by Sloan Archer
And then came the screaming.
Sickened, I willed my head to turn away.
I was frozen.
“You’re shaking, Mercy.” Robert curled his arm around my waist. “This is what they wanted. They volunteered for this, so don’t feel afraid for them. Even human babies scream during birth. It’s okay.”
“It really isn’t,” I whispered. “Take a look at what’s happening. Look hard. Seem familiar?”
Robert peered down at the born-again humans, his forehead a map of confused creases. “I’m sorry, but I’m not getting the picture.”
“The graves.” I thrust my chin out towards the lawn. “The drawings from Michael’s journals—they’re coming true. I wasn’t sure before, but I am now: Michael was right. I am the one. I’m the true cataclysmic.”
11
If the phrase sexpot came to life and sprouted arms, legs, and a glorious head of hair, it would look a lot like Seraphim Blythe.
I’d seen Seraphim in photos before: smiling knowingly, posed by the sportswear, couture, and accessories she created for the elite. She’d been featured in countless news and magazine articles, donning that same puckish look in each one, like she’d heard a raunchy joke and was musing over the punch line. She was pretty, sure. Beautiful. Anyone with a working set of eyes would be able to make that distinction without much dispute from others. But Seraphim had that special something else that couldn’t be purchased or faked or achieved through practice.
Seraphim Blythe had mojo.
Her movements were supernatural, though I doubted it was because she was supernatural. I’d never seen another vampire move the way she did, not even Marlena, who was easily one of the most striking women on the planet (even Robert couldn’t argue with me on that one). I imagined Seraphim had moved like that even when she was human. The level of sexiness she possessed was something women were either engrained with or they weren’t, like the ability to walk in high heels without tripping.
Seraphim’s walk across her West London design studio was like a pistol firing: left hip swaying, shoulder cocked out to the right—boom—right hip swaying, shoulder cocked out to the left—bang. Rapid gunfire.
She lifted an arm and extended a hand to me. Her gestures were fluid, a ballerina with a hint of exotic dancer.
Seraphim pulled me in close as I took her hand, planting her cool lips on both my cheeks. The action stunned me. Three seconds prior, she had been on the other side of the room, bent over a dress form, mouth pinched into a straight line, pearl-tipped dress pins held in place by her lips, her white throat humming a harmony that sounded dangerous and melancholy at the same time—a harmony constructed for a violin. Then she was right there, touching me. Most vampires made hummingbirds look like slugs, but this was ridiculous.
“Mercy, thank you so much for coming! Please pardon the mess. The studio tends to get shambolic when I’m laboring away on a new collection.”
I fought the urge to pinch myself. For starters, I couldn’t believe that I was in the presence of Seraphim Blythe. And now here she was, thanking little ole me for visiting her! And I was getting to sneak a peak at her new collection. It was a refreshing change from the mannish company of Robert and Leopold, to have girly time there amongst all that delectable high fashion.
The environment at Leopold’s had been uncomfortable since our laboratory tour, with Robert feeling betrayed and resentful and Leopold acting smug and defensive. But things were looking up: tonight a fitting at Seraphim’s studio, and then a tour of London with Robert tomorrow.
Robert was excited to show me around town, though I think he was also looking forward to being away from Leopold for a few hours. Thank you every much, sunlight. Robert and I agreed that we’d leave our cellphones behind during our tour. The day was going to be about us, with zero outside distractions. I could hardly wait . . . But I would for free designer apparel.
One eyebrow raised, Seraphim inclined her head toward the form she’d been fussing over. Sheer grey fabric was draped around it, pinned down here and there to produce a dress best described as Grecian goddess. Its only shoulder strap was woven into an intricate braid so beautiful that it made my heart flutter.
“What do you think?” Seraphim purred, her speech that of a woman offering up sex. What do you think, honey—would you like to go to bed with me?
“It’s gorgeous!” I beamed.
Seraphim sprint-floated back across the room. Sighing, she pulled the fabric off the form. Pins went flying as the detailing at the shoulder flattened. I wanted to cry.
