The Girls With Games of Blood

by Alex Bledsoe

  Yet Patience drew his eye even when he was determined to ignore her. She gave him the creeps even in a crowded room. She played softly, humming along with the music, and even though he didn’t know the tune and only cared for country music, he found himself listening intently. It was just like before, and even though he wasn’t drunk this time, just as irresistible.

  Prudence watched the shimmering energy in the room twist itself, tornadolike, and funnel down into her sister. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before, and it took four more songs before she comprehended what it truly was. When she did, she felt the old jealous fury rise again. So this was what she was up to. Here was Prudence, a century into existence as a being who needed to drink the blood of humans to survive, and Patience had long since dispensed with that. This new feeding process was clean, involuntary, and most of all discreet. There were no bodies to hide, no wasting maladies to explain, and no bloodstains on the upholstery.

  She clenched her fists in rage. This would not stand.

  The little blond waitress, whose name tag read SAMMY JO, slammed Prudence’s second drink down, spilling a third of it on the table, and snatched away the untouched first one before Prudence could say anything.

  Patience finished her next to last song, an original called “The Tides of Time,” and basked in the applause. “Thank you so much. I appreciate everyone coming out tonight, and I hope to see you all again soon. How about a big hand for Gerry Barrister for arranging all this?”

  After the ovation she continued. “So once again, thank you. And here’s one for the road.” She dove into a gender-reversed version of a recent hit by the group America, now called “Mister Golden Hair.” It should’ve been inane, and blatant, and ridiculous, but she sang it with such tenderness that those in the audience would never hear the original again without wistfully recalling this night. When it finished she stood, bowed, and accepted the adulation.

  Eager patrons swarmed Patience at the piano. Because it was nearly closing time, Barrister rushed to switch on the lights, not wanting to run afoul of the liquor board just as the bar was taking off. “Thanks everyone,” he said into the microphone. “Drive safely, come back often, and tell all your friends!”

  Patience shook hands with her new fans, careful not to hold any of them long enough to draw attention to her cold skin. Many of them asked if she had any records for sale; a couple pressed business cards into her palm, offering representation or career advice.

  A gap formed in the crowd for a moment, and she spotted Prudence still at her table. She nearly shrieked in surprise. She cried, “Prudence!”

  When the lights first came up, Prudence had spotted Byron Cocker standing near the front door, his huge form immobile as the crowd around him filed out. He was the one person in the room not staring at her sister; instead he watched the young girl behind the bar, and that alone seemed odd. Then the sound of her name made her blink back to the moment.

  “Prudence!” Patience yelled again over the heads of the well-wishers. Many turned to see who she meant. Prudence grabbed her purse and looked for the nearest exit. The kitchen door swung open again as the busboys emerged, and she rushed through it. She was not ready for a confrontation, not here on Patience’s turf.

  “No!” Patience yelled, and tried to push through the well-wishers. “Prudence, wait, please!” But her sister vanished.

  Patience was about to pursue when she, too, spotted Byron Cocker. What did he want here? That night at her house should have scared him off for good. Was he more courageous than she thought? Then she realized he was watching Fauvette, and that puzzled her anew. How did they know each other?

  A hand closed around her arm, and Barrister’s freshly Listerined breath swamped her. “Goddam, honey, that was something!” he cried right in her ear. He snatched up the business cards on the piano. “You better tell me if somebody tries to take you away from me, because I’m not having that. No, sirree, not this boy! You are a Ringside exclusive!”

  Patience resumed accepting congratulations, taking the last bits of energy that the crowd couldn’t wait to send her way. She kept one eye on the kitchen door, in case Prudence returned.

  When the lights came up Zginski stayed very still and watched Byron Cocker. The man’s presence surprised and worried him, but he seemed most interested in Fauvette, of all people. How did he know about her? What did he know about her? Was something happening of which he, Zginski, was unaware?

  Then Patience cried out a name, and the blond woman Leonardo said was her sister rushed into the kitchen. On impulse, Zginski followed. She was gone by the time he got through the swinging doors, but Vander nodded toward the back exit. He reached it in time to see the Thunderbird pull out onto Madison and drive slowly away, so slowly that Zginski confirmed the woman in question was behind the wheel.

  He stood watching for a long moment. This set off all his internal alarms. One additional vampire, even one who insisted on performing in public, could be tolerated. But now there were two, and they were sisters. Nothing caused trouble like family. And trouble drew attention, which was the last thing he wanted.

  Suddenly he paused and sniffed the air. He caught the unmistakable tang of fresh human blood.

  He stepped out of the building, closed the door, and closed his eyes. It came from the Dumpster.

  He climbed up to peer inside. The little blond waitress, Sammy Jo, lay atop the garbage. Her head was twisted hard to one side, and blood still seeped from the fresh fang holes on her neck. Her eyes were open but saw nothing. She’d been killed quickly for spite, and not for real feeding.

  Zginski clenched his fists so hard they bent the metal lip. He quickly hopped down, opened the Mustang’s trunk, and placed the girl’s body inside. He would dispose of it far away from the bar, and hopefully no one would connect the crime with the location. Barmaids were always getting killed, after all.

