In Neutral
When Lily showed up to work that night, brain in her head and shoes on her feet, Ms. Woeburne caught her by surprise.
"I got you a present," said the vampire, abruptly, standing up all at once from her paper-piled desk. She had clearly been waiting. She was a little bit on eggshells, rising there in her tough lines and dry-cleaned, somber black.
As you can probably imagine, Lily was muddled. She stepped fully into the unpleasantly cool apartment and shut the door behind her; her blank-faced look migrated sluggishly from stupefaction to confusion to suspicion, right on the precipice of alarm. You'd be suspicious getting presents from Ms. Woeburne, too. "You, um. You did? For, uh. For what?"
There had been nothing in her boss's terse hello over the intercom five minutes ago to suggest anything out of the ordinary was underway up here. Just the buzzer, the elevator music, and the long hall. Lily could feel herself blinking, feel the emptiness stuttering inside her head. Not a present-present, probably. Not, like, a gift. It was likely a smart, chipper way to inform her of a business arrangement or another meeting, or maybe something Ms. Woeburne had gotten her out of, somehow. She hoped it was that. She hoped she wouldn't have to go up Venture Tower, into the gold-on-white room under that immense chandelier, ever again.
Whatever it really meant, there was no way to play this one off cool. Lily unzipped her jean jacket, needlessly worn (it was pretty warm out) and needlessly undone (she wasn't too hot). She let her purse slip slowly—as one does when they're trying not to upset an animal—down one arm to the gray carpet. The overheads were always too dramatic in here. There were a couple broken orange tendrils caught on the strap buckle and they suddenly leapt out like wire.
Ms. Woeburne was standing there before the shut-off computer with a soldierly comportment—pomp and dark, square shoulders, hands behind her back. The vampire never looked happy, exactly. But she looked excited to say—like she was doing her best to pin some anxious, heroic tenor sort of reveal down. If Lily's hesitation at all deflated her, there was no sign of it. "Fourth of July present," she announced, figuring.
The girl made the least skeptical face that she could. But her brows started screwing up and her mouth corner twitched and she was ninety percent sure she blew it. "Is that even a thing?"
"Well, it is now. Come on—hand out," Ms. Woeburne tutted. She shimmed out around the brutal desk edge, not bothering to tuck in the chair (which was a little unusual for her), and then the Ventrue was right before Lily. She beheld her with an alert, zippy expectation, like a house bird does when it's proud of itself. And then, after a moment of suspense, she extended both her balled fists as though to give the fledgling a choice.
The offer was real, but the arms in their suit sleeves were still so stiff. She had probably never lost a stray hair in her life.
"Open up," Ms. Woeburne said. "Pick one."
More than somewhat dumbfounded at this point, Lily took the necessary steps forward, feeling the extension of her hamstrings and the resistance of her knees. She picked at random held out her palm face-up.
"First try," Ms. Woeburne told her, eyelids crinkling. Then she opened the chosen fist and there was a weighty smack of metal into Lily's palm.
"Keys," she observed, because duh. They were cold and jarring in the cup of her hand as it hovered there, unsure what to do now.
"Car keys," agreed Ms. Woeburne. She was brisk and as pleased with herself as a Ventrue with a red-headed stepchild could be. A tap-tap of the vampire's cool fingertips closed up Lily's slow palm, a clam around a pearl. "In the garage," she added when nothing happened fast enough. "It's yours. Happy Independence."
Lily stalled out.
Inarticulation:
"Mine—you didn't. Ms. Woeburne. Ms. Woeburne, no. You didn't get me a—?" Except the protest wasn't birthday denial, and it wasn't teenage enthusiasm. In the girl's glossy, dead-fish stare: all dismay.
Which Ms. Woeburne didn't seem to pick up on right away—or maybe she didn't much care. Ventrue perceive problems and solve them. They don't waste time imagining alternates or consulting beneficiaries when the answer is plain to them, and this one was plain to her. As plain as the black eye on Lily had been, all those nights ago. As plain as a cowboy boot applied to the guts. As plain as the passenger seat of a truck. "I did. Nissan—it's a hybrid. Nothing flashy. Navy, I'm afraid. But it does what you need it to do," she promised. "It will get you off the streets, won't it."
Lily brought the keys gingerly toward her chest to take a closer look, cupping them over-carefully, like you might with a handful of yolks. Or sand. She was utterly put-on-the-spot. She demurred.
"But I'm—Ms. Woeburne. No way. This is way too much. I mean, whose boss—? You can't. I'm not—"
"I can," the vampire informed her, a little snappish now, that razor burn coldness lancing in. She did not like being told by a child what she could and could not do. "Clearly, I can."
Lily was dumbstruck. Literally—her hands were going numb. There was a rockiness tumbling in the thin-blood's stomach, gathering pebbles and sharp bits of shell every second; this could go either way, and if it went one of them, she thought she might cry. How can you refuse something like this from someone like her? Why would she cry?
"But—" It was all she had at this point. It was also the truth: "I'm not licensed."
The Ventrue frowned. It brought her hard-edged brows a stitch closer above the intense black of her collar fold. Like military school, you might think, if you'd never been. She was all police academy, even when giving out gifts. "I already told you I took care of that."
