Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  “Wait!” she says, and I hang up.

  My hands are shaking.

  “Was that your mom?” Sylvia asks.

  “Are you okay?” James asks.

  Sylvia steps forward to hug me and then James comes and puts his arms around both of us.

  “What the hell was that about?” I ask, trapped between Sylvia’s hair and the soft cotton of James’s T-shirt (another obscure photo-boy shirt, this one says BLACK TEAM on it).

  “What did she want?” Sylvia asks.

  “I don’t care what she wants. It’s too late for her to want anything.”

  “What did she say?” Sylvia asks.

  “Nothing. Just that it was important that she talk to me.” I don’t feel anything. I must be in shock.

  “She’ll call back,” James predicts, hugging me tighter.

  “I’m fine, you guys.” We break apart. “And ready to ransack an office. Let’s go.”

  WE’RE STYMIED, though, in Oldham’s obsidian lobby. The magazine shop is closed and shuttered. The high-speed elevators hang like sleeping bats. But the guard on duty at the central security desk—just one guy instead of the four they have during the day—won’t let Sylvia up. After hours, access is employees-only.

  “You two can go, but not her,” the guard says after checking our IDs.

  “I don’t want to leave her by herself in the middle of the night,” James protests.

  Sylvia looks at me, wide-eyed. She doesn’t want that, either.

  “Can she wait in the lobby?” James asks.

  “That’s against company policy,” the guy says.

  “I’ll be fine,” Sylvia says bravely. “I’ll wait right out there on the plaza. Don’t forget that I’ve come prepared.” She’s referring to the stakes we’ve made, though I’m still not sure our stakes would kill anybody. Since we don’t have much choice, I nod slowly.

  “Call us if you have any trouble,” I tell her.

  “We’ll be quick,” James promises. Then we both sign the security log and the guard waves us toward the elevator banks.

  As soon as we’re on the floor at Tasty, we race toward the intern closet.

  “Should we close the door?” James asks. “In case anyone is around?”

  “Do you really think there’s someone around?”

  “What if someone didn’t go out tonight?” James goes to the hallway and listens intently. “I don’t hear anything.” He turns around.

  I’ve already stuffed the folder containing the winners’ applications in my bag, but I want the flight info, too.

  My computer has never booted up so slowly. But finally the progress daisy stops twirling and I’m able to call up the spreadsheet I’ve made of the Tasty Girl Contest winners’ travel itineraries.

  “Shit,” I say, my hands shaking. “We’ll need to warm up the printer, too.”

  I press Print and James and I hurry together down the hallway. We stand in front of the machine watching the row of yellow lights turn, achingly slowly, to green. My cell phone rings again. I check the display, hoping against hope that it won’t be Sylvia, fleeing a woman in black. It’s her. Her voice is high-pitched.

  “Kate, someone blond with an updo and glasses just cruised in there, fast. She looked pissed.” She drops her voice. “And, oh my God, here’s another person. A really fashionable-looking dark-haired woman.”

  Lillian. “Okay. Thanks.” I hang up. To James I say, “Lexa and Lillian. We have about thirty seconds.” The printer makes a preparatory grinding sound, then chirps a few times.

  “I just heard the elevator ding,” James whispers. My heart is pounding.

  The sound of a machine taking paper from a tray has never been so welcome. Loudly, the printer disgorges first one, then two pages of Excel-formatted information.

  Here it is! Tasty Girls! I stuff sheets of paper in my bag. “Let’s go.”

  “Oh, shit,” James says. “Look.”

  Lexa is stalking down the hallway toward us, teeth bared in a terrible grimace. Her eyes are shining with mad, unhinged hatred. Terrified, I dig in my bag, pulling out a sharpened stake and a rosary. James does the same. His cheap punk-store rosary looks puny next to my Gucci bling.

  “You!” Lexa snaps.

  I start to lie about why we are in the office, but she cuts me off.

  “Don’t bother. Annabel told me what you said. And if you’re on her side, don’t expect me to go easy on you,” she tells James.

  She continues to storms toward me.

