Biting Nixie (29 page)

“He's one of us. Hey.” Bo ticked up another finger. “That's who can take the VIP opening.”

My jaw hit the floor so hard it bounced and I bit my tongue. “Wait, wait! Steve and Stark are both vampires? Is
all
of Meiers Corners vampy?”

Elena laughed. “No, of course not. Only Steve and Thor in Bo's household, and Stark. And the occasional rogue passing through. Oh, and Drusilla.”

“Yeah, Dru.” Bo ticked up a fourth finger. “She can take the beer tent.”

That cut through the merry-go-round in my head. “No,” I said. “No way. Good idea—having guests for Thanksgiving. Bad idea—having Tom Turkey as a guest for Thanksgiving. Good idea—putting a vampire guard at the beer tent with a bunch of drunks. Bad idea—putting Double-D Drusilla in with a bunch of drunks.”

“I see your point,” Bo said. Elena slapped his arm. Bo gave her a quick kiss. “All right, Dru can do the cake contest. We'll have to bring people in to police the beer tent and bands. And to watch over the pedestrians.”

“Not people,” I said to no one in particular. “Vampires.”

“I'll call down to Iowa,” Julian said. “The Ancient One should be able to loan us a few trained helpers.”

Bo shook his head. “That's the other thing I came up for. He's already sending us half a dozen. They'll arrive at sunset. That's the other piece of news.

“There's going to be a hit on the Blood Center this weekend.”

 

 

 

“This is suicide,” I said, watching Julian. “That's a high-tech piece of equipment. Much more powerful than you're used to. You'll never learn to use it in time.”

“Don't worry so much,” he replied. “It's no more complicated than Elena's SMAW. It'll just take some adjustment.”

“It's not a damned bicycle, Emerson. And you hold it this way!”

I grabbed the borrowed Gibson (a Les Paul Classic) from between his folded legs and thrust it at his chest. “Sideways! Not up and down. Oh, it's hopeless.”

“I was just recalling the finger positions.” Julian put the guitar back between his legs like some punk cello, and touched his fingertips to the wire strings. “There's more tension in the strings than I remember.”

“You don't do finger
positions
. You do chords.” I twisted his hand on the fingerboard, bent his second and third fingers down. “That's E minor.” It was the easiest chord I could think of.

“I know that, Nixie. I played gamba, remember? Tuned a step lower, but the fingerings are the same.”

“Oh, don't get so superior on me! That's like saying you can drive a car because in the eighteen hundreds you knew how to saddle a horse!”

“It's not that different—”

“It is too!” I paced the small bedroom where we were practicing. “We are so screwed.”

“Have you ever saddled a horse?”

“No, but—”

“Then don't jump to conclusions.” Still with the guitar between his knees, Julian strummed a quick Em-G-D-Bm progression.

“Fine. So you know some basics. But as lead guitar you can't just do chords. You have to do riffs and melody and—”

“No problem. I also played a bit of psaltery.” Julian laid the guitar across his lap and plucked “Greensleeves”—melody and harmony and a rather impressive interlude.

“Okay, maybe it's not hopeless,” I said, wavering. “Do you know anything post-Renaissance?”

“A little.” He turned the guitar flat to his abdomen and picked in quick sequence a Bach theme, a Mozart motif, a Tchaikovsky melody, and something that sounded remarkably like Stravinsky's
Firebird
. My jaw dropped. In thirty seconds he'd done a four-century hit parade, then to now.

“Showoff. Okay, you're good. But can you hardcore?”

He pointed to the CD player. “You were going to play me an example.”

Guns and Polkas
had made a couple CDs by now. I started with the one where Durango had been drunk.

“Seems a little sloppy.” Julian frowned as he fingered along with the recording.

“Uh, yeah.” Julian had a good ear, too, if he could tell that. “Let me play you another.” I put on the CD where Durango had actually practiced. Julian's fingers flew over the fingerboard, not making a sound, but it looked like he knew what he was doing.

After the track ended, Julian nodded. “I've got it. Play the next one.”

“Don't you want to hear it again? Or try it with the amp…?”

