On the Hunt

by Alexandra Ivy

  I could see the hunger. I could practically see her mouth watering. She paused and bent, fingers outstretched, reaching for the bubble of blood. I let her get close, then kicked as hard as I could. Wendi took a Louboutin to the temple and flopped backward unceremoniously.

  Intellectually, I knew that I should stake Wendi with the splintered wooden leg of my desk, or at the very least secure her in one of the wardrobes. But it was T minus ten hours until Fashion Week and I was already late for the gala, and my Cinderella brain took over. I reached over Wendi and snatched my dress from my toppled sewing machine, blocking out the loud rip the fabric made as I pulled it, and yanked it over my head. I worked off the clothes I was wearing while simultaneously straightening the dress and taking the stairs two at a time—I can do things like that, I’m a vampire.

  And because I’m a vampire, certain things shouldn’t have been happening: Large chunks of my hair shouldn’t have been coming out in my hands as I tried to work what remained into some semblance of a topknot or chignon. My nose shouldn’t have been bleeding and the vision in my left eye shouldn’t have been growing blurrier by the minute as the skin around it swelled. Of course, when one has fresh blood coursing through their veins, one is subject to the wounds of humanity—it doesn’t even matter if the blood is yours or not.

  I still made it into my clothes and down six blocks in record time, rounding the corner just in time to slow to a demure trot and toss a smile at Pike.

  He was dressed in his very sexy deconstructed tuxedo, holding a glass of champagne and lounging on the steps of the Met. With the slice of yellow light from the party inside reflecting out on him, he looked a scene right out of a romcom—and there I was, his lovely Cinderella, rushing toward him, jumping into my perfect heels.

  Pike stood when he saw me, and I expected him to greet me with open arms, because I lived with my ex-roommate and best friend Sophie Lawson too long, and she lived the majority of her life in romance vignettes and Lifetime movies.

  Apparently, it had rubbed off on me.

  “I thought you said thirty minutes,” Pike said, his tone annoyed.

  I stopped, my mouth dropping open. “Seriously? That’s how you greet me? Look at me!”

  “There’s a hole in your dress. There’s a lot of holes in your dress. Is it supposed to be like that? I’m not saying that it’s not nice . . .”

  “Pike!” I stepped into the light and Pike’s eyes widened.

  “Oh my Lord, Nina, what happened to you?”

  I pressed my fingers to my sore eye and thankfully felt that it had stopped swelling. “Wendi. Wendi came into my studio and attacked me.” I looked down at my dress and felt a lump in my throat. “And she ruined my dress.”

  That made the edges of Pike’s lips twitch into a smile that he fought. I should have been mad, but the reality of the day finally hit me and I realized how exhausted I really was.

  “What happened to Wendi?”

  “I locked her in the studio.”

  “Is that going to hold her?”

  “It’ll do.” I grabbed Pike’s arm. “Besides, I have to make an appearance.”

  “Baby, please. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you’ve gone through a wood chipper.”

  I paused. “Take off your jacket.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take it off.”

  Pike did as he was told and I proceeded to rip the sleeves and pockets off and slid into it, using a length of linen gauze that was currently hanging in a sad loop around my ankles to secure it at the waist.

  I undid my topknot and brushed through my hair with my fingers, glad to feel that the new hair was already growing in. “How’s my face?” I asked.

  “Beautiful. Your black eye is already going down.” He pulled a hankie from his back pocket and wiped the tiny trickle of blood from my nose, his other hand gently cradling my chin. “That whole vampire super-healing thing is pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, well, you can fly.” I smiled. “We’re just going to go in and make an appearance, then we can go back for Wendi and make her talk.”

  “You didn’t ask who her sire was when you were with her?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “It wasn’t exactly a tea party.” I stomped in front of Pike, who grabbed the back of my dress, leaned over, and yanked the shears from the back of my leg.

  “I think you might want to consider giving up your accessory line.”

