Fashionably Dead

by Robyn Peterman

  If I were them, I would be skeptical too, but I had no intention of proving anything to anybody. Ethan and Venus knew my particulars. Neither one had felt it necessary to enlighten anyone. Fine by me. And good God, I had new powers emerging every day. Ethan and Venus didn’t know the half of it. The Kev and Pam wanted me to keep some of it under wraps.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, finding a full scale clay model of male genitalia sitting on my desk. I quickly shoved it in a drawer. “Holy shit, what is that?”

  Under my desk was a large pile of what appeared to be dog poop. Charlie had one hell of a sense of humor . . . I hoped. I crawled under my desk. It didn’t smell and God knew I had a bionic nose. I was loath to touch it just in case it was real but petrified . . . It wasn’t real. Damn Charlie, I was going to get him back for this one.

  “Excuse me,” a child called out. “Is anyone here?

  Oh crap, a child? A child was here to teach art to a class of penis-loving seniors? Maybe if I stayed under my desk she’d leave.

  “Hello?” she said. “Hello? Anyone here?”

  I waited.

  “Hello?” She was getting louder. She was not giving up. This child did sound vaguely familiar. She smelled like insecurity and sadness—not dangerous at all. She was lonely. I crawled out from under my desk with a big smile plastered on my face. Wait. Where in the hell did she go?

  “Astrid?” a tiny voice said from behind me. How did someone get behind me? I was a Vampyre for Christ’s sake. I whipped around and came face to face with the child—well, kind of since she was about seven inches shorter than me. It was Paris Hilton.

  “Holy shit, Paris,” I gasped. “You about scared the life out of me.”

  “That’s not possible.” Paris Hilton chuckled at her own joke. “You’re already dead.”

  She slapped me on the back and I went flying. Damn, she was strong. I righted myself before I took down a huge pile of charcoals and paint and turned to find her prostrate on the ground before me.

  “Oh for God’s sake, get up,” I told her.

  “You are the Chosen One,” she said reverently, not budging.

  “Chosen shmozen. Get your ass up,” I barked. “Why are you here?”

  “I want to teach art. My specialty is pastels, but I adore sculpture and watercolor, too.”

  “You do realize these are seniors in the class?”

  “Oh yeah, I love old people,” she said, pulling on her straggly black hair.

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked, worried.

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” She was confused.

  I felt bad saying it, but I liked most of the class and I had a responsibility to them. “Well, um . . . I mean, do you like them or do you like them?”

  Shit, I was starting to sweat.

  “Oh, I get it,” Paris giggled. “You mean will I eat them?”

  “Yes,” I shouted, both relieved that she figured it out and frightened of what her answer would be.

  “No,” she assured me, “old folks don’t taste so good.”

  “Great. Good to know.”

  “So do I get the job?” she asked.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” I said, eyeing her narrowly, “you got Charlie who likes to touch all women inappropriately. You got Niecey, who stands about four feet tall and is secretly in love with Charlie the Ass Grabber. Mrs. Jenkins is a bulldozer who likes to make whips and handcuffs out of clay. Charlie usually sticks to boobs. Niecey can’t help herself but create out of proportion replicas of the male anatomy. There’s a hilarious gal in the back whose name I can’t remember and she likes to throw art supplies. But . . . the main problems are Martha and Jane. They are horrible, nasty, mean women. I’m unclear why they even come to the class, but they do. They’ve made my life a living hell for several years and they will do the same or worse to you.” I stared at her long and hard. “How would you deal with all that?”

  “Hmmm,” Paris said thoughtfully. “I suppose I’d have Charlie model nude for the class. That would keep him away from the privates and Niecey might have a better chance of sculpting a more realistic penis. I’d make sure the gal in the back never works with knives or scissors since she is fond of launching things. I’d let Mrs. Jenkins think she’s in charge, and as for Martha and Jane . . . Are they conservative, or religious?” she asked.

  “Both.”

  Paris grinned happily. “That’s easy! I’d trance them into only being able to utter liberal or sacrilegious statements.”

