The Shambling Guide to New York City (18 page)

“So is there anything for humans to eat at this restaurant?” she asked.

Morgen picked up her menu. “Yeah, there should be some salads you can stomach. But let me order for you. Some might think you’re my playtoy. Or John’s. Let them. No one will mess with you if they think you’re a lover of ours, and they won’t question you either.”

Inside, Blossoms looked exactly like a dance club without the music. Soft neon tubes snaked up the walls, casting blue and pink light everywhere. The bar was made of mirrored glass, which made sense, as everyone in the establishment was painfully beautiful. Among them, Zoë felt awkward, lumbering, and human, the ugly duckling that could never hope to grow up. No one cast her a second glance once seeing her horrible choker, though, and the hostess had led them to a table decorated with glass flowers and a burning oil lantern.

Morgen noticed Zoë’s discomfort. “Nice, huh?”

“Are you talking about the clientele or the restaurant?”

“This is a favorite watering hole for most sprites and other fae folk. Those who accept city life, anyway. Others will just hang in Central Park or the river.” Morgen paused to shudder. “While that is unappetizing at best and horrific at worst, it is, at least, cheap.”

“Aw hell, how am I going to pay for this? I haven’t been paid yet and I doubt these guys take credit cards,” Zoë said.

John waved her hand. “Dinner is on me, ladies. You both have had quite a shock.”

Morgen made a rude noise. “Dude, the chivalry thing won’t work here. I’m perfectly fine. But we’ll take the free food, right, Zoë?”

“Huh? Oh. Right. Free food. Thanks,” she said, her cheeks reddening. She had just been thinking how terribly nice John was being, quite gallant, actually.

A waiter drifted over to them—literally drifting, as his lower half seemed to dissipate. He looked liked a ghost, but held on to a very real notepad. He focused entirely on Morgen.

“I’ll have whatever kelp is on special, the scallops, and my friend here will have whatever aboveground salad you have going on, and another order of the scallops. I’d like some sparkling water, and”—she raised her greenish eyebrows to Zoë, who nodded—“she’ll have the same.”

John ordered a bottle of wine, “The most expensive red you have,” and nothing else.

Was this going to be a perpetual state with him?

The waiter nodded and drifted off. Zoë watched him go. “So is he a ghost?”

“Nope. Air sprite.”

“Oh. Duh. What do they eat?”

“Clouds, mostly. Although some do get addicted to perfume. Those are some sad bastards. They hang out in malls, follow rich women around, try to get people to buy them the stuff themselves. Some get high off of cheap shit like deodorants, but we don’t really like to talk about them.”

At other tables, diaphanous beings opened vials and sniffed appreciatively at the air inside, while darker, brown wisps ate a black liquid from bowls. Brightly colored women with sharp features and eyes of strong primary colors—with no pupils—munched on flower petals.

“I still feel like we could have done something. I mean, we just
stood there and let that man get… eaten,” Zoë said, sipping the mineral water the waiter put down in front of her.

John leaned back in his seat, relaxing like a panther, and sniffed appreciatively at his wine. “And what should we have done about it? Are you some sort of secret zombie hunter?”

Zoë said nothing. She remembered what Granny Good Mae had said about zombies: just avoid fighting them; you could survive a vampire bite, but once a zombie bit you, you were pretty much toast. But she didn’t want her coworkers to know that she was training in self-defense, so she just shrugged.

“No, not at all, but I feel like there’s something more we should have done.” Zoë was rummaging around in her bag. She pulled out a notebook. “I still feel pretty low. I mean, are the zombies coming into work tomorrow? What’s going to happen to Rodrigo if Public Works catches him? Will the other zombies be accomplices?”

John’s eyes lingered on her choker, and Zoë could almost feel his lips on her skin. “If our people get to him first, then he will be fed, brought back to common sense, and probably sequestered till it dies down. If Public Works gets him first, then, well, we find a new administrative assistant.”

