Bloody Fabulous (19 page)

“I have a good life. A good house. Good health. A good husband. I’m lucky and loved.”

You are, Diana couldn’t say.

“I’m forty-nine years old.”

Diana could not say that she would never be forty-nine years old.

“I’m never going to be the duck that turns into the swan. My foot will never fit the slipper. It’s never going to be all lights and cameras. It’s never going to be all action. No one is ever going to care who I am. It’s never going to happen. Not for me.”

It had happened for her. The swan, the dress, the lights, and oh yes, the cameras. It wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what anyone wanted, not really.

She wished she could trade him—a forty-ninth birthday and a husband who wasn’t Charles—it seemed appealing. But then would she want that either? A life of wanting to be wanted and never being seen? Of desiring glamour and receiving anonymity?

A little of each then. If only they could mingle, the way shadows bleed into one another, the way ghosts bleed into shadows.

But he is neither ghost nor shadow. Not yet.

He stares at the ceiling. His eyelids drift down. A blink, and then a second. He will fall asleep soon.

Diana swims away.

Capturing Images
Maria V. Snyder

Monday

Evelyn’s brain cells had declared war inside her skull. The right side of her brain attacked the left with mortars and heavy artillery, while the left responded with bombs and gunfire. Why did she order that
third
Long Island Ice Tea? Because she had already drunk two and logic and reason had left her to photocopy their asses.

Memories of last night’s party pulsed. Had she really bragged to the publisher of
Vackra
magazine that she could transform anyone from ugly to beautiful? And then make a bet with the woman? God, she hoped not.

And who was the idiot who had scheduled a party on a Sunday night? She rested her forehead on her desk as more brain cells died. The doorbell to her studio dinged. Without checking the security camera, she buzzed the door open. Evelyn rolled her head to the side and watched Vincenza, her make-up artist, through a curtain of blond hair. The tall Italian woman sported the latest European fashions. Even her nickname—Vee was trendy.

Vee spotted her. “What happened?”

“Too much alcohol, not enough sense.”

“I knew I should have stayed last night.” She tsked. ‘‘Not to worry. I’ll make you a tonic.” Vincenza bustled off making way too much noise with her heels.

Another painful ding sounded and Evelyn’s assistant—a bundle of energy contained in human form—arrived. The girl was too young and too inexperienced, but she was whip smart.

‘‘What stinks?’’ Olivia asked.

‘‘Vodka, gin, tequila, rum, and triple sec fumes, courtesy of our boss lady,” Vee said.

‘‘Oh.” She crinkled her nose. ‘‘Do you want me to cancel your appointments?”

‘‘No. We’re doing the cover for
Glam More.
” It had taken Evelyn two months to find an open date with the model and the magazine’s deadline was looming.

Another time limit popped unbidden into her mind.
Produce a beautiful photo for me in one week. If you can not, then you are mine.
Camilla D. Quinton’s liquid voice sounded in her head. Maybe Camilla would forget all about the bet. She snorted. Not Camilla, otherwise known as the Demon Queen. She had not only earned that reputation, but embraced it.

The only reason Evelyn had gone to that party was to meet her. One of Camilla’s rare public appearances, and Evelyn had hoped to impress the woman and be offered a cover shoot for
Vackra.
But Camilla’s notorious resistance to using freelancers remained, preferring to do everything in house.

Evelyn raised her head, causing another brain cell salvo. “I’ll need my Nikon with the fifty millimeter lens, the white backdrop, and two strobes,” she said to Olivia.

As the girl hurried to set up the equipment, Vee pressed a hot mug of . . . “What the hell is this? It smells like rancid cottage cheese.”

‘‘Drink it, you’ll feel better.”

She cringed at the taste, but kept sipping until Vee appeared satisfied. The model for the photo shoot arrived in a fit of tears over her blotchy skin. Vee whisked the girl back to the dressing room. It didn’t matter how horrible the model’s skin tone, hair, or shape was, with Vee and Evelyn’s expertise, her photo would show a gorgeous young woman.

Evelyn admitted to a certain amount of confidence. After all, she had the best reputation in the business, and it hadn’t occurred overnight. She committed years, sacrificed her social life, and worked hard. Seven years later, she owned a studio and loft in the heart of Manhattan. Still, she shouldn’t have made that boast. Yet a part of her felt equal to the challenge.

