The Vampire Files, Volume Two

by P. N. Elrod

  She laughed at the image, no doubt expressing her good taste.

  “Would you like some?” I asked.

  “What, diamonds?”

  “Yeah.”

  She sobered. “What girl wouldn’t?” But her tone was off.

  “You don’t like the idea?”

  “I like the thought behind it, but I don’t want that kind of gift—not from you.”

  “Why not from me?”

  “Because of the way it used to be for me. I took things like that from Slick, like a fancy payment—you know I was no angel—but I don’t want anything like that from you. Things are different with you, and I want them to stay that way.”

  She looked uncertain on how I was going to react, but I didn’t have any choice in the matter. I pulled her tight and close and didn’t stop kissing her until she insisted on coming up for air by thumping the back of my neck.

  “Like I said,” she continued, “hold that thought.”

  “I’ll do more than that,” I said, and started exploring her lips again. Her heartbeat was way up, along with her breathing.

  “On the other hand, why wait?” she asked, and I paused.

  “What?” Sometimes I can be pretty dim, but I caught on fast when she did something with her collar and it dropped several inches. “Oh, you can’t mean here and….”

  “Why not? I’m ready for you now and I don’t want to wait till after the party. I’ll be too tired to enjoy things.”

  I could see her point, but felt suddenly vulnerable. The alcove we occupied didn’t seem all that private. I could still hear voices uncomfortably near. She put her mouth on mine again and her arms went up my back to pull me closer.

  “It’s really very dark here,” she whispered. “No one can see and if they do they’ll just think we’re necking—won’t they?”

  She was certainly right about that—in more ways than one—and I couldn’t stop kissing her anyway. The pumping of her blood was as hypnotic to me as her voice, and I gradually sank lower along her neck until I was just over the two small marks left by our previous encounters. My canine teeth were already out and ready, but it was a new angle for me and I had to twist around a little more so I wouldn’t hurt her.

  She kept silent as I broke the skin, but her body went stiff and then shuddered, and she held me harder than ever as the pleasure rolled over her again and again. I drew it out for both of us, taking one seeping drop at a time. The thunder of her heartbeat and her now-languorous breathing drowned out all other sounds for me. There was only the shimmering woman in my arms and the taste of her life enriching my own.

  2

  BOBBI said my eyes were still flushed red, so I could only walk her partway back to the house. As soon as we got close to better lit areas and more people, she broke away with a smile and wave and went in to start another set. I returned to the cool solitude of the garden, found our bench again, and sat down, feeling peaceful and mellow about the world in general and quiet excitement over Bobbi in particular.

  Sounds from the house drifted over the tailored grounds, the usual murmur of conversation, and the piano, then Bobbi’s voice rose in plaintive song. She was having a private joke kidding me: the tune she’d chosen was “Red Sails in the Sunset.” When the applause settled down, Titus Noble took over with a high-pitched string number that made the inside of my head itch. It was all part of the internal change; when I’d been a daylight walker I’d had no trouble with violin music. For self-protection I drifted farther from the house, putting trees and more hedges between my sensitive eardrums and the noise.

  Sounds of another kind soon caught my attention, low voices, male, and I instinctively knew they were trying to be secretive. Their whispers were almost up to conversation level and punctuated irregularly by muffled laughter.

  They were gathered at the foot of a massive fountain where a nearly naked stone woman dumped water endlessly from a jug. The big paper lanterns in the court gave them just enough light to see. A few glanced up from their circle at my approach, then turned back to the hot game of Harlem tennis they were playing against the fountain’s marble base.

  A youngish man with dark, sandy hair combed forward over a high brow puffed air into his fist, said a short prayer to Lady Luck, and tossed the dice with a practiced hand. They clicked and clattered on the pavement, hit against the low wall of the fountain, and bounced to a stop. The man crowed, others groaned, and money was swiftly collected, ex changed, and put down for the next toss.

  Grinning broadly, he swept up the dice and breathed on them again, rubbing them between his hands with something like love.

  “They’re hot enough, Evan,” someone complained, followed by an impatient chorus of agreement.

  Evan tempered his grin and threw with an expert twist and follow-through, giving out a muted yell of triumph. More money was passed, and the rumpled stack where he knelt grew. The general opinion was that his streak couldn’t last another roll and the bets were down. Evan went through more breathing exercises, rolled his eyes, and grimaced as though to transfer his hopes and energies into the dotted cubes. Silence fell on the restive group for the few seconds it took until the dice stopped and the resulting shouts of outrage and glee were enough to travel back to the house.

  Just as he was collecting another rift of bills and congratulations, another man grabbed the dice over Evan’s surprised protest. They scuffled, but the losers in the game got them apart, apparently aware there was a reason behind the breach of etiquette.

  “What is it, Dreyer?”

  The man walked under a paper lantern and looked at the dice carefully. I could almost hear him growling. He bounced them in his palm a few times, then rolled them at the base of the fountain.

  “It’s not your turn,” complained Evan, who was just beginning to sweat.

  Another man examined the results of the roll, then tossed them twice more over Evan’s objections. By now Dreyer wasn’t the only one growling, and Evan was facing a ring of hostile faces.

