Fashionably Dead (10 page)

“Call me crazy,” I snapped, “but wouldn’t that have been a good thing to tell me?”

“Little Wienersnitchzel, we did not know you were that powerful yet. It should have taken decades for you to be at such a high level.” The Kev shook his head in confusion.

“Why?” Gemma asked. “There has to be a reason why she can do what she did.”

Pam’s brow furrowed, “I’m not sure. The Angel and Fairy blood have something to do with it, but I have never seen anything like this.”

“What about her sire?” Gemma stood up and started pacing with The Kev.

“My what?” I asked.

“The Vampyre who made you,” Gemma said. Of course Gemma, the supernatural junkie, would know more Vampyre lore and lingo than me.

“That’s it!” The Kev shouted, slapping Gemma’s tush lovingly. She blushed furiously, looking quite pleased with her discovery and The Kev’s love pat.

“You’re right . . . it has to be her maker. She must have been one old and powerful motherfucker. That’s the only way to explain it,” Pam said, relieved to have an explanation. “That, coupled with our blood, has made you the Bionic Vamp.”

“Is it reversible?” I asked hopefully.

“Nope,” The Kev and Pam answered together.

“It will only get stronger,” Pam added.

“Why is her power such a problem?” Gemma asked.

Wait a minute
.
Was she scooting closer to The Kev?

“I’m not a hundred percent sure it is,” Pam said, rummaging through my drawers. “For whatever reason power always ends up being a problem. It will make our Assnoodle a target for Vampyres who will want to use her gift for their own gain, possibly even kill her out of fear. You,” she pointed at me, “are not ready to defend yourself against a Vamp with two hundred or three hundred or even five years of experience.”

“What in the hell is my gift?” I asked.

“Assbutt, I don’t even know. Right now you can transport and throw Fairy Dust, which can freeze or confuse people. Hell, tomorrow you might be able to fly and turn people into toads. It’s anybody’s guess at this point.” Pam shook her head.

Oh my God, this was bad. I did not want to be some crazy powerful Vampyre that would cause other Vamps to want to kick my ass or kill me.

Pam found some lip-gloss and tried it on, checking herself out in the mirror. Clearly unhappy with her choice, she went back to rummaging. “Anyway,” she said, spritzing herself with my expensive French perfume, “you need to lay low. Don’t go to the Cressida House except for your lessons with Venus and don’t offer up any information about last night.”

“What if they ask?” I said.

“Why the fuck would they ask? They don’t know anything about it.” Pam found my nose hair clipper and turned it on.

“True, but what if they do?” I watched in utter disbelief as she stuck my nose hair clipper up her nose. Not only was that disgusting, it was totally unsanitary.

“I’m an Angel, Assface. What do you think? That I’ll tell you to lie? If—and only
if
—they ask, then tell them.”

“Okay,” I snapped, “that’s all I wanted to know.”

Pam rolled her eyes, went back to her nose, and got busy.

Chapter 9

After a lot of consideration, several more human artery lessons, and some life-threatening encouragement from Pam, I finally drank mortal blood.

From Gemma.

To make Pam happy.

And to continue to live another day.

If you asked The Kev, he’d tell you that Gem wasn’t totally mortal. He wasn’t sure what she was, but he was convinced she had “the Magic.” I was convinced he had it bad. I caught The Kev practicing a Michael Jackson medley, crotch grab and all. Ahhh, the lengths a Fairy would go to impress a woman.

If The Kev was correct about Gemma, I still hadn’t had mortal blood. God only knows what secret superpower Gemma’s blood would give me. Magic or mortal, Gemma tasted yummy, just like a best friend should.

“What does it feel like?” I asked, licking the punctures to stop the bleeding and handing her wrist back to her.

“It kind of tickles, in a fuzzy way.”

“Does it feel sexual?”

“No. Does it to you?” Gemma asked, wiping a blood smear from my mouth.

“Not at all.” I lamented the fact that my blood drinking may never be a sexual experience for me, or for anyone else.

