Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  “Johnny? Who the hell is Johnny?”

  “The doorman. Shall I send him back?”

  “Oh, the doorman, I forgot all about him.” I sighed. I wasn’t really ready for another personal encounter. “Yes, Fred, go ahead and send him back.”

  A minute later Johnny stood knocking at the open door.

  “Come in, Johnny, and close the door behind you, please.”

  He walked in gracelessly, a gangly youth, probably no more than twenty-one or two. He seemed so much younger here in my office; not occupying the position of authority at the door had robbed him of his maturity. He had a thick crop of black hair that fell forward into his eyes as he sat on one of the chairs and stared down at the floor. Not wanting to make this meeting too formal, I walked around and sat on the edge of the desk, my legs crossed, one foot idly swinging.

  “So, Johnny, how long have you been working here?”

  “About six months,” he muttered.

  “And do you like it?”

  He looked up at me, “Yeah, it’s a good job. And I don’t want to lose it, Miss Griffin. It’s just not fair of you to fire me for not recognizing you.” His face acquired a sullen expression, making him look even younger. “I mean, I didn’t know who you were, I was just doing what they said I should.” He glanced back at the floor as if something caught his interest there.

  “I am not going to fire you, Johnny. Actually I suppose I should be flattered that you thought I was young enough to need identification.” I had expected he would look up again, but still he stared at the floor. I grew annoyed at his lack of attention and leaned over the desk to see what was occupying his attention. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he said, getting up from his chair and kneeling on the floor. “But there’s something shiny under your desk. Let me get it for you.”

  Before I could protest, he reached and picked up a rather thick shard of crystal. “Here,” he said with pride, “this could really hurt if you stepped on it.”

  He put one hand on the edge of the desk and stood up, gripping the glass in his other hand. When he dropped it in the wastebasket, I could see the small cut on his thumb, smell his blood in the air.

  “You’ve cut yourself,” I said breathlessly.

  “Yeah, but it’s not too bad.” He put his thumb into his mouth and sucked on the wound.

  “Ah.” A groan inadvertently escaped my lips, and the hunger within me that had not appeared with Ron raged like a fever through my body. My voice grew deeper, more husky. “Don’t do that. Hold out your hand and let me see,” I ordered, moving closer to him. Reluctantly he held his hand out and I cradled it in my own two hands. Our eyes met and he was caught. Before I even knew I had reacted, I pulled him to me. He tensed, then relaxed and smiled, wrapping his arms around me as I kissed him, stroking his thick black hair. My mouth found his neck, and my instincts reacted immediately. I sunk my teeth deep into the vein and his blood washed into my mouth, filling my body with warmth and energy.

  “More, take more,” the inner voice coaxed. Max’s presence was strong, and his craving for life pushed me further, urging me to gorge myself upon this young body. “Drink,” he whispered with a dark joy. “Take it all, take it all.”

  Johnny’s grip on me began to weaken, and I could feel the strength fading from his limbs with each swallow I took. His body trembled against mine.

  With a great effort of will I slowed on the pulling of Johnny’s blood, gradually weaning myself of its intoxicating taste. Removing my mouth, shuddering at the shock of its removal, I tried to ignore the inner wail of disappointment and anger, concentrating instead on the live warm body I held against me. Johnny swayed slightly; his eyes were closed, his mouth curved into a small sensual smile. I moved away from him, held his face in my hands, and called his name softly.

  “Johnny, open your eyes.” When he did, I continued. “Nothing happened here. Can you remember that? Nothing happened.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, “nothing happened. I feel funny. Can I sit down?”

  I smiled at him. “Sit. Let me get you something to drink.”

  When I came back with his drink, his eyes were more focused and the dreamy expression had faded from him.

  “Here,” I said kindly, handing him the glass, and watched him drink it in one gulp. “Do you feel better now?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. What happened?”

  I laughed, attempting to put him at ease. “You cut yourself, remember?”