  This is it. I ready myself to strike. Though I don’t really know how to strike. I’ve never even taken a boxing class at a gym. I don’t even belong to a gym.

  Lexa flinches away from the cross but still manages to easily rip my bag from my shoulder. Snorting, she rifles through it, pulling out the Tasty Girl folder.

  “What were you going to do with this?” she shrieks. She throws the folder at me. It smacks me in the face and then falls to my feet, disgorging a jumble of head shots and medical questionnaires.

  “The shoot isn’t a good idea.” Maybe I can talk my way out of this. “Overgrown farms are so…passé.”

  “Hah!” she screams, and stomps her foot. “That just shows you what you know. The shoot won’t be just any old ultraviolent chic, it will be dismemberment chic! We’re not going to feed on the girls, we’re going to cut them into little pieces! In their designer clothes! It’s all mapped out. The last shot will be of a severed arm in a perfect, sculptural Comme des Garçons sleeve. The tabs will all say how bold and witty I am!”

  Lexa’s ecstatic description is truly chilling.

  “You can’t kill people and run photos of it in Tasty!” I tell her. “You’ll bring the law down on yourself!”

  Lexa’s expression turns sly. “I chose those girls carefully. No one will miss them. And the farm belongs to a friend.”

  “But Lillian will know, and she’ll be furious.” I keep expecting Lillian to appear before us, but she must be lurking in the shadows somewhere.

  “Lillian. She’s too depressed to lift a finger. Go ahead and tattle on me.”

  I try again. “Lillian must be on to you. You’ve killed a lot of people.”

  She looks momentarily confused, and then her expression clears. “You think I’m the fashion murderer? Well, I’m not, but she’s my inspiration. If she can get away with it, so can I.”

  James finally speaks up. “Even if you could get away with it, you’re not going to do it, because we’re not going to let you.”

  Lexa puts down her Chloé satchel and shrugs out of her small, flared-white bolero tie-front top. Now she’s just wearing an expensive-looking leopard-print camisole and shorty leggings. Is she trying to scare us to death with her gross emaciation?

  “I think you’re forgetting who your friends are,” she tells him. She folds the top and drapes it over the back of a chair. “This top is Giambattista Valli,” she says. “I don’t want your tacky blood to ruin it.”

  James and I have time to exchange one quick glance before she lunges. Lexa leaps upon James in a storm of whirling limbs and blond locks. I see her knobby spine through the camisole and then hear it rip as James gouges at her with the stake. The cami is ripped down the front.

  Seeing the boss’s breasts is an unspeakable abomination.

  Indecent exposure doesn’t bother her, though. Grinning, she does the nail-to-claw maneuver I saw earlier: The tips of her fingers sprout ten pink-polished talons.

  Manfully, James strikes at her with the stake, but she’s too fast for him. Her movement is a blur. And then she’s behind him, on his back, stick-insect legs wrapped around his waist. With her claws, she rakes his neck and chest, shredding clothes and flesh. Screaming, I lunge at her with the cross and my stake. I’m so terrified and enraged that I really do have the strength of ten, because the stake breaks the skin before being stopped by Lexa’s bones.

  The cross—thank God for Gucci—has more of an impact. It hits Lexa’s bare shoulder with a sizzle. T
he flesh seems to melt around it. Lexa’s scissor-gripped legs loosen and I’m able to pull her off of James. He hits the ground. I think he fainted. I can’t look because Lexa, with a terrible lithe power, is twisting away from the cross. Her deadly nails whistle through the air inches from my thigh.

  I run, hoping she’ll chase me and leave James alone.

  Frantically, I pound through Beauty and Fashion, pushing chairs behind me into Lexa’s path. She is right behind me, screaming the foulest obscenities I’ve ever heard. She has superior speed, but I take a sneaky turn at the kitchen (a room she likely isn’t familiar with) and then manage to lose her in the maze of cubicles.

  The cursing stops.

  I dart and dodge and then sprint back to where I left James.

  He’s breathing, but his skin has turned white. I allow myself to listen. The clack of stilettos has come quite close. Because there’s nowhere else to go, I scramble backward beneath Annabel’s desk.

