Blood Groove

by Alex Bledsoe

  Again she tried to move, but she simply lacked the energy to overcome the pain and numbness. She sought a diagnosis, an explanation of the symptoms, but her disjointed brain just wouldn’t work on that level. With a long, soft whine of surrender, she allowed herself to pass out again.

  • • •

  For an early-morning show the theater was surprisingly full, mostly with black people. Zginski and Fauvette sat in the last row, which gave them a good view of both the screen and the sea of Afros and caps before them. Zginski was too absorbed by his own thoughts to sense the tension around them; Fauvette heard comments pass among the other patrons about the “crazy honkies” in the back row and slid down in her seat as people turned and glared at them.

  At last the lights dimmed and the red velvet curtains drew back. The scratched trailer for snacks in the lobby appeared, accompanied by tinny, blaring music. Then the screen filled with a huge ampersand against the sky and the words “American International presents.”

  As Blacula began, Zginski was enthralled not so much by the story, but by the sheer intensity of the visual presentation. The cinemas he recalled were indistinct, dreamlike experiences in flickering shades of gray; this was in perfect detail, glorious color, and, most amazingly, featured the voices of the characters. The actor playing the Negro prince, especially, had a rich, full, and commanding baritone. Compared to Zginski’s memories of silent films, this was like looking through a window on the affairs of giants.

  He realized the gray-haired man treating the black prince with contempt was supposed to be Count Dracula, the titular villain of Stoker’s famous novel. Zginski had read the book, of course, and been impressed with its accuracy. He certainly never pictured the Count as this foppish, ham-fisted buffoon.

  Then Dracula’s vampire followers appeared, looking like befanged refugees from a bad primary school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Zginski’s chuckles grew louder. When Dracula evidently drew out all of the black prince’s blood in an instant, Zginski began to laugh in earnest, big guffaws that echoed in the theater and caused many angry faces to turn toward him.

  “Will you shut up!” Fauvette hissed. “They think you’re laughing at the hero!”

  With great effort Zginski controlled himself. After this introductory scene the titles began, weird animation that reminded him of Dr. Wiene’s German film about the carnival hypnotist. After that, he sat in silence, mouth open, unable to believe what he was seeing. The vampires presented in this film were ludicrous in both their appearance and behavior. The female vampire racing in slow-motion toward the camera might frighten a nervous child, but no one else. Yet there was no hint that these proceedings were intended to amuse; for all intents, the story was grimly serious, and the depiction of vampires meant to terrify.

  Not that it frightened the audience around him. As Fauvette said, they saw the black prince as a hero, and whenever he took a life they cheered and catcalled at the screen. Conversely, they also cheered whenever the mortal Negro protagonist was rude to his white superiors. It took a few occurrences before Zginski understood this: they simply enjoyed it when any black character triumphed over any white one. He wondered if this film was, in fact, made by Negroes for their own kind, or was it a white enterprise designed to give them a vicarious outlet for their passions.

  And yet, despite the foolishness, the African prince-turned-vampire earned Zginski’s sympathy. Here was a man who was a ruler in his own kingdom, turned revenant against his will and, like Zginski, locked away in a coffin without benefit of being truly dead. Like Zginski, he emerged ravenous and seized on the first source of blood he found, although Blacula was not careful enough; discarded like so many empty wineskins, his victims formed a veritable band of vampires without his knowledge or interest. Zginski, at least, was pickier about his companions and far more careful with his victims.

  Finally, though, the black prince was undone by the sentimental weakness of love. Dispirited, defeated, he staggered into the sunlight, denying his enemies the satisfaction of dispatching him. The ending brought a chorus of “boos!” from the crowd.

  Beside him, Fauvette huddled in the stiff seat, knees drawn to her chin, softly crying. Despite all that had happened to him, and all the evil things he had done, the black prince had known love, both as a mortal and as a vampire. In that sense he was blessed. She felt the pain of his loss in the great unloving, unloved emptiness of her own heart.

