I WORKED out I was hurt, and whatever it was continued to hurt, growing worse. I tried to vanish. Never mind if Bristow saw. Nothing happened. No pleasant escape, no weightless gray limbo, no healing. Something terribly wrong in my back. I flopped one arm around, fingers encountering, then grasping what felt like a screwdriver handle. Quick before anyone could stop me I pulled hard, and heard a man's hoarse cry a full second before the blinding pain shot up through my skull.

Bristow laughed. I'd smash his face to jelly once I got this damned thing-it snapped away...

But the pain continued.

In my hand was the top part of a rusty ice pick. The rest of it, at least half a foot of disruptive metal, remained in my back, screwing things up inside, preventing me from vanishing. To hell with that, I could still fight. I surged toward Bristow, but he danced out of my way, leaving it clear for his men to step in.

Three of them. The one I'd decked earlier was recovered, now armed with brass knuckles.

They went to work on me, or tried to. I landed enough punches to get some respect, but that also made them mad. Fists and feet, clouts and kicks rained on me. One bright boy hammered on my lower back where the ice pick point was imbedded. That was the worst. I roared and swung, sending him hurtling across the room into Dugan.

Things blurred again. I was on the floor again. Didn't know how I'd gotten there. Head felt like a drum. Could barely hear. Could not move.

"... killed him, you idiot," growled Bristow.

"He can't be dead." Sounded like Dugan. But his voice also droned tinnily from another direction.

"Shuddup, you. Turn that crap off, I can't think. What is that?"

They shut off the phonograph. "Donno, Boss. Looks like a homemade record."

"Break it," cried Dugan. "Break them both!"

"I said shuddup. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm being held prisoner here. Please, help me. I'll pay you anything. Get me out of here."

"Why you chained up like that? What the hell kinda place is this?"

"There might be a key to these manacles outside, send one of your men to look."

"Screw that; you answer me."

"Sir, there's no time. The other people in the house may have heard, they could be calling the police. Take me with you, and I'll tell you everything."

"Nobody knows that much. Reef, why'd you hit him so damn hard? I oughta buckwheats you to learn you better."

"He can't be dead," Dugan insisted. "Not Fleming."

"Why, he your boyfriend? Well, too bad for you, gunsel."

"You don't understand, there's something different about him. He's-he's playing possum." Bristow snorted. "Boss," said one of the others. "We should get outta here.

Let's leave 'em and go."

"Take me with you. I can help!" Dugan's voice was high, desperate.

"We don't need no help," said Bristow. "I tell you he's not dead. Let me loose, and I'll prove it!"

"You're nuts. Why else would they chain you up?"

"Because they're monsters! I'll gladly explain everything, but not here."

"Hey, Boss. I think nutzo there has somethin'. Lookit this." Fire in my back as Reef thumped on the ice pick; I flinched, gasped involuntarily. He turned me over, pried open one of my eyelids. Saw me looking back. "He's still kicking. Not a lot."

"It's enough. You guys get him in the car. You, where you know him from?

Why you on the wall like that? You doing some kind of sick games down here?"

"No-no-no! He's been holding me prisoner for something I didn't do. We're mortal enemies. I can help you with him."

"You're the one needs help."

"I can be useful, and I can pay."

"You don't look like you got a plug nickel."

"I assure you I can! Five thousand dollars! I can get it!"

Another snort. "What the hell, why not. You got the money, I'm ahead. You ain't got the money, you don't have a head." He laughed heartily at this. "Reef, find that key he talked about."

"Don't need one, Boss."

An almighty bang filled the room, followed by swearing.

"You trying to kill us? That bullet bounced! You stop!"

"But he's loose. In one shot. Pretty good, huh?"

Bristow swore and rumbled orders. Reef and another man hoisted me up.

