Wicked Game (41 page)

Jeremy crosses his arms and examines me, in a skeptical pose right out of
All the President’s Men.
“So what gave you the idea to start this vampire DJ gimmick?”

“It’s not a gimmick. They’re really vampires.” I offer an ironic smile. “They’re each stuck in the time they were ‘turned,’ which is why they dress and talk like the people back in the day.” I point to the stage, where a tall man with slicked-back auburn hair surveys his poodle-skirted, pony-tailed groupies through a pair of dark sunglasses. “Spencer, for instance, became a vampire in Memphis in the late fifties. He was around when Sun Records discovered Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, all those guys.” He sends the girls a smile of false bashfulness as he arranges his stack of 45s. “Spencer was right there at the birth of rock ‘n’ roll. You could even say he was one of its midwives.”

Jeremy looks at me like I’ve just recited my grocery list. He hasn’t written any of this down. “My research says you came up with this Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll thing in a desperate effort to boost ratings.”

“It was either that or get bought out by Skywave.” I still have corporate-takeover nightmares, where my fanged friends are forced to spin Top Forty hits until they
stake themselves in despair. “Something wrong with trying to survive?”

“No, it’s genius.” He checks out the Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll banner. “But how long can it last?”

“Well—” I scratch my nose to cover my wince. Despite our rabid fan base, ratings since the summer have tanked. The public at large is beginning to yawn and look for the Next Big Thing.

It doesn’t help that the DJs don’t look or act like stereotypical vampires. They wear blue jeans instead of capes. They’d rather guzzle beer, bourbon, and tequila than sip red wine. They don’t brood, except about having to record promos for car dealerships and power vacs. They never attend the opera.

As much as the vampires enjoy their adoring audiences, they want to keep their real nature secret, to avoid the inevitable mass freakout and subsequent stake-fest. Survival is paramount, and without WVMP, our vampires would lose their sun-shielding home under the station. Not to mention their whole reason for “living.”

The music.

“It can last forever,” I tell Jeremy. “Rock ‘n’ roll will never die. Just like vampires.”

A muscle near his eye twitches—the classic journalist
spare-me-the-spin
facial tic.

Lori arrives with our drinks. “Sorry, no absinthe. Hope beer’s okay.”

“Whatever.” Jeremy accepts his drink and hands her two dollars. “Keep the change.”

Ignoring his refusal of my generosity, I raise my new glass of ginger ale. “To the music.”

He clinks and sips, then nearly spits the experimental dark microbrew back into the glass. There’s a reason they sell it for a buck.

He wipes the foam from his mouth with a bar napkin. “I noticed that after the last ratings report you cut your advertising rates by ten percent. Sounds like you’re having trouble holding the public’s attention and it’s hurting your bottom line.”

“Every business has its ups and downs.”

“But commercial radio is hopeless. How can you compete with downloads and satellite stations?” He raises his eyebrows. “What’s next, werewolves?”

I ignore the jest. “We’ll compete the same way radio stations always have—by providing a unique experience and quality entertainment.”

Jeremy doesn’t record those weasel words. I scan the bar, hoping to see David, our general manager, or another DJ—anyone who can impress this guy.

The front door opens, and in walks my savior.

“Come on.” I beckon Jeremy to follow me. “Meet our star.”

The reporter looks past me, and his jaw drops, transforming his face from cyni-cool to little-kid glee. “Yeah yeah. That’d be great.”

Pushing through the crowd, I glance back to see Jeremy close behind, frantically flipping the pages of a small notebook.

By the time I get to the door, Shane is surrounded by a gaggle of college girls. Towering over them at six-foot-five, he greets them with an easy grin, but when his gaze rises to meet mine, his pale blue eyes light up with such force, the groupies’ smiles turn to scowls.

The women look over their shoulders at me. One is dressed as Courtney Love in a white baby doll dress, black combat boots, and smeared mascara—presumably to appeal to grunge-boy Shane. As I pass through the gauntlet, she gives me and my costume a glare that could melt Teflon.

I take Shane’s hand, then pull him close to speak in his ear. “This guy’s from
Rolling Stone
.̵

“You’re kidding.”

