Because of our familial bond, my mother was able to communicate with me in dreams, but even still, she insisted on a corporeal visit. She informed me of the time and place, and I found a sharply dressed antique dealer to act as my host, for my mother demanded excellence in every way.
Of course, she was late. She operated according to her own schedule and derived some satisfaction in making others wait for the pleasure of her company. Normally, I wouldn’t mind the delay, but this was the day of your audition for the Miami City Ballet, and I’d sworn to you I’d be there. What if my absence rattled you, and you failed at your performance? I wasn’t supposed to interfere in the first place, but now, succeed or fail, the outcome was my business.
I couldn’t have you on my mind while meeting my mother. I had to keep our friendship a secret for as long as possible. Forever, if I could manage it.
I took another sip from my mimosa, enjoying the warm sunshine on my skin and the dull pleasure of alcohol spreading through my bloodstream. I was seated at an upscale sidewalk café in South Beach. I’d had one awkward encounter already when another of the restaurant’s patrons recognized me, but after some mild pleasantries and a few white lies, they were content to continue on their way.
It had been more than a decade since I’d last met with my mother, and though I didn’t know what form she’d be taking, I recognized her instantly by the attention she attracted as she breezed up to the hostess. Heads swiveled in her direction. That day, she wore a white, tight-fitting pencil skirt and an open, plunging blouse. A dainty handbag was in one hand, and sharp-edged stilettos adorned her feet. Judging by the number of bags in her possession, it seemed she’d been doing some shopping. She’d always had a flair for fashion and a special fondness for designers, many of whom owed their success to her influence.
I rose from the table and signaled with a raised hand, though the gesture was hardly necessary. My mother could recognize my spirit no matter what body I inhabited. That, along with the bond we shared because of our blood ties, made eluding her essentially impossible. I took the bags from her arms and set them carefully at our feet. She embraced me in a cloud of expensive perfume and air-kissed both of my cheeks so as not to smear her lipstick.
“My darling,” she said breathlessly. “What shall I call you these days?”
“Henri. And you, Lena? Does this lovely form have a name?”
“Don’t you recognize me?” She drew back her shoulders and turned her head slightly as if posing for a portrait.
“I’m afraid not,” I admitted. “Are you quite famous?”
“Tut, tut. I’m Gianna Russo, an up-and-coming Hollywood actress. I live in L.A. now. It’s a lot like here, darling, onlymore.”
Morewas the perfect sentiment for my mother, whether it be her vanity, her power, or her ambition.Ruthlesswas the word most often used to describe her, which meant something by gods’ standards. I pulled out her chair and she sat down primly, smoothing out the fabric of her skirt while not missing a beat in her discourse. “…the nightlife, the culture, the fashion… all the trends hit California first, darling. I can tell just from looking around that the East Coast is still months behind.”
“Gianna Russo… that name does sound familiar,” I mused. “Have I seen something in the papers recently?”
“Yes, there was a bit of a hullabaloo this past summer. I’m still recovering emotionally, you know. A horrific car accident took the life of my lover. There was so much blood, darling, I was lucky to survive it.”
“Lena,” I admonished. Our lineage’s thirst for human heme manifested as a craving during temporary possessions but became even more of a compulsion after a permanent transmutation. Though the blood wasn’t necessary for survival in our adopted vessels, demons were not known for their restraint. It meant the less desirable loved ones of our postmortem hosts were usually the first to be ravaged.
“He was terribly uncooperative as a companion, but more than sufficient as a meal. Americans are so… hearty.” She licked her top lip and smiled like a scoundrel. Her wine-colored lipstick was a sharp contrast to her recently sharpened, bone-white teeth.
I shook my head. Lena really had no morality. A human psychologist might diagnosis her as a narcissistic megalomaniac with psychopathic tendencies. Unsettling for a human but not at all uncommon when dealing with immortals.
“But enough about me, darling. Tell me about you. Are you renting this handsome pitcher? Or do you own it?”
I tugged at the lapel of my host body’s tailor-made suit jacket. “It’s a rental, but what do you think?”
She pouted. “Not a terrible choice, but I do wish you had a body of your own. This penance to the gods thing is so last season, don’t you think? At this point, I think you’re only punishing yourself.”
I cleared my throat and was saved at that moment by our waiter who, upon seeing my mother, stumbled to the table and was struck speechless. Literally, his mouth hung open. She only smiled suggestively in response and dazzled him with her unique abilities. Her seduction had been honed so finely over the years, the power more closely resembled coercion. In her original bloodborn body, it would be nearly impossible for any human to resist her. As it was, it necessitated me taking over ordering drinks for the both of us.
“Another mimosa for me and a Bloody Mary for my… companion.”
“Extra bloody, sweetie,” she said with a wicked smile.
“So, howdidyou acquire this charming vessel?” I asked. The last time I’d seen her she was a tall, waifish blonde.
“Oh, darling, you’re still such an innocent after all these years. I do believe being disembodied has stunted your growth as a demon. Gianna was a darling girl, a real rags-to-riches story, moved from Pittsburg to the City of Angels to pursue a modeling career, but the poor dear was rejected—too short, too curvy. As if those aren’t attributes to be coveted. This obsession with beauty conformity is truly the patriarchy at its most insidious…”
Lena pulled a cigarette from her gold case, and I produced a lighter from my suit jacket. I lit her cigarette so that she hardly had to pause in relaying her story.
“Thank you, darling. Such a proper gentleman. I’m afraid Gianna had a smoking habit, and I simply can’t kick it.” She took a long pull, tensing the column of her throat, and continued speaking as she exhaled.
“Poor Gianna was desperate, broke, living in her car, and surviving on menthol cigarettes and non-fat fro-yo when she came to me, her prospective agent, begging for a break in the movie industry, and my darling, you know how hard it is for me to resist such heart-wrenching pleas. So, I whispered in a few casting directors’ ears out of the kindness of my heart. Gianna landed several small roles, but between you and me, her ambition far exceeded her talent. And all those years of being told her butt was too big put her on a dark path of extreme weight loss and snorting ephedrine. Her poor human heart simply wasn’t strong enough.”
I deduced that Lena coveted the young woman’s body, bartered her soul for the chance at fame, and coerced her into an overdose that resulted in cardiac arrest.
“Did you drink her blood, too?” I asked and said a silent prayer for Gianna’s soul.