  “Oh my God, can you really do that?” I asked, impressed.

  “Hell yeah. I could also zap them bald.”

  “Great! You’re hired,” I said, praying to Jesus I wasn’t making a huge mistake. Paris was so excited she grabbed me in a bear hug so tight I was sure she was breaking every bone in my upper body.

  “Let go,” I gasped.

  She did. I fell to the ground in agony.

  “Oh my God,” she shrieked, “I am so sorry. I got excited and I . . . oh God.” She dropped to a fetal position and began to roll around on the floor. I momentarily forgot my own pain and watched the most bizarre reaction to anything I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Um . . . Paris,” I said.

  “Yes?” She stopped rolling and looked at me.

  “Are you gonna do that if something goes wrong in class?”

  “Um . . . no?” she asked.

  “No,” I told her. “Under no circumstance can you ever do that around the seniors.”

  She was shocked, “Really?”

  “Really,” I replied, beginning to wonder if I was high.

  “Another thing,” I continued, “if you physically destroy the classroom, I will kick your ass from here into the next century.”

  “Good to know . . . good to know,” she told me without an ounce of sarcasm.

  “Oh, and Muffy is not allowed in here. Ever.” I could just imagine the shit storm that would ensue if the Muffster showed up.

  “You don’t have to worry about her. She can’t go out in the sun at all.”

  “You can?”

  She nodded. I was surprised. She was only about ninety or so in Vamp years.

  “I can tolerate it quite well,” she said with pride.

  “So the Vamps that changed you and your . . . comrades . . . were really old?”

  “Oh no,” Paris said darkly, “they were young, but they didn’t turn me.”

  I stared at her. “Oookay, you lost me. If they didn’t turn you, who did?”

  “Prince Ethan turned me.”

  What the fu . . . ? Why would Ethan turn Paris Hilton? No offense, but . . .

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why,” she said slowly.

  Son of a bitch, another mind reader? I shut my brain doors and regrouped. If everybody could read minds, why couldn’t I?

  “I am curious,” I said gently.

  She started rocking from one foot to the other. Back and forth . . . back and forth. I could smell her uncertainty and fear, her anger and her sadness. “Those other Vamps, the bad ones, changed everyone in the freak show . . . everyone except me. Muffy almost escaped—she’s a contortionist.” She stopped and stared at the ceiling. “They beat me for several days, but for some reason I wouldn’t die. I wanted to . . . I really did, but I just kept on living.”

  She fiddled with her T-shirt and pushed her hair behind her ears. “It angered them I wouldn’t die. They wouldn’t give up. They just tried harder.” She tucked her concert T-shirt into her leggings and wrapped her slender arms around her body. “They increased their efforts. They were so furious that Muffy almost got away and that I wouldn’t die so they . . . ” She looked up and continued without emotion. “So they burned me and took turns raping me . . . repeatedly. When that didn’t work, they cut my throat.”

  If I’d had a beating heart it would have stopped. As it was, whatever was in there broke. I felt so much anger I was numb. I couldn’t say anything. All I wanted to do was to gather her into my arms and ro
ck her, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Eventually they left, and for some god-awful reason I was still alive. The Elite Guard arrived and found all of us, including what was left of me.” Her sweet voice was so soft now I had to lean in to hear her. “Prince Ethan found me. I was disgusting. Anyone else would have simply found me beyond repair . . . but not the Prince.” She smiled a little. “He gave me a choice—he would help me die, or I could become a Vampyre and join his Dominion. He told me he would be honored to have someone as strong as I was as one of his people. Anyone who had survived what I had deserved to live. He said he would care for me like a daughter, and he always has.”

  “Why were they only banished? Why weren’t they put to death?”

  “Because the Prince gave me a gift,” she said with pride. “He banished them so I would have the pleasure of killing them. I trained for a year and when I was ready, I had his permission and blessing to go after them. And I did.”

  Boy, I was getting really desensitized to death. The end of that story made me so happy I almost clapped. I walked to her and took her little damaged body and wounded spirit into my arms and I did what I had wanted to do. I rocked her like a baby while she cried.

