Page 67 of Fang Fiction

“Wow,” Joni breathed.

“Oh this?” Octavia smiled. “I grabbed an elegant little Tanya Taylor from Bergdorf’s, didn’t want to draw too much attention since we’re crashing the party. Go on and change—your dress is in the bathroom.”

Joni had been relieved when Octavia insisted on picking out her dress for the gala—Joni didn’t have anything nearly fancy enough to wear, and she certainly couldn’t afford anything new. But when she saw a Tom Ford gown hanging from the bathroom door, her breath hitched in her throat. It had a sporty racerback neckline, was slinky and floor length and covered in deep purple sequins that glimmered like oozing liquid. It was tight on Joni, but in that way that was kind of perfect. The dress hugged her angular frame and made her feel like a badass bitch—but when she opened the door of the bathroom, Octavia just stared at her.

“What? Is it bad?” Joni asked, suddenly doubting how hot she’d felt in the bathroom mirror.

“No,” Octavia said quickly. “No, it’s perfect. As I suspected. Come on, let’s do your makeup.”

Joni sat in a desk chair, and Octavia instructed her to close her eyes. Her touch was feather-light as she swept brushes over Joni’s skin, occasionally smoothing things out with her fingers.

“Okay,” Octavia said softly. “Look at me?”

Joni opened her eyes, and Octavia’s face was so close—if either of them leaned forward, they’d be kissing. Octavia inspected Joni’s face slowly, gently tapping glimmering highlighter along Joni’s cheekbones, pushing back a lock of her dark hair.

“Open your mouth,” Octavia instructed.

“Sure,” Joni whispered, trying to keep herself from breathing heavily. Octavia applied rosy lipstick, then held up a tissue.

“Blot,” she said. Joni pressed her lips into the tissue, which was draped over Octavia’s palm, wishing that thin layer of paper wasn’t there. Octavia held the tissue for longer than she needed to, and Joni kept pressing her lips against it, wondering if something was really about to happen—

“All done!” Octavia stood up abruptly. “Looks good.”

“Great.” Joni cleared her throat. “I’ll call a car?”

Forty minutes later, they arrived at the Met in a sleek black SUV. There was a line of black cars outside the Met’s main entrance with its iconic stairs, but Octavia had their car pull into the parking structure off 80th Street.

“This way, we go directly into the museum and hopefully avoid security,” Octavia explained.

“And what if we don’t?” Joni asked. As a kid, she’d never so much as stolen a candy bar—she wondered what her parents would say about her gate-crashing a charity gala with a vampire. To be honest, they’d probably be less upset about the vampire than the fact that Joni was blowing off her dissertation to hang out with her.

“If we have to deal with security, we’ll deal with them.” Octavia shrugged. “One way or another.”

Joni hoped none of the ways was murder, but she didn’t entirely want to ask.

It turned out Octavia’s plan worked like a charm. They made their way through the lower level of the museum, past the costume institute, and up a fire stairwell at the north end of the museum that dumped them in the middle of eighteenth-century American furniture. From there, it was a quick walk to the rear entrance of the room that housed the Temple of Dendur, where the gala was taking place. There was a guard stationed at the door, but one giggle from Octavia and an “Oh my word, we got lost coming back from the loo!” in her crisp British accent was all it took to get by him.

“How many times have you done that?” Joni said under her breath.

“Honestly? Almost never.” Octavia grinned. “I’m so used to glamouring people, it’s kind of fun to manipulate them the old-fashioned way.”

“Very analog,” Joni deadpanned. “Super retro.”

“I’m a hundred and thirty years old. Everything I do is retro,” Octavia murmured in Joni’s ear. Joni felt the warm tickle of Octavia’s breath, inhaled the smoky scent of her perfume. They hadn’t had a drop to drink, and it was a good thing too, because Joni was already feeling intoxicated.

The gala was a beautiful event: The temple was surrounded by trees made of glass, lit from within by thousands of twinkle lights. Round tables were set with candelabras and sprays of orchids, and there was a dance floor by the fountain filled with bulrushes, though no one was on it yet. The moneyed East Side crowd out in their Barney’s best chatted to the music of a jazz ensemble while drinking ice-cold cocktails.

“I miss being rich.” Octavia looked wistful. “All right, shall we find Betherton?”

Joni had a picture of Betherton from an interview in his college magazine, and she showed it to Octavia on her phone. “Do you see him anywhere?”

“How can you tell the difference?” Octavia muttered as she scanned the crowd. “All these people look copy-pasted from the same Yale yearbook.”

“Ooh! There!” Joni said too loudly, and Octavia shot her a look. “Sorry, sorry. He’s waiting in line at the bar.”

“Trapped and alone,” Octavia intoned. “It’s perfect. Let’s go.”

Octavia strode over like she wanted a drink, Joni trailing close behind. She went right up to the bar but then stopped as if only just realizing that people were waiting.