Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  “Sorry. I’m freaking myself out.”

  As we’ve been speaking I’ve been practically running away from Oldham toward the Hudson River. Now I’m on what looks to be a more residential street with some four-and five-story tenement houses. Hot summer sun bakes down on the top of my head. I’m sweating. “And I’m pretty sure the vampires who killed her work at Tasty,” I continue. “That’s why she was killed. She was onto them!”

  “Real vampires?” Sylvia whispers. “Which of your coworkers are vampires?”

  “I don’t know.” All of them? “Definitely Lexa. I’ve seen the fashion director Kristen Drane sleeping in her office. A fellow intern saw our market editors, who we call ‘the twins,’ sleeping in theirs. Shane Lincoln-Shane the art director gives off scary vibes.” Felix the receptionist? “And I have a bad feeling about Matilda from Art.”

  I don’t want to say it, because she’s been so nice to me, but of course Lillian is also a strong candidate. Her body felt weird that time when I hugged her. And it would certainly explain the parasol.

  “Well,” Sylvia says, “not all vampires are bad. Angel was good. And Anita Blake’s Jean-Claude is good-ish.”

  “I never expected ‘fashionably late’ could have a double meaning!” My voice rises hysterically.

  “Calm down,” Sylvia says. I picture her channeling Buffy. “You’ll need proof that your suspicions are correct before we confront the vampires.”

  “Confront them? Forget it. I’m already halfway to Victoria’s.”

  “You’re just going to bail?” Sylvia asks. “You’re about to get published.”

  My steps slow. “I’m not ready to die for a byline,” I tell her.

  “Right now you have suspicions. You aren’t one hundred percent sure. Before you quit the job for a crazy reason, you need real proof.”

  “How am I going to get proof?”

  “Test one of them. Expose her to sunlight. Or brandish some garlic. Or sneak up behind her while she’s looking in the mirror and check for a reflection—”

  “They’re always looking in the mirror. They have reflections.”

  “Well how about the garlic?”

  Why do I get the feeling that Little Miss Goth is enjoying this?

  ON THE way back to the office I stop at a deli to buy that head of garlic, which I dismember, stuffing the cloves in the pockets of my skirt. Feeling ridiculous, I break one clove in half and dab it on my pulse points. We’ll see if anyone notices.

  In the elevator two ice-pick blonds give me a wider berth than usual, but they don’t work at Tasty. Felix sniffs when I walk in. “Have you been eating Italian food?” he asks me. “I smell garlic.”

  I knew it! He’s a vampire.

  “Holistic spa treatment,” I tell him, feeling nervous.

  He raises an eyebrow. “I have a degree in aromatherapy. I’ve never heard of any such treatment,” he says, sniffing again. “What is garlic supposed to do?”

  Okay, maybe he’s not a vampire. “Unblocks your energy?” Maybe he just has a sensitive nose.

  “Garlic, huh?” he says. And he changes the subject. “I heard that you knew Beverly. Such a shame about her, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. She was nice.” I force myself to walk over to the reception desk and lean on it, smiling. He doesn’t flinch from my reek.

  “You know”—his tone becomes confidential—“the problem with Beverly was she thought she had this place all figured out. That’s a big mistake for a junior staffer. I’ve been here since before Lillian showed up—I’ve survived three regime changes, actually—and my advice is: Know nothing. Just stick your head in the sand and do your job. Don’t get too clever.” He winks at me. “And don’t apply unusual scents.”

  A red-eyed, dark-haired woman carrying a banker’s box comes through the glass doors leading from the main part of the office to the reception area. Her outfit—running shoes, ponytail held with a scrunchy—says she doesn’t belong here. And from her wan, shell-shocked face, I suspect I know who she is.

  “Excuse me, are you Beverly Grant’s sister?” Lauren mentioned she’d be coming in.

  Her puffy eyes widen with what looks like fright. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I work here. I’d just started to get to know Beverly. I’m so, so sorry.”

  The down elevator dings.

  “Thank you,” she says automatically, stepping inside the elevator, away from me.

  I follow her.

