Tina peered into the mirror and spread a layer of cold cream over her face. She wiped the cream off, removing the smudged mascara and other makeup. She inspected her reflection, turning right, then left. She was lucky; the Morfran hadn’t left a mark on her face. Her fluffy pink bathrobe showed several rips and slashes, but she was in amazingly good shape for a zombie who’d been attacked by the Morfran.
Tina fluffed her hair with her fingers, held it straight out on both sides of her head, and sighed. She gathered her hair in a loose bun and fastened it with an elastic band. “What a mess. I’ll fix my makeup first.” She moved around some bottles and jars on her table. “Can you get my foundation? It’s in my purse on the back of the door.”
I fished out a bottle—the shade was Ghoulish Green—and tossed it to her. She smeared some on her face and blended it with a sponge.
“Can you believe I’ve got to do my own hair and makeup?” She pouted into the mirror. “Paul says we have to keep costs down for this concert ’cause it’s free. But when we do the national tour, I’ll get my own stylist.”
“Tina—”
“No.” She slammed Ghoulish Green down on the table, making the other bottles—and me—jump. “I don’t want to hear it, Vicky. You’re not going to talk me out of going onstage tonight.” She swiveled in her chair to face me. “Whatever attacked me killed those other zombies. I get that, okay? But I don’t want to know what it was. I don’t want to hear it could attack again. So if you’re going to lecture me with shit like that, get out.” She glared at me, her expression an odd mixture of pleading and defiance, like she expected me to walk away and was all set to show how little it mattered to her. Even though it did matter. A lot.
Her costume was flung over the back of a folding chair beside her dressing table. I picked up the dry cleaner’s bag, shook it out, and hung the costume with her purse on the back of the door. I sat on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her cheeks puffed out as she exhaled. She reached for the makeup bottle. “Ghoulish Green is such a stupid name. Like anybody who buys makeup wants to be reminded she’s a zombie.”
I raised an eyebrow. “This from Tina Terror?”
She bounced in her chair. “Cool stage name, huh? It goes, like, perfect with Monster Paul. All three backup singers have them, but the other two, Ashley and Jennifer, couldn’t find another word that worked with their real names, so they’re Hannah Horror and Polly Panic. But Tina Terror is the best.”
“Um, sure.” Hated Ghoulish Green, loved Tina Terror. No one ever accused Tina of being consistent.
Someone knocked. I stood, sliding a bronze knife from its sheath. “I’ll get it.”
“Okay.” Tina blinked, inspecting the thick black lines around her eyes, then started shoveling on sparkly silver eye shadow.
“Who is it?” I asked through the door.
“What, you want a knock-knock joke? Open the goddamn door.”
Norden. I put the knife away and pushed the door open. He was holding out the walkie-talkie I expected. What I didn’t expect was to see Daniel standing beside him.
“Hi,” he said, smiling warmly. “Norden said you were here. Welcome back.”
Half a dozen thoughts clamored for my attention. Loudest were You should’ve called him and You’ve gotta tell him you’re back with Kane.
“Uh,” I said, stepping outside. I closed the door behind me, then took Norden’s walkie-talkie and clipped it to my sword belt, feeling Daniel’s blue-eyed gaze. The weight of it made me fiddle with the walkie-talkie some more. “I, um, didn’t know you liked monster rock.” Once, we’d gone to hear Irish music in a pub in Southie.
He laughed. The sound was warm and easy, and he smiled when I looked at him. “I’m moonlighting for Norden. Word is there might be a demon attack, and I’ve learned enough about demons from you that I thought I could help.” His smile broadened. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
“We’re not dealing with an ordinary demon.” I’d worry about sorting out my personal life later. If I survived tonight. I briefed them on the Morfran, on Pryce, on his shadow demon Cysgod. “Pryce believes letting the Morfran gorge on the zombies will strengthen the demons. He’s trying to erase the boundary between the demon plane and the human world.”
“Oh, is that all?” Norden snorted. “And to think I gave up a perfectly good night of sitting home alone, getting plastered, for this.”
“What do you want us to do?” Daniel asked.
“Keep an eye out for Pryce. If you see him, contact me immediately.” I patted the walkie-talkie on my belt. “If the Morfran attacks, make sure I have room to do the ritual.”
Behind me, the door opened, and Tina called, “Vicky! Come help me with my costume.”
“Be right there.”
