The Girls With Games of Blood

by Alex Bledsoe

  Alisa gasped and with difficulty rose on her elbows to stare at the wound. “What are you doing?”

  “The vampire in that Irishman’s famous book did this,” he said. “I thought you would appreciate the literary allusion. It allowed him to control one of the female characters.”

  “You already control me pretty well,” she said.

  “It was also the first step in transforming her into a vampire.”

  Alisa said nothing. A thick drop of blood, so deeply crimson it was almost black, seeped from the wound and poised, tearlike, for descent down his torso.

  “We have discussed this numerous times,” he continued. “Your answer has never wavered, and I respect your consistency. But I have never presented you with the reality of the option.”

  She watched the play of light on the drop’s surface. “Drink from you and live forever?”

  “I cannot promise ‘forever.’ But I can insure you will not die of your disease, and that your pain will end. And you will have free will.”

  Alisa sat up slowly. The drop swelled; surely it must fall soon. “Why are you doing this now?”

  “I fear it may be the last time for you to consider it with a clear mind.”

  She understood his meaning. He could sense the cancer’s progress from the qualities in her blood. She got to her knees on the bed and leaned close to his chest. The drop began its slow track down his skin, and another swelled behind it. “I swore I wouldn’t. I don’t want to be a corpse walking around. I don’t want to live off death.”

  “As I do?”

  That got her attention. She finally looked into his eyes. “You could make me do this, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She licked her lips, suddenly torn. She had made the decision after their first night together, when he had consumed her blood and left her wet, and drained, and sated. It had been their agreement ever since, and although he occasionally inquired, he never demanded a choice until now. “I’d be alone forever.”

  “Loneliness and solitude are not the same.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “I was. I am no longer.” Even as he said this, though, he wondered where the idea came from.

  She had no illusions that he referred to his time with her. She knew there must be other vampires, but she never inquired, and he never offered.

  She sat back on her heels. She was weak with disease and desire, and the decision seemed so plain, so obvious. Yet she could not do it. “No,” she said. “I won’t.”

  He said nothing.

  “It’s not that I can’t,” she continued, speaking as much to herself as to him. “It’s that I choose not to. Death is natural. I don’t fear it.”

  He nodded. “I will respect your decision and not offer again.”

  She was about to say thank you. But before she could form the words she was suddenly back in that mental realm where orgasmic lust overwhelmed her, and she barely noticed when Zginski sank his fangs into her neck.

  Later, as the sun rose, Zginski stopped at Alisa’s desk on his way to the basement. He perused the copies of the Festa Maggotta pages, marveling anew at their intricate, impenetrable script. The author, known only by the odd name Kiniculus, was as much a mystery as his tome: some sources called him a necromancer, others a charlatan, still others a fallen angel or risen demon. Certainly his mastery of the world’s tongues, and his ability to combine them to both convey and protect arcane information, implied a more-than-human knowledge. Zginski often wondered if he were a vampire, not necessarily more intelligent than men but simply longer-lived, able to absorb more information over a longer period of time.

  He picked up the latest bit of completed translation. The vampire, it said, does not exist in time as mortals do. Unless he possesses extreme will, his new state traps him in the moment of his death, unable to move forward or back in his existence. If he does possess the will, he may become more cunning than any mortal man by virtue of his ability to experience more, and thus learn more than a normal life span allows.

  Zginski smiled. Kiniculus indeed understood why some vampires became shambling mindless revenants, while those like Zginski found their own path in the world. Fortunately this information would never become public; he would make certain Alisa’s notes were never published, but instead hidden where only he might refer to them.

  At the thought of her impending death, he felt an uncharacteristic and unexpected pang of regret. Where were these emotions coming from? The only possible source was the blood-bond he’d used to save Fauvette and her friends. When his strength bolstered them, some of her empathy and morality must have infected him.

  That had to be it. The alternative, that these were somehow his own feelings, was absurd.

  He winced at the first full ray of sun through the window. He was tired, and the cut on his chest continued to ooze despite the towel he pressed against it. It would heal as he slept, and be gone when he rose, so he checked the locks on all the doors and descended into the cool darkness.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE APARTMENT WAS in run-down public housing covered by the new Section 8 provisions, where Zginski stood out far more prominently than he liked. He was about during daylight again, but only barely; it was late afternoon, and while the sun baked everything with a final surge of intensity, it also steadily sank toward the horizon. It would not debilitate him much, or for long.

  Fauvette’s new home was affordable on her limited income, and a logical first step away from the decrepit warehouse. When she was ready to move into a real house, it would be simple enough. Her pale skin and odd demeanor drew attention, but suspicious onlookers no doubt thought she was a drug user spiraling toward her end, or a runaway trapped by circumstances. The truth would by its nature be very far down the list, and her uneducated neighbors seemed the last ones likely to divine it.

  Four black teenage boys sat on the broad hood of a Cadillac listening to a song urging them to be a “shining star.” To Zginski their sullen stares were very much the opposite of “shining.” He nodded to them as he passed, aware that their gazes followed him.

  A boy sporting an enormous Afro slid off the car, belligerently stuck his chest out, and called to Zginski’s back, “What you looking at, honky?”

