On the Hunt

by Alexandra Ivy

  Or a lot difficult.

  Sure, I knew that the whole of my conversation with Moyer was being recorded (he had to tell me for legal reasons, as if I hadn’t seen enough cop television to know), but I wholly expected to be out the door and far away before that recording was ever viewed and my presence—or lack thereof—was discovered.

  I sat there in that little interrogation room turning my Styrofoam coffee cup around and around in my hand, waiting for Moyer to come back. I knew that he was doing that “make them wait” thing, probably hoping to squeeze a little bit more information out of me . . . and frankly, I was beginning to crack. Despite the whole “vampires sleep in their coffins” lore, I wasn’t really one for confined spaces.

  It was probably only a minute more, though it felt like a millennium, when Moyer clicked open the door and, without actually crossing the threshold, shoved his big head in the room and said, “You’re free to go, LaShay.”

  I perked up, eyes wide. “I am?”

  He waved the thick manila file folder he was holding in my direction as if trying to shove me out. “Yeah. We’ve got something else going on. But you’re not in the clear yet. I still have some questions, so don’t leave town.”

  I pumped my head and jumped up, practically knocking the plastic chair I was sitting on onto the floor. “Yeah, sure, no problem.” I fished a card from my purse and pressed it in his hand. “Call me anytime.”

  I pressed through the doors of the New York Police Department ready to throw the hat I wasn’t wearing up in the sky and do one of those Mary Tyler Moore “I’m going to make it after all” montages. Instead, I kicked open the door, threw my hands up, and immediately felt them start to singe.

  Sometimes an afterlife can be a giant pain in my Broadway-bound ass.

  I was huddled in the sunless safety just outside the police station when Detective Moyer and a few other officers gathered on the other side of the glass doors. I chanced a glance and saw Moyer’s face, the edges of his lips pulled into a deep frown, his dark eyebrows two thick bars over his eyes. He had one arm crossed in front of his chest and was holding his chin in his hand.

  “Bodies don’t just disappear. It’s not like she got up and walked out of there,” Moyer barked.

  “. . . Just gone,” another officer was reporting. “I didn’t believe it either, but the drawer was empty. The bag was empty.”

  “The press is going to have a fucking field day with this,” Moyer again.

  “At least she went missing in the coroner’s custody, that’s technically not ours.”

  “It’s ours.”

  I slunk into the shadows, laying low the entire way home.

  Chapter Seven

  When I pulled open my own front door, Vlad sat bolt upright and glared at me. “Pike and I have been trying to get a hold of you for hours. We checked your studio and everything. Were you off getting a manicure or something while we went after Wendi?”

  “Did you and Pike find her?”

  Vlad’s eye twitched. “No. When Pike was dropping me off, we heard that a Red Cross worker had been attacked leaving work, so we turned around and went right over there. I tried to call you.”

  I glanced down at my cell phone to see three missed calls from Vlad, another alarm clock ping, and a throbbing pink stiletto letting me know that Fashion Fish had posted another blog entry.

  “So what happened?”

  “We couldn’t find you.”

  I slapped a palm to my head. “Obviously. I mean what happened with the Red Cross lady. Did you get over there? Was it Wendi?”

  Vlad gave me one of those supremely teenage expressions and wagged his head. “Nope. When we got over there, the police had just arrived and the lady was saying that she had been mugged. It was a guy and he just took her purse. The whole Red Cross thing was just a co-inky.”

  “Anything after that?”

  He let out the longest sigh I’ve ever heard, his whole expression letting me know how much this conversation was taxing him. “We tried to call you again, went by the studio thinking Wendi had taken you out, realized you weren’t there . . . Then I realized how hungry I was since we kept talking about the Red Cross thing, so I got a pint and Pike got a pulled pork sandwich.”

  “So you thought maybe Wendi had killed me and then you went and got something to eat?”

  Vlad shrugged. “Your studio looked fine. Wendi does more damage. We figured you were probably fine.”

  I threw down my purse and slid out of my coat. “My heroes. I was actually not fine. Detective Moyer dragged me down to the police station and started interrogating me.”

  Vlad looked me up and down, his coal black eyes scrutinizing. “Did you get a prison wife?”

  I helped myself to a blood bag and ignored my nephew.

  “It was weird, though. Moyer was all over me about Rose and then suddenly, he just let me go. You and Pike didn’t hear of another death or anything, did you?”

  “Pike didn’t say anything if something came across the scanner.”

  I took a giant, life-giving gulp from my bag. “I don’t know what it could have been. And then Moyer was talking to his guys about someone going missing. He was really worried that the media was going to pick up on it and put the PD through the wringer.”

  Vlad leaned over, picked up the remote control, and unmuted the television. “Think that could be it?”

  Detective Moyer was standing behind a podium, his hands gripping the sides. He was looking at the crowd, waiting for them to quiet, and though he looked authoritative in his pressed uniform, his face showed his discomfort.

  I glanced down at the headline splashed just below his belly: Murdered Model Disappears from Morgue.

  Moyer cleared his throat and the cacophony of camera snaps and media chatter died down.

