Beyond The Pale Part 1

BEYOND THE PALE.

The Darkwing Chronicles.

by Savannah Russe.

Acknowledgments.

I wish to express my grateful appreciation to the world's bats, those astonis.h.i.+ng, maligned creatures who inspired this book. The victims of many myths, in truth they are not blind, they aren't rodents, and they don't get tangled in your hair. They are gentle animals who are meticulously clean and seldom transmit disease. Bats are essential to the balance of nature and deserve our protection... and our awe. To learn more about bats, please visit Bat Conservation International, www.batcon.org.

Introduction.

I never wanted to be a spy. Of all the careers I've envisioned for myself in 450 years, secret agent never made my top ten. But fate doesn't give you a choice. At least it never offered one to me...

Chapter 1.

Uncle Sam Wants Me?

I was between relations.h.i.+ps, 180-some years between relations.h.i.+ps, to be exact. No long, sweet kisses, no I love yous, no moans of ecstasy or s.h.i.+very release since the Greek rebellion against the Ottoman Turks. It had been a wee bit more than a dry spell. I called it the Sahara when I got into it with my girlfriends. You'd think I'd be used to a solitary existence by now. After all, being a female vampire tends to discourage long-term relations.h.i.+ps because even a casual fling can have serious consequences. Indeed, my last affair nearly killed me, literally.

What put me off the whole man-woman commitment thing happened back in 1824, when I was a dark-haired beauty in Missolonghi. The affair had the potential to be a great love, one for the history books. Then, practically overnight, it ended badly. No, that's an understatement. To tell the truth, it ended tragically tragically.

Talking about truth, let me tell you, do not believe for a moment the story that the great poet and revolutionary George Gordon, Lord Byron, died of a fever. I can't believe the public bought that, but then people believed Nixon when he said "I am not a crook." The real cause of Byron's death was a love bite gone bad-gone septic, to be medically accurate. I remember the incident as if it were yesterday.

We were strolling hand in hand near the inn where he had set up his temporary living quarters. We entered a rose garden arduously created by the innkeeper out of the swampy surroundings of this mosquito-ridden town. It wasn't the first time we had walked there, but it was to be the last. The April day had faded into a purple haze on the verge of turning into a black velvet night. A slight breeze stirred the foliage; the air felt heavy with the smell of flowers.

"Tell me more about London, George." I said, fanning myself feverishly, and not just from the warm temperatures. "Do you miss it? Is it difficult to be so far away from the parties?" I made sure I walked very close to him, my breath like a flower petal caressing his cheek.

"The parties provided an agreeable distraction from the rather frightening solitude of a poet," he said vaguely. Then he gazed out over the Gulf of Patras, lying flat and still to the west. A s.h.i.+p anch.o.r.ed far off the sh.o.r.e. I could easily discern it amid the scattered silver waves that leaped up and caught the last light. I don't know that Byron saw the vessel, but I think he did. She floated there at the starting point of a long journey, the shadows of her masts stretching eastward in the setting sun.

"So why did you leave?" I asked.

His face stayed turned toward the gulf when he answered. "I became tired of listening to hired musicians behind a row of artificial palm trees instead of to the single, pure-stringed instrument of my heart. I knew it was time to go."

Seeing him in profile, his face inexpressibly sad, I couldn't keep my eyes off him. Byron had a wide forehead, sensual lips, and long, dark lashes over bedroom eyes. He was as finely featured as a Greek G.o.d, certainly better-looking than his portraits, which I think make him look gay. In real life he was an unmistakably male, high-testosterone type, filled with energy, turned on by taking risks.

I admit that if I looked closely, dust soiled his clothes and grime blackened the inside of his collar. Deep lines fanned out from his eyes; his skin was sallow and dry. And when he became fatigued, his twisted foot pained him and his limp increased. Lately George looked especially worn out, dissolute from too much has.h.i.+sh and too many women. Yet, so little in life looks as pleasing under bright lights and cold scrutiny as it does by candlelight and heated glances exchanged over gla.s.ses of wine. Tonight Byron was incredibly handsome. I was enchanted. I fairly trembled to be near him. He could have so many women-he had had so many women-but for the past few weeks he had wanted me, only me.

