10
He loafs on luxurious black satin sheets, propped up on black satin pillows. He looks exactly as he looked in the iconic photograph. The big, bony face sun-baked to the shade of a walnut shell. The high creased forehead, the parentheses of wrinkles creasing his cheeks from nose to mouth. His pompadour, brows, eyelashes, and goatee are of such a pale blond they look maggot-white against that eternally preserved suntan. He wears slim black leather jeans, thick black leather wristbands, and nothing else. His bony bare feet are oddly small and dead-white, the toenails polished—surprise—jet-black.
His eyes of blue ice take their measure of me, and he grins, fangs popping out from his satyric lips. “Jumping the line, child?”
“No, Jake. I really need to see you.”
“So eager for Jake? Can’t wait? I love a child with spirit. I’ll forgive you, but just this once.” He pats the bed. “Come and lie beside me. What’s your name?”
Just what I want to do my first night in Berkeley. Get in bed with an undead disco superstar. I decide to humor him for the sake of the job and perch on the edge of the mattress, gripping my Eye and my Cross. “I’m Abby Teller.”
His hand whips out, seizes my wrist, and yanks me flat on my back. My spine arches over his skinny thighs. His supernatural power makes Brand’s bold magic seem feeble. I feel as if I’ve been seized by a force field, vast and relentless.
I brandish my Eye and my Cross so fiercely, I nearly tear the chains off my neck. Jake takes one look and shrugs, as if my magically protective amulets trouble him not at all.
Am I scared? Witless, but more than that, I am vexed. Why should the undead wield such power in the world of the living? Me, I’m alive. I’m a magician with human magic. I’m in charge of this world, night or day. “Let go of me, please.”
He doesn’t let go. “Abby Teller. Such a tragic name.”
I raise my head. “Why tragic?”
“Once upon a time there was a little girl named Abby Teller from a place called Buckeye Heights. The little girl died long ago. Everybody knows that. You can’t be the Abby Teller.”
For the first time since I’ve entered Number Twenty-seven, a chill–a truly chilly, truly arctic chill–shivers down my spine. This monster is a denizen of the World of Magic? This monster has heard the strange rumors about me? But how? And where?
“Yes, I’m the Abby Teller, and I’m not dead.” I’m getting kind of tired of repeating myself and freaked out by the notion that people think I’m dead. Just what did Mama not tell me? I take care not to look too closely in his eyes of blue ice. I pulse out a spark of my power and am exceedingly pleased when he shrinks back. “I’m your new super.”
“Are you really? A pretty child like you?”
“I am, and I need a check for your rent.”
“Of course you do. I’m so glad you’re our new super. I’m so glad you’re not dead. The famous Abby Teller! I expected no less of Abracadabra. Stanley was such a freaky unfamous little bore.”
Jake turns my hand over, widening his eyes at the puncture wound on my thumb. His tongue flicks out and licks, a sensation like the touch of dry ice, sticky and absolutely freezing.
The sensation pierces me, a subzero dagger igniting the peculiar heat dry ice imparts. A strange desire to surrender my living heat, to assuage the freezing cold, nearly overcomes me.
I don’t think so. I yank my hand away, perform an excruciating sit-up over his thighs, and spring to my feet. I pull the paper tape from my handbag, hurl the scrap at him. “I need a check for this month’s rent, plus the prior two months, plus late fees. That comes to six thousand, six hundred, sixty-six dollars–”
“And sixty-six cents,” Jake finishes wearily, glancing at the paper tape, then tossing it aside. “So many sixes. That’s awfully devilish of Abracadabra. And if I don’t give you a check tonight?”
“I’ll start eviction proceedings tomorrow,” I lie, ramping up enough conviction to impress him.
And send the Vice Squad, I want to add. But hold my tongue.
“Child, I regret to tell you I simply haven’t got the funds. You know how record companies are. Vampires, vampires, every one. Scorpio Rising is waiting for a royalty check. The Black Album is selling and selling, even after all these many tedious years. But if we must wait for a check, sadly, so must you.”
“Sadly, I need a check from you tonight. I saw plenty of money changing hands in your living room.”
“Oh, that. Our fans’ donations merely defray the cost of the beverages we provide for free.”
“Right now, Jake.”
Jake rolls his undead eyes and heaves a theatrical sigh.
“Children,” he announces to the crowd in the room. “Who’s got an extra donation tonight? We need to raise seven grand, give or take. It’s for a good cause.” He thinks again. “It’s to save the Earth.” He picks up an ashtray from the nightstand and sends his version of a collection plate out into the crowd.
The blue-jeaned guys and gals dig deep in their pockets and backpacks, eagerly unearthing their hard-earned doubloons. The ashtray passes around the room and returns to Jake. He counts out two hundred dollars and twenty-seven cents.
“Do-NA-tions, children!” he screeches in his infamous falsetto. “This won’t do! This won’t do, at all!”
“Excuse me, Jake?” says a trembling voice from the back of the room.
The crowd parts, and a reedy young girl sidles to the side of the bed. With her sallow little face and lank pale hair, she could pass for your classic virgin peasant girl in one of the old stories, complete with a rumpled denim shift, funky boots, and a ragged knapsack. “Maybe I can help?”
Jake pats the bed. “Come closer, child. What’s your name?”
“I’m. . . .I’m Becky.”
“How can you help me, pretty Becky?”
“I’ve got, like, a credit-card check? I found it in the mail today before Mom got home from work? Her credit line is, like, eight thousand dollars?”
“Child! You can’t forge Mom’s signature. Can you?”
“I, like, don’t have to? She gave me my own card. I can sign for things myself. Should I write the check to you, Jake?”
“No, no, child. I’d have to clear that through our bank, which could take days. Abby Teller needs her money tonight. Why don’t you write a check for eight thousand dollars to the Garden of Abracadabra with a note that the sum covers the rent, etcetera for Number Twenty-seven.” He smiles slyly at me. “Then you owe me one thousand, three hundred, thirty-three dollars, and thirty-four cents. I’ll take that in cash.”
He holds out his hand.
I smile slyly back. “After the check clears, Jake. After the check clears.”
Becky pulls a felt-tip pen from her knapsack, scrawls on the check, and hands it to me, along with the credit card company’s letter congratulating Mom for being such a valued customer with a credit line of eight thousand dollars.
I examine the documents. Check and letter look authentic. The letter, of course, doesn’t state how much of the credit line is currently available. Well, hell. I only hope Becky can dream up a plausible explanation that will satisfy Mom, but I doubt it. Maybe Mom can work something out with the fraud department and stop payment on the check.
In which case, Scorpio Rising will owe the Garden of Abracadabra three months’ back-rent, and I’ll have no choice but to evict them under Alameda County’s landlord-tenant law.
Great work, if you can find it.
Jake pulls her down on the bed. “Come sit beside me, child.” He grins, and fangs pop out from his satyric lips. “What did you say your name was?”
********
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