It was my turn to get cleaned up. I took a long, hot shower and shaved. As the water pounded my back and shoulders, I scolded myself for slipping into despair. How had I let Goodman do that to me?
Then I remembered floating in the Atlantic, my flesh torn and my will shattered. One’s psyche can be mangled as deeply as one’s tissue. In my arrogance, I had thought that as a vampire I was invincible. I kept forgetting that I was not.
The spider bite had disappeared. No blemish. No scar. Only bad memories.
When I got out of the shower, Carmen was gone. I went to the kitchen. The chalices had left coffee brewing and a carafe of their mixed blood. Hers was B-positive, his O-negative. A nice, complementary blend, but I wanted something fresh.
Jack and Leslie were out. A note on the refrigerator wipe board said they were tending their boat. I went to the morgue and gathered my things from the workbench.
The front door opened. Leslie’s footsteps approached and she appeared in the morgue door. “Good morning. Carmen tells me you’re feeling better.”
“I am. And thanks for your hospitality.”
Leslie walked over to the mortician’s table. “I noticed you didn’t touch the carafe we’d left for you.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Maybe not.” She gave a tempting smile that I was familiar with. My tan was gone but my sexual prowess was back, thanks to Carmen.
“You do look better,” Leslie said. “Could I ask a favor?”
“Depends, but I’ll probably say yes.”
“I’m glad you didn’t drink from the carafe.” Leslie undid her scarf. “I’d rather you snack from me.”
“I can do that.”
Leslie unbuttoned her blouse and hopped on the mortician’s table. She peeled loose her jeans and panties, and let them drop.
“Where’s Jack?” I asked.
“On the boat. He’ll be there all day.”
With her large breasts, thick thighs, and wide hips, there was nothing little about Leslie. I approached her, my smile matching hers, my fangs growing long. She pulled her bra up and let those big puppies out for air. She scooted back on the table and propped her head on the steel headrest.
Made sense that she wanted to screw here in the morgue, on the mortician’s table. For the same reason office workers sneaked into their cubicles and boinked at their workstations. I knew chalices who owned a ranch, and they liked to screw in the barn, surrounded by the smell of alfalfa and horse shit.
I am a vampire. I’ve had sex in a coffin-albeit with a skinny chalice-and in crypts. But always with the living. I’d no sooner screw a corpse than eat soup from a toilet bowl.
I undressed and climbed on top of her, excited to have my power back. Leslie’s arms and legs clamped around me. I eased into her, enjoying the sensation of her moist warmth. She smelled of lilac soap with traces of bilge water, creosote, and gasoline. Leslie was a hands-on woman.
My fangs found her jugular. Her warm blood spurted into my mouth, deliriously tasty and satisfying. I pumped my hips and reached climax. As a reward to her, I lapped a good dose of pleasure enzymes into the wound of her throat. Leslie gasped. She reached up and grasped the edge of the table. Her legs squeezed tight and her body trembled under mine.
Her eyes remaining closed, she relaxed. Sweat dotted her forehead and puddled in the hollow between her breasts. I got off her and lapped the drops of blood clinging to my fangs.
Leslie’s chest heaved. She brought her legs up and hugged them as if to prolong the afterglow.
Rather than settle my nerves, all this sex sharpened the knives within me. My arms flexed and I worked my fists.
I wanted Goodman.
Now.
Leslie got dressed, then helped me apply sunblock and makeup. I put my clothes back on and went to the front room to look outside. A bright Carolina sun bore upon us. For a second I felt the fear but relaxed, as I knew the sunblock protected me.
I knew what to do. Go back to the resort and tear it apart looking for Goodman. I called Carmen from the house phone and left a message: I’m going after Goodman. Meet me when you can.
I told Leslie I needed a ride to Hilton Head, and she dropped me off two blocks from the first guardhouse of the resort. Sneaking in proved easy. I levitated across a slough onto the resort property, zapped a couple of golfers, and left them inside a clump of palmettos while I took their cart.
I thought about all the pain Goodman was in for. I would enjoy interrogating him. As a human, he could keep no secrets from my hypnosis.
Considering that only days ago armed guards and a helicopter had chased me off this island, the resort seemed sanguine and inviting.
I followed the curving asphalt trail of the cart path, turned the corner, and spotted a man teeing off by himself. His build and stature looked familiar.
Goodman.
I stopped the cart and slipped my sunglasses down to read his aura. It was red and simmered with impatience and anxiety. Whatever bothered him was about to get worse.
He was alone. He was mine. This was too easy. It was about time the breaks fell my way in this case.
I adjusted my sunglasses, got out of the cart, and marched directly toward him.
Goodman stopped his club in mid-swing. He stared at me and relaxed.
When I was seventy-five yards away, he cocked his body in my direction, readied his club, and swung.
The ball cracked from the tee and zoomed right at my face, like he’d shot it from an antitank rifle.
I snatched the ball before it hit me between the eyes.
I kept walking toward Goodman. He lowered the club and waited. A straw fedora shaded his face. His gray eyes were the color of lead bullets. Both of his hands worked the grip of the club like he was trying to choke it. His mouth chewed these words: “You’re harder to kill than a fucking roach in a woodpile.”
Ten feet from him, I snapped my wrist and flung the golf ball too fast for him to react. The ball thwacked his forehead and bounced aside.
Goodman flinched in pain and sank to his knees. He rubbed his forehead and steadied himself by leaning on his club.
“You son of a bitch,” he said, standing. The ball left a red welt the size of a quarter.
I stepped toward him. “I’m just getting started. The next thing I’m going to do is shove that club up your ass.”
“Not so fast, you freakish fuck.”
“You and your mouth need some manners.” I got closer.
He held his hand up and dug into his pocket. He tossed something at me.
A cell phone. I caught it. The phone had a leopard skin cover, like Carmen’s.
My ears and fingertips tingled in alarm.
I opened the phone and recognized the photo on the screen-Carmen blowing herself a kiss.
It was Carmen’s phone. How did Goodman get it? The tingling turned into an electric shock.
“The last message in her voice mail was from you, Felix.” Goodman rubbed the knot on his forehead and winced. His frown changed into a smile. “Behave yourself, and you might see her again.”