  As expected, the incredible works of art all around us were wholly ignored by the influx of coifed celebrities, fashion powerhouses, and models. Everyone fluttered around each other with champagne in their hands and benign smiles pasted on their faces, moving fast enough to not look static but slow enough so that each attendee could be scrutinized and, hopefully, idolized for their fashion choices and daring hairstyles. I immediately felt myself straighten, throw my shoulders back, and pop my statuesque stance, doing all three quickly enough so that people could take me in, but not have enough time to take my picture. Pike played the perfect counterpart, his hand moving to the small of my back, the sensation from the simple move sending shock waves through my body. I tried to quash down the inappropriate sexual feelings as we made our way through the crowd, smiling and nodding and nodding and smiling. Pike rescued two glasses of champagne, handed me one. He leaned in, his lips next to my ear.

  “So what exactly are we supposed to be doing here?”

  “We’ll split up and do a quick go round the room. You keep your eye out for Rose.”

  “And if I find her, I take her by any means necessary?” His eyes raked over me, over the slices and tears in my dress and, presumably, the eye that just a few seconds ago was in danger of swelling shut.

  “How about just corralling her by any means necessary?”

  “And what exactly are you going to be doing while I’m fighting the good fight?” Pike asked, finishing his champagne and taking mine.

  “I’m going to sniff out this super-new mystery fashion designer.”

  He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “I thought the whole stopping supermodel vampire thing was ‘our’ responsibility. And when I say our”—he made finger quotes—“I mean your.”

  “You know as well as I do that this mystery designer”—I made the obnoxious finger quotes right back to Pike—“is likely Wendi’s sire. Or possibly. At least the timing is right.”

  “So you do think so.”

  I cut my eyes, taking in the assembled group. “It’s a possibility. Think about it—the killings started at right about the same time that designers started coming into town.”

  “But you said he had no motive. Why would he pick off his own models?”

  I knew that whatever I said about the sire’s motives would reflect back on me, but life and afterlife was on the line, so I didn’t have time to be coy.

  “A vampire—especially one who sires—doesn’t need a motive. It’s about hunger, want. Sometimes need. Sometimes nothing. A vampire sees something she likes, she takes it.”

  Pike held my eyes for a beat; I’m not sure if the intensity exchanged in that three-second glance was based on the sexual prowess of a vampire taking what she wants or based on the realization laid in front of him that I was no different from the sire.

  I was a being moved by hunger. By want. And I was ashamed.

  Pike stepped closer to me, his hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently. “We are all beings moved by hunger, Nina. We’re all moved by want.”

  In a heartbeat the distance between us was closed and my mouth was on Pike’s, my lips pressing hard against his until he gave in, his mouth opening slightly. My body shattered against his and his arms slid from my shoulders until he was holding me against him.

  “Geez, get a room, you two.”

  We pulled apart, the electricity between us waning, turning into a dim anger when I saw Vlad, dressed in the finest they had to offer in 1875, his arm around Celeste’s dainty waist. She was a vision in a vintage whisper-pink Givenchy gown, her lo
ng locks brushed into a lovely side chignon that seemed to accentuate her enormous doe eyes.

  “‘Get a room’?” I hissed. “You couldn’t come up with anything original in your century or so?”

  Vlad’s eyes widened and I realized that we were in the presence of a breather. There was just something about Celeste that made me forget that.... A niggling suspicion traveled up my spine and I wondered why I hadn’t felt it before. Celeste must have noticed my scrutiny as she backed away a step, half hiding herself behind Vlad’s ridiculous cape.

  Sadly for me, his cape and her hint of 1930s glamour worked and heads were turning to stare at them. I cleared my throat, shook off the delicious taste of Pike, and took control.

  “Celeste, you were in an Under the Hem gown. Do you know who the designer is?”

  She shook her head. “No. The dresses just showed up on our racks. I was supposed to wear one tonight, but Vlad told me I shouldn’t.”

  “Did you call Sophie, Vlad? Did you find anything out?”

  “Well, you know how fashion forward Sophie is. . . .”

