Wild Boys: Six Shooters and Fangs

by catt dahman

  A chance stroll had taken him along a path where a skinny, well dressed man handed him a sheet of paper, inviting him to attend a poetry reading and literature discussion in a rather reclusive, wealthy area. He would have to show this slip of paper to be admitted and was allowed one guest.

  He ignored the part about a guest but showed up at the once fine, old mansion that was worn and in terrible disrepair with trees and shrubs untrimmed, stonework crumbling, and wood in need of fresh paint. The outside of the mansion was somewhat of a reminder of the Southern glory, and the inside was better kept. The drapes were old and heavy but very expensive. The carpets were enormous, obviously worth a fortune and had been shipped from far away. All the wood was rare and polished to a high, lemon-oil shine, and candles shone brightly in clean crystal and silver fixtures. Everywhere were sculptures, paintings, mounted animals from Africa, and jewel embossed ashtrays and trinkets.

  Around the rooms were old tables, gold brushed frames, delicately designed figurines and settees, exquisitely carved and covered in luminous fabrics. There was no way to account for the value of the items in just this room.

  A few people were in attendance, all of the men turned out in well cut suits, and the women were in the latest fashions of good quality. George counted four couples and four men who were alone but standing in a circle, smoking and drinking.

  A most beautiful woman served him a glass of wine. Had she not been a servant, he would have desired her for more than a toss in the bed. He introduced himself, angry that there wasn’t a host to do the honors. He sipped the excellent wine and finally sat in a chair as instructed by the skinny male servant who had given him the invitation.

  He wondered about the wine, too. It was either a cheap, disgusting swill or was expensive beyond imagination and, therefore, stylish in its unpleasant flavor. It was smoky fruit with an under layer of almost a coppery taste and very intoxicating. He wouldn’t have said he enjoyed the wine, yet he drank heavily of it as he became used to the strangeness.

  He had come out of sheer boredom and a sort of curiosity but was rather put out by the host who had yet to show himself.

  The host appeared shortly with a bow to everyone as he introduced himself as Kennedy. Wearing a dove grey suit, he stood tall and well built with pale skin, blond hair, and cool blue eyes. No doubt many women swooned with his good looks and fine manners. His movements were cat-like in grace, and he moved effortlessly about the room, smiling. “I welcome you to my home. Each of you has been invited based on your gentile breeding, handsomeness, and intelligence. Each of you is of the best of your linage, and dare I say you are finely turned out, but I also suspect in each of you is an untapped reservoir of hedonism. I hope you enjoy the night’s entertainment.”

  Several smiled at one another, and George shrugged. It was odd.

  He wasn’t a fan of the written word particularly and only half-listened to the poem about some beautiful woman without mercy who preyed upon people; all of it bored him.

  George was drowsing as Kennedy finished to a patter of applause; then, he asked all of them how they felt about power and if they desired more power, which bored George further. A discussion followed about power and seduction, and a few talked.

  Kennedy performed some rather intricate slight-of-hand that delighted a few patrons; he pretended to bend coins in his bare hands and show other feats of strength, obvious illusions but well presented. He did card tricks that were amusing. He showed them some pieces of ivory, a feathered wall hanging that supposedly was from some people called Aztecs, expounded on his travels, and made sure they were aware of the gold and silver in the room. He told about places where he had hunted big game fearlessly, and it did make for excellent stories of adventure. He expounded on his abilities and showed them trophies of those hunts.

  Kennedy dropped into a chair, extended his arm and looked at the audience. With a tiny dagger that he pulled from his jacket, he made a quick slice on his hand that bled profusely. One of the ladies whimpered and another squealed, but he silenced them by leaning forward with a slender finger to his lips. The skinny servant slipped Kennedy a linen handkerchief, which the man used to wipe away the blood, showing the faintest of a scar now.

  “Bravo,” said one of the men as he applauded the trick, “excellent illusion.”

  “I assure you it was very real,” Kennedy said, handing back the handkerchief, and allowing a few to see it more closely.

