Harper Allen - Dead Is The New Black

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.