by Alex Bledsoe
Fauvette shook her head. “And how many people have to die because I can’t do that?”
Patience stopped, stepped close, and sadly touched Fauvette’s cheek. “Don’t do that to yourself. We are what we are, Fauvette, and it’s not our fault. I didn’t ask to be this, and neither did you.”
Fauvette luxuriated in the touch. She could not recall ever feeling so safe with physical contact. She sighed and said, “Thank you. Do you think . . . can you teach me to do that, too?”
Before she could answer, the front door opened, admitting Zginski in a blast of afternoon heat. The door closed with a thud, and Zginski looked around the empty room. When he saw Fauvette his face noticeably brightened. But it grew closed and cautious again when he spotted Patience beside her.
“And who,” he said as he threaded through the tables and upturned chairs, “is this?”
Patience looked him over and said, with a grin that clearly displayed her fangs, “I was about to ask Fauvette the very same thing.”
CHAPTER 6
ZGINSKI FELT PATIENCE brush him with her supernatural influence, then withdraw it completely, like a reflex that had to twitch before it could be restrained. It had no effect, but nonetheless he found himself staring for longer than he intended.
He’d met more vampires in his brief time in Memphis than in all his decades traveling across Europe, he thought ironically. He wondered if they’d somehow spread themselves exponentially through ignorance and deliberate malice while he was in limbo. But his instant, powerful attraction to this one took him off guard. It was not that she was beautiful in any normal way. Certainly Fauvette, standing almost demurely beside her, was far more conventionally striking. Yet this newcomer compelled his attention in a way Fauvette never had.
Before Fauvette could respond, the other woman said, “ ‘This’ is Patience Bolade.” She smiled and extended her hand. The gesture was graceful, and the grip dainty and old-fashioned when he took it. He bent over it, a slight version of continental chivalry, and she likewise bent her knees just enough to count as a curtsy. She asked, “And you are?”
“I am Rudolfo Vladimir Zginski,” he said formally.
“Delighted to meet you,” Patience said. “It appears we’re thick on the ground here, doesn’t it?”
“I have had the very same thought.”
“Probably not phrased the same way.”
“No.”
Fauvette scowled, but neither of them noticed. She was unsure who inspired this surge of jealousy: Zginski for butting in on her new friendship, or Patience for so blatantly showing interest in him. Fauvette and Zginski had not been lovers since that night in the warehouse, but that didn’t mean it had faded from her mind. If anything, she was growing more certain that she wanted to do it again. She said sharply, “So did you buy your car?”
Zginski, annoyed at the interruption, snapped, “Yes, I did.” He turned his attention back to Patience. “And why are you here, Miss Bolade?”
“I grew up here. Well, close to here. A long time ago, though.”
“I was referring to your presence at this establishment.”
“Oh.” She nodded at the guitar. “I’m the new entertainment.”
Fauvette interjected, “So now you have your own Eleanor. You must be happy.”
Patience looked puzzled. “Who’s ‘Eleanor’?”
“The girl of his dreams,” Fauvette said.
“It is,” Zginski said to Patience but with a warning glare at Fauvette, “an automobile.”
“Ooh, what kind?” Patience said eagerly. “I had a boyfriend out in California who was always rebuilding this or that. He taught me a lot about them.”
Zginski’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Indeed? It is a 1973 Ford Mustang.”
“What size engine?”
“351, I was told.”
“Windsor?”
“Correct.”
She bounced with excitement. “Can I see it?”
Zginski offered his arm. “I would be honored to show it to you.”
Fauvette started to say something, but caught herself this time. What was wrong with her? She was an eternal creature, subject to none of the rules that bound limited mortals. Jealousy was not only silly, it was pointless. What morality controlled the behavior of the undead?
As the pair went outside, Leonardo passed them on his way in. They ignored him, deep in their own conversation, and he stared after them until the door closed. Then he crossed the room toward Fauvette. “Who was that with Mistah Z.?”
“Patience,” she snapped.
“Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. You didn’t look busy.”
“No, her name is Patience. She’s our new singer.”
He did a double take in the direction of the door. “But she’s a . . .”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Appears Rudy knows, too.”
“Oh, they’re already soul mates,” she said sarcastically.
Leonardo chuckled. “He doesn’t run out of surprises, does he? So how are you?”
“Oh, I’m peachy. Did you have any trouble with the car?”
“Sort of. Some big cracker showed up and tried to make the guy sell it to him instead of Rudy. It all worked out. Except . . .”
“What?”
Leonardo sat in the same chair Jerry had used and fiddled idly with the table’s salt shaker. “You know how he’s always saying we should pick one long-term victim instead of a new one every night?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I’m ready to try that.”
“With who?”
“A girl who lives out where we got the car. It’s an old plantation house that still has the slave shacks out back, if you can believe that.”
“In McHale County? That’s a long way, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “If I don’t like it, I can kill her and be done with it without attracting too much attention.”
Fauvette nodded. She felt queasy, as if too many things had changed too suddenly. She turned away from Leonardo and said, as casually as she could, “So how long will you be gone?”
