On the Hunt (39 page)

“Hello, Nina.”

I spun in my chair just in time to see the hungry sparkle in Wendi’s eyes and her Cheshire-cat grin. Her fangs were still smallish, but they were sharp and she was ready. She sprang and I dodged her. She moved quickly but was still unsure of her power, so her half-second hesitation was more than enough time for me to step aside, grab her by the back of her head, and ram her lovely model face into my desk. She howled, immediately learned from her error, and twisted from me and on me. I stumbled backward, shocked by Wendi’s strength, when her hands closed around my neck, her thumbs pushing against my windpipe. She was fully on top of me and paid back my smashing of her face by repeatedly slamming the back of my head into the blond hardwood.

Unless we’ve eaten recently, vampires are impervious to pain. Unfortunately, I wasn’t one to starve, so Wendi’s bongo-drumming of my head was causing me quite a bit of discomfort.

But the fact that the incessant shaking was also ruining my hair was pissing me off more.

I spun and we changed positions, my hands on her neck. Much to my pleasure, she winced. She had just eaten, too.

“Why are you doing this?” I hissed at Stringy Supermodel.

She grinned again and stared directly into my eyes. “You fired me.”

I pulled my hands from her neck and sat back on her chest. “Not this, this. I pretty much get this,” I said, gesturing from her to me. “I mean overall. Why Allison? Why Rose?”

Wendi dragged her tongue over her lip and I could see the faint tint of bloodred still there. “She told me to.”

“She who?”

But Wendi furiously bucked and I toppled right off her, taking a long, hard slide across the room and crashing into my sewing table. The leg wobbled once before it split down the center, and my sewing machine—dress still locked under the presser foot and pinned down by a European 110 needle—came raining down on me. I was blinded by layers of black linen gauze, pinned underneath them by the weight of my Singer.

“Whore!” I screamed.

“Hack!” she barked.

I felt Wendi’s fingers tear through my tent of dress and close around a handful of my hair. She yanked and my scalp felt like it was on fire. I let her pull me and used her own strength to come at her, walloping her squarely in the chest. I heard the “oof ” as she hit the floor and I leapt over her, diving for the door. I was on my belly, just about to reach up for the knob when I saw the flash of silver. By the time I looked over my shoulder, Wendi had plunged my shears deep into my calf. We both watched, momentarily mesmerized by the deep red blood that pooled around the blades that stuck straight up from my flesh.

I could see the hunger. I could practically see her mouth watering. She paused and bent, fingers outstretched, reaching for the bubble of blood. I let her get close, then kicked as hard as I could. Wendi took a Louboutin to the temple and flopped backward unceremoniously.

Intellectually, I knew that I should stake Wendi with the splintered wooden leg of my desk, or at the very least secure her in one of the wardrobes. But it was T minus ten hours until Fashion Week and I was already late for the gala, and my Cinderella brain took over. I reached over Wendi and snatched my dress from my toppled sewing machine, blocking out the loud rip the fabric made as I pulled it, and yanked it over my head. I worked off the clothes I was wearing while simultaneously straightening the dress and taking the stairs two at a time—I can do things like that, I’m a vampire.

And because I’m a vampire, certain things
shouldn’t
have been happening: Large chunks of my hair shouldn’t have been coming out in my hands as I tried to work what remained into some semblance of a topknot or chignon. My nose shouldn’t have been bleeding and the vision in my left eye shouldn’t have been growing blurrier by the minute as the skin around it swelled. Of course, when one has fresh blood coursing through their veins, one is subject to the wounds of humanity—it doesn’t even matter if the blood is yours or not.

I still made it into my clothes and down six blocks in record time, rounding the corner just in time to slow to a demure trot and toss a smile at Pike.

He was dressed in his very sexy deconstructed tuxedo, holding a glass of champagne and lounging on the steps of the Met. With the slice of yellow light from the party inside reflecting out on him, he looked a scene right out of a romcom—and there I was, his lovely Cinderella, rushing toward him, jumping into my perfect heels.

Pike stood when he saw me, and I expected him to greet me with open arms, because I lived with my ex-roommate and best friend Sophie Lawson too long, and she lived the majority of her life in romance vignettes and
Lifetime
movies.

Apparently, it had rubbed off on me.

“I thought you said thirty minutes,” Pike said, his tone annoyed.

I stopped, my mouth dropping open. “Seriously? That’s how you greet me? Look at me!”

“There’s a hole in your dress. There’s a lot of holes in your dress. Is it supposed to be like that? I’m not saying that it’s not nice . . .”

“Pike!” I stepped into the light and Pike’s eyes widened.

