Not that he could end it all. Once, and only once, he had tried and failed, even at the risk of the soul he no longer possessed.
After the death of Tereza, in search of a comforting balm, he had turned to blood, imbibing it, reveling in it until the liquid lost heat in his mouth. It was the only method that soothed the agony of knowing she had aged without him and passed into peace, just as their only son, dead out of the womb, had done.
Benedikte was truly alone. Or, at least, he
had
been.
Once more, he locked gazes with Sorin, a man who understood the anguish of being cast out just as well as he.
“I, too, have not seen my family in years,” the vampire said quietly. “I have traveled extensively, and I have been…remiss in visiting, I am afraid.”
The mention of travel lit Sorin’s eyes and, as the fire burned on, the two began to talk of travel: the splendor, the dangers. They chuckled together, comfortable, slipping down from their seats to the ground.
Soon, Sorin’s bottle was near empty. At a tale Benedikte told of a madman he had dined with in the town of Targoviste, the young man sprawled over the dirt in a fit of laughter, his coat now gaping to clearly show the long pistol.
Shaking his head while the gaiety trailed off, the sorcerer closed his eyes, sighed, and leaned back to rest his head on the wood. At the sight of his exposed neck, Benedikte’s veins thundered, a violent hunger cutting through him. He so desired a companion. He so wished to know this human’s secrets and to, perhaps, be animated by his touch and fulfilled by whatever magic he wielded.
All I want once more is to feel,
the vampire thought. Did this man have the talent to alter his matter, just as he did with small animals? Could he imagine Benedikte with a soul again and make it possible?
Nimbly, Benedikte inched closer to the resting sorcerer. He settled by Sorin’s side, breathing him in, his body exploding with thrusts of a shared heartbeat. He sniffed upward, traveling the path of a vein. The scent of young skin whipped his mind, his yearnings, into a frenzy.
“I am thirsty now,” he whispered.
Eyes still closed, Sorin reached for the bottle, then flopped it toward his companion. “Then drink.”
So invited, Benedikte roared to a change, body scrambling into a powerful mist, fangs springing from his gums as he pounded forward in a blur. When he pierced a vein, the sorcerer jerked awake, mouth opening, body convulsing as the vampire sucked in deep gratitude.
Do not fear the years I will give you,
Benedikte thought, feeling his words infusing themselves into Sorin’s head as his mouth and throat flooded with blood. So much blood, never enough, never, never…
Then it happened.
A different clotted, hot, numbing flow rushed into him. It filled Benedikte, blooming with the memory of true laughter, sadness, all the emotions he had forfeited upon drinking the blood of his own maker.
It was a soul, Benedikte knew, Sorin’s soul, and it darted around inside of him with the confused ferocity of a trapped animal, seeking a path out while leaving sparks of that sublime emotion he so wanted. Yet he did not wish for it to leave, did not wish for it to—
With an agonizing tear, it screamed out of him. Benedikte flailed, reaching for it, combing through the thick invisibility of air while his greatest dream fled.
“No!”
When his hand gripped nothing yet again, he smashed a fist to the ground. The wine bottle shook in the aftermath.
“There.” The vampire aimed a stare at the container. “You go
there
. A haven. Safety.
Shelter
.”
The soul wailed, lured and tricked, as it swished into the open wine bottle. Wildly, Benedikte grabbed the vessel, pressing his thumb over the opening. Capturing his new hope.
Life, he thought. What he had felt just now was finally life, not the mere existence he had been enduring.
Using a handkerchief to plug the bottle, Benedikte rushed to cut his misted wrist with a long nail, to force his blood into Sorin’s mouth in hasty exchange so he, too, would not attempt to escape.
Just as his son once had…his child, blue-skinned, lacking in breath…
The sorcerer gulped as if he were an infant at a breast, taking in the blood that would nurture him. Taking in his new life.
Twitching his mouth away from the wrist, Sorin moaned in agony, screeching and reaching out, fingers clawed as he attempted to grasp the silvered murkiness of Benedikte’s body.
Meanwhile, the old vampire hovered away, wisping back to his other, more human form. He watched, eyes tearing at the birth of his own line.
An eternity later, young Sorin shuddered to completion. Benedikte went to him, easing him into the cradle of his arms, stroking his child’s hair.
“Son,” he said, looking down upon the new, confused vampire as he leaned back his head, blood marking his gaping lips. “Finally…my own son.”