  That brought up the memory of the gray powder’s deadening peace. If she’d had the bag with her at that moment she would’ve consumed it all, Zginski be damned. So what if it meant her final destruction; what purpose did her empty existence serve anyway?

  She risked a glance at Zginski. He was enraptured by the images on the screen. She felt even more alone.

  Then the second feature started. Bulldozers rumbled up to block a desert highway. Grim, dusty people watched from nearby buildings. And at the first roaring engine, Zginski sat up, eyes wide.

  He had some trouble following the story; the time frame seemed to be disjointed, so that scenes from the past followed those from the present. Yet the individual sequences enthralled him, especially those that featured the main character’s automobile in action eluding the constabulary. The Polish driver seemed to be one with his vehicle, handling it with calm efficiency even in the direst of circumstances, much as the great Towarzysz Husaria horsemen had once done.

  In the driver’s travels, Zginski also saw an America he’d never imagined: flat arid landscapes, verdant mountainsides, ocean-pounded beaches. The Pole did not move among the upper classes, but navigated with impunity through the dregs of society, both white and colored. A black man spoke into machinery that transmitted his voice to the hero through the same device Lee Ann’s car sported, and Zginski went colder than normal at the memory of Sir Francis’s signalman broadcasting his demise that long-ago day in Wales. A woman lived naked in the desert, her display of flesh considered neither unseemly nor even unusual. People had all sorts of motorized transportation devices, some with only two wheels like bicycles.

  He grew more confused as he watched. Was this Pole actually driving through the same world, the same culture, that had also produced Blacula? Could one time period contain such disparate concepts as old-world superstitions and up-to-date vehicular technology? Or had society stratified into those who believed the ludicrous suppositions of Blacula and those who strove for the mechanistic future world implied by Vanishing Point? If so, then where would he, Zginski, belong? For that matter, in which world was he now?

  And then, the end: car and driver, in a last act of defiance or madness, crashing full speed into the bulldozers seen in the first moments of the film. No triumph, no explanation, just an end that seemed inevitable. The point had vanished, indeed.

  And in the silence following, the voice of one patron, speaking no doubt for many: “Say what?”

  The auditorium doors opened, sending bright shafts of sun down the aisles. The overhead lights came on. The audience members filed out, muttering and laughing, many of them pausing to glare at Fauvette and Zginski. No one said anything, though, for which Fauvette was immensely grateful.

  “Can we go now?” she said wearily. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Yes, we shall return to the motel. Then we shall rest until evening, when we will meet your friends.”

  She put a hand on his arm before he could stand. “Wait a minute. I want you to promise me something. I know you can kill us all. I know you’d kill me without a second thought. But I want you to promise you won’t.”

  “Kill you?”

  “Kill them.”

  He smiled at her utterly serious expression. “And what would my word be worth to you?”

  “I’m betting a lot. I think that under that arrogance you might still have a shred of honor. These people are my friends, and if they die because of me, I’ll be forced to seek justice for that. Which means I’ll die, too, I’m not kidding myself. And I don’t want to, not li
ke that, not after all this time. So I’m asking for your word that it won’t come to that.”

  Zginski couldn’t hide his surprise. The strength of her conviction, emanating as it did from a young teen’s body, took him off guard. He saw no need to point out that she was wrong, that his honor had died when his physical self did and his priorities, now as always, extended very little past his own skin. Instead he nodded and said, “Very well. They will come to no harm through me.” In a pinch, he could always claim that he actually meant “k-n-o-w” instead of “n-o.”

  CHAPTER 18

  ZGINSKI UNLOCKED THE motel room door. It was hotter inside than out, although heat had no effect on him or Fauvette. Lee Ann sat in the middle of the bed still naked, the sheets wrapped around her, crying softly.

  He closed the door and said sternly, “What’s wrong? Why are you still in bed, we’ve been gone for hours?”

  “Because I can’t get out of it,” she whined. She had the collapsed, defeated look of a prisoner of war.

  “What do you mean?” he snapped, and she winced as if from a blow.

