by Chloe Adler
“You’re not supposed to be here,” something hisses from above.
“Maybe I am.” I’m braver in my dreams.
“You’re not,” it hisses back.
“How do you know?”
“I am the overseer of the fae. I know everyone and everything that lives here. Don’t play with me, little girl. You may not like the outcome.”
Goose bumps break out on my skin and I rub my arms furiously for warmth. Great, my happy dream is turning into a nightmare now.
“Were you sent by the king? Are you a spy?” The voice is sibilant, like a vampire with giant plastic fangs in a B-movie horror flick. Real ones speak just fine.
“Show yourself!” Why not demand whatever I want to happen? It is my dream, after all. I’m the creator.
Laughter filters through the canopy, taunting, but warmer than I expected, given the voice. “You do not. Tell me. What to do.”
“Whatever.” I turn to follow the path back out but—there is no path. It’s as if the bushes and shrubs filled in behind me while I was walking. Still, I try to forge a path back the way I came, but after only two steps, something large and dark drops in front of me. There’s a rush of air so cold and strong it almost knocks me down, and then something bites my shoulder. I screech and try to claw it off, but there’s nothing to claw. Pain sears through my clavicle and down my arm. Groggily, I have just enough time to process the thought that you’re not supposed to feel pain in your dreams.
And then I wake up.
My bedroom is dark, and it takes me several moments to realize where I am. I put my hand on my throbbing shoulder and pull back when it hits moisture. Leaping out of bed, I turn on the table lamp and stare at my hand. Blood. But how?
Total Cliché
I fly out of the taxi, forgetting my bag. The driver yells for me when I’m halfway up the vectum’s steps. After retrieving it, I sneak inside and make it to the bathroom-slash-dressing room, where I plop down in front of a mirror and begin applying my makeup.
“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Amaya.” Miss Cheryl stands in the doorway, her hands on her hips.
“I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.” The words tumble out and in that moment I hate myself for trying to placate her. For needing this job.
“That’s fine, dear,” she drawls. “I’ll dock it from the money you bring in tonight.”
“Yes, of course.” Dammit. I cannot afford to lose money I haven’t even earned yet.
“There are several vampires asking for you already. I assume you’d like me to accept the highest bidder?”
Vectums aren’t supposed to allow bidding. It’s actually against the law. I catch her narrowed eyes in the mirror.
“I’d rather choose the old-fashioned way, if that’s okay with you.”
“And what way is that, dear, through sexual favors?”
My hand flies to my mouth. “Of course not.”
“Fine. Whatever. I don’t care how you choose, I only care that you do. Meet me in the gold room once you’re done putting your face and costume on. And don’t forget your curtsy when I introduce you to each one. It goes with your character.”
“Yes ma’am.” I’m reminded of the one I offered recently, to Arch. That was spontaneous play. What will this be?
“After I introduce you to the vampires, you will choose one to take you tonight.
Take me? That sounds all kinds of wrong, but I don’t dare contradict her. Not after I was almost an hour late to my second night on the job. “Is Vasily here?” I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice cracks on his name. His kiss still stains my lips, pulsing warm and slow, like the dying embers of a fire.
“No. You know why he really comes here, don’t you, dear?”
It’s obvious she’s setting a trap, so I don’t bite, turning back to the mirror instead and swallowing, hard.
“Think about it.” She snorts and leaves.
I don’t want to, but thoughts of him with other women plague my mind.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve shimmied into the uncomfortable schoolgirl uniform and tamed my hair into the pigtails she likes. In order to reach the gold room, I have to pass through the parlor. Hungry eyes trail me as I walk through and I shiver with nerves and revulsion. I want to scream I am not a whore! But that probably won’t garner me many clients in the future, so I clamp my mouth shut so tightly my jaw aches.
“Hey,” a woman calls out from across the room. But she’s not talking to me, she’s talking to the vampire sitting next to her on the couch. He’s watching me. “Don’t bother with her, she’s a prude.” The woman smiles at him and takes a deep, deep breath, no doubt to emphasize her generous assets. She tosses me a sideways glance, narrowing her eyes. Mine, they warn.
I scurry the rest of the way through the room and into the hallway beyond, where I brush my sweaty palms down the front of my skirt before opening the door to the gold room, aptly named for the gaudy gold wallpaper and the black velvet couches adorned with gold cushions. An ornate fireplace crawls up one wall with a brass mantle and three sets of large gold candelabras. Naturally.
When I step inside, three vampire males turn around. One is older, with gray hair and a goatee. Geez, in order to be a silver-haired vampire, he has to be a few centuries old, at least. Another looks barely eighteen. And the third . . . an albino of indeterminate age. Huh.
Miss Cheryl enters behind me.
“Hello, gentlemen. This is Amaya.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me, none too gently, forward. “She’s brand new, as you all know, and adorably shy.”
I curtsy before them as Miss Cheryl instructed.
“I’m going to let each of you have a few minutes alone with her. You know how this works.”
