by Marta Acosta
“We are a little unclear on exactly how Ducharme saved you, Miss De Los Santos. He doesn’t usually take an interest in Normals.”
“Basic first aid,” I lied, remembering the taste of Ian’s blood. “I can’t speak for what interests Ian. He seems to like parties and expensive cars.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Nixon said again. It was a dissatisfied “hmm.” “I find it hard to believe that you’re willing to keep this situation a secret from your own family.”
“I have no family other than my parents, and they ignore my existence. There are no phone calls or birthday cards.”
“Even if that isn’t a problem, do you really accept fully what it will be like to live as one of us? To live in secrecy, to have a partner vulnerable to sun poisoning, to have a craving that disgusts and repels people, to have enemies who treat you as less than human?”
He looked around the room, and the other men nodded sadly. He said, “You don’t share our vulnerabilities and your DNA tests don’t show our anomaly. You’ll want a family of your own. If you miraculously manage to conceive, it’s highly unlikely that you’ll carry to term. Our rule against intermarriage was not made to protect us-but to protect spouses and children. There’s no greater pain than having a child die.”
There was such sorrow in his voice. I said, “The Project for a New Vampire Century found historical evidence that those rare survivors, like myself, can have children. I promise you that Dr. Grant and I take this as seriously as you. We have discussed all these issues extensively.”
He smiled apologetically and said, “We have only a few more questions. This is of a somewhat delicate nature. We request that you and Dr. Grant cease all physical relations until you are officially married in our ceremony. If possible, you should move out of his house.”
I grabbed the pokey stick. “Other engaged vampires shack up all the time!”
“We sometimes overlook the regulations, but your situation is different and we must adhere strictly to our traditions.”
“Why am I not surprised that I’m held to a different standard?” I said. “And what did you mean by ‘our ceremony’?”
“In addition to your public marriage ceremony, you’ll have a traditional wedding ritual. Sam Grant told us how much you wanted to participate in our ceremonies, and what better time than your own marriage? We’ll assign an associate to guide you through the requirements and preparation.”
“You mean a wedding planner?”
“Yes, I suppose. We’re in the process of filling that position since Mrs. Smith has retired from those duties.”
I felt as if I’d had a narrow escape. “Fine, so long as you don’t try to siphon my blood for the wedding toast.”
The men all laughed, but I wasn’t sure if it was a “how silly” laugh or an “I can’t wait” laugh.
Mr. Nixon said, “We just have one more matter to attend to before we conclude. Why don’t we take a ten minute break?”
I asked if I could make a few phone calls, and Mr. Nixon suggested I go upstairs. Mrs. Smith returned and escorted me back to the reception area of Presidential Properties and then sat at her desk pretending not to eavesdrop.
I called Oswald. I could have told him about the hotel fiasco, but I had more pressing matters on my mind. “You can’t believe what the Council wants. They say we can’t cohabitate or have sexual relations until we’re married!” I watched Mrs. Smith to see if she would react. She shoved a file folder in a drawer. “What do you think about that?”
“I don’t like it, but I don’t want to give them any excuse not to approve your rights. We can do other stuff.” He began listing all the interesting and perverse activities that he believed fell outside the strict definition of sexual congress and said, “Ask them if those things qualify.”
Laughing, I said, “Let’s make Sam ask them that just so we can see him blush! And I’m not moving out. I’ll take the downstairs bedroom.”
“I’ll sing serenades outside your window. How was your day?”
“Great, other than this. Toodles is a brilliant tour guide. Did you know that you don’t really have to go through an entire museum, you can just visit the gift shop?” I was telling him about the fantastic restaurant I’d be going to when I heard Mrs. Smith making “ahem” noises.
I looked at her and she barked, “The break is over!”
“I’ve got to go back to the meeting, Oz,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”
“Love you, too, babe.”
Mrs. Smith took me back to the cave, where the Rules Committee was already seated. I joined them and said, “I’ve talked to Oswald and we agree to your terms.”