Nonetheless, there were hours when he seemed far away in his thoughts, crossing some inner geography of his mind. "Let's not talk about England. Talking bores me," he said. "I'm much more interested in this." He pulled my face to his, kissed me hard and long, his mouth tasting of wine. When he stopped, he looked deeply into my eyes. " 'She walks in beauty, like the night,' " he recited, " 'of cloudless climes and starry skies.' " I virtually swooned.

This man, hard and hungry, had come to fight for Greek independence. He was a hero. I was starstruck. He was h.o.r.n.y. I was flirtatious. He was thirty-six. I was a little over 274.

"Daphy," he said, "come on, sweet thing, give me a little. You know you want to."

Oh, yes, I did want to. I laughed and let him move the length of his body against me. I knew his reputation, and I knew what he was after, but I didn't care. He moaned, and whispered in a low hoa.r.s.e voice, "Girl, you're going to be the death of me. It's been a long time since I've wanted a woman this much. There's something about you. Something... something mad, bad, and dangerous to know."

He clasped my hand. As he entwined our fingers, his ring bit into my flesh. The sensation made me tingle. He led me to a bench, putting one arm around my waist. I can still remember the feel of the hard muscles in his forearm through the thin silk of my camisole. He pulled me down onto his lap, his hand slipping up under my skirts. I didn't stop him. His mouth felt like silk as he lowered his lips to my heaving breast. My blood was racing, my head was spinning, and that was when the rising moon lit up the white skin on the back of his neck. I couldn't resist. I wanted to, I tried to. but I was carried away with rapture... and I bit him. Losing all control, I drank too much, too soon. He looked at me with stunned eyes, suddenly understanding, and then he slipped into unconsciousness. Poor George. And that's the truth about his death, but don't expect to hear about it in Lit 101. It still hurts me to talk about it.

After barely escaping from Missolonghi before Byron's comrades put a stake through my heart, I decided celibacy was the wiser course. But now even I, resolute as I am, have my limits. I was climbing the wails. A girl has her needs, and I certainly had mine.

And one of the needs I had was getting a new ID every twenty years or so. Vampires don't age. On the plus side, I'll never need Botox. In the minus column. I have to keep changing my birth date.

And that was how I got busted.

The earth turns on its dark side. It is winter.

You can get just about anything in New York City.

Even a vampire can get a fake ID, and when the time came, all of us went to Sid. He worked out of a wretched walk-up apartment on Ninth Street between Avenues B and C. The neighborhood gave me the creeps. And of course, I had to go there after dark. We all complained, but Sid just said, "And vhat do you vant? Park Avenue?" I knew I could get mugged. I just never expected what was about to happen...

The day had been bl.u.s.tery, rain and sleet taking turns pelting the streets, and tonight the temperature was plummeting. As I trudged up the subway stairs onto the street at St. Marks Place I wondered whether spring would ever return. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. The wind seemed to cut right through me. I have thin blood. I get cold easily. And tonight I had a feeling-a very bad feeling that wiggled around like a maggot in my gut. Something wasn't right. Something was dangerous out here tonight.

I've learned to listen to my instincts, so I kept aware of the people around me as I headed east on Ninth Street. It wasn't late, only around seven, yet the buildings already sat in murky darkness. The sidewalks glistened in the streetlights from the earlier rain. "d.a.m.n it!" I said out loud. "d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, it is frigging cold!" I s.h.i.+vered. The chilly damp was coming right through the thin soles of my Nine West boots.

