest of our DJs, but of course that wasn’t a consideration in hiring him, heh.” The public loves the fact that our DJs have a connection to the so-called Club of 27, the group of legendary musicians who died at that age. “He’s looking forward to moving in downstairs, but I told him we needed to get Jim’s stuff out first. We’ve been putting that off for too long.” David inhales like he’s going to add another sentence, then seems to lose interest in his own half of the conversation. I offer him a polite “Okay.”

  I’ve seen some pretty amazing things. I’ve watched people die and come back to life. I’ve seen the Great Beyond and felt the comfort of a higher being that loves all creatures, alive, dead, and undead. I’ve seen a zombie cheerleading pyramid.

  None of it has freaked me out as much as the sight of someone falling in love with Franklin. Except maybe the sight of my vampire-hating, hippie-ripping coworker falling in love with Adrian.

  I shoo them toward the stairs. “I just made some fresh coffee in the lounge. You two should get some while it’s hot.”

  Lori snickers. Replaying my own words, I try not to echo her.

  Shane comes out of David’s
office as Adrian and Franklin disappear into the lounge together. He holds up his phone and beams like a little boy who just caught his first fish.

  “Hey, I just twittered about the new DJ.”

  “Great!” I move to his side and give him a quick kiss, avoiding Lori’s eyes so we won’t laugh at the fact that it took Shane three full minutes to compose a tweet. Considering most vampires his age see cell phones primarily as devices to call people with, and not as handheld computers/entertainment sources/life managers, Shane’s pretty advanced.

  David looks between Lori and us, then back at her. “Ready to tell them now?”

  “Yes!” She twists her hands together. “We have big news. It’s good and bad.”

  “Give us the bad news first,” Shane says.

  “It’s the same news, with good and bad aspects.” Lori spreads her fingers over her tiny belly. “I’m pregnant.”

  My life flashes before my eyes, but her smile short-circuits my panic. “I’m so happy for you!” I exclaim as I hug her.

  She hesitates, then hugs me back. “You are?”

  “Of course.” I let go of her and look at David, who’s getting a hearty handshake from Shane. “You wanted this, right? I mean, you guys just got married six months ago, but he’s not getting any younger.”

  “Hey, I’m only thirty-five,” he says.

  “And when your kid graduates from college, you’ll be almost sixty.” I whisper the last word.

  “We were trying, but I can’t believe it happened so fast.” Lori grabs my arm. “And no one else can know until we get past the three-month mark in case . . .”

  “In case what?”

  She gives me a blank look. “In case I lose it. Between eight and sixteen percent of pregnancies miscarry in the first trimester.”

  “I had no idea.” As an only child and out of touch with most family members, I’m ignorant of all things baby.

  She turns to Shane. “Do I smell different? Will the older vampires be able to tell?”

  He leans close to her shoulder and takes a deep whiff. “Maybe. Their noses are more sensitive than mine. But they’re so wrapped up in their little worlds, they won’t care.”

  “Good.” She turns back to me. “Anyway, the bad part.”

  My mood dims. I’ve dreaded this since Lori and David got engaged—that divide between those with kids and those without. Eventually she’ll make fellow childbearing friends, and she’ll have more in common with them than with me. But at least we’ll always have that donor-vampire bond.

  “I can’t be your donor anymore.”

  My eyelid twitches. “Oh.” I hurry to add, “I understand. You need to keep up your strength while you’re pregnant.”

  “And then I’ll be nursing.”

  “Not to mention sleep deprived.” I force my tone to stay light. “Don’t worry, I know it’s just temporary. We’ll get back on track once your kid’s eating solid food.”

  Lori hesitates. “Unless I’m pregnant again.”

  Now I get why Lori is so nervous. She’s breaking up with me.

  “So how far along are you?” Shane asks, easing the tension—on the outside, at least. This is a standard question I should’ve thought of.

  “Seven weeks, they say.”

  Desperate to sound clueful (the opposite of clueless?), I add, “Twenty-nine more weeks to go!”

  Lori fidgets with her gold heart pendant. “Actually, more like thirty-three. Pregnancy lasts forty weeks.”

  So much for having a clue. I dread the barrage of pregnancy facts for the next eight months, and then a barrage of baby facts for the next, um, however long babies are considered babies, and then a barrage of toddler facts for—okay, I give up. I don’t even technically know what a toddler is.

  David takes a deep breath. “This is going to sound crazy, and feel free to say no, but . . . we’d like you two to be the godparents.”

  The room falls silent.

  My brain fixates on the “god” part of the word while my mouth searches for a tactful response.

  “Wha?” I finally utter.

  Shane slips his hands into his back jeans pockets, a sign of discomfort. “Are you sure? I mean, we’re, you know, unholy.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lori assures us. “It’s just a ceremonial thing to make our parents happy. David’s family is Episcopalian and mine is Lutheran. They were scandalized when we had a Unitarian wedding, so we figured baptizing their grandkid would soothe them.”

  “Baptizing. With holy water.” I cradle my right arm, remembering the agony as it plunged into a basin of the substance. It took only moments to cure myself with my mind, but nothing will erase the memory of melted flesh.

