“Georgie, please . . .”
She shoved him back into a chair, and her hand slid down his chest and stomach to tear the snaps off the front of his pants. “Oooh,” she sighed, mocking disappointment as she took him in hand. “What’s wrong? Don’t you love baby no more?” She stroked him roughly, almost angrily, and he flinched with each jerk of her gloved hand. He tried to fight her but she caught his wrists and pinned them to the arms of the chair. Then she knelt in front of him, locking his legs down with her hips, and her expression was a feral smile as her face lowered toward his lap. “Show me you love me, Russy,” she said softly.
He closed his eyes and whimpered. Her mouth was on him, that obscene worm of a tongue wrestling with him, entwining and tugging, fouling him but bringing him up. He fought it, tried to conjure images in his mind, things that would stem his arousal. Yet, despite his revulsion, somewhere deep inside on a purely mechanical level, he felt the physical sensations and reacted to them.
Georgetta sighed mock-happily. “Oh, Russy. You do love me.”
“Please, Georgie,” he stammered, “please, don’t do this. In God’s name . . .”
Putting a hand on each cheek of his buttocks, the big woman picked him up from the chair and carried him to the bed. Her mouth found his again for a long, probing, soulful kiss, but there was no soul to it. It was a cold, violent act, offensive in the extreme, not like love or passion or kissing a woman at all.
It was like kissing a man, Rusty thought.
A dead man.
Rusty Sanders knew then, and he began to cry.
She laid him back on the bed and straddled him. “I want you in me,” she licked her lips. “All of you.”
“Please . . .” he sobbed. “Please . . .”
“But, Russy,” she purred playfully. “I only do it because I love you.” Then she laughed and eased herself down.
He was deep inside her when she started to feed.
Across town, at the Tri-Lakes Inn, in the Walnut Suite two doors down from the clattering ice machine, Chris Stiles began to stir.
Chapter Twelve
He awoke slowly, in stages: his numbed senses were cognizant of little more than a dull buzzing in his ears. But it became steadily louder and more distinct. Marching music . . . laughter . . . The television set.
Gomer Pyle came to Stiles’s ears, and at the same moment: Pain.
It was a dark and angry being, this pain, and it waited for him to surface with unerring patience so it could caress him again and flay his senses raw. It centered mostly in his crotch and throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, but just out of sync with the diesel rigs that roared between his ears. The nausea was thick as well, clogging his nose and throat, making it hard to breathe. But he fought it. He fought hard and he pushed it back into a corner and held it there. Only then could he feel his way outward and take stock of himself and his situation.
Without opening his eyes, he knew there was blood on his face. Spots were still warm and sticky, especially around the gash in his brow, but the rest was drying and cracked with the slightest twitch of a facial muscle. There were bruises too, all over him—he didn’t have to move to know they were there. But at least nothing felt broken. His left eye was nearly swollen shut and his jaw felt rubbery, though he couldn’t remember being struck in either place. He couldn’t remember much of anything, in fact. Not yet, anyway.
He knew he was on the bed—the detergent scent of the sheet and pillows was a sharp contrast to the gastric odor still lingering in his nostrils. He was flat on his back, spread-eagle, and could not change his position. Taut nylon (your own rope, goddammit!) cut into his wrists and ankles with the slightest movement.
The room was silent except for the TV. He opened one eye just enough to look around.
He couldn’t make out much at first; the only light was that of the television, and its snowy picture rearranged the shadows with each flicker and roll, making the room seem alive with phantoms. What he could see was a shambles. The bureau was tipped against the wall, its drawers askew and spilling clothes onto the floor. One of the Walnut Suite’s two lounge chairs seeped fiber entrails from a mortal wound in its upholstery. Even the bed he was on had suffered a broken leg, so it lurched to the left like a sinking raft. The walls were a mess; at least the extensive cracks and dents and streaks of blood explained his further injuries. He’d been bounced off those walls more than once.
The memory of it was suddenly upon him then—the pain swelled in response, and so did his panic. His eye scanned the room frantically, searching, for not only was his raft sinking but there was a shark still out there in the darkness, waiting . . . Easy. Slow and methodical or you’ll give yourself away. Now think, dammit. There has to be a way out of this.
