by C. L. Roman
They keep blood in hospitals.
Two hours later Jotun was lounging on the couch, flipping through the channels when Surt stalked into the room. Jotun looked up. "How was your evening?"
Surt glared at him. "Unrewarding," he growled, and jerked open the refrigerator. "What the hell is this?" Four plastic bags of dark red liquid stood lined up on the shelf, with another four on the shelf below.
"O negative, I believe. It was what they had most of."
"What who had most of? What are you talking about?"
Jotun turned off the TV. "I don't pretend to understand why you need human blood, but you said you did. Your "need" is a distraction and therefore detrimental to the mission. I can no longer tolerate that. I want to finish this mess and go home, back to Par-Adis. So — here is your blood. Drink it, eat it; bathe in it for all I care, but no more hunting until the mission is done. I don't want any more distractions."
"After the mission there will be nothing left to hunt," Surt said.
Jotun shrugged. "There is that."
Caroline checked her purse again, but the ticket was still there.
First class, leaving from gate A12 at 8:15 am. Unbelievable.
Fashion Week in New York had been on her bucket list since she had watched a documentary about it at age twelve. Her own dreams of being a fashion model faded into adolescent mist when she discovered a passion for teaching.
Beautiful clothes or beautiful children. It wasn’t a hard choice. But still...Fashion Week.
And Michael, right in the middle of this — well whatever it was, he was stressed out about it. He'd been working on it for weeks, not coming home until after midnight, and sometimes not at all, taking calls he wouldn't talk about. If she didn't know him so well, she'd have thought he was having an affair. But in all of that, he hadn't forgotten her birthday.
The intercom interrupted her thoughts. "First call for passengers in boarding group 1A."
Caroline picked up her carry on and got into line. Within a few minutes she was sitting in first class, buckling her seatbelt for the short flight to New York. It felt as if they had barely gained flight altitude before they were descending again, pulling up to the gate and deplaning.
Admiral Conroy's handsome smile greeted her at the foot of the escalator and she launched herself into his arms. "Oh Michael! You are, without exception, the best husband in the entire world."
He kissed her. "So you keep telling me. I know better, but it's nice to hear."
"I can't believe you managed to get away. You could have sent a driver."
"Well, I could have, but then I wouldn't have gotten that kiss."
She slapped at his arm. "Oh, I kiss you plenty."
"Not plenty enough for me." He put his arm around her waist. "Let's get your luggage." The belt brought her bags around and they headed for the restaurant. The couple settled into a corner booth, eating and watching New Yorkers hurry by outside the window.
"So," Caroline asked. "What is on the agenda for this afternoon?"
Michael forked up a bite of pasta, chewed and swallowed before answering. "The first show is this afternoon."
"Who is it?" She leaned forward, forgetting her food.
"Cole Delaney, and there are a host of different shows to choose from over the next week. You'll have some decisions to make."
"Are you going with me to any of them?" He grimaced, and she laughed. "Oh don't worry, I know the biggest reason you joined the military was so you wouldn't have to figure out what to wear every day. Promise to have dinner with me on my birthday, and I'll be content."
He let out a sigh of relief and kissed her again. "It's a date." The couple finished lunch and settled into the limo.
Caroline snuggled into the plush seat. "This is going to be so much fun."
"How is David doing?"
"He's fine. A little miffed that he didn't get to come with me."
Her husband raised his eyebrows. "Interested in fashion models? At his age?"
"Interested in avoiding a history project. He has to give the Gettysburg address to his class mates and explain what it meant in context."
Michael winced. "Ouch. I don't blame him for wanting to opt out."
She smiled comfortably. "Nonsense. It's good for him. Gives him confidence when he does well."
The remainder of the drive passed in sharing family news and making plans for the coming week. When they arrived at the hotel, Caroline was in a hurry to get to the hotel room and change so that she wouldn't be late to the first show.
Michael caught her hand when she would have rushed off. "You'll be careful, right," he said, suddenly serious after an entire car trip of lighthearted banter.
