A Taint in the Blood (32 page)

Adrian nodded.
“Denn die Todten reiten schnell
.
”

“She’s not dead, but she does drive damn quick,” Harvey said, completing the bilingual pun. “Speed demons, both of you. Still, it was all on two-lanes . . . OK, here’s the possibilities . . .”

 

 

This stuff does make riding a motorcycle more comfortable
, Ellen thought.

She was in a suit of tight leathers, canary-yellow with red trim, as they rumbled through the streets of Rancho Sangre at sunset. The wheels of the machine ground fallen cherry-blossoms under their treads. Cooking smells drifted from homes and restaurants; it was dinnertime, in the early-February gloaming.

I’m also less scared
, she thought.
For one thing, Adrienne didn’t drive like a complete maniac on the way back. And she hasn’t fed on me today.

“You didn’t need to be terrified and I wasn’t frustrated and angry at the world,” Adrienne said. “And while your blood is unfailingly delicious, I snacked elsewhere in San Francisco. Pretty drive on the inland roads too, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and I had more time to pay attention.”

“It comes to me that you are feeling less totally isolated and hopeless and psychologically crushed than I would have expected at this stage in our relationship,” the Shadowspawn said thoughtfully. “But I can’t quite tell
why
. It’s a pity. I am so looking forward to your abandoned misery and the transference and identification with the aggressor and so forth.”

“I . . . ah, sorry . . . Look, I could
try
to feel more crushed . . .”

“Oh, that’s very sweet of you, but there’s no problem. The full pleasures of your abject emotional degradation can wait. We’re not in a hurry. Anticipation has its own spice, and I’m a little busy right now anyway.”

The motorcycle swerved inward in front of the police station, a blank wall of stucco with a gate of wrought iron; a round machicolated tower showed at one corner. Less than a minute after she kicked down the stand and took off her helmet to shake her hair free the police chief was standing at not-quite-attention on the sidewalk. He was a man in early middle age; Hispanic, Ellen thought, lean and grizzled. Beside him was the Englishman she had met before leading the patrol of Asian soldiers—Gurkhas, they were called. He gave her a small polite inclination of the head before standing at parade rest.

“There’s a problem, Captain Bates?” Adrienne asked.

“It’s Jamal, I’m afraid, ma’am,” the ex-soldier said. “Shortly after you left, he . . . went missing. He took hiking clothes and food and headed up into the high country. Southwest, I think.”

“Tsk,” Adrienne said. “That won’t do at
all
.”

Her head swiveled, the tousled black hair swirling about her shoulders; a frown of concentration grew between her brows.

Once they have tasted of your blood you are linked, linked forever
, Ellen thought to herself.

“Yes,” Adrienne said, opening her eyes again. The gold flecks seemed to glitter. “Southwest. Not far, either. Working his way south through the hills on foot.”

“Suicide by cop, pretty much,” Mendoza said. “I
told
you we didn’t have to worry, Bates. I grew up here.”

The Englishman smiled, a thin, eager expression. “My men could use the practice tracking.”

Adrienne chuckled. “Oh, Captain Bates, this is Rancho Sangre of twenty-first-century California, not Tara in antebellum Georgia. We don’t chase people with bloodhounds and drag them back in chains. Besides, it wouldn’t be safe. Safe for your men.”

Looking over her shoulder, Ellen could see the corner of her grin. She turned her face, but not before she saw both men blanch a little.

“Safe, ma’am?” Bates asked carefully.

“There are large, predatory beasts in that area at night. Or there will be. Mankillers. Very dangerous.”

Despite herself, Ellen shivered and laid her head between the other’s shoulders.

Adrienne sighed and made a gesture with one hand, palm up and fingers cupping. “It’s a pity. Jamal . . . Jamal was so deliciously
meaty
. Like jerk pork. It was nice to have that on hand.”

I’m more like dessert,
Ellen thought.
Oh, Jesus. The poor man.

“You wouldn’t say
poor man
if you knew more about Jamal,
chérie
,” Adrienne cast over her shoulder.

