Jane Bites Back (24 page)

“Comfort, I have to agree with you.” Now Joy was talking. Her voice was almost monotone, robotic and distant. “I think this book is maaaarvelous.”

“Jane, tell us how you came up with the idea for this novel,” Comfort said.

A camera swung toward Jane and she looked right into its blinking red eye. A production assistant motioned soundlessly for her to look at Comfort and Joy instead. Jane turned her head and looked at Comfort’s smiling face.

She started speaking, but she didn’t hear what she was saying. Her words sounded like the mumbled ramblings of someone speaking through a pillow. She found herself staring at Joy’s
head. It was bobbing up and down as Joy apparently agreed with whatever Jane was saying. Jane saw Comfort’s mouth open and close as she asked a question, and she heard what sounded like the buzzing of bees as she answered. She heard herself laugh, and in the distance the audience laughed back. She had no idea what she’d said.
Don’t forget to smile
, she told herself, and pulled her lips back in what she hoped looked like confident enjoyment.

A bead of sweat ran down her back. Why was she so hot? A change in the light caught her eye, and she realized that she was sitting directly under the studio lights. Brighter than normal, they were also hotter, and her sensitive skin was reacting badly to the increased temperature. Already her hands were reddening, and she knew the rest of her would soon follow suit. She put her hands in her lap, trying to cover one with the other to slow the burning.

When finally they came to a commercial break, Jane waited for the all-clear from the stage manager and stood up. Joy remained seated while an assistant fixed her makeup, but Comfort stood up and came over to Jane.

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” she said. “I apologize for the down-home bullshit. The audience loves it.” She glanced over at Joy. “At least that one isn’t slurring her words today. I count my blessings. Now look, when we come back we’ll wrap this up, I’ll announce that everyone is getting a copy of the book, and you can get out of this freak show.”

“It’s not so bad,” Jane said. “I’m having fun.”

“I’m glad one of us is,” said Comfort. “Now sit down. We’re on again in ten.”

The second half of the interview went smoothly, at least as far as Jane could tell. The heat from the lights was really starting to bother her. Her skin was itching and she felt as if her makeup had
hardened into a mask. When Comfort announced that everyone was getting a copy of Jane’s novel, Jane feigned surprise and beamed at the audience.
It’s over
, she told herself. Then she heard Joy speak.

“When we come back, chef Juan Fernandez will be showing us how to make quesadillas!” she shrieked. “Jane, why don’t you stick around and help us out with that?”

“Well,” Jane began. “I really ought—”

“Don’t you want Jane to stick around?” Joy shouted at the audience. “Wouldn’t that be greeeat?” They responded by screaming back.

“I suppose I could,” said Jane weakly.

“All right, then!” Joy said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The show went to a break and the stagehands rushed the stage. Jane jumped up as someone whisked away her chair and another rolled a makeshift kitchen onstage. Someone put an apron around Jane’s neck and tied it in the back, and then she was shaking hands with a cranky-looking man in chef’s whites.
That would be Juan
, she thought as the man inspected the ingredients that had been laid out on the counter.

“What do I do?” Jane asked him.

“Stay out of the way, and when I tell you to, sprinkle cheese on the goddamn quesadilla,” Juan said, his voice heavy with irritation.

Jane huddled beside Comfort, who stood on Juan’s left while Joy stood on his right. “Showtime,” Comfort said as the stage manager once more counted down from the break.

Jane’s head felt as if it were on fire. Her scalp burned, and she feared that at any second her hair might burst into flame. She tried to look interested as Chef Juan explained the finer points of making a quesadilla, but she really had no idea what was happening.
The various smells coming from the bowls on the counter were combining in her nose, making her ill. She felt like she might retch.

Then she heard a muted cry of pain and smelled something sharp and metallic. She looked over and saw that Joy, who had been slicing a tomato, had managed to cut her finger. A few drops of blood speckled the counter, and more was seeping from the wound on Joy’s hand.

Jane felt her fangs click into place. Her senses sharpened as the scent of the blood kicked her need into high gear. She felt herself being drawn toward Joy’s injured finger.

“Whoops!” Joy said gaily. She wrapped her finger in a dish towel. “It’s okay. It’s just a little nick,” she assured the audience.

Jane continued to stare at the blood. She could practically taste it. Her head was swimming. The lights above her felt like burning suns. Her skin was on fire, and her eyes ached. But all she could see was the drops of blood.

Then all of a sudden Joy was thrusting a bowl of grated cheese at Jane. She looked at it dully, then remembered what Juan had told her to do. Taking a handful, she leaned over and tried to sprinkle it on the waiting quesadilla. But the heat from her hands turned the cheese into a gloopy mess that plopped onto the tortilla and sat there like a recalcitrant toad. Chef Juan looked at it, then glowered at Jane.

“Okay,” Jane heard Comfort say. “Now we’ll put this in the oven.” She grabbed the baking sheet with the quesadilla on it and hurried it into the nonfunctioning oven behind them. Then she removed a completed quesadilla from the top rack and displayed it to the audience. “Doesn’t it look great?” she asked.

“I just loooooove Mexican food!” Joy proclaimed, while Chef
Juan smiled crookedly and flicked a stray piece of cheese from his fingers onto the carpet.

It was all over a minute later. As soon as the stage manager called break, Jane rushed offstage. Away from the lights she felt a little better. She had just started back toward the greenroom to get some water when Joy walked by.

“Goddamn knife,” she muttered as she went past. “Why didn’t somebody
tell
me it was sharp?”

