The Girls With Games of Blood (19 page)

Clora shook her head. “No, ma’am. But I need to talk to
you.” She looked up pitifully, the candlelight sparkling on her sweaty cheeks. “I’m afraid something terrible has happened.”

“Something your daddy doesn’t know about?”

Clora nodded, eyes downcast.

“Well, come out of the heat then, child,” Prudence said, and gestured for her to enter. “I’ve got some cold lemonade in the kitchen, and you can tell me all about your troubles.”

Clora followed Prudence through the dark house. It was cooler inside, but also clammy, the way a basement might feel in the summer. It smelled heavily of dust, with a vague under-scent of mildew. She remembered a Girl Scout field trip to a nursing home, back when her mother was alive and took her to the meetings, and the odor was very similar. She associated it with human decay.

The kitchen, although stocked with appliances at least thirty years out of date, was warm and cozy once Prudence turned on the lights. She used the candle to light the gas stove, then put a kettle on the eye.

“I thought you said there was lemonade,” Clora said.

“I did, but now that I think about it, I believe it would be better to have some tea.”

“Hot tea? In the summer?”

“Didn’t your mama ever teach you that if you warm your body up, you won’t feel as hot?”

Clora looked down at the gleaming Formica tabletop. “My mama died before she could teach me a lot of things.”

“Oh, that’s right, child, I plumb forgot,” Prudence said. “Please forgive me for being so insensitive.” She patted the girl on the arm.

“It’s okay,” Clora said, recoiling a little at the cold touch.

Something else was odd about Mama Prudence’s hand. It was not wrinkled and covered with age spots, the way other old people’s were. Arthritis hadn’t turned her knuckles into hard little knobs. Clora couldn’t recall for certain that it had
always been this way, but how could it be otherwise? Perhaps, given the arrogance of her own youth, she’d just never looked closely before. Until now, that is, when she needed the old woman’s help.

Prudence pulled out a chair and sat opposite the girl. “What can I do for you tonight, Miss Clora?”

“I need a reading.”

“Then it’s a good thing I made tea.”

Clora suddenly realized it
was
a good thing, as if Prudence had known what she wanted before she even arrived. That would make sense; the woman’s reputation as a fortune-teller and diviner (or witch, as some said) gave her credit for being able to do everything except fly on a broom. “Yes, ma’am.”

“What sort of trouble are you having?”

Clora stared down at her thumb, sliding back and forth across the slick Formica tabletop. “I met a boy.”

“Oh,” Prudence said knowingly. “I’d heard you were seeing that Cocker boy.”

“No, not Bruce,” Clora said dismissively. “It’s another boy.”

“So are you . . .
in trouble
?” Mama Prudence’s meaning was plain.

“No! I mean . . . see, that’s part of the problem. I don’t know if we did ‘it’ or not. I have a hard time remembering.”

“Were you drinking?”

“No, ma’am. And no drugs either. The thing is, he’s . . .” She stopped, looked anywhere but at the old woman, and tried to get the words out.

“What?” Prudence urged.

Clora blushed, her pale skin turning bright pink and highlighting her freckles. “Colored.”

There was a long silence. Finally Prudence said, “Is this a local boy?”

“No, ma’am, he’s from Memphis. He drove all the way out here to see me.”

The kettle began to whistle and Prudence stood to attend to it. Clora continued as if she couldn’t stop. “He treats me really nice, a lot better than the boys around here do. He makes me feel special and beautiful. I just need to know if it’s right or not.”

Prudence poured hot water into a waiting cup. “You know it’s not
right,
young lady. I don’t need tea leaves to tell me that. If the good Lord meant for whites and coloreds to mix, He wouldn’t have made
us
in His image.” She put the cup in front of Clora. “I think you want to know what will happen if you keep doing it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Drink it down, then. I can’t read the leaves until you finish.”

Clora winced as the hot liquid touched her lips, but something in Mama Prudence’s demeanor kept her on task. In moments she had finished the tea and placed the cup aside. Mama Prudence slid it across the table and peered down into it.

“Oh, dear,” she said after a moment.

“What?” Clora gasped. Her heart tried to leap into her throat.

Prudence tilted the cup slightly. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“No, tell me, please.”

Prudence looked at her seriously. “The leaves say that if you continue on the path you’ve chosen, your lover . . .” She stopped.

“What?” Clora almost sobbed.

“He will become your executioner. You will die at his hands.”

Clora was silent while this sunk in. Finally, in a whisper, she asked, “Which one? Which lover?”

Prudence looked into the cup. “I can’t say from this. Only
you
know which one you simply dally with, and which one is truly your lover.”

Clora started to speak again, then put a hand to her head. “I’m a little dizzy.”

“It’s some serious news,” Prudence said.

Clora tried to stand. “Oh, wow,” she whispered, and then sat back down as her legs collapsed. Her head hit the table with a loud thump. She did not move.

Patience sat and waited to be sure the girl was indeed drugged. She took the cup to the sink, washed it out, and placed it in the drying rack. Then with no effort, she lifted the girl as if she’d been a tiny child and carried her upstairs.

In the dark bedroom, she stretched the girl out on the bed, unused in years. Clora was tall and gawky now, but Prudence knew she would mature into a beauty if left alone. She recalled the girl’s mother, Elaine, and remembered that she, too, had been a tall voluptuous redhead.

