Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  I understand this state of mind pretty well, considering the circumstances.

  She nods. “All of that was part of it.”

  “You think we wouldn’t have still loved you?” I ask her. I’m fuming. Furious. “Me? Your daughter? And what about the man whose heart you broke? I think he would have died if he didn’t have me to take care of.”

  “Please, hear me out,” she begs. “My shame was only the beginning. I would never have left you if shame had been the only…Once they made me one of them, I learned that vampires are always seeking others who can join their ranks. They have a pathological need for followers. That’s why they’re in fashion. But very few humans can make the transformation. There’s a gene for it—”

  “The style gene,” I say. “Someone already told me.”

  “Exactly,” Eva says. “And if I have it, you probably have it, too. From what I gather, it’s matrilineal.” She reaches across the table to seize my hand. Hers is bone cold. “Through me, my colleagues would have eventually found you. As long as I’m around, you’re in danger. And nothing I can do will stop them from making you one of them.”

  I move my hand. “You didn’t think of that before you agreed to become a vampire?”

  “Becoming a vampire isn’t something you agree to.”

  “That’s not what I’ve been told. I heard that you have to give your consent.”

  “They’re very good at twisting the truth. Vampires will only allow a certain type of person to join their clique. Your lifestyle, your values, and the person you are—all of those things ‘consent’ for you, without you knowing it. And they decide the moment is right, not you.”

  She takes a deep, shaky breath.

  “If you had to go, why didn’t you at least tell us why?”

  “To prevent them from finding you. I knew that the only way to keep you safe in Monticello, far from the world of fashion, would be if you thought I’d left on my own, and were angry. Then you wouldn’t come looking for me. I knew it would hurt—I’ve experienced that pain afresh every day since—but I also knew you would survive. I had to choose that. Don’t you see why?”

  “What about Victoria? If she knew you’d gone to all that trouble, why did she push me into this job?”

  Eva sighs. “My sister has never believed in vampires, though God knows why, there are plenty in the art world. She chooses to think that I have made up a story to cover my inexplicable urge to run off and leave my family.”

  I guess this is more plausible than the truth.

  “Arranging this internship for you was her way of proving my story a lie. She planned to call me at the end of the summer and say, ‘See how crazy you are? Your daughter has been working at a fashion magazine all summer and she’s happy as a clam.’” She smiles wearily. “She was so upset when she got your message. She loves you, too, you know.”

  But she lied to me, at least by omission, all these years.

  “So,” I say, “your plan didn’t work. You destroyed our family for nothing.”

  “I had hoped that maybe you would be more understanding.”

  I don’t say anything, just stare at my untouched bagel. She can keep hoping.

  “Even if you can’t forgive me, it’s important that you at least tolerate me, Kate,” she says. “We are going to need to work together to get you out of this.”

  “Hey,” James says from behind me. I turn around to find him wearing a clean T-shirt I don’t recognize and blood-spattered army pants. A bandage snakes from his neck down into the collar of the shirt, but he’s standing more comfortably than you’d expect from a person with his injuries. People in pain look puffy and weird: You can usually see trauma on the face. But James is as hot as ever. Sylvia is at his elbow.

  “Is this your mom?” he asks.

  I jump up and give him a hug, and then a kiss. And another one. “Yes, this is Eva, my long-lost mother. You might not remember, but she killed Lexa.” This is really hard. “She’s a vampire, too.”

  Sylvia is wide-eyed with excitement. “Hi, Mrs. McGraw, nice to meet you,” she says, shaking Eva’s hand and sliding into the booth across from her.

  James looks startled. “What do you mean, ‘too’?”

  “Like Lexa and the rest of them. You should know what kind of family you’re getting involved with. If you don’t want to help me anymore, that’s okay. I understand.”

  His expression is dark and thoughtful. “I figured your mom was a vampire,” he says. “I wondered if she was going to tell you.”

  “You’re not upset?”

  He shrugs. “Why should I be?”

