The Falstaff Vampire Files (9 page)

“I’m not going to ask what you did to provoke her.”

“You wound me. I only trifled when invited.” His pantomime of reaching up under a skirt added a few fluttery details that infuriated me, partly because they also aroused me against my will. He cast me a sly look that compounded my anger. “She took my finery away to keep me from the clutches of her lady friends.” Sir John looked at me sideways, then down at the floor as if meditating on the past. “Surely none would seek me out in the garden shed, clad only in these sorry garments.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or so she thought.” He raised his blue eyes, chuckled a little, and then sighed. “Time has taken its toll with those fine ladies. They no longer go out of nights and climb through hedges, even for such a large reward.”

“So none of your women visitors ever brought you any new clothes?”

“They had things in mind that did not require clothing.” His deep voice was wickedness distilled. The mere sound of it snapped my senses open like popcorn hit by hot oil.

“The store should be open for another hour or so. Let’s go.” I hoped the fresh air would bring me to my senses.

Chapter 26

Kristin Marlowe’s typed notes

August 6th continued

It was after rush hour
and the downtown area had cleared out enough that we found a parking place on Mission Street near the store. Sir John gravitated toward the velour and spandex, nattering on about trunk and hose. First one, then three, then every clerk in the store and a couple of customers swarmed around him with suggestions. Before I knew what was happening he was led off to a dressing room. His laughter rang out so loud that one or two men wandered in off the street, craning their necks to see what was going on. A crowd formed outside the fitting rooms as clerks went in and out, whispering, laughing and passing in garments for him to try on. A few crowded in with him.

At last he burst out of the dressing room, followed by clerks carrying clothing for him. One had bagged his used shirt and pants and handed it to me at arm’s length with an accusing stare, as his clothing was my fault. “You may want to burn these.” He turned back to Sir John. “We found some much better things for him.”

Another clerk handed me the greatcoat in a separate bag. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I’d have this cleaned very carefully. It’s an antique.” He handed me a slip of paper with a name on it. “This is my friend at the De Young Museum who does textiles. I think this coat may be valuable.”

While one staff member was ringing up the purchases, another thrust a card into Sir John’s hands. “Come visit us in Guerneville, Jack. The bears would eat you up with a spoon.” A small crowd gathered around the register.

“Would you make me bait for bears?” Sir John chuckled. “I have hunted stag.”

All the men laughed. “It is a stag party,” the boldest clerk said, shooting me a brief look. “But I think the bears would hunt you.”

Sir John paused. Everyone waited. “Perhaps we could take turns.”

This won him general laughter and some applause. A small parade of clerks and customers came up, exchanged a word or two, and tucked business cards in Sir John’s pocket—usually the front pants pocket.

Sir John received the attention with smiling, nodding cordiality. He waved to the crowd that gathered at the windows to watch him go. While we put the bags in the trunk, I checked out his new clothing.

They had chosen his outfit well. He now wore a blue suit and pale blue shirt with a maroon, gold and green tie and dark green suspenders that brought out green notes in his blue eyes. To replace the greatcoat they had selected a stylish black raincoat. “They call it microfiber.” He held out the sleeve for me to see the fabric as we got into the car. “I’ve heard of those micro things,” he said. “Invisible, they say. But I see this cloth well enough.”

“Did you know that the bears they’re inviting you to visit are men who love big men—preferably hairy, bearded men?”

“Big hearty men, you say?” He took out the cards and examined them with interest. “Ruddy men, who drink ale and eat sausages?”

I turned to stare at him.

He roared with laughter. “Mistress Kit, you look thunderstruck.”

“So you’ve been to bear events?” I tried to envision Falstaff at a gay hot tub party with a bunch of bearded gay men—and found it not that hard to imagine.

“Bare, you say? As in ‘Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old’—that sort of bare?”

“I’ve heard that poem before.”

“William Stevenson, a rare malt worm he was.” He chuckled. “No, Mistress Kit, I take your meaning. But some things were not invented this year.” He put the cards back in his pocket. “Or this century.”