Prudence reached back and undid the catch on the back of her musty old dress. It slid to the floor, revealing her faded white silk undergarments. She stepped out of her shoes, then knelt beside the bed and gently brushed the hair back from Clora’s neck.

She untied the orange scarf to expose the girl’s pale throat. Clora moaned in her sleep but did not awaken. Prudence leaned forward, toward the heated artery, then stopped.

For a long moment there was no sound in the room except Clora’s gentle, heavy breathing. In the night outside, an owl hooted. Something scurried along the baseboards of one of the other rooms.

Finally Prudence reached out one hand and touched the tiny wounds on the side of Clora’s neck. They were unmistakable, and she could not place their presence into any reasonable context.
She
was the only vampire in McHale County. She had made none herself, and if another had settled in the area, she would know. Wouldn’t she? She
had
gone an awfully long time without regular feeding. Had her powers withered along with her body?

Then she remembered Clora’s description of her encounter with the colored boy.
I have a hard time remembering,
she’d said, and swore no alcohol or drugs had been involved. It
could
have been a vampire’s attack.

But Prudence had never heard of a Negro vampire. Such a creature would no doubt feed on its own kind, fearing the risk of exposure that would accompany its visits to a white woman. Some lines just should not be crossed, she knew, and a nigger vampire was still first and foremost a nigger.

Then Prudence laughed and brushed a strand of the fine red hair from the girl’s cheek. In her worries about miscegenation, she had completely missed the obvious. Only one vampire would dare come this close, feeding on a victim practically within shouting distance of Prudence.
Patience.
Her dear sister had indeed returned.

It explained everything, and confirmed what the unnatural drought had implied. Prudence assumed the accident with the broken glass that led her to drink Byron Cocker’s blood had been coincidence, but it was clearly fate announcing the return of the prodigal sister. She thought the taste of fresh blood after months of withering away had been the source of her sudden rejuvenation, but now she knew it was Patience’s proximity. She giggled, then began to laugh, then sat on the floor holding her sides as she descended into hysterics.

When she finally got control, she took off the girl’s T-shirt and bra so no blood would accidentally stain them. Then she positioned her mouth over the bite left by her sister, and settled in to feed from the fount that had recently nourished Patience.

And as the blood seeped into her, she began to plan.

“H
EY
. B
YRON
.
B
YRON
.”

Barrister shook his friend’s shoulder very carefully. A man who’d been through the things Byron had might wake up with fists flying.

But Cocker only opened his eyes and raised his head from the table, where saliva had pooled. “Wha . . . what time is it?”

“Midnight, son. We’ve got to lock up, and that means you have to go home. Are you okay to drive?”

Cocker sat up, shook his head, and waited for the cobwebs to fade from his vision. “Midnight?” he said, and looked around. The bar was empty. The bright overhead lights revealed the detritus of the evening, and the air was as hazy as his brain. Fauvette and another waitress were stacking chairs, and a young giggling couple stood at the door, struggling to get enough composure to go outside.

“The witching hour,” Gerry said. “And you have to grab a broomstick and head home.”

Cocker looked around. “Did he show up?”

“Who?”

Cocker’s face was numb from sleep and the residue of his
plastic surgeries. He realized either Zginski hadn’t shown or he’d slept right through it. Christ, he only had one drink. But despite the confusion, his cop brain quickly switched gears. “The girl . . . is she still here? The singer.”

“Patience? She’s back in her dressing room. Why?”

“Dressing room,” he repeated, and put his hands on the table to rise.

Barrister gently pushed him back down. “Come on, she’s not your type. She’s one of those women’s libbers, I’m pretty sure. She’d probably slap you if you held the door for her.”

“Need to see her,” Cocker growled. Even half-awake and kitten-weak, he resented being told what to do.

Barrister hoisted Cocker to his feet and made a show of straightening the big man’s clothes. “There’s a place about three blocks down where you can get some coffee for the road. Might be a good idea, considering how far you have to go to get home.”

Cocker shook his head again, slapped himself, and blinked. “No, I’m . . . I’m okay. So Patience is still here?”

“Yes. But really, Byron, she’s not—”

“What? Oh, yeah, I know that.” He did not want to unduly draw Barrister’s scrutiny, so he mentally counted to three, smiled, and said with apparently genuine cheer, “Wow, Gerry, I’m sorry. I must’ve been more tired than I thought. Let me use your restroom and I’ll get out of your hair, okay? Thanks for the drinks.”

“Sure thing, Byron. You know where it is.”

Barrister watched Cocker walk to the men’s room, his gait steady. He was immediately suspicious, though. Byron Cocker wasn’t the kind to apologize and make nice unless he was up to something. The sooner he was out the door, the better Barrister would like it. He most definitely did not want Cocker bird-dogging around Patience; a heartbroken chanteuse was useless to him.

Cocker emerged a few moments later and waved as he headed toward the door. “Thanks again, Ger. See you next time I’m in town.”

“Anytime, Byron.” He tried to hide his relief.

Patience closed her guitar case and checked a final time to make sure she had left nothing personal behind. The dressing room might be all hers, but she’d been around enough not to take it for granted yet.

She smiled at the flowers, and ran a finger along one silken petal. My God, she was being
romanced.
The note read,
I have a gift waiting for you, a token of apology for being unavoidably detained and missing your performance.
It was signed simply,
Z,
and listed the address of a motel just beyond the city limits. Giddy excitement ran through her at the prospect of being alone with Zginski.