Suck It Up (21 page)

33

Going Up

The sun rose, illuminating the box-shaped production studio and an abandoned golf course stretching into the desert. An hour later, DeThanatos's order was tested.

A black limo arrived at the studio. As Morning and his entourage got out, Golpear fought off the urge to shish kebab and barbecue him on the spot. His restraint was aided by the dusting of white sugar on his shirt and lap from a breakfast of powdered donuts. His professional pride had suffered enough without his becoming known as the Powdered Sugar Slayer.

         

In the studio, the morning passed quickly with rehearsals, rewrites, camera walk-throughs, and finally a dozen attempts to shoot the ambitious spot Birnam and his creative team had conceived.

The final effect was going to be one continuous shot of Morning walking, climbing, running, and swinging up, down, around, and through a labyrinth of web pages on the IVLeague.us site, while he told the world about the International Vampire League. But the first step was to shoot Morning's part on what the production team called a green-screen set. The set resembled a giant, multilayered assemblage of playground equipment, painted in electric green, along with the floor and walls around it. This allowed them to shoot Morning's action against a green screen, which could then be dropped out, and replaced with the website he would seem to be traveling through.

To accomplish his part, Morning had the challenging task of hitting all his marks, saying all his lines at the right moment, and doing so in one continuous take. After lunch, and the twenty-third take, Birnam began to wonder if he had overestimated his protégé's acting ability. If he got his line right, he missed his mark, or when he swung on a rope, he sometimes missed the platform he was supposed to land on and disappeared behind it with a loud crash.

Morning was not only frustrated and embarrassed by his countless goofups, he felt weak and shaky. Since breakfast, he had downed three Blood Lites, but they'd done little to boost his flagging energy. He figured his body was still recovering from yesterday's two CDs and an outbreak of
maximus dentis eruptus.

By midafternoon, they still didn't have the shot. If anything, it was getting worse. “Back to number one,” the director ordered when Morning forgot his line after zipping down a slide.

Morning began climbing the long ladder to the top of the set. The tension in the studio was palpable. He wanted to nail the take more than anyone. This was his swan song, the last thing he had to do for Birnam, and for the cause. Then he would be free.

Birnam sat in a canvas chair under the towering camera crane that followed Morning during the shot. He watched his star climb with concern. He knew Morning's frustration and unhappiness stemmed from more than not getting the take, it was also part of the emotional escalation he had predicted. Birnam needed to keep that intensity focused on the positive. “Hey, Morning,” he called. “I've got a good feeling about this one.”

“You and nobody else,” Morning muttered as he reached the starting platform. Despite his exhaustion, he did what he did at the beginning of every take. He reached in his pocket and touched the cookie of bristlecone pine for luck. But so far, the good-luck charm had been a dud.

The camera crane extended toward him like a giant grasshopper leg.

The floor director counted down, “In three, two…”

Morning flashed a friendly smile. “You know me, Morning McCobb.” His mind went blank. The camera lens stared back at him, cold and gleaming. His vision blurred. The lens morphed into the eye of a great snake, hypnotizing him before it struck.

“Back to number one!” the director barked.

Morning snapped out of his hallucination. “I'm at number one!”

Birnam jumped in. “All right, everyone, let's take five.”

Morning winced at the throb of a growing headache and made his way down the ladder. He glared at the floor as he trudged past Birnam, Penny, and Portia.

“Where are you going?” Birnam asked.

“To my dressing room for a drink,” he said without stopping.

They anxiously watched him go.

“I'll go help him with his lines,” Portia offered.

“Is that a good idea?” Penny asked.

“If it'll help us get a good take,” Birnam said, “I'm all for it.”

Portia tried to reassure her mother. “Don't worry, Mom, I've seen his fangs, and—”

“You what?” Penny exclaimed.

Portia continued in blasé fashion. “Yeah, and he'd choke to death before he nailed someone with 'em. Right, Mr. Birnam?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, and shot Penny a charming smile. “We're lovers, not biters.” As Portia started after Morning, Birnam continued his assurances. “In fact, after Worldwide Out Day we're hoping to found a sports team called the Nurse Sharks. Nurse sharks are the only sharks that don't bite.” He knew he was overselling the point, but if Portia could help Morning out of his funk, it was worth the risk of Morning taking out his frustrations on her neck. Birnam had faith in his chosen one, faith in his cause, and he just needed one good take.