For the rest of the night as he rocked his child to rest, Benedikte smiled to himself, listening to the wolf howling and the fire dying.
A
FTER
the interview, there’s a nice, plump cactus by the lobby where we can do pictures,” said Coral Tomlinson, Lee’s faintly inbred mother. “We been posing out in front of it all week.”
The afternoon following the Milton Crockett ambush found Dawn aiming a digital camera recorder at the fiftyish widow Tomlinson. She was sitting apart from the rest of her family, in a zebra-striped chair here at the Adventure Motel off Sunset, a relic from the days of plastic-beaded entryways and turquoise shag carpeting. Stale smoke seemed like it’d worked its way into the safari wallpaper, and the atmosphere wasn’t so much a throwback as an admission that the owner didn’t have enough money to redecorate.
As Dawn watched the camera’s flip-out monitor, she noted that Coral’s hair was that bright red you could only get from a dime-store bottle, her skin tanned to the point of accelerated age spotting. She wore one of those paisley-patterned blouses that probably came from the same store as the hair supplies, plus polyester slacks. Not that Dawn was some catwalk pro herself, but she could tell this was high fashion for Coral because of the way the woman tugged at the material, as if it didn’t fit—or didn’t belong on her. Generic pink terry-cloth sweats seemed more in Coral’s ballpark, to tell the truth.
But Dawn wasn’t complaining about the company; the team was damned lucky to be here, even if talking with the Tomlinsons was no substitute for seeing the accused murderer himself.
After the Crockett confrontation, Breisi had managed to secure an interview with the family, who was visiting from Florida in support of Lee. The Limpet team had needed to fudge their reasons for being here
just
a tad, telling the Tomlinsons they were journalists and carrying fake press badges The Voice had somehow procured. But if questioning these people would yield another lead, who cared about telling a few white lies?
Since Lee’s attorneys were monitoring his interviews, the team assumed the lawyers were doing the same with the Tomlinson family—thus the false identities. And because Kiko was too distinctive, he was waiting outside, guarded by a contingent of invisible Friends, just in case. His part of the interview would come after Breisi and Dawn asked basic questions.
If he could handle it.
Dawn tried not to think too hard about his difficulties, but yeah, color her worried. Kiko had been sullen ever since yesterday, after his failure to read Milton Crockett. Were his pills clouding his mind? Or, even worse, was he taking more medication than the rest of them were aware of?
Breisi, who had been fetching a notepad from her equipment bag, came to stand next to Dawn. “Are you all set up?”
“Roger-roger,” Dawn said, sending her partner a subtle let’s-get-on-with-this-already look.
Clipping out an agreeable nod, Breisi turned to the Tomlinson family. She was wearing a slim beige suit and a long, curly brown wig gathered in a ponytail, plus much more makeup than usual. She could be a bitchin’ local newscaster if this whole vampire-hunting thing fell through one day.
With well-prepared charm, she said, “The cactus sounds like a lovely spot for pictures, Mrs. Tomlinson. Anything you need. We’re just happy to be able to talk with you.”
“That’s right,” Dawn chimed in, watching through her viewer. She was also wearing a disguise: a long boho skirt with fringed boots, an untucked white blouse, enough thick makeup to cover her facial scars, and a wig: long, black, and straight. Since she’d decided to play a journalist from, say, Austin, Texas—hell, if actors could do their own stunts, she could sure as shit turn the tables and act—she was using an accent. “At first, we were afraid we’d have to go through a team of lawyers to talk to you.”
“Oh.” Coral waved her hand dismissively. “They might be tellin’ Lee to keep his trap shut, but the rest of us Tomlinsons don’t take orders from anyone but ourselves.”
Damn. Maybe Milton Crockett, Esquire, didn’t think the Tomlinsons could offer much information about the Underground if he wasn’t keeping a tight rein on them. Did that mean the team was wasting its time?
One of the Tomlinson siblings spoke up, the older sister, Marg. “The lawyers came to
Lee
,” she drawled. “We didn’t search
them
out, so we don’t take orders from ’em, especially since they ain’t doing much good in making it clear that Lee couldn’t have killed that lady anyway. It’s more like they’re…well, encouraging an image. Understand? It’s like all they want to do is make him the most famous murderer ever.”
