Chapter 1 of Bad to the Bone by Jeri Smith-Ready

Chapter 1 of Bad to the Bone

Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On

The things I believe in can be counted on one hand-even if that hand were two-fifths occupied with, say, smoking a cigarette, or making a bunny for a shadow puppet show, or forming "devil horns" at a heavy metal concert. The things I believe in boil down to three major categories:

1. Rock 'n' roll

2. Vampires

3. A damn good pair of shoes

Number two came about when one bit me, in the middle of what could non-skankily be called an "intimate encounter." Number three came later, when I gained the identity and thus the possessions of my dead-undead boss Elizabeth Vasser, owner of WVMP, the Lifeblood of Rock 'n' Roll.

I'm two people, but only on paper. In real life, I'm just Ciara Griffin, underpaid marketing manager and not-paid miracle worker for a vampire radio station.

On nights like this, marketing is a miracle in itself.

The Smoking Pig is packed with fans who chose to spend Halloween Eve-aka Hell Night, Mischief Night, or Tuesday-in a bar with their favorite DJs, the ones who whisk them through time into another era, and into a world where vampires just might exist.

I lean back against the brass bar rail to avoid getting trampled by a couple dressed as Marilyn Monroe and Marilyn Manson. The guy in the Monroe costume can't be more than twenty-one, but he's twisting to a fifty-year-old tune with as much enthusiasm as his grandfather probably did.

Above me, the station's long black banner hangs on one of the rustic pub's long wooden crossbeams. Draped with fake cobwebs, it features our trademark logo, an electric guitar with two bleeding fang marks.

The two Marilyns jostle me again, and I reach up to check the status of my mile-high ponytail. Wearing a floral short-dress as twenty percent of the Go-Go's (the Belinda Carlisle percent), I'm glad the crowd provides plenty of heat. October in Maryland shows no mercy to beachwear.

"Excuse me," shouts a voice to my left, straining to be heard over Jerry Lee Lewis's slammin' piano.

I peer over rosy-lensed sunglasses at a young man about my age and height-midtwenties, five-eightish, with a lanky frame verging on heroin-chic thin.

"The bartender said I should speak to you," he says.

I examine his swooping bleach-blond hair, skinny jeans, and faded Weezer T-shirt. The smudged black guyliner makes his hazel eyes pop out behind a pair of round glasses.

"Billy Idol meets Harry Potter. I like it."

He puts a hand to his ear. "What?"

"Your costume," I shout, my voice already raw after only an hour of partying.

He gives a twitchy frown and shifts the messenger bag slung over his left shoulder. "I'm Jeremy Glaser, a journalism grad student at University of Maryland. I came up to do a story on your station."

Oops. I guess it's not a costume.

Jeremy extends a heavily tattooed arm toward the rear wall of the Smoking Pig, away from the stage and the speakers. "Can we talk?"

I reach back to the bar for my ginger ale. "Interviews by appointment only. Give me your e-mail and-"

"It's a freelance assignment for Rolling Stone."

My glass slips, and I spill soda down my arm. "Whoa!" I shake the liquid off my hand and grab a bar napkin. "I mean, wow."

He gestures for me to join him at the back of the Pig. This time I don't hesitate.

We weave through the crowd toward a dark corner, my espadrilles sticking in the booze puddles. I take the opportunity to rein in my galloping ambition and figure out how to play my hand.

Why didn't this guy call ahead? Either he's an imposter (always my first guess, due to my own former occupation), or he's committing journalistic ambush to see if we'll embarrass ourselves.

"So what's the angle?" I ask him over my shoulder.

"The first issue of the New Year will focus on the death of independent radio." He turns to me as we reach the back wall. "You guys are putting up a valiant battle against the inevitable."

"Thanks. I guess." I hand him my business card. "Ciara Griffin, marketing and promotions manager."

"I know who you are." He examines my card in the light of a dancing skeleton lantern, then jots a note under my name. "Keer-ah," he mumbles, noting the correct pronunciation.

I keep my smile sweet. "Could I take a peek at your credentials?"

He pulls a handful of folded paper from his bag's outside pocket. "The one with the letterhead is the assignment from Rolling Stone editorial. The other pages are e-mails discussing the nature of the story."

I angle the paper to the light. "How does a journalism student snag such a major gig?"

"My professor has a connection." He adjusts his glasses with his middle finger. "Also, I can be pushy."

"I like pushy." I hand him back the papers. "In fact, I'd like to buy pushy a drink."

My best friend Lori swoops by with a trayful of empty glasses and "horrors d'oeuvres" plates. I reach out to stop her-gently, due to her momentum and the breakable items. She's dressed as another twenty percent of the Go-Go's, a small black Jane Wiedlin wig covering her white-blond hair.