“Sur-prise, sur-prise, sur-prise!” Gomer exclaimed, and the canned laughter rose appreciatively. It and one other. The accompanying chuckle was deep and distinct and only a few feet away.
A sudden chill raced along Stiles’s spine.
The second lounge chair was turned away from him toward the television, so he hadn’t noticed the dark figure still sitting there. The vampire was not looking at Stiles; his eyes were on the television, glued there with a sort of bemused awe. And as he watched, he rolled his head from side to side, turning it slowly, aligning the reformed vertebrae and audibly grinding the cartilage until the fit was secure. His movements were still jerky, made worse by the damage Stiles had inflicted, so it appeared all the more unnatural when that once-broken neck craned around to glare at him. The face was shadowed, backlit by the television, but Stiles could feel those empty black eyes on him, never blinking, boring into him. It was all he could do to fight back a shiver and continue to feign unconsciousness. Danner watched a little longer, then cocked a thumb at the TV. “This is really something,” he said in a distinctly Hoosier drawl, though there was nothing at all folksy in his tone. “How does it work?”
Stiles stayed silent.
With a sigh of exasperation the vampire stood and stretched his young, lanky frame. Then he stepped over to the bed and jabbed a vicious finger into Stiles’s crotch. The prostrate man clenched his teeth to conceal a whimper and tried curling into a ball, but the ropes refused him. Danner just laughed. “I thought that would get your attention. Now, how does the TV box work?”
The soldier strained against his bonds. “Go fuck yourself,” he hissed.
“Still defiant,” observed the younger-looking man with a mechanical nod. “Good for you.” He turned back to the television now that Gomer and his sergeant had segued into an armed forces recruitment ad. The Blue Angels arched across the sky in formation, leaving puffy jet trails in their wake and Danner mesmerized by their mere existence. “Amazing. So many things have changed.” He patted the top of the TV. “This could get to be a habit. I hope it doesn’t interfere with my hunting time.” He leaned closer. “Or I could just ‘order out’, eh?” He sang the “Domino’s Pizza Delivers” jingle and chuckled to himself. Stiles was silent—hearing the song in that dead man’s voice made his skin crawl. “Come now. Where’s your sense of humor? Oh,” he snapped his fingers, “that reminds me. I’ve been saving something just for you.” He shed the ragged remnants of his coat and vest and pulled off his shirt to bare the pale flesh of his chest. There, just to the right of his sternum, was a dent the shape of Stiles’s foot, nearly a quarter-inch deep. “You kick like a mule, friend,” Danner said, “but it doesn’t mean much.” He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, concentrated, and the dimpled flesh suddenly popped back into place like a child’s plastic ball. The vampire grinned boastfully as he stole a sweatshirt from among Stiles’s things. But then he saw the soldier shrug with indifference. “Oh? You’ve seen such a thing before?”
Stiles continued to hide his shock. He just shrugged again.
The vampire gritted his pointed teeth. “I’m afraid the years have thinned my pat
ience,” he said as he rose from the chair. He reached out and weaved the ring finger of Stiles’s right hand between his own and, with no more warning, snapped it like a pencil. Stiles went rigid but would not allow himself to cry out. The tears rolled down his bloodstained cheeks. “Oh, go ahead,” the creature urged him. “Cry out. Yell your hardest. No one will hear you.”
Stiles gasped for breath, fought to focus his senses again and will the pain away with the rest. “Ass . . . hole. The deputy’ll be back . . . to check. Probably bring the marshal.”
Danner smiled as he perched himself on the edge of the bed. “I’m inclined to doubt that,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He took out a small metal oval that gleamed in the flickering TV light. “You see, I met your Mr. Larson last night.” He leaned over and pinned the town marshal’s badge on the pillow next to Stiles’s head. “And I wouldn’t count on the deputy either. The marshal should be stopping by there any time now. For a midnight snack?” Smirking, he went to the Walnut Suite’s big picture window and pulled open the drapes. Against the TV’s glow, the window was a canvas of flat black, and the vampire drank it in like the most glorious sunrise. “I met many people last night,” he told the soldier. “Yes, indeed. And you—you amused me. Sitting there in that great box of an automobile, watching those turds I stuffed under the road. I could’ve taken you then, my friend. I could’ve had you any time.”
