And as the blood came on, Lourdes would bare her teeth in a contented smile, and stretch, and wriggle languidly inside her pajamas, enjoying the kiss of satin against skin, as through the window the lake turned gravely purple.
You done good, girl, she'd think to herself at these moments. For a poor little flip from West Mo, you done real good. Then, when she was good and ready, she'd unlock the door between her bedroom and Whistler's. No need to call him—he'd have been waiting for the snick of the bolt.
The reason for the locked door was her advanced pregnancy—after her fifth month, Nanny Parish had restricted Lourdes to shallow penetration only. To which the Creature had replied Yeah, right. Whistler himself had installed the bolt in late May.
But there was an old Filipino saying to the effect that a woman managed a man by withholding sex, but only mastered him by furnishing it. Fortunately, the farther her pregnancy advanced, the more her body seemed to fascinate Whistler; by mid-June they had settled into a routine that was not too taxing on Lourdes, but that so delighted both Whistler and the Creature that none of them saw any reason to abandon it even on the evening of the twentieth of June, which marked not only the Midsummer gathering of the Coven and Penang, but their wedding night as well.
So after drawing the bolt, Lourdes, wearing only her oversized pajama top, assumed her customary place at the window, pretending not to notice Whistler standing in the doorway in his lilac and black kimono, sipping his eye-opener from a brandy snifter held loosely in one long-fingered hand, with a joint of his usual exquisite weed burning in the other, not to gild the lily of his blood high, but to assure that both his hands were occupied.
She let him watch for a while, giving him the pleasure of peeping while she unbuttoned her top one slow button at a time; then, when the last satin button had slipped through the last satin buttonhole, she turned to him, eyes downcast, and opened the jacket; it stayed open, held in place by the great pear-shaped swell of her breasts and the breathtaking swoop of her belly. Then and only then did she allow him to make eye contact with her.
But that eye contact she held, firmly as a dominatrix's whip, as she shrugged off the jacket, which slid to the floor with a whispering sound that only vampires could hear. Nor would she set his eyes free to wander over her nude body until he was seated on the bed—she wanted him looking up at her, seeing the heavy blue-veined weight of her breasts and the taut mound of her belly from below.
For Whistler, the effect was always the same: he might have been looking up at a great stone fertility goddess come to life. And when she joined him on the bed, reclining leisurely on her side, and freed the Creature from Whistler's kimono, all it yearned for was to burrow its way up past her swollen belly to her distended breasts, bury its entire length between them, and be kneaded into a great gushing orgasm between their pillowing softness.
All of which was accomplished with Whistler still juggling his snifter of blood in one hand and his reefer, long since extinguished, in the other (a feat only a vampire would attempt—or need to). Then, spent, Whistler rolled onto his back and watched in amusement as his fertility goddess diligently rubbed his pearly offering into the soft skin of her breasts. "Nanny Parish says it'll prevent stretch marks," she explained.
"Delighted to be of help." He leaned across the bed to put down his glass and relight the joint. "Care for a taste?"
She refused the weed. "I can't get too stoned—there's too much to do."
"I'm sure Catherine and Cheese Louise have everything under control."
And a moment later, as if in response to Whistler's assurance, Catherine Bailey (who had quit her job with the City of Berkeley for a much better paying position as Whistler Manor's full-time housekeeper), rapped at the door with their continental breakfast—two lattes, croissants, English muffins, sweet butter, fruit compote and fresh-squeezed orange juice. "Enter," called Whistler grandly.
Neither of them had bothered to cover themselves—Catherine glanced towards them wryly as she set the tray down on the small drop-leaf secretaire against the bedroom wall. "Isn't there some superstition about the groom seeing the bride naked on the wedding day?"
"We're vampires," explained Whistler. "We don't believe in superstition."
"Toss me my top anyway," Lourdes asked her. "I don't want to get my boobs in the compote. Thanks. Hey, aren't you supposed to be at the Coven meeting?"
