Interview with the Vixen

by Rebecca Barrow

  Her stomach folds in on itself, a sharp bite of hunger. Veronica winces and puts a hand right where the waist of her jeans cuts into her soft belly. “On second thought,” she says as Cheryl begins to reverse, “let’s go to school. I need to pick something up real quick.”

  DILTON CHECKS his watch.

  One hour until the event’s official start time.

  One hour until they need to be in position.

  “Dilton, c’mere.” Veronica adjusts his tie, sighing as she fixes the knot. “Honestly, what would you do without me?”

  “Look like a mess?” he says. He means it as a joke but as soon as he speaks, it’s obvious how nervous he is.

  Veronica lays her hands on his shoulders and catches his eye. “Hey,” she says. “It’s going to be okay. It’s not your first rodeo, remember?”

  “Feels like there’s a lot more riding on it this time.” Dilton swallows. He hasn’t told Veronica, hasn’t told any of them, but he’s spent the last day and a half tracking Mr. Lodge. From a distance, cautiously, of course cautiously, but—

  Hiram Lodge has made visits to every power player in town. Sheriff Keller, the mayor, every wealthy business owner in the area. Once, Dilton tried to sneak into Mr. Lodge’s office, to get up close to the door they were shut behind and listen in on what Hiram was saying, but all he could make out were muffled voices.

  There’s something about the meetings that have put him on edge. For a while he thought maybe they’d gotten it all wrong—maybe Hiram wasn’t going to wait to turn them, maybe he was doing it one by one instead. But Dilton had waited outside of the mayor’s office after Mr. Lodge left. He saw the mayor come out only five or ten minutes later and get in her car, and then Dilton had followed her home. He sat outside watching through the window as she sat down to dinner with her family, and then went upstairs to continue working, he guessed. No sign of her turning, and no time for it to happen, either, really.

  But if he wasn’t turning them, then what was he doing? A preemptive strike for his plan? Sowing the seeds?

  “Dilton.”

  When he snaps out of his thinking, Archie’s there with a stake in his hand. Not one of the crappy ones Dilton and Veronica bought, but one of Dilton’s new creations. “So how does this work, exactly?”

  Dilton clears his throat and focuses on the weapons. This is his job now; it feels good to be a vital part of the team. “It’s just like a regular stake,” he says. “Through the heart, it’ll kill a vampire instantly. Moroi or strigoi. But if you can’t manage to get the right shot, with my modifications it should still incapacitate them.” Dilton takes the stake from Archie and draws his finger along the wood. “See, inside is a reservoir filled with holy water. Then there’s a mechanism kind of like—you know those annoying firecrackers people always bring to school on the last day?”

  Archie nods, and Betty, who’s come to watch, does, too.

  “It works kind of like that,” Dilton says. “But with more power. Two strips of paper laced with potassium nitrate and sulfur. The impact of you striking a target causes movement within the reservoir, and the friction sets off the reaction. Causes a buildup of pressure and then—” He pulls his hands apart, blowing his cheeks out. “Explosion.”

  “And the holy water infects the wound,” Betty says. “Goes into their internal system? Huh.” She nods again and gives him a measured look. “Nice work, Dilton.”

  “Thanks,” Dilton says, a bubble of pride warming him. “Get equipped. And don’t forget the crosses. They might seem cliché and old-fashioned, but if that’s what the folktales say works, then we’re going to use them.”

  He turns to Veronica and points at the set of stakes he’s constructed just for her, no holy water reservoir, just sharp, reliable wood. “For you,” he says, watching Veronica pick the first one up. She starts to slide it into her holster, and Dilton stops her. “Wait. Look on the end.”

  Veronica gives him a curious glance and then brings the stake’s flat end toward her face, peering at the wood. Dilton knows she’s seen it when he face changes and she smiles so wide her fangs slip out. “Oh, shut up. I love it!”

  On the end of each stake he carved for Veronica, Dilton has burned a small message into the wood. A monogram—V.L. in ornate script. “What is it you always say?” he asks. “Oh, yeah—image is important. You control the narrative. With these, everyone will know exactly who killed Theodore Finch.”

