by Sky Winters
“Alright, lady, let’s to this,” said Amanda, hanging the dresses off of the mirror.
There wasn’t much privacy in the basement, but the girls had all gotten ready for enough shows together to put away any notions of modesty. For the benefit of the shy, like Simone, a partition was put up separating the girls’ dressing area from the bathroom where the men filed into to slip into their slacks and dress shirts.
Amanda and Simone pulled their shirts over their heads, slipped out of their jeans, and threw their old clothes on the back of a nearby chair. Without thinking, Simone’s eyes shot over to Amanda for a brief second, long enough to see her body and make unfavorable comparisons to her own. Where Amanda was curvy, with ample bosom and curvy hips, Simone was slim, with a boyish figure.
“You’d better not be looking at my boobs again,” said Amanda, her pert mouth in a smirk and her eyes forward at her reflection.
“I’d kill for boobs like yours,” said Simone, stepping into her mid-length black dress.
“Please,” Amanda said, getting into her own outfit: a low-cut midnight blue cocktail dress, “you think these are so great, try living with them for a week.”
Simone let the subject drop, but couldn’t help but feel the usual twinge of envy when she and Amanda prepared for evenings like this. She could already picture the wealthy men all but climb over one another to offer her everything from a cocktail to a weekend in Paris, and everything in between. Simone had always considered herself plain, with limpid blue eyes, fair skin, and deep, dark hair, and felt that her features were even less remarkable when put next to a classic blonde bombshell like Amanda.
“Ten minutes, everyone!” called Corbin from the front of the room before making a loose-wristed hand clap and spinning around on his heels to exit the room. The bustle of girls around them began to grow more frenzied as everyone made their last few adjustments.
“Shit,” said Amanda, applying a deep red lipstick with quick, precise motions. “How they hell do they expect us to get ready for these things so fast?”
“Not a problem for the boys, evidently,” said Simone, applying a subtle dash of eyeshadow while watching the men file out of the bathroom, all ready to go.
“Well, yeah, all they have to do is change their pants,” said Amanda.
“How are you doing your hair?” asked Simone.
“Messy bun?”
“Messy bun.”
The girls ducked in front of the mirror and put up their hair into loose top knots, Simone pulling a couple of strands of her black hair out and letting them fall loosely over her light blue eyes.
“Oh, nice touch,” said Amanda, doing the same with her blond hair.
With that, they both stepped into their heels and joined the crowd of girls leaving the storage room.
“OK,” said Amanda as they headed back up the stairs to the main gallery space, “let’s see this week’s crop of people with too much money.
Chapter 3
Vincent Acardi leaned back into the soft, leather seats of the luxury limousine, watching through the light tint of the window at the first flakes of snow as they drifted towards the earth. Growing impatient, he checked the face of his watch.
Twenty minutes, he thought to himself, his jaw clenching in frustration, so much for in-and-out.
He considered slipping his phone out of his pocket and sending an inpatient text, but he knew that wouldn’t do a bit of good. He felt stupid for letting Anthony and Chaz head off on their own, especially in light of the rule-breaking that the members of the Italian society had been getting up to in the last month.
Another few minutes passed, and just as Vincent made the decision to leave the limo and find his friends, the side door open in a sudden, quick motion and two black-clad bodies tumbled into the car.
“Vincent!” said Anthony, his eyes wide and voice and elevated pitch, “so sorry to keep you waiting.”
The two men settled into their seats with jumpy, twitchy movements. Vincent looked the two over with a judgmental eye. He knew exactly what they had done.
“A little pre-show snack?” asked Vincent while swirling the crimson-tinged liquid in his crystal glass.
“Oh, Vincent, you shoulda seen this guy,” said Chaz, his voice almost frantic with energy, “one of those artist-types, you know?”
“Yeah, one of those ‘up-his-own-ass’ types,” said Anthony, pouring a couple of overly-stiff drinks for himself and Chaz. “We were watching him before he went out; he spent the last half hour looking at his own shitty art and trying to impress the girls.”
Vincent noticed a small accumulation of red at the corner of Anthony’s mouth.
“Maybe take a quick look into the mirror when you’re done.”
Anthony looked surprised, then pulled a handkerchief out of his inner suit pocket and dabbed the blood from his mouth. Vincent saw that the cloth was already stained with older, deep red marks.
“I’d have wanted to eat him even if I weren’t so hungry, just to rid the art world of one more pretentious little shit,” said Chaz, dropping a couple of blood capsules into the drinks. As soon as the capsules hit the liquid, they dissolved into fizz and changed the clear vodka to an opaque red.
“Draining some hipster wasn’t enough?” asked Vincent, gesturing to the two glasses.
“Hey Vincent, it’s Friday night; just try to chill out for once,” said Anthony.
With an exuberant clink of their glasses and a shout of “salute,” the men downed their drinks in a single swig.