The smell of blood trailed Joy like the tail of a kite. Jane’s nose twitched. She really
had
to get something to eat. She watched as Joy went into her dressing room. Then she looked around. Everyone involved with the show seemed to be busy. Even Comfort was signing autographs and talking to some audience members. Jane looked again at Joy’s dressing room door.

I’ll just have a little something
, she told herself.
Just to tide me over
.

Chapter 25

I
T WAS RAINING LIGHTLY WHEN
J
ANE ARRIVED AT
L
A
M
AISON DES
Trois Soeurs in the French Quarter. The damp air carried a faintly swampy smell, which, combined with the warmth of the day, made Jane feel as if she were wrapped in a very wet wool sweater. Worst of all, it was doing nothing for her hair, which hung limply around her shoulders.

She paid the cabdriver and carried her two bags into the hotel. At the check-in desk a round-faced young man wearing small steel-rimmed eyeglasses greeted her with a sleepy “Afternoon. May I help you?”

“I’m checking in,” Jane informed him. She gave him her name and waited as he looked through an old-fashioned ledger book filled with handwritten notations. There wasn’t a computer in sight, she noted. In fact, everything in the lobby was a hundred years out of date. Gaslights flickered on the walls, and the solid wood furniture squatted atop the well-worn carpets like enormous beasts wearing pink velvet saddles.
It’s really quite lovely
, Jane thought.

“Here we are,” the clerk said, making a star next to what Jane assumed was her reservation in the book. “I see that you’re in town for the conference.”

Jane nodded. “Are there many of us staying here?” she asked.

“A few,” the man answered. “Most of the attendees stay at the conference hotel. But some like to stay here because it’s more out of the way. Also, they enjoy the authentic atmosphere.”

“It certainly is lovely,” Jane remarked as she was handed an actual key instead of the electronic card she was used to getting in hotels. Like everything else in La Maison des Trois Soeurs, it was old, its metal worn smooth from unknown fingers.

“You’re in room number nine,” said the clerk. “It’s through the drawing room and up the stairs. Second floor. Would you like some help with your bags?”

Jane shook her head. “I can manage,” she said. “But thank you.”

“I’m Luke,” the man said. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Slipping the key into her pocket, Jane picked up her bags and walked through the lobby and up the stairs to the second-floor landing. The stairs continued up to the third floor, but a hallway lined with doors stretched out to the right. Jane walked along it
until she came to a door with a small brass 9 affixed to its mullion. The key in her pocket fit neatly into the waiting keyhole, and the door swung open with only the faintest groan of protest.

The room was larger than she’d expected. Against one wall was a brass bed covered with an antique quilt in the traditional Jacob’s ladder pattern, all in shades of blue. Directly opposite it was a dresser with a large mirror atop it, as well as a comfortable-looking armchair upholstered in deep blue. To the left a door led into what Jane assumed was the bathroom. The far wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, all of which were shut against the rain. Outside was a small balcony of wrought iron that looked over the street below.

Placing one suitcase on the bed and the other beside the dresser, Jane went to the windows and opened one of them. The rain had slowed and now steam was rising from the cobblestones below. The smell of earth and rot was stronger now, but not unpleasant.
It’s as if the whole city is decomposing
, Jane thought.

She had not been in New Orleans in almost a century. She’d once known several of her kind who lived there, but she’d ceased corresponding with them long ago. At first their obsession with the past had appealed to her, particularly as things in the world were changing so quickly at that time, making her feel as if the world she knew was disappearing. But eventually she’d tired of their mannered speech and morbid fascination with sleeping in coffins and holding masquerade balls, and had bid them adieu. She was certain that they lived here still, but she had no intention of looking for them. They would only depress her.

She returned to the bed and opened the suitcase. Another shopping excursion in Chicago prior to leaving had provided her with more clothes and other necessities. Removing several items of clothing, she hung them in the narrow closet. She was just carrying
her toiletry bag into the bathroom when the chirping of her cell phone interrupted the quiet. Jane retrieved it from where she’d laid it on the dresser.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Fairfax,” said a woman’s voice, “this is Farrah Rubenstein. From
Entertainment Weekly
,” she added when Jane didn’t reply.

“Yes,” said Jane, startled. She knew who Farrah was. She just hadn’t expected to hear her voice.
You’re supposed to be dead
, she thought. “It’s good to hear from you,” she told the waiting reporter.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Farrah said, apparently oblivious to any surprise in Jane’s voice. “I just have a couple of follow-up questions about the book.”

Jane sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course,” she said. She very badly wanted to ask the young woman if she was okay.
Like, have you had any urges to bite people in the neck?
she thought. But she couldn’t say anything without admitting that something peculiar had occurred, and part of her didn’t want Farrah to know that she had left her stowed beneath the bed while she went shopping. She noticed that she was holding in her hand the red blouse she’d purchased, and she shoved it beneath one of the pillows on the bed lest Farrah somehow know she had it.

“Okay,” said Farrah. “I forgot to ask you if the names of your characters are meant to symbolize anything.”

Jane answered the question, not listening to a word she was saying. Farrah had several more questions, all of which Jane replied to in the same way. She couldn’t get the image of the girl lying on the hotel room bed, her eyes staring up lifelessly at the ceiling, out of her mind. What had happened to her?

“Farrah,” she said when she could stand it no longer, “are you feeling all right?”

“Me?” said Farrah. “Yes. Why?”

“Just asking,” Jane said, thinking quickly. “I seem to have caught a little bug while I was in Chicago. I think it was the air in the hotel. I wondered if you had experienced any … symptoms after our meeting.”