“I’ve never lied to you.” He’s the only one I can say that about. I turn to introduce the reporter. “Jeremy Glaser—”

“Shane McAllister,” Jeremy says, then reaches forward and pumps Shane’s hand hard enough to hurt a mere human. “I love your show. I listened to it back when I went to Sherwood College, in your pre-vampire days.”

“Wow. I mean, thanks. I mean, good to meet you.”

“Would you consider an interview?”

“Seriously?” Shane smoothes the front of his flannel shirt.

“He’ll meet you over there in a sec.” I look at Jeremy and point to the place where we were just talking. He salutes with his little notebook and hurries to the back of the bar.

Shane squeezes my elbow. “You look cute tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Always.” He succeeds in sneaking a kiss. “So what should I tell this guy?”

“He says his angle is the struggle of independent radio, so give him your authenticity spiel and how radio should be all about the music.” I hook my pinky into the belt loop of his faded ripped jeans. “You know, the stuff I find so adorable.”

“Adorably naive, right. What about the undead issue? The standard ‘pretend to be a human pretending to be a vampire’ routine?”

“Yes, with lots of wink-winks. Your usual ironic self.”

He nods, then hands me his backpack of CDs before heading off to join Jeremy.

Bill Riley’s “Flying Saucers Rock ‘n’ Roll” fades out,
and Spencer’s honey-smooth drawl comes out of the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we got two hours left ‘til Halloween. Time for me to say good night, but I’m gonna turn it over to my great friend, ‘Mississippi’ Monroe Jefferson.” The crowd whistles and hollers, especially the older members. Spencer continues, “He’ll play you some blues that I guarantee’ll send a shiver down your spine.”

He steps aside and adjusts the microphone down to the level of Monroe, who has appeared in the chair behind him, like in a magic trick. Another cheer. The stage light makes Monroe’s suit glow white, setting off his smooth ebony skin and the lustrous scarlet of his acoustic guitar.

Monroe lets loose with a weepingly beautiful version of Robert Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues.” I smile at the choice; the story of his turning is well known by his fans. Like several legendary musicians of his place and time, Monroe supposedly went to the crossroads at midnight, to trade his soul to the Devil for the ability to master the blues. A vampire was waiting for him, and the rest is history.

The blues always makes me want to drink, so I head to the bar and signal to Stuart, the owner of the Smoking Pig, who is making a valiant attempt to look like Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran.

He slides a bottle of my favorite beer across the bar. “How’s it going with the reporter?”

“Journalists are a lot harder to impress than the general public.” I watch him light a cigarette. “Any luck on that smoking ban waiver?”

Stuart shakes his head in disgust. “I sent the state a photo of the sign hanging over our front door. I said, ‘If
you look closely, you’ll notice that under the words ‘The Smoking Pig’ is an illustration of a pig with a cigarette. They didn’t care.” He takes a hostile puff. “Fascists.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Set up an outdoor lounge with space heaters. It’ll cost a fortune.”

“Hey, Ciara,” comes a voice at my elbow. Lori sidles close and adjusts the poof of my ponytail. “I remember that guy Jeremy from my History of the Middle East class senior year. Smart, but kinda intense. He said he hoped the Iraq war lasted long enough for him to be an embedded reporter.”

“A thrill-seeker, huh?” I watch him in the corner speaking with Shane, scribbling madly in his notebook. Shane maintains a casual posture against the wall, but his supernatural stillness creates a magnetic field that seems to have snagged the journalist. “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?” she asks me just as Monroe finishes his song to a rush of applause. “Don’t you want the publicity?”

“I want fawning puff pieces about how cool it is to be a vampire. I don’t want someone to find out the truth.”

Lori hurries off to pick up an order as Monroe begins another song. I watch his fingers glide over the strings like a water bug skimming a pond. He makes it look so easy. Shane tried to teach me guitar last month—I stopped after two days and ten blisters.

A familiar arm slides over my shoulders. I lean into Shane and crane my neck to look behind him. “Where’s the reporter?”

“Interviewing Spencer.” He hesitates. “I think he wants to be bitten.”

“Lori said he was weird. Are you sure?”

Shane nods. “A vampire can smell an eager donor a mile away.”

“Do I need to forbid you to bite a reporter?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not that dumb. Anyway, I don’t think he thinks I’m really a vampire.”

“Because that’s insane.”