  Veronica grins and slips a stake into each of the holsters on her thighs, then another down at her ankle. “Well, vamp army, if you didn’t know my name before tonight,” she says, almost glowing, “then you sure as hell will when I’m done.”

  THE HOTEL IS everything Cheryl dreamed.

  High ceilings throughout the first floor: in the restaurant and the ballroom and the lobby with its two-story chandelier. The rooms decadent and impeccably styled, with four-poster beds and perfectly patterned tiles in the bathrooms. And the grounds—beautifully landscaped, hedges sculpted like artwork, and wild rosebushes bordering the vast pool area.

  Cheryl walks around this building that her parents have been planning for so long, filled with all the décor and finishing touches of the celebratory opening gala. All that planning and all that effort, but she knows that the work was worth it. It’s perfect.

  And built on bloodied, cursed land, possibly. But who’s keeping track?

  She checks her phone: no messages. Cheryl chews her lip as she makes her way to the ballroom. Veronica, Betty, Archie, and Dilton are back at her house, getting ready for the action. Cheryl had to be here, to keep the illusion of normality running. She begged and pleaded and tantrumed so hard to be allowed to head up the party tonight that not showing up to run it would have set her parents off on a stratospheric level.

  Cheryl swishes down a back hallway, the train of her dress trailing along the gold carpeting. Her being here works out well for them, though.

  She passes the kitchen, full of the noise of the chefs preparing canapés and decadent desserts. At the end of the hallway is a fire door, and Cheryl leans on the bar to open it, then wedges a doorstop just so, angled in a way that the door remains open but not obviously so. This will be their emergency escape route, if things get truly out of hand.

  On her way back to the main lobby she ducks into the bathroom. It might sound weird, but the bathrooms are her favorite part of the entire hotel. The sinks are deep pearlescent bowls set on top of dark wood, and each bathroom has two chaise longues perfect for guests to sit on while they pretend like their heels don’t hurt at all and they can totally stand up again whenever they want to, but they’re just going to keep sitting here for a minute, while they redo their makeup that does not need to be touched up.

  It’s an ordeal to pee in this full-skirted dress but Cheryl manages, and she’s washing her hands when she notices the closed door at the end of the row and the telltale Ferragamo shoes peeking out from under it. “Mom?” she says loudly. “I didn’t even know you were here yet. Why didn’t you come find me?”

  Cheryl dries her hands on an organic cotton hand towel and drops it into the linen basket. She gets out her lipstick and fills in the gaps that she’s worn with her worried chewing on her lip. “Mom?”

  There’s no answer, and Cheryl caps her lipstick, turning. Hmm.

  “Mother,” she calls, singsong. “Please don’t ignore me. You know it irritates me so.”

  The lights cut out.

  Cheryl groans. This is the only part about these bathrooms she hates: these stupid motion-sensor lights her father insisted they have installed, even though they frequently cut out like this and take an annoying amount of effort to activate again.

  She reaches up as high as she can and waves her hand through the sensor’s beam, and it takes almost fifteen seconds for her movement to register and the lights to flash back on.

  When they do, the last stall door is open. Cheryl blinks. “Mom?”

  Bony fingers grab her from behind, and Cheryl jumps, an i
nvoluntary scream escaping her. “Mom!”

  She is pulled, panicked, to face her assailant. But the woman in front of her isn’t Cheryl’s mother—not as she knows her.

  It’s clear in an instant. She looks almost like normal—an older Cheryl, her hair a shade or two darker and twisted into an elegant chignon, lines around her heavily mascaraed eyes.

  Her red eyes.

  “Cheryl, mon amour.” Her mother smiles, her eyes almost but not quite focused on her daughter’s face. “I’ve been waiting for you. Join me, won’t you? Join me, Cheryl.”

  Her grip is so strong that Cheryl isn’t sure she’ll be able to pull herself out of her mother’s grasp. It’s started, she realizes. There, on her mom’s neck, are two deep red bloody smears, and her mother’s eyes, the teeth that seem to be growing, elongating, right before Cheryl’s eyes—

  It’s already happening.

