Shoving my thoughts away from my struggles and failures as a sister, I gaze up at the dress again, sizing it up like I might do with a new weapon. Evaluating its usefulness for its intended purpose.
Then I pluck it down from the curtain rod and get to work, spending the next several hours making a few key alterations to the garment. Between modifying the dress and doing some additional research on the vamps’ underground palace, the day flies by. It seems like all I do is blink, and suddenly, it’s dark outside.
Time to get this show on the road.
Stripping out of my faded jeans and tee, I step into the dress and lace up the corset, then turn to look at myself in my bedroom mirror.
This gown is unlike anything I’ve ever had in my closet; it’s brazen and eye-catching and absolutely gorgeous. The bodice is a corset, and the skirt flares out at the hip, with enough fabric for me to hide weapons inside it. Above the corset, my breasts are cupped in a semi-transparent halter which lets just enough of my nipples show to tease the eye. Below, the skirt and petticoats fall to my ankles, with a slit up to my hip on one side. I’ve sewn weapons between the layers of the skirt—just my two favorite knives, although I wish I could bring a whole fucking armory with me.
I do a practice spin in front of the mirror to make sure I’ve balanced it all properly and that the knives are truly undetectable. I think they are, but I can’t be entirely sure since I can’t really see how the back spins. I know I’ll be dead if I’m caught smuggling weapons in there, but there’s no way I’m leaving them at home.
I try to evaluate the odds in my head, but there are too many unknown variables. I know I look and smell good. I know that my weapons aren’t strictly visible. I just don’t know if I’m too obviously fit from fighting and training, or if any of them will recognize my face. I don’t think I’ve ever left a witness after a kill, but there’s really no way to be certain of that.
“Only one way to find out,” I tell my reflection, grimacing slightly
Blowing out my cheeks, I slide my feet into the new stilettos I bought this morning. They’re comfortable enough for what they are, but I can feel my anxiety start to increase as I straighten up. I can walk just fine, I’m light on my feet and have good balance. But there’s no fucking way I could run or climb in these—not without breaking a leg or two.
That’s the whole point, really. If I showed up in my black tactical gear and combat boots, they’d kill me before I could even get in the door. These shoes send a different kind of message.
And that message is: prey on me, I can’t get away if I change my mind.
“I can’t believe people actually do this shit for the thrill of it,” I mutter. I may have a personal vendetta against vampires, but even if I didn’t, I can’t imagine myself voluntarily choosing to throw myself into their clutches as a blood tribute. As a fucking groupie.
Shaking off the impulse to check and double check my weapons, I lock my feet in with the thin straps on the shoes, tuck a bejeweled comb in my dark hair, slip a pair of blood-drop earrings in my ears, and turn around in front of the mirror again to look at the final result.
My sharp features look almost model-like when combined with the stunning getup and the makeup I applied before getting dressed. My blue eyes look even brighter next to the red of the earrings and the scarlet color of my lips.
Good enough.
Passable, anyway, assuming I can get rid of this scowl.
I try on a few bubble-headed smiles and settle on wide-eyed awe.
That’ll work. Let’s do this.
I throw on a ratty trench coat so I can get downtown without too much hassle. This dress would have me stopped for solicitation in a heartbeat. Not without cause, I suppose, considering what I’m about to go do.
The cab I hail only takes me three-quarters of the way there before I stop the driver and tell him to pull over. It’s not so much because I’m afraid of being followed or traced, but because I really need to settle my nerves before I walk in there. Knowing that I’m going to be around dozens of vampires is making me itch to fight. I need to find softness somewhere inside of me, some sort of doe-eyed naivete, something to hold on to so that I can present the right face to these vermin.
The walk helps—a little, at least. Every time I feel my fingers curling into fists or my shoulders bunching up, I force myself to take a deep breath, hold it, and then release it.
When I finally arrive at my destination, I almost think I’m in the wrong place at first. The bar is fairly quiet, playing some soft-rock bullshit while middle-aged people sit around communing with their drinks. There’s a subtle black door in the back beyond the bathrooms. The bartender catches my eye, glances down at my feet, and nods his head that way.
Perfect, thanks dude.
At least I look the part enough to fool the human bartender. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and I’ll take it.
I follow his silent directions, heading
