My relieved sigh curdled into a scream as that stupid bird launched itself into my line of sight, squawking and flapping like a murderous maniac, the tips of its wings tapping the glass.
I was reeling backward, vaulting toward the couch when an insistent knock at my door terrified me five times more and I felt every muscle in my body instinctively stiffen. Though my fangs are always exposed, in times of true vampdom—i.e., when an artery needs ravaging or a bartender spills something on my Manolo Blahniks—the fangs extend an extra half-inch causing that frightening scowl you see plastered all over TV. My hackles were up and adrenaline pulsed through me; even my hair seemed to stand on electrified end. My every thought was savagery and a hiss of air sliced through my teeth as I snatched open the door.
I was met with pursed lips.
And a cocked eyebrow.
And an expression completely devoid of terror or shock.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“What? A guy can’t fly across country to see his favorite aunt?” My nephew was standing in the hallway, framed by chintzy yellow hallway light, grinning like I had just won the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. His fangs were small but pronounced, pinching against the edges of his upturned lips.
“I’m not your favorite aunt, I’m your only aunt.” I addressed him suspiciously and the smile fell from his face.
“So can I come in or not?”
In the Hollywood sea of vampires with horrible accents, satchels full of graveyard dirt, and the ability to turn into bats—there was one thing they had gotten right: a vampire can’t enter private premises without first being invited. Even if those premises were home to another vampire. I stood aside and opened my arms. “Vlad, you are welcome to come into my apartment.”
Vlad stepped over the threshold, arms crossed in front of his chest. Looming at just over six feet, he looked down at me with one of those noncommittal teenage expressions. A hint of mischief flickered in his dark eyes and I was instantly seized with joy and sadness. Vlad looked so much like his mother—my sister—that it warmed me. But the feeling almost immediately fled because I knew Sonia was dead, would never know that her son was thriving—though undead—or that his Aunt Nina was taking good care of him. She also would never know that Vlad headed up the West Coast division of VERM—the Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement—or dressed like a fashionably suicidal cross between Bela Lugosi and Count Chocula.
Maybe it was better that she stayed in the grave.
I jumped forward anyway, enveloping Vlad in a crisp hug. “I’m sorry. I am really happy to see you! But, really, what are you doing here?”
He stepped back in true teenage fashion as though someone would catch wind of the fact that he had shown a modicum of emotion. Vlad may be one hundred and twelve, but he was forever caught in the moody, brooding, obnoxious sentience of a sixteen year old.
And he never picked up his socks.
He threw an Army duffel onto my couch and grinned again. I could tell he just fed by the deep, ruddy pink of his lips.
“I came to visit you!”
Now I crossed my arms in front of my chest and cocked a brow. “What’d you do?”
A sweet innocence flooded over Vlad’s face. “What do you mean?”
I pulled my cell phone from my jeans pocket and poised a finger over the trackpad. “You know I have Sophie on speed dial.” In addition to being my roommate in San Francisco, Sophie is Vlad’s partial guardian by proxy, and my very best friend.
Vlad held up a silencing hand. “Okay, okay. So, there’s some talk that I may have had a tiny indiscretion with a fairy.”
“Fairies are awful!” Though Walt Disney painted them with big, kind eyes and pursed pink lips, anyone who’s met one will tell you that fairies—and pixies, too—are awful little buggers. Mean, sassy, stuck-up.
And some of them bite.
“So you came out here to escape your fairy lover?”
“Actually, I came out here to escape Kale. You think fairies are bad? Try a jilted teenage witch.” Vlad whipped off his coat, showing off a dark strip on his pale white arm. “This just happened. She made the sun rise in our damn apartment. That bitch could have killed me!”
I slung an arm over Vlad’s shoulder. “Oh, she’d never kill you. Just torture you a little. I like her. And I’m glad you’re here.”
Vlad tugged me close in an awkward hug. “Me, too. It’ll be nice to hang here for a bit. No romantic drama, no bodies dropping from the ceiling or crime scene tape.” He flopped down on the couch next to his duffel and I bit my lip, before perching next to him.