Gemma tucked her hair behind her ears and hummed a few bars of ‘
Rock with You’.
“Dude, maybe you just need to suck the right guy to make it all hot and steamy.”

“Possibly,” I agreed, envisioning a beautiful blonde Vampyre with gold eyes and a huge . . .
don’t go there
. I’d been daydreaming about him constantly, about how his lips would feel pressed against mine. I wondered if he really looked that good naked, and I couldn’t get his scent out of my nose. Forget my nose. I couldn’t get him out of my head. He was my every other stinkin’ thought. I was obsessed with Ethan, the Evil Rogue Killer Vampyre. With great effort, I pushed him over to the far left side of my mind. It was useless to lust after someone I’d never see again anyway. I hadn’t told Gemma about him. I knew if I did, she’d latch on like a pit bull and not let go. I hadn’t dated anyone in a while. A long while. According to Gemma, who never lacked for dates, that was a bad thing. Secretly I agreed with her, but outwardly I simply pretended not to care.

I didn’t date much. Apparently all men were losers and only good for one thing. My mother had beaten this nifty little fact into my brain since birth, ensuring I would be wary of the opposite sex. It had worked.

My mother couldn’t bother to remember my father’s name.

My mother’s father had died in Vietnam. By the time she was an adult, she couldn’t be bothered to remember his name either. I knew that hurt my Nana, but my mother was an odd duck, and a cold, unhappy, and very angry woman.

She had a mother who loved her, despite her shortcomings, and a daughter who adored her. A daughter who in adulthood had racked up several thousand hours of therapy, trying to figure out why her mother didn’t love her, along with why she couldn’t maintain a relationship with a man for more than two weeks.

You’d think after that upbringing I’d harbor some extremely nasty feelings for her. I didn’t. I didn’t exactly worship her anymore, but I didn’t hate her. Sadly, I couldn’t ratchet up enough emotion to feel much of anything for her. On the other hand, if I were really honest with myself, unfortunately there was still part of me that thought I could make her love me. Ahhh, those wonderful childhood fantasies.

Gemma held up her other wrist, snapping me out of my walk down dysfunction lane, “Do you want any more?”

“Sure,” I said, hunkering down. Gemma turned the volume back up on my brand new flat screen plasma TV, compliments of the Vampyres at the Aurora and Lucern Houses. In a matter of three hours they had completely repaired my house and brought me all new furniture. I was tempted to invite Muffy and Paris over and let them have at it in my kitchen. I could use some new appliances.

***

Holy hell. I jerked awake trying to figure out where I was. This Vampyre crap was messing with my sleep. What time was it? What in the hell was I doing here? Wait . . . I was home . . . in my bed. I was okay. I had just taken a nap.

I was home in my own bedroom and I’d had the dream.

Again.

Damn that Lady in the Tomb.
She usually only popped into my dreams once a month or once every few months. Now she was popping in every other night. I was getting closer to getting her out of that tomb. I supposed if the dream kept rearing its bizarre head, I’d have her out of there by the end of the week.

I considered going back to sleep, but the movement on my ceiling caught my attention. Rachel, Ross, Honest Abe, and Beyonce were tap dancing. I’d named my monsters. I figured since I’d arrived in Crazytown, I may as well take off my coat and stay a while. It was odd. Out of all the little monsters living on my ceiling, the four of them really stood out. It started slowly with a shy nod and a wave, and then progressed to a full on dance party by day five.

I decided after a week and a half of bonding, and dancing, that they deserved better than just being called ‘monster’. Hence their names, given because of their uncanny resemblance to their historical counterparts. I loved them and they loved me. No one could take them away, not even my mother.

My little ugly babies didn’t eat, poop or bite. They lived on the ceiling and disappeared when anyone else was near. They were my three inch tall bundles of love. They were perfect and they were tremendous dancers. Their tango demonstration last night nearly brought me to tears of laughter. I hadn’t told anyone about them yet. I was afraid they would go away if I revealed their existence. I’d already given up so much. I wouldn’t take the chance of losing my monsters.

