I take a sip and feel the fluid in my mouth. It’s tough, I suppose. Reminds me of the whiskey Casey gave me, only with an attitude problem. I swallow it and it burns all the way down. I open my mouth and could swear I’m breathing fire. The warmth burns down in my stomach into ball of slow heat that seems to resonate throughout my insides.

I cough. “Christ, that’s harsh.”

Tollevin laughs slightly. He pushes the Glenlivet to the side of the bar and pours me a shot of what looks like melted licorice from a green bottle. He hands it to me and smiles. “Jägermeister. The Devil’s Cough Syrup.”

“Am I about to die?”

“A little. It’s for the best.”

This one isn’t tough. It’s just a slap in the face, sugary-sweet syrup with an acidic aftertaste. Once it’s all down, I let out a gag that makes Tollevin crack up.

“That was awful! People actually drink that?”

Tollevin laughs a little more. Finally he pours me a glass of black fluid with a rising white head and pushes it slowly toward me.

“This is Guinness, right?”

“Right. Think coffee mixed with beer. And bacon. I’m not giving you any more than that; when that Scotch and Jäger kick in, you’ll be feeling pretty damn good.”

I can’t help but smile. “That’s sweet of you. Taking care of me and all.”

He shrugs modestly. “Renée would kill me if I got you drunk before you got your card.” Again with the card. Before I can ask what all this nonsense is about, I hear a familiar voice behind me squeal, “Dahling!” Speak of the she-devil.

I turn around and swell with pride, lust, and adoration. Renée is dressed in a white flapper’s dress with intense makeup, black fishnets, heels, and one of those sequiny yarmulke-type things on her head with little strings of sparkles trailing down. While the dress is tight enough to fit a waifish flapper, Renée is built with curves, making her utterly seductive. Her nails are bright green. It hits me for a second that I’ve never seen her in white up until now.

I throw my arms up in a greeting gesture, expecting a hug. Instead, she leaps into the air, making me catch and hold her. She stares into my eyes, and her smile and smell tell me that I’m exactly where I should be. The next thing I know, her lips are firmly attached to mine, her tongue snaking swiftly through my mouth, which I mimic in turn. The extraordinary din around us dies in my ears, and I am living for this kiss and only this kiss.

She leans her head back and smacks her ruby red lips, now slightly smudged at the sides. “Mmm,” she whispers, “you taste Irish.”

I laugh. Already I’m beginning to feel that light numbness slip through me. The booze makes me feel warm and comfortable, but still edgy-it’s similar to the moments of controlled, confident venom I’ve had lately. “I have a taste for Guinness, apparently. Tollevin’s been finding out what suits me best.”

Renée leaps down from my arms and eyes Tollevin. “Tower, what have you been putting in my boy?” Before he can answer, she’s pulling me through the crowd. “I want you to meet people. There are so many here tonight.”

“Yes, there are lots of people here tonight…but honestly, you have people to see and shit, don’t sidetrack your evening of fun just ’cause of me…”

She stops, kisses me, and gives me a good, hard look. “You are my evening of fun.”

The next hour or so is a blur of names, faces, and hands. Renée yanks me through every room, introducing me to about fifty million indie rockers and crust punks. I get three “So this is Locke”s, seven “nice to finally meets you”s, and even about six “Renée’s told me a lot about you”s. Anyone else dragging me around a party and I’d feel kind of ill at ease. Not with Renée, though. Every time she presents me, there’s this laser-beam look in her eyes, as though, more than anything, she wants them to adore me as much as she does. And it works-the strange, booze-fueled, easygoing venom stays with me all night, and somehow I’m actually charming. At one point I make a comment about seeing Renée in white for the first time, and a whole circle of kids bursts into laughter, including Renée, who pulls me closer to her and snuggles her head into my neck. Locke Vinetti, life of the party-who knew?

We take a break from the schmoozing and sit at a table in the bar, Renée ordering a gin and tonic, and me downing a glass of ice water. All that walking around and trying to appear cool can work up a thirst. As we imbibe, Renée beams at me. “You okay? I hope I haven’t been making too much of a spectacle of you…”

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I’m really quite down with it. It’s incredibly sweet, hearing these people mention what good things you’ve been saying about me.”

“Are there any bad things to say about you, darling?”

“Well, I mean…you know, I’m, the venom is kind of…” I trail off.

“Hey.” She puts her green-tipped index finger to my mouth and gets a very serious look on her face. Not angry or upset, just serious. “Not tonight. Okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. I’m just telling you.” Her expression softens. “Tonight you’re Locke Vinetti. Nothing else.”

The venom responds to the order strangely. Usually there’s a raised fist, a feeling in my gut as though the world is ending and I’m on the pale horse. But tonight it changes its tune.

It shrugs, shifts, and goes to sleep.

We’ll discuss this later.

Thank you.

Oh, I wouldn’t go thanking me just yet.

I smile broadly. “Okay,” I say softly, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Not tonight.”

Her eyes go shiny, and we kiss.

“My dark boy,” she sighs. “My hero in black.”

“I’m the Vampire James Dean, baby,” I whisper back. “It’s all in the Marlboros.”

“Dean smoked Chesterfields.”

I love this woman.

A few minutes later, a boy wearing only tux pants and suspenders walks into the room and announces loudly that the presentation is being made in the main room. Renée lifts me onto my feet, and we walk side by side, arm in arm, into a massive ballroom with a stage occupying most of one wall. Casey’s standing onstage behind a microphone stand, next to a huge, veiled picture, smiling like a schoolboy. He lights a cigarette and takes a long, full drag.

As he leans forward and speaks into the mic, the room quiets.

“Good evening, children of the night,” he says, holding his arms out in greeting. “Has anyone seen the worst-dressed gay kid in the city around here?”

“THERE HE IS!” responds the crowd as one, pointing.

Casey paws his tux and sighs. “Oh, Christ, good. I was worried there for a second.” Requisite chortling ensues. “As you all know,” he continues, “tonight is a celebration of the Weimar, the scene to end all scenes, a time of freedom, beauty, and love.”

The crowd roars back. Casey mock-stumbles at the pitch of the noise, and then, laughing, always laughing, continues.

“The Weimar was many things. A performance movement, a historical era, and an escape for so many whose ways weren’t tolerated by the powers that be. We, though, celebrate the Weimar as a state of mind, an understanding of the need for personal freedom and release. Weimar, for us, is the experience of fun without limits, joy without rules, and life without those foolish boundaries set by little men with stupid ideas. After all,” he says, taking on a queeny lisp and standing in a pose that smacks of Prince, “I think we all have our little differentheth, don’t we, darlingth?”

Again, the room’s filled with mirthful noise. I giggle through the childish lump in my throat. Casey. We would go to war for him now, all of us. Our buddy, the gay Henry V.

“However, those little men have gained great power in this world,” he continues. “They feed on good things, pervert them, buy them up, and sell them back to the morons out there who didn’t think of them in the first place.” The black rings in Casey’s voice. The air crackles with anger. Something’s up. “And in the case of the Weimar, one little, monotesticular parasite decided to poison our expression of love, making the very word ‘Weimar’ synonymous with his campaign of hatred and cruelty.” Ooooh. “And so, frauleins and leiberherrs, I present to you: our guest of honor!”