They complained about the weight. I twitched to life and kicked, trying to get clear. They came after me; one of them threw too slow a punch. I froze onto his arm and twisted, trying to tear it off. He screamed and just managed to break free with some help. The help was Reef putting one of his heavy shoes into my side. I grabbed and hauled on his leg. Felt like I was moving in syrup, but I still had strength in me. Reef crashed over, yelling. I rolled, taking his foot along. Felt something snap. Heard another scream. Hands on me, tearing, punching.

Face into the floor. How'd I get here?

"He broke it, goddammit! He goddamn broke it!"

I lurched up, spotted Bristow, and lunged at him. He dodged, but I grabbed a meaty shoulder and hung on, pulling myself up, trying to get a choke hold. Yelling, men hitting me... the sharp, confined crack of a gun, my legs going out again.

Cold concrete, fire in my left side, bloodsmell.

"You kill him, Boss?"

A pause as they investigated. Someone turned me over.

Dugan. Free now. Chains still dangling from his wrists. Leering in my face. He tugged at my clothes, digging for the wound.

"What're you doing?"

"Just look!" Dugan had my shirt yanked out of the way.

"So?"

"Watch! Watch what happens to him!"

"What the hell... ?"

Knew what they'd see, tried to move, but there was a flash of light that left me stunned. Someone had hit me again. Must have used wood. As they watched and waited, I had the time to realize they were going to kill me. They would succeed.

Of all of them, Dugan was the one who would know how to do it.

Couldn't let him...

"See! It's healing right up!" he cried.

I lashed at him, hands on his throat, my lips peeled back in a breathless snarl.

He struggled, tried to get away-

Shot.

My right side, down in the belly. God, I couldn't stand it. Blood rushing out, the terrible burning as outraged flesh forced itself to knit together. Wanted to vanish, anything to stop the pain.

"You see?" Dugan panted hoarsely. "You can't kill him."

"Oh, yeah?" Bristow sounded interested.

"Boss, we gotta get outta here. Someone upstairs will have heard."

"Yeah-yeah. Get 'em. You, there, you wanna help, you get Reef walking. Tib, Lissky, pick that skinny bastard up, and get to the car."

"But, Boss..."

"I said he was buckwheats, and I keep my promises. Hey- I told ya to help Reef."

Noise across the room. The rattle of chains, then a cracking as Dugan broke the two phonograph records to shards. "Yes, of course, right away. Where are we going?"

"Never you mind."

Long climb up the stairs. I was too hurt to hinder them. They'd just drop me, and I could break something in the fall and make it worse. Had to wait, marshal my waning strength.

If I could just get that metal pick out of me... my back...

Escott. Where was he? He must have heard something. Maybe waking for the right moment, too. He'd want to keep Vivian out of the line of fire. Get her safe, keep everyone in the house quiet, then move in.

But he stayed clear. No sign of him as they hauled me through the kitchen. Had they taken him earlier? I'd left him in the front; these guys had come in by the back. He could have completely missed them. There were a lot of walls in between.

Their car with the missing door was parked next to my Buick. They couldn't have followed me here or they'd have crashed the party sooner. Must have trailed Brockhurst instead. They'd have remembered him and Marie, maybe stopped them, asked questions, thinking it would lead to me. Had those two been in on it?

Ring the front bell, draw attention in that direction?

Bristow opened the car; Tib and Lissky dropped me in the trunk. I landed bad, bit off the cry as the pick point seemed to drive in deeper. Tib slammed the trunk lid down. Felt jouncing as they loaded into the car. Dugan, too. Could hear his voice against Bristow's rumble, then the engine gunned, and we rolled forward, bumping over uneven ground before finding the pavement. Swoop and bump as we made the road.

My guts wanted to turn inside out. Sick and sweating, I was able to move, but each time cost me. Pretzeled around with one arm, searching for the pick point.

My fingers were numb and slick. They brushed against bloodied skin.

Smooth bloodied skin. No sign of the broken-off point. None. Oh, dear God, I'd healed up with the damn thing inside me.

