Moonshine

by Alaya Johnson

  “Not since the Crusades, surely,” I muttered, and then laughed. I would have to tell that to Amir. The kitchen didn’t look like any actual cooking had taken place in the last decade . . . at least, it didn’t resemble any of the kitchens I was acquainted with. No stains on the cutting board, no patina of smoke and grease and steam coating the floors and ceiling above. The electric stove was spotless, the tiled floor unblemished as a catalog spread. It seemed unbelievable, but then again, I did not spend much time in the homes of the wealthy. For all I knew, such godly standards were de rigeur for the upper crust. Lily might find the state of Amir’s kitchen deplorable. Or, more likely, she would find it extremely vulgar to ever set foot in a kitchen at all.

  Aileen had been in there for a while. I walked back to the bathroom door and rapped lightly.

  “Is death imminent?”

  She coughed and spat. “Do you have a knife?” she said, shakily.

  “Oh, dear,” I said, mimicking her accent, “but your wrists are your best feature!”

  She laughed. A little hollow, perhaps, but certainly an expression of humor. “But apparently my neck is the really hot ticket.”

  Oh, Aileen. “I’m going to find us some food,” I said. “Wish me luck. It feels a bit like I’m raiding King Tut’s tomb.”

  “Do mummies eat people?”

  “Mostly they stay dead. But the reanimated ones like scarab beetles.”

  “Avoid the crawlies, then.”

  Just another type of zombie, Daddy had said during one of his lectures. “But the damn wogs wouldn’t know how to bring back a cat if Mohammed bit one on the tail.”

  He has a way with words, does Daddy.

  Aileen groaned and I left her to it. Back in the kitchen, I noticed a curious squat porcelain white box, nestled against the wall beside the regular cabinets. When I paid attention, I realized that it was the source of the steady hum that filled the room. I pulled it open. A rush of cold air hit my face and arms. Water condensed on the countertop nearby. I looked inside more closely. A self-cooling cabinet? Where on earth had Amir found such a marvel? I realized it must be akin to the mechanistic cooling systems used by the reformed meatpacking industry, but I had never heard of a unit for home use before. What a flagrant waste of money! He probably used this kitchen a handful of times a year. As usual, food trumped indignation and I was soon pulling out carafes of milk and a carton of fresh eggs. The rest of the cold-cabinet had been filled with six or seven unmarked cardboard boxes. Curious, I opened one.

  Sausages. Well, no, upon closer inspection they had not even that dubious pedigree. Long, pink and one partially eaten . . .

  “Hot dogs!”

  I giggled until I could barely breathe. Hot dogs! A prince of the Djinni with a cabinet full of street-corner frankfurters! What a delightful discovery. I couldn’t wait to tease him about it. I shook my head and closed the cabinet. A loaf of bread was in the pantry above the stove, and I set myself to making breakfast.

  Aileen wandered back into the daylight as I was putting the first slab of French toast on the griddle. She looked so pale and fragile beneath the crumpled red of her evening gown that for a moment I wondered if she would pass out. But she settled herself against the wall and stared at me with baleful gray eyes.

  “Where’s that boy of yours?” she asked, her voice oddly flat.

  I flipped over the slice. “He’s hardly a boy.”

  “Of course not. Did you two exhaust yourselves last night?”

  There was something hard beneath her words. I remembered the worst moments of the last few hours, when Amir had burned so hot he singed the carpet beneath him. “He’s asleep,” I said quietly. “We didn’t do anything.”

  Aileen laughed. This time, it held no humor. “Whyever not? Isn’t that why you warned me away from him? Why you sicced me on that delightfully rich vampire? What a wasted opportunity.”

  I dropped the second slice of bread into the pan so abruptly that drops of oil burned my skin. “I didn’t know.”

  “You shouldn’t let that get around. The vampire suffragette not recognizing a sucker? It’ll ruin your reputation.”

  I flipped the slice; more oil splattered. “I didn’t know. You think I’d have let you walk into that if I’d even suspected? He was old, he knew how to hide. Jesus, Aileen, I try to help vampires, not hunt them—”

  “Funny how you’re so good at it.”

