“Despite the bed and this being a brothel?” Her smile turned wry.
“You really will be safe here,” he said, though his protestations were starting to sound weak. Truth be told, he wanted to sit by her, and his lips grew flush from wanting to press against her skin.
She’d touched up her lipstick while he was gone. The top button of her blouse was undone, the hem of her skirt lay around her knees, and her legs were bare. She thought she was seducing him. But as soon as he sat on that bed, she wouldn’t be in control of the situation. She didn’t know that. And if he played it right, she never would know. So. What was the right thing to do, really?
She drained the whiskey and patted the bed next to her—right next to her—and he sat. He laid his arm across the headboard behind her, and she pressed herself against him.
“I don’t meet a lot of nice guys, working the way I do. You’re a nice guy, Rick.”
“If you say so.”
“Yeah, I do.”
Pressing her hand to his cheek, she drew him close and kissed him on the mouth. She was eager, insistent. Who was he to deny her? She tasted of whiskey and heat, alive and lovely. He drew the tumbler from her hand and set it on the floor, then returned to kissing her, wrapping his arms around her, trapping her. She scratched at the buttons on his shirt.
The fire that rose up in him in response wasn’t sexual. It was hunger. A visceral, primal, gnawing hunger, as if he hadn’t eaten in centuries. His only nourishment, his only possible release, lay under her skin. If he let that monster go, he would tear into her, spilling her over the bed, swimming in her innards to better feed on her blood.
There was a better way.
He worked slowly, carefully, kissing across her mouth and jaw, sucking at her ear as she gasped, then moving down her neck, tracing a collarbone, unfastening her blouse button by button, pulling aside her brassiere to gain access to a perfect handful of breast. She wriggled, reaching back to unfasten the whole contraption. When he’d first encountered the modern brassiere, he’d thought it was so much easier than a corset. But the undergarment had its own idiosyncrasies. And like undoing corsets always did, it gave them both a chance to giggle.
She sat up enough to yank at his shirt, and he let her pull it off and throw it aside. Then, once again, he pressed her to the bed and took control, peeling away her clothing—the girdle and garters were more pieces of modern clothing he was still coming to terms with—and running his cool hands over every burning inch of her, kissing as he went. Only after she came for him did he take what he needed, from a small and careful bite at her throat.
Her blood was ecstasy.
Her heart, aroused and racing, pumped a strong flow for him. He could have drained her in moments, but took in only a few mouthfuls. Not enough to completely satisfy, but enough to keep him alive for a couple more days. Vampires had learned this long ago—how much more efficient to keep them alive and producing. And how much richer to coax it from them, instead of spilling it.
He licked the wound, encouraging the blood to clot. She’d gone limp, and her breathing had settled. Propping himself over her, he turned her face so that he was looking straight down at her. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Her brow was furrowed, her expression both amazed and confused. Maybe even hurt. Holding her gaze, he focused on her, into her, and spoke softly.
“You won’t remember this. You’ll remember the bliss and nothing else. I’m just a man, just a lover, and you won’t remember anything else. Isn’t that right?” Slowly, she nodded. Her worried expression, the wrinkles around her eyes, faded. “Good, Helen. Remember the good, let the rest go. Now, sleep. Sleep until I wake you up again.”
Her eyes closed, and she let out a sigh.
Dawn had nearly arrived. The room had no windows, but he could feel it. The warm and sated glow that came after feeding joined with the lethargy of daylight. He was safe and calm, so he let the morning pull him under until he fell unconscious, still holding her hand.
The next night, Rick had a message from Detective Hardin waiting for him. He called back immediately.
“Hello, Rick?” she said. “Do you even have a last name?”
“Have you found something, Detective?” he said.
“Yeah. Charles Blake? I looked him up. Not only is he still alive, he got out on parole four months ago.”
The air seemed to go still for a moment, and sounds faded as he pulled his awareness to a tiny space around him—the phone, what Hardin had just told him, how that made him feel. Cold, tight, hands clenching, a predator’s snarl tugging at his lips.
He drew a couple of calm breaths to steady himself, and to be able to speak to the detective. “You think he killed her?”
“I think he hired someone to do it for him. He might have collected favors in prison and called them in when he got out. Guy was a real peach, from what I gather. I can’t go into too many details, but the crime scene is pretty slim on evidence, which speaks to someone with experience. The back door was unlocked. We think he might have come to see her earlier in the day. That must have been when she called you.”
How small, how petty, to carry a grudge over such a length of time. How like a vampire. And yet, how human as well. That grudge might very well have kept Blake alive all this time.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “This must come as a shock to you.”
It sounded like something she said to any victim’s family. He smiled to think she’d next offer to refer him to grief counseling. “I’m all right, Detective. It wasn’t a shock. I’ve been expecting this for sixty years. About Blake—do you know where he is? Have you arrested him?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation any further. I just thought you’d want to know about Blake.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
They both hung up, and he considered. He could find Blake. He’d be an old man now, ancient. Not much to live for, after spending most of his life in prison. He’d exacted his revenge, and Rick didn’t think he’d spend a lot of time trying to get out of town or hide. And this was Rick’s city, now.
Detective Hardin hadn’t arrested Blake yet because she was building her case, searching for evidence, obtaining warrants. Rick had every confidence that she’d do her job to the utmost of her ability and that through her, justice would be served.
In this case, he wasn’t interested in waiting.
After killing Arturo and replacing him as Master of Denver, Rick had transformed the lair. The parlor was now an office, with functional sofas and a coffee table, and a desk and bookshelves for work. He paced around the desk and considered. Blake would have a parole officer who would know where he was. The man might even be living in some kind of halfway house for ex-cons. After so long in prison, it was doubtful he had any family or friends left. He had no place else to go. And if he was right about Blake’s state of mind, the man wouldn’t even be hiding.
He flipped through a ledger and found a name, recently entered. A woman who’d run a prostitution ring in the seventies—with blackmail on the side. She’d served her time, she knew the system, and she owed him a favor.
“Hello, Carol. It’s Rick. I need to know who the parole officer is for a recently released felon.”