by Barb Hendee
“Forever.”
Maggie slowly took the photo from her hand and put it back down. Then she led Simone over to the bed, sinking down onto the edge and pulling Simone to sit beside her.
“You can do that?” Simone asked in a hushed voice.
“Only if you make me a promise.”
Ah, there it was. Maggie wanted something from her. There was always a deal. Always a game.
“What promise?”
“That you will stay with me. Men come and go. I had a great love once, that crossed wealth and poverty and death and time, but it ended. Men will always come and go, but women can hold to each other. I want my sister back.”
Simone did not believe in the love of sisters, but she would have promised Maggie anything. What had Maggie said . . . magic?
She didn’t care. She only wanted to look twenty-two forever.
“I swear,” she said.
Maggie’s closed her eyes in relief. “Do you trust me?”
Simone didn’t trust anyone, but she wasn’t backing down.
“Yes.”
Maggie was silent for a few moments, and once again, Simone experienced that sensation of attraction, of finding Maggie beautiful and comfortable to be with, of being attracted to everything about her.
The sensation increased until she became lost in a fog.
It did not even seem strange when Maggie leaned over and gently pushed her back on the bed. Then Maggie leaned down and embraced Simone.
“I’ve never done this,” Maggie whispered, “but I had it done, and I promise it will be different for you than it was for me.”
Simone could barely hear her on the edge of consciousness. She felt Maggie’s face close to hers, whispering in her ear, then Maggie’s mouth on her throat, and she tensed.
What was happening?
Before she could protest or pull away, a sharp, blinding pain struck her throat, and she felt Maggie holding her down. She bucked once, and then the fog filled her head, easing the pain, making her wonder whether she was lost in a dream.
She could feel her heart slow and slow and nearly stop.
Then she heard a soft tearing sound, and suddenly, Maggie’s wrist was in her mouth.
“Drink,” Maggie whispered. “Take it all back, and this will be over. You’ll forget the pain and be forever young.”
Without letting herself think, Simone put her lips over Maggie’s bloody wrist. She began to swallow.
Forever young.
Simone didn’t remember blacking out, but when she woke up, she had blood on her dress and she could hear insects moving outside.
She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t warm. She couldn’t feel anything.
“Simone ...” Maggie was suddenly at her side, helping her to sit up.
Memories and the reality of what had just happened came crashing down, and Simone knew she should be horrified.
But she wasn’t.
“Is it done?” she whispered.
“Yes, my sweet, all done.” Maggie stroked her forehead. There was a time when Simone would have given anything for her own mother to have stroked her forehead like that. But that time was long past.
“Come and we’ll change your dress, and I’ll tell you everything,” Maggie was saying. “You have so much to learn.”
“To learn?”
“How to hunt, how to feed, how to keep safe.”
Again, such words should have shocked Simone to her core. But they didn’t. She got up and followed Maggie like a child.
A few nights later, Maggie took her down to the waterfront, near Elliott Avenue. Large numbers of the homeless—people out of work—tended to gather down here, standing around burning barrels for warmth.
Simone had not gone back to the Triple Door, but Maggie assured her everything had been smoothed over with the stage manager; Maggie had told him that Simone was simply indisposed for a few nights.
Simone had been going through “the change,” her body dying and adjusting to its new existence. She could barely contain her joy.
Her pale skin glowed as never before. Her hair hung straight and shining. Her lips were red.
“You’ve never been so beautiful,” Maggie said, and she was right.
But tonight, Simone had awoken with her body feeling uncomfortable, hollow.
Maggie began explaining some facts about the hard truth of this new life, and Simone listened without blinking. Of course there was a price. She’d expected that. She didn’t care.
Whatever it was, she would pay it.
Now they were near the waterfront, dressed in long coats with hoods, standing alone in a side alley, but not too far from the homeless and the hopeless and destitute.
“The easiest way to hide a body is to not have to hide it,” Maggie said quietly, her voice different tonight, harder and almost like that of a schoolteacher. “The police don’t bother with some nameless, shabby body. They just turn it over for burial.”
Simone heard truth in this. In large cities, in 1935, the homeless and the hungry died for all sorts of reasons. The scant police force could not possibly keep up, and most of them were beyond caring.
However, that didn’t mean she liked being down here. This place was far beneath her. Maggie didn’t seem to notice. “All you have to do is lure a man off into an alley by himself. It’s not difficult. But don’t let anyone else see you. Use your gift to seduce him, and then feed. Cut his throat so it looks like he bled to death, and take his money if he has any.”
“His money?”
“So it looks like a robbery.”
“Oh, of course.”
Maggie was sounding more and more like a schoolteacher. “Just stay here and watch me this time. I’ll bring someone soon.”
She walked away and stood outside the end of the alley, dropping her hood back. Again, Simone experienced the attraction that Maggie emanated when she chose to. Would Simone’s gift be the same? She couldn’t wait to find out. Maggie had said it would take only a day or two to manifest, and Simone was eager to feel it . . . to use it.