“Yes,” she scowled. “I hate it, too.”
“But—”
“Darling Mercy, there is no need for such politeness. I try to approach each collection like it is my last. The women in my family have had terrible luck living past middle age, so you never know.” She winked at me shrewdly. “If this collection is to be my legacy, I want it to be magical.”
“But I thought that dress was pretty darn magical,” I commented weakly. Leopold had warned me of Seraphim’s kookiness.
“Of course you aren’t here to listen to me blather on about my work,” Seraphim said, as if she’d been subjecting me to a longwinded diatribe on the advantage of choosing a thirty-year fixed mortgage over a five-year ARM.
“No! I like it! Blather away!”
Seraphim laughed. “Leopold told me you were sweet. And funny. I love funny women! You’ll have to be sure to leave your information with me before you go. Let’s keep in touch. Now, come,” she ordered, taking my hand and directing me toward a long rack of apparel.
Every piece on the rack was dazzling. Seraphim crossed one leg over the other and leaned back on the clothes, giving them a backwards hug. It was a vaguely childlike gesture for a woman so sensual.
“They’re gorgeous!” I gushed. “All of them!”
“I’m glad you think so,” she smiled. “Go ahead. It’s all ready-to-wear, even the dresses. Take your pick.”
I felt the back of my neck grow hot. Her phrasing—take your pick—confused me. Leopold had made it sound like Seraphim was going to give me a couple of ensembles to wear in London. Guess her generosity had whittled down to just one outfit. I still considered it an extraordinary gift and appreciated the generosity, as the simplest Seraphim Blythe dress would put a serious dent in a shopper’s bank account.
I ran a hand over the clothes, not stroking anything but sort of hovering above. I was afraid of hurting the delicate fabrics—giving them a rip or a stain. I wasn’t worthy. “It’s so . . . Golly!”
Seraphim smirked. “From what I’ve been told, you have some sightseeing to do tomorrow. So you’d better get to work, girl!”
I gulped. “Okay.”
Before the trip, I’d Googled “What to wear in London.” The answer was always the same: black, black, black. Grey if you’re feeling daring. Dark jewel and nude shades if you’re a risk-taker. Bright yellow, baby blue, and pastel pink if you’re out of your mind and/or trying to look like a tourist—might as well put a map under your arm and a gigantic camera around your neck to complete the look. Seraphim’s collection seemed to reflect this; all of the pieces were dark, even the stuff with patterns.
I picked a knit dress, navy with delicate red, white, and black polka dots. Upon closer inspection I saw that the dots were tiny Egyptian evil eyes, which adhered to the edgy-chic aesthetic Seraphim was famous for. I hugged the dress against my body and stood in front of the mirror, smoothing it out. I really hoped it fit. It was so unique.
“I designed that pattern myself,” Seraphim commented. “It’ll look lovely on you.”
I beamed at my hostess. “Okay, I’m convinced! If you think it will look flattering, then this is the one I want. I’ve made my choice.”
Seraphim’s eyebrows bunched together. Her lips pooched out far from underneath her nose. Even in a state of confusion the woman was sexy. “I’m not following. You choose what?”
I wanted to die. I knew it was too good to be true. Why
would a famous designer be giving away her clothes? For free. To me, of all people.
I hated relying on Robert for money. Though he’d offered persistently, I never, ever allowed him to take me shopping. I expected some women would like that—a man hounding them to take a trip to Bergdorf’s—but I didn’t. It made me feel . . . I don’t know, like a kept woman or trophy wife. On this occasion, however, I would sacrifice my pride and use Robert’s credit card if it meant sparing Leopold and Seraphim (and myself) an embarrassing situation.
“Err, I want to buy this one,” I backpedaled.
“Buy . . . this . . . one?” Seraphim cocked her head and twittered. “No! I think you and I are having two different conversations right now! Sorry, Mercy, I was confused. There is no choice for you to make. If they fit, all of these clothes are yours. To keep. Now put your wallet down! It’s a gift from me to you.”
