by Tara Moss
I blushed.
Luke bent his head to see what she was pointing at.
‘Um,’ I began, embarrassed. My cheeks grew warmer by the heartbeat. ‘I wanted to see . . .’
‘Darling, it’s a lot more effective when they’re conscious,’ Celia said, then paused. She cocked her head and looked at me. ‘Is your friend here?’ She turned left then right. ‘He is, isn’t he? How sweet.’
I looked at Lieutenant Luke, who returned my gaze with his piercing blue eyes. I turned back to my great-aunt, who grinned at me naughtily. ‘Is he very handsome?’ she asked with one sculpted eyebrow raised.
I nodded in the affirmative.
‘Ah, I wish I could see him, but it’s not my gift,’ she said wistfully, and sighed. I wondered how she knew about my phantom friend, but before I could ask, she bent over Samantha. ‘Now, darling, you have been made Sanguine, but only if you drink,’ she explained to the young undead woman.
Samantha still had her eyes closed. She wasn’t moving, not even to breathe.
Celia opened a sack, and, to my mingled repulsion and relief, it held two very plump and fairly disgusting rats. ‘This ought to wake you up,’ she murmured and held the wriggling rodents out by their long, scaly tails, one in each gloved hand. Somehow, she managed this gesture elegantly, as a high priestess would feed a prized snake.
What happened next was something I would never forget. Samantha opened her eyes with a start and snatched at the air with her mouth, fangs extended. She caught hold of the rats with a hand bent like claws, clamped her mouth down and began drinking from them eagerly, one and then the other, like a child sucking the juice out of an orange. It was an altogether bestial, inhuman act, and it happened in the blink of an eye. So fast. So animal.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry.
Samantha was soon strangely transformed by this brief, orgiastic feed. ‘Oh,’ she remarked, and licked her lips clean. Almost immediately I thought I noticed a new pinkness under her skin.
‘Darling, you must feed,’ Celia explained to her. ‘You are Sanguine.’
‘A vampire,’ I added helpfully, because I couldn’t imagine the young woman could know what Sanguine meant.
Celia gave me a sharp look.
Samantha licked her lips again. Her eyes were wild as they fixed upon Celia and me. She seemed not to be aware of Luke. Then she spied the small pile of grains at her feet. ‘Oh!’ she gasped and bent towards the rice eagerly. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . .’
I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.
Celia let out a little sigh of resignation. ‘Well, this will take a while. Thank goodness you didn’t spill the whole bag.’ She leaned against the railing and waited.
I flushed.
After an agonising few minutes, Samantha stopped counting the sixty-nine grains of rice.
‘As I was saying, my dear, you must drink blood now, if you wish to survive. You are no longer human,’ my great-aunt explained to her.
‘I am not . . . human?’
‘Who did this to you?’ I pressed. ‘Samantha, was it at the photo shoot? Or afterwards? Who was it?’
The young vampire furrowed her pale brow. ‘Uh . . .’ She seemed to concentrate. ‘I remember that I was with that beautiful model . . . after the photo shoot for Pandora. We went for a drink. I really liked her. She was so nice to me . . .’
She was nice? That sounded highly suspicious.
‘And then I . . . I found myself here.’ Her delicate eyebrows pinched together again. ‘I don’t know how I got here.’
I do, I thought. Athanasia.
‘What happened to your clothes? And your wallet and things?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I am going to give you some of my clothes,’ I declared, and Celia raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t need my clothes from Gretchenville anymore.’ I would keep my jeans and T-shirts, but that grey suit had to go, I decided. I found the idea of a vampire lurking around in it strangely irresistible.
‘You can stay here,’ Celia offered. ‘We’ll get a coffin for you, if you like.’
‘Oh, thank you. I feel much better now,’ Samantha said, and smiled. ‘Thank you so much.’
Her smile, though sweet, was a little unnerving. Perhaps it was the Fledgling fangs.
I had it. I had a fantastic story.
