by Tara Moss
‘Is that . . . a ruby?’ The stone was square cut, with a little diamond set on the edge of each corner, surrounded by a thin and delicate swirling motif.
My great-aunt nodded. ‘I bought this for myself after winning my first big contract to design the costumes for a Rita Hayworth movie.’
‘Rita Hayworth? Wow. Oh, Celia, it is so special. You can’t let me borrow this.’
‘But I must. It will look wonderful on you. And there’s no use letting it sit in a drawer.’ She pushed it towards me. ‘Go on.’
I reached into the box and picked up the necklace by the chain, admiring the way the ruby shone as the light hit it.
‘I’ll help you,’ my great-aunt said. She took it from me and did up the clasp behind my neck while I held my hair up. When I let my hair down, the pendant fell into position just above the decolletage.
‘Perfect.’
‘Are you sure? This must be very valuable.’
‘I’m sure,’ she said, and put a cool, reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘It suits you.’
I nodded and held the stone against my chest. ‘Thank you. I promise I will take good care of it.’
‘I hope that you have a wonderful time,’ she said. ‘Vlad is waiting, when you are ready.’
Naturally, she had insisted that I use her chauffeur and, as it was pretty impossible to get taxis in Spektor because the place simply didn’t exist on maps, it didn’t seem the time to refuse her offer. I certainly had no intention of walking to Park Avenue in these shoes.
‘Thanks, Great-Aunt Celia,’ I said, and waved goodbye with a lump in my throat.
It didn’t take too long to get to Park Avenue, with Vlad at the wheel. As we neared the address Pepper had given me, I spotted a red carpet ahead and the strobes of camera flashes lighting up the night. So the event was already in full swing. Good thing I’d arrived when I did. If I’d missed any of the important guests I’d be in trouble. Pepper had given me the names of guests she wanted photographed but very few other details. Interestingly it appeared to be a house party. For some reason that surprised me.
The car stopped at the kerb just beyond the red carpet and Vlad opened his door.
‘No! Please don’t,’ I protested, but he was already out and coming around to my side to open the back door. As soon as it opened the sounds of the party spilled into the car – live music and the din of chatter and clinking glasses. I readied myself and stepped out onto the footpath to see a uniformed valet. Perhaps he’d intended to open the door for me, but instead he stood rigidly regarding Vlad with what looked like thinly veiled fear. He said nothing. Vlad closed the door and stood stoically next to Celia’s car, expressionless in his dark sunglasses, while I made my way to the steps leading up into the house.
Oops.
I had wanted to make a subtle entrance without anyone noticing the strangeness of my driver, but never mind. At least no one had taken any photos. Vlad would be waiting for me when I needed to leave. I didn’t have a number to call him but somehow I gathered that wouldn’t matter. He seemed to spend his time waiting. He was nothing if not dedicated to Celia’s commands.
The mansion was four storeys tall and took up one corner on Park Avenue. It was quite unlike any home I had been invited to. Surely it had to be the biggest freestanding house in Manhattan, not counting Celia’s mansion in Spektor? Celia’s place was strangely beautiful in its way, of course, but though this early 1900s home had been built in a similar era it was something else entirely. Far from being cobwebbed and aged, with boarded-up windows and a sense of strange magick, every bit of stonework here was bright and smooth, and the interior was lit up, the windows glowing, each room filled with stylish somebodies. A great deal of money and restoration had been put into it over the years.
The front door was held open to the night, manned by a guy with a clipboard and an older gentleman in full suit tails.
‘Name?’ the man with the clipboard said, looking me up and down.
‘Um, I’m Pandora English of Pandora magazine,’ I explained.
‘May I take your coat?’ the grey-haired man in tails asked as my name was checked off the list. He looked every bit the central-casting version of a butler. I half expected him to be called Jeeves.
Pepper’s camera was slung around my neck and I took it off awkwardly, nearly dropping it as I struggled to get my coat off. ‘I, um, have a pass,’ I said, remembering to produce my media credentials. I fished it out of the coat pocket and slipped the red lanyard around my neck. The plastic tag hung down around my navel, declaring Pandora Magazine – Media. I put the camera strap around my neck and adjusted Celia’s lovely black and white dress. The butler took my coat without a word. When I turned the man with the guest list was already talking to a glamorous older couple who had just arrived. I could barely see them beyond the white fluff of the woman’s enormous floor-length fur coat.