  “Just a little joke, boys …” he said with a sick smile, hoping against hope someone would laugh.

  Dreyer punched him in the stomach. He doubled over and would have fallen if not for all the supporting hands. It signaled a general free-for-all aimed at Evan and a fast scramble to recover the money. The milling bodies totally buried him for a moment, then his vague cry floated up clearly from the guttural profanity. The mass lurched and something large splashed into the fountain.

  Until the punch in the stomach, I’d followed the proceedings with some amusement, good entertainment being a rare thing. After the punch I debated on just how to step in, but the splash got me moving. I was all too well acquainted with getting beaten to a pulp and dumped into water. Cheat or not, Evan had an ally.

  I shoved flailing bodies out of the way to get to the fountain. It was shallow, but Evan’s torso was underwater and destined to remain so as long as Dreyer held his legs up. I pushed him to one side, grabbed Evan’s shirt and tie, and hauled him out like a drowned kitten. His thin hair streamed and water sputtered messily from his nose and mouth, but he didn’t look ready to die yet. He was just settling onto the ledge of the fountain for a coughing fit when someone grabbed my right shoulder and spun me round to meet a fist.

  The impact was a distant thing, after all. I hardly moved, though Dreyer must have put everything he had into it. Now he was hunched over his sore hand and glaring at me, probably working up to try again with the one he had left.

  “Let it go,” I told him.

  “He cheated,” he stated flatly.

  I was the center of attention now and all of them looked one word away from beating me up for interfering with their fun. There were too many for me to influence, but it didn’t seem necessary to try. Dreyer was the leader and would be the one to convince.

  “So don’t play with him,” I suggested.

  “Go to hell,” he snarled back.

  He looked ready to take another swing. From the stink of booze
on his breath he might be just drunk enough or dumb enough to try. If so, then I’d make damn sure he lived to regret it.

  “Forget it, Dreyer,” someone from the rear said. “Let’s get the money and go.”

  A few of the more practical ones broke away to count cash, but kept a wary eye open to watch any developments. Dreyer didn’t move.

  “’mon, he’s not worth the trouble.”

  Dreyer seemed to be having an internal debate over that point, then abruptly straightened from his near crouch. Before he could think twice about things, I caught up Evan and hustled him out of the war zone.

  No one followed as we threaded through the maze of hedges. Evan had got his breath back, but still held a hand to his sore face where a beaut was forming on his left jaw.

  “Thanks, buddy, I owe you one. They were really going to kill me.”

  “Just one of them—and you’re welcome.”

  “Yeah, Dreyer’s a real bastard. Come on back to the house, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  He was more in need of it than I, but there was nothing better to do until Bobbi was finished. He knew the place and directed me around to a side entrance that opened into the kitchen. It was another enormous room and equipped with enough food and utensils to serve Wrigley Field during a sellout. We both winced at the bright light and bustling staff until a tubby young woman in white spotted us and came over, hands on her hips.

  “Good grief, is that you, Mr. Robley?”

  “What’s left of him, Jannie,” he shot back with a smile, and then winced at the action. “Got an ice pack?”

  She sighed and shook her head at the wreckage and motioned for me to drop him in a chair next to one of the sinks. She found a towel and began to sop up his excess water. “What happened this time?”

  “Well, there was this swimming contest—”

  She dropped another towel over his face and rubbed briskly, his pained protests overriding his story. “Walt!” One of the white-coated waiters hustled over, grinning from ear to ear. “Go get a robe from the bathhouse storage and then try and find Miss Robley.” He nodded and left, no doubt happy to be the one to pass the news along.

  Evan fought his way out of the towel. “There’s no need to bring Sandra into this, this is the first break she’s had in a month of Sundays.”

  Jannie ignored him and made an ice pack with his towel and lumped it firmly against the sore side of his face. He yelped, but held it in place while she returned to direct some business on the other side of the kitchen.

  “Women,” he moaned. “They’re all sympathy until you really need some. I get into the least little bit of trouble and they automatically think it’s my fault.”

  I nodded and pretended to agree.

  “Jannie’s nice, though; a little bossy, but she’s got beautiful skin tones. A little white, a touch of umber …” He saw that he’d lost me and made a writing motion in the air. “For painting? You know—art?”

  “You’re an artist?”

  “One of the few genuine ones at this party.”

  Jannie returned with something that looked like a sheet with sleeves. “Start taking them off, Mr. Robley.”

  “What—here?”

  “It’s warm enough with the stoves,” she pointed out with easy practicality.

  “Warmth isn’t what I’m concerned about.” He indicated some of the female staffers.

  “They know what a man looks like, and you more than most.”

  He was close to blushing. “This isn’t fair—”

  She smiled down at him. “I said the same thing to you on that so called modeling job you gave me, so shuck ’em.”

  “That was art, this is … is …”

  “Revenge,” she concluded sweetly.

  Some of the other girls gathered around in a scene disturbingly similar to the one we’d faced by the fountain. I backed away, he was strictly on his own this time.

  “Perhaps you’d like some help, Mr. Robley….”

