Those Ole Midnight Blues
(or Danny, Why Don't You Go and Play?)
by Sue O'Reilly
a Forever Knight story


Last night didn't start off very well.

Okay, that's a lie.  It started off lousy, and it went downhill from 
there.

First, I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep because of the 
thunderstorm that was carrying on overhead.  A real banger, like 
something you'd expect in Oklahoma instead of Toronto, all pounding 
thunder and huge cracks of lightning, and just try to ignore something 
like that when your hearing is ten times better than the average dog's.  
Now I understand why my da's Labrador used to freak out all the time.  
It was only about five o'clock, hours til sundown, which meant I was 
stuck in the house unless I felt like going wandering in the sewers.  
Since that is just about as appealing as it sounds, I didn't.

Then LaCroix yelled at me for sliding down the banister again.  Well, he 
didn't actually *yell* until the third time I forgot and did it, so I 
guess I can't blame him.  Anyone who thinks he's always calm and 
collected should see him after he finds my rollerblades on the stairs.  
The last time that happened, we had to make up a story for the carpenter 
who pulled them out and replastered the wall.

I tried to entertain myself with some other things, but it didn't work 
very well.  Foozball against yourself gets kind of dull even when your 
reflexes let you play both sides of the table.  Then I practiced the 
piano in the library for a while, until LaCroix put his head in the 
doorway and gave me the kind of pleasant smile that means, "you hit one 
more wrong note and I'll stake you with a piano bench leg."  Jeez, you'd 
think he was never a beginner at anything.

I'm sure both of us were pretty happy when the sun set.

I tagged along to the Raven with him even though he wasn't speaking to 
me.  It was still raining.  I don't have any problem flying in the rain, 
snow, whatever, but LaCroix likes his comforts and uses this on-call 
limousine service when the weather's bad.  The drivers are well-dressed, 
polite, and boring as a bridge game in a nursing home.  Sometimes I'll 
play with the backseat control panels--lighting, music, windows--through 
the entire trip to see if I can get to them, and I have about the same 
success rate as tourists trying to make those Buckingham Palace guards 
smile, but it's fun to try.  I knew better than to try it tonight, 
though.  In his present mood LaCroix would cheerfully break my fingers 
like pretzels.

The bouncer on the front door gave me a dirty look when I came in--I'm 
supposed to use the back entrance to avoid attention--but who cares, he 
could take it up with LaCroix if it bothered him that much.

It was a Friday night, so the Raven was packed and jumping from one wall 
to the other.  I worked my way through the crowd easily (an advantage of 
being five-foot-one) to check out who was there.  Urs was dancing, and 
from the look of the tips she was getting from a group of drunk men, I 
didn't think she'd be done for a long time.

At the bar I got a new mortal bartender who had the nerve to demand some 
ID.  I inquired if he knew I was the owner's daughter.  He asked if he 
looked that stupid.  I questioned how much he liked being employed, he 
wondered how much I'd like to be on my ass in the alley, and I was 
thinking about going for his throat when Miklos finally noticed what was 
going on and straightened everything out.  But he was busy, the whole 
staff was busy fielding the waving tens and twenties over the bar, and 
he only had time for a quick hello before going back to work.

By the time I finished my glass of the house special, I was almost bored 
enough to help them wait tables.  I knew all but a couple of the 
vampires present, but the ones who weren't complete jerks were occupied 
with chatting up mortals or each other.  I stole a cigarette from a guy 
who was too drunk to notice and went looking for Vachon.  When I finally 
found him, he was wrapped up with some blonde mortal in a back booth and 
it sure didn't look like they were discussing hockey scores.  I tried a 
hello and received a look that said, "get lost, Dan," with about as much 
subtlety as a rock through a window.  By now my mood was really going to 
hell; I half-considered pointing out innocently how much the girl looked 
like Tracy Vetter.  But that would probably screw his night, he'd get 
pissed off, and I'd still be bored.  Instead I climbed up to the DJ 
booth and killed an hour playing with switches and suggesting horrid 
music like Hanson and the Carpenters.  Lucky for the crowd, tonight's DJ 
wasn't mortal.  I probably would have made him play it to see how fast 
the floor would empty out.

I went upstairs to see what my master was doing, but he wouldn't unlock 
the door to the studio.  Wouldn't even look through the door at me, 
actually.  I heard some of his monologue through the glass, stuff about 
thankless children and the underestimated value of old-fashioned 
discipline, and decided it would be smarter to make myself scarce.

The rain was still spitting, but I flew over to Nick's warehouse anyway.  
Getting soaked in the process didn't put me in a better mood.  He had 
the night off, maybe I could convince him to go flying with me or 
something.  He let me inside and was nice enough to begin with, but he 
had a whole pile of backed-up paperwork, and his hospitality wore a 
little thin after I spent thirty minutes banging out "Only The Good Die 
Young" on his piano.  I thought he'd agree to do something if I pestered 
him long enough.  That backfired, and shortly afterwards I was invited 
to go drip on someone else's floor.

Screed and Bourbon were getting drunk off curare in the old church.  
They didn't *quite* tell me that it was a guys' night and I should make 
like a tree, but I got the point after they started belting out the 
bawdiest drinking songs I'd ever heard in my life.

Then I stopped in to visit Natalie, but she must have been having a bad 
night herself, because she was up to her elbows in a messy autopsy, with 
two more lined up behind it, and told me in no uncertain terms that she 
didn't need to explain a fourteen-year-old with fangs to the other 
morgue staff, thank you very much, and could I please find somewhere 
else to be.  Didn't expend much energy being polite, either.

I know I shouldn't have done it, but the M.E. had the misfortune to be 
the last of many to blow me off, and I was just irritated enough, tired 
of being the kid that nobody had time for tonight.

I ran into her assistant, Grace, near the stairs, and whammied her into 
thinking that her boss had sent her home early.  And strolled out of the 
building, whistling, feeling a bit better.  Didn't even care if she 
figured out it was me and I got a lecture from Nick later.

The rest of the night I spent down the lake in Kingston, watching from a 
shadowed roof as a group of brand-new cadets were terrorized at the 
Royal Military College.  It didn't make me happy exactly; it was just 
reassuring to know that I wasn't the most miserable person in the 
country.

Flew home just before dawn, had a sip of the only cocktail in the 
fridge, and crashed on the couch.  I switched on some full-volume MTV 
and discovered LaCroix was home when he came in and dismembered the 
remote control.

Then I went to bed, thinking that I could definitely do without many 
nights like this one.

Eternity's long enough the way it is, you know.

END