Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  “Lillian,” I whisper. “Look at me.”

  She raises her dark head, her face a mask of hunger and desire. My resolve quivers. I think of a scalpel, cutting into flesh to heal it. I can do that. Shaking with horror, I lock my elbow and bring the stake up from below in an upward thrust, at the same time falling forward to bring the full weight of my body behind the blow. Her razor-sharp teeth glance off my shoulder. Pain blooms brightly as her teeth break the skin. And the stake lands home in Lillian’s chest.

  I’m screaming as I do it, calling for Eva.

  That was our prearranged signal. Not subtle, but it works.

  Hissing, Lillian breaks away from me, but her movements are fumbling and slow. She looks down at her ruined jacket and the glittery red hilt protruding from her chest, confused. “What have you done?”

  “I’m sorry.” I want to squeeze my eyes shut but won’t let myself.

  She stumbles backward, away from me. Then she sees Eva.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “Protecting me,” I tell her.

  Lillian’s mouth falls open. Her crystal blue eyes meet mine and there is nothing human in her dimming gaze. She looks slowly at the stake protruding from her chest, then back at me as if she can’t believe it.

  “I think I got her,” I whisper to Eva.

  “You did,” my mother says, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “You didn’t even need my help.”

  Lillian collapses on the floor, beginning to tremble. Black patches appear on her shapely limbs, and then spread as if her flesh were paper held over a candle. Her beautiful snow-white face carbonizes and implodes with a sound like breaking glass. Rings and earrings thunk to the floor. The blackened limbs wither and disappear. The crisp Sisley jacket slowly deflates, white as the day it was made and not showing even a trace of soot. It’s horrible to watch, but I don’t turn my eyes away.

  I’m not sure how long we’ve been standing there—it feels like a lifetime—when Eva tentatively brushes a strand of hair away from my forehead.

  “Let’s go,” she says. “It’s time to negotiate.”

  ONE OF Shane’s minions has ordered flowers. A low, trough-sized arrangement of tree peonies crouches in the center of the table, wide open and already shedding perfumed slivers of soap-white petals. I inhale deeply, the perfume calming my nerves. A man who likes peonies can’t be all evil.

  Shane and three out of four designers are gathered around the table, as well as the photo editor—James’s direct boss—and the two other photo assistants and a photo researcher. They were all vampires and he never got suspicious? Naturally, the fashion department is well represented. I see Kristen, the twins, several assistants. Noë from Beauty. The gorgeous model booker is a vampire, along with a svelte Italian woman from Features. Annabel sits with her arms folded across her chest, looking defensive. The chairs on either side of her are empty. Everyone but me—in my blue silk Vintage Vogue top—is wearing black.

  I give Lauren the nod that our work with Lillian is done and she smiles supportively. Eva and I move to flank her, Sylvia, and James, until we’re forming an impromptu phalanx blocking the door. James says “Congratulations” but his face is grim.

  “Where’s Felix?” I whisper. “He’s not a vampire?”

  “I guess not.” He shrugs. The receptionist is merely annoying, not undead.

  The mood in the room is expectant, but not too tense, thanks to the pharmaceutical industry.

  Shane Lincoln-Shane clears his throat. “I have sad news. Lillian Hall has left the magazine to pursue other projects.”

  Even sedated, the girls can’t help but rustle in surprise.

  “Lexa Larkin has also been terminated,” Shane says. He’s seated casually sideways at the table—as suspected, his lavender socks pick up the speck of lavender in his tie—and he doodles while he talks. Nonetheless, he has the room’s complete attention. “I’m making the announcement here rather than in the regular staff meeting because we have some…human resources issues to discuss. You all know what I’m talking about.

  “Lillian believed what her staff consumed during off hours wasn’t her business,” he continues. “She was more interested in page count than body count. And that has had certain repercussions. Headlines in the newspapers have been stirring up the civilian population. That kind of thing.” His voice is soft, with just a tiny tinge of a foreign accent.

  “Lillian’s carelessness, and the carelessness of her deputies”—his eyes rake Kristen, Noë, and the twins—“has led to a very perilous situation for all of us.”

  He pauses and looks around the room before continuing. “As a cautionary tale, I’d like to talk about the contest that Lexa Larkin conceived of. Against my better judgment, Lexa was allowed to hire her own photographer and stylist, and pick her own location.” He turns to Annabel. “Why don’t you share with us all what she planned to do?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

  Her eyes dart to me for help. I had no idea Shane was going to put her on the spot like this. I want to rescue her, but I also want to know why she told Lexa I was on to her. In all the craziness, I’d forgotten that particular betrayal.

