Chapter One one It''s almost sundown in Los Angeles, and Dracula''s ashes won''t shut up. He''s been at it since yesterday, calling out for me, calling out for anyone, his voice strained and distant, so soft I can never quite make out the words, so unforgiving I can never escape him. I cover my ears and recite a prayer I no longer believe, but it''s not enough to blot out the sound of him. I have to try something else. I have to bury him. Again. So now here I am, standing in the shadow of the Hollywood sign, a shovel in one hand, an urn of his ashes in the other. Up here on Mount Lee is as good a place as any to lay him to rest.
It''s remote and hard to get to, and at the very least, I won''t forget where I put him. The last bits of daylight have dissolved across the horizon, and I move through the overgrown weeds, picking a spot between the letters Y and W where the earth is soft and malleable. Then I start digging. Below me, the city buzzes pleasantly like a swarm of locusts. It''s the middle of June, the heat creeping in, and this isn''t how I wanted to spend my evening. Of course, I never want to spend my nights with him, but what I want doesn''t count for much. As I work, the urn quivers on the earth next to me. The color of midnight, it''s not much bigger than a man''s fist.
This isn''t the only urn of Dracula''s ashes, but right now, it''s the only one that matters. It''s the loudest of the bunch, that''s for sure. The others back at the house are usually content to keep quiet, murmuring no louder than common sleepwalkers, but not this one. It''s made up its mind to make my life hell. And I''ve made up my mind to do the same to him. Another whisper from the urn, and I nudge it with my heel. "Stop," I say, my feet sinking in the mud. I hiked all the way here in my pilgrim pumps and satin dress, up the Santa Monica Mountains, even snagging my hem on a low-lying shrub.
Dracula doesn''t care. He just keeps at it. He''s never been very good at keeping his mouth shut. Not that he''s really got a mouth, not now, not after I buried that stake in his cold, dead heart. Anybody who knows the story--and let''s face it: these days, who doesn''t know the story?--will always wonder the same thing. He''s dead, right? Turned to dust decades ago? Shouldn''t everyone be safe now? Please. As if men like him are ever that easy to vanquish. They always figure out the best way around the rules, bending the world in their favor.
For most of us, death is the undeniable end. For him, it''s only a minor inconvenience. A sharp breeze cuts through the dusk, rattling the letters in the sign like restless bones. The air harsh and sweet, I close my eyes, the buzz of the city fading away. That''s when I hear them. All the sweet heartbeats in Los Angeles, thrumming inside me at once. They waft up from the valley like steam, and my skin hums, my teeth sharpening, reminding me of what I am, what he''s done to me. The sound of Dracula rises again, almost singing now, and even though I still can''t hear him clearly, I can guess what he''s saying.
"Take what belongs to you, Lucy," he used to tell me. "Take anything you want." I do my best not to listen. My hands blistered, I keep digging, promising myself the same thing as always: that I won''t end up like him. I won''t become a monster. I''d rather waste away, which is exactly what I''m doing, hunger gnawing at me night after night, my stomach aching and cavernous and raw. It turns out a vampire can live a very long time without taking a drink. It just hurts like hell to do it.
I grimace, eager to get this over with, as a shadow passes over my face. "Are you all right?" A voice materializing, thin as mist, next to me. I turn and see her, moving like a phantom in the twilight, so quiet I never heard her coming. I smile. "Hello, Bee." She grins back. "Hello yourself." The melody of the city fades to static, and it''s just me and her and these ashes that won''t ever rest.
Her head down, Bee huddles close to me, and the hollowness, the silence within her, reminds me of how we''re connected. There''s no heartbeat inside either of us. We''re at once alive and dead, even though we aren''t the same. Bee''s no vampire like me. She died and came back a different way, a way she doesn''t like talking about. That means Dracula''s not her problem, he''s mine, so I try to keep her out of this. When I left, she was waiting in the car, back where I parked it on the street, in a quaint little neighborhood where the only boogeyman they know is rising inflation. "You didn''t have to come all the way up here," I say, digging a little faster now.
