Wicked Game Read online

  Praise for Jeri Smith-Ready and

  WICKED GAME

  A nominee for the American Library Association Alex Award

  “Smith-Ready’s musical references are spot-on, as is her take on corporate radio’s creeping hegemony. Add in the irrepressible Ciara, who grew up in a family of grifters, and the results rock.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This truly clever take on vampires is fresh and original. The characters have secrets and questionable backgrounds, which makes them intriguing. The use of music as the touchstone for life is sharp and witty. Smith-Ready proves that no matter what the genre, she has what it takes.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A colorful premise and engaging characters . . . a fun read.”

  —Library Journal

  “Just when I think the vampire genre must be exhausted, just when I think if I read another clone I’ll quit writing vampires myself, I read a book that refreshed my flagging interest. . . . Jeri Smith-Ready’s Wicked Game was consistently surprising and original . . . I highly recommend it.”

  —A “Book of the Week” pick by Charlaine Harris at charlaineharris.com

  “An addictive page-turner revving with red-hot sex, truly cool vampires, and rock ’n’ roll soul. Jeri Smith-Ready is a major new talent on the urban fantasy scene.”

  —Kresley Cole, New York Times bestselling author of Kiss of a Demon King

  “Wicked Game is clever, funny, creative, and way too much fun. . . . A surefire winner.”

  —The Green Man Review

  “Jeri Smith-Ready has created a set of strikingly original, fascinating characters, rich with as much style and rhythm as the music her vampires love. Lyrical and uncompromising, Wicked Game is a winner I’ll be reading again.”

  —Rachel Caine, bestselling author of Thin Air

  “Jeri Smith-Ready’s Wicked Game is a wicked delight. Peopled with fantastic characters from across almost a century of American music, this is urban fantasy that makes an irresistible playlist and an irresistible read. I await the next book with growing impatience!”

  —C. E. Murphy, bestselling author of Urban Shaman

  “Sharp and smart and definitely not flavor of the month, Wicked Game is wicked good. Jeri Smith-Ready will exceed your expectations.”

  —Laura Anne Gilman, bestselling author of Free Fall

  “Jeri Smith-Ready’s vampire volume Wicked Game will make your corpuscles coagulate with corpulent incredulity. It’s for young bloods and old jugulars alike. Whether you devour it on ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ or just before ‘Dinner With Drac,’ simply turn off the 50-inch plasma, lay back, and ‘Let It Bleed.’”

  —Weasel, WTGB 94.7 The Globe, Washington, D.C.

  “Once in a while someone writes a book that surpasses genre conventions and expectations, turning established ideas into something fresh and new. . . . Wicked Game is original and unique . . . it’s also a fantastically good read.”

  —Love Vampires

  “Smith-Ready weaves an imaginative tale that adds new dimension and limitations on the otherwise long-lived lives of vampires. . . . This is a fun escape in a world that readers will look forward to visiting again.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “With meticulous detail to character and plot development, Jeri Smith-Ready has created a unique and lyrically entertaining story. . . . Beyond the excellent dialogue, skillfully crafted characters, and unique plot, Ms. Smith-Ready has achieved the almost impossible—she made me fall for each and every dysfunctional member of the WVMP family. This is my first novel by Ms. Smith-Ready, but it certainly won’t be my last.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Wicked Game starts out strong and just keeps going . . . There’s humor and pathos, evil and not so evil, love and betrayal, and friendship and loyalty—plus a really solid story to hold it all together.”

  —SFRevu

  “A fun novel . . . it definitely stands out from the crowd of Anne Rice wannabes.”

  —Pagan Book Reviews

  WICKED GAME

  JERI SMITH-READY

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Jeri Smith-Ready

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition April 2009

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected].

  Cover design by Melody Cassen

  Cover photograph by Sydney Shaffer/Getty Images

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-0134-6

  ISBN-10: 1-4391-0134-5

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6610-6

  To Donna and Ted, my first rock ’n’ roll gurus.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my family, for encouraging my love of music despite my almost preternatural lack of talent.

  Thanks to Rob Staeger, Cecilia Ready, Tricia Schwaab, Barbara Karmazin, Rob Usdin; William Parris, President, Radio Broadcast, Inc.; and Gerard W. Weiss, Lt. Col., U.S. Army (Ret.); for their story comments and research assistance. Any remaining errors are mine, and probably due to a momentary lapse of caffeine.

  To the hardworking folks at Pocket Books for bringing this novel to life: Louise Burke, John Paul Jones, Josh Karpf, Lisa Litwack, Jean Anne Rose, Erica Feldon, Don Sipley, and Anthony Ziccardi.

  Much thanks to my editor Jennifer Heddle, for her extraordinary vision and brilliant insights (and forbearance in overlooking the muscle shirt); and to my intrepid agent Ginger Clark, for believing in this series from the get-go. You both rock.

  Most of all, thanks to my own guitar man Christian Ready, for his love and support, and for proving that some things don’t burn out or fade away.