“I think he thinks I’m a wannabe.”

Ah yes. In the “real” vampire subculture, some humans believe they need to drink blood to thrive, and there are people lined up to oblige them. Lacking fangs, they use razors or needles to bleed their “donors.”

Some of those donors find their way to a
real-real
vampire, and if they can be trusted to hide the truth, the two form a symbiotic relationship. The donors exchange blood for money or sex or—most commonly—the masochistic thrill of serving a creature that could rip off their heads.

Not for me. The sensation of being stabbed with a pair of ice picks does nothing for my self-esteem or libido.

At a minute to midnight, my boy takes over the stage from Monroe, who tips his hat to the worshipping crowd on his way out. No one dares to follow. Like Spencer and the other older vampires, Monroe’s charisma holds an edge of menace that sane people wisely avoid. It’s why we ask them to wear sunglasses in public whenever possible.

Shane, on the other hand, exudes humanity, giving his admirers a friendly wave as he moves to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time is twelve a.m. It is now. Officially. Halloween.”

He hits a switch and a low, hypnotic bass emanates from the speaker—the opening moments of Concrete Blonde’s “Bloodletting.” The patrons writhe and vamp, reveling in the dark magic his music weaves.

Someone calls my name. I turn to see Lori leaning out of the kitchen, holding onto the edge of the swinging door.

“What’s up?” I ask as I follow her into the kitchen.

She takes me behind the salad prep area, where an old boom box sits on a shelf. She turns up the volume. Above the clatter of pans and the sizzle of grease, I hear an angry male voice.

“—not participate in the unfruitful deeds of darkness, but instead even expose them, as Paul told the Ephesians.” He lets that sink in. “Don’t let the secular media and your children’s public school teachers convince you that Halloween is harmless fun. Your
tolerance
is their greatest weapon in this culture war. Fact: Halloween is a pagan holiday that glorifies darkness and evil and everything God wants us to fight.”

I glance past her at the chef/dishwasher, who’s searing a pair of burgers on the grill, then at the ceramic white statue of the Virgin Mary above the prep table. “When did Jorge get born again?”

Lori shakes her head. “It’s supposed to be WVMP.”

“No, it’s just mistuned.” I twist the grease-encrusted knob, searching for the station. “The antenna probably got knocked.”

“I already tried that. I was here when it happened, just now.” She points to the wall clock, which reads a minute after midnight. “Regina was giving her usual creepy intro, then suddenly it was this guy.”

I tweak the dial again and again, but there’s no Regina, no Bauhaus, no Sex Pistols. Just a whole lotta Jesus goin’ on.

“I better get David.”

The kitchen door sweeps inward, banging into the stainless steel dishwasher. My boss stalks toward us, dressed as Bruce Springsteen circa
Born in the U.S.A.,
cell phone at his ear. As David passes me, I hear a woman’s screech from the earpiece.

“I’ll call you back.” He shuts the phone as he stomps up to the radio, the bandana around his ripped blue jeans flapping with each step.

“She’s not on,” I tell him. “It’s some guy nutting off about Satan.”

David adjusts the knob up and down, only to get another dose of Ranty Man.

He curses under his breath. “Regina said she’s flooded with calls.”

“It happened exactly at midnight,” Lori offers.

“Strange.” David stares at the boom box. “It’s like another station was just created on the same frequency.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” I ask him.

“Extremely.” He rubs the dark, uneven stubble on his chin, a look he’s been working on for a week (and, if I may say, has been worth the wait). “If it’s a pirate operation, the FCC could slap them with a fine and confiscate their equipment, maybe even throw them in jail.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s report them.”

He gives me a patronizing glare, like I’ve suggested we call up Santa Claus. “Ciara, the FCC doesn’t exactly have a twenty-four-hour emergency number. We’ll have to file a report during business hours.”

“What if it’s not pirates?” I gesture to the radio. “It sounds too high-quality to be coming out of someone’s basement. What if it’s another real station?” My mind sounds the
cha-ching!
of a cash register. “Can we sue them?”

David turns away, dark brows furrowed. “If it’s a real station,” he murmurs, “I might be able to find out—” He looks at Lori. “Can I use your boss’s computer?”

She points to the back of the kitchen. “There’s Stuart’s office. Sorry about the mess.”