“It's two o'clock, Nixie. I have a half-hour's worth of music to learn and we still have to build me a costume. That's not including the time you'll need to get ready. And both of us have to make sure our people are in place at the festival venues.”

“Uh, yeah.” No rehearsal, and a single run-through of the tunes. I could only hope Julian Emerson was half as good as he thought he was.

As he fingered along, Julian said casually, “So are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you've been so irritable?”

“I'm not irritable.” I might have snapped it.

“No, of course not. Or even a little blue.” Julian fingered a complicated set of chords that had taken Durango two months to learn.

He was so dangerously perceptive. Even when I wasn't thinking about my life ending Monday, he got it. He saw it. I crossed my arms over my chest, an ineffective shield for my far-too-visible emotions. “I'm
not
irritable. Or sad. Just…harassed. Because of the festival.”

“It was worse when I came back from Boston.”

“Yeah, well, you try going two whole days without sex. See how irritable you get.”

“I did. And I was. But not like you.” He flew a solo across the fretboard.

“The festival—”

“—isn't the reason. Or not the main reason. I know you by now, Nixie.” He stopped playing and hit me with his most penetrating stare. “What's wrong, sweetheart? Maybe I can help.”

Fuck. I caved. “It's…the insurance. I need it, because of the Lestats. But the only way to pay for it was to…I have to…Julian, I'm selling myself!”

Years of Vice-principal Schleck hadn't done it. Seeing blood hadn't done it. Hordes of revenant monsters hadn't even done it. But this did.

I threw myself into Julian's arms and started bawling.

He patted my back and made soothing noises. The Les Paul lay between us, strings cutting into my breasts. I didn't care. The pain seemed right, somehow. Clean.

As I wound down, Julian offered me a box of tissues. I pulled one and sopped tears. “It's just that…I'll be like everyone else now. Nine-to-five Jane Doe.”

“A martyr to pantyhose and heels.” Julian smiled and wiped under my nose.

“And I'm not even doing it so I can buy a new guitar or something cool. I'm doing it because of the festival. Because I'm
responsible
. Following the Rules. Damn it, Julian. I'm becoming my mother!”

“Nixie. What would happen if I played viola da gamba with Guns and Polkas
instead of this guitar?”

It took me a second to switch topics. “Julian, you can't! It would sound…weird. Like music frosted with Muzak.”

“And if I played guitar, but tuned a quarter tone sharp?”

“
What
? What kind of musician are you? Do you scrape your nails down a chalkboard and call it music?”

“So are you saying that in music, you follow the rules?”

My lips kept flapping but no sound came out. I think because my face had hit the floor. “Well…I guess I do.” Me. Free Nixie. I followed rules. “But not always!” I grabbed onto the thought like a lifesaver. “I also improvise.”

“You improvise solos.” Julian started fingering along with the CD again. “But if everyone improvised at the same time, what would happen?”

“It would be disaster…” I frowned. “That wasn't a change of topics, was it.”

“No.” Julian smiled. “Freedom in music is all about knowing
when
to be free. Follow the rules when playing together, and improvise the solos. Life can be the same way.”

“It can?”

“Do you remember me telling you I had an epiphany at your parents' home?”

“Yeah. I looked it up on dictionary.com. Epiphany. Means a flash of insight.”

“Well, my flash of insight had to do with the time I fell in with William the Bloody and his out-of-control crowd. When I burned down a building in the name of artistic
freedom
.”

“Sure. Guilt made you the tight-assed guy you are today.” I dropped a look at his ass, grade super-tight, and licked my chops.

Julian grinned, then sobered. “I thought
freedom
was the problem. But I was wrong. The problem was being creative at the wrong time.”

I started to get it. “Like driving on the freeway. It'd be hell if everyone decided for themselves which way to go.”

“Exactly. As long as I'm careful and controlled in public, what's to stop me from being a little creative in private?”

Thinking of just how creative Julian got in private, I shivered. “So how does this all apply to me?”

“One thought springs to mind.”

I tried to see what he meant. Failed utterly. “Um…make that thought pole-vault?”