She heard voices and looked up. Maggie was backing down the alley with a heavyset man following her.
“Just down here,” Maggie said in a husky tone. “No one will see us.”
“Who’s that?” the man grunted.
“My sister. Don’t worry, you’ll like her.”
Was she drawing him away with the promise of sex?
Then Simone got a good look at him. He was revolting. Filthy, unshaven, and reeking of gin.
Didn’t he find this situation unbelievable? But he followed Maggie eagerly, glancing at Simone with a glint in his eye.
Disgusting.
To Simone’s further shock, Maggie seductively leaned back against the alley wall, and the man grabbed her with his dirty hands and began kissing her.
The aura of Maggie’s attraction filled the alley.
Then, almost faster than Simone could see, Maggie whipped the man around until he was the one pressed against the wall. She bit down on his throat, tearing and drinking blood in fast gulps, savage and violent. An expression of joy crossed her twisted features.
Simone’s revulsion faded as the hollow feeling in her stomach grew.
Maggie stopped suddenly, lifting her head. “Now you.”
In spite of his stink and his soiled clothing, Simone rushed over and took Maggie’s place, holding the man’s full weight as he sagged in her hands. She bit down, drinking in mouthfuls of warm, sweet fluid. In her mind, she saw images of him working on the docks, calling to a lost dog, drinking gin . . . and drinking more gin.
She shoved against him harder, draining him wildly.
His heart stopped, and Maggie pulled her away. Simone winced in sorrow that it was over. She felt different, stronger, and she had wanted it to go on.
Maggie produced a thick butcher knife and jaggedly cut the man’s throat. Then she searched his body.
“Can we find another alley and do it again?” Simone asked.
“You want m
ore?”
Simone wasn’t sure. But she wanted something. She could feel something building inside her. Without knowing why, she focused on Maggie. Even with all Maggie’s beauty, did she ever want to be more like Simone, dancing on the stage with long legs and shining, swinging hair?
Maggie’s eyes widened.
“Oh, my sweet,” she said. “It’s envy. Your gift is envy.”
As those words sank in, Simone’s joy at her new existence began to swell again.
The next ten years passed quickly.
Simone decided not to stay in the chorus at the Triple Door. She still loved to perform sometimes, but by using her gift, it was easy enough for her to land short engagements at any club or theater in the city. She soon stopped dancing and began to sing exclusively—it suited her new existence better.
Maggie’s mortal social circle was small, but the people she chose tended to be interesting, artists and actors and even a few members of Seattle’s financial elite. Simone was content to go to parties and nightclubs with these friends. They all liked her and often told her how lovely she was.
“You can’t feed on anyone with whom we have a social connection—ever,” Maggie warned. “If someone in our circle went missing, the police would investigate.”
Maggie also occasionally took a mortal lover, but she was careful to never let him meet any of their other friends. As time slipped by, Simone understood that this was often where most of Maggie’s real money came from. She would seduce a wealthy man, and when he wanted to show his appreciation, she would express a preference for gifts like diamonds or sapphires.
Sometimes the men just vanished, and sometimes, Maggie simply broke it off with a tearful good-bye. Then she’d take the jewels, leave town for a few nights, and come back with a large amount of cash.
She shared everything with Simone. There was no jealousy between them and no competition. Maggie made her feel loved.
Of course, men were always vying for Simone’s attention, and she did try to play Maggie’s game a few times—letting a man romance her for a while—but it never felt right and certainly offered her no satisfaction. She’d never been able to heal the wound left by Pierce McCarthy, and the thought of merely dating or taking a lover didn’t interest her. However, she smiled and laughed and said clever things to inspire admiration.
Adoration fed her more life force than blood.
Several times a month, she and Maggie would go off alone to some shabby, bleak place where the homeless had migrated, and they would feed together. Their routine was nearly always the same.
After the first year with Maggie, Simone stopped writing to Pug, as that too felt wrong. After several further attempts at contact, Pug stopped writing, too.
Simone tried to forget Pug and everything about her previous life.
This routine was only briefly shattered in 1944 when a letter arrived one early evening with Pug’s familiar handwriting. The return address was different from the one Pug had used before. This one was from Greensburg, Pennsylvania.
Simone took the letter home from the post office without opening it. She considered throwing it on the fire. But she opened it, finding a folded sheet of stationery, with the words Read this first written in large letters on the outside and a folded newspaper clipping tucked behind it.
She opened the letter.
Simone,
I hope this reaches you. I know you wanted to cut the ties between us a long time ago, but I was worried you might see this on your own or hear it from someone else. I just learned about it myself, and my mother sent me the enclosed clipping.
About a week ago, your mother shot your father in his sleep and then shot herself. They are both dead.
Your sisters moved away some time ago, and your parents have been living alone in the house. God knows what’s been going on there.
I don’t know how this news will make you feel. If you are in mourning, I understand. They were your parents. If you need me, I am always here for you. I’ve received a teaching post at a small women’s college. Please reach out to me at any time, and I promise I will reach back.
