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his caller. I sigh and go to
     answer it, irritated at the interruption to a rare moment of genuine connection with
     my maker.
    “WVMP, the Lifeblood of Rock ’n’ Roll.” I keep my voice chirpy. “How can I help you?”
    For a moment, nothing. Then a woman’s sob.
    “Hello?” I try not to sound annoyed. People request songs in all moods, but especially
     heartbroken.
    “Is Shane there?” she asks.
    “I’m sorry, he’s on another line. May I take a message or—”
    “What about Jim? Where is that son of a bitch?”
    Beside me, Monroe tenses visibly.
    “Jim no longer works here,” I tell the caller.
    A shocked gasp. “Where’d he go?”
    “I’m not sure which station he moved on to. But he’s not coming back to WVMP.”
    “Then I need to talk to Shane.”
    The voice sounds vaguely familiar. “Can I have your name?”
    “It’s Deirdre.”
    My heart flutters. “Shane’s, um, friend who used to live off Greene Street?”
    “I’m still here. What’s left of me, anyway, after Jim was through.”
    Deirdre was once one of Shane’s donors, but he traded her to Jim after we started
     dating. The vampire’s bite is such an intimate experience, Shane wanted to show his
     commitment to me as a boyfriend by not putting his mouth on other women.
    But after Jim went into Control custody, we contacted his donors to let them know
     he wouldn’t be visiting them anymore. According to Jim’s records, he hadn’t seen Deirdre
     in months because she’d supposedly moved away.
    The studio line goes dim. “Deirdre, Shane’s free now. Hang on.”
    I put her on hold and race down the hall to the studio. The ON THE AIR sign is dim, and a Robyn Hitchcock tune is playing over the speakers. I peer through
     the studio window to see Shane flipping through a stack of CDs.
    He motions me inside. “What’s up? Who’s on the phone?”
    “Deirdre.”
    Shane’s fingers freeze, their tips barely curled under the flipped-open CD. “My Deirdre?
     I mean—Jim’s Deirdre?”
    “Yes, your Deirdre.” I clear my throat to erase the jealousy. “Something’s wrong.”
    He slowly picks up the phone. “Deirdre, what’s wrong?” He listens for a moment, then
     holds out his palm, as if she’s standing in front of him. “Slow down. What do you
     need?”
    Through the receiver I hear the word “blood.”
    “I’m sorry,” Shane says, “you can’t be my donor anymore. Maybe Regina or—oh. Oh God.
     Oh, no.” He leaps out of the chair, smacking it against the table holding the DJs’
     equipment. Good thing he was playing a CD and not a vinyl record or it would’ve skipped.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask him.
    His head jerks up so he can see the clock. “I’m off at three a.m.,” he says into the
     phone. “We’ll come help you.”

7
    Sour Girl
    The nature of Deirdre’s emergency sounds time-consuming, so before heading to her
     place, Shane and I stop home to feed our vampire dog, Dexter, and take him for a walk.
     I offered to come home on my own to take care of Dexter, but ever since the Halloween
     bombing, Shane won’t let me out of his sight unless absolutely necessary.
    Deirdre lives in the same cute town house as always. But no flowers line the walkway
     now, and the roof is missing several shingles.
    A rolled-up note on blue paper protrudes through the curved handle of the screen door.
     I pull it out—just to bring it to her, I tell myself, not to snoop. In big print,
     the words FINAL NOTICE catch my eye.
    “It’s open!” she says when Shane knocks.
    Deirdre greets us in the dark kitchen just inside the door, a bottle of red wine—the
     cheap stuff, nothing like what she used to have—in one hand, a pair of wineglasses
     in the other.
    “I started without you.” She sets the bottle on the counter with a hollow clonk. “Oh,
     you brought heragain. Just like old times.” Her laughter is weak, like the rest of her. Deirdre slumps
     against the counter, pawing through a forest of empty wine