  Okay.

  I have the stake. I have nowhere else to hide. There’s only one thing to do.

  Wait for her to find me.

  18

  I’d Rather Die!

  FROM MY VANTAGE point I see a pair of gorgeous black snakeskin ankle boots approach James. They aren’t Lexa’s.

  Are they Lillian’s?

  I coil, stake in hand, ready to spring. Then I see the boots pass James. They stop in front of me; their owner crouches down to look under the desk where I’m hiding.

  Her eyes are wide and dark and sad-looking. She’s wearing a beautifully tailored jacket that’s almost religious in its austerity and a simple black skirt, the elegant lines of which can only be French haute couture. Around her neck on a silver chain hangs a clay medallion I made in art class in the sixth grade.

  It’s Eva. My mother.

  She holds a finger to her lips and stands up again.

  Another pair of feet attached to spindly ankles enters my view.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” Lexa asks Eva.

  “Do you attack people in the workplace?” Eva responds. “Are you mad? And why are you naked?”

  “Sod off,” Lexa says. “And move aside.”

  I can hear James groan. Please be okay, I pray. Don’t die on me.

  Lexa crouches, preparing to leap at Eva. I scramble out so quickly, I bang my head on the desk. Cross upraised, I’m ready to join the fray. To my surprise, however, Eva leaps into the air in a way that reminds me of a panther I once saw on the Nature Channel springing on its prey. She lands on Lexa before my boss has time for takeoff, and the two of them crash to the ground.

  Locked together, they roll to one side of the corridor and slam into some mail bins. Then they reverse direction and roll to the other, where they bang into a filing cabinet.

  At no point can I get a clear hit with the stake.

  Though Lexa is fiendishly strong, my mom somehow manages to get a lock on her wrists. But then Lexa gets her wicked-stiletto-shod foot between their two bodies. With horror, I see the heel sinking into Eva, forcing her to release Lexa and scramble away. She gets to her feet so quickly, I can hardly track her movement.

  Lexa uses her inhuman strength and speed to bounce to her feet like a gymnast, claws outstretched.

  I’m desperate to win this fight—for James, for the Tasty Girls, to find out where my mom has been all these years (at the gym, it seems). But I’ve been reduced to spectator status.

  Eva slaps Lexa across the face.

  Lexa aims a roundhouse kick.

  Eva is also using her beautiful sharp shoes as a weapon, getting in a few nasty high kicks.

  “Kate, throw me the stake!” she cries.

  I do so, amazed at how quickly my mom’s hands grab it out of the air.

  With another panther leap, she flings herself at Lexa. They both go flying backward into Annabel’s workspace. My view is blocked, but I see Eva’s delicate hand holding the stake high above her head and then stabbing it down with vicious force. There’s a sickening crunch. Then a pop, then a long moment of panting breathing, then another pop and a sound like splintering wood.

  Eva climbs off, gingerly.

  On the left side of Lexa’s chest, above her pale nipple, an inch or so of stake protrudes, bull’s-eye on the heart.

  There’s no blood.

  Eva has driven the stake so deep, she’s pinned Lexa to the desk. I don’t see how it’s possible that Eva could have mustered that much force. I’m sickened and transfixed. It takes all my willpower not to vomit.

  And then it gets worse. Lexa starts to writhe. Her legs in their cut-off leggings flex, attempting to find purchase on the ground. Her arms slap the desk. Before my eyes her flesh gets darker. She begins to blacken and shrivel like a Barbie on a campfire. Her perfect blond curls wither and turn to ash. Her hands and feet become skeletal, crumbling and vaporizing. In a few seconds all that’s left is a size-zero pair of cropped leggings with a black lace thong inside, and a pile of chunky jewelry.

  “I got her in the heart,” Eva says. “She won’t be coming back.”

  I pull out my cell phone, hands shaking. “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

  She shrugs lightly. “Go ahead.”

  “I wasn’t asking for your permission,” I say, dialing.