I had gone two blocks when I heard footsteps behind me. Some black teenagers came up fast and pa.s.sed me, elbowing each other and twirling around, laughing and jiving as they half danced, half ran down the block. But that wasn't what I heard. My hearing is extraordinarily discriminating. Behind me a different kind of footstep kept a measured, steady beat. Dread fell on me like a black curtain coming down.

I pa.s.sed a fortune-teller's storefront. A Gypsy woman leaned against the doorjamb, smoking a cigarette in the open doorway. "Strega!" she shouted at me and cringed backward, clutching the crucifix around her neck.

"b.i.t.c.h!" I hissed back, showing my teeth. I gave her good scare, I think. I don't like Gypsies. They're all thieves.

I didn't slow my pace. I wanted to reach Sid's as fast as possible. I crossed Avenue A. I had to exercise self-control to keep from breaking into a jog. I made it to Avenue B. Another half block and I reached the stoop in front of Sid's building. I took the stairs two at time, stopped at the top, and looked back up the block.

A young man stood on the far side of a fenced-in basketball court, watching me. I knew without a doubt that his had been the footsteps behind me. He turned away quickly. I didn't see his face, but a ponytail of blond hair poked out from beneath a black watch cap. I didn't hesitate any longer. I ducked inside Sid's vestibule and pushed the doorbell for his apartment. No one answered. Fear was cras.h.i.+ng down on me now. I kept pus.h.i.+ng the b.u.t.ton. d.a.m.n it, Sid, where in h.e.l.l are you d.a.m.n it, Sid, where in h.e.l.l are you?

Finally the door buzzed and clicked open. I fairly flew through it. It shut and locked behind me. I took some deep, cleansing breaths. I told myself to calm down; it was nothing. The man was no one. He had nothing to do with me. I always get anxious when I have to see Sid. Needing to get an updated birth certificate rakes up a lot of my issues. It means another twenty years have pa.s.sed, but I'm still the same. People I once cared about are gone. I'm still here. A yawning chasm of loneliness opens up inside me. I am always the outsider. Misunderstood. A freak. A monster. Unable to have the milestones that mark the lives of other women, I throw a pity party for myself. Yet, to be honest, I'm not alone. There are a lot of us who see Sid. A lot more than you'd ever suspect.

Relieved to be inside. I started up the stairs, unb.u.t.toning my coat as I climbed. The hallway smelled of cabbage and urine. I never breathed deeply going up these stairs. d.a.m.n Sid for working out of such a dump. The lighting was dim. It was better that way. Sid's "office" occupied a tenement apartment on the fourth floor, the kind that has a bathtub in the kitchen covered with a board to make a table. He didn't live there. I don't know where he lived-a homeless shelter or Scarsdale, I never knew; he never said. When I got to the top of the stairs, I could see he had left his apartment door cracked. I pushed it open and went in.

"Sid? It's Daphne Urban, your seven-fifteen appointment," I said as I stepped into his apartment.

The light wasn't on. I felt a sudden panic as someone grabbed me. I was flung against a wall and held there with a hand between my shoulder blades. My arms were yanked behind my back, and the cold, hard steel of handcuffs bit into my wrists.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Urban," a silky voice said as I was shoved into the living room and pushed roughly down onto a hard wooden chair.

