The Girls With Games of Blood

by Alex Bledsoe

  Cocker moved through the crowd, accepting handshakes and back pats with as much graciousness as he could. He saw no sign of Zginski, but was certain the man had not gone back out the front door. He looked in the men’s room, but only a fat man in a cowboy hat stood at the urinal and all the stalls were empty. Where had he gone?

  He stood at the back of the dining room and looked over the crowd until he noticed a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. It opened onto a service hallway, and he quickly slipped inside. He heard voices ahead of him and moved quietly toward them.

  He stopped when he saw Zginski standing in the doorway to a small room with a metal star tacked to the door. Inside was a young woman with long black hair who was restringing a guitar. Cocker stayed perfectly still and strained to catch their conversation over the restaurant’s muffled noise.

  The dark-haired woman looked up at Zginski with a wry little smile. There was something recognizable about her, too, but in a different, more tangible way: she looked familiar. She was too old to be a friend of Bruce’s, and too young to be any of the women he’d once dallied with. She was a musician, so it was possible he’d seen her photo on a poster or record sleeve. Yes, that was it: he’d seen her picture. But where? He closed his eyes and tried to decipher their conversation.

  It was no use; he could not make out the words. He quietly backed away and returned to the main room.

  Patience smiled wryly at Zginski. “Why should I tell you what Fauvette and I talk about?”

  “Because it would be in your best interest to establish me as an ally,” he said.

  “Ooh, a threat, how sexy.” She plucked the guitar strings and adjusted the tuning pegs. The room was now freshly wallpapered, with a vanity and mirror in one corner. Only the industrial sink with attached mop-wringer remained to hint of its former use. “Are you being all male-chauvinist-pig because you’re afraid of a liberated woman?”

  “Hardly.”

  She batted her eyes at him. “Well, then, it must be because you think I’m pretty.”

  Zginski scowled. It was the closest a vampire could come to blushing. “I assure you, I—”

  “So you don’t think I’m pretty?”

  “That is entirely beside the point,” he snapped. She was making him sound foolish, and he hated that.

  “Are you sure?” She lay the guitar aside, stood, and put a hand on his chest. “I’ve met a lot of men over the years, and I know when I make one’s heart beat faster. And in your case I mean that metaphorically.”

  Zginski started to speak, but before he could Patience pressed even closer. She slid one hand around his waist, while the other tickled lightly at his goatee. She said, “We could reduce each other to quivering little puddles of desire, you know. That might be a lot of fun.”

  He gently pushed the hand away from his chin, but did not break the embrace. “I am afraid not. Not until I know more about you.”

  She took his wrist and flicked her tongue over the lifeless pulse point. “What is it you want to know?”

  Something stirred within him. She was not using any vampiric influence, either; it was pure seduction, which he had never experienced as a vampire. He was both intrigued by her courage, and infuriated at the ease of his own response. “How,” he said, his voice steady despite her ministrations, “did you become what you are?”

  She pulled away, looking anywhere but at him, and smoothed her dress. “That might be a story for another time. I’m not saying I won’t tell you, just not here. Not like this, standing in a closet while people eat and drink twenty feet away.” She looked up at him seriously. “Can you accept that?”

  He nodded.

  “But it’s quid pro quo. I want to know about you, too. You’re clearly from Eastern Europe, and for some reason you talk like you’ve been shut up in a drawer for the last century. There must be a good story behind that.”

  That isn’t far from the truth, Zginski thought. It also meant Fauvette had been discreet, which pleased him. He said with a courtly nod, “I will also explain my background.”

  “Good. Then maybe I’ll know why Fauvette’s in love with you when you act like she’s not even there.” At his scowl she added, “Oh, come on, I’m a girl, too. We can spot these things.”

  “Fauvette and I have a mutually acceptable relationship.”

  She giggled. “Wow, with an attitude like that you must have the girls lining up. Even without being able to seduce them with a glance.”

  “Your own attitude is just as perplexing.”

  “It is? Why?”

  “You seem to take nothing seriously.”