He laughed. “The same thing applies to you, but in reverse. You need coverage for liability and damages. That's following the rules. But how you get the coverage can be creative.”

I sucked in a breath as it clicked. “Like having Woofers 'R Us insure their own equipment?”

“Yes. And Nieman's Bar has insurance. Probably all the commercial venues do.”

“And the city will cover things that happen on the street and sidewalk. But…what about the beer tent?”

“Are the exhibitors paying an entrance fee?”

“Yes, but I can't ask for more at this late date.”

“No, but the spaces they rent can be considered their storefront. And thereby under
their
insurance.”

“And the general area?”

“Buy an umbrella liability policy. At one-tenth the space that's only $2,000.”

“Two thousand through CIC Mutual. It's even less if I go with one of the other companies. CIC was fifty percent off because of the employee discount—what?”

Julian's eyes had flashed instantly to red and his strumming had changed to picking. Claw picking. “CIC? You were going to work for CIC?”

“Well, only because of the employee deal. Why?”

“CIC Mutual. One of the Coterie Insurance Companies.”

“Fuck.”

“I agree.”

I pulled out my cell phone. And before I even canceled the insurance policy, I called CIC to quit.

Chapter Twenty-three

I felt a hundred pounds lighter. In fact I was floating on air when we left the practice room to find Julian a costume.

We decided with the crunch factor to check Julian's clothes for something suitable. As we headed for the basement steps, Elena stopped me and gave me a flashlight.

I looked at her strangely. “Didn't you pay your electric bill either?”

“Not exactly.” She opened the door to the basement, and I traipsed down, Julian following.

At the bottom of the stairs I stopped. Looked around, bewildered. It was a basement, okay fine. But it was an
unfinished
basement. Laundry machines, some clothesline, and a few storage shelves. No bedrooms. Not even a spare cot. Nothing beyond the washers, dryers, boxes, and shelves.

Until Julian opened a door at the far side of the basement wall. Flicked on a light switch.

I joined him. “Whoa. Where'd that come from?” A hallway stretched beyond.

Beautiful hardwood floor. Long, plush runner, looked Oriental. Eight carved wood doors, four on each side. Oil paintings hung between the doors, not your starving-artist kind. Old-fashioned crystal wall sconces gave the hall an eighteenth-century glow. “Last door on the right.” Julian held out his hand, indicating I should go first.

I slid into the corridor. A smell tickled my memory, like fresh rain. It gave way to lemon polish and scented candle wax as I moved toward the far end.

Opening the last door on the right, I felt around for a light switch. Nothing. “Where's the light?”

Julian took my flashlight and flicked it on. “As I said, a little dark.” Handing the flashlight back, he made his way into the room. I followed more cautiously. As soon as I let go of the door, it slammed shut behind me.

I jumped. “
This
is where you're staying?” Just a little spooked, I shined the light into Julian's face. His eyes glowed red like an animal's at night. It was not reassuring.

He pulled me into his arms, gave me a quick hug. Fears receded. “Bachelor's quarters. Bo and Elena have lights. The bathroom is over there, if you need it.” He nudged the flashlight until it shone on a doorway to my left.

“You don't need light to see?” Even cats needed some light.

“No. We think our eyes generate their own light. Or maybe it's some kind of heat vision.”

“You mean you don't
know
?”

“We heal too fast to need doctors. And we stay clear of human medics. Our physiology isn't exactly normal.”

“I guess not, with your mouth leading to your blood system and all.”

“But we're here for a costume.” Julian left me and I heard the sound of drawers being pulled, punctuated by muttering. “I wasn't expecting this kind of performance.”

Slowly turning in place, I shined the flashlight over the room. Good-sized. He was right about that. The floor had thick carpeting over what felt like a plenum. More art hung on the walls…was that a Goya? Bookshelves were stocked full. An armoire and two chests of drawers for clothes.

And a huge four-poster bed. Ooh. That had possibilities.

“What about this?”

I twitched the flashlight from the bed to Julian holding a black V-neck sweater to his chest. “Cashmere?”