"Hey, Ciara." She sends her words to me but aims her perky smile at Jeremy.

"Lori, I know you're busy, but can you get this gentleman from Rolling Stone-" I emphasize the last two words "-whatever he'd like to drink? Bill it to the station."

"I can't accept," he says, impervious to her cute. "Conflict of interest."

"Put it on my personal tab," I tell her. "A drink between new friends."

She beams at him. "There's a dollar-a-pint Halloween special on our dark microbrew."

He hesitates. "Do you have any absinthe?"

"Um, I'll check." Lori tries not to laugh as she looks at me. "Another ginger ale?"

"Definitely."

Lori winks before walking away. She knows I always stay more sober than my marks.

I take the last sip of my flat soda to wet my drying mouth. Dealing with the press is usually the jurisdiction of my immediate boss, Franklin, the sales and publicity director. Despite great effort, he's never raised the interest of a national publication, much less Rolling Stone. And now they've fallen in our laps, waiting for me to fill them with fascination.

Jeremy crosses his arms and examines me, in a skeptical pose right out of All the President's Men. "So what gave you the idea to start this vampire DJ gimmick?"

"It's not a gimmick. They're really vampires." I offer an ironic smile. "They're each stuck in the time they were 'turned,' which is why they dress and talk like people from back in the day." I point to the stage, where a tall man with slicked-back auburn hair surveys his poodle-skirted, ponytailed groupies through a pair of dark sunglasses. "Spencer, for instance, became a vampire in Memphis in the late fifties. He was around when Sun Records discovered Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, all those guys." He sends the girls a fake-shy smile as he arranges his stack of 45s. "Spencer was there at the birth of rock 'n' roll. You could even say he was one of its midwives."

Jeremy looks at me like I've just recited my grocery list. He hasn't written any of this down. "My research says you came up with this Lifeblood of Rock 'n' Roll thing in a desperate effort to boost ratings."

"It was either that or get bought out by Skywave." I still have corporate-takeover nightmares, where my fanged friends are forced to spin Top 40 hits until they stake themselves in despair. "Something wrong with trying to survive?"

"No, it's genius." He checks out the Lifeblood of Rock 'n' Roll banner. "But how long can it last?"

"Well..." I scratch my nose to cover my wince. Despite our rabid fan base, ratings since the summer have tanked. The public at large is beginning to yawn and look for the Next Big Thing.

It doesn't help that the DJs don't look or act like stereotypical vampires. They wear blue jeans instead of capes. They'd rather guzzle beer, bourbon, and tequila than sip red wine. They don't brood, except about having to record promos for car dealerships and power vacs. They never attend the opera.

And much as the vampires enjoy their adoring audiences, they want to keep their real nature secret, to avoid the inevitable mass freakout and subsequent stake-fest. Survival is paramount, and without WVMP, our vampires would lose their sun-shielded home under the station. Not to mention their whole reason for "living": the music.

"It can last forever," I tell Jeremy. "Rock 'n' roll will never die. Just like vampires."

A muscle near his eye twitches-the classic journalist spare-me-the-spin facial tic.

Lori arrives with our drinks. "Sorry, no absinthe. Hope beer's okay."

"Whatever." Jeremy accepts his drink and hands her two dollars. "Keep the change."

Ignoring his refusal of my generosity, I raise my new glass of ginger ale. "To the music."

He clinks and sips, then nearly spits the experimental dark microbrew back into the glass. There's a reason they sell it for a buck.

He wipes the foam from his mouth with a bar napkin. "I noticed that after the last ratings report you cut your advertising rates by ten percent. Sounds like you're having trouble holding the public's attention and it's hurting your bottom line."

"Every business has its ups and downs."

"But commercial radio is hopeless. How can you compete with downloads and satellite stations?" He raises his multi-studded eyebrows. "What's next, werewolves?"

I ignore the jest. "We'll compete the same way radio stations always have-by providing a unique experience and quality entertainment."

Jeremy doesn't record those weasel words. I scan the bar, hoping to see David our general manager, or another DJ-anyone who can impress this guy.

The front door opens, and in walks my savior.

"Come on." I beckon Jeremy to follow me. "Meet our star."

The reporter looks past me and his jaw drops, transforming his face from cyni-cool to little-kid glee. "Yeah yeah. That'd be great."

As I push through the crowd, I glance back to see Jeremy close behind me, frantically flipping the pages of a small notebook.

By the time I get to the door, Shane is surrounded by a gaggle of college girls. Towering over them at six-five, he greets them with an easy grin, but when his gaze rises to meet mine, his pale blue eyes light up with such force, the groupies' smiles turn to scowls.

The women look over their shoulders at me. One is dressed as Courtney Love, in a white baby-doll dress, black combat boots, and smeared mascara-presumably to appeal to grunge-boy Shane. As I pass through the gauntlet, she gives me and my costume a glare that could melt Teflon.