The men nod, and two leave with the proprietress, leaving me alone with the older one.
I stand in front of him while he remains seated. He draws a circle in the air with one finger, indicating that I should turn around. Great start, buddy. I shake my head no and his mouth curves.
“A woman who can think for herself, I like it.” His voice is deep. “Why waste time here? I don’t beg, nor do I believe I need to plead my case. After merely looking at the three of us, what does your gut tell you?”
Unexpected. “That you’re too old, the young guy is too young and the albino is unpredictable. Total cliché, right?”
He laughs, a deep belly laugh that comforts instead of threatens.
“But even so, the albino feels the safest,” I add.
He nods, standing. “Wise choice.” He leaves the room, and a moment later, the albino enters, closing the door and standing in front of it.
“I assume that in your head you’re referring to me as the albino. You may have even dubbed me that aloud. Yes?”
I shift uncomfortably under those penetrating, pale violet eyes. He’s actually quite stunning.
“I’m not expecting an answer, Amaya,” he whispers. “What I want to know is if you picked me because you feel sorry for me. Because that will not do.”
“I-I don’t know why I picked you,” I stammer. “I sensed you were safe, and even though I suppose your appearance might scare others . . . I like it. You’re unique.”
“Like you.” He moves toward me but at human speed, not vamp. His long white hair sways around him, resembling a halo. “My name is Forrest.” I take his proffered hand in mine. Intertwined, they make a stunning contrast. Rich sable against pale moonlight.
“May I have the honor of you tonight?” he asks with a voice so gentle it runs over me like butterscotch.
“You mean to drink from me, yes?”
His eyes flick away and then back to my face. “Actually, I drank earlier.”
I pull my hand from his grasp and plant them on my hips. “I’m not a whore.”
“No, no, that’s not what I—” He drops to the couch, crossing his legs. “I only want to talk. You see, I’m a poet and I’ve lost my muse.”
“Really?” I s
hift from one leg to the other.
“Yes.” He looks up at me, his ivory eyelashes reflecting the gaudy decor of the room. “I’m not asking you to be my muse. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. But what I need right now is the company of a strong, vibrant, intelligent female to pull me out of my slump.”
“So a muse is a real thing?” The idea fascinates me, and though I don’t say it, I’m intrigued. Could I be someone’s muse? The idea makes me a little giddy, with tingles and everything.
“Most definitely, a muse is a real thing, especially for artists.”
“Do all artists have one?”
“Yes. But not all of them know it.”
I shift closer, debating if I should sit next to him or not. “I’ve never met a vampire like you.”
The door opens abruptly and Miss Cheryl enters. “I was told you’ve made up your mind without giving everyone a fair shake.”
Forrest stands, moving in front of me. “She made her decision when we were all here together.”
“Is that true?” Miss Cheryl walks toward us, stepping around Forrest to make eye contact with me.
I place a hand on his back. Hello, muscles. “It’s okay.”
He steps aside but stays close. My shoulder rests against his very toned bicep.
“It’s true, ma’am,” I say. “As soon as I entered the room, I knew. Is that against the rules?”
She looks at Forrest, not me. His jaw is set, the muscles in his neck pulsing. “No, of course not. Lady’s choice. Forrest, my office?” She motions to the door and forces a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.
“I’m not leaving her,” he says, his voice gruff. “You know I’ll pay whatever you require.”
Her head bounces erratically but she walks backward toward the door. “Fine. Come see me after and we’ll settle up. You can’t have her in here, this is where the girls and boys do their choosing. You can drink from her in the parlor or pay extra and bring her upstairs to a private room.”
“I’ll discuss the particulars with Amaya and let you know what we decide. For now, we’ll reside in the parlor.” He stretches his hand toward me again and I grasp it. He leads me past the proprietress, who jumps back to avoid any contact with him. Rude.
Forrest leads me to a small love seat in the corner of the room and motions for me to sit.
“You want to stay here?” I ask.
There are donors and vampires everywhere, most in states of undress, in the throes of passion or giggling madly. It’s much more overt than the last time I worked here, but that’s probably because there are more vampires tonight and the hour is late.
“I want to do whatever makes you comfortable. If I had my preference, I’d take you to a private room and talk to you, get to know you better.” He bites his lip.
“But?”
“Amaya, I heard what happened the last time you worked here and I would never risk making you feel threatened or taken advantage of.”
“How did you hear about what happened?”
“Word gets around.” He purses his lips.
I let my hand wander over to his, and when I touch him, he doesn’t reach for me. He stays perfectly still. Weaving my hand with his, I pull him up and off the couch. “Let’s go upstairs. I trust you.”
A soft smile lights up his pale face. “If you become uncomfortable at any moment, we’ll come back down. Or if you want me to leave, I will happily pay for the time as though we’ve spent the whole evening together and let you go home.”
Just like Vasily. Where the heck are these men coming from? It was strange enough to meet one vampire with manners, especially at a vectum. Especially at this vectum. But two? Seems unlikely.
Or maybe this is how most vampires are?