  “Apparently this means I could turn into a vampire, too. Are you sure you want to be dating—or helping, or whatever—a potential vampire?”

  “Do you want to be a vampire? Eternal youth, the best parties, great free clothes?”

  “It’s my worst nightmare! I’d rather die! Literally.”

  He kisses me on the head, the temple, and the lips again. “Then it won’t happen. We won’t let it.”

  Lauren approaches the booth with a look on her face that I’m sure she gets to use a lot at home, one that says, ’Fess up or I’m giving you a time-out.

  “How much do you want to tell her?” Eva asks tentatively.

  “We’re going to tell her everything,” I reply firmly, adding under my breath, “It’s always better to be honest with people.”

  James, Lauren, and I all squeeze into the booth.

  I’m not looking forward to convincing our managing editor (not a job that attracts fanciful types) to believe in the bogeyman, but I’ve got Eva as Exhibit A.

  “Mother, show her your teeth.”

  HALF AN hour later, I’ve told the whole story of the Tasty Girl Contest, our desperate late-night trip to the office, the confrontation with Lexa, and its horror-movie denouement. I’ve explained about the fashion murders and my conviction that they were Lexa’s handiwork, although she denied it. And I’ve presented Lauren with hard evidence that several members of the staff are vampires, including showing her the bite on my wrist from Lillian.

  Lauren takes it much better than I expect.

  “Vampires,” she says. “I always thought they were weird, but I just chalked it up to the industry. I wasn’t really one of them, you know?”

  “Yeah, we know,” James and I chorus.

  She sighs. “We’re going to have to reschedule the Tasty Girl shoot. I’ll have to crash something big into the October issue to make up for it. Who needs to be alerted?”

  “Just the girls themselves,” I say. “I think the photographer and the stylist must have been in on it.”

  “We’ll call them anyway, to be safe,” Lauren says.

  “Oh, and Nin and Rachel, the other interns, are supposed to be meeting the models at the airport tomorrow. I can let them know the shoot is off.”

  “Good,” Lauren says. “You do that. I’ll have my assistant do the rest.”

  “I don’t mind calling the Tasty Girls,” I assure her. “That was our plan for the day, you know.”

  Lauren smiles. “Let me get someone working on it right away,” she says, “so we can discuss the bigger picture.”

  While she’s telephoning her assistant, I call Nin.

  “What? How can they cancel it?” she wants to know. “Why? Lexa is going to lose her remainin’ marble.”

  “I don’t know. I’m just passing along the message. Can you call Rachel?”

  “I’ll tell her, darl. I’m meeting her for brunch right now. But she’s not going to like it.”

  “Thanks, Nin.”

  “So,” Lauren says, turning to Eva, “is there an exorcism we can do? The production schedule would be much smoother if half the payroll didn’t sleep till noon every day.”

  “There’s no way back,” Eva says. “To release their souls from torment, we’ll have to stake them all. But we’re outnumbered, and they’re very strong and fast, so it won’t be easy.”

  I’ve seen how Eva
kills and it isn’t pretty.

  As if she senses my distaste, her hand strays to the medallion around her neck.

  “I’m not sure I believe in murder,” I say. “Isn’t there any other way?”

  “It’s not murder if they’re already dead,” James says reasonably.

  “They seem pretty attached to their lives, or non-lives,” I counter. “And we know they can survive without killing people. They can drink bottled blood or blood from animals—not that they should feed on pets, of course.” I shoot a look at Sylvia. “I think any vampire who wants a chance to live in a sustainable, low-impact way should have it. Maybe some vampires want to be good.” I glare at Eva.

  “Theoretically, vampires can live that way,” she tells me evenly. “I do. But it’s not accepted by vampire society at large. You would need a very strong and unusual leader to enforce those rules. And I know Lillian. She’ll never agree to it, even if she were capable of controlling her staff, which she’s obviously not.”

  On the diner table, my phone starts vibrating. I see that it’s Rachel’s cell phone number and ignore it. I deliberately called Nin because I knew Rachel would never let me off with such a vague explanation.

