Blood Song

Minnie the Mouser. I’d forgotten about the cat. Birchwoods allows pets. I’d even thought about buying a pup for Vicki at one point but never got around to it.



“I’ve read that cats don’t seem to have the same problems with vampires that dogs do. In fact, I saw her sitting on your lap in a vision, and you were petting her just the way she likes. Since you haven’t met her yet, I thought that perhaps—”



A cat. I’ve never considered a cat, but they do purr and I like things that purr. I don’t know why the words came out of my mouth, but, “I’d be happy to keep her. Provided you visit her from time to time if I have to go out of town.”



She beamed and promised to call, then pranced to a stall. I walked out of the room to the happy yells of another piñata being beaten to a pulp. Every half hour or so one would start to spin and dance in the air. Vicki was choosing the victims and then someone would grab a stick and start to pound away.



I noticed Dawna sitting in the corner and started to go over to talk—but she saw me coming and got up, hurrying off in the opposite direction. That hurt. A lot. I hate that she’s avoiding me. Bubba says she feels guilty. Lilith got the information on where to find me from her. I don’t blame her. Nobody could stand up to that level of mental manipulation. Hell, I’m just grateful she’s still alive.



I glanced over at the corner of the bar. Seems the good doctor is quite a darts player—if the grin and the green pieces of paper crossing his palm were any indication. I made a decision and headed that way, with a wave of my hand to tell Bruno I was going to be another minute.



“Dr. Scott? Can I talk to you for a second?”



He clapped a man I didn’t know on the shoulder and nodded. He sat down at the only free table in the place and looked me over carefully. “Is everything okay? The stress getting to you?”



I let out a harsh laugh. “I’m fine. After the past few days this is hardly what I’d call stressful. But thanks for asking. No.” I carefully pointed my thumb toward where Dawna was sitting at a different table chatting with Emma. “See that woman over there? Her name is Dawna Long. She’s a friend of mine and the receptionist at my office building. Remember I told you about the vampire, Lilith?” He nodded and I took a deep breath. “Lilith tracked me down by attacking Dawna on her way out of the parking lot at work. She didn’t kill her, but the bite and the psychic trauma have been devastating. I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to come back to the office. Is there any way you could talk to her a little? I know you’re not really here for business, but—”



His face grew concerned and he looked at her the same way he’d looked at me. Then he frowned. “Actually, business is exactly why I’m here. And you’re correct. She’s not dealing with things very well. Very close to suicidal, actually. I appreciate your bringing it to my attention.”



Suicidal? Crap. I hadn’t realized it was that bad. I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to race over to her to try to make it better. But the fact that she hadn’t already sought me out … no, it was best if this was dealt with by a professional. “I don’t know if she has the money to afford you, though. We pay her pretty well, but you guys are sort of pricey.”



“I’m sure we can work something out.” He added, quickly, “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I looked across the room. Dawna stood up, looking dejected, terrified, and nearly angry. Dr. Scott rose smoothly and touched my hand. “We’ll talk more later. Right now, I think I need to speak to your friend before she does something she’ll regret.”



I stared after them until I saw that he’d caught up with her and offered his arm with a kind smile. She hesitated, then accepted, and they stepped outside into the cool night. I caught a glimpse of the entrance that told me that the police department had added another two uniformed officers to the contingent at the door. Probably not the best advertisement for the business, but I … or, rather, Vicki was paying through the nose to rent the whole place for the night, so it was really nobody’s business.



I slid back into my chair after a few dodges around the newest piñata to fall. “Did I miss anything?” Emma and Bruno shook their heads, each lost in their own thoughts as another round of firecracker mouth candy exploded in unison. This batch appeared to be glowing in the dark, because green and pink sparkles began to fill the air as people walked around the room. I would rather not know what ingredient would cause glowing sparkles, and I certainly didn’t want to put it in my mouth.



A little chirping sound caught my ear from my wristwatch. It was 1:00 A.M.—last call. La Cocina had always shut down in plenty of time for the 2:00 liquor cutoff. They do a first-last call and a last-last call, so that all cups were off the tables by 1:30. It was time for the toast.



I stood up and shouted over the laughing, yelling crowd, “Hey! Hey, everybody. Listen up!”



Nobody responded.



