THE MUSICIAN AND THE VAMPIRE

By Alan Bradbury

On the run from false charges, musician Morgan Gray lands in Las Vegas, where magical vampire Savannah Rivers pounces on him for his talents. When his original Tarot reading is less than satisfactory, he invents two new “mock” Tarot decks and gets it right. Savannah teaches Morgan magic, so he can help protect Sin City from outside v

• Language: English
• Publisher: ALAN BRADBURY
• Release date: Jan 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734586619

Alan Bradbury

MR. BRADBURY is retired and lives in Utah with his sweet and snugly wife. He loves tales of might be, and writes his first drafts in pencil in notebooks. Hobbies include chess, poetry, music (55 years as a church organist) and fantasy role playing. He considers Savannah Rivers among his best characters, and Morgan Gray among his most memorable.

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Copyright © 2020 by Alan Bradbury.

Paperback: 978-1-7345866-0-2

eBook: 978-1-7345866-1-9

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Printed in the United States of America

We went to a high school where a couple of gangs were eying each other. I had Frank drop me and drive out of sight. I dropped an illusion of being Hispanic and wearing expensive but casual attire and wandered over. I took a neutral position and stood with my arms folded. Just watching would keep both gangs from tangling.

It took about four minutes before one of the fifteen-year-olds drifted over. I took the ball of conversation away from him before he could speak. You scored yet?

It took the kid aback. No—

Come to my car. What’s your poison? Frank was circling back. Once I got the punk away from his homeboys I took his arm and bit it, sucked out a pint or so, closed the wound, and ordered him to forget what I’d done. Then I told him he looked pale and should go home and eat some beets, liver or spinach.

Chapter One

Meet Morgan Gray

I first met Morgan Gray off the strip in Las Vegas. He had a guitar and was singing on the sidewalk beside the MGM Grand hotel and casino on Tropicana. The New York New York was northwest of us, with its roller coaster ride. The Tropicana and San Remo were across the street, and the other corner had the Camelot. This was the heart of the Strip. This side of the MGM Grand had no doors along a long wall, blank blue except for a huge sign. It was evening (I don’t come out in daylight), but there were still plenty of pedestrians. The youth was a sight no one would forget quickly or easily!

Skinny beyond emaciated would be short of the mark. He’d tried to bulk himself up by wearing a sweater under his shirt, in summer, but it didn’t work. (I’ve seen others try that trick as well.) His pencil neck and toothpick wrists gave him away. He looked like a skeleton in skin—and hair. What hair! A rich, deep auburn that flowed straight off his head and down his back to his hips. His face was fine-featured with deep-set blue eyes, and freckles like all redheads must have (I think it’s the law). His hands were large and tripped nimbly over the strings of a good quality acoustic instrument. His voice was a clear, sweet tenor that made his Adam’s apple bob up and down. His arms and legs were long. The lower half wore jeans and sneakers.

There wasn’t much of a crowd around the busker/beggar. A couple of punk brats leaned against the wall about a dozen feet away. They may have intimidated other pedestrians who might have wanted to stop and listen if not contribute. The rest walked by as if the sidewalk were empty.

I stopped and dropped a five-spot into his partially-open guitar case. Do you know the Bee Gees’ oldie ‘I’ve Got to Get a Message to You’?

He nodded and started playing it. I sang counterpoint when we got to the chorus, on pitch to his surprise. I said, So you are a talented musician with a decent voice. What brings you to Las Vegas?

The rave scene in L. A. got too warped for my taste, he said.

I guess I’d better welcome you, then. I’m Savannah Rivers. I infest this thriving metropolis.

Morgan Gray, he said. We shook hands.

How long have you been here? I asked.

Two hours, he said, with a glance at his guitar case. It wasn’t particularly loaded with bills. At most it held twenty dollars.

I laughed. I’ve been here thirty years. This place has grown a lot in that time.

Thirty! he said, shocked. You look like a teen!

Deceiving. Have you eaten? Do you have a place to stay?

He shook his head.

I’m not a sugar mamma, I told him. Curse your rotten luck about that. But I am well-heeled. I’ll feed you and put you up for tonight in return for a favor you can do me. And it’s not sex; it’s magic.

