NOT FOR SALE Page 12

  She hugged him tightly, swearing never to let him go. He pulled back just a bit, brushing her hair from her eyes. "You should feed, Tarrah. And then we'll get out of here."

  Slipping from the table, Tarrah crouched by the monster and opened her mouth to reveal her fangs. She couldn't remember ever being so hungry before. She looked into the beast's mouth as it gasped for air, at its strange, flat teeth. "It's weird, isn't it? I thought humans were just a myth. I mean, they were supposed to have died out so long ago. Who would've thought that they were real, and still around?"

  Corey shrugged and licked his lips. "It is weird. Tasty though. Come on, babe. Drink up and let's go."

  "Corey," she groaned, and looked up at her boyfriend of a hundred and fifty-three years. "Don't call me babe."

  Then Tarrah bent over the terrified beast and bit into the warmth of his jugular vein.

  A meal had never tasted so sweet.

  Drama Queen's Last Dance

  A Morganville Vampires Story

  Rachel Caine

  My name is Eve, and I am a drama queen.

  I don't mean like any old garden-variety teen throwing a tantrum, oh no. I am a Drama Queen, with big initial capital letters and curlicues on top. I work hard at it, and I resent anybody lumping me in with a bunch of wannabe poseurs who haven't even qualified in Beginning Pouting, much less Champion Fit Throwing.

  So when I had a golden opportunity for launching a big, fat, drama-filled scene, and ended up acting like an actual adult, perhaps you'll appreciate just how important this was to me. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

  First, let me explain the drama that is my life—and this is just the background, broad strokes, you know, for I am epic, I tell you. I am a Goth, but mainly for the fashion, not the 'tude. I had an emotionally abusive father and a checked- out mom. My little brother turned out to be one step short of either the asylum or federal prison.

  Oh, and my boyfriend is a sweet boy, a gifted rock guitarist—and just happens to have an allergy to sunlight and crave plasma on a regular basis. However, in our hometown of Morganville this is not really all that unusual, since about a third of the citizens are vamps. Yes, vampires. Really. So you see why my life was generally a nightmare from an early age ... the monsters under the bed really existed, and the pressure on all of us growing up was to give in. Be a good Morganville conformist.

  Give up our blood for the cause.

  Not me. I had a pact with all my other rebel friends. We'd never, ever be part of that scene.

  And I mentioned my boyfriend is a vampire, right? Yeah. There's that.

  Given all that, when I say that today was a crisis. . . well. Maybe you get the legendary scale of which I am speaking.

  The saga started out a normal day—don't they all? I mean, surely one morning back there in prehistoric times a dinosaur woke up, yawned, chewed some coffee beans, and thought his day was going to be dead boring, just before a comet slammed into his neighborhood. "Normal day" in my life means that I wake up late, yell at my housemate Shane to get the hell out of my way as I dash to the bathroom in my vintage dragon-embroidered silk robe, and spend forty-five minutes doing shampoo, body wash, conditioner, blow dry, straightening, makeup, and clothes while I listen to Shane bang on the door and complain about how he is going to go pee all over my bedroom floor if I insist on living in the bathroom.

  This morning I blew him a mocking black-lipsticked kiss on the way out, checked the time, and winced. I was late for my job at Common Grounds, the best local coffee shop of the two in town. (I also worked at the second best, but on alternate days.) I didn't mind dragging my ass in late to the University Center java store, but at Common Grounds, the boss was a little more of a leg-breaker—probably because he'd been making people show up on time since before the invention of the pocket watch.

  I tried sneaking in the back door of Common Grounds, which seemed to work all right; I ditched my coffin purse in my locker, grabbed my long black apron, and tied it on before I went to grab a clipboard from the back. I took a hasty, not very thorough inventory, and toddled out to the front. . .

  . . . Where my boss, Oliver, fixed me with a long, cold glare that had probably been terrifying underlings for hundreds of years. Oliver = vampire, obviously, although he did a good job of putting on a human smile and seeming like Mr. Nice Hippie Dude when he thought it would get him something. He wasn't bothering today, because the counter was slammed three deep with people desperate for their morning caff fix, and his other help, what's-her-name, Jodi-with-an-i, hadn't shown up yet. I held up my clipboard and put on my best innocent expression. "I was doing inventory," I said. "We need more lids."

  He growled, and I could hear it even over the hissing brass monster of the espresso machine. "Get on the register," he snapped, and I could tell he wasn't buying the inventory excuse for a second. Well, it had been thin at best. I mouthed sorry and hurried over to beam a smile at the next harassed person who wanted to fork over four fifty for their mochachocalattefrappalicious, or whatever it was they'd ordered. We made things easy by charging one price for each size of drink, whatever it was. Funny how people never seemed to appreciate that time-saver. I worked fast, burning through the backlog of caffiends in record time, then moved to help Oliver build the drinks once the register was idle. He'd stopped growling, and from time to time actually gave me a nod of approval. This was, for Oliver, a little like arranging for a paid vacation and a dozen roses.

