Vampire Legacy 04 - Blood of My Blood

by Taylor, Karen E

  I picked up the bottle labeled "Command" and read, "Apply to palms of hands for success in bending others to your will." I shrugged and unscrewed the cap. It smelled earthy, a combination of wet autumn leaves and fresh dirt, with a delicate underlay of rotting meat "Yeah, 'Lo," I said, wrinkling my nose, "people will agree to anything you want just to get the smell out." But I took a second sniff and felt myself strangely drawn to the aroma. I dabbed just a bit on the palms of both my hands, rubbed them together and cupped them around my nose. Like so many perfumes, it had a different scent when applied to skin. "Not too bad," I said to my reflection. "Let's see if this one works as well as the other."

  The Griffin Designs offices turned out to be not that far from the hotel. "You might still want to take a cab," the woman behind the desk advised. "It's easy to get turned around unless you know your way.'' I'd made arrangements to keep the room for at least one more night, and paid in cash again. There'd been no problem this morning, perhaps because of Mr. Adams's endorsement from last night. She'd had to answer the phone in the middle of our transaction, so I glanced around the lobby, then walked over to peer into the hotel restaurant. It was quite elegant, white linen cloths on the tables, flowers in tiny little bud vases and cut-crystal and silver salt and pepper shakers. "If you want breakfast," the woman said as I walked back over to the desk and she handed me my receipt, "don't eat here." She looked around to make sure she wasn't overheard. "Leave this place to the rich tourists. There's a perfectly good diner one block over. And they won't charge you New York rates for eggs and coffee."

  "Thanks."

  I followed her instructions and found a plain place with more of a homey feel than the hotel's restaurant. Sitting at the counter, I felt more comfortable with the glass and chrome shakers and the cheap green-speckled Formica counter. The waitress, I realized with a pang, reminded me of Moon, so I ordered a cup of coffee, deciding that my normal morning tea might make me homesick. I also ordered two pieces of toast, more to give myself something to do than to eat.

  I poured as much cream into the coffee as would fit in the cup, made a show of putting jelly on the toast. But I wasn't particularly thirsty or hungry. I was nervous. Why on earth did I come here?

  "More coffee?" The waitress gave me a tired smile. "That's a pretty ring you have on, honey. It's a lily, right?" I looked down at my hand and nodded, suppressing the wave of sadness and anger I felt inside.

  "You get that around here somewhere?"

  "No, it was a gift. From someone back home."

  "That's nice. Must've been from a young man, I figure, seeing as how you're such a pretty young thing. He come with you?"

  "No, he's dead."

  "Oh, Lord, and didn't I just put my foot into it? I'm sorry, honey, you're awful young to be carrying such a sorrow."

  "It's okay," I said, pulling a bill out of my pocket and putting it on the counter. "I'm not all that young. And I'm glad you mentioned it, actually, since I was just wondering what the hell I was doing here. Now I know—I'm going to meet my mother. And she'll balance the account."

  I walked out onto the street and hailed a cab for Griffin Designs.

  "I'd like to see Ms. Griffin." The receptionist looked up at me with no recognition and no enthusiasm.

  "Ms. Griffin?" She held up a finger while she picked up the ringing phone. "Griffin Designs, may I help you?" She paused for a second—"Just one moment, please"—pushed a button on the console and hung up the phone, turning to me again. "Sorry," she said, "the phones are hell right before a show. Who did you say you wanted to see?" The phone rang and she sighed. "See? They're hell."

  I waited. "I'd like to talk to the owner," I said when she looked back at me again.

  "Oh, I see. She's not here right now. Did you want to wait for her?"

  "Will she be in?"

  She shrugged. "As far as I know she will be." The phone rang again and she answered it.

  I shook my head when she'd finished. "Man," I said with a smile, "I'd hate this job."

  She shrugged. "It's not so bad. I've had worse. Anyway, I guess she'll be in. At least no one's told me differently. Do you have an appointment?"

  "Well, no, but I'm sure she'll see me. We're, urn, old friends."