“Oh my Lord, Nina, what happened to you?”

I pressed my fingers to my sore eye and thankfully felt that it had stopped swelling. “Wendi. Wendi came into my studio and attacked me.” I looked down at my dress and felt a lump in my throat. “And she ruined my dress.”

That made the edges of Pike’s lips twitch into a smile that he fought. I should have been mad, but the reality of the day finally hit me and I realized how exhausted I really was.

“What happened to Wendi?”

“I locked her in the studio.”

“Is that going to hold her?”

“It’ll do.” I grabbed Pike’s arm. “Besides, I have to make an appearance.”

“Baby, please. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you’ve gone through a wood chipper.”

I paused. “Take off your jacket.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take it off.”

Pike did as he was told and I proceeded to rip the sleeves and pockets off and slid into it, using a length of linen gauze that was currently hanging in a sad loop around my ankles to secure it at the waist.

I undid my topknot and brushed through my hair with my fingers, glad to feel that the new hair was already growing in. “How’s my face?” I asked.

“Beautiful. Your black eye is already going down.” He pulled a hankie from his back pocket and wiped the tiny trickle of blood from my nose, his other hand gently cradling my chin. “That whole vampire super-healing thing is pretty cool.”

“Yeah, well, you can fly.” I smiled. “We’re just going to go in and make an appearance, then we can go back for Wendi and make her talk.”

“You didn’t ask who her sire was when you were with her?”

I narrowed my eyes. “It wasn’t exactly a tea party.” I stomped in front of Pike, who grabbed the back of my dress, leaned over, and yanked the shears from the back of my leg.

“I think you might want to consider giving up your accessory line.”

As expected, the incredible works of art all around us were wholly ignored by the influx of coifed celebrities, fashion powerhouses, and models. Everyone fluttered around each other with champagne in their hands and benign smiles pasted on their faces, moving fast enough to not look static but slow enough so that each attendee could be scrutinized and, hopefully, idolized for their fashion choices and daring hairstyles. I immediately felt myself straighten, throw my shoulders back, and pop my statuesque stance, doing all three quickly enough so that people could take me in, but not have enough time to take my picture. Pike played the perfect counterpart, his hand moving to the small of my back, the sensation from the simple move sending shock waves through my body. I tried to quash down the inappropriate sexual feelings as we made our way through the crowd, smiling and nodding and nodding and smiling. Pike rescued two glasses of champagne, handed me one. He leaned in, his lips next to my ear.

“So what exactly are we supposed to be doing here?”

“We’ll split up and do a quick go round the room. You keep your eye out for Rose.”

“And if I find her, I take her by any means necessary?” His eyes raked over me, over the slices and tears in my dress and, presumably, the eye that just a few seconds ago was in danger of swelling shut.

“How about just corralling her by any means necessary?”

“And what exactly are you going to be doing while I’m fighting the good fight?” Pike asked, finishing his champagne and taking mine.

“I’m going to sniff out this super-new mystery fashion designer.”

He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “I thought the whole stopping supermodel vampire thing was ‘our’ responsibility. And when I say our”—he made finger quotes—“I mean
your
.”

“You know as well as I do that this mystery designer”—I made the obnoxious finger quotes right back to Pike—“is likely Wendi’s sire. Or possibly. At least the timing is right.”

“So you do think so.”

I cut my eyes, taking in the assembled group. “It’s a possibility. Think about it—the killings started at right about the same time that designers started coming into town.”

“But you said he had no motive. Why would he pick off his own models?”

I knew that whatever I said about the sire’s motives would reflect back on me, but life and afterlife was on the line, so I didn’t have time to be coy.

“A vampire—especially one who sires—doesn’t need a motive. It’s about hunger, want. Sometimes need. Sometimes nothing. A vampire sees something she likes, she takes it.”

Pike held my eyes for a beat; I’m not sure if the intensity exchanged in that three-second glance was based on the sexual prowess of a vampire taking what she wants or based on the realization laid in front of him that I was no different from the sire.

I was a being moved by hunger. By want. And I was ashamed.

Pike stepped closer to me, his hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently. “We are all beings moved by hunger, Nina. We’re all moved by want.”

In a heartbeat the distance between us was closed and my mouth was on Pike’s, my lips pressing hard against his until he gave in, his mouth opening slightly. My body shattered against his and his arms slid from my shoulders until he was holding me against him.

“Geez, get a room, you two.”

We pulled apart, the electricity between us waning, turning into a dim anger when I saw Vlad, dressed in the finest they had to offer in 1875, his arm around Celeste’s dainty waist. She was a vision in a vintage whisper-pink Givenchy gown, her long locks brushed into a lovely side chignon that seemed to accentuate her enormous doe eyes.

