“You know what? You’re a little too cagey for a bartender. Is that all you do?”
Rick chuckled. “Right now it is.”
“I need evidence to lay on Blake if we’re going to keep him locked up—and keep him away from your girlfriend. Can you help me out?”
“Stop by Murray’s tomorrow night and I’ll have an answer.”
The detective let him go.
Rick knew he’d be followed—for a time, at least. He returned to Arturo’s by a roundabout route and managed to vanish, at least from his tail’s point of view.
Helen was waiting for him in the parlor, sitting with Arturo on a burgundy velvet settee. Rick calmed himself a moment and didn’t instantly leap forward to put himself between them. She was smiling, and Arturo wasn’t doing anything but talking.
“Ricardo! I was hoping you wouldn’t return, and that you’d left Helen here with us.”
Helen giggled—she held an empty tumbler. They’d probably been at this for hours.
“Thanks for entertaining her for me,” Rick said. “My pleasure. Really.”
“Helen, we need to talk,” Rick said, gesturing to the doorway.
“Your friend’s a charmer, Rick,” she said.
“Yes, he is. Let’s go.”
She pushed herself from the seat. Glancing over her shoulder, she waved fingers at him, and Arturo answered with an indulgent smile. Rick put an arm over her shoulder and guided her into the safe room.
“Don’t be angry,” she said. “I needed to ask him if there was a phone.”
“Who did you need to call?”
“The police,” she said, and ducked her gaze. “I didn’t want you to get hurt, so I called the police and told them there might be trouble at Murray’s.”
And there was trouble, and the police had shown up.
“I’d almost taken care of Blake when the police arrived,” he said.
He didn’t say, You should have trusted me.
She paled. “What happened?”
“He’s in jail now, but he’s not going to stay there unless they get some proof that he committed those murders. They know he did it, they just don’t have evidence.”
She paced back and forth along the foot of the bed. Her shoulders tightened, and she hugged herself.
“I think you should go talk to them, Helen. You can testify, Blake will go to prison, and he won’t bother you again. You’ll be safe.”
“I can’t do that, Rick. I can’t say anything. He’ll kill me, he’ll—”
“Not if he’s in prison.”
“But what if he gets out? The first thing he’ll do is come after me.”
“I’ll kill him first,” Rick said.
“Rick, no. I don’t want you to get in trouble over me. I don’t even know why you’re looking out for me, you barely know me—”
“I’m doing it because I can,” he said. “But if you go to the police, they’ll take care of Blake.”
She moved close, pressing herself to him, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his chest. This again. She was so close, he could hear blood pouring through her veins, near the surface. She was flushed and so warm. He rubbed his face along her hair, gathering that warmth to him.
“Helen,” he said with something like despair.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I’m not . . . right for you. This is dangerous—”
“Why?” She stepped away. “What’s up with you? You’re so nice, but you’re not afraid of Blake, and you keep talking like I ought to be afraid of you. What aren’t you telling me?”
Such a large answer to that question. He shifted her, so that he could see her face, trace the soft skin of her jaw, then drop to trace the pulse on her neck. He should send her to sleep and make her forget all this. He never should have taken her on that first date. And life was too long for that kind of regret. It didn’t matter how immortal you were, you still needed friends.
“Have you ever read Dracula?” he said. “
What, like Bela Lugosi?”
“Not quite like. But yes.”
“Yeah, ages ago. I like the movie better.”
“Vampires exist. They’re real.”
She chuckled. “Sorry?”
He took her hand and placed it on his chest, where his dead heart lay still. “What do you feel?”
Her smile fell. She moved her hand, pressing it flat to his chest, his ribs digging into her palm. She stared at him. “What am I supposed to say? Tell you you’re crazy?”
“Lie still,” he said.
“What?”
He sat her on the bed, stacked up the pillows, and forced her back so that she reclined against them. He kissed her, and she kissed back, enthusiastic if confused. Taking in her scent, her warmth, and the feel of her blood, he let the appetite grow in him.
Planting a final kiss on her neck, he held her hand and drew her arm straight before him. No hypnotism this time, no shrouding her memory. Let her see what he was. He put his lips to her elbow—more kisses, slow and tender, tracing her veins with his tongue. She let out a moan.
He sucked on her wrist, drawing blood to the surface.
“Rick? What are you doing? Rick?”
“I said lie still.” He pushed her back to the pillow and returned his attention to her wrist.
Finally, he bit, and she gasped. But she lay still.
Her blood was not as sweet as it might have been—she was too wary. But it was still sweet, and she didn’t panic, and when he licked the wound closed and glanced at her, her gaze was clear. Uncertain, but clear. He was relieved. He folded her arms across her belly, wrapping her in an embrace, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She melted against him.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“I don’t expect you to. But do you trust me to look after you if Blake goes free?”
She nodded. He kissed her hair and waited for her to fall asleep.
Rick brought her to Murray’s the next night, and Detective Simpson was waiting for them. Her hands were trembling, but Rick stayed close to her, and she stood tall and spoke clearly. Simpson promised she wouldn’t be charged with any of the petty crimes she’d committed, in exchange for her testimony. The case against Blake went to trial, and Helen was the prosecution’s star witness. Blake was convicted and sent away for a long, long time. Rick was sure he’d never see the guy again.
He only needed a little digging—a visit to a parole office, some obfuscation and inveigling, a deep look into an informant’s eyes—to learn which halfway house Blake was staying at, east of downtown. He drove there with a single-minded intensity. He wasn’t often wrong these days, but he’d been wrong about Blake, and he’d failed Helen. Petty revenge wouldn’t make that right. But it might help tip the scales back in the right direction.
The house was back from the street, run-down and lit up, and gave no outward sign of what it was. Rick wondered if the neighbors knew. He parked his car on the curb, stuck his hands in his pockets, and headed to the front door.
The house pressed outward against him; his steps slowed. The place was protected—he wasn’t sure it would be, given its nature, and the fact that people were always moving in and out. Did that make it a public institution, or a home? But here was his answer—this was a home. He couldn’t enter without invitation. By the time he reached the front door, the force was a wall, invisible; he could almost press his hands against it—but not through it.