Dawn had focused the camera on Marg, a woman who looked to be as old as swamp water but was really in her midthirties. She was wearing a long-sleeved Universal Studios shirt. Since an unseasonable film of clouds was covering the sky today, everyone in the room had buttoned up more than usual for August.
Marg, with her short, dark near-mullet, had a chain smoker’s complexion. Her skin and clothing reeked almost as much as Dawn’s own garlic essence, but that didn’t seem to faze Marg’s hubby, Herb, who sat next to his wife on the jungle-leaf bedspread. He was a man who existed in his own sphere, almost literally; his wiry body seemed ready to ball up, his hunched shoulders getting a head start as he stared at the floor. Light from the nearby vanity played over his bald head, and he kept fidgeting with the seam of his faded jeans instead of adding to the conversation.
Breisi was scribbling everything down in shorthand. “Marg, why do you think Lee wouldn’t have been capable of this murder?”
Another sister cleared her throat, as if to take attention off Marg, who seemed like the loudmouth of the bunch.
Cassie. She was younger, a little more hip than most of the other Tomlinsons, with her dark cornrowed hair worn under a kerchief, hippielike. She and the other remaining sibling, older brother Lane, were the only two who didn’t appear totally at home in this tacky L.A. motel hell room. How they both managed to avoid turning out like Marg, Dawn would love to know.
She steadied the camera on Lane because he was, to put it mildly, worth staring at. He had his brother Lee’s firm jaw, chisled cheekbones, slightly tilted blue eyes, and longish black hair. But he wasn’t as pretty as Lee. Nope, he had more of an edge, a kind of car mechanic–poet vibe that could also go over really well on film, if he chose to stay in Hollywood.
Yup, he’d be a great target on any day except for the ones she’d been having lately.
At the randy thought, Dawn ignored a niggle of conscience. Matt wouldn’t be so open to her Lane lusting. And who the hell knew what The Voice would think, if he cared at all.
“I guess you would’ve had to know Lee while he was growing up,” Lane said, mouth tilting in a sad smile as he avoided looking at the camera. Dawn didn’t know if that was because of modesty or because he didn’t need to be assured that the lens was eating him up. “After our dad died, Lee got…”
“Into his own badass world,” Cassie supplied from her seat next to her brother. Hippie girl looked a little sickened at what Lee had done.
“Badass world.” Lane shook his head, obviously agreeing with his sister. “We all shared rooms, and he’d lock us out and listen to music that got angrier and angrier with each album. It seemed to encourage him to isolate himself. And he drew a lot. I can still see him sitting with his back to the wall in a corner, penciling away.”
“He was
creative
,” Marg said, putting an emphatic spin on the last word, a master of PR for her beloved brother. At least she wasn’t blaming Lee’s behavior on pop culture. “One of them geniuses, I’ll bet.”
Lane continued. “He drew pictures of…I guess they were dragonslayers. Then he started hanging out with the drama crowd, the artsy types. He got cocky around them because, suddenly, he stood out. He was a star in these fringe plays the group would put on in town. The powers that be would always shut down the productions because of ‘indecency.’ Lee just said the subjects were too cutting-edge for the boondocks, and he’d laugh about it and think all of us were such hicks.”
A muscle ticked in Lane’s jaw. He glanced at the carpet, just like Herb.
Mama Coral had been sucking at her teeth while listening, but she stopped at the mention of the plays. “Those other kids put such ideas in Lee’s head. They’re what got him out here to Hollywood. They come out here in a pack, like a bunch of wild dogs, and Lee kept callin’ and askin’ for money because none of ’em were makin’ enough to pay the rent on that hole they were sharin’. They were a bad influence, and Lee was like anyone else, open to what they told him.” She glanced at Breisi. “You getting all this?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
Dawn tightened the focus on Coral. So that was Mama’s explanation for Lee’s fall from grace? Peer pressure?
“Ma’am,” she said, “are you saying Lee got talked into going down the wrong path—one that eventually led to…this?”
Mrs. Tomlinson wiped at one eye. Mascara had smudged beneath it. “If Lee did do that murder—which he didn’t—sure, that’s what I’d be sayin’. He’s a good kid, deep down.”
Sister Marg got off the bed to wander over to a table that was littered with vending machine snack packages. Brandless cheese puffs, peanut butter chocolate bars, cigarettes. She slipped a death stick out of a carton and tamped it against her palm. “Lee got a commercial, so he was on his way to doin’ some good. You seen it? It’s the ‘Ahhhhhhhhh, so fah-resh!’ guy swillin’ mouthwash? That’s when he stopped callin’ so much. He damned near broke Mom’s heart.”