  When she finished I sat down with her on the floor.

  “Oh, I’ve got one little problem,” Paris said, wiping the pink tears from her cheeks.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I got kicked out of my House and I don’t have anywhere to live at the moment. Can I move in with you?” Paris asked.

  “Um, no. Absolutely not. Out of the question . . . but I think I might have an idea.”

  Chapter 20

  Tonight when I woke up my monsters were in bed with me, cuddled up like warm puppies—minus the fur. They came off the ceiling a few days ago, but only a few minutes at a time, ‘til now. Our relationship was progressing, what with the sleepovers and all. Ethan would be so jealous.

  I had always assumed Ross and Rachel were a couple, and that Honest Abe and Beyonce were a couple. But if sleeping positions were any indication, all my monsters were gay. Beyonce and Rachel were very tangled up in each other, while Ross and Honest Abe were spooned up sweetly. It did make sense. The boys had always been far more concerned with my ensembles than the girls. They also had better taste.

  Cuddling with my monsters delighted me. I liked playing with Ross’ hair—it felt like Velcro. Beyonce was a great singer and some of the sounds she made were beginning to sound like words. All of her songs seemed to be about her vicious mother. We did have that in common. Honest Abe gave me arm tickles by very lightly running his razor sharp claws up and down the inside of my arm. Rachel was my girl . . . she would play with my hair for hours on end.

  I loved feeding them breezes of Glitter Magic and watching them run around my bed like tiny drunks on speed. I didn’t even find them unattractive anymore.

  “You guys are beautiful,” I cooed, tickling Ross’ fat little belly. He screamed with joy and blew me kisses.

  “Dadadadadadablablabla,” Rachel told me urgently. All the monsters froze and stared at her in horror.

  Oh shit.

  “What?” I asked, stupidly thinking I could understand. Why in the hell couldn’t I understand? I was half Demon for God’s sake.

  “Dadadadadadablablabla,” she repeated. Honest Abe smacked her in the head and they all began to wrestle and punch each other. Ross kept running over to hug me and then dove back into the fray.

  I sighed and wondered if their brawl indicated a bad night ahead. I had a ton of stuff to do on this fine evening and I didn’t need any unplanned drama.

  I picked up my brawling babies and tossed them back up to the ceiling. Ross didn’t want to leave me. I gave him a kiss and promised to be back soon. He reluctantly let me lob him back up.

  I pulled on some black yoga pants, a hot pink jogging bra, some fabulous sparkly, silver beaded flip-flops and put my hair in a ponytail. I adjusted the girls, slapped on some lip gloss and I was ready to go. I had fight and weapons training at the Cressida House in a couple of hours and I’d found the less clothing I wore, the better. First off, too much clothing can encumber movement. Second, the less I wore, the more distracted the male Vamps got. It was a lot easier to take down a distracted Vamp than a focused one.

  That left me about three hours to get Paris Hilton all settled, but I needed to eat first.

  ***

  “What do you want, Assbutt?” Pam yelled as I sidled up to her on the couch. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of my program?”

  She didn’t like people to bother her or to talk or move during Jerry Springer. Of course, she was excluded and allowed to shout her head off at the desperately pathetic people who enjoyed displaying their backward-ass screwed up lives on national television. It was more fun to watch her watching the shows than the shows themselves.

  “I’m hungry,” I told her, crawling into her lap. She gathered me to her without missing a beat of her program.

  The Kev and Gemma joined us, looking suspiciously flushed. Hmm . . . maybe that two thousand year age difference wasn’t such a big deal anymore.

  “Hello, my strudel cheeks,” The Kev whispered. He too was in fear of Pam’s right hook, frequently dealt out when anyone spoke during Jerry Springer.

  “What are you doing tonight?” Gemma whispered.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Pam groused, “you people can talk. I’ve seen this one four times already. It’s not his baby.” We turned our attention to the TV. “You see that dumbass in the blue shirt?” she asked. We nodded. “He’s gonna try to choke his cheating hooker of a wife, and then that fine lookin’ bald security guy is gonna come out and pound his ass. I really like me a nice, beefy bald guy with big muscles.”