She looked up at him. "I'm always careful," she said.
"You are always kind. And you believe the best of people. This isn't rural Maryland and it isn't just Fashion Week either."
She frowned, giving her head a slight shake. "Michael, what are you talking about?"
"I can't..." he hesitated. "Just, keep your head on a swivel, right? Don't go off alone."
"Ok. Do I need to be worried?"
He opened his mouth, and then closed it, giving her a smile that was almost natural. "No. You need to have fun. Go on; get ready for the Delaney show. I have a meeting, but I'll be with you for dinner."
She searched his face for a few moments, but found nothing more than his concern for her. "Ok, I'm off then. I love you."
"I love you too."
A model hurried down the center aisle between two banks of makeup tables. In between the tables, racks of clothes, accessories and shoes stood at the ready. Models fluttered at each station, either applying makeup or with a fitter making the final adjustments to their ensemble. Cole stood watching as Gwyneth fastened the strap on a sky-high silver stiletto.
"I have been practicing all week and I still cannot walk in these shoes." Gwyneth held her foot out in front of her, the six inch heels glittered under the harsh backstage lights. "If you want, I will try the runway in them, but I'm going to fall off the stage."
"New York's first earthquake." Gwyneth ignored both the low voiced comment and the snicker that accompanied it, but Cole stiffened.
"Alexandria?"
"Oh, did I say that out loud? Sorry." The willowy brunette did not look sorry.
"Congratulations!" Cole said. "You've just been given the rest of the day off — without pay. Don't forget to pack your makeup kit. I'm revoking your pass."
Alexandria picked up her kit and flounced out.
Gwyneth stared after her and then at Cole. "Was this necessary? Who will show the outfits assigned to her?"
"Sondra and Evie can split them. They all wear the same size and they weren't scheduled together in the rotation. It won't even be noticed."
"You don't have to defend me."
Cole turned her chair back to the mirror and gestured for the stylist to finish her hair. "I know that. Alexandria was uniformly bitchy to everyone in the show. I’ve already warned her several times about her nastiness."
"He is not wrong." Xavier put in. Without looking away from the wildflower headband he was arranging on the model in front of him, he continued, "Last season, she had three other models in tears right before they were supposed to go on. We had to rearrange the line-up for the whole show."
"We only hired her this year on her promise of reformed behavior. She reneged." Cole said. "I have to take care of some things up front. You practice in those heels. You'll be fine."
Gwyneth gazed at her feet with doubt-filled eyes. "I don't think it is so," she said to no one in particular.
"You'll manage. Just stomp." A petite woman with violet eyes and a shock of hot pink hair reassured her. "You know — with attitude." She demonstrated the runway model's trademark strut with a short stroll down the aisle and back.
"You are a model?" Gwyneth asked.
The pink haired girl doubled over with laughter and then stopped with a hiccup when Gwyneth frowned. "Oh wow, you
were serious? No, I'm a stylist. Can't ya tell?" She popped her gum and gestured toward her mohawk.
Gwyneth surveyed the girl from head to toe. Black Converse over equally dark tights, a black leather skirt and a hot pink tank, exotic makeup and hot pink hair.
Yes, I should have known. She looks like Xavier, only pinker and female. Gwyneth smiled. "I can tell." She practiced walking as the girl suggested and found it easier. "Thanks for the advice."
"No problem. Now sit down and let me finish your hair." She dragged a stool over and set to work, her deft fingers arranging Gwyneth's mane into a sleek plait down her back. She teased out a frame of curls around Gwyneth's face and angled the braid diagonally across the back of her head so that the long tail hung over her breast and down to her waist. She stood back and examined her work. "It suits you — the mix of softness and severity."
Gwyneth could not disagree. "You did a lovely job."
"Models ready," a voice called out and Gwyneth jumped to her feet, almost toppling over in her anxiety.
"There are so many people out there..." She swallowed hard.