  As I mentioned, Sophie Lawson is my former roommate, my very best friend, the other woman Vlad openly sponges from, and she has the fashion prowess of a spinster librarian crossed with a Mennonite. Maybe I didn’t mention that last part.

  “I checked in with her, but she obviously didn’t know anything, so I set Lorraine to work on it.”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it again when Vlad held up his phone and continued. “She’s calling me back.”

  “Okay. I’m going to see if I can get any information on Under the Hem, you guys keep your eyes out for Rose.”

  Celeste’s eyebrows went up. “I heard about Rose on the news. Isn’t she—”

  My cheeks burned, Vlad’s eyes went round, and Pike’s mouth dropped open just the tiniest bit. “A different Rose,” the three of us lied in unison.

  Celeste nodded and Vlad steered her away, depositing her at the bar. Pike went the opposite way, moving into his charming stealth mode, shaking hands and grinning, moving quickly through the crowd. I went directly through the middle.

  If I hadn’t had so much on my mind—Wendi, Rose, Under the Hem, getting my own designs done—I would have been paying more attention to the lovely dresses swishing by me and to the crowd through whom I was jostling. I would have noticed that two models slipped right by me. I would have noticed that there was a short, roundish woman directly on their tail.

  I would have noticed when she turned and stared at me that she was a vampire.

  Chapter Nine

  I continued twirling through the crowd, listening in on snippets and bits of conversation. The identity of the Under the Hem designer was the center of at least every other conversation, but everyone seemed to know just as little as I did—supersecretive, from San Francisco. One man was assuring the women that he entertained that the Under the Hem designer was in fact a man and that they were exceptionally tight. I leaned in until I heard the girls twitter and giggle when the speaker invited each of the ladies back to his suite to see some of the sketches his “buddy” had loaned him. No designer in his right mind would loan sketches to a buddy with a comb-over and a set of brand-new blue-white veneers that made his mouth look so unattractively horse-like.

  “Um, Ms. LaShay?”

  The woman was right behind me, wriggling her way between a statuesque blonde starlet and her slightly sweaty manager.

  “I’m Sasha.”

  There was something vaguely familiar about Sasha. She was about my height, but the enormity of her stuffed-in-her-dress breasts threw it off. And she was wearing Wendi’s “it” Under the Hem dress.

  Slight alterations had been made—a hemline dropped, a slight curve to the bodice to scaffold her ample cleavage—but it was definitely the dress.

  I pointed. “Where did you get that dress?”

  The woman grinned ear to ear. “Do you like it? It’s an original design.”

  “I know, by Under the Hem.”

  Sasha’s face clouded, the anger evident in her snarled lip. “No, not by Under the Hem. By me, Sasha Pierce.”

  “You’re the Under the Hem designer?”

  Sasha bristled. “No. Under the Hem doesn’t exist. These are my dresses, all of them.”

  I had heard the spiel before. There was always someone with a fistful of drawings claiming that their “originals” had been scooped by the bigwigs. Don’t believe me? Google conspiracy theories and click on fashion. It’s there.

  I was initially curious how she was able to get her hands on a dress so shockingly similar to the original, but then I remembered the leaked photograph and realized that any detail-oriented nutter could probably whip out a decent facsimile given some time.

  “I would love to talk to you about some design ideas that I have.” Sasha went for her pocketbook. “I even have some photographs I’d like to show you.”

  I pasted on a quick, appeasing smile. “I’m so sorry, miss. I would love to see your designs and help you out, but now isn’t the time.”

  I whirled on my heel and caught Vlad out of the corner of my eye. He was clear across the room, beckoning to me with wide, manic eyes. I tried to make my way through the crowd, but in the span of ten seconds it seemed to swell and double in size, bodies going shoulder to shoulder and wall to wall. I tried to look for Pike, but he was swallowed up as well, and I could feel a strange sense of panic edging up my spine.

  And then the lights went out.

  There were a few halfhearted screams and a ripple of laughter before the lights flared up again and the music pulsed so hard I could feel it in my chest. I saw Pike zigzag through the crowd and wrap a protective arm around me.