Portia headed to Morning's dressing room without her camera. Her new Handycam was already loaded with more than enough footage of the making of the spot. She had stopped shooting shortly after lunch, after Morning had snapped at her. She had approached him between takes and saw him pull something out of his pocket. She zoomed in and saw it was a piece of wood with a stubby blue cross on it. When she asked him about it, he jammed it in his pocket and snarled, “Don't ask.” That was when she realized her camera was only making things worse and put it away. After that, she had watched him struggle through take after take. Her heart was breaking for him, but there was nothing she could do to help. Until now.

She knocked on the dressing room door. No answer. She slowly opened it. Morning sat in a straight-backed chair against the wall. He was slumped over, staring at his tennis shoes. She had noticed how drained he'd looked in the last few takes. Now he looked even paler. “Are you all right?”

He shrugged. “Been better.”

“Can I come in?”

“Can't stop you.”

She swiveled the big makeup chair in front of the mirror so that it faced him, and slid into it.

Without looking up from his cloud of fatigue, he was struck by an odd sensation. He could smell her. Not the deodorant she was wearing or her flowery shampoo. He could smell her skin. It was earthy and pungent. Like the odor first raindrops kick out of the dust.

“I thought I might help you with your lines.”

His head snapped up. “I don't wanna run lines.” He took in her startled expression as her scent flared his nostrils. More than an odor, it felt like twin vines curling into his head. They reached up, grabbed his throbbing headache, and pulled down. The throb descended to the roof of his mouth; the ache shifted from pain to pleasure. He felt his teeth pulse against his upper lip. This time it wasn't all of them. There were only two.

Portia stared at his wild expression and his puffy lip. She wanted to run but invisible straps seemed to hold her down. Her legs felt like lead.

He stood, his lips still concealing his fangs. His jaw ached to spring open. All he had to do was leap across the space and plunge into her. He would feed. One pint, two pints, that was all he needed. Then he'd have the strength to go back, get the take, be done with Birnam, and be who he wanted to be.

He started toward her, but a movement startled him. His eyes darted toward it—his reflection in the big mirror. But it wasn't right. The lanky boy in the mirror was wrapped in a fireman's bunker coat covered in blood.

Morning sucked in a sharp breath and bit his lip. The taste of his own blood seared his mouth like hot metal. His eyes dropped to Portia's petrified face.

He bolted from the room.

Portia shuddered with the realization of what he was running from. It was the second time he had rescued her. The first time, he had protected her from others. This time, he had protected her from himself.

She leaped out of the chair and ran after him.

Unfortunately, his heroic act of resistance had unraveled Portia's guy credo:
Assume the worst.
And thrown her on the path of broken hearts:
Assume the best.

         

A banging door jerked Golpear awake. Turning toward the sound, he saw a skinny kid dash away from the building. The hit man shook off the cocoon of sleep and recognized the figure sprinting onto the overgrown golf course.

Golpear checked the horizon. The sun would set in an hour. He couldn't pass up the opportunity. He decided to leave a note for the friar. By the time he got it, Golpear would have Morning impaled, incinerated, and ready for step number three.

As he wrote the note, the exit door banged open again. He looked up. A tall girl with dark hair ran out of the building, stopped, and looked around. She seemed panicked.

Portia saw the truck across the street, and the man inside. She shouted, “Did you see someone run away from here?”

Golpear recognized her from the night before. She was the one who'd run onstage and spoiled his shot at the Dalmatian. She wasn't going to ruin his next one. “Yeah,” he yelled, and pointed in the wrong direction. “He ran that way and disappeared in the brush.” As she started down the road, his gold tooth flashed. “You're welcome.”

34

Chemical Change

Morning ran until the studio was a box on the horizon. His lungs burned in the dry air. He collapsed on a weather-beaten bench. Behind him, a tumbleweed hedge clung to a rail fence.

He buried his face in his hands. His heaving chest tightened toward a sob. Fighting it off, he snatched the small disc of wood from his pocket. He swiped at his eyes and stared at the Maltese cross with its four letters: FDNY. He suddenly hated the sight of it. Ever since the fireman had called him and kick-started that dream again, everything had gone crazy. His first kiss had turned into a disaster. He couldn't shoot a stupid commercial. And he'd almost parked his fangs in Portia's neck.