  “You guys won’t have to stand near the baptismal font,” David says. “You’ll be off to the side.”

  “This is an amazing honor.” Shane shakes David’s hand again. “Thank you for asking us.”

  “Does this mean you’re saying no?”

  “It means we need to think about it.”

  I want to hug Shane so bad right now. Instead I just send him a grateful smile.

  “What’s to think about?” Lori rubs her abdomen, which is still perfectly flat.

  “I think Shane would be a great godfather.” I swallow hard. “But how can I be a godmother when I don’t even believe in God? Not a Bible God, anyway.”

  “You’re a good person,” she says, “and that’s all that matters.”

  “I’m pretty sure your churches would disagree.”

  “It’s a big responsibility,” Shane says. “We’re supposed to be the kid’s religious role models.”

  Lori sighs. “Come on, don’t take it so seriously. It’s a symbolic thing, a sign of our friendship.”

  “A symbolic thing?” Shane asks. Uh-oh, he’s getting his Catholic on. “Like Holy Communion is just a symbolic thing?”

  “Hey!” I grab my coat from my chair, before the office turns into Little Belfast. “I know where we could finish this discussion—or, better yet, have an entirely new one. Our favorite Smoking Pig substitute: O’Leary’s Pub!”

  “I can’t drink,” Lori says forlornly.

  “And I can’t eat, so we’re even.” I pick up the bridal binder and wave it hypnotically. “We can talk about favors, or hotel goody bags for out-of-town guests.”

  Her mouth tugs into a smile. “Do you promise to sit still for my entire lesson on seating charts?”

  I knew she couldn’t resist the lure of wedding planning. It’s like a drug to her.

  The four of us head off for the pub, me riding with Lori and David with Shane. Maybe on the way the guys will finish the theological argument—or, more likely, start a new one about football.

  But tonight Lori and I steer clear of prickly topics like birth and death and the ways our friendship is evolving. If I meet her halfway—or further—on things like my wedding that make her happy, maybe we’ll be okay.

  4

  The Boxer

  Just as I suspected, they’re making Shane a killer.

  I sit on the bleachers of the Control headquarters gymnasium with Captain Elijah Fox, who’s overseeing Shane’s combat training. My own muscles, despite their vampire strength, are still a bit shaky from the session Elijah and I just finished. It’s worth the pain and humiliation, though, to help me feel safe and strong.

  In front of us, Shane is practicing swordsmanship with Agent Tony Rosso, a small, wiry vampire Enforcement agent I recognize from Indoc. Agent Rosso can chop the legs off a spider on a wall at twenty paces, using eight separate knives. I’d hire him as a bodyguard if I could afford it—and if Shane wouldn’t be insulted.

  Rosso’s long, dark hair sails around his head as he demonstrates the debilitation blow on a practice dummy. A vampire can recover from any weapon-delivered wound except decapitation or a wooden stake through the heart. So whenever possible, bilateral fibular dismemberment (chopping off the legs) is the best way to defend against a vampire we want to take into custody. The limbs
will grow back eventually—months or years for a younger vampire, weeks or even days for an ancient one—but in the meantime, they can’t chase us or run away.

  When it’s his turn, Shane doesn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, he steps forward, crouches, and swings the katana sword down and across. The legs of the practice dummy thump on the floor, neatly severed. I feel like applauding, even as my stomach curdles at the sound and sight.

  Beside me, Elijah sits forward, elbows on his knees, watching Shane’s every move. He scribbles notes in a shorthand I can’t decipher, then taps the end of the pen against his broad, dark chin, deep in thought.

  “How’s Shane’s doing?” I ask him.

  “Boy’s got potential, if he can stop thinking with his fists. I keep reminding him he’s got other body parts he can hurt with. And he hunkers down too much when we go hand to hand. He’ll get more force behind his blows once he learns to let it rip. But his defense is solid. He blocks like a brick wall.”

  I lean forward, mirroring Elijah’s pose and resting my chin on my folded fists. Violence has never been Shane’s way—at least, not in the time I’ve known him. But the night I became a vampire—and Jim revved up his fixation with me—Shane resolved to keep me protected by any means necessary.

  “You think he’s cut out for Enforcement?” I ask Elijah.

  He jots another note. “I think Agent McAllister is cut out for whatever he sets his mind to.”

  “But if you were making the personnel assignments, and Shane’s preference didn’t mean jack, which division would you put him in?”

  Elijah doesn’t answer right away. Instead he watches as Shane loads a holy-water pistol. Hands covered with latex gloves, he tips the bottle into the funnel leading into the chamber of the long black plastic pistol. Then he crosses himself, which is not official procedure.

  “Immanence Corps,” Elijah says finally. “I’d put him in IC.”

  “So he could be my partner?”

  “So he could channel the divine in him.”

  I’ve never heard Elijah talk like this. “Divine what?”

  Captain Fox moves his hand in a circle. “Essence, nature, whatever. He’s got it. We all do, but some people are more connected to it.”