Undead - One Foot In The Grave Part 15

Love, Jennifer Below that, in a childish scrawl was:I love you, Daddy-please come soon!

Love, Kirsten I looked around wildly and ran through the rooms, throwing open closet doors as if I might find-what? More messages? Evidence of its authenticity? My dwindling rationality? Only the solidity of the paper in my hand had any palpable reality in this terrible moment.

But the message rang a false note.

I stared at the handwriting, trying to remember if there was anything distinctive about Jenny's style. A year had pa.s.sed, my memory dimmed, and Kirsten might be a year older in her own still-developing penmans.h.i.+p. . . .

A cold chill had permeated my body and now I felt the first flush of a white-hot core of anger. Jenny never signed her notes to me as "Jennifer." It was always "Jenny" or, more frequently, "Jen." If this was a trick, a false lure, it was unimaginably cruel and s.a.d.i.s.tic.

If it was, I would find out who-and kill them.

If- I opened a dresser drawer. I refolded the note and slipped it inside one of the socks at the bottom of the pile.

Destroy the note? Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely!

I dressed in a furor, visions of carnage playing in my head.

If- But, if it were true, then maybe I was in peril from the people who claimed to protect me. . . .

The Doman had warned me about the bloodl.u.s.t, the appet.i.te for violence.

He had neglected to mention the paranoia.

I should have expected the first a.s.sault.

Damien was up front, driving. Bachman pressed a b.u.t.ton and suddenly a tinted gla.s.s part.i.tion slid up between the front seat and the pa.s.senger area where we were sitting.

"I like a little privacy," she said, snuggling next to me.

"Ms. Bachman-"

"Call me Liz." She pouted. "You've probably heard all sorts of nasty little stories about me by now.

Well, some of them are true-the best ones, anyway." She smiled. Her teeth were very white, very sharp. "They've probably tried to scare you away from spending time with me because they think I'm a bad influence." She squirmed a little closer, a feat I hadn't thought possible. "Maybe I am. But you strike me as the kind of man who knows his own mind."

I had nothing to say, my mind was still on the note in my room.

And upon the deadness of my own heart.

What if? Jenny and Kirsten were a year dead in my mind, less than six months in my heart. But, searching my feelings, I was troubled to find that resurrecting their bodies might prove easier than resurrecting my feelings. I still missed them. But the pa.s.sion had evaporated at some point, leaving only a hollow sh.e.l.l of longing. This, more than any other aspect of my transformation so far, marked me for the monster I was becoming.

Bachman leaned into my thoughts, her breath warm upon my neck. I flinched.

"Don't worry, I won't bite-yet," she said. "We'll keep your precious blood pure for awhile longer.

But there are other things I can do for you in the meantime. . . ."

"Such as?" I regretted the words even as they were coming out of my mouth.

"Oh . . . well, for instance, you need someone to show you the ropes. I know the ropes. I can showyou some rope tricks, as well. . . ."

She saw the expression of distaste on my face and moved back a bit. "Chris," she said in a more sober voice, "you are coming into a condition of power. It is a power I have, as well. I can teach you how to deal with it, how to wield it. How to profit from it. Your unique status also gives you potentials for power that none of the rest of us have. I can help you exploit it."

"How?"

"You need a friend."

"I thought the Doman and his people are all my friends," I baited.

"You can't be too sure of who your friends really are, my dear Christopher."

d.a.m.n straight.

"For example-" she lowered her voice "-Mooncloud and Garou are two that you must be especially careful of."

"Oh?" I lowered my voice to match hers. "Why?"

"The Doman suspects that at least one among us is a warlock."

"Warlock?"

"An oath-breaker, not a male witch."

"I know the etymology of the word. You're saying the Doman suspects a traitor?"

She nodded. "A double agent, possibly working for the New York enclave. And, very possibly, more than one."

"And he suspects Taj and Lupe?"

"He doesn't speak openly of this to anyone. He would be very angry if he discovered that you had been told of this. I'm telling you because I think you have a right to know. I'm telling you because this knowledge may save your life someday. I'm telling you this because, all flirting aside, I want to be your friend. And the day may come when you have to make a split-second decision: if you don't know who your friends are by then, it could be too late!"

"So tell me about Taj and Lupe."

She did.

There wasn't much to tell, all in all.

Just that both Luis and his sister were outsiders and recent additions to the Doman's "family." Both were less than enthusiastic about some of the demesne's policies and Lupe, especially, was considered to be somewhat of a malcontent.

Dr. Mooncloud was not only a medical doctor, she confirmed, but an Amerind shaman or witch doctor, as well. What tribe? Bachman wasn't sure. All existing paperwork and records regarding the good doctor-including her birth certificate and social security number-were not only contradictory but apparent forgeries, as well. And most d.a.m.ning of all: the opportunity to join them as a fellow vampire had been proffered on more than one occasion and Taj Mooncloud had turned them down each time.