  By the time he returned the crowd was mostly gone, and he glimpsed Byron Cocker as the door closed after him. Patience sat on the piano bench looking bemused as Gerry waxed rhapsodic about her future. Fauvette hovered behind her, wringing her hands like an acolyte waiting for a blessing.

  “You could make records, honey!” Barrister cried, practically shouting in her face. “I could be your manager. I know about that stuff, you know. I was a wrestler for a long time. You could be the biggest thing to come out of Memphis since Elvis or barbecue!”

  “That’s a little more than I reckoned for, Gerry,” Patience said. “How about we give this a few weeks before we start planning to take over the world?” She smiled when she saw Zginski. “Well, hello. How did you like the show?”

  “It was unique,” Zginski said.

  “That’s it!” Gerry cried. “You hit it right on the head, Mr. Z. ‘The Unique Patience Bolade!’ That’s what we’ll call you!”

  “That doesn’t tell me if you liked it or not,” Patience said to Zginski.

  He was in no mood to flirt, but at the same time, her smile was hard to resist. “I found your playing quite skillful. Reminiscent of Lucy Anderson, who I once saw with the Philharmonic Society in London. And your singing was also delightful. The songs were not to my taste, but I suspect they were not composed with someone like me in mind.”

  “That’s a mighty safe bet,” Patience said. She stood and kissed Gerry on the cheek. “I’m pretty beat, boss. If it’s okay, I’m going to head on out.” Then she turned to Zginski. “See me home?”

  Before he could answer a scowling Fauvette said, “He’s my ride, I’m afraid.”

  Zginski scowled back. He did not have the patience to indulge the girl. “I believe your final words on the subject were, ‘I’ll plan to find my own way home.’ I shall hold you to that.”

  Fauvette glared at him, and he felt an unaccustomed twinge of regret at the fury and hurt in her eyes. Where were these weak sympathies coming from? She said, “No, my final words were that I wished I never met you. That’s still true.”

  “Hey, whoa, you t
wo,” Barrister said, stepping between them. “Let’s not blow the evening now. Fauvette, I’ll give you a ride home, or get you a cab, whichever you’d like.”

  “I’ll keep you company,” Leonardo said.

  “Thank you, boy,” Barrister said. “Mr. Z., you make sure Patience gets where she’s going in one piece.”

  “That is my intent.” He offered his arm to Patience.

  She placed her hand lightly on it as she stood. “I need to collect some things from my dressing room first.”

  “Of course.” They went to the door leading to the hall. Barrister, still chuckling, took the till from the bar and went to his office.

  Fauvette sat down on Patience’s piano bench, feeling suddenly more alone than ever before in her life. If tears were possible, she would’ve burst out crying. Instead she just stared down at her hands, dropped limply in her lap. Leonardo put a hand on her shoulder. There was nothing to say, at least not here.

  “Hey, anybody seen Sammy Jo?” one of the busboys asked. “She’s supposed to help with cleaning up.”

  CHAPTER 24

  COCKER HAD PARKED the Impala so that he could see the Ringside’s front and back doors. The show had left him unaccountably drained again, but tonight he was cold sober, and he’d picked up a thermos full of fresh coffee on his way to town. A little weariness wasn’t about to stop him.

  Patience left with Zginski in the Mustang shortly after midnight, leaving her own black LTD behind. Then nothing happened for a long time. Finally at about one-thirty in the morning, a cab stopped outside the door. The black driver got out and knocked on the bar’s front door. “Somebody called a cab,” he said loudly. Fauvette emerged a moment later dressed in her civilian clothes, followed by another black boy, younger than the cabbie. They drove off into the night.

  Cocker followed along the mostly deserted streets. It was tricky, since there was so little traffic, but if the cabbie noticed he did not react. They entered the Projects, the low-income area of Memphis where the city’s high crime rate was nurtured. At the first red light Cocker took his .45 automatic from the glove compartment and placed it within easy reach on the seat.

  Finally the cab stopped. Fauvette and the black boy got out in front of a run-down apartment building. A pair of black teenagers sat on the steps, but they actually scooted aside as she and her friend passed. Cocker watched them enter the building, and then saw a light come on inside a ground-floor apartment.

  He wrote down the address. Tonight wasn’t the night: too many people had seen him at the bar, and the punks on the steps now eyeballed him with turf-defending belligerence. But that was okay; when it came, his revenge would be entirely out of the blue.

  He smiled and headed for home.

  Zginski parked on the street outside Patience’s house. Except for directions, Patience had said nothing, and Zginski was content with the silence. He was confused, and needed the time to ponder out the reason.

  She said, “You can park in the drive, you know.”

  “This is satisfactory,” he said. Her presence did not make him tense or suspicious, and it had been almost a century since he’d been with someone like that.

  And then there was the other woman, Prudence. Although he had barely glimpsed her at the Ringside, the image stayed with him, growing stronger with each passing moment. She was like porcelain, hard-edged and delicate, while Patience made him think of velvet and soft pillows.

  And Prudence had also killed a waitress in the club that would soon be his. The quick, pointless kill was out of character for any of the others, so by default he knew it was her. It must be dealt with, and quickly.

