Roias was in the booth, his private sanctuary. Outside, in the studio, two women writhed on the red-sheeted bed, while cameramen circled like greedy sharks. Roias barely noticed the scene. The regular fare of the company had lost its allure for him since he had discovered his “specialties.”
But that was coming to an end. Rooke’s call that night had been definite. They were coming to “collect the merchandise” in two days. That meant he’d better feed the Count. He glanced out at the woman. He’d have to put out another couple of grand to buy one of the girls from Greg, but it would be a small price to pay to prevent Rooke’s anger. Hell, it was Rooke’s money.
At least the Alexander bitch was dead. If Rooke had arrived while she was still alive . . . Roias pushed aside that thought. His instructions had been explicit; kill the girl immediately. But it had seemed a shame to waste the opportunity. It had been easier to use her than shell out to Greg or grab some whore off the streets. Rooke was a mean bastard—and the old bitch he worked for was rumoured to be even worse—but what he didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt him. She was safely dead and he’d been spared the trouble of putting a bullet in her head.
Still, there had been something disturbing about her death. The image of the pale, nearly nude body sprawled across the dark floor seemed to flicker across his reflection in the window. The vampire had killed her, there was no doubt about that. There had been a massive bruise across her breasts and hip. The monster himself had been sitting on his bed, the icy eyes as blank and unconcerned as ever. But Roias had sensed something behind the glacial surface of that gaze, some edge of anticipation that disturbed him.
Why had Alexander let the vampire take her? he wondered. Had she finally realized that they were going to kill her no matter what and taken the quickest way out? Had she just wandered too close to the bars when His Highness was in a particularly savage mood? Whatever the reason, the Count hadn’t made death easy for her. He thought of the marks on the white skin and felt a throb of desire. Too bad he hadn’t installed those cameras down there. He might have had one final “specialty” film to sell. Not that he hadn’t cleaned up on the three he’d made. Of course, the market for that stuff was limited, but at what he could get for a single tape, that wasn’t a problem. And it was pure profit; he paid the cameraman and Leseur out of the company’s money and pocketed all the carefully collected revenue from the films himself.
He lit another cigarette and let the smoke curl sweetly down his throat. Rooke would terminate this project soon, he could tell. None of these jobs ever lasted long. In a few weeks, he’d be scouting out new locations, new channels for obtaining the raw material (he glanced again at the flesh intertwining on the bed) he needed. This place had served its purpose, but he was damned tired of it. The long drive in from the city, then the days as a virtual prisoner in the empty corridors, all had taken their toll on him. The next site would be in the city, where he could hear the world again. He missed the smoky nights in the bars, missed the freedom to come and go as he pleased, missed the chance to see faces other than the increasingly annoying ones of Peterson, Leseur, and the rest.
Roias leaned back in his chair and tried to watch Leseur’s latest masterpiece. It still failed to stir him and after a moment he rose restlessly and went to the door, wondering if there was any beer left in the kitchen. He was already tasting the smooth coolness of the alcohol when he realized that, though the door knob had turned beneath his hand, the door had not opened. He pulled on it again but it didn’t move. There was no exterior lock, so what was holding the door closed? And more importantly, who had done this? Not Wilkens. Maybe Peterson. The kid had been acting odd all day, come to think of it. Trying to cover up the bruises on his face, coming back from the burial detail all pale and shaky. Maybe this was the little nutcase’s idea of a joke. Some fucking funny joke. The little shit wouldn’t think it was so funny when he got out.
After a few moments of rattling the door, he decided he would have to call down to Leseur and have him send someone up. He returned to the console and switched on the intercom. “Leseur,” he called, then switched the set to receive. And heard the screaming.
For a moment, he thought it was the movie they were making, that Leseur had decided to add a little S & M at the last minute. Then Roias realized that there was more than one voice crying out, and some of them were male.
He was at the window in one long step, in time to see Leseur’s body, spraying blood, tumbling down the steps that led to the raised bed. On the top stood the vampire. “Holy fucking Christ,” Roias whispered as the gaunt figure spun to catch the blonde as she tried to scramble off the bed. She was dragged back onto the red silk sheets, screaming until the vampire’s blow turned off the sound.
A movement in the other corner of the room caught Roias’s eye. Fernandez was running for the door. He was almost there when a figure emerged from the corner and tackled him. Roias had a brief impression of a patterned shirt and a banner of fair hair before attacker and attacked tumbled into a heap on the floor. For a moment, Roias thought Fernandez might make it, as he rolled on top of the other man. Then the cameraman threw back his head and howled, a wail that ended in a bubbling groan. His body was tossed aside and the attacker rose from beneath it.