I found myself alone on the threshold of the mansion with my media pass and Pepper’s camera, looking anxiously to where Vlad had dropped me off. He was already gone. The uniformed valet I’d seen earlier was talking to a limousine driver at the kerb.
Well, here we go then. I turned on my ruby heels and walked into the mansion with an anxious smile plastered on my face.
Oh.
Wow.
The entrance led to a main room as grand as anything the Great Gatsby might have held parties in. It was cleared like a ballroom with only minimal furniture set up in the corners as sitting areas, where some of the guests reclined or leaned on couches and high-backed chairs, sipping champagne or brightly coloured cocktails. There was nothing as gauche as the thick rubber dance floor they’d laid down in the auditorium of my old high school in Gretchenville when the school dance was on. Here, guests danced to a six-piece band of tuxedo-clad jazz players on parquet flooring beneath four extraordinary chandeliers that hung in a line down the centre of the room. The exquisite space boasted a staircase at one end, shaped like an hourglass, the stairs seeming to spill down from the level above. An oval-shaped mezzanine circled the room, and guests sipping cocktails leaned on the railings to watch the crowd below. All around me people danced or stood around in groups, making small talk and looking elegant in their finery. The men were dressed in tuxedos or modern interpretations of black tie. The women were swathed in glittering jewellery and floor-length gowns in silk or sequin, velvet or tulle, some off the shoulder, others strapless to show off toned arms and fat diamond necklaces.
The dress code was not ‘cocktail’ at all, I realised.
I looked down at my pretty vintage dress and felt terribly underdressed, especially with the pass around my neck and Pepper’s camera. Perhaps I should have asked about the dress code and come in something more formal? But just as I was lamenting my choice, a male photographer brushed past me in a black T-shirt and dress pants, a big camera slung around his neck. I relaxed a touch. That’s right. We aren’t guests. I was just here to document the guests. I didn’t have to try to keep up with the Joneses, or whoever these people were. As if I could anyway.
Head down, I slipped into the crowd, sticking to the side of the room so I wouldn’t get caught up with the dancing. I found a quiet spot near a staff door where people in uniform filed out intermittently with trays of champagne or hors d’oeuvres. I pulled Pepper’s note out of my dress pocket and unfolded it. Names were scrawled across it. I read each one carefully. Thankfully, over the previous three months, I’d come to know a little about the fashion world in New York. I was no expert, but the famous names were at least vaguely familiar. If I didn’t recognise someone, perhaps I could ask one of the staff?
‘Oh, Mr Smith!’ I said, spotting the famous knitwear designer Laurie Smith of Smith & Co. He was walking towards one of the groups of guests, but stopped when I stepped forward and touched his elbow. Laurie was a fashionable gentleman in his mid-fifties and tonight he had his long hair slicked back, and he wore jet-black jeans with a bow tie and smart velvet jacket. Luckily, he recognised m
e immediately. ‘Ah, Pandora. How are you?’ he asked warmly and shook my hand. A couple of guests observed our interaction.
Is that Marc Jacobs? Diane von Fürstenberg?
‘Thanks again for the flower,’ I said. He’d sent me a beautiful white orchid to thank me for helping with his supernatural spider problem. I wonder how much he remembers?
‘Are you covering the party?’ he asked politely, though it was obvious.
‘May I?’ I lifted the camera and he nodded.
Pepper’s camera had auto-focus and was easy to use, and I snapped a couple of photos while Laurie Smith patiently stood still. Then he wished me a good evening, thanked me and disappeared into the crowd.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all?
I seized the opportunity to snap a couple of the other famous designers, who acquiesced after having seen me shake hands with Laurie Smith. Or perhaps all the famous people here expected to be photographed? Either way, it was a relief to mark off a few of the names on Pepper’s list. I moved through the crowded room, searching faces, but when I looked up towards the staircase I stopped.