The police chief cleared his throat. “The . . . preparations for your parents’ arrival are at the
casa grande
,
Doña
. From San Simeon, this time. There will be no repercussions requiring your attention.”

“Oh, excellent, Chief Mendoza. I can always rely on you.”

“There was a child, I am afraid. A baby girl, perhaps four months. Jose’s mother is taking care of her.”

“Good. We wouldn’t want the poor mite to be traumatized. Speaking of which, it’s fortunate you’re both here. We’re going to be having a bit of a gathering, a
do
, in May. About thirty to thirty-five guests, though I won’t know for sure until they RSVP. Plus their personal renfields, lucies in some cases, and other attendants. I’ll be contacting Paco for supplies and Theresa will be managing the household side, but you’ll need to put the usual preparations in hand for storing the refreshments. Please consult and organize. I don’t want any complications.”

Bates looked . . .

Professionally interested
, Ellen thought.
Mendoza, the policeman, he’s gone a little gray. Refreshments for a Shadowspawn house party . . . storing the refreshments . . . oh, Christ!

“Immediately,
Doña
,” Mendoza said.

“Ma’am,” Bates added. “That’ll be . . . about eighty?”

“That should do,” Adrienne said. “It’s a party, one shouldn’t stint.”

“And the wastage we can expect?”

“Around fifty percent, but it’s impossible to be precise; we can always use a few extra workers afterwards. I’ll try to arrange the shipments starting in mid-March. Do tell Dr. Duggan.”

She nodded to both, put her helmet back on and peeled off into the traffic.

I’m not going to ask. I’m not going to ask
, Ellen thought, gripping her tightly.
I’m not even going to
think
about asking.

“You’ll be much happier that way,” Adrienne agreed.

She pulled into Lucy Lane. “Ah, the weekly barbecue!”

A spicy, smoky smell came from Number Three, the babble of a crowd, and the sound of a guitar.

“Perhaps I’ll drop by for a snack myself later,” Adrienne said, reaching back and giving her a slapping pat. “Off you go,
ma douce
.”

 

 

“Hi!” Ellen said, putting her head in the open door of One Lucy Lane.

“I’m here!” Monica replied. “Kitchen! Come on in!”

Ellen followed the scents of baking and cooking to the steamy warmth. Monica was in her frilled bib-apron again, with her jacket slung on the back of a chair.

“Good to see you again,” Ellen said to her smile.

Which is actually true. I think she really
is
friendly. And she must be a basically strong person or she’d be a lot crazier than she is. Eight years with Adrienne! I’m feeling pretty crazed after that many
days
.

“Sorry I couldn’t be here to help with the setup, but I’ve brought a good appetite,” she said aloud. “We only stopped for a taco at lunch.”

“That’s what makes a barbecue a success—appetite! I’m just getting my contributions ready. The kids are already over there and things should really start in about half an hour.”

Monica stopped her bustle for a moment to eye the nile twinset and earth-toned skirt Ellen had changed into; the FedEx parcels had been waiting for her at Number Five.

“
You
had a shopping weekend,” Monica said brightly. “And a successful one.”

Her kitchen and dining nook had a lived-in look; scrawled crayon pictures by her children tacked up to a corkboard on a cabinet, dogeared recipe books, a slightly obsolete terminal fastened to the door of the refrigerator that had a couple of spots on the touch-screen, bowls soaking in the sinks. It smelled wonderfully of fresh bread and homemade mayonnaise and pimentos, and Ellen’s stomach twisted.

The mid-floor island had a series of dishes standing ready—green salads and potato salad in bowls covered in plastic wrap, a basket of crusty homemade baguettes with a dish towel over them, and plates of cookies glistening with half-melted chocolate chips and studded with walnuts.

“Isn’t Jean-Charles wonderful? I go up just for him a couple times a year, and more often so I’ll have an excuse to wear some of the things! Rancho Sangre is lovely but it’s not a real dress-up town. Peter and I go to the opera there, and sometimes Adrienne goes with us.”

“You like opera?” Ellen said.

Monica nodded. “I know I’m not a college graduate like you—” she began, sounding a little defensive.

