Fashionably Dead

by Robyn Peterman

  The ones that were not wounded were taking great pleasure embedding and twisting their claws into the wounds of the less fortunate. They had razor sharp teeth with bits of what appeared to be bloody flesh hanging from them. I may be gross for drinking blood, but I was small potatoes in the repulsive department compared to these guys. Movies couldn’t come close to these atrocities. They examined Petra with a patient hatred while they evaluated me with a hungry curiosity.

  “Um . . . Petra, can you see that?” I asked her, keeping my body very still as not to startle them.

  “Of course I can,” she snapped. “They’re mine.”

  “Oookay.” I glanced over at her. “They don’t seem to like you much.”

  They hissed viciously at her right on cue. She looked bored. Who was she? Better yet, what was she? She couldn’t be human and be able to see all this. Could she?

  One of them yelled at her in a language I couldn’t even begin to identify. Petra stiffened and watched the bloody monster with narrowed eyes. Her glare didn’t affect him at all. She hissed at him and he continued to scream at her.

  As he screamed he slowly took on human features. His tirade was turning him human. Kind of. A gross, bloody human with razor sharp teeth and huge claws. His horns came along for the ride too. He was massive and disgusting. Next thing I knew, the thing was standing next to my mother.

  He stood about six feet, six inches tall, and his burnt, bloody body bulged with muscles. He watched me closely.

  “Astrid,” my mother smiled evilly, her eyes narrowed to slits as she clapped her hands like a happy child, “Meet your father.”

  Holy shit, was she serious? “My father is a monster?” I gasped.

  “A Demon, you imbecile,” she snarled, “not a monster. There’s no such thing as monsters.”

  That was debatable, I thought as I looked at the woman who gave birth to me. My father stood next to her, wheezed some kind of internal goop and stared at me. Beneath all the blood and oozing sores he was kind of . . . well, maybe a little . . . sort of . . .

  Nope. Who in the hell was I kidding? He was horrible. Hideously butt-ass ugly and he smelled like hell. Literally. He smelled of sulfur, burnt hair and charred flesh.

  He bared his teeth. Dear God, was he trying to smile at me . . . or was he getting ready to eat me? I knew Vamps were immortal and all, but I was almost sure even I, the Chosen One, couldn’t survive being eaten by a Demon. I really didn’t want to die today. I had too many things left I wanted to do. Number one on the list was to wrap my legs around Ethan and screw him until neither of us could walk. What the fu . . . ? Where did that come from? Why was he in my head right now? He needs to get out. I quickly shoved him to the back of my mind and watched my bloody daddy closely. Any sudden moves and I was so out of here.

  Petra leaned into him and stroked his oozing face with her perfectly manicured hands. Something wasn’t quite right about that. As long as I’d known her, she hated anything dirty or messy. Just goes to show you how love can change a cold, heartless bitch. She actually cared for someone. God, that tore me apart in unexplainable ways.

  He slapped her hand away and grunted violently at her.

  “Can he speak English?” I asked her.

  She laughed at me, “He speaks everything, you little pathetic piece of . . . ” Before she could finish her loving description of me, he slapped her so hard he knocked her out and her body flew across the room. She looked like a broken doll lying on the floor beneath the window. I moved to go to her, but my, um . . . father put up his hand.

  “No,” he ordered. His voice was ragged. It sounded painful, like he was speaking through shards of glass. “She’s done enough damage this time around.” He watched me back up towards the door. “Stop,” he commanded. “I want to touch you. Come to me.”

  Bizarrely enough, I didn’t think he was going to eat me or hit me. I could tell he really did just want to touch me. I looked into his eyes, which were gold like mine. They were the only human-looking thing about him. I walked to him. If I concentrated on his eyes, I could almost pretend he wasn’t the most frightening and disgusting thing I’d ever seen.

  I stood in front of him. Inside I was a trembling mess. Outwardly I was calm.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he ground out, his razor sharp teeth clicking grotesquely as he spoke.

  “Yes, I am,” I told him truthfully. “Are you really my father?” I had to know.

