by Alice Bell
I tore open a box in the back of my closet, ripping off an acrylic nail in the process. But I found what I was looking for—a long black dress with lace sleeves. The silky material settled over my skin like it belonged there. I pulled up black stockings and clipped them to my lace panties.
After teasing up my hair and spraying it with Aqua Net, I powdered my freckles and lined my eyes with charcoal.
Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I hardly recognized who looked back. I was anyone, anonymous.
As I rode the elevator, I counted the floors down to the parking garage. Six, five, four, three…
I drove through the wet streets, listening to the squeak of my windshield wipers, pretending I wasn’t doing what I was doing—falling into old habits, habits that would undo me, in the end.
Just one drink, I told myself. There will be a good band. Everyone goes out once in a while. But I wasn’t everyone and that was the problem. A single outing to my favorite bar would turn into another, and another, until it was a need, an obsessive ritual, and the only way to get through the night.
And yet, here I was, parking in my usual spot, hurrying down the boardwalk toward Embers, as if no time had passed at all, as if my sessions with Dr. Sinclair had never taken place.
The rain had slacked. A light mist shimmered.
The creaking boards, the glimmer of lights on the water, the heavy smell of fried food mingling with the fishy scent of the river, evoked an image in my mind. I saw a man’s face; black eyes, sensual lips. Footsteps rushed up behind me.
I whirled around. No one was there.
He had to be a figment of my imagination, seductive and dangerous, like all my fantasies.
Ahead, Embers beckoned. I made a dash to the door and hurtled myself inside. The warmth of bodies surrounded me. Voices and laughter swirled.
The band was already breaking down. The crowd was dense. I tried to squeeze up to the bar to order a 7 & 7. I thought of Henry bringing a bottle of Seagram’s on our first date. Guilt gnawed at me. Why had I turned against him? He liked me. At this moment I could be wrapped in his arms, instead of alone… at a seedy bar.
“Look at you. All dressed up like a dark little angel.”
I turned to see who had spoken, and gasped when I saw the black-haired woman from the white Escalade, the one who had blown smoke at me. And there was her blonde friend, next to her. My pulse fluttered in my throat.
“What’s wrong, little rabbit? Can’t get a drink? Tell me what you want and I’ll make it happen,” she raised her hand and snapped her fingers at the bartender.
I no longer wanted alcohol. My stomach churned at the idea.
Without meaning to, I glanced over at the blonde. Our eyes locked and I couldn’t look away. She reminded me of someone from my childhood but I couldn’t think who. It bothered me, the niggling idea that I should know her. I felt it was important but my mind was a tire in the mud, spinning without traction. “Hey Inka,” she called over to her friend. “The little rabbit doesn’t want a drink, after all,” she gazed down on me. “You want to dance. Is that it?”
I wanted to be home in bed. I wished I’d never come. But my grandmother would say I was getting what I paid for.
I tried to move away. They pressed closer. “I only wanted to see the band,” I said.
“Well, then you must see the band. Isn’t that right, Zadie?”
They exchanged smiles.
Zadie. The name meant something. Or it should. What was I forgetting? A thickness came over me, like too much drink, though I hadn’t had a drop.
“Um—” I glanced toward the stage. “The band is packing up. I’m just going to uh… go.” I waved, feeling stupid as I did.
I bumped into one person, and the next. I stepped on someone’s foot, as I pushed toward the door. At last a clear path to the exit opened and I raced for it. But Zadie beat me there. She blocked the door. The green exit sign glowed above her, like a taunt.
I took a step back. Strong arms came around me. Zadie’s friend, Inka, spoke in my ear, “The band is going to play. Just for you, Scarlett.”
Scarlett…
Had I told her my name? Confusion spun spider webs in my brain.
Inka led me by the hand onto the dance floor. The band was set up and waiting. The singer smiled at me.
“What’s your favorite song, Scarlett?” Zadie said.
I shook my head, helplessly.
“You want me to guess?” she said.