I scanned the rack. I was too stunned to add up the retail value of it all. I was also too anxious. A pair of Seraphim Blythe heels cost about eight hundred dollars. Belts started around three hundred. And handbags? A simple black lambskin number would set a girl back a few grand. On the shelf at the bottom of the rack sat seven pairs of heels, eight belts, and five handbags. And those were just the accessories. The rack was so jammed with clothes that I couldn’t differentiate the individual garments, but I counted twenty-eight hangers. And these weren’t odds and ends: irregular castoffs sanctioned for the sort of designer outlets located in glaring strip malls on the outskirts of major cities. (I knew these types of outlet malls well; those places I couldn’t afford, not even the stuff marked “as is.”) Everything here was pristine.
But it wasn’t the monetary value of the gift that struck me, though that alone was shocking enough. Sometimes it felt almost obscene, being around people with so much money and witnessing the frivolous things they hurled cash at.
Like most people, I enjoyed having nice things. Still, my thoughts sometimes drifted back to my penniless childhood, times when the electricity was shut off when we couldn’t come up with the measly twenty-five bucks to pay the bill; hiding in the girl’s bathroom at school and stuffing rolls of toilet paper into my backpack because we were out at home; concocting “casseroles” at the end of each month by using odds and ends of whatever food we had left—a hardened wedge of cheese, a stale piece of bread, a can of generic soup, noodles.
It was surreal, my favorite designer giving me a new wardrobe. You know, just because. And there I was, in London, standing in her design studio. Some part of me kept waiting for the universe to step in and shout, “Ha! Fooled you! You didn’t actually believe that this perfect, gorgeous life you’ve been living lately was going to last, did you? Crazy you!” I felt guilty—undeserving somehow—since I hadn’t earned any of it through hard work.
Seraphim laughed at the way I was gaping at her like a cavewoman seeing fire for the first time. “Let’s not waste time going back and forth,” she said. “You’ll say ‘it’s too much,’ and then I’ll say ‘don’t be silly, any friend of Leopold’s is a friend of mine.’ And then you’ll struggle between your duty to be polite and your desire to acquire new clothes, and so you’ll hold back and pick out only a few things. But the instant you leave, darling, I’m going to have a courier send it all over to Leopold’s, anyway. So, let’s save ourselves a lot of hot air and get to trying some clothes on, shall we?”
“If you insist . . .”
From the rack she pulled nude patent leather heels, a sleek pair of black skinny jeans, and a billowy silk blouse—patterned with silkscreened sugar skulls so subtle that they were almost imperceptible—and thrust it all into my arms.
“Here’s the first outfit I want you to try.” She grabbed a grey clutch bag with a tiny gold wasp closure. “Take this, too.”
When I came out, Seraphim commanded, “Spin for me.”
I did as I was told.
Seraphim clapped. “Looks like Leopold was right about your size. Fits you like a glove! How do you feel?”
Did she even have to ask? “I feel beyond amazing! Thank you so much for this. You have made my day—year. No, you have made my whole life!”
“Oh stop, you,” Seraphim tittered, and then she frowned at my midsection.
I sucked in my stomach. “What? Do I look fat?”
She made a sputtering sound. “Absolutely not.” She pulled a thin belt from the rack and cinched it right below my ribs. “There. Now it’s perfect.”
I gazed at my reflection. “I love it. And this bag! And these shoes!”
“Darling, we’re just getting started.” Seraphim pulled another outfit—this one a soft black leather pencil skirt, a black lace cap-sleeved top, and red calfskin heels—and pushed me toward the changing area.
I dropped one of the heels, and when I bent to pick it up I saw something strange. In the corner of the room sat a squat bench. The bench was about a foot tall, which was why I hadn’t noticed it before, with pieces of the Smokescreen collection littered on top of it. Some of the garments were deconstructed—not destroyed but deconstructed—like Seraphim had carefully taken them apart at the seams. There were a few patterns, as well as a couple sketches of some bodysuits.
Now, why would Seraphim be resurrecting her worst collection to date? You’d think it would be a disaster that she’d want to forget, like a nasty haircut or even nastier ex.
