"He wants to see you, bad."
I glanced at Irving, then back at Luther. I tried to telepathically send the message, not in front of the reporter. It didn't work.
"The Master's put the word out. Anybody who sees you gives you the message."
Irving was looking back and forth between us like an eager puppy. "What does the Master of the City want with you, Anita?"
"Consider it given," I said.
Luther shook his head. "You ain't going to talk to him, are you?"
"No," I said.
"Why not?" Irving asked.
"None of your business."
"Off the record," he said.
"No."
Luther stared at me. "Listen to me, girl, you talk to the Master. Right now all the vamps and freaks are just supposed to tell you the Master wants a powwow. The next order will be to detain you and take ya to him."
Detain, it was a nice word for kidnap. "I don't have anything to say to the Master."
"Don't let this get outta hand, Anita," Luther said. "Just talk to him, no harm."
That's what he thought. "Maybe I will." Luther was right. It was talk to him now or later. Later would probably be a lot less friendly.
"Why does the Master want to talk to you?" Irving asked. He was like some curious, bright-eyed bird that had spied a worm.
I ignored the question, and thought up a new one. "Did your sister reporter give you any highlights from this file? I don't really have time to read War and Peace before morning."
"Tell me what you know about the Master, and I'll give you the highlights."
"Thanks a lot, Luther."
"I didn't mean to sic him on you," he said. His cig bobbed up and down as he spoke. I never understood how he did that. Lip dexterity. Years of practice.
"Would everybody stop treating me like the bubonic fucking plague," Irving said. "I'm just trying to do my job."
I sipped my orange juice and looked at him. "Irving, you're messing with things you don't understand. I cannot give you info on the Master. I can't."
"Won't," he said.
I shrugged. "Won't, but the reason I won't is because I can't."
"That's a circular argument," he said.
"Sue me." I finished the juice. I didn't want it anyway. "Listen, Irving, we had a deal. The file info for the zombie articles. If you're going to break your word, deal's off. But tell me it's off. I don't have time to sit here and play twenty damn questions."
"I won't go back on the deal. My word is my bond," he said in as stagy a voice as he could manage in the murmurous noise of the bar.
"Then give me the highlights and let me get the hell out of the District before the Master hunts me up."
His face was suddenly solemn. "You're in trouble, aren't you?"
"Maybe. Help me out, Irving. Please."
"Help her out," Luther said.
Maybe it was the please. Maybe it was Luther's looming presence. Whatever, Irving nodded. "According to my sister reporter, he's crippled in a wheelchair."
I nodded. Nondirective, that's me.
"He likes his women crippled."
"What do you mean?" I remembered Cicely of the empty eyes.
"Blind, wheelchair, amputee, whatever, old Harry'll go for it."
"Deaf," I said.
"Up his alley."
"Why?" I asked. Clever questions are us.
Irving shrugged. "Maybe it makes him feel better since he's trapped in a chair himself. My fellow reporter didn't know why he was a deviant, just that he was."
"What else did she tell you?"
"He's never even been charged with a crime, but the rumors are real ugly. Suspected mob connections, but no proof. Just rumors."
"Tell me," I said.
"An old girlfriend tried to sue him for palimony. She disappeared."
"Disappeared as in probably dead," I said.
"Bingo."
I believed it. So he'd used Tommy and Bruno to kill before. Meant it would be easier to give the order a second time. Or maybe Gaynor's given the order lots of times, and just never gotten caught.
"What does he do for the mob that earns him his two bodyguards?"
"Oh, so you've met his security specialist."
I nodded.
"My fellow reporter would love to talk to you."
"You didn't tell her about me, did you?"
"Do I look like a stoolie?" He grinned at me.
I let that go. "What's he do for the mob?"
"Helps them clean money, or that's what we suspect."
"No evidence?" I said.
"None." He didn't look happy about it.
Luther shook his head, tapping his cig into the ashtray. Some ash spilled onto the bar. He wiped it with his spotless towel. "He sounds like bad news, Anita. Free advice, leave him the hell alone."