By the time we pulled into the TV station parking lot, Liz Bachman had only provided me with rumor and innuendo. But then, hard evidence would have made this conversation moot long before it ever began, anyway.

The tinted gla.s.s part.i.tion came down as the limousine pulled into a reserved parking slot.

"We weren't tailed," Damien announced, watching me carefully in the rearview mirror. "The coast appears to be clear but I'll walk you to the door, anyway."

"Fine," my companion said. "We can't be too careful these days."

Amen to that.

Elizabeth Bachman reclined on the red velvet couch in a pose reminiscent of Theda Bara's Salome.Bara wore surprisingly little in that 1918 film and, in much the same tradition, neither did Bachman.

Her long black gown was ankle-length but slit to the hip and then some, displaying long legs that scissored invitingly. "The neckline" should have been renamed "the waistline" considering where it finally ended up. Bachman's bosom played hide and seek among the thin swatches of fabric as she moved, spending more time seeking than hiding. It was all I could do to keep from calling out: Alley, alley oxen-free-o.

The long black wig covering her blond hair, together with the black dress and Nefert.i.ti eye makeup conspired to imitate Morticia Addams and Elvira, as I had suggested a couple of nights earlier. But only for a moment. Both were caricatures that spoofed that yin and yang gestalt where s.e.x and death meet on common ground.

Elizabeth Bachman was the real thing.

The floor manager c.o.c.ked his head listening to the voice in his earpiece. "Okay, people: coming out of commercial in three-two-" He mouthed "one" and stabbed a finger at camera two.

"Well, darlings," Bachman cooed, pouting toward the lens of the middle TV camera, "I hope you enjoyed tonight's Creature Cla.s.sic: Robot Monster. If you think it's the worst movie ever committed to film, then you must tune in again, next Friday night, when we scream-I mean, 'screen'-the most horrible horror movie of them all. Yes, maybe you've seen monster movies that left you badly frightened .

. . but next week we'll be showing the movie that won the Golden Turkey Award for being frighteningly bad! I'm talking about Plan 9 From Outer s.p.a.ce! That's right, the film that was so awful it killed Bela Lugosi! Find out why on the next episode of 'Lilith's Strokes of Midnight.'

"Goodnight, my lovelies!" She blew a kiss. "Sleep tight! Don't let the vampires bite!" She opened her mouth to show her fangs and hissed at the camera. The hiss turned into a sultry laugh and she ran a long, red fingernail down her chest, leaving a small trail of blood between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

The floor manager drew a finger across his throat indicating the microphones were now dead. "Cue the music," he said and pointed to camera three. The red active light winked on above camera three.

"Rolling credits," the floor manager announced. "Fade to black in three-two-one! All right, folks; we're clear."

As the cameras were trucked back and the crew began dismantling the set, he turned to Bachman.

"Lizzie, the director wants to see you in the booth."

She nodded, pulled the black-tressed wig off, and crooked a finger at me. "Come on, honey. Time to get your foot in the door."

I followed her up a half flight of stairs and over to a small room that housed a switching console and a soundboard. The switcher and the soundman were on their way out as we entered.

The director was a small, snakelike man with receding black hair that looked even less substantial as he wore it slicked back and gathered into a questionable samurai-do. His face was pinched and predatory, and his pencil-thin mustache didn't do anything to detract from the Ratso Rizzo effect.

"Liz, baby!" His voice was friendly and a shade deferential, but his cold and beady eyes gave the lie to his smile and tone. Oily was the operative term here, and this guy would make the Exxon Valdez look environmentally safe.

"Jonny, I want you to meet Chris Csejthe," Bachman said, grasping my arm and pulling me forward.

"Gesundheit." Ratty sn.i.g.g.e.red and offered his hand. I took another step forward, but he turned the gesture into an offhand wave and turned back to Bachman.

"Lizzie, hon; the blood thing was a nice effect-very realistic." His eyes traced the scarlet thread that wended its way down her torso. Just now it was disappearing beneath the nadir of her decolletage.

"Thanks."

"But that's just the problem. . . ." His gaze remained at half-mast. "You know the station manager and the sponsors raise h.e.l.l when you go too far. You're supposed to get prior approval before you pull any ofthose kinky special effects." His eyes seemed to be calculating the continuing path of the trickle beneath the black material.

"Now, Jonny," she purred, "you know it's my kinky special effects that have given this dead-end time slot a higher audience c.u.me than most of your prime time shows. It's what gives me the power to do the show live and the clout to drag all your sorry a.s.ses in here at midnight every Friday to a.s.sist me." Her voice hardened. "a.s.sist me, capeesh?"

