Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

“I really don’t think resorting to snorting baking powder is helping him,” Christian said eventually.

Faye ignored that too. “And vampirism is like sex.”

“How?” Christian demanded. “How is it like . . . that . . . at all?”

“Little hints of vampirism are very alluring,” Faye said. “Subtle touches. But we don’t want them thinking of real vampirism, any more than we want them thinking of real sex. That stuff is scary. What we need is for the danger to seem perfectly safe.”

“That’s impossible,” Christian told her flatly.

Faye gave him a brilliant smile. “That’s showbiz.”

She pressed play again, so that on the screen Christian was looming, the reporter was shrinking back, and Bradley was interposing himself between them, talking lightly and easily, speaking lines that Faye had approved.

In the brightly lit tour bus, Faye uncrossed her legs and rose from her perch on the table, and began giving instructions.

Christian wasn’t sure which he found most depressing, Faye’s list of commands or Bradley’s earnest platitudes on the screen.

“This tour is going to be a journey. Journeys are all about discovery: we’ll learn things about each other, about the fans. About ourselves.” Bradley flashed his safely dangerous grin for the ladies. “We’ll be bonding closer than ever as a band. And who knows who we’ll meet along the way. . . .”

“You do realize what this interview means,” Faye said. “It means that I want the rest of the tour to be perfect. See to it, boys. Don’t let me down.”

Their first tour stop was in Liverpool, which was always an intimidating venue for any band, as the shadow of the Beatles hung over the city. But it went off pretty well: the acoustics of the hall were good, and there was standing room only, nine hundred people chanting their names and snatches of their songs.

Sometimes Bradley just sang while Christian took lead guitar, but mostly Christian and Bradley ended up taking lead guitar and bass while Josh and Pez backed them up on the keyboard and the drums.

Bradley was always at the forefront, but he was a pleasure to follow. Onstage it wasn’t annoying that he was their golden leader: onstage it worked, and onstage Josh wasn’t afraid to be with Christian. They all played very differently, but somehow when they were performing, it ended up in harmony. Somehow they were able to sweep everybody else along with them.

These were the only times Christian had ever felt like he belonged to something, like he belonged to some people, since he had become a vampire.

They came off the stage with most of their makeup sweated off, except for Christian, as vampires didn’t sweat, and beaming, except for Christian, as Faye had forbidden him to look anything but vampirically brooding when there might be cameras around.

But he was possibly smiling a bit, face turned toward the inside of the high collar of his deeply embarrassing cape, as Bradley swept them all into their dressing room.

“How about that, then, boys?” Bradley asked. “The Beatles have nothing on us. Well, none of the Beatles were vampires, were they?”

He ruffled Christian’s hair. Christian was in a good enough mood to let him.

“There were some rumors about John Lennon,” he said.

He recounted the whole thing to his mum on the phone that night, and she seemed really impressed. She thanked him again for the front-row tickets for the show in Birmingham. He told her again how much he was looking forward to seeing her.

Christian hung up the phone and drew the lid of his coffin shut, and was content for a brief moment in the dark.

Then the lid of his coffin was pulled away with a wrench, leaving him blinking at his white hotel-room ceiling.

Until his ceiling was obscured by the face of a woman, leaning over his coffin with her black hair hanging into his eyes and her fangs glittering. Before he could speak, before he could even move, her cold hand was fastened at his throat.

“Hello, Chris,” the vampire whispered.

Christian had never met a girl vampire before.

She was so quiet. There was no heartbeat, no breath or crackle of living cells. Christian found he did not want to meet her eyes and see how far from human he looked to everyone around him.

She said her name was Lucille.

She’d let him rise from his coffin. Now she was perched gracefully on a sofa in Christian’s hotel suite and she’d refused his nervous offer of a glass of blood.

“Sometimes I enjoy a chilled glass of white wine, with a dash of blood warm from the wrist,” Lucille remarked. “I call it the true rosé. Have you ever tried it?”