Wicked Game (13 page)

My face goes cold as the blood drains from it. I sit down hard on the curb before my knees give out. He sits next to me, a few feet away.

“What happens to them?” I ask without looking at him.

His voice flattens. “Usually they die.”

I don’t know why this shocks me. I slide my hands through my hair and hold my head. “Oh, God.”

“I’ve never killed anyone,” he says. “I swear.”

“What about the others? Regina, Noah, all of them?”

“Not as careful.”

I close my eyes. I’ve made it my mission to protect a bunch of rabid beasts. Does that make me an accomplice?

I stretch my scalp back and forth over my skull to ease the pounding inside. “David said you guys don’t kill.”

“It’s rare someone dies,” he says. “When it happens, we don’t tell him. We call a Code Black and help each other cover it up, make it look like a suicide or accident.” He moves closer and touches my arm. His skin is warm, as warm as mine. “Ciara, I need to tell you something.”

“You’ve been telling me plenty, thanks. Stop any time.”

“Last week, with you, was the closest I’ve ever come to killing.” His words echo in my head, muffled by my internal screams. “David only wanted me to show you my fangs to convince you. I never planned to bite. But I got... distracted. I wanted you, in the human way. So I figured we’d just fool around.”

Fool being the operative word, and me being the one operated on.

“Then you smelled so good.” Pain infuses his whisper. “You tasted so good. And the way you screamed when you came, like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf.”

I jerk my arm away from him. “So it’s my fault for being scrumptious? Didn’t they have date rape back in your day?”

He pulls his hands back to his lap. “I’m not making excuses, just trying to explain. What happened was my fault, and I’m sorry.”

There are few sarcastic comebacks for a sincere apology. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Because you were smart. You stopped struggling, stopped acting like prey. It gave me a chance to remember who I am.” He pauses, waiting for my reply, which doesn’t come. “I promise I’ll never bite you again unless you ask me to.”

“Why should I believe you? How do I know you won’t go all
grrr
again and rip out my throat?”

“You don’t know that, and you’d be stupid to trust me now. I’ll earn that trust, if you give me a chance.”

I scoff. “You just told me you almost killed me. Now you want to, what—date me? I don’t even want to be alone with you.”

He looks around. “There’s no one else here.”

“We’re on a well-lit street corner in the middle of Sherwood. You can’t bite me in public, or even semipub-lic. If I scream, you’re discovered—and all your friends, too.” I jab the air with an imaginary stake.

“Thanks for the image.” He stands and stretches. I can almost hear his muscles singing with new strength. “Let me walk you home.”

“It’s not that far.”

“It is when the streets are full of monsters.”

“David said you six were the only vampires in Sherwood.” I get to my feet and stride down the sidewalk toward my apartment.

He catches up to me. “We are, but there are those from out of town who like to keep an eye on us. They think we interact with daytimers too much as it is.”

“Daytimers. Sunnysides. What do you call us behind our backs?”

“Dinner.”

This shuts me up until we reach my door.

I pull out my keys. “Well, thanks for defending my fluids, if not my innocence.”

“You called me human.”

“What?”

“You said if I worked for Skywave I’d be a human jukebox.”

“Oh. Sorry. I guess
human
is an insult for your kind.”

“Not to me.” He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket—the list of stations. “I’ll do what you and David asked, listen to Skywave’s garbage. But you have to do something for me.”

I step back. “Will it require medical intervention?”

“Listen to my show tonight.”

“You want me to wake up at three a.m.?”

“Five forty-five. Just for the last few minutes.”

I flutter my hand against my heart in exaggerated coyness. “Why, Mister McAllister, are you going to dedicate a song to me?”

“That would be unprofessional.” He takes a step toward me. “Just know that the last song I play every night will be for you.”

He takes my hand and draws it to his lips, closing his eyes as he kisses the gap between the first knuckles of my middle and ring fingers. Something wakes and squirms inside me.

He lowers my hand but doesn’t let go. The barest tug moves me closer. My chin tilts up, and the kiss is sweet, promising rather than insisting. His mouth tastes like mint, with a faint coppery undertone.

The kiss ends when it should. We say nothing more, and I enter my home and go to bed, alone.

