The Naughty Collection

by Ruby City Books

  “Guys, I don’t even have words to describe how that felt.”

  I could hear something that sounded like metal scraping “What the fuck are you doing?” I opened my eyes to see that Stefan was now wielding what looked like a sword. The handle was exactly like the top of the walking stick. He was now swinging it back and forth trying to do bodily harm to Derek.

  “I’m trying to get rid of an abomination. You have killed for the last time, wolf. I have been hunting your kind from the moment that I was old enough to understand. My family has grown up defending this world from the likes of you.” I looked on in horror, as Derek lifted a chair and used it in some kind of defense. It was taken to task with the sword and now was in two pieces. I didn’t know what to do and apparently Stefan was not entirely truthful about his motives.

  “What the hell did I do to you?”

  “It’s not what you’ve done to me, but what you’ve done to others and are going to continue to do. You can’t be allowed to live. This is my calling.” He brought the cane in and Derek hit him with one side of the broken chair, while bringing the other piece across and hitting the side of Stefan’s head. He stumbled backward and I could see the sword dangling loosely from his hands. Blood had appeared on the side of his head and in that moment of distraction, Derek attacked him.

  He speared him below the waist, lifting him into the air, while propelling his own weight towards the picturesque window overlooking the city. They both went sailing out with shards of glass cutting them and then disappearing from view. The last thing I heard was this ungodly howl.

  Breaking myself from my shock, I ran to the window with a sheet draped over me. I looked down on the sidewalk to see both men. Stefan was lying awkwardly with his neck in a position that didn’t look natural and Derek was on top of him. Stefan was definitely dead. I ran down the stairs, almost tripping on the black sheet that was now dangling behind me.

  I went to the two of them and neither one of them were breathing. I performed CPR on both of them, but anything that I did with Stefan was in vain. I continued to do chest impressions and mouth to mouth resuscitation on Derek. After 5 minutes of continuing lifesaving measures, I pounded my fist down on his chest in frustration.

  There was any intake of breath and he miraculously woke up, just as the paramedics had arrived. Apparently, somebody had seen what was going on and decided to stick their noses where they didn’t belong.

  After some questioning, it was determined that Derek had used self defense to protect himself. They chalked it up to a domestic disturbance that had gotten out of hand.

  As we were walking out of the police station, Derek turned to me and said “I feel different.”

  “I would say that is because you took somebody’s life, but that’s not something that’s new to you.”

  On that full moon, he did not change and dying and coming back to life had apparently gotten rid of the curse, or so it seemed. We were just going to have to keep an eye on it. There was a possibility that Stefan’s family would come to collect vengeance, but that was a bridge that we would cross at a later date.

  THE END

  Twice The Bite

  One hundred forty one, one hundred forty two, one hundred forty three, one hundred forty four. An elegant ding sound came from somewhere overhead, where a small glass chandelier was scattering light onto the pillowed walls of the elevator, and the shining metal doors opened with a soft hiss. Isabella Cole tried not to let her jaw drop, although she couldn’t manage to stifle a gasp. The elevator opened right into the apartment of her new clients, Forrest and Anca Anghelescu, and from what Isabella could see of the foyer, it did not disappoint. Enormous, vibrant paintings beamed from the large walls of the warehouse loft, and a jungle of potted vines and tropical plants framed an incredible view of the city. Round, pink Moroccan throw pillows lay scattered about the shining wooden floors, and minimalist glass furniture gleamed in the dying daylight. Various artist books sat in a stack next to a chair that looked more like a throne made of – could it be polar bear fur?

  Isabella shook her head. She was getting dazzled again. It didn’t happen so often anymore – not now that walking dogs for the wealthiest people in New York City was her main source of income – but every once in a while, she visited an apartment that reminded her of what her life would never, ever look like. It was a difficult reminder to receive so frequently. Her mother had died last year, and Isabella, now truly alone, had been forced to sell their two-bedroom in Park Slope and move into a closet in Bushwick. It had been a hard year. She didn’t go out to drink; she didn’t hang out with friends; she didn’t date anyone. And these two people, this famous artist couple with billions of dollars to spend on things like polar bear fur and Moroccan throw pillows, probably wouldn’t even care enough to get the name of their dog walker right. Isabella smoothed the fly-aways from her dark ponytail and straightened her pea coat. Get in, get out, don’t get attached, she said to herself. Isabella stepped out from the elevator into the apartment.