“So, it’s not totally drama-free around here.”
“Oh, right because of your little ‘fashion war’ with that guy and—what’s her name? Kenmore?”
“Emerson,” I corrected. “Reginald and Emerson. And the war is pretty much over.”
Vlad gave me an appraising smile. “You won?”I wrinkled my nose. “Not exactly.”
He quirked a brow. “Someone drop out?”
“More like dropped dead.”
“Dropped on her own or . . .” Vlad waggled his eyebrows in the universal “don’t-make-me-say-it” style.
“What? Are you kidding me? I had nothing to do with it. It was right next door and it looked like suicide.”
“‘Looked like’ suicide?”
“It’s a long story.”
Vlad pulled a blood bag from his duffel, pierced it with a single fang, and started to suck. He emptied the thing and burped loudly before he addressed me. “So you made it look like suicide.”
I turned to look at Vlad full in the face. “Are you seriously asking me if I had anything to do with Reginald’s death? Because I follow the strictest UDA bylaws and even if I were to stray just the slightest”—I held my thumb and forefinger a smidge apart—“tiniest bit, frankly, it wouldn’t be Reginald Fairfield that I’d off. It’d be Emerson Hawk. That woman is vile.”
Vlad’s eyes flashed.
As if on cue, there was another insistent, thundering knock on my door. “You can stay,” I told Vlad as I went to answer it. “Peace and quiet, however,” I said as I snatched open the door. “Died about a week ago.”
Emerson was standing in the hallway, hip out, arms crossed, beady eyes even beadier though they were rimmed with coal and something hideously sparkly. She had actually brushed her hair and it was in a semi-attractive swoop pinned at the base of her skull, and her black gown had an asymmetrical hemline that was so completely last year it was laughable. But still, the dress was impeccably tailored and the ruched drop waist was understated and elegant, wondrously hiding Emerson’s usual Kentucky Fried Chicken and Yoo-hoo paunch. Nicolette was behind her, back toward me as she hunched, managing two beaded purses in one hand while she struggled to lock Emerson’s door.
“Hello, Emerson.”
Her eyes raked over me, her sour expression not changing. “Aren’t you ready yet? Or is that what you’re wearing?”
“What are you talking about? What am I wearing for what?”
Nicolette, having finally gotten the door locked, rushed to Emerson’s side and handed her a heavy ecru card. My stomach sunk as I recognized it.
“The cocktail reception.”
Emerson nodded.
“Someone just died. Are they actually still holding that? Only the completely heartless and macabre could think of going through with any of the competition activities right now.”
“Everything was already booked. They couldn’t cancel at the last minute and Mr. Forbes said that everything would go forward as planned. Except of course, with one less fashion show.”
“You talked to Mr. Forbes?”
Mr. Forbes was the head of the New York Design Institute and whether or not you knew your Vera from your Versace could be overlooked if Jason Forbes was on your side.
A sly grin rolled across her face. “We may have run into each other a time or two at this quaint little coffee bar I frequent.”
I was gritting my teeth so hard I imagined them starting to powder. “You’ve only been in New York a week.”
“Anyway, Jason”—she stressed the name—“thought that the best way to honor Reginald would be to continue on as planned. So, again, are you wearing that? As far as your designs go, it is one of your better ones.”
My nostrils flared and I felt myself shrink back in my fashion-fail skinny jeans, Ugg boots, and tank top.
“Is that your date?” Emerson poked a bony finger into my apartment, aiming at Vlad.
“Nephew.”
Nicolette’s head peeked over Emerson’s shoulder. I saw her cheeks redden when her eyes met Vlad’s.
“Christ,” I groaned. “I’ll see you at the reception.”
The door had barely slammed before Vlad was at my side, smiling and licking his lips. “Who’s the girl?”
“Emerson Hawk is hardly a girl. I don’t even know if she’s human.”