Читать книгу Dead Is The New Black - Harper Allen - Страница 8

It wasn’t the scene in WCL’s kitchen that night that made me change my mind about buying take-out blood-in-a-bag, it was the realization that if Mr. Bojangles hadn’t butted in when he had during our tussle by the Dumpster, it could have been me chowing down on a rat hors d’oeuvre. I take back what I said about standing in line in a garbage-strewn alleyway being rock bottom—the alternative would have been worse.

Famous last words.

“It’s okay, Joe, she didn’t mean to barge into you like that,” a girl’s voice behind me called after the old man with the shopping cart. “Hey, Mata Hari, wanna move your butt?” The owner of the voice poked me in the ribs as she asked the terse question.

I lowered my sunglasses at her. “Do you have a problem?” I asked coolly.

She jerked her head at the fast-retreating old man. “Besides the fact that you almost knocked down Crazy Joe? Yeah, my problem is that the line’s moving and you aren’t. I don’t particularly want to get in a rumble with a bunch of wannabes who might think it’d be a hoot to cut in ahead of us.”

“Wannabes?” Frowning, I began to close the gap in front of me, only to realize it wasn’t there anymore. To be exact, it had been filled by four black-clad figures standing with their backs to me.

“Great. Just fuckin’ great.” The girl behind me spoke again, her tone bitterly resigned. I turned and studied her in growing irritation. She looked about my age, but that was all we had in common. She was a few inches shorter than my five-seven, and the vintage punk-rock T-shirt and ripped khaki cargos she was wearing didn’t hide her compact toughness. Her hair was white-blond with dark roots, carelessly hacked into short spikes that stood up like two-tone chicken feathers around her head. Her eyes glared green at me.

“You gonna tell them to get outta here or do I have to?” She didn’t bother waiting for my reply, but stepped in front of me, tapping the nearest black-clad shoulder. “Yo, buddy,” she snapped. “Haul your ass to the back of the line and take your friends with you.”

Slowly the four figures turned to face her, moving apart so that they flanked us. Four pairs of red eyes stared menacingly out of four dead-white faces, and when the one whose shoulder had been tapped spoke, his lifted upper lip revealed razor-sharp fangs.

“We need blood,” he said in a low, emotionless voice that seemed too deep for his Ichabod Cranelike frame. He was older than his companions and it was obvious he was their spokes-vamp. “Force us, and we’ll take it from you, human.”

“Slice the bitch, Viktor!” The teenaged vamp beside him had skanky black hair extensions falling nearly to her waist. She carried through her dubious style sense with a black-and-red bustier that showed way too much bobbing cleavage, leather boots climbing halfway up her non-toned thighs and torn fishnet stockings. The whole ensemble was finished off with a Dead and Loving It tattoo inked on her slightly pouchy stomach. If I’d been feeling more charitable I might have taken her aside and suggested she try a few sit-ups or maybe look into Pilates, but her outburst to Viktor had kind of turned me off the feeling-charitable-toward-her thing.

It had turned punk-girl off, too, and from her attitude so far I was guessing she hadn’t had an abundance of charitable feelings in the first place. She flicked a glance at the teen vamp’s soft midriff and shook her head. “Chickie-poo, I’d find it easier to believe you were a dedicated blood-drinker if you weren’t flaunting that burgers-and-shakes tummy at us. Dead and Loving It? I’m Lovin’ It would have been more appropriate.”

“Hey, nobody talks to my girlfriend, Cindy, like that!” The second female vamp had Manic Panic red hair and a smear of black lipstick on one of her fangs. She was dressed like her friend and I realized that their outfits seemed somehow familiar to me, although for the moment I couldn’t think why. She turned to Viktor. “I know you said we weren’t ready to drink from a human source yet, Master, but if you want to, like, slake your thirst with these vermin, please don’t hold back on our unworthy accounts.”

