Stake That (3 page)

RAYNIEDAY: ‘Cause I’m wearing armor. Duh. You’re going into battle wearing, like, some silk robe. Hello?

SPIDER: Yeah, I’m, like, freaking tissue paper here. Come get the mage, everyone. Pick on the poor squishy mage!

RAYNIEDAY: ANYWAY-while you run back from the grave-yard, I’ve got to tell you what happened!!! +

SPIDER: Hmph. No sympathy. Fine. Fine. So I tell Spider about Mr. Teifert. Slayer Inc. My destiny. Etc., etc.

SPIDER: Wow. That’s so crazy. What are you going to do?

RAYNIEDAY: IDK. Slay Maverick, I guess? I mean, if he’s out to get Sunny’s BF, then that seems like the right thing to do.

SPIDER: But isn’t that totally dangerous? I mean, what if you get made into a bloody snack?

RAYNIEDAY: Gulp. Thanks. You’re making me feel so much better.

SPIDER: Just trying to be realistic.

RAYNIEDAY: I know, but I, like, don’t have a choice here. They’ve got the nanos in me. If I don’t help them, they’ll kill me. And I’d so rather be a living snack than dead meat. SPIDER: Guess you’ve got a point there. Still, be careful, okay? I mean infiltrating a vamp nest and trying to stake their evil leader? That sounds harder than passing Trig without sleeping with the teacher.

RAYNIEDAY: Heh. So THAT’S your secret. :P

SPIDER: Hehe. I don’t “sine” and tell.

RAYNIEDAY: Very “cosine.”

SPIDER: At least I don’t go off on “tangents.”

RAYNIEDAY: Uh-huh. ANYWAY-I’m going to head to the Blood Bar 2morrow nite. I’ll IM you when I get back, k? If I don’t IM, tell Sunny what happened and maybe Magnus can send in the big
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guns.

SPIDER: You haven’t told Sunny to begin with?

RAYNIEDAY: …

SPIDER: Um, don’t you think you should?

RAYNIEDAY: No effing way. Cause, like, what if she tells Magnus and Slayer Inc.’s wrong and Mag and Maverick are best buddies? Then Magnus could go warn Maverick and I’ll totally get nanoed. Then I’d definitely fail Trig—teacher sleepage or no.

SPIDER: I guess you’ve got a point.

RAYNIEDAY: No, I’ve got a stake, LOL.

SPIDER: Hehe. Okay, fine. Go slay some vamp butt. Good luck. I’m back from the graveyard, BTW. Rezzing now.

RAYNIEDAY: Uh, you might want to wait

**Spider resurrects.

**Shaman hits Spider for 975 damage.

**Spider dies.

SPIDER: NOOOOOO!!!!!

RAYNIEDAY: Sigh. And on that note, I’m logging. Got a busy day tomorrow. Evil vampires don’t just slay themselves, you know.

POSTED BY RAYNE MCDONALD @ 2:20 A.M.

THREE COMMENTS:

DorkGothBoysays …

You play World of Warcraft? Wow, you’re such a cool chick. I’m on the Stonemaul server. Have a level 60 paladin. w00t! Are you into role-playing? We should totally cyber sometime.

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Rayne says …

Um, remember that ten-foot pole thing? That counts for your virtual “lance” as well. Just. Not. Touching. Virtually or in real life. Get a life and stop reading my blog.

Spider says …

Jeez, Rayne, you had to put in the part about me dying? Couldn’t you have cut and pasted that part out?

Obviously it’s so not relevant to this story and you make me look like a total noobletin front of the WHOLE WORLD. And for the record, whole world people, I’m a really good player. It’s just that Rayne sucks as a bodyguard. SUCKS, I tell you! It’s so her fault that I’m always dead.

SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 8 P.M.

The Blood Bar

I must be brief—I’m actually writing this from my BlackBerry from inside the Blood Bar!! Let me tell you, this place is creepy with a capital C! Or ghetto with a capital G. Or some kind of capital word for weird, sick, and twisted. (Which, I guess, would be three capital words: Weird, Sick, and Twisted, duh.) First of all, I had to go through the total crackhead section of town. Wandering past pimps and prostitutes, drug dealers, and bums to find it. I half thought I’d get attacked and killed before I even got to my destination. Some slayer I’d turn out to be if I got myself killed by some punk mortal before I even got to stake my first vamp.

