Jeri Smith-Ready

Let It Bleed Chapter One

I avoid mirrors these days—not because they don’t show my reflection, but because they do.

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 from 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 zipper up as far as I can reach, then leave the mansion’s second floor powder room to enter the parlor.

My best friend 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. But the bridesmaids, Regina and Maggie—vampire and human, respectively, not that a wedding party has to be balanced that way—check me out from the upholstered sofa.

“How’s my dress?” I ask them. “Be honest.”

“Well…” Maggie brushes an auburn curl off her forehead. “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 gown. “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. “Vamp-to-vamp advice? 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.

I try not to glare. I only met Maggie at the bachelorette party, a few nights before I died. She’s been a great comfort to Lori since then. Helpful. Understanding. Completely not wanting to drink her blood.

In short, a BFF-in-waiting.

“Actually, you should whisper in case my mom comes in.” Lori’s words are slurred by her application of lipstick. “Ciara, go drink. And you look fine.”

I blow her a kiss, which she catches with a flash of French manicure. Then I grab my 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, subtracting the word “sugar” and substituting the word “vampire” for “diabetic.”

In the bathroom, I face away from the gilded mirror to 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 humans who’ve been bitten, or who want to be. Which is roughly two percent of the population, I’m told, but some days feels like a hundred-and-two percent of my acquaintances.

Including Lori and my runner-up best friend David, our boss at the mostly-vampire radio station WVMP, the Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll. They’re getting married downstairs in twenty minutes. As maid-of-honor, my job is to straighten Lori’s veil as needed, fork over David’s ring on cue, and try not to chomp anyone.

Since my gown lacks pockets, and it would be inappropriate to stuff the wedding band into my brand-new cleavage, I’ve secured David’s ring with one of my own, as instructed by bridal magazines.

I examine my diamond-and-double-sapphire engagement ring, the one Shane gave me a month ago. After I became a vampire to avoid dying permanently of chicken pox, I gave the ring back until he could accept me for what I am now. Undead like him, like he never wanted to be, and never wanted me to be.

Last night, I got the ring back for good.

A shrill female voice comes from the parlor, hurting my sensitive vampire 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.”

Regina’s nonchalant tone doesn’t surprise me. She’d go on a rampage if someone stopped her in the middle of counting. At least Regina has her vampirism to account for her obsessive-compulsiveness. Mrs. Koski is merely mentally ill.

“I was supposed to do Lori’s veil.” I'm the worst maid of honor ever. Also, the deadest.

“There we go!” Mrs. Koski snaps shut the purse. Her smile fades when she sees me. “Oh, Ciara, that’s not your best color, is it?”

“Not anymore,” I say through gritted teeth. “And it’s KEER-ah, once again. Two syllables. KEER-ah.” I’ve been Lori’s best friend since we started college seven years ago, yet this woman still mispronounces my name, Kee-AHR-ah.

Mrs. Koski ignores my correction. “The whole point was for Lori to choose the dress 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 my necklace clasp.

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

I force my eyes to stay open and focus out the window, over the rooftops of the rolling hills of Sherwood, which can’t decide if it wants to be a small city or a large town.

What it is right now is dark. No doubt the guests are wondering why anyone would have a wedding so late.

Lori and David’s public excuse: they have to maintain the “gimmick” about our vampire disc jockeys. For PR purposes, WVMP-Radio’s DJs are never seen during the day. Since even indirect sunlight can flame us into nothingness, vampires can’t go out until twilight—approximately a half-hour after sunset, when the sun is ten degrees below the horizon. On May 1 in central Maryland, that’s about 8:30pm.

Real reason for the late wedding: the gimmick is one hundred percent true.

“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 formalwear, what with his terminal grunge-boy slouch and unkempt light brown hair half-obscuring his pale blue, couldn’t-give-a-damn eyes. Like all vampires, he’s stuck physically and psychologically in the era he was turned—in his case, the mid-nineties during the heyday of the music he plays on his show. 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.”

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 with his mom.” He takes my hand and leads me into the hallway, out of Mrs. Koski’s earshot. “And he wanted me to check on you. He’s worried.”

“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 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. “I don’t want to ruin your lipstick.”

“Yes, you do.”

He tilts his head. “Yes, I do.”

He kisses me, deep and sweet, 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 should change my number again.” He puts it to his ear. “Yeah.”

The string quartet in the foyer below ends their song. In the relative silence, my ears catch a frantic voice from the phone speaker—Jim, our third oldest and by far the least stable DJ.

He repeats two words: Code Black.

My heart stutters and stops. Shane’s face turns as pale and hard as concrete.

“Tell me you’re calling from a payphone,” he says.

I dig my nails into the wall molding behind me, trying to stay upright as my brain swirls with panic.

“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.”

“What about the wedding? The bridal party can’t 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 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.”

“If we both 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. For better or 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, giving my dress a final cringe.

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.”


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Continue to Chapter Two.

Read the introductory post.

Labels: Let It Bleed novella, vampire series

• posted by Jeri @ 12:01 AM
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