“Excellent!” said Mr. Nixon. “Now there is just one last thing.” He passed a piece of paper to the man beside him, who passed it to me. “Your signature on our Oath of Loyalty.”
I skimmed the page and one phrase jumped out: “do hereby renounce all allegiance to any other nation.” I was angry. “Sam didn’t see this or he would have discussed it with me. I’m not giving up my citizenship.”
“We don’t expect you to renounce your citizenship in any public way,” said Nixon soothingly. “By all means, keep your passport and ID. This is for our own…assurance.”
My first instinct was to say, “No.” My second instinct was to say, “Hell, no.” “I’m not signing this.” I pushed the paper back toward him.
“Think about it. After all, this country has not exactly welcomed your people. They’ll always see you as a second-class citizen because of the color of your skin and your name.”
“That may be true, but what matters is my love for this country and its ideals. Those ideals are clear to anyone who reads my writing.”
“Consider this, then: Affirm your loyalty to us, and we’ll give you a substantial grant so you can dedicate yourself to your art. We’ll also use our considerable resources to promote your work.” He smiled and added, “Do you ever wonder how books get on the best-seller lists? Wouldn’t you like to see your book at the top of those lists?”
Yes, I had wondered. “I won’t change my mind.”
“We don’t need your answer now.” He picked up the loyalty oath and placed it in his folder. “Return home and discuss it with the Grants. It’s been a treat to finally meet you.”
I poured the rest of my llama blood in my glass and tossed it back undiluted. “Nice meeting you, too,” I said and stood.
Mr. Nixon came over to shake my hand and when he looked down at my hand, his expression changed. “Where did you get that ring? Did Dr. Grant give it to you?”
“It was a prize at the amusement park. Good night.”
Mrs. Smith was waiting in the elevator for me. As I was about to step in, I heard a muffled cry. I turned back and asked, “What was that?”
“What was what?” Mr. Nixon answered.
I listened and again I heard the wail. It seemed to come from behind one of the closed doors in the shadows of the cavern. “Someone’s crying out.”
He shook his head and said, “Crazies and drunks live in the tunnels, and we often hear them. Sound bounces and echoes down here-it’s very disorienting. Have a good evening.”
There was a loud rumbling of a subway train and I listened, trying to locate the source of the crying sound, but Nixon was right: the noise bounced off the walls.
I went back upstairs with Mrs. Smith, got my suitcase, and then returned to the lobby of the building. The meeting had run long, and I decided to go directly to the restaurant. After getting directions from the security guard, I walked to the subway, dragging my suitcase behind me. When the train rattled and screeched to the platform, I wondered if the Rules Committee could hear it in their cave.
I got off the subway and as I walked toward the restaurant, incredible aromas wafted toward me on the cool evening air. Chic people clustered out front and there was a buzz of excitement. I hauled my bag inside and saw a huge two-story space in rich caramel shades with chocolate leather banquettes and chai
rs.
The maоtre d’ smiled as he glanced down, obviously impressed by my cool suitcase. “Good evening.”
“Hello. I have a reservation for Kathleen Hippensteele.”
He looked at his reservation book. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see that here.”
“It might be under Meriwether. Or Toodles.”
He examined the book again. “Here it is. The reservation was canceled.”
Was this a vast conspiracy? “That must be wrong. Would you please check again?”
He gave me a tight smile and picked up the phone. He murmured in Italian and then hung up. “We call to confirm all reservations and the gentleman that answered at, uhm, Toodles Poodle Emporium said the lady in question was indisposed.”
Toodles’s brother must have answered. “I see. I can wait for a table, a table for one.”
“The first availability we have is, let me see, for Sunday brunch in eight weeks.”
I felt like screaming, but I thanked him and left the restaurant. I stood on the sidewalk, not feeling cosmopolitan or capable, but alone and absurd.