  “Oh, that’s not true. Not at all. It’s just that, as time passes, the list of serious things gets shorter and shorter. Haven’t you found that to be the case?”

  He suddenly wanted to end this conversation. She treated him as an equal, and more, seemed to find his discomfort amusing; he needed to regroup. “We shall talk later. I am looking forward to your performance tomorrow night, however.”

  “Groovy,” she said with a smile, then before he could move she stepped close and kissed him. At first he merely let her, then with as much surprise as arousal he began to respond. She broke it off before it went too far.

  “It’s even better,” she whispered, “when you help.”

  “Indeed,” he said. She giggled.

  He took her chin lightly, then tightened his grip. “I should warn you, though. I will tolerate no behavior that constitutes a danger to me. If you intend such, you would be well advised to find another location for it.”

  He released her, and for a moment her eyes flared with anger. Then the amusement returned. “You certainly do take yourself seriously, Mr. Zginski. But I promise you, what I ‘intend’ is of no danger at all to you.”

  “We shall see.”

  She put her hand on his chest again. “Of course, what I ‘intend’ for you might be considered dangerous. By some.” She touched her upper lip with her tongue and said softly, “Care to close the door?”

  “I do not feel that would be advisable,” he said seriously. Then he added, “At this time.”

  She smiled, displaying the tips of her fangs. “And we have plenty of that, don’t we?”

  “We do,” he agreed.

  Gerry Barrister sat behind his desk, digging frantically through the scattered papers in search of his Polaroid camera. He wanted a shot of him with Byron to go on the “wall of fame” beside the front door.

  He looked up and yelped in surprise. Zginski stood in the office door. Behind him, the kitchen crew worked to keep up with the lunch orders.

  “Dang, Mr. Z., you keep slipping up on me like a copperhead, you’ll give me a heart attack one of these days.” He sat back and took a few deep breaths.

  “How are the ledgers for this month?” Zginski asked with no preliminaries. With the kitchen’s bright lights behind him, Barrister couldn’t see his face.

  He smiled and said casually, “Well, we’ve had some expenses I didn’t count on, and the price of everything’s gone up, so . . .”

  “Will you turn a profit?”

  Barrister couldn’t bring himself to look at Zginski. “I don’t think so. We’ll get close. But . . . no.”

  “I invested in your establishment with the idea of increasing my wealth, not watching it dwindle,” Zginski said. His tone was even and calm, but the threat was there.

  “Look, I know you own a big chunk of me—”

  “I own thirty percent of your restaurant; I have no interest in owning any percentage of you.”

  “That’s just a figure of speech. We use those here in America. But really, I got plans. I’ve found this amazing musician who’s starting here tomorrow night, and once word gets out about her, the place will be packed to the gills.”

  “The place is ‘packed to the gills’ right now. Acquiring patrons does not seem to be the problem. The trouble seems to be in the management.”

  Barrister swallowed hard. “Hey, look, I’m doing the best I can.�
��

  “I am certain of that. But is it good enough?”

  Barrister got to his feet. He was a foot taller than Zginski and sixty pounds heavier. “Listen, you ex-Commie bastard, you think you can come in here—”

  “If you wish to be rid of me,” Zginski said calmly, “simply return my investment, in cash, and I shall depart.”

  Barrister forced down his anger. “Now, don’t get crazy on me, we can work this out. This place is a gold mine, you know? We just have to dig down to the vein.” He mimed using a shovel.

  “We will talk again soon,” Zginski said, and left.

  Barrister’s hands shook as he continued looking for the camera. Letting Zginski buy in to the Ringside had been the dumbest thing he’d ever done; the more he thought about it, in fact, the less sense it made. What the hell had he been drinking that day?

  CHAPTER 12

  ZGINSKI EMERGED INTO the afternoon sun and immediately put on his dark-lensed glasses. Recently he’d seen a film on television, one of the innumerable versions of Dracula, in which the title character crumbled to dust at the mere touch of a sunbeam. It amused him anew to think that Fauvette and her friends also once believed that they, too, would perish if sunlight struck them. Perhaps he erred by letting them learn otherwise.