  He examined me closely. His breath was putrid and it was all I could do to stand my ground. He slowly raised his hand. I could tell he was trying not to scare me. It was a little late for that. He reached out with his bloody hand, touched my face and replied, “Yes.”

  He backed away from me and went to my mother, picked up her crumpled body and gently laid her on the couch.

  “What is she?” I asked him.

  He paused and considered my question. “She’s a bitch. A horrible, horrible bitch.” He looked down at her and laughed. “But she’s my bitch.”

  With that, he clapped his hands and the Demons slithered off the ceiling and moved toward Petra. He yelled something in an unfamiliar language. I didn’t need to understand the language to know what he said. Licking their bloody lips, they surrounded her and they ate her.

  The screams of joy were something I would never forget. Thankfully their grotesque bloody bodies covered the gruesome brutality of what they were doing.

  I gagged and fell to the ground. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears. I wasn’t about to wait around to see if I was next. Without saying bye to Daddy, I transported the hell out of there and went home.

  Chapter 17

  I didn’t stop, I didn’t pass Go . . . I teleported, and then I ran.

  I ran straight into Pam’s waiting arms and I broke. A dam burst inside of me and rushed from my damaged spirit with a vengeance. I pulled away from Pam’s embrace. I had to move. I couldn’t stay still. My head was a mess and my insides felt raw. I paced frantically. My fists opened and closed at an alarming speed. I wanted to jump or run—instead I fell to the floor and beat on it.

  And I cried. I cried for myself. I cried for my mother, who I hated and loved with such a confused passion it was painful. I cried because her death was so horrific and because part of me didn’t care. I cried for my Nana, who I missed more and more each passing day. I thought time and distance dulled pain. They didn’t.

  I cried for Venus because she used to be a slave, and for Paris Hilton because she was such a freak. It pained me to think about other people being as judgmental as I had been. I cried for Cathy, because she loved someone who didn’t love her. I knew about that. I cried about Heathcliff. After everything that had happened, I didn’t know if I would ever get a chance to know him and he seemed like such a kind and beautiful person.

  I cried for my monsters and worried they would become like my mother’s Demons. It killed me that I would never have children because I wanted someone to love so badly. I wanted to be a real mother to someone. I would have been so good at that. I cried because the father I’d imagined in my dreams was so much better than the monstrosity that had sired me.

  I cried because Rogue Vampyres were killing innocent people and because I used to be innocent. Maybe that was my path, I thought wildly. Kill the Rogues. I didn’t even care if I died in the process.

  I cried for Pam because I loved her so much. I knew there was much more to her story than she let on.

  And I cried because I was worried I would outlive Gemma, and I didn’t want to. I cried because The Kev was so sweet and his love for Gemma was so beautiful.

  My blood-laced tears ruined my pretty white halter. My track record with Prada was not so good lately. First the dress, now the halter. That made me cry too.

  My tear ducts had almost run dry, but there were still enough bloody tears to cry in confusion. I wanted Ethan. Now. I wanted him to hold me and comfort me. I wanted to lay my head on his chest and wrap my arms around his body. I wanted him to whisper t
o me and I wanted to fall asleep in his arms while he played with my hair. I could not begin to understand why I wanted or needed a man I barely knew, but I did. With every fiber of my being, I did. Maybe he was mine . . . and I was his. Was Venus right?

  Oh. My. God. In my jumbled mess of a brain, a horrible reality occurred to me. She wasn’t right . . . she wasn’t even close to right. That bastard didn’t want me. Ethan didn’t want me for me. That son of a bitch wanted the Chosen One. He’d waited five hundred twenty-two years - not for me, but for the Chosen One.

  Please God, just kill me now. How much more did I have to take? Petra was right about one thing . . . men were bad. I knew my heart was breaking. The unconditional love I wanted would never be mine. Not from my mother, not from a child and not from Ethan. Why did Ethan’s betrayal hurt more than the others? Nothing made sense anymore. I fell back to the floor and the flood gates reopened for business.

  ***

  “Astrid, are you okay?” Gemma rubbed my back and pulled my head to her lap.