Now he laughed. Magic? I can do a couple of parlor tricks for you to watch, or hypnosis maybe. But bending and reshaping and remaking the universe by force of one’s will? That’s fiction.

I smiled and put a hand up to his shoulder. Morgan, you practically glow. I’m a practitioner of magic myself, so I can tell you have plenty of ability, even if it isn’t trained. Magic is a power that follows its own laws. Let me give you a sample. I bent down and picked up some litter. In a few twists I’d made an origami bird from it.

Paper-folding?

Look at the print.

He did. What had been an advertisement now had paisley whorls all over it instead.

I said, I’m sensitive to magic power. I’ve been following your approach since you left Barstow, and hoping to get to you before any of my rivals. I need a magical service that you can provide me, but I can’t provide for myself. And I smiled widely but without showing my fangs.

What do you want me to do? he asked.

Read my future.

My name is Morgan Gray. My father, Jefferson Gray, grew up a dirt poor farmer in West Virginia. He saw the military as the way out of that life. Uncle Sam paid for a degree in accounting and finance. He met and married my mother, Clarice Morgan, at college, and landed a job in Silicon Valley after graduation with a software start-up company. My twin sister Morgana and I were born there.

It wasn’t a happy childhood for a frail boy-child. My father was a military fanatic who worshipped strength and discipline. Music was my retreat, and my sister’s. Things went from bad to worse when my father retired wealthy and got into politics, landing a seat in the California state senate. After the worst of the unpleasantness I fled to Los Angeles, living in my old man’s car or staying with friends I met at raves, where I played guitar and sometimes sang. People kept trying to pump drugs into me. I’m not strong enough to handle recreational pharmaceuticals, and I know it. I’m anorexic, and have been hospitalized twice for that. I had to leave again. And since California had put a price on my head, it had to be out of state. Las Vegas was closer than Phoenix, and in my mind at least more likely to be entertainer-friendly. So I came here.

I arrived around six and used an off-the-strip gas station’s restroom while pouring the last of my money into the Chrysler’s gas tank. Then I parked in a giant motel’s giant lot, out of sight of passing cops, and came here to this sidewalk where the adjoining business wouldn’t likely complain of my presence. There weren’t any doors along this wall of their casino/hotel. I started busking, singing for enough money to get food and maybe shelter. My spare clothes were still in the trunk. All I had was my guitar and its case.

I’m a month short of my seventeenth birthday. It irks me no end that I couldn’t (legally) rent a motel room even if I could afford it. Not eating wasn’t a problem. Food is a luxury I’ve learned to do without. Water I don’t skimp on, but anyplace with restrooms had to have drinking fountains near them.

I wanted a sugar mamma who would take care of me until I was legal to work here and make my own living. After that the shoe could trade feet. I thought I’d be a good investment. So I set up on a busy sidewalk surrounded by huge, plush casinos near the heart of the strip. I couldn’t imagine a better place for busking!

The ultimate busker song is Green Tambourine, by the Lemon Pipers. It would get played as often as the crowd changed. The second-best I knew was Credence Clearwater Revival’s Willy and the Poor Boys.

But that required a band of four or more.

Not many stopped to listen, and not many of those contributed to the cause. Some requested songs, which I played if I knew them. I know a lot of songs, mostly old and a great many quite obscure. I thought I’d managed to collect about ten or fifteen dollars when I saw the robbers. They were two punks in ragged clothes, piercings and tattoos. The younger was all for rolling me immediately. The older told him to wait until I had enough loot to make it worthwhile. I was nervous, of course. A ten-year-old could cause me grief.

Then this girl came up and dropped a fin on me for a song. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, hair over her ears and forehead, chunky. But she had my attention. The Bee Gees are a personal favorite, so I sang a duet with her. She had a business proposal that sounded quite fishy to me. It was more the robbers who convinced me to go along, not the offer, kind as it was.

The punks were between me and my car. They were fully alert to me packing it in early, and stepped away from the wall where they had been leaning. The chick, who’d done a small but impressive magic trick, got in front of me and warned the punks to back off. They laughed. That was just enough pause for Savannah Rivers to slam fists into their solar plexuses (plexii? Is it Latin?). They fell back against the wall, doubled over and began puking. Savannah walked on like it was nothing. I did a quick step to catch up.

