by P. N. Elrod
I had some time left before going to pick up Bobbi, so I used it to run home. A freshly shaved face and clean set of clothes helped my disposition, but there was one other task I needed to see to, one that I normally left until the end of an evening because of the potential mess. It had been dry the last few days, though, so the damage to my shoes might be lessened if I was careful about where I stepped. I drove south until the summer air got thick with farm smell.
Parking my Buick in the shadow between two streetlights, I checked out the territory before going in, something that was so much a habit for me that I hardly thought about it anymore. Tonight I was still a bit on edge, so I sat and looked things over first. Some especially zealous reporter might have managed to follow me all evening without getting spotted. That in itself was unlikely, but I’ve never regretted being too careful when it came to concealing my condition from the public.
If you read up on the subject like I’ve done, you find that people in general nearly always have a bad reaction when they discover there’s a vampire lurking around their usually sane and otherwise normal world. They’ll tolerate mass murder going on in Spain, believe it when Hitler says he only wants peace, and even welcome marathon dancing, but let them know there’s a guy on their street drinking animal blood, and they have a conniption. They don’t even need to believe in the existence of vampires; it’s the blood-drinking that brings on the fit.
Not that I blame them. It took me some time to get used to the idea myself. And I like the stuff.
Of course, getting to a supply of it could be a little tricky. Not every bovine I approached in the countless corrals of the Union Stockyards was willing to share. Some were stirred up by the stink of the place, no doubt sensing their pending demise. By now I’d become an expert at picking out a quiet animal who’d let me get close enough to feed. Then I would use a soothing word and a steady look to calm it even more. It was a variation of the forced hypnosis I’d done on Muldan—just as effective but more rewarding.
Satisfied the area was clear of inconvenient witnesses, I quit the car. My corner teeth were already budding in anticipation as I strode across the street and slipped through—and I really mean through—the fence. The noise and smell seemed worse on this side, though that was just my imagination. One thin barrier of wood wouldn’t have made that much difference in controlling the flow of the fetid air. Bad as it was, the reek did not discourage my awakened hunger. The scent of blood, old and new, hung heavy around me, teasing my fully wakened hunger.
The Yards covered a vast amount of real estate and never really closed. Depression or no, America had to eat, and this was where most of her beef and bacon came from. Trains constantly arrived full and left full; the cattle and swine cars changed out for refrigerated cars of frozen carcasses headed all over the States. There was a similar yard in my hometown of Cincinnati, chiefly concerned with pork, but nothing like this.
The constant activity often worked in my favor since there were plenty of anonymous men walking about. I was frequently not dressed like the regular workers, but few of them ever bothered to stop a man in a suit, particularly when he acted as though he knew what he was doing. This night I passed unnoticed into the pens as usual and found a likely donor from the dozen or so cattle there. They were new arrivals. It wasn’t too muddy for my shoes.
Feeding didn’t take that much time. Most nights it took longer to actually get into the Yards than anything else. A few moments was all I needed to cut through the tough hide with my teeth to reach a surface vein on a leg and draw off my fill. I could drink up to a quart or more of the stuff and usually did. It was enough to keep me going for up to three nights, four in a pinch, but I came in every second night whenever possible. Going without for longer than three in a row is bad. The hunger tears at me from the inside out, and I can’t think straight. My reflexes slow and an all-over weakness makes every movement an effort. When that happens, it’s dangerous for me and could also be so for anyone around me. Not that I’ve ever lurched out of a dark alley to attack some poor innocent bastard for his blood, but there’s a first time for everything when desperation’s in charge. I’d taken blood from unwilling human donors, but it’s not something I’m proud of; nor was it safe. On one occasion the tainted stuff I drank damn near killed me. Again. For keeps.
The pure heat I drew in now was good. It was always good. The change I’d undergone made it so. Whether or not they like the taste, normal humans can’t handle large quantities of blood; it’s too much like drinking seawater, but I thrived on it. When that liquid fire hits the back of my throat, it’s like an electric charge but without the pain. It wakes me up until I feel ten feet tall and able to do anything. I’ve heard that drug addicts get the same kind of reaction, only my drug sustains life instead of destroying it. The only odd side effect I have is the way my eyes flush deep red right after feeding, but that passes off pretty quick.
I straightened and quickly dabbed my mouth with a handkerchief. There was hardly a trace to wipe away, but such close contact with a cow’s hairy skin wasn’t what I’d call pleasant. Maybe I should switch to horses. Shorter, smoother coats. I knew of two people like me on Long Island who preferred them over cattle for that very reason.
But I’d think about that another night. Now I had to get to the Red Deuces.
It was a roundabout drive to leave the Stockyards, spinning through the back of the Yards to find a big enough street that would take me north without too many stops. Chicago’s composed of a lot of different little towns disguised as neighborhoods, each with its special ethnic group or groups. Sometimes the divisions were from street to street, with Jews or Italians on this side, Poles or Irish or Germans on the other. I’d heard about America being a melting pot, and the description was particularly true here. Much of the time it was less a pot and more of a boiling stew as each group tried to beat the other for supremacy, or lord it over newcomers. Old World rivalries and prejudices didn’t stop at Ellis Island. It was mostly the young kids in gangs who made the more violent trouble after being carefully educated by their parents and the hardness of life in general about whom to hate.
