The Shambling Guide to New York City (15 page)

She woke at one o’clock in the morning to an infomercial, completely convinced she should get involved in real estate. With
a start she realized one of the salespeople on the TV was a fae of some sort. She wondered if all infomercials employed coterie. No wonder the products labeled “As Seen on TV” were so popular.

A door closed in the hall, and she wondered blearily why Arthur was coming home so late on a weekday, and if he had anyone with him. She couldn’t just knock on his door at one in the morning. She wasn’t in college anymore.

Her sleep-addled mind refused to believe anything that had happened the previous day.

She stumbled to bed.

Zoë didn’t know whether she should be proud of herself for having the foresight to set her alarm or if she should hate herself for drinking before bed during a weekday, but she woke at five o’clock with a completely addled hangover. Oh yes. She was going to run this morning.
Great.

She stumbled around Prospect Park in the dark for about a mile before she trudged back home, thinking she needed a chapter in the
Shambling Guide
on how to catch idiot humans who ran in the dark with a hangover.

She stood in the shower for far too long, trying to sweat the last of the alcohol out of her body.

That day she was going to meet with the writers, some of whom were vampires. Vampires, Granny Good Mae had told her, could smell her very well. She avoided strong lotions and any fragrances, trying to keep from offending them. On the other hand, would she appeal to them more the more she smelled like good old-fashioned plain human? She looked at her deodorant (
fresh spring scent!
) and contemplated. She finally decided that she’d rather be offensive for a reason she was unused to than offensive for being too sweaty. She also didn’t want to smell like lunch.

She packed up her leftover spaghetti as well as the Virgin Mary veladora and headed out the door.

Around nine thirty, Zoë was fueled by Tylenol and coffee, and working hard to function. She was surprised to see Paul shamble into her office and shut the door. They hadn’t talked much, communicating solely through e-mail and chat since they had gotten the computers. Phil had been right, he was a very good writer. Not so good with in-person communication.

“Hey, Paul. Is there a reason you needed to meet in person? I thought typing was better for you?” she asked, motioning for him to have a seat.

He carried a pad and scrawled some words down, then held the pad up so Zoë could read it.

“PRIVACY.”

He took it back and wrote a bit more.

“MONTEL SAID YOU NEED HELP. HAPPY TO BE OF SERVICE.”

Right. He was supposed to tail Wesley. Zoë had gotten used to seeing Paul, but it still made her want to wince in sympathy. He wasn’t just dead and peeling like Montel; this guy had died horribly with holes gouged in his head and large bites taken from his neck and shoulders. He stared at her with wide, dead eyes and she tried to put a pleasant look on her face.

“Yeah, thanks a lot. I believe Phil and Montel were going to have you look into something for me.”

The zombie scrawled on the pad again.

“FOLLOW WESLEY. DON’T LET HIM SEE ME. FIGURE OUT WHO MADE HIM.” Paul picked at a stray flap of skin on his wrist while she read, but then wrote again. “WHAT DID HE DO?”

Zoë thought for a moment. Should she tell him? “We’re just unsure of his loyalty and origin.”

“WE COULD KILL HIM AND THEN FIND SOMEONE WHO WORKS IN HR IN ANOTHER COMPANY AND BITE THEM.”

Zoë studied him for a moment, wondering if he was serious. A smile played at his lips, and she laughed out loud, realizing for the first time that a zombie could have a sense of humor. “You just go for the straight solution, don’t you? While that would be one answer, I don’t think it falls under the covert work we need.”

He wrote again.

“OK, BOSS. WILL FIND OUT WHAT I CAN.”

He flipped the page on the pad and began writing again. He wrote for so long, Zoë shifted impatiently. “You writing a book there?”

He glanced up, then showed her the page.

Satisfied, Paul sat back.

Zoë smiled and said, “Impressive. You always so meticulous?”

“I FORGET OTHERWISE,” Paul wrote, touching the back of his head, where a gangrenous hole was where his skull used to be.

Zoë winced. “I’m sorry.”

Paul shrugged. He wrote, “I WAS ALWAYS A LIST MAKER.”

Zoë thought for a moment. “Do you know if Wesley’s in yet?”

Paul glanced at his watch. He shook his head.

“HE USUALLY COMES IN AT TEN,” he wrote.