"Who are you? What do you want?" I began to shake from head to toe. From inside my coat came a sound like the rustling of fluttering wings. I started to rise up. A guy in a suit put his fat hand on my shoulder to keep me still. He had cop cop written all over him. Across from me sat another man. He was middle-aged, well dressed in a gray suit, clearly Saville Row and newly pressed. His legs were crossed, so I could clearly see he wore Gucci loafers, since one shoe was only about two feet from my knee. The man sat back in one of Sid's green easy chairs, the kind with wide armrests and a low, blocky profile, very 1950s. His face was lit by a quiet pool of yellow light from a table lamp. His gray hair was long, but pulled back neatly, giving him an artistic look. He was cleanshaven. His features were regular but bland, nothing notable, nothing unusual. His fingernails were short. He wore a silver wrist.w.a.tch; I'm guessing it was a Tag. Everything about him was clean, neutral, and nondescript. The only thing out of the ordinary was that half of his left index finger was missing. Overall he seemed relaxed as he sat unmoving, studying me. written all over him. Across from me sat another man. He was middle-aged, well dressed in a gray suit, clearly Saville Row and newly pressed. His legs were crossed, so I could clearly see he wore Gucci loafers, since one shoe was only about two feet from my knee. The man sat back in one of Sid's green easy chairs, the kind with wide armrests and a low, blocky profile, very 1950s. His face was lit by a quiet pool of yellow light from a table lamp. His gray hair was long, but pulled back neatly, giving him an artistic look. He was cleanshaven. His features were regular but bland, nothing notable, nothing unusual. His fingernails were short. He wore a silver wrist.w.a.tch; I'm guessing it was a Tag. Everything about him was clean, neutral, and nondescript. The only thing out of the ordinary was that half of his left index finger was missing. Overall he seemed relaxed as he sat unmoving, studying me.

"Miss Urban," he said, making eye contact with me and not blinking at all, like a lizard or a snake. "I-actually we-have been watching you. We have been waiting to contact you at a time and a place where we have the... shall we say, privacy and anonymity to meet you without being observed. Why? To put it very simply, the United States government wants you. And I have an offer you can't refuse." He gave a half smile as he said that. But he wasn't being funny. "That's not quite accurate," he added. "You can refuse our offer. Of course you can. But your refusal means you're tired of living."

"I don't understand," I said. The man sat close enough that I could smell his aftershave. I think he was wearing Versace. I like nice things. I pay attention to them. It occurred to me that the man must hide a certain flamboyance beneath his plain exterior. No one subtle or conservative wears Versace. He was not what he seemed to be. I also noticed that the big cop next to me with his hand on my shoulder smelled sour, like fear. I knew that smell, and I knew he was afraid of me. But the thought just fluttered through my mind like a bat's wing. I was focusing on controlling my own fear. Fear is always the enemy. Once it blossoms into panic, reason flees. The primitive brain takes over, and it's flight or fight. Which? There were at least three men in this room. Two of them had grabbed me, one stood next to me, and one must be standing behind me in the shadows of the room. Did he hold a weapon? A gun? A stake? Something. To flee I had to get to the door or the window. They would try to stop me. I would choose to fight. Even bound by handcuffs I could fight. But should I fight? Should I transform myself into the monster I was within? I focused on my breaths to calm myself and waited for the seated man to answer.

"Miss Urban," he said again, pinning me with his eyes. "If you are thinking of trying to escape, don't. Listen to me. We know who you are-what you are. We are not vampire hunters. We haven't captured you in order to kill you. We need you, and we think you need us. We want to offer you a new life. A better life, we feel. One with purpose, with meaning."

Nothing he said made sense. I always feared that one day I would be caught. It would come to this. Cruel hands grabbing me, then a wooden stake causing me unbearable agony as it tore through my skin, broke my ribs, and pierced my heart. Afterward darkness, dust, oblivion. But what was this? Who were these men?

"I don't understand. What do you want from me?" I said as my body started to shake. I fought the urge to transform. The panic inched closer. In another moment I wouldn't be able to stop it. I would become the other thing, the thing with fangs and claws and animal instincts. The fat hand on my shoulder got heavier, tightening its grip.

"Miss Urban." The seated man's voice took on an edge of authority. "Let me be as direct as possible. I work for an intelligence agency of the United States government. I am what is called a recruiter. You are a vampire. People fear you. Some people hunt you down. But you are also a beautiful woman with extraordinary talents. This country-this nation-is at war. Our way of life, our very existence, is threatened by small groups of terrorists, both from within our borders and outside of them. They call this country the Great Satan. These fanatics take innocent lives in pursuit of their goals. They struck on 9/11. They will strike again-and if they succeed what they do will be worse, much worse, than what happened on 9/11. Our job is to make sure they don't succeed. We need you to help us stop them.

