Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  “She won’t do you any favors,” James says.

  I forward the pictures to StakeOut’s mobile with a message that says:

  How can you just stand by? Did these girls deserve it, too?

  “She’s sleeping,” James says. “It’s noon on a Saturday and she parties all night.”

  But a few minutes later I get a message:

  Thanks for the scoop, dupe! And btw they did deserve it.

  Isn’t that a Christian Louboutin shoe I see peeking out from beneath the carnage?

  “See?” James says. “There’s really no point in engaging with her.”

  “What assholes.” I write:

  Tell me who it is. I know you know.

  The reply:

  And ruin a good rubric?

  During this exchange James looks increasingly more uncomfortable. “She won’t help you,” he says. “You can’t trust her.”

  “You keep saying her. How do you know it’s a her? Is that what Rico told you? You said he knows a tipster. Maybe he can help us.”

  James rests his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground.

  “Actually, I have a better connection than he does.”

  “Really? Why’d you tell me you’d gotten my address through Rico?”

  “I did. Kate…The girl who does StakeOut. Ah, shit. She’s my ex-girlfriend. Shallay. The one who used to work at Tasty and made me want to never get involved with a work person again. She used to be Lillian’s assistant.”

  Oh, I do not like this at all.

  “The first time SO texted me was the night we kissed at Carnivoré….”

  “Right,” he says. “That doesn’t surprise me. She was there.”

  I think of the text I received from the bathroom line last night. “Was she at that photo opening, too?” I ask him. “Does she have red hair and was she wearing a black-and-white-striped top?”

  James gives me a guilty-little-boy look. “Yeah,” he says. “That was her.”

  Scandalized, I ask, “Do you generally talk to her when you run into her at parties?” James and I are hardly at the stage where I can demand he not speak to his exes (I’m not sure there’s ever a point when that’s appropriate), but I have to know.

  “Usually. It was an ugly breakup, but we’re friendly now.”

  I am liking this less and less. “So if you were going out with her, you must have known about the vampires a long time ago,” I say.

  “Shallay said awful shit about lots of people without me taking it very seriously. “

  I try to contain myself but can’t. “What kind of name is Shallay?”

  “I think she made it up. I never could get a look at her driver’s license.”

  I’m already imagining James walking past Lillian’s assistant’s desk when the girl in the chair was the wickedly smart and funny Shallay, with the great boobs, and not me. I try to salvage things. “So we have an insider connection to StakeOut. James, can’t you call her and get her to tell you who the fashion murderer is?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me anything big like that. Shallay is all about who is useful to her, and I’m not that useful. That’s what I was telling you. We’ve got to offer her something she wants. And you can’t trust her for a minute.”

  “I can’t believe you dated a girl like that.”

  “It was a mistake,” he says.

  I’m hoping for more detail but he doesn’t offer any.

  “All right,” I say. “I have something she wants.”

  Burning with jealousy, I pick up the phone and dial. Sylvia buries her face in her hands. “I can’t watch,” she says.

  Shallay picks it up on the first ring. Her voice is smoky and inviting. “Kate McGraw,” she says.

  I break out into a full-body sweat, feeling exquisitely awkward. “Shallay. I know who you are now,” I say.

  “Congratulations. But I’m not the only StakeOut writer, you know. We have a vampire-detection network here, in London, in Paris—”

  “What’s the point? You expose them but no one believes you.”

  “You aren’t privy to all of our plans. Or any of our plans, come to think of it.”

  “You have plans? How many people are going to die before you act?” I ask her.

  She continues smoothly, as if I haven’t spoken. “You also ought to be a little more ingratiating if you want something from me.”

  “I don’t want something. I have a deal to offer you. You tell me who the murderer is. I go after her. I have the help of a senior non-vamp member of the staff, and together we’re going to stop this craziness. Afterward, I’ll tell you all about it. We can do an IM interview.”

  There is a pause.

  “How about photographs?” she says. “Do you have anything with better res than a cell phone?”