  “No, thanks, I know how it’s done,” he said, inspiring a burst of giggles. Grumbling, he started peeling off his coat. When he wrestled free of it and his shirt he grabbed up the huge robe and belted himself in before unbuttoning his pants. Jannie gathered it all together in a basket.

  “What about the rest?”

  “My socks aren’t wet.”

  “I mean your—”

  “They’re dry, too,” he insisted grimly, and sat on the chair to preclude any attempt to remove his last shred of dignity. Jannie passed the basket on to another girl with instructions to dry things out.

  Walt returned, ushering in a tall young woman dressed in rich green satin. Her russet eyes swept the room and fastened on Evan, who hunched a bit lower in his robe, looking supremely miserable. She came over and regarded him with amused tolerance.

  “I was told you’d had an accident,” she said judicially.

  “Er…yes, something like that.” He was definitely blushing by now. “There was a roughhouse, see, and I got caught up in the middle of it, and if my friend here hadn’t stepped in and saved my life … well …”

  “Oh, Evan?

  “I did not throw the first punch, I swear.” He held up his hand, which was hidden by half a yard of sleeve. He noticed, quickly lowered it, and fastened on me as a distraction. “Sandra, I’d like to introduce you to…uh…”

  “Jack Fleming,” I said, rescuing him again, and we shook briefly.

  “Thank you for taking care of him. You’re not hurt?”

  “Only a little damp, Evan took the real damage.”

  “But I’m fine.” A few shards of ice from the towel fell out as he struggled to free his hand from the sleeve. “Evan Robley,” he said to me, “soon to be famous—along with my lovely, understanding sister, of course.”

  “How so, famous?”

  “Because a lot of artists only become famous after they’re dead,” she put in significantly.

  They had the same coloring, sharp features, and paint-stained fingers. His sandy hair was straight, hers was curly and a deep russet like her eyes. She had a slender build, but the fragility was offset by her long, firm jaw; tough looking, but not unattractive.

  “Do you want to go home?” she asked him.

  “No, not at all. Jannie’ll have my clothes back in two shakes. Why don’t you two go on and enjoy the party?”

  “I can’t just leave you—”

  “I’ll be fine.” He appealed to me. “Take her back to the party and make her have some fun. Please?”

  Her head tilted to one side in challenge. Sandra wasn’t the type who could be made to do anything she didn’t want. She noted my hesitation with amusement and suddenly smiled in approval. Sometimes my easy-to-read face could be an asset.

  “Stay out of trouble?” she told him.

  “Don’t I always try?”

  Sandra slipped her hand under my arm and led the way out of the kitchen.

  “It just keeps finding me, is all,” he muttered under his breath.

  I glanced back in time to see Evan begin an animated conversation with one of the maids.

  “Are you here with a date, Mr. Fleming?”

  “Jack. Yes, I am, and yourself?”

  “Evan’s my escort. He wandered off rather early. What happened this time?”

  “Cra—dice game. Some of the boys didn’t like the way he was throwing them.”

  “Not those loaded ones again?”

  “He’ll have to get new ones, he lost them in the struggle.”

  “The sad thing is he probably will. He never seems to learn.”

  “Like a drink?” I offered as a waiter approached. She nodded and I swept a glass off for her. “Does Evan sell much of his art?”

  “Hardly any, his work is too different for conventional tastes, but I manage to sell some things now and then.”

  “Beauty, brains, and talent. Congratulations. What do you paint?”

  “Anything that sells, I’m afraid.”

  “Isn’t th
at good?”

  “For money, I suppose it is, but it’s not always good for artistic integrity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know anything about art?”

  “I’m learning now.”

  She finished her glass of champagne and deposited the empty on another passing tray. “Come on, I’ll give you a lesson in the basics.” She took me away from the mainstream of the party into the more sparsely populated areas of the house.

  “You know this place pretty well?” I asked, trying to keep track of the layout.

  “Oh, yes, we’re very good friends with Leighton and Reva. I’ve sometimes spent as much time in Leighton’s studio as my own.”

  “I thought artists were always in competition with each other.”

  “To a certain extent that’s true, but we also exchange ideas and critiques. Of course it usually depends on the artist. Evan and Leighton have totally different styles, so they appeal to different tastes. Now look at this one, something you could hang anywhere in the world, in almost any house.”

  We paused in front of a landscape of mountains with a flowing, cloudy sky. There was a lot of detail to it, the colors were pleasant to look at, and it was very similar to the rural scenes in Gordy’s office.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, I don’t feel qualified to judge.”

  “Do you know what you like?”

  “Yes …”

  Her attention sharpened. “But what?”

  “I don’t know, maybe it seems just a little too perfect.”

  She took my arm again. “Let me show you some more.”

  We explored the open areas of most of the downstairs rooms, squeezing close to all the walls and studying enough canvas to support a small museum. Leighton Brett’s style was distinctive to himself, but for some reason I couldn’t get into his paintings for more than a minute or so. I couldn’t imagine buying one to look at for years at a time. Sandra was delighted.

  “What’s this about?”

  Her smile had a definite softening effect on her face. “You are one of the few people I’ve met who’ve spotted it.”

  “What did I spot, then?”