A Town Car pulled up to the curb and an extremely tall, extremely thin, extremely chic young woman got out. Her platinum blond hair hung to her waist and her blue eyes were heavily made up. Her dress was a scrap of cloth, and she wore an iridescent wrap around her bony shoulders. I bet her dinner reservations never got canceled by nitwits.
I picked up the handle of my rolling bag and began dragging it away.
“Young Lady,” said a deep voice behind me, “don’t tell me you’re leaving already.”
The skin at the back of my neck prickled.
I turned to see Ian Ducharme standing outside the car while the tall young woman leaned against him.
six
stop gherkin me around
I an wasn’t handsome, but he had an undeniable charisma. He was of only average height and appeared stocky-but underneath his always impeccable attire was a muscular, powerful body. His dark brown hair curled when it was longer, as it was now. He had a swarthy complexion, hooded eyes, a strong nose, and a compelling Cheshire Cat smile.
I was so relieved to see a friendly face that I grinned wildly. “Ian! Don’t tell me this is a coincidence.”
He came forward, his familiar spicy cologne bringing back memories. When he kissed my cheeks, the blood beneath my skin rose to the surface, leaving it hot and tingly. This physical reaction was new and different from the usual tasty fizz of energy I got from people, and it was different from the fizz I’d received from Ian when we last met.
“None of our meetings are mere coincidence, querida.” He looked at the girl, who was gazing away at nothing in particular. “Milagro, this is Ilena. Ilena, this is my friend Milagro. Milagro’s engaged to a distant relative.”
It was true that Oswald and Ian were related, since all the vamps came from the same genetic strain that dated back hundreds of years.
“Pleasure,” she said with a slight accent. She held her thin hand out so languidly it was like shaking hands with a piece of rope. Her eyes skimmed over me and found nothing of interest.
“How did you find me?” I asked Ian.
“Mrs. Smith told me you were coming here.”
“Is that old bat your spy?”
“The dear woman was concerned about you. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. They don’t have any tables available.”
“A good meal will revive you.” He took the suitcase from me and signaled to his driver, who came to his side. “Let’s put this away for now.” The driver lifted my bag into the trunk of his car. “Come along, Young Lady.”
We went back into the restaurant to the maоtre d’s station. “Buona sera, Roberto,” Ian said as he shook hands. He was palming money to the man. Ian was an extravagant tipper, a trait that made him beloved by wait staff and valets throughout the known world. “I hope there’s a place for us tonight.”
“Ah, Signor Ducharme! But one moment!” The man rushed off. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Ian turned to me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
It was not as if I ever called him. “I thought you were out of the country.”
Ilena said, “Ian is always with the airplanes.”
“Traveling bores Ilena,” he said, putting his hand on her narrow back.
Jealousy slimed out of some dark, dank place in me. I squashed it like a snail.
“Is work,” she said, and I wondered if she was an in-flight hooker. She had a subtle golden tan and her skin was almost translucent. I thought you could hold her up to the light, like a porcelain cup, and the intricate network of blood vessels and organs would be visible.
The maоtre d’ came back and said, “If you would follow me.”
On those occasions when I’d been with Ian, we usually got special treatment, so I was surprised when the maоtre d’ led us past the main room and toward the back of the restaurant. He walked through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
More than a dozen workers were toiling over hot ranges, where intensely fragrant steam billowed. Pans clashed and food sizzled. Plates were dropped with a loud clatter on stainless steel counters under heat lamps. There was a sense of organized chaos as the men worked, shouting in a patois of English, Italian, and Spanish.
“Here you are.” The maоtre d’ gave a game-show-hostess wave toward a table crammed into the corner of the kitchen. A Latino busboy was hastily setting it for six.
“Thank you, Roberto,” Ian said graciously to the maоtre d’.
The maоtre d’ left just as a waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine. “Pally will be with you in a minute.”