“‘Get a room’?” I hissed. “You couldn’t come up with anything original in your century or so?”

Vlad’s eyes widened and I realized that we were in the presence of a breather. There was just something about Celeste that made me forget that.... A niggling suspicion traveled up my spine and I wondered why I hadn’t felt it before. Celeste must have noticed my scrutiny as she backed away a step, half hiding herself behind Vlad’s ridiculous cape.

Sadly for me, his cape and her hint of 1930s glamour worked and heads were turning to stare at them. I cleared my throat, shook off the delicious taste of Pike, and took control.

“Celeste, you were in an Under the Hem gown. Do you know who the designer is?”

She shook her head. “No. The dresses just showed up on our racks. I was supposed to wear one tonight, but Vlad told me I shouldn’t.”

“Did you call Sophie, Vlad? Did you find anything out?”

“Well, you know how fashion forward Sophie is. . . .”

As I mentioned, Sophie Lawson is my former roommate, my very best friend, the other woman Vlad openly sponges from, and she has the fashion prowess of a spinster librarian crossed with a Mennonite. Maybe I didn’t mention that last part.

“I checked in with her, but she obviously didn’t know anything, so I set Lorraine to work on it.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it again when Vlad held up his phone and continued. “She’s calling me back.”

“Okay. I’m going to see if I can get any information on Under the Hem, you guys keep your eyes out for Rose.”

Celeste’s eyebrows went up. “I heard about Rose on the news. Isn’t she—”

My cheeks burned, Vlad’s eyes went round, and Pike’s mouth dropped open just the tiniest bit. “A different Rose,” the three of us lied in unison.

Celeste nodded and Vlad steered her away, depositing her at the bar. Pike went the opposite way, moving into his charming stealth mode, shaking hands and grinning, moving quickly through the crowd. I went directly through the middle.

If I hadn’t had so much on my mind—Wendi, Rose, Under the Hem, getting my own designs done—I would have been paying more attention to the lovely dresses swishing by me and to the crowd through whom I was jostling. I would have noticed that two models slipped right by me. I would have noticed that there was a short, roundish woman directly on their tail.

I would have noticed when she turned and stared at me that she was a vampire.

I continued twirling through the crowd, listening in on snippets and bits of conversation. The identity of the Under the Hem designer was the center of at least every other conversation, but everyone seemed to know just as little as I did—supersecretive, from San Francisco. One man was assuring the women that he entertained that the Under the Hem designer was in fact a man and that they were exceptionally tight. I leaned in until I heard the girls twitter and giggle when the speaker invited each of the ladies back to his suite to see some of the sketches his “buddy” had loaned him. No designer in his right mind would loan sketches to a buddy with a comb-over and a set of brand-new blue-white veneers that made his mouth look so unattractively horse-like.

“Um, Ms. LaShay?”

The woman was right behind me, wriggling her way between a statuesque blonde starlet and her slightly sweaty manager.

“I’m Sasha.”

There was something vaguely familiar about Sasha. She was about my height, but the enormity of her stuffed-in-her-dress breasts threw it off. And she was wearing Wendi’s “it” Under the Hem dress.

Slight alterations had been made—a hemline dropped, a slight curve to the bodice to scaffold her ample cleavage—but it was definitely
the
dress.

I pointed. “Where did you get that dress?”

The woman grinned ear to ear. “Do you like it? It’s an original design.”

“I know, by Under the Hem.”

Sasha’s face clouded, the anger evident in her snarled lip. “No,
not
by Under the Hem. By me, Sasha Pierce.”

“You’re the Under the Hem designer?”

Sasha bristled. “No. Under the Hem doesn’t exist. These are my dresses, all of them.”

I had heard the spiel before. There was always someone with a fistful of drawings claiming that their “originals” had been scooped by the bigwigs. Don’t believe me? Google conspiracy theories and click on fashion. It’s there.

I was initially curious how she was able to get her hands on a dress so shockingly similar to the original, but then I remembered the leaked photograph and realized that any detail-oriented nutter could probably whip out a decent facsimile given some time.

“I would love to talk to you about some design ideas that I have.” Sasha went for her pocketbook. “I even have some photographs I’d like to show you.”

I pasted on a quick, appeasing smile. “I’m so sorry, miss. I would love to see your designs and help you out, but now isn’t the time.”

I whirled on my heel and caught Vlad out of the corner of my eye. He was clear across the room, beckoning to me with wide, manic eyes. I tried to make my way through the crowd, but in the span of ten seconds it seemed to swell and double in size, bodies going shoulder to shoulder and wall to wall. I tried to look for Pike, but he was swallowed up as well, and I could feel a strange sense of panic edging up my spine.