Chris smiled through his pain. “You should’ve tried.”
“Why?” He motioned out the window. “I had other business out there. With them. An entire town to slake my thirst and, by damn, I was thirsty. Seventy-five odd years will do that to you. So I drank, my friend, long and deep and I haven’t stopped yet. There is so much more prey these days; everywhere you turn. Men, women . . . children.” He chuckled low in his throat. “I so enjoy the young ones. They’re so . . . so soft, so . . .”
“You sick motherfucker.”
The vampire looked back at him and this time his young, stark features were drawn tight. He came back to the bed in two long strides and glared down at his prisoner. “You’d judge me?” He grasped the pinkie finger of the man’s already injured hand and started to bend it backwards, as slow as he could. Unrelenting. Stiles struggled and bucked and buried his face in his shoulder to muffle the cries he couldn’t hold back. But it was still several seconds before the bone finally gave. He collapsed and sank back into the mattress, gagging on his bile, spitting blood from where he’d bitten through his bottom lip. Danner’s pallid face was hovering just above him; its breath was fetid. “You have a big mouth, friend. I suggest you shut it while you still have some . . . fingers left. . . .”
Danner’s expression changed in midsentence. His eyes widened, and the pupils, like dark empty holes, suddenly flashed with rims of silver. His breathing increased, panting, and his lips quivered with expectation. His nostrils flared at the scent of . . . oh, Christ. Stiles suddenly realized. Blood. The vampire leaned closer and muttered something soft and excited under his breath, and a pale, raspy tongue licked out at the cut in the prisoner’s lip. Stiles spat at him in disgust and pushed himself deeper into the mattress but the thing followed, tracing a path along his cheek to the gash above his eye. Danner started to purr in his throat as he sucked at the wound, and his breathing grew faster and the purr became a growl and he grabbed the soldier’s hair and wrenched his head to one side. “NO!” Stiles yelled in disbelief, his tone becoming frantic when he felt the clammy lips fasten to his throat.
But suddenly Danner threw himself back from the bed. He stood there, tensed and glaring, struggling for control, and in that instant, in the flickering cast of the TV, he looked starkly different. He was no longer the fresh-faced young man from the picture in the newspaper; it was as if that image had become transparent, and Stiles could stare through it to the creature beneath. It was the same creature he’d faced two nights earlier. Its frame was rigid, its shoulders hunched, and the head jutted forward at an unnatural angle. Its eyes were wide and livid, and the long teeth bared in a feral smile. “No,” the creature hissed, more to itself than Stiles. It stalked toward the window and looked away, and slowly its composure returned. When Danner looked back, his youthful facade was reinstated. “No,” he sighed, calmer now. “Not yet. There’s time enough for that.” He stepped closer to the bed, paused to lick a smear of blood from his fingertip. “It won’t be that easy, Stiles. Not by a mile.” He went back to his chair and settled himself. Gomer Pyle had been replaced by Hogan’s Heroes, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
Stiles lay shivering and finally managed to swallow the knot in his throat so he could breath again. That image, that devil’s face still lingered before his mind’s eye, the feel of that mouth on him . . . Dammit, man. Think! There has to be a way out of this! He surged against his bonds again, hoping in desperation that this time, somehow, they would give. But a new, stinging pain brought him up short. He found his wrists torn and bleeding; during the struggle the ropes had slipped halfway over his hands, taking a layer of skin with them. Despite further burns and the pain to his broken fingers, he was sure he could pull free. But what then, he wondered. His legs were still held fast. What would he do?
He searched the room for weapons, for a gun or a knife. But his spirits sagged just as quickly. The Heckler & Koch was on the desk across the way, beside his holsters and the open butterfly knife. Even if he freed his arms, and his legs too for that matter, he’d never make it across the room. But wait a minute . . . where was the Uzi? It wasn’t on the desk. He could remember carrying it into the room, dropping it on the bed, seeing it on the floor during the fight.