Norden and Daniel left to patrol the concert—Norden into the cemetery and Daniel toward the gate—and I went back into the dressing room. Tina had squeezed into the sparkly-silver boy shorts and was holding the matching bra against her front. She sported half a dozen slashes and gouges on her arms and torso from the Morfran attack.
“My aunt gave me some salve,” I said, fastening the hooks. “It might help with those wounds.” I doubted the salve would work on a zombie, but it was worth a try.
Tina inspected herself in the mirror. “I don’t know. They make me look, you know, edgier. More Night of the Living Dead. I guess they’re okay. You know, for shows and all. Hannah Horror has this big, gross, pus-filled sore here.” She pointed to her right cheek. “I thought I was gonna have to do something like that with makeup. But these look better. Like I clawed my way out of the grave or something.” She grinned at her reflection.
Someone rapped twice on the door. I reached for a knife but relaxed when a woman with spiky magenta hair stuck her pierced face inside. “Tina, they need you now,” she barked and was gone before I’d had a chance to count all her eyebrow rings.
Tina clasped her hands. “This is it,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Wish me luck.”
“Break a leg.” I kissed her cheek and wondered if that saying was just for actors. Whatever, suggesting bodily injury probably wasn’t the best way to wish a zombie good luck.
Tina didn’t care. Her grin was half-excited, half-terrified. I followed her outside. Her silver sequins glinted and gleamed under the lights. She turned left and hurried past the trailers, pausing once to stop and wave. Good thing zombies don’t feel the cold, I thought, watching her go. In an outfit like hers, I’d be chilly on a beach in the middle of August.
A couple of minutes later, Kane returned. “Any sign of Pryce?” I asked.
“I picked up his scent around one of the old Suffolk University buildings, but it was faint, and I lost it again. I don’t think he’s there now.”
Probably Pryce was jumping in and out of the demon plane until it was time to sic the Morfran on the zombies. “Let’s check it out.”
We exited the cemetery and pushed through throngs of zombies. Tremont Street was crammed with them, standing shoulder to shoulder, craning to see the stage. We skirted the thickest part of the crowd, crossed Tremont, and headed toward Bromfield Street. Half a block down Bromfield, there was more breathing room. More diversity in the audience, too. I spotted some werewolves and even a few humans. No vampires. It was dinnertime for them, and there wasn’t much in this crowd to whet their appetites.
We were almost at the building where Kane had scented Pryce when a low thrum of guitar chords pulsed from the speakers. A cheer went up. I turned around to see dry-ice fog covering the stage and spotlights sweeping the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted an amplified voice. “Zombies, monsters, and things that go bump in the night!” The cheering swelled.
“Vaughn? You there?” Norden’s voice came from my walkie-talkie. I unclipped it from my belt.
“What’s up?”
“Are you ready to meet your worst nightmare?” yelled the announcer.
Norden said something over the walkie-talkie, but I couldn’t hear him over the music and the roaring crowd.
“Are you ready to dance with the dead?”
“What?” I shouted into the handset. I pressed it against my right ear and plugged my left.
“Are you ready to meet …”
Over the walkie-talkie, static. “… spotted the target. I’m …” More static.
“Where?”
“MONSTER PAUL?”
With a scream of guitars, music blasted out. Pyrotechnics exploded onstage, and Tina and the other two backup singers appeared through the smoke, doing a stiff zombie-walk dance. All around, zombies jumped up and mimicked their movements. The noise was ear-shattering.
I thought Norden said “cemetery,” but thanks to the static, the guitars, and the screaming crowd, I wasn’t sure.
“Repeat that.”
More fireworks onstage, and Monster Paul ran out. The crowd went berserk as he launched into the first verse of “Grave Robber.”
Through the walkie-talkie, Norden screamed.
“Norden!” I took off running down Bromfield Street toward the burial ground.
Kane caught up immediately. “Cemetery!” I shouted, and he surged ahead. At Tremont Street, the crowd was nearly impenetrable, but the zombies moved aside for Kane. I followed; it was better than trying to shove my way through. Zombies don’t move unless they want to.
The security guards had left their post at the gate. A dozen steps inside the cemetery, I stopped, breathing hard. Nothing moved. The music continued to blare, but we were behind the amplifiers, so it wasn’t as brain-thumpingly loud. I tried to raise Norden on the walkie-talkie but got only static.
“Norden said he saw Pryce, but we lost contact,” I told Kane. “Norden may be hurt. Let’s split up and look for him. Be careful.”