"With all those flashes going off, you won't be able to see most of them, especially the first rows." The stylist reached out a steadying hand. "And the rest are too far away to be worried about. Remember, just stomp with attitude. You'll be fine."
They could hear the announcer talking about the line. Gwyneth hurried to her place behind the first six models. She still didn't understand the phrase, "batting cleanup," but it was fine with her to be last out. Perhaps they would be so busy discussing the first six outfits they wouldn't notice her. The girl in front of her strode off and, quelling the fistful of moths in her stomach, Gwyneth followed.
The announcer held her with a look until the sixth girl was making her final turn and walking off stage. He motioned her forward and Gwyneth stomped onto the runway, careful to place each step firmly. Out to the center, pause, pose, walk, walk, stop, pose, turn, pose, turn, turn, walk, walk, stop, turn, pose, walk, turn, walk off stage. They rhythm carried her through her next four turns on the catwalk without a tremble. On her fifth trip down the run way, everything changed.
Gwyneth stepped onto the stage. "Equal quantities grace and beauty make this the dress of her dreams. This fresh take on the wedding dress packs layers of mystery with its flowing white satin cutwork over cool aqua silk..." the announcer said over a romantically toned, instrumental cover of Shadows of the Night. Out to the center, pause, pose, walk, walk, stop, freeze.
Time slowed to a crawl and the room went silent around her. Lounging against the back wall was Jotun. Her vision narrowed until he was all she could see. She took a step and felt the impossibility of running in the heels. Without hesitation she pushed the shoes off. Silk ripped and attendees scattered as she ran down the catwalk and leapt over the first three rows of chairs into the walkway beyond. Jotun jerked upright, staring at her.
"Jotun," she yelled, and the angel bolted out the nearest side door. "Jotun!" Gwyneth sprinted after him, ignoring the shouts and stares of the audience. She found herself on a long hallway, the far edge open to the rotunda below. Jotun was a blur of motion, heading down the curved stairs toward the front doors.
"Jotun, please," she cried in Semitic. "It's me, Gwyneth." He halted, his back to her, stiff and still. "Please, beloved, do not leave me again. I need you," she whispered, and he turned his head, looking over his shoulder as if afraid to see her face. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she held out her hands to him. "Please, know me."
An odd mixture of longing and pain worked their way across his face. He turned, took a step toward her...
"What are you doing?" a man called to him and he stopped. "Come on."
Jotun gave Gwyneth a look of such anguish that she dropped to her knees, briefly losing sight of him. When she could see the door again, he was gone.
"Gwyn, what happened? Are you all right?" Cole knelt next to her, his arm around her waist.
"Jotun. It was him, at the back of the show room," she said, switching to English. "I called to him and he ran," she sobbed.
Cole stroked her back. "I'm sorry Gwyn. I know how painful this must be."
"Do you?" She said, her voice hard. "My soul will break without him and he doesn't even know me."
Cole pulled back his hand. "I'm sorry Gwyn, I..."
She twisted around and sat next to him, the silk dress in tatters from hem to knee. "I've ruined your dress," she said. "I am sorry."
"It's not that bad. I can..." He looked at the shredded fabric and his voice trailed off. After a moment, he said, "Well, I wasn't that fond of that one anyway."
A watery chuckle fought its way out of her throat. "Oh Cole, what has happened to him? He is in pain. I saw it in his face."
"I don't know, Gwyn. I wish I could help."
The doors swung open and a crew of news photographers swarmed toward them, accompanied by reporters shouting questions.
"Too bad it isn't me we're looking for," Gwyneth said. "I couldn't hide even if I wanted to."
Caroline took her seat, third row center, right at the bottom of the catwalk.
I cannot believe Michael got such good seats.
She looked at the empty chair beside her and wondered if he had been planning on joining her. The hope was squelched when a tall, good looking blond sat down next to her.
Still, the scenery is attractive.