  “What’s going on?” His lips were at my ear and yet I could barely hear him.

  I shook my head and glanced around when I was hit with a waft of ice-cold air—it was Vlad and Celeste and, directly behind Vlad, Sasha. Her eyes were narrowed and a beady ice blue; I couldn’t tell if the disdain in them was aimed at me or the impromptu runway that popped up with the lights.

  I gaped when the first model came out. She stomped down the makeshift runway with the sure, confident gait of a seasoned professional, the unaffected expression on her face precise for haute couture and for the mid-thigh-length dress she was wearing. It was an Under the Hem design.

  Vlad’s hand was on mine, tugging at me. I could see his lips move but couldn’t hear a thing over the pulsing bass and the roar of cheers that went up with the second model. Another Under the Hem dress, another design so stunning it was breathtaking. Vlad shook me hard and started to sign, pointing to his phone and furiously mouthing something that looked like “leave.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the door and saw Sasha. She was incensed. Practically panting. Her hands were clawed and then fisted.

  I knew what I’d missed. I knew why the air around Vlad was so exceptionally cold.

  Sasha was a vampire.

  She dove over us with lightning speed and clobbered the third model just as she burst from the curtain. I thought she was going for the poor girl’s neck, but she went directly for the dress. A vampire who overthrew blood for fashion was like a we-have-no-soul mate, and I warmed to her, instinctively holding Pike and Vlad back with my arms.

  It was a woman so moved by couture she felt the need to act. It was beautiful.

  “These are my designs!” Sasha screamed in an earsplitting screech. “Mine! You’re my models!”

  The girl underneath her was clearly terrified by the woman holding fistfuls of her wardrobe—especially when that woman turned as if just noticing she was in front of a packed house, and the glint of one pointed incisor flashed under the stage lights.

  “I’ll rip out your throat!”

  Maybe it wasn’t beautiful, after all.

  Vlad, Pike, and I acted in unison, Vlad shuffling the other startled models offstage, Pike surprising Sasha and yanking her off the model. Sasha was still clawing and grabbing at air, still hysterica
l. Finally her eyes focused on me and she stopped flailing so hard.

  “You! You should be as angry as I am! We were supposed to be fashion legends! We were supposed to rule the industry! We would have had a team of perfect models who never aged, never changed, never gained or lost an ounce. We would be in complete control!”

  Her arms flopped down by her sides and I noticed the pin she had used to gather the bodice of the reconditioned dress: It was a single, pink, sparkly high heel.

  “You’re Fashion Fish?”

  She grinned a weird, maniacal grin. “The pulse of the fashion industry. Don’t you see? I was setting it all up for us. Your designs would be the darlings and then mine. We would have the fashion rivalry to end all rivalries, but we would be partners.” She dragged her tongue over her teeth. “Forever.”

  I was reeling and ready to tell this big-breasted, supermodel-vampire-creating hack that just because we shared the same orthodontia, we were never going to be partners when Sasha snapped her head toward the curtain and hissed, “But then he came along and ruined everything.”

  “Oh, good God.”

  Peeking out from behind the curtain at just about hip level were two beady yellow eyes I would recognize most places and a stench I could never forget. The curtain swished open and Vlad ran out, effectively blocking the tiny-eyed guy.

  “Steve is behind Under the Hem!”

  Steve, a three-foot-tall troll who smelled like the most unholy combination of blue cheese and feet, proudly stepped out—only after making sure that Pike still had a secure hold on Sasha.

  Steve was a San Francisco native and did contract work for the Underworld Detection Agency—none of it fashion related. The bulk of his fashion sense came from doing his smarmy best to look up the skirts—oh, “Under the Hem,” ew—of every lady he ran into, most notably mine and Sophie Lawson’s. He was sleazy, sex starved, and annoying, and the apple of his yellow-tinged eye had always been Sophie—until he met Sasha.

  “You were a paramedic, weren’t you?” I gaped.