Zoë checked her watch. “Good. As for your writing assignments, I’d like to see a sample of your work, so just write up a review of your favorite lunch place, and your favorite place to get clothes, and that will give me a good idea of where to place you.”

Paul nodded, then heaved himself to his feet. He opened her door and shambled away, nearly getting run over by a buoyant Morgen, who danced into Zoë’s office. Her energy made Zoë’s hangover tired.

Morgen reminded Zoë not so much of a water sprite, but more of a tree sprite. A monkey, to be precise. Zoë didn’t like monkeys. She knew they appealed to the child in people, the anarchic sense that it was delightful that someone could just throw some poop if displeased. But Zoë always felt like the person who would get the poop thrown at her, and that she would probably have to be the one to clean up.

Morgen perched on the back of Zoë’s visitor chair, feet in the seat and butt on the back of the chair. “So you’re having meetings today with people who would eat you,” she said.

Zoë leaned back and rubbed her forehead. “Word gets around.”

“Well, sure! You’re the odd one out here, the prey in the middle
of the predators, just walking around giving writing assignments. You fascinate us. We want to know all the dirt.”

Zoë felt the analogy a little too keenly, as if she were identifying with a child who had wandered into the lion’s den. “I am just trying to get to know people. I have to talk to Paul about assignments. And lunch with Opal and Kevin seemed like a good idea.”

“But why start with the coterie most likely to eat you? Why not me and Gwen?”

Zoë smiled. “Would you believe it if I said I wanted to make a statement?”

Morgen cackled. “I knew you had brass ovaries when you took this job, but that one is a move I didn’t anticipate. You do know that not every vampire eats at Italy’s Entrails or even has a contact with the Red Cross or local hospitals, don’t you? Some still hunt or drink from willing victims.”

Zoë’s mouth grew dry, but she nodded. “I figured as much. I’m not lucky enough to find out that monsters are real and find out that they’re all fluffy bunnies and soft kittens too.”

She had chosen her words carefully to gauge Morgen, to see if she would take offense, but the pink-haired sprite just laughed again. “No shit, girlfriend. Hey, I’m going out after work to a little bar that’s out of the way. You wanna come? I can take you to a coterie restaurant that’s friendlier than Italy’s Entrails, too.”

Zoë’s stomach clenched at the thought of going out again. She felt bad, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Morgen, I’m not up to it tonight. Rain check?”

The sprite shrugged and grinned. “Sure. You shouldn’t drink alone, by the way.”

Zoë groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

“To coterie, yeah. Also, you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Zoë checked her watch; according to Paul, Wesley
wouldn’t be in for another fifteen minutes. “I’ve got to go check on something. I’ll catch up with you later, OK?”

Biting her lip, Zoë pushed the closet/office door gently open and slipped inside, hitting the overhead light. Careful not to touch anything, she approached the pictures on the shelf behind the tiny desk. There, next to the picture of the woman with small, delicate hands, was the picture of Scott, her ex, grinning from a fishing boat. Emotions warred within her: she missed him, she wondered how he’d died, but already the sight of him brought up negative connotations of Wesley. She gritted her teeth at the desire to punch her sweet ex, and straightened.

“Wesley’s really not going to want you going through his things,” came a voice from behind her, and she jumped.

“Dammit, you just scared ten years off my life! I didn’t hear you at all!”

Kevin the vampire leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his black turtleneck and blazer, grinning at her. He didn’t bother to hide his long incisors.

Zoë turned back to the photos. “It interested me that Wesley kept pictures of those people he was created from. I wondered if all constructs do that.”

He shrugged. “Some do, some don’t.”

She brushed past him and turned off Wesley’s light, careful to pull the door closed. “Anyway, did you get the note I left on your desk? I wanted to meet with you and Opal at lunch today. We need to talk about books and eventual assignments.”

He shrugged again. “I figured you wanted to learn about vampires.”

Zoë smiled. “That too. Are you and Opal free?”

He nodded slowly.

“Great. Noon it is.” She walked away from him, trying not to think that he was looking at her and wondering how she tasted.

Zoë had to be honest with herself: it was never a good idea to overindulge in alcohol. But there were times when it was worse to do so than others. Like, for example, when you had plans to meet vampires for lunch. When you needed to be sharp. Her stomach still sour from the wine, she decided on coffee for lunch. Opal and Kevin both came into the break room with thermoses at the ready.

