by Mark Henry
Now that’s thoughtful.
I hated to let such a memento go—and I know I could have paid for a few more months of upkeep on the condo—but really, if you think about it, it’s an investment in my future.
I pulled the Alexander McQueen smoke print gown out of its envelope of archival tissue and draped it across the club chair.
“Look at it in wonder,” I said, reverently, my fingers playing across the satin, the ghostly tendrils of smoke that snaked across the hips in a mottled gray and purple and even a once-vibrant fuchsia, now faded as an old photograph. “Oh, Alex.”
“Wonder what? How much you paid?” Wendy was busy squeezing the last of the “jus” from the paper bag the heart came in. A few drips lit on her dry thrusting tongue and spread like fractures.
“It is gorgeous, isn’t it? Only a little over four grand and worth every penny.” I didn’t need to turn around to know Wendy was shaking her head, as though her habits weren’t just as costly. At least mine didn’t strip my bowels out like a bottle of Drano.
The Louis Vuitton heels came out next. Strappy, and violently unreasonable, with more belts and closures than is necessary and high enough to have me looking down at Johnny Birch all night—as if I wouldn’t be anyway. I propped them between the asymmetrical drifts of satin and stood back to admire the choice.
“That is definitely a look.”
“Right?”
I slipped out of my clothes and stepped into the gown, the satin cascading over my curves and hollows, embracing my form like a desperate lover. I found myself mumbling about the other outfits I snapped up—another from McQueen in a brilliant green was a showstopper. Oh Alex, how do you know me so well?
I worked over my jewelry bag, opting for a pair of pink sapphire and diamond drop earrings to bring out the fuchsia and offset my baby blues (which were, if I’m to be honest, bordering on the color of cumulus clouds, these days), before I even realized Wendy wasn’t helping or even responding with polite uhhuhs.
“Are you listening?” I spun around to find her staring intently at her iPhone.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“No, you’re not.”
She looked up, jumped a bit and grinned. “Damn, girl. You’re gonna be a star. But not without bigger hair. We gotta rat that shit out.”
“I don’t want to be a star.”
“Please. Like hell you don’t. Everyone wants to be a star, Amanda, even if they don’t know it yet. But we’re not talking about them, we’re talking about you and I’ve yet to see you shy away from a photo op.” Her eyes drifted back to the little black slick of plastic in her palm.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothin’.”
I crossed the room and snatched the phone. Abuelita paced Wendy’s living room on the small screen. “Abuelita’s a webcam girl?”
“Of course not.” Wendy stood up and tore the phone from my hand. Her eyes narrowed, daring me to make a judgment. “I’m monitoring her activities with a nanny cam. You can never be too careful with your employees.”
“So you’re paying her then? I wondered.”
She shrugged. “Not exactly, but if Skids hits like I think it will, then I’ll share some profits.”
“Really?”
“Uh…yeah. Whaddya think, I’m some kind of monster?” she asked and then quickly added, “Don’t answer that.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and one leg up under her ass as she slunk into the chair, glued to the image.
Her interest sparked my own. I wondered what Scott was doing, whether he was thinking about me. Thinking about that kiss, I hoped. But I feared it was just unrealistic. I couldn’t imagine him mourning, either. He was probably leaning against a wall somewhere, looking excruciatingly hot and fending off slutty advances. Or maybe not. Maybe he was hooking up in the alley outside of one of Ethel’s clubs. Probably found some girl that’d let him stick it in her ass. Those kind of girls seemed to be Ethel’s bread and butter.
Stop it, I told myself. You’ll go crazy thinking like that. It was really a godsend that Wendy showed up to distract me from a complete mental breakdown.
“What’s she doing now?” I nestled against the curved back of the chair and watched Abuelita shuffle across the living room and answer the door. Outside stood a swarthy man in a brown shirt and shorts, one hand hanging onto the top of the doorframe, the other offering a package, like a chocolate on a silver tray. The woman took it to the coffee table. Behind her back, the deliveryman smoothed a bushy Magnum, P.I. ’stache, adjusted his junk with a twitch and struck another seductive pose. Abuelita turned toward him, her hips swiveling as she approached. When she got to the door, she seemed to be talking and then she slammed the door in the guy’s face.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Wendy said. “Now that’s going to drive me crazy. I mean seriously. She didn’t even shake it.”
