Vampire Weekend


 
 
 
 Praise for the novels of Mike Chen
 “A love letter to the power of music, this thoughtful, humorous exploration of what constitutes living versus mere survival sees Chen (Light Years from Home) at the top of his game.”
 —Publishers Weekly, starred review 
 “Mike Chen always highlights the humanity at the heart of his astounding stories.” 
 —BookPage
 “Vampire Weekend finally gives us the painfully relatable vampires we’ve always needed: awkward, cringey, their clothes never quite in style. But with that comes a story of genuine kindness and the gentle wonder of understanding and friendship found in the least likely place imaginable—in your own family, vampire or not.”
 —Natalie Zina Walschots, author of Hench 
 “Vampire Weekend rocks. It’s a fanged love song to punk, guitars, and vampires, and it shines with hope and humor. I loved every beat.” 
 —New York Times bestselling author Chloe Neill
 “Mike Chen is at his best here, with a sharp-as-fangs reinvention of the vampire mythos centered on the power of family, born and chosen, and, of course, punk rock. This book will sink its teeth right into your heart.” 
 —Gwenda Bond, New York Times bestselling author, on Vampire Weekend
 “Never getting old sucks! Mike Chen’s Vampire Weekend is a kicky homage to punk rock and a delightful exploration of what it means to be ‘other,’ teaching us that while vampire blood helps, true healing comes from family and forgiveness.” 
 —Sierra Godfrey, author of A Very Typical Family
 “Fresh, intelligent, and darkly funny, Vampire Weekend is my favorite vampire novel since Interview with the Vampire.” 
 —Stina Leicht, author of Persephone Station
 
 
 Mike Chen is the New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Brotherhood, Here and Now and Then, Light Years from Home and other novels. He has covered geek culture for sites such as Nerdist, Tor.com and StarTrek.com, and in a different life, he’s covered the NHL. A member of SFWA, Mike lives in the Bay Area with his wife, daughter and many rescue animals. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram: @mikechenwriter.
 
 
 Also by Mike Chen
 HERE AND NOW AND THEN
 A BEGINNING AT THE END
 WE COULD BE HEROES
 LIGHT YEARS FROM HOME
 
 
 Mike Chen
 Vampire Weekend
 
 
 
 For the musicians in my life
 
 
 Contents
 CHAPTER 1
 CHAPTER 2
 CHAPTER 3
 CHAPTER 4
 CHAPTER 5
 CHAPTER 6
 CHAPTER 7
 CHAPTER 8
 CHAPTER 9
 CHAPTER 10
 CHAPTER 11
 CHAPTER 12
 CHAPTER 13
 CHAPTER 14
 CHAPTER 15
 CHAPTER 16
 CHAPTER 17
 CHAPTER 18
 CHAPTER 19
 CHAPTER 20
 CHAPTER 21
 CHAPTER 22
 CHAPTER 23
 CHAPTER 24
 CHAPTER 25
 CHAPTER 26
 CHAPTER 27
 CHAPTER 28
 CHAPTER 29
 CHAPTER 30
 CHAPTER 31
 CHAPTER 32
 CHAPTER 33
 CHAPTER 34
 CHAPTER 35
 CHAPTER 36
 CHAPTER 37
 CHAPTER 38
 CHAPTER 39
 CHAPTER 40
 CHAPTER 41
 CHAPTER 42
 CHAPTER 43
 CHAPTER 44
 CHAPTER 45
 EPILOGUE
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 
 
 CHAPTER 1
 There’s one rule we vampires live by: Never reveal your true nature to a human.
 Which made sneezing blood during band practice kind of a problem.
 Nose tickles are rare for vampires, but something triggered it here, at a really inopportune moment. My face squinched, a full-body tension to successfully hold it in, and I continued without missing a beat. My left hand pressed guitar strings taut against frets, my right hand strummed at a steady rhythm, switching to single plucks as notes rang out until going back to chords for the song’s outro.
 For the moment, I abided by the cardinal rule for vampires. Because as scattered as we were, exposure was really frowned upon, enough that rumors of so-called “fixers” swirled—vampires that put others back in line if they got a little too flippant with community secrets. So it probably wasn’t great that I’d revealed the truth twice already, first to my late aunt Laura, and second by being honest with my best friend/bandmate, Marshall.
 And though that last time ended in all sorts of heartache and misery, I vowed this time would be different. I’d get close enough to humans to play in a band while being a good vampire citizen.
 Because for a vampire like me, music was nearly as important as blood. And I’d starved myself of it for too long. That’s why I was here, trying out for Copper Beach—the third band I’d auditioned for in two months.
 We sped through the audition set, every beat and note building dreams of jam sessions, set lists, earsplitting drums, and crashing guitars in a shitty empty bar. With each passing second, my whole body felt more in sync, the vitality of band life becoming part of me once again. In movies, vampires were desiccated husks until they drank gallons of blood; I’d starved myself of other musicians for so long that I felt that way, and every chord strummed restored me to full strength.
 A cymbal crashed to end the set’s final song and our collective noise faded, leaving only the muffled rumbles from adjacent rooms. The run-down Oakland warehouse was filled with bands stuffed into similarly tiny practice rooms, sound-insulated spaces where magic happened despite bad ventilation and faulty electrical outlets. Glances exchanged, an unspoken vibe that seemed to acknowledge that my guitar work fit them well.
 The drummer, a scientist-looking guy named Josh, nodded at me while adjusting a snare bolt, and I offered a smile so pleasant my fangs likely showed.
 “I think that sounded pretty—” I started before the worst possible thing happened:
 Another sneeze came. A full explosion, a clear allergic reaction to something in the air too powerful to stifle.
 Suddenly, blood sprayed all over David—David, as in my white Epiphone guitar. I named all my guitars, and in this case, the Epiphone’s bright crunchy tone matched the glam sound of David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust/Aladdin Sane period to earn the name. And, in that moment, covered in blood: a light splatter over David’s smooth body and the black pickguard.
 But what triggered it? Not