  Cheryl’s fight-or-flight response kicks in. I have to let Veronica know is all she can think. They won’t be prepared for this. I have to let her know, or else—

  Her mother’s teeth gnash dangerously close to Cheryl’s face, and she pulls away while at the same time she’s searching among the folds of her dress for the weapon she’s brought for this exact occasion. She finds it, pulls it free, but her mother yanks her forward and the stake slips from her hand.

  “The world is not what you think,” her mother hisses. “Come with me and I can show you, Cheryl.”

  “Come with you? In your nightmares, maybe.” Cheryl wrenches herself backward, freeing herself, and where is it, where is it—

  She spots the stake underneath the chaise longue. Cheryl throws herself on the floor, stretching an arm beneath the stuffed lounger, and she gasps in pain as nails rip at her ankle.

  A little farther, she thinks, reaching, reaching. Just a little farther—

  And then the lights cut out.

  THEY PULL UP to the hotel in Betty’s car.

  The parking lot is almost full, and the hotel is lit like a beacon in the night.

  “Okay.” Veronica looks to Betty, to Dilton, to Archie, all watching her somewhat reverently.

  She gets that feeling like she had before, when Cheryl kept saying Veronica had saved her life. Like there’s too much responsibility weighing on her and she’s not sure she’s equipped to carry it.

  But she forges on, regardless. “We got this,” she says, keeping her voice steady. “No surprises, no mistakes. My father’s going to be in there, and Theodore won’t be far. So all we have to do is find him without my parents seeing us and letting Theodore know we’re here.” She grits her teeth. “I’ve tried to get him twice and failed both times. I’m not failing again. Everybody in?”

  Her friends nod, even Betty, although she looks worried, and Veronica lets out a slow, steadying exhale.

  It’s Kill-Theodore-O’Clock.

  They exit the car, slamming the doors in synchronized symphony. Veronica leads the pack, striding up to the hotel entrance.

  As she passes under the floral arch, something in the air changes. She feels it, like a physical shift around her. What—

  “Whoa.” Betty comes to a stop, holding her hands out. “Do you feel that?”

  Veronica looks at her feet. No: at the ground beneath them.

  It’s vibrating.

  A hum of energy.

  “What is that?” She looks up, over at Dilton. “Is it some kind of power source, or surge, or something?”

  Out of the corner of her eye she sees Archie shift his weight, dropping back like he does when he’s about to throw a Hail Mary pass. “Not a power surge,” he says grimly, and Veronica whips around to follow his gaze, looking back through the hotel.

  Her mouth opens wide. “Holy—”

  Because there, up ahead, is a tidal wave of people running through the lobby. Gowns are flying, ties are ripped free, and the panic is palpable. “We’re too—”

  Veronica stops. We’re too late, she was going to say. Her father and Theodore have already started, and this is the fear frenzy pushing people to escape.

  But something about them makes her pause. They’re running, yes, but it sounds wrong. Too—even, somehow.

  And they’re panicking, but the only noise is the pounding of their feet. No screams, no yells.

  On second look, she sees it.

  Those gowns, those fancy suits, they’re streaked and stained with red.

  Yes, they are too late. Much, much too late.

  Veronica takes this all in in a split second, and then she rips a stake from the holster at her thigh. “Ever faced down a raging vampire mob?” she says, as if it’s anything but a stupid rhetorical question. “Well! Today’s your lucky day!”

  Then Veronica darts forward, into the fray.

  DON’T PANIC, DON’T panic, don’t panic.

  That’s all Betty can think as she watches Veronica sprint into the melee. But she can’t move, even though she knows she should go after her.

  It’s not until Archie yanks at her that Betty unfreezes. “Come on!” he yells. “We need to stick with her.”

  Archie begins to run and Betty follows, Dilton just ahead of them. Veronica’s farther away, but when the first of the turned gala guests near her, she slows.