Vincent watched the two men, a look of annoyance on his otherwise stolid face. These two, along with half of the other Italians in his society, were getting too careless for his liking. As soon as Giovanni, one of the senior vampires poached his first human not two weeks ago it was open season as far as the younger vampires like Anthony and Chaz were concerned. But as much as the taste of fresh blood called out to him, causing his mouth to water at just the thought, he had the unshakable feeling that there was going to be a reckoning for such flagrant violations of this most sacred rule.
“You’re starting to worry us, my friend,” said Anthony, his leg bouncing with nervous energy, “fresh meat for the taking, and you won’t even have a taste!” He gestured to the Greenwich Village streets outside of the limo.
“Yeah,” said Chaz. “And just between us,” he said, making a swirling motion among the interior of the car with his drink, “I’ve been hearing this-and-that about how some of the other Italians getting a little suspicious of the, well, vegetarians like yourself.”
“Right, like you’re just going to turn us into the cops,” said Anthony, not missing a beat after Chaz was done speaking.
“They can say whatever they want to say,” said Vincent, looking out of the window at the increasing snowfall.
“Hey, suit yourself, but I say get while the getting’s good, you know?” said Chaz, fidgeting in his seat.
“So, ah, when’s the show?” asked Anthony.
Vincent looked at his watch.
“Still waiting on the elders,” he said.
Right at that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out, and without looking to see who was calling, answered it.
“Vincent,” said the man on the other end, speaking in an aged, gravelly voice, “tell the boys to get the car parked; we’re nearly there.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambretti,” said Vincent before the line on the other end went dead.
“Time to go,” he said, putting the phone into his inner suit pocket and moving for the door.
Anthony and Chazz looked surprised and paused for a moment before finishing off their drinks and tossing their glasses onto the seats.
“OK, time to party!” said Chazz, following Anthony and Vincent out of the doors of the limo.
Vincent tightened his black pea coat against the chill of the evening air and walked up to the driver’s window. With a quick rap, he got his attention and the driver rolled down his window a few inches.
The driver nodded and drove the car down the snow-dusted street and out of sight.
“We meeting them there?” asked Chazz, eager and energetic from the rush of fresh blood.
“Yeah. The elders have already shown up, and the rest of the attendees are on their way,” replied Vincent, walking with long strides down the sidewalk, his polished black boots leaving footprints in the snow that were filled almost instantly with a new layer of falling flakes.
“This is big, right?” said Anthony while turning back to the others, his long coat flapping in the wind. “Elders don’t invite just anyone to these things.”
“Yeah,” said Chaz, “they’ve got us marked for moving up. We’re gonna be in open war with the Irish, and whoever else, any day now, and they’re gonna need all the soldiers they can.”
Vincent said nothing, instead choosing to consider Chaz’s words. The invitation from the elders was certainly a surprise, and as much of a blowhard as Vincent considered Chaz to be, he was right- it did seem that war was more and more of a certainty with passing day.
“You’re talking about war as though it’s something to look forward to,” said Vincent, as they turned onto the block leading to the gallery. “Do either of you realize how much bloodshed there’d be if it came to that?”
“Bloodshed is exactly what I’m hoping for,” said Anthony said, turning again to face the two vampires, this time allowing his fangs to unsheathe for a moment before retracting them.
Vincent shook his head. They’re getting cocky, he thought. All it takes is a de facto allowance of human poaching and they think they run this city. The elders were right to forbid it- holding life and death in one’s hands is too much power for an elder, let alone us neophytes.
They approached the vast glass front of the gallery, and they could see the members of their society inside, all decked in their flamboyant finery, sipping cocktails, and chatting among one another.
“OK, I’m ready to impress,” said Anthony, running his palms over his jet-black, shoulder-length hair and slicking it back.
“If you want to impress, don’t do or say anything stupid,” said Vincent. “Elders respect decorum and sophistication.”
Chaz nodded, as though remembering himself.
“Yeah, no talking about poaching, and no talking of war.”
“Yes,” said Vincent. “Exactly. You bring up something gauche like that during an evening out and the only thing you’ll get fast-tracked for is security work.”
“We ready?” asked Vincent.
Anthony and Chaz nodded their mouths in slim, expectant smirks. They opened the glass door and headed inside.
Chapter 4
Simone walked through the stairwell door and into the main hall of the gallery. Black-clad servers were already out and about and darting here and there, carrying trays topped with small bits of indeterminable food. The two dozen or so gallery employees were moving making the rounds, taking last minute looks at the display pieces, scouring them with careful eyes for problems with the setups that they didn’t have time to fix even if they noticed them.
She looked through the main hall and towards the open expanse of the entrance room, which was walled off from the main gallery space by a massive glass partition. Inside, she could see the attendees gathering. By and large comprised of men who looked to be in their late sixties, they were clothing that was a curious hybrid of ostentatious and sophisticated: black shoes shined to a gleaming polish and adorned with silver buckles, suit jackets inlaid with elaborate patterns, dress shirts with wide collars, and jackets lined with fur and draped over their shoulders. Some held canes topped with ornate handle pieces. The aesthetic of the growing crowd of men appeared to Simone to be the way a peacock would dress if it had access to Old World money.
“That’s…quite the crowd,” said Amanda, sidling up to Simone.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Simone replied. “At least they look like they might spend some money.”
