4

FRIDAY, JUNE 1, 2:20 P.M.

Gamer Grrls

It's wicked late-just popped on for a minute. Was playing World of Warcraft-this online video game-with Spider, my best friend. Spider plays a gnome mage (like a pint-size magician) and I play this fierce human warrior chick. It's the best game EVER and we play all the time. Mom claims I'm totally addicted, but, hey, I could say the same to her about her repeated watchings of BBC's Pride and Prejudice. She <3's colin="" firth="" with="" a="">

Anyway I told Spider about the whole slayer thing over chat. Rather then recapping, I'll just paste in the transcript:

RAYNIEDAY: OMG, Spider, the weirdest thing happened today!

SPIDER: The cheerleaders invited you to join their ranks? RAYNIEDAY: Um, no.

SPIDER: Football captain Mike Stevens asked you out?

RAYNIEDAY: Heh. No. And uh, ew, BTW.

SPIDER: Then I'm sorry, it's not the weirdest thing. Maybe It's up there in weirdness, sure, I'll buy that. But THE weirdest thing? I think not.

RAYNIEDAY: Hehe. This is even weirder. I'm telling you. SPIDER: Watch out behind you! An orc!

**Spider casts fireball on Orc. 450 damage.

**Rayne slashes at Orc. Orc dodges her blow.

**Orc hits Spider for 1,324 damage.

**Spider dies.

SPIDER: D'oh! I hate being the mage. I'm always the first to die. How come you never die? I'm the one doing ALL the damage and you just rack up the experience points.

RAYNIEDAY: 'Cause I'm wearing armor. Duh. You're going into battle wearing, like, some silk robe. h.e.l.lo?

SPIDER: Yeah, I'm, like, freaking tissue paper here. Come get the mage, everyone. Pick on the poor squishy mage!

RAYNIEDAY: ANYWAY-while you run back from the graveyard, I've got to tell you what happened!!! + SPIDER: Hmph. No sympathy. Fine. Fine. So I tell Spider about Mr. Teifert. Slayer Inc. My destiny. Etc., etc.

SPIDER: Wow. That's so crazy. What are you going to do?

RAYNIEDAY: IDK. Slay Maverick, I guess? I mean, if he's out to get Sunny's BF, then that seems like the right thing to do.

SPIDER: But isn't that totally dangerous? I mean, what if you get made into a b.l.o.o.d.y snack?

RAYNIEDAY: Gulp. Thanks. You're making me feel so much better.

SPIDER: Just trying to be realistic.

RAYNIEDAY: I know, but I, like, don't have a choice here. They've got the nanos in me. If I don't help them, they'll kill me. And I'd so rather be a living snack than dead meat.

SPIDER: Guess you've got a point there. Still, be careful, okay? I mean infiltrating a vamp nest and trying to stake their evil leader? That sounds harder than pa.s.sing Trig without sleeping with the teacher.

RAYNIEDAY: Heh. So THAT'S your secret. :P SPIDER: Hehe. I don't "sine" and tell.

RAYNIEDAY: Very "cosine."

SPIDER: At least I don't go off on "tangents."

RAYNIEDAY: Uh-huh. ANYWAY-I'm going to head to the Blood Bar 2morrow nite. I'll IM you when I get back, k? If I don't IM, tell Sunny what happened and maybe Magnus can send in the big guns.

SPIDER: You haven't told Sunny to begin with?

RAYNIEDAY: . . .

SPIDER: Um, don't you think you should?

RAYNIEDAY: No effing way. Cause, like, what if she tells Magnus and Slayer Inc.'s wrong and Mag and Maverick are best buddies? Then Magnus could go warn Maverick and I'll totally get nanoed. Then I'd definitely fail Trig- teacher sleepage or no.

SPIDER: I guess you've got a point.

RAYNIEDAY: No, I've got a stake, LOL.

SPIDER: Hehe. Okay, fine. Go slay some vamp b.u.t.t. Good luck. I'm back from the graveyard, BTW. Rezzing now.

RAYNIEDAY: Uh, you might want to wait-

**Spider resurrects.

**Shaman hits Spider for 975 damage.

**Spider dies.

SPIDER: NOOOOOO!!!!!

RAYNIEDAY: Sigh. And on that note, I'm logging. Got a busy day tomorrow. Evil vampires don't just slay themselves, you know.

POSTED BY RAYNE MCDONALD @ 2:20 A.M.

THREE COMMENTS:

DorkGothBoy says . . .

You play World of Warcraft? Wow, you're such a cool chick. I'm on the Stonemaul server. Have a level 60 paladin. w00t! Are you into role-playing? We should totally cyber sometime.

Rayne says . . .

Um, remember that ten-foot pole thing? That counts for your virtual "lance" as well. Just. Not. Touching. Virtually or in real life. Get a life and stop reading my blog.

Spider says . . .

Jeez, Rayne, you had to put in the part about me dying? Couldn't you have cut and pasted that part out? Obviously it's so not relevant to this story and you make me look like a total nooblet in front of the WHOLE WORLD. And for the record, whole world people, I'm a really good player. It's just that Rayne sucks as a bodyguard. SUCKS, I tell you! It's so her fault that I'm always dead.

5

SAt.u.r.dAY, JUNE 2, 8 P.M.

