Vamparazzi (37 page)

I wearily recounted my misadventures with lust-maddened Janes.

Thack shook his head in disgust. “I should never have let you audition for this show. I had a bad feeling from the moment you told me about it.”

“Your bad feeling had nothing to do with the show,” I pointed out, “and everything to do with the chip on your shoulder about, er, cultural stereotypes.”

“But you insisted I get you the audition, and
now
look where we are,” he said grimly. “In a vampire nightclub with a drunken poseur who I fear may wind up having sex on our table before Uncle Peter calls me back.”

“Oh, come on, Thack, I've got a supporting role in a sold-out off-Broadway show. That's a
good
thing.”

“Jane is not a part worthy of your talent, darling.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “I need some auditions. This show closes in two weeks.”

“Oh!” He made a rueful face. “Sorry. I should have said something sooner. A murderous vampire menacing New York kind of distracted me.” Thack added wearily, “And talking to my relatives always rattles me.”

“Should have said what?” I prodded.

“I was going to tell you over dinner. I got you an audition for next week. It's for another new play.
Not
a gothic revival this time.”

“Really?” When he nodded, smiling at me, I gave him a hug. “That's great!”

“Geraldo will call you in a day or two with the details,” he said. Geraldo was Thack's assistant. “And I've been talking with the
Crime and Punishment
people. They thought you did very well in
D-Thirty,
and they said you were really a good sport on the set. So they felt bad that they wound up having to cut your role so much in that episode. The upshot is they'd like you to come in soon and read for a guest spot on
Criminal Motive
.”

While
The Dirty Thirty
was the grittiest and most controversial series in
C&P
's spin-off empire,
Criminal Motive
was considered the brainiest.

“Suddenly, I feel so much better! Good news is like an antidote,” I said cheerfully. “Now I can scarcely even tell that I was beaten almost to a pulp last night.”

“Did something happen?” Daemon asked us blearily.

“No, go back to your fondling,” I said to him. Then I smiled at Thack. “Now I can look forward to life after
The Vampyre
.”

Gesturing to my injuries, Thack said, “I'll certainly be relieved when you're done with this show. You look as if a third assault could put you in the hospital.”

“Fannish hysteria is a dangerous thing,” I noted. “And it's not even as if they're
my
fans.”

“
Vampire
hysteria is a dangerous thing,” said Thack. “I had to make my way through that crowd today to get to the theater. The effort made me better acquainted with Daemon's fans than I had any desire to be. Which is how I know that, despite his being suspected of murdering his most recent pick-up, half the women in that crowd still want to sleep with him—as do some of the men. That doesn't just run contrary to reason and good taste, it also defies any healthy sense of self-preservation.”

I thought back to something Leischneudel had said yesterday, on the way to work, about how the fans romanticized Lord Ruthven's murder of his bride. “Maybe they think it would be worth dying to be possessed by Daemon in the final embrace.”

“Are you
trying
to make me nauseated?” Thack asked.

“Or maybe they fantasize that he'd turn them, and they'd become his undead true love.”

“I'm warning you, this evening has descended to such an unprecedented nadir that I am quite capable of tossing my cookies in public.” Thack glanced at our canoodling companions. “Possibly all over our preening pal and his giggly goth girlfriend.”

He'd spoken a little too loudly. The girl finally noticed us, and she looked offended. That was predictable, given what Thack had said; but I thought she could have easily avoided the insult by declining to give Daemon a lap dance in public.

“Who are your friends?” she asked him with a sour expression.

“Hmmm?” Daemon looked blearily at me. “I . . . work with her.” His gaze moved to Thack. “Who are you again?”

Thack asked me, “Should I risk a third cosmopolitan? The first two
were
pretty weak, after all.”

“I haven't seen our waitress in ages,” I said.

“There is a sense in which that can only be a blessing.”

Goth girl stuck her tongue in Daemon's ear, then said, “Why don't you and I go back to your place and give your coffin a workout?” She uttered what I gathered she intended to be an alluringly wicked giggle.

“Oh, good God!” Thack exclaimed. “A coffin? A
coffin?
”

“Oops, I think the damn just burst,” I told the dreary couple.

“Is there no limit to your tasteless banality?” Thack cried.

“Oh, wait, you came with Esther, didn't you?” Daemon said to Thack, as if starting to recognize him now.

“You sleep in a
coffin?
” Thack demanded.

“No, I don't
sleep
in it,” said Daemon. “Do you have any idea how claus . . . claus . . .”

“Claustrophobic?” I guessed.

“Thank you.” Daemon nodded at me, then concluded, “How what-she-said a coffin is? Really tight squeeze, man.”

“Not to mention that it's intended for the departed and should therefore be treated with respect. Not used as a PR gimmick, let alone as a venue for—for . . .” Thack concluded with discreet disdain, “Fun and games.”

The girl looked at Thack's well-tailored suit, and her puzzled expression cleared. “Oh, I get it! You're an undertaker?”

“Vampires do
not
sleep in coffins,” Thack said tersely.

“I remember now,” Daemon said to Thack. “You were in the car with us, right?”

“Vampires
particularly
do not sleep in coffins filled with the soil of their native land,” Thack said in aggravation, getting it all off his chest now. “If we have any attachment to our native soil, it's purely sentimental! Though, I, for one, was delighted to shake the dust of Wisconsin off my feet. But I had family issues, so that's beside the point.”

“What is the point?” Daemon asked in confusion.

“As for all this claptrap about being immortal ... Where does that even
come
from?” Thack demanded.

“The undead?” I guessed. “Though I suppose Max would say they're not immortal, they're just mystically animated by—”

“Someone living for hundreds of years? It's idiotic!” Thack raged.