Ellen made a
wave to a halt
gesture. “Monica, I’m the first person—well, the first woman—in my family
ever
to go to university. If I hadn’t been desperate to get out of Allentown for personal reasons
I
probably wouldn’t have gone. I’m a small-towner and all my family were coal miners and steelworkers for a hundred years. And housewives and secretaries and the odd elementary teacher or whatnot.”

Monica relaxed slightly. “Same here, SoCal version. I have some friends there in San Francisco, though it’s, well, difficult. But Jean-Charles makes you feel like you’re his little sister and he’s giving you advice.”

“Yes, actually, he
was
very nice,” Ellen said honestly. “I really enjoyed . . . part of that. We had a dinner with one of Adrienne’s Shadowspawn friends, and a lunch with her and another one and some . . . other lucies. That wasn’t as much fun. Though the food was great and I tried to concentrate on that.”

I’ll leave out the politics, and the threat of universal destruction, and Kai. Shit, I wish
I
could forget that little bitch! Not as scary as the Shadowspawn but even
more
revolting.

“Oh, you poor darling!” Monica stopped to give her a brief hug. “The other Shadowspawn, they’re
awful
. I absolutely
hate
the way they look at me. It makes me feel . . . all cold and alone and shivery inside. Though the
Doña
would never let any of them hurt us.”

“Uh . . . yeah,” Ellen said.

Only
she
gets to hurt us. You can see how she and Adrian started in the same place. But the difference!

She frowned for an instant.
It’s odd . . . I haven’t heard a thing about Adrian in days, but I feel like I know him better than I did before we broke up . . . as if the breakup didn’t happen, somehow. Things will be different, once I’m out of this. And I can’t just wait. I’ve got to keep looking for something I can do.

The other woman looked in the oven, shook her head, and murmured: “Not quite ready.
”
Then she went on:

“So tell me all of what you did. Did you stop for a picnic on the way up?”

“Uh . . . yeah. Thanks for the stuff you packed for us. Adrienne did this berserk driving thing, frightened the bejesus out of me, and—”

“Fed on you while the blood was juicy and tingly,” Monica said succinctly. A reminiscent smile:

“I think I know the spot. She’s done that to me, and before I realized that it was safe no matter
how
fast we were going I was
terrified
. Now it just
scares
me. Then I actually . . . well, she made me take off all my clothes and wash in the ocean before she drank the blood, and the water’s
cold
there. I was head-to-toe stark naked goose bumps right there on the beach while she fed. Thank God it was summer and even more that nobody came along!”

“I was going to ask you about the feeding thing, a bit,” Ellen said. “I’ve noticed that at first it just made me want to stay still—”

“But now you don’t feel so paralyzed, and it gets better and better?” A smile. “Starting to really like it, aren’t you?”

“Well . . . yes. I might as well, if it’s going to happen regularly anyway. I’m still scared spitless beforehand.”

“Oh,
that
doesn’t change. It’s more of a nice-scary for me now, but she still looks so . . . so
predatory
when she’s about to feed on you, doesn’t she?”

Ellen nodded.
Oh, yeah. Because she actually
is
being predatory and you know she’s actually, really no-kidding going to bite you and
drink your fucking blood
.
Aloud:

“But while she’s drinking and for a while afterward it’s pretty nice.”

“That lovely drifting feeling when you feel like you love the whole world and everything’s so right? And the way the blood makes her face shine with happiness, that looks so beautiful too?”

“Mmmm, yes. What’s it like if she
doesn’t
bite you for a while?”

“Terrible,” Monica said matter-of-factly.

She poured them each a glass of white Zinfandel and sat at the kitchen table across from her.

“First, after four days or so, you just get . . . itchy and nervous and you can’t concentrate and it’s all you can think about. Then, after about a week, your skin feels like it’s going to crawl off of you and slither into a corner and cry. Then, after two weeks—that’s the longest it’s been for me—it still does, but you don’t care, because you feel like your best friend just died and it’s all your fault. Dr. Duggan says it gets better after that—she’s helped some lucies who got retired—but I’m not interested in finding out.”