"You speak, we believe, thirteen languages and have lived in at least that many countries. Your IQ is so high you rank within the top one percent of the people on this planet. You are strong and cunning enough to have escaped detection and capture for nearly five hundred years. That, Miss Urban, is admirable. More important, your family-your mother, to be exact-has had a long involvement in international diplomacy..."

"Leave my mother out of this," I said, my fear receding in a burst of sudden anger. "Anything she did happened centuries ago."

The man waved his hand in a dismissive way. "As you wish. My point is that you are familiar with intrigue, taking it in with your mother's milk, so to speak. You have seen treachery and lies all your life. You have been betrayed and in turn betrayed others. The depths of human depravity and evil have darkened your soul and spirit, yet you have survived, and more than that-thrived. Your senses are superhuman. And, oh yes, you can fly. What we want from you, Miss Urban, is for you to be a spy. For us. For justice. For goodness."

"A spy?" I was dumbfounded. "A spy? For the United States? You're joking."

"Miss Urban, I have never been more serious. We have caught you. We can, and we will, terminate you right here, right now, if we have to. That's your Hobson's choice. You can take what we are offering-or nothing at all. By nothing, I mean the end of your existence. Death. Extinction."

"In other words..." I said, beginning to feel cold, defeated. Like midwinter ice, I was becoming brittle, lifeless, and still. "I work for you or I die."

"You are partially correct." the man said, leaning toward me. "If you choose to work for us, we need you to want want to work for us. To believe in what you are doing. Choosing not to die is not enough. You have to choose to commit. You need to make a total commitment." to work for us. To believe in what you are doing. Choosing not to die is not enough. You have to choose to commit. You need to make a total commitment."

I laughed; it wasn't a pretty sound. "Commitment' To you? You are forcing me to do this. You tell me I can either work for you or you will kill me. Now you tell me I should feel this is my lucky break, a new career, a chance to fight for truth, justice, and the American way." I laughed again, and it sounded almost like a sob, my voice like breaking gla.s.s. "You want me to believe I can be a superhero for the U.S. of A. and a villain no more. Be serious. I can't just throw a switch inside me and suddenly change who I am."

The man across from me seemed to grow larger, to exude energy, to become almost incandescent. He held me still with the pure power of his words, the words of a true believer. "Miss Urban. Are you happy? Have you ever been happy? Are you fulfilled? Does your life have meaning? I'll answer for you. No. To every question. No. No. No. No. Why? Because you have lived a frivolous life. A wasted life. You have done nothing of consequence in nearly five hundred years in nearly five hundred years. You live for your next nail appointment, for shopping, for romantic dreams of love, or for the momentary pleasure of good s.e.x. If you can't have that, you settle for the latest movie at the cineplex or watching an episode of The Sopranos The Sopranos on HBO. You have so much to give. And you give nothing. You make-you have made... no difference in this world. You have wasted not one lifetime, but ten lifetimes." on HBO. You have so much to give. And you give nothing. You make-you have made... no difference in this world. You have wasted not one lifetime, but ten lifetimes."

I couldn't find my breath. I felt as if I had been slapped. I knew all that he said was true. I had always known it. It haunted me in the night. Whenever I let myself ponder my existence, I felt frightened. I felt empty. I had neither love nor work. I believed in some vague ideals, but I had pa.s.sion for none. I felt no pride in who I was or what I did. I was ashamed, disgusted with my needs and with the acts I had committed. And except for the horror I had inspired and the grief I had caused, I had done nothing of consequence. My life was meaningless. Had I thought of ending it? Yes. Had I ever thought about commitment? I had, for a short while, once long ago tried to make a commitment to a man. I had failed so abysmally that I had hardened the sh.e.l.l around my heart. But a total commitment to something bigger than the individual, to something larger than one's puny self? To a cause? To a government? Whoa. I had problems with committing myself to a government. I had seen too many governments come and go.