Want me to guess? Want me to guess… the words echoed in the caverns of my memory. Zadie came toward me. We danced slow. Her hand eclipsed mine, her other hand rested on the small of my back. Her lips grazed my neck.
I shivered and saw a man’s face and… I remembered him. His name was Devon, and I knew him intimately, every inch of his body, as he knew mine. Zadie twirled me around and around, unspooling memories.
I never wanted the song to end. When it did, I was afraid I wouldn’t remember. I would go back to my life with a big hole where Devon’s memory should be.
The music stopped.
Still in a thrall, I tilted my chin, waiting for Devon’s kiss.
Instead, sharp teeth bit my lip. I cried out. Zadie’s face swam above me. Her mouth opened with laughter. Tears stung my eyes.
I veered and stumbled toward the door, tasting blood.
“Where are you going, little rabbit?”
“Don’t leave now. We were just starting to have fun.”
I tripped and fell to my knees. The green exit sign blurred. I felt drunk, as I stood up and reached for the door. My fingers missed the handle. I tried again and managed to stagger out into the night.
A cold wind tore at my hair and my dress. Memories careened and ricocheted. I started to run, jogging crookedly, my limbs heavy and clumsy.
At last, I saw the pink gleam of my car under the streetlamp. I fumbled with my keys. Once inside, I hit the locks. Gasping for breath, I began to shake uncontrollably. Was it real? Had it happened? Or would I wake in the morning in a padded room?
Devon
Decimus was a Captain, a leader of Angels and a decorated hero. He was extremely young for his achievements, not even a century. He claimed to be an old spirit but that’s not what I saw in his eyes. I saw a warrior, ruthless to the core.
He was a celebrity, a famous slayer of rogue Vampires, his face on billboards across the realm. He out-earned the combined salary of all the Archangels. Decimus action figures were coveted toys afforded only by the wealthy. Vials of his fake blood were sold to women who dipped their jewelry in it. His sweat, believed to be an aphrodisiac, was worth pounds of gold.
He took me shopping at boutiques where models dressed us and paraded around in lingerie for our enjoyment. I had sets of leather pants and shirts, tall boots and gold jewelry. We were twins with our dark caps of shorn hair and groomed beards.
Decimus took me places only Angels were allowed; restaurants, theaters, night clubs, his mansion. And he took me to the vampire quarter where the streets were dark and twisted, the houses rotting behind fences bolstered by the jagged edges of broken glass and razor wire.
The first time I went to Decimus’s mansion, he gave me a tour, leading me through the expansive light-filled rooms, across white marble floors kept spotless by vampire house servants. I got the sense I was being tested.
“What do you think of all this?” he said.
We gazed out at the pool, royal blue like the rolling sea beyond it. None of it’s real, I thought. “Impressive,” I said.
Decimus laughed. “For Christ sake, Slaughter. Pull the broomstick out of your ass. Come on… let’s have a drink.”
He brought out a bottle and swigged from it before handing it to me. “Go on,” he said, his voice demanding.
It was the kind of scotch that would cost around a hundred grand in the human world. I’d never poured that kind of money down my throat. Decimus watched while I drank, then he said, “You know how you get to be me?”
; “Kill a lot of Vampires?” I said.
“Nope. Any asshole can do that. You have to want it, Slaughter. You have to want it all, the fame and the power and what it buys. You have to want it so bad, you do whatever it takes to get it.”
I licked my lips and tried to hand back the bottle.
“Take another chug.”
I did.
“Don’t you want to get wasted? On money? Roll around in that shit?”
I said nothing, though I was supposed to answer immediately, when he spoke to me. The scotch was smooth. Warmth spread through my limbs, and made me slow.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Yeah sure, what?”
“I want to get wasted.”
“On what?”
“On money.”
He grabbed the bottle from me and drank. When he was done, a drop of scotch clung to his bottom lip. “You got to want it more, Slaughter. Because it’s important to important people.”
