Bring On the Night (42 page)

Three weeks ago, my skin and hair were full of warmth and imperfections. My fiancé Shane said I was like “walking sunshine.” Now my highlights are ice blond and my face, a flawless porcelain. Even the blue in my eyes is purer, sharper.

All of which is great in theory—far be it for me to bitch about the increase in gorgeosity. Problem is, I chose this golden-yellow maid-of-honor gown back when I was a “summer.” Back when I was human.

I tug the dress’s back zipper up as far as I can reach, then leave the mansion’s powder room to enter the parlor.

Lori is sitting at the vanity, a light blue smock over her ivory wedding gown. She’s too busy examining her mascara in the magnifying mirror to look up when I enter. But Regina and Maggie check me out from the upholstered sofa.

“How do I look?” I ask them. “Be honest.”

“Um.” Maggie brushes an auburn curl off her forehead.
“Well… I love what you did with your hair.”

“You look dead.” Regina flips her silver lighter between the long crimson nails that match her bridesmaid dress. “And not in a good way.”

I turn my back. “Shut up and zip me.”

After she lifts the zipper and fastens the hook, Regina’s fingertips drift across my bare shoulders. “You’re cold,” she whispers. “Time for a snack.”

“I don’t want to have to brush my teeth again.”

“You’d rather get the munchies in the middle of the wedding?”

“You guys don’t have to whisper,” Maggie says. “I know the score.” She raises fingers to her lips to form fangs.

“My mom could come in.” Lori’s words are slurred by her application of lipstick. “Ciara, go drink. And you look fine.”

I blow her an air kiss, which she catches with a flash of French manicure, and pick up my small thermos cooler from behind the ottoman. Lori told her family that I’m a new diabetic who needs frequent snacks to maintain my blood sugar level. Which is true, substituting the word “vampire” for “diabetic” and subtracting the word “sugar.”

In the bathroom, I face away from the gilded mirror as I slurp a quick meal, then clean the blood off my teeth for what feels like the fortieth time tonight. The brush doesn’t snag on my incisors—a sign that the fangs are behaving themselves.

Unless I’m starving, I only go into
grrr
mode around people who have been or would like to be bitten. Which is roughly two percent of the population, but some days feels like a hundred and two percent of my acquaintances—including my best friend Lori and my runner-up best friend (and boss) David, who are getting married in twenty minutes.

A shrill female voice comes from the parlor, hurting my ears even through the powder room door. I reenter the room,
though I’d rather escape.

Mrs. Koski is seated at the coffee table, where the contents of Lori’s bridal bag are arrayed in neat lines. As she inserts each item back into her daughter’s ivory lace purse, she makes a check on a list. Regina stands alone at the stone fireplace, watching in silence.

I join her and whisper, “Didn’t she already do that?”

“Twice. But Maggie interrupted her, so she had to start over. After she made the girl cry. Lori took Maggie to help her put on her veil.”

“I was supposed to do the veil. I’m the worst maid of honor ever.”

“All set!” Mrs. Koski snaps shut the purse. Her smile fades when she sees me. “Oh dear. That’s not your best color, is it?”

“Not anymore,” I say through gritted teeth.

“But Lori chose the style and let you girls pick your own colors. That way everyone’s complexion would be flattered.” She rises on her six-inch heels, her silver sheath making her look like an aging ice queen from a Euro-pop video. “You could’ve worn Tina’s blue dress.”

A shiver jolts my body at the sound of that name. To cover my reaction, I rub the back of my neck, pretending it’s tickled by a stray hair or the clasp of my necklace.

“Tina’s a lot shorter than me.” Plus it would’ve been tacky to wear her dress after I’d murdered her father.

It was self-defense,
I remind myself. Besides, Tina Petrea illegally raised the zombie who spread the disease that took my life. Even if her detainment awaiting a Control tribunal—at which I testify next week—hadn’t conflicted with the wedding, her necromancy alone justified kicking her out of the bridal party. The wedding magazines probably all agree on that.

I edge past Mrs. Koski toward the window, telling myself
that it’s her cloud of perfume closing up my throat and not the memory of Colonel Petrea’s eyes as his life leaked out, or the memory of sunken black pools, like twin tar pits, in a zombie kindergartner’s face.

With a groan of painted wood, the window slides upward at my touch. I rest my forehead against the cool pane of glass. Outside, rain rattles on the back porch’s corrugated roof, almost drowning out my mind’s replay of cracking bones, snapping tendons, and the slurp of steel through a child’s rotten flesh.

