CHAPTER ELEVEN
BUD LEROY
We can’t just leave it here, guts and entrails hanging out all over the place.
LILA MURPHY
It’s fine; nobody will know what happened.
BUD LEROY
But still . . . intestines and spleen should never be seen.
Vampire Falls. Season one, episode nine – “Not On Our Watch”
We’ve spent the last what feels like few hours hanging around in the bar waiting for them to let us back into Conference Hall A. The combo of beers, nervous competition energy and my tiny bladder means this is our fourth trip to the toilet.
I grab Roxy’s hand and we head back to the bosom of our fandom.
Not everyone’s dressed in masquerade; there are loads of Vampire Falls T-shirts, plus a few bootleg Midnight in Portland ones, which doesn’t bother me because this is our convention and people can wear what they want.
Like Derek, who Roxy reminded me about earlier.
He wanders past in a turtle-neck jumper, gold sequinned hot pants, stockings and Crocs. We each give him a high-five.
We have selfies with Cantatrix and Venefica, congratulating them on the insanely detailed work that’s gone into their witch costumes, from the flaking skin and rotten teeth, down to the way they’re floating along (both on hover boards under the floor-length cloaks).
This is part of the experience and I’ll share these photos on Insta, but I’m also assimilating as these people are potential competition for my trip with Megan Nicole Jefferies. My trip with Roxy, I mean.
“Another drink?” asks Roxy, nodding at the bar.
I glance at the double doors but they’re still obstructed by two stewards, so I nod and she heads to the bar. I wander around, partaking in a spot of people-watching.
I glance back at the doors again, which are still covered by the stewards, then slam into what feels like a gorilla and stumble backwards.
“Sorry!” I say, looking up at the guy dressed as McKinley the Pessimistic Werewolf from earlier.
His wolf head moves left to right, until I stand on my tiptoes and wave in his eye line.
“Oh,” he says, doing a sort of I-didn’t-see-you-because-of-my-mask gesture, “hey. Sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I say, pointing at his werewolf mask then adjusting my own eye mask in solidarity. “Convention hazard. They should assign handlers.”
“Yeah, handlers. Right,” he says, nodding his furry head, then laughs a little. “I love your outfit.”
“Thanks, I’m kind of sweltering under all the layers but it’s worth it,” I say, smoothing my dress down. “You must be roasting in yours? Do you want some water?”
He shakes his head.
“I’m cool. I mean, I’m not cool cool, I just mean I’m OK. Thanks though.”
A group of Cyanfide demons next to us crane their necks and point, and l look round Fake McKinley to see Damon Van Schwartz walking through the lobby.
Walking with Charlie Chamberlain, who’s half-heartedly wearing a black eye mask on his forehead.
My cheeks warm as Damon Van Schwartz laughs and claps him on the back.
Debbie is close behind, chatting with Sadie who looks adorable in a purple sparkly dress and matching mask.
Fake McKinley has to physically turn his whole body to see what I’m looking at.
“So, you were pretty, um . . . psyched about the competition in there. That’s a great prize.”
“Right? So exciting,” I say absently, still watching Charlie Chamberlain.
Debbie suddenly trots ahead and swipes a door open, ushering everyone through. Is that some sort of secret place for VIPs?
Before Charlie Chamberlain follows them, he stops and looks around the bar.
Everyone is watching him, wondering what magical things are laid out for him behind those doors and wishing they’d had his catlike reactions so they could have saved their own TV star.
He lingers in the doorway and then, just to rub it in, looks right at me.
I hope he’s good at non-verbal because I am so consumed with jealousy right now, I shoot off all the swears via my eyeballs and folded arms. A smile plays on his lips, then he lets the door close behind him.
A cold bottle is suddenly thrust in my chest and I gasp at Roxy, who’s simultaneously grabbing me and marching me from Fake McKinley.
Practically in an arm lock as if I’m some kind of felon, I’d like to add.
I look back at Fake McKinley who gives me a little wave.
I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve this treatment, officer, but I wave back.
“The doors are open, Eliza!” she hisses. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Oh, that’s what I’ve done. I deserve every twisted joint.
People are surging through the doors of Conference Hall A, but I didn’t notice because I was busy glaring my hatred at damn Charlie Chamberlain.
We bundle through the crowd and spill into the flashing lights and thumping bass, then pause and turn to each other.
I can’t hear Roxy properly, but I think she’s saying the same words as me.
What the fuck?