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The door opened, and Rick faced the current gatekeeper, a young woman in a straight silk dress ten years out of date—not that she would notice.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 sipped, 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.”