Wanted to pass out. My body didn't cooperate. Was conscious of every awful moment of an endless drive full of turns and pauses. The thrum of the motor, the stink of exhaust when I once chanced to draw breath. Cold seeped into my bones, made me shiver. If I could stop it, make myself hold still, not respond to them, look dead, they'd leave me alone. Dugan might see past the ruse, though. He knew a little about me, what I was, but how much?

They finally stopped and got out. The stillness and silence pressed hard, made me think they'd left for good. In a couple days some curious cop might have the car towed, in a couple more days someone might open the trunk and find me.

What was left of me. Would I live that long? I didn't know. Didn't want to know.

The lid shot up. Tib and Lissky again, grunting and heaving me around like a sack of rocks. I tried to be completely limp, eyes slitted. Glimpse of a dim, empty street, tall, flat-sided buildings. A single light glowing harsh blue on a pole far, far away at the end. Familiar smell in the air: farmyard stench mixed with death. If my heart had been beating, it would have leaped. We were near the Stockyards.

"What place is this?" Dugan again. He was supporting Reef, who hopped along on his left foot.

"Get in or I'll plug ya!" Bristow. Sounded drunk.

Tib had my shoulders, Lissky my legs. They walked clumsy, lugging my weight with small steps. A doorway. High, looming walls. A second door. Metallic clunk and snick, wash of cold air. Colder than the January air outside. Bloodsmell everywhere. My corner teeth emerged, lengthened. Instinctive hunger. Needed to restore what I'd lost.

"Down over there," said Bristow.

They dropped me sprawling. More concrete. Like ice. Bloodsmell permeated it, but there was no blood. High above were metal rafters, a system of pulleys and rails like at a laundry, but bigger, bulkier. Hooks, chains, massive things hanging from some of them like misshapen Christmas ornaments. A meat locker of some sort. Those were sides of beef.

"Legs," said Bristow, the word visible in the clammy cold.

One of them put my ankles together. Instinct told me what might be coming.

Memories of stories Gordy passed on told me what would be coming. I fought, kicking; wordless, panicked, desperation gave me a burst of strength. I broke Lissky's arm. He fell away, cursing. Tib slammed into my temples with the brass knucks until I didn't have anything left but the pain. He tied my feet. Heard a rattling. Too heavy be Dugan's chains. What... ?

Tib dragged a meat hook down and slipped it under the knots between my ankles. The hook was attached to thick chain that looped into a pulley system. It was how they hung the beef up. My turn, now. He hauled sharp on more chain, like drawing a curtain.

I was yanked fast across the rough floor, then my legs bobbed straight up, carrying the rest of me helplessly along. My lungs rushed into my throat, trying to come out. Lifted clear from the floor, I swung dizzily, twisting, arms dangling. He pummeled my gut a few times like a boxer testing a new bag, then grabbed my hands, tying them behind me. With a knife he cut my coat and shirt off. My pale skin puckered against the freezing air.

Bristow's upside down face came into view. Bleak eyes, small teeth, the lower ones yellowed and so level they looked filed. "Still with us? That's good. Jeeze, what with his mouth? You ever see anything like that?"

Dugan, still manacled, stood off to the side. "What are you going to do to him?"

"The same thing I'll do to you if you don't make good on that five grand you promised."

"Let me go, and I'll fetch it. Send one of your men along with me." He gestured at Lissky, who hobbled away, clutching his arm. He made it through the metal refrigeration door to join Reef sitting in the outer room.

"It can wait 'til I'm done. You watch an' learn something."

"You won't be able to kill him. Not the way you think."

Bristow grinned. "Good." He took off his topcoat and tight-fitting jacket, giving them to Tib.

"You're wasting him! He's more useful alive!"

"Not to me." He rolled up his shirtsleeves and held his hand out. Tib put the knife into it.