He flung the wooden charm in the sandy dirt.

A metallic clank sounded behind him. He jumped up, spinning toward it.

On the other side of the tumbleweed hedge, a grinning man with a gold tooth stared him down. He had some kind of tank on his back. He raised a crossbow. Morning saw the narrow stake loaded in the groove before it disappeared with a
pffft!

The stake bounced off Morning's chest and stuck in the tumbleweed like an oversized knitting needle.

Golpear blinked in disbelief.

Morning was equally stunned. Then he remembered the spider-silk vest he had put on that morning under his shirt.

Golpear tossed the crossbow away with a leer. “Very clever, stake-proof vest. But you don't look fireproof.” He lifted the fat muzzle of the flamethrower.

Terrified, Morning staggered backward.

The hit man pulled the trigger.
Whuummp!
Fire mushroomed from the weapon.

His target disappeared in a thrashing ball of flames.

         

After shouting Morning's name and finding no sign of him, Portia turned back to the studio. That was when she saw it. Over the old golf course black smoke billowed up. Orange tongues of fire snapped at the cloudless sky. She broke into a run.

By the time she got there, the fire had almost burned out. Tiny flames sputtered around the edges of a smoldering hole in a tumbleweed hedge. The blackened skeleton of a bench squatted nearby. Then she saw the smoking pile of ash in a circle of burnt ground. As she stepped toward it, something on the ground caught her eye. She picked it up. A small disc of wood. She turned it over and recognized the blue cross.

Her scream pierced the desert stillness. She fell to her knees next to the circle of burnt ground. A sob racked her body. He was gone. She collapsed to her shins and stretched her arms over the hot earth.
He was gone.
Her grief spilled into the blackened sand as she hugged the ground where he had last stood.

When she opened her eyes again, she caught a movement beyond her veil of tears. She pushed herself up, wiped her eyes.

Birnam stood over her.

Her dirt-streaked face tightened with rage. “It's your fault!”

Birnam cocked his head. “My fault?”

“If you hadn't made him do the commercial, we wouldn't be here! He wouldn't have run away.” She sobbed in a new spasm of anguish. “He wouldn't be—he wouldn't—”

“Be taking a powder?” Birnam offered.

Her fury propelled her to her feet. “It's not funny!”

“It's not over.”

She stopped, unsure of his meaning.

“To destroy a vampire, you've got to
scatter
the ashes.” He waved at the pile of ashes. “Morning's just a little dehydrated.”

She stared at him. “You mean you can revive him?”

“Reconstitute,” he corrected.

She looked at the ashes, trying to comprehend. “With water?”

“Thicker,” he hinted.

Her eyes expanded like gum bubbles. “Blood?”

He nodded.

“How much?”

“How much doesn't matter. What matters is from whom.”

She met his somber gaze. “What do you mean?”

“To bring a vampire back from the ash takes a rare and special kind of blood.”

“Do I have it?”

“I don't know. Are you a virgin who's lost her heart to love?”

A tremor rolled through her body. “We're about to find out.” She pushed the wooden FDNY charm into Birnam's hand. “Hold this.”

She snatched a stick of greasewood off the ground and broke it in half. It splintered into twin daggers. She tossed one aside and opened her hand. She couldn't believe what she was about to do. She blocked out the thought. She couldn't hesitate. She gripped the wooden dagger and stabbed hard. She yelped, clutching the stinging pain in her palm. When she opened her hand again, blood welled from the wound.

She shoved it under Birnam's nose. “Now what?”

He gazed at the blood in her palm, blooming like a liquid rose. Its heady bouquet of mushroom and rust invaded his nostrils. It carried him back to his long-forgotten nights as a Loner. Nothing compared to the taste of human blood—the ambrosia of mortal ambition.

Portia's voice pierced his reverie. “C'mon, Mr. Birnam. If Morning can resist, so can you.”

He shook off the ancient urge, and thanked her with a smile. “You're right. We all can.” He took her hand and closed it around the wound. “Now, let's see what you're made of.” He stretched her fist over the ash pile, and squeezed.