  “I can’t promise pictures.”

  “Find a way,” she says. “No photos, no deal.”

  “Okay,” I agree, deciding that I’ll sort it out later. Breaking a promise to StakeOut won’t bother me that much. “Who is it?”

  “Let me talk to my people and get back to you,” Shallay purrs. “And by the way, Kate, no matter what he says, I dumped him.”

  When I hang up, Sylvia emerges from behind her hands and asks, “What did she say?”

  “She’s talking to her people.”

  “I don’t like it,” James says. “We can’t trust her.”

  Fifteen minutes later I get a two-word text. I stare at it, sadly.

  Lillian Hall.

  It makes sense.

  20

  At Stake

  JAMES, SYLVIA, EVA, and I are back on the black flagstone plaza in front of Oldham at five A.M. on Monday morning. We spent Sunday night strategizing in Eva’s hotel room. Of course, when I called her, she was happy to help. Each one of us is armed with a twelve-inch-long, one-inch-thick wooden dowel with a razor-sharp pointed end and a red rhinestone-encrusted handle, supplied by Eva. Even a rank amateur should be able to stake a vampire with one of these, she assures us. In my bag, I have one for Lauren, who will be joining us shortly. Though I hope she won’t have to use it.

  The plan is for us to find the blood supply (which, based on my information, is somewhere in Shane Lincoln-Shane’s office) and dose it with ground-up Xanax, courtesy of Sylvia. She got the idea from Interview with the Vampire, in the scene where Claudia poisons Lestat: She offered him two victims who had been heavily dosed with laudanum. We are going to do the same thing, but instead of rendering the editors and assistants unconscious, we want them feeling nice, mellow, and open to suggestion.

  Eva and I will take care of Lillian—easier said than done, I know—and then Lauren is going to call a meeting and spring the regime change upon the staff. If things turn violent—well, the drugs will slow them down and we’ll be forearmed.

  It’s not the greatest idea anyone ever came up with, but it’s the best we can do.

  LAUREN SHOWS up wearing a Jil Sander suit and spike heels. Shane Lincoln-Shane, who looks exquisitely handsome in a bespoke suit, accompanies her. A requisite inch of shirt cuff shows beneath his strictly tailored sleeve. A folded square of silk in the breast pocket probably picks up the color scheme of his shirt and his socks, but it’s too dark out here to tell.

  “What’s he doing here?” Eva asks, tense beside me.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t give you any warning,” Lauren says smoothly. “I knew you wouldn’t want me to risk talking to him. Shane may be a vampire, but he’s on our side.”

  “Hello, Eva,” he says graciously. “It’s been a long time.”

  She inclines her head slightly.

  Shane extends a graceful, chilly hand to me. “You may speak to me tonight, but don’t get used to it,” he says coldly.

  James looks stunned.

  “You said we needed an unusual leader, one who will keep order. That’s Shane,” Lauren explains. “He’s willing to do it in exchange for the title of creative director. And I’m going to help him, in exchange for becomin
g editor-in-chief.”

  “You can’t appoint each other to those positions,” James says, eyeing Shane with a strange expression on his face.

  “But if we’re mutually supportive, we have a good chance of convincing Corporate,” Lauren counters. “We also need Shane to get access to that blood. And he can provide us with a list of known vampires, which will make things easier this morning.”

  This was a weak link. We’d been planning on using Eva to do the spotting—fashionistas know each other when they see each other. Lauren was going to take her around and introduce her as the new Web director so she could get a gander at the staff.

  I can’t think of an immediate protest and apparently no one else can, either, because we meekly follow them into the building.

  LIKE LILLIAN, Shane has a strange-smelling box full of dirt in his office, which, I now imagine, is the vampire equivalent of Frette linens. High-ranking vampires must get a box of dirt in their office the way humans of rank get a sofa or conference-room table. There are all kinds of Red Cross paraphernalia around: pens and Post-it pads and a canvas tote. On his bulletin board, Shane has every violent-themed photo shoot from the past few years, starting with the Steven Meisel shoot for Italian Vogue where the model is manhandled by the police. The bloodier the photos are, the more Shane has marked them up with his trademark mauve pen, writing things like “Love this look!” or “Thanks for the memories!”