"Miss Urban." The man was talking again. "I believe you are capable of being much more than you are. I believe, and many of my colleagues believe, that you have the potential for greatness. Not all of my a.s.sociates agree. Some of them feel you are a risk. Amoral. And dangerous. I don't believe that. I think, given the chance, you can excel. You can save not just your own soul, but this nation as a democracy and millions of people from injury and death. I'm not asking you to commit to a government, Miss Urban. If you were thinking that, get rid of the idea. I'm asking you to give yourself to the greater good. To the ideals upon which this country was founded. To the truths we hold as self-evident. To the right to be free. To goodness, Miss Urban. To life. We are offering you the chance to leave behind the darkness, the black desires, the blood urges that torment you. We know you fight them. We know you have not killed in decades. That is why you are sitting here and are not already a lifeless piece of garbage on the floor with a stake through your heart. We know that inside you. Miss Urban, is something pure and good. You can be a flawless diamond, not a shrouded thing of the shadows. You can be a more genuine hero than your Byron could ever have been... had he lived."

"How do you know about that? How did you find out everything about me? You know my past. You seem to even know my thoughts," I whispered. I felt strange. My heart was pounding; my breath caught in my throat. It was like the feeling I get in that last second before I transform: an eerie hesitation, a great pause between two existences, a wild expectation, then a bursting free.

"We do do know everything about you, Miss Urban," the recruiter answered smugly. "The truth about the past may never reach the history books, but it is almost always recorded down to the smallest detail. As for how we know about you and your life... Your lack of logical deduction disappoints me, Miss Urban. Do you think Byron's followers didn't talk amongst themselves? They knew what you were. They pursued you. They tried to kill you, did they not? You escaped by the skin of your teeth. And is it not probable that someone who was there, troubled in his soul, fell on his knees in church, and in fear and trembling told his story to his priest? And afterward, Miss Urban, the priest did what? Wrote to his bishop? And the bishop did what? You get the idea. know everything about you, Miss Urban," the recruiter answered smugly. "The truth about the past may never reach the history books, but it is almost always recorded down to the smallest detail. As for how we know about you and your life... Your lack of logical deduction disappoints me, Miss Urban. Do you think Byron's followers didn't talk amongst themselves? They knew what you were. They pursued you. They tried to kill you, did they not? You escaped by the skin of your teeth. And is it not probable that someone who was there, troubled in his soul, fell on his knees in church, and in fear and trembling told his story to his priest? And afterward, Miss Urban, the priest did what? Wrote to his bishop? And the bishop did what? You get the idea.

"So, yes, Miss Urban, information about you-and countless others-is always written down by someone. It may be put in a file. The file may be hidden in the catacombs of Rome or locked in a Vatican vault, but it is there for those who have the power to obtain it. And we have our ways of finding those files, Miss Urban. We are very good at what we do. We know who and what you really are. And we have chosen you."

I was shocked by his words. I had been blind not to realize how visible my trail had been.

"And one more thing, Miss Urban," the recruiter said in a harder voice.

"Yes?" I said, still reeling from his last revelation. The dark of the room crowded in on me, flickers of panic chased through my mind like shadows, and I was, for one of the few times in my life, truly afraid.

"Do not even think about agreeing to our offer and then fleeing," he said, his words like flint striking rock, each one uttered with a sharp crack filled with sparks. "We have been watching you 24/7-in order to recruit you. We will continue to monitor your every move 24/7-in order to terminate you if you run. You have been visible to us for a long time. Please understand-and listen to me carefully-there is nowhere you can go, no place you can hide, where you can escape us. Do you hear me?"

I stammered. "I have to think. I need some time. You are asking more than anyone has ever asked of me."