  “That’s not what I was talking about, Kate,” Felix’s voice floats after me.

  Once the doors close, I whisper, “Beverly told me some things last week that maybe you should know about.”

  Though I doubt knowing about it will do her much good. It’s not as if she can go to the police and say that her sister predicted that she would be killed by vampires.

  The woman seizes my hand. Tears well up in her eyes. “Walk me to my car,” she says in a trembling voice. “I don’t feel comfortable talking in here.”

  I plunge back out onto the sweltering street, nervous in case anyone sees me walking with Beverly’s sister. Fortunately, she is parked in a garage not far from Oldham. I follow her down the ramp.

  “So you were friends with Beverly?” she says. “I didn’t get the impression that she had many friends in the office.”

  “I can understand that,” I sympathize. “It’s not the easiest place to work. Beverly and I bonded over just that topic at a party last week. I’m Kate, by the way.”

  She extends a meek hand. “Linda. You aren’t some socialite like the rest of them?” she asks.

  “Not at all. My dad sells hemp T-shirts for a living.”

  “Do you think they’re as evil as Beverly did?” she asks.

  “I haven’t worked there as long,” I dodge. “And Beverly had some…theories about our coworkers. Did she mention them to you?”

  “Yes.”

  I don’t want to be the first person to use the V-word.

  Linda seems to understand my hesitation. “She thought some of her coworkers, and especially the editor-in-chief, were vampires. Real vampires, not just publishing bloodsuckers.” Linda smiles bitterly. “She was always the imaginative one in our family. A little flaky. Sweet.” Tears well in her eyes again.

  She probably was sweet when she wasn’t drunk and bitter, and afraid for her life. “She told me the same thing, about the vampires. Did you believe her?”

  “Of course not,” Linda says. “But now…”

  “I feel the same way,” I assure her. “Especially because—I’m sorry if this is too much but—Beverly was worrying that something like this might happen the night I met her.”

  Linda takes a couple of deep breaths. I wonder how her parents and the rest of Beverly’s family are holding up.

  “I didn’t believe her,” I whisper.

  “No one did,” Linda says. “Beverly had been saying outlandish things for months. She thought ‘they’ were onto her. She thought someone was following her. But we all thought she was being facetious. I’d still think she was joking if I hadn’t found this.” She fumbles in her bag, pulling out a cell phone. Dread spikes through my veins when I see it. “She’d been getting these text messages.”

  My hand shakes as I take the phone and click open the first message.

  Better straighten up. You’ve got company downstairs.-SO

  Trembling, I page through the other messages.

  Congratulations, you’re on the list! This is one party you’ll give your life to attend.-SO

  And another just says:

  Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bitches bite.-SO

  “I came to clean out her desk,” Linda says. “To see if I could find anything else.”

  “Was there anything?”

  “A Chicago Manual of Style, a dictionary, and a box of red pencils. But I know Beverly and there’s no way she kept her cubicle that clean. At home, her drawers were stuffed with garlic. Her cache was full of occult Web pages. And we’re Je
wish but she had a crucifix hanging on her bedroom door.”

  Note to self: Buy crucifix.

  “Have you seen the Web site StakeOut?” Linda asks. “Beverly was addicted to it. Don’t tell anyone, but she was one of their tipsters. I was thinking, Stake Out, SO. It might be them.”

  She’s figured it out faster than I did.

  “Was she out alone on Sunday?”

  “Yes. She had a date on Sunday night. She wanted to buy a new top. Maybe she thought she’d be safe in broad daylight.”

  We’re standing beside her car, a Honda with Pennsylvania plates and a city of Philadelphia parking tag on the back window. Linda glances at the keys in her hand.

  “She mentioned one other thing,” I tell Linda. “She told me that if anything happened to her, we should look for bites. On the neck, wrists, or other places where the veins carry blood close to the surface. They might look like dry white sores.”

  Linda blanches.

  “My God,” I whisper. “Did she really have them?”

  “On her neck and wrist.”

  “What did the doctor…or medical examiner say?”

  “They brought her to the hospital even though she was already dead.” The word comes out as a whisper. “The doctor said she’d had heart failure.”

