Or he could let Detective Hardin do her job. Hardin was right, and Helen’s sixty-year-old criminal life probably had nothing to do with her death. It might have been an accidental shooting. Some gang misfiring on a drive-by. Anything was possible, absolutely anything. Hardin didn’t need his help to find out what.
Time to let Helen go.
He brought her to Arturo’s.
Arturo was the Master vampire of Denver, which meant he made the rules, and any vampire who wanted to live in his territory had to live by those rules. And Rick did, mostly. What he didn’t agree to was living under Arturo’s roof as one of his dozen or so minions. Instead, Rick kept to himself, lived how he wanted, didn’t draw attention, and didn’t challenge Arturo’s authority outright, so Arturo let him have his autonomy. A lot of the other vampires thought Rick was eccentric—even for a vampire—and he was all right with that. In the meantime, Arturo’s was the one place in the city Blake would never find Helen.
Arturo owned the squat brick building east of downtown. The ground floor housed a furniture dealer who did sporadic business, but his real work was deflecting attention from the basement. Underground, away from windows and sunlight, the city’s vampires lived and ran their little empire.
He walked Helen the dozen blocks from Murray’s bar to the furniture store, his arm protectively across her shoulder. She huddled against his body, glancing outward fearfully. Blake would never find them, not the way he moved, casting shadows, pulling her into his influence. But she didn’t know that.
In the back of the furniture shop, a concrete staircase led down, below the street level, to a nondescript door. Rick knocked.
“Blake won’t find you here,” he said.
“I trust you,” she said. She was still looking up the stairs, as if she expected Blake to appear, gun in hand.
What he really ought to do was put her on a train back to whatever town she came from. Tell her to find a good husband and settle down. Instead, he was bringing her here, and she trusted him.
The door opened, and Rick faced the current gatekeeper, a young woman in a straight silk dress ten years out of date—not that she would notice. Estelle hadn’t been above ground during most of that time.
Helen stared. To her, Estelle would look like a girl dressing up in her mother’s cast-off clothes, the skirt too long and the neckline too high.
“Hello, Estelle. I just need a room for a couple of nights.”
“Is Arturo expecting you?” she said, looking Helen up and down, probably drawing conclusions.
“No. But I don’t think he’ll mind. Do you?”
Pouting, she opened the door and let them in.
The hallway within was carpeted and dimly lit with a pair of shaded bulbs.
“Is he in his usual spot?” Rick asked over his shoulder.
“Sure. He’s even in a good mood.”
Helen looked to him for an explanation. He just guided her on, through the doorway at the end of the corridor and into a wide room.
The place had the atmosphere of a turn-of-the-century lounge, close and warm, dense with subdued colors and rich fabrics, Persian rugs and velvet wall hangings. One of Arturo’s dozen minions, Angelo, a young hothead, was smoking, purposefully drawing breath into his lungs and blowing it out again—breathing for no other reason than to smoke. It wasn’t as if the tobacco had any effect on him. Maybe he liked watching the smoke. Or maybe it was just habit. He was only a century old.
Most of Arturo’s vampires were young to Rick’s eyes. Then again, just about everyone was.
Sated with the human blood that kept them alive, they’d most likely been discussing the evening’s exploits. Their latest mode of hunting involved finding a dinner party, inviting themselves over, mesmerizing the whole group, and then having a taste of everyone. They didn’t kill or turn anyone, which would draw too much attention, and the group would wake up in the morning thinking they’d had a marvelous—if strange—evening. Rick sometimes suggested to Arturo that he should open a restaurant or club and let the party come to him.
Arturo—by all accounts dashing, with golden hair swept back from a square face—lay in a wingback armchair, legs draped over one of its arms. He looked at Rick and raised his brows in surprise. “What have you brought for us, Ricardo?”
The dozen vampires, men and women, straightened, perking up to look at Helen like a pack of wolves.
“She needs a place to stay,” Rick said. “She’s under my protection.”
“Ricardo?” Helen whispered to him, and he hushed her.
“I’d just like to use the spare room for a couple of nights, if that’s all right.”
The young man—he looked to be in his midtwenties, a little younger than Rick appeared—considered, tapping a finger against a chin. “Certainly. Why not?”
“Thanks.”
His arm still around her shoulders, he turned Helen back to the hallway, where he opened the first door on the right and guided her inside.
“Rick? What is this place, some kind of boardinghouse?”
“Sort of.”
“Who are all those people?”
The room was absolutely dark. Helen gasped when he closed the door behind her. “Rick?”
He didn’t need to see to find the floor lamp in the corner and turn it on.
The room had a double bed with a mass of pillows and a quilted satin comforter, an oak dresser, the lamp, and not much else. The place was for sleeping out the day and storing clothing. A rug on the hardwood floor muffled footsteps.
Helen stared. “It’s a brothel. You’ve brought me to a brothel.”
If he argued with her, he’d have to explain, which he wanted to avoid.
“Do you mind?” he said. “I could find somewhere else.”
She hesitated before shaking her head and saying, “No. It’s okay. As long as it isn’t one of Blake’s.”
