Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  I clamber out from behind the sofa.

  “So what about the fashion murders? What about Beverly, what about—”

  “Oh, that.” She rolls her eyes and dismissively flaps a hand. “Rogue vampire. Happens every now and then when a girl can’t control her hunger.”

  I really don’t like the way she says hunger.

  “I quit,” I say to her.

  “How can you quit? You haven’t even been to a Fashion Week yet.”

  “Fashion Week is the highlight of the year!” Annabel yells into the receiver. “You’ll come in September. It’s parties all night and back-to-back shows all day. And you get goodie bags.”

  “I have four Alice Roi tote bags from four consecutive seasons,” Lexa wheedles.

  “Lexa, thanks for coming by,” I tell her, moving forward. “I’m sorry, but I’m not coming back to work. That’s final. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “I’d think about your aunt first, before I did that,” Lexa says. She fixes her red glare upon me. Evilness wafts through the apartment like Tom Ford Black Orchid.

  I don’t hang up.

  “Victoria is a perfect candidate for a bite,” she muses. “Classy. Well-dressed. Spends a fortune on accessories.”

  Annabel spreads her hands out in a What-can-you-do? gesture.

  “We don’t like to—what shall we call it?—take sustenance from just anyone. We’re more discriminating than that. And the more you shop, the Tastier you are.”

  Our magazine’s last ad campaign takes on a whole new meaning. I hang up the phone and open the door to the terrace. “So what are you saying?” I ask, nervous but trying to sound strong.

  Lexa’s expression goes dreamy. “I’m saying that not all bites are fatal. We have a relationship with a donor for months or even years. But sometimes one is all it takes.”

  Scratch that. Lexa’s expression is hungry.

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen to your aunt,” she says.

  “Okay, what do you want?”

  “I just want my faxes sorted, like the next girl,” she says. “Sodding cow, I want you to come back to work.”

  “Why? You don’t even like me that much.”

  “I don’t like you at all,” Lexa says, smiling. Now I can see that the holy water did some damage. She’s wearing much heavier makeup than usual, and though her skin glows like Annabel’s, it looks rough.

  She sees where I’m looking and shudders. With rage.

  “Lillian wants you to return. And I do Lillian’s bidding. Lillian says she has big plans for you. She doesn’t care what you’ve done to me.”

  I don’t like the sound of plans. Even a friendship with my mom shouldn’t carry this much weight.

  “If I come back, do you promise I’ll be safe and my aunt will be safe?”

  “She’ll be safe from me,” Lexa sniffs.

  “How can I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “You can’t, darling. But you can be sure we’ll pay Victoria a little visit if you don’t come back to Tasty. It would be my pleasure to take care of both of you,” she hisses. Then she gets ahold of herself, amending, “But in this situation that wouldn’t be professional. And I’m always professional.”

  “I’ll be in tomorrow,” I say. I don’t like it, but I don’t know what else I can do.

  The strange drowsy feeling is again lapping at me. I clutch the door frame.

  “Sorry!” Annabel says apologetically. “See you tomorrow!”

  My vision swims. Dark motes drift before my eyes. My editors fold into their glossy clothing like wings. My head lolls forward, sucked at by sleep. My knees weaken. I hear the beating of blood in my ears, and the sound of my pulse becomes the flapping of wings. Just when I’m about to lose consciousness, the pungent odor of garlic revives me, and I find myself alone. Annabel’s voice drifts back to me on the wind.

  “Steven Alan sample sale at two…”

  WHEN THE house phone rings half an hour later, I’m still shaking, wrapped in a throw blanket in the living room, haunted by their terrible red eyes and needle-sharp teeth.

  With dread, I pick up the receiver. They’ve already ensured my cooperation. What more do they want? My attendance at a perfume launch party?

  “Miss McGraw, this is Miguel downstairs. A James Truax is here to see you.”

  “Send him up,” I say dully.