I kept my mouth shut.

He added to Daemon, “And how, by the way, were you planning to fake
immortality?
Plastic surgery can only take you so far, after all.”

Daemon's jaw dropped and he gave me a look of horrified betrayal. “You
told
him?”

“Told him what?” I asked blankly.

“About . . .” Daemon made a vague gesture.

“Oh! About your plastic surgery?” I said, realizing what he meant. “No. Why would I tell him? Why would I tell
anyone?
”

The girl looked at him. “You had surgery?”

“Childhood accident,” he said quickly, slurring the words.

I had no doubt that Tarr would soon sniff out who Danny Ravinsky was, as well as the fact that he had altered his appearance when becoming Daemon Ravel. And then
everyone
would know. But since celebrities getting plastic surgery had by now become as common as my mother getting brisket and matzo, I still didn't see what the big fat hairy deal was.

Thack, meanwhile, was really on a roll now.

“You know what
else?
The only vampire who requires an
invitation
to enter your home is a well-raised one with good manners.” His voice was rising, along with his temper. “A gauche lout of a vampire can burst through your front door whenever he feels like it—no invitation needed, folks!”

Thack's outburst was starting to attract some attention.

From my posse's nearby table, Treat said, “Yeah, dude, I hear you. Like, I can go anywhere without an invitation. I
don't
. But I
can.
”

Silent nodded his head in agreement with this.

Thack stared at them in consternation and said to me, “They think they're vampires, too?”

“Well, they
are
my vampire posse,” I said.

“You know what
else
is complete nonsense?” Thack said, returning to venting his spleen on Daemon and the girl. “Vampires who cringe at the sight of Christian crosses and melt when someone sprinkles them with holy water. Lithuania is mostly Roman Catholic—and that means, so are
we!
”

“Lithuania?” Daemon repeated with a bewildered expression.

The girl asked, “Who's she?”

“Do you go to Mass every week?” I asked Thack curiously, thinking about Lopez.

“No, just once in a while. Easter. Christmas. Before the Obie Awards,” he said. “The usual.”

“Look,” Daemon's lap girl said to Thack. “You are totally free to practice vampirism the way you want to, and that's cool. But I totally think you should stop trying to tell everyone
else
how to be a vampire. Let them be vampires in their own way.”

“Let it go,” I told Thack. “You're wasting your breath.”

He sighed and let his posture sag. “Totally.”

Now that Thack had raised the subject, though, I had a question about vampires which I had been pondering for some time. “As long as we seem to be rooted to this spot until Uncle Peter phones back . . .”

“Who?” Daemon asked.

“Tell me,” I said to him and his cuddly friend. “What is the sexual appeal of vampires? I mean, I understand why someone would be attracted to the idea of
being
one. There are perks, after all. Immortality, superhuman strength, psychic powers, shape-shifting abilities—”

“Oh, for God's sake.” Thack folded his arms on the table and lay his head on them.

“But given that we're talking about a murderous creature with fangs who feasts on human blood—why does anyone want to
sleep
with a vampire?”

The girl snorted. “If you have to ask that, then you
obviously
haven't slept with one.”

“Oh, neither have
you
,” Thack said without lifting head.

Daemon's red-rimmed eyes focused a little with interest, and I realized this must be a subject he'd thought about often in the years since he had first played a vampire and discovered the erotic power of the role.

“Well, it's sexy stuff, isn't it?” he said. “All that piercing and sucking and biting. The rich, sensual flow of blood. The intimacy of being fed on.”

It didn't come out of his liquor-soaked mouth quite that clearly, but that was the gist of it.

“Yeah, I get the metaphors,” I said. “And in performance, I play those metaphors. In fact, I practically beat them to death. But as a sexual fantasy—let alone a dating strategy—I really don't get it. The logistics keep getting in the way.”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever actually been bitten by something with fangs or sharp canines?” I asked.

“A dog,” Daemon said.

“A snake,” the girl said. “I was posing nude with it, and—”

“That's all the information we need,” Thack said, still facedown on the table.

“And I've been bitten by a cat, two dogs, and a ferret,” I said. “Also by Daemon.”

“Wow,” the girl said.

“I lead a thrilling life.” I continued, “And being bitten
hurts.
Once those sharp teeth sink in, break the skin, and draw blood, your nerves scream with pain. Sex is the very
last
thing on your mind.”

Thack lifted his head. “I hope you people are listening to her.”

“Now imagine someone doing that to a major vein or artery.” I was gaining momentum. “The piercing of your jugular vein would be eye-crossingly painful and also dangerous—quite possibly life threatening.”

Thack said, “Call me old-fashioned, but I'm not interested in sex that involves a visit to the ER.”

“And piercing the carotid artery?” I said, really finding my stride now. “Do you have any idea how
messy
that would be? You wouldn't get an artistic trickle of ruby liquid sliding down your neck,” I told the girl. “You'd get a geyser of bright red arterial blood that would turn the bed into a gory mess. And your vampire lover would be covered in the stuff spraying from your neck, not tidily wiping a few drops of it from his lips.”

I had spent three days playing an ER nurse on the popular medical soap opera
Our Restless Hearts
. I knew my stuff.

“You should be taking notes,” Thack said to the girl, who looked increasingly appalled.

Daemon was staring at me with fierce concentration— which was certainly more attention than he ever paid to my words when he was sober.

“And
you
,” I said to him, “would need an industrial cleaning team to keep up with the mess, if you were doing this on a regular basis. You'd have to throw out all your sheets and pillows every time. You'd go through mattresses pretty fast, too. You also might need your walls and floors thoroughly scrubbed after every—”

“God, you're sick!” The girl looked at me as if I had just urinated in her drink.