  Immediately, a large, barrel-chested black and tan hound howled and sprinted from the kitchen to knock her flat on her back with his large paws. He snuffled her face and her neck; then, deeming her suitable, the dog began licking her makeup off her face with his fat, pink tongue. Isabella laughed and shoved at his chest, turning her head so he wouldn’t lick her mouth.

  “God, you’re exuberant,” she choked. The dog howled in return and licked her ear until she had no doubt every corner of her skin had been cleaned of the city’s grime. This is still better than Mitzi, she reminded herself. A month ago she’d picked up Margaret Winter, the famous Broadway actress, as a client, and she’d known upon first sight that the woman’s dog was clinically insane. Mitzi – a damn terrier, the biggest loudmouths of all was perfectly friendly when you looked at her head-on, but the moment you turned your back, she forgot who you were and went into defense mode. Isabella still had the scars from where Mitzi had gnawed on her Achilles’ tendon. She rubbed at the hound licking her from head to toe and thanked her lucky stars this wasn’t another aggressive terrier. Or a Chihuahua, God forbid.

  “Vanator!”

  The dog perked up, then calmly sat back on his haunches and looked over his shoulder expectantly. Isabella stumbled to her feet, smoothing her hair again and wiping her face with her sleeve. Her heart was pounding. Her palms had started sweating. She was about to meet two of the most important figures of twenty first-century surrealist painting. It was a dream come true for Isabella, a budding artist herself. When her boss had asked at the group meeting on Monday which dog walkers wanted to take the Anghelescus, her hand had shot into the air without a moment of hesitation. Isabella had been studying the couple’s work since she was fifteen and just beginning to learn about art at her public high school. While the rest of her class had pored over Monet water lily reproductions and Degas’s boring ballerinas, Isabella had borrowed every book on the Romanian couple available to her through the New York Public Library system. Their work was evocative – Hieronymus Bosch-like epic landscapes of beautiful girls in white dresses drinking blood from the necks of stags and swans, castles burning around them and men crying out to them with their own beating hearts clenched in their hands – and Isabella was sent to the principal’s office more than once for bringing “explicit material” to class. She didn’t care. By the time she had graduated from art school a year ago, she’d learned everything she could about Forrest and Anca Anghelescu and their wild, sexual festivals of gore and gluttony. These were two of her biggest heroes. Isabella looked down at her clothing: a pea coat stained on the corner with bleach; a pair of ripped and paint-splattered jeans; Dr. Martens, scuffed from the wear and tear of the city; knit gloves she’d cut at the knuckles to give her fingers more dexterity. She knew her hair, so curly and coarse, was doing nothing that made sense in its perfunctory ponytail, and although she’d rubbed cocoa butter into her skin before entering the elevator, she could still feel the dry March air sucking the
moisture from her skin. Isabella bit her lip so her eyes would stop tearing up. Stop being such a baby, she said to herself sternly. They won’t care what you look like. You’re here to walk their dog, scoop up its shit, and bring it back safely, not to make them think you’re attractive or whatever. Get it together.

  “Vanator, I hope you’re behaving!” laughed a woman’s voice from the bedroom. Vanator must be the name of the dog, Isabella realized. And that must be Anca.

  “Yes, Vanator, please act like a gentleman,” she said under her breath to the eager hound. He looked up at her, his tongue lolling.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman’s voice continued, drawing closer. “He really is such a terrible host.”

  And into the room walked Anca Anchelescu.

  She was just as Isabella had always imagined her: long hair, black and smooth as onyx; skin of an olive coloring that seemed to radiate warmth; eyes green and dark and crinkled with pleasure, like velvet; a long, trim body, draped in bohemian scarves and fabrics that trailed behind her on the floor. Her lips, full and red, grinned dazzlingly in Isabella’s direction. Isabella’s heart thudded uncomfortably.

  “You must be Isabella,” said Anca. A deep Romanian accent tinged her words, and Isabella felt a flutter in her groin. She’d always had a weakness for accents. Her first boyfriend she had only dated because of his British accent. She twitched her hands. Stop. Talk like a normal person.

  “Yes,” she replied. “It’s so good to meet you.”

  Anca put her hands on her hips, and Isabella heard the faint sound of bracelets and jewelry jangling beneath her velvet and fringed attire.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” said Anca. “You must be an actress.”