That was amazing!

That was nothing, said she. Stupid punks; not much of a challenge.

Do you know karate? I asked.

Yes, but that wasn’t karate. That was boxing. Karate, I strike with an open palm, reach up through the diaphragm and rip their hearts out. This way they aren’t corpses for the cops to investigate. They can’t tell their druggie friends about it or they lose street cred. A girl beat two of you up? No. So—everybody gets what he richly deserves and we go home happy.

We got to my old man’s car, stolen three or four months ago, without further incident. I let Savannah in. She leaned over and unlocked my door for me while I walked around. When I started the engine she asked me, How old are you, Morgan?

Nineteen, I lied.

Old enough to drive but not for being in casinos and bars. It’s really hard to tell your age by looking at you.

I changed my tune. I’m sixteen. I’ll be seventeen in a month.

The girl smiled. She gave me driving directions and told me about her home. She had an old couple sharing her home—and made it abundantly clear who owned the house—that sometimes pretended she was their granddaughter. They weren’t related, but they were good people who did everything Savannah wanted. Their names are Mr. and Mrs. Garber. I understand that means Tanner in German. His name is Frank and hers Erika, but don’t use those. Think of them as butler and maid but be polite to them as if they were your honored guests. I like them. They take good care of me.

The house was large, two full floors above ground and a full basement. I parked beside an old but well-cared-for Ford sedan in the double driveway. Savannah let herself out and unlocked a side door while I extracted my guitar case and clothing tote. She held the door open.

Mrs. Garber? she called. She came into the kitchen, on our right as we entered. Straight ahead was a stairwell down. The living room was beyond the wall to our left.

Yes, Savannah?

This is Morgan. He’s to have an upstairs guest room. I recommend the one next to the conservatory, where he is free to go. Morgan, once you’ve put your stuff away, come back down and eat a small but well-balanced supper. I’ll help get it ready. You don’t have room for a medium dinner, but your digestion needs raw material and roughage or it will shut down. As I started for the logical place for stairs up—above the stairs down through the kitchen—Savannah called, What kind of salad dressing do you prefer?

French, I called back. It was easy to make—just stir mayonnaise and ketchup together. I think it’s also called fry sauce.

Mrs. Garber was short and plump. She tied her gray hair back in a bun. Her eyes still twinkled and her step was lively. I thought her maybe fifty-five, more middle-aged than old. She had a pleasant disposition, which was going to make things more agreeable between us.

She opened the closet and turned down the bed of the room she chose for me. A bed, chair, night table with clock radio and lamp, and a round blue garbage can were the rest of the furniture. I put the guitar down carefully in the closet but didn’t open the old gym tote I used as a suitcase. That went on the vanity. I didn’t want Mrs. Garber to see how impoverished I was.

Miss Savannah has a houseguest in nearly every month, she said with a slight German accent. It has been six weeks since the last one. Why did she select you to bring home?

Heavy lifting, I quipped, and chuckled. We met down by the MGM Grand. She asked me to tell her her future.

Are you one of those swami fellers? You don’t look like you’re from India.

I’m not, I said, but I do know how to read Tarot. Maybe I can do a reading for you one day, Mrs. Garber.

Not a chance! I don’t believe in cards or pigeon entrails or tea leaves.

While I read Tarot, I said, a bit more harshly, I never once pretend it’s anything more than entertainment. Mostly I make my living as a musician, Mrs. Garber. So I’d like to see the conservatory before going back downstairs, if I may. I had already been given permission from Savannah, in her hearing.

Mrs. Garber looked oddly at me. I mean, everyone does. I guess they’re dumbfounded I can move under my own power. But she just saw me carry my tote and guitar case up the stairs. I wondered if she thought me incapable of making music.

So I said to her, Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of starving artists before!

That broke her trance. Come with me, she said.