  I talk to the operator and am promised assistance within the next five minutes. Hoping that will be soon enough, I crouch over James to see if I can do anything to stop the bleeding. There isn’t nearly as much blood as I expected, though.

  “Someone’s coming,” Eva says, sniffing the air. “Someone human. We have to be quick.”

  She looks at me, seeming to drink me up with her dark eyes.

  “Do you trust me, Kate?” she asks.

  Trust her? She’s my mother and I haven’t seen her for six years.

  “No,” I say.

  “Will you do what I ask now and let me explain later? It’s very important.”

  I figure I owe her at least that much. “All right.”

  “What the fucking hell is going on here?”

  I look up to see Lauren, fresh-scrubbed and carrying a venti iced coffee.

  My god, it’s Saturday morning. Managing editors really are dedicated.

  JUST BEFORE seven A.M., Eva and I are ensconced in a booth at a diner not far from Beth Israel Hospital, where the EMTs took James. The place has a long counter in front, an extensive menu, and pink pleather booths in back. James is going to be fine; all he needed was some stitches. Sylvia’s waiting for him at the hospital, giving Eva and me a chance to talk alone.

  Lauren is still at the office talking to the police. She agreed to cover for us after Eva convinced her that there would be a scandal and a protracted investigation unless we put the police off track.

  Our concocted story was simple: One of the senior editors, the notorious Lexa Larkin from the society pages, was dangerously unbalanced from too much dieting and had attacked James with an Agent Provocateur clawed gauntlet. I succeeded in dragging her off him, but she got away from me and left the building.

  I asked if the police wouldn’t see what really happened on the security cameras, but was told Oldham doesn’t share its security footage with anyone.

  Lauren agreed to snow-job the police on the condition that immediately after they left, we would explain to her what was really going on.

  Facing Eva in our pink booth, I want a few things cleared up for myself.

  “How did you get into the building?” I ask. “The guard wasn’t letting anyone up without Oldham ID.”

  Eva looks tired. “I persuaded him,” she says.

  “And how did you get onto the floor? You need a pass code.”

  “Why don’t you let me start at the beginning?”

  “And what are these rumors about you and some guy named Gene Gantor?”

  “Gene?” Eva looks baffled. “He was a fan of my work. Nothing more. I loved your father deeply. I still do.” She laughs ruefully. “If only that’s what all this were about.”
>
  I choose to believe this, because I want to.

  The waiter arrives to take our orders. I ask for an everything bagel with cream cheese and tomato. Eva requests black coffee and pulls her cigarettes out.

  “You can’t smoke in here.”

  She sighs. “New York has changed.”

  “I don’t suppose I should ask you where you’ve been.”

  “Europe. I came back because Victoria got your message and was worried.”

  “She has your number?” I feel sick with betrayal.

  My mother’s expression is pained. “Please stop looking at me that way,” she says. “I never wanted to leave you. I had to leave you, for your own safety. Everything I’ve done has been for you. I hope once you understand, you’ll be able to forgive me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did you have to go away? And why did you come back?”

  “Victoria told me that you’d run into members of the undead.”

  “You know?” Obviously, she knew just how to kill Lexa. And she didn’t seem surprised when my former boss vanished.

  Eva looks sorrowfully at me.

  She’s a vampire hunter! That’s what she’s been doing in Europe! She sure kicked and punched and wielded her heels in expert fashion doing battle with Lexa.

  The waiter comes by with Eva’s coffee.

  She doesn’t touch it.

  Almost six years have passed since I’ve seen Eva, but in the bright light of the diner, she looks exactly like I remember her. Exactly.

  Hysteria bubbles up in my chest. I want to kick or punch something myself. Instead, I say, “Show me your incisors.”

  In her eyes, I read confirmation of my worst fears.

  Eva smiles, revealing her tiny, perfect little white fangs.

  My world shuts down to a pinhole. The diner goes dark. Through the roaring in my ears I hear her saying, “I never wanted you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  The bite on my wrist throbs beneath its velvet band.

  She is so full of shit.

  I’m sharp again. “You ran away because you didn’t want to tell me you’d been bitten? You were ashamed that you were tasty vampire food?”