“Speak for yourself, Trudy,” the second male in the group interjected, his red gaze focusing on me. He had a face like a ferret, if ferrets wore lip studs. And tongue studs, I noted with an inner shudder as he gave Viktor a defiant shrug. “I owe you for turning me, dude, but I don’t see why I have to take orders from you forever. Screw lining up for pig’s blood—I’m ready for the real thing. I’ll drain this bitch and leave the blonde to you.” He glanced at punk-girl. “Sorry, babe, but I’m not into dykes.”

“My name’s not babe, it’s Brooklyn,” punk-girl said with a cold smile. “And if you meant the dyke remark as a slam, it wasn’t. I’m here, I’m queer, and damn glad of it when I run into a primo specimen of the male sex like you.” She switched her attention back to Viktor. “Sweet little scam you’re running. I normally wouldn’t care less that you get your rocks off by playing mentor-vamp to the teen goth set, but you and I both know you don’t need what old man Schneider’s selling.” She glanced past Viktor and scowled. “He’s down to the last few bags. I don’t plan on letting a line-jumping imposter screw me out of my daily corpuscle fix, so either walk away politely or I’m going to have to go all Lady Dracula on your ass. What’s it gonna be, waxteeth?”

Now, here’s the thing: I know that as a vamp myself, other bloodsuckers should hold no fear for me. I mean, the whole taboo about us not being able to feed from each other, right? Except I still think of myself as Tashya Crosse, normal American girl, and when I’m confronted by pointy teeth and red eyes my automatic thought processes go something like, a) damn, where’s my stake; b) damn, where’s my Daughter of Lilith sister and c) damn, how fast can I run in these frikkin’ heels. So while I admired her cojones, I wasn’t real happy about Brooklyn throwing down the gauntlet to the hungry-looking Viktor, especially since I was pretty sure she’d gotten one vital detail wrong.

“Uh, Brook?” I said, edging closer to her and speaking out of the side of my mouth. “Not to quibble, but they’re not wax. His teeth, I mean. If they were, the sharp parts would have gone kind of round and melty by now, no? Just a thought,” I added in an undertone.

“Good point, Mata Hari.” She rolled her eyes. “Wax, plastic, whatever, he’s not one of us. Don’t tell me you can’t smell the reek of human coming off him and his pathetic posse.” She took in my blank look and scowled at me—I was beginning to understand that scowling was her default expression. “Pork barbeque, kind of, with maybe a whiff of mesquite? That’s what humans smell like to me, anyway, which might be a partial explanation of why I haven’t let myself feed on them yet. When you’re raised by a Jewish baba as strict as my grandmother, God rest her, you don’t even go for simulated bacon bits on your Caesar salad—and don’t even ask how I justify pig’s blood, because that’s where my dear, departed Baba and I part ways. You really can’t smell them?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Just what kind of vamp are—”

“What you smell can only be your own wretched humanity,” Viktor broke in, “but as tempted as I am to spill your blood in the dust, I will spare your life this time. Restraint is an exquisite lesson to learn, my young friends,” he intoned to Trudy and Cindy and Stud-Tongue. “Watch well and learn how we Dark Ones master our impulses.”

Beside me Brooklyn made a sound that could have been a snort but if Viktor heard, he chose to ignore it—a further demonstration of his iron control, I supposed. He stepped out of line, Trudy and Cindy falling in behind him, although from their pissed-off pouts they weren’t thrilled about their undead leader’s decision. The thought crossed my mind that Brooklyn was the coolest vamp I’d yet met—I mean, come on, the woman had that whole funky, don’t-mess-with-me aura, plus she was gay. Plus she had those minty-green eyes. Plus under the ratty tee she was wearing, her body looked to-die-for buff and…anyway, despite the fact that I didn’t buy her barbeque theory about Viktor being human, I was thinking about how totally cool she was and wondering whether her lips were naturally that Scarlett Johanssonish or if she’d had collagen injections, when something happened that yanked my attention back to the here and now.

Actually, a whole bunch of things happened. But since they all happened at almost the same time, they’re lumped together in my recollection as one big near disaster.

