The snow had started up again, not too heavy, just fluffs that melted as soon as they touched the warmth of the windshield. The sky was darkening, the headlights cutting through the gray and the gloom highlighting the crystalline flakes as they plummeted from the sky. We started seeing signs for New York City, and with each one that streaked by, the twin sensations of excitement and trepidation grew.
Cutting through the winter gloom the city shone golden, alive. I had seen the cityscape thousands of times on television and in magazines, but to see it with my own eyes, the sheer size of it, was unbelievable. Sabrina and I both laughed giddily as we drank it all in. There was something in me, an impulse that yearned to jump out of the car and vanish into the throngs of bustling bodies. I wanted to be absorbed into the endless energy that kept the city alive.
It was full night by the time we made it through the traffic and into Brooklyn, driving along the crisscrossing labyrinthine streets. Sabrina drove nervously while I kept an eye out for any wayward pedestrian or cyclist.
We finally drove under the Manhattan Bridge, the giant structure was dark and awe-inspiring from beneath. The river was black, glistening as it reflected the city. Under the bridge the cobbled streets were eerily quiet. Sabrina and I hadn’t spoken since we crossed under the bridge, the city demanding all of our focus. After a few wrong turns on dark streets, we found the address on Jay Street. We parked, semi-legally, idling in front of a glowing gallery nestled in a tall brick warehouse.
“Well, we made it!” Sabrina said and clapped her hands together. She fished her cell phone out and stepped from the car, calling her mom to check in. My eyes were glued to the doorway of the gallery, and what lay beyond it.
When Sabrina got back into the car, I asked, my mouth gone dry, “So you think I should just walk in there, and try to find someone who looks like me? Thought you said confronting a vampire was a bad idea. And how do we even know he’s in there?” The longer we sat there, the more I thought we’d been too impulsive and that this was all a terrible idea. I should be home, in bed with my cat.
Sabrina watched the gallery door closely. “We know he’s there. And, it won’t be a total confrontation.”
“How do you mean?” I whispered, even though no one would have heard or noticed us.
“Because I emailed him,” Sabrina said sheepishly. “I thought it’d be better not to tell you.”
“What?”
“We came down tonight because there’s a big opening. We knew he’d be there, and there’d be lots of witnesses. And I sent an email to him at the gallery, just basically saying that you were someone from his past, a friend of Vivian DeVry, and that you’d be at the show, and that you wanted to speak with him,” she replied.
I was at a loss. He already knew I was coming. Sabrina had it all planned out.
“So, you go in, find him, I’ll go in totally separate, and keep an eye on things. It gets scary or weird, you bolt, get to the car, and we go to my cousin’s dorm in Jersey.”
“How will you know if things get scary or weird?” My mouth was bone dry, the panic creeping up and threatening to choke me. Things had gotten too real, too fast.
“Hoot like an owl,” Sabrina said with a shrug. “Nothing crazy, just like HOO HOO.”
I laughed despite my nerves, or maybe because of them.
“Okay, not my best idea. How about you cough loudly? Pull a fire alarm? If you had a cell phone you could text me but you don’t.”
“Did he answer? I mean, did Hugh answer? The email. You wrote as me, I assume.”
She nodded. “Of course. We don’t want him to know about me, right? Not until we know if it’s safe. I made you an email address, since it’s ridiculous you don’t have one. And said I was you.”
“And he said . . . ?”
“Looking forward to meeting you.”
I gaped at her, shocked yet again that she had held all this information from me.
“Don’t be mad, Jane. I just didn’t want you to lose your nerve, or worry about a full-on ambush.”
“But you told him! You gave up any advantage we had to surprise him.”
Sabrina rolled her eyes at me. “Jane, we aren’t going in there to stake him! You’re going to meet you damned father. What advantage is there to surprise? Again, it’s not some daytime talk show. This is your life—this is talking to another creature like you and getting some advice.”
“And what if he’s dangerous? What if this is all a trap?”