  He nodded slowly. “It’s kind of funny, the sight of blood never bothered me before.”

  “Well”—I shrugged—“these things do happen.”

  “Yeah.” He still sounded confused, but stood up abruptly. “Can I go now?”

  I made eye contact with him again, and he showed no fear, no recognition of what I was. “You most certainly can, Johnny. Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Why, for being so diligent in your work.”

  He returned my smile. “Gee, thanks a lot, Miss Griffin. See you later, huh?”

  Hoping that would be the last of the interruptions that evening, I returned to my desk and the reading of the will. I advanced only a page, however, before there was another tentative knock on the office door.

  “Damn,” I said under my breath, then louder, “come in.”

  “Am I interrupting?” Fred walked halfway through the door.

  “No, what the hell, come on in, everyone else in the world has been here tonight.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “You really are having a bad day, aren’t you?”

  I gave an exasperated smile and pushed my hair back from my face. “No, the day was fine. It’s the night that’s been a problem. Honestly, how did Max ever get anything done?”

  Fred laughed. “Max never slept and was almost always here, day and night. Most places like this never see the owner; they have managers and assistant managers to handle the day-to-day affairs. But Max did everything himself. We all wondered when he would break . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Max’s death and the murders he had committed to earn him that death were public knowledge. That he truly was what the papers called him in jest, the Vampire Killer, had been kept secret. I knew the effect his deeds had upon my life and Mitch’s, but had never given any thought to what others might think. It might prove interesting to get Fred’s version of the story.

  “You think it was the tension, then, the pressures of his life, that drove him to kill those people?”

  Fred smirked. “I think the man was crazy; you only had to work for him for a month to see that. But I’d never have believed him a killer.” He gave a small chuckle. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d want to dirty his hands that way.”

  “So you believe he was innocent?”

  “Hell, no, I think he did it. Don’t you?”

  “I know he did it, Fred. I heard it from his own lips, and Max, for all his faults, rarely lied to me.” I laughed bitterly. “There were many things he didn’t tell me, but when he spoke, he spoke the truth.”

  Fred nodded. “Yeah, he was like that. It was always the things he didn’t say that got you.” He glanced around the office and shrugged. “Anyway, I guess it was bound to happen, but it sure was strange, both him and Larry being carried out of here dead. And you know, the place was packed for months afterward, people sneaking in to visit the cellar and the office as if they were shrines or something. You’d think they’d stay away after all that, but we were turning them from the door in droves.” His eyes shifted away for a minute and then came back to rest on me. “Speaking of the door, you did a good job on Johnny.”

  “Excuse me?” I jumped at his comment and knocked the folder on the floor. “What about Johnny?”

  Fred moved down on his hands and knees to help me pick up the scattered papers.

  “Be careful,” I warned him, “there may still be some glass down there. Johnny found a piece and cut himself.”

  “No problem.” He handed me t
he papers and I put them into the top drawer.

  “What about Johnny?” I repeated, eager for his answer.

  “Well, I don’t know what you said to him, but whatever it was, it worked. He walked in like he was going to his own hanging and he walked out with a big smile on his face. We’ve had trouble with him before; he’s not exactly the smartest person alive. I mean, he does pretty good as long as he doesn’t have to make any decisions on his own. Anyway, I think he thought that you were going to fire him. I take it you didn’t.”

  “No, of course not. I’m not legally the owner yet, so I’m sure that any decision of that nature would be a little premature.”

  “Not the owner? But Max left the Ballroom to you. How could you not be the owner?”

  I saw no need to discuss with Fred the possibility of my declining Max’s estate. “I haven’t signed the papers yet.”

  “Oh, if that’s all, that’s no big deal. Anyway, I don’t want to take up much more of your time. I just wondered if you’d like me to get the staff together tomorrow for a meeting, you know, to meet you.”

  “So that I won’t be turned away again for lack of identification?”

  “Yeah.” He gave me a broad smile that I returned. “Is tomorrow too soon, do you think?”