  He had invested a large amount of Alisa’s money in the restaurant, subtly using his powers to overcome Barrister’s resistance. Barrister really needed no additional capital, since he was well on his way to becoming profitable, but Zginski had long-range plans that involved acquiring an establishment like this. The Ringside already had a regular clientele, and before the end of the year he intended to be its sole owner. It was the main reason he had, with equal subtlety, steered Fauvette toward Barrister as a victim. Barrister’s fate did not concern him.

  He shut the delivery door behind him. Tzigane, once again parked by the Dumpster, gleamed in the light. Crabtree had done a fine job polishing the car, and not even dust from recent driving had dimmed the reflective chrome. He sighed contentedly.

  The door opened again and Fauvette said, “So that’s it, huh?” She stood beside him and shielded her eyes with one hand. “It’s definitely . . . shiny.”

  “She is,” he agreed. “I call her ‘Tzigane.’ ”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It is a woman’s name in my country.”

  “The name of . . . ?”

  In a moment of weakness, Zginski had confided more about his past to Fauvette than he’d ever told anyone. “Yes, if you must know. For good or ill, the first Tzigane changed my life. I suspect that this Tzigane will do the same.”

  “Oh,” Fauvette said. She moved closer, wishing the sun wasn’t so damned bright. It might not kill her as she once believed, but it certainly left her feeling drained. “You ran off before we could talk earlier.”

  “Did we need to speak?”

  “Well, we didn’t talk the other day because you were showing off for Patience, and now today . . . I don’t know, I guess I thought you might want to.”

  He looked at her. She saw her reflection in his sunglasses. “Because of that night in the warehouse?”

  His cold, superior tone made her angry. “Would that be a bad reason? I thought it meant something, you know? To us both.”

  He smiled. She had always been a simple creature, and now that she so blatantly wanted him to herself, her simplicity was somehow pathetic. Still, he had a tiny affection for her, the way a huntsman might for a favorite dog. Or so he convinced himself. And she was still useful to him, so he allowed her to nurse her little crush.

  He touched her cheek paternally. “It is a perfectly fine reason. Alas, I cannot accommodate it at this time.”

  Her eyes blazed with anger at his condescension, but before she could knock his hand away he walked across the parking lot to the car. When he settled into the seat he smelled leather and petrochemicals, and the rumble when he turned the ignition made him sigh with contentment. When he looked back at the building, the door was closed and Fauvette was gone.

  He pulled carefully out into traffic and headed across town to rest at Alisa’s.

  Cocker sat in his own car. The steak Barrister had promised him, secure in its take-out box, filled the hot interior with its delicious odor. He could see the Mustang’s front bumper from where he was parked, and stared at it so intently that when it suddenly moved forward he jumped. The car pulled past him and into traffic without a glance from its driver.

  Cocker followed, keeping at least one vehicle between himself and Zginski. The distinctive Mustang was easy to trail since Zginski drove tentatively and slowly, like an old lady.

  Cocker’s plan was simple and linear. If he discovered where the disrespectful foreigner lived, he could work with the local police to arrange an arrest, and if he could get Zginski arrested, he could then get him transferred back to McHale County. Although he was no longer sheriff he still had the keys to the jail, and the current head man had once been his deputy. No one would stop him from visiting Zginski in his cell, or from giving his trademark baseball bat a good workout.

  He clenched his teeth and felt the now-familiar jolt of pain where his shattered jawbone had been spliced together. He had been on a similar mission the night Vicki Lynn was killed, and for a moment her presence beside him in the car was almost tangible. That stakeout and pursuit had ended in horror, and he got a chill at the thought this one might. But that was silly; what threat could the slight, no doubt light-in-his-loafers foreigner pose to him?

  Fauvette wandered into Barrister’s empty office, closed the door, and sat on the couch. With the lights out and the blinds drawn, it was almost like a refuge. She tried to calm her racing thoughts, but too much had changed too quickly and it all logjammed in her mind.