"No, not—I mean," Lily backed it up. "Driver's license."
That principal's frown changed its nature. It wasn't annoyed anymore—it was more of a regimented, diligent consideration of fact. But there the hard edges remained. What would a soldier be, if you took those away?
Oh, she said.
Well, she said.
"I'll have to teach you," Ms. Woeburne said, deciding right then-and-there, that's-that.
"Uh. No. No, no—you don't have to do that," Lily tried, not knowing what else there was to do about it, but sure this was not her idea of an ideal teacher, and beyond sure she wasn't about to ask an undead politician for any extra time.
"Nonsense. I'm running early, anyway. Thirty minutes," Ms. Woeburne figured, glancing perfunctorily at her wrist watch. It disappeared back beneath the sleeve with a silvery clack. And then she was striding forward, portfolio bag slung over one shoulder, to the door. "Come on. Let's take a look. I'll give you the beginner's course on my way out."
And she snatched up the abandoned purse to fork over, and its owner took it, and because Lily could think of no other no-thanks excuse, they were down the hallway and down the elevator and down the rows of the Empire Arms parking garage.
The car itself was as described. She'd parked it—or had it parked—on the first floor, several safe places in. This year's Altima sedan came in a brackish blue, with spotless windows and a clean, unused interior. (Like Ms. Woeburne had ever bought anything used. She was definitely a mint-condition, hot-off-the-press person. She was not the type to trust her tools secondhand.) The wheels were turned a stabilizing touch to the left. The charcoal leather had never been creased or spilled on. Lily peeked into the passenger side through a visor of her curled hands.
"Well, what do you think." The Ventrue stopped behind her. You could tell where she was standing from the click-stop of her low-heeled boots on the pavement. It was cool in here—echoing, still, floodlit. No matter how expensive your car or how upscale your hotel, though, you couldn't keep that slight scent of oil and old rainwater out of the concrete. In times and spaces like these—space-time Ms. Woeburne would sometimes refer to as liminal, but what phrasebook that was from, who knew—there was always the suggestion of abandonment, like drip-drip-drip. "Budget vehicle, obviously. I didn't want to use the company account for this. For obvious reasons."
Lily unmade her hands. She didn't turn around right away. She stood, looking, and clutched her fingers together tight, until the squeeze of the knuckles just began to sting. "I can't believe you bought me a car. What do I even say?"
Ms. Woeburne's reflection was just a dark silhouette in the glass. If you looked closely, you could almost see the suggestion of face—lines, only. "Well. To begin with. How about: hop in? Go on," she added when Lily did not straightaway move. "You're on the wrong side."
It took a moment for Lily to react and unlock. She circled the car, hearing the step-in and shut of her patron landing shotgun. For an instant after, with Ms. Woeburne out of sight and no human sounds to speak of, the thin-blood felt she was alone. Completely alone—in space, and in time. Liminal. The word brought a sense of freedom in the humid garage, with these lamps and this silence and wet spots on the ground. It brought a tiny beat of her own power, of openness. And of dread on its heels, just inside there, waiting. Which was scarier, Schrodinger?: If there was a monster in the seat, or if she opened the door and it was only Lily, here by herself?
She never came up with an answer. Ms. Woeburne got tired of waiting, leaned over, and pushed her palm heel into the horn. Lily came back to the curt beep-beep. She opened up and got in.
You know already what new car smells like. But you might know less about the feeling of nerves that comes with being observed by a Ventrue—or any vampire, really—when there is only so much wiggle room and only so many places you can go. Ms. Woeburne sitting beside her as not an unheard-of phenomenon, but the circumstances were. Lily did not feel particularly in-charge. She put the keys into the ignition and twisted, remembering at least that much; in her peripherals, slanted light rinsed glasses lenses of the color and lashes beneath them. The other woman cleared her throat. It was a bracing, expectant, but slightly more human noise. And there weren't many of those to be had tonight. You had to see the familiar in her where you could get it.
"All right, then. Let's see what you've got. Take us around the garage a few times; if you blow it, I'll correct you. I'll fix your bad habits. Then you can go off on your own."
It seemed like it should take more than that. Lily's arms felt weak, like fishbones, when she gripped the wheel. The kind of fishbones so frail and cooked-through you don't even have to take them out. Sardines. 'Why do you think I've been putting this off?' she wanted to say, and wanted to sweat out her apprehension. Old, no-frills, mortal apprehension that had not grown and had not changed.
But it had changed. It had in some way, right? Because this wasn't Mom or Uncle with her leaner's permit pinched between two fingers and vacant promises of "Sit up tall and breathe, honey; lightning doesn't strike twice." This was Ms. Woeburne. Ms. Woeburne would think all of her reasons very irrelevant and superstitious. Ms. Woeburne would not ask why she never got her license. Lily almost wished she would. Because without being asked, she couldn't find a way to tell anyone about that bygone accident—or how it felt so final and so guilty rolling over on a grassy country shoulder in the thin crunch of new snow—or how she always kind of hated seeing deer after that—or how, for a half-second of terror as her brain had scrambled to register it was upside-down, she'd glanced over at her mother's face and knew—even if it was wrongly—that she'd killed her.