“Well, she shook her ass. And he looked like he’d been there before. Did you recognize the guy?”
“Nope. And I would have remembered if I’d ordered something.”
“Like a case of Twix?”
“Shut up. She’s working an angle. Those people always have an angle.” I’m pretty sure she meant immigrants, but I wasn’t going to press her on it.
“I think everyone has an angle. It’s not the most optimistic theory, but it’s how I roll. You know what’d help?”
“Booze?”
“Exactly. Let’s go find some.”
Shadows seemed to be the principal design aesthetic of the upstairs halls. Where you or I might opt for a sexy little sconce, or even a barrel-shaded lamp on a bureau, whoever had gotten ahold of the place saved money on lighting any space that didn’t show up on a camera. Super-convenient, particularly in ankle-breaking heels.
Good call.
I ended up carrying around a lit candle like some pathetic Victorian governess just to maneuver the maze of halls and antechambers that made up Harcourt Manor. Wendy crept behind me muttering on about Abuelita and secret conspiracies. The way I figured it, the woman needed to do something to better herself and anything would be an improvement over slave labor for a self-centered zombie. Had to be. In Wendy’s defense, who doesn’t shake a package?
Who?
The strains of something vaguely musical floated up a stair landing, not the one we’d come up, of course, that’d be too convenient—and lighted. I looked back at Wendy, who urged me on with a nod. The stairwell was steep and led to a bayed landing that overlooked over a vast and formal garden. Strings of lights formed a grid over a patio area where groups of people lounged, drinking, staring absently, chatting.
“Sweet oblivion.” Wendy beamed, the light glinting from her teeth and slipping like an aurora across the pale death of her skin.
“No kidding. Let’s get a move on.”
At the bottom of the stairs, a sign was affixed to the balustrade. It read:
* * *
The Harcourt Lounge is through the doors on your left.
The Grand Hall is back where you came from.
Downstairs leads to madness.
—The Producers
* * *
I shrugged off the last line as melodrama and pushed through the doors into the paneled bar, with its mirrored shelves of booze glistening like Shangri-la. But before we could slink over and order, we were intercepted by a certain smarmy wood nymph.
Having saved my skin once, Birch seemed to think he was owed some leeway in his sexual advances. The hug he greeted me with rapidly progressed to a groping and then kneading of both my ass cheeks.40
“Checking me for tumors, doctor?” I scowled a warning.
Birch withdrew his hands with a snap and a smirk, then turned his attention to a much more willing Wendy.
“Melody Daniels!” His arms flew out to surround her. “I’ve heard so much about you. I feel like I know you. And gorgeous, you are.” Stepping back from the lingering embrace, he reached for her hands and spread her arms out like he was admiring her attire
, when anyone with eyes and an I.Q. over 80 could tell he was sizing up her tits.
But Wendy, not having a problem with being ogled or objectified, didn’t stop the fucker, rather jiggled her goods slyly. Her breasts bounced under the delicate silk.
“It’s a Pucci,” she said.
“Huh?” Birch’s gaze finally met the petite zombie’s eyes.
“The dress.”
“Oh yes,” he coughed. “It’s divine.” He bent in to whisper the next bit, but must have decided he didn’t care what I heard. “You know where that dress would look perfect?”
“Not on me?” Wendy pouted.
“Of course on you.” He leaned in again. “Bundled up under your arms while I give you a little bit of Johnny.”
“Little?” I asked.
Johnny’s normally pale face flushed a vibrant fuchsia matching the print on Wendy’s dress. “No. I mean…What I mean is.”
“What do you mean?” I checked my nail beds. The cuticles were in need of a bleaching—the nails don’t grow so much these days, they stop after a while, one of the big lies of death.