I’m awake long before 5:45. In fact, I’m awake at 3 a.m., listening to Shane’s
Whatever
radio show. To my surprise, it’s not just grunge—though that’s heavily represented—but includes samples of cerebral indie/college rock, buoyant pop-punk, and even a little alt-country. The common denominator seems to be an almost pretentious lack of pretension.

When Shane speaks, I close my eyes and imagine him lying here behind me, murmuring softly. Not words of dark seduction, just whatever’s on his mind, some fascinating fact about Nick Drake or the Hammond B3. His breath moves my hair, tickling my earlobe, but I don’t brush my hand between us because it’s tucked inside his. Our entwined arms lie on top of the covers.

I open my eyes. Yecch, boyfriend thoughts, the kind I haven’t had since I was a teenager. It’s one thing to imagine Shane naked and slathered in olive oil, but another animal entirely to picture us cuddling.

I roll over and tell the ceiling, “He’s not human.” The ceiling stares back, dingy and unresponsive.

5:54 a.m. arrives. I expect him to finish the show with a tune lambasting modern bourgeois society, with a particular dig at the commercialism I so ruthlessly represent.

“Time for me to crawl back in my hole,” he says, “so I’ll leave you with one last song to start your day—or end it, as the case may be. A lot of people don’t know that Otis Redding wrote this. The Dead covered it, but this is the best-known version, and, I think, the most kick-ass. Good morning, and good night.”

After a brief drum intro, a bass guitar joins a piano in a ballsy, bluesey series of notes.

I laugh and pull the pillow over my head, wondering whether The Black Crowes’ “Hard to Handle” is meant to describe me or Shane.

Probably both, which could be the most fun of all.

June 7

We embark on our mission to rock the world. I write press releases, contract a new Web-site designer, and order WVMP merchandise. Franklin divides our duties into sales (him) and marketing/promotions (me). I’m thrilled; marketing puts me at arm’s length from my targets and feels less like a con job than sales. Besides, Mr. Hyde is the master in that department.

The sutures in my thigh itch like crazy, requiring several trips to the bathroom to indulge in unrepentant scratching.

June 12

David takes out my stitches and buys me more bagels.

June 13

I fire our Web-site designer.

June 14

I create fliers and hire a new Web designer, one who doesn’t think spinning logos and cheesy Flash animations are still cutting edge. If I hadn’t met the first one during the daytime, I would swear she was a vampire.

June 15

Friday night I wander into the lounge, where I find Shane, Regina, Spencer, and Noah playing poker. I gesture to the empty chair, currently occupied by Shane’s feet. “Mind if I join you?”

They all gape at me, even Shane. Regina turns to him, on her left. “Did you invite her?”

He smiles and pushes the chair out with his heels. “I am now.”

“I hardly ever play,” I say as I sit. “You’ll have to remind me how.”

Their laughter has the force of an air horn.

Regina tosses down her cards. “Why don’t we just write you a check and get it over with?”

I wave off her concern. “Not all con artists are good poker players. Don’t believe everything you see in
The Sting.
”

They all look at Spencer. His shadowed gaze pierces me, but not long enough. He nods. “I don’t see any harm in letting the little girl play. Everyone knows ladies are bad at poker.”

“Sod right off,” Regina says.

“Not you.” Noah kisses the air in her direction. “Jah have mercy on the man who dare to call you a ‘lady.’”

Spencer’s knuckles rap the table. “Back to the game, boys and girls.”

They finish the hand, and I pretend not to watch their patterns.

Regina gathers up the cards to deal. She eyes me as she shuffles. “Which games do you know?”

I tick them off on my fingers. “Draw, stud, hold ‘em— but I’m a little foggy on the rules, so I might need help.” I toss this last word to Spencer.

She taps the deck against her chin. “Okay, seven-card stud, follow the queen, low Chicago matches the pot.”

Everyone groans. I play dumb. “What’s that mean?”

“It means we’re not playing,” Spencer says. “Regina, you know the rules. No wild cards, no random factors, none of that garbage. Don’t turn it into a game of luck.” He shifts in his chair. “I don’t trust luck.”

“Luck is our only chance against her.” She jerks her chin in my direction. Receiving no sympathy, she sighs and deals the cards. “Fine. Seven-card stud. Period.”