Sabrina smiled. “Then you use this.” She pulled out a steak knife from her purse. “I brought one for me too. They’re my mom’s fancy Wüsthof knives. She’ll kill me if she finds out I took them, so just don’t lose yours, okay?”
“I think losing a nice knife is the last thing we should be worrying about.” I gingerly wrapped the knife in a glove and tucked it into my pocket.
At eight o’clock, we began to see people heading for the lit doors, stamping the snow from their shoes, shaking out umbrellas and scarves. The place was filling up fast. It was now or never.
XXV.
“Okay, show time, Jane,” Sabrina said, pulling down the sun visor mirror, inspecting herself. “You go in, check it out, try to find him. I’ll wait five minutes, watching from the window and then go in. I’ll act like I’m on the phone or something. Once I’m inside, I’ll just blend in.”
I gestured to the doorway, my voice barely above a whisper. “How on earth can we blend in? We’re teenagers.” I was almost worried Hugh could hear us conspiring in the car. How good was vampire hearing, anyway?
“Put this on. . . .” Sabrina rummaged in her bag. She pulled out some lipstick and handed it to me. She then wiggled out of her sweatshirt. “. . . secret is to just act like you belong. Look at some art, try to sneak some wine, and if we can’t find him, then we ask whoever works there to leave a message. Then we wait for him to contact us, or you.”
I applied the bright red lipstick in the visor; it made me look like a different person. “I don’t know if I can do this, Sabrina. I’m scared. Do I even look okay?”
A rectangular strip of light shone out onto the snowy street. Shadows of the people inside flickered on the ground. Any of those outlines could have been Hugh. My nerve was failing—we were being silly and impulsive. I glanced over as Sabrina wriggled awkwardly into a tight black dress. She’d undone her braids, her bottle-black hair gleaming wetly in the sodium streetlights.
“You look great. It’s now or never, Jane. We need to do this. If he knows anything that can help you . . .”
I nodded and opened the car door, the snow blowing in ferociously. We stepped out onto the icy street. Above us, a subway streaked overhead, cars clattering. A garbage barge slid along the oily waters nearby, a flashing light bobbing on its roof as it let out a sad siren to anyone listening before it passed out of view. I was in a strange city, far from anything I knew. My chest was tight, and the snow accumulated fast on my shoulders. It should have motivated me to get moving, head toward the gallery, toward light and warmth. But I was terrified.
Sabrina stood on the other side of the car. “You can do this, Jane. I’m here. If it doesn’t work out, we take off, get pizza, it’s all fine.”
I took a few more breaths, forcing out the fear as much as I could. My lungs felt a quarter of their size. I wondered if this was what a panic attack felt like. Sabrina came to my side, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it. Her support got me moving. She laced her arm through mine, half walking and half dragging me.
The door was clear glass and metal. Printed on it was McGARRETT INC. I stared at the name and felt faint. My father.
Sabrina opened the door and ushered me through. “Hoo hoo,” she whispered. “But seriously if you’re in real danger, you scream, stab him and then you tear out of there. Get to the car. Good luck!”
And then I closed the door and I was inside, alone.
The space was blindingly white, the exposed ceiling the only remnant of the industrial space. Light
s hung down, angled to shine on the paintings throughout the room. The paintings themselves were enormous, abstract, and very white and blending into the walls. Each had a violent, almost intimate splash of red that instantly made me think of blood on bedclothes. Instantly a flash of hundreds of mornings hit me: finding my mother bloodied, stains on her sheets, her towels. Blood soaking miles of white linens, drowning in seas of bleach. The paintings suddenly overwhelmed me, and I shut my eyes.
“Intense, isn’t it?”
I turned, startled by the voice. It was a petite woman, Asian features, white-blonde hair, dressed in an oversized white dress shirt and black leggings. Her high heels were red. She matched the paintings. Her mouth was large and cherry red. When she smiled, it revealed very white, somewhat crooked teeth. I stared at her for a moment, still not accustomed to people talking to me of their own volition.