Well, Ms. Woeburne would have said. You didn't. Did you.
"I can't believe you did this," Lily told her, heavy about it, a little bit doomed.
"You had an issue." She sat back stiffly in the leather seat, relaxing without being relaxed, and looked out the window to the lined-up cars. Ms. Woeburne said it nonchalantly, directly, without humbleness or excess. It was the way another person might tell you she'd gone ahead and brought you your coat, no trouble, here it is. "This fixes your issue."
Lily couldn't tell Ms. Woeburne she didn't want this quick-fix—mostly because she wasn't sure if she did or not—so instead of talking, her hands clammy as ever, the driver backed up. They rolled easily out of the space. Her sneaker toe was touchy on the brake, and it was obvious this irritated her passenger, but nobody mentioned it. A few squeaky turns around the complex, and they were heading up. Floor-by-floor; an elderly woman stepped out of an elevator, and a well-dressed man sitting in an SUV was yelling into his cell. Before long, they reached the top of the garage, and the only way to go was back down.
"See," Ms. Woeburne said. It was more like the know-it-all see than the see of encouragement, but Lily forced an embarrassed smile anyway. She felt all the fine hairs standing up on her legs, and the gooseflesh under her shirt. "You drive. You don't know what you're talking about."
"Not, you know. In the city." She tested the windshield wipers. They swept by once—on and off. "I still don't have a license. What do I do if I get pulled over?"
"Then don't get pulled over," the Ventrue said, strong brows hopping, there-you-have-it. Clearly.
Lily glanced at the dashboard clock. Terrified that Ms. Woeburne would direct her out on the street and terrified that she wouldn't—that she'd cut her thin-blood loose with a fifteen-minute concourse around a nighttime lot—she forgot about real-world laws for a while.
Maybe this vampire thing was as easy as that.
"Should I try—don't know. Parking, or something?"
"Hm? Oh. Right. Yes, do that, definitely. No, no. Not there; that's a simple one. See if you can't squeeze into the last spot by the column. That's the way."
Lily did so, jimmying in-and-out of the increasingly more awkward spaces spied by Ms. Woeburne. It was coming back in bits and pieces. Like riding a bike, she thought, tongue dry. Like muscle memory. For having just given someone what was hands-down the most expensive gift of their life—did she even realize? She had to, didn't she? Was she on that different of a plane?—the Ventrue was a markedly disinterested instructor. There was a far-off web of nerves thatched just under her skin. You could always see the tension there; you couldn't always see her mind wandering through her eyes, focused on some finish line or safe zone out of everyone else's sight. She stopped Lily a few times to straighten up her reverse angle or to inform her of a sloppy approach, but that was all. If an actual obstacle came up, you had to wonder—would she just snap right back and dodge it, let her body takeover like a predatory animal does? Or would she get caught blindsided like a regular person? Would they both have crashed?
"You're not doing too badly. I'll need to go in soon. Why don't you drop me off at my car and head up," Ms. Woeburne suggested. Then, absently, as the turn signal flashed on with unnecessary carefulness and the accelerator eased down too gingerly: "Odd not to drive in LA, isn't it. You couldn't buy something used?"
"Yeah, I guess. I don't really know. I haven't been in California very long."
"Oh?" Out of obligation, probably. Out of social contract. But whatever it was out of, here came the question Lily—having known Ms. Woeburne months now—never expected she'd ever be asked: "Where were you from? Before this. Obviously."
"Way north. Oregon. I came out here for school."
"Ah," she said, as though now everything made sense. "A Portlander. Of course."
She wasn't from Portland. She was from the country. The County, with capital letters and outside dogs and horses and rednecks, where everybody really did drive, because there was barely even a bus to carry you. But Lily didn't correct her—she was too busy waiting to be corrected, herself. And, by the time those glasses were window-facing again, the moment was over. It was just the back of a bob-cut, black in these lights. Her interest was gone.
But then she said: "I'm not, either. From the city. This one, anyway. But you knew that," Ms. Woeburne remembered, hesitating strangely, coughing to clear her already empty throat.
And Lily felt very sad for a moment. She looked at Ms. Woeburne's palm heel propped up under her chin and at her elbow on the door rest, and she felt like maybe it wasn't such a different plane, when you think about it. Maybe there are a couple of things that really do trickle-down.
"Hey," Lily said. Thanks. Thank you. I mean it. A lot.
She sounded a little chilly. Like normal—like her usual less-charitable, heel-toe self. "I hope it's a help."
"It is. It's—this is—huge. I'm totally freaked out. Still way too much. But you didn't have to, and you did. And thank you," Lily swore, bringing the car to jerky, no-license stop. "For giving a damn. About me. What happens to me. It doesn't seem like 'thank you' is enough."
Ms. Woeburne crinkled one of her tissue paper smiles. "It's something," she said, and patted the airbag, and got out.
And then she was in her own white car and pulling away, into the city that they didn't come from. And then the night was wide open. And then Lily—by herself—eked into the left-behind place.