“I see these guys are sticklers for old-fashioned gender roles,” said Amanda. Simone scanned the crowd to see what she was referring to and noted that the only women in attendance were a handful of svelte, high-cheek boned women with severe faces, pin-straight hair, and slinky dresses. All seemed to have the same look of boredom on their faces as they glanced around the space with listless expressions, not paying attention to the conversations of the men they were accompanying.
Simone saw Corbin darting here and there among the men, performing his usual spinning-plate routine of glad-handing. She shook her head, wondering how he always had the energy to keep up the social butterfly show.
“You know,” said Simone, watching Corbin and a couple of the other higher-up employees chat with the attendants, “if I knew that the art world was more about shaking hands and complimenting rich people’s tacky clothes I might’ve gone with another major.”
“It’s New York, baby,” said Amanda, snatching a piece of seared tuna off of a passing tray, “everything here’s fashion; everything here’s knowing the right people and getting them to think you like them.”
Simone found herself thinking about her art history classes at college, at looking in awe at the painters she loved, like Caravaggio and Rembrandt, admiring the mastery and skill of their work. She couldn’t help but compare their work to what she was displaying tonight, what she considered to be overpriced pieces that were more concerned with a conceptual message than with beauty. She even had a soft spot for recent, abstract painters like Pollack and Rothko, but here, with this art, every day was a new struggle to appear enthused.
“Lady, you’re off in space again,” said Amanda, giving Simone a light swat on the flesh of her upper arm with the back of her palm.
“Sorry,” said Simone, coming back into reality.
“Here’s the deal,” said Amanda, leaning in close to Simone and speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I think we’ve got about ten more minutes before Corbin throws open the doors and floods this place with whoever these people are. The place where they keep the booze is downstairs. And I don’t know about you, lady, but ten minutes is more than enough time for me to kill half a bottle of champagne.”
Simone looked around with furtive, conspiratorial glances, as though someone might’ve been listening in on their conversation.
“You’re on,” she said.
Vincent, Anthony, and Chaz stepped into the entry room of the gallery to find it packed with dozens of members of the Italian vampire society. Vincent scanned the room as he slipped out of his coat and handed with without looking to the nearby attendant, who took it from him without a word. Scanning the room, he noted that nearly anyone who was anyone in the Italian society was there.
These two were right, he thought, watching Anthony and Chaz slip out of their coats and head with aplomb into the crowd, the only reason the elders would invite anyone besides themselves to something like this would be to figure out who’s moving up and who’s staying put.
Vincent shocked himself with this thought- in the four decades since he’d been turned, he hadn’t once seen something like this. The Italian society prided itself on being more stratified than the others, especially the free-wheeling Irish and the constantly-in fighting Ukrainians; the idea of the elders plucking neophytes out for more senior positions was unheard of.
Unless, he thought, they really are looking to fill their ranks for an upcoming war…
“Ah, Vincent Acardi!”
Vincent snapped out of his reverie and looked in the direction of the booming, mellifluous voice. It came from Salvatore Nero, one of the elders. A lower-ranking elder, but an elder nonetheless. He walked towards Vincent with slow steps, his arms open, revealing his finely-tailored suit, the dress shirt of which was unbuttoned at the top, revealing curled tufts of silver chest hair.
“Signore Nero,” said Vincent, straightening himself and extending an open hand.
“My boy, it’s
so good to see you,” said Salvatore, taking Vincent’s hand with one of his own and clasping his other palm on the back of Vincent’s hand. “It brings me great pleasure to see you here with us tonight.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here,” said Vincent as Salvatore released his hand. He shot a quick look over to see where Anthony and Chaz were, but couldn’t make them out; they had been subsumed into the crowd of suited men.
“I assume that this is one of your first gatherings?” asked Salvatore, his expression warm.
“Yes. My first where I wasn’t working security, at least.”
Salvatore winced at the word “security.”
“Ah, it pains me to think of a capable young man such as yourself ever having been working in such a capacity. But, rules are rules,” Salvatore said, referring to the rule that the recently-turned must spend years cutting their teeth in roles of low-importance, only moving up into the main ranks of the society once they’ve proved both their worth and their ability to adhere to society rules.
“Indeed, they are.”
“Enough of all that,” said Salvatore, making a slow, sweeping gesture with his hand, “I want to introduce you to some of my closest friends.
With that, Salvatore turned and walking into the crowd, which spread apart as he moved through it. Vincent kept close, following in his wake, until they reached a knot of three men, all wearing crisp, yet gaudy suits, holding canes and leaning close to one another as they talked, only moving back when one made an exceptionally wild gesticulation as he spoke. Vincent recognized the three men right away: they were the most senior elders in the Italian society.
Upon seeing Salvatore approach, they ceased conversation and turned in unison, a look of curiosity on all of their faces as they seemed to be all wondering at the same time why they were being interrupted.
“My friends,” said Salvatore, “I want you to introduce to you Vincent Alcardi, a young member of our little society who I think will be responsible for some great things in the coming years.”