  “Mr. Kennedy, if you will, what is this all about: the poetry, the stories, the opulence, the illusions?” George asked.

  “I find my time is coming near, and I wish to leave a legacy. I wish to share my power and wealth.”

  A few looked at him with greedy eyes. One asked if he were ill, and Kennedy cocked his head, saying no but that he would be dead soon although he had lived a very long time.

  He told a short tale about the Roman god Bacchus who was an androgynous libertine of wine, sex, and abandonment of common sense. He made everyone look about again to take in the many figurines of the god, the rather explicit paintings, and Roman carvings. The women blushed a little, but the wine made everyone relax.

  Kennedy told them more about Bacchus while he made sure they drank more of the wine.

  George felt himself frozen to his chair as Kennedy invited everyone to “remove the masks of gentility and submit to his/her own wants.” He thought Kennedy’s eyes went lighter as his skin seemed to glow with a bluish light just as he beckoned to the pretty female servant. Waves of lust washed over the room. Kennedy stripped the servant’s silk dress into tatters, leaving her naked before the group, but they were all so dizzily drowsy and mesmerized that not one turned away.

  George, aroused and not a prude by any standards, wondered how many ways Kennedy would take the girl and when would he be satiated, but the sexual escapade went on for some time as they watched, ending only when the man slid very white, very sharp teeth into her throat and drank deeply as a crimson stream ran down her neck to pool on one of the expensive carpets. After all the sex and groans, the bite to her neck seemed as ordinary as if he had kissed her. All it needed was a New Orleans voodoo queen in attendance and Spanish moss dripping from tree limbs outside the windows.

  It was a wild show that would have been perfect for old-home parties like this with only a select few in attendance. Had George been able to move, he would have applauded.

  It might have been another illusion, but George considered that he was most likely drugged and that it was all very real, yet something he couldn’t tear his eyes from.

  Kennedy was now nude as well, beautiful and as pale as one of the perfect figurines of Bacchus. “If you leave now, this will be only a hazy, embarrassing dream that you will hardly recall. Instead if you want to join me, then you will drink of my blood as I drink of yours. All of the power, wealth, and beauty will be yours, and never again will you hide behind a mask.”

  George thought he might laugh at such talk, but he saw a man and woman drinking out of a gold goblet that Kennedy filled with his own blood, and they allowed the man to suck at their throats. He dimly noticed a few people struggling to stand, taking their leave of the house without a look back.

  This had to be some ill-conceived joke his friends had concocted or a joke in general. It was impossible that he was with people drinking blood and celebrating a Bacchanalian cult in this modern time. Had the wine and sexual show not captured his attention, he would have left long before.

  Two of the women, enjoying one another unashamedly, brushed past George, leaving a smear of blood on his arm that he sniffed and rubbed between his fingers, perplexed. It was real blood. Shocked by the realistic nature of the activities, George struggled to find his feet to leave but found himself wondering: if this were real, would the wealth and freedom not also be as real? To George’s embarrassment, Kennedy was watching him, and their eyes met; George felt the other man could read his mind. Kennedy was no more than a hedonistic monster, albeit a beautiful, rich, mesmerizing
one.

  “All this?” George asked in a whisper.

  “This is only a taste,” answered Kennedy, as his cold blue eyes seemed amused. Only this one man had neither left the house nor indulged.

  A meaty, coppery scent filled the room, along with laughter and groans of pleasure. “I’m afraid,” George said.

  Kennedy held his hand out. “You won’t be ever again.”

  George allowed himself to be swept away into the Bacchanalian revelry, unknowing that while that one promise Kennedy made was true, there would be others that were false.

  Now George rolled over in bed, half awake. He wasn’t poor, but just as wealthy as he had been before, yet not suddenly rich, since that was something Kennedy neglected to tell them they would have to work for. George wasn’t quite a hard worker.