Good advice. Unfortunately. "I don't think he'll leave me alone."
"I won't ask, I don't want to know." Someone else was frantically signaling for a refill. Luther drifted over to them. I could watch the entire bar in the full-length mirror that took up the wall behind the bar. I could even see the door without turning around. It was convenient and comforting.
"I will ask," Irving said, "I do want to know."
I just shook my head.
"I know something you don't know," he said.
"And I want to know it?"
He nodded vigorously enough to make his frizzy hair bob.
I sighed. "Tell me."
"You first."
I had about enough. "I have shared all I am going to tonight, Irving. I've got the file. I'll look through it. You're just saving me a little time. Right now, a little time could be very important to me."
"Oh, shucks, you take all the fun out of being a hard-core reporter." He looked like he was going to pout.
"Just tell me, Irving, or I'm going to do something violent."
He half laughed. I don't think he believed me. He should have. "Alright, alright." He brought out a picture from behind his back with a flourish like a magician.
It was a black and white photo of a woman. She was in her twenties, long brown hair down in a modern style, just enough mousse to make it look spiky. She was pretty. I didn't recognize her. The photo was obviously not posed. It was too casual and there was a look to the face of someone who didn't know she was being photographed.
"Who is she?"
"She was his girlfriend until about five months ago," Irving said.
"So she's . . . handicapped?" I stared down at the pretty, candid face. You couldn't tell by the picture.
"Wheelchair Wanda."
I stared at him. I could feel my eyes going wide. "You can't be serious."
He grinned. "Wheelchair Wanda cruises the streets in her chair. She's very popular with a certain crowd."
A prostitute in a wheelchair. Naw, it was too weird. I shook my head. "Okay, where do I find her?"
"I and my sister reporter want in on this."
"That's why you kept her picture out of the file."
He didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. "Wanda won't talk to you alone, Anita."
"Has she talked to your reporter friend?"
He frowned, the light of conquest dimming in his eyes. I knew what that meant. "She won't talk to reporters will she, Irving?"
"She's afraid of Gaynor."
"She should be," I said.
"Why would she talk to you and not us?"
"My winning personality," I said.
"Come on, Blake."
"Where does she hang out, Irving?"
"Oh, hell." He finished his dwindling drink in one angry swallow. "She stays near a club called The Grey Cat."
The Grey Cat, like that old joke, all cats are grey in the dark. Cute. "Where's the club?"
Luther answered. I hadn't seen him come back. "On the main drag in the Tenderloin, corner of Twentieth and Grand. But I wouldn't go down there alone, Anita."
"I can take care of myself."
"Y
eah, but you don't look like you can. You don't want to have to shoot some dumb shmuck just because he copped a feel, or worse. Take someone who looks mean, save yourself the aggravation."
Irving shrugged. "I wouldn't go down there alone."
I hated to admit it, but they were right. I may be heap big vampire slayer but it doesn't show much on the outside. "Okay, I'll get Charles. He looks tough enough to take on the Green Bay Packers, but his heart is oh so gentle."
Luther laughed, puffing smoke. "Don't let ol' Charlie see too much. He might faint."
Faint once in public and people never let you forget.
"I'll keep Charles safe." I put more money down on the bar than was needed. Luther hadn't really given me much information this time, but usually he did. Good information. I never paid full price for it. I got a discount because I was connected with the police. Dead Dave had been a cop before they kicked him off the force for being undead. Short-sighted of them. He was still pissed about that, but he liked to help. So he fed me information, and I fed the police selected bits of it.
Dead Dave came out of the door behind the bar. I glanced at the dark glass windows. It looked the same, but if Dave was up, it was full dark. Shit. It was a walk back to my car surrounded by vampires. At least I had my gun. Comforting that.
Dave is tall, wide, short brown hair that had been balding when he died. He lost no more hair but it didn't grow back either. He smiled at me wide enough to flash fangs. An excited wiggle ran through the crowd, as if the same nerve had been touched in all of them. The whispers spread like rings in a pool. Vampire. The show was on.