  For decades she had roamed the shadows of Memphis, taking lives as needed from among society’s lowest tiers. Then along came Zginski, who showed her that her greatest fear—the light of the sun—was essentially harmless. He gave her back the daylight, and her world altered irrevocably.

  And then . . .

  The night she became a vampire, dying wasn’t the worst thing that happened. The old vampire who killed her left her body lying in plain sight, and her virginal corpse was raped by those awful Scoval brothers while it was still warm. Vampires who died and rose as virgins were spared any of the emotions of physical desire, but Fauvette died a virgin, then rose as a deflowered woman. As a result she felt desire as much as anyone, but her virginity was restored each time it was taken. She was doomed to an eternity reliving the pain that most women felt only once.

  Until, that is, Zginski also gave her back her sexuality, by using his powerful vampiric influence to arouse her to such a level that the pain of losing her maidenhead was lost in the roar of her lustful blood. It had been an amazing experience, and she desperately wanted it again.

  But Zginski seemed to think no more of it, or her, than he did his latest victim. And she knew how truly little that was.

  Still, there were times when he looked at her and the hard selfishness in his eyes melted just enough to give her hope. He would smile or touch her face with unexpected gentleness. Perhaps, she thought, he was as confused by his own feelings as she was.

  That is, until Patience, full of music and mystery, showed up.

  But she couldn’t hate Patience, could she? She’d practically begged her to share the way she fed on energy instead of blood, and the woman’s embrace had been the most comforting thing Fauvette had experienced since becoming what she was.

  No, she couldn’t hate Patience. Or Zginski. She could only hate herself, for being too weak and insubstantial to hold his attention, and too needy and childish to ever be Patience’s equal.

  She hung her head and sighed.

  Because he was both preoccupied and sun-weakened, at first Zginski did not realize that someone followed him. But finally he sensed the danger, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed him the nondescript car two vehicles back. He imm
ediately recognized it as Byron Cocker’s.

  Zginski frowned. This was both worrying and perplexing. He had very deliberately put the onus of the transaction on Crabtree so Cocker would blame him and forget about Zginski. So why was Cocker now following him? And when had it started? Did the man already know about his connection to Alisa?

  He suddenly changed lanes to verify his suspicions. Someone in another car honked a horn. At first Cocker’s vehicle stayed where it was, then slowly it drifted behind him again.

  Zginski flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. The man clearly had skill at this sort of thing, something Zginski lacked. And, with the sun beating down from the arid sky, his powers were too weak to compensate. But he’d seen Vanishing Point, The Seven-Ups, Grand Theft Auto, and of course Gone in 60 Seconds. Surely he’d learned something.

  The interstate highway loomed ahead, passing over the street on which he traveled. At the last moment he accelerated and cut across two lanes, eliciting horn blasts and unmistakable hand gestures. He shot up the ramp, barely avoided rear-ending a pickup, and quickly merged into traffic. In the rearview mirror he watched Cocker make a similar maneuver, barely missing a Trans Am that blared its disapproval. In moments Cocker was behind him again, this time making no attempt at pretense.

  Zginski grew anxious. What was this all about? Surely not just the car. He began weaving again, and Cocker stuck to him as if attached by a string. He would have to try something unexpected, and the thought filled him with a frisson of fear.

  Another exit was ahead, and as he approached he saw that the grassy shoulder extended down a gentle slope to the bottom of the ramp. He turned the wheel hard to the right and gunned the engine. The Mustang hopped the curb, dug ruts as it shot down the hill, and finally bounced into the traffic passing under the interstate. Almost at once he cut back onto the next ramp and ended up back on the highway, headed in the opposite direction. He took the next exit at sixty miles an hour, barely avoiding collisions when he merged into traffic on Airways Boulevard.

  He parked in the lot beside a shuttered building that had formerly been a barbecue restaurant and waited. He neither saw nor sensed any pursuit, and after half an hour decided he had, indeed, lost his pursuer.