by Pearl Cleage
“All right,” Aretha said, “you win. But you better stay close enough to keep reminding me this is all for a good cause.” She picked up the old portrait camera and fit it carefully into a silver camera case lined in gray foam with cutout spaces for its precious cargo.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Regina said. “You don’t think I’d let you have this adventure without me in my own backyard, do you? I told Blue this morning not to expect to see me around much until you were done shooting.”
Aretha was stalking around the small space, grabbing all manner of expensive-looking equipment that Regina couldn’t begin to identify by form or function and tucking it firmly into her various camera cases. There was clearly a method to her madness, but Regina couldn’t have said what it was. She decided her best course of action was to stay out of the way.
“I thought you were up for this. What happened?”
“What happened? I met them, that’s what happened!” She stopped moving around and shook her head. “You should see these girls, Gina. They are positively creepy!”
Regina perched herself on the edge of a tall stool. She knew Aretha didn’t approve of the whole cult of skinny that dominated high fashion around the world, but she also knew Aretha was nervous. This was a big assignment and Aretha was not technically a fashion photographer. A friend of Regina’s who worked at Essence had been setting up an Atlanta photo shoot and they wanted to use Aretha. They were going to shoot it on and around the Morehouse College campus to play up the contrast between serious young scholars and the more extreme fall fashions. The models’ agent had specifically requested her. Since Aretha didn’t have a New York agent, Regina was happy to facilitate, knowing that if this went well, Aretha would have more offers than she knew what to do with. It had been a moment when Regina’s business head had been as important as Aretha’s artistic eye.
“They’re an international phenomenon,” Regina said. “Did you look at the magazines I put in your mailbox yesterday?”
“Did you?” Aretha said indignantly, her long silver earrings swaying against the graceful arch of her neck.
“They’re cutting edge.”
Aretha snorted derisively as she tucked one more camera snugly into its foam cocoon and closed the silver suitcase carefully. “Cutting edge, my foot. They look like a bunch of heroin addicts. Vampires! That’s what they look like. A bunch of vampires. They’re all about eight feet tall and they weigh about fifty pounds, max. I met them for dinner last night and you know what they ate? Nothing! Nada! Zip! Zilch! Tomato juice! They all drank tomato juice!”
“They’re models. What do you expect?”
“I’m serious, Gina. These girls are entirely too thin. What kind of body image is that putting forward to Joyce Ann and Sweetie?”
“Last time I checked,” Regina said calmly, “Joyce Ann and Sweetie weren’t reading Essence.”
“Not yet,” Aretha said ominously, adding another camera case to the other equipment waiting by the door.
“Where are they staying?”
“Who knows? They won’t need room service, that’s for sure.”
Aretha was standing in the center of the room with her hands on her hips, looking around to be sure she didn’t miss anything she might need once the shoot got started. Morehouse was only ten minutes away, but she didn’t want to have to come back for anything. Seemingly satisfied that everything was ready to go, she turned back to Regina, still agitated.
“This is all Angelina Jolie’s fault, you know that? Slinking around in all that black leather, wearing her husband’s blood in a vial around her neck. That was exactly where it all started, trust me.”
“Her first husband’s blood.”
“Actually, Billy Bob was her second husband, but all I’m saying is, if I was Brad Pitt, I’d watch my back.”
“Or your neck.”
“Go to hell!” Aretha said, lobbing an empty film canister at Regina, who laughed and ducked out of the way. She had been around Aretha at work enough to know that her friend tended to work herself into a kind of creative frenzy and then hurl herself at the project in question like a ball of uncontained, artistic energy. That was just her process, Blue said, and so far, it had been working like a charm. All Regina had to do was hang on for the ride.
“You ready?”
Aretha sighed and rolled her eyes. “Say your line.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Say it again.”
“It’s for a good cause, and if you give it half a chance, it might even be fun, in addition to opening up all kinds of new professional opportunities for you.”
“Now you sound like my agent for real.”
“Real agents don’t help you schlep your stuff,” Regina said, reaching for the smallest of the silver cases.
“Then what do they do?” Aretha said, grabbing the rest of the equipment and heading downstairs to her bright red pickup parked out front.
They settled the equipment first and then climbed in and buckled up.
“They take care of business so you can concentrate on being an artist,” Regina said, closing the door behind them. “And they remind you that you’re a genius, in case you ever forget it.”
“Not a chance,” Aretha said, grinning over at Regina for the first time that morning.
“Good,” Regina said. “Then let’s go take some pictures!”
Chapter Four
Available Men
Serena Mayflower declined Blue Hamilton’s offer of a cup of espresso and cleared her throat delicately, as she took the seat he offered her.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Mr. Hamilton,” she said softly. “I know you’re a very busy man.”