  Shane’s frightening, cold stare bores into Annabel.

  “It was a simple shoot with an ultraviolent theme,” she says. “I scouted the upstate location for her. You saw the pictures.”

  “And didn’t a certain junior staff member come to you with her concern that the models for the photo shoot were going to be mistreated?”

  Hey. He means me.

  “And instead of bringing the matter to the attention of your superiors, you informed Lexa of the junior staffer’s suspicions?”

  “Mistreated how?” Kristen asks. “What was that British hag planning?”

  How quickly the stilettos are out in the open.

  “Ten models. Mistreated the ultimate amount,” Shane replies.

  “Impossible!” Noë says. “A disaster like that would change everything for us.”

  “That’s some serious overeating if you ask me,” the model booker spits.

  “They say that in Europe we have different standards, but we would never!” one of the twins protests.

  “Ahem.” The slightest sound from Shane cuts the babble like a razor blade through a line of facial powder.

  “If I’d told Lillian, she would have done nothing!” Annabel says. Her face darkens. “You all needed to see what Lexa was really like.”

  “So, to experience the satisfaction of seeing your boss deposed, you put us all at risk?” Kristen asks, glancing at Shane. “That’s outrageous.”

  “It is,” Shane agrees. He gives them all the thousand-year cold stare. “We won’t be having any more of that behavior.”

  There is a chorus of agreement. I catch Lauren’s eye with relief: Our plan seems to be working.

  “Annabel wasn’t the only one who was asleep at the switch here,” Shane continues. “You were my liaison to Editorial on this project. Why didn’t you tell me all was not well?”

  He’s talking to James. My James. Sometime during this conversation James has eased away from my side and is now standing closer to the door.

  “I’m not a mind reader,” James says mildly. “Lexa didn’t tell me what she was up to. And when I found out, I took care of the problem.”

  “Did you? I thought my old friend Eva McGraw took care of it while you lay on the floor and played possum.”

  So it’s all going to come out finally. I turn my head to catch James’s eye. I’m not surprised—I beam the thoughts at him—and I know what you are. I’ve known ever since your wounds healed so fast. Maybe even before that.

  “I’m sorry,” he mouths.

  I have so many questions but, obviously, they’ll have to wait until later.

  Shane pulls out a crystal-encrusted wooden stake. “Regular staff purges make a magazine stronger. It’s an Oldham tradition.” Suddenly the room is bristling with stakes. Every
one from Art and Photo seems to have come to this meeting with a sharpened, jewel-handled bar of wood. The stakes, carried by gorgeous black-clad people against an all-white background, are wonderful accessories. The camera would love this. I glance at James, wondering if he’s seeing the same thing I am. But James has disappeared.

  “We didn’t agree to this!” Lauren cries.

  “Trust me, it needs to happen,” Shane says over his shoulder as he savagely impales Kristen Drane, the single vent of his jacket flaring. “Everyone close to Lillian has to go—for everybody’s safety.”

  He pulls the stake out—foamy with fresh blood—licks it, then goes after Noë.

  “I wasn’t close to Lillian!” Annabel yells. She’s holding a chair up, trying to ward off two designers, but she’s obviously overmatched.

  “But you’re not a team player!” Shane replies, dropping Noë like a couture rag.

  I’m ambivalent. Annabel was my friend, but she was also willing to let the Tasty Girls die. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Annabel—supportive, ass-kissing Annabel—hadn’t encouraged Lexa in the idea to begin with. I remember how she brightened up at my dad’s suggestion that she get her fired. Am I really willing to fight to defend her?

  It seems that I am, because my feet have already carried me halfway around the conference table when Annabel suddenly throws the chair, lunges for the cord to the blackout blind, and yanks it open. The shade snaps up with a sound like the crack of doom. Sunlight floods the conference room. While everyone is blinking and hissing and trying to cover their exposed skin, Annabel picks up another chair and heaves it through the plate-glass window. Her movements are slower than usual, but she’s got the element of surprise on her side. There’s an explosion of noise, the crackle of falling glass, and then a tendril of fresh air wends its way onto the thirty-seventh floor. Annabel has disappeared. The room is suddenly silent, littered with shards of glass and a whole lot of empty designer clothes.

  “Can she do that?” Sylvia asks.

  Eva walks over to the gaping hole into the sky and pulls the blind back down over it. The vampires breathe sighs of relief. “She’ll have quite the sunburn when she’s done, but the answer is yes, we can survive in even the brightest sun for a brief period of time.”

