The Girls With Games of Blood (9 page)

“And who,” he said as he threaded through the tables and upturned chairs, “is this?”

Patience looked him over and said, with a grin that clearly displayed her fangs, “I was about to ask Fauvette the very same thing.”

Z
GINSKI FELT
P
ATIENCE
brush him with her supernatural influence, then withdraw it completely, like a reflex that had to twitch before it could be restrained. It had no effect, but nonetheless he found himself staring for longer than he intended.

He’d met more vampires in his brief time in Memphis than in all his decades traveling across Europe, he thought ironically. He wondered if they’d somehow spread themselves exponentially through ignorance and deliberate malice while he was in limbo. But his instant, powerful attraction to this one took him off guard. It was not that she was beautiful in any normal way. Certainly Fauvette, standing almost demurely beside her, was far more conventionally striking. Yet this newcomer compelled his attention in a way Fauvette never had.

Before Fauvette could respond, the other woman said, “ ‘This’ is Patience Bolade.” She smiled and extended her hand. The gesture was graceful, and the grip dainty and old-fashioned when he took it. He bent over it, a slight version of continental chivalry, and she likewise bent her knees just enough to count as a curtsy. She asked, “And you are?”

“I am Rudolfo Vladimir Zginski,” he said formally.

“Delighted to meet you,” Patience said. “It appears we’re thick on the ground here, doesn’t it?”

“I have had the very same thought.”

“Probably not phrased the same way.”

“No.”

Fauvette scowled, but neither of them noticed. She was unsure who inspired this surge of jealousy: Zginski for butting in on her new friendship, or Patience for so blatantly showing interest in him. Fauvette and Zginski had not been lovers since that night in the warehouse, but that didn’t mean it had faded from her mind. If anything, she was growing more certain that she wanted to do it again. She said sharply, “So did you buy your car?”

Zginski, annoyed at the interruption, snapped, “Yes, I did.” He turned his attention back to Patience. “And why are you here, Miss Bolade?”

“I grew up here. Well, close to here. A long time ago, though.”

“I was referring to your presence at this establishment.”

“Oh.” She nodded at the guitar. “I’m the new entertainment.”

Fauvette interjected, “So now you have your own Eleanor. You must be happy.”

Patience looked puzzled. “Who’s ‘Eleanor’?”

“The girl of his dreams,” Fauvette said.

“It is,” Zginski said to Patience but with a warning glare at Fauvette, “an automobile.”

“Ooh, what kind?” Patience said eagerly. “I had a boyfriend out in California who was always rebuilding this or that. He taught me a lot about them.”

Zginski’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Indeed? It is a 1973 Ford Mustang.”

“What size engine?”

“351, I was told.”

“Windsor?”

“Correct.”

She bounced with excitement. “Can I see it?”

Zginski offered his arm. “I would be honored to show it to you.”

Fauvette started to say something, but caught herself this time. What was
wrong
with her? She was an eternal creature, subject to none of the rules that bound limited mortals. Jealousy was not only silly, it was pointless. What morality controlled the behavior of the undead?

As the pair went outside, Leonardo passed them on his way in. They ignored him, deep in their own conversation, and he stared after them until the door closed. Then he crossed the room toward Fauvette. “Who was that with Mistah Z.?”

“Patience,” she snapped.

“Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. You didn’t look busy.”

“No, her
name
is Patience. She’s our new singer.”

He did a double take in the direction of the door. “But she’s a . . .”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Appears Rudy knows, too.”

“Oh, they’re already soul mates,” she said sarcastically.

Leonardo chuckled. “He doesn’t run out of surprises, does he? So how are you?”

“Oh, I’m peachy. Did you have any trouble with the car?”

“Sort of. Some big cracker showed up and tried to make the guy sell it to him instead of Rudy. It all worked out. Except . . .”

“What?”

Leonardo sat in the same chair Jerry had used and fiddled idly with the table’s salt shaker. “You know how he’s always saying we should pick one long-term victim instead of a new one every night?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I’m ready to try that.”

“With who?”

“A girl who lives out where we got the car. It’s an old plantation house that still has the slave shacks out back, if you can believe that.”

“In McHale County? That’s a long way, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “If I don’t like it, I can kill her and be done with it without attracting too much attention.”

Fauvette nodded. She felt queasy, as if too many things had changed too suddenly. She turned away from Leonardo and said, as casually as she could, “So how long will you be gone?”

“Depends on how it goes.” Then he understood her meaning. “But wait, this isn’t like what happened with Mark.”

Fauvette waved a dismissive hand. “You’re a free man, Leo. Lincoln said so.” She paused. “I’m sorry, that was tacky. Something my mama used to say to her black friends.”

He stood behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and said gently, “It
was
kind of mean.”

She still did not look at him. “First Toddy, then Olive, now Mark . . . we’re all that’s left. Once you go, I’ll be all alone again.”

“Mark ain’t like the others,” Leo corrected. “He ain’t dead.”

She shrugged out from under his hands and faced him, her eyes ablaze with anger and hurt. “He may not be, but he ain’t around, either. After a while, that’s the same thing.”

Leonardo said nothing. He couldn’t dispute that.