A trickle of blood rained down. It splattered in the ash, making a tiny crater.

He pulled her hand back.

They waited.

She took the wooden charm from him and held it in her good hand.

The first thing Portia noticed was a smell. But more than one. It rose from the ashes like a braid of scents. The dank bloom of a dirt floor—the sweet surprise of honey-suckle—the pungent sour of grapefruit.

She stared in awe as the ashes began to stir.

Birnam let out a relieved sigh, then turned to Portia. “With your blood in his veins, he will share your hopes, desires, and the beat of a heart surrendered to love.”

The ashes suddenly swirled up in a dust devil.

She shielded her eyes. When she lowered her hand, Morning stood before her, wearing his Epidex. She wanted to leap forward and hug him, but something stopped her. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, lifeless.

“One other thing,” Birnam said. “He won't remember this. Not for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“The memory of what happened to him out here will only come back to him as his DNA reasserts itself over your blood.”

“How long will that take?”

“A couple of days, maybe longer.”

“What about his ‘heart surrendered to love?'” she asked with a single-digit air-quote. “Will his DNA erase that too?”

Birnam gave her a crafty smile. “That's up to the two of you. Now, slap him.”

“Slap him?”

“Haven't you ever wanted to?”

Even though her insides thrummed with excitement, she eye-rolled
What a dumb question.
“Well, yeah. Of course.”

“Then do it.”

She gave Morning a stinging slap.

He came to with a start. Recognizing Portia, he broke into a jaunty grin. “Thanks, I needed that.” He eyed the smear of dirt and tears on her cheek. “Whoa, looks like someone tried to make a mud pie on your face.” Before she could respond, he saw the disc of wood in her hand. His face pinched with anger. “Where'd you get that?”

“I found it on—”

“It's mine.” He snatched it from her and turned to Birnam. “C'mon, we got a shot to get.” As he strutted off, he flipped the wooden charm in the air, caught it, and began running his lines with swaggering confidence. “You know me, Morning McCobb.”

Birnam emitted a satisfied chuckle as he turned to Portia. “You have strong and willful blood.”

She stared after Morning. “Is that what I'm like?”

He gave her a benign smile. “Not all the time.” Then he started after Morning.

Portia wiped her dirty cheek and frowned. “I'll never give blood again.”

         

In case someone suspected a connection between Morning's disappearance and the truck in front of the studio, Golpear drove down the road and parked behind an abandoned building. At sunset, he would go back to the studio, rendezvous with the friar, and tell him how he'd conveniently reduced Morning to a pile of ash; then they'd finish Morning off with step number three, whatever that was, after which he would collect his final payment and get back to L.A. by midnight.

In the meantime, the thrill of whacking his first vampire with a flamethrower had burned up all his powdered donut calories and put him in the mood for a power nap.

He was still napping as the setting sun slathered the western sky with red icing.

Golpear woke with a start when DeThanatos poked him with the empty crossbow. “Where's the stake?”

“Good news,” Golpear reported, pawing sleep from his eyes. “It got incinerated when I torched Morning on the golf course.” He didn't see the point of mentioning that he'd skipped step one: Staking.

“I told you—”

“Hey, he's toast,” Golpear interrupted. “Sometimes you gotta whack when you gotta whack.”

DeThanatos didn't like being interrupted. But instead of biting Golpear, he bit his tongue. “Did you scatter the ashes?”

Golpear's eyes lit up. “So
that's
the third step!”

“Yes,” DeThanatos growled. “Now explain this. Why is Morning in the studio right now, shooting a commercial?”

Golpear's mouth dropped. “You're kidding.”

“Would you like to see for yourself?”

Golpear held up his hands in protest. “Okay, Brother, listen up and listen good. This isn't working for me, okay? I've whacked the kid twice, and I've only been paid half. I'm gonna need to see some more green before whack number three.”

DeThanatos flashed a disingenuous smile. “How about we make it red and call it a night?”

Golpear's puzzled expression lasted a nanosecond before setting in the mask worn by so many of his victims. The mask always asked the same question.
Is that a weapon?

The last thing he saw were two glistening fangs rushing toward him. Golpear's gold tooth glistened in return as he gasped for air and life.

A few seconds later, he drifted into the opposite of a power nap. The Big Blackout.