And then the lights went out.

There were a few halfhearted screams and a ripple of laughter before the lights flared up again and the music pulsed so hard I could feel it in my chest. I saw Pike zigzag through the crowd and wrap a protective arm around me.

“What’s going on?” His lips were at my ear and yet I could barely hear him.

I shook my head and glanced around when I was hit with a waft of ice-cold air—it was Vlad and Celeste and, directly behind Vlad, Sasha. Her eyes were narrowed and a beady ice blue; I couldn’t tell if the disdain in them was aimed at me or the impromptu runway that popped up with the lights.

I gaped when the first model came out. She stomped down the makeshift runway with the sure, confident gait of a seasoned professional, the unaffected expression on her face precise for haute couture and for the mid-thigh-length dress she was wearing. It was an Under the Hem design.

Vlad’s hand was on mine, tugging at me. I could see his lips move but couldn’t hear a thing over the pulsing bass and the roar of cheers that went up with the second model. Another Under the Hem dress, another design so stunning it was breathtaking. Vlad shook me hard and started to sign, pointing to his phone and furiously mouthing something that looked like “leave.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the door and saw Sasha. She was incensed. Practically panting. Her hands were clawed and then fisted.

I knew what I’d missed. I knew why the air around Vlad was so exceptionally cold.

Sasha was a vampire.

She dove over us with lightning speed and clobbered the third model just as she burst from the curtain. I thought she was going for the poor girl’s neck, but she went directly for the dress. A vampire who overthrew blood for fashion was like a we-have-no-soul mate, and I warmed to her, instinctively holding Pike and Vlad back with my arms.

It was a woman so moved by couture she felt the need to act. It was beautiful.

“These are my designs!” Sasha screamed in an earsplitting screech. “Mine! You’re
my
models!”

The girl underneath her was clearly terrified by the woman holding fistfuls of her wardrobe—especially when that woman turned as if just noticing she was in front of a packed house, and the glint of one pointed incisor flashed under the stage lights.

“I’ll rip out your throat!”

Maybe it wasn’t beautiful, after all.

Vlad, Pike, and I acted in unison, Vlad shuffling the other startled models offstage, Pike surprising Sasha and yanking her off the model. Sasha was still clawing and grabbing at air, still hysterical. Finally her eyes focused on me and she stopped flailing so hard.

“You! You should be as angry as I am! We were supposed to be fashion legends! We were supposed to rule the industry! We would have had a team of perfect models who never aged, never changed, never gained or lost an ounce. We would be in complete control!”

Her arms flopped down by her sides and I noticed the pin she had used to gather the bodice of the reconditioned dress: It was a single, pink, sparkly high heel.

“You’re Fashion Fish?”

She grinned a weird, maniacal grin. “The pulse of the fashion industry. Don’t you see? I was setting it all up for us. Your designs would be the darlings and then mine. We would have the fashion rivalry to end all rivalries, but we would be partners.” She dragged her tongue over her teeth. “Forever.”

I was reeling and ready to tell this big-breasted, supermodel-vampire-creating hack that just because we shared the same orthodontia, we were never going to be partners when Sasha snapped her head toward the curtain and hissed, “But then he came along and ruined everything.”

“Oh, good God.”

Peeking out from behind the curtain at just about hip level were two beady yellow eyes I would recognize most places and a stench I could never forget. The curtain swished open and Vlad ran out, effectively blocking the tiny-eyed guy.

“Steve is behind Under the Hem!”

Steve, a three-foot-tall troll who smelled like the most unholy combination of blue cheese and feet, proudly stepped out—only after making sure that Pike still had a secure hold on Sasha.

Steve was a San Francisco native and did contract work for the Underworld Detection Agency—none of it fashion related. The bulk of his fashion sense came from doing his smarmy best to look up the skirts—oh, “Under the Hem,” ew—of every lady he ran into, most notably mine and Sophie Lawson’s. He was sleazy, sex starved, and annoying, and the apple of his yellow-tinged eye had always been Sophie—until he met Sasha.

“You were a paramedic, weren’t you?” I gaped.

Sasha nodded, anger and hate lining her face as she glared at Steve. “That was only supposed to be until I made it big in the fashion world. But then I met Steve. . . .”

Steve apparently didn’t care or didn’t know that he was
thisclose
to being torn limb from moss-covered limb by a busty, irate vampire.