Patience held Zginski’s arm as he led her behind the building. The Ringside Bar and Supper Club occupied a low, flat-roofed structure shaded by old maples and oaks growing in a narrow strip of bare ground between properties. On one side was a small used-car dealership, and on the
other a gas station. Directly across the street was a large pawnshop, and behind the bar were the back entrances of a strip mall that fronted on another street.

From the outside, in bright summer daylight, the bar was ugly and crude, a collection of mismatched modifications accumulated through the years. At night, though, strategically placed lights hid its flaws and gave the facade enough glamour for the crowd Barrister liked to attract.

Zginski had parked the car in the shade at the back of the bar, beside the overflowing Dumpster. Leonardo had put Mark’s truck beside it, which made the Mustang look even more spectacular. Zginski brushed aside a leaf that had fallen from a nearby tree; the drought had turned the foliage brown and yellow months early. “This is my automobile,” he said, enjoying the sound of the words.

Patience took a moment to appreciate the vehicle. “Yes, sir,” she said with admiration. “That is a fine set of wheels. And you named her ‘Eleanor’?”

“No, an identical automobile in a movie carried that name. I shall choose something more individual.”

“Any idea what?”

He nodded. “ ‘Tzigane.’ ”

“Is that a Gypsy name?”

“It is.”

“Is it a
girl’s
name?”

“Yes.”

She smiled knowingly. “A
special
girl?”

He frowned and did not reply. Unbidden memories burst vividly into his consciousness: her black tangle of hair cascading around her bare shoulders as she sat astride him muttering strange incantations, the smell of her sweat mixing with the incense inside her tent, and most clearly the coppery taste of blood that signaled her betrayal. And yet, were she here before him, would he destroy her again or beg her forgiveness? He would never know.

She nodded at the car, changing the subject. “Can I see the engine?”

Zginski hesitated; he knew how to open the hood on the truck, but Crabtree had done so at the barn, and the attendant Clyde at the gas station. He fumbled behind the grille for the latch, until Patience nudged him aside and opened it easily. She propped the hood on its brace and looked over the engine.

“It looks,” she said after a moment, “a lot like the 351 Cleveland, doesn’t it?”

“I have no idea.”

She smiled and looked up at him, tossing her long hair aside. “You don’t know anything about cars, do you? You were showing off for my benefit.”

Her constant good nature was infectious. He shrugged and said, “I am learning.”

She put her hands on her hips. “About which, cars or how to impress me?”

He regarded her carefully. “Of the two, I suspect impressing you would require more study.”

She wagged a finger at him in mock-scolding. “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”

“I have known you for mere minutes.”

“Yeah, but I can sense things. I know what you’re thinking.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You think between you, me, and Fauvette, we’ll draw too much attention. Because we’re not as careful as you, there’ll be too many bloodless corpses littering the riverfront, and people will start to notice.” He glanced around to make sure the remark had not been overheard, and she laughed. “You
are
a skittish thing, aren’t you?”

“I have reason to be,” he snapped, the momentary spell broken. “And I do not wish to add to the list of my concerns.”

“Aw. Are you sure?”

“I am sure, and not in the way you imply.”

“If I told you I fed on people’s energy without either touching them or killing them, would that make you feel better?”

“No, because I would then be certain that you were unbalanced. Now tell me, why are you
truly
here?”

Her smile changed to an annoyed scowl. “Well, it’s true, Mr. Big Shot. And I
did
tell you. I grew up about an hour away from here.”

“When?”

“I was born in 1844. I became what I am in 1864.”

“And where have you been all this time?”

“All over. Europe until it got too rough, Asia until the culture got on my nerves, the West Coast until I got bored with the decadence. I decided this was a perfect time to come home.”

She closed the hood, then sat back against the fender. “And what about you?”

“My history is private.”

“I answered
your
questions.”

“There was no quid pro quo.”

“Oooh,” she said with gentle mockery, “the handsome man is mysterious as well.”

Despite himself, Zginski found himself smiling again. “I suppose I do sound rather pompous.”

“A lot of it’s the accent.”

“I am working to minimize that.”

“You could start by using more contractions. Saying, ‘
I’m
working to minimize that,’ for example.”

“So noted.”

The scalding summer wind blew her long hair from her face, and she fingered the line of buttons down his shirtfront. “And you should pay more attention to the weather. If it’s hot, you dress for it. This just makes you look strange.”

He was more conscious of the contact than he expected to be. “You are filled with insights.”

She laughed. “I’m full of something, that’s for sure.” She looked up into his eyes, and he felt the tentative touch of her powers, trying to arouse his interest. “Will you come to see my first show?”

He could have obliterated her with his own abilities, but before he could she withdrew her energy. He realized it had again been inadvertent, and that she wanted his interest to be genuine. It was similar to the way Zginski felt about Fauvette, in those rare moments when he was honest with himself.

“I will be there,” he said with a courtly nod.

“Front row?”

“Probably not. I prefer to lurk in the shadows. But it does not affect my perceptions.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t.” She bit her lip thoughtfully, the tips of her fangs plain against the red surface. “I like Fauvette. I’ll be working with her, too. I don’t want to create any awkwardness.”