Skye DeVille.
It was my boss, looking edgy and dark-eyed as she descended the hourglass staircase alone. She was even paler than I remembered, and tonight she wore blood-red lipstick and head-to-toe black – a long, slinky number with gauzy trailing sleeves and a plunging neckline. Something about her choice of wardrobe set off alarm bells. I hadn’t seen her much since I’d caught her counting rice grains.
Oh, hell.
I instinctively ducked sideways through the crowd to avoid being seen by her and slammed straight into the back of a tall man in a tux. I gripped his strong bicep to avoid toppling over and the man it belonged to turned and smiled at me.
It was Jay Rockwell.
I took a sharp breath and it stuck in my throat for a moment. What was Jay doing here? Of course, he was in the magazine world. Why wouldn’t he be invited? Perhaps I should have prepared myself for the possibility, but I hadn’t, and now that I was inches away from him and unexpectedly hanging off his arm, I had to admit that he looked particularly handsome tonight. Jay was fresh-shaven and he smelled of a lovely, musky cologne. His tuxedo was perfectly tailored to his tall, athletic physique. Although technically, according to Celia, it wasn’t a tux. My great-aunt had taught me that a tuxedo was usually something with a cummerbund or vest, whereas Jay was wearing a formal black dinner jacket and pants with a white shirt and bow tie. Whatever it was, he looked very good in it.
I let go of his arm and tried to think of what to say. Would he even recognise me?
‘Hey there,’ he said, getting the first words in.
I nodded, my heart racing. ‘Sorry about that.’ I laughed nervously. ‘Do you come here often?’ I said, and then cringed.
Really, Pandora! Do you come here often?
‘Well, yes, I do,’ he replied, and laughed as if I’d made a good joke. ‘Hey, wasn’t that you at the Empire State?’
I nodded.
‘Pandora, right? You were with that fellow in the Civil War uniform. Very clever costume.’
I smiled a little too broadly. Oh goodness. Luke. My heart did a little flip. ‘I’m here to cover the event for Pandora,’ I said, gesturing to the camera hanging around my neck, as if it weren’t already obvious enough that I didn’t fit in with the crowd of celebrities and wealthy New Yorkers. ‘I guess you get invited to these parties all the time,’ I said.
‘Well, I should hope so,’ Jay said, and smiled again, as if I’d been quite witty, though I had no idea why. ‘What did you think of the view from the Empire State Building? Had you seen it before?’
I nodded. ‘Yes. I love it up there. It’s like you can see the world. Did your girlfriend like it?’
‘She’s just a friend,’ he said.
Sure.
‘Is that an accent I detect? Where are you from?’ he asked.
Of course I’d told him all about Gretchenville before, not that he remembered. But in this crowd it seemed a particularly embarrassing admission. I hesitated and a whirl of black caught my eye as I realised that Skye was only a few feet away.
Jay noticed the look on my face and followed my eye line. ‘What is it? Someone you’re hoping to avoid?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s just my boss,’ I said and tried to hide behind his broad chest, which was surprisingly easy to do.
He bent his head forward towards my face. ‘Shall I whisk you away somewhere? Get you a drink?’
Oh boy. My heart did another little leap.
I poked my head around his shoulder. ‘Oh no,’ I whispered. ‘Too late. Here she comes.’
Skye sidled right up to us and looked from my face up to Jay’s and then settled back on me, somewhere just below my chin. ‘Nice party,’ she said, her gaze fixed on my neck.
The blood drained from my face.
‘Nice necklace,’ Skye said, and grinned in a way that gave me a shiver. One pale hand reached up for my throat and I jerked away from her.
‘Is that vintage?’ she asked.
I nodded mutely and held my hand protectively to my neck. I could swear she was eyeing off my jugular.
A dark look came over her. ‘Shouldn’t you be working?’ she said.
‘Pandora was going to get my photograph,’ Jay said smoothly, covering for me. ‘Or rather, I was hoping she would do me the honour. She’s been doing a great job tonight.’
I raised the camera and took a shot while my boss sneered in the background, looking sullen. I never found her to be particularly nice, but she was far worse than I remembered.