  I whirled on her. “Aileen—”

  She was crying. “I know.”

  I ran and hugged her. After a moment she returned the embrace, her entire body trembling. It was enough to make me wish I could kill that vampire again. After a while she pulled away and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

  “I think your breakfast is burning.”

  After I had stuffed myself full of slightly charred French toast and powdered sugar (surprisingly delicious), Aileen and I headed back home. I left a note on Amir’s pillow telling him I had an idea of how I could infiltrate Rinaldo’s gang and he should find me whenever he woke up. His face was beautiful in sleep—chiseled and cold, an Arabian prince. I thought it odd that seeing his eyes erupt into orbs of flame had done nothing to ease my attraction. His hair dipped over one eye. I pushed it back and then left.

  After I retrieved my bicycle and shook the snow from the seat, we headed home. Aileen perched on the handlebars and I attempted to be slightly more cautious as we barreled through the melting snow. She even managed to keep her balance when I had to kick the wheel straight after sharp turns. We must have been a sight, really, to all the respectable ladies exiting their Deusenbergs at the shops on Madison Avenue. I felt a distinct urge to blow a raspberry at their fur-lined hats. A few blocks away from Ludlow Street, a roadblock forced me to plow to a halt. Emergency workers were lifting a gurney into an ambulance. Not in itself unusual, but the gurney was covered with a thick black shroud used only in rare cases of vampire burning.

  Strange. The old ones are usually smart enough not to get caught in daylight. “I wonder if it was deliberate . . .” I mused aloud.

  “Zeph, I hate to distract you from your favorite pastime, but do you think we could just go home?” Aileen sounded so weary that I silently detoured around the ambulance. I guess I could stand not knowing what had happened there. Aileen went up the stairs ahead of me when we finally made it home. I trudged after her slowly—my thighs burned and I was suddenly aware of how little sleep I had gotten last night. I opened the door and was immediately assaulted by the dulcet tones of Mrs. Brodsky’s generous Russian accent.

  “Aileen, do you always do what that wild girl asks of you? It’s not safe to be out so late at night, and now look, something has happened, I know it . . .”

  Of course, all her solicitousness vanished once the “wild girl” herself appeared.

  “I do not keep whores in this house, do you hear me? This is a clean establishment, with a clean reputation.”

  I rolled my eyes. Well, we agreed on that much. “Good morning, Mrs. Brodsky,” I said with patently false heartiness. Aileen was staring into the space just past Mrs. Brodsky’s shoulder, her jaw slack. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think she’d been Swayed.

  “Yes, you! Do you not know the rules? Do you not understand the importance of my reputation?”

  “Quite sorry, Mrs. Brodsky,” I said, putting my arm around Aileen’s shoulders. “We got a bit carried away last night and lost track of time. We kept ourselves perfectly clean, I promise. Shiny as ever. But Aileen is a bit sick, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  I gave Aileen a little shove as I attempted to move past Mrs. Brodsky and up the stairs. Our way was blocked by Mrs. Brodsky’s broom.

  “Sick? What did you do to her. I swear, Miss Hollis, this time—”

  “I think she might vomit, actually. She was doing it all night.” I wrinkled my nose. “Green and slimy. I’m sure it’s such a chore to clean.”

  Mrs. Brodsky removed the broom. “Aileen, you must tell me if it is very bad
, yes?”

  As my roommate appeared comatose, I just nodded and continued pushing her up the steps. By the time we reached the first landing, Aileen seemed to have revived again.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I asked, opening the door to our room. “You seemed sort of . . .”

  She fell onto her bed fully clothed. She turned to look at me. “I saw you . . . in my head. I don’t know if I imagined it or not, but you were using the wrong blade,” she said, her voice tight. “And don’t ask me what it means, I’m the last one who could tell you.”

  She slammed her pillow on top of her head. I left her alone.

