Shivaree (21 page)

The dull light bathed Ruby’s body, and she began bucking up and down against the gurney. “The poor dears do detest this part so.” Ruby never seemed to wake from her stupor, but still she squealed and strained against her restraints. The King woman flipped the switch, and as the sunlight faded, Ruby fell still.

Bayard had never seen such a beautiful thing in his life.

The King woman stood there, taking in his reaction. Their eyes met, and she smiled. “In rare cases,” she said, her brow rising and her eyes taking on the look of a tent revival preacher’s, “the process can be held in stasis.” She balled up her hands in frustration, seeming to realize that she’d lost him once again. “It can be put off. Stopped, leaving the infected in a type of bardo, a state between living and undead. The blood we take from the beings in this in-between state is the trick to enjoying the benefits of vampirism without the extreme drawbacks. This in-between blood, it doesn’t change us. It merely fortifies us. We aren’t anywhere near as fast or strong as full bloods, but then again, we don’t have to die or lose control of our own will, so it seems to me more than a fair tradeoff.

“Under some extremely rare circumstances, the infected person doesn’t turn, but instead becomes a living, breathing fountain of youth, if you will.” She glanced back at Ruby. “I believe our girl here may very well be one of those exceptional cases. Of course, if she does prove to be
special
, she will be sent off to someone much higher in the pecking order than I am.” Her lips pursed, and she shrugged. “There is a hierarchy to all this, after all, an organization much larger and more well connected than you’d perhaps believe. In spite of my movie star status, I guess I’m what you might consider middle management. So, even if she is one of the special cases, I would still have room for you in our little enterprise.”

“And if she ain’t?”

“Then she will have to be destroyed long before she completes the change. We’re being extra careful with her.” She pointed at the warped gurney. “We were a tad too slow with her pretty boyfriend. He, too, had shown promise, but . . . Well, suffice it to say that if he hadn’t been so beautiful to look at, we might have moved sooner. We just had such high hopes for him.”

“You killed the boy?” A sense of disappointment flooded Bayard. He would’ve liked to see what the kid looked like on the inside.

“No. I’m afraid his change came too quickly. He overpowered his keeper. Drained him as dry as a nun’s knickers, and escaped.” She turned on him, one eyebrow raised and her eyes narrow and angry. “The boy surprised us all. It usually takes them much longer to regain full control of their bodies. It isn’t like there’s a prescribed timetable for any of this.”

It sounded to Bayard like she was trying to defend herself, like she thought he’d been finding fault with her, but then her gaze softened and fell away.

“Still, it’s odd that his case was the first time our precautions failed so completely. I’ve been left to wonder if the boy’s keeper himself didn’t play a role in the escape. Love does lead one to do the craziest things.” She held up her hand as if trying to silence a protest. “Not to worry. He will be caught and captured. And when we do, he will be disposed of quickly. It’s a bit of a shame, though. He’s probably the first unattended vampire in two, perhaps three hundred years. Part of me would like to see what he’d get up to. But no, he’s fully turned. It would be too dangerous to
play
with him.

“However”—she licked her lips and looked at him through sparkling eyes—“when they are in this halfway state,” she said, motioning toward Ruby, “they’re so helpless. So compliant. You can take your time with them, you know. Before they turn, they’re a bit disoriented, graceless. Their muscles simply won’t do what their brains tell them to do, because, well, because they are dying, leaving the poor dears incredibly strong, but incapable of harnessing that strength. Still, they can survive trauma most ordinary people cannot.”

She drew a step or two closer. “Imagine it. As long as you leave her heart and head intact, you could take your pretty miss apart piece by piece, and she could be there
with you
as you did it. Of course, she needs her head to feel your passion. And leaving the heart untouched will let her body react to stimulus. You wouldn’t want her to just lie there.” She winked. “Or then again, maybe you would.” She paused just beyond his reach. “Of course, as I’ve said, she may be bound for greater glory, but we could build you a new toy for your games. I’m afraid your friend the deliveryman has already been extinguished, but we could have great fun with your other pal.”

