"I told you, I don't want your help."
Kalika does the unexpected then. She reaches up and kisses me on the lips. "Be careful, Mother. You are not who you used to be."
Her kiss warms me, her words give me a chill. "You know what I used to be?"
"Yes. He told me."
"Ray?"
"Yes."
"How come you never call him Father?"
"You call him Ray. I call him Ray."
"But he calls me Sita."
"Do you want me to call you Sita?"
"No, it doesn't matter." I pause. "Do you like Ray?"
She shrugs. "How I feelI can't explain to you at this time."
"Why not?"
"You are not ready to hear."
"When will I be ready to hear?"
"Soon."
"You know this?"
She pulls the blanket over her head. "I know many things, Mother."
The music is loud as I enter the club, the strobe lights flashing, unnatural thunder and psychedelic solar flares to match the scrambled brains of the alcohol-saturated clientele. I am, of course, a superb dancer, even without my vampire strength. Without looking around, I leap onto the dance floor and wait for my daughter's next meal to come to me. Guilt makes me less discriminating. Let destiny decide who is to suffer, I will not.
A man about thirty, with an expensive sports coat and a thin black mustache joins me within a few minutes. His speech is educated; he could be an Ivy League graduate, a young lawyer with something profitable on the side. His watch is a Rolex, his single gold earring studded with a carat diamond. He is not handsome but his face is likable. He speaks smoothly.
"Mind if I butt in?" he asks.
I smile, whirling, my hair in my eyes. "There's no one to butt out."
He chuckles. "Hey, you're a real dancer."
"You're not bad yourself. What's your name?"
"Billy. You?"
"Cynthia. But you can call me Cindy."
He grins, he's having a good time. "I'll call you whatever you want."
After twenty minutes on the floor, he buys me a couple of drinks. We catch our breath over them at the bar. I was right, he's a lawyer but he insists he's an honest one.
"I don't represent shmucks and I don't fudge my billing hours," he says proudly, sipping his Bloody Mary, my drink of choice when I am on the prowl. I am already on my second. The alcohol soothes my nerves, although I don't suppose it sharpens my reflexes. At my waist, above my butt and beneath my leather jacket, I carry my pistol and silencer. But I know I won't need it on Billy. He will go the way of Eric, to endless misery. Guilt hangs over my head but I keep it away with a stiff umbrella of denial.
"What firm are you with?" I ask.
"Gibson and Pratch. They're in Century City. I live in the valley. The traffic's hell coming over the San Diego Freeway in the morning. What do you do?"
"I'm a music teacher," I say.
"Cool. What instrument do you play?"
"Piano, some violin."
"Wow, that's incredible. I have an expensive piano that was left to me by my rich uncle. I've always meant to take lessons, but never got around to it." He pauses and then has a brilliant idea. God inspires it. I know what it is; he hasn't been able to take his eyes off my body. "Hey, will you play me something on my piano?"
I laugh and look around. "Did you bring it with you?"
"No, at my place. It doesn't take long to get there at this time of night."
I hesitate. "Like you say, Billy, it's late. I have to get up in the morning."
"Nah! You're a teacher. You call your students and tell them when you want to see them. Really, we can go in my car. I've got a brand-new Jag."
I'm impressed. "I love Jags." I glance uneasily at my watch, playing the role to the hilt. "OK, but I'm going to have to follow you there. That way I can head straight back to my place after your song."
Billy is pleased as he sets down his drink. "I'll drive slowly. I won't lose you."
Kalika is asleep when I return to the car. Her soft rhythmic breathing follows me as I steam onto the freeway and chase Billy's Jag into the valley. He has lied to mehe drives like a maniac.
My plan is simple. I will knock him out the second we get inside, then load him into my trunk. He looks like he's been drinking all night, an easy mark. He won't even know what hit him.
Kalika is still asleep when we reach Billy's place.
I leave my gun in the glove compartment.
Billy's house is modest, considering his new car. The driveway is cracked, the landscaping neglected. He lives in a cul-de-sac. His car disappears into the automatic garage as I park in the street. A moment later he is on the front porch, waving to me. Making sure Kalika is resting comfortably, I get out and walk toward Billy, my boots clicking on the asphalt and concrete. Billy thinks he's in for a night of sex and more sex. His grin as he greets me belongs to a sixteen-year-old. I'm not surprised when he kisses me the moment we're inside with the door closed. His mouth is sweet with the taste of alcohol, his groping hands moist with the thrill of seduction. He presses me against the wall and I have to turn my head to catch my breath.
"Hold on a second, Billy," I protest. "You haven't even shown me the house. And where's your piano?"
He stares at me with a gleam in his eye. "I don't have a piano."
"What do you mean. You said your uncle ..."
"I don't have an uncle," he interrupts.
Right then I smell it. The odor is faint, probably something most young women would miss, but I have had extensive experience with this smell. I don't need supernatural nostrils to identify it. Somewhere in Billy's house, perhaps buried beneath his bed, perhaps cemented into his bathroom floor, is one or more dead bodies. My best estimate as I look deeper into his manic eyes is that it is more than one. I curse myself for being such a fool, for being caught off guard. Certainly as a vampire I would have heard his lies a mile away.
Careful, I let none of my insights show on my face.
"That's all right, Billy," I say. "I don't know how to play piano anyway."
He is dizzy with pleasure. "You lied to me?"