Now his eyes were back up where they belonged and her voice and demeanor softened. "I would like you to hire Mr. Csejthe for my crew," she continued.

"Your crew?"

Her expression seemed to exert an even greater calming influence on the ratty little man. When he opened his mouth again, his tone was more respectful but he said: "Sweetheart, you know I ain't got any openings at the moment."

Bachman started to speak, hesitated, smiled, and then suggested that I be given an employment form to fill out-just in case.

The little man swallowed and nodded, and in no time we were back in her dressing room where she began removing her makeup.

"It's so hard to get good help these days," she sighed as she traced the black eyeliner with an industrial-sized Q-tip. "Did you see any crew position that you particularly liked?"

I shrugged. "Other than writing scripts, the only job I might be qualified for here would be sound man." I jammed my hands into my pockets and watched her closely. "And that position is already filled."

It was her turn to shrug. "There's always some kind of turnover on the night crew. I wouldn't be surprised if Harry-that's the sound guy-were to just up and take off for parts unknown this very week." She lined up twenty cotton b.a.l.l.s next to the cold cream jar and began scrubbing at her shaded eyelids.

I decided that I wouldn't be too surprised if Harry were to suddenly up and disappear, too.

Bachman pouted when I announced that I was going to wait outside in the limo with Damien; she was just getting ready to change.

It was a short, well-supervised stroll from the backstage door to the parking lot and the waiting limousine where Damien was keeping watch.

If anything, I mused, Damien's real purpose here tonight was probably to insure that I didn't try to make a break for it. But, I tried not to think on that. Or on the note I had found in my room this evening.

Instead, I intended to enjoy the moment and a hundred feet of outdoor sidewalk with no one breathing down my neck for a change.

I paused as the heavy security door banged shut behind me and savored the night air. But only for a moment: an inversion layer was trapping light wisps of fog close to the ground and, with it, the perfume of a thousand cars, trucks, and busses. Still, it was an outdoorsy smell, and while I took care to breathe less deeply, I still enjoyed the change from the filtered and conditioned air of the Doman's forced hospitality.

As I turned and caught sight of the dark, brooding silhouette of the waiting limo, I caught another scent on the night air. Cigarette smoke. It suddenly occurred to me that, after many years of abstinence, I could take up a long denied and guilty pleasure again with no fear of lung cancer or emphysema.

Suck blood, blow smoke . . . trade-offs.

"h.e.l.lo, there."

I turned toward the voice and found the source of the cigarette smoke.

A hooker or a stagedoor groupie or maybe both, was loitering just a few yards away, smoking the last of a cigarette. Taking one last drag, she dropped the b.u.t.t on the sidewalk and ground it out with an ankle-top boot with a three-inch heel. As she moved toward me I experienced that curious sensation again where time seemed to perceptibly slow and all my senses seemed abnormally heightened.

Although it was still summer and the night had started off balmy, this was the Pacific Northwest and around two-thirty in the morning. The brunette was wearing a black leather jacket, but it gaped open to reveal attire more appropriate for warmer weather or private parties. Hooker, I decided as she sashayed toward me in slow motion. She was dressed in biker-chic, wearing a black leather miniskirt that matched her jacket down to the handcuffs-motif and a black, lacy bra that seemed at least one size too small. My skin was p.r.i.c.kling now; I felt flushed and feverish.

It was happening again! That same hormonal surging that I had felt the night before last while watching the dancers, was back and steadily building into a tidal wave of hunger. I had never been the kind of man to gawk when an attractive woman walked by, but now I was staring shamelessly. At the swell of lace-capped bosom, at the flash of sleek legs disappearing up into the shadowy hollow of leather, at the twitch of firm abdominals with the winking eye of a navel peeking over the top of the silver-chased belt buckle. Looking at these sliding, s.h.i.+fting, quivering expanses of smooth flesh, I was nearly overwhelmed by the need to touch, to taste. . .

Dear G.o.d!

It wasn't s.e.xual hunger that was causing my body to ache and burn and throb. It was a hunger for elemental sustenance, pure and simple! I no longer saw an attractive member of the opposite s.e.x coming toward me but food-warm and succulent, firm and tasty.

It was the bloodl.u.s.t that the Doman had warned me about.

My nostrils flared, picking up the scent of perfume. But underneath I smelled the more compelling aroma of musk and sweat and blood that is the natural fragrance of the body. Saliva began to pool in my mouth.

And then I remembered that I had no fangs. Even if I wanted to give in to the maddening urge to open her throat and drink, I had no means of doing so!

The ache pulsed through my body, ice-picked into my brain. I turned with a sob and ran for the sanctuary of the limousine.