"The solstice occurred at seven o'clock—I just this minute changed out of my robe and made your breakfast."
"Are any of the vampires here yet?"
"Just Louise—she got in last night—beat the sun by about ten minutes, grabbed a couple hours' sleep, and has been down in the kitchen ever since. Yes, the cake is beautiful, and no, you can't see it."
Lourdes finished buttoning her pajama top, and carried her latte over to the south-facing window of her corner bedroom. It was her favorite spot, her querencia: she had taken to spending hours at a time there with her feet braced against one wall of the deep wide window ledge and her back against the other, contemplating the glow in the sky over the Stateline casinos, and communing with her great curving belly.
Whistler, who was prone to nearly hourly fits of uxoriousness, had had the window sill padded royally when he saw she liked to nest there, and as he watched her climbing up carefully onto it, he made a mental note to have a low step installed, and perhaps even a plush-padded handrail. He sat up and closed his kimono over the nodding Creature. "Any word on our guest of honor?" he asked Catherine.
"All I know is that Selene says the runes say he'll be here in time for the wedding." Catherine left, closing the bedroom door behind her.
"I dunno, Jamey." Lourdes turned from the window. "Does it really matter all that much anymore what happens to him?"
"Apparently it does to Selene. And I must admit I tend to agree with her. You know how the twelve-steppers throw around the term 'disease'? Well, the more I've thought about it, the more it seems to me that they're the ones carrying the disease.
"Furthermore, the way it's spreading, chapters of Anonymous This and Anonymous That popping up in every village, town, and hamlet from one end of the country to the other—" He crossed over to the window and stood beside her. "—it seems obvious that their disease is far more threatening an epidemic than any of the so-called diseases they claim to be combating.
"All of which has led me to the following conclusion." He rested a hand on her thigh, looking out past her to the wooded curve of the lake shore. "I've decided that as long as there's a single recovering vampire left to infect the others with his pernicious beliefs, none of us should consider ourselves safe. Remember what I told you about Leon: 'He who threatens my blood, threatens my life.' "
Lourdes put her hand over his and squeezed. "But not like Leon, please Jamey? No bridges? It would really stomp my buzz to have somebody killed on our wedding night."
"Fear not, mother of my child—I have absolutely no intention of having him killed, and as far as I know, neither does Selene."
"No?"
"Of course not." He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "We're just going to vaccinate the son of a bitch."
TWO
Betty Ruth marked her place in her book with her finger, and looked up from the kitchen table as Nick let himself in with the key she'd given him. "Didn't you say Whistler's girlfriend was Filipino?" Six and a half months pregnant and twenty pounds heavier, she was wearing a pavilion-size orange and red flame-patterned maternity muumuu.
"Half." He set their suppers down on the counter—lemon thyme chicken, rice pilaf, small salads, chocolate cake, all boxed and bagged from one of the yuppie take-out places that had proliferated around Berkeley in the past five years—and hung his red nylon James Dean windbreaker over the back of one of the ladder-back chairs.
"Listen to this: 'Among the several varieties of vampirelike creatures known to Philippine mythology, perhaps the most terrifying is the Aswang. As she fills herself with her victim's blood, this demon gradua
lly assumes the shape of a pregnant woman, then flies home and suckles her monstrous brood with a elixir of milk and blood from her swollen teats—' "
"Charming." Nick interrupted her. "Absolutely charming. And from which scholarly tome are we gleaning these latest tidbits?" She held the book up to show him the cover. "Ah, Vampires: The True Story. By Count Polozny, no less." He raised his eyebrows. "Have I ever mentioned that an obsessive interest in vampirology is one of the markers for the disease?"
Betty closed the book, and started to haul herself up from the table. Nick waved her back down. "Sit, sit." He found plates and bowls in the cupboard—none matching—and began transferring the meals. "How did it go today?"
Betty had facilitated a workshop on Self-Esteem for straight single women. "As usual, they spent the sessions talking about how great it was to be single, and the breaks talking about how to find men."
"Learn anything?"