Whether I wanted it or not, it was hard to believe I’d ever be Decimus. I was pretty sure I wasn’t meant to rise up that far.
I lived in a warehouse in a small room, segregated from the other soldiers who were all Angels. Occasionally, at night, Decimus took me out. He didn’t care much for my company but it was his duty, he said, “to get the vampire stink off.” He made it clear he didn’t think that would ever happen.
He was right about one thing. If what I did on the virtual battlefield was what it took to kill a vampire, it was easy.
On the first day of training, Decimus handed me a wooden stake. I laughed. “Is this a joke?”
It was no joke.
If a vampire took a wooden stake to the heart, or any major artery, they fell to ashes, just like in the movies. Yet no weapon could kill an Angel.
The fact that Angels didn’t die made Vampires elusive in the human world. And the longer a vampire had been rogue, the harder they were to capture. Even Decimus had been outwitted a time or two. He hated bounty hunting. He took only kill contracts. “Why waste my time tracking the bitches?” he said. “If I can’t kill them?”
That’s all I did in training. It was like going to the gym with Todd and running the virtual tracks. Only in the training pod, I had the same powers I’d had in the human world. It was like a video game. I carried a wooden stake and stabbed virtual Vampires from every angle.
I leapt off rooftops for the kill. I traveled faster than a speeding train. For the kill. I was a killing machine.
“When are we going to learn strategy?” I asked Decimus.
“We?”
“I.”
He gave me a strange look. “The fuck? There’s no strategy, Slaughter. You just stab them in the throat. And watch them die.” He walked away, shaking his head. “Strategy,” I heard him mutter.
TWENTY-FOUR
Scarlett
Groaning, I rolled over in bed and fumbled for my phone on the night stand. My memory of the night before was splintered. I couldn’t tell what had been real, if any of it.
After shrugging into a slip, I tottered to the kitchen and took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. Then I got back into bed and sat with my phone in my lap, staring at the screen. It was Saturday and the first day of spring break.
Everyone was going on vacation, including Dr. Sinclair. At the end of our last session, she’d advised me to stick to my regime. “It will be tempting to stay up late and sleep in,” she’d said. “But try to be in bed by ten during the week. Schedule is so important, Scarlett. On the weekends you can be a little more lax. Go out with your friends. Just be careful. Nothing strenuous. Asleep by midnight, no later.”
I desperately wanted to call her answering service but I would only be able to talk to Dr. Sinclair on the phone and only if it was an emergency. And I didn’t have time for an emergency. I had to make it to the open mic reading tonight and be there for my workshop girls.
Plus, I’d made plans. I’d invited Wong over. We were going to have drinks and walk to the cafe together. I’d been looking forward to it all week. Just get back on track, I told myself. Put one foot in front of the other.
I drank a cup of green tea and dressed for the gym. I used the Stairmaster in the corner and climbed and sweated, feeling tingly afterward. On my way home, I stopped at the liquor store.
Later in the afternoon, while listening to Nirvana, I washed up the dishes in the sink and tidied my apartment.
I took my time getting ready; bathing, putting my hair up in a French twist. I wore a black cocktail dress and ankle boots. I wanted to wear my silver Gucci’s but they weren't practical for walking all the way to the cafe. By the time Wong showed up, I felt as close to normal as I would ever get.
“Wow, girl,” Wong turned around in the middle of the living room. Her sparkly gold dress twirled. “No wonder you're such a recluse. If I lived here, I'd never want to go out either.”
We sat on the sofa with our cosmo martinis, legs crossed, facing each other.
“God, this is good,” she said. “I might get wasted.”
I giggled. “Me too,” I said, but of course I wouldn’t. I couldn’t risk it.
“Can I ask you a sort of personal question?” Wong said.
My stomach dropped. “Okay.”
“How can you afford a place like this on a teacher's salary?”
I smiled, relieved. It was an easy question. “I have an inheritance.”
“That must be nice.”