  “It has come to our attention that model Rose Carmichael, who was discovered dead several hours ago, has disappeared from the county morgue.”

  There was an explosion of chatter, and Moyer held up one of his meat-hook hands to silence the crowd. “I understand that this information has already been leaked via social media and I can assure you, despite what you may have read online, the New York Police Department is working to find Rose’s body as soon as possible. We are working on several leads.”

  “Detective, Detective!” A brunette with a severe cowlick raised a microphone in the detective’s direction. “Is it true that the likely culprit is one of the officers who escorted the body down to the morgue, and that pictures of Rose’s naked body are already popping up on eBay?”

  Moyer pressed his lips together for a half beat. “No, ma’am, it is not.”

  Cowlick was undeterred. “Isn’t it true that this is the third body the coroner’s office has lost in as many months?”

  Moyer’s chest seemed to puff out a little more, his shoulders broadening. “As of right now, those previous cases have no link to this one. This press conference is over.” He stepped away from the podium, and the assembled media started throwing out questions and accusations at his back.

  “. . . black market organs!”

  “. . . mob involvement!”

  “. . . true you have no leads whatsoever?”

  “. . . necrophiliac sex perpetrator since all the bodies have been female?”

  My stomach turned at that last one and I clicked off the TV. “Well, I guess we know where Wendi went after she left.”

  “Why wouldn’t she just have made Rose then and there?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she got interrupted.”

  Vlad narrowed his eyes. “There’s something weird there. I mean, you saw what Wendi did to Rose. She did real damage and she didn’t have to. She could have overpowered Rose even with her half strength.”

  Rose’s face, her cracked lips parted, her skin a mottled purple and red, and her accepting stare flashed in front of my eyes. “Usually when you sire someone, you don’t actually want to kill them. Could have just been a power thing.”

 
“I’m thinking the reporter with the necro-sex-perp theory might be on to something.”

  I was thinking that maybe Wendi wasn’t our problem—maybe her sire was the one who was setting up the supermodels and taking them down—when Fashion Fish’s throbbing stiletto pinged again. I couldn’t help myself. I glanced down at my phone and thumbed open Fashion Fish’s latest entry.

  Mystery Designer Can Do No Wrong!

  The blogoverse is a buzzing with the first peek of Under the Hem couture! Though snapping at Cocktail Couture is a faux pas of the highest high, the leaker’s punishment has been overlooked due to the gasp-worthiness of the dress.

  The picture of Rose was reposted in this article, significantly cleaned up and cropped so the dress was the star. Rose’s head was cropped off, leaving only her elegant bare shoulders and the dress on display.

  I skimmed through the rest of Fashion Fish’s gushing until she got to the designer details—

  There is still no word on the actual designer/proprietor of the Under the Hem line. Calls go unanswered, and it seems like the designer himself made some sort of deal with the devil—or Google Earth, at least—as the address given of “headquarters” is shielded by a giant van in every image. Doesn’t San Francisco have parking laws?

  The blood I had just drunk pulsed in my veins. The mystery designer was from San Francisco? My San Francisco?

  I flipped through a few more lines before getting to two new pictures: One was of a cocktail-length dress that was structured like the rings of Saturn—and the result was breathtaking. The second was a slightly longer dress in a radiant purple that was one of the most dazzling pieces of clothing I had ever seen. There was something so drastically different about each piece, but there was something faintly familiar in them, too. My need to know was like a mosquito buzzing in my ear, and I physically felt the need to itch.

  Each of the dresses was modeled by a different girl. I had a faint recollection of the first woman—she had been in fashion magazines and stomped a few runways—but the second woman was absolutely familiar.

  “Celeste!”

  Vlad flopped his head in my direction, slightly interested. “Huh?”

  “This picture. That’s Celeste modeling this dress.”

  I turned the phone to Vlad and he nodded. “Yeah. Huh. I didn’t know she modeled, too. Not surprising since everyone else in that place did.”

  “Vlad, someone has knocked off three supermodels. The last one happened to be wearing a dress from this mystery line. Celeste is wearing a dress from this line. Either she knows more than she’s telling us, or she’s next on the chopping block.”

  “Do you think this designer guy is killing off his models?”

  “He wouldn’t kill off his own models. What would his reason be?”

  “Like no guy would want an army of vampire supermodels at his disposal.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Ew, and no more Cinemax for you. And honestly I don’t even know if the designer is a male or female. He or she is supposedly from San Francisco and has just been laying low. Even his models don’t know who he is.”

  Vlad’s eyebrows went up. “San Francisco?”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do. Go get Celeste and bring her back here. We can keep an eye on her, at least until this is cleared up. Call Sophie in San Francisco on the way; maybe she and Alex can find something out about the designer. I’ll grab Pike and we’ll try to track down Wendi or Rose. Maybe at the very least we can figure out what Wendi’s grand plan is and stop it before”—I gulped, bat wings flipping through my stomach—“tomorrow’s debut.”

  “Yeah, I’m on it,” Vlad said, grabbing his keys. “I’ll be back with Celeste in a little bit.”