If you are not in mourning . . . I understand. I have some idea how you suffered for years. If my father had ever treated me the way your father treated you, my mother would have gone after him with a baseball bat.
No one should tell you how to feel about this outcome.
I’ve enclosed the clipping with more details. I just thought you should know. I am here for you.
Love,
Pug
Simone opened the clipping and glanced at the headline: PROMINENT DOCTOR’S WIFE SHOOTS HIM IN BED, TURNS GUN ON HERSELF.
She scanned the news story, pausing over only one sentence: The couple is survived by two daughters, Mrs. Miranda Smudge of Philadelphia and Mrs. Kristina McCarthy of New York.
Kristina had married Pierce and gone to New York.
Simone had never wanted to know.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
The clipping didn’t even mention her, as if she didn’t exist. She couldn’t bring herself to feel pity for Mother, but she could imagine what life must have been like once Mother was the only target for Daddy.
Well . . . her parents were dead, and her sisters had moved away.
Simone had no family left in Denver—not even Pug.
Maggie came through the front door and saw her there.
“Are you all right?”
Simone dropped the letter and the clipping onto the fire.
“I’m fine.”
Over the ten following years, Simone began to lose her feelings of contentment. A certain “sameness” about the nights began to wear upon her, and she found herself becoming bored.
Being eternally young had more than one price, and she had not seen this one coming.
She occasionally broke the boredom by attempting something new—such as learning how to drive a motorcar—but in the end, all the clubs, the people, the hunting . . . everything all began to feel exactly the same.
She suggested they move to a new city.
But Maggie refused. Seattle was her home.
They traveled occasionally, but only in America. Every time Simone brought up the idea of going to Europe, Maggie nearly panicked and gave her the same lecture on how they needed to avoid a violent vampire named Julian—who could not know of Simone’s existence. Simone found this cowardly. Europe was an enormous place, and wasn’t a visit to Paris worth a bit of risk?
They never went.
To make matters worse, Maggie started insisting that no matter whom they fed on—even the shabbiest of hobos—they needed to start hiding bodies by dumping them into a lake or the bay . . . or down a sewer grate. Maggie said that the practices of the police were changing, and that she and Simone needed to be much more cautious.
Then, after a while, it began to bother Maggie that Simone refused to update her look as time passed and the current fashions changed. Sure, she ordered new dresses and new flat shoes, and she never looked out of place per se. But she would not change the cut of her dresses or the long knotted beads or the razor-straight bob.
This look had saved her from Daddy long ago. It had beaten her mother and sisters. It was her trademark. It was her identity.
But besides feeling restless, something else was wrong. At first, she’d found Maggie’s complete lack of competition with her to be a lifeline. She’d found peace in Maggie’s unconditional love. Lately, Simone had felt that something was lacking in her own existence. Something she couldn’t name.
That December, she discovered the missing element when Maggie took her to a new club on Madison Avenue.
They were barely inside the door when a familiar voice called out, “Maggie, come and meet my nephew, Ethan.”
Jessica Arkon, a new friend of Maggie’s, was standing by a table just ahead. Jessica was about thirty-five but looked younger, with naturally red hair. She owned a posh town house over near Union Bay, and she’d thrown some elegant part
ies.
A jazz band was playing on the stage, filling the room with raucous sounds.
Simone followed Maggie to the table without much thought, but when she looked down at the couple sitting there, she froze.
“This is Ethan,” Jessica said over the squeal of a trumpet, “and his wife, Alice. They’re visiting from my brother’s home in Dallas.”
Ethan was tan and muscular, with chiseled features and a shock of bangs hanging over one eye. He lit a cigarette.
Alice was petite, with light blue eyes. Her blond hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. She wore a short-sleeved white sweater and a pearl choker, looking like a pretty girl who’d stepped straight out of church.
When Ethan looked at his wife, his expression softened, as if she was the finest thing in the world.
Alice smiled up at Simone. “This place is so exciting. Come sit with us.”
Simone sank down into a chair.
Ethan looked at her with the same startled expression most men did the first time they saw her, but tonight, she took more pleasure in his expression—a great deal more. She ignored him and turned to Alice.
“So, you’re from Texas?” Simone asked. “I’ve never been. What’s it like?”
“Oh, gosh, too big to describe.”
“How long are you staying with Ethan’s aunt?”
“Only about a month.”
Simone made a point of lavishing all her attention on Alice that night, but she slowly . . . ever so slowly allowed the aura of her gift to increase, focusing upon Alice and Ethan, watching small changes in both their expressions as Alice began to envy Simone and Ethan began to envy anyone sitting near her.
Maggie glanced over in alarm a few times, as they never used their gifts on their friends, but she didn’t say anything.
Two nights later, Simone made arrangements for them all to meet at a little club called the Snow Spruce, and about an hour after they were settled with drinks, the club’s host went out onto the stage and announced a special treat.
“Tonight, Miss Simone has agreed to sing for us.”
She didn’t sing often anymore, so the people here had probably never heard of her. But they still applauded when she smiled and stood up.