  “I haven’t been in here since Lillian took over,” Lauren admits, clearly appalled. “The Shop Girl art director used to keep fresh flowers and listened to Faith Hill.”

  I’ll bet she didn’t have an industrial-size refrigerator behind her desk, either.

  “Who let you expense a refrigerator of this size?” Lauren asks, outraged.

  Shane smiles silkily. “You were on maternity leave,” he tells her.

  He opens the fridge, revealing rack after rack of stiff, translucent bags of fresh blood. They gleam with the jewel-like brilliance of expensive luxury goods. We take out Sylvia’s bottle of Xanax and begin to grind the pills.

  Shane arranges himself at his desk and turns on his monitor.

  “The peaceful solution is never going to work, you know,” he tells us languidly. “Too many of these girls are loyal to Lillian.”

  “You better hope it works,” Lauren tells him. Shane is an ally, but only up to a point. We have a certain sharp-ended stick reserved for anyone who doesn’t go along with us. I really hope it doesn’t come to that.

  At twelve-thirty—half an hour after beverage distribution—it’s time.

  Eva and I walk together down the hall toward Lillian’s enclosure. It’s quiet as a grave. Lauren has gathered the remaining vampire staff in the conference room and sent everyone else to the fifteenth floor for a special lecture on rights and permissions. James, Sylvia, and, most important, Shane have her back.

  Outside Lillian’s door I nod to Eva. She mouths the words “Be careful” and then I knock gently and push the door open.

  Lillian is sitting at her desk, heavy-lidded, an empty cup in front of her. She looks smaller and somehow crumpled. She doesn’t smile and say Entrez! when she sees me. And although of course I’m expecting it—our relationship has changed quite a bit in the past few days—it still hurts.

  “I’m surprised you dare show your face,” she says without energy.

  “After what happened at my apartment this weekend? You thought I’d be afraid?” I’m already spiky with adrenaline, buzzing with the stress of confrontation.

  Her red lips curve upward briefly, as if with a pleasant recollection.

  “I saw what you did to Rachel and Nin.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” she asks, still without heat.

  “I’m not accusing you. I’m telling you that I know what you did. I saw you leaving my building.”

  “You did?” She looks marginally more interested. “Oh, of course. The taxi. I thought someone inside smelled familiar….”

  “So you admit it?” I ask her. “And it wasn’t just Rachel and Nin, either, was it? You’ve been, uh…snacking for ages.”

  “I feel strange this morning,” Lillian says, yawning. “I should rend you limb from limb, but I can’t quite be bothered.”

  “Rending causes wrinkles,” I say. Vampires yawn? “Have you heard that?”

  “Very funny,” she says. “Too bad you won’t be around to be funny much longer.”

  “Lillian,” I say, deviating from the plan. “You don’t really want to hurt me, do you? We were kind of friends, weren’t we? I’ve been thinking about you a lot—the low energy, the lack of enthusiasm, the turning to inappropriate food sources for comfort, and—Depression is an illness. If you’ve been acting out in inappropriate ways—really inappropriate, but still…Maybe we can get you some help. Is there a spa or a retreat you could go on?”

  I’m imagining a brochure with the headline “Eternal Life Got You Down?” And a nice castle with bars on the windows. My mind prompts that bargaining with her is wrong. She’s a killer. Vigilante justice is the only kind called for here. But my heart balks.

  She stares at me without any trace of her former affection.

  “You think we were friends?” she says. “You’re even more naive than I thought. The only reason I took an interest in you was to get back at your mother. I hated Eva. Gene Gantor was my lover for centuries, and suddenly Eva came along and ruined everything.”

  “But she never had anything with him!” I blurt. “She was married. And she loved my dad.” And she told me so, but I can’t let Lillian know I’ve been talking to her.