"You can't do that! I have to-"

Tib backhanded Dugan, who emitted a yelp and staggered away, fingers to his suddenly bruised face. He looked dumbfounded.

"Bristow."

He turned. "Huh?"

I struggled to take in a breath. "Bristow..." It came out uneven, barely audible, but brought him over.

"What d'ya want, fancy boy?"

"Nuh... you. You want. Gordy?"

Bristow chuckled. "Now ain't that how it always works. Show 'em a little tough and they'll sell their gran'ma the first chance. What about Gordy?"

"I can. Give him... to you."

"Oh, yeah? Where is he?"

"Cut me down. Just leave. I'll tell you." .

"That's no kind of deal."

"You get Chicago. I want nothing. Just walk away."

"An' leave you alive?"

"I won't live through this."

Another laugh. "Bet your ass you won't."

"You want Gordy?"

His eyes glinted. "I already got him, fancy boy. Don't need your help at all."

The knife blade flashed bright under the high, dim lights.

Oh, God, no...

He started in.

I'm not brave. Screams ruptured out of me same as for any tortured animal.

They didn't sound remotely human. I shrieked and bucked until empty of air, then continued to jerk and twitch with each new slice. Blood ran down my flanks, my face, into my eyes, my mouth. I tried to swallow it back again. I prayed for Escott to find me. I prayed for death to end it. What blood was left in me billowed into my skull, keeping me conscious. The only respite was when Bristow paused to drink from a flask. His shirt got splattered with gore. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were vacant. No way to tell if he could see anything, but he had to as he carved me like a turkey.

Off in a corner, Dugan reached his limit and vomited his guts out.

Bristow noticed that much and laughed at him.

Tib took advantage of the pause. "Boss, we gotta look after Reef and Lissky pretty soon."

"We will."

"But that shit smashed 'em hard."

"An' I'm givin' him payback for it. So they gotta little hurt, have 'em call their mamas if it's so bad. We can't leave yet, and they know it."

"When will he get here?" This from Lissky, calling from the next room, his voice tight.

"When you see him. What's your hurry? You got a show to watch."

He started on me again.

I couldn't stand it, thrashed like a fish. Screamed without breath, begged for it to stop. Begged in silence, mouth working, nothing coming out.

Then by chance Bristow got too close to my face. He may have been trying to cut off one of my ears. I was crazy by then, reacting, not thinking, unable to think.

I bit into the thick flesh of his bared forearm and held on, teeth grinding into the tough meat.

His turn to bellow, to try breaking free. I clamped hard, mindless with pain and hunger, sucking greedily at his blood while it was there to be had. He'd reduced me to this.

He went crazy, too, yelling and beating at me, finally stabbing with his knife. I felt the blade like vague body blows. Any one of them fatal to a normal man, just more agony for me. No ending to it.

Bristow finally wrenched away, his deep voice gone hysterically high as he clutched his wounded arm. He'd stripped off some of my skin, I ripped out a piece of his in turn. It tasted strangely sweet as I sucked the last of his blood from it like an orange slice. When nothing more remained, I spat out the meat. It hit the wet floor, making a little splattering plop in the blood already there.

Someone was using me, giving me a soft voice, making me laugh, a long thin, insane sound. It didn't last. I held still, trying to ease the sickening to -and-fro swing of my body.

Dugan cautiously came up, eyes wide, and steadied me. Green-faced, he glanced at Bristow and Tib. Bristow streamed curses while a grimly silent Tib wrapped my shredded shirt around his boss's arm.

"Why don't you vanish?" Dugan asked, sounding desperate.

Felt that laughter again. It didn't make it out. Too weak. Too hungry.

"Why?"

I sucked blood-tainted air and breathed a soft word. "Pick."

He was confused. "Pick what?"

"Getitout. Back."

"You mean that ice pick?"

"Ssssh. Yesss..."

He couldn't find it, though. Not under all that damage, not now. He blanched and looked helpless.