  I’ve got to assume that James is one of them. Why else would he be coming over? I’m just appreciative that he’s arriving via the door.

  I hurry into the kitchen, grab a steak knife (no time to make a real stake), and tuck it into the back pocket of my jean skirt. If Lillian has “plans” for me, I should be safe for now, but I believe in taking precautions.

  James Truax stands on my threshold looking slightly aggressive or maybe slightly nervous. A digital camera hangs from its strap around his wrist.

  “The buildings up here are amazing,” he says. “I’ve been on the street for twenty minutes taking pictures of your gargoyles.”

  Gargoyles and then some. I wonder if he got snaps of Lexa and Annabel winging away. “I suppose you want to be invited in,” I say.

  “That would be customary.”

  “You are invited in.” I step back nervously, braced for a transformation. But he easily crosses the garlic perimeter, looking around curiously.

  “Nice place,” he says.

  “I have a rich aunt, remember? How did you get my address?”

  “Rico knows a StakeOut tipster, and he called in a favor for me.”

  “How does StakeOut have my address?” They have my phone number. I shouldn’t be surprised. But it’s still creepy.

  “They’re like the 411 of the Tasty world. When it comes to Oldham, they’ve got more files than Human Resources.”

  “Why are you here?”

  James puts a hand on my back. “Let’s sit down.” He points me into my living room as if it’s his living room. I allow myself to be guided.

  “They said you quit,” he says as we sit down. “I cornered Annabel and she told me.”

  I nod. “So?”

  “I don’t think you should quit.”

  Members of the undead do career counseling? This is not what I wanted to hear. What I wanted to hear was “I’m sorry I was rude to you in the deli.” Or “When I heard you quit, I realized I was in love with you.” Or “I’m a good vampire, like Angel.”

  “Don’t bother,” I tell him. “Lexa and Annabel have already been here. You can go report back to Lillian that I have been persuaded.”

  He frowns at me. “I’m not reporting to anyone.”

  I don’t believe him. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Look,” he says. “It’s hard to come clean with you acting mad at me.”

  With his every word I’m more convinced that he is here for some nefarious purpose. But at the same time I’m sliding closer to him on the sofa. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t think about you enough to be mad at you.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. You’re mad.” He’s grinning a sexy little grin. “You’re pretty when you’re mad. And that strange wreath-necklace you’re wearing is very fetching.”

  Smoothly, somehow, he’s come forward until he’s on his hands and knees, leaning over me on the sofa. My heart hammers. The eyes, I remember. You aren’t supposed to look into a vampire’s eyes, but I’m doing it. That must be why my resistance to James has melted.

  “I don’t care,” he says, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Mad. Suspicious. Strict-looking. I want to take pictures of all your expressions.”

  He leans forward. Obediently, I tilt my face up to be kissed.

  It’s like the last time. The minute our mouths touch, my blood turns to pink champagne and I’m drunk and helpless. I could kiss him until the end of the world.

  I should be scared. I am in the presence of something magical, violent, and ancient, but his lips are so light, and he keeps stopping to stare into my eyes. He kisses my mou
th and then rubs his thumbs over my lips and face until I’m not thinking about vampires or mind control or anything.

  It’s me who finally pulls him down on top of me. And then we’re passionately entwined on the sofa. His knee is between my legs, the miniskirt is seriously riding up, and the wreath of garlic bulbs rustles and crackles between us.

  Maybe, I think, he’s willing my body to respond to him like this. Because I’ve never felt this way before. And if that’s true, is it so evil? Shouldn’t I wish all guys could do this?

  “What is this thing?” he whispers into my ear, tugging on the wreath.

  “Take it off,” I reply heedlessly.

  He smiles and I see the change come over him. His eyes are dark and wicked as he lowers his mouth to my neck. There is a searing bolt of heat. I convulse as if I’ve been defibrillated and shriek a long, loud, bloodcurdling scream the likes of which I never knew I had in me.

  “What?! What’s wrong?” He scrambles off of me.