  Patience smiled and shook her head. “I have to say, this car surprises me. You don’t seem like the type to draw attention, and it’s awfully flashy.”

  “I have had the same thought.”

  “But you did it anyway.”

  He nodded.

  She put her hand on his thigh. “So. Would you like to come in?”

  He shook his head. “I do not believe that would be in my best interest, or yours, tonight. Other tasks require my attention.”

  She laughed. “Lord, how you do talk. I haven’t heard that kind of language since my old fiancé. Is it because of Fauvette?”

  That took him by surprise. “Fauvette?”

  “You know. How she feels about you.”

  “I assure you, I have made no claim on Fauvette, or her on me.”

  “I can’t speak for you, but from the way she talks it’s pretty clear she’s got it bad.”

  “Perhaps she was speaking of Mark. He was—”

  Patience shook her head. “Uh-uh. It’s you. Whatever was there for Mark is as long gone as he is. And she turned bright green tonight when we left together. Didn’t you notice?”

  “I was blinded by your beauty.”

  She laughed. “Good save there, Mr. Z. Isn’t that what they call you?”

  “Some do.”

  She scooted across the seat and pressed herself to him. He felt the swell of her breasts against his arm. She ran one fingernail lightly along his jawline and into his beard. “How about a taste?” she whispered. “Just to see if you like it. Fauvette will never know.”

  In the light from the dashboard her skin glowed, and the dark circles of her eyes seemed to draw him in. He felt his body stirring as her influence, delicate and restrained, enveloped him. He responded with a similar wave, and watched her gasp in response.

  “Oh, my,” she sighed.

  “Indeed,” he agreed, barely audible.

  Their lips were close now. Since neither breathed, they felt no movement of air, but the tension was just as palpable.

  She brazenly ran her hand over his chest. “I could make you very glad you came inside,” she said, a little catch in her voice.

  “And I could insure you had no regrets about your invitation,” he said. Then he withdrew his own influence, and blocked hers. Firmly he added, “But tonight is not the night.”

  She sat back slowly, adjusted her dress, and managed a wry half smile. “I suppose if anyone does, we have time.”

  “An ocean of it.”

  She opened the passenger door. “I won’t ask you to walk me up; I can manage. But thank you for the ride.”

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  “And I don’t think this is over.”

  “There is no need for it to be.”

  He watched her sashay up to the porch and go inside, then drove slowly away. The memory of her touch stayed with him longer than it should have, but even more vivid was the profile of Prudence he’d glimpsed earlier in the light of the Ringside’s kitchen doorway.

  Leonardo stood in Fauvette’s bedroom staring at the huge image of a handsome, dark-haired young man taped to the wall. The enormous rows of white, even teeth reminded him of a skull. “Who is this guy?” he asked.

  “Donny Osmond. He’s a singer.”

  “Man, I hope nobody ever turns him into a vampire.” He sat on the edge of her bed. “So how’s Rudy’s one-victim-at-a-time thing working for you?”

  “Fine,” Fauvette said as she undressed. Leonardo had seen her naked many times, and it felt no more erotic than undressing in front of a sibling. “The hardest thing was training myself to stop just when the blood really started to flow.” She let a huge T-shirt drop over her, falling to her knees.

  “Training,” Leonardo said ironically. “That’s what it feels like he’s doing sometimes, ain’t it? Training us. But are we his partners or his guard dogs?”

  She sat on the bed beside him. “You sure seem to like it. You two are best buds now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You couldn’t stand him six weeks ago. Now you follow him around like he’s got a ring in your nose.” She paused. “Sorry, that was thoughtless.”

  “Yeah. Why are you so pissy tonight?”

  She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Am I?”

  “Yeah, and since you a
in’t got monthlies to blame, there must be something else.”

  “I’ve been trying to learn to do what Patience does.”

  “Sing and play the piano?”

  “No, draw energy from people without . . . you know . . . hurting them.”

  “Why?”

  She closed her eyes. “Because I’m tired of death, Leo. Toddy, Olive, maybe Mark . . . I’m tired of it.”

  “Looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You dead, too.”

  She smacked him on the arm. “Why are you being so mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed, and lay back on the bed. The plaster ceiling above him sported a huge water stain. “Maybe because I was lynched a couple of nights ago.”

  It took a moment for the words to register. Fauvette’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

  He told her the story. “I still don’t know why I went along with it. I think it was mainly to see how far they’d go. I could’ve gotten away at any point, but I didn’t.”

  “What if they’d set you on fire or something?”

  “Then I would’ve done something. I think.”

  “You think?”

  He shrugged. “Fuck, Fauvette, I don’t know. Between you and me, I’ll tell you a secret. It wasn’t entirely bad. I mean, yeah, being strung up by those dumb crackers was a pisser, but once I was there, I got to thinking about how it would feel to be really dead, and . . .” He trailed off into silence. Before Zginski came along, he never would’ve spoken these thoughts aloud. Hell, he never would’ve thought them. Had a few days’ sunlight changed him that much?

  Fauvette lay down beside him and caressed his cheek. “Do you think that we may have finally outlived our time? That this world has changed to the point there’s no place for people like us?”