  I wanted to sleep. Truly, I longed for it more than a gourmet dinner at the Ritz, but I had promised the St. Marks Blood Bank to make deliveries. I had decided it would be a perfect opportunity for me to set my ingenious gang-infiltrating plan in motion. I had toyed with disguising myself as a boy, but romantic as the idea was, I didn’t relish the thought of the torture I would endure if they found me out. Far better to hide in plain sight: to approach Rinaldo’s gang as the “vampire suffragette,” a do-gooder too stupid to tell the criminals from the victims. And, hopefully, they would let enough information about their boss slip that I’d be able to find him for Amir.

  I took a quick bath and then dressed myself in my least-rumpled conservative blouse and skirt (I would need to do the laundry soon). I said good-bye to Aileen, but the pillow was still over her head and I didn’t know if she heard me. I listened at the top of the staircase and then descended as quietly as possible. The hallway looked clear when I reached the bottom of the stairs. I sprinted the rest of the way to the door.

  Which, of course, was being conspicuously cleaned by my landlady.

  “Zephyr Hollis,” she said, enunciating each syllable like pickles caught between her teeth.

  “Mrs. Brodsky.” I made no effort to hide my annoyance. Did she really think I would tailor my life to her petty, old-fashioned rules of propriety?

  She gave me a long stare and tossed her dirty rag in the bucket of soapy water at her feet. She wasn’t really that old—no more than forty, but it was hard to remember that when she carried herself like a Victorian spinster of sixty-five.

  “The rent is due tomorrow morning,” she said. “You and that Aileen have been very gay recently. You think you can afford it? There’s a hundred girls who would kill for the nice living you have here. Don’t forget that.”

  And sadly, she was probably right. Insufferable as she was, when Mrs. Brodsky said “no gentlemen callers,” she included the ones with money. Which was why I bit sharply on my tongue, forced myself to smile, and said as sweetly as possible, “Of course I’ll have the money for you tomorrow. And I will take your warning to heart.”

  From her narrowed eyes, I knew she didn’t quite know what to make of this, but she opened the door for me.

  “Someone called asking for you. Said her name was Lily Harding. ‘Tell Miss Hollis I request she meet me at the Roosevelt at one,’ she said.”

  I let out an involuntary laugh. Aside from the Russian accent, Mrs. Brodsky gave an uncanny impersonation of the debutante journalist. She gave me a smile that was almost conspiratorial.

  “Friends in high places, Zephyr? Well, you should not forget where you come from. You’ll never be one of them.”

  Bemused, I nodded and trotted down the steps. My landlady had a sense of humor? Unfortunately, I doubted her vestige of humanity extended to compassionate understanding about late rent payments.

  I was surprised Lily had gotten in touch with me so quickly, but if she wanted to meet, she must have some information. I pedaled with more verve than normal on my way to the Blood Bank. If I was to reach Lily by one, I barely had any time to make the deliveries.

  A few human citizens were waiting in the cramped lobby when I walked inside the tiny store front donation center on St. Marks Place. Despite the standing offer for a full twenty-five cents for every healthy pint, the lines at stations like these across the city were chronically empty. People had a superstitious fear of vampires. Even though they might know that such willing donations greatly curbed all incidences of blood-madness and rogue suckers, they shied away from giving their own blood. The tabloids regularly ran sordid features about vampires stalking donors after tasting their blood. Utter hogwash, of course, but it kept even the kind hearted ones away. I gave once a month and delivered when I could.

  Ysabel, the Ukrainian Jewish grandmother who managed the center, beamed when I walked up to the desk.

  “Zephyr, you made it! I had wondered when I heard about your little . . . engagement last night. Were you wonderful? I’m sure you were wonderful. I wish I could have gone, but Saul, you know, he loved to dance and he isn’t quite up to it anymore. Shame.” She lowered her voice, as though imparting some juicy secret. “And I don’t think the wine is kosher.”

  I could only imagine Rinaldo hauling a Rebbi to his basement to bless the bathtubs. “I think you might be right,” I said, just managing to keep a straight face. “Also, illegal.”

  Ysabel tapped the pen she had tucked behind her ear against her steel-gray chignon. “Right. I keep forgetting.” She shook her head. “Don’t know how I could, the way Saul goes on about it.”

  “So . . .”

