by P. N. Elrod
"What?"
The son of a bitch. "I don't take from people. "
"Sure you do. Your girlfriend. "
"She's not food. " I felt myself going red.
"No. There have been others who were, though. "
"Where the hell do you-" I nearly choked.
He tilted his head. "Yeah?"
I shut down, because I was within a hair of knocking his block off, and that wouldn't accomplish anything. He was guessing, goading me for information. And gotten it. "How do you figure?"
"The other night. . . in Gordy's office. "
When Kroun first clapped eyes on me. "But you didn't know about me right away. "
"No, I didn't. There was a point in the proceedings, though. You put on a face I didn't understand at the time, but afterward I got it. You were looking at me, at the whole room, and realized you were in charge. "
My nape prickled at his insight. I remembered that moment and wasn't proud of it, yet the idea had bolstered me when I was in need and gotten me out of a death sentence.
He went on. "You'd just figured out you were the big fish, and big fish feed on little fish. Only with us it's a literal thing. The question is, do you make a habit of feeding from people?"
"I goddamn don't. "
He made a "no problem" gesture. "That's fine then, fine. "
"And you?" I'd once encountered a vampire who took human blood-often and any way he liked. I saw to it he came to a bad end.
"I'm not in the habit, no. "
"That's not an answer. "
"It's the only one I got. " He scowled when I didn't respond. "Get off your hind legs, Fleming, I'm no menace to society. I'm retired now. "
Time will tell, I thought.
He waved the bottle under his nose again. "You get this stuff from the Stockyards?"
I nodded.
"Pretty smart. Good for emergencies, but someone could find it. "
"Who looks twice at an old bottle? Nobody but my partner is ever here anyway, and he's wise. "
"That would be guy in the hospital? Charles Escott?"
"Yeah. This is his house. " Kroun had never actually met him, but had gotten plenty of information about my life and hard times from long talks with Gordy, who was also wise. Escott knew Kroun by sight and reputation, the latter being very grim, indeed. Somehow the reputation didn't seem to match up with the guy in front of me. Lots of people were good at hiding their real sides, though. I was an expert.
"And he knows all about you?"
"Yeah. Everything. "
"You trust him with this?" He lifted the bottle, not talking about blood, but rather the condition that required I drink it.
"Completely. He's been one hell of a friend. "
Kroun shook his head. "You're nuts to leave yourself open like that. "
"Guess I am. "
"Well, I don't want him knowing about me. "
"He doesn't. Last he heard you'd been blown up in the car. Killed. "
"Keep it like that. "
"No problem. " Escott was in no shape to be told. I also wanted to have some space between him and potential trouble.
"That girlfriend of yours. . . "
"Won't talk. " Some edge slipped into my tone. Kroun heard it and picked up the meaning. Bobbi was strictly hands-off. He got the message.
He had a sample sip from the brown bottle. From his grimace it wasn't perfect, but drinkable; the blood would cure his hunger quick enough and speed his healing. He suddenly tilted the bottle and finished it off in one quick, guz zling draft. The stuff must have charged through him like a bull elephant. Head bowed, he gave in to a long shudder as though it had been 180-proof booze and not cattle blood.
"Wow," he whispered, almost in awe.
I knew the feeling. Taken hot from a vein, the internal kick is astonishing. When cold from storage, the reaction isn't that strong unless you're on the verge of starvation. Kroun possessed one hell of a lot of self-control to be willing to stick it out going hungry. If I went too long between meals, I got crazy-tunnel vision, unable to think straight, a threat to people around me, nothing pleasant. I made sure to feed every other night, though lately I'd been overfeeding like a drunk on a binge. It was a considerable relief now not to have that tug of mindless appetite urging me to clean out the rest of the cache in the icebox.
"That hit the spot, thanks. " Kroun handed the empty bottle over, and I rinsed it in the sink. He looked improved, even filled out a little. Blood works fast on our kind. The whites of his eyes were flushed dark red and would stay that way for a short time, iris and pupils lost to view. I tried not to stare.
"Another?"
"No thanks. " He moved into what was originally meant to be a dining room, but Escott wasn't one for fancy eating, preferring the kitchen. His old dining table was a huge work desk decked with orderly piles of books and papers. There was a big sideboard along one wall, but it served as a liquor cabinet and storage for odds and ends. Kroun paused and peered through the glass doors at all the bottles.
"Your partner a lush?"
Once upon a time. Back then a very good friend of his got tired of the drinking and tried to beat some sense into Escott about it. It'd worked. "He likes to be prepared for company. "
The next room was the front parlor with a long sofa, my favorite chair, and the radio. I didn't bother switching on a lamp; the spill from the kitchen was enough for us. It also wouldn't reach the parlor window and give away that anyone was home.
Newspapers were stacked so precisely on the low table in the middle that you couldn't tell if they'd been read yet. They were yesterday's editions, and Escott would have gone through them, it just didn't show. He was that neat about things.
I grabbed the one on top, which bore a headline about the mysterious deaths of nightclub singer Alan Caine and his ex-wife Jewel.
Damn it all.
The story itself was thin on facts, padded to two columns by biographical sketches for them both. The police were investigating what appeared to be a murder-suicide. The estranged couple had been seen arguing in public and so on and so forth.
Damn again. Removing the accusation of murder and stigma of suicide from Jewel's name would be impossible. The killer was on his way to the bottom of the lake by now. He had no direct connection to either of them that could be proved. Any stepping forward on my part would be a futile gesture that would pin me square under the cops' spotlight.
I couldn't risk it and felt like a coward by giving in to common sense.
But still. . . maybe I could fix something up. . . get some of Derner's boys to phone an anonymous tip or three to the rags while the story was still newsworthy, sow some doubt. A double murder was a juicier story to sell than a murder-suicide.
I'd have to talk to Derner about funeral arrangements for poor Jewel. She hadn't had two dimes; I didn't want her going to the potter's field just because her ex hadn't kept up the alimony.
I'd get things moving and hope it wasn't already too late. The world spun on relentlessly. New disasters rose up to overshadow the old as I discovered when I quit the parlor for the entry hall and opened the front door. Several editions lay piled on the porch. I grabbed them up, kicked the door shut, and dropped them all on the parlor table. To judge by the headlines, the presses had been stopped in order to fit in something special.
They all had the same story.
The only event that could eclipse a nightclub headliner's murder was the shooting of a movie actor. It warranted larger, bolder type to convey the importance of a near-fatal assault on the life of Roland Lambert, onetime Hollywood matinee idol.
Roland would hate the "onetime" part, but ignore it with bemused grace. He and his ballerina wife, Faustine, did exhibition dancing at my club, working to raise grubstake money so he could go back to California in style for a return to films. Toward that end, he'd made the most of the free publicity, having apparently granted an exclusive interview
to every reporter in the country.
Above the fold in one journal was a picture of Roland in his plain hospital whites, managing to look devil-handsome, gallant, brash, and charming, just like the sword-fighting heroes he'd played on-screen. Faustine sat bravely at his bedside, holding his hand, decked out in the best Paris could offer, exotic and erotic as always. He wouldn't be dancing much anymore, having been shot in the leg.
That was my fault. Sort of. Roland had been in the wrong place when a bad guy had cut loose with bullets meant for me. The shooter was dead now. Not my fault-for a change-and someone else had bumped him off in turn. Roland didn't know that part and never would.
He had quite another story to tell, though, and it was a pip.