Death Takes a Holiday (29 page)

“No,” I say. “You go. Have fun. I just want to be alone.”

“Okay.” She kisses my cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She walks out, and I set the tray on the floor before resuming my corpse interpretation. I close my eyes, and visions of my young, beautiful grandmother and her Jack lying under the stars with her head on his chest come to me. I wonder what her life—

There’s a light knock on the door. Nana pokes her head in again. “Bea? Someone’s here to see you.”

Oliver steps in, and the strange thing is I am
so
glad to see him. That heavy oppression Will dumped earlier is sliced in half. Just
him being in the same room as me can make me feel better. In spite of last night, and all the hate I spewed, here he is. One of my best friends who always knows the perfect thing to make me feel better. I need him now. Not that I’d ever let him know that. “Thank you, Liz,” he says.

As she closes the door, I push myself into the sitting position. “Hi.”

“I am sorry to intrude.” He pulls a set of keys out of his black slacks. “I believe these belong to you.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He sets them on my desk before pulling the desk chair up to the bed. “I shall assume, judging from your melancholy demeanor and the two empty bottles of bourbon next to the passed-out werewolf on my hotel room floor, something wretched occurred between you and William this day.”

“Do you really what to talk about this with me?”

“Not particularly, no,” he says, “but you do. And I wish to show I am better for more than wardrobe tips and a few laughs.”

Great, now I can add guilt to my burden. “I’m sorry I said that to you. I didn’t mean it.”

“You were angry, and rightly so. Last night was my fault and my fault alone. So allow me to make up for it. I am here for you in your time of need. Always.”

I didn’t think it possible, but I manage a small smile for my friend. “Thank you.”

He nods. “So, do you wish me to kill him quickly or slowly?”

“Neither. We just talked things out and decided … ” I shake my head to stop the tears, “it wouldn’t work out. No one’s fault.”

“This was a mutual decision?”

I open my mouth to lie but “No” pops out, along with another fresh set of tears. I’ve cried enough. I push the sadness down where I keep my stockpile. “He said I drive him crazy. That if he’s with me, he’ll lose control and turn into a monster.” I wipe my tears away. My cheeks are so raw from all the wiping. “I mean, come on! What can I say to that?”

“My dear, I have known William far longer than you. His response does not surprise me in the slightest. I have no doubt about his deep feelings for you, none whatsoever, but William’s watchword is restraint. It is the only way he knows how to survive. You challenge that on its basest level. You touch and frighten him to the core.”

“So you agree with him?” I ask, flabbergasted.

“My darling, if I had the providence to be desired and loved by a woman such as yourself, there is not a force in existence that would keep me from her. Not heaven, not hell, and most assuredly not myself.” He pauses. “But William is not me.”

A different form of sadness overwhelms me, this one tinged with regret, but I push it down. One emotional upheaval at a time. “Yeah.”

“He is a fool. And a coward. Not fit to shine your shoes. I have been telling you this for months.”

“I know.”

“And besides, all is pointless. You have decided to leave us freaks. You shall never see or hear from him again. He will fade from memory, as shall the rest of us. You are still quitting us, are you not? Or was that just another threat as the previous hundred other times?”

In all the hullabaloo I’d forgotten about that. “I don’t know. My mind has been on other things. But now … I mean I have to quit, right? I can’t live across the hall from him now that we … it would just be unbearable. Right?”

“I cannot give an opinion on this. I am far too biased.”

“Then I guess I’m quitting.” Relief. I should be feeling relief right now, right? Then why do I feel nothing but another desolate pang? “For the best, right?”

“Hardly.”

“I thought you weren’t giving an opinion.”

“You know my position,” he says, looking away from me for the first time. “I would miss you.”

“I’d miss you too.” More than I’d ever admit to him. “But I can’t face him.”

“I would like to murder him,” Oliver mutters.

“It’s not his fault. He’s right, I’m chaos incarnate. You’ll all be well rid of me.”

“That is the most foolish statement to ever escape those beautiful lips. I have been with the F.R.E.A.K.S. for decades, and I have never seen a soul take to the job as quickly as you. I meant what I said to your grandmother. There is not another living person
I would want beside me in battle. You are meant to be with us, my dear. Of that I have no doubt. And to let some frightened dog not worthy of your affection derail you from reaching your full potential is lunacy and quite frankly downright sickens me.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.”

“And you are not giving yourself enough. But this is a pointless conversation. You are also obstinate, so once your mind is set, there is no changing it. I am wasting words.”

“But they’re lovely words.” I touch his hand. “And I appreciate them. And you.”

The ringing of his cell phone, which I programmed to play “The Stripper,” stops our love fest. “Hello?” He listens for a moment, glances at me, and stands up. “Pardon me, Trixie.” He walks out, shutting the door behind himself.

Like I’m going to let him get away with that. For the first time in hours, I get out of bed. Oliver stands by the still bare Christmas tree, phone pressed to his ear. “Then order steaks from room service. It will help.” He listens, rolling his eyes. “All you can do is toss him in the shower and ply him with water and food. With his metabolism, it should take an hour or so.” He pauses. “No, you do not want me there.” A pause. “Because the way I feel towards him at this moment would certainly lead to a physical altercation of epic proportions. I am sorry. You must handle this on your own, Kevin. Call me when he is fit to fly.” He slaps the phone shut.

“How bad is he?”

“Drunken rambling and a broken coffee table. Wolfe will be fine. We just have to postpone our departure until he is sober.” He smiles at me. “You certainly have a way with men, Trixie.”

“So I’ve been told. Maybe I should join a convent. Get the habit and everything.”