“And if what you guys say is true, Montel was smart to hang back. That probably saved him and Paul,” Morgen said. “We will find out tomorrow, in any case.”

“And how will Public Works know what happened? We were the only ones there,” Zoë said.

“Nope,” John said, grinning. “You missed one.”

Zoë frowned. Then she remembered. “That homeless woman?”

“Public Works agent,” John said. “Most homeless, and some gangs, work as spies.”

“Yeah,” Morgen said. “They’re ubiquitous and ignored, and if they talk about zombies eating a guy, people think they’re insane
so if there’s ever a security breach, no one believes them anyway. But that agent in the alleyway pretty much cements the fact that Public Works will find Rodrigo first.”

Zoë cleared her throat, really wanting to change the subject. “So what brings the fae to New York?”

Morgen thought. “The same thing that brings everyone else. They come for the lifestyle, the people, the change of pace from wherever they came from. Nature spirits love it here, believe it or not. You’d think we wouldn’t, but honestly it’s a change of pace from the boring life among the trees. Sure, not many of us actually move here, and those who do don’t last long, but some find it to our liking. I was the spirit of a Colorado spring. By the time I was two hundred and thirty-nine, I’d had enough of John Denvering it and swam east. I ended up here and loved it.

“Some are born here. Central Park is home to several native New York fae. And that’s where most of the visiting fae stay. There are some nice hotels set up there, and hostels in the trees in Brooklyn.”

“And as you don’t really feed off humans, the fae don’t get into a lot of trouble?”

Morgen stilled. She dipped her finger into the glass and it disappeared. Her face filled out a bit, although Zoë hadn’t noticed that she had gotten thinner. She pulled her finger—whole again—out of the glass and regarded Zoë. “John and I are a lot alike. I commune with and feed off water. Succubi and incubi commune with and feed off sex energy. And there’s a little-known race of fae called the anemofae—blood sprites. They are parasitic to humans like vampires are. Instead of being born from something natural, we believe they have demonic origin, as they don’t spawn from humans. But they do attach themselves and begin feeding off the host. Unlike vampires, these have to have an actual human host; they can’t make deals with hospitals
and blood banks. Public Works hunts them, and dislikes our connection to them. So we steer clear of them, even though we don’t harm humans or the human way of life.”

She took another bizarre sip of her drink, then shook her head as if removing a bad thought. Then she pulled out her phone, glared at it, and said, “Stay here. I’m going outside to call Phil again.”

“Alone at last,” John said. Zoë rolled her eyes, but she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

John began tracing little designs on her knee under the table, a touch firm enough to feel through her pants, but still light enough to tickle. A thrill ran up her leg at his touch. She gritted her teeth and pushed his hand away. She was about to say something about inappropriateness and sexual harassment, but he caught her pushing hand in his own and held it tightly. The skin-to-skin contact of just their hands was maddening. She wanted to remove all her clothes and rub up against him.

That would have been unprofessional, though.

She put forth monumental willpower and pulled her hand away. “I know there are no sexual harassment laws in the coterie world, but dude, you’ve got to lay off. It’s not going to happen. It’s too bad of a thing to happen. You’re having your intended effect on me, and I suspect you know this. But I’ve fucked a coworker before and it landed me in a pit of shit.”

He smiled at her vulgarity.
Uh oh.
She’d been hoping to turn him off. That obviously hadn’t worked.

Morgen interrupted them by stomping back to the table, an impressive feat for a sprite. She plopped down in her chair in a most ungraceful manner. “Phil is livid. This is, to quote him, the stupidest thing they could have done. He thinks someone is messing with them, though. This wasn’t a mistake.”

The waiter wafted over with their food, and Zoë began shoveling
scallops into her mouth without tasting them. “People steal food in break rooms all the time,” Zoë said around a mouthful of sea creature. “Why do the zombies freak out about it?”

