To Catch a Vampire (8 page)

Without a word or blink, Rob bends down and opens a drawer. He pulls out a key, putting it in my hand. Oliver plucks it out, and starts toward the elevators. Rob just stares at nothing as I follow Oliver.

“I hate it when you do that,” I say as the elevator doors close. “It can’t be good for them.”

“You were complaining of foot pain. We would have spent the next five minutes arguing without achieving the desired result.”

“Still. Taking away someone’s free will like that is wrong.”

“I can do nothing to please you tonight.” The elevator doors open and we step into a beige hallway. “Perhaps when we retire to our room tonight, I can attempt to change that. Pleasing you, that is.”

“Yeah, you can get your own room. That would please me to no end.”

We reach 602 and Oliver unlocks the door but doesn’t open it. Instead he keeps his hand on the handle, looking at me. “You know, my dear, one of these days I may take one of your expressions to heart and cease all my attention on you.”

“I live for the day. Now open the darn door.”

Changing grins to Number One, full teeth, he opens the door. I step into the dark alcove, feeling the wall for a switch. After five steps, I find it, flicking it on. Nice place. The gray tile alcove opens onto a large living room with black and white leather furniture and silver lamps all on off-white carpeting. Simplistic. On the glass coffee table in the middle of the room rests a book of Frida Kahlo’s art, providing the only splash of color in the whole place besides the now brown flowers on the mantelpiece. I think they were lilies.

It’s stale in here and still, almost as if the place knows its owners will never return. Homes have a feel. They pick up the energy of their owners and hold onto it. That’s why there are some rooms that you can walk into and get a little pick-me-up. There are others that, even though the room is bare, make you feel unwelcome. This one is near null. They must not have spent a lot of time here.

Oliver clears his throat. “Um, Trixie, dear?”

I spin around. He’s still in the hallway. “What?”

“I cannot come in until I am invited.”

“It’s not my house, can I do that?”

“Anyone who crosses the threshold can. Your energy is melded with theirs.”

“So, I can make you stay out there if I want?” I ask with a sly smile.

“Only if you want to explore the dark apartment yourself.”

“Good point. Come in.”

Oliver crosses, closing the door behind himself. “Thank you.”

I shrug. “It’s not very homey, is it?” I ask, looking at the wedding photo on the mantle. I recognize the wedding dress Linda wore from a wedding magazine. Yes, I flip through wedding magazines sometimes. I’m a girl. It’s not as if I have a subscription. Anymore. Anyway, it’s a Vera Wang and costs as much as a small car.

“Some prefer a clutter-free life,” Oliver says.

“Do you?”

“Not recently.”

His gaze makes my cheeks flare up. “We better go to the bedroom.” His eyebrow raises and grin Number One returns. “To look for clues, creep.”

“Of course.”

After a histrionic eye roll, we walk down the bare hall, past the exercise room, and into the master bedroom. The bed takes up the majority of the room. Oh, bad taste alert. There’s a mirror above the bed. Besides those two features, the room’s like the rest of the place: white and dull. My first stop is the dresser, Oliver’s is the bed. He flops onto it, resting his head on his hand.

“I wouldn’t touch that thing,” I say, opening the drawer. “Who knows how many hundreds of people have been in that exact same spot.” Nothing but expensive underwear in there. I open the next one. Designer clothes. “You could help me, you know.”

“I try not to rifle through other people’s treasures. It is such an invasion of privacy.”

“This coming from the man who just last week asked me my bra size.”

There’s nothing in the dresser but at least ten thousand dollars worth of designer clothes. Next, I go over to the bed, kneeling down to get a peek underneath, which is not easy in this skirt. Nothing. After two tries I stand up, walking back to the nightstand. Nothing again but lotion, magazines, and a sleep mask. I’m about to close it when I notice a gap between the front and bottom of the bottom drawer. A hidden panel. I all but rip the drawer out, dump the contents, and watch as the false bottom gives way. As do dozens of Polaroids. Oliver sits up, suddenly interested.

“Nancy Drew would be put to shame,” Oliver says.

Nancy Drew would have a heart attack or join a nunnery if she found this stuff. Linda, Don, and various men and women engage in countless lewd acts with all sorts of paraphernalia. I will never look at a stapler the same way again. Eww. I pick up another one. Okay, how does that thing even fit? He must have been sore the next day.

“Huh, um, huh,” I say.

Oliver picks up a few photos, examining them. “Intriguing.”

“Gross. This is just
…
ick. How can people,
married
people, do these with other people, let alone photograph it?”

“Many couples have open relationships.”

“Well, I couldn’t.”

“That is because when you love, you love for eternity. You would never share that love. It is a beautiful thing.”

