think I would tailor my life to her petty, old-fashioned rules of propriety?
She gave me a long stare and tossed her dirty rag in the bucket of soapy water at her feet. She wasn't really that old--no more than forty, but it was hard to remember that when she carried herself like a Victorian spinster of sixty-five.
"The rent is due tomorrow morning," she said. "You and that Aileen have been very gay recently. You think you can afford it? There's a hundred girls who would kill for the nice living you have here. Don't forget that."
And sadly, she was probably right. Insufferable as she was, when Mrs. Brodsky said "no gentlemen callers," she included the ones with money. Which was why I bit sharply on my tongue, forced myself to smile, and said as sweetly as possible, "Of course I'll have the money for you tomorrow. And I will take your warning to heart."
From her narrowed eyes, I knew she didn't quite know what to make of this, but she opened the door for me.
"Someone called asking for you. Said her name was Lily Harding. 'Tell Miss Hollis I request she meet me at the Roosevelt at one,' she said."
I let out an involuntary laugh. Aside from the Russian accent, Mrs. Brodsky gave an uncanny impersonation of the debutante journalist. She gave me a smile that was almost conspiratorial.
"Friends in high places, Zephyr? Well, you should not forget where you come from. You'll never be one of them."
Bemused, I nodded and trotted down the steps. My landlady had a sense of humor? Unfortunately, I doubted her vestige of humanity extended to compassionate understanding about late rent payments.
I was surprised Lily had gotten in touch with me so quickly, but if she wanted to meet, she must have some information. I pedaled with more verve than normal on my way to the Blood Bank. If I was to reach Lily by one, I barely had any time to make the deliveries.
A few human citizens were waiting in the cramped lobby when I walked inside the tiny store front donation center on St. Marks Place. Despite the standing offer for a full twenty-five cents for every healthy pint, the lines at stations like these across the city were chronically empty. People had a superstitious fear of vampires. Even though they might know that such willing donations greatly curbed all incidences of blood-madness and rogue suckers, they shied away from giving their own blood. The tabloids regularly ran sordid features about vampires stalking donors after tasting their blood. Utter hogwash, of course, but it kept even the kind hearted ones away. I gave once a month and delivered when I could.
Ysabel, the Ukrainian Jewish grandmother who managed the center, beamed when I walked up to the desk.
"Zephyr, you made it! I had wondered when I heard about your little . . . engagement last night. Were you wonderful? I'm sure you were wonderful. I wish I could have gone, but Saul, you know, he loved to dance and he isn't quite up to it anymore. Shame." She lowered her voice, as though imparting some juicy secret. "And I don't think the wine is kosher."
I could only imagine Rinaldo hauling a Rebbi to his basement to bless the bathtubs. "I think you might be right," I said, just managing to keep a straight face. "Also, illegal."
Ysabel tapped the pen she had tucked behind her ear against her steel-gray chignon. "Right. I keep forgetting." She shook her head. "Don't know how I could, the way Saul goes on about it."
"So . . ."
"Oh, of course, the deliveries!" She reached under the desk and pulled out a small sheet of paper with a list of names and addresses, with a figure of their pint allotment alongside.
"There's ten bruxa there. Mostly regulars. If any crazy bruxa stops you, just give him what he wants, right? You're too valuable to lose, dear."
Ysabel gave me this warning every time I delivered. I didn't bother to protest my competence anymore. She didn't know I was immune, and last night proved it was perfectly valid to worry about my safety. After all, I was toting
She gave me a long stare and tossed her dirty rag in the bucket of soapy water at her feet. She wasn't really that old--no more than forty, but it was hard to remember that when she carried herself like a Victorian spinster of sixty-five.
"The rent is due tomorrow morning," she said. "You and that Aileen have been very gay recently. You think you can afford it? There's a hundred girls who would kill for the nice living you have here. Don't forget that."
And sadly, she was probably right. Insufferable as she was, when Mrs. Brodsky said "no gentlemen callers," she included the ones with money. Which was why I bit sharply on my tongue, forced myself to smile, and said as sweetly as possible, "Of course I'll have the money for you tomorrow. And I will take your warning to heart."
From her narrowed eyes, I knew she didn't quite know what to make of this, but she opened the door for me.
"Someone called asking for you. Said her name was Lily Harding. 'Tell Miss Hollis I request she meet me at the Roosevelt at one,' she said."
I let out an involuntary laugh. Aside from the Russian accent, Mrs. Brodsky gave an uncanny impersonation of the debutante journalist. She gave me a smile that was almost conspiratorial.
"Friends in high places, Zephyr? Well, you should not forget where you come from. You'll never be one of them."
Bemused, I nodded and trotted down the steps. My landlady had a sense of humor? Unfortunately, I doubted her vestige of humanity extended to compassionate understanding about late rent payments.
I was surprised Lily had gotten in touch with me so quickly, but if she wanted to meet, she must have some information. I pedaled with more verve than normal on my way to the Blood Bank. If I was to reach Lily by one, I barely had any time to make the deliveries.
A few human citizens were waiting in the cramped lobby when I walked inside the tiny store front donation center on St. Marks Place. Despite the standing offer for a full twenty-five cents for every healthy pint, the lines at stations like these across the city were chronically empty. People had a superstitious fear of vampires. Even though they might know that such willing donations greatly curbed all incidences of blood-madness and rogue suckers, they shied away from giving their own blood. The tabloids regularly ran sordid features about vampires stalking donors after tasting their blood. Utter hogwash, of course, but it kept even the kind hearted ones away. I gave once a month and delivered when I could.
Ysabel, the Ukrainian Jewish grandmother who managed the center, beamed when I walked up to the desk.
"Zephyr, you made it! I had wondered when I heard about your little . . . engagement last night. Were you wonderful? I'm sure you were wonderful. I wish I could have gone, but Saul, you know, he loved to dance and he isn't quite up to it anymore. Shame." She lowered her voice, as though imparting some juicy secret. "And I don't think the wine is kosher."
I could only imagine Rinaldo hauling a Rebbi to his basement to bless the bathtubs. "I think you might be right," I said, just managing to keep a straight face. "Also, illegal."
Ysabel tapped the pen she had tucked behind her ear against her steel-gray chignon. "Right. I keep forgetting." She shook her head. "Don't know how I could, the way Saul goes on about it."
"So . . ."
"Oh, of course, the deliveries!" She reached under the desk and pulled out a small sheet of paper with a list of names and addresses, with a figure of their pint allotment alongside.
"There's ten bruxa there. Mostly regulars. If any crazy bruxa stops you, just give him what he wants, right? You're too valuable to lose, dear."
Ysabel gave me this warning every time I delivered. I didn't bother to protest my competence anymore. She didn't know I was immune, and last night proved it was perfectly valid to worry about my safety. After all, I was toting
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