  “I mean, you didn’t tell me I could get up,” she whimpered. She glowed with sweat and the smell permeated the room. “I’m starving, I’m dying of thirst, and I really have to pee, but I can’t get off the bed.”

  “Attend to yourself,” he said absently, closing the curtains. Although the sun was now behind the building, the early-afternoon light was still intense and he was weary of it. Lee Ann clutched the sheets around her and rushed into the bathroom; a moment later they heard her immense sigh, followed by the sound of her urination.

  Fauvette crossed the room, closed the bathroom door, and stood against the wall, arms folded. She was truly tired as well, but there was no way to return to her coffin and rest. “You’re mean to her.”

  “Yes, that was thoughtless,” he agreed. “I had no idea her will was so weak. Perhaps she will not do as a long-term companion after all.”

  “What will we do until dark?”

  “First we will feed,” Zginski said. “Then we will rest.”

  “Rest here? What, in the bed?”

  He nodded. “It has its dangers, but with Lee Ann on hand, we should be safe enough.” Anyone discovering them in true rest would think that they were dead bodies, so it was useful to have a mortal human to stand watch. Not that he could count on Lee Ann’s resourcefulness or initiative, apparently.

  Lee Ann emerged from the bathroom, the sheet now tied under her arms. She was still sniffling, and her eyes were red from crying. “So where did you go?” she asked demurely.

  “You do not question,” Zginski said, and Lee Ann’s demeanor again crumpled. She sat on the edge of the bed, head down, her shoulders trembling.

  Fauvette scowled at Zginski and went to Lee Ann. “I’m sorry. We went to a movie. We should have left you . . . freer.”

  Lee Ann nodded. “It would’ve been nice. Is this what it’ll always be like?”

  “I don’t know,” Fauvette said.

  Zginski took off his shirt. His skin was pale, his body lean and hard. There were rapier scars from his mortal life across his chest, and what looked like a burned emblem, a brand, that had been obliterated by a second, later burn. “Come, Lee Ann,” he said as he sat on the other side of the bed. His meaning was instantly clear.

  “Oh, God,” Lee Ann whimpered.

  “Not yet,” Fauvette said. She traced a finger along Lee Ann’s still-perspiring face and neck, around the bite she’d left there earlier. “She needs a shower.”

  “What?” Zginski said blankly.

  “Look at her; she’s been sitting in her own sweat all day. Let her clean up a little first.” She took Lee Ann’s hand. Lee Ann looked apprehensively at Zginski.

  Zginski shrugged. “If you wish.”

  Fauvette pulled Lee Ann to her feet and into the bathroom. “And turn on the air conditioner,” she said before the door closed on them.

  Fauvette pulled off her own shirt. “Set the water however you like, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “You can’t tell the difference between hot and cold?” Lee Ann said, twisting her hands together nervously.

  “I can, it just doesn’t matter,” Fauvette said, slipping the jeans down her legs.

  Lee Ann started the water and, as they waited for it to warm up, said, “Are you going to kill me?”

  Fauvette shook her head. “I’m just trying to be nice. You were nice to me before.”

  “B-but you . . . you drank my blood before.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “A little, at first. Then I felt really tired afterward.” She stuck her hand into the water to check the temperature. “But you . . . I mean, vampires . . . you kill the people you suck blood from, don’t you?”

  “I always figured we did,” Fauvette said wryly. “But lucky for you, he looks at it differently.”

  “Differently how?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He left some papers on the nightstand. I got so bored I read them. They talked about how he was killed in Wales or Welshland or someplace. Is that true?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Then he can be killed,” she breathed in disbelief.

  “Everyone can,” Fauvette agreed.

  Lee Ann’s hope faded almost at once. “But not by me. I can’t even fight him enough to go to the bathroom.”

  Fauvette smiled faintly. “Lee Ann, I’m sorry. This must all be very difficult for you, and I should’ve stood up to him more for your sake.”

  “But you’re just like him.”