Faking cluelessness is easy; faking a clueless person faking a clue requires more finesse. The key is to ask dumb questions that aren’t too dumb, and knit one’s brows at the appropriate times.

I bet aggressively at the beginning of the first hand, but fold before it’s time to show my cards. This bizarre behavior puzzles the guys, but Regina just scoffs.

“Nice attempt at incompetence, but you don’t fool me.” She lights a long brown cigarette and pulls a French inhale as she examines me. “What’s your middle name?”

“Marjorie. Why?”

“Marjorie?” She snorts. “And you think
we’re
in the wrong decade?”

“It’s my mom’s name. I like it.”

Her eyes shift to a distant focus for several moments. “Hmm. You’re a one.”

“A what?”

“In numerology. And your soul urge number is five. Figures.” She shakes her head at Shane. “Don’t bother trying to tie this one down.”

He ignores her and starts to deal. We play the next few hands in silence, and I fold early in each. I sense their frustration as they learn nothing about my style.

Finally I get a decent hand—a low straight—and decide to overplay it. On the next betting round, I raise by three dollars.

Everyone folds. I pout. “Doesn’t anybody want to see my cards?”

“Sure, honey,” Spencer says, “let’s have a look.”

I display the straight on the table like a kindergartner with her first finger painting.

“I folded a flush,” Noah says. “The way you bet, I thought you had a full boat.”

“But a straight beats a flush,” I tell him.

“No, it doesn’t,” Regina says, then catches herself. “Come on, you knew that.”

“It’s statistically harder to get a straight than a flush.”

“That’s backward,” she says. “In seven-card stud the odds of getting a flush are one-in-thirty-three versus one-in-twenty-two for a straight.”

Shane pushes the chips in my direction. “You know, it does seem like it ought to be the other way around.”

She turns on him. “You’re already whipped, and you haven’t even fucked her yet.”

Spencer clears his throat. “Ciara, would you like me to make you a list of the hand rankings?”

One down, three to go. “Would you?” I ask sweetly. “And I could use a drink, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ll get it,” Shane says.

“Of course you will.” Regina sends him a glare, which he ignores.

The two nice vampires depart, leaving me with Regina and Noah, who look at me like I’m made of garlic. Trying to forget what Shane told me about their killer instincts, I turn to Noah. “David tells me you’re from Kingston. What’s that like?”

He folds his arms across his chest, resting his thumbs on his biceps. “We don’t care you’re a con artist.” His dialect turns the I into an EE so it comes out “artiste.”

“Actually, we kind of like it,” Regina adds. “But don’t ever think of turning your talents on us.”

“I’ve given all that up.” I hold up my left hand to swear.

“Why?” asks Noah.

“Yeah, you said you were raised to cheat.” Regina leans forward. “Are you from a family of cons?”

“Sort of.” I run my fingernail over the table’s rubber edge. “I’d rather just forget about them.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice? Pretend our folks never existed, that we all create ourselves just the way we want to be.” She tugs on a strand of black hair that dips over her forehead. “Sometimes I think rebellion gives them more power than they deserve.”

“You should not deny them,” Noah says to me. “When you deny your roots, you deny your soul. For example.” He gestures to himself with a shrug. “I was Rasta in my life. Becoming a vampire did not change that.”

“I thought Rastafarians weren’t supposed to eat meat. Wouldn’t blood be not, uh, kosher?”

“‘
Ital
’ is the word. You are right, but God want me to be a vampire, so I must drink blood.”

“But he won’t drink blood bank leftovers,” Regina says, “because it’s processed.”

Noah nods once. “I do my best. It’s all He require of us.”

“Why do you think God wants you to be a vampire?” I ask him.

“Because it’s what I am. It’s how I bring light into the world. How I fight Babylon.”

Contemplating his circular logic, I glance at Regina, who regards Noah with a warmth and admiration I’ve never seen her give Shane.

I remember that “Babylon” is the Rasta word for the oppressive economic and political system. “Skywave is part of Babylon,” I tell him.

“I know this. Why do you think I help you beat them?”

“Because it’s fun.”

His chuckle is melodic. “That, too.”