  “Did you point out the marks to the doctor?”

  “If those marks were important, wouldn’t the doctor have brought them up herself?”

  “Sometimes doctors miss something if it doesn’t fit their picture of what happened. You need to request an autopsy. You’ll have to go to the police.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to tell them,” Linda says.

  “I can write down for you what the doctors should be looking for. You’ll have to raise hell, but you can do it.”

  Linda shakes her head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I have two kids and a husband back in Philadelphia. I don’t want to get mixed up in whatever Beverly got herself mixed up in.”

  “But you have to do it. Only you can!”

  She presses the button on her keychain and her car bleeps to life, flashing its lights and popping open the door locks.

  “It was very nice to meet you, Kate,” she says. “I’m glad you were friendly with Bevvie. But I don’t think we should continue this conversation. I can’t jeopardize my family this way.”

  “But wait. What if they strike again?”

  “You see my point,” she says, slamming her car door in my face.

  I flatten myself against the car in the adjacent space as she revs out past me and tears off. In my pocket, my phone beeps. I pull it out.

  what did sissy say?-SO

  Jesus Christ. Do these bloggers keep tabs on my every move? Who knows that I’m out here with Beverly, besides Felix? Felix. He may not be a vampire but he could be a blogger. Whoever SO is, though, they didn’t do Beverly any good. I text back, angrily.

  u knew. why didn’t u help?

  The reply comes immediately.

  not my mandate, kk.

  Me:

  some1 died!!! u could have stopped that.

  SO:

  Oh K, I don’t make the news, I just report on it

  Me:

  You’re not a real journalist. you work for a BLOG.

  SO:

  u wanna get rough, do you?

  Me:

  I want YOU to do the right thing.

  Typing this naive sentiment, I’m expecting snark from SO. Strangely enough, though, she/he/it falls silent.

  “YOU’VE BEEN gone for ages,” Rachel says when I return to my desk, badly shaken. “How’s your PMS? And why do you smell like garlic?”

  “Natural headache remedy,” I reply. “Try it. Put a clove in your desk drawer.”

  “No thanks, darlin’,” Nin says.

  “Is this a trend?” Rachel asks, taking a clove.

  I’m tempted to confide in them. Our conversation at the cafeteria indicated to me that they’re suspicious, too. But I don’t want them to be in danger. Biting my tongue, I open my “Clean Clothes” file and try to calm my frazzled nerves by focusing on the story.

  My very first phone call, to My No-Chemical Romance, a lingerie company, gets the owner (it must be a small company). Before I know it, the receiver is jammed between my shoulder and ear and I’m typing as fast as I can. The guy is a font of information. He suggests a few more calls. Ignoring the unease tickling my nerves and the smell of bruschetta around me, I dig in.

  At seven-thirty, Rachel blinks the lights on and off. “Earth to Kate,” she says. “We can’t get in to the Louis Vuitton shoe awards gala, but there’s a couple of lesser events tonight. Don’t you want to come?” Her tone is cross.

  I don’t want to stay in the office alone. Nor am I in the mood to party with a bunch of vampires. “Thanks, but I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m going to finish this up and leave it on Lillian’s desk for tomorrow.”

  “How’d your story turn out, then?” She asks this with ill-concealed jealousy. I’ve been tactless. My other problems have temporarily eclipsed our rivalry.

  “I can ask Lillian if we can turn Reese’s column into an intern page,” I suggest. “‘Voice of the Young Generation’ or something like that.”

  Rachel’s eyes widen. “Kate, you’d do that?”

  I am a sucker, but yes, I would.

  She and Nin depart happy. I even convince them both to carry a clove of garlic—to ward off hangovers.

  Once they’re gone, I gather up my things, turn off the computer, and head down the hall toward the printer. Since the falling-out with James, I’ve switched to using the one near the features department, not the one near Photo. The hallway is deserted, but just as I’m approaching Lillian’s office, I run into Kristen Drane, looking gorgeous in a floor-length silk charmeuse dress. She must be going to the Louis Vuitton event.