"Houseplants. If a guy has houseplants—if he even knows the names of houseplants—it means he's gay."
Nick agreed, as he placed an artfully arranged dinner plate before her. "The only surer way to tell is if he puts take-out food on dishes."
Betty laughed. "I got us Thelma and Louise for tonight."
"Damn," said Nick.
"What, you saw it?"
"No, I forgot to tell you—I have to go out tonight."
"Abandoning me for some chippy, eh? I thought we had a date?" She meant it as a joke, but it hung in the air a little too heavily, a little too long.
"Hardly. It's program business." He might have told her which program—would have, if she'd asked—but didn't want to set a precedent by explaining. That was the sort of thing that could go far towards denning a relationship. After all, he'd never said anything about staying for a movie this evening—they'd just sort of fallen into the habit.
And after the way her joke had gone over, Betty wasn't about to ask. So they ate, and chatted companionably; he insisted on doing the dishes, and she let him—it's hard to wash dishes when your belly won't let you get within a foot of the sink.
After he'd left, promising to attend her morning service, she ascribed to hormones the dismal empty feeling that swept over her, then brushed back her tears and began calling the women who'd attended the workshop that afternoon, one after the other, until she found one who didn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night—most—and also hadn't seen Thelma and Louise yet—none. She settled for a recent divorcee who had seen it twice, but promised not to divulge the ending, or telegraph the good parts.
Nick drove to El Sobrante with the rag in the bag—top down on the 'Vette, that is—feeling a little conflicted about Betty. Even though it had been years since he'd been involved in a relationship responsible enough for guilt to come into play, he still recognized that he could have handled things better. On the other hand, he reasoned, would it have been less upsetting for her to have known that V.A. was the program he had business with, and that the business involved January, who'd apparently been house-sitting for Whistler in El Sobrante, had stumbled onto his stash, and hadn't been asleep for a week?
Even though he suspected that she was only calling him because all the other vampires were up at Tahoe for the wedding (Nick had received an engraved invitation in the mail, and torn it into pieces with a satisfaction as enjoyable as it was childish), it was still an opportunity—indeed a duty—he could not pass up. He had agreed to pick her up after dark, her habit having reached the point where she could no longer tolerate daylight, and bring her back to his place to help her detox.
Of course, for all he knew, January might already have changed her mind—she might not even be there. No sense in worrying Betty until after he saw how it went. But when he reached the end of Whistler's long driveway, January was indeed waiting for him in the farmhouse doorway, wearing funky black jeans and a purple tank top; leather armbands and wristbands highlighted the definition in her arm muscles as she hauled her heavy suitcase over to the 'Vette. In her other hand was a close-meshed net bag full of what appeared to be silver dollars.
"What's all this?" asked Nick, getting out of the car to open the trunk for her.
"Chips," said January, shaking the bag so that the coins jingled heavily. "Everybody turned in all their V.A. chips. Whistler said I could have them for watching the house. He gave me the suitcase, too, on account of we have the same initials." She pointed to the monogram. "See—J.M.W. James McNeill Whistler, January Moon Winters."
"Lucky for you," replied Nick. He lifted the suitcase into the trunk, but horizontally, facing up. "That's a six-hundred-dollar Vuitton. Mind if I open it?" He'd already reached for the catch. "I just have to make sure you aren't bringing any—"
But he never got to finish the sentence—she'd whacked him across the back of the skull with the sack of solid silver twelve-step anniversary chips, and he slumped face forward into the trunk with an unexpected sigh, then crumpled to the ground.
The sack of chips, of course, had been Whistler's suggested weapon of choice. "He'll go out easy enough if you catch him right at the base of the skull," he had explained to her over the phone on Friday night. "The hard part's not cracking his head open."
"Do you really care?" she'd asked him.
"Of course I care," had been his immediate reply. "Why should you get to have all the fun?"
