Biting Nixie (36 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

“And no one's tried to get in?” Julian paced the back of the Fudgy Delight, speaking low on his cell phone. “All right. It'll be some time tonight. Call me the instant you hear or smell anything.”

“Nothing?” I asked as he flipped his clamshell shut.

“Not even a mist.”

“Maybe I'm wrong.” I watched the audience fill up. It was seven thirty-five, past time for the beauty pageant to start—and really late according to MC standards. But Kurt had just dashed in with the maillots. It would take at least ten more minutes for the contestants to squeeze into costume.

“You're not wrong.” Julian slipped the phone inside his jacket. “The blood is there now. It ships out tomorrow morning. Ruthven has to steal it sometime tonight.”

“Which could be a minute from now or ten hours from now.”

“Don't worry. The Ancient trains his lieutenants very thoroughly. If anyone can protect the Blood Center, they can.” He continued pacing, belying his own words.

“We could go there ourselves,” I said. “The band doesn't play until nine. You wouldn't worry as much if you were there, onsite.”

“No.” Julian stopped pacing, turned his slightly violet eyes toward Bo. “Then I'd worry about him.”

Elena's husband was near the stage, pacing even more frantically than Julian. His eyes were shading toward red, and his jaw worked continually, like he was fighting to repress his fangs and not succeeding very well.

“What's he so amped about?”

“Amped…oh, worked up.” Julian breathed deep, nostrils distending. “We—my kind—we're rather possessive of our mates.”

“But he's the one who suggested Elena do this!”

“To serve a bigger purpose.” Julian shrugged, a jerk of one shoulder. “Doesn't mean he likes it.”

“So you're staying here to make sure he doesn't go all red-eyed fangy?”

“Something like that.” He tensed. “Here they come.”

I scanned the stage. “I don't see anyone.”

“I smell them. Come on, let's go prop up the Viking.”

That must have been one hell of a sniffer, because a full minute passed before the first of the contestants came onstage. Anna Versnobt, who had no doubt insisted on going first. I'd gone to school with her, and she delighted in making my life hell. Picked on my size, my weight, and my way of talking. She looked sicker than all the rest combined. Of course, I could hope she simply hadn't aged well.

Before half the audience could leave, I signaled to the first of my ringers. Drusilla glided into view. She wore a bikini that was more painted-on than worn. From the audience, I could practically hear the drool hitting the floor, men and women both.

Another spotty, fudged-out contestant came on behind her. Still stunned from Dru, the audience didn't even notice.

I watched very carefully. Each ringer had to offset at least three contagious-looking contestants. I'd led with Dru, my heavy hitter. Heavy hitter, ha-ha. Watching her DD's bounce, I realized how apropos that was, if not entirely tasteful.

But as the second fudgy followed the first, the audience started coming out of their stupor. Anxiety attacked me with a stick. Two contestants. Only two, and Dru was the most distractingly gorgeous of the ringers. I signaled frantically.

Josephine Schrimpf sauntered out. Jaws hit the floor.

The Widow Schrimpf wore nothing but hair. She was utterly, totally naked. Like Lady Godiva without the horse. Elena told me later Josephine had a peach-colored bikini, but from here, I couldn't see it. And fortunately, neither could the audience.

That was good for another two. But no more. As the second polka-dotted lady came downstage, a couple people even got up to leave. Desperately, I signaled.

Elena herself came out. She had gone with Dirk's suggestion, her gun belt strapped low over her hips. Normally Dirkenstein's suggestions are like gonorrhea—recurring, and to be avoided. But in this case…wow. The people leaving fell back into their seats. Even I stared at Elena's tight, muscular body, limned by steel and an air of violence.

That was good for another three.

But there were still four contestants left. Four, and only Rocky to distract the audience. Rocky Hrbek, who in high school was overweight and acne-prone. Who dressed in muumuus because they were comfortable. Whose body-image was even more fucked up than most of us double-Xers.

The curtain parted. A gold tube slid out from between. Rocky followed, gliding onstage like a nymph. She put flute to lip, started playing.

