Giving him a small push so that he would turn around and face me, I put my arms around his neck and smiled up at him. “I love you too, Mitch.”
Chris arrived with their dinner about fifteen minutes later. I could hear the rustling bags and smell the greasy odor of cooked meat long before his tentative knock sounded outside the open door.
“Come on in,” Mitch called, and Chris poked his head in with a slightly curious glance at the two of us.
“I hope you didn’t mind waiting. The, um, line was pretty long.” He walked into the room and set the bags on the bedside table. Mitch went for them immediately and unwrapped two of the sandwiches, an ecstatic smile on his face. He held the burgers up to his nose and inhaled deeply.
“Now I know I’ve died and gone to heaven. What else could I possibly ask for?” His tone was smug, satisfied, and the look he gave me betrayed what had occurred while Chris was gone.
Embarrassed, I felt myself blush. “If you two don’t mind, I’ll let you eat in peace. I could use some fresh air.”
“You’ll be back, won’t you?” A pleading note entered Mitch’s voice, belying his former confidence. I moved over to him and kissed him on the cheek.
“Of course I will. Enjoy your dinner.”
I did not go outside, but continued down the hallway. When I got to the barred window, I stopped and looked out on the night. It was snowing again and a draft came through the cracks in the molding. Inhaling deeply to remove the odor of food from my system, I saw the reflection of one of the patients, shuffling toward me. He did not enter one of the rooms as I expected, but came right up behind me and spoke.
“Nice night, ain’t it?” His voice was nasal, high-pitched, and monotonous.
“Yes, very beautiful.” I didn’t turn around, expecting he would quickly lose interest in conversation and go about his way. Instead, he put his hand on my shoulder and said again, “Nice night, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” I said louder, “it is a nice night.”
“You’re his girl, ain’t you? The cop’s girl? He killed someone, did you know that? Drove a stake right through the poor bastard’s heart. I was here when they brought him in. I heard him talk about it all. He’s crazy. We’re all crazy here, but he’s worse ’n us. He believes in vampires.” His hand tightened on my shoulder, his grip unexpectedly strong. He was working his way into the story and the monotone he first used had become more vivid as he continued. His deep-throated laughter caused a shiver down my spine, and suddenly the hallway seemed too long, too far from the rest of the hospital.
“He’s a crazy one, he is. He believes in vampires, I heard him.” I watched him through the window, his mouth working, as if chewing on his words, his eyes losing their hollow and glazed appearance, growing in cunning and comprehension. “Maybe you’re a crazy one too. Tell me”—his voice deepened, becoming more cultured, more familiar—“tell me, my dear, do you believe in vampires?”
I looked again at the reflection in the window. I had never seen him before, did not recognize his face. But when I spun around to confront him, to compel him to leave, Max stood before me. It was Max dressed in the hospital pajamas, Max with his robe hanging askew, one end of the sash dragging on the floor.
“Dammit, Max, go away and leave us alone. That’s all I ask.”
His face acquired his usual semi-sarcastic expression. “You should know by now, Deirdre, my love, that I will never leave you. You are mine, even Greer cannot change that. Although”—he gave a nasty, knowing smile—“the sex is good, I must admit that. Perhaps that was the attraction I could not understand before. But he’ll grow old, wrinkled, and impotent, as all humans must. And what will you do then?”
I made no response, but shoved past him and slowly walked back to Mitch’s room. The back of my shoulder blades itched, as if his gaze on me were a tangible thing. Then the feeling retreated and his presence seemed to evaporate. All that remained was the patient’s original voice following me down the empty hallway, whining, and begging for an answer. “Nice night, ain’t it?”
Mitch and Chris were sitting on the bed. They had finished their meal and were talking quietly, but the conversation had stopped abruptly when I approached the door. I didn’t bother to ask them what they were discussing; I had heard my name mentioned by both of them before I entered, and their nuances of tone had not been wasted on me. Both had been angry, but Chris’s voice sounded defensive, resentful. Dammit, I thought, I’m getting tired of justifying my existence, of apologizing for what I am.
