“There are windows in the room,” she pointed out, “and you were too heavy to get upstairs. I leave you exposed to the sun all day and I definitely don’t get this month’s rent.” She rose, walked closer, and looked me over. “No burns or anything?”
I threw the blanket on the floor and surveyed my body. I was still in the slinky cocktail dress, and the parts of skin that showed looked fine, maybe better than they had before the change. And I felt a helluva lot better than I had the night before, the sluggishness having finally cleared. I was now a healthy bloodsucking vampire. Yay!
“Nah,” I told her, sparing her the internal monologue. “I think I’m good. Thanks.”
Mallory tapped nails against her thigh. “I think we need to spend a little time tonight, you know, checking you out. Figuring out what we’re dealing with, what your needs are. Write down stuff you might need.”
I lifted my brows skeptically. Mallory was brilliant, without a doubt. Case in point: She’d landed the job as an advertising executive at McGettrick-Combs right after college—literally the day after she graduated from Northwestern. Said Mallory: “Mr. McGettrick, I want to work for your firm.” Said grumpy, balls-to-the-wall Alec McGettrick: “Be here at eight a.m. Monday morning.”
But Mallory was an idea person, not a detail person, which was probably why she was so valuable to Alec and crew. For her to suggest that I make a list—well, that just wasn’t typical Mallory.
“You feeling okay, Mal?”
She shrugged. “You’re my best friend. Least I can do.” Mallory cleared her throat, looked blankly at the wall. “That said, the refrigerator is now filled with blood that was delivered before you woke up, and there’s an eight hundred number on the side to order more.” Her mouth twitched, and I could tell she was trying not to laugh.
“Why are you chortling at my food?”
She closed her eyes. “The company that does this vampire delivery thing? It’s called ‘Blood4You.’ Unoriginal much? I mean, they’ve got a captive audience, but still, take your branding seriously, for Christ’s sake. They need a new name, new image, repackaging. . . .” Her eyes glazed over, probably as potential logos and mascots danced in her head to the sound track of the jingle she’d no doubt already conceptualized.
“Never mind,” she finally said, shaking her head as if to clear it. “I’m not at work. In more important news, I bought a leather curtain for your bedroom. It’s huge, so it completely covers the window. That should give you a safe place to crash, although it totally clashes with the decor.” She looked critically around the room. “Such as it is.”
When Mallory moved in, she hadn’t made any changes to the brownstone beyond divvying up bedrooms, stocking the fridge, and adding electronics. So the decor, such as it was, remained Aunt Rose-ish. The woman took her name seriously, and covered virtually every free surface with flowered doilies or throw rugs. Even the wallpaper was dotted with cabbage-sized roses.
“Again, thanks.”
“In case it matters, you were actually sleeping.”
I grinned at her. “You checked?”
“I held a finger under your nose. I didn’t know if you were breathing, or if you just kind of . . . died. Some books say vampires do that, you know, during the day.”
And Mallory, being a student of the occult, would know. If she hadn’t been so well-matched to her job at a Chicago ad agency, she would have dedicated her life to vampires and the like—and that was even before she knew they were real. As it was, she put in the time during her off-hours. And now she had me, her own little in-house vampire pet. Vampet?
“It felt like sleep,” I confirmed, and stood, laying the book on the floor between us and realizing what I was still wearing. “I’ve been in this dress for twenty-four hours. I need an excruciatingly long shower and a change of clothes.”
“Knock yourself out. And don’t use all my conditioner, dead girl.”
I snorted and walked to the stairs. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Because someday you want to be as kick-ass cool as me.”
“Please. You’re a total fang hag.”
Laughter issued from the living room. “We’re going to have some serious fun with this.”
I doubted that, too, but I’d wallowed enough, so I swallowed my doubts and padded upstairs.
I avoided looking at the bathroom mirror just in case, fearful that I’d find no reflection there, but stood beneath the showerhead until the hot water ran out, cherishing the prickles of heat, and thinking about my new . . . existence? Helen had mentioned the basics—stakes, sunlight, blood—but she’d avoided the metaphysics. Who was I? What was I? Soulless? Dead? Undead?
Forcing myself to face at least part of the issue, I brushed a hand over the fogged mirror, praying for a reflection. The steam swirled in the small bathroom, but revealed me, damp and mostly covered by a pink bath sheet, the relief in my expression obvious.
I frowned at the mirror, tried to puzzle out the rest of it. I’d never been explicitly religious. Church, to my parents, was an excuse to show off Prada loafers and their newest Mercedes convertible. But I’d always been quietly spiritual. I tried, my parents notwithstanding, to be grateful for the things I’d been given, to be thankful for the things that reminded me that I was a small cog in a very big wheel: the lake on a moodily cloudy day; the gracious divinity of Elgar’s “The Lark Ascending”; the quiet dignity of a Cassat painting at the Art Institute.
So as I shivered, naked and damp, in front of the bathroom mirror, I raised my eyes skyward. “I hope we’re still okay.”
I got no answer, but then, I didn’t really expect one. Answer or not, it didn’t matter. That’s the thing about faith, I guess.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged downstairs, clean and dry, and back in jeans. I’d settled for a favorite low-waisted pair and teamed it with two thin, layered T-shirts in white and a pale blue that matched my eyes, and a pair of black Mihara Pumas. At three inches short of six feet, I had no need for heels. The only accoutrement missing from the ensemble was the black elastic I kept on my right wrist for hair emergencies. Today, I’d already pulled my dark hair up into a high ponytail, leaving the fringe of straight-cut bangs across my forehead.
I found Mallory downstairs in the kitchen. She sat on a stool at the kitchen island, a Diet Coke on the counter before her, a copy of Cosmo in her hands.
“What’d you learn last night in your vampire bible?” she asked, without looking up.
Preparing myself for the retelling, I nabbed a soda from the refrigerator, popped the tab, and slid onto a stool next to her. “Like Helen said, there’re twelve vampire Houses in the United States; three in Chicago. The House arrangement is kind of . . . Well, think feudal England. Except instead of a baron, you’ve got a Master vampire in charge of everything.”
“Ethan,” she offered.
I nodded my agreement. “For Cadogan, Ethan. He’s the most powerful vamp in the House. The rest of the vampires are basically his minions—we have to take an oath to serve him, swear our allegiance, that kind of thing. He even gets a fancy title.”
She looked up, brows lifted.
“He’s my ‘Liege.’ ”
Mallory tried unsuccessfully to hide a snicker—which ended up sounding strangled and anemic—before turning back to her magazine. “You have to call Darth Sullivan your ‘Liege’?”
I grinned. “Only if I expect him to answer.”
She snorted. “What else?”
“The Houses are like”—I paused to think of a good analogy—“company towns. Some vamps work for the House. Maybe guards or public relations folks or whatever. They’ve got administrators, docs who work outside the House, even some historic positions. All of them get a stipend.”
“Historic positions?”
I took a sip of my soda. “Ethan has a ‘Second,’ like a second-in-command or something.”
“Ooh, like Riker?”
Did I mentioned she also loved Star Trek: The Next Generation ? “Sure. There’s also a ‘Sentinel,’ which is like a guard for the House.”
“For the brand?”
I nodded at the apt metaphor. “Exactly. And the House itself is in Hyde Park. Think mansion.”
Mallory looked appropriately impressed. “Well. If you’re going to be attacked and unwillingly made a vampire, let it be a rich and fancy vampire, I guess.”
“That’s an argument.”