Hellforged
Page 4The screen showed Montoya in a recording studio, holding a guitar. He still had the wavy brown hair, but now his eyes were red and his death’s-head smile was more like a grimace. “After the plague,” he said, “I looked in a mirror and thought, ‘Well, Paul, that’s it. Nobody wants to hear a zombie sing love songs. Plus my fingers got too stiff to play the way I used to. But music was my life. I didn’t know how to do anything else.”
The reporter’s voice came back, as the screen showed Montoya wearing headphones and screaming silently into a microphone. “So Montoya reinvented himself. In the process, he invented a new musical genre: monster rock.”
Cut to a stadium packed with screaming fans. Searchlights zigzagged across the stage, lighting the smoke that billowed from hidden machines, as a voice announced, “Are you ready to meet your worst nightmare? Are you ready to dance with the dead? Are you ready … for Monster Paul!” The audience roared as fireworks sparked to the sound of more ear-splitting guitar chords. Monster Paul staggered to the front of the stage and began growling like a sleep-deprived bear with a bad case of indigestion.
Tina and Jenna both swooned.
Before the TV speakers reached meltdown, the screen switched back to the studio. Rhoda Harris continued: “As Monster Paul, Montoya has reached a new level of fame. With two double-platinum CDs and the most-downloaded song of all time—‘Grave Robber (Stay Outta My Grave)’—Monster Paul has made being previously deceased”—a smile crept into her voice—“almost cool.”
“Here comes the good part,” Jenna said, leaning forward.
“Now,” said Harris, “Montoya is ready for another reinvention. And he’s reaching out to Boston’s paranormal community for help.”
In his recording studio, Monster Paul looked into the camera. “There’s so much raw talent in Deadtown, and it’s time to give that talent its due. I want the world to know that zombies are previously deceased, not dead—you know? So I’m putting together a new band. It’ll be made up of paranormals, 100 percent. I’ll be auditioning musicians and backup singers on January 22. If you think you’ve got what it takes to join my Zombie Freak Show, come on over to the old Orpheum Theater from eight ’til whenever we’re done.”
The screen displayed the time and date, as Harris wrapped up her story: “You heard him, Deadtown. Paranormal musicians and singers are encouraged to try out tomorrow night—that’s January 22—at the former Orpheum Theater on Hamilton Place, starting at eight P.M.”
“Omigod!” Tina shouted, pulling open a drawer. “I need a pencil!”
“You are not writing that in Russom’s.” I snatched the book from her.
“We are so going to be there.”
“Can either of you play an instrument?”
“What for? Weren’t you listening? He’s looking for singers, too.” Tina launched into “Grave Robber,” and Jenna joined her. I think one of them was off-key, although it’s hard to tell with monster rock. They sounded like a couple of furious parrots challenging each other to a death match. Then I considered the concert clip PNN had played. The two of them were naturals.
I LEFT TINA AND HER FRIEND SCHEMING ABOUT WHAT TO wear to the audition and drove to my rented garage. Once the Jag was safely locked up, I hoisted my weapons bag and walked to the building where I shared an apartment with Juliet, my vampire roommate. Deadtown was only a couple of blocks wide by five blocks long, from Winter Street to School Street. Because all Boston’s paranormals had to live here, housing was at a premium. That made for some strange … if not bed-fellows, then roomies, anyway.
Zombies thronged the streets, shopping, eating, talking, eating, laughing, eating, heading home from work, eating. Oh, and eating. If I ever give up demon extermination, I’ll open a hot dog stand in Deadtown. I’d make a fortune.
Dusk-to-dawn was the busy time in this part of town, and the nighttime streets belonged to the zombies. For one thing, at more than two thousand strong, they just plain outnumbered the rest of us. Vampires spent their after-dark hours in the human parts of town, trawling for blood donors, while more and more werewolves worked norm hours, taking eight-to-five jobs in human-owned companies. State law required them to spend the three days and nights of each full moon at a secure werewolf retreat, but they managed to work around that restriction. Human and paranormal Bostonians lived side by side in a truce—often uneasy, but a truce nonetheless. Much of that was thanks to Alexander Kane, Boston’s high-profile werewolf lawyer.