Bayard felt his pulse begin to pound as a portion of his blood supply headed south beneath his belt buckle. He’d often wondered just which part of Frank he’d cut off first, if he ever found a reason to start cutting. Her eyes fixed on him, making so many promises. She had seen into the darkest recesses of his soul, and was tugging the twisted roots of his desires out into the light of day. “Shall we go fetch your friend?’ she asked as his mouth went dry.

He wished now that he hadn’t hesitated when the door to the white room eased silently open behind her back. He wished his mouth had opened to warn her. He should have gone with his gut, but he’d stalled like an overheated car. “No need. I’m already here,” Frank said from behind her. She spun toward the door, and Frank put a bullet deftly into each of her eyes. The second took the back of her skull clean off, and her exquisite body fell dead to the beautiful concrete floor, where it continued to twitch for much longer than it should have.

FORTY-THREE

Bayard stood with his head cocked back and tilted a little to one side. His cheeks were flushed as he watched Frank through barely open slits. His tongue hung limp over his bottom lip. Frank had only seen his partner look at him like this once before—that day in Hollywood, when he knew Bayard had nursed some serious thoughts about killing him. Frank sat stock-still, trying to figure out just what his next move should be. He tried to focus on the situation at hand, but the memory of that day in California kept pushing its way into his mind, like it had some kind of answer to give him.

Frank had come to, snapped out of whatever spell Myrna King had put on him. When he did, Bayard was gone, and Frank didn’t have a clue what had happened to him. Deep in his gut he knew that Crane was dead, and he suspected his partner might be too.

Frank had no idea what was going on in this house, what Ruby had gotten herself caught up in, but there was no way in hell he’d just roll over and die without taking that Myrna bitch, and anyone else she might have helping her, with him. He pulled a knife from his pocket and started to cut strips from the heavy golden drapes that had so fascinated him earlier. When Frank had a good pile lying on the floor, he crossed the room and pulled the door on a liquor cabinet that stood in the corner. Finding it locked, he slid his pistol from its holster and used its handle to smash the glass. He grabbed a decanter and took a good swig before emptying half its contents on the sofa. He knelt on the floor next to the shredded fabric and stuffed the strips into the decanter until the remaining booze had been absorbed and the bottle itself was full.

He stood and fished his cigarette lighter out of his pocket, flicking the wheel until it lit. He held the flame beneath the portion of the drapes that still hung in the window, and they caught fire as if turning to ash had been their lifelong dream. As they fell away, he noticed something that he hadn’t from the outside: the windows were barred by decorative but functional wrought iron. If that were true of all of them, there was one less option for escape. He probably should’ve formed a more coherent plan before acting, but it was too late to worry about that now. He had no choice other than to carry on with the course to which he’d committed, and he couldn’t deny that a part of him liked it when there was no turning back.

He made his way to the door, stopping only to light the couch’s alcohol-drenched fabric. He watched a race of blue flames spring into life, but then the smoke began to burn his eyes. He stepped out of the burning room and closed the door behind him.

The hall was empty, but by the way the hairs on the back of his neck raised up against his collar, Frank knew he wasn’t alone. After the brightness in the other room—both from the flames and the light streaming in through the window—it took some moments for his vision to adjust to the relative darkness of the hall. He moved to the side of the hall, pressing his back against the wall.

Although smoke had not yet seeped into the hall, its aroma was unmistakable. Instinct drove him in the opposite direction from which he’d come. If Bayard was still alive, he wouldn’t have just turned tail and run. Bayard was nothing if not single-minded. He would have gone looking for Ruby. Then, at the end of the corridor, Frank perceived three figures blocking the exit he would have needed to use if he’d intended on making a simple escape. Maybe it was just a trick of the shadow, but Frank could’ve sworn their eyes glowed with a faint silver-blue light. The three moved in unison toward him, then stopped as if they’d hit an invisible wall.