We went to my favorite seafood grill on Lombard Street. It was mid evening and we had to wait in line until a table became available. Sir John studied the menu when the line took us up to the window where it was posted. “No suckling pig.”

“I’m a fishaterian—”

“You’re what?”

“Well, it’s very close to a vegetarian—I don’t eat meat, just fish.”

He sighed. “I’ll warrant the learned doctors have been at work here. Unnatural, I call it. Here now, roast pork. That’s a natural food.”

A couple of other people in the line laughed. His deep voice and laugh opened up a hush, and everyone looked toward Sir John.

A woman in the line behind us leaned forward to touch his shoulder. “They do an excellent stuffed pork chop here.”

“Do they indeed? Many thanks, kind lady.” He turned his attention to her with such heat that her eyes widened, already beginning to be intoxicated by his voice and presence. She was a buxom brown-haired, brown-eyed woman in her late thirties, dressed in red, with impressive cleavage.

“With that, perhaps a fine port wine. Wait, here’s dry sack sherry on the list.” His voice sank intimately toward her, as if he had reached back to wrap her up in velvet.

“I think I may have some of that myself tonight,” she said, favoring him with a naughty smile as we moved up in the line.

“Lucky the man to taste it on your lips.”

The two other women in her party were giggling now. The
maitre d’
told us our table was ready.

Sir John nodded to him and turned back to gaze at the woman in red.

“Behave yourself, Sir John.”

“Yes, madam.”

Much as I hated babysitting the old guy, I still felt raw from Hal’s betrayal, and the prospect of being publicly abandoned for another woman hurt. Now he was winking at the woman in red. Maybe she’d like to keep his coffin in her apartment. I was beginning to realize why Reba had confiscated his better clothing—he was mischief incarnate. I took a deep breath. I had to get him fed and back to Vi’s. She would be angry if I let him wander off.

“I am not ordering pork,” I whispered to him as we were escorted to our table.

“Nor would I ask that, with you being a fish terrine.”

“That’s fishaterian.”

“Indeed. Would you not consider sipping a cup of ale, so I could drink it in your kisses?”

I took a deep breath and reminded myself to watch him. Whatever he was, he had to eat something—or did he? I doubted that real vampires chowed down on stuffed pork chops with or without sherry. Real vampires. My God, what was happening to my sense of reality?

Sir John might have been getting to me a little, because I did order the ale. I told myself it went with the fish plate. The waiter turned to Sir John.

Sir John shook his head. “Alas, nothing.”

“We have several excellent diet entrees—low fat, low carb, low calorie, if you are watching your weight.”

“No, lad, I leave it to the ladies to watch my weight.”

The waiter favored me with a carefully neutral look, tinged with disapproval. A controlling woman who wasn’t exactly so thin herself—where did she get off eating and drinking in front of her poor, fat, starving companion?

While I ate, Sir John looked around the room and favored me with his observations about our fellow diners. This couple was quarrelling, that one was counting the minutes till they could go home and do the deed. I will grant that he had the good grace to keep his voice low.

“That woman had just been serviced mightily.” He tilted his head subtly toward the table near the window. “But not by the man who sits with her.”

“How can you tell that?”

He tapped his nose. “Since I was drafted into service as a creature of the night, I catch the odor of friction—of any sort.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke, drawing the attention of everyone in the restaurant. His laughter was like a rich, rare wave of pleasure. I could feel it blanket my skin, and the healing wound where he had bit me tingled as if it had grown extra nerves.

“I’ve made many a meal of quarrels. When one leaves, I sit by to hold the other’s hand.” His voice was soft, but every word vibrated my whole body.

I tried not to look at him, for fear I’d end up once again pierced by his fangs in the front seat of my own car—or worse yet, right there in the restaurant. But he was funny. I was torn—social embarrassment, lust and hilarity cycled through me. Just when I thought I could stand it no longer, Sir John fell silent.

He stood up. The woman in red was saluting him over her glass—probably dry sack sherry. Sir John bowed to me. “A moment’s pardon. That hot wench in red has finished her sack and pork chop. I must speak to her.”