At the thought of Kane, a confusion of feelings tumbled through me. Mostly, I missed him. He’d been in Washington for three months, preparing to argue a case before the Supreme Court that could establish paranormal rights at the federal level. Right now, each state had its own rules. Some, like “Monsterchusetts,” gave paranormals limited rights. That’s because the zombie plague happened here, and the state had to accommodate its citizens who’d died and been reanimated. But other states—most of them—gave us no rights at all, not even the right to be alive (or undead, as the case may be). Kane was trying to change that.
Kane was doing important work; I knew that. And I supported him in it. But his work consumed him, and sometimes it felt like there wasn’t much left over for me. We’d dated off and on for two years—more off than on—and sometimes we went weeks without seeing each other. He worked days, I worked nights, and neither of us was willing to stick our career in the backseat.
Before Kane left for Washington, we’d agreed to see other people—his idea. I’d gone out a few times with Daniel Costello, the human detective I met in the fall when one of my clients was murdered. I liked Daniel. We were still getting to know each other, but we had fun together. But Kane made it clear he had no time for anything but work.I’d expected to be one of those things he didn’t have time for. But since he went to Washington, he called me a couple of times a week—more than we talked, sometimes, when we were in the same city. Somehow it figured that being five hundred miles apart brought us closer.
“Nice flowers, Clyde,” I greeted the doorman. “You got a secret admirer?”
“Actually, no. These arrived for you an hour ago.”
For me? Who’d be sending me flowers? My first thought, with a flutter of pleasure, was Kane, but that was silly—he came to mind because I’d just been thinking about him. Who, then? Sometimes grateful clients sent gifts, but most of my recent demon exterminations had been run-of-the-mill. Except tonight’s. Somehow, though, I didn’t think Professor Milsap had speed-dialed his favorite all-night florist to show me his undying gratitude for getting rid of that Glitch.
Clyde sneezed again. It was a funny, dry sound, like somebody pretending, not very convincingly, to have a cold. “Please take them away. I was terribly allergic to flowers before the plague. You’d think being previously deceased would put an end to that, but—” Another dry sneeze. “But perhaps what’s left of my body remembers.”
“Allergies, huh? That must have made life difficult when you were a minister.” I lifted my duffel bag’s strap over my head so it crossed my torso. “Didn’t the church ladies load up the altar with flowers each Sunday?”
“Then I could get allergy shots. Those wouldn’t help now. At least I’m not bedeviled by watery eyes or a stuffy nose. Just this infernal … aaaah-choo!” The roses trembled again.
I lifted the vase. It was surprisingly heavy.
“Be careful.” Clyde held out a steadying hand. “I think it’s Waterford.”
“Was there a card?”
“Presumably there’s one inside the envelope attached to the bouquet.” He scowled as though I’d accused him of steaming open my love notes.
All those roses made the elevator smell like a florist’s shop. I almost started sneezing, myself. I was glad when the doors opened to my floor.
Outside my apartment, I raised a knee to balance the vase against the wall as I fished in my pocket for my keys. Even through the closed door, I could hear Juliet’s massive TV blaring, but I didn’t bother to ring the bell. She wouldn’t be home at this hour, not with so many necks out there waiting to be bitten. And she had a bad habit of turning on the TV—loud—then losing interest and wandering away.
I pulled out my key ring and sorted through it one-handed. Inside, the phone rang. I found the key, turned it in the lock, got the door open, and flew into the living room. I dropped the flowers on the coffee table, ducked out of the duffel bag strap, scooped up the remote, and powered off the TV, all while diving for the phone on the far side of the sofa. Don’t try this at home, kids, I thought, as I belly-flopped onto the cushions and hit the Talk button. I’m a trained professional.
“H-hello?” A trained professional who panted like she’d run a marathon after making it all the way from the front door to the sofa.
“Vicky.” Kane’s voice flowed warmly over the phone. “Did you get the flowers I sent?”
“Those are from you?”
In the long pause that followed, I reflected that maybe I’d sounded a little too surprised.
“You thought they were from someone else?” A new note strained his voice.
“No, no. I just got home. I didn’t have a chance to read the card.” I searched my memory for an anniversary or other occasion I’d forgotten, but came up blank. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t have you pegged as a champagne-and-roses kind of werewolf.” Champagne, maybe. Kane liked expensive wines. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">