  “We gotta catch up to her!” Dilton calls over his shoulder. “We can’t stop her dad turning people now, so we need to focus on getting to Theodore. She has to kill him; it’s the only way we’ll get out of this alive!”

  And it’s the only way Veronica can get her humanity back, too, Betty knows.

  She puts on a burst of speed and passes Dilton, skids to a stop beside Veronica. “V!”

  Then Dilton jumps in front of them, and not a second too soon, because the first of the pack is on them. Dilton flings something out—holy water, Betty realizes as she watches it arc through the air and land on the vampires, who howl in pain.

  “We’ll make a shield!” he says. “Carve a path for Veronica through all of this.”

  “Put your cross up, Betty.” Archie thrusts a piece of the heavy silver into her hands, and when Betty lifts it, the vampire closest to her shrinks back. Then they begin to move as one, a protective barrier making their way through the mess.

  “This is bad, Betty,” Veronica says. She’s gripping a stake in her left hand and staring dead ahead at the vampires as they move. “He knows we’re here. He’s sending them after us to slow us down, to stop us.”

  “We’re gonna get you through,” Betty says, brandishing her cross again. Another vampire falls back, but this one doesn’t take its eyes off Betty.

  It’s Mayor McCoy, Betty realizes as Dilton calls back.

  “Keep around Veronica,” he orders. “It’s working! They won’t get too close, as long as we keep moving.”

  Veronica points ahead. “The ballroom,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  Betty swallows, her eyes following Mayor McCoy’s red ones as the four of them set into a run now, albeit a slow one. There must be at least two hundred people here, maybe two fifty. No, not people, Betty thinks. Vampires.

  Mayor McCoy’s usually pleasant smile twisted into a snarl is imprinted on Betty’s eyes, but she follows behind Veronica, her best friend powering forward in her vertiginous heels. For the most part, their three-point shield works; when the moroi see the silver of the crosses, they hiss and turn away, their anger palpable. But some of them push through anyway, grabbing for Veronica, or yanking on Betty’s ponytail, snatching at Dilton at the head of them.

  Archie darts around, knocking hands back, punching the fighters away.

  When a foot trips Betty, she yelps, but Archie’s busy defending Dilton, and Betty’s on her own. She flips onto her back, staring up at the mouth gaping wide above her. She brandishes the cross, but the moroi barely flinches. Stake, she thinks, hit them right in the heart.

  But when she reaches for her weapon, her hand knocks against more cold metal.

  Her knives.

  Betty had almost forgotten them
, her gifts from Veronica, now tucked inside the lining of her dress.

  No time to think; she slips her hand inside her dress and pulls out one of the knives, driving it upward right as the vampire before her lunges for her throat.

  The blade explodes up into the vampire’s soft palate, and Betty gags. The knife sticks there, and she scrambles to her feet as the vampire grapples for the invading foreign object, blood pouring down its chin.

  “Sorry,” Betty pants, but not to this vampire. To Veronica, really, because she’s pretty sure she’s not getting that knife back.

  “Almost there!” When Veronica calls, Betty looks, and she sees them ahead of her, almost to the ballroom. She breaks into a run and catches up to them just as Dilton bursts through the double-height doors.

  “We’ve gotta close them!” Betty says as she slides through, the last of them. “We need a barricade, something, just—”

  The boys are already on it, and Betty begins to stack the chairs they’re sliding in her direction up against the doors. “We can hold them off,” Betty says. “Then we’ll—”

  A single, gunshot-loud clap cuts her off.

  Betty’s head snaps in the direction of the sound, as do the others’.

  In the center of the ballroom, on the black-and-white-patterned dance floor, is Hiram Lodge.

  Veronica stands tall, stake in her hand. “Daddy?”

  “DADDY?”

  He barely raises his head when Veronica calls to him. When his eyes focus on her—well, they don’t. They stare right through her, like she’s not even there.

  “Daddy,” she says, taking a step forward. He’s holding on to something, someone—a woman Veronica recognizes from various Lodge Enterprises events. The woman’s eyes are rolled so far back in her head that only white is visible, and the way she drapes across her father’s arm—