I smile despite myself. He smiles back, not a grin, but a genuine smile. “What about you? How do you love?”

“It has been so long, I do not remember,” he says with a hint of melancholy, but the smile stays in place.

I look back down at the pictures. “How sad for you.”

“Yes.”

For the first time, I feel him beside me. He’s been there for seconds, but now I feel it. Bodies in close proximity and all. It makes me uncomfortable, but I won’t let him know it. “Do you think our perps are in one of these photos?”

“I doubt it. I do not smell blood, and even if I did, they would have taken the photos with them.”

“Thank God—” He winces. “Sorry. I so do not want to look through all of these. What do you think we should do with them?”

“Put them back.”

“Right.”

Oliver and I gather up every picture, tucking them back into the drawer. Whoever ends up with this thing is in for a big surprise.

I do a quick search of the rest of the condo but find nothing of interest. I should have known the vamps didn’t come here. Not with neighbors and thin walls. They probably have a house somewhere. Another dead end.

“So, now what?” I ask Oliver as I close the door.

“Now, we go to the Church.”

Six

The Church

No, we don’t actually go to church. For one, we’re not dressed for it; and two, Oliver would burst into flames if he set foot in one. We pull up to the lot across the street from the Lizard Lounge, which according to Oliver becomes “the Church” every Thursday and Sunday night. This was Donna Zahn’s last known location. There’s a line halfway around the building consisting of the biggest group of Goths this side of a Marilyn Manson concert. For people who shun conformity, they sure do all look alike. Black, white, or rainbow hair. Mesh shirts, black trench coats, and dog collars as far as the eye can see. This is the first place tonight where I’m the conservative one.

Judging from the length of the line and my limited experience at clubs, it’ll be two hours before we reach the door. By then my feet will turn gangrenous and have to be amputated. Oliver crosses the street with me close behind, but instead of joining the line, we walk right up to the linebacker at the door. The teenagers in line scoff and roll their eyes as I would too. I always hated the genetic lottery winners who get special privileges, but my feet hurt and I’ll be a hypocrite if it gets me off them sooner. Sure enough, the bouncer takes one look at Oliver and parts the velvet rope.

“Go right in,” the bouncer says.

“Thank you,” Oliver says, passing through. As I walk behind, the bouncer gives me the once over. He’s not impressed. I’m an impostor, and I can’t even fool a bouncer.

The entranceway is packed with black-clad people who match the walls. Some wear capes, others miniskirts and tube tops. A girl with a purple halter top adorned with white, bats eyes at Oliver, licking her lips. This is so commonplace he doesn’t even notice. As we maneuver through the crowd, other women and even men watch him. Me they don’t even notice, except when I step on their feet. We make it to the coat check, turning over jackets and helmets. The music booms so loud I can feel each beat down to my marrow. A beautiful, tall blonde wearing a red tube dress breezes past. She winks. Oliver apprizes her, winking back and licking his lips. Then just as slut one vanishes, her evil twin does the same thing, garnering the same response from my fake husband. I see the same color red as that woman’s lips. That’s it.

Now, I am not the possessive type. I’m really not. When women flirted with my ex Steven, I shrugged it off. I didn’t even care when he flirted back. But this time … He wants a whore, I’ll damn well give him one. I grab his arm, dragging him to the wall next to the dance floor entrance.

“What?” he shouts over the music.

I move in right next to him, putting his arm around my waist. He looks surprised. Not as surprised as when I put my hand in his back pocket. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Now, let’s have some fun,
pookie
.”

A gothic mix of the Gorillaz “Dare” begins as we walk in. The club is perfect for the Goth set with black walls, chandeliers, stained glass windows, and heavy red velvet curtains on the walls. A disco ball twirls above, and off to the side nubile young things gyrate on stripper poles. On the far wall near the DJ,
The Hunger
plays. Catherine Deneuve and Susan Sarandon kiss and caress on the screen. The room smells of stale sweat and a butt load of pheromones that I’m sure I’ll blame for what I do next.

I lead my man to the dance floor, giving his gorgeous butt a pinch before pulling my hand out. Oliver looks at me as if I’m a stranger. With a grin, I start dancing—well, as best I can in these freaking heels. Everything but my feet move in time to the music. Hips pivot side to side in time to the music. I raise my arms above my head, hands swinging with my hips. Oliver doesn’t move for a few moments with that “she’s possessed by the devil” look. I swing everything: arms, hands, hair, hips. My hands find my hair, and I fan my fingers out in it. The hair falls on my exposed shoulders, tickling me. Using my knees, I bend down, still grooving side to side, and then slowly gyrate back up trailing my finger up Oliver’s leather pants, chest, and slightly parted lips. Meeting his eyes, I wink. Grin Number One.

