TWO
"Shhh. Listen."
Two in the morning at Whistler Manor. Lourdes could hear it clearly from the window sill, but Selene and Nanny Parish, not being vampires, took another few seconds to pick up the sound coming through the open window: somewhere out there a baby was crying.
The three women were alone except for their own babies: Whistler had taken the vampires and witches who'd already arrived into town for a little casino action; the staff also had the night off—come the morning they'd be on duty for twenty-four to thirty-six hours straight, both as servants and Drinks.
All three started simultaneously for the door that led to the nursery. Lourdes got there first, and saw Cora and Plum Rose sleeping peacefully side by side in their cribs. "Both here," she said.
Selene put her finger to her lips for silence. She had closed her eyes, and was trying to pick up some sort of concrete image to go with the inchoate sense of danger she was feeling. No luck—just that it was about babies, which her ear had already told her. Then the front doorbell rang faintly.
"Lock the door behind me," Selene whispered to Nanny. Then, to Lourdes: "Go into the nursery. Whatever else happens, stay with the babies. If it's a vampire, only you can protect them." Selene hurried down to the front door and put her eye to the peephole.
It was indeed a vampire—January, looking all bowed and enormous through the fisheye lens, from the topmost spike of her purple hair to the incredibly long bare legs below the cutoffs. Selene stood on tiptoe, and saw the basket on the ground next to the incongruous Doc Martens boots. Quickly she unlocked the door.
"Why hello, January." Selene had to raise her voice to be heard over the outraged screaming of the baby in the basket. "Is that yours?"
"He is now. Little fucker's been howling like that since Placerville."
She stooped and picked up the basket, handing it over to Selene gingerly, as if she expected the baby to turn into an Alice In Wonderland pig at any second. "The scariest part was going through downtown Tahoe—I thought I was gonna get busted for sure." She followed Selene into the vestibule. "Nobody even noticed."
"He's probably just hungry." Selene locked the door behind them again. "How long since he's been fed?"
"How should I know?" said January crankily.
"In that case, how long since you've been fed?"
"Blood, you mean? Thermos went dry around Sacramento."
"Then which shall it be first?" Selene tried to sound as jolly as the good witch Glynda while shouting over the screaming infant, but every instinct she had, witchly or womanly, told her January was pretty close to the edge. What madness lay over that edge, Selene wasn't sure—nor could she chance finding out until there were more vampires around for safety. "Blood for you or milk for this beautiful little baby?"
"Both. I brought him for the equinox."
"And what wonderful timing!" Overdoing it now? Selene wasn't sure—her witchy talents were not always helpful in emergencies, as they tended to take a bit of preparation. "The ceremony's tomorrow night at midnight. But let me bring him up to Nanny Parish to get him fed—I can't think with all this noise."
Selene started up the stairs with the basket, but slowly, so January wouldn't get suspicious. "So where'd you get him, dearie?"
"The church," January announced triumphantly, having forgotten momentarily about surprising Whistler with the news.
"Which church?"
"The one where they used to have the V.A. meetings."
"So it's Nick's baby, is it? Whistler will be so pleased." The fine hairs at the nape of Selene's neck were singing like high-tension wires—she couldn't shake the feeling that she was about to be jumped from behind. "Have you had any of his blood yet?"
"No. I would of took some from him after my thermos went dry, but I wanted to bring him straight here. Plus I was a little scared to do baby-blood alone, on top of the acid last night."
"Acid, eh?" That explained the sense of danger Selene was picking up, beyond January's usual radio beams from just over the border of madness. "I'd say you showed excellent judgment."
She turned around again at the top of the stairs. The next part was going to be tricky—get the baby into the nursery with the others, but without either admitting January or making her suspicious. "Here's what let's do, dearie," she called over the howling Leon. "I'll take the baby in to Nanny Parish for his milk, while you go down to the cellar and pick out a nice bag of blood for yourself. In fact, why not fill your thermos—you deserve it."