My curiosity got the better of me. “Are you revisiting Smokescreen for your new collection?” I hope not, I thought. And if you are, I’m glad I’m getting clothes before, because where in the hell would I ever wear a Plexiglas headpiece?
Seraphim frowned, making me I instantly regret my nosiness. “No, I’m not,” she said brusquely.
“Oh. Sorry.”
She added more pleasantly, “It’s for a museum installation here in London—it’s on modern fashion.”
Seraphim did not elaborate on details like the museum name, or when the show was, or why they’d chosen to show Smokescreen. And I didn’t ask. She seemed annoyed by my inquisitiveness, so I figured I should just drop it.
“What are you waiting for? Go, girl.” Seraphim’s easygoing smile was back. “If you don’t get moving, I’m going to rescind my offer to let you have all these clothes. Now, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
No, we certainly wouldn’t.
There were many ways I could have bored an unfortunate listener about my sightseeing around London: how I couldn’t stop myself from shouting like Chevy Chase in European Vacation—Look, kids!—whenever we drove past Big Ben; the grand façade of Buckingham Palace; the shocking height of London Eye. However, I recognize that nobody actually enjoys hearing about castle tours and quaint little hole-in-the-wall cafes that served the best scones. Nobody ever wants to be subjected to slideshows of fuzzy holiday photos with no discernable focus: Here I am kissing the cheek of a statue modeled after some prime minster or somebody. Here I am in a pub—a pub in England, can you believe? Here’s a policeman—check out his cr-a-zy uniform! Here’s the rainy sky. Here’s a duck in a pond. Here’s the entrance to the tube—that’s what the Brits call it, folks, the tube! Har-har! Here’s a . . . Here’s a . . . Here’s a . . .
Who cares?
Still, I wouldn’t want to skip over the good stuff.
The clothes Seraphim provided were a big boost to my confidence. I used to think this was a strategy advertising companies employed to sell overpriced shampoo and gym memberships, but now I believed there was something to it: when you look good, you do feel good. And I did. Damn good. For our tour of the city, I wore the skinny jeans outfit Seraphim had picked out. In late afternoon, I changed into a plush cable knit sweater and distressed ankle boots for a haunted Jack the Ripper walk through East London.
Out of politeness I pretended to be frightened as a man dressed in a top hat and cape portrayed brutal slayings in an over-the-top campfire voice, the dull setting sun and dreary black clouds serving as his backdrop. I respected those who had humble jobs yet still
took pride in their work: the sandwich maker who treated each hoagie like a work of art, layering tomatoes and pastrami so the colors contrasted just so; the checker at the grocery store, flipping cans over his elbow into perfectly arranged paper bags; the bus driver cracking jokes with passengers. People who tried to have fun and make the best of being on the clock.
The haunted walk guide was no exception. He really gave it his all: arms flapping, slashing motions across his throat, choked screams. But that hadn’t stopped Robert from snorting. Repeatedly. I was sure the poor guide heard more than a couple of times. Robert later told me that Jack the Ripper was a vampire and not some crazed human physician as the guide was claiming. Robert assured me that the vampire had been put to death after being exposed—the real reason behind the Ripper’s mysterious retirement.
That night I wore a slinky little black dress and strappy heels to the theatre—not too causal, not too fancy—and felt like a million bucks. Just perfect.
The whole day was perfect, particularly since I got to see the Brocknall farm where Robert had been born human in 1820. Only a few stones were left, but they elicited an emotional response in Robert like I’d never seen. Seeing him so moved allowed a brief glimpse into the window of his past, which was far more precious to me than designer clothing or food or monuments. Robert said nothing the whole time we walked through the reedy pale yellow grass, which smelled earthy and wet from the morning mist. I stayed quiet, too, not wanting to spoil the moment with arbitrary questions about his mother and father, or what sort of animals they raised, or where parts of the house used to be.
“You are my family now, Mercy,” Robert had told me out of nowhere, once we’d reached the edge of his former property. “Whatever the world throws at us, we can handle. We can endure anything as long as we have each other.”