  “How long have I been here?” I asked, dazed.

  “Um . . . about six hours,” she said, smoothing my hair away from my face and kissing my forehead. “You sobbed and moaned for about five hours, and you’ve been sitting here comatose for the last forty-five minutes or so.” She paused. “Pam told me what happened.”

  “How does she know?” I asked, sitting up.

  “She had a vision,” Gem replied quietly.

  Well, now I knew why she was waiting for me. “Did she see my daddy?” I asked Gemma, wincing at the memory of him.

  “Yes, Asscrack, I did. Damn, he’s one ugly motherfuckin’ Demon,” Pam said, resettling herself on the couch.

  “Oh my God,” I shouted. “Does that mean I’m half Demon?”

  “Technically yes, Asswad,” she said, “but the fact that The Kev and I raised you since you turned should negate your Demonic traits.”

  “Demonic traits would be . . . ?” I asked, against my better judgment.

  “Oh, you know . . . ” Was she grinning at me? “You know,” she continued, “eating people, killing without discretion, blowing things up, mass murder, wreaking havoc. Stuff like that.”

  “Shit,” I screamed. I scanned the room for something silver to shove through my chest.

  “Don’t fret, Assbutt,” Pam laughed. “I’m certain there ain’t no evil Demon left in you. You drank too much Angel and Fairy blood to be anything but good, good, good. Besides, not all Demons are bad. I do believe this means you have to kiss my big, fat, sexy ass for the rest of your long life.”

  “Kill me now,” I begged. She was right though . . . I would kiss her butt ‘til the end of time. She and The Kev had saved me from being something that had no right to exist in a civilized world . . . or any world, for that matter.

  “I gotta say,” Pam announced, “your daddy has got to be the most butt-assed, fucked up ugly I have ever seen. How your momma did the wild thing with him is beyond my imagination. And I’ve got one hell of an imagination,” she bellowed.

  Holy God, that visual had never occurred to me. I started to laugh, and I couldn’t stop. I was now the proud owner of an image that even one hundred million years of therapy would never erase.

  “Pam, you suck!” I yelled at her, moving in to tackle her on the sofa.

  She defended herself by smothering me in a bear hug. God, she smelled yummy. I sank my fangs into her neck. She hummed and rocked me like a baby while I ate. Petra’s ugly death seemed so far away from my home full of love.

  Whenever I drank from Pam, my brain swirled in colorful circles. My body tingled all over and I felt calm and happy. Sometimes little sparkling fireworks went off if I kept my eyes closed. The Kev said I was a bad eater, because I let all my defenses down when I drank. I wouldn’t have known if the world ended when I ate. Clearly that’s why I didn’t realize a certain someone was standing two feet from me.

  “Um, Astrid . . . ” Gemma was flustered.

  I ignored her. I was too blissed out drinking from Pam. I wouldn’t interrupt her during sex. Okay . . . yuck. Did I just equate drinking from Pam to sex? I needed to get laid. Soon.

  “Astrid,” she tried again. I ignored her again. I was still totally grossed out by my sex analogy. I wondered if I could Green-Eye a human into having sex and then Green-Eye them into forgetting about it. Shit, that was so complicated.

  “Angel, you really don’t have to do that,” an all too familiar voice volunteered suggestively. “I’d be more than happy to accommodate you.”

  I could hear the grin in that son of a bitch’s voice. Damn it, he was a mind reader. I slammed the garage doors in my head shut and I heard him chuckle. I slowly pulled my fangs out of Pam’s neck and made eye contact with her.

  “Do we have company?” I asked her.

  “Yes, Asswad, we do,” she said gleefully, “and he is one fine-looking piece of ass.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can he see or hear you?”

  “I’m letting him see a shimmer of me. I look like a sparkly mirage. And no, Shithat, he can’t hear me,” she said as she stood up and dumped me to the floor.

  Crap, that was not graceful. Did she just call me Shithat? This was not how I had envisioned my next rendezvous with Ethan. I quickly stood and turned to face him. I almost fell back on the couch. He was so stinkin’ beautiful. If I’d been human, my heart would have stopped.