January grabbed Nick by the collar of his red windbreaker, tugged him around the car and hauled him up into the passenger seat, fastened the non-stock shoulder and lap belts around him, then went back to the trunk and opened the suitcase herself. There wasn't much in it—her clothes, a few things Lourdes had asked her to bring from the farmhouse, her Star Trek thermos, of course, and for Nick, a soft felt Rolled Crusher hat, an oversized pair of sunglasses, and a small bottle of ether in case he woke up during the drive.
She slapped the hat on his head and adjusted the glasses. "Hold this for me, will you?" she asked him, then tucked the thermos into his lap, strapped in place by the lap belt.
She ground the gears a few times, looking for reverse—she'd watched him carefully, but had never driven a three-speed before; she wondered for a moment if she were too stoned to drive, then decided no, the problem was she wasn't stoned enough. She was right, too: within moments of borrowing the thermos back from the unconscious Nick and taking another slash, she had become one with the car—a Vulcan mind-meld with a '56 Corvette.
"Thanks for letting me drive, Nick." January tucked the thermos back into his lap belt, and kissed him rather too hard on the cheek—he slid sideways and banged his head against the side window. "It's like that movie Weekend At Bernie's," she giggled, tugging Nick upright again, tightening the harness, and straightening his hat and glasses. "Only it's Weekend at Whistler's."
January revved the 'Vette's engine until the fiberglass doors vibrated, then threw it violently into first gear. She didn't quite manage to pop a wheelie, but the back end fishtailed satisfactorily like the drag racers out on the Great Highway at midnight; even more satisfying was the way Nick's body lurched backwards against the seat, then slumped forward against the shoulder harness.
THREE
Even before he opened his eyes, Nick knew that it was Selene's lap that cradled his aching head, knew it from the sense of well-being that had come over him, as familiar and recognizable as the smell outside his father's bakery on a sunny morning in Greektown.
But the pain when he did open them was blinding; he shut them quickly, having recorded a vague impression of being at the bottom of a bowl, with people in hooded robes looking down at him. But he doubted his senses, for he'd also seen a skyful of nymphs and satyrs floating directly over his head. "What… ?"
"Shhh," said Selene, raising his head, holding a silver chalice to his lips. "Drink this, it'll help the pain."
He knew it was blood he was drinking, of course—what he didn't know was where he was drinking it, or even more peculiarly, when: between the cotton-batting wooziness of the concussion, and Sele
ne's sudden appearance, Nick had the indistinct impression of having, like Billy Pilgrim, become unstuck in time, of having been knocked back into the middle of his own life. And although it occurred to him as he drained the chalice that there was some reason not to, for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was.
Ironically enough, it was the blood that brought him back to himself—soon the throbbing in his head had disappeared entirely, leaving in its wake a blood-induced clarity that was nearly as blinding as the concussion had been.
"Open your eyes, Nick," said Selene softly.
He found himself staring up at her ravaged throat. "Is that mine?" he asked softly, referring to the livid scar.
She nodded—above him the scar creased and relaxed, creased and relaxed. "Yours, mine, and ours," she agreed.
"I never saw it before," he explained. He could see the tiered ranks of robed vampires and witches rising above him, but whatever play he and Selene were acting out, at this point in it, it was obviously perfectly appropriate for the two of them to be having a quiet little conversation. Even a banal one. "No wonder you're pissed off," he added.
"I never minded the scar, Nick." She wanted to be sure he understood. "At least, not after the first year or so."
"No, it's beautiful," he said, and meant it. "I'm still sorry, though."
"Sorry don't milk the toad, dearie." She put down the cup and picked up a folding mother-of-pearl-handled straight razor. "Tilt your chin back." She snapped the razor open with a flourish, like Al Capone's barber.
Even if he hadn't been high, he could easily have overpowered the slight, middle-aged witch; as it was, high on blood, and with the training the Air Force had given him, not to mention the Montagnards, he might even have stood a chance against the vampires. But something—perhaps that same blood high—was informing his instincts: there was no fight in him, no flight, just a softening of the muscles in his throat as he leaned back against Selene's welcoming lap and closed his eyes again.
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