  Women did flock to him, and some men did as well as he changed over time and feedings, becoming more handsome. Excess fat fled while muscles defined themselves, and bone lines showed stronger, especially in his face. His skin was near perfect now, eyes luminous, body stronger.

  He wasn’t as strong as Kennedy, but then that man had had centuries of feeding to build his enormous strength, agility, and confidence. George knew that some day people might not believe in vampyres, and even in the past days, there had been less communication, so this was a more dangerous time for their kind. So far, no one had spread the gossip that there was a vampyre in town, just whispered that someone was killing the sporting girls in vicious ways.

  George had been careful not to taunt any Hunter who might be in town, but none had caught his attention so far. George’s brethren were coming to join him soon, and they would decimate the town; if a Hunter were there, they would remove him.

  That was another thing that Kennedy had promised that was not true: they would have no adversaries able to stop them, but Hunters quite often had managed to destroy his kind. Still, George wasn’t afraid.

  Kennedy also told them they had to be discrete and never flaunt themselves, but that was wrong as well. They could. And very soon, George and his friends would look at the town’s people as nothing but cattle ready to be devoured, and they would show off their abilities and strike fear into hearts. They would feed openly.

  Kennedy was wrong: the vampyres would never be discrete again after this town.

  Chapter 9

  A Favor For Doc

  Between hands of poker, Doc told his friends that he had to go to Dallas. He told them about Patrick and Ford’s being in trouble and that Brodie Marren had taken in both of the boys.

  "What for?"

  “Something about a whore," Doc replied.

  "Never knew Marren to be a friend to a whore although he's had his share," Tell said as he dealt the cards.

  "I didn't get the particulars, but it has something to do with Patrick ‘s killing the whore.”

  Tell swore, “That's something," he whistled and said, “might be hard to get the boy outta a murder charge.”

  “Luckily, I have a way with Marren,” Doc said as he grinned.

  Fallon laughed. “Only 'cause he's scared shitless of you.”

  “Which is fine,”Doc agreed.

  “So, Masterson needs you?”

  "Yes, he can't seem to get anywhere legally, and he needs something else."

  "Well, you can get Brodie Marren straightened out," Kit asked, "You need help?"

  "I'd like you to ride with me, Kit. Paris, I'd like you to do me a favor."

  "What d'ya need?"

  "I want you to take care of Frannie while I'm gone. Quinn has had some problems out in Dallas,” he explained what Quinn had told him.

  "I'd rather go with you," Paris said, frowning.

  "This is more important, "Doc said.

  Tell exploded, “God A'mighty, what is this, Doc?"

  “I want her safe. I'm planning on settling down here, Tell.”

  The men saw that Doc was serious.

  "How did this happen? It ain't like you."

  "Good, I'm tired of being like me. I'm tired of being with whores, drinking, and waiting on death. I'm tired of hating myself and seeking self-destruction. I want something good for a change.”

  No one except Paris had ever heard Doc talk that way. Kit and Tell were surprised.

  They enjoyed their cigars, and then Tell went to make his rounds; he left the others in the saloon.

  Doc asked Paris, “So I trust you'll keep her safe?”

  Paris didn't answer, but then he asked, “Are you planning to marry her?"

  "Yes."

  Paris shook his head.

  "Will you take care of her?"

  "I will because of our friendship," Paris grumbled.

  Doc smiled. "You'll like her once you get to know her, Paris."

  "I'll take care of her."

  "She is redeeming me," Doc told them, "she's the good part of my life. I'm going to beat my illness."

  "Does she know about it?" "

  “No, not but a little."

  Paris jerked around from looking at the doorway and asked, "You haven't told her?"

  Doc shook his head. "She doesn't know, and she won't. Lord, Paris, I feel younger, stronger, and healthier than ever. Paris, I'm happy. After all these years, I'm happy; it's because of Frannie."

  With worried eyes, Paris watched him.

  Kit stood and stretched. And with a wave, he left for some sleep.

  Doc stared into his whiskey bottle and continued, "I thought you'd be happy for me, Paris."