I decided to be honest with her, to reveal a little of myself. Dr. Sinclair said making friends took practice. “I'm fortunate, yes,” I said. “But the truth is… I have no family left. I would pay all the money I have to get them back.”
She looked into my eyes. “I can imagine. Well, I have a huge troublesome family. Plenty to share. You'll have to come for dinner sometime. They'll love you. My mother will adopt you and try to run your life.”
I laughed. “I need someone to run my life.”
Wong was in the bathroom when Henry called. I picked up. I had to. It was part of my recovery not to avoid things, or people. And I wanted to, I realized. He was downstairs. I buzzed him up.
There was a feeling of spring in the night air as we walked to the cafe. Henry held my hand and I liked the feel of his fingers entwined in mine.
When we arrived, the cafe was packed, standing room only. But someone on Team Rain had secured a table and they were all there, my girls, white-faced and grim. The twins were arguing.
“Miss Rain, thank god you’re here. Charity wants us all to go up together. At the same time.”
“No, no. You go up when it's your turn to read. One at a time,” I said. “Don't worry, I'll announce you.”
“Miss Rain, there's a microphone.”
“It's open mic.”
I could smell coffee on their collective, nervous breath. I should have warned them not to drink caffeine. It would make their nerves worse and could even make their voices shake.
“I think I'm going to be sick,” Charity said.
The din was deafening. I pulled my phone from my bag to check the time. Ten to nine. I resisted the temptation to pop a Valium. It seemed an unfair advantage. I didn't have a chair, so I hovered over the girls and scanned the crowd for Wong and Henry. I found them in the back, leaning against the wall. Henry held a beer. Wong sipped from a glass of red wine.
Chastity followed my gaze. “Oh my god. Mr. West is here.”
“Miss Wong too.”
“I dare you to go over and talk to Mr. West.”
“He's not all that. My boyfriend's better.”
“What boyfriend?”
“Miss Wong is hot.”
“Look at her dress.”
At last, a woman wearing a black top hat got on stage and tapped the microphone. The noise quieted. “Welcome, fans. Are you ready?” Hooting and cheering followed. “Tonight we have special guests, Team Rain.” There was a polite smattering of applause followe
d by a long whistle from Henry.
“Go girls,” Wong shouted.
A small band—a cello, a guitar and a keyboard—played an intro.
The girls stilled.
I'd signed them up third, thinking it would give them time to settle down. But I should have taken the first spot, I realized. They’d only get more jitters the longer they waited for their turn.
The first to go up was entertaining poet who played a kazoo between stanzas and got the crowd worked up. I was dismayed by the cries of “More! More!” I glanced at the girls. Were they intimidated?
The next guy was a hipster, in torn skinny jeans, flowers in his beard. He got applause before he even started. My heart sank. He was going to be a hard act to follow.
“I was thinking,” he said into the microphone, his voice deep and honeyed. “About the letter B. So I wrote this little ditty, called, The Essence of B.”
The room turned quiet.
We waited.
And waited.
He looked at us with imploring, tortured eyes.
“Any day now,” someone called out.
He cleared his throat. “The Essence of B. Buh… buh. Buhbuhbuh. Buh! Buhbuhbuhbuhbuh...”
I put my hand over my mouth. I heard a low wheezing sound from the table. Charity had her head down. Her shoulders shook with laughter.
“Buh! Buh!”
The lady with the hat ran on stage. “Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much.” She took the microphone and nudged him away.
And then it was our turn.
I went up and introduced Chastity first. The crowd stomped and bellowed, starting to feel their drinks by now.
Chastity held the microphone too close. Her breath was loud, her giggle louder. But she pulled herself together. “I was born with a caul,” she began. “Like my mother, and her mother before her.”
Overall, the girls performed well. There were a few mistakes and lots of laughter. One girl tripped going up the stairs but she took a bow and the crowd cheered.
Afterwards the girls were triumphant. And reluctant to leave.
The cafe emptied.