Of course I could only write one tenth of the interesting things I’d learned since landing in New York, but the article I had for Pepper Smith was sure to get Skye’s attention without getting me thrown into a mental institution in the way that, say, an article titled ‘The Truth About Blood-of Youth’s Vampire Model’ might. Not that I didn’t have a lot to say on the issue. I mean how unethical was it to model a beauty product on a creature that couldn’t age?
‘BloodofYouth exposed’, was the none-too-subtle title of my ‘note’ for Pepper about the BloodofYouth launch.
Serious questions have been raised about the safety of BloodofYouth, the most hyped beauty product in New York this year, I wrote. I covered a lot of interesting points, not least of which was that the BloodofYouth laboratories in Eastern Europe could not be contacted, or even located:
A search of business listings across Eastern Europe revealed that no business of that name has been trademarked there, and Dr E. Toth, the Hungarian scientist credited with coming up with the revolutionary formula, appears not to exist. Romanian actor Charles Shultvitz, who plays Dr Toth in the BloodofYouth promotional video, claims he was simply paid to read from the script and has no knowledge of any real Dr Toth.
‘I had no idea where the video would ultimately be used,’ he told Pandora. He also claimed that he was only paid five hundred dollars for the shoot that is now being used to establish the ‘credibility’ of the BloodofYouth product.
Actress Toni Howard, who helped launch the product at Elizabett restaurant earlier this week, admits she was paid in product for her role as master of ceremonies, and that she never met anyone claiming to directly represent the company.
‘The buzz about it was so good. And I looked great when I first started using it. I had no idea there might be something amiss with Bloodof Youth,’ she told Pandora. ‘But after only a few days I started to break out. I’ve never had an allergic reaction like this before? I can’t get out of bed.’
No one interviewed seemed to have met anyone directly linked to the brand, except the product’s muse. Naturally, I had to be most diplomatic when writing about Athanasia, because although I suspected a lot of things about her, I had no scientific evidence, and I suspected the world was not yet ready for the idea of vampire supermodels.
Supermodel Athanasia, the stunning public face of BloodofYouth, was not available for comment at the time of printing. Little is known about the model, no contact details for her have been found and, though Pandora contacted all the model agencies in New York, not one claimed representation of the supermodel or knowledge of her exact origins, thought to be Eastern Europe.
But perhaps most disturbing is the mystery surrounding the product itself. Officially the product contains a standard concoction of ingredients found in many other inexpensive creams, but Pandora knows of at least two clients falling mysteriously ill shortly after using the product, including a magazine staff member. Is it a coincidence, or is the FDA’s approval as non-existent as Dr Toth and the rest of the BloodofYouth company? And if BloodofYouth and Dr Toth prove not to exist, who will be accountable if the product does contain a dangerous unapproved ingredient?
At the time of printing, Pandora is recommending a reevaluation of BloodofYouth through the FDA. Buyer beware . . .
I proudly presented my article to Pepper.
From the look on her face I could see that she didn’t expect much. She took it into Skye’s office and closed the door. Skye was evidently on the mend (though arguably less ‘radiant’), yet her deputy editor sure seemed at home in that office, I thought. She was not going to enjoy relinquishing her new p
ower.
It took all of six minutes for Pepper to come over to my desk. I could feel her presence behind me. ‘You did all this yourself?’ she asked, incredulous.
I turned and nodded. ‘I did.’
‘And this is true? Dr Toth is played by an actor?’
Again, I nodded. ‘I found him online. I have his words on email.’
‘You have evidence of these conversations? The stuff about Dr Toth and the company being non-existent? I’ll need all of your notes.’
I was prepared for this reaction. No one wanted to get sued. I handed the deputy editor the results of my research, the contact details and the notes. ‘The FDA has to take a look at this,’ I said emphatically. ‘BloodofYouth is at best a fraudulent company, and at worst . . . I don’t know. It could even be a dangerous product.’
‘Mmm,’ Pepper said. I could see her mind ticking over. ‘I’ll have to speak with Henrietta about this.’ The woman from the PR company. ‘Perhaps she can shed some light on the company.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I said. Henrietta had not returned any of my calls. Unsurprisingly.