Danner’s foot kicking it as he passed . . .
Stiles shifted as far as he could, careful not to attract Danner’s attention, and craned his neck to see over the right side of the bed. Nothing. He stretched back to the left, where the bed sagged from its broken leg, and he peeked over the edge. It was dark along the floor, but . . . was there something down there? He waited for the TV picture to brighten again. When it did, just enough light slipped beneath the bed for him to recognize the corner of the Uzi’s extended magazine. It was within reach. If he could just get his hands free . . .
“And now for a few words of inspiration,” said the television announcer as programming finally ended for the day. A small, balding man from an Indianapolis church stood before a stained-glass backdrop and smiled wanly. But before he could open his mouth, the vampire’s fist lashed out and shattered the picture tube in a spray of glass and sparks. Stiles was startled; he ceased his struggles just as Danner turned to look at him.
“You know,” said the creature, “you never answered my question. Have you come across anyone like me before?”
“Oh, I’ve met lots of assholes over the years. . . .” Danner started to get out of his chair. “All right, all right. I haven’t. Satisfied?”
The vampire smiled. “I knew it the moment you saw this face, the look in your eyes . . . It was almost worth the trouble. Almost.” He turned his chair toward the bed and perched on the edge. “There aren’t many like me, friend. Because I’m the real thing. A vampire. Those things you’re familiar with, the ones running the streets right now, they’re simply cadavers. The by-product of my existence; my bite passes along the thirst just as a dog may pass on rabies. It alone drives them; it is all they think about, all they dream of. Personally, I don’t condone their existence. In all honesty, they deplete the food supply from time to time and I have to destroy a few. But on average they do as they’re told, and they come in handy now and again.”
“And what makes you different?”
The vampire beamed. “I’ll tell you the secret.” He leaned closer. “It’s in the blood. There’s a ritual, a bonding and pledging and damning of oneself, all in one exquisite act. The Master partakes of the initiate’s blood, and the same in return. That is where the power comes from. The strength, the abilities. The magic.”
“A pact with the devil, then.”
Danner scoffed. “Some things are worth the price. I, for one, was never satisfied before. I needed more, always more—knowledge, excitement. More . . . life?” He smirked. “I left this backwater state as soon as I could, to travel and explore, to dabble in matters both dark and fascinating. I saw things in those days that would curl your toes, Mr. Stiles. Some were perverse even to me, like that damn voodoo nigger magic. And none of it appeased me. So I took my curiosity abroad.”
He leaned back in the chair, all but lost in recollections that stretched back three-quarters of a century. “I came upon him in Paris. He had been stalking men for centuries even then. He told me he was from Britain, just after the Roman invasion. He was tail and thin and not particularly attractive, but his presence . . . it was magnetic. I was easily obsessed with him, even before I knew who, or what, he was. I began to follow him, to his resting houses, his hunts. His kills. But I wasn’t shocked by it all. I was excited. One night he found me watching, yet he didn’t raise a hand against me. He said he saw something kindred in me, what was it . . . ah. A questing soul. So he let me stay with him. I became his familiar, then his companion. Ultimately, his lover. I entered into the rite of blood quite willingly, and I reveled in it. That night, I became more than human.”
“You became very dead,” Stiles said disdainfully.
Danner frowned. “Semantics, my friend. How should we judge life? By the warmth of the skin, by the mechanical lumbering of a fragile heart? I am superior now. I have six times your strength. I can hear better, see farther. I can remember any passage from any book and I will be around long enough to read them all. I can experience undreamed-of changes, discover new times and new worlds where there are television boxes and movies with sound and great iron vehicles that rend the skies above. I can even fly one, and shall, in time. And,” he leered, “no matter what the year, whether this century or ten centuries from now, I can hold the lives of men right in the palm of my hand. You are a hunter, Mr. Stiles. You know what it is like. That tinge of excitement, that heady thrill that the kill brings.”
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