"Figured you could use the company." Bee fidgets in the dirt next to me. "Besides, I''d rather not be alone." An uneasy silence twists between us. I''m not the only one with secrets. The Hollywood sign looms over us, the rusted sheet metal trembling in the breeze. For a lonesome town, this might be its most lonesome landmark. At the far end, the H rocks back and forth, the same letter actress Peg Entwistle chose when she took a swan dive off the sign back in ''32.
That was thirty-five years ago, ancient history in this town, and by now, everyone''s mostly forgotten her. That''s how it goes here. This is a glittering city haunted by the ghosts of dead girls and dead dreams. In that way, Bee and I fit right in. The shovel hits sandstone, and this is it, the best I can do. My hands shaking, I deposit the urn of Dracula into the dark. There are no words of prayer and no curses, either. Just a flick of the wrist, and he''s nestled in the ground.
I fill the hole back in, almost frenzied, my fingernails limned with darkness, my pumps pounding on the earth, packing down the soil. Bee helps too, kicking some dirt into the grave. "How long do you think he''ll stay put?" I shake my head. "Not long." Beneath our feet, I already feel him, restless as always. He''ll work his way back up, bit by bit, crawling like an earwig, the urn writhing in the earth on his command. I grind my heel into the ground one last time. "Goodbye," I say, but he and I both know it''s a lie.
I''ll come back at the end of the week. It isn''t safe to leave him alone for long. At least this way, though, I get a few days'' reprieve from his complaining. It''s darker now, and Bee and I trek back to the car. Halfway down the hill, she takes off her shoes, lemon-yellow Mary Janes we picked up last year at the Salvation Army. "Easier than hiking in heels," she says, and I laugh and do the same, the two of us barefoot in the trail dust, sneaking through the Santa Monica Mountains, dragging the shovel behind us. There are snakes in these parts, but they slither beneath the sagebrush when they see us coming. We emerge at last under a streetlight, and parked on Mulholland is our Buick LeSabre, rust on the bumper, one taillight cracked.
Bee tosses me the keys, and we both slide in, the torn leather seats spewing yellow foam. It takes two stalled starts before the engine roars to life. The car''s already seven years past its prime, but who''s counting? Not us, not when we have less than a hundred dollars in cash to our names and can''t afford a new ride. This is the only thing we''ve got, so we make the best of it. With the canvas top pulled down, we rocket toward the state highway, the California evening settling around us like a false promise. As the oleander trees rush past, Bee twists the chrome dial on the radio, and we sit back, listening in. It''s the same news as always. The death toll in Vietnam.
The people in power pretending to care. Nothing good ever happens here. Cape Canaveral launched Mariner 5 at Venus this morning, which makes sense, because the only way things might ever improve is to give up on this planet altogether. "Do you think we could survive on Venus?" Bee asks. I shrug. "I hear it''s made of fire." She exhales a laugh. "Aren''t we?" Bee tips her head back, the wind rustling through her long, dark hair.
The night''s cooling off already, and the canopy of trees draws us closer into its embrace. I wish we were safe here, but we''re not alone. We''re never alone, not really. Something''s always whispering after us, lingering on the breeze, hiding in the static of the radio. I press the gas pedal harder, ready to rev it so fast nothing could ever catch us, but that''s when I see it. The marquee emerging around the bend, the cornflower-blue neon flashing like a beacon. Munroe''s Drive-In. Double screens, open seven days a week.
Chockful of loud music, louder explosions, and images so bright they nearly blind us. This is exactly what Bee and I need. It''s the only way we''ve found to escape ourselves, to escape the past, if only for a few hours. The engine turns over as we idle up to the ticket booth, its faded paint flecking off like chunks of dirty snow. Inside, hunched over in a folded chair is Walter, the purveyor of the place, his hair fright white, thick whiskers coming out both his ears. He squints into the convertible and brightens when he sees it''s us. "Hello, girls," he says, flashing us a toothy grin, oblivious as always. Bee and I have been coming here for ten years, neither one of us ever aging a day, but he doesn''t seem to notice.
He''s just happy to have the patrons. We pay our five dollars and rumble slowly into the lot over chunky gravel, pulling into the last spot in the front row. This speaker''s.