Pepper looked pretty impressed, I thought. This was sure to get my work noticed.
It would soon be print time for the next issue of Pandora magazine. Perhaps I really could make an impact in this town.
It is a true measure of how unhappy I had been in Gretchenville that things at home in Spektor began to feel normal for me.
As eccentric as she was, I had a real connection with my Great-Aunt Celia – something I’d always lacked with my Aunt Georgia. Celia was like a fairy godmother to me. (Or perhaps a vampire godmother, minus the troublesome teeth.) She gave me tips on sartorial elegance, shared stories about her life as a designer, and answered some of my questions about my family history. Bit by bit she was helping me piece together the puzzle of my existence. It would be a slow process, I could tell, but I was finally coming to terms with my ‘gift’ of communicating with the dead, and that seemed to hold some important key to my identity.
Harold’s Grocer did indeed seem to be open day and night, as the unusual-looking Harold had promised, and he insisted that he was always open, despite what I’d seen that night from the cab. I got the cheese he promised, and ordered some of the crackers I’d liked back home, and he also sourced for me the satchel I’d seen on the cover of Mia magazine, which I thought was pretty cool.
The vampire Samantha did not attempt to lunge at my throat again. We were even becoming friends, although I showed more caution traversing the building after dark, just in case she – or another like her – had another moment of blind thirst. But though I sensed there were many other residents in Spektor, the little suburb remained quiet to me, as if they had not yet decided to trust me or introduce themselves.
At Pandora I worked quietly on my piece about vintage clothing (between fetching beverages and whatever other tasks I was given), but I admit my mind was fairly caught up with considering the more important new things I’d learned. Fangs. Blood. Spirits of the dead. I did some research on Edmund Barrett but, amazingly, not one article mentioned Spektor or the building that was my new home. This ‘safe house’ for the undead was, quite literally, off the grid. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. It did surprise me, though, that Pepper had no further questions about the article I had given her.
Lieutenant Luke didn’t visit me, and I found I really wanted to see him again. I missed him something terrible. But where could it all go? He was dead. Jay Rockwell, however, was not dead. He and I exchanged emails and though I wouldn’t give him my number – because I didn’t have one – it was by email that I finally I agreed to have dinner with him. I’d heard that Little Italy was nice, so he agreed to show me a place there.
It was quarter to six on a Friday evening when I left the Pandora magazine offices for my first date in New York. It had already been a strange day, and though I didn’t know it yet, it was scheduled to get a whole lot stranger . . .
I carried my new black leather satchel on my shoulder. I wore one of Celia’s nicest silk dresses under a warm camel-coloured cashmere winter coat. I had on my great-aunt’s ruby red shoes, which gave my calves a nice shape, and I’d dabbed on some perfume, applied a slick of fresh red lipstick and brushed out my light brown hair.
‘So, who is he?’ Morticia pressed. She was leaving the office at the same time, so we were walking out together.
Thanks to my date preparations and Celia’s lovely clothes, I looked pretty good, but I was feeling quiet after the day I’d had. (More on that later.) Possibly against my better judgment, I’d admitted to Morticia that I was going on a date, so naturally she wouldn’t stop asking me about it. Due to my mood, I remained vague and a little sullen, though I couldn’t tell her why. Besides, I figured I ought to see how it went before I started sharing my thoughts and feelings about Jay Rockwell. I didn’t want to put too much pressure on things, and I didn’t need the whole office knowing the details of my personal life, right? (Ghosts and all . . .) Needless to say, my uncharacteristically unresponsive attitude had made things awkward by the time Morticia and I stepped onto the chilly streets of SoHo outside.
Vlad.
Celia’s tight-lipped chauffeur was waiting for me at the kerb. I hadn’t expected that. He was looking as formidable and expressionless as ever, standing by the door of his black, polished car, in the pose of a bodyguard from a Hollywood movie: feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. His pressed black suit, impressive stature, and the fact that he always wore dark sunglasses – even now with the sun about to set – combined to add weight to the illusion that he was either CIA or hired muscle. New York traffic flew past on the street behind him in a clamorous blur, seeming like a totally separate, noisy, fast-moving dimension set against his static, silent figure in the foreground.