Kevin sat next to Zoë at the table and slowly unscrewed the top of his thermos, taking care to inhale the scent of the blood inside. He tipped it over so the blood flowed slowly into the thermos lid.

Zoë tried to inhale the coffee scent, but with her sour stomach it seemed like a dreadful proposition, and when the coppery scent of Kevin’s lunch hit her, she carefully walked to the fridge to get a stomach-settling soda instead.

Her stomach turned again when she saw Tupperware containers full of gray, ropey things that she guessed were brains.

When Zoë returned, Kevin was still pouring. She wondered if he had stopped pouring until she got back to witness it.

“God, Kevin, pour that away from her. Are you trying to make her ill?” Opal said. She pulled Kevin back so there was a good three feet between him and Zoë’s chair. When Zoë sat down, Opal said, “Pardon my son, Zoë. He has no manners yet.”

Kevin glared at Opal with red eyes. “Does my lunch offend her? I find it difficult to believe she didn’t know what she was getting into.” He made a show of taking a long gulp from the thermos lid.

Zoë refused to take the bait and made a face at him. “No, I
drank too much wine last night and my stomach isn’t treating me well. I’m new to coterie food choices, but I’m pretty sure that vomit is not one of the bodily fluids you enjoy.”

Opal laughed, tweaking Kevin on the cheek. He brushed her off, and she sat on the other side of Zoë at a respectful distance. Sweeping her long blonde hair away from her face, she poured her lunch, a lot more efficiently and less obviously than Kevin, into a coffee mug.

“I’m sorry, did you say Kevin was your son?” Zoë asked. She knew they were immortal but it still boggled her that Opal looked to be in her twenties and Kevin solidly in his thirties.

She nodded and sipped delicately at her thermos. “I got very sick with a fever when I was a girl and it made me sterile. I grew up in a large family, always wanted a ton of kids. What life couldn’t give me, immortality has given in spades.” She looked fondly at Kevin, who ignored her and gulped more blood.

Zoë watched him with interest. “So does the Rh factor make a difference? Do you prefer A over B, and is O like the chicken of the blood family, in that it doesn’t taste like much of anything, but everything tastes like it?”

Kevin looked, for the first time, as if he was listening to her and considering her as more than a meal. “I prefer A, but it’s nearly impossible to choose. You can order at a restaurant, if you want to pay for it. If you’re getting a handout at the hospital or Red Cross, you get what they give, and if you’re hunting, it’s rare you can smell their type unless they’re injured. And if you’re hunting, you’re not going to be choosy.”

Zoë found herself morbidly fascinated. “So you can’t tell my type?”

Kevin inhaled deeply, then shook his head. “No, you’re dehydrated and we both are already eating, so that’s all I can smell.”

“Huh,” she said, secretly relieved. Her blood type was A. “Tell
me about hunting versus handouts. How do you decide which to do and are there some vampires who prefer one over the other?”

Kevin’s lips were very red as he lowered his thermos lid. The blood left in the lid dribbled down the inside slowly, like the legs of a good wine. She wondered if he’d added an anticoagulant.

“All vampires prefer to hunt. It’s in our nature. Hunted blood is sharper, fresher. But it’s illegal. Public Works has eyes everywhere. We have to have a truce with the city to feed, we become gatherers to survive. Most of the Red Crosses in the area have someone coterie-friendly on the inside, and a handful of the hospitals do. We pay in hell notes and they give us blood.”

Zoë made a note about the establishments that gave out blood. “How often are these insiders replaced? Are they people you can count on to hang around?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Well, if we publish their names in the book, and they leave, then the book will be out of date. If there’s high turnover, then a link pointing to an up-to-date list of names online is the best way to go. Anyway, we can worry about that later. Let’s talk about the book. So if you get blood from the humans, does that mean there are no hunting grounds?”

“Oh, we didn’t say that,” Opal said, and smiled at Kevin as he drained his thermos lid and licked his lips. “We all still hunt. How do you think I got my beautiful Kevin here?” She touched his hair fondly, and Zoë became uncomfortable, unsure whether the touch was one of a mother or a lover.