  We'd gotten the morning rush out of the way and were settling into the slow midmorning period when a door in the back of the store opened, and a girl came strolling out. Now, that wasn't so unusual—that door was the typical vampire entrance, for those who wanted to avoid the not-so-healthful effects of a stroll in the sun. But I'd never seen this particular vamp before. She was . . . interesting. Masses of curly blonde hair that had that salon sheen you see in commercials but that hardly exists in the wild; porcelain-pale skin (without the benefit of the rice powder I was using); big jade-green eyes with spots of golden brown. She was wearing an Ed Hardy tee under a black leather jacket, all buckles and zippers, and she looked pretty much like any other twenty- something in any town in the U.S., and maybe in a lot of the world. Shorter than most, maybe. She was five foot three, tops, but all kinds of curvy.

  I took a cordial dislike to her, on principle, as she meandered her way toward the counter. Oliver, who'd been wiping down the bar, stopped in mid-motion to watch her. That seemed to be a male thing, because I noticed pretty much the entire Y chromosome population, including the table of gay boys, watching her, too. She didn't seem that sexy to me, at least in an obvious kind of way, and she wasn't vamping (no pun intended) it up . . . but she got attention, whether she was demanding it or not.

  I wasn't used to being the wallflower, and it kinda pissed me off.

  Still, I forced a smile as I went to the register. "Hi," I said, in my best professional welcome voice. "Can I help you?"

  "I'll take this," Oliver said, and nudged me out of the way. He was smiling, which normally would be a bad sign, but this one went all the way to his eyes, and all of a sudden he didn't look like a vampire who would kick your ass, ra-a-a-ar, he looked like ... a guy. Just a guy, kind of handsome in a sharp sort of way, although too old for me for sure.

  The girl smiled back at him, and wow. I mean, it knocked me back a step, and I was (a) not male, and (b) not any kind of interested. "Oliver," she said, and even her voice was cute and small and sweet, with some kind of lilting accent that made her sound exotic and mysterious. Well, for Morganville, Texas, but then we find people from Dallas exotic and mysterious. "My dear friend, I haven't seen you in dark ages."

  "Gloriana," he said. "I feared the worst, you know. It's cruel to keep us in suspense. Where were you?"

  She shrugged and fiddled with the zippers on her jacket, looking coy as she shot him a look from beneath full, probably natural lashes. "After the last great war, I lost track of you, and the rest of our family," she said.
"Those I found were—not healthy. I managed to avoid contracting the disease, but I didn't dare take the risk, so I stayed away."

  "Where?"

  "Oh, you know. Here and there. Europe. Australia was quite nice; I migrated here when they were still traveling by ocean liner. Since then, I've been drifting. I was recently in Los Angeles, where I ran into Bobby Sansome—you remember him?—and he told me almost everyone who was anyone was here, in Morganville. He also said that he'd come here to get the cure. I thought perhaps it was safe."

  "It's safe," Oliver said. "But you'll need to present yourself to the Founder. There are rules of behavior in this town, accords you'll have to sign in order to stay. Understand?"

  "Of course." Her charming smile got even wider. "Oliver, my sweet, do you really doubt that I know the rules of hospitality and good behavior? I haven't survived this long by preying indiscriminately on the livestock . . . oh." Her sparkling eyes flicked to me, inviting me to share the joke. "Not including you, naturally. I meant no offense."

  "No?" I raised my eyebrows to let her know the sweet face didn't impress me. "That 'tude will get you in trouble around here."

  Gloriana gave me an honestly puzzled look, then turned to Oliver. "What does she mean?"

  "She means that humans have status here." He didn't look particularly happy about it, but then, that's Oliver for you. "You can't expect civility from them. And, unfortunately, you can't punish them for failing to provide it."

  I snorted. "Bite me, fanger."

  "See?"

  Gloriana looked honestly taken aback for a few seconds and then smiled in what I could only call utter delight. Despite my best intentions, I got a traitorous little impulse to grin back. "Really? But this is wonderful!"

  "It is?" It was Oliver's turn to look bemused, as if she'd suddenly started rattling on in a language he didn't recognize.

  "Of course! You know I've never been terribly conventional, cuz. I'd be delighted to converse with humans again on an equal basis. Most of them are terribly dull, of course, but this one looks bright enough." Her green eyes swept over me, giving me the female X-ray of appraisal. "And certainly not afraid of controversy."

  "This one is named Eve," I said. "And don't check my teeth like I'm your livestock. I bite back."

  Gloriana laughed, an honest, full laugh, and I felt a shudder go through Oliver's body next to me. I couldn't tell what had brought that on—not fear, surely, the old dude didn't fear anybody that I could tell. "Eve," she said. "I'd like something to drink. Something hot and salty, perhaps in an O negative if you have it."

  Ugh, but okay, I served vamps from time to time. I summoned up the professional smile again. "Sure thing. Coming right up."

  It was only as I was warming up the blood out of the refrigerator that it occurred to me that she'd named my own blood type.

  Hmmmm.

  Coincidence. Probably.