  “Boss, do you want us to go after her?” Matilda asks. It’s brave of her since everyone is still shaken and wincing from his or her brief contact with the light of day.

  “She can run but she can’t hide,” Shane says. “And that goes for him, too.”

  “James didn’t do anything wrong!” I say. My voice sounds shrill. “You shouldn’t blame him.”

  Shane trains his cold stare on me. “I realize we’ve had an unusual day,” he says, “but let’s not forget the chain of command. Mr. Truax is fired—at the very least—for his part in this debacle.”

  “All right, people,” Lauren says, clapping her hands. “Kate, let’s deal with your personal matters on personal time. And everyone, let’s get this conference room cleaned up before that rights and permissions lecture is over.”

  “Don’t worry,” Matilda jokes, “those things last an eternity.”

  Lauren eyes the little piles of deflated clothing. “Unfortunately, it looks like our fashion staff has been decimated. Who can help me return these clothes to the closet?” Her eye falls on Sylvia, who is obviously bursting with the desire to be of service, despite the fact that her skin is flecked with stray blood. “There might be a job in it for you.”

  Sylvia’s radiant smile almost makes the whole thing worth it.

  Epilogue

  I WALK OUT onto Victoria’s terrace carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and two glasses—though there will be three of us present this evening. My aunt, wearing a Gucci gardening hat, is busy cutting white angel’s trumpet—a perfumey night bloomer—for a bouquet. Eva sits at the little iron table, looking out over the twinkling lights of Manhattan.

  “Well?” she asks me.

  “Shane made creative director. Lauren didn’t get the EIC spot. I think she’ll quit. And HR offered both Sylvia and me full-time positions as fashion assistants.” I can’t help but grin.

  Her smile is tinged with concern. “Are you going to take it?” she asks.

  Eva still thinks it’s dangerous for me to be in the business. I’m safe from Shane Lincoln-Shane and my immediate coworkers, but the entire industry is lousy with vampires.

  “If I do take it, you don’t have to move here to protect me.”

  We’ve discussed this as well. Eva has a custom-sewing shop in Milan, and she has started making just enough to keep her head above water. But if I’m going to hang out with known vampires, she wants to be close. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Eva 4 Eva was planning a comeback. She’s also making noises about contacting my father.

  “Pour us some wine, dear.” Victoria glides up and air-kisses me, with a disapproving glance toward Eva. “You really ought to have some,” she tells her sister.

  “Oh, later,” Eva says vaguely.

  Vic has chosen to deal with the presence of the supernatural by steadfastly denying its existence. My aunt needs to bury her head in the sand like this because Sterling, Eva tells me, is one of the tribe.

  “Ching-ching!” Victoria holds up her glass. “You’d be crazy not to take the position.”

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking,” I answer her, adding quickly, “I’m still going to med school but I might defer a year.”

  “Defer as long as you like. Let me just get a vase for these and we’ll toast again to all the wonderful free clothes you’ll be getting.”

  When she leaves the terrace, I pull a folded-up magazine page out of my bag and flatten it out for Eva. “I found this today,” I tell her. “Look here.” I point to an item on a new Louis Vuitton boutique opening in Paris. In the crowd outside there’s a blonde carrying a parasol, and next to her stands someone holding a camera. The picture is way too small for them to be recognizable, but I know in my gut it is James and Annabel. “If I take the job, I’ll get to go to Paris Fashion Week in October.”

  Eva frowns at me unhappily. Naturally, she doesn’t want me to date a vampire.

  “I know he’s all wrong for me,” I tell her, “but if I’m going to be in Paris anyway…I just want to talk to him.”

  “No good ever came of chasing a man across two continents,” Victoria says, returning with the flowers arranged in a Japanese coralene vase.

  “I wouldn’t be,” I say sulkily. “I’d be working.”

  Inside my bag my phone beeps, but I don’t bother to check it. The messages from Shallay have been coming all day, ever since she steered me toward this item. And they say:

  let’s play a game called Where’s Boytoy? can you figure it out before I do?

  I just might do that.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Open String Productions

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  THREE RIVERS PRESS and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stivers, Valerie

  Blood is the new black: a novel / Valerie Stivers.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Periodicals—Publishing—Fiction.

  3. Vampires—Fiction. 4. Chick lit.

  I. Title.

  PS3619.T58B58 2007

  813'.6—dc22

  2007006693

  eISBN: 978-0-307-40558-6

  v3.0

  k