"I left it in the car. Where is Whistler? Where's everybody?"
"Casino night—he's taken them all into town. If you'd like, I can have a car pick you up." Then, as suggestively as she could without tipping her hand: "As soon as you've had some blood. We'll fill your thermos for you later—such a generous gift deserves a reward."
It worked: January turned and started down the stairs. Selene waved after her, a little baby toodle-oo finger wave. "I'll be right down." As soon as January was out of sight around the curve of the staircase, Selene rapped at the door to Lourdes's suite.
Nanny Parish opened the door a crack. "Here," said Selene loudly, in case January was listening. "January brought him for the equinox, Nanny. Would you give him some milk, and start getting him ready for tomorrow night?"
Lock the door, Selene mouthed, pointing to the bolt as Nanny Parish took Leon from her. She didn't want to chance whispering anything—you couldn't tell how far a vampire could hear. Nanny nodded; Selene heard the snick of the bolt behind her as she started after January, praying to the Goddess under her breath. She had to time it just right, she knew: get down to the cellar after January had entered it, but before she had a chance to pick out her blood and leave.
As she neared the bottom of the narrow cellar stairs, Selene saw that she'd gotten her wish: January was still inside. She sent out one last prayer: Help me now, Mother. Make me quick. If you can't make me quick, make me lucky.
Then she jumped forward and shoved against the heavy door with all her might. January heard her in the inner room, and with unimaginable speed turned and lunged towards the pantry door. As it slammed between them Selene felt the reinforced door shudder from the force of the vampire's blow. It held, shuddered again just as Selene slammed the outer bolt into place, held again.
"It's just for a few minutes, dearie," Selene called, after mentally thanking the Mother. "Help yourself to some blood—as soon as some of the vampires get back I'll send them down to let you out."
She could hear the answering howl all the way back up the stairs, and clear through both pantry doors.
THREE
Rather than descend in a horde on any particular casino, the Coven and Penang had split up according to their individual tastes. One group of low-rolling witches converged on the Horizon to play the nickel slots; Louise and Beverly, who fancied themselves poker players, decided their fortune was to be made at the video poker machines at Harrah's. Sherman always preferred Caesar's, where employees of the female persuasion were forced to wear revealing tops; Whistler, on the other hand, despite owning a one-third interest in the Gold Dust, found himself drawn to Harvey's, at least partly because the change girls flounced around in buttock-length skirts cut high at the hip.
The table games—never the house specialty—weren't particularly hot at Harvey's that night, but the dollar slots were humming, and Whistler decided to slum. His technique was a variation on the hot-shooter theme that worked so well at the craps table: the theory was that luck came in waves.
If you were high enough on blood you could stake out a machine, feed it slowly while listening carefully, not just with your ears but with your body, to the sound of all the slots within hearing distance—the entire casino, on blood—and after a while you'd awaken to the rhythm of the ringing and the beeping and the peeping of payouts and the clattering of coins into bins and the rise and fall of the voices, and then was the time to throw the silver down the slot with one hand and mash the spin button with
the other, fast as you could, never mind waiting for your payoff, until that particular wave had crashed. Then in the calm of the ebb tide you could rake in your coins.
Not big moneys, as Hemingway might have put it, not fast moneys, but a good honest 5-percent edge. There was a catch, of course—the more tense you were, the more you needed the money, say, then the more difficult it was to catch the subtle changes that heralded the wave.
Whistler was pumping a hot Wild Cherry machine in the dollar pit when he heard himself being paged. He scooped his winnings from the coin bin into a plastic cup, and spoke to Selene over a house phone while a caged teller cashed him out. It took him another few minutes to find Augie, over by the roulette wheel, and instruct him to round up at least one limo-ful of vampires and hurry back to the Manor with them; Whistler then commandeered a Harvey's car and driver and headed home ahead of the others.
Whistler had himself dropped off at the top of the drive; he noticed an unfamiliar white Buick as he raced through the parking lot towards the back door. Selene was waiting by the fenced-in trash can corral, and followed him inside. "Is anyone else coming?"