“It’s not.”
She squared her shoulders a little more firmly, as if steeling herself. “I think maybe I’m ready for that drink you offered earlier.”
“I’ll have to go back to the parlor for it. You mind waiting here?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, wearing a brave smile.
He left the room, and Arturo was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed.
“Ricardo.”
“Arturo,” he answered.
“You brought her here because you want to hide her. Why?”
“She’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The straightforward kind. In over her head with the wrong people.”
“Small-town girl trying to make it in the city?”
“Something like that.”
“Hmm. Quaint. Well, I’m always happy to do a good deed for a pretty girl. But you owe me a favor now, yes?”
Rick ducked his gaze to hide a smile. He handled Arturo by letting him think he was in charge. “That’s how it usually works, yes.”
“Excellent.”
“I assume the alcohol cabinet is included in the favor?”
“What? You’re having to get your girls drunk first now?” Arturo said in mock astonishment.
“Thank you, Arturo.” Rick slipped around him and into the parlor.
He returned to the room with a tumbler of ice and a bottle of whiskey. Helen was on the bed. Her jacket was off and lying on the dresser, her shoes were tossed in a corner, and she was peeling off her stockings. Rick started to apologize and back out of the room again, when she called him over.
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to get comfortable since I’m going to be here a while,” she said.
He set the tumbler on the dresser and poured a finger.
“Ricardo, is it?” she said. “Are you Mexican? Because you don’t look Mexican.”
“Spanish,” he said. “At least, if you go back far enough.”
“Spanish, hm? That’s romantic.”
He handed her the whiskey, which she sippe
d, smiling at him over the glass. “You only brought one glass. Don’t you want any?”
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Will you sit here with me?”
This was a turning point. He’d been in enough situations like it to recognize it. “Helen, I didn’t bring you here to take advantage.”
“Despite the bed and this being a brothel?” Her smile turned wry.
“You really will be safe here,” he said, though his protestations were starting to sound weak. Truth be told, he wanted to sit by her, and his lips grew flush from wanting to press against her skin.
She’d touched up her lipstick while he was gone. The top button of her blouse was undone, the hem of her skirt lay around her knees, and her legs were bare. She thought she was seducing him. But as soon as he sat on that bed, she wouldn’t be in control of the situation. She didn’t know that. And if he played it right, she never would know. So. What was the right thing to do, really?
She drained the whiskey and patted the bed next to her—right next to her—and he sat. He laid his arm across the headboard behind her, and she pressed herself against him.
“I don’t meet a lot of nice guys, working the way I do. You’re a nice guy, Rick.”
“If you say so.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Pressing her hand to his cheek, she drew him close and kissed him on the mouth. She was eager, insistent. Who was he to deny her? She tasted of whiskey and heat, alive and lovely. He drew the tumbler from her hand and set it on the floor, then returned to kissing her, wrapping his arms around her, trapping her. She scratched at the buttons on his shirt.
The fire that rose up in him in response wasn’t sexual. It was hunger. A visceral, primal, gnawing hunger, as if he hadn’t eaten in centuries. His only nourishment, his only possible release, lay under her skin. If he let that monster go, he would tear into her, spilling her over the bed, swimming in her innards to better feed on her blood.
There was a better way.
He worked slowly, carefully, kissing across her mouth and jaw, sucking at her ear as she gasped, then moving down her neck, tracing a collarbone, unfastening her blouse button by button, pulling aside her brassiere to gain access to a perfect handful of breast. She wriggled, reaching back to unfasten the whole contraption. When he’d first encountered the modern brassiere, he’d thought it was so much easier than a corset. But the undergarment had its own idiosyncrasies. And like undoing corsets always did, it gave them both a chance to giggle.
She sat up enough to yank at his shirt, and he let her pull it off and throw it aside. Then, once again, he pressed her to the bed and took control, peeling away her clothing—the girdle and garters were more pieces of modern clothing he was still coming to terms with—and running his cool hands over every burning inch of her, kissing as he went. Only after she came for him did he take what he needed, from a small and careful bite at her throat.
Her blood was ecstasy.
Her heart, aroused and racing, pumped a strong flow for him. He could have drained her in moments, but took in only a few mouthfuls. Not enough to completely satisfy, but enough to keep him alive for a couple more days. Vampires had learned this long ago—how much more efficient to keep them alive and producing. And how much richer to coax it from them, instead of spilling it.
He licked the wound, encouraging the blood to clot. She’d gone limp, and her breathing had settled. Propping himself over her, he turned her face so that he was looking straight down at her. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Her brow was furrowed, her expression both amazed and confused. Maybe even hurt. Holding her gaze, he focused on her, into her, and spoke softly.
“You won’t remember this. You’ll remember the bliss and nothing else. I’m just a man, just a lover, and you won’t remember anything else. Isn’t that right?” Slowly, she nodded. Her worried expression, the wrinkles around her eyes, faded. “Good, Helen. Remember the good, let the rest go. Now, sleep. Sleep until I wake you up again.”
Her eyes closed, and she let out a sigh.