  She bursts into a fit of coughing when she sees me. Garlic? Or disapproval of my outfit?

  I need a better vampire test.

  I leave the printout of my story on Lillian’s assistant’s desk—her name is Charlotte, she replaced Carol last week—and my eye falls on the mail bucket of swag sitting outside Lillian’s doorway. There’s one surefire way to deliver an anti-vamp substance to a vampire: product. They love product. I glance in both directions to make sure the coast is clear before digging through the bucket looking for something easy to mix with something…like holy water. My hand lands on a Crème de la Mer lavender-Provençal facial mister. Lillian won’t be able to resist it. And besides, whatever kind of reaction she has, she’ll blame the product and not me. I look around again, then tuck the tiny bottle into my purse and hurry away, feeling like a swag-stealing criminal.

  MY AUNT’S apartment is not the haven I’d hoped it would be. As soon as I’m back within its charcoal walls, surrounded by ancient teeth and realm-of-the-sublime art, I wish that I’d gone out with Rachel and Nin. It’s creepy in here. I pass the study with its family photos and trespass into the master bedroom. A few minutes’ struggle with a bank of switches gets the Fuseli painting illuminated.

  A monkey-like demon incubus crouches on the chest of a sleeping woman. The piece is called The Nightmare, and it was painted in 1781. Sterling has owned it ever since Victoria’s known him. This is his apartment, actually. She moved in without changing anything but the plants on the terrace. I know I’m jumpy, and probably seeing monsters where they don’t exist, but I’d like to talk to my aunt about Sterling’s taste. And I wish I’d paid more attention to when he’s due back from Japan. I glance at the painting a last time. I wouldn’t want to wake up and find Sterling standing over me.

  I flee to my room, close my door, and prop a chair against it. It’s scary to feel the dark apartment lurking out there; being in an enclosed space is slightly better than being out in the open.

  A few hours on the computer and I’m more educated about vampires than I ever thought I’d be. The lore is at its most contradictory on the topic of how to ward off or ki
ll a vampire. Some are repelled by garlic, some aren’t. Some turn black when doused with holy water, some don’t. Chopping off the head of a vampire-bitten corpse should prevent a corpse from rising. A shot with a silver bullet should kill an active vampire, as will pounding a pointed stake through its heart.

  Of course, a silver bullet or a stake through the heart will kill most things.

  The weirdest thing I discover is that some are allergic to peanuts.

  The biggest mystery to me is how a nest of vampires survives in the era of hidden cameras and forensic evidence. There have been some deaths since Lillian came to town, but not nearly as many as there should have been if these girls are getting a full meal every day. They must be able to feed off of people without killing them—otherwise the body count would be too high. And even so, it seems odd.

  Very late in the evening, once I’ve stopped jumping at every shadow, I pour out five hundred dollars’ worth of Crème de la Mer scented water (after misting myself with it a few times—I too like expensive product) and run through a couple of scenarios that would enable me to give it to Lillian. In all likelihood, the swag bucket will still be outside her door when I go to relieve Charlotte for her lunch break. I’ll be able to put the doctored water back. And suggesting to Lillian that she might want to see the contents of the bucket will be a piece of bloody red-velvet cake.

  There’s a Roman Catholic church around the corner on Seventy-first Street.

  I hope this basin-of-holy-water-thing isn’t just something you see in the movies.

  13

  Special Delivery

  THE DIVINE HOUSE of the Blessed Sacrament on Seventy-first Street looks like something out of Rosemary’s Baby. I’m still dazzled by the architecture on the Upper West Side—great modern wealth next to looming Gothic strangeness. Gazing at the church’s rose window and soaring clerestory, I shiver.

  The water turns out to be right inside the door frame in small, arc-shaped stone basins, but I’m too flustered to immediately take out my heathen jar and plunge it in. I scuttle into the nave, slowly becoming aware that the pews on either side of me are scattered with dozing homeless men. I find an empty row and sit until the shock of my entry has subsided. Then I walk back to the doorway and dip my little vial in the font, so quietly and quickly I’m sure nobody notices.