The sprite twirled a wet piece of kelp around her fork and stuffed it in her mouth. She thought as she swallowed, then wiped her mouth. “Humans steal each other’s food? In coterie circles, it’s taboo. For one thing, for so many of us food is hard to come by. Secondly, we have such different diets that it’s pointless for me to steal Opal’s blood stash, for example. It would simply be for spite and seen as hostility. And zombies wouldn’t steal from each other; they’re a communal species. It’s against their nature to steal and hoard.

“Here’s the deal,” she continued, leaning forward. “Someone is messing with the zombies, and they’re doing it inside Phil’s office, which pisses Phil off. Public Works chasing after Rodrigo is a secondary concern; we deal with them all the time. No, the real problem is what, or who, is behind this meddling.”

Zoë watched John give three bright red bills—hell notes—to the wispy waiter and motion for her to get up. Morgen led her to the bathroom and placed her in front of the mirror.

Surrounded by thin, wispy, otherworldly people, Zoë felt stocky and solid and utterly ridiculous. Morgen assessed her in the mirror. “You’ve seen where the fae eat, next we’re heading to a club where the ’bus culture feeds. You”—she turned to look full-on at Zoë, with her sensible fall wardrobe, and made a face—“won’t do.”

“Oh, come on,” Zoë said, shaking her head. “I’m not going home to get changed. If I go home, I’ll be collapsing into sweats and a reality show. In fact, that sounds pretty good.”

“No, Zoë. We’re out, let’s take advantage of it.”

She frowned at the mirror. “Will I stand out that much?”

“It’s a bondage club.”

“Oh. You’re taking me to a bondage club. Where incubi feed? And we have an incubus with us? Someone I’m having a great deal of trouble resisting? Am I the only one who thinks this is a terrible idea?”

Morgen grinned as she futzed with Zoë’s hair. “You think he’d miss this trip? Besides, he’s latched on to you because you’re right here. It’s not easy for an incubus to be with the same humans day in and day out, without getting caught stalking. But if we take him to a club, where there will be tons of humans begging him for attention, it’ll be like you’re a hamburger among steaks.” She tweaked Zoë’s nose affectionately. “I’m not saying you’re not utterly adorable, I just mean the women there won’t be wearing bulky cotton blends.”

Zoë made a face. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’ll be OK, I’ve already told John you’re going as
my
date. You’re my new girlfriend and we’re dabbling in the dom/sub culture. You’re new to sub life, and we’re taking it slow. The deal is”—she grinned, her eyes switching to green in the bright bathroom light—“you have to do everything I say. If you don’t, the other doms in the club may punish you.”

Zoë swallowed. “And if I’m a good girl?”

“You’ll be protected from any ’bus in the place. Think you can handle that?”

Zoë looked at herself in the mirror again, and sighed. “This is to get me back for you helping me with the interviews last week, isn’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

The fae have several choices when it comes to the city. The elemental fae can take residence in any of the parks that have woods or ponds. For those who want a more structured visit, though, many of the best places to go serve as bed-and-breakfasts. The Last Petal is one of the best hotels in Queens for the fae, and it offers an intricate upstairs of pools, a greenhouse of exotic plants, perfumed air, and even a room with three feet of packed dirt, for the earth sprites who wish to sleep in complete safety.

A
nything you want to do, you ask permission, understand?” Morgen lectured her as they walked toward the club. “You want a drink, you want to go to the bathroom, you want to talk to someone, you ask me. You won’t be able to write anything in your little notebook unless you’re hidden, and a dom wouldn’t let her new sub out of her sight anyway.”

Zoë nodded, trying to keep it all in perspective. Pretending to be a sex slave for a coworker had not been on her list of things to do, but it was no weirder than the other stuff she’d encountered already.

Well, maybe a
little
weirder, but less violent, surely.

She glanced at John, who just watched them, amusement scrawled on his face.

They arrived and Morgen walked to the front of the line of leather- and latex-clad attendees—many on leashes, Zoë realized with discomfort—and nodded to the bouncer. Zoë recognized him as a vampire; it was simply the very still way he stood, the slightly reddish cast to his eyes, and the way he looked at the humans in line—they were meat, not patrons.