‘Well, I should keep circulating,’ I said. ‘I have a few more people to photograph.’
Within seconds a slim woman in head-to-toe red sequins appeared at my side. On some people it could look overdone. But on her, it was perfect. Her hair was slicked back to show off large drop earrings and to accentuate the plunging back on the dress. My jaw dropped a little. It was Pepper.
She certainly knew the dress code. I’d never felt so plain next to her.
‘Hi, Jay,’ she said, and those two words seemed a bit loaded.
‘Hi, Pepper.’
I crossed my arms.
‘A photo of the three of us?’ Skye said, interrupting the surprisingly awkward moment. For one silly second I wondered if my boss would even show up on film, because by now I was sure she’d turned Sanguine. She had all the signs, I thought. But of course the photograph thing was just a silly legend. The undead did show up in cameras and mirrors, they just didn’t normally like being documented on film. Perhaps Skye hadn’t learned to dislike cameras yet.
I centred the three of them in the camera frame. I didn’t much like seeing Skye and Pepper flanking Jay, with Pepper’s arm slung right around his shoulders, though part of me was pleased Pepper was there to look out for him and keep an eye on Skye, who seemed a little dangerous. Skye leaned into Jay, pouting a little. It might have been that she was upset, or just that it was fashionable to pout. I couldn’t tell. The flashbulb went off a few times and then I was off the hook. Job done.
‘Well, I should get back to work. Bye then,’ I said, nodding to each of them. With some reluctance, I left Jay with Pandora’s editor and deputy editor.
He sure was popular.
I walked through the crowded room, taking in the guests. When I reached the staircase I took a couple of steps up and turned my head and scanned the room, holding the polished wooden rail. At six foot six, Jay Rockwell was taller than most. I spotted him immediately. He was watching me go. We locked eyes and smiled at each other across the sea of people. I noticed that Skye had moved on, but Pepper was at his elbow. Jay had something of an amused look on his face, I thought. I offered a subtle wave and a closed smile, and forced myself to ascend the steps to search out the other famous guests I needed to photograph.
For the next hour I photographed fashion designers and their models and muses, a few actors and even a couple of rock stars I recog
nised but weren’t on Pepper’s list. It was an impressive assortment of guests, to be sure, and by ten-thirty I was exhausted and I’d crossed off all the names on the list. I finished up in a plush room overlooking Park Avenue. The light was low and the room smelled pleasantly of fresh flowers, a large bouquet of white roses set in the centre of a glass table. A couple in one corner appeared to be kissing on the couch – though I didn’t want to look too closely – and a trio of guests I’d already photographed were chatting near the doorway. I took a moment to lean in the bay window and stare out into the dark night, my fingers pressed to the cool glass. Vlad would be out there somewhere, waiting to take me back to Spektor. And Luke? Was Luke out there somewhere? Was he really possessed?
I took a deep breath. The party would probably continue for many more hours, but it was time for me to go. I didn’t belong here in this beautiful house. I had to get back.
I turned from the window and started towards the now empty doorway, glancing at the couch as I went.
Was that . . .?
I stopped in my tracks. Yes, it was my boss. Had I looked more carefully I’d have recognised her trailing black gown before. I’d thought the couple were kissing, but . . .
Skye DeVille is sucking on some young man’s neck!
I lunged forward and pulled my boss off the man. She was so shocked that she just threw her arms in the air and exhaled loudly.
‘What are you doing?’ the young man cried. He sat up and stared at me like I was a crazy person. For one terrible moment I’d wondered if it was Jay, but this man was younger than twenty-five – probably my own age – and he was shorter, too.
Skye straightened up and covered her mouth. I was sure I knew why.
I leaned in and squinted. Thankfully the young man’s throat appeared to be intact. Wait. Was that a smudge of blood?
‘What is your problem?’ Skye spat, and pushed my shoulder.
It was not blood, I now realised. It was lipstick. Her red lipstick.
Oh boy. I am really going to lose my job now.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, backing up towards the door. ‘I thought I saw . . . a spider. It was my imagination. Sorry. Bye.’