Vee returned with a now radiant model. Feeling steadier, Evelyn picked up her camera. The familiar weight of the Nikon in her hand was like a caffeine fix. Dismissing her worries about the party, Evelyn concentrated on her work.

After her last Monday client left, Evelyn uploaded the day’s photos to her computer. Taking pictures was only the first half of the job. She scanned the shots and didn’t look up when Olivia chirped a good bye or when Vee admonished her not to work too late before leaving.

Pulling up the
Glam More
job, Evelyn picked the best pose and clicked on the photo’s histogram. Then she proceeded to turn the pretty model into a goddess.

When a low cough sounded, she jumped from her seat. Her heart banged in her chest as she stifled a scream.

‘‘Pardon me,” a man said. ‘‘I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stood near the door.

How the hell did he get in?
Evelyn’s New Yorker instincts kicked in, and she assessed him to determine the level of threat. Well dressed, well groomed, clean shoes. Not a vagrant. No jacket and short sleeves despite the chilly October air. No obvious weapons. Designer clothes.

She met his amused gaze and was stunned. His features were perfectly proportioned, eyes a deep sapphire blue, pale skin without a single flaw, and thick black hair that reached the base of his neck. The best looking guy she has seen before make-up and Photoshop. The best looking guy
ever.

Evelyn raked a hand through her messy hair. “If you want a portfolio, you need to make an appointment.”

‘‘Camilla sent me.” He gave her a wry smile. ‘‘I’m your . . . test subject.”

A rollercoaster of emotions rolled through her. Relief—he was gorgeous. Suspicion—what game was the Demon Queen playing? She had expected Camilla to send a hag. Surprised—that Camilla would act so soon.

Evelyn shrugged. This would be easy. ‘‘Call my assistant tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.”

“It has to be tonight,” he said.

‘‘I can’t, I’ve a deadline.”

“Should I tell her you concede?”

That word sent a rush of memories. Concede meant closing her studio and working solely for the Demon Queen. Fear shot through her. ‘‘She said I had a week.”

He nodded. ‘‘Yes. A week to produce a photo or to get your affairs in order.”

That made it sound as if she had a terminal disease. He had an odd formal way of speaking as if he’d be more comfortable wearing a fedora and suit than the gray slacks and black polo shirt. However, with his athletic build, he’d look good in a T-shirt and off the rack jeans.

“All right. Give me a minute.” She considered calling Olivia and Vee, but the man didn’t need make-up. She’d adjust for his pale skin, and shoot in black and white.

As she set up her equipment, she watched him from the corner of her eye. Unlike most models, he didn’t check his appearance in the mirrors.

Instead, he studied her framed photos. Not the ones filled with covers, but the ones from Iraq. The stark images of war that she had taken on her last “vacation” had been tucked out of way. All the major magazines had rejected the photos, claiming the images were too disturbing.

Yet he didn’t flinch from them. Perhaps he had more depth than the other male models she’d photographed. He was a little older than them—closer to her age of thirty. Maybe they’d have something in common. Oh, who was she kidding? He probably dated gorgeous women barely out of high school.

“I’m ready, Mr . . . ?”

He extended a hand. “Grayson Windsor. But everyone calls me Gray.”

She shook his hand. His cold fingers grasped hers a little longer than proper. But he let go and stood before the white background.

“Stand on the X and face me,” she instructed.

He smirked when she aimed her camera at him. Her opinion of him dropped a few notches. Oh well. Camilla wanted beautiful, and even smirking Gray met that requirement. Evelyn snapped a few shots to test the lighting, aperture, and shutter speed, then brought up the pictures to view.

Odd. His clothes and shoes showed up, but not his face and arms. She frowned, tried a few more shots, netting the same results. To the camera, it appeared as if he were invisible. Aiming at her desk, she took another set. The pictures were fine. Evelyn tried her Canon and then her Olympus. Same thing.

‘‘Are you ready to admit defeat?” Gray asked from right behind her.

She yelped. “There must be something wrong.”

‘‘There’s nothing wrong with your equipment. Please, allow me to show you.” He gestured to the mirrors.

