Exsanguination and Other Love Stories

I. The Arrival

"I'm the new intern," I said, "My name's Sabilla Vane."

"And I'm Justin Bieber," said the boy, eying me with undisguised scorn. "No, actually, I'm Dustin Wood. Security." He pulled a very large phone from his belt, much sleeker and more expensive-looking than mine, and consulted it, glanced down at me, squinted a bit. Then his eyes shot down to my shoes.

"You look more disheveled than your picture," he announced. "Are those Fuggs?"

I blinked.

"They're boots." I said, drawing myself up with great dignity, and clenching my knuckles around my very cheap plastic rolling suitcase handle as I did so. I had the growing suspicion I had just been insulted. "And if you'll excuse me, I'm here to see Mr. Blue for an entrance interview."

Then I did something very uncharacteristic: I stepped forward and walked past him, right into the building. Granted, I was hungry, thirsty and tired from the long hike over from the airport, and not in the mood to put up with stupid games: but perhaps I'd also learned to take a page out of a certain vampire's book when it came getting into places I had a right to be.

Dustin Wood let me by – maybe it was the surprise - only to make an incredibly dexterous grab for my suitcase as he dogged my steps through the atrium.

"Whoa, there. Let me take that for you, babe. You don't want to bring that into your first meeting with the boss."

"No thank you!" I snapped, clinging to it with both hands. It was all I had in the world now, and on top of that I hated it when strangers called me anything that wasn't my name.

But Dustin wasn't deterred. Instead he just tried to tug me towards one of the long hallways, by the suitcase handle. "Mr. Blue's office is this way."

"Let – go!"

He released the luggage with a sigh and an eye-roll. Then he waved at me to follow him down a light-filled hall. I consented silently, with great reluctance.

As we walked along, I noticed for the first time that the entire Azure Tech complex was open to the sky. The high ceilings and interior walls were made of glass, tinted the company's trademark shade of blue overhead, and frosted in varying degrees of translucency everywhere else.

This made the entire headquarters feel as though it were underwater: it was a very pretty effect, as you first came inside. But there was also a coolness to the air which made me wish I'd brought my jacket tied around my waist rather than stuffed into my suitcase, as soon as I'd been there a couple minutes – as if the air conditioning had been set just a few degrees too low for comfort.

Later I would come to suspect that this was intentional, like so many other details in that place.

"Here it is," Dustin said finally, stopping before an unmarked door. "Oh, and Bill?"

"Yes?" I turned.

"Your roots are showing."

I froze in horror, then glanced towards the nearest reflective surface. He was right.

Dustin let out a short bark of laughter, before bounding off in a very unprofessional manner down the hall. I was beginning to wonder whether he wasn't on something or other, although of course it would have been very rude to say anything to his face.

I took a deep breath to try and collect myself, and failed miserably. Then I dug a ponytail out of the pocket of my jeans and began to scrape my hair back. Maybe the roots would show less that way. I felt like a complete unprofessional mess – which was unsurprising, I suppose, given the extent of my working experience prior to that had been fast food in high school.

"Come in," said a deep and sonorous voice from the other side of the door.

I obeyed.

Mr. Blue, who was seated at a desk inside, had skin fairer than a dead fish's belly, pale, almost colorless hair, and a very oddly tinted five-o-clock shadow: in the colored light from above, it looked quite blue. As I entered, he was just setting down a large, old-fashioned razor onto the desk, his eyes fixed wholly on me.

Those eyes were a very light greyish blue, and I suppose you might as well call them orbs, because they were as hard and glassy as marbles. His face had the blank and immobile air of a carnival mask, flawlessly proportioned and perfectly composed. I found it deeply unsettling, although that might also have been because it was such a handsome face, and he couldn't have been much older than twenty-five, going by appearances.

"Hello, sir," I stammered.

Mr. Blue's mouth opened into a smile.

"Please," he said, rising, "Call me Barabbas."

*Date of Bill's parents' death in a sudden and very plot-convenient crash and burn car accident. Plotted by no one in particular. They may have been slightly tipsy, after a late-night stop at their favorite coffee house in ---. Said coffee house had just started serving absinthe in addition to hand-whipped coconut lattes, and both Bill's parents had been slipping in their twelve-step attendance and were taken by surprise.