Blue decided there was no reason to point out that he hadn’t really agreed or disagreed, since she had arrived unannounced seeking an audience. He said nothing.
“But since we’re going to be doing business in West End for a couple of days, I thought I owed you a courtesy call.”
“What business are you in?”
“I manage a group of five high-fashion models. You may have seen them on some of the magazine covers out front? They’re hot all over the world right now.”
“I see,” Blue said. “What brings you to West End?”
“We’re working with a brilliant young photographer who happens to be one of your neighbors. Aretha Hargrove?”
He inclined his head slightly in the direction of the photo she’d been studying so intently when he walked in. “That’s one of her pictures hanging right behind you.”
“I thought so,” Serena said, without turning away from Blue. “There’s something so alive about her work.”
Strange choice of words for the undead, Blue thought.
“Did Aretha tell you to come see me?”
Serena hesitated. “Well, actually she did. She told us all about you at dinner last night.”
Blue doubted that. “I see.”
The silence between them lengthened and Serena had the feeling he could sit there as long as she could without speaking. Maybe longer. The ball was definitely in her court. She cleared her throat again.
“We’ll be shooting primarily on the Morehouse campus,” she said, “which I understand from Aretha is technically not a part of your … territory. But I hope we’ll be able to do some shots around here, too. I’m absolutely in love with all the blue doors.”
“They’re intended to ward off evil spirits,” Blue said.
Serena looked at him, and if she had been capable of smiling, she probably would have. “Do they work?”
“You tell me.” Blue’s voice was suddenly a low warning rumble.
She raised her dark, pencil thin, perfectly arched eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“I know what you are.”
“Don’t you mean who?” she said, crossing her long slender legs, and letting her coat fall open to be sure Blue saw the flash of thigh her short, black leather skirt revealed. Blue’s eyes never left her fa
ce.
“Ms. Mayflower, if Aretha told you where to find me, she must have also told you I’m not a man who enjoys playing games.”
Serena reached for her coat and pulled it back over her legs quickly, glancing away for the first time. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton. It’s just … you just … your eyes just make me a little nervous. I don’t quite know where to begin.”
Blue’s expression didn’t change. Here he was standing toe-to-toe with a damn vampire and he made her nervous. So far, so good.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Aren’t we already talking?” Blue said.
“Yes, I suppose we are.”
She folded her long, thin hands on the table. Each perfectly tapered nail was polished the same bright red as her lipstick.
“Let me first address any safety concerns you might have,” she said in her breathy whisper. “Yes, we are who we are, but the danger we used to present to … people was eliminated many years ago when we discovered an easily available substitute substance that does away completely with our desire for … certain kinds of protein.”
“What’s the substance?”
“Tomato juice.”
He almost laughed out loud. “Tomato juice?”
She looked a little embarrassed as she nodded. “It’s almost a cliché, I suppose, but it works. And as you know, tomato products are easy to get everywhere. We used to grow our own back in New Orleans—that’s where we’re from, right outside New Orleans. We lived in peace with the locals there for many generations, but after the hurricane, conditions just became intolerable, so we had to move. Fortunately, a friend of ours provided us with a lovely little private island where we can rebuild our lives unmolested.”
Serena was choosing her words carefully as if he were going to cross-examine her later, although in a sense, he already was.
“Go on.”
“The only problem is, it’s a tiny little island with no business or industry, so we have to come over to the mainland periodically to make money and pick up the things we need.” She shrugged with a strange rippling motion of her slender shoulders. “Then we go back.”
“Some of you don’t go back,” Blue said, wondering if she would admit it.
She fluttered her thick black lashes, and he thought that maybe she had deluded herself into thinking she had more information than he did. “Some of us find lives or partners here that we prefer to our more monastic life on the island.”
“Why monastic?”
“Our society is strongly matrilineal, Mr. Hamilton. Men have always been rather peripheral to our lives. No offense,” she added quickly.
“None taken.”
“The men who used to partner with us in New Orleans were wiped out or displaced by the deluge and we haven’t found any suitable substitutes.”
Blue didn’t know whether to offer sympathy or point her in the direction of some men who might be interested.
“The truth is, we’ve almost given up our search.”
“And why is that?”
She leaned forward slightly. Her skin was so smooth it was almost translucent.
“Because,” she said, looking at him without blinking, “we can’t find any men with genes worthy of mixing with our own. No available men, anyway.” And she fluttered her eyelashes again.
“I see.”
“We both know, Mr. Hamilton, that there is always a moment when a species must adapt or die. Well, this is that crucial moment for our little tribe. We know it and, I assure you, we don’t take it lightly.”
He nodded slowly, wondering if they were incapable of smiling or if they just didn’t choose to make the effort. “Does anyone else know of your presence here?”