Curious, she followed him. He stood in front of them. His reflection matched her pictures of him. Just his clothes. To prove his point he removed his shirt. Gaping, she glanced between the pants and shoes in the mirror to his muscular torso. Impossible. She could
see
him.

Now he gave her a full smile, revealing straight teeth and fangs. She stepped back as fear coiled around her heart.

He stayed close, grabbing her upper arm. “Nothing can take a picture of us. Our souls have already been taken. You will not win the bet with our queen.”

This was way too much for Evelyn’s sputtering brain. She focused on one. “Us? You mean there are more of you?”

“Many more. A whole nest of nasties.”

Her heart rate jumped.

“Don’t worry.” He stroked her throat with his free hand. His icy fingers sent tremors through her muscles. ‘‘I’m not allowed to drink from this lovely neck. My queen wishes for you to be healthy. She desires only your photographic genius.”

“Your queen? Camilla?” Her voice squeaked.

“Yes. Her nickname is more accurate than anyone can imagine.”

“Or believe.”

‘‘There is that. But pictures don’t lie, Miss Mitchell. You know that.”

“Actually, pictures lie all the time.”

“No they don’t.
You
change them with your computer. Except, I suspect your war photos haven’t been altered.”

“That wouldn’t be right.”

“I agree. Now according to the terms of your bet, you’re to pack up your studio, fire your staff, put your studio up for sale, and be available for our queen next week. She will provide everything else. And don’t bother the police. That will just anger us. You really don’t want to do that.”

His words felt like a death sentence. Evelyn had worked so hard to be independent.

Gray released her. ‘‘I’ll return each evening to check on your progress.” He headed toward the door.

‘‘Wait. Can I try to take your picture again?”

“How you decide to spend your last week is up to you. However in one week’s time you
will
be the queen’s property regardless.” He left.

Evelyn sank to the floor as the whole encounter with Gray replayed in her mind. Disbelief warred with panic. She debated calling her lawyer, her mother or calling the police despite his threat.
Would any of them believe her?
Anger at Camilla flipped with fear that she’d send more of her . . . vampires to harm her if she didn’t comply. God, she was so screwed. Or was she?

Snapping out of her shock, Evelyn jumped to her feet. She checked the pictures—still the same, but she wrote a list of techniques she could try in order to capture Gray’s image. After all, she could see him. It was just a matter of finding the right combination of lighting and equipment.

Tuesday

When Olivia arrived the next morning, Evelyn told her to cancel all her appointments for the week.

“What should I tell them?” the girl asked her.

“Tell them I’m sick.”

Too new to question her boss, Olivia nodded and rushed to her desk. Vee, however had been working with her for the last six years. She peered at Evelyn through thick mascara-laden eyelashes when Evelyn gave her the rest of the week off.

“What’s going on?” Vee waved a hand at the mess of cameras heaped on the table. “This isn’t you.” She picked up an old camera, and gasped in mock horror. “This has
four
megapixels.”

Evelyn decided not to tell her friend about the bet. “It’s a . . . special retro project. A real challenge and . . . very important for my career.”
And my life.

Vee arched a slender eyebrow. “You’re not photographing cadavers again?”

She stifled a cough. Were vampires cadavers? “I haven’t done that since grad school.” Back when she had needed money she’d worked for a funeral home, photographing the deceased for grieving family members. She also photographed birthday parties, worked in a one-hour photo lab, and tutored freshmen.

Vee gestured to her war photos. “Then what do you call those?”

The conversation with Gray replayed in Evelyn’s mind. “The truth.”

“This isn’t about some man is it?”

She stared at Vee. “Why would you think that? I haven’t had a date in over a year.”

“Exactly. Desperate people do desperate things.”

“I’m not desperate. I just haven’t found a kindred soul yet.”

“Hard to find one when you don’t leave your studio,” Vee said.

“I went out on Sunday night and look what happened.”

“A hangover isn’t the end of the world.” But after another uncomfortable scrutiny, Vee agreed to take the week off. “Call me if you need me for
any
reason. Okay?”

“Okay.” She relaxed.

Evelyn spent the remainder of the day prepping for Gray. Olivia broke her concentration when she announced that she had finally rescheduled all of Evelyn’s appointments.