He bridges the small gap between us so our chests and legs touch, putting his leg between mine and placing his hands on my hips. The song changes to techno Korn. I rest my arms on his shoulders, bringing our faces closer too. Our skin is millimeters from contact. His eyes meet mine and a shiver cascades down my spine.
It’s an act, it’s an act
. I just haven’t had anyone touch me for awhile. I’m a method actor. Jesus, just go with it. I do look away, though.

Our bodies sway as one, moving side to side in time. With each sway I become more and more aware of his body and mine. Hands, chest, legs, all melded. His finger making circles on my hip. My nethers separated from him only by leather and cotton panties. His neck is so close, I can kiss it.

Think of something else. Bunnies, baseball, anything. His left hand moves south to my tush, and I damn near jump out of my skin. Grin Number Two surfaces. The jerk’s teasing me! He knew which buttons to push, and darned if he didn’t push them like a videogame controller. Anger clouds the sexy feelings. My first impulse is to step on his foot, but instead I pull away by twirling around. He just lost touching privileges. He tries inching in closer, but I dance away. We continue dancing a few inches apart for the rest of the song. That’s enough of that. I need a drink.

I maneuver through the now moshing crowd, past the go-go dancers, to the bar. An arm wraps around my waist. “I did not know you could dance,” Oliver says.

“I was a teenager once. I’ve been to my fair share of clubs.”

I order a fifteen dollar rum and Coke, Oliver a vodka rocks. Not that he can drink it, but he’d stick out without a drink. When the bartender brings back the drinks Oliver shouts, “Excuse me. We are looking for our old friends, a tall black woman named Serena and a man named JR. Thin, with black hair?”

“Sorry.”

Long shot anyway. This time Oliver takes the lead, walking past the dance floor, up the stairs with a gothic metal fence along it. Luck smiles upon us as a boy with green spiked hair and girl in red corset stop making out and rise from a velvet couch. We snag it before anyone else can. Oliver sits close, draping his arm on the back of the couch. I lean back so my head rests on him. Just another happy couple. “Rest your head on my shoulder,” Oliver says. I do, cuddling against his chest. We can talk without screaming now.

“Do you think they’ll actually show up tonight?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.

“It is possible,” Oliver says. “This type of nightspot always attracts my kind. Especially the younglings.”

“And why is that?”

“They are able to live out the fantasy, the stereotype. The elders enjoy it as there are so many willing donors. I think you will find that the majority of the clubs frequented by this set are owned by vampires as well.”

“I’m just learning so much, pookie.” I take another sip. Strong. “How many vamps do you think are here?”

“Just upstairs? Five. Two in the far left corner.”

I look. Two thin-to-the-point-of-starvation girls in low-cut corsets with short, short skirts sit at a table playing with their neon colored drinks, watching the drones below. They have all the hallmarks of vamps: pale, full drinks, holier-than-thou attitudes.

“They look bored,” I say.

“That they do. The man in the corner does not.” Oliver points to a man with bright orange hair and stocky build, trailing his finger across the collarbone of a nowhere-near legal girl with brown hair. She giggles, pushing his hand away.

“If she’s eighteen, I’m Elizabeth Taylor.”

“My darling, you will have to fight your urge to arrest everyone here. We do not have enough handcuffs, at least not since we left the Costarellos’ condo.”

“Ha ha.” I sip my drink. “So, do we have a plan? Ask every vamp here if they’ve seen our bad guys?”

“No. We let them come to us. We must not arouse even a hint of suspicion.”

“I’m not good at patience, you know that. I can’t just sit here.”

“I could stand it a bit longer,” he says, taking a wisp of my hair between his fingers.

“You are enjoying this way too much.”

“And you are not?”

No comment.

The twig and stick vamps glance our way, then again. I raise my glass to them, smiling. The girls turn away again, chatting. They then pick up their drinks and walk toward us. That didn’t take long. They
must
be bored. Up close they’re even skinnier, like on the cusp of organ failure if their organs still worked. Their cheeks sink in so the dark circles under their eyes look almost like makeup. And they’re young, about sixteen when they turned. Forever sixteen, what a living hell.

“Hello,” says Stick, the taller one with blonde hair.

“Good evening,” Oliver replies.

“Can we join you?” Twig asks, pinning a tendril of her curly chocolate brown hair back.

“Of course,” Oliver says. He and I scoot over as the girls sit beside him. He replaces his arm around my shoulders, fingers hovering centimeters from my boob.

“I’m Denise,” Twig says. “This is Pam.”