The soundtrack of my nightmares.

“Ciara.”

I turn to see Shane. He’s a long, tall drink of black—tuxedo, shirt,
and
tie—with his head brushing the frame of the parlor’s open double doors.

I thought he’d look awkward in formal wear, what with his terminal grunge-boy slouch and unkempt light brown hair half obscuring his pale blue, couldn’t-give-a-damn eyes. He hasn’t touched a comb since 1991.

But rather than taming him, the tux only accentuates his wildness.

“Wow,” Regina says to him. “Haven’t seen you in one of those since the night we met.”

Mrs. Koski makes a purring noise. “Dibs on first dance with the best man.” She sniffs at me. “After you, of course.”

He gives them a nod without taking his eyes off me. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” I strut to his side to show him just how fine. He doesn’t know about the nightmares. No one does. “Shouldn’t you be with the groom?”

“David wanted a minute alone.” He takes my hand and leads me into the hallway. “Besides, he’s worried about you, too.”

“Worried I’ll eat the guests. But I swear I just had a
snack.”

“I can tell.” He runs his hand up my arm. “You’re warm. Not to mention gorgeous.”

“This yellow dress doesn’t make me look washed out?”

He scrunches his brows. “What do you mean?”

For once, I’m glad he has the typical straight-male cluelessness about color.

Shane takes my hands and examines me at arm’s length. “If anything, you make the dress look washed out.”

For the millionth time, he has said exactly the right thing. “Ooh, tell me more.”

“If I were a poet, I would say you outshine the sun, moon, and stars put together.” He steps forward, pressing the length of his body against mine. “But I’m not a poet, so I’ll just say that no matter what you wear, I always picture you naked.”

“Pornographic poetry—my favorite kind.” I lift my chin for a kiss.

Shane stops right before our mouths touch. “We shouldn’t. I don’t want to lick off your lipstick.”

“Yes, you do.”

He tilts his head. “Yes, I do.”

He kisses me just as his cell phone vibrates through his jacket. To keep him from taking his hands off my body, I reach into his pocket and withdraw the electronic nuisance. Its caller ID screen shows a number I don’t recognize, along with the word “UNAVAILABLE.”

Shane takes the phone. “Probably a whacked-out listener. I need to change my cell number again.” He puts it to his ear. “Yeah.”

The string quartet in the foyer below ends their song. In the relative silence, my sensitive vampire ears catch the words from the phone speaker:

Code Black.

Shane’s face freezes. My heart stutters and stops.

“Jim, tell me you’re calling from a pay phone.”

I dig my nails into the molding on the wall behind me.

“Yeah, I know where that is,” Shane says. “Which room?… Okay, we’ll be there in fifteen, max.” He slaps his phone shut. “Code Black. Get your clothes and the other DJs and meet me in the parking lot.”

“Now? What about the wedding? The bridal party can’t just leave before the ceremony.”

He grips my shoulders and stares at me with haunted eyes. “You remember what a Code Black means, don’t you?”

I swallow past a rising clump of tears and whisper, “Yes.”

“Then you know every second counts.” He tucks away his phone. “I’ll tell David there’s…” He scans our surroundings, his gaze settling on the rain-splattered window at the end of the hall. “Flooding at the station. We have to save the equipment.”

“Not all of us. If you and I leave, he’ll know something horrible has happened.”

“He also knows not to ask questions.” Shane brushes a lock of hair from my cheek. “Sorry you have to go through this.”

“I’m one of you now.” My gut twists at the thought of what we’ll find when we join Jim. “For better or for worse.”

His eyes turn sad as he kisses my hand near the engagement ring. “Parking lot. Five minutes.” He runs down the winding staircase, taking the steps three at a time.

I hurry back into the parlor, where Regina is leaning out of the open window, sneaking a cigarette.

Mrs. Koski passes me on her way out. She gives one final shudder at my dress, then leaves without a word.

I rush up to Regina and whisper, “Code Black.”

She freezes mid-puff. “Jim again?”

“What do you mean, ‘again’?”

“So it is Jim.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Bloody hell.” Regina takes a final deep drag of her cigarette, as if storing up the nicotine. “How many?”

“Huh?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Do you know what a Code Black is?”

“Of course I do. But what do you mean, ‘How many?’ How many what?”

“Duh.” She tosses her cigarette out the window. It sizzles as it hits the falling rain. “Bodies.”