The shirt wasn’t patterned, it was white. The red blotches were blood. The figure inside this gruesome covering was undeniably female; he could see the curve of her breast where the shirt had torn, and her legs were long and lovely. He dragged his gaze up to the face. Beneath the heavy make-up of blood and dirt, there was no doubt about her identity.
“Oh God,” he groaned and ran back for the door. Alexander. It was that damned Alexander bitch. Peterson hadn’t staked her. “Wilkens!” He hit the metal door with both hands. “Peterson! Somebody let me the fuck outta here!” He was still banging on the door when the screams from the intercom died. Helpless, Roias went back to the window.
They were all dead—Leseur, the two actresses, the two cameramen. Their bodies were flung carelessly about the studio like cast-off mannequins. Blood pooled around Fernandez, Leseur and the brunette. The blonde’s head lolled across the silk at an impossible angle. The two vampires were nowhere in sight.
Maybe they don’t know I’m here, Roias thought desperately, but the jammed door made a lie of that hope. Had they killed Wilkens and Peterson already? He had to assume so. He had to assume he was here alone with those two monsters. He went back to the door and snapped back the bolt on the interior lock; he could keep them out as surely as they could keep him in.
Now, what did you use to kill vampires? Stakes, crosses, garlic? Yeah, where was his crucifix when he needed it? Abandoned long ago, with any semblance of the faith of his childhood. Too bad he didn’t have the ultrasound. That’d stop the buggers fast enough. Roias froze, looking at the monitors and the console. Maybe he could do something.
He was crouched over the console, trying frantically to remember anything he had learned in high-school tech class, when the door rattled. He caught his breath . . . but it stayed shut. He had a few moments, then, a few moments to make this plan work.
He had almost figured it out, just about remembered the buttons to push to make the machinery emit an ear-piercing wail, when the window in front of him shattered. Glass showered like glittering rain and he stumbled back, arms flung up. He lowered them in time to see her climbing in through the window. He heard glass crunching beneath her feet as she landed on the booth floor but she didn’t even wince. How had she gotten there? he wondered, then remembered the lighting scaffolding rising up beneath the booth window.
“Hello, Roias,” she said, smiling with crimson lips. He saw the sharp daggers of her teeth and felt his guts churning in terror. “Didn’t think I’d come back, did you? And after you were such a charming host.”
“Listen, I . . .” His voice trailed off. What could he say to her? That it wasn’t his fault? Tell her anything, he thought desperately, tell her anything you have to.
“That’s right, Roias. I’m going to listen. You’re going to tell me everything.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Who hired you?”
“I don’t know,” Roias insisted, wishing he could keep himself from shrinking back as she stepped towards him, driving him farther away from the console, and his fading hope of finding a weapon against her. Her eyes were bright and avid, her lips parting to let her tongue flicker out over the blood-stained mouth.
“What did he want Rozokov for?”
“Rozokov? Who’s . . . oh. I don’t know. I swear that I don’t know.”
“You like blood, don’t you, Roias?” she asked casually stepping towards him again. He felt his knees give way and he collapsed. The shards of glass on the floor cut him, even through his jeans, but he barely felt it. “As long as it’s someone else’s. You enjoy your work. You liked those movies. You liked torturing him, didn’t you?”
“I was feeding him,” he said desperately. She was standing over him but he couldn’t force himself to look up at her. He stared at her blood-stained thigh instead.
“How kind of you. Of course, now I like blood too. Especially when it’s someone else’s. Will you feed me, Roias?” Her voice was a seductive purr, half-threat, half-promise. He heard his last chance there. One boss was pretty much the same as the next, he thought. He could serve either equally well. He closed his eyes and made his choice.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I’ll feed you. I’ll do whatever you want.” He leaned forward, kissed the bloody curve of her inner thigh. He forced himself not to think about whose blood he was licking from her cool skin. She let him continue his worship of her until he reached up to tug aside the thin stretch of silky cloth that barred his way.
Then her hands gripped his hair, dragging him to his feet. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said savagely, eyes glittering red. “You could be my Renfield, find me blood, when I got tired of yours. I might even let you watch. Well, not a chance, you goddamn bastard, not a chance.”
She swung him around by his hair, and he was still crying out from that pain when she thrust him forward onto the jagged spikes of the shattered window. The new pain was deeper, sharper than he imagined possible, and he couldn’t find the breath to scream as the darkness sliced up through his eyes.