  Isabella could not help herself; she stared at Anca as if the woman had grown horns from her forehead. Her? Beautiful? She supposed her hair could look passable a few days a month. Her clothes, however, were always hand-me-downs from friends or family members, or purchased at the charity shop down the street from her apartment. Her skin, dark and glaringly obvious in this homogenous, Caucasian part of Manhattan, was dry from overexposure to the icy winter wind. Her eyes were too big. Her legs were too strong. She was many things – intelligent, shy, nervous, a talented painter – but she was not beautiful. Was she? And she certainly wasn’t an actress. She wanted to say, Actually, I’m a painter, and I’m a huge fan of yours, your work has been instrumental in my life as a person and an artist… But Isabella hardly talked to anyone, much less her childhood heroes, and even as she tried to fit the words in her mouth, Anca was turning away from her.

  “Forrest,” Anca called over her shoulder, her green eyes glimmering with delight. “Come meet our new dog walker. She’s lovely.”

  Isabella could feel her cheeks burning. She turned to look at the bedroom doorway. There, in a black sweater and black jeans flecked with a myriad of colors, stood Forrest Anghelescu. His angular face, the dark sliver of beard concealing his mouth, the sharp penetrating gaze from his dark eyes, the long, elegant, pale fingers. Isabella felt her head swimming with the powerful, majestic man standing across from her. She watched as his hands slid into his pockets and he leaned his wiry frame against the open door. He nodded in her direction. His eyes pierced hers.

  “It’s, um, good to meet you too,” Isabella stammered. Like an idiot.

  Anca leaned closer towards her. “Forrest doesn’t like to say much,” she said confidentially. Then she returned to a normal voice. “Let’s see. What did the agency tell you about Vanator?”

  “Run with him every morning, keep him active until he’s reached a state of exhaustion, have him back before dusk, feed him before I run him,” Isabella recited. The agency had made the conditions of being a dog walker for the Anghelescus very clear: both Anca and Forrest would be working in their studios in apartment during the mornings, so they were not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Apparently they’d fired other dog walkers for violating that portion of the contract. Isabella had no intention of ever bothering these people. She only hoped she could help alleviate the daily obligations so that they could continue to create.

  Anca beamed at Isabella, for no reason Isabella could discern, and said, “Perfect. We are looking forward to working with you, Miss Isabella.”

  Isabella, flushed with all the praise and unusual amounts of attention, found herself bowing. “The pleasure,” she said, “is all mine.”

  The Romanian woman leaned on a marble counter top and gestured at the rest of the apartment, her bracelets making music beneath her velvet shawl. “You are free to look through our books and rest a little when you bring Vanator back in the afternoons,” she said. “You are welcome to our things. I am sure this job is quite exhausting for you.”

  Isabella stared at her. The Anghelescus were not behaving like millionaire clients with a snotty, misbehaved dog and demands for their “peasant” dog walker. Normally, Isabella would be deep in the throes of a manual on how best to feed a Schnauzer with wet dog food, dry dog food, and smoked salmon scattered on top. The dog owners never talked to her this long, and they never invited her to dwell in their living spaces. In fact, Isabella had a sneaking suspicion that most of the people she worked for considered a diseased, grotesque individual who would sully their pristine, white furniture. She never did more with a client than receive the leash with the dog attached, then reverse the process three or so hours later. But here she was, being told by Anca Anghelescu – of all people – to read their books, sit on their furniture, rest her aching feet, and all while Forrest Anghelescu leaned casually against a door frame and looked at her in a way that suggested he would like to devour her for breakfast that morning. Isabella gulped.

  Anca patted her arm sympathetically. “Are you alright, dear? Do you need a glass of water before you take Vanator”

  Isabella shook her head, perhaps a touch too violently. “No, no, please. I’m just… I don’t often work with people who are this… You’re very kind,” she finished lamely.

  Anca laughed, her fingernail trailing down the inside of Isabella’s arm, and suddenly interesting things were happening to the girl. Something about the pressure, the feel of the smooth nail in her elbow, the way Anca – so close to her all of a sudden, entirely too close – brushed her shawl against Isabella’s bare skin… Isabella felt her nipples begin to harden, a shiver of interest making its way between her legs. She took a deep breath, willing the sensations away, and then her eyes caught on Forrest’s and before she knew it, she was stumbling backwards and grabbing Vantor’s leash and babbling something like, “Thank you so much, I’ll bring him back in time, talk to you later!”