“Depends on how it goes.” Then he understood her meaning. “But wait, this isn’t like what happened with Mark.”
Fauvette waved a dismissive hand. “You’re a free man, Leo. Lincoln said so.” She paused. “I’m sorry, that was tacky. Something my mama used to say to her black friends.”
He stood behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and said gently, “It was kind of mean.”
She still did not look at him. “First Toddy, then Olive, now Mark . . . we’re all that’s left. Once you go, I’ll be all alone again.”
“Mark ain’t like the others,” Leo corrected. “He ain’t dead.”
She shrugged out from under his hands and faced him, her eyes ablaze with anger and hurt. “He may not be, but he ain’t around, either. After a while, that’s the same thing.”
Leonardo said nothing. He couldn’t dispute that.
Patience held Zginski’s arm as he led her behind the building. The Ringside Bar and Supper Club occupied a low, flat-roofed structure shaded by old maples and oaks growing in a narrow strip of bare ground between properties. On one side was a small used-car dealership, and on the other a gas station. Directly across the street was a large pawnshop, and behind the bar were the back entrances of a strip mall that fronted on another street.
From the outside, in bright summer daylight, the bar was ugly and crude, a collection of mismatched modifications accumulated through the years. At night, though, strategically placed lights hid its flaws and gave the facade enough glamour for the crowd Barrister liked to attract.
Zginski had parked the car in the shade at the back of the bar, beside the overflowing Dumpster. Leonardo had put Mark’s truck beside it, which made the Mustang look even more spectacular. Zginski brushed aside a leaf that had fallen from a nearby tree; the drought had turned the foliage brown and yellow months early. “This is my automobile,” he said, en
joying the sound of the words.
Patience took a moment to appreciate the vehicle. “Yes, sir,” she said with admiration. “That is a fine set of wheels. And you named her ‘Eleanor’?”
“No, an identical automobile in a movie carried that name. I shall choose something more individual.”
“Any idea what?”
He nodded. “ ‘Tzigane.’ ”
“Is that a Gypsy name?”
“It is.”
“Is it a girl’s name?”
“Yes.”
She smiled knowingly. “A special girl?”
He frowned and did not reply. Unbidden memories burst vividly into his consciousness: her black tangle of hair cascading around her bare shoulders as she sat astride him muttering strange incantations, the smell of her sweat mixing with the incense inside her tent, and most clearly the coppery taste of blood that signaled her betrayal. And yet, were she here before him, would he destroy her again or beg her forgiveness? He would never know.
She nodded at the car, changing the subject. “Can I see the engine?”
Zginski hesitated; he knew how to open the hood on the truck, but Crabtree had done so at the barn, and the attendant Clyde at the gas station. He fumbled behind the grille for the latch, until Patience nudged him aside and opened it easily. She propped the hood on its brace and looked over the engine.
“It looks,” she said after a moment, “a lot like the 351 Cleveland, doesn’t it?”
“I have no idea.”
She smiled and looked up at him, tossing her long hair aside. “You don’t know anything about cars, do you? You were showing off for my benefit.”
Her constant good nature was infectious. He shrugged and said, “I am learning.”
She put her hands on her hips. “About which, cars or how to impress me?”
He regarded her carefully. “Of the two, I suspect impressing you would require more study.”
She wagged a finger at him in mock-scolding. “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”
“I have known you for mere minutes.”
“Yeah, but I can sense things. I know what you’re thinking.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“You think between you, me, and Fauvette, we’ll draw too much attention. Because we’re not as careful as you, there’ll be too many bloodless corpses littering the riverfront, and people will start to notice.” He glanced around to make sure the remark had not been overheard, and she laughed. “You are a skittish thing, aren’t you?”
“I have reason to be,” he snapped, the momentary spell broken. “And I do not wish to add to the list of my concerns.”
“Aw. Are you sure?”
“I am sure, and not in the way you imply.”
“If I told you I fed on people’s energy without either touching them or killing them, would that make you feel better?”
“No, because I would then be certain that you were unbalanced. Now tell me, why are you truly here?”
Her smile changed to an annoyed scowl. “Well, it’s true, Mr. Big Shot. And I did tell you. I grew up about an hour away from here.”
“When?”
“I was born in 1844. I became what I am in 1864.”
“And where have you been all this time?”
“All over. Europe until it got too rough, Asia until the culture got on my nerves, the West Coast until I got bored with the decadence. I decided this was a perfect time to come home.”
She closed the hood, then sat back against the fender. “And what about you?”
“My history is private.”
“I answered your questions.”
“There was no quid pro quo.”
“Oooh,” she said with gentle mockery, “the handsome man is mysterious as well.”
Despite himself, Zginski found himself smiling again. “I suppose I do sound rather pompous.”
“A lot of it’s the accent.”
“I am working to minimize that.”
“You could start by using more contractions. Saying, ‘I’m working to minimize that,’ for example.”
“So noted.”
