Copyright © 2006 De Rozario Jesse
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1
The woman watched the crowd and marked its people, but so far there were no potentials.
The evening started out optimistic as any. Zodiac was packed to canned food tightness on any Friday night, and tonight was no exception. The heavy techno-bass thrummed through her body—through all their bodies—fusing with the drink and dope that most were hyped up on by now. The glaring, colorful lights wailed and flashed like sirens. The woman drank a little, danced some, laughed a lot; she didn't shoot or snort—such things made one weak. She was here alone. Always her eyes, her body, every sense, were searching and scanning the oblivious crowd for that certain kind of man.
She walked through the moving throngs of sweaty bodies and wasted, high faces—her body systems more alert than normal, sensing and interpreting every touch and brush and jostle against her. Even those that came near were picked up by her senses and analyzed for compatibility. She watched every pair of eyes—like laser scanners checking for retinal blueprint, only she searched for something else, for that look of twisted, comprehending desire, that abnormal flash of heat spurred neither by drink nor drug. That compulsion. Lust. That need. Just the anticipation of meeting such a man was enough to switch her hormones to a raging magnitude.
But she was taking her time, being choosy. The Old Ones would have chosen at random any that chanced their fancy. But times were dangerous now. Different. Besides, this selective method lent a greater challenge; and the one she chose would merit his rewards. Why give medicine to a healthy man, or food to those not starving?
The woman smiled.
There were so many of them nowadays. She was certain that every nightspot had at least one; it was only a matter of finding him. As of tonight, she'd never left empty-handed, and had no intention of starting that fad now.
Time passed. Hours.
Nothing.
The woman resigned herself to a long wait. She leaned back against the bar.
She was twenty-five or thirty. It was hard to tell. Sometimes her white face looked innocent as a teenager, and at others, she looked old enough to be that girl's mother. It might have been the light. It might have been something entirely different. Her slim legs were drawn tight together in their black leather. The fabric glistened like wet plastic, but the leather was genuine. Her hands were clenched on her knees like a hunting cat waiting for prey. Her black singlet matched her pants. Heeled boots ended in pointed toes. The woman's hair was jet black—so dark it looked blue—pulled back into a single bunch that didn't swish when she turned. She was not smiling and her lips were parted a crack, but the white points of her incisors peeked out like sprouts. They reflected the lights of the club. Each ear had steel studs through them—four in the left, three in the right. The studs sparkled too. Her lips looked as if she'd just finished putting to waste a handful of blueberries without the juice staining farther than the borders of her curved lips. She sat there, not hearing the music but the heartbeats, seeing not the lights but the eyes, feeling not the heat of sweat but that of hormones and brain waves and instinct. She was prepared to wait all night, if that's what it took. He would come. She was sure of it.
"Hey, lady." The bartender's voice did not startle her. "Lady, can I get you anything?"
The woman turned slowly.
"No thanks," she said.
The music was hellishly loud and of bad taste, and the bartender had to holler his rockers off to be heard, but the woman made direct eye contact and spoke with a calm softness. He heard her fine. Too fine. The clarity frightened him. As if she'd spoken through his mind instead of ears.
The man scurried away to the far end of the bar counter.
The woman went back to watching and listening.
There were over three hundred guests here tonight, but none that suited her. A middle-aged man in a silk suit and wide face hidden by giant bee-like sunglasses sat alone in the deepest corner with his Cuban and Martini. He had a whole table to himself; he sat back and watched with displaced interest as the hours dragged by. Perhaps he would do. Most of the cocaine here tonight was his doing. But he was fat. Fat men tended to last longer. She did not want that. She wanted quick satisfaction.
At the other corner, two blondes were draped over a steadily stoning young man. All three were laughing and smoking and shooting. One of the blondes was massaging the man's groin through his pants. Both of them had a Ruger .22 each. Though it could not hit a man from twenty yards, it might do a good deal of damage at close range—enough to scare the man into surrendering his wallet and cash without a story to the cops. The women also had a notebook of all the targets they had gunned and robbed in the past month. They might do.
No.
Women were always, somehow, strange. They left her feeling queasy after all was said and done with a bitter aftertaste in her mind and on her tongue. But other than these, there were none that caught her fancy.
She would wait.
Then an idea came to her.
There were actions she could do to speed up the noticing and perhaps draw that man to her. Grinning with impish knowledge, the woman slid off her seat and turned towards the Ladies', swinging her hips, moving her arms to the music. Her tight, all-black leather caught a few stares and eye-gropes, but none that interested her. When she returned their appreciative glares, even the most wasted fled in panic.
The restroom was lit with glaring white light, trashed and deserted. Soiled tissue and Carefrees, used condoms, wrappers, bottles: they decorated the place wonderfully and overwhelmingly. The smell was that of old lime and rotted urine. Females can be so atrociously abhorrent of public hygiene, she thought. But at least it was empty. A flashing light from the club behind her glinted off one of the mirrors, reflecting the vibrant color of her eyes: Clear and brilliant as sapphires.
The woman closed the door and turned the lock.
When she was done, she would drink a little more, but just a little; she would dance much more, perhaps get on stage and show the crowd what the steel poles were for; but she'd never touch the needle or powder. They would dull her senses, and she needed every bit of that for later on.
Tonight was hunting night.
2
Zodiac was not his favorite nightspot for finding girls—the kind that could be easily manipulated to supply his need, the kind that was either too stupid or too trusting, or a healthy measure of both.
Craig Joner staked out every Friday night unless he was out of town on business.
He wandered through the club from early that night when it had just opened. It filled quickly on Fridays, but tonight there weren't any takers.
This need started a year ago, when he managed to chalk up substantial debt to a certain Mr. DePulez, but Joner's kind was as old as the dust. They adapted their methods throughout the millenniums of human mutation, the essence remaining unchanged.
When Craig told Mr. DePulez that he didn't have the money to pay him—not yet—the east European only laughed.
"I know you don't, mister Joner," he laughed darkly. Only it sounded like Ah noo ya don, meestah Jonahz. "Of course not. They never do." Av cooz nat. Dey neva doo.
Mr. D explained to Craig how he could save his fingers from getting sawed off before his wife and daughters were auctioned to some brothel in cold eastern Europe. Ya dough-ter izz steel vary yong. Sheed fesh a high prize.
The money lost would have to be regained, he explained, and he knew jas da waay. Craig was choiceless. A few days later, he took his first victim.