  She nodded, looking me up and down. "Okay, then, have a seat. But I've got to warn you, she hardly ever hires anyone off the street. And you're just a little bit too short."

  "Too short?"

  The phone rang and she stopped again to answer it. I really would hate to have her job. You never even got to finish a sentence.

  It didn't seem to faze her, though. She switched from phone to conversation without so much as a blink. "Yeah, short for a model. Otherwise, you've got the build for it."

  "Scrawny, you mean?"

  She laughed. "Here we prefer the word sleek. Or lithesome. Or whatever the hell the fashion industry is pushing down our throats this week."

  "I'm not looking for a job."

  "Okay, whatever. Suit yourself. I just happen to know for a fact that she doesn't have old friends. Or any friends."

  I smiled. "Now, that's not much of a surprise at all."

  "You do look sort of familiar, though."

  "I'd guess I would. I'm her…"

  "Shhh." The receptionist seemed to spring to attention. As if on cue, the elevator doors opened behind me. I didn't turn around at first. "Morning, Lucy." The voice was deeper and more harsh than I'd expected, clipped and quick. "And what do we have here?"

  "She wants to see you. But she doesn't have an appointment." The phone rang again, and Lucy seemed happy to return to it. I had the feeling the owner made her nervous. Not surprising, I thought, considering what the owner is.

  "Another one?" She sounded annoyed. "Well, turn around, girlie, and let me look at you."

  I turned and came face-to-face with a total stranger, who obviously didn't think I was one.

  She beamed and enveloped me in a hug. "Oh, it's so good to see you. And much earlier than you normally get about. What's happening? How've you and that handsome hubby of yours been getting along?" She stepped back and took a long look at me. "Damn it, Deirdre, every time I see you, you look worse than before. What the hell have you been doing to yourself? And where did you get those god-awful clothes? And that horrible haircut?"

  I ran my hand through my hair. "Excuse me?"

  "Forget it." She linked her arm in mine. "Send some coffee back, Lucy. And some Danish, I think." She moved me through the inner door and walked me down the hallway. "I do hope you have time for a good gossip, Deirdre. It's been so long."

  We reached an office at the very end of the hall. She entered first and then beckoned me on. "Come in, come in. No need to be formal. Something must be going on with you or you wouldn't be here. You'd be cozied up in that little cabin with that detective. So sit down and tell me all about it."

  I sat as ordered; she was such an imposing woman.

  "Well?"

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  She laughed. "Funny, very funny."

  "I'm not joking. Who are you?"

  She stopped for a second, gave me a critical look, blinked once and moved closer to me. "Jesus." She shook her head; her heavy earrings made a clacking sound. "You aren't Deirdre, are you?"

  "No, I'm not her. I'm Lily Williams, her daughter."

  "Daughter? You're her daughter?" She took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. "There's no question about the resemblance, although now that I look closer, I see a difference. It's your eyes, I think." She cocked her head to one side. "They're not as deep. Deirdre has always had eyes you could fall into."

  I disengaged myself from her hands. "I don't want to be rude, but who are you?"

  "Oh. I'm sorry. Betsy McCain." She reached out to shake my hand, obviously an instinctual reaction, since we'd already had more than enough body contact for politeness' sake. "I bought Griffin Designs from your mother a couple of years ago. She didn't tell you?"

  "Ms. McCain, I have nev
er spoken with my mother; I haven't met her. I didn't even know where to find her until a few days ago."

  There was a knock on the door, and Lucy came in with a plate of pastries and some coffee, setting it on the large desk. "Thanks, Luce. And hold my calls, will you?" Lucy nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

  Betsy walked around to the desk. "She must have had you when she was very young, I suppose." She poured herself a cup and motioned me to come over.

  "Here, fix it yourself," she said, shoving a cup into my hands. "I'm not very domestic."

  "Not all that young." I poured half a cup and topped it off with creamer. "Far as I can tell, she was twenty-eight at the time."

  "And you're what? Nineteen? Twenty?"

  "Twenty-two, actually," I said, remembering the age printed on the ID Angelo had given me.