  "I am glad you are happy.”

  “But what? Something is on your mind. What is it?"

  "Well, I don’t want to see that girl hurt,” Paris answered simply.

  Had anyone else said that, Doc might have drawn, but to Paris, he would listen, "I'm not going to hurt her."

  "Doc.... “

  "She is my reason for living."

  Paris looked closely at his friend; those were the six words he would never forget. It was a lot of responsibility for the girl.

  "I'll take care of her. Hell, she'll be safer than if she was with you." Paris laughed.

  "I believe so," Doc said as he laughed, too.

  When Doc and Kit rode out the next morning, Paris wished he were leaving, too, but Paris had promised to look after Frannie Masterson, and he would.

  But neither the promise that Paris made to Doc, nor the one that Frannie made to Doc made the situation much better. They both resented every second they had to spend together. Paris was coolly reserved and non-conversational, just as he usually was, but Frannie didn't let that stop her.

  She made him listen for hours as she read various pieces of literature, and though he never made a comment, he listened intently and enjoyed every word.

  Paris loved good pieces of writing but rarely had the chance to hear any. He never told her that, though. Once in a while, she would demand an opinion, and he would give in and tell her his interpretation. He could weave such meanings into the works that she was astounded and so kept going with their sessions. She couldn't quite figure out how he could understand the books so well, but she would sit there wordlessly unless he demanded an opinion.

  Paris didn't consider his own interpretations and opinions important but only wanted to listen to her read; this was a rare opportunity for him. It was as good as learning Latin from Doc, and it made him a little sad that he hadn't been able to get a college education.

  By late morning of every day he was there, a silent shadow loomed. Paris stayed until late at night when he went into town for a game, but sometimes Frannie thought that he never left. She was acutely uncomfortable with the silent man whom everyone else seemed at ease with. Only when they went for horseback rides were they comfortable with one another.

  One morning, she had to go to town, and to her embarrassment, Paris went with her. There was no telling what people might think. They didn't speak at all on the way. They reached town and stopped in front of a store; then, he tied her horse and helped her from the buggy. She was
aware of all the stares directed in their direction.

  "Maybe no one will die this time I have come to town."

  "Maybe."

  "Well, Mr. Fallon, I'm just not fond of men killing each other for my honor."

  “Some men need killin'.”

  She frowned and thought: how could a man who loved literature be this way? She asked, “And you are so happy to oblige?”

  “Men like me and Doc have been doin’ it a long time.”

  His words reminded her that the only real difference between this man and John Holliday was that John liked her. Paris Fallon did not.

  When she went into the shops, he stood outside like a kind of sentinel. It wasn't her imagination that men walked on the opposite side of the street from them and that no one dared to look Paris in the eyes.

  He went into one place to spend his twenty cents on four cigars. She waited impatiently outside for Paris. It was quite by accident that the man walked by and stumbled into her. He apologized, but it was too late.

  "You clumsy son of a bitch," Fallon said the words calmly. He had been there, watching.

  The man whirled at the low voice. “Who are you to...." he stopped talking as the ice-blue eyes silenced him.

  Fallon's eyes held a quietly stoking fire. "I don't keep men in very high regard who run into ladies."

  "I didn't mean to. Hell, I done told the lady I was sorry." The man knew who Fallon was and knew that if it came to a draw, he would be buried the next day.

  "Mr. Fallon, please stop defending me," Frannie ordered.

  He glanced at her but spoke to the man, "Killing you would be no great loss."

  "I am sorry.”

  “No, you ain't; you're scared. That there is the difference,”Paris said very quietly which was more terrifying than if he had yelled.

  The other man spoke up, “We don't want trouble; can you let it go?”

  “Paris Fallon, God A'mighty,”Tell Starr said as he came running across the street, “are you planning on killing everybody?”

  Then he looked at one man and said, "I already told you to leave town, Calhoun."

  "Calhoun? Parker Calhoun?" asked Fallon.