  Playlist

  “I’ll Never Get Out of These Blues Alive,” John Lee Hooker

  “Read My Mind,” The Killers

  “About a Girl,” Nirvana

  “Flower,” Liz Phair

  “Hard to Handle,” The Black Crowes

  “Eight Miles High,” The Byrds

  “Blue Suede Shoes,” Carl Perkins

  “Helter Skelter,” The Beatles

  “Uncle John’s Band,” Grateful Dead

  “I’m So Glad,” Skip James

  “Baby Please Don’t Go,” Big Joe Williams

  “Gallows Pole,” Lead Belly

  “Dreadlocks in Moonlight,” Lee “Scratch” Perry

  “Three Little Birds,” Bob Marley and the Wailers

  “Ciara,” Luka Bloom

  “Two Hearts,” Chris Isaak

  “Drain You,” Nirvana

  “The Rain Song,” Led Zeppelin

  “Isis,” Bob Dylan

  “Fearless Heart,” Steve Earle

  “The
Old Main Drag,” The Pogues

  “Rock ’n’ Roll Lifestyle,” Cake

  “More Human Than Human,” White Zombie

  “God Given,” Nine Inch Nails

  “Melt!,” Siouxsie & the Banshees

  “She’s a Rebel,” Green Day

  “Norwegian Wood,” The Beatles

  “10:15 Saturday Night,” The Cure

  “Running Dry: Requiem for the Rockets,” Neil Young and Crazy Horse

  “I’m No Angel,” Greg Allman

  “Girlfriend,” Matthew Sweet

  “Low,” Cracker

  “Human Touch,” Bruce Springsteen

  “A Thousand Kisses Deep,” Leonard Cohen

  “Sleep to Dream,” Fiona Apple

  “Mean Woman Blues,” Elvis Presley

  “(Don’t Go Back to) Rockville,” R.E.M.

  “Crazy Love,” Van Morrison

  “Burning for You,” Blue Öyster Cult

  “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll (But I Like It),” The Rolling Stones

  If a lie is told often enough, even the teller comes to believe it.

  —J. R. “Yellow Kid” Weil, con artist

  Wicked Game

  1

  It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll (But I Like It)

  Family curses never die, they just mutate. In Greek mythology, the curse of the House of Atreus began with some smart-ass making soup du jour for the gods out of his own son’s meaty bits. Things went downhill from there. These days, though, the curse probably just makes the Atreus family forget to send each other birthday cards.

  The curse of the House of Griffin, whatever sinister form it may have taken in the Old World, has left me with a gift for the persuasive arts. In the straight world, this means sales and marketing—or as I like to call it, S&M.

  The slim, thirtyish dude across the desk scans my skimpy resume. Short dark hair flops over his forehead as he nods along with the blues squawking from a wall speaker. His fingers tap the wooden surface between us in unconscious synchronicity.

  The tiny office’s clutter of memorabilia would shame the Hard Rock Cafe. Near one boarded-up window, a life-size cardboard John Lennon peers into my soul; near the other, Jerry Lee Lewis peers through my blouse.

  “So, Ciara...” David slips me an earnest glance. “Why do you—”

  “It’s keer-ah, not see-air-ah.” I rattle off the pronunciation as politely as I can. “Not like the mountains.”

  “Sorry. I bet you get that all the time.” He flips my resume to look at the other side. Blank. He lifts my portfolio folder, probably searching for another page. “Where’s the rest of your job experience?”

  I give him a wide-open smile. “In the future, I hope.”

  He blinks, then looks back at the resume. His eyebrows pop up. “Well, it’s very readable.”

  Due, no doubt, to the sixteen-point font I used to fill up the page.

  He inspects it again, green eyes flitting back and forth in a desperate search for an interview kickoff. “Ciara. Interesting spelling.”

  “It’s Irish. It means ‘dark and mysterious.’” I point to my tawny hair and studiously guileless eyes. “Even though I’m neither.”

  David’s lips twitch up briefly, then he puts the resume aside and opens my portfolio. While he examines it, his thumb pumps the plunger on his ballpoint, creating a staccato of clicks that wears my nerves down to the nub. I resist the urge to wipe my clammy hands on my only interview suit.

  The air-conditioning clunks on. Above my head, backstage passes begin to flutter in the breeze, hanging like Christmas decorations from the antlers of a peeved-eyed deer.

  “This first project’s dated six years ago,” David says. “I take it you go to Sherwood College part-time?”

  My shoulders tense. “I take sabbaticals.” Oops, this was supposed to be an exercise in honesty. “I mean, I take breaks so I can earn tuition.”

  He nods in sympathy. “It’s expensive. I gave the army four years of my life in exchange for a degree.”

  “The army, wow. Did you kill anyone?”

  His gaze sharpens, and I wince at my nerve-induced idiocy. Usually when I botch an interview, it’s on purpose. The fact that I actually want this job makes my stomach ache.

  David’s mouth relaxes into a smirk. “Shouldn’t I be asking you questions?”