“He didn’t mean to,” Coral said off camera.
“Of course he didn’t,” Cassie said. When Dawn caught her on film, she was glaring at Marg. “Lee just got too busy. He had a lot of auditions, I’m sure.” She turned to the camera. “He would always promise to spend his first big paycheck on a Cadillac for Mom.”
“Just like Elvis,” Lane added wryly, standing up and grabbing some chips from the table, then sitting again.
From the bed, Herb finally said something, and Dawn whipped the camera over, catching the phenomenon.
“We’re a close family.” His soft words were almost chalked away by a cough.
Dawn panned around the room, catching Marg staring at her husband. She got out another cigarette, this one clearly for him. Good medicine, those death sticks.
After sauntering back to the bed, Marg dropped the ciggie into his lap. He didn’t touch it, just remained quietly engrossed in the carpet, like he wasn’t enough a part of the family to add anything.
“A Cadillac,” Mama Coral echoed.
Dawn turned the lens to her. A reminiscent smile widened the woman’s painted lips. Red lipstick flecked her teeth.
“See how happy she is?” Marg said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn saw the sister stuff a cigarette in her mouth, sit down, and gesture toward Coral. “Lee’s promises made all of us want to bring Mom a smile, just like that.”
“By coming out to Hollywood? Did you want to act, too?” Dawn zoomed over to the Universal Studios logo on Marg’s shirt. Then she traveled upward to the older sister’s choppy mullet, thinking The Voice, who was watching, might appreciate this ironic moment just as much as she did.
“Can’t anyone act?” Marg said, laughing.
Touché.
“Anyway,” Cassie said, rolling her eyes at Marg’s remark as Dawn turned to her now. “After a while, Lane and I got in touch with Lee’s roommates. They’d all gone back home, but Lee was the only one who stayed behind.”
Goosebumps rose on Dawn’s arms. Had he lingered in L.A. because of his servitude to the Underground?
Breisi jumped in. “So he pursued his career further?”
All of them just stared at Dawn and her partner.
In her chair, Mama Coral leaned forward. “
I
think his acting wasn’t the only reason. He had a
lover
.” She said it with such flair that Dawn almost wondered if she was playing to the camera, creating a sympathetic romance for the interview.
“We just found out about her,” Coral added. “Our Lee was in love.”
“Mom,” the siblings all said, obviously warning her to stay quiet. Cassie and Lane even seemed angry, as if this information wasn’t meant to be aired. Herb glanced up at Coral, eyebrows furrowed.
“What?” the mother said. “Lee has a good heart. Everybody should know that. He ain’t capable of nothin’ but love.”
“Mrs. Tomlinson,” Breisi said, “how do you know Lee was having a relationship?”
From the way her coworker asked, Dawn knew it was the Fourth of July and Christmas all rolled into one for Breisi.
A lead, Frank,
Dawn thought, feeling the same adrenaline rush, too.
Maybe this is it….
“I know he was involved with a significant other,” Coral said, “because the final roommate to leave California called last night and told Lane, here. That’s why.” Coral shot her family a satisfied look. “She said Lee was spendin’ a lot of recent time with someone while workin’ at a bar between auditions. He might’ve even met the light of his life on that job.”
Breisi quickly wrote something, then flashed it at an angle so Dawn could read it.
WASN’T JESSICA A WAITRESS
?!?
A chill zinged up Dawn’s spine. Holy crap, yes. But they hadn’t found any indication during their research that she’d worked at Bava with Lee. Then again, Dawn had come to discover that monster-affiliated bars weren’t exactly known for laying all their information out on the table, so what if Jessica had quit within the last month and no one was talking about it?
What if the Underground had erased all traces of her employment there?
“Now, you all tell me,” Coral continued, repeating her point. “How can a boy who carries on in a relationship all of a sudden do murder? Everyone should ask that.”
In a way, Dawn pitied the woman for having no imagination. People who killed could also be really great at covering it up. People weren’t always who they seemed to be—especially in L.A.
Speaking of which…Who else had Lee met in this town? Did he have any friends who were also in the Underground?
“Mrs. Tomlinson,” she asked, “did he hang out with anyone else after his roomies left, any people this last roommate might have mentioned in particular?”