“Feeling better?” Mitch smiled at me as I approached him, his eyes lit with his special way of looking at me.
“Yes,” I lied without much conviction, “the walk helped clear my mind. But I’m afraid that I have to go now. I have some things to tend to if you’re coming home tomorrow.” I ignored the way Chris tensed at my remark, concentrating instead on Mitch’s expression. He seemed disappointed, but not upset.
“Well, if you have to go . . .”
“I do. But I’ll be eagerly awaiting your arrival tomorrow.”
I moved over to the bed, and Mitch stood up and put his arms around me. I returned his hug and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “Until tomorrow, then, my love.” I turned to Chris and held out my hand. Reluctantly he stood up and shook it, then sat back down again without saying a word. Giving Mitch one final look, I walked out the door. To my relief, the patient who had spoken to me was no longer in the hall, and I hurried out the front doors.
Chapter 13
There was a crowd standing around the entrance of the Ballroom when I arrived. The doorman I had seen previously still looked bored, but this night he was at least making an effort to examine the IDs of the patrons. I gave him a nod as I entered, and he caught my arm.
“Card?” he questioned, not looking up at me.
“Excuse me?”
“Driver’s license, proof of age?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything of that sort with me.”
He gave a grunt. “Then you can’t go in.”
I was being jostled by the people behind me and thought that I should have gotten the key to Max’s private entrance from Victor. The doorman let several people who had their cards ready go in ahead of me. Although I attempted to follow them, his arm extended across the door, blocking my entrance. I reached over, grabbing his wrist in my cold clasp, and he looked at my face.
“Now,” I said with only a trace of the anger I felt, “do you recognize me?”
“No.” He gave me a belligerent stare. “I don’t. And I can’t let you in, it’s the rules.”
“And, tell me”—my voice was almost a whisper, but it silenced the complaints of the crowd behind me immediately—“who makes the rules? The owner?”
“Nah, I never met the broad. I take my orders from Mr. Lange.”
“Then be so kind as to tell Victor that Deirdre Griffin is here.”
He laughed a bit, obviously unable to place the name. “And who the hell are you that I should run your errands?”
I leaned over toward him and smiled, not very pleasantly, into his face. “The broad who owns this place.”
“Oh, shit,” he said, and his arm dropped.
“Exactly. And you and I will get to know each other later. Be here.”
“Oh, shit, Miss Griffin, I didn’t mean to give you a hard time or anything, I was just doing my job, you know. We’ve had some trouble with underage drinkers, and I was to card everyone who tried to get in. No exceptions.”
“I understand, and you are doing a good job of it.” I let go of his arm and gave him a real smile. “Don’t worry, you won’t be fired.”
He rubbed his wrist. “Thank you, Miss Griffin. I really appreciate—”
I interrupted. “Now, tell me, is Victor here?”
“Yeah, back in his, or I mean, your office.”
“Thank you.” I moved past him and entered the bar. The music from the band was deafening; I had not yet adjusted to the pace and noise o
f life in New York. I shook my head slightly and headed toward the offices.
Once again the eerie feeling of déjà vu overtook me, and timidly, for fear of waking too many ghosts, I knocked on the closed door.
“Come in.” Victor’s voice carried well into the hall.
I opened the door and went in. “Hello, Victor. I’m a bit early, perhaps that will make up for last night.”
“Deirdre.” Victor crossed to me and kissed my hand. “It’s so nice to see you. You’re looking well.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “I do hope you’re enjoying your visit.”
“Well”—I shrugged, not meeting his eyes—“it’s not so much of a visit as it is a return home. I did live here for ten years, after all.”
“Do you plan to stay, then? I’d always received the impression from Max that you were a bit of a Gypsy, that you never stayed in any one place, or with any one person, too long.” He chuckled to himself and walked around the desk, sitting down in front of his open briefcase.