Bristow shook away from Tib. "That sick bastard! I'll kill him!"

Seeing what was coming, Dugan ducked clear and ran.

I didn't see, but felt it, the streams of fire like comets plowing through me, my body twitching for each bullet that struck. The gun thundered in the cavernous building four times, then clicked on empty chambers as Bristow kept pulling the trigger.

"You got him, Boss," said Tib when the echoes died.

Bristow didn't want to believe. He approached, prodded me with the gun muzzle. It was hot. I didn't notice. I was past that; my red life poured out front and back, leaving a drained husk. Couldn't even blink.

He struck again, using the knife, digging viciously into my shoulder.

Nothing. Some part of my brain cried anguish, but the message never got out.

"Too quick," Bristow muttered.

"Yeah, Boss," agreed Tib. "You wanna let's go take care of that arm?"

"You see me whining? We wait 'til he gets here."

"Yeah, Boss."

"Where'd that gunsel go? Did he leave?"

"No, Boss." This from Reef. "He went off into the building. Ain't no exits there."

"You sure?"

"All the doors is locked inside 'n out. Keeps the workers from lifting the beef after hours. C'mon, Boss, let's leave 'em. We can meet this other guy tomorrow."

"And have Gordy up and looking for me by then? No."

"Kroun said he croaked."

"I don't believe that. Not 'til I see him hanging in here I don't. We meet up and go finish things for sure."

"What if he don't show?"

Before Bristow could reply, someone banged on the outer entry door. "Open that," he ordered Tib, the only man still undamaged.

Tib pushed on the horizontal opening bar. "It's about damn time."

Strome walked in, ungloved hands hanging loose, his overcoat open, same as the jacket beneath so he could easily get to his gun. He took two steps in, giving Reef and Lissky a critical eye. "What happened to you?"

"In here," said Bristow.

With a nod to Tib, Strome came into the locker, squinting in the low light, stopping when he saw me.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he said. "What the hell you been doing here?"

"Little party. You're late."

"Had to take care of stuff at the club. Derner wanted to keep me there."

"You're not welching on us." A warning tone.

"No, I'm not w-"

"You were falling down drunk tonight-"

"I wasn't drunk! Just got tired is all. I was sleeping. What is this? Who's that guy?" He came close. Drew a sharp breath. "Shit! You know who that is?"

"Dead meat." Bristow sounded satisfied.

"But it's Fleming. He and Gordy are that tight."

"Then they can play pinochle in hell together for all I care. He's dead now, and Gordy' s on his way out-if you hold to what you said.'

"I'll hold if you do, but jeeze... Fleming. What'd you do to him? I heard the guy was indestructible."

"Only 'cause he never met me."

"Never saw it hit anyone that way before. Jeeze. He looks a week gone already." Strome stared a moment more, then shrugged. "Let's get going."

Bristow needed help with his suit coat. Tib assisted. They got Bristow's good arm in its sleeve, draping the rest over his shoulder. Strome, ignoring me now, watched their struggles, his hand slipping inside his own coat.

In the outer room I heard the street door softly open.

Lissky said, "Hey... !"

The rest was drowned by sudden gunfire.

Bristow and Tib came alert, but too late. Strome had his .45 out and caught them both from behind. Almost in unison they dropped to their knees and heeled over, strings cut. I gently swung and sensed blood that was not my own flooding the air, longing for it.

"You got 'em?" Strome called out in the silence.

"Yeah. You?"

He experimentally kicked each body. "They're gone."

Derner stepped in, frowning, eyes first for Bristow and Tib on the floor, then wide on me. "Jeeze, who's... ?"

"Fleming. Can you believe it? Lookit how they did him."

"Gordy ain't gonna like that."

"He can throw him a big funeral to make up for it."

Derner shook his head. "That kid had something, but he was too cocky."

"Hurry an' let's get these bums inside. You put the fix in with the manager?"