He whispered this time, directly into Wendy’s ear. Her eyes grew in surprise. “Oh.” She played coy, as though this wasn’t playing directly into her plan.
“Johnny!” Mama Montserrat stormed into the bar and stabbed her thick paw under Johnny’s armpit, dragging him toward the furthest table. “Excuse me, ladies, I’m going to have to interrupt. We’ve got important business to discuss.”
“I wouldn’t say you were interrupting,” I said.
Wendy sneered at the woman and turned immediately to the bartender, a shifty squat of a guy with a nasty case of carrot top (the hair, not the horrendously ugly comedian poser) and green eyes that swam in his fishbowl glasses like an aquarium. “Two vodka doubles, Chester. Straight up.”
“It’s Ron.” The man’s voice crept like the slow hiss of a tire puncture, leaking from his mouth as though he’d used up the last of his will to live squeezing it out.
“Yep. And make it quick.” She slapped her palm on the bar, her eyes tracking Birch as they settled in.
Drinks in hand, Wendy led me to a table opposite Mama and Birch, settled in with a clear view of her quarry and started licking the rim of her lowball.
“Subtle,” I said, swallowing a fragrant mouthful.
“Men don’t get subtlety. They respond to direct visual cues. This—” She stopped to flick her tongue against the glass, while rolling her eyes back in her head. “—implies that I’m a salad-tosser, or, at the very least, I’m not opposed to a little dirty work.” She winked.
“Ew. But you are.” I gaped at her. “Aren’t you?”
She shrugged. “If it’s clean, I’ll consider it on a case by case basis.”
“Jesus! What constitutes clean? I’d have to get Molly Maids in to scour and bleach Scott’s hole before I’d even look at it, let alone lick it out like the last bit of sugary Fun Dip from the paper envelope.”
“Oh please. Quit being puritanical. Like you’ve never eaten an asshole before.”
“Well. That’s different. And in my defense it’s not a euphemism when I do it and it’s part of a larger array of edibles.”
“Whatever. Maybe if you’d been little more experimental, Scott wouldn’t have left.”
I drained my glass, slammed it on the table loud enough to get the freakish bartender’s attention. “You’re on thin ice.”
“I’m just sayin’, all guys want a little finger action.” Wendy crooked her middle finger. “Just pop it in and when they’re about to go all curly-toed and ugly, just yank that bad boy out of there. It’s more effective than chaining them to a wall.”
“Which is all the more interesting coming from the zombie who can’t seem to get a date.” I glanced at Birch and Mama Montserrat.
Their discussion had drifted into secretive whispers, Johnny spending a good portion of it with eyes darting quicker than a peep show patron’s—all he needed was a trench coat and a newspaper.
“Your boyfriend’s arguing,” I whispered.
As we both turned back to watch, Mama stood and slapped the shit out of Birch’s cheek. His head spun toward the wall and saliva sputtered from his lips.
The big woman stomped through the room, floorboards moaning and creaking under her weight. She stopped at the door and turned.
“Yeah. See if I’m joking, Johnny.” The words bellowed from her, even as her eyes shrank to slits. “You’ll get yours!”
And with that she was gone.
Johnny giggled a bit, noticing the row had garnered the attention of all the assorted lushes in the bar, except for the twins who’d long since passed out in pools of their own slobber. I pitied the dimwitted barman. Johnny sloshed down whatever he was drinking and slid out of the booth. He flashed an uncomfortable grin at both us, the gathered contestants and crew as he sidestepped out the wall of French doors and into the garden.
CHANNEL 09
Saturday
3:30–5:00 A.M.
All Creatures Grim and Slight
(Special) Chester Macintosh guides viewers on a magical journey through the epidemiology of known supernatural breeds in this fascinating documentary special.
“Are red rose petals really appropriate?” I whispered into Mama Montserrat’s ear. Her eyes followed mine to the path of crimson that led through the forested great hall down the entry stair to the gravel drive, where the first limousine idled—the only one, if I’m going to be honest about the production41—cloaked in a cloud of exhaust instead of très gothic fog.