The scalding summer wind blew her long hair from her face, and she fingered the line of buttons down his shirtfront. “And you should pay more attention to the weather. If it’s hot, you dress for it. This just makes you look strange.”
He was more conscious of the contact than he expected to be. “You are filled with insights.”
She laughed. “I’m full of something, that’s for sure.” She looked up into his eyes, and he felt the tentative touch of her powers, trying to arouse his interest. “Will you come to see my first show?”
He could have obliterated her with his own abilities, but before he could she withdrew her energy. He realized it had again been inadvertent, and that she wanted his interest to be genuine. It was similar to the way Zginski felt about Fauvette, in those rare moments when he was honest with himself.
“I will be there,” he said with a courtly nod.
“Front row?”
“Probably not. I prefer to lurk in the shadows. But it does not affect my perceptions.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t.” She bit her lip thoughtfully, the tips of her fangs plain against the red surface. “I like Fauvette. I’ll be working with her, too. I don’t want to create any awkwardness.”
“In what way?”
She gazed steadily at him. “If you don’t know, you’re not as sharp as I thought.”
“Fauvette and I have no exclusive arrangements. We are not, I believe the term is, ‘going together.’ ”
She pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle her giggles. “I could listen to you all day,” she said. “Except that I have to go shopping with Fauvette to get my dressing room ready. But remember, you promised to be there Friday night.”
“And I shall.”
“I think,” she said with a wink, “you’ll find it a real eye-opener.” Then she walked back around the building, deliberately swaying her hips.
Zginski stood in the shade beside his car and stared after her for a long time.
CHAPTER 7
FAUVETTE TURNED ON the light. The little room was filled with boxes of napkins and toilet paper, and the sink in the corner looked as if it hadn’t seen water in a decade. “This is where Gerry wants to put you. I’ll make sure it’s fixed up and presentable. I hope it’s okay.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Patience said. The erstwhile dressing room opened onto the hall that went along the back of the building from the kitchen, past the exit to the Dumpster, to the door that would become the stage entrance. “Where have you put the other acts?”
Fauvette scooted a heavy box aside with her foot. “There haven’t been any since I started here. Gerry’s been pretty content to just have people eat and drink.” She paused before asking, “So . . . do you think you’ll be staying long?”
“I don’t know,” Patience said as she sat atop one stack of boxes. “I have a lot of history in this area. I’ll have to see how much it weighs on me.” She looked at Fauvette seriously. “Do you mind it if I stay?”
“No,” Fauvette replied. “In fact . . .”
“What?” Patience gently prompted.
Fauvette looked up at the ceiling. “Well, while you’re here, do you think you could, maybe, I dunno . . . teach me to do what you do?”
“Sing and play the guitar?”
“No, the thing . . . the way you feed on the energy of people.”
“Fauvette —”
Fauvette couldn’t stop herself. The words had been building up inside her. “I didn’t believe it when that guy told me about you, but I could feel it in the air, flowing out of Gerry and into you. I even saw it for a second. The thing is, I hate the hunt, the physical contact with people I don’t know, the need to get rid of the body later. But even if I know the person, I still hate it. I shared a girl with Zginski for a while, and I got to be . . . friends with her, almost. Like sisters, even.” Fauvette swatted
at the chain hanging from the light fixture. “It’s just so easy, and it feels so good when I’m doing it, that I never believed I could stop. But watching you, I thought . . .” She trailed off, looking down at her shoes.
Patience sat quietly for a moment, then said, “Fauvette, I can appreciate how you feel. I feel the same way. The thing is . . .”
“You don’t know me, and you don’t trust me,” she said without looking up.
“No, that’s not it. I’m not like your friend Zginski. The thing is, I don’t know exactly how it works.”
Fauvette looked up sharply. “You don’t?”
“No. It happened by accident the first time. And I know how to do it for myself, but I can’t imagine trying to teach it. I can barely describe it.”
“Will you try?” Fauvette said in a small, demure voice. “Please?”
Patience smiled. The poor girl’s desperation was heartbreaking. From her appearance, Patience guessed she’d been barely out of childhood when she’d been turned. Did her long-ago mortal youth somehow still inform her feelings? “All right, honey, I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”
Fauvette nodded. Patience impulsively hugged her, and felt the girl melt, childlike, into the embrace. “Shh, it’s all right,” Patience said, and Fauvette snuggled even closer. As she stroked Fauvette’s soft hair, Patience wondered if this, more than any future indiscretion with Zginski, would be her biggest mistake.
In his office, Gerry Barrister slept on the battered old couch. The furniture had seen some wild times, but now he used it strictly for sleeping. It perfectly fit the contours of his aging, battered body. He had one arm thrown over his eyes and one foot on the floor, while his snores could almost be heard over the window-unit air conditioner.
He sensed the door opening, and turned toward it. Fauvette stood silhouetted against the brightly lit kitchen. “Hey, Fauvy,” Gerry muttered sleepily, and started to rise.
Almost at once he grew weak and immobile. The door closed, plunging the room back into the dim, amber illumination that penetrated the blinds.