At least I look good. After all, one does not enter a vam-pire den unprepared and so I made a special effort to Goth things up even more than usual before I came. I’ve got on this black lacy corset top under my leather jacket, a black vinyl miniskirt, fishnets, and knee-high platform boots. The outfit, in conjunction with my overly blacked-out eyes, red lipstick and powered white face, makes me look pretty kick-ass, if you can excuse the vanity for a moment.

I find the address. A nondescript brick building. Which I guess makes sense. Obviously they’re not going to have some neon sign out flashing “Get Sucked Here!” or anything. But this joint is beyond subtle. In fact, I’m not even sure if I have the right place—until a street-light glints on a tiny stained glass window embedded into the door … the shape of a drop of blood.

Bingo.

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Not quite sure what to do, I knock. This big, burly bouncer type guy. creaks opens the door from the other side and looks down at me with suspicious eyes. I meet his gaze, hopefully appearing less freaked out than I am. I mean, the dude looks like Vin Diesel if Vin Diesel took steroids. Yeah, that big. Except unlike the tanned action hero, this guy is pasty white. So, like a ghosty Vin Diesel on steroids. Which throws me a bit. Usually the vamp wanna-be crowd is all scrawny and lanky.

“What do you want?” he asks in a grumbly, growly voice. Hm. Not exactly the rising star in the customer service de-partment. Good thing I’m a slayer and not a secret shopper or I’d so be knocking off points already.

“I, um, am interested in being, uh …” Jeez, what’s the correct terminology here? “Sucked?”

“Idon’t know what you’re talking about.”

I shake my head. Oh, so he’s going to be like that, is he? “Yes, you do. You totally know. You’re just pretending you don’t because you’re afraid I’m some cop or something. Well, I am not a cop. Obviously. I mean, since when do sixteen-year-olds become cops?”

“I don’t think you’re a cop. I think you’re underage. We don’t serve minors.” D’oh.

“Ha-ha.” I laugh. “Did I say sixteen? Silly me. I meant twenty-one. Look, I even have an ID that proves it.” I reach into my black canvas messenger bag and rummage through the front pocket for my wallet. Grabbing my fake ID, I present it to Vamp Diesel, hoping he won’t notice my trembling hands.

“You’re from Kentucky?” he asks, squinting at the photo (so not me). “And you’re five eleven?”

“Only when I wear my stilettos.”

He rolls his eyes, not looking all that convinced. “Run home and play with your dolls, um”—he glances at my ID— “Shaniqua.” He snorts, handing me back my license. “This is not the place for you.” Okay, that’s it. No more Miss Nice Rayne. I drop my eyes to the ground and flutter my lashes. Then I look up at him with my best Angelina Jolie imitation, pre-Brad Pitt/mommy era. “I don’t play with dolls,” I say, making my voice sultry and deep. “I play with vampires.” I reach up and drag a lazy finger down the front of his massive chest. He stiffens imme-diately. Heh. Men are so easy.

“Well, I guess your license does say you’re twenty-five. …” He hedges.

“I am twenty-five. Twenty-five and three quarters, to be exact.” I smile coyly, reeling him in. “Now, please let me in. I’m
dying
to be sucked.”

At first I’m not sure if he’s going to go for this, but he sur-prises me by opening the door wide and gesturing me for-ward. I give him a little bow and step over the threshold.

“Fine, fine. But behave yourself,” he instructs. “Don’t make me sorry I let you in.”

“I will,” I promise. “I mean, I won’t. Make you sorry, that is. I will behave. You won’t even know I’m here. What’s your name, anyway?”

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“Francis. And I run the door most nights.”

I rise onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, Fran-cis,” I say. “You won’t regret this.”

“I already do,” he says, his face turning a slight pink color. Close as vamps get to blushing, I suppose.

“But go in and have a good time before I change my mind.”

I thank him once more, then head in. The door leads to a dark hallway, the walls painted with strange Celtic-looking designs that glow under the black lighting. Under my feet is a plush crimson rug. Weird, ambient mood music floats through the smoke-filled air. I guess the Blood Bar feels it’s exempt from the no smoking laws of the rest of our state. Which makes sense, really, as lighting up is just where the sinning
starts
here.