"Unfortunately, Miss Urban, the one thing I can't give you is time to think. You are standing on a cliff and the wild beast is closing in behind you. You need to make a leap of faith, and make it now."

In that moment, I knew. I had to jump off the edge and free-fall into something I knew nothing about. I had been in New York City on 9/11. That day and the days that followed the destruction of the World Trade Center, I had felt helpless and grief stricken. Now I was being given a chance to do something that I couldn't do then. I could stop another attack. I could be important in a magnificent, positive way. A new door was opening for me. A new path was before me, if I took it.

"Okay." I said. "Yes. I'll be a spy." And I stepped onto the road to a different life.

Chapter 2.

The leap into the abyss .

I was told to show up at six P.M. the following evening at 175 Fifth Avenue-otherwise known as Manhattan's Flatiron Building-and I was to proceed to the office of ABC Media, Inc. There I would meet my handler, get my a.s.signment, and begin orientation. I was told to call my handler J.

Then the men let me go. They simply allowed me to walk out of Sid's apartment. Of course I was followed. Of course I was watched. I knew now that they would never let me go free. But what of it? I have never been free, always being hostage to fear or anxiety and the rigid "rules" of my very existence.

Once back in my Upper West Side apartment, I didn't make my way to bed even when the time grew late. After the sun sets, vampires do not sleep. We prowl the night. I remained indoors this evening, however, and through the wee hours I paced like a tiger in a zoo and thought far too much about the past. I was deeply troubled that a dossier existed on me, and had existed for centuries. Finally I realized I had no means to eliminate it, and I needed to accept what I could not change. I turned on the Turner Cla.s.sic Movies channel and watched an old Hitchc.o.c.k film. The hours crawled by slowly. My mind wandered although my body remained still. Sleep eluded me even after the rosy fingers of dawn began to stain the night sky with streaks of red.

I pulled the blinds tightly closed, and during the daytime hours when I usually rest I scrubbed the bathroom floor, cleaned out the refrigerator, and rearranged the living room furniture. Women, filled with nervous energy and faced with waiting, do not stand around looking out of windows or staring blankly into s.p.a.ce, as do men. We must be in motion. Even while we're waiting for the microwave to heat a cup of coffee, we wash dishes, wipe off the counter, put clothes into the washer. We know a lot can be accomplished in two minutes.

All day long, while I scrubbed and cleaned. I thought about the job. And the more I thought, the more excited I became. Soon bubbles of antic.i.p.ation buoyed me up, lifting my spirits. I realized that I wanted to do this; I really did. I didn't need the salary, of course. I had no need for outside income. My mother generously settled some of her considerable fortune on me centuries ago. My Swiss bank account was fat, my properties secure, my stocks healthy. However, over the years boredom or the need to fit in and appear like a normal human had led me to hold many jobs. Some had been mildly interesting to me. This one, despite the circ.u.mstance of my "hiring," filled me with expectation and hope.

That afternoon I spent hours getting ready for the meeting. I went through my closet. Jeans were too casual. A suit too businesslike. I finally decided on all black as appropriate spy attire-black gabardine slacks, a black cashmere turtleneck, and black Donald Pliner stretch boots with three-inch heels. Contrary to popular belief, I, and all the vampires I personally know, rarely dress in black. Our skin is far too pale. I think black makes me look cadaverlike, and that is not not a good thing. Furthermore I'm not into Goth. I don't do piercing. The disaffected, mad-at-the-world, dead look is not the image I hope to convey. I've had to work too hard at blending in and looking normal. And I do not even own a cape, or at least I haven't for the past hundred years. Vampires aren't like the Amish or the Hasidim-or Count Dracula. We aren't required to dress in the style of our forefathers. I shop at Bloomingdale's here in New York, and I order from the Neiman Marcus catalog when I can't physically get to the Galleria in Houston, Texas, which I prefer over the Dallas store. The Houston Galleria is my absolutely favorite mall. I get a shopping high just thinking about Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Kenneth Cole, Nine West, teuscher Chocolates of Switzerland, all together, all in one mall. Whoever designed the Galleria deserves a n.o.bel prize in shopping. I could gush on, but I digress. a good thing. Furthermore I'm not into Goth. I don't do piercing. The disaffected, mad-at-the-world, dead look is not the image I hope to convey. I've had to work too hard at blending in and looking normal. And I do not even own a cape, or at least I haven't for the past hundred years. Vampires aren't like the Amish or the Hasidim-or Count Dracula. We aren't required to dress in the style of our forefathers. I shop at Bloomingdale's here in New York, and I order from the Neiman Marcus catalog when I can't physically get to the Galleria in Houston, Texas, which I prefer over the Dallas store. The Houston Galleria is my absolutely favorite mall. I get a shopping high just thinking about Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Kenneth Cole, Nine West, teuscher Chocolates of Switzerland, all together, all in one mall. Whoever designed the Galleria deserves a n.o.bel prize in shopping. I could gush on, but I digress.