  I clap my hand to my neck and check my fingers for blood, which I’m surprised not to see. “You tried to bite me!”

  “I didn’t bite you. I kissed you!” He looks really freaked out.

  “Don’t pretend with me! I know what you were trying to do!”

  “I wasn’t trying to do anything!” He sits down on the far end of the sofa, holding a hand to his heart, looking stricken. “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “You were trying to hurt me!” I’m blushing scarlet and am angry and just a tiny bit worried that maybe I’m wrong and he’s not a vampire after all. He stands up, running a hand through his hair in confusion.

  “What are you talking about? Kate, I’m sorry about the other day. I promised myself I’d never get involved with another Tasty chick. I did it once and it didn’t end well.”

  “Right. Because you sucked her dry?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He scrambles for his shoes, staying as far away from me as possible. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  Oh. My. God. “You’re not a vampire.”

  It’s not a question. He’s either not a vampire or he’s the world’s best actor.

  He looks at me in disgust. “You’ve been reading that blog again? You need medical help.”

  “James. Wait.” Some perverse part of my character is starting to find this funny. “Please listen to me. I’m not crazy, although I know I will sound that way. Our coworkers are vampires. Lillian. Lexa. Annabel. Kristen Drane and I don’t know who else. I thought you were one, too. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “You know what?” He’s getting pissed now that he’s less scared. “I came over here to tell you that I’ve been stupid, that I’d promised myself a long time ago that I would never date a girl I met at Oldham. So since you worked there, I thought nothing should happen between us.” His voice cracks. “But then when I heard you weren’t coming back to work, I realized…” He stops and shakes his head. “Whatever. I must have been wrong.”

  Ahhh! What did he realize? “You weren’t wrong,” I plead. “I can prove it. Please, will you at least consider some evidence?”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  Oh, hell. What kind of evidence? “Your camera! You were taking pictures of the building half an hour ago. I know this will seem insane, but Lexa and Annabel flew here, landed on the terrace, and basically threatened to kill my aunt if I don’t come back to work. Did you see some huge, weird-looking…bats?”

  I can tell from his face that he did. I’m getting somewhere.

  “Do you think you got a picture of them?”

  He retrieves his camera and starts clicking through the images, still seated as far away from me as possible.

  “They looked great next to the gargoyles. I took a bunch.”

  “Well, can you tell that they’re not normal bats?”

  “I don’t know what bats normally look like.”

  “Can I approach you and also look at the screen? I will not scream or make any sudden movements.”

  I think/hope that he had to repress a smile.

  In his photographs the turrets and crenellations of Victoria’s strange, Gothic building drip like dark lace from the rosy sunset clouds. In a few, he’s caught the bats in mid-flap, tenebrous wings spread-eagled against the sky.

  “These are gorgeous.”

  James maintains a resentful silence.

  “Normal bats wait until it’s dark to fly around,” I say tentatively. I think that’s true. I find the clearest picture and stare at it. There has to be evidence here, if only I can find it. “Can you zoom in?”

  He takes the camera from me and fiddles with it before handing it back. Thank God for high resolution. I toggle back and forth, examining the creature’s wizened black face, scrolling along its slender mink-like body and tiny clawed feet.

  “I think this one is Lexa,” I say.

  “I gotta go,” James says.

  I click along the wingspan, hoping for a miracle.

  “Look!” I tell him. “Her claws are tipped with Swarovski crystal.” It’s true; you can just barely see the transparent baubles against the blushing sky.

  He looks at it. “That’s a sun flare.”

  “Look more closely.”

  He takes the camera back, scrutinizes it for a long minute, then clicks it off and puts it in his pocket. “I can’t believe I’m asking this,” he says, “but do you have any more evidence?”