  "So that makes Deirdre…"

  "Much older than she seems. Yeah."

  Betsy put her head back and laughed. "I knew it She's had cosmetic surgery. She'd never admit it, but I had my suspicions. No one looks that good for so long. And so when you were born she put you up for adoption?"

  "Close enough. Ms. McCain, what can you tell me about my mother?"

  "Betsy, call me Betsy. I get enough of the Ms. stuff around here to make me crazy. I haven't really known your mother all that long, but I'll tell you what little I do know."

  She knew plenty, enough to fill about another two hours of conversation. Lucy had been right, this woman had no friends. She wouldn't have latched on to me quite so tightly if she had. And she wouldn't have pursued the one friend she used to have, my mother, with as much determination.

  The picture she painted for me was quite clear. Deirdre Griffin was beautiful, talented and rich, leading an exotic and full life, including a whirlwind courtship and marriage to a handsome man who adored her. In short, she possessed everything while I had nothing.

  And then there was the question of the mysterious deaths, one of which happened in the private apartments located off this very office. They were, Betsy maintained, just unfortunate coincidences in which my mother had accidentally become involved. "It was almost as if death followed her around," Betsy said, a sad, understanding look on her face. "She's had her share of hard luck, no doubt about it."

  I tried not to laugh out loud. I wanted to jump up from my seat and scream, Of course death followed her around, you stupid woman. She's a fucking vampire. I kept my thoughts to myself. This was fascinating stuff.

  "But," Betsy continued, "she rose above all of it. And now she's hopefully enjoying the sort of life she deserves. I can only think of one thing that could help complete that life. Meeting you."

  I smiled my sweetest smile while seething inside. I'll help complete her life, you bet your ass I will. "Thanks, Betsy. So you'll help me find her?"

  "Of course I will. What are friends for? Besides, I happen to know exactly where she is. It's not much of a secret."

  She moved to her desk again and opened up a file on her computer. "Here we go," she said after pressing a few keys. "I'll print it out for you."

  She went over to the printer and pulled off the sheet of paper. "It's this awful little one-horse town in Maine. God only knows what they were thinking. But it shouldn't be too hard to find."

  I took the paper from her, folded it up and put it into my purse.

  "Now," she said, looking at her watch. "What do you want to do for the rest of the day? I propose a shopping trip and a nice meal."

  "I guess so."

  "You only guess so?" She put her hand under my chin and lifted my head up. "What kind of twenty-two-year-old girl doesn't jump at the chance to go shopping?"

  "A twenty-two-year-old girl who has no money?"

  "Lily, sweetheart, you are the only child of Deirdre Griffin. You certainly aren't poor. I'll foot the bill and take it out of my payments for the business at a later date. She won't miss it one bit; she's good for it."

  I thought back to all the lean years and all the hardships my life had brought upon my caretakers; the decades of just scraping by, all that moving, all those extra expenses, the way Moon would get a wounded look in her eyes just thinking about paying monthly bills. I gave a hard little laugh. "She'd better be. I'm about to develop expensive tastes."

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  « ^ »

  Betsy McCain was true to her word. We splurged that day and she returned me to the Westwood Hotel a totally different person. She'd even rushed me into one of the fanciest salons in the city for a total makeover including hair extensions, a three-hour ordeal that cost twice as much as I'd brought with me. As a result, the woman who stared back at me from the mirror in my hotel room had long hair and wasn't quite me. I looked like the few photos of my mother that Betsy had been able to show me. It was frightening, almost as if I had come to New York to find her, only to end up being her.

  But, I thought, as I struggled with the back zipper of the long black sheath dress Betsy had picked for me to wear at dinner, Deirdre Griffin had enjoyed life longer than any creature had a right to. It was my turn now. I slid on a pair of high-heeled sandals, sorted through the bags of clothes and found the sheer embroidered shawl we'd gotten to go with the dress. I'd never felt so elegant. And the fact that my mother would pay for it all made the emotion much sweeter. "This is just the first installment, my dear mother. There will be many more to come."