Besides auditions, I'd heard Rocky play before, in orchestra. Blending with three so-so violins, a flat tuba, and a punk rock clarinet, she was pretty good.

Playing solo in a bikini, she was breath-taking.

She was playing something exotic, her body swaying to the beat of the music. And what a body! Even Dru stopped for a look, and I caught a glimpse of fang. Fang, dripping with drool.

Totally unselfconscious, Rocky played. She was one with her music. The flute was a living extension of her, as only the best musicians can make it. The sound, blended with her very soul, spread out in waves over the audience. Captivating them. Capturing their attention, their imaginations—their hearts.

The final four contestants, looking like refugees from an isolation ward, slunk out without even a whimper from the audience. We were all far too enthralled by Rocky and her music.

When Rocky finished playing she folded in on herself, all the poise of a scared bunny. But it didn't matter. The magic had wrapped up the entire room.

The pageant was going to be fine.

Julian and I stayed the whole hour. Rocky won. Even with the Widow Schrimpf, Elena, and Drusilla to choose from, the judges picked Rocky. For her beauty, for her talent, but also for her innocence, that sense that she truly had no idea how beautiful and talented she was. That sweet naivety just enhanced her appeal. The emcee took the sparkling crystal crown and set it on Rocky's chestnut head.

And you know what she did?

She took the crown off. Walked over to Elena. Said, “There must be some mistake. This is obviously yours.” Reached up and put the crown on Elena's corkscrew curls.

But that was Rocky for you. And I couldn't complain. She had saved the pageant.

 

The festival was in full swing, going fine. A competent fangy guy guarded each event, and though I kept checking my voicemail, not one problem was called in. I was actually starting to relax.

I should learn not to do that.

Because when we got to the Roller-Blayd factory, the Ruthiettes were setting up. On the
main
stage.

Where
we
were supposed to open.

Lob ran from Billy the Kid to each of his posse, yelling. BTK et al ignored him, plugging in equipment and generally taking over the stage.

I waved impatiently to Lob. Thanks to a suggestion from Julian, Lob was fully recovered from his brush with fangy weirdness. He saw me, came over. “You've got to do something,” he yelled. “Moss and I both tried, but…these guys are a disaster!”

“Set Guns and Polkas up on the second stage,” I told him.

“What good will it do?” Lob asked, pulling on his already-spiky hair. “The speakers are wired to the main stage. Nobody will hear us.”

“The speakers are wired to both stages.” That was Woofers 'R Us's idea, but I thought it was pretty froody.

The sound equipment was set up so either stage could use it. While one band was playing, another could be setting up on the other stage. When the second band was ready, the system would switch to the new band. Slick.

Lob made a face. “Yeah, but the equipment is preset. It switches every half-hour—and it starts on the main stage!”

“Great. Simply lucking fovely.” I cast an eye over BTK and the Ruthiettes. The guy with the mullet had grabbed an electric bass. He hung it upside down from the strap around his neck. He tried to plug into his preamp by sticking one of the tuning machines in the socket. When the tuner didn't even come close to fitting, the dweeb decided to be clever. He used his mighty vampire strength to strip off the knob. Too bad his brain power hadn't increased with his muscle power. When he stuck the denuded pin into the amp, a zap of current lit him up brighter than a light bulb. His eyes turned red and his mullet stood out like the bill of a baseball cap. He jittered around the stage for a bit, until the guitar came unplugged. Then he just stood there, the occasional zap quaking his body, bits of smoke rising from his nostrils and ears.

BTK was smarter, but not by much. He plugged in his guitar okay, but the volume knob was dialed all the way down. He hit the strings and nothing happened. He fiddled with all the keys on the guitar including the tremolo bar—in fact, everything
but
the volume control. Still nothing. That pissed him off so much he broke the guitar over mullet guy's head. I winced but the growing audience applauded.

Josiah Moss, the alderperson for the bands, jumped on the stage where Julian and I stood. “We've got to do something,” he said. “I don't know who these guys are, but they don't listen worth shit. And they're stronger than hell.” He rubbed his arm, where I saw four distinct finger-shaped bruises.