Dave and I shook hands. His hand was warm, firm, and dry. Have you fed tonight, Dave? He looked like he had, all rosy and cheerful. What did you feed on, Dave? And was it willing? Probably. Dave was a good guy for a dead man.
"Luther keeps telling me you stopped by but it's always in daylight. Nice to see you're slumming after dark."
"Truthfully, I planned to be out of the District before full dark."
He frowned. "You packing?"
I gave him a discreet glimpse of my gun.
Irving's eyes widened. "You're carrying a gun." It only sounded like he shouted it.
The noise level had died down to a waiting murmur. Quiet enough for people to overhear. But then, that's why they had come, to listen to the vampire. To tell their troubles to the dead. I lowered my voice and said, "Announce it to the world, Irving."
He shrugged. "Sorry."
"How do you know newsboy over here?" Dave asked.
"He helps me sometimes with research."
"Research, well la-de-da." He smiled without showing any fang. A trick you learn after a few years. "Luther give you the message?"
"Yeah."
"You going to be smart or dumb?"
Dave is sorta blunt, but I like him anyway. "Dumb probably," I said.
"Just because you got a special relationship with the new Master, don't let it fool you. He's still a master vampire. They are freaking bad news. Don't fuck with him."
"I'm trying to avoid it."
Dave smiled broad enough to show fang. "Shit, you mean . . . Naw, he wants you for more than good tail."
It was nice to know he thought I'd be good tail. I guess. "Yeah," I said.
Irving was practically bouncing in his seat. "What the hell is going on, Anita?"
Very good question. "My business, not yours."
"Anita . . ."
"Stop pestering me, Irving. I mean it."
"Pestering? I haven't heard that word since my grandmother."
I looked him straight in the eyes and said, carefully, "Leave me the fuck alone. That better?"
He put his hands out in an I-give-up gesture. "Heh, just trying to do my job."
"Well, do it somewhere else."
I slid off the bar stool.
"The word's out to find you, Anita," Dave said. "Some of the other vampires might get overzealous."
"You mean try to take me?"
He nodded.
"I'm armed, cross and all. I'll be okay."
"You want me to walk you to your car?" Dave asked.
I stared into his brown eyes and smiled. "Thanks, Dave, I'll remember the offer, but I'm a big girl." Truth was a lot of the vampires didn't like Dave feeding information to the enemy. I was the Executioner. If a vampire stepped over the line, they sent for me. There was no such thing as a life sentence for a vamp. Death or nothing. No prison can hold a vampire.
California tried, but one master vampire got loose. He killed twenty-five people in a one-night bloodbath. He didn't feed, he just killed. Guess he was pissed about being locked up. They'd put crosses over the doors and on the guards. Crosses don't work unless you believe in them. And they certainly don't work once a master vampire has convinced you to take them off.
I was the vampire's equivalent of an electric chair. They didn't like me much. Surprise, surprise.
"I'll be with her," Irving said. He put money down on the bar and stood up. I had the bulky file under my arm. I guess he wasn't going to let it out of his sight. Great.
"She'll probably have to protect you, too," Dave said.
Irving started to say something, then thought better of it. He could say, but I'm a lycanthrope, except he didn't want people to know. He worked very, very hard at appearing human.
"You sure you'll be okay?" he asked. One more chance for a vampire guard to my car.
He was offering to protect me from the Master. Dave hadn't been dead ten years. He wasn't good enough. "Nice to know you care, Dave."
"Go on, get outta here," he said.
"Watch yourself, girl," Luther said.
I smiled brightly at both of them, then turned and walked out of the near silent bar. The crowd couldn't have overheard much, if any, of the conversation, but I could feel them staring at my back. I resisted an urge to whirl around and go "boo." I bet somebody would have screamed.
It's the cross-shaped scar on my arm. Only vampires have them, right? A cross shoved into unclean flesh. Mine had been a branding iron specially made. A now dead master vampire had ordered it. Thought it would be funny. Hardy-har.
