The Shambling Guide to New York City (5 page)

And her brain was rejecting what she saw now, utterly refusing to acknowledge that the demon waiter carried a terrarium that was half-f of hedgehogs. The little creatures moved against one another, each trying to get to the top. The mound positively writhed, and the men at the table watched eagerly. At the end of “Happy Birthday,” while everyone in the restaurant applauded, the waiter placed it in front of the man, who reached inside and grabbed a hedgehog. He opened his mouth impossibly wide—his head hadn’t been that big before, had it?—and popped the hedgehog in as if it were a marshmallow. He chewed and grinned and nodded to his companions, who both went grabbing for their own desserts.

This scene played out in front of Zoë’s eyes, and her brain
tried to process it, but eventually it refused and it decided instead to focus back on Phil. Phil watched her with the same intent gaze he had fixed on her all night. He took a sip of his very thick red, the legs of the wine sliding into the glass as he righted it. His freckled face had gained a little color.

“Now do you understand?” he asked.

He smiled at her, showing teeth that slowly elongated into fangs. Zoë nodded once and then toppled slowly out of her chair as her brain decided that the best way to deal with the situation was to check out completely.

Wake up.

When Zoë opened her eyes, it was as if she were looking through a television. She had no emotional reaction, and felt slow and stupid. She was sitting awkwardly in the chair, unable to move, slumped oddly to the side.

Phil swirled the blood in his glass, contemplating it. “You’re interesting, Zoë. You went a completely different way than most humans do. Most deny it first, not even attempting to find a plausible explanation. I wonder if you’ve encountered others like me.”

She felt her head move from side to side. “I don’t think so.”

Eric shambled over and looked down at Zoë. “Are you going to eat her here, Mr. Rand, or should I prepare her to go?”

Zoë expected a jolt of adrenaline, but it didn’t come. Phil frowned. “Bring her some water. She will need it when I let her go.”

“So you won’t be dining on her?”

“No. I’ll have another glass, though, same vintage please.”

Eric helpfully propped her more upright in her chair, pushing her slightly so that she slumped against the wall instead of
out of the chair. Phil handed the zombie his wineglass and he trudged off.

Phil tapped his finger on the table. “For this moment, you are mine,” he said, staring into her eyes.

“You’re the boss,” she answered, blinking.

“I want to ask you some questions, and I need you to be truthful to me. You will be under my control for only a few minutes.”

She frowned, realizing her face was answering some of her commands. “You don’t have to be so dramatic. I’ll tell you anything you want.” Her words were slow, though, as if she were drunk.

He tapped his finger again. “The truth is, hiring a human might be what we need, if you can take the stress. Do you have any phobias?”

“No.” Zoë rubbed her face, still disoriented.

“How do you work under extreme stress? Have you ever been in a position to find out?”

Zoë’s face stilled. “Yes,” she said softly. “I was terrified. I threw up. But I handled it the best I could. I guess.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“My boss seduced me. I didn’t know he was married. No one did. When his wife found out—” She stopped.

Don’t tell him.
Something—instinct?—told her not to give him the details, and although it was an effort to resist, she managed it.

“What happened?”

“No.”

Phil pursed his lips over his fangs. “Are you in league with Public Works, do you have any history with zoëtism, fortune-telling, or anyone in coterie society?”

“Does a fing look swart to the zooloofills?”

Phil stared at her blankly. “I have no idea—”

“Exactly,” she interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about either.”

Phil’s tongue ran over his fangs, and Zoë got the sense that it was a tell he used when he was thinking, not something that indicated his hunger. He tapped his finger on the table again. “How are you resisting me? All other humans have been malleable.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m being truthful. I just don’t want to tell you everything about me.”

“What do you have to hide?” he demanded.

“It’s not a matter of hiding something. I don’t need to hide the age I started my period, but you don’t need to know it. I just don’t want to tell you. You don’t need to know the model of my first car or the fact that I thought Lionel Ritchie rocked pretty hard when I was a kid. Although I did just tell you that. If you want to know everything about me, we’re going to have to be here a long time. I’ll tell you what you need to know.” Her eyelids drooped suddenly, exhaustion taking over. Keeping them open had taken almost as much effort as resisting him had.

“You don’t know how you’re resisting me,” he said slowly.

“Honestly, I don’t,” she said. “I wish I did.”

Eric brought Phil his refilled wineglass. “The bill, please, Eric, and have Ms. Stoll call me a cab.” He took a deep drink.

“As you wish,” the zombie said.

“Why are you asking all these questions? Don’t you want to know my history with publishing?” Zoë asked, looking at her napkin and fingering the seam. “What does my incident of dreadful decision-making with a married man have to do with anything?”

Phil put his hand on
Raleigh Misconceptions
. “No, I’m satisfied there. It truly is a remarkable book you’ve written. I needed to
know if you’d fit in. I needed to know what scared you. Now, do you remember anything that’s happened tonight?”

“Sure. There are monsters here.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Scared. But no one has threatened me. If you wanted to eat me, you probably would have done it by now.”

Phil dabbed a bit of blood off his lips with his napkin and put it on the table, neatly folded. “Zoë, you’re too cool, too quick. We need you on our side before Public Works finds out about you. I fully expect that after this initial shock, you will accept our world with as much grace as a human can.”

Eric brought the bill and Phil paid it with two bright red-and-yellow bills. He led the groggy Zoë out of the restaurant, waving to Sylvia as he left.

He helped her into the cab. She went along pleasantly, feeling rather drunk. As they pulled away from the curb, she said, “You’re a vampire.”

He smiled wanly. “And how do you feel about that?”