  “Relationships between creative people are very complicated,” Lillian says. “Eva usurped me as Gene’s inspiration. When I found out she had a daughter, I was thrilled. I was going to make you love me. I was going to be like a mother to you. I wanted to take you away from Eva just like she took Le Gantor from me.”

  I want to say that she didn’t need to bother. I was already well “away” from Eva, but the words stick in my throat.

  “But after you’ve stolen James from me, I don’t want you around for all eternity. Or even for another half hour, come to think of it.” She makes a move as if to get up from her desk but sinks back into her chair.

  Yay, Xanax.

  “What did you come to my house for yesterday?” I ask in a small voice.

  “You thought I’d come to kiss and make up?” Lillian asks.

  No. I didn’t. But I didn’t believe until now that she might have come to kill me.

  “I had—what would you call it? An inappropriate food craving—and thought I’d pay you a little visit,” she says. “And speaking of that, I find I’m still a bit hungry. There was something off about this morning’s drink. Come over here.”

  Unwillingly, I move toward her. This is how I finally convinced Eva that it should be me to confront Lillian, despite my total lack of experience and downright reluctance: Lillian is old and strong, and she’d fight Eva from the second she walked in the door, but I can get close to her.

  Slowly, I eke my way across the Oriental rug toward her desk. I knew that it had to be me to do this, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to. Trembling, I circumnavigate the desk.

  Lillian reaches out and grabs my wrist, still encircled with a velvet ribbon to hide the mark of her teeth.

  “How is this healing?”

  “It’s not,” I reply shortly. “But you know that.”

  “Show me.”

  I think she may be trying to use her mind control, but I’ve been careful to avoid looking into her eyes. Moreover, the Xanax should be diluting her strength. At this point in our previous encounters I’ve been immobilized, but right now I still I have the energy to wrench my wrist away and run.

  I can’t, though. She needs to think that I’m helpless.

  I put my bag down on her desk, just where I’ll be able to reach into it. Then, one-handed, I untie the ribbon and allow it to fall to the floor, exposing the two deep p
uncture wounds on my wrist. They’re black at the center, surrounded by red, puffy-looking skin.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lillian says insincerely. “Does it hurt?”

  “It hurts a lot.”

  I tuck the arm behind my back, slowly, as if it’s taking a great effort to resist her.

  “Will you at least consider getting help?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says, looking a little surprised that I’m still able to talk back to her.

  “Will you stop killing people?”

  “My dear, I haven’t even begun killing people,” she says, smirking. “All those years I was careful, drinking only from donors, never taking too much. I didn’t realize how easy it would be to break the rules. Or how thrilling.”

  She’s already reaching for me. Her arms, bare beneath the cropped sleeves of her white Sisley jacket, are like marble, and the short nails on her blunt, almost masculine white hands are tipped with crimson. I’m squeezed between her and the desk, which is good, because otherwise I would have a very hard time not running away at this moment.

  But I can’t run. Not yet.

  I allow her to draw me down onto her lap, though my flesh crawls with the contact. On a cellular level my body knows that she’s abhorrent, unnatural, wrong.

  The wound on my wrist, however, has its own ideas. It aches for the cleansing pain of her teeth. Ignoring the sudden urge to feed myself to her, I grope behind me for the Swarovski-encrusted handle of the stake.

  “You may have tried to be a mother to me,” I tell her, “but my real mother did everything she could to save me from this.”

  Lillian’s face is ecstatic. She’s clearly not listening to me.

  “There’s no reason to keep the donors hanging around,” she says. “Especially donors I’m very, very disappointed with. Now bring back that little boo-boo.”

  My heart is hammering so loudly she must be able to hear it. It’s probably an incitement to feed. My hand makes contact with the stake. I struggle with my emotions. She’s not my mother, or even a mother figure, I tell myself. She’s the woman who killed my fellow interns and a researcher, and numerous girls about town, and a little dog named Marc Jacobs. And if I don’t stop her, no one will.