After two more attempts with my still-hoarse throat, Bruno stood up. He put his two baby fingers between his lips and let out a blast of noise that stopped all sound in the place and caused the front doors to open—revealing officers with guns drawn. Bruno ignored them and shouted, “Celia wants to talk. It’s time for the toast.”



Everybody nodded and gathered round our table. I thought about going up onstage and getting the microphone, but with everyone quiet, it should be fine.



“First, thank you all for—” I coughed, cleared my throat, and took another sip of margarita. “Thank you all for coming. As you know, this is a triple wake. Some of you are here to offer fond farewells to Vicki Cooper, some for Bob Johnson, and some for Karl Gibson. They were all great people, and I was proud to know them.”



There were a few “Hear, hear!” comments from the back of the crowd.



“We’re honored to have Vicki attend her own wake.” Confetti and cool air began to swirl around my head and I smiled. “Few people ever get the chance to hear how people feel about them after they’re dead. So, I’m going to open the floor to let you all tell her directly how you felt, how she made a difference in your life, and why you’ll miss her.”



A woman’s voice I didn’t recognize came from the farthest row of people. “You could always drink me under the table, Vic! Only person to ever have done it! You rocked!”



General laughter erupted and then Larry Davers, an old friend from our freshman year, spoke up, his voice serious and cracking with emotion. “You saved my life, Vicki, and I never thanked you. You insisted I not ditch chemistry to go skiing because you saw that something bad was going to happen. I was pissed that you kept following me, pulling my arm. I finally got mad when you threatened to turn me in and went to class with you. And then the avalanche hit, on the very slope I was going to use, and killed those rangers. I would have been out there, too. I would have died if you hadn’t made me listen. Thank you … on behalf of myself, my wife, and the children I never would have had.” Confetti rained down on him and he laughed through his tears as he pulled a dark-haired woman close and kissed her.



More people started to talk, one on top of the other—telling stories of Vicki saving them, or setting them up with the person they’d wind up marrying, or just hanging out and having fun. There was a little piece of me that was surprised by how many people she’d affected. There’s always a part of you that thinks you know your best friend better than anyone … and yet there were dozens of people here whom I’d never known she knew.



A woman named Laura was just explaining how Vicki had saved her when the music started to play again. We looked up to see if it was Vicki doing it, but instead, we saw a drop-dead gorgeous woman in a slinky black dress pick up the microphone. She began to sing, and every person in the place turned as one. It was the theme song from The Phantom of the Opera and she was not only singing on-key but also quite possibly singing it better than the Broadway version.



As everyone stared at her, completely entranced, the only thing I could think was how indescribably rude it was to interrupt the eulogies. Even Vicki was annoyed and began to pick up larger objects, not just confetti but candles from the tables and sharp cutlery. But although the ghostly wind tried to heave them at the singer, Vicki never connected. It was as though the singer was immune to the missiles.



When she finished her song minutes later, the place erupted into applause, with the exception of me, Bruno, Alex, and a few others, who glared at the intruder with righteous indignation. She had to be an intruder, because I hadn’t remembered seeing her as I passed around the room earlier. And I would have noticed her.



She slunk down from the stage, the spotlight turning her luxurious red mane of hair into something fluid and shimmery as she walked. The crowd parted as she passed and she did it with the air of a goddess—as though she fully expected people to part for her.



Of course, maybe she was royalty and I just didn’t know it. The king and his retinue had returned home to Rusland to get ready for Prince Rezza’s wedding. I’d been told to expect an invitation, but the court refused to let me out of the country. I have it on good authority that the king has been putting discreet pressure on our government to make sure I don’t wind up jailed or permanently institutionalized. I appreciate that even more than the sizable deposit that was wired into my bank account. Rezza’s been rethinking his allegiance to a group who’d hire a demon and kidnap his brother, which is probably for the best. He might not be as big on the American ideal as his father, but at least Rezza won’t be a sworn enemy if he winds up on the throne.



This woman had that same air—more like Rezza than his father. Rezza’s father felt more like a commoner than a king, but Rezza had that otherness that made you want to bow or grovel.



“You must be the abomination.” The woman held out her hand when she reached me.



I didn’t take the offered limp fingers. “And you must be rude.” She reared back in surprise, like I’d intended. “I’m sorry,” I said with narrowed eyes and just a hint of fang showing (I’m learning how to do that better), “but didn’t you hear that people were trying to talk over here—trying to honor the people we came here to celebrate? Just who do you think you are?”