  I take a deep breath. “Okay, so maybe we get rid of Lillian—persuade her to step down—and offer the rest of the staff a chance.” I turn to Lauren. “You’re not a vampire, and everyone is used to doing what you say. You could lay down the law for them.”

  “Lillian won’t be persuaded,” Eva says. “And there’s another problem: With her alive and that wound on your wrist open, you’re a blood donor. Now that’s she’s marked you, you’re like a beacon. Our kind can sense you. And with each bite, your ability to evade an attack lessens. Most blood donors end up wanting it in the end. You’ll see them shopping in Nolita, or at the tents in Bryant Park during Fashion Week, just waiting to be picked off.”

  I nod, thinking of the actor-auteur-provocateur turned human pincushion.

  “The only way to reverse that is by killing the vampire who bit you.”

  “I can’t see myself killing someone in cold blood,” I say. “I hear what you’re saying, but when I imagine doing it, even to save my own life, I don’t think so….”

  “It’s more than just your life,” Eva tells me. “You’ve got the style gene. Once you die, after three days in the grave, you’ll rise again.”

  I’m temporarily sidetracked by the implications of this. “You spent three days in a grave? You had a funeral and we weren’t invited?”

  I’m being rude, but Eva just looks sadder.

  “I was dead. So I couldn’t invite you. And they didn’t know you existed. The vampire who makes you takes care of the funeral planning—and you know how they are about parties. They enjoy figuring out what you’re going to wear in your coffin, and what they’re going to wear as your grieving friends, and so on.”

  “And then they bury you? And you spend three days underground?” I ask.

  I scan my memory for a time when she was away from home for three days and we didn’t know where she was.

  “Yes.”

  The thought of her lying in a coffin, still as sculpture, presents itself vividly to me. Her flesh would be cold and hard. I want to weep, thinking of her alone there.

  But I can’t cry now. I ask the first question I can think of.

  “What happens when you wake up? How do you…rise?”

  “The quickened vampire uses her newfound strength to smash open the coffin and crawl up through the loosened earth. We’re in no danger of suffocating, so it’s unpleasant but hardly a challenge.” She says it lightly, but her eyes are haunted. I imagine the broken grave and the swim through the dark soil—and shudder.

  “I’ll kill Lillian.” James turns to Eva. “I can do it.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s my life. I’ll do it myself.”

  “I’m stronger than either one of you,” Eva insists. “It should be me.”

  Sylvia says, “I have an idea that might give us an advantage.”

  19

  Really, Really Juicy

  I CURL AGAINST James’s body in the deep-blue vinyl backseat of the taxi, willing the horrors of the previous night away. He looks gorgeous. His stubble has grown in golden around his mouth and dark on his curved cheeks. His hair is so messed up it’s formed a kind of cowlicked fin on top. His brown eyes are a kaleidoscope of rust, gold, and green. A little smile plays around the corners of his juicy mouth. I really, really want to kiss that mouth. I want to see the fringe of his tiny eyelashes when he shuts his eyes. I want lots of things from him.

  Sylvia, sitting on my other side, is busy text-messaging the West Coast. Turns out not only is she newly svelte, but the date with Nico’s brother went well and my friend is in love. We left Eva outside the diner. She said she “wanted to spend some time” with me and I told her I’d call.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a black-clad scarf-swathed woman moving quite quickly—suspiciously quickly—along the sidewalk against the flow of traffic.

  “I swear I just saw a vampire,” I tell them. “She had that Lanvin crocodile-skin bag, the twenty-eight-thousand-dollar one. No human can afford that.”

  We’re only a block away from my aunt’s house. If it was a vampire, she probably wanted me. It’s good we weren’t home. “Someone’s already found out about Lexa.”

  “How would they have found out?” Sylvia asks. “I’ve never heard of them having sensors that alert them when one of their kind has been staked.”

  “I don’t know how. But it’s Saturday afternoon. They should all be in bed. Even StakeOut should be sleeping it off somewhere. There’s only one reason that someone would be up here.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” James says.