  * * * *

  Gloriana's visit to the coffee shop was eye-opening, to say the least. I put her blood in an opaque coffee cup, with a lid, and she and Oliver went to sit down together, presumably to jaw about old times, and I do mean old times. She wasn't standoffish, the way some of the other vampires were—she said hello to people as they passed, gave them the same sweet smile, shook hands with a few.

  I was pulling espresso shots for a mocha when my boyfriend came in the vampire entrance and got in the ordering line. I waved, and he winked at me. Michael is a total hottie, always has been; tall, blond, built, and shy, for the most part. He's always been more focused on music than the people around him, and from what he'd told me about how he'd come to get dead, that had been a real mistake. So he was trying to do a little better about connecting with people, as well as guitar riffs. He's always been my friend, but these days, he's a whole lot more than that.

  I don't want to be sick about it, but I love him with my life. It scares me down to the bones to think about losing him—although in Morganville it's a lot more likely that he'll lose me, given the mortality rates among humans here.

  Still.

  I rushed through the next three orders to get to Michael and then took my time, leaning over the counter and smiling as our eyes met. "Hi, handsome," I purred. "See something you like?"

  "Always," he said, and gave me just a flicker of that devastating Michael Glass grin. "And the coffee looks good, too."

  "You are suave. I've always said so."

  "And you're strange. But I love strange."

  "Mmmm. Want to go take inventory with me in the back?"

  "Isn't the boss here?" Michael made a show of looking around for Oliver.

  He found him. He also spotted Gloriana, who was leaning her chin on her tiny little hand, looking at Oliver with luminous, big eyes.

  "Wow," he said. This was not the thing you want to hear out of a boyfriend, believe me. "Who's the new girl?"

  "Gloriana," I said. "She's not new. She's ancient." I was hoping that would put an end to it; Michael wasn't interested in hanging around other vampires, although he did it when circumstances required; he liked me, and Shane, and Claire. He liked us a whole lot better than the nonbreathers.

  Until now, apparently. I could almost see the word balloon floating over his head: should go say hello. But he was smart enough not to say it. With an effort, he dragged his attention away from Gloriana and looked at me again. "So, you have plans for lunch today?"

  "Nope. I was thinking about a smoothie." In this coffee bar, you had to be sure you were grabbing the pureed strawberries, and not, you know, something else, but the smoothies were pretty awesome. "I could be talked into something non-food-related, though."

  "Shane's at work," Michael said. "Claire's at school. House is empty. I could make you something hot."

  He said it straight-faced; that was the wonderful, wicked thing about Michael, he could deliver the most outrageous lines with utmost sincerity. It left me wondering if I was the only one with my mind in the gutter . . . until I spotted the amusement in his clear blue eyes.

  "I'll bet," I breathed. "Meet you there at one o'clock, okay?"

  "Not twelve?"

  "I came in late."

  "Ah. I'll keep myself occupied."

  "Hey!"

  He gave me the full, devastating smile and leaned across the counter to kiss me. His lips were cool and sweet and softer than they had any right to be, but he was gone before I could really savor it.

  He'd left four fifty on the counter—his way of saying that I should have a drink myself. Which I did, making it extra sweet and extra strong, like him.

  It was only as I was sipping the drink that I realized Gloriana was staring at the door through which Michael had gone. She finally leaned over and pecked Oliver on both cheeks in a European sort of farewell and took her cup of O to go . . . following Michael.

  I didn't like that.

  At all.

  * * * *

  One o'clock crawled slowly toward me, to the point where I checked the coffee shop's clock against my cell phone and my watch, just to be sure. When the hand finally dragged itself to twelve forty-five, I stripped off my apron and chirped to Oliver, "Lunch!"

  "Don't you have time to make up?" he asked, not looking away from the cash he was counting for the bank bag.

  "Yeah, I'll stay late."

  "I'd rather you worked through lunch."

  "Sorry, slavery's gone out of fashion," I said, and hung up my apron on the old coat tree at the end of the counter. "Gotta run."

  He grunted and waved his hand. I retrieved my purse from the locker and dashed out.

  It wasn't a long walk home, but it was unexpectedly chilly; rain clouds were rolling in, dark and ominous, and the wind had kicked up. It blew sand and broken bits of grass across the roads, rippled the leaves on the trees, and generally made walking less fun than usual. I was happy to turn down Lot Street and see my big, shiny black hearse parked at the curb. Death's party bus. Holla.

  I couldn't wait and broke into a jog up the walk, the steps, a
nd across the porch, and unlocked the front door as fast as I could. Yes! I slammed the door and threw my stuff on the hall table; Michael's keys were already there, in the candy dish. My heartbeat sped up even faster. "Let's get the party started!" I called, and walked down the narrow hallway toward the living room.

  On the way there, I passed the formal parlor room, which was basically a furniture museum; we never sat in there. Except this time I registered people in there as I passed. I stopped, backed up, and found Michael sitting in the big red velvet wing chair.

  Gloriana was sitting on the settee, her to-go cup on the marble coffee table. She had her legs crossed, and seemed very comfortable.

  In my house.

  With my boyfriend.

  "Michael?" I asked. He stood up, looking guilty and nervous, which was new for him. "What's going on?"