In order, here’s how said near disaster went down. First, Stud-Tongue decided to skip the impulse-controlling lesson Viktor had decided to demonstrate to his pupil-vamps. Second, he lunged at his chosen blood-buffet—little ol’ moi, of course. His maneuver took me by surprise, although not because I was still looking at Brooklyn’s lips. A second earlier I’d wrenched my gaze away from her and was idly scanning the alleyway when a movement in the shadows snagged my attention. I realized that while I’d been staring at Brooklyn, someone else had been staring at me. I caught a glimpse of navy-blue eyes under straight brows, a strong mouth curved with amusement and an incongruous froth of white lace against a dark collar and cuffs. But like I said, right then Stud-Tongue attempted to chow down on my neck, diverting my attention from Mr. Tall, Dark and Blue-Eyed lurking in the shadows.

Brooklyn later told me I’d moved so fast that I’d actually blurred. Then she frowned and said it was more like I’d been in one place one moment and in a totally different one the next, like Sonny Chiba in The Street Fighter’s Last Revenge, her all-time favorite kung-fu movie. After she dragged me to see The Street Fighter’s Last Revenge one night, I asked her if my mouth had moved independently from the words that had come out of it, also like in TSFLR, and she said no, but that was probably because I was absolutely silent throughout the whole encounter with Stud-Tongue.

“Silent and expressionless,” she added, looking away from me. And my eyes had been black, empty holes.

Obviously if I’d known any of that at the time it would have creeped me out, but I didn’t. In fact, I don’t recall thinking anything in the split second that it took for me to nearly kill Stud-Tongue. All I remember is that I seemed to be looking at the scene that was unfolding as if I was watching through a blood-smeared window. I saw the sleeve of my trench coat slide through a dark-red fog, saw my own fingers close around Stud-Tongue’s neck, saw the triumph in his eyes turn to terror. The red stain obscuring my vision darkened to black and my focus narrowed in on the throbbing vein under my pressing thumb.

It beat like a heart. I could hear blood surging through it like ocean waves rising and falling onto wet, black sand. I felt an answering surge come from deep inside me, and as I brought my mouth to that hypnotically pulsing vein and bared my lengthening fangs, the hunger I’d pushed back earlier that evening came roaring back, stronger than ever.

The tips of my fangs pierced flesh. I began to drive them in deeper, anticipating the hotly orgasmic rush of blood flooding into my mouth.

And then I was flat on my back on the pavement, my jaw feeling as if it had been broken and a solid weight bearing down on me. “Leash it!” Brooklyn snarled, bending forward from her squatting position on my chest and thrusting her face into mine. “You’re here tonight for the same reason we all are—because you’re trying to fight the hunger. Not that I care about this scumbag, but he’s not worth losing your soul over! Besides, the freakin’ Daughter sometimes patrols this area. I hear she’s inclined to stake first and ask questions after, so unless you want a hunk of wood through your heart, you’d better get a grip, Mata Hari!”

Her warning wasn’t necessary. The pain from her roundhouse punch to my jaw had broken through the red fog that had surrounded me. Shaking my head to clear it, I saw Stud-Tongue and Viktor and the two females rapidly take their leave and suddenly realized why Trudy and Cindy’s outfits had seemed familiar.

“Omigod, they’re bad Zena clones,” I muttered. “The bustiers, the fishnets—they’re practically channeling the bitch. What’s that about?”

“Who cares,” Brooklyn said impatiently. “All I want to know is whether your hunger’s abated. If you lose control—”

“Since her death at the hands of the Darkheart Daughter, the Russian Queen Vampyr has become somewhat of a legend, madam. A dark legend, to be sure, but the foolish can be indiscriminate in their emulation. May I help you to your feet?”

In the dust and dirt of the alleyway, the riding boots standing a few inches away from me looked out of place. They were black leather, polished to a mirrored gleam. Still lying on my back, I let my gaze travel upward past the boots, past the dark blue trousers that rose out of them, past the militarycut blue sleeve extended gallantly toward me, lace spilling from its cuff.