  “Man, you better shut up,” another said seriously. “I bet he going to see that creepy-ass white girl.”

  “Aw, I ain’t afraid of her,” the first boy said. “I don’t believe in all that voodoo-witchcraft jive.”

  Zginski paused, his back still to them. He concentrated and sent a wave of terror-inducing power into their psyches, ferreting out whatever scared them most. He sensed their antagonism turn to fear so quickly it was almost comical. He smiled as he entered the four-story building.

  The hallway smelled of urine and dust. Various sayings and symbols marred the walls, some painted over and then remarked. Somewhere a TV blared, “Today on Donahue,” only to be drowned out by a crying baby.

  Fauvette lived on the ground floor, in the back beneath the stairwell. She opened the door wearing only a white bathrobe. It made her normally death-pale complexion look almost normal. Her wet hair hung past her shoulders. “I’m just about ready,” she said. “Come in.”

  He did so, closing and bolting the door behind him. The living room was entirely bare, its walls pockmarked and stained. Drawn blinds covered the single window. He followed her down the equally Spartan hallway to the single bedroom.

  She went into the bathroom and began brushing her hair. “Thanks for offering me a ride to work. Cabs get expensive, and some won’t even come into this neighborhood. So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  He looked around the bedroom. The door had four dead bolts on the inside and the heavily curtained windows were closed with three enormous latches. In the movies vampires used mortal slaves to guard them during their rest, but Fauvette preferred to rely on strong locks. The bed was a saggy single mattress and box spring with only a sheet and thin blanket; she h
ad not yet acquired even a pillow. “I have not seen your friend since she stood me up,” he said. “I wondered if you had.”

  Fauvette smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact. And she had no choice on that, someone followed her home from the club and she didn’t want to risk involving you. I said you’d appreciate that.”

  Zginski looked at the walls. They were decorated with posters featuring handsome young men, apparently star athletes and popular entertainers. He shook his head; poor Fauvette was trying to mimic what she imagined a girl her apparent age might have in her room. “Then please inform her I would like to reschedule our meeting.”

  “You can tell her yourself, she’ll be at the club tonight.” She leaned out the bathroom door and grinned knowingly at him. “Isn’t that why you offered to take me to work? So you’d have an excuse to see her?”

  “I do not employ such subterfuge.”

  “Of course not.” She withdrew and, in a moment, the hair dryer’s whine drowned out any other noise.

  Zginski sat on the edge of the bed. When the dryer shut off he said, “I would like to ask you a question.”

  “Sure,” she called.

  “Since our sharing of blood at the warehouse, have you felt anything . . . unusual?”

  She leaned out again. “How do you mean?”

  “Out of the ordinary. Different from how you were before.”

  She thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Why, have you?”

  “I am uncertain,” he said honestly.

  She came out of the bathroom, her hair blown dry and enormous. She went to the closet, dropped the robe to the floor, and stood naked as she selected her clothes. Not that it mattered, since she’d change into her uniform once she got to work, but having a wardrobe made her feel so grown-up.

  Zginski gazed openly at her bare form. He recalled the night in the warehouse when he’d taken that body, using his influence to arouse her so much that the breaking of her maidenhead was no more than a twinge instead of the agony she usually experienced. He’d touched her there, and there, and kissed her there; the passion had been brutal and rapacious, but also genuine. Yet now he felt, not feral lust, but a kind of tenderness that he could barely comprehend. He wanted to take her again, but he also wanted her to want it. He had no clue how to express that feeling.

  She dressed quickly in bell-bottom jeans and a red button-up blouse tied above her navel. She slipped sandals on and said, “How do I look?”

  “Typical,” he said.

  She grinned. “Perfect, then. Let’s go.” She headed for the front door without waiting for him.

  He stood to follow. From beneath the bed where he’d sat, a fine cloud of something drifted into the air. Curious, he lifted the ruffly, secondhand mattress skirt.

  Dirt dribbled out from between the mattress and box spring. A layer of soil had been evenly spread there.

  “You coming?” she called from the front door.

  He smiled. The grave soil was pathetic. And oddly, also touching.

  Byron Cocker sat in his rented ’74 Chevy Impala down the block from the Ringside. He sipped soda from a cup and munched his way through an order of McDonald’s french fries. His rebuilt jaw sent familiar twinges of pain through him as he chewed. He’d gotten used to that, because the doctors only wanted to treat it with pills that made him dopey. Getting drunk was one thing, but he wasn’t about to get hooked on drugs, legal or otherwise.

  The stakeout was not an investigative task at which he excelled. It was late afternoon, and he’d been here since before lunch. He knew Zginski would spot his normal vehicle at once, so he’d rented the Impala as a disguise. It handled okay, and the air conditioner kept the heat at bay, but what Cocker really wanted was to kick in a door and bust some heads. His failure to get information out of Patience, and the ridiculous fear that seized him in her house, chagrined him. You don’t have a badge anymore, he kept reminding himself. You could go to jail if you did that, and most likely your cellmates would include some of the men you once sent there.