The whole thing is truly spooky and I have half a mind to turn around and run back out the door screaming. But some-thing compels me to keep moving forward. To see this through. I reach the beaded curtain at the far side of the hallway and go through into the main bar. The place is decorated like a Valentine’s Day card. Everything is red. Red velvet couches, red shag rugs, red walls, and red lightbulbs in the chandelier. The fuzzy lighting makes it hard to get a good look at the other patrons. Some are sprawled out on couches in a re-laxed, almost sleepy manner. Others are sitting on the edges of their seats, looking tense. All of them look like junkies— underfed, drawn faces, trembling hands.

This one guy standing over in the corner looks particularly foreboding. He appears fiftyish and is wearing a well-fitted black tux. Sandy-haired, high cheekbones, and an athletic physique, he has a sort of elegance about him that the other gaunt Blood Bar inhabitants lack. If I hadn’t seen a photo of Maverick, I would have pegged this guy as the bar’s owner, given the proprietary sense he exhibits as he surveys the lounge, arms crossed over his chest. But while he’s definitely vampish, he’s no Trent Reznor look-alike, so he can’t be the big baddie we’re here to find.

He catches me looking at him and gives me a small nod. Freaked out, I quickly drop my eyes. The last thing I need is to start drawing attention to myself.

“Do you have an appointment?” A sultry female voice be-hind me makes me turn around. A tall, voluptuous woman with long black hair to her waist has focused her huge violet eyes on me expectantly, a clipboard in her hands. She wears a crimson corset top and a long silky black skirt that’s gotta be vintage or I’d so be asking her where she got it.

“I, um, do you take walk-ins here?” I stammer, caught off guard. She frowns. “We certainly do not.”

“Well, good. Because I, um, have an appointment.” I squint down at her appointment book. Good thing I have ex-cellent eyesight. “I’m Jane Smith.”

She glances down at her clipboard. “Do you mean
James
Smith?” Hm. Maybe time to see the eye doctor after all. “Yeah, that’s me. James Smith. Evil parents really wanted a boy. Anyway, I go by Jane now. To my friends, anyway. Do you want to be my friend? I need more friends, actually. People to call me Jane.”

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She rolls her heavily made-up eyes. I know she doesn’t be-lieve me, but I’ve managed to annoy her enough that she just wants me out of her hair. Good strategy for dealing with teachers as well, by the way. Works every time.

“Fine, fine. James. Jane. Whatever. You’re in room six.” She gestures to the wall on the far side of the room. “Behind those curtains.”

I swallow hard. This is it. I thank her and head to the back of the room, pulling aside the heavy velvet drapes. Behind it are ten nondescript doors, each with a gold number. I find room six and slip inside. The room is dark, without any windows. The walls are painted black and thus suck out even the dim lighting given off by a few candles in the room. In the center is a big canopy bed with black linens. Even the floor has a charcoal-colored rug. Maybe they make it black so the bloodstains don’t show as easily. The thought makes me a bit queasy and I close the door behind me and retreat to a wooden low-backed chair. What have I gotten myself into? This is totally Spooky World and I’m not just here for a visit. Suddenly I realize the precariousness of my situation. I’m all alone in a vampire blood bar on the wrong side of town. And no one (besides Spider and I don’t give Spider’s rescue abilities much credit) knows where I am.

Some might call this a bad situation to be in. After all, I’ve got no plan. No idea what to do now that I’m here. What if I have to actually get sucked by some random gnarly vamp? What if I get some kind of awful disease? What if just sitting in here is infecting me?

Can we say Stupid, Rayne?

I take a deep breath, remembering what Mr. Teifert told me. The vamps here are all tested for diseases. I’m fine. I’m safe. From that, at least. And I have my stake, in case I meet with any danger. I reach into my bag, examine the chunk of unfinished wood, then sigh and put it away. Sadly, that
so
doesn’t make me feel any more secure.

And that’s where I am right about now. After forty-five minutes of waiting, my anxiety level has gone down and my boredom level has gone up. This is worse than the doctor’s of-fice. Nothing much to do. I’ve already checked my e-mail, played Tetris, chatted with Spider on IM. And now I’m writ-ing my blog.

Oh, wait! Someone’s coming.
Ooh,
this is it! More later.

POSTED BY RAYNE McDONALD @ 8 P.M.

ONE COMMENT:

SunshineBaby says …

Rayne! Are you just making this stuff up to see if I’m reading your blog? You’re not really a slayer, are you? I mean, you’d come tell me if you were suddenly a slayer, right? You can’t keep something like that
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