I hadn’t counted on Vlad picking me up, though I should have guessed Celia would send him. (I’d told her about my date, too. It seems I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about it.) With Vlad and his car waiting outside Pandora, I felt a vague, immature desire to have Pepper or Skye there to witness little me, office peasant, getting into the fancy chauffeured car. The idea surfaced as a little shameful bubble of vanity.
‘The illusion of importance’, and all that. As it was, the only witness was Morticia.
‘Well, this is me. Have a good weekend,’ I told her, without having answered any of her previous questions about my date.
I got into the back of the big sleek car, put my seat belt on and held my leather satchel in my lap. Silent Vlad closed the door behind me, and I saw through the window that Morticia’s eyes were as big as saucers. She stood on the sidewalk and stared, red hair flying around her pale face in the winter wind. The car pulled away, and part of me felt bad that she would be taking the subway home while I was being driven off in a luxurious car. There were bound to be a lot of questions on Monday.
Although I couldn’t remember telling Celia where I had agreed to meet Jay, Vlad already had the address for my date it seemed, and, typically, he drove me there without a word. When he slowed and pulled up at the kerb I saw the name of the restaurant in glowing neon outside, and my heart sped up. Giovanni’s, the sign said. I hopped out before he could come around to open my door.
I took a few steps along the cobblestone street then turned. ‘Thanks, Vlad,’ I said. ‘Have a good weekend.’
Vlad was standing beside his door again, and he nodded silently in response. Since he never seemed to speak, I fancied this nod to mean ‘Have a good time’ or something similar. He watched me walk up the path in front of the restaurant before he climbed into his car. When I was safely inside he would drive off to some mysterious destination at which silent men named ‘Vlad’ spent their evenings. Where was that exactly?
This was my first visit to the area of Manhattan called Little Italy, and I was excited. I’d wanted to see it ever since I saw The Godfather: Part II. The sun was setting in soft oranges and reds, and the
darkening streets were already filled with glowing white fairy lights. The winter evenings in New York could be bitterly cold, I’d found, but here warmth radiated from the many outdoor heaters set up on the sidewalks. Restaurants were nestled side by side, decorated with traditional décor and Italian flags. Patrons already sat under the heat lamps enjoying bottles of wine, their collars pulled up around their throats and their smiles wide. My nostrils filled with the delicious smells of Italian cooking. All around me I could hear laughter, music and the clanging of plates.
Wonderful.
I had insisted to Jay that I didn’t want anything fancy, and after some consideration he’d suggested a casual ‘Ma and Pa pasta joint’ that had a good reputation. Though I suspected Jay had a lot of connections with the maître d’s at the bigger restaurants in trendier places, he evidently didn’t at this one. Their only opening for us was at six-fifteen. That had seemed fine by me, though it necessitated bringing a change of clothes to work and leaving directly from the office – via Vlad, apparently.
I negotiated the uneven cobblestones in Celia’s beautiful ruby red shoes, stepped up to the door, ran a hand over my hair to smooth it down again, and pushed my way inside.
Here we go . . .
I was hit with a wall of chatter and a pleasant blast of warm air, infused with the smells of Italian cooking. The place was almost filled to capacity already, each little table set with the traditional red and white checked tablecloth, wine glasses, cutlery and a basket of bread. A few couples were already eating from overflowing plates of spaghetti. I quickly located my attractive date, waiting for me at an intimate window table in one corner. He stood – all six-foot-hunky-six of him – and I moved towards him through the crowd of tables. Some of the patrons stopped what they were doing to watch us. (I still wasn’t used to the way people in this town always checked each other out. Was it a New York thing? Or a big-city thing?) Jay looked good enough to eat in a black collared shirt and blue jeans. His sleeves were rolled partway up his forearms and I noticed the masculine veins and sinewy muscle with some pleasure. As we weren’t on kissing terms, he gave me a friendly hug as a greeting, and the closeness gave me a rush of excitement.