Serena shook her dark, sleek head. “No.”
“Good,” he said, “I think that’s best.”
He knew he didn’t have to tell her that mentioning even the possibility of vampires was liable to set off a wave of hysteria that was bad for the vamps and bad for West End. For several years he had managed to deflect inquiries and squash rumors about past lives and reincarnations, and until now the questions rarely arose. There was no need to stir up any renewed interest in the supernatural as it related to the mysterious Mr. Hamilton. In the public mind, people with past lives and people with endless lives were pretty much six of one, half dozen of the other. Keeping the vamp presence quiet was in both of their best interests.
“How long do you expect to be working in the neighborhood?”
“Another week at the most,” she said. “Then we’ll be on our way. We’ve got a shoot in Paris in ten days.”
“That will be fine,” Blue said, standing up so that she did, too. “Of course, I will provide security for you and your team while you’re here with us.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That will be greatly appreciated. I’ll be sure to get you a list of our locations.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Blue said. “I already have it.”
She looked at him for a beat without blinking, then picked up her big black bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Then I guess our business is done.”
He wondered briefly how she could get around in those high heels. A cracked sidewalk or an errant tree root would cripple this girl for life. He walked her to the door and reached for the knob. On the other side of the smoked glass, he could see Henry and Jake waiting just outside.
“I appreciate you taking the time to stop by and introduce yourself,” he said. “And I hope you will call on me if you need any further assistance while you’re here.”
“Thank you,” she said, and held out her hand. It was smooth when he shook it and colder than he thought it would be.
“Good morning, Mr. Hamilton,” she said softly, pulling on a pair of black kid gloves. She was tall enough to look him in the eyes and she did.
“Good morning, Ms. Mayflower.”
Henry was waiting to walk her back through the café. Jake nodded and held his post right outside the door where he would remain throughout the day.
Blue closed the door behind her slowly and sat back down. Grown women had been coming on to him since he was fourteen. They had thrown their panties at him on the stage, slipped him their phone numbers and hotel room keys, stolen his sweat-drenched costumes after shows, and regularly asked him for his autograph on the street even now, but this was the very first time he’d ever been flirted with by a vampire. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last. He reached into his breast pocket for the phone and punched in Abbie’s number.
Chapter Five
In Search of Models
The models weren’t due on set until ten o’clock, but when Aretha pulled her truck up to the front entrance of King Chapel at quarter to nine, there was already a small but growing crowd of Morehouse students gathering across the street in front of the Student Center. They were trying to look casual, but it was pretty obvious that they had come to see the Too Fine Five, celebrity shorthand for the models that Aretha was there to photograph.
Dressed in everything from their best Sunday suits to their favorite oversized jeans and big white T-shirts, they were all pretending that they were there just to see what was going on, not hoping to be picked to be a part of it. The models’ appeal to the young men in the African American urban community was in some ways an anomaly, considering that there was nothing on any of the women’s bodies remotely resembling a booty, but several high-profile rappers had put them in videos that featured big yachts, expensive cars, exclusive resort hotels, and pristine private beaches. Their job was to stand or lounge around looking bored and vaguely spectral while the sexual energy of the headliner raged around them in all-too-human form.
They didn’t really dance or even walk around very much. What they did was move to the music in a strangely arrhythmic motion that was oddly mesmerizing. Sometimes they’d slither around independently of one another, but then they’d all do the exact same gesture or movement at the exact same time, at no apparent signal,
and freeze there for just a fraction of a second and then start moving again.
Across the country, boys watching the video were drawn to it in a way that made them laugh and tease one another about being under the power of those “weird skinny bitches,” but they couldn’t stop watching. Young men who had never seen these girls in a fashion photograph fantasized about having sex with them even as they realized that they probably would never have the nerve to approach one, much less all five, since one was rarely seen without the others.
“Pretty girls on an all-male campus.” The public relations director had chuckled when Regina called to let him know that Blue would be sending over some people to round out the small campus police force. “The more security the better.”
Aretha waved her thanks to the smiling campus police officer who removed the bright orange cones and let her pull right up beside the entrance to the chapel auditorium.
“Thanks, Sergeant,” Aretha said, jumping out of the truck.
“Morning, Miss Hargrove,” the smiling sergeant replied. “We got everything closed to traffic, just like you wanted. How you doin’, Miz Hamilton?”
“I’m good,” Regina said, slamming the door behind her and waiting for instructions from Aretha.
“I’m glad the weather cooperated,” the sergeant said, nodding his approval of the cloudless Atlanta sky. The previous day had been chilly for late May and very wet. “It wouldn’t do to have rain fallin’ on these girls.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and winked. “They’d probably just wash right on away.”