“Shouldn’t we not talk about this here?” Pike cut his eyes to the crowd, who were desperately focused on the exchange going on. Luckily for us, our voices were lost in the bump of the music; luckily for them, the preternatural veil only allowed them to see four full-sized humans and one half-sized one having a very passionate conversation. Even so, someone must have called the police, because the sirens were already upon us and there was Detective Moyer, looking like a Lego cop amongst the sea of statuesque beauties dressed to the nines. He beelined directly for me and clamped a clammy hand on my wrist.

“What are you doing?” I yelled, trying to pull away. “She’s the one you want. She’s the crazy one!” I jabbed a finger toward Sasha, and Moyer took his sweet time looking over at her. He didn’t take his hand off my wrist, though.

“I got a call that someone attacked a supermodel, and you know what they say, if it sounds like horses, don’t go looking for zebras.”

“I don’t even know what that means but it’s her, she’s the one who attacked! She’s the one who killed Wendi, Allison, and Rose!”

Moyer looked to Pike for confirmation and Sasha started to sag. “I was doing it for us,” she breathed.

“We don’t even know each other!” I shot back. “I met you once when we were pulling my best friend from the clutches of a Snuggie-wearing madman.”

The detective’s glance cut back to me and I shook my head, not wanting to give him any more fodder for his report. “It’s not like it sounds.”

Sasha straightened up, her eyes glistening. “Don’t know you? Nina, I’ve followed you and your fashion line since you were working out of your little closet room in San Francisco. You’re a legend. You have been for decades.”

Once again, it wasn’t hard to warm to the misguided vampire. What can I say? Vanity is a LaShay trait.

“I started Fashion Fish for you. I wanted everyone to know your name.”

“So that you could ride on her coattails,” Pike put in.

“On my coattails,” Steve clarified.

“You are not the designer,” Sasha screeched. “I am the designer! You were just supposed to be the face behind the line, the cash behind the line.”

My eyebrows went up and I pointed to Steve. “That was the face you wanted for Under the Hem?”

Steve puffed out his little barrel chest, his stubby gray fingers tugging the lapels of his jacket. He grinned a wide, mostly toothless grin that just made his potato-shaped head look even more misshapen and unattractive. I was waiting for him to smooth down the three mossy hairs that made up his coif, but he didn’t.

“Sorry, Sasha. You and I just don’t share the same idea of what is attractive. Thanks for the shout-out in your blog, though.”

I gave her a finger wave while Pike explained to Moyer what happened. Apparently, Pike had a great deal more credibility because two other officers flanked the detective while he put Sasha in handcuffs. I slumped down in a chair in the makeshift “backstage” area and let out a long sigh. My phone did its little ping thing, and there the icon was again, letting me know that I was mere hours away from my debut. I had no clothing, no models, no hope, but I did help end a sire from taking on the Manhattan fashion world.

It didn’t seem like enough.

Vlad came over and locked me in a rough half hug. “I can’t believe you want me to move out. We make such a good team.”

I couldn’t help but grin up at my idiot nephew. He kissed me on the top of my head and slipped back into his jacket.

“Where you going?”

Vlad backed toward the door, beckoning for Celeste. She came running over like a doe-eyed spaniel and tucked herself under his arm.

“Is that a sewing kit in your hand, Celeste?”

She nodded. “I’m a really incredible seamstress.”

“We’re headed over to the Fashion District. I hear there’s an amazing fashion line that’s supposed to debut tomorrow, but the designer has been out chasing killers, so she hasn’t been able to finish . . .”

I felt a wash of mist go over my eyes and I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “Really? You guys are going to help?”

Vlad shrugged. “I told you you need me.”

He and Celeste disappeared out the door and Pike walked over.

“Well, it’s over,” he said, pulling another chair and then pulling me into his arms.

I shook my head. “No. We still have to deal with Wendi.” Pike pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “After this, stopping one half-made vampire seems like cake.”

I smiled slightly. “I wonder how she is with a needle and thread.”

“Speaking of sewing, apparently, Sasha thought her plan would go off without a hitch. She figured if she could get the models wearing the dresses on her side—literally, on her side—she could create some sort of undead fashion army to take it over. Then I suppose she thought the two of you would run off into the sunset—”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Into the darkness, and rule the fashion industry by iron fang.”

“Sounds heavenly,” I said, “except for the whole thing about
us
ruling the fashion industry. I work alone.”

Pike narrowed his eyes.

“Sort of.”

“Better,” Pike said, rubbing his thumb over my lip.

I knew there was work to do. I knew that on some level, I should remind Pike that all vampires weren’t the same and all of us didn’t turn into couture killers no matter how gorgeous the gown was. But all I wanted to do was kiss him—so I did.