  “Tomorrow’s debut,” I murmured again. “Oh, God, there’s a gala tonight!” I glanced at the clock and groaned. I had less than thirty minutes to wash off twenty-four hours of dried blood and cop rot, secure a date, finish my dress for the evening, and get down to the Met.

  Excellent.

  I had my phone in hand, finger hovering over the speed dial, when the screech and cackle of a couple of birds fighting over a French fry on my fire escape startled me. My phone crashed to the floor and I glared out the window, narrowing my eyes. There were two small blackbirds pecking at the fry and a giant, beady-eyed crow staring directly at me.

  I had to remember how hot Pike was in human form just to approach the window. Again, birds—definitely not my thing. I threw the latch, squinted again to make sure I wasn’t about to let a bunch of random winged hellions into my home, then pulled the window open. Bird Pike hopped from one hideously clawed foot to the other before ducking his head and stepping onto my windowsill. I didn’t even have the window completely relatched before he was human again.

  He had grown very conscious of my disdain for him in any form other than human.

  “I was just going to call you.”

  “I figured you might. I heard about Rose’s disappearance. Does that mean Wendi got to her?”

  I filled Pike in on my and Vlad’s conversation and sweetly asked him to be my date by saying, “I have to go to a gala and you have to be my date.”

  He cocked his head. “Uh . . .”

  “I know, killers on the loose, no idea what’s going on overall, and—”

  “And we’re going to drink champagne and eat tea sandwiches?”

  “We just need to make an appearance. It’ll actually be a good thing. Maybe the mystery designer will be there and we’ll know for sure if he’s the sire.”

  Pike nodded.

  “And the models are supposed to be there, so maybe Wendi will show up.”

  “But she’s dead!”

  I shook my head. “No one knows that except us.”

  Pike looked down at his clothing—black jeans, black T-shirt, and back up at me. “Not exactly gala attire.”

  “Go home—or fly home or whatever—get a suit on. I’m going to the studio to finish up my dress and I’ll meet you at the Met. Thirty minutes, okay?”

  Pike, looking confused and stunned, turned on his heel and threw the window open. I grabbed my black Louboutins and headed out the door.

  I opened my studio door and tried to avoid the swish of Wendi’s blood that had dried on my floor. The sight of it annoyed me; if my Fashion Week debut went poorly due to Wendi and her newfound bloodlust, I was going to kill her, bring her back to life, and kill her all over again—her and her irresponsible sire. The Underworld Detection Agency never had to know a thing.

  I rumbled up the stairs and opened the door to my studio, feeling a sense of calm that I hadn’t felt since this whole debacle began. I grabbed my dress in progress and sat down at my sewing machine, letting the humming sound of the machine soothe me. I suppose I was too lost in that sound to hear the studio door open and close. And of course, as we know, vampires have no discernible weight, so I wouldn’t have heard Wendi’s footsteps anyway.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hello, Nina.”

  I spun in my chair just in time to see the hungry sparkle in Wendi’s eyes and her Cheshire-cat grin. Her fangs were still smallish, but they were sharp and she was ready. She sprang and I dodged her. She moved quickly but was still unsure of her power, so her half-second hesitation was more than enough time for me to step aside, grab her by the back of her head, and ram her lovely model face into my desk. She howled, immediately learned from her error, and twisted from me and on me. I stumbled backward, shocked by Wendi’s strength, when her hands closed around my neck, her thumbs pushing against my windpipe. She was fully on top of me and paid back my smashing of her face by repeatedly slamming the back of my head into the blond hardwood.

  Unless we’ve eaten recently, vampires are impervious to pain. Unfortunately, I wasn’t one to starve, so Wendi’s bongo-drumming of my head was causing me quite a bit of discomfort.

  But the fact that the incessant shaking was also ruining my hair was pissing me off more.

  I spun and we changed positions
, my hands on her neck. Much to my pleasure, she winced. She had just eaten, too.

  “Why are you doing this?” I hissed at Stringy Supermodel.

  She grinned again and stared directly into my eyes. “You fired me.”

  I pulled my hands from her neck and sat back on her chest. “Not this, this. I pretty much get this,” I said, gesturing from her to me. “I mean overall. Why Allison? Why Rose?”

  Wendi dragged her tongue over her lip and I could see the faint tint of bloodred still there. “She told me to.”

  “She who?”

  But Wendi furiously bucked and I toppled right off her, taking a long, hard slide across the room and crashing into my sewing table. The leg wobbled once before it split down the center, and my sewing machine—dress still locked under the presser foot and pinned down by a European 110 needle—came raining down on me. I was blinded by layers of black linen gauze, pinned underneath them by the weight of my Singer.

  “Whore!” I screamed.

  “Hack!” she barked.

  I felt Wendi’s fingers tear through my tent of dress and close around a handful of my hair. She yanked and my scalp felt like it was on fire. I let her pull me and used her own strength to come at her, walloping her squarely in the chest. I heard the “oof ” as she hit the floor and I leapt over her, diving for the door. I was on my belly, just about to reach up for the knob when I saw the flash of silver. By the time I looked over my shoulder, Wendi had plunged my shears deep into my calf. We both watched, momentarily mesmerized by the deep red blood that pooled around the blades that stuck straight up from my flesh.