His attitude angered me; I didn’t take kindly to jokes about my lifestyle from someone I did know, much less someone who was practically a stranger. I walked to the desk, leaned over, and looked down at his face, longing to slap the smile from it. “Victor, it seems to me that you did not receive the one impression of me from Max that I would most like to emphasize.” Quickly and threateningly, I slammed the lid of his case down. He jerked his fingers away and looked at me with a shocked expression. I met his eyes and continued. “The one thing that I value most is my privacy. And what I most abhor are personal questions of any kind. If you and I are to continue in any relationship, business or otherwise, you must understand this. I dislike comments or judgments about my life from anyone. Max presumed upon a long-standing relationship; you and I do not share that same history.”
Victor lowered his eyes, seeming to study the grain of the leather briefcase before him. “I’m sorry, Deirdre. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your privacy; that would be the last thing I would want. And I do understand that you might think we don’t know each other very well. But I feel as if I do know you, through Max.” He raised his face to me again and I saw a sadness in his expression. “God, the way he talked of you, he made you seem so real to me. Through his love and admiration of you, I grew to admire you, maybe even love you a little myself. And now that he is gone”—Victor’s voice acquired that slight, thin edge of anger it always did when he mentioned Max’s death—“it seemed natural to me that as his best friend I should proceed as he would wish, providing support for you, the only woman he ever loved.”
I wanted to laugh at this archaic and trite speech, to scoff at his expression of Max’s love for me, but something in Victor’s tone of voice, his complete sincerity and truthfulness, caused tears to well up in my eyes. I brushed them away with the remains of my anger. “Now I’m the one to be sorry, Victor. I meant no offense, and I hope you’ll take none.” I gave him a smile and sat down in front of the desk, my hands folded demurely on my lap, my voice soft and confidential. “One of my biggest problems is, I suppose, a fear of familiarity. There have been too many occurrences in my life of which I’m not proud, and I don’t care to have them bandied about or made into humorous conversation. Max and I shared an unusual relationship, and now that he’s gone, I’m not sure that I wish to pursue another of the same sort. I hope you can understand that this is not directed at you personally, and that you can forgive my harsh words.”
“Please consider yourself forgiven, Deirdre. And please, if you can, consider me your friend. I’ve no reason to hurt you and every reason in the world to wish you well. Perhaps we have more in common than you would expect.”
I laughed at this statement and gave him a hard stare. “Like what?”
“Well”—he shrugged and gestured around the office—“we are both owners of fairly successful night spots that have managed to stay in business for years. For this city, that should be enough.”
I nodded. “That may be true, but I also have part interest in a failing pub.”
“There you go! I’ve had a few flops over the years myself. Not that it matters, of course, but sometimes the ones that don’t do so well are the ones we most enjoy.” He stood up and walked to the window, pulling aside the shade, then sighed and turned again to me. His eyes were guarded now; his expression serious. “But there’s something else we share, something that I know you feel, deeper than anything, a tie that could bind us together if you wish it to.”
I tensed at his words, unsure of the point he was making, but thinking again that he seemed to know too much about me. As before, the voice deep within me urged me to trust him; I listened to it unwillingly, wanting to get up from my chair, leave the room, and never see Victor Lange again.
He was watching me intently, as if he sensed my inner conflict. “Go on,” I said with more sharpness than I intended. “What sort of bond could you and I possibly share?”
He hesitated a moment. “I don’t want to bring back bad memories, Deirdre, nor”—he gave me a calming smile—“do I wish to invite your anger again.” Victor laughed and rubbed his hands together. “You’re pretty formidable when you’re angry. I might have lost some fingers earlier, and they might not have grown back.”
How odd he is, I thought, but said nothing and let him continue.
“No, I don’t wish to upset you, and although I understand completely why you’re so sensitive about this matter, I must speak of it.”
With every word he spoke I grew more nervous. He knows what I am, I thought, but, how could he? Max would not have told him, and I was surely discreet enough in my dealings with humans that he should have no inkling of my true self.
“What we share,” Victor continued, “is something more important than businesses or restaurants. You attempt to hide it, but I know you feel it too.”
“Please get to the point, Victor. What is it that I feel?”