  TWO HOURS later I’ve told him everything, and he’s filled in a few things I didn’t know. For example, it’s his job to run invoices for the photo department, and he has a chronic problem finding and paying many of the models who have worked for us. “These are newbies, they only get a stipend and a chance to build their portfolios,” he says, “so I figured they couldn’t be bothered, but it’s still weird. These are sixteen-year-old girls. You’d think they’d want their fifty bucks, but they do the shoot and then we never hear from them again.”

  It’s not the details of the fashion murders that most interest him, though. It’s Lillian’s unnatural fascination with me. I’ve been mentally glossing over this point. The secret vain part of me wants to believe that she likes me because I’m smart and funny and she was friends with my mom. But while acknowledging that I am smart and funny, James worries that there’s more to it. He doesn’t think it’s a good sign that I’ve been initiated into the mysteries of vampire life. He thinks it’s too much like when a murderer lets you see their face: Then you know he’s going to kill you.

  “Not to freak you out or anything.”

  We’re now sitting companionably together on the sofa. My bare feet are quite close to his leg.

  I tell him it doesn’t matter. I’ve got no choice. If I don’t go back to work, they’ll come for Vic, or Annabel will target my dad. I can’t let that happen.

  “Okay, but we aren’t going to let anybody hurt you,” he says. “You can go back to work, but you’ve got to promise to find me at the first sign of trouble.”

  Now he’s all protective?

  “I also don’t like you staying alone here while your aunt is out of town.” His dark eyes slide toward me, slyly. “I could stay with you until things calm down.”

  Twist my arm.

  This makes him think of something. “Why the hell did you let me in your house if you thought I was a vampire? Maybe I hadn’t gotten the memo about Lillian having plans for you.”

  I blush. This is embarrassing. “Just forget about it,” I mumble.

  “Seriously, Kate, that was crazy.”

  Crimson to the roots of my hair, I admit, “I like you. And I also thought you were using vampire mind control to make me feel unusually attracted to you.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut for a long time, an indescribable expression on his face.

  Then he opens them and says, “Come here.”

  15

  Tasty Girl

  I’M WAITING OUTSIDE Lexa’s door when she opens it on Friday morning at eleven-thirty.r />
  I make a mental note to ask Annabel why they all sleep in their offices—and if they have actual apartments. Lexa’s filing cabinet is stuffed with shoes and leggings and accessories, so between that, the fashion closet, and spa body-scrubs, she may not need a separate place to live. Especially since she goes out every night.

  “Good morning,” I say in what I’m hoping is a cheerful but remorseful tone. “Here are the gossips.” I hand her a folder of printouts I’ve prepared.

  “Put it on my desk.” She waves me into her office.

  If the holy water damaged her, it doesn’t show—that’s another thing I read about on the Internet. Vampire injuries heal fast.

  “What is this?” she asks, flapping a different folder in my face.

  If she’s going to pretend I didn’t douse her with toxins two days ago, that works for me. “I don’t know. Let me see.”

  I reach for the folder she has in her hand but she doesn’t relinquish it.

  “It’s sheer carelessness is what it is!” She gesticulates angrily with the folder. I catch a glimpse of my writing on the tab. It’s the Tasty Girl logistics information that Annabel and I prepared.

  Another thought occurs to me. Where do vampires without offices sleep? I haven’t seen Annabel yet today. I hope she’s not a blond bat, hanging in the fire stairs, breathing the air of illicit smokers.

  “Who is going to greet the Tasty Girls at the airport? How are they getting from there to the hotel?” Lexa asks me. “Why haven’t you made a call sheet for the shoot?”

  “No one,” I say, choosing to answer one question at a time. “I thought they’d take cabs.”

  “That’s no excuse. What good are you? Now I have to straighten out your cock-up.”

  I guess it doesn’t count that I arranged the charter bus and the hotels for the models. If she’d just told us Monday how she wanted things done—instead of telling us not to bother her with petty details—we could have carried out her instructions to the letter. But the boss is always right.

  “I’m sorry, Lexa,” I say. “I’ll meet the Tasty Girls at the airport,” I volunteer. “And if you will explain the call sheet, I’ll make one.”