"Yeah, everyone has the weekend off. We got plenty of time to clean up later.

No one's coming here."

They holstered their guns and proceeded to drag Lissky and Reef into the meat locker, lining them up next to their boss on the floor.

I gently swung, helpless, struggling to make a noise, to move, anything to attract their attention. With all my effort behind it I managed to blink. They missed it. I had no strength left for another try.

They shut the light, slammed the door, locked it.

Pitch black. Not the vaguest glimmer of outside glow.

They shut and locked the outside door. Distant noise of a car starting, driving off.

Silence.

I gently swung, suspended in the darkness, and prayed for death.

Hours seemed to go by before I heard a sound. A stealthy sigh of working lungs. A chain clinking. The soft pad of a football.

Then Dugan blundered into one of the sides of beef and made a lot more noise disentangling himself.

His teeth were chattering. Heart racing as he fought to control his breath, keep it quiet. He made his way slowly toward the front. Not an easy task in the dark.

Must have used the straight rows of hanging meat as a guide.

He reached their end, though, and had to strike out over the open floor. I could imagine him, arms extended, frozen feet cautiously questing, in a panic that the gangsters would return or that cold would get to him before he could escape.

A gasp as he encountered a wall. His hands lightly scrabbled, searching for the door, the light switch. He found the door first, pushed on the latch bar. It clunked uncooperatively. Locked. He fought with it, rattling hard, not caring about noise, now. It remained stubbornly in place.

More scrabbling, then the lights sprang suddenly on.

Dim as they were, he winced against them. Still in stocking feet, coatless, he'd wrapped his chains up around each arm to keep them out of the way and quiet.

They came unwrapped when he saw the bodies and staggered back from them. He stared down, as though not believing them, stared for a long minute, before pouncing on Tib. He took the dead man's shoes off, hopping as he fitted them on his own feet. He began struggling for the topcoat, then spotted Bristow's where it lay discarded on a bench. Dugan wrapped his chains around again and hauled it on over them, buttoning every button. He searched the pockets, didn't seem to find what he wanted, and went on to the other men. He turned out wallets and guns and keys-which were useless, since the door locked on the outside.

He studied one of the guns carefully before picking it up as though it were a rattlesnake. A semiauto, he didn't seem to like the look of it. One of the others in his little kidnap gang must have been the trigger man for that old couple killed in Indiana.

Dugan rose, turned, and aimed shakily at the metal door. He worked up to it, eventually pulling the trigger. Nothing happened. He didn't understand the safety was on. When he looked for it, pulling and pushing at things, he managed to eject the magazine. He put the weapon down in disgust and tried the door again, this time throwing himself against it.

That didn't work either. He lifted another gun, Bristow's. A more simple revolver, but all the chambers were empty. He found that out when he tried to use it. He got two more off Tib and Lissky, and finally figured out how to shoot. He used up all his bullets on the door, missing at point blank range because he kept turning his face away each time he fired.

All that effort and he was still trapped. There were lots of holes in the metal framework, some of them even close to the latch, but none had broken the lock.

He lay partly on his back, braced, and started methodically hammering the door with his feet until he got too tired.

Panting, he rested, and looked around. What he needed was a crowbar. He could use it to pry apart the wooden walls that faced outside, which is what I'd have done instead of attacking the reinforced entry.

He scavenged noisily out of my view. I could follow his progress by his rattling chains. They'd slipped down his wide sleeves and now dragged musically on the concrete.

When he returned, he had other chains and hooks.

And very unexpectedly, he lowered me to the floor.

My head was cocked at an awkward angle. I couldn't see what he was up to, but vaguely felt him working on my ankle bindings.

He wasn't trying to help me. It was the hook from which I'd been dangling.

He'd wanted that hook, which was closest.

The cold made him clumsy. It took him a while to link everything together, and he was hampeted by his manacles. Eventually he ran a length of chain to the door, along with another hook, looping it around the horizontal push bar.