They often foreshadowed my evenings ahead. Tonight they were agitated. Very agitated.

They were slapping themselves and making high-pitched clicking sounds, which was like a cross between a cricket on speed and those wind-up teeth that chatter. The sounds were new. The more we interacted the more we could communicate. They loved when I flicked my fingers and shot breezes of Glitter Magic at them. They ate it up. Literally. They ate it, and then they ran around screaming and laughing like little drunks.

Their agitation tonight was unsettling. “I wish you guys could talk,” I muttered, getting dressed. I pulled on a super cool hot pink Juicy sweat suit that hugged my bottom just right and my brand new gold sequined UGG boots. My monsters approved. Their clapping and whistling made me giggle. I bowed. “Thank you, thank . . . ”

“Who in the hell are you talking to?”

“Shit,” I yelled, jerking around and slamming my head on the bed frame so hard I saw stars. “How many times have I told you to knock?” I hissed at Pam, who looked like hell warmed over. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Your mother is here.”

My little monsters screamed bloody murder and disappeared back into the ceiling. I quickly glanced at Pam to see if she’d heard them, but she gave no indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

“Are you sure?” I panicked. I paced my room frantically. I felt my fangs descend and my eyes go green. This was not good.

“Yes,” she replied, equally as panicked.

“Wait.” I stopped. “How do you know it’s my mother?”

“What do I look like to you?” Pam demanded.

“Oprah Winfrey?” I replied, confused by the question.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m an Angel. I know these things,” she yelled.

“Hold. On.” I said with excitement, “Can you see the future?”

“Not down here I can’t,” she muttered, running her hand through her already frightening hair. “My boss . . . that would be GOD to you . . . much to my great disgust gave you imbeciles free will. So even if I could see the future, it can change on a dime because you idiots are as flighty as gnats.”

“But you can see it up there?” I insisted, pointing to Heaven.

“Sometimes,” she carefully replied.

“Did you see any of this before you came down?” I waited.

“Only up until three days ago.” Pam sounded so tired. “Now I occasionally have visions, and I know your mother being here is not a good thing.”

“Can she see you?”

“No. Not if I don’t want her to,” Pam said.

I was shocked, “You mean you can control that?”

“Of course I can, Asswad. I am more powerful than you will ever know. Now suck your fangs up, turn your eyes back to gold, and get your sorry ass down to your kitchen and . . . ”

“Hello, Astrid,” my mother said from my doorway. “Who are you talking to?”

“Shit,” I screamed, slapping my hand over my mouth and lowering my eyelids ‘til they were mere slits. Please God, please God, please God—don’t let her have seen my fangs. I could explain my eyes away as contacts, but there was no way to explain two inch razor sharp fangs.

“That’s a lovely way to greet your mother,” she said as her eyes narrowed. How did she do that? I felt like I was thirteen and got caught looking at naked guys on the Internet.

She tucked her perfectly coiffed hair behind her diamond studded ear and crossed her arms across her perfectly appointed chest. There she stood in her chic summer Chanel suit, pearls and low heeled pumps. Subtle makeup, light perfume and a slight tan. As Pam would say,
absofuckinlutely perfect.

Pam watched my mother’s every move with a look of utter disgust and revulsion. I supposed Nana had filled Pam in on my mother while they were hanging out in Heaven.

My mother was a beautiful untouchable ice queen. She was blonde, fair skinned and had huge violet-blue eyes framed by unnaturally long lashes, high cheekbones and a Cupid ’s bow mouth. She looked crazy young for her age, which I happened to know was forty-six. More often than not, people thought she was my sister. She had me when she was sixteen.

As a child, I often wished she had given me up for adoption, but then I wouldn’t have had my Nana. I’d have gone to hell and back for my Nana. How my Nana spawned such a frozen piece of work is beyond me . . . but she did. My mother’s name was Petra, which was perfect. It meant stone.