  He wore Prada from head to toe. Black pants and a black fitted shirt. Were all Vamps Prada whores? The color made his skin look like polished alabaster. His hair was a sexy messy and his eyes sparkled beneath his ridiculously long lashes.

  I wanted to go to him. I wanted to trace his lips with my fingers. I wanted to run my hands all over his chest and those muscular arms. What I really wanted to do was grab his butt. His perfectly beautiful, assorific derriere. I held myself back. It was not easy.

  Why was I holding back?

  He was clearly open to the idea of being thrown to the floor and ravaged. He tilted his head to the side and let his eyes travel down to my chest.

  “Do you like the outfit I picked for you?” He smiled and ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I huffed. No way did he pick this out. I vaguely recalled promising to be in love with whoever chose this. Following the direction of his eyes, I looked down and realized I was a crazy, bloody hot mess. Shit, shit, shit.

  I scrounged up as much dignity as I could muster and politely informed him, “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to change.”

  “Do you need any help?” he asked, equally as polite.

  “No, thank you,” I primly answered, walking past him and trying not to notice how delicious he smelled.

  “Hi, I’m Gemma,” I heard as I slunk down to my room. “And you are . . .

  “Ethan,” he informed her. “The Warrior Prince of the North American Dominion and Astrid’s mate.”

  A scream flew out of me before I could slap my hand over my mouth. I heard him laugh as I ran the rest of the way to my bedroom. I ripped through my closet looking for something to wear that would make him so sorry that he couldn’t have me.

  Ever. I was not his mate, and he couldn’t make me.

  Nothing. I could find nothing to wear.

  “Screw this,” I said to no one in particular and grabbed my favorite pair of old holey Levis and a black camisole top. I put on blue sequined Converse and flopped back on my bed. Maybe if I didn’t go back out, he would leave. Who was I kidding? That douchebag wanted to own me.

  My monsters were very busy chastising me. They clearly did not approve of my outfit choice. Beyonce and Rachel were miming puking, while Ross and Honest Abe cried hysterically and pointed to my closet.

  “I don’t care,” I told them. “All of you are lucky I didn’t put on sweat pants and a big paint splattered T-shirt.”

  They screamed in horror.

  “Oh for God’s sake.” I leaned off my bed to find something on the f
loor to throw at them. “You guys are so not the boss of me and I can . . . ”

  “Who are you talking to, Angel?”

  “Shit,” I yelled, slamming my head on my bedside table. “Has anybody ever heard of knocking?”

  He stood in the doorway, casually leaning against the frame and evaluated me. He looked so big in my small room. His exam started at my sequined Converse, which made him smile, to my jeans, which made him raise an eyebrow, to my camisole, where he stopped. I suppose he decided to take a break and stare at my girls. I felt my nipples harden under his gaze and quickly crossed my arms over my chest. He grinned.

  “Why are you here?” I asked him. I sat up and pulled some of my comforter around me.

  “For you,” he said.

  “I don’t need you,” I snapped. God, what in the hell did my hair look like? I’d transported twice, watched my mother get eaten, and cried for five or so hours. I couldn’t be looking my best. Wait. Why did I care? I didn’t. I was glad I looked like a piece of crap. He could take that and shove it up his . . .

  “You look beautiful,” he said, “and although you may not need me, I need you.”

  Damn those mind readers. I must not have shut my brain doors properly.

  “You need to go home,” I told him. Flattery was going to get him nowhere.

  “I came here because I felt your pain, Angel,” he said, moving into my room. “It almost incapacitated me.”

  “You can’t feel my pain.”

  He watched and said nothing. I felt trapped in his gaze. This was so not fair. I could feel my desire for him taking over all the rational arguments of why I should boot his ass out.

  “I feel everything you feel,” he said, walking to my bed.

  “That’s impossible.” I moved to the far side of my bed, putting as much distance between us as I could.

  “Nothing is impossible,” he said gently. “You and I are Vampyres. You have an Angel living with you. I sense a Fairy here somewhere, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but your friend Gemma is not a human. Most importantly, you are the Chosen One.”