“My dear, it is as if you are reading one of my letters to
Penthouse.
”

My mouth gapes opens, and I chuckle. “Pervert! I so didn’t need to know that!”

“It garnered a smile, did it not?”

I snap my mouth shut. “No.” But the edges of my mouth creep up a little. “So, I guess you’re stuck here awhile?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Yes. In your empty house. With your empty bed. With
hours
to kill. Whatever shall we do with ourselves?”

I smile seductively while I lean down over the back of the couch, shifting my hip to arch my back and butt. Grin Number One with full fang fills his face, but disappears when I toss a bag of ornaments at him. “You can start with the lights by your feet.” I jump off the couch. “I’ll get the tinsel.”

“There.”

I place the star on top of the tree and leap off the chair next to Oliver. He studies the tree as if it were painted by Monet. All in all I think we did an excellent job. The colored lights work, the ornaments are evenly distributed, and the star is level.

“Very nice,” he says. “Per usual we make an excellent team.”

“Maybe you should quit too. We can become professional tree decorators. Alexander and Montrose.”

“Montrose and Alexander,” he corrects. “I
am
the one who hung the lights and tinsel.”

“Fine. Have it your way,” I say as I put the chair back at the dining room table.

He starts picking up the discarded baggies and paper towels everything was in. “What shall I do with this mess?”

“Stick everything back in the boxes. They’re in the corner.”

As I wash the sap off my hands, he locates the boxes. But after stuffing everything in an empty one, he smiles and lifts up another that reads “Beatrice.” “Well, now. What do we have here?”

“Leave those alone,” I say, drying my hands.

He collects all of them, setting them on the coffee table. “I think not.” He opens the top one before sitting on the couch.

I’d fight but it wouldn’t do any good, so I join him on the couch. He pulls out some badly drawn pictures of mermaids. “Oh wow,” I say.

“An artist you are not, Trixie.” He hands me the drawings.

“I liked mermaids.”

“They are quite beautiful in real life.”

“Have you met some?”

“Once or twice.” Next he pulls out some My Little Ponies, raising an eyebrow.

“What? I’m a girl.”

He sets those on the floor and brings out some collages April and I made. Just the heads of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, Mark Paul Gosselaar, and Brad Pitt. He points at Mark. “Who is this?”

“Don’t you know anything? That’s Zack Morris!
Saved by the Bell
?”

“I missed that one.”

“I was twelve. Everyone loved them.”

The rest inside are just dolls, some homemade jewelry, an old music box, and ceramic unicorns. The second box is nothing but stuffed animals and toys. But when he opens the third, my chest tightens a little. Mom’s box. There are high school pendants, a pair of silver platform shoes, a roach clip, some cassette tapes by Devo and Michael Jackson, and a few loose photos. One of Mom in a bikini and huge sunglasses at the beach with a group of friends. Another is of her smoking a joint while a man I recognize as Brian’s father plays the guitar. She ran away with him when she was seventeen, and Brian came a year later. I think his name was Hank. He was long gone by the time I came onto the scene. In the third picture, Mom stands on a stage dressed in a top hat and tails as part of a chorus line. She took dance lessons for years, ballet and tap, and later used those skills to work a pole at multiple clubs along the Southwest.

“Your mother was quite beautiful,” Oliver says. I toss the pictures back in the box along with all her other stuff. “Do you miss her?”

“Not really,” I admit, throwing in the last thing. “Is that wrong?”

“Absolutely not. She let you down. She committed a purely selfish act when you needed her most. The best thing she did for you was leaving you to your grandmother. It is only natural you would have mixed feelings.”

“Only you would give me that answer.”

“I shall always tell you the truth, Trixie.”

I squeeze his hand. “I know, and I appreciate it.” The telephone rings, and I get up. Now leaving Memory Lane. “Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” April asks on the phone. “The pageant starts in ten minutes.”

I groan. “Oh heck. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“I’m on my way. I promise. Bye.” I hang up.

Oliver gazes up at me with the opened music box in his hand. “What did you forget?”

“Manny’s winter pageant. Crud.” I run into the bedroom and toss on my clothes from earlier not bothering with makeup or hair. When I return all of a minute later, everything is cleaned up and Oliver is putting on his jacket. Super-speed has its uses.

“Are you ready?” Oliver asks.

“You want to come with me? To a children’s pageant? Wouldn’t you rather stay here and rifle through my things?”

“Tempting, but no. I would much rather meet the famous April and her brood.”

Disaster waiting to happen, but there isn’t time to argue. I toss on my leather jacket. “Fine. But no … being yourself.”

“I would never.” He vanished before my eyes and reappears by the front door as it swings open. “Must not keep them waiting. After you, my darling.”

Well, this should be interesting.

Walter J. Porter North Elementary School is one of the newer schools in San Diego. The small front parking lot is full so we have to park down the street and walk. The problem is that Mt. Erie Church, with its huge cross hanging outside, overlooks the school. If the huge number of parents milling around the lot notice me leading a vampire with his eyes closed through the gate, they don’t let on. Though all the mothers do check him out. Ugh.

The auditorium is toward the back of the outdoor campus. Some of the smaller children sprint around on the playground while their parents catch up with each other, but when they spot my companion all conversation stops. He winks as he passes. This used to bother me, but since it happens
every time
we go out, I’ve gotten used to it. Something about vamp pheromones or glamour magic that makes women and men become willing porn stars. Doesn’t work well on me, though. Our best guess is Mom was bitten when I was in the womb and the enzymes used to close the wound made me immune. That or I’m a freak among freaks.