The conservatory was a large room at the near end of the upper floor. Among the musical instruments was a Steinway concert grand. I had no idea how they could have squeezed that up the rather narrow stairs. (Those weren’t above the basement stairs, by the way; they went from a central hall on the ground floor in a double back to a central hall on the upper floor. The bend landing was by the front wall of the house.) Maybe they built the house around the piano. The next biggest instrument in the room was a magnificent floor harp. My fingers itched to start tickling its strings. I’d never played a harp before, but this looked like the ideal place to start. It’d be practice for heaven. But instead I went reverently to the Steinway. Then I turned to Mrs. Garber. May I?

She nodded, so I uncovered the keyboard and sat down. Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring poured out of the sound box, followed by Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

Savannah sat a tray on the piano, containing a glass of milk, a small plastic cup full of pills, a small salad and a fish sandwich. The fish was salmon. Somehow I thought you’d get sidetracked.

Eleven years of piano lessons but not enough recent practice, I told her. What are those pills?

Ninety essential nutrients. While you’re here I want you as healthy as I can get you. She turned to Mrs. Garber. Don’t you think Morgan would look good in eighteen inch biceps?

He’d be improved with eight inch biceps, she said.

I thought that was about how big my arms were, around. I’d have to take the sweater off to show them I could wrap my hand around above the elbow and touch thumb to fingertips.

Morgan had talent and skill. His fingers went where he wanted them to go, rapidly and accurately. I still made him eat his dinner before allowing him to play anymore. And that small repast did indeed strain his stomach. I gave him dinner music on a flute. He seemed to enjoy it. Mrs. Garber warned Morgan he’d be taking care of his own room, then left.

Once he’d eaten Morgan inquired about a bathroom. I showed him where it was. I explained how there were two more small guest bedrooms up here like his, and the bathroom. The big room at the other end, counterpart to the conservatory, was my library, still off limits to Morgan. I might open it to him after we got to know each other better.

When he came back out I told him my invitation to stay here was open-ended. He could stay indefinitely, as long as he felt welcome. You’re probably tired after your long journey, so prepare to read my future tomorrow evening. I’ll talk to you again then.

Is the conservatory still open to me?

Completely. Nobody who loves music as much as we do would vandalize any of these instruments.

What about the rest of the house?

The guest bedrooms and bathroom here you may explore, and the kitchen, living room, and game room downstairs. Don’t go into the basement, the room at the other end of the hall, or the rooms the Garbers live in on the main floor. Use the upstairs bathroom exclusively. You can go anywhere in the yard. You can drive around in your car, although I’d not recommend it. You can spend your money on whatever you want to purchase. You aren’t a prisoner but a guest.

Morgan limited his reply to Thank you.

I retreated into the basement, fired up my computer, and began researching Morgan Gray. Even with the doors closed between us I could hear the Steinway. But like most vampires I have extra-keen senses. Morgan played well.

I traced him from Silicon Valley to Los Angeles, where he’d been reported a couple of times at raves. It took me a solid hour. It was a rather scary past. He’d been sent to a military academy when he was fourteen, where he promptly contracted pneumonia and spent nearly two months in a hospital. The following year he was back in public schools, good grades and no difficulties on his record. His father had served two terms in the California state senate with enough distinction that certain factions backed him in a bid for governor. Scandal had eliminated his candidacy before the state convention.

His wife—Morgan’s mother—had been in a suspicious car crash. While she was in the hospital recuperating, Morgan had assaulted his father, taken a raped twin to the same hospital where his mother was a patient, and disappeared with his father’s car and an undisclosed amount of money. That had been three months ago.

Morgan had already confessed to living as a street person in Los Angeles for the duration. He played at raves, underground parties and dances where drugs traded hands in large quantities. Though the organizers kept them as secret as possible, police raided them at times. Other times they were paid to be busy elsewhere. I assumed Morgan slept wherever he could find hospitality, and in the rather big car when he couldn’t.

Then he fled to Vegas, where I pounced on him before anybody else could. Magic flowed through the starveling in quantity, even if he were unaware of it. I had need and use for that magic to augment my own. I wanted him to share it with me from friendship and love, not coercion or duty. So I had to make him like me—and me like him.

I couldn’t see him committing rape or assault. Could he wield anything heavier than a pencil? Maybe I’d ask about that.

I drifted back upstairs. Morgan remained at the piano, pouring