Julian started purposefully forward. “I'll take care of it.”

I put a hand on his arm. “There's already too many people here. Somebody will see.”

“I'll be discreet.” The tips of Julian's fangs were just poking out his lips.

“There are five of them, Julian. One of you.”

“I've done five against one before.” His chest muscles, just visible between the edges of his jacket, were pumped up like boulders. “I can handle them.”

“I'm sure. But five bodies…twelve pints each? That's a huge mess, Julian. I'll be a good little wifey, but I ain't cleaning up all that.”

His fangs disappeared like slingshots. “Wifey?”

Oops. Talk about Freudian slips. Julian would run like the wind.

So I was utterly shocked when he pulled me tight and kissed me like he'd like to crawl down my throat. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes?” I echoed faintly, not even knowing what the question was.

At that moment the Ruthiettes struck their first chord.

We both flinched. It was so bad it hurt. They had figured out how to plug into the sound system but they still didn't know how to make music. Bass, lead, rhythm, and keyboard all joined in a cacophony of tsunami proportions.

They clashed like they'd thrown their instruments in a blender, along with a sixties Volkswagon bus. And the bus sounded best.

All around us people were staring at the band on the main stage. Not upset or unfriendly, exactly, but confused. Apparently they thought this was simply a new style of garbage rock. One or two tried to dance to the beat, but as the Ruthiette drummer entered the fray, it became obvious the beat was the musical equivalent of thrown paint.

“We've got to do something!” Lob and Josiah wailed at the same time.

“If not my solution,” Julian said, “what, then?”

“Can we cut their power?” I asked Lob.

“I tried. There's a backup supply on each stage. It'll die, but not before we do.”

“Where's the backup?”

Lob pointed at a dark gray box nestled between Billy the Kid's feet.

Shizzle. As friendly as BTK was with that backup power supply, even Julian couldn't get to it.

Julian pointed to the crowd. “You'd better come up with something soon. We don't have much time.”

People were milling restlessly, some starting toward the door. We were counting on a full night of bands to keep the people—and money—hopping. The Ruthiettes could shut us down before we even started.

Suddenly Julian snapped his fingers. “
Star Trek
.” He motioned Josiah Moss over.

“What?”

“
Wrath of Khan
. They may be stronger, but music is
our
world.”

I was surprised that Julian knew any pop culture but wisely kept my mouth shut.

“We'll take advantage of their ignorance.” Julian shouted instructions in Moss's ear. Then he pushed him toward the door. “Hurry!”

As Moss ran out, Julian clamped hands to ears. Apparently his vampy hearing was even more sensitive than mine.

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

He told me.

“Shit. You're kidding, right?” Our fate rested in the hands of the most frightfully unreliable people in the world—teenagers. And worse. Drunk teenagers.

“Can you think of anything else?” Julian winced at a particularly loud Gm7 with added 13, 19 and yowling cat.

Josiah Moss returned in short order. Twenty drunken teen math geeks reeled in behind him. But not
just
math geeks,
applied
math geeks. That was what Julian was counting on now.

The lead geek was Bill Like Bill Gates. The one who'd kept smooshing me with kisses. “He likes you best,” Julian said to me. “You'd better explain.”

I glared at him, and I think my eyes turned red. I know I was snarling. But I did it. This responsibility thing was no fun, but it did get easier. “How much do you know about acoustics?” I shouted in Bill's ear.

“Enough to know when waves are seriously clashing.” Bill closed one eye like he was getting a hangover. “Why?”

Twenty, drunk,
uninsured
teenagers. Maybe this wasn't the only solution. Maybe—

As I hesitated, three people near the door left. Another two started after them.

I took a deep breath. “We need some help.”

“You need help from us?” Both of Bill's eyes snapped opened and swung to me. “Do I get a kiss?”

“No,” I said. Julian
growled
.

My voice was lost in the overwhelming ruckus, but the growl cut through.

“Okay,” the kid said, eyes switching to Julian. “No kiss.” A beat. “Nice earring. Engagement present?”