Two words: Yum. Yes, that’s just one word, but I said it twice, as in yum, yum. And I’m not sure I didn’t say it out loud.

You know those nights when you’re lying in bed not sleeping because you just had a fight with your boyfriend and you’re thinking all men are jerks? And you decide that if you’d been given the job, you totally could have created a better male sex and you start imagining what that perfect man would be like? And a little later when you’ve got a clear picture of your perfect-man creation in your mind—for some reason mine always ends up looking slightly Hugh Jackman-y—you kind of glance sideways at the nightstand beside your bed and without really meaning to, you find yourself opening the drawer and reaching for Mr. Love-Bunny, into whom you just put fresh batteries a couple of days ago…

All right, I’m back, and if you’re not I’m going on without you. My point is that Mr. Tall, Dark and Blue-Eyed was even better than any perfect man I’d ever imagined…although he did kind of have the Hugh Jackman thing going on, especially around his mouth. A strand of black hair grazed the straight, dark eyebrows I’d noticed earlier and brushed against thick, spiky lashes I hadn’t noticed in my brief glance before Stud-Tongue had embarked on his short-lived career as a working vamp. The aforementioned mouth was chiseled and lush at the same time, and just looking at his lips made me want to bite them—not in a fang-girl way but in a nipping-at-them-in-between-getting-kissed-by-them way. Right now they were smiling at me, revealing a gleam of white teeth that seemed dazzling in the shadows of the alleyway.

“My friend doesn’t need your help, thanks.” Brooklyn yanked me up by my wrist as she rose and brought her face to mine. “Sorry about hauling off and slugging you the way I did, Mata Hari,” she said in the softest tone I’d heard her use so far.

I winced as her fingertips gently touched my jawline. “Um, ow,” I said on an indrawn breath. “And since we went straight to the hauling off and slugging phase in our relationship, we bypassed the hi, my name is Tashya part, so, hi, my name’s Tashya.”

“Hi, Tashya. Mine’s Brooklyn Steinberg.” The corners of her mouth quirked sexily upward as she stepped back. “But I’m not sure Mata Hari didn’t go better with the whole incognito trench coat and wig look you’ve got going on there. By the way, you might want to straighten that happenin’ First Lady hairdo before the bangs end up at the back of your head.”

I’d forgotten about the damn wig, but now she’d reminded me I realized I might as well ditch it. I’d only worn the thing in an attempt to keep a low profile, and if trying to rip Stud-Tongue’s jugular out hadn’t turned that into an impossibility, being on the receiving end of a girl-on-girl smackdown certainly had. I pulled off my brunette bob and shook out my own curls, going for a slow-mo shampoo-advertisement effect as I turned to include Mr.Tall, Dark Etc. in our little social circle—merely out of common courtesy, of course, and not for any less admirable reason like wanting to put the moves on him.

“So you think Trudy and Cindy were dressed the way they were because they’re members in good standing of the local Zena-Skank-Mistress-of-the-Universe fan club?” I shook my head again just in case he hadn’t caught the full effect the first time. “How do you explain the fangs and the red eyes?”

“Wax, like I told you, and the eyes were colored contacts. The line’s moving, Tash,” Brooklyn broke in. She directed a cold look at our companion. “I could go into a whole riff on the fact that for someone who’s doing a Queer-Eye on other people’s clothes you’re wearing a pretty weird-ass outfit yourself, stranger, but instead I’ll just tell you what I told Vik-baby—move it or lose it.”

“My apologies for putting you in the position of not having a name by which to address me, madam.” Instead of taking offense at Brooklyn’s brusqueness, he obligingly stepped aside. “Allow me to rectify my omission, ladies. Heath Lockridge, late of the First New York Muskets.” I was concentrating so hard on not going into total meltdown at his adorable English-type way of speaking that I barely took in what he was saying. “Your theory about our hastily departed friends is admirable but wrong, I fear. The cadaverous Viktor is what is called an orthodontist, I understand, recently arrived in town upon the sad demise of his uncle, also a practitioner in the field. I am no expert on the profession, madam, but I have been told ’tis no very great matter for one such as he to outfit himself and other nonimmortals with a set of retractable canines, although he seems to have let his followers believe they received the gift of fangs from his vampyr bite.”

