I don’t know why that made me so furious. Perhaps because Nigel thought his plays were smarter because no one in them did anything epic or strange or loud. Everything was toned down, representing the small moments of real lives.
Except sometimes, it turned out, real lives could be really fucking melodramatic.
Inside, I walked across black polished floors, past screens broadcasting Lucien Moreau’s Eternal Ball along with other popular Coldtown feeds, to the information kiosk. A map showed the offerings—rental showers, coffin-shaped pods to sleep in, lockers, restaurants, bars, a salon, and various boutiques selling long black column dresses with fluttery sleeves as well as a great deal of velvet. And the place I was looking for—a FedEx ShipCenter.
I went to the desk, gave them the tracking number, and got my package from Harry.
It was large and long and difficult to rip open. Inside was a vintage leather suitcase that had belonged to me for a long time and a more modern, cheap duffel. There was also a beautiful cane with mother-of-pearl roses and a note attached. A gift from Harry. “For your new life,” he wrote, which was very sweet.
Inside the duffel were several envelopes of cash and the clothing I’d asked for. One of my black suits with a skirt, a favorite pin, a hat, and earrings. The shoes I’d requested weren’t particularly practical, but they were very nice.
I changed in the showers. From a kitschy souvenir shop, I got a package of water-purifying pills and several overpriced tins of food—two things I’d heard were prized inside.
The floppy-haired blond boy behind the register stared at me with wide eyes. “You’renot going inside, are you?” he asked, clearly taken aback.
“What?” I asked him. “You think dying is just for the young?”
He blinked in surprise, then took my hundred-dollar bill and counted out my change without further comment.
Outside, I spotted a girl with hair dyed flame red walking toward her car, a lacy black parasol over her shoulder. The mascara under her eyes had run a bit, as though from tears.
“Heading to the gates?” I called after her.
“Yes,” she said defensively, frowning. “What’s it to you?”
“I’ll give you fifty dollars if you give me a ride,” I told her.
“Oh,” she said, taken aback. “Okay. Sure. Hop in.”
On the drive, the girl—Margot, she called herself—told me about her reasons for wanting to enter a Coldtown. A girlfriend and a bad breakup and a dead-end job. As she talked, she kept wiping her eyes and apologizing for crying.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I said. “You’re young. You’re supposed to love hard and be devastated when the person you love turns out to suck.” I told her a little about being young in New York and Nigel and some of his affairs. I told her how she seemed smart and funny and kind.
By the time we got to the gates, she’d decided she wasn’t going inside after all. I was relieved to hear it. I left her the cheap duffel bag with my pajamas, slippers, and five thousand dollars inside. I hope it helped.
The de-registration paperwork was perfunctory and dull. It ought to have felt profound, to sign my name to something likethat, giving up my rights. But by then it didn’t feel like anything at all.
“No one is going to turn you,” a guard said, looking me over. “You look like a nice old granny, but those vampires—they don’t even want the young, hot chicks. They just want blood.”
“Well,” I said. “I suppose you have everything figured out.”
Once it was done, I passed through several heavy doors, then into a cagelike elevator. As they lowered me, I could see the whole city sprawled out before me in all its hungry glory.
I’d seen it on the news, but it was different to be there in person. The smashed windows. The burnt husks of cars. Elaborate graffiti covered the walls, paintings of dragons and other, darker things. From inside the buildings, I could tell that Coldtown’s citizens were watching, to see if I was worth bothering with.
I took the cane top and pulled it up, exposing two inches of the steel sword encased inside. Truly, Harry gave the best presents.
After that, I managed to pay for directions with the water-purifying pills and tins of food, then headed directly to Lucien Moreau’s Eternal Ball. There was a wait at the door, but an ancient crone stooped over a cane was exotic enough to get waved inside—especially after I produced a small bribe to sweeten the deal.
One thing about spending so much time among playwrights is that I have observed a lot of negotiations over the years. Vampires had good reasons not to make more vampires, but I had three things that most other candidates for vampirism didn’t.
One, I had a lot of money in a suitcase. Cash, which was hard to come by inside and useful if you wanted to buy things from the guards, which everyone did.
Two, I had access to enough entertainment contacts that I could get some real promotion going for a deserving livefeed, not to mention the potential for better distribution.
Three, I had the presence of mind to hide the suitcase so that when I made the offer, the vampire couldn’t just kill me and take it. Truly, some people really ought to watch more British crime dramas.
June 24, 2014