She stole a covert glance at the man's profile, and wondered if he wasn't a model. Then the lights dimmed and she forgot he was sitting there. Outfit after gorgeous outfit, in rich fabrics and vibrant colors, paraded down the runway. Photographers were kept behind the first row of seats so despite the barrage of flash photography, she wasn't blinded. Music played as each model hit the catwalk accompanied by a bewildering description of the clothes being shown. They wanted her to "stalk the streets of Manhattan" in this "trendy sports suit." What did that even mean? Then Cole Delaney's sensational discovery stomped down the cat walk.
Caroline's mouth dropped open. The model was amazing. Not only in beauty. All the girls were beautiful, but this one was also a giant. She felt a draft of air next to her and looked over, but the man who'd taken the seat earlier had abandoned it. In a few seconds the giantess exited and the next round of fashions started.
Caroline checked her program. In the fickle light she barely made out the fact that there would be four rounds with a finale. Delaney had chosen to focus on a different color palette for each round with an "innovative" wedding gown for the finale. Caroline clenched her hands and bounced in her seat once, then stilled herself, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. No one was looking at her.
Second round, third, fourth and then the music changed — became deeply intense and brooding with heavy base notes. The lights followed each model from directly overhead, casting dramatic shadows across their faces. It looked like the fifth round was going to be a finish to remember.
Model one in a fitted jet gown featuring cut lace from top rib to hips, the second in a daring scarlet, boat necked with more cutwork in the sleeves. Models three thru five strutted the aisle in delirious concoctions in emerald, sapphire and gold but it was the final model who brought every member of the audience to their feet in silent awe.
The voice of the announcer floated out of the sudden quiet. "...layers of mystery with its flowing white satin cut-work over cool aqua silk. This bridal gown is embellished with seed pearls and crystals outlining the cutwork that overlays the bodice and fans out over the skirt." But in an instant, Caroline went from being mesmerized by the dress to being horrified that the titan wearing it had suddenly gone crazy.
"Jotun," the woman cried. She kicked off her ridiculously high heels and ran down the catwalk, tearing the skirt of the fitted dress along both side seems with a terrific ripping noise as she leapt over all three rows of chairs and landed in the aisle directly behind Caroline.
Pandemonium reigned as the model chased a man out the side door, but Caroline stay
ed in her seat, cell phone in hand. Michael was never going to believe this.
Jotun couldn't believe Freya had noticed him, let alone knew who he was. It went against every instinct to run away, but he couldn't risk Caroline realizing who he was, or worse, that he had stolen her itinerary from her purse. He hit the stairs at a speed that would prevent the normal human eye from seeing more than a blur, but he was only half way down when he heard her.
"Jotun, please," she cried, and something in her voice tore at him. "It's me, Gwyneth."
He halted, his back to her, stiff and still.
Freya. Her name is Freya. Why does she lie?
"Please, beloved, do not leave me again. I need you," she whispered.
Pain stabbed the base of his skull and he looked at her over his shoulder.
She was weeping, holding her hands out to him. "Please, know me," she said.
As if tethered to her, his heart jerked in his chest and he took a step toward her.
"What are you doing?" Surt growled beside him. "Come on." He and Jotun followed.
Agony ripped at his mind and shattered memories wheeled behind his eyes as he stumbled out the door.
"What is wrong with you?" Surt asked as Jotun leaned against the building, breathing heavily.
"Nothing. We have to move. If she comes out here..."
"We gut her. I told you, Freya is the enemy. She will stop at nothing to save this world for her own kingdom. You cannot allow yourself to weaken toward her."
Jotun pushed off from the wall and stumbled down the street as the pain in his head receded, along with the bits and pieces of his past. The pain he could do without, but he felt the past slip away like sharp cuts, each taking a bit of him with it.
"Did you get it?" Surt asked.
"I got it." He handed the demon the itinerary he had lifted from Caroline's purse. "Remember, this is only a backup plan. Much better to never let either of them realize we were here."
Surt waved a dismissive hand at him. "Yeah, yeah. A back up. Everyone has to have a backup. That Caroline is a tasty looking piece though."