  “Probably. Tell me, who’s been employed here the longest?”

  “That dubious honor belongs to me, Miss Griffin. I was the first person Max hired. I’ve always hoped to be the one to lock up when we close for the final time.”

  “Look, call me Deirdre, please. This Miss Griffin address is beginning to annoy me. It makes me feel positively ancient.”

  He gave me a sly look. “As if anyone would think you were old. I don’t believe you’ve aged a day since the first time I saw you.”

  “Inside, I feel like Methuselah. But let’s forget about age. Tomorrow evening I want to meet with you about how the Ballroom is being run and how you would like to change it. And if you have any suggestions about an appropriate manager”—I gave him a calculated look, thinking he would probably want the job, and, that even if I didn’t like him very much, he would be good at it—“please say so. I don’t plan on devoting my entire life to this place—one night a week should do just fine.”

  “Great,” he said, and went to the door. He turned around again before leaving. “You know, Deirdre, I’ve sort of been dreading your return, hoping that you wouldn’t come back. You and I never really clicked before, and I blame a lot of that on Max’s attitude toward you. You were untouchable—none of us was allowed to refer to you by anything other than Miss Griffin, as if you were goddamned royalty or something. Jesus, I remember a time when a waitress was fired on the spot for some derogatory remark about you. She didn’t say it to Max, of course, but he heard everything, saw everything. Lange’s a lot like that too. But you seem different, warmer maybe, more approachable, or”—he gave an ingratiating smile—“maybe you’re just better looking than I remembered.” Then he shrugged, seeming embarrassed. “Well, anyway, that was a pretty long speech. I really only wanted to say that I’m glad you’re back now, and I hope you’ll stick around for a while.”

  “Thank you, Fred. Good night.”

  By the time I arrived outside Mitch’s apartment that night, it was after three. The night was cold and clear and the moon was full. I rummaged around in my purse and found the crumpled pack of Players I had brought from England. One cigarette was left—it had lost a little of its tobacco, and was crooked—but I straightened it out with my fingers. Sitting down on the steps of the brownstone, I lit it and inhaled both the smoke and the night air deep into my lungs. I stretched my legs out in front of me, enjoying the feel of the tightening muscles and the warmth of Johnny’s blood flowing through my body, rejuvenating and energizing. This is the best time, I thought, when the overpowering hunger is gone, the hunting successfully completed, the feelings of youth and life renewed.

  I should have gone into the apartment, but the night seemed peaceful and I remained sitting on the steps. The smoke from my cigarette curled thickly into the still air; I blew on it playfully and, as the smoke dissolved into nothingness, replayed the evening in my mind.

  It had been a strange night, to say the least, and a busy one. Of all the events, the one that I tried to hold closest was the fact that Mitch had indeed recovered. That, I reminded myself, was the reason I had returned. Even shouldn’t things work out between us, and I still didn’t see how they could, he was cured; I had helped him recover his life. His demons had been effectively dismissed, even though mine were still snapping at my heels, tearing at my throat. I sighed and tossed the burning cigarette into the street, watching the flurry of sparks as it hit. Then I stood up, brushed off the back of my cloak, and reached in my purse for the key to the door.

  I was not surprised, just slightly annoyed, when I heard the approaching footsteps. “Hello, Max,” I said curtly, crossing my arms and turning away from the door slowly. “I was wondering when you would show up.”

  I looked into the face of a total stranger; his forehead was dotted with beads of sweat, his eyes darted nervously, searching the dark street. “I ain’t no Max, lady. Gimme your purse.”

  He grabbed at the bag; my hand shot down and held his right wrist in an unbreakable grip. “No, it’s mine. But I will give you some money if you want.”

  “Give, like hell. I’ll take what I want.” He tried to wrench away from me, but finding himself securely held, he reached around and fumbled in his right-hand pocket with his free hand. I tightened my fingers around his wrist in warning and twisted his arm slightly. “On second thought”—I smiled warmly in his face—“I don’t believe I have any cash at all.” He shifted back and forth on his feet, his left hand still in his pocket. “I don’t suppose”—I felt the cracking of bones as I continued my pressure on his wrist—“you would accept a check.”