Or maybe it was just Dave. Maybe they hadn't noticed the scar. Maybe I was overly sensitive. Make friendly with a nice law-abiding vampire, and people get suspicious. Have a few funny scars and people wonder if you're human. But that's okay. Suspicion is healthy. It'll keep you alive.
13
THE SWELTERING DARKNESS closed around me like a hot, sticky fist. A streetlight formed a puddle of brilliance on the sidewalk, as if the light had melted. All the streetlights are reproductions of turn-of-the-century gas lamps. They rise black and graceful, but not quite authentic. Like a Halloween costume. It looks good but is too comfortable to be real.
The night sky was like a dark presence over the tall brick buildings, but the streetlights held the darkness back. Like a black tent held up by sticks of light. You had the sense of darkness without the reality.
I started walking for the parking garage just off First Street. Parking on the Riverfront is damn near impossible. The tourists have only made the problem worse.
The hard soles of Irving's dress shoes made a loud, echoing noise on the stone of the street. Real cobblestones. Streets meant for horses, not cars. It made parking a bitch, but it was . . . charming.
My Nike Airs made almost no sound on the street. Irving was like a clattery puppy beside me. Most lycanthropes I've met have been stealthy. Irving may have been a werewolf but he was more dog. A big, fun-loving dog.
Couples and small groups passed us, laughing, talking, voices too shrill. They had come to see vampires. Reallive vampires, or was that real-dead vampires? Tourists, all of them. Amateurs. Voyeurs. I had seen more undead than any of them. I'd lay money on that. The fascination escaped me.
It was full dark now. Dolph and the gang would be awaiting me at Burrell Cemetery. I needed to get over there. What about the file on Gaynor? And what was I going to do with Irving? Somet
imes my life is too full.
A figure detached itself from the darkened buildings. I couldn't tell if he had been waiting or had simply appeared. Magic. I froze, like a rabbit caught in headlights, staring.
"What's wrong, Blake?" Irving asked.
I handed him the file and he took it, looking puzzled. I wanted my hands free in case I had to go for my gun. It probably wouldn't come to that. Probably.
Jean-Claude, Master Vampire of the City, walked towards us. He moved like a dancer, or a cat, a smooth, gliding walk. Energy and grace contained, waiting to explode into violence.
He wasn't that tall, maybe five-eleven. His shirt was so white, it gleamed. The shirt was loose, long, full sleeves made tight at the wrist by three-buttoned cuffs. The front of the shirt had only a string to close the throat. He'd left it untied, and the white cloth framed the pale smoothness of his chest. The shirt was tucked into tight black jeans, and only that kept it from billowing around him like a cape.
His hair was perfectly black, curling softly around his face. The eyes, if you dared to look into them, were a blue so dark it was almost black. Glittering, dark jewels.
He stopped about six feet in front of us. Close enough to see the dark cross-shaped scar on his chest. It was the only thing that marred the perfection of his body. Or what I'd seen of his body.
He'd told me once that he killed the one who scarred him. Bully for him, so had I.
"Hello, Jean-Claude," I said.
"Greetings, ma petite," he said. His voice was like fur, rich, soft, vaguely obscene, as if just talking to him was something dirty. Maybe it was.
"Don't call me ma petite," I said.
He smiled slightly, not a hint of fang. "As you like." He looked at Irving. Irving looked away, careful not to meet Jean-Claude's eyes. You never looked directly into a vampire's eyes. Never. So why was I doing it with impunity. Why indeed?
"Who is your friend?" The last word was very soft and somehow threatening.
"This is Irving Griswold. He's a reporter for the Post-Dispatch. He's helping me with a little research."
"Ah," he said. He walked around Irving as if he were something for sale, and Jean-Claude wanted to see all of him.
Irving gave nervous little glances so that he could keep the vampire in view. He glanced at me, widening his eyes. "What's going on?"
"What indeed, Irving?" Jean-Claude said.
"Leave him alone, Jean-Claude."
"Why have you not come to see me, my little animator?"
Little animator wasn't much of an improvement over ma petite, but I'd take it. "I've been busy."
The look that crossed his face was almost anger. I didn't really want him mad at me. "I was going to come see you," I said.