  “Yeah, me neither. What are they up to?”

  “No, I mean the sound, literally. I hear sirens.”

  “Oh my God. Me too.” The noise is very faint but audible.

  The cab turns down Seventy-second Street, which appears tranquil. We pay and jump out, but Miguel bars our way.

  “I’m sorry, you can’t go in there,” he stammers. Then: “Miss McGraw,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Your friends. They were waiting for you. I just went outside for a minute….” He trails off, too distraught to speak.

  “Which friends?” I whisper, heart slamming in my chest.

  “Two girls. They didn’t give their names.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve never seen anything like it….”

  I dodge past him into the revolving door and he doesn’t try to stop me.

  I see the dead girls on the cowhide sofa in Victoria’s lobby.

  Both are covered with deep, suspiciously dry-looking gashes, as if their bodies have gone through some piece of industrial machinery. I have little doubt that the wounds conceal bites and that both bodies will be missing quite a bit of blood that can’t be explained by the stains on their chic clothes and on the terrazzo floor of our lobby. It takes a minute to comprehend that the latest victims are Rachel and Nin.

  And I’m responsible for their deaths. They must have come straight here after getting off the phone with me. If only I’d told them more.

  James has come in behind me. “This is bad,” he says.

  I turn to him. I’m not aware of crying but my cheeks are wet.

  “I guess Lexa wasn’t the fashion murderer,” Sylvia adds. Her eyes are animé-huge, staring at the two girls.

  Lexa was just a copycat criminal, as unoriginal in death as she was in life.

  “No,” James agrees. “And the real murderer is trying to send Kate a message.”

  “But why? How do they know I’m a threat to them?

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But obviously they do.”

  I’m starting to feel a little wobbly on my feet. I knew Rachel and Nin. I sat in the same room with them all day, every day. I listened to their inane conversations about celebrities a
nd office politics. We went to the cafeteria and people-watched together. We were office mates, almost work-friends. Well, not exactly. But I’m intensely sad for them nonetheless.

  I pull out my cell phone and take a couple of quick snaps of the corpses. James looks at me curiously but merely asks, “Should we get out of here before the cops show up?”

  We split up to decrease the chances of being recognized in case of police interest in our whereabouts—Miguel knows it was me that Rachel and Nin came to see—and agree to meet in an hour at the Plaza Gourmet III. It’s the first place I can think of, and the last place anyone would look.

  A surreal half-hour later, I arrive. James and Sylvia are already there when I walk in. Sylvia, I notice, went for the package of honey-fused sesame seeds that I always get. James is drinking black coffee.

  It’s funny that I don’t feel more displaced—I can’t go home, I’m probably wanted for questioning by the police—but the past few weeks seem to have prepared me for the sensation. I never did feel at home at Victoria’s. And I suppose when we need someplace to sleep tonight, we’ll check into a hotel or maybe call Eva after all. As long as it’s not an address that Human Resources has on file for us, we should be okay.

  “Have you called Rico?” I ask James.

  “He picked up some boy and stayed at his place, so he’s safe. I told him not to go home.”

  “I called Lauren. She was still at the office but said she’d go straight home. Her husband is instructed not to invite anyone in for any reason. She said not to worry about her.”

  I put my arm around Sylvia. “We’re going to be okay.” Her first real contact with vampires hasn’t agreed with her as much as she thought it would. Her face looks pale. Once we’ve resolved things one way or another, we’re going to have to worry about post-traumatic stress disorder.

  “Those poor girls,” she says. “They had their dream jobs. Everything was laid out for them in life. And they were so young.”

  “This has to end.” I take out my cell phone. “I’m sending the pictures to StakeOut.”

  “What? Why?” James looks aghast. “Don’t do that.”

  “Maybe it will motivate them to tell me who the fashion murderer is. I know they know, because they sent Beverly a text telling her that the person was right outside her building. If they’re humans, they can’t just let this keep happening.”