"Augie and some others are on the way." He threw open the door off the short white-washed passageway to the kitchen, strode through the pantry, shoved the revolving wall sideways, and trotted down the steps. "But I think I can handle January myself—why don't you go up and let Lourdes know that I'm back?"
"Okay, but be careful—she's probably pretty loaded by now."
That was the understatement of the year: the first thing January had done when she realized that Selene had been the latest in a long line of betrayers was to grab one of the Seal-a-Meal pouches at random from the cubbyholes in the inner room of the blood cellar, tear off a corner with her teeth, hold the bag above her head as if it were a wineskin, and squeeze.
It made quite a mess, the cold blood gushing over her face and down the front of her midriff-baring poorboy top, but she didn't mind—there was plenty. "Go ahead," she called to the ceiling, where a fan was whirring above the translucent light panel. "Lock me in a room full of blood—see if I care."
She comforted herself with the thought that when Whistler got back, Selene would catch hell. In the meantime, blood to drink, blood to spare. She thought of Ren and Stimpy, her favorite cartoon characters—Happy happy joy joy—as she tossed the not-quite-empty bag over her shoulder and grabbed another.
Growing more comfortable as the cold blood slowly warmed her, January idly browsed through the cubbyholes, reading labels, noticing and appreciating the slight variations in color—how rich, to a vampire, is the spectrum between pink and purple. At the sight of one particular shade she remembered suddenly a pair of shoes she'd craved in grade school. Oxblood, they'd called that color—she hadn't thought of oxblood in years.
She took a genteel sip from that one, another from a bag labeled Catherine 9/3/92, a third swig, less genteel, from a sparkling bottle; by the time she chanced upon the vial at the back of an otherwise empty pigeonhole on the top shelf, she was as high as she'd ever been in her life.
Too high to be afraid, even, when she noticed that the vial was clearly marked with the letters BB. "Well hello there!" she declared, her voice echoing in the cold chamber. "Let's see, now what could double B stand for?"
January pursed her lips like the Church Lady from Saturday Night Live. "Could it be… Bitch's Blood? Noooo, that's not it. Or maybe… Boomin' Blood? Nooo, that's not it either. Or could it be… I don't know…" She placed her hands on her hips and turned her head drastically to the left—she could feel the spirit of the Church Lady possessing her. "Could it perhaps be…" She whirled dramatically to her right, and shrieked the punchline: "Baby Blood!!!"
Quickly she popped the clever little plastic cork and tossed back the contents of the vial. It started coming on almost immediately; soon January's senses were heightened beyond anything in her previous experience. Apparently, baby-blood was to live blood as live blood was to fresh blood, as fresh blood was to cold blood, as cold blood was to no blood at all.
Not long after, from deep in the inner chamber, she heard Whistler coming down the steps, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might not be coming to free her at all. What if Selene had been acting under his orders? That January's nuts, he might have said. If you see her coming, lock her in the cellar until I get there.
He must have said that, January reasoned, for that's exactly what Selene had done. And then with a gasp she remembered something Nick had said to her in this very room, back at Midsummer. Selene is Whistler's creature entirely.
What else had he said back then? Oh yes: that he'd forgotten that once, and was still paying for it. That's you, Nick, she thought. Not me.
January smoothed back the sides of her blood-spattered purple hair with both palms, and attempted with limited success to wipe her face clean of clots with the hem of her ribbed poorboy, the front of which was black and heavy with spilled blood. Then she hurried back into the larder and swung the wall to the refrigerated room closed behind her, grabbed the first can that came to hand, crumpled herself into a squatting position in the far corner of the room, and tried, with no success at all, to rearrange her expression into one of woe and abandonment.
She settled for turning her torso away from the door just as it opened, and hiding her savage hunter's grin by burying her face in the fanned fingers of her left hand.