For my meeting with J, I put an Italian scarf in deep scarlet and gold around my neck to soften the harshness of the black. Red is a favorite color of mine. I consider it a power color, but I don't discount that it may subconsciously appeal to my libido or my appet.i.te. I also added a wide, ornate belt in a mahogany red. Being bone thin, I don't have much of a bust, but I have a tiny waist. If you've got it, flaunt it. I kept my makeup subtle, but I knew I looked like a million dollars. As a final touch I put on a favorite ring, made during the Renaissance in Florence. It's two panther heads created from pave diamonds, one panther head set in white gold facing one set in yellow gold, and each has green emerald eyes. It's not a subtle ring, but then I never put much stock in subtlety. As outerwear I chose a three-quarter-length black leather coat. I felt confident, self-a.s.sured, and raring to go.

Until I met my boss.

At 5:45 that evening I emerged from the subway at Twenty-third Street and Fifth Avenue. As I came out of the dark tunnel into the fading light of day, what I had agreed to do fully sank in. Anxiety dampened some of my enthusiasm, giving me as much of a chill as the plummeting temperatures predicted for that night. I pushed through the gla.s.s doors of the Flatiron Building, fought my way in through the crowd of departing workers going out. and entered an empty elevator car. It creaked and swayed upward.

A legitimate New York publis.h.i.+ng house occupies the highest floors of 175 Fifth Avenue. ABC Media was a phony company on a much lower floor. I found the office, pressed the buzzer, the lock clicked open, and I walked into a long, narrow conference room. There was no one there.

Three closed doors lined the left wall. A square wooden table took up the center of the conference room where I now stood looking around, letting my instincts react and alert me to any potential danger. From behind one of the closed doors I heard a radio playing something from Phantom of the Opera Phantom of the Opera. I sensed there were living beings nearby, but felt no lurking evil. All I smelled was stale air and the musty odor of cardboard boxes. An empty coffeemaker, a jar of Carnation powdered nondairy creamer, and a plastic cup filled with sugar packets sat on a little table near the windows, which were nearly opaque with grime. These windows filled the right-hand wall, which canted inward toward the front of the building, making the room a trapezoid. A door marked director was ajar at the end of the conference room.

The Flatiron Building is shaped like a huge wedge of cheese. Considered the oldest existing skysc.r.a.per in New York, the building comes to an apex in the front at the corner where Broadway crisscrosses Fifth Avenue. In that triangular corner, like Captain Ahab at the bow of his whaling s.h.i.+p, the Pequod Pequod, the man I a.s.sumed was J stood still as a statue, staring out of a window, his back to me. He didn't move as I approached.

I knocked on the doorjamb alongside his open door. Without turning to greet me, the man said, "Come in," and I did. I stood there as a long minute pa.s.sed. Finally he looked over his shoulder at me. His blue eyes, cold as a glacier and hard as marbles, were filled with pure loathing.

"Sit down," he ordered.