Having been raised on a farm just north of Cincinnati, I didn’t know what I’d been missing, and it was probably just as well. When your day-to-day focus is on making enough food to get you through the winter, you don’t have time to take exception to your neighbor’s religion or skin color. Either that or maybe my parents were a little smarter than most with their seven kids. Real intolerance didn’t come up to bite me in the ass until I joined the army and got labeled as a know-nothing hick, and when that happened, I decided I didn’t care much for it. Live and let live, I figured. Everyone’s got a right to breathe the air, and to hell with anybody who wants to put a price on it.
Crazy opinions like that made me real popular in the barracks. It was the first time I’d been glad to have had older brothers who used to beat on me. Having survived countless behind-the-barn donnybrooks with them, I’d unknowingly learned to fight to win. After I thumped a few thick skulls, the troublemakers took the hint, got more respectful, and left me alone.
I hoped the same thing would happen now. My arrival in this town last August might have gone completely unnoticed by Chicago’s mobs if I hadn’t offered to help the wrong man at the wrong time. It ended up with me getting killed. I soon got better—and I started throwing my weight around. But I wasn’t stirring up grief so much as trying to defend myself. This made a strong impression on a few people, though. Things were quiet at present. Hopefully, with Gordy having put a word or two out in my favor, the mobs would keep clear of me so I could get on with my humble ambitions for Lady Cyrmsyn in peace.
The Red Dueces was close to the Loop and, like any good nightspot, had terrible parking. The street was lined solid with cars, most of them belonging to the people living in the area. At this late hour the club’s neon lights were dark. Most of the patrons were staggering off home or in search of another watering hole. They were on foot,
though, so nothing opened up for me. I had to park a good long block away and hike back.
Bobbi, finished with her singing for the night, met me at the halfway point. “I saw your car go past just as I was coming through the front door,” she said, a little breathless from hurrying. She had a lovely flush on her cheeks.
I kissed her hello and told her she looked too good to be out walking alone.
“No one’s roaming loose this late.”
“There’s a few who could give you trouble.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a couple of pounds of serious-looking blackjack. “Then I give it right back again—but they have to catch me first.”
I tried to put most of my worry for her away. She was a big girl, after all. But next time I’d keep my eyes open for her at the door. Being a knockout blonde with a gorgeous figure, she’d learned to take care of herself, but some guys didn’t understand the word “no” unless you tattooed it to their face with a car fender.
We strolled slowly down the block to my buggy, not saying anything, just walking close and holding each other. It was something neither of us had yet gotten tired of doing. The way I felt about her I hoped that time would never come. I’d asked her to marry me more than once, but she always said she liked things just as they were. It had nothing to do with me being dead half the while; she made it clear that she only preferred to keep her independence. I accepted her answer and always backed off . . . until the next time the fit came over me.
Sooner or later in a weak moment she might say yes.
“How did the show go?” I asked after we were in the car. I hit the starter, threw it in gear, and pulled into the empty street.
“Fairly well. One of the guys got too drunk to sing his last set, so I did it for him.”
“That’s good.”
“Not really, since the management said I got paid the same.”
“That’s bad.”
“Not really, because I was able to trot out some fresh songs. They liked me, and that’s what really matters.”
They being her audience. “Anyone important see you?”
“A few, maybe. Someone told me there was a Hollywood producer in the house, but it was probably just wishful thinking. Anyway, no one tried to come backstage except for the usual johnnies, and the bouncers take care of them. Someone who was really in show business would send his card first or get the manager to make introductions. Nothing like that happened, so it was quiet.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure it was. I know how you light up a stage.”
She snuggled closer to me and chuckled. She knew she was good, but liked hearing me say it. “How did your night go?”
“It’s a long, grim story with no ending.”
“What happened?”
So I told her pretty much what I had told Gordy, but put in more small stuff to fill out the picture. I did not give a detailed description of the body. Bobbi got through the incredulity and shock part pretty fast. She’d been in Chicago awhile, and even a murder as terrible as this one was not beyond easy belief. She said how awful it was and fired a dozen questions at me, most of which I couldn’t answer.
“And Gordy couldn’t guess who it might be?” she asked.
“Not off the top of his head. He said he’d check around, but I don’t think anyone’s going to own up to something like this. I’ll do my own checking, though.”
“You sure you want to?”
There was a lot unsaid behind her question. I’d been through some hard times in the last few months. If I poked around in the wrong areas, it could make fresh trouble for me, and she was only reminding me of it. I pushed that aside. “I don’t want to, but I have to. Someone walled that poor woman up alive, and if I can drop a noose around the bastard that did it, I will.”
She shot a guarded look my way. “Then keep your eyes open, huh? I’ve seen what it does to you.”
“I’ll be careful. I’ll let Lieutenant Blair take all the heat and get the glory for the arrest. Maybe after that he’ll start liking me for real.”