  At last the tricked-out Mustang appeared at the red light, and moments later pulled into the bar’s parking lot. Zginski got out, walked to the passenger side, and opened the door.

  The little jail-bait waitress Fauvette emerged. There was no way to hear at this distance, but they were in midconversation, the kind that only people who knew each other well conducted in public. Cocker wondered exactly how these two were connected.

  “It will never work,” Zginski said.

  “It works for her,” Fauvette replied. “Why are you so against it?”

  “Because it leaves our victims . . .” He paused as a couple emerged from the Ringside and walked to their car. When they were safely out of hearing range he concluded, “With too much free will. I do not know exactly how she does what she does, but I suspect it is all a charade, and she secretly feeds in the traditional way.”

  “I’ve seen her do it. I’ve felt it.”

  “The power of suggestion. You told me you heard about it before you saw it, so were primed to accept it. I was here briefly on her first night, remember, and I saw nothing.”

  Fauvette shook her head at the absurdity. “And why would she fake something like that?”

  He looked at Fauvette seriously. “People often do inexplicable things in order to feel unique. Becoming one of us does not necessarily change that urge.”

  “So you think she’s lying?”

  “Or deluded.”

  With a jealous whine even she found distasteful, Fauvette said, “I thought you liked her.”

  “Finding someone attractive does not blind me to their faults.”

  She glared at him. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

  “She was to teach you her technique. Have you been able to replicate her results? That should tell you something.”

  Fauvette felt a surge of shame and anger. “You know, I think you have a problem with anyone who doesn’t agree with you. You felt the same way about Mark.”

  Zginski held up his hand. “That is a different, and unrelated, topic.”

  “It’s an unfinished topic.”

  “And will remain so until Mark returns from wherever he has gone.”

  Fauvette started to fire back a reply, then thought better of it. “Well, I have to get to work. Are you coming in?”

  “No.”

  “Are you at least coming back to see Patience’s show tonight?”

  “Possibly. I have not decided.”

  “I’ll plan to find my own way home, then.” She stamped toward the door, then looked back at him. “Rudy, tell me the truth: do you ever want to have another time like we did in the warehouse basement?”

  He kept his face impassive, even as his emotions churned and roiled. “I do not believe that is an appropriate conversation for the five minutes before your shift begins.”

  “It’s a yes or no question. That only takes a second.”

  “No, it is a question that masks the true question.”

  “Huh?”

  He was stalling, and doing it badly. He snapped, “We will discuss this at a later time, Fauvette,” and turned to walk away. Then he stopped. His tone softened. “But I will say this: it has become one of my fondest memories.”

  She shook her head and snapped, “I swear, sometimes I wish I’d never met you.” She slammed the door behind her.

  Byron Cocker watched the Mustang pull out into traffic. His urge was to follow it, but he had no idea what the Impala’s 4093 six-cylinder engine would do in such a situation. The Mustang was a V8, and chasing it now would be as pointless as it had been the time before.

  Instead he forced himself to consider what he’d seen. Zginski had dropped off Fauvette, and they’d had some kind of intense discussion before she went inside. Surely they weren’t a couple; the age difference was just too much. Besides, a man like that wouldn’t allow his woman to work, let alone take a job where she was publicly ogled. What then?

  Father, he deci
ded, and daughter.

  He leaned back against the seat and smiled. Well, that was handy. As a parent himself, Cocker knew one undeniable truth: nothing he could do to Zginski, no humiliation he could inflict, would compare with the pain of seeing his child hurt. Fathers protected their sons, but they treasured their daughters. And Cocker knew just how to hurt a girl so that she would never be able to look a man, even her own father, in the eye again.

  He drained his soda in triumph. There was no need to sit here anymore; he had time to drive home and clean up before returning for the evening show. And this time, he was damn sure he’d stay awake to follow little Fauvette.

  CHAPTER 22

  PRUDENCE GAVE HERSELF a final once-over in the foyer mirror. According to the magazines Cocker brought with her groceries, she now looked like a slightly eccentric, old-fashioned version of a typical modern woman of her apparent age. Thanks to the relatively youthful, vigorous blood of Clora Crabtree and Byron Cocker, that age was now somewhere around twenty-five. Since she was nineteen when she was turned, it was certainly closer than her recent withered, dried-up self. Fresh blood could do wonders.

  She spent the previous night after Leonardo left scavenging the many closets full of ancient clothes, in search of something that would look at least somewhat contemporary. She settled on a pink top with billowing angel sleeves and matching pants. A belt emphasized her tiny waist, and made her recall how much Patience hated having her own round form laced into a corset. She wore a necklace of dark brown wooden beads and matching earrings. Her eye shadow was also dark, and heavy. She did her best to match the effect on the model’s face, but worried that she’d actually made herself look rather raccoonlike.

  She winced against the afternoon sun as she went to the freestanding garage beside the house. A call to Privitt’s gas station in town had gotten slack-jawed old Herm Privitt to come out and charge the battery, check the oil, and do whatever else needed to be done to get her seldom-driven 1958 Ford Thunderbird ready for the trip to Memphis. It would be her first journey to the city since the car was new.