  “No, we have a lot in common, but he doesn’t care any more about me than he does you.” She ran her fingers through Lee Ann’s hair, longer and finer than her own. “I guess that makes us sisters, of a sort. Now check that water again.”

  It was warm enough, so Fauvette followed Lee Ann into the shower. When Lee Ann reached for the soap, Fauvette stopped her hand. “It’s my turn to do you.”

  Fauvette picked up a rag and began washing the taller woman’s back. She was careful and gentle, especially around the bites on her neck and thigh, as she continued to the rest of her body. She caressed her with her other hand, not sexually but with soft, slow strokes along her arms, hips, and legs.

  “The water’s getting cold,” Lee Ann said finally.

  “Then we’re done,” Fauvette said, and stood on tiptoes to kiss her on the cheek. “Let’s get you dried off now.”

  Lee Ann turned off the water, and the two women stepped from the shower. Fauvette took a towel from the rack and, beginning with her hair, rubbed Lee Ann dry. “Can I ask you something?” Lee Ann said. “How old are you?”

  Fauvette did not pause in her work. “What year is it again?”

  “1975.”

  “Reckon I’m closing in on sixty, then.”

  “How old were you when . . .”

  “Fourteen.”

  “And you’ll always look like you do now?”

  “I suppose.”

  “That’s pretty cool.” She said it in the same defeated, limp way, but her admiration was apparent.

  “I suppose,” Fauvette repeated after only a slight pause.

  “You’re real pretty.”

  “Thanks.”

  When they were both dry, Fauvette again took Lee Ann’s hand and led her into the other room. The air conditioner had made little dent in the heat, but for Fauvette what was important was that Zginski had turned it on at her command. The two naked women stood before him holding hands while he inspected them with blatant appreciation from the bed. He was still shirtless, and had also removed his shoes. Fauvette suddenly recalled the forced kiss in the alley and realized, despite herself, that he was a supremely attractive man in ways that had nothing to do with his ability to overpower her. Her body tingled in response to his scrutiny.

  In her mind, she repeated a phrase she’d heard Leonardo use on occasion. Eyes on the prize, girl. He’d kill her in an instant if it suited
him. Right now she wanted him to think her as weak and helpless as Lee Ann.

  “This is a sight many a man would savor,” he said. “Alas, my need is too great for such a luxury.” He gestured to the bed. “Come to me, Lee Ann.”

  “She needs to eat something,” Fauvette said. “Look at her.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Lee Ann said to Fauvette. Then she crawled onto the bed and stretched out beside him. She snuggled into his embrace, and he brushed the hair from her neck, revealing Fauvette’s earlier bite mark. She ran her hands over his chest and shoulders, suddenly breathing heavily.

  “You are a beauty, Lee Ann,” he whispered. “You command the attention of all men who see you. All would envy me if they knew of your presence in my arms. Your beauty gives you such power.”

  “You’re so cold, Rudy,” she whispered. “Can you feel me touch you?”

  “I can feel every living inch of you,” he replied softly.

  She sighed with arousal. His hands traveled lightly over her skin.

  “I chose you for your exquisiteness,” he continued, but his eyes met Fauvette’s. She remained beside the bed, heedless of her nudity, working hard to keep her expression neutral. “I treasure your charms because they are given freely, without any resistance.”

  “Yessssss,” Lee Ann breathed in response. “Oh, yes . . .”

  He slid down the bed until he was on his stomach between her legs. She moaned and tossed in anticipation. He lifted the thigh he’d bitten before and positioned himself over the same marks. When his mouth closed around it Lee Ann’s body jolted like she’d been shocked and her hands clutched at the mattress.

  Whether deliberately or not, Zginski’s seduction of Lee Ann had also affected Fauvette, and she now needed the same thing he did. Her plan, tenuous at first, began to coalesce as she crawled onto the bed and reclined beside Lee Ann. The girl looked at her with wide eyes, breathing in rapid gasps as Zginski’s mouth made soft, wet sounds against her thigh, and Fauvette’s cold body molded itself against her. She was both terrified and aroused at being the center of all this attention.