But the conversation stalled out. She wasn’t happy at my decision, but neither would she ask me to lay off. It was like her dream about going to Hollywood. I didn’t care much for our being separated when the time came, but I wasn’t going to stop her. On the other hand, that was something she really wanted to do. This was something I was stuck with.
IN her flat on the tenth floor of her residence hotel, the atmosphere between us eased and warmed up. She was in her own territory now and better able to relax. Not bothering to turn on the lights, she dropped her purse and hat on a chair by the entry and marched across the living room to one of the big corner windows. She opened it wide and leaned on the sill, letting the breeze pluck at her. It was her favorite spot, giving her a grand view of the city and a slice of the lake. Lights glinted everywhere, even at this hour: starlike shimmers from the water, the steady cold blue of streetlamps, and the whites and reds of slow-moving cars. From this high up everything moved slow.
“Isn’t it cold for you?” I asked, standing close. Low temperatures didn’t affect me like they used to; I was only aware of them in a distant sort of way.
“I need it after the heat of that stage. The days have been nice and cool, but when that spot hits me, it makes up for them. We haven’t had much of a summer yet, have we?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
She turned slightly so her back was to me. She had nice round hips, taut from the muscles she’d built up after hours of dancing practice. Tap, ballroom, jitterbug, she was learning it all to be ready in case she got that phone call to go west. I let my hands wander over them, caressing and giving her an experimental squeeze through the thin fabric of her dress.
“You forgot your underwear,” I said.
“No, I didn’t. It’s all in my bureau drawer.”
“Oh.”
She bumped against me once and looked over her shoulder, an impish smile flashing briefly over her face.
Well, you don’t have to clobber me between the eyes when it comes to certain types of invitations. I reached over to pull the blinds down, but she stopped me.
“I want the air,” she said.
“I’ve read about people like you. They’re called exhibitionists.”
“That’s only if I take my clothes off.”
“From the feel of things”—and I did, thoroughly, to make sure—“you’re halfway there.”
“Less work for you, then.”
“Sweetheart, this is not work.”
She pushed her hips against me, raising all sorts of reactions. God, the power she had over me didn’t bear thinking about, so I stopped thinking and just let it take over. She held tight to the sill and laughed and sighed while I explored everything I could get my hands on.
It was times like this that the shedding of interfering clothes took too long. Complicated, too. I wanted to keep touching Bobbi, but had to divide my attention between her and undoing my belt and buttons. Then I had to loosen my tie and shirt, so I could lean forward over her. I lifted her hair up and nibbled the base of her neck.
“That’s lovely,” she murmured. “Just do . . .”
I next lifted her dress, crumpling it around her waist. She arched herself upward, but I wouldn’t let her straighten completely, and pressed her down over the sill again.
“Now, try now,” she said, a while later.
I did, and slipped right in, both of us sighing together at the sensation. It was absolutely wonderful. It always was with her. She braced herself against my slow thrusts.
“I think—I think someone’s watching us over there,” she said, looking out at the view. Her voice soft, breathy with excitement.
“It’s two blocks away, let him stare.”
“Yes, let . . . him . . . yes.”
Then we were past speech. It was all about touching, now, acting and reacting. And when she was just to the edge of things, I pulled her up enough to get to that special spot on her sweet thro
at where the blood rushed close to the surface.
My corner teeth were out and had been the whole time. I kissed her soft skin, first tasting, then breaking through it as gently as I could to give us that crashing mutual release. From the cries she made and kept on making, I was successful. I drew things out, holding her, taking from her, just a drop or two at a time. When it came to making love, it was the quality, not the quantity, of blood, and it was the best for me when she was in the midst of her climax. The pleasure looped back upon itself, too; for as long as I kept taking, she lingered in its grasp—as did I.
I’d once been on the receiving side of such kisses. Then it had been beautiful Maureen who’d tasted and supped on my blood for hours at a time. Once you’ve experienced such an intense union like that, anything else is kid’s play. It took me years to get over her after her abrupt and, at the time, inexplicable departure. Years, until I met Bobbi Smythe. But by then I was a vampire myself and ready to discover what loving a woman would be like for me after my change. I soon found out, and it only just kept getting better.
I began supporting more and more of Bobbi’s weight. She was still caught in the spell but tiring. Time to pull back. If we’d been stretched out in her bed, I’d have kept going, but positioned as we were it was a bit awkward to comfortably maintain things.
We gradually sorted ourselves out. She was drowsy, but spared a giggle for the sight of me with my pants tangled around my ankles and still in shoes and socks—with shin garters holding them up, yet. There are few things in all of Western civilization that are more ridiculous-looking than a man in such a state. Comics have known about it for ages and exploited it mercilessly. I snagged up my trousers and tried to restore what little dignity remained. Bobbi merely shook her skirt down and grinned.
“I win,” she said. She pecked me on the corner of my mouth while I was only halfway buttoned, then glided past, where she spent a few minutes in the bathroom. Then she spent some more time in the bedroom. When she returned, she wore fancy red silk pajamas with a Chinese collar that covered the marks on her neck.