They turned toward the door Frank had closed on the burning room. The one closest to it reached for the knob, but hissed as the hot metal burned his hand. The second, evidently braver than the first, twisted the knob and flung the door wide, shrieking as the heat of the flames flooded out around him. Smoke billowed into the hall, blocking the three from Frank’s sight, but he could still hear them. In addition to cursing like any angry man would, they hissed . . . a sound you’d never expect to hear from a person. They shouted for the King woman, and Frank glanced around him to see if she were near, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Through the smoke, three pairs of faint lights were approaching. One set moved low to the ground, as if they were slithering across the floor. The second approached along the side of the hall, and the third shone down from the ceiling. The smoke parted, revealing the three men with glowing eyes—one of whom was indeed crawling along the floor, while the second clawed its way along the wall, and the third hung upside down from the ceiling.

Frank began sliding down the hall, trying to maintain the space separating him from these otherworldly apparitions, one hand clamped onto the rag-stuffed bottle, the other cradling his lighter. He began to spin the wheel of the lighter, sending a shower of sparks into the haze, but the lighter refused to produce a flame. “Shit,” Frank said under his breath, realizing it was out of fuel. He let the cool metal slip from his sweaty hand. He flung the decanter, managing to bean one of the trio, but it didn’t have the explosive effect he’d been counting on. He reached for his pistol and fired three quick shots, one right between each pair of glowing silver-blue eyes. Each shot met its mark, and the lights faded in quick succession.

He sped down the hall, stepping into each room on the way, gun first. Each was empty. No Crane. No Ruby and no Bayard either. Chances were indeed good that all three were dead by now. He was about to give up and settle on finding his own way to safety when he saw it. One room, near the end of the hall, looked different from the rest. Its door stood out, looking more like something from a factory than a house. He gripped his pistol in his right hand and carefully slid the door open. He found himself standing face-to-face with Bayard in some kind of white-tiled kitchen or something. Myrna was standing with her back to Frank, like she’d been gift wrapped. She turned. Frank pulled the trigger, thinking he was saving Bayard, but the look that came over Bayard’s face was one of total loss, loss that hardened into hatred and a desire to do harm. A desire to draw blood. In that moment, Frank had thought he might have to use his last bullet on Bayard himself, but then his longtime partner had stood down.

That day, Bayard had seemed unsure of himself. Now, it struck Frank, Bayard had come to some kind of decision. Yes, there was no denying it. The look Bayard was giving Frank now was the same one he’d given him after he’d plugged the King bitch. Though Frank was unsure of the reasons behind Bayard’s renewed deliberation, Frank felt certain of the outcome.
Who knows?
Frank wondered silently.
Maybe it was always going to come down to this, even if we’d never gone to California.

“Gentlemen.” A voice from the porch snapped Frank out of his thoughts. He craned his neck to see around Bayard. It was that nurse. Frank crawled out of the car and circled his partner. He hadn’t really gotten a good gander at her before. In spite of everything, Frank found himself appraising her. She was a sturdy-looking thing. Frank figured she could take a good hard ride. His eyes drifted up from her hips to consider her ample bosom. Her hair, brown, was pulled back, leaving her ears to stick out a little too much for his liking. Her face was plain, but not unattractive. She tilted her head forward a tad, so those serious gray eyes met his. Something in them warned him the news would be bad. Frank’s attention turned to Bayard as Bayard took a few halting steps toward the porch. “If you wouldn’t mind coming in?” she said.

Hell yes, he would mind going back in there.
Frank remembered the shrieks Ruby had made as he dragged her out of the King house and into the sunlight. She hadn’t shut up until long after they’d closed her up in the cool of the van, the same van they’d ended up driving clear across the country back to Conroy. He could face whatever was about to go down between himself and Bayard, but there was no way in hell he’d face anything like that ever again. If the Judge had taken a turn in that direction, well . . .

“Everything all right?” he asked, trying to maintain his cool.

“He’s dead,” Bayard called out, “ain’t he?”

Corinne’s head nodded once in response.

“Then there ain’t much more that we can do around here,” Frank said and looked at Bayard. “How about it?”

Bayard nodded. “Could we go down to the river? The bend where we used to swim when we were kids?”

A slight smile curled on Frank’s lips. So the old swimming hole was where Bayard intended to end it. “Sure thing, buddy. Anywhere you like.” He held out his hand. “But give me the keys. I want to drive.”