I knew instantly that she was like Sabrina, like the janitor at the rest stop. I turned to Sabrina, but remembered she was still outside, no doubt casing the place for signs of my father. The red-lipped woman stared at me expectantly.
“Yeah, it reminds me of . . . some unpleasant things.”
The woman studied the painting thoughtfully before returning her intense gaze to me. “I call this one The Dowry. The white one on the other side is called The Virgin. They’re companion pieces. The before and after.”
I nodded, looking at the painting again, summoning memories of my mother, and the scores of art books I’d looked through as a child, trying to find a common interest we could share. I hoped it would allow me to talk to the artist without sounding like a gawky kid.
“My name is Natsuki.” She studied me so intensely I resisted the urge to squirm. She had come straight to me in a room full of people. Did that mean she knew what I was? Would she want to see my invitation? I cleared my throat and calmed down. She could just be curious what a young stranger thought of her work.
I tried to look at ease and responded, “I’m Jane. Nice to meet you. You have . . . you have a real talent. I was immediately emotionally struck.”
Natsuki didn’t retract her probing stare, a perfectly shaped sliver of eyebrow arching.
“You look so familiar to me, Jane. Have we met before?”
I shook my head, looking over her head and scanning the room for Sabrina. I didn’t see her, and a flutter of panic rose in my chest. Natsuki seemed to sense the change and turned as well, looking across the crowd. Her long, loose white-blonde hair fanned out as she spun. It smelled like lilies.
I blurted, “I’m just looking for my friend. Supposed to meet me here.”
Natsuki spun back to me, her smile easy but also unnerving.
“She’ll turn up, I’m sure. It’s not a very big place, but it’s filled with interesting people to ensnare her. Now tell me, Jane, how is it you came to be here at my show?”
Suddenly her warm hand was touching the small of my back, startling me, as she guided me toward the next pair of paintings.
“Oh. I’m very interested in art. My mother was a, is a . . . a painter as well.”
“Oh? Would I know her work?”
I stumbled now. I searched the room a bit more urgently for Sabrina but couldn’t spot her or hear her voice over the music and overall din. My heart hammered.
“Probably not, but she did have a show with, uh, Mr. McGarrett, a long time ago.”
Natsuki raised her eyebrow again at that. “Really? How interesting. . . .”
With the speed of a snake her left hand shot out, and the glint of a large diamond ring waved to catch someone’s attention. I followed her outstretched arm, trying to see who she was signaling to. From my angle, I could only see the side of a man’s head, his brown, silver-shot hair, and his tall broad stature.
As he drew nearer, and I could see his face, it felt like all the air had been pushed out of my body. My blood froze in my veins. The man appeared to have a similar reaction, stopping mere feet from me. It was as if the sounds and bustle of the room dimmed, and it was just the two of us.
There was no question I was his daughter. The brown hair, the dark eyes, the nose. His face was blank and the color, what little there was, visibly drained from his face. All of this happened in seconds, but he recovered in a flash. A tight smile replaced the shock. His whole demeanor shifted as he came up, sliding a familiar arm around Natsuki.
“You summoned?” The man said this with a grin, his British accent subtle. He gave me a quick once-over. I sucked in a breath and tried not to gape. I’d forgotten to be smooth, forgotten decorum at all. His smile was false, even hostile, as he appraised me. The seconds stretched between us.
“Yes, Hugh, this is my new friend, Jane. She’s a fan of my paintings. She found them particularly moving. Barely got in the door before being snagged by The Dowry. It’s exciting seeing someone so young so passionate about the arts, no? She was telling me that her mother was an artist, and that you hosted a show of hers . . . when was that, dear?”
My whole body was I fight or flight mode, and I desperately wanted to flee. Breathe, breathe. Where is Sabrina? I looked around one last time, forcing myself to breathe.
And miraculously, I found my courage. My eyes met Hugh’s. Hugh—my father. Dad? I had no idea how to think of this stranger. His expression was unreadable, intense. I decided to go for broke—this was why we’d come here, after all.
“About eighteen years ago.”