For a moment I forgot to flirt. “Omigod, he must be Dr. Maisel’s nephew. My sis—” I caught myself “—I mean, the local Daughter of Lilith and her Healer sister staked Maisel and his witchy wife after they turned vamp. Not that I was there or anything,” I added hastily as I stepped forward into the spill of illumination coming from the open exit door of a building backing onto the alley.

In the doorway stood a stocky older man wearing a stained butcher’s apron and holding a clear, sealed bag whose contents gleamed ruby in the light. Suddenly nervous, I passed over the twenty-dollar bill Kathy Lehman had advised me was the inflated price Schneider charged for his disgusting product, but as I reached for the bag a wave of nausea swept over me.

“Sorry, lady, but some precautions I haff to take, ja?”

His breath wafting a withering blast of garlic over me, old man Schneider shrugged in heavy unconcern as my fingers closed weakly over the bag. I felt Heath’s grip on my shoulder and took a staggering step away before turning back to wait for Brooklyn, then a different sensation rose up in me. As the hunger flooded through me for the third time that night, I shrugged off Heath’s steadying hand.

“I’m okay,” I said thickly—and if you’re wondering why thickly, all I can say is you try talking when your eye-teeth are in the process of lengthening past your bottom lip. I gave up all pretence of politeness and sunk my canines into the plastic, ripping a jagged hole in one corner. “Just need to take a little nip of the good stuff here—”

“Damn, it’s a setup!”

Brooklyn’s words sent a chill of fear through me, but the hunger overrode all other emotions. I slurped down a mouthful of blood—

Okay, let’s lay down some ground rules here before I go any further. Yes, I know how totally gross that last sentence sounded, and yes, I know there’s no way I can describe the taste or the smell or the exquisite sensations I felt while I was glugging back my happy snack of pig’s blood so that anyone who isn’t a vampire can understand—and by understand I basically mean not toss your cookies at the very thought. So you’re just going to have to take it on faith, the stuff was ambrosia to me. I didn’t even want to waste the part that was trickling down my chin, so as I reluctantly lowered my bag o’blood and met Brooklyn’s alarmed eyes I used the back of my hand to smear the spilled residue toward my mouth.

“Setup?” I looked quickly about, but I couldn’t see anything that might have alerted her. “Who set us up and how?”

Her gaze traveled coldly over me. “Shove the innocent act, Mata Hari, your cover’s blown. You shoulda kept the bad wig on, or at least stayed in the shadows. You’re Natashya Crosse, the sister of the Daughter and the Healer, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, she is, vamp. Wanna make something of it?”

The measured challenge came from behind me. I whirled around, my heart sinking as I saw the two people I least wanted to encounter tonight.

Megan—she was the one who’d spoken—was wearing your basic Daughter of Lilith black and carrying your basic Daughter of Lilith stake. Kat had never bought into the Healer-Nurturing-Soul-Mother look, so she was dressed as she always was, in something slinky and designer and drop-dead sexy. But their expressions as they looked at me were identical, and I suddenly felt like an old wino chugging from a bottle of Woolite.

“Oh, sweetie, no,” Kat said, her husky voice breaking with appalled compassion.

“Dammit, Tash, you told us you were controlling the hunger!” Megan accused.

“They didn’t know you were here tonight?” Brooklyn’s tone lost its edge. She stepped in front of me and whipped out a tissue. “All down your freakin’ chin, babe,” she murmured as she dabbed at my face before turning to my sisters. “She is controlling it, and if you two weren’t such holier-than-thou bitches, you’d realize that,” she snapped.

I didn’t see Megan’s and Kat’s reactions. I was too busy scanning the alleyway for Heath. He’d been beside me only a moment ago, and I hadn’t seen him leave.

But he was gone. And at the far end of the alleyway I saw a bat rise swiftly over the rooftops and disappear.