"January," she heard Whistler say, in a fondly exasperated, almost parental tone. "Jan, Jan, Jan. Now what are we going to do with you?" She had to bite down on her palm to hold back the giggles. He took the sound that emerged for a stifled sob; she could feel him approaching, hear his Topsiders whispering across the scratchy carpeting. It seemed to take him forever to cross the floor.
The can was in January's right hand, bootlegged behind her right hip—as he approached, she twisted farther to her right, as if to avoid his eyes. At the last second he saw the can, but by then January had worked up enough torque: she came whirling out of her crouch like a discus thrower.
If he'd been higher on blood, Whistler might have avoided the blow; if he'd been less high, he would surely have been killed. As it was, he barely saw it coming—a yellow blur in her hand—and was just high enough to do two things. The first was to throw up his left arm, partially deflecting the blow so that instead of crushing his temple like a sugar-shelled Easter egg, the can only glanced off the upper curve of his skull. The second was to record one indelibly irrelevant detail as he crumpled to the floor. Creamed corn, was his last conscious thought.
It was a can of Lady Lee creamed corn wot done 'im in.
FOUR
"All right, Mr. Santos, I'm going to let you off with a warning this time. But if I ever catch you running a light in this town again, I don't care what time it is, I'm going to write you up."
"Thank you, officer," replied Nick numbly. Something else to castigate himself about later. Not enough that he'd lied to the mother of his child almost from the moment they'd met, and impregnated her under false pretenses; not enough that on top of those lies he'd taken advantage of her sexually tonight; not even enough that his careless treatment of January might result in Leon's death.
But now, after driving the 'Vette all the way from El Cerrito to the Nevada border at speeds of up to a hundred and ten miles per hour without drawing any attention from the highway patrol, he'd pulled the lamest move of all: getting popped for running a red light on the Tahoe strip at 2:30 in the morning, and undoubtedly blowing whatever chance they'd had of catching January before she reached the fastness of Whistler Manor.
He'd had plenty of time on the drive up to second-guess himself about all his earlier mistakes. He should have either stayed with January and helped her ditch the Buick, or else killed her on the spot. But tossing that body into the bay at Point Isabel had thrown him into a state not unlike shock: it had been his recurring Tad nightmare, only for real this time, and he'd simply freaked.
Or was freaked too kind a word?
Wimped might be better, or wussed or bailed. Whatever he called it, it amounted to cowardice: he'd gone running to Betty for comfort like a three-year-old climbing into Mommy's bed after a bad dream.
And now this—a moment of carelessness, and their best hope dashed. Nick threw the 'Vette into gear and pulled away from the curb carefully, conscious of the cop's eyes on him. Betty's eyes, too. He glanced at her—the look on her face was the sort of look you see on people in hospital waiting rooms, hopeful and despairing at the same time.
"A minor setback," he grinned. Amazing that he could still pull a grin out of his ass when he really needed one. But he couldn't let her freak too—he was going to need her very soon. "We'll be there in about another ten minutes."
Betty pulled herself together with a shudder. "What's the plan?"
"Depends on whether you trust me or not," replied Nick.
"Of course I trust you," said Betty. "But what's that got to do with anything?"
"I might be able to get into the lodge sober, but there's no way I could get out—not with the baby—not snatch it from a bunch of blood-high vampires, unless I can see and hear as well as they can see and hear, move as fast as they can move, and if necessary, strike as hard. For that, I'm going to need to be as high as they are."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm going to need to drink some blood."
Betty sighed. "Somehow I knew you were going to say that."
Nick pulled over into a turnaround by a copse of trees across the highway and about two hundred yards up from the driveway that led to the lodge. He climbed out stiffly after nearly three cramped hours behind the wheel, and closed the car door as quietly as he could. It was already a cool night here in the mountains—soon it would be cold, not that that would bother him once he'd topped up on blood. A surprisingly quiet night, too, considering they were only a few yards from a four-lane highway: there was no traffic, just the birds, and the good old Detroit sound of the manifold cooling, and the smell of the high thin piney air.
The World on Blood Page 37