“I am Oliver, and this is my wife, Beatrice.”

“She’s human,” Pam says in disgust. “Is she your consort?”

I stop myself from asking what a consort is. “No,” I respond. “I’m just his favorite walking lunchbox.”

“I totally didn’t mean to be rude,” Pam says.

“I will just assume it is the hunger. Have you two fed tonight?” Oliver asks like a father to his child.

“No,” Denise says. “We’re trying to cut back.”

“Younglings like you need to feed at least three pints a night, otherwise you might accidently kill.”

“We know,” Pam says.

“How long ago were you turned?” I ask.

“Like two years?” Denise asks Pam.

“Yeah. We were in New York for fashion week and went to this party. They turned a couple of us.”

“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s cool. At least we were at our goal weights,” Pam says. “Can you imagine being over a hundred pounds for, like, all eternity? Gross.”

I’m about to open my mouth to rip the beanpole a new one, when Oliver pipes up. “Do you reside in Dallas?”

“Yeah,” Denise says. “My brother lives here. We were crashing in his basement until Lord Freddy got us our own place.”

“That was nice of him,” I say.

“I know, right?” Denise asks. “Like, all we have to do is sleep with some of his clients or whatever sometimes.”

Or not no nice.

“Have you met Lord Freddy?’ Pam asks.

“No,” Oliver answers quickly. “This is our first night in town.”

“You should meet him, he’s totally super,” Denise says. “He has
the
best parties. Blood fountains, the yummiest donors. We could introduce you!”

“No,” Oliver says. “That is alright. We are only in town for a short time.”

“Actually, we’re looking for some old friends of Oliver’s. You might know him. JR. Tall, thin, black hair. Hangs out with Rick and Serena?”

“Sounds kind of familiar,” Pam says. “Didn’t we see them at Purgatory a few times?”

“I think so. We didn’t, like, talk or anything,” Denise says.

“Any idea where they might be?” I ask.

“Sorry,” Pam says.

“Oh my G, I love this song!” Denise says. I tuned the music out, as a person screaming at the top of their lungs to a beat isn’t my cup of tea. Leaving her drink on the floor, Denise stands up holding her hands out to me and Pam. “Let’s dance.”

I glance at a grinning Oliver. I hate him. With a fake smile plastered on my face I stand up, taking her freezing hand. Pam follows as we descend the stairs onto the dance floor. I’m sure I look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow woman next to these two, but we do get approving looks from the men as we pass. I can barely move on the dance floor; it’s packed like the bathroom of a modeling agency after lunch. The music, if it can be called that, changes to something I recognize, “More Human than Human” by White Zombie. At least this has something of a beat. I move my hips side to side without moving my feet. I wish I lived in the days of disco with dance moves instead of pretend sex on a dance floor.

Someone grabs me from behind, and immediately a strange pelvis grinds into my butt. It is not a pleasant situation to say the least. My head spins around and at the same time the offender, some skinny kid in a leather jacket, stumbles back as if pushed by invisible hands. And he has been—mine. Confused, the kid looks around for the answer, but of course doesn’t find the cause. I’m mysterious like that. He just moves onto the next victim.

“What a total loser,” Pam shouts over the music.

I look at her, smiling. “Clumsy too.”

The girls chuckle and continue dancing together, bumping and grinding like something out of a porn film. All the surrounding men glance or downright stare as they nuzzle and lightly touch each other’s bare skin. With her fingertips, Pam runs her hand down Denise’s arm. I pretend not to notice.

“How long have you two known each other?” I shout.

“Like, all our lives,” Denise shouts back. “We grew up together.”

Pam smiles seductively at her friend, then plants a kiss on her lips. It is soft at first, then grows deeper and rougher. I can actually see their tongues massaging each other. Holy macaroni. They keep making out as I stand and watch with my mouth agape. It’s not the fact two women are kissing that gets me—I mean I’m from Southern California, for goodness sake—but it’s the fact they’re friends. I love my best friend April to bits, but the thought of doing anything like this with her is just plain creepy. Like getting to second with your sister. And I’m not the only one watching a live version of
Girls Gone Wild
. All males within sight stop dancing and watch, some laughing and smacking their buddies on the chest. The women roll their eyes and continue dancing alone. Pam and Denise separate, smiling at each other. I pretend to find the disco ball above fascinating. Very … spinney.

Pam grabs her next victim, a twenty-something with blue hair and enough piercings to set off every metal detector within a mile. Simulated sex to a beat follows. Denise eyes a few boys but takes my hand instead. She’s not getting as much as a peck from me. The song changes to Depeche Mode’s “Halo,” a song my brother loved for all of five minutes.