Christopher Moore - Bite Me

“Speaking of people,” said Bella. “Where’s the boy? I’m hungry.”

“He was feeding Elijah when we awoke,” said Rolf. “He’ll be along.”

Elijah was kept below in a vault similar to their own, except the prime vampire’s vault was airtight, locked from the outside, and was fitted with an airlock system so the boy could feed him.

“Irie, me undead dreadies,” said the pseudo-Hawaiian as he came up the steps, barefoot and shirtless, carrying a tray of crystal balloon goblets. “Cap’n Kona bringin’ ya the jammin’ grinds, yeah?”

The vampires each spoke a dozen languages but none of them had the slightest idea what the fuck Kona was talking about.

When he saw Makeda stretching, the blond Rastafarian stopped and nearly dumped the goblets off the tray. “Oh, Jah’s sweet love sistah, dat smoky biscuit givin’ me da rippin’ stiffy like dis fellah need to poke squid with that silver sistah on de Rolls-Royce, don’t you know?”

Makeda fell out of her “Nike” posture and looked at Rolf. “Huh?”

“I think he said he would enjoy violating you like a hood ornament,” said Rolf, taking a snifter from the tray and swirling dark liquid under his nose. “Tuna?”

“Just caught, bruddah,” said Kona, having trouble now balancing the tray while trying to hunch to conceal the erection tenting his baggies.

Bella took her snifter from the tray and grinned as she turned to look out the windscreen at the City. The Transamerica Pyramid was lit up in front of them, Coit Tower just to the right, jutting from Telegraph Hill like a great concrete phallus.

Makeda took a slinky step toward Kona, “Should I let him rub oil on me, Rolf? Do I look ashy?”

“Just don’t eat him,” Rolf said. He sat in one of the captain’s chairs, loosened the belt of his black kimono, and began working the Kevlar bodysuit over his feet.

“Quaint,” said Makeda. She took another step toward Kona, held her bodysuit before her, then dropped it. In an instant she had gone to mist and streamed into the suit, which filled as if a girl-shaped emergency raft had been deployed inside. She snatched the last goblet out of the air as Kona flinched and dumped the tray.

“Will you oil me up later, Kona?” Makeda said, standing over the surfer now as he cowered.

“Nah need, matey, you shinin’ plenny fine. But dat other ting bein’ a rascal fo’ sure.” He held his hand to his chest and ventured a glance up at her. “Please.”

“It’s your turn,” said Bella with a smile, her lips rouged with tuna blood.

“Oh, all right,” said Makeda. “But use a glass.”

Kona reached into the pocket of his baggies and came out with a shot glass, which he held with both hands before his head like a Buddhist monk receiving alms.

She pushed her thumb against one of her fangs, then let the blood drip into Kona’s shot glass. Ten drops in, she pulled her thumb away and licked it. “That’s all you get.”

“Oh, mahalo, sistah. Jah’s love on ya.” He drained the blood then licked the shot glass clean, as Makeda watched and sipped her tuna blood. After a full minute, with the ersatz Hawaiian still lapping away at the glass, his breath heaving like he was hoisting the anchor by hand, she took the shot glass and held it away from him. “You’re done.”

“Bug eater,” Bella said, disgusted. Now she was in her own bodysuit and had drained her goblet of blood.

“Oh, I think he’s cute,” said Makeda. “I may let him oil me up yet.” She ruffled Kona’s dreadlocks. He was staring blankly into space, his mouth open, drooling.

“Just don’t eat him,” Rolf said.

“Stop saying that. I won’t eat him,” said Makeda.

“He’s a licensed captain. We need him.”

“All right. I’m not going to eat him.”

Bella walked over, yanked a dreadlock from Kona’s head, and used it to tie back her own, waist-length black hair. The surfer didn’t flinch. “Bug eater,” she repeated.

Rolf was back at the cabinet, snapping together various bits of weaponry. “We should go. Grab a hood, gloves to go with the sunglasses. Elijah said they had some sort of sunlight weapons.”

“This is different,” said Bella, gathering all the high-tech kit from the weapons cabinet, as well as a long overcoat to cover it all. “We didn’t have all this in Macao.”

“As long as you’re not bored, darling,” said Rolf.

“I hate cats,” said Makeda as she pulled on her gloves.

Marvin the big red cadaver dog had done his job. He sat and woofed, which translated from the dog meant, “Biscuit.”

Nine vampire hunters paused and looked around. Marvin sat in front of a small utility shed in an alley in Wine Country, behind a particularly nasty Indian restaurant.

“Biscuit,” Marvin woofed. He could smell death amid the curries. He pawed the pavement.

“What’s he doing?” said Lash Jefferson. He, Jeff, and Troy Lee carried Super Soakers loaded with Grandma Lee’s Vampire Cat Remedy, other Animals had garden sprayers slung on their backs, except for Gustavo, who thought that making him carry a garden sprayer was racial stereotyping. Gustavo had a flame thrower. He wouldn’t say where he got it.

“Second Amendment, cabrones.” (The guy who sold Gustavo his green card had included two amendments from the Bill of Rights and Gustavo had chosen Two and Four, the right to bear arms and freedom from unreasonable search and seizure. [His sister Estrella had had seizures as a child. No bueno .] For five bucks extra he threw in the Third Amendment, which Gustavo bought because he was already sharing a three-bedroom house in Richmond with nineteen cousins and they didn’t have any room to quarter soldiers.)

“That’s his signal,” said Rivera. He was wearing his UV-LED leather jacket and felt like a complete dork. “When he sits and does that with his paw he’s found a body.”

“Or vampire,” added Cavuto.

“Biscuit,” woofed Marvin.

“He’s fucking with you,” said Troy Lee. “There’s nothing here.”

“Maybe in the shed,” said Lash. “There’s no lock on it.”

“Who would leave anything unlocked in this neighborhood?” asked Jeff.

“Biscuit please,” woofed Marvin. They had an agreement: As consideration for finding dead things, the cadaver dog, heretofore referred to as Marvin, shall receive one biscuit. There was some flexibility, however, and Marvin understood that in this case, they weren’t looking for dead humans, but dead cats, and despite their inherent tastiness, Marvin was not to eat the findees. “Biscuit,” he rewoofed. Where was the biscuit? It had been months since he’d led them to the dead things. (Well, it seemed like months. Marvin wasn’t very good with time.)

“Open it,” said Troy Lee. “We’ll cover you.”

Rivera and Cavuto moved to the shed, which was aluminum and had a roof shaped like an old-fashioned barn’s. The Animals moved in a semicircle and trained their weapons on the shed. (Grandma Lee had stayed home to watch wrestling on TV when she realized there weren’t going to be any firecrackers.)

“On three then,” said Rivera.

“Wait,” said Cavuto. He turned to Gustavo. “No fuego . Comprende? Do not fucking light up that flamethrower.”

“Sí,” said Gustavo. They had tested the flamethrower on the basketball court in Chinatown. It had a fairly short, wide spray. In other words, if Gustavo used it in the alley he would probably fry them all.

Barry turned and sprayed the flamethrower’s pilot light with a stream of vampire cat remedy. The flame went out with a sizzle. “Okay, go.”

“On three, then,” said Rivera. They all raised their weapons.