  Then the elevator doors were closing, and Isabella realized she was holding a leash with no dog attached. She let her forehead rest on the smooth, clean surface. This was going to be an interesting gig.

  Isabella dragged Vanator into the elevator, punched the sleek silver button for the one hundred forty fourth floor, and waited for the doors to slide closed before collapsing on the marbled floor of the elevator. Vanator sniffed at her cheeks and whined. “Get off, you monster,” Isabella huffed, shoving at his wide chest. Vanator ignored her protestations and lapped at her face until all her sweat was cleared off. It had been one month since signing the contract to be the Anghelescus’ official dog walker, and Isabella couldn’t fathom how this dog had so much energy. Forrest and Anca paid her more than enough for walking their Romanian hunting dog – so handsomely, she could afford to drop a few of her less than pleasant clients, Gwyneth Paltrow’s Shitzu included – but still, it was as if Vanator was more than an animal, the way he dragged her all over the upper East Side from dawn until dusk. Isabella could feel her weight diminishing. Her favorite pair of jeans no longer stayed on her hips without a belt. She sighed, scratching absentmindedly behind the dog’s ears. At this rate, she was going to completely disappear from the face of the Earth trying to exercise this exuberant, ceaseless animal. Even more disheartening was the fact that she hadn’t seen
Anca and Forrest since she first met them a month ago. Isabella spent nights sitting on the floor in her closet-sized apartment, trying to paint her usual abstract shapes, turpentine stinking up the room and making her head hurt; and then she’d look at what she’d finished for the night, only to find a portrait of a man with a dark soul patch and a woman with long, straight hair and piercing green eyes. She just wanted to know them. To sit next to them. To feel their mouths on her skin… Isabella shook her head. They would never want her, and it wasn’t appropriate, and it was probably against her contract to even think things like that, and a million other things. Stop it, she thought dejectedly as Vanator snuffled around her arm pits.

  Suddenly, the elevator dinged. The doors slid open. She’d reached her destination without realizing it… and without rising from the floor, either. Vanator yowled happily and bounded into the apartment, his nails clicking against the hardwood floors. Anca and Forrest, who had been in the middle of a lively discussion, fell silent and looked down at their exhausted dog walker, their eyebrows raised. Isabella, crumpled and flustered, could do nothing but shrug helplessly.

  “Good walk,” she murmured, then braced herself for the disdain that she knew all her wealthy clients held for her and her way of life.

  But to her surprise, Anca burst out laughing. Even Forrest could not prevent a small smile from tugging at his mouth. Anca’s warm laughter echoed in the expansive loft, and Vanator howled back from the bedroom, where he was no doubt gnawing on the thick, dry bone of some enormous felled beast.

  “He can be a bit much,” Anca chuckled, and she offered a hand to Isabella. Her fingers were barely visible through the gold rings stacked to her knuckles.

  “I thought for sure he’d be all tired out by noon,” said Isabella as she took the proffered hand and wincing as she rose from the floor of the elevator. “All the dogs I walk get tired around noon. I run a six minute mile, for fuck’s sake.” Isabella blanched. She’d cursed in front of her employers, her personal heroes, Jesus Christ, she was all kinds of unprofessional today; but neither Anca nor Forrest seemed to care. Anca only laughed harder, the tinkling of her joy filling every inch of Isabella’s body, and led Isabella to sit down on the couch. By now, Isabella was familiar with all the strange objects that decorated the walls and surfaces of the Anghelescus’ apartment, and she looked them over fondly from where her screaming muscles rested on their furniture. Dark statues carved from wood with angry, tight little faces glared out from bookshelves. Glass decanters filled with different maroon-colored liquids glimmered under the yellow glow of ornately decorated lamps. Most of the books on the shelves were cloth-bound and inscribed on the spines with golden words of languages Isabella could barely read or didn’t know at all. Of the ones she could read, the titles concerned Lilith, the fabled vampire of the Jewish Talmud, and different cultural practices surrounding death. In college, Isabella had been enthralled with the myth of the vampire, and she took a certain measure of pride and pleasure in knowing that her painting heroes also shared some of her artistic influences.