The Blood Bar

I must be brief-I'm actually writing this from my BlackBerry from inside the Blood Bar!! Let me tell you, this place is creepy with a capital C! Or ghetto with a capital G. Or some kind of capital word for weird, sick, and twisted. (Which, I guess, would be three capital words: Weird, Sick, and Twisted, duh.) First of all, I had to go through the total crackhead section of town. Wandering past pimps and prost.i.tutes, drug dealers, and b.u.ms to find it. I half thought I'd get attacked and killed before I even got to my destination. Some slayer I'd turn out to be if I got myself killed by some punk mortal before I even got to stake my first vamp.

At least I look good. After all, one does not enter a vampire den unprepared and so I made a special effort to Goth things up even more than usual before I came. I've got on this black lacy corset top under my leather jacket, a black vinyl miniskirt, fishnets, and knee-high platform boots. The outfit, in conjunction with my overly blacked-out eyes, red lipstick and powered white face, makes me look pretty kick-a.s.s, if you can excuse the vanity for a moment.

I find the address. A nondescript brick building. Which I guess makes sense. Obviously they're not going to have some neon sign out flashing "Get Sucked Here!" or anything. But this joint is beyond subtle. In fact, I'm not even sure if I have the right place-until a street-light glints on a tiny stained gla.s.s window embedded into the door ... the shape of a drop of blood.

Bingo.

Not quite sure what to do, I knock. This big, burly bouncer type guy. creaks opens the door from the other side and looks down at me with suspicious eyes. I meet his gaze, hopefully appearing less freaked out than I am. I mean, the dude looks like Vin Diesel if Vin Diesel took steroids. Yeah, that big. Except unlike the tanned action hero, this guy is pasty white. So, like a ghosty Vin Diesel on steroids. Which throws me a bit. Usually the vamp wanna-be crowd is all scrawny and lanky.

"What do you want?" he asks in a grumbly, growly voice. Hm. Not exactly the rising star in the customer service department.

Good thing I'm a slayer and not a secret shopper or I'd so be knocking off points already.

"I, um, am interested in being, uh . . ." Jeez, what's the correct terminology here? "Sucked?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I shake my head. Oh, so he's going to be like that, is he? "Yes, you do. You totally know. You're just pretending you don't because you're afraid I'm some cop or something. Well, I am not a cop. Obviously. I mean, since when do sixteen-year-olds become cops?"

"I don't think you're a cop. I think you're underage. We don't serve minors."

D'oh.

"Ha-ha." I laugh. "Did I say sixteen? Silly me. I meant twenty-one. Look, I even have an ID that proves it." I reach into my black canvas messenger bag and rummage through the front pocket for my wallet. Grabbing my fake ID, I present it to Vamp Diesel, hoping he won't notice my trembling hands.

"You're from Kentucky?" he asks, squinting at the photo (so not me). "And you're five eleven?"

"Only when I wear my stilettos."

He rolls his eyes, not looking all that convinced. "Run home and play with your dolls, um"-he glances at my ID- "Shaniqua." He snorts, handing me back my license. "This is not the place for you."

Okay, that's it. No more Miss Nice Rayne. I drop my eyes to the ground and flutter my lashes. Then I look up at him with my best Angelina Jolie imitation, pre-Brad Pitt/mommy era. "I don't play with dolls," I say, making my voice sultry and deep. "I play with vampires." I reach up and drag a lazy finger down the front of his ma.s.sive chest. He stiffens immediately. Heh. Men are so easy.

"Well, I guess your license does say you're twenty-five. ..." He hedges.

"I am twenty-five. Twenty-five and three quarters, to be exact." I smile coyly, reeling him in. "Now, please let me in. I'm dying to be sucked."

At first I'm not sure if he's going to go for this, but he surprises me by opening the door wide and gesturing me forward. I give him a little bow and step over the threshold.

"Fine, fine. But behave yourself," he instructs. "Don't make me sorry I let you in."

"I will," I promise. "I mean, I won't. Make you sorry, that is. I will behave. You won't even know I'm here. What's your name, anyway?"

"Francis. And I run the door most nights."

I rise onto my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, Francis," I say. "You won't regret this."

"I already do," he says, his face turning a slight pink color. Close as vamps get to blushing, I suppose. "But go in and have a good time before I change my mind."

I thank him once more, then head in. The door leads to a dark hallway, the walls painted with strange Celtic-looking designs that glow under the black lighting. Under my feet is a plush crimson rug. Weird, ambient mood music floats through the smoke- filled air. I guess the Blood Bar feels it's exempt from the no smoking laws of the rest of our state. Which makes sense, really, as lighting up is just where the sinning starts here.

The whole thing is truly spooky and I have half a mind to turn around and run back out the door screaming. But something compels me to keep moving forward. To see this through.

I reach the beaded curtain at the far side of the hallway and go through into the main bar. The place is decorated like a Valentine's Day card. Everything is red. Red velvet couches, red s.h.a.g rugs, red walls, and red lightbulbs in the chandelier. The fuzzy lighting makes it hard to get a good look at the other patrons. Some are sprawled out on couches in a relaxed, almost sleepy manner. Others are sitting on the edges of their seats, looking tense. All of them look like junkies- underfed, drawn faces, trembling hands.