  I wrapped the red crystal bead necklace around my wrist a couple of times and wore it as a bracelet. Betsy had been appalled that I was wearing such a "tacky" piece, and made me promise not to ruin the neckline of the designer dress with it. But I wanted it with me; it served as a reminder of why I was here. Revenge.

  I stopped in the bathroom before going to the lobby to meet Betsy, checked my makeup and hair one last time and flipped off the light. Turning to go, I stopped and turned back, deciding to try another of Angelo's medicines. Not bothering to read the labels this time, I smelled each of them and picked out the one that was most like perfume. It gave off a sweet but musky smell, seeming to envelop me in glamour and mystery. When I looked into the mirror one last time, I felt that I was my mother. I smiled, only mildly disappointed that my teeth were still even and straight.

  Betsy took me to a restaurant called The Imperial. It was, she said, one of my mother's favorite places. "Not her very favorite, though; she far preferred The Ballroom," she explained in the cab. "But that wasn't much more than a pickup joint. Your mother inherited it from the former owner, Max Hunter, but sold it to a woman she knew. It's now a fetish bar, Dangerous Crosses or something. Lots of chains and whips and weird folks all dressed up in leather and plastic with nothing much better to do than torture each other in public." Betsy shook her head. "I like sex as much or better than the next person, but I prefer to torture my friends in different ways." She laughed and nudged me. "As you well know, Deirdre."

  "What?"

  "Damn it. I meant Lily. But you are so much like her. It must be the clothes. Or maybe the perfume you're wearing. What is it, anyway?

  '' I don't know,'' I said truthfully.'' I just threw some on as I was walking out of the room. A friend of mine in New Orleans gave it to me."

  "New Orleans is a wonderful city."

  "To visit, maybe. But to live there? New Orleans is a city of death."

  She gave me a hard glance. "It's not just your looks, you know. You think like your mother."

  I shrugged and turned my head to look out the cab window. We were halfway through dinner when her cell phone rang. Betsy scowled and swore and dug into her purse, flipping open the phone in annoyance. It had been a festive meal up until then, unlike any other meal I'd ever eaten. I knew that other cities I had lived in had similar restaurants, but I had never been privileged enough to dine at them. While Betsy talked to her caller, I wondered briefly what Moon would have thought about all of this, then squelched the thought. I knew well enough what she'd think, so well I could almost hear her. "Damned rich folks s
pending hundreds of good dollars on food that won't do them no good and other folks are starving on the streets right in front of them."

  "It's just not right." I whispered the thought for her.

  Betsy's voice grew louder. "All of them? All of them? How can that be?"

  She paused a second. "So I've got a show coming up in two days and you're telling me that every stinking model is sick? How can that be?"

  She listened for a minute more and rolled her eyes. "Stupid little bitches. Okay, fine. I'll be right there."

  Clicking off the phone, she shoved it back into her purse. "I'm sorry, Lily, but I've got to get back to the office. Turns out that every model at the Aspen Agency is suffering from food poisoning. Bad tuna or something. What a goddamned disaster." She stood up. "Anyway, you stay and finish the meal. I'll sign for the bill now, but I'll let them know that as long as you stay, you can run a tab. Will you be okay? Do you have cab fare to get back to the hotel?"

  I nodded. "I'll be fine, Betsy."

  She shook her head again. "I can't believe this, I really can't."

  "Good luck," I called to her as she hurried out of the restaurant.

  I picked at the food that remained on my plate, then pushed it aside. The waiter came over to remove it, refilling my wineglass before he did so. "Shall I bring the dessert cart over?.

  "No, thanks. Can you set up a tab for me at the bar? My friend said she'd cover it."

  "Already taken care of, Miss. You can go over any time you'd like. And enjoy the rest of the evening."

  "Thanks." I stood up, stretched and smoothed the tight dress over my hips, wishing I had worn my jeans. Then again, I thought, as I caught the admiring gaze of a few of the men in the room, no one ever looked at me that way while I was wearing jeans.