He made his way to the table where the woman was dining with her two friends. He bowed, whispered in her ear, and stood over her for a moment. Then he settled into the empty chair next to the woman in red. Her two friends were as charmed as she was. Sir John made a point of touching her hand and sniffing her wine glass, although he shook his head when she offered him a sip.

I to force myself to concentrate on my sole, although I was too distracted to pay close attention to it. Had there been a hush when Sir John switched tables, or did I just imagine it? I willed everyone to return to their conversations. Gradually the noise rose to its usual level and I let myself look again.

The seats Sir John and the woman in red had been occupying were empty. The two girlfriends were whispering and casting looks toward the back of the restaurant

Above the conversation, I heard a faint, but rising sound. A rhythmic moaning and incoherent cries. The volume was increasing. I set down my fork, threw my napkin on the table, and headed for the restrooms. This time everyone turned to stare and laugh as moans of ecstatic communion filtered through the restaurant. As I got closer to the ladies room, the sounds got louder. A woman’s higher tones moaning incoherent words, in concert with a rhythmic thumping sound that I preferred not to identify.

Under it all an occasional deep bass note of Sir John’s voice carried out into the room.

Then the woman commenced to screaming.

Chapter 27

Kristin Marlowe’s typed notes

August 6th continued

The manager got to the ladies’ room door
a moment after I did.

“Is there a problem?”

I rattled the doorknob. “I believe that my gentleman friend is in there with another customer. Can you bring me the check and my jacket from the table? I’d really prefer to pay without going back in there.” I tilted my head toward the dining room behind me.

He nodded sympathetically. “Would you like some help in removing the gentleman? I can call for—?”

“It’s all right. I think he’ll go peaceably.” I had no idea if this was true.

He nodded, went back down the hall, whispered something urgently to a hovering waiter and disappeared around the corner toward the kitchen.

“Sir John!” I called through the door. “Sir John, come out of there immediately. We have to go now.”

The waiter returned to hovered near me.

“He’ll be right out.” I shook the handle and pounded firmly on the door. “Sir John, come out of there this instant!”

“Got to hand it to the Brits, eh?” the waiter smiled. “They do like their liquor, and the accent’s like catnip to the ladies.” His smile died when he saw my expression. “The manager is coming with a key, and some help to get him out to the car.”

The manager came bustling down the hall with two tall, burly men in white jackets. Muscle from the kitchen staff. The manager brandished a key, but before he could use it the door flew open and we were all forced back up the narrow hallway as Sir John emerged, hastily adjusting his waistband and suspenders. His shirt was half untucked and one suspender was slipping, but a quick look assured me that he was zipped up in the trouser department.

The manager stared at him in horror as Sir John licked what appeared to be blood from his lips. “Is the lady—?”

But the woman in red came slipping dreamily past Sir John, the manager and me. She didn’t show any visible wounds. She ran her arm along Sir John’s shoulder as if they were in mid-tango. When he had her at arm’s length, he bent and kissed her hand, and whispered against the skin “You’ll forget me when I am gone,” in a soft voice so deep I could feel it along my own skin.

“Never.”

“Forget me when I am gone,” he said again. “Unless I find you again, forget me.” It was a command.

She nodded and turned to wander back to her table, amid the buzz of conversation, which had resumed as soon as her screaming stopped. As she dropped back into her chair she said, “I have no idea what happened, but I feel wonderful.” She sat looking dreamily into the distance as her friends plied her with questions.

The waiter appeared with our coats and my purse. The hall was crowded with restaurant staff.

“The rear entrance is just behind you.” The manager was blocking us from going back into the dining area. “Please go out that way.”

“Whenever possible, my lad. Whenever possible.” Something about the magic of the old reprobate’s voice seemed to soothe the manager.

“No charge for the meal. Just go,” he said as he shoved us out the door. “And don’t come back.”

Sir John followed me back to the car. Once in the passenger seat he leaned back and sighed contentedly. “Excellent good pork chop and sack. I tasted secondhand.”