“Outrage and anger at the ending of a good man’s life. Grief and loneliness now that he is gone. Our bond is Max—the loss of Max, and our love for him.”
He must have mistaken my breath of relief as a derisive comment and he looked at me sternly. “Oh, I know what it sounds like when I say that I loved him, but I did. He was like my son, my brother, a comrade-in-arms, so to speak. And I know that you are grieving for him too. This we share, and just maybe we can help each other through it.”
“I am over it, Victor.” My voice seemed strong and confident, hiding my internal trembling. “It’s been two years since Max died, and I have dealt with his death. It’s time to move on.”
“Are you over it, Deirdre? Truly?”
I lowered my eyes to hide my confusion. This was not the conversation I had feared, but it was painful enough. How could I possibly explain to Victor what Max’s death had done to me? I didn’t trust him enough to confide in him about the visions, the dreams, the nightmares. How could I explain that I regretted the death more than I would ever have expected? And how could I tell him that I would murder his friend again, given the same circumstances?
“Yes,” I said. “I am over it.” I glanced at my watch impatiently, seeming even to myself cruel and callous. But it was getting late, and I had to feed tonight. I was determined that Mitch’s release tomorrow, and our reunion, would not be marred by my need for blood. “Now, do you have some papers for me to sign?”
Victor looked at me, his eyebrows raised in surprise. I felt even more reprehensible than before. He had poured out his soul to me and I had returned his confidence with my petty concern about an inheritance.
“Yes,” he said coolly. “I have the papers. Have you decided yet whether you will accept or not?”
“No, I thought I should review them first.”
Victor nodded brusquely. “That would be wise, of course.” He walked over to the desk and opened his briefcase, removing a folder and handing it to me. “Here, take them with you and read them at your convenience. You should have your attorney review them also. And
if you have no attorney, I can recommend one for you.”
His tone was businesslike and impersonal, and I suddenly regretted my treatment of him.
“Victor,” I started, “I am sorry.”
“Think nothing of it, it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does. To me, it does. You are right, of course”—I gave him a quick glance to see if he was looking at me—he was staring with pain at the folder clutched in my hands, “blood money” his glance said—“I haven’t gotten over Max’s death and it would be a help to talk with someone about it. But not now, not tonight; it’s still too raw, too painful. Give me some time, please.”
Finally he smiled at me, a sad sort of smile that did not reach his eyes. “We can talk again, anytime, whenever you feel ready. Keep in touch.” He closed and locked his briefcase and walked toward the door. He stepped out, then abruptly turned around. “And don’t worry, any secrets you wish to guard will be safe in my confidence. Trust me.”
I watched him walk out the door, then went over and sat at the desk, laying the folder down in front of me. “I trust you, Victor, all right,” I muttered, “but only about as far as I can throw you.” I opened the folder and attempted to read the first page. It might as well have been in a foreign language for all that I understood. Deciding to accept Victor’s offer of an attorney, I pushed the papers over to one side of the desk.
I opened the top desk drawer and idly rifled through its contents, feeling like an intruder in Max’s office. Everything was organized, neatly lined up in little compartments and boxes which I almost hated to disturb. Nevertheless, I lifted everything out and spread the entire contents of the drawer over the desktop. Even with Max’s curious black scrawl labeling some of the items, the collection was oddly impersonal; there remained no imprint of the man. I picked up the silver letter opener, remembering it as part of a gift I had given him when the Ballroom had opened, remembering a time when Max had stood, turning it over and over in his hand. When I had asked what he was thinking, he had said sadly, “Silver for werewolves and wood for vampires.” I wondered now, as I did then, what he had meant. We had been quarreling; maybe he was threatening me. Or, and the new thought came into my head only because I knew now what he was, maybe he was threatening to take his own life. At the time, though, I had been too wrapped up in my own concerns to question him. So many things he could have told me, so many things I could have learned from him had I but asked; all this knowledge was lost with his death. And there was no one to blame but myself, and my complacency, my goddamned preoccupation with independence.
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