“What you mean, child?” She cocked her head to the side as though legitimately perplexed. Could she really not know? What woman doesn’t know the symbolic nature of roses? Hell, Valentine’s Day is built on the assumption.
“Well, it’s not really a dating show. I suppose yellow petals could be an option, but red? It’s not like anyone’s coming here to find love.”
“Don’t be a dumbass now. With Johnny Birch, every show is a dating show,” she clucked, shook her head and then shot a grimace over her other shoulder.
I craned around her to eye Birch, who was busy admiring himself in a hand mirror, smoothing his eyebrows down. Satisfied, he flexed his lips into a kiss and smoldered a bit. I’d seen the smolder before, though I believe it was patented by a romance author I met once at a convention in Pittsburgh. Could be wrong. Johnny tossed the mirror behind him, where a vine uncoiled, snatching it from the air.
The whole “living” room concept could have been no one’s idea but Birch’s. The mossy lilting dips and hills were even thicker now than when we first arrived, covered with a perennial thickness of ivy. It crept around the barked columns and out the door, wedging them permanently open. The space creeped me out nearly as much as the decorator, and not just because an open door was an invitation for a home invasion—Johnny’s “talents” were just plain weird.
The vine dragged the nymph’s discarded mirror up the wall behind us to whereabouts unknown.
“Can you not do that?” I asked.
“What?” He blinked as mechanically as a porcelain doll.
“Make the greenery do your bidding? It’s a bit unnerving.”
“I’ll try.” The words were clipped, noncommittal. More reason to hate the guy. I wished I’d brought a hedge clipper, or pruning shears or total vegetation killer.
Oh shit. That one even cracked me up. I suppressed a giggle.
Wendy’s head poked out from behind a tree trunk like a demented stalker squirrel after a nut, or a nutjob, in this case. I would have waved but she was squarely focused on Birch.
I tapped my pen, straightened my score pad and sighed. “What’s the holdup?”
“Shh.” Mama Montserrat tossed her beaded dreads as she spun on me. They settled around her head like a macramé plant holder. “It’s starting.”
I lazed back in my chair a bit to get a better angle on the front door. Cameron Hansen stood on the outer steps, oddly an easy f
oot taller than his normal five-foot, two-inch frame. I suspected some radical reaper treatment until my eyes lit on his shoes. Massive platforms nestled under his suit pant cuffs. Not since Frankenstein had footwear been so horrific. The effect was not unlike hooves.
He turned and raised his hand in a little salute, at first I thought for my benefit, but then I sensed Birch’s leering nod to my left. By the time I turned to look, he’d taken to considering some lint on the table. Mama stared past Cameron blankly.
Despite spending quite a bit of time with the celeb, as the fiancé of my friend Liesl, I’d never taken to the guy. His smarmy charms reminded me of his conquests and his night job as an incubus. Sure, Liesl was no saint, she’d delivered countless devil spawn into the world, those mewling little worms, cute in a bizarre trendy cuddle toy sort of way. A succubus’s work is thankless, though, all the big-ups go to the forked cocks the “Inkies” swing.
And Cameron made sure to feature his in the tightest flat front trousers known to man, or devil.
I waved to the douchebag, to be polite, but he’d already turned to mug for a cameraman.
“The limos are pulling up and nine lucky contestants are about to gain entrance to this fantastic mansion and a chance of a lifetime. A chance to compete for a singularly fantastic opportunity. To protect one of the most famous and influential celebrities in all of supernaturalness.”
That’s not a word, I thought.
“Through these doors, the contestants will meet our judges and be judged…harshly,” he said as he strode across the carpet of rose petals toward our ivy-covered dais. “First up, she’s the gorgeous and mysterious woman who’s captured the imagination of undead everywhere—”
I grinned. Nodding, but only slightly, as he went on to describe how my face had graced the cover of everything from magazines to Mojo powder. That last one I didn’t recall posing for, but I smiled and politely took the compliment, figuring he knew what he was talking about. Whatever it was couldn’t be any worse than Necrophilique.