I take Shane's hand, then pull him close to speak in his ear. "This guy's from Rolling Stone."

He tilts his chin to look at me, eyes wide but holding a hint of suspicion. "You're kidding."

"I've never lied to you." He's the only one I can say that about. I turn to introduce the reporter. "Jeremy Glaser-"

"Shane McAllister," Jeremy says, then reaches forward and pumps Shane's hand hard enough to hurt a mere human. "I love your show. I listened to it back when I went to Sherwood College, in your pre-vampire days. Your indie-grunge mix is so eclectic, and yet you tie it all together seamlessly. It's inspiring."

Shane's reticence melts in the face of the reporter's worship. "Wow. I mean, thanks." He sweeps his tangle of pale brown hair off his face in a self-conscious motion. "I mean, good to meet you."

"Would you consider an interview?"

"Seriously?" Shane smoothes the front of his flannel shirt. "Me?"

"He'll meet you over there in a sec." I look at Jeremy and point to the place where we were just talking. The reporter salutes with his little notebook and hurries to the back of the bar.

Shane squeezes my elbow. "You look cute tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Always." He sneaks a kiss, and I can't resist stretching it into an unprofessional public display of affection. Finally, with an audible sigh, Shane pulls away and speaks low in my ear. "So what should I tell this guy?"

"He says his angle is the struggle of independent radio, so give him your authenticity spiel and how radio should be all about the music." I hook my pinky into the belt loop of his faded ripped jeans. "You know, the stuff I find so adorable."

"Adorably naive, right." He chuckles, brushing my ear with a breath warm enough to prove he had his fill of, uh, sustenance before the party. "What about the undead issue? The standard 'pretend to be a human pretending to be a vampire' routine?"

"Yes, with lots of wink-winks. Your usual ironic self."

"Got it." He gives my cheek a quick kiss before heading off to join Jeremy.

Bill Riley's "Flying Saucers Rock 'n' Roll" fades out, and Spencer's honey-smooth drawl comes out of the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we got two hours left till Halloween. Time for me to say good night, but I'm gonna turn it over to my great friend, Mississippi Monroe Jefferson." The crowd whistles and hollers, especially the older members. Spencer continues, "He'll play you some blues that I guarantee'll send a shiver down your spine."

He steps aside and adjusts the microphone down to the level of Monroe, who has appeared in the chair behind him, like in a magic trick. Another cheer. The stage light makes Monroe's suit glow white, setting off his smooth ebony skin and the lustrous scarlet of his acoustic guitar.

Monroe lets loose with a weepingly beautiful version of Robert Johnson's "Me and the Devil Blues." I smile at the choice; the story of his turning is well known by his fans. Like several legendary musicians of his place and time, Monroe supposedly went to the crossroads at midnight to meet with the devil, to trade his soul for the ability to master the blues. A vampire was waiting for him, and the rest is history.

The blues always makes me want to drink, so I head to the bar and signal to Stuart, the owner of the Smoking Pig, who is making a valiant attempt to look like Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran.

He slides a bottle of my favorite beer across the bar. "How's it going with the reporter?"

"Journalists are a lot harder to impress than the general public." I watch him light a cigarette. "Any luck on that smoking ban waiver?"

Stuart shakes his head in disgust. "I sent the state a photo of the sign hanging over our front door. I said, 'If you look closely, you'll notice that under the words "The Smoking Pig" is an illustration of a pig with a cigarette.’ They didn't care." He takes a hostile puff. "Fascists."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Set up an outdoor lounge with space heaters. It'll cost a fortune."

"Hey, Ciara," comes a voice at my elbow. Lori sidles close and adjusts the poof of my ponytail. "I remember that guy Jeremy from my History of the Middle East class senior year. Smart, but kinda intense. He said he hoped the Iraq war lasted long enough for him to be an embedded reporter."

"A thrill-seeker, huh?" I watch him in the corner speaking with Shane, scribbling madly in his notebook. Shane maintains a casual posture against the wall, but his supernatural stillness creates a magnetic field that seems to have snagged the journalist. "I don't like it."

"Why not?" she asks me just as Monroe finishes his song to a rush of applause. "Don't you want the publicity?"

"I want fawning puff pieces about how cool it is to be a vampire. I don't want someone to find out the truth."

Lori hurries off to pick up an order as Monroe begins another song. I watch his fingers glide over the strings like a water bug skimming a pond. He makes it look so easy. Shane tried to teach me guitar last month-I stopped after two days and ten blisters.

A familiar arm slides over my shoulders. I lean into Shane and crane my neck to look behind him. "Where's the reporter?"

"Interviewing Spencer." His jaw twitches in contemplation. "I think he wants to be bitten."

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