  He didn’t answer, but gave a feeble whimper; his face was now drenched in sweat and his eyes filled with pain.

  “No.” I smiled at him again and he shrank away from me. “I didn’t think so.” One final twist ensured that his arm would be immobilized for a while.

  “Jesus, you bitch, you broke my arm.” He stood his ground indignantly, cradling his wrist, tears streaming down his face.

  “So I did,” I said pleasantly, climbing the steps and removing the key from my purse. “You should have someone look at it. Go home now. And find another line of work.” I turned away from him with an amused laugh and opened the door. “You don’t seem to be smart enough to handle petty robbery.”

  The insult must have been the final straw. I heard the shot and felt the burning pain of the bullet enter my left shoulder. I could hear his rasping breathing, and the echoing retort of the gun. The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air.

  Anger rose up within me, a terrifying, inhuman anger that I knew to be entirely my own. How dare he try to hurt me, I thought, and then, he must pay for this wound.

  I spun around slowly and he was still standing two steps away, amazed perhaps that I hadn’t cried out or fallen down. He held the gun awkwardly in his left hand; I kicked it away roughly, breaking his other wrist in the process. Then I reached down, grabbed the fabric of his coat, and held him up to my face. Our eyes made contact, and I smiled at him once more, this time with canines fully exposed.

  “You stupid bastard,” I hissed at him. “I gave you a second chance. You should have taken it and run.” His eyes rolled in his head and he whimpered again. “And now it’s too late.”

  “Whatcha gonna do?” His voice was hoarse with fright. The combination of the smells of his fear and my own blood was intoxicating; I laughed, and his answering shudder was gratifying, fueling my instincts.

  I shifted my grip, holding him with one hand and stroking his greasy hair with the other. “Why, lover,” I purred deep in my throat, “I only want to kiss you good night.”

  His terror intensified my feeling of elation and anticipation. His feet kicked feebly as I
dug my fingers into his hair, roughly pulled his head over, and pierced his neck with my fangs. Although I was not hungry, my anger fueled my instincts and I fed on him for a while, leaving him with more than enough blood to survive. Then I dropped him; his limp body rolled down the steps and he groaned softly when he hit the sidewalk.

  Chapter 16

  When I arrived inside the apartment I went to the bedroom window. My attacker was slowly pulling himself up from the pavement, looking around, I assumed, for his gun. I knocked on the window and he looked up at me in fear, his eyes rolling slightly, then took off at a slow run. I gave a small laugh while I watched him disappear into the night. “That felt wonderful,” I said, and stood for a moment, savoring the elation of my victory. “Just like being a god.”

  When the words escaped my lips, the joy I felt suddenly turned into abhorrence for both the deed and the thoughts that accompanied it. Was this how Max had started his killing spree, with the thrill that complete power over human beings could bring? “No,” I said to my reflected image. “I will not be like Max.”

  I turned away from the window, wincing at the pain caused by the movement. This wound will have to be dealt with very soon, I thought, and pulling off my cloak and sweater, went into the bathroom and looked at the wound in the mirror.

  There was a blackened hole in the back and a small amount of bruising on the front of my shoulder. I had bled a little, evidenced by the slight trickle of dried blood traced on my back, but my body, strengthened by two feedings, was already healing. Unfortunately, the bullet was still lodged inside; I could feel its alien presence there, a small, nagging pain that I knew would have to be removed. But, I thought as I stiffly twisted my arms around, I wouldn’t be able to do it myself.

  “Damn,” I addressed my image, “who the hell am I going to get to do this?”

  Mitch would be home tomorrow, but I hated to burden him so soon after his release. And any type of hospital was totally out of the question. I prodded my shoulder but could not feel where the bullet had lodged. If I had, I would have cut it out myself from the front.