  “Sorry. Ask anything.” As long as it’s not about me.

  “Why do you want to work at WMMP?”

  I knew that one was coming, and I’ve been working on a convincing answer ever since David found me through my college’s job-match program.

  “I love rock ’n’ roll.” Damn, that was cheesy. I rub my nose and look away. “I wasn’t allowed to listen to it growing up, but I did anyway. I’d lie under the covers at night with my Walkman, listening to tapes I’d stolen—I mean, borrowed—uh, stolen.” This truth thing is harder than I expected. “Anyway, I figured a radio station might suck my soul less than a corporation would. Plus it’s already June tomorrow, and I’m desperate. I can’t graduate without a summer internship, and if I don’t get out of this town soon, I’ll—” My mouth shuts, about three sentences too late.

  David blinks, and blinks, until I wonder if the air-conditioning has dried out his contact lenses. He sighs through his nose, making a sound that says, Why am I wasting my time with this girl? I scramble for something else to discuss.

  On the desk between us, a photo of a beribboned Chihuahua sits next to a calendar of 365 Oscar Wilde quotes. I squint to read, I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world.

  I glance up at David, then back to the photo and calendar. “Cute dog.”

  “Oh. This isn’t my desk.” He pushes his chair back a few inches. “This is Frank’s desk, the sales and marketing director.” He shifts the Chihuahua photo’s heart-shaped frame. “I’m not, you know . . .”

  I think the word he’s looking for is “gay.”

  “Are you the owner?”

  “I’m the general manager. The owner is—” David glances past my shoulder at a closed office door. “—absent.”

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he just tugs the cuffs of his sport coat and changes the subject.

  “I’m also the program director. As I’m sure you’re aware, WMMP broadcasts syndicated talk shows and paid programming during the day. But at night—” He gazes at the wall speaker like it’s a holy relic. “That’s when WMMP comes alive.”

  Huh. “Will Frank interview me, too?”

  “I make all the personnel decisions. Frank would have joined us, but he hates the—” David’s glance flicks to the stairway behind me. “He hates to work at night.”

  I check the wooden mantel clock above the bricked-up fireplace. 9:30. “Why interview me so late?”

  “I wanted any potential intern to meet the DJs. This is the only time they’re all... here.”

  Hmmm. My first act as marketing intern would be to suggest playing music when people are actually awake to hear it.

  He shuffles my resume and portfolio, rapping their edges against the desk. The motion has a finality about it, as if he’s about to thank me for stopping by.

  Panic jump-starts my mouth. “I know my resume is a little thin, but I can explain.”

  “No need.” He folds his hands, steepling his fingers and tapping his thumbs together. “Do you know why I called you for this job?”

  I’ve been afraid to ask, and I hesitate to guess.

  David continues. “Your history indicates that you’re sympathetic to—how shall I put this—the outsider’s point of view.”

  My gut plummets. He did a background check.

  “What kind of outsider?” I ask innocently.

  “The kind with a lack of regard for—” He spreads his thumbs. “—conventional morality.”

  I sit back in my chair, moving slowly, as if from a poisonous snake. “I’ve never been charged with anything.”

  “I know you
haven’t.” David extends his hands palm down, as if to hold me in my seat. “My point is—”

  “Thanks for your time.” I stand and grab my purse from the back of the chair. “I’ve really enjoyed our chat, but I think another opportunity would fit me better.” I head for the exit.

  “Wait.” He intercepts me, placing his hand on the door before I can open it. “What I’m saying is, I don’t care about your past. Neither would anyone else here.”

  My mind calculates how much he could know. A legal background check wouldn’t reveal anything too incriminating. My juvey record cleared when I turned eighteen, and in the six years since I’ve never been caught. Sort of.

  “We couldn’t pay you a lot, I’m afraid.” He gestures toward my resume. “But judging by your address, you don’t need much.”

  Did he just insult my neighborhood? Doesn’t he realize I live above the best pawnshop in town?

  “You’d work over there.” He points to a smaller desk next to the fireplace, on the opposite wall from Frank’s. Beyond it sits a copier so old I expect it to have a hand crank.

  “Come.” David moves past me so suddenly it makes me jump.

  He descends a creaky wooden staircase between the two closed office doors. I follow him, trying not to get my hopes up. Maybe his hiring talk was hypothetical, as in, you’d work at that desk if all the other intern candidates got eaten by a giant cockroach. I force my mind away from the things I’ll have to do if I don’t get a summer job. Things I can’t put on a resume.

  At the bottom of the stairs, David rests his hand on the knob of a closed door. He takes in a quick, deep breath as if to say something momentous. The words don’t make it out before he shakes his head.

  “Probably best if you meet them without preconceptions. If they like you, the job’s yours.”

  I nod. No pressure or anything.

  David opens the door to let me pass into a small, dim lounge. A pervasive cloud of cigarette smoke gathers over the halogen lamp in the far left corner, muting the room’s lurid shadows.

  My stinging eyes take a moment to adjust. I strain to see a group of—