Christopher Buehlman - The Lesser Dead

“You!” the dago said, pointing at me. “Don’t do that, it doesn’t help.”

He looked me in the eye.

Gotcha!

You don’t need eye contact to charm, but the subject needs to know it’s him you’re talking to. And eye contact definitely makes it take better.

“It helps plenty,” I said, “but I won’t be a bad boy once I’m in.”

I kept his eyes nailed to mine; he wouldn’t have looked away if a golden unicorn walked up waving a big boner. Which could have happened there.

“No?” he said, starting to drool a little.

“Of course not. So point at me and tell me to go in.”

He did exactly that.

General groans erupted from the others.

“No fuckin’ way,” somebody said, as outraged as if St. Peter had waved a known pervert into heaven. Somebody else said, “I’m bringin’ a cherry bomb tomorrow.” The balls-trippy lady, in a spasm of druggy clarity, even said, “He hypnotized him! I watched him do it!”

But fuck them, I was in.

I walked through a sea of half-dressed and freaky partiers; man, this was the place to be. Here was a woman all in blue body paint with seashells on her tits, and what tits, and there went a super-buff Asian guy wearing zebra-skin pants and cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, no shirt, a monkey on his shoulder. At first I thought it was weird that they let monkeys in, but I had heard about a horse getting in with Bianca Jagger riding it, so what’s a monkey? But then I realized the monkey was stuffed. It wore a little cowboy hat, too. Funny a monkey and a buff Oriental could wear hats, but not that schmuck outside. Asian guy smiled at me. I had heard this place was a circus, and boy that was no lie. A big crescent moon hung over the dance floor with a light-up coke spoon under his nose, the busboys ran around in short-shorts and bow ties like Christmas presents, everybody’s hand on their asses or thighs, people were actually screwing on the balcony, and there were gays everywhere . This was like the Indianapolis 500 of gays, all souped-up and rolling around in circles, happy as hell, and why shouldn’t they be? Nobody was going to curb-stomp them in here, nobody was going to judge them. And, let’s be clear, I wasn’t judging them. I just didn’t want them, you know, touching me. Not even the guy who looked like Freddie Mercury. I mean, I thought he looked like Freddie Mercury. Turns out it fucking was Freddie Mercury.

Who else did I make that night besides Grace and Freddie? Andy Warhol for sure, you can’t miss that wig. Captain Kirk from Star Trek . Billy Joel. One of the chicks from Charlie’s Angels , not Farrah (I wish!) but one of the brunettes, her brunette locks tumbling all down her bare back. I wanted to bite her, but she was going to be hard to get away from her table. I didn’t recognize anyone else at her table, but they were attractive and intense and at least two of them were coking it up. Cocaine people don’t charm easy; what you want is a drunk or a pothead.

Then I saw her.

The prettiest girl in the place, and that was no easy feat here.

I couldn’t remember her name, but it was that girl from the remake of King Kong , her character name had been Dwan. She was prettier than Fay Wray had been, sort of all-American wholesome but smart in the eyes. I mostly didn’t care for the remake, but I saw it twice just because of Dwan. She was out on the floor dancing, really graceful, simple black dress. I think they were playing Earth, Wind and Fire. I watched her for a minute, then I went out on the floor, too. I had to duck the flailing arms of a highly energetic pantsless fireman on roller skates; earlier he’d been letting people pull him around by his cock, and I stopped to boogie with a cute little lady like eighty years old, what the hell was she doing here? But then somebody picked her up and the whole crowd passed her overhead as carefully as they might pass a baby while she giggled and spread her arms and legs wide. I worked my way closer to Dwan. She smelled like the best perfume, just undercut with sweat; I was starting to get a little bit aroused. I looked at her face while I danced, waiting for her to notice me staring at her and then look down at me so I could get my hooks in her, tell her to follow me outside or to a booth; I was actually hot enough and hungry enough to risk biting her in a booth in here. Anything could happen in here. People who saw would probably ask me to do them next. Anyway, Dwan turned her face to me and I caught her eyes and held them. But before I could say anything, I got bumped into. Hard. I looked over and saw this very tall, incredibly sexy brunette in a black choker and a black sequined flapperlike dress with tassels. She was staring down at me.

“Sorry,” she said, like really she wasn’t.

Was this how she flirted?

The girl from King Kong danced away.

Now the Fifty-Foot Woman grabbed my hand, danced me off the floor, danced me almost into one of the short-shorts-wearing busboys holding a tub over his head, danced me up against the wall. Don’t get me wrong, I like a woman who knows what she wants, but I really had a crush on what’s-her-name, so I craned my neck around trying to keep a bead on where she went. She was at the bar, doing that incredibly sexy thing where she lifts up one foot and lets the shoe dangle off her toes. I wanted to bite her ankle, her heel, I was drooling.

The tall woman grabbed my cheeks in her hand and pointed my face toward hers. Her face looked young, vaguely Liza Minnelli, but she didn’t smell young. I caught a whiff of her breath. It smelled like a dead dog in a Dumpster.

“Jessica Lange wouldn’t give you the time of day unless you charmed her,” she said. Her voice was lower than I would have thought. “And I’m not having that. Not here.”

She lifted her lip in a brief snarl, gave me the fang-tip fuck you .

“Holy shit,” I said.

“That’s right.”

Now she took my hand and put it palm-down on the front of her dress. There was a rather large dick there.

“Holy shit,” I said.

“That’s right, too. Now run back home before you get stepped on, little cockroach. You’re dirty, you smell like trains, and you don’t belong here.”

She/he (I’ll stick with she for simplicity’s sake) stepped back and gestured at the door.

“But,” I said, just about to protest that all I wanted to do was dance, but I didn’t get past but before she grabbed my hand again, her grip as hard as pliers.

“Wrong answer,” she said. Out came the fangs and she bit me . Fucking hard .

All the way through the bones of my hand.

My eyes teared up from pain, not from wanting to actually cry or anything. The dead shouldn’t cry, not even the lesser dead, which I clearly was next to her.

She was stronger, older, and it was her place. His place, whatever.

I grabbed my hand to keep from bleeding all over myself, licked it so I would heal faster.

And I left.

Alot happened while I was gone.

Nobody had heard from the Latins, for one thing, but I’ll get to that.

The first thing I saw when I got back was Peter and Alfie sitting back against the rock wall looking sleepy, holding hands. Camilla had already gone to her locker; she was singing a song, but too softly for me to understand any of the words. It sounded like a lullaby.

“You guys all right?” I asked.

“Yes, Joey,” Peter said, but it looked like he was having trouble keeping his head up. It was still a good hour till sunrise.

“Hey, Cvets,” I called into Cvetko’s room, “did these kids eat?”

Cvets wasn’t there.

“Joey,” Peter said, sounding almost as quiet as his sister.