But a quick glance around tells me that’s simply not true.
May I Drink?
Back at home, I turn on my favorite Spotify station, the BBC Philharmonic. I have to admit, they’re worlds better than the Distant Edge Philharmonic, though I’ll never let Dad catch me saying so.
I stretch out in my window seat, where I can sing as loudly as I want. No Mom and Dad asking me to keep it down because they’re trying to read or watch television. Not that they ever asked me to, actually. Mother is nothing but encouraging, always telling me I have an amazing voice. And Dad never hid his pleasure when I begged to tag along with him to work. Some of my favorite memories were formed sitting at his side in a darkened orchestra hall, listening to symphonies and operas and brass choirs and string quartets rehearse. Until he gave up his job as membership director, of course. I wish he hadn’t also given up his passion for playing the saxophone, but at least he still hauls it out of the closet at family gatherings. My mother hasn’t touched her cello in years. That’s how they met one summer when they were teens, at a music camp. And maybe that’s where they would still be, if I hadn’t come along and spoiled their dreams. Well, not at music camp, obviously. But touring the world together, playing their beloved instruments in beautiful concert halls in romantic locations.
In my best mezzo-soprano—not fit for public, despite what Mom says—I belt out one of my favorite arias, “A Lady Fair of Lineage High” from Princess Ida. The song wraps around me the same way Forrest’s voice did, as we sat alone in that room all night. He sat with me on the bed and just talked to me. After a few hours, he took out a notebook and scribbled some lines, never acting inappropriately or weird. And when the night ended, he handed me the poem he’d written. The one I’d inspired.
“It’s called ‘The Lone Cherry,’ ” he said.
I grasped the paper in one hand and started reading.
* * *
Amid the clouds and ever twinkling light
Upon a hill, bathed in glory
* * *
Stands a lone delightful site
pink arms reach, extended to the sky
* * *
silence nestled deep
infrequent drops of rain
* * *
stir the presence, gently twists
mind alights, a gasp escapes
* * *
milky clouds descend above
water laps in rhythmic time
* * *
dancing light in pink pink buds
moisture plays upon the brush
* * *
birds delight, whispers speak
and there she stands, alone and bright
* * *
a vibrant splash of color
against the ever twinkling light
* * *
It couldn’t be about me, but the words were beautiful. Hauntingly so, sliding over and around me like the rich, seductive purr of an oboe. How could I have inspired those lines by just sitting quietly next to him?
“Is all of your poetry so eloquent?” I asked him.
“Not always, no. Only when I’m inspired. Then it flows like magic through my fingertips. All I have to do is step out of the way.”
Memories of last night linger and ignite. I continue singing, this time “Afraid, am I afraid?” from Menotti’s The Medium. Surprisingly, I’m not afraid. I’m relaxed, happy, smothered in song and thoughts of Forrest. Which is why the pounding on my front door shoots through my system like a tuba blast, bursting my happy bubble.
“Who is it?” I bound down the stairs.
“Do you want me to use the key on my own property, or do you want to open the door like a good little girl?”
Shit. Bob. I hoped he would leave me alone after Vasily trained his ass, but apparently not. I would have thought Bob would be one to respond well to threats. Perhaps Bob’s trying again because he knows I’m alone at the moment. That seems more likely than him thinking he can take Vasily. I fling the door open, glaring at him. “What do you want?”
“Big talk for a girl who doesn’t have her bodyguard with her.” And there it is. He hawks a loogie off the front stoop but doesn’t make a move to touch me. Then he holds out his hand, palm up. “Give me the money you made
last night. You still owe me 850.”
“You’ll get your money at the end of the week, just like I said you would.” I put my hands on my hips and give him my best glare.
Something blue glints off his shoulder. “Do you really want to see all of your parents’ belongings outside on the lawn?”
My jaw clenches and I saw my teeth. “You can’t do that, it’s illegal!”
He crosses his hands over a badly stained T-shirt and smirks at me, raising one side of his lip. “I have a rental agreement signed by your father that explicitly states that if the rent is not paid in full on the first of each month, even if there’s an increase, I can start the eviction process and you’ll have thirty days to move out. Go talk to a lawyer if you don’t believe me.” He eyes me up and down, leading with his double chin, and that same blue glint is on the side of his head now, hovering just next to his ear.
The sun must be bouncing off his gaudy fake Rolex. “How about this instead: I give you my thirty days’ notice, and you return all the money my parents paid you in advance.” I place my hands on my hips, raising my chin.
“No can do, missy. The contract I had your father sign disallows for such stipulations. He agreed to zero refunds for leaving early and,” Bob holds up a mottled red hand, “before you ask me to apply the future rent to your current rent, I’ll let you know that it explicitly prohibits that in the contract as well.”
Why the hell would my father sign such a thing? “I want to see that contract.”
“Gladly.” Shit, the smug set of his jaw tells me he isn’t lying. “I’ll put a copy in your mailbox and if I don’t get the money by Friday, there’ll be an eviction notice there too.”