  Sure enough, she was right. Blue shirt got an ass-pounding from the bald beefy guy.

  “I’m going over to Nana’s house. I’m going to let Paris Hilton live there for a while,” I told Gemma. “Then I have weapons and fight training at the Cressida House.”

  Did she have a hickey on her neck?

  “Back the fuck up.” Pam started laughing. “You’re letting Paris Hilton live in your Nana’s house?”

  “Yes, and she’s taking over my teaching job at the senior center,” I added defensively.

  The Kev winked at me. “You have the balls that are big,” he chuckled. Good God, was he wearing a muumuu?

  “Holy hell, child,” Pam laughed, “have you lost your mind?”

  “You know what?” I shouted, “I like her and she knows a lot about art and she got kicked out of her House because . . . .” I realized I had no idea why she was ousted from her Vampyre sorority and I had a feeling it was better that way. “I know she’s weird-looking and talks like an eight year old and seems to enjoy breaking furniture, but she’s had a really hard life and death,” I informed my open-mouthed crowd. “I want to take care of her. She makes my non-beating heart hurt. Pam, you’re going online to buy her some clothes in size zero that are not black and don’t have a rock band on them. Gemma . . . ” I held my hand up to stop her before she could speak. “I have plenty of money with my inheritance and I’ll feel a lot better spending it on someone other than myself.”

  I really, truly felt like I was going to hurl. I knew this was an impossibility for Vamps, but nonetheless, the thought of relocating Paris to Nana’s house seemed like a good idea until I actually said it out loud. I had to sit down and put my head between my knees. I was dizzy, but I knew I was right. I looked up, expecting more crap from the nutty people I considered my family. They all smiled with love and pride. Nary a swear word passed Pam’s lips. She put her arms out and I cuddled back up into her ample and beautiful lap.

  “You’re a good girl,” she said as she rocked me. I sank my fangs into her neck. Gemma curled up next to me and rubbed my back. The Kev sat at my feet and rested his head on my shins.

  How did I ever get so lucky?

  ***

  The house smelled like Nana.
I hadn’t been back since I’d become a Vampyre and had my new nose. It smelled like freesia and lilies with a hint of brown sugar. Like Nana. It smelled so good, I wanted to cry. For a while after she died, I couldn’t come back here at all. I kept expecting to find her, and everyone would realize what I already knew. She wasn’t really dead. That never happened.

  I took a deep cleansing breath and stepped back into reality. I wandered around the house. It felt good and safe and real to be here. The rest of my life was spinning around me like a deadly tornado. I was having horrible nightmares about Petra. Pam wasn’t convinced that she was dead. I, on the other hand, was sure she was dead. Being eaten by Demons clearly meant death . . . although who in the hell knew. Maybe she wasn’t mortal. Maybe she wasn’t dead.

  “Astrid?”

  “Hey, Paris.” I quickly wiped away the tear rolling down my cheek.

  “You okay?” she asked, her arms full of suitcases and art supplies.

  “I’m fine.” I smiled and relieved her of some of her load. “You really are an artist.”

  “Yeah, I’m not that good, but I love it,” she said, dropping her suitcase and looking around. “This house is pretty.”

  “I know,” I muttered, wondering what Nana would think of me installing Paris Hilton, the violent little Vampyre, in her home. A small tickle of warmth settled in my stomach and bounced all through my body. What the fu . . . ?

  “Oh my God.” I grabbed the back of the couch for balance.

  “What?” Paris shrieked, pulling a wicked-looking knife from her bag. She slammed me down on the couch and sat on me, ready to defend me.

  “No, Paris. It’s not bad. Nana wants you here,” I grunted, positive she’d crushed my ribs.

  “Who’s Nana?” she asked, still unwilling to relinquish her weapon or her seat on my back.

  “My Nana, my grandmother,” I groaned, shoving her off.

  “She’s not going to mind sharing her house with a Vampyre?” Paris asked skeptically, putting her knife into her belt.