I let my words hang between us heavily as my gaze locked on his. Natsuki’s brows shot up as she turned to him, the pieces falling into place. She seemed to be enjoying the tension. “What’s her name? This mother of yours?” she asked.
Hugh’s face was a deliberate blank.
“Vivian DeVry,” I said clearly.
“I got an email that you might be coming. How wonderful you were able to make it,” Hugh said coolly. I knew nothing about him but the scribbled ravings in a diary. Had I made a terrible mistake? He could be dangerous. He could be anything.
From the corner of my eye I finally spied Sabrina. She was about ten feet away, which felt like a thousand in that instant. I ignored her, not wanting Hugh to notice her, and turned back to him. Hugh was about to speak when we were interrupted by a stocky bald man in horn-rimmed glasses and a tall, older man with dark skin and long dreads. They wanted Natsuki’s attention.
As she turned to them all smiles, Hugh took my arm. It was a casual, even friendly gesture, but I could feel the force beneath it. He steered me through the crowd quickly and without raising alarm. Along the way he would nod or greet someone, but our trajectory was as clear as if people were making a path. I thought about the knife in my pocket. Or about hooting like an owl.
We passed the bar and a restroom before Hugh opened a door to a smaller gallery space. Before I could decide, he pushed me inside before closing the door and turning, his body tense. The room’s walls were painted black or dark gray, and the room was very dark, except for a single light shining on a small white sculpture on a white pedestal. Two benches in black and chrome faced the sculpture on either side of the room. The sculpture was of a figure, a woman, with sagging breasts and sagging head. At her feet was a still baby. Too limp to be sleeping. It made me uncomfortable and I couldn’t look at it. As uncomfortable as Hugh, who was still quite near, was making me.
XXVI.
“Guess Vivian lied to me.”
Hugh’s voice was cold, but there was a hint of something else there: surprise, maybe? I watched him warily, moving to the other side of the small room to give myself some distance, keeping the grim sculpture between as some protection. He paced, catlike, his eyes constantly returning to me. Unsure how to proceed.
“Is she dead?” he asked point blank, stopping his movement abruptly. The sudden stillness was unsettling.
“No.”
He stared at me, astonished, as he eased himself onto one of the benches nestled in the corner. He was almost entirely in shadow.
“Really? That’s remarkable. So,
she sent you here?”
“No, she didn’t send me. I never would’ve found out about you at all if I hadn’t discovered her journal. She never mentioned you once. I came to you because I have no one else to turn to. She’s been dying slowly all these years. I need to understand . . . what I am.”
I felt exhausted, the fear fizzling to a more familiar despair, as if the ground was finally opening up beneath me. I came around the sculpture, closer to Hugh, praying that my voice would stay firm. I stared at the glossy cement floor, and I could feel his eyes on me as I looked down.
“You know what you are,” he said.
“I need to know how to survive, how to do this.” I gestured at my body. I saw a flicker of something in him then—remorse, pity even. If nothing else, even if he hated me, even if he kicked me out, or worse, at least there was someone who understood. I wasn’t all alone.
After a long pause, all the while watching me, he made a frustrated-sounding noise. “It’s not like there’s a manual. And from the look of you, you seem to be doing all right.”
I felt my eyes well up. I didn’t want to cry. Be strong, Jane. Hold your head up.
Hugh seemed like a man who easily stepped over those he thought were weaker. I wouldn’t let him think that about me. Not even a snarky thanks for nothing would pass my lips.
“Well? You came all this way. That’s it?” he said.
“I just hoped there was more. More than just finding people and feeding on them. I wanted to—learn, I guess.”
Hugh laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t have anything to teach you, Jane. I do what I need to survive, and so will you. I didn’t want a child for this exact reason. It’s hard enough keeping myself fed, let alone someone else, a kid for that matter.”
Do not cry. But I was tired and this was my exact fear, that he wouldn’t want to help me. Tears falling, I nodded, not trusting my voice. I turned and walked toward the door.
“Jane.” My hand was on the knob and finally I turned back to him. My disappointment was transforming into anger.
Parasite Life Page 17