Dawn had nearly arrived. The room had no windows, but he could feel it. The warm and sated glow that came after feeding joined with the lethargy of daylight. He was safe and calm, so he let the morning pull him under until he fell unconscious, still holding her hand.
The next night, Rick had a message from Detective Hardin waiting for him. He called back immediately.
“Hello, Rick?” she said. “Do you even have a last name?”
“Have you found something, Detective?” he said.
“Yeah. Charles Blake? I looked him up. Not only is he still alive, he got out on parole four months ago.”
The air seemed to go still for a moment, and sounds faded as he pulled his awareness to a tiny space around him—the phone, what Hardin had just told him, how that made him feel. Cold, tight, hands clenching, a predator’s snarl tugging at his lips.
He drew a couple of calm breaths to steady himself, and to be able to speak to the detective. “You think he killed her?”
“I think he hired someone to do it for him. He might have collected favors in prison and called them in when he got out. Guy was a real peach, from what I gather. I can’t go into too many details, but the crime scene is pretty slim on evidence, which speaks to someone with experience. The back door was unlocked. We think he might have come to see her earlier in the day. That must have been when she called you.”
How small, how petty, to carry a grudge over such a length of time. How like a vampire. And yet, how human as well. That grudge might very well have kept Blake alive all this time.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “This must come as a shock to you.”
It sounded like something she said to any victim’s family. He smiled to think she’d next offer to refer him to grief counseling. “I’m all right, Detective. It wasn’t a shock. I’ve been expecting this for sixty years. About Blake—do you know where he is? Have you arrested him?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation any further. I just thought you’d want to know about Blake.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
They both hung up, and he considered. He could find Blake. He’d be an old man now, ancient. Not much to live for, after spending most of his life in prison. He’d exacted his revenge, and Rick didn’t think he’d spend a lot of time trying to get out of town or hide. And this was Rick’s city, now.
Detective Hardin hadn’t arrested Blake yet because she was building her case, searching for evidence, obtaining warrants. Rick had every confidence that she’d do her job to the utmost of her ability and that through her, justice would be served.
In this case, he wasn’t interested in waiting.
After killing Arturo and replacing him as Master of Denver, Rick had transformed the lair. The parlor was now an office, with functional sofas and a coffee table, and a desk and bookshelves for work. He paced around the desk and considered. Blake would have a parole officer who would know where he was. The man might even be living in some kind of halfway house for ex-cons. After so long in prison, it was doubtful he had any family or friends left. He had no place else to go. And if he was right about Blake’s state of mind, the man wouldn’t even be hiding.
He flipped through a ledger and found a name, recently entered. A woman who’d run a prostitution ring in the seventies—with blackmail on the side. She’d served her time, she knew the system, and she owed him a favor.
“Hello, Carol. It’s Rick. I need to know who the parole officer is for a recently released felon.”
Night fell, and Rick woke.
Helen had turned over on her side and curled up, pressing against him, her hands on his arm. She looked sweet and vulnerable.
He leaned over and breathed against her ear. “Wake up, Helen.”
Her eyes opened. Pulling away from him, she sat up, looking dazed, as if trying to remember where she was and how she’d gotten here. Her clothes were hanging off her, loose, and her hair was in
tangles.
“You all right?” he asked.
She glared. “Did you put something in my drink?”
“No.”
She looked herself over, retrieving her clothes, fastening buttons, and running fingers through her hair. Wryly, she said, “You never even took your trousers off, did you?”
He answered her smile. “Never mind. As long as you’re all right.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. More than fine. You’re something else, Rick, you know that?”
“There’s a washroom across the hall.”
“What time is it?”
“Nightfall,” he said. “I’m about to head to Murray’s to see if Blake shows up. You should stay here.”
She closed up at the mention of Blake, slouching and hugging herself. He smoothed her hair back and left a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“I’ll be safe here?” she asked.
“Yes. I promise.”
“What happens if Blake does show up? What can you possibly do? Rick, if he hurts you because of me—”
“It’ll be fine, Helen.”
He washed up, found a clean shirt, ran a comb through his hair, and left the lair.
Blake did, in fact, show up at the bar that night. Rick kept his place behind the taps and watched him scan the room before choosing a seat near the bar.
“Bourbon,” he muttered. Rick poured and pushed the tumbler over.
Scowling, Blake drained the liquor in one go. After some time, when it was clear Helen wasn’t going to appear, he set his stare on Rick, who didn’t have any trouble pretending not to notice. Leaning on his elbow, Blake pushed back his jacket to show off his gun in its shoulder holster.
“So. Did she ever show up?” the man said.
“Who? The girl?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
“Can I ask why you’re looking for her?”
“I just want to talk to her. We can work something out. You know where she’s hiding, don’t you?”
“Sir, I really can’t help you.”
Blake narrowed his gaze, looking him up and down—sizing him up, and Rick knew what he was thinking. He was thinking he was looking at a wimp, a coward, a young guy who’d sat out the war, who’d be easy to take down in a fight. Blake was thinking all he’d have to do was wave the gun around, break his nose, and he’d take him right to Helen because no broad was worth sticking up for like that.
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