“It’s a lot to take in. Are we going somewhere for dessert?”

“No. I’m taking you home. You will have a job offer tomorrow. I can give you a day to sleep on it.”

She frowned. “Now wait a second, I never said I’d take the job. I mean, you eat people, don’t you?”

He smiled at her, his face looking rather handsome now that the blood had given him a ruddy complexion. “Now, Zoë, you’ve already learned far more than the average human. I can’t give you any more information unless you agree to work for me.”

She felt she should be freaking out more. Or at least fainting again. But the calm Phil had forced on her was still washing over her, leaving her pleasantly buzzed and peaceful. Monsters in the city? Sure. No problem.

The cab screeched to a halt in front of her building. How had they gotten to Brooklyn so fast? She shook her head. “This is too weird.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Zoë. I look forward to your answer tomorrow.” Phil took her limp hand and shook it. She stared at him blankly. He got out of the cab, walked around, and opened the door for her. “This is your address, is it not? It was on your résumé.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Zoë let him help her out of the car, wondering when she’d be able to move on her own. Phil got back into the cab, and it roared down the street.

Reality snapped back into place as she stood alone on the street. Reality and a sense of acidic hunger. Zoë put her hand to her stomach, where a glass of red wine sat alone and forlorn. “Hey. You were supposed to buy me dinner. Asshole.”

“Bad date?” asked a voice behind her.

She jumped and turned, a small scream escaping from her lips. Zombies? Frankensteins? Harpies? “Jesus, don’t do that!”

The man held out his hands in apology. He was much taller than she was, dark and muscular. He wore a black sweatshirt and worn jeans. “Sorry. Zoë, isn’t it? You live in twenty-seven A?”

She frowned in suspicion. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Arthur, just moved into twenty-seven B.” He held a dirty hand up in an awkward wave. “Uh, I’d shake your hand, but…”

Zoë fought the urge to interrogate him to find out if he was human.
Stop being paranoid. If the world is the same as it was, there’s no reason to think that anyone else knows about this.

If it’s even true.

She grasped his hand. “I’m pretty sure it’s cleaner than some of the things I’ve seen and touched tonight. In fact, I’m probably getting you dirty.”

Arthur looked at her hand in surprise. It was clean. “Dirty with what?”

Zoë managed to shrug. “It’s a long story. It’s been a weird-ass night. Nice to meet you.” His grip was firm and warm, which she appreciated after feeling the vampire’s cool touch.

Together they headed for the door of their building.

“So, bad date?” he asked, unlocking the hallway door for her.

“Eh. It wasn’t a date. It was a professional dinner, I guess. An interview. It didn’t turn out to be a dinner. I had a glass of wine. We talked about the job. We came back here and he dropped me off.”

He screwed up his face, his glasses shifting on his nose. “You went to dinner but you only got a glass of wine?”

“Yeah. It’s complicated.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s not Facebook, it’s dinner. Even interviews should provide at least a pretzel from a food cart. What do you do, anyway?”

“Nothing, now,” Zoë said, misery welling up to fill the empty cavity in her stomach. “I’m unemployed and seem to have a habit of finding myself in really weird situations.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I’m sorry—Arthur, right?—I think I just need a sandwich and to go to bed. Thanks for checking on me.”

Arthur smiled at her. “No problem. I’ve been in the unemployment line before. Finally got a new job that brought me to Brooklyn. Unemployment sucks. I hope tomorrow’s better. See you around?”

“Yeah, sure,” Zoë said, fumbling with her keys and opening her apartment.

She stumbled to the couch, and despite its being eight thirty, fell asleep immediately.

Italy’s Entrails *****

While fine dining is one of the best reasons to come to the city, many “old-school” coterie prefer not to ape the humans by forcing civilized actions on themselves, like eating in restaurants. There are many prime hunting grounds in the city, but this is not one of them. If you have, or miss having, human sensibilities, then you can do much worse than Italy’s Entrails. For coterie, Italy’s Entrails is the place in New York where everybody knows your name. Literally. Owner Sylvia Stoll is a vampire from the seventeenth century who has an eidetic memory: if you tell her once who you are and what you like to eat, then she’ll remember forever. Tell her how you died and you’ll get a free dessert. And this place has the best hedgehog delight in the city.

T
he sun crept across Zoë’s face and assaulted her eyes. She shielded them and squinted. Morning. She blearily looked around. She was in her apartment, fully dressed, still in her coat, even, lying on the couch. She tried to remember the events of the previous evening, but as she passed her hand over her face, the memories were slow in coming.

Had she had too much wine? She didn’t feel hungover. She did a quick body check in a brief panic, but her clothes were only sleep-rumpled and didn’t have the look or feel of having been shoved aside or removed. So that Phil guy hadn’t taken advantage of her. So… what had happened? And how had he returned her home without her knowing?

She got off the couch and stood, swaying slightly. Had there been something in the wine? Why had he wanted her so drunk? She had a horrifying thought and looked around wildly for her satchel, which happened to be sitting by the door with everything she’d had in it, including her wallet and credit cards. So no sexual assault, no robbery, and no apparent apartment distress. What was going on?

She trudged down the hall to her bathroom and started the shower going, hot. As the bathroom filled with steam, she peered into the mirror and examined the dark circles under her eyes.

As the steam obscured her image in the mirror, her memories reluctantly organized themselves into some sort of chronological
blurry sense. There had been the woman in the red dress. The wine. The gross waiter. The strange cosplay. And the hedgehogs. Zoë gasped.
The hedgehogs.
And the man with whom she’d dined, his teeth elongated into fangs. She brought her hands to her head and pressed, as if that could stifle the strange, insistent memories.