I saw Ian looking at the ring on my finger. I said, “I didn’t want any muggers to be tempted by my engagement ring.”
“Once on subway, a man try to steal my makeup kit,” Ilena said flatly. “I kick the onions and he is crying like a pig baby. It was Chanel samples I send to my sister.”
The waiter poured the wine, dark as blackberry juice, into our glasses, but Ilena held her hand over hers and said, “Water with lemon.”
After the waiter left, Ian asked me, “Is this table all right?”
“They put the Mexican girl in the kitchen to eat with the help,” I commented, noticing a few Latinos working around me. “But the food smells like heaven.”
Ian grinned as if I’d said something funny, but the food did smell incredible. He lifted his glass to me and drank.
I sipped the wine. It tasted of berries and earth. I wanted to bathe in it.
“I don’t like the eating,” Ilena commented. “Always the same, in the mouth, out the body. What is point?” She gazed with open hostility at the basket of freshly baked breads that had just been placed on our table.
“The point, my dear Ilena, is pleasure,” Ian said as he passed the bread basket to me. “How is Edna?”
“Still full of spit and vinegar and leaving the ranch far too often with her addled younger lover.”
“I adore that woman.”
Ilena’s eyelashes flickered despite the heavy weight of mascara on them. “Who is woman you talk of, Ian?”
“A dear old friend, darling,” he said.
Someone bellowed, “Ducharme! You filthy bastard!”
We turned to see one of the kitchen staff hurtling toward our table. Ian stood and the tall, gaunt man flung his arms around him. His sandy hair might have been hacked off with a cleaver. He looked as if he’d been very handsome about a thousand parties ago.
“Pally, so good to see you again.”
“Where the hell have you been? We tried to call you when Rafe and I went fishing for glass eels. You missed a helluva fryup.” While Pally was talking, he glanced at Ilena and her water, and took a lingering look at me as I bit into a thick rosemary bread stick.
“I’ll make it next time,” Ian said. “You’ve met Ilena, and this is Milagro, visiting for a few days.”
Pally took Ilena’s hand and gave it a shake-�
�Good to see you again”-and then he stood before me with his arms out.
I made the mistake of letting him hug me, and he enthusiastically ground his body against me. A few of the guys in the kitchen hooted and whistled. “You feel like a girl who likes a good meal.”
I extricated myself and said, “Does your boss allow you to molest customers?”
“Only the succulent ones.” He licked his lips lasciviously and the others laughed, but I was sensitive to people seeing me as an item on a menu. Pally grabbed Ian’s wine and drank it in two large gulps, then wiped his mouth with the corner of his white jacket. “I gotta get back to work. I’ll send some chow over and some friends are gonna sit here, too, if that’s cool.”
“But of course,” Ian said.
Ilena let her wrap slip down to the chair and slightly rotated her left arm so that I could see the purple and ochre bruise on the inside of her elbow. When she was sure that I’d noticed it, she leaned against Ian. His hand went to the bruise, and his thumb stroked the mark. Satisfied that she’d claimed her territory, she said, “Ian, no one sees me here. I will be at bar for nob-hob with pretty boys and girls.”
“Have fun, darling.” When she was gone, Ian said, “How have you been?”
“Good. Busy. I’ve been writing, and then there’s the wedding at the end of summer.” Oswald and I hadn’t discussed the guest list and I didn’t know if Ian would be invited.
“You’ll understand if I don’t offer my congratulations.”
“Not really,” I said. “You’ve obviously moved on with your new thrall.”
“Ilena isn’t a thrall. She’s what you might call a compatriot. Her people have been allied with ours for ages.”
“But she lets you take blood from her.”
“Don’t be jealous, darling,” he said in his rich, sonorous voice. “I’m not.”
Before I could respond to his ridiculous comment, Pally’s other friends came into the kitchen and joined us. Soon we were all talking away. The woman, who wore a perfect little black dress, said, “Ian, how is your sister?”