  “Oh, of course, the deliveries!” She reached under the desk and pulled out a small sheet of paper with a list of names and addresses, with a figure of their pint allotment alongside.

  “There’s ten bruxa there. Mostly regulars. If any crazy bruxa stops you, just give him what he wants, right? You’re too valuable to lose, dear.”

  Ysabel gave me this warning every time I delivered. I didn’t bother to protest my competence anymore. She didn’t know I was immune, and last night proved it was perfectly valid to worry about my safety. After all, I was toting the equivalent of a full human body’s worth of blood on the back of my bicycle. She opened the storage room door. The golem, about half her height, stood stoic guard over the blood. It looked like a vaguely man-shaped blob of red clay, except for the pair of glowing marbles it had for eyes and the deep slit of its mouth The Hebrew letters for “truth” had been inscribed on its forehead. Its blobby hand held a stick, but otherwise no other weapons. It looked up at Ysabel and then stepped aside for her. She barely paid it any attention, but I sidled carefully out of its range. That stick looked painful.

  “Do you have any extras?” I asked, moving to help her with the box.

  She looked up, curious. A few stray hairs floated around her face, making her look curiously young and guileless. “We could spare three more pints, perhaps. Do you know of someone else?”

  “A widowed vampire with three children who takes my night classes,” I lied blithely as I picked up the crate and settled it on the desk. Human blood sloshed inside. “He’s run afoul of Rinaldo and come on hard times . . . I think he could use the help.”

  Ysabel grimaced sympathetically and gave me three extra bags.

  I felt far more pleased with myself than guilty when I left the room of potential donors with their long, curious stares, and strapped the crate on the back platform of my bicycle. I rationalized that even if I wasn’t actually planning to give the extra blood to Giuseppe, my planned use for it could only help him. I labored through the cramped streets and hauled the crate up each flight of tenement stairs for my deliveries. The street price of clean human blood was higher than thirty-proof whiskey. I could deal with trouble, but I didn’t want to hand it roses. By the time I finished, my blouse sported damp patches under each arm and the biting cold air felt positively refreshing. I put the three remaining pints in my own bag and dropped off the crate at the Blood Bank.

  My pace slowed considerably as I neared Little Italy. I knew that this wasn’t a very good idea. It seemed, however, like a very smart idea, and the one most likely to succeed at infiltrating Rinaldo’s gang. The real question was why I was suddenly so eager for it. I’d escaped from Troy and the Defender life and thanked the good Lord for my l
uck. I hated everything they stood for, so why was I now so eager to begin the ultimate vampire hunt?

  Because Rinaldo was worth hunting. He was the evil scourge the Defenders pretended to be fighting. But I couldn’t discount the primal rush that had gripped me as I played with that vampire last night. It had been sweeter than I remembered to plunge that blade into his heart. I shied from the thought. What was wrong with me? You aren’t your daddy.

  The Beast’s Rum was technically a speakeasy—in the sense that its primary purpose was the sale of illegal spirits—but it operated with far more of the sensibility of a pre-Prohibition pub. For one, the door opened right onto the Mott Street sidewalk, and old men sat outside, puffing on smelly cigars and drinking fragrant pints of unpasteurized beer. No secret knocks, no changing addresses; to go to the Rum, all you needed was an unhealthy lack of self-preservation and a tolerance for strange smells.

  Inside, the bar was so dark that I had to wait several moments for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I noticed that most of the chatter had fallen silent and more than a dozen pairs of eyes—mostly glowing—had turned to stare at me like I was a tasty worm that had wandered its unfortunate way into the chicken coop. The vampires in the room were all male and disturbingly young—the oldest among them couldn’t have been turned any older than sixteen. One straddling a stool nearest to the bar looked about thirteen, despite his slicked-back brown hair. Just a little older than the innocent child he and the other boys had punctured to death. Oh, I had no doubt which lion’s den I had entered. I was standing in the middle of the infamous Turn Boys gang, and I wasn’t even that scared. Carefully, I opened my messenger bag and pulled out a thick, transparent bag of blood. The room suddenly fell silent enough to hear the faint rumble from a subway train passing below. Not a breath stirred the air but mine.