That didn't work either. When he hauled on the chain and pulley that had dragged me up, all it did was snap the bar from the door. The broken pieces cracked in half, the chain whipping dangerously around in recoil.

Dugan sagged. Apparently that was his last brilliant idea. I had a couple but couldn't express them. However, I was lying flat, which was much better, even if my arms were pinned and numb under my back. I could sense the remaining blood in me slowly settling, spreading out to where it was supposed to be.

Without having to struggle against gravity, I managed to bring in a small trickle of air... and blow it out again, whistling against my teeth.

In the heavy silence, the sound galvanized Dugan. He turned like he'd been struck and glared down at me.

Glaring back, I blinked. Twice.

He didn't want to come closer, wary after what I'd done to Bristow, but he had to in order to hear.

"You're alive?" he whispered.

I was dead. The rest of me just hadn't caught up yet. I drew air, timing my words, choosing them. "Willhelpyou."

It took him a bit to digest this. "Help me? Why?"

"Wannalive."

He couldn't seem to work out whether that was a reply or a question. "How can you help me?"

"Bloodfirst."

"What? I'm not feeding you." He looked disgusted.

"Theirs."

He gaped. "I can't!"

Breath. "Thenweboth." Breath. "Freezetodeath."

Dugan thought it over. Not for long. "What do I do?"

"Cutone. Getblood. Pan. There."

He cast around, spotting a stack of wide flat pans against the wall. They were shallow, only inches deep but a couple of feet across. I didn't know their precise use, but with Dugan's help I could improvise a horrifying new one.

Fear made him a quick study. He fetched a pan. A few words at a time, I told him what to do. He got the ropes off my ankles and used them on one of the dead men, similarly trussing his feet. Tib. Dugan used the hook and pulley again, and lifted the body up until it hung upside down over the pan.

Then Dugan found the knife and, hands shaking, cut deeply across Tib's throat.

Only he wasn't quite dead, either.

Tib choked and gagged himself conscious. His flailing arms set him swinging, and he made a hell of a mess as his arterial blood shot across the floor. Some of it splattered me, but not near my mouth. Dugan actually screeched, completely unnerved, darting out of range of Tib's clutching hands.

It seemed to take forever for him to die, swaying like a clock pendulum, but eventually his fighting weakened and slowed and stopped. The last of his blood trickled into the catch pan below. It steamed in the cold air.

I was still tied at the wrists. That didn't stop me. The bloodsmell was crazy-making. I wriggled toward it, too weak to crawl, too desperate to wait.

Dugan, visibly fighting revulsion, came over and cut the last of the ropes. I couldn't feel my arms but used them, dragging myself up and over the edge of the pan.

Human blood, more than I'd ever dared take from a living person before. No problem about the living this time. It had pooled at my end, and I pressed my face into it, drinking deep. Cooling already, it was still sweet... and terrifying. I ignored the latter and fed, and I felt my body trying to heal itself, using every ounce I took in, flushing me with warmth, then fiery heat. My back and sides burned steadily, then suddenly were much too hot. Had to stop, gasping. It was almost like being skinned all over again, but in reverse. Couldn't hold back these cries, either. I fell away, shuddering, convulsing out of control.

If I could just vanish, the awful healing process would be done in an instant, then I'd materialize again, tired, but whole.

Impossible with that metal point in me. The idea of asking Dugan to cut it out... no. Couldn't trust him, didn't dare. He hovered just out of reach, his face a mask of hope and horror as the shakes tore through me.

The spasms gradually eased in force, then stopped. I felt drowsy, but the pain of hunger kept sleep at bay. The blood-smell tormented me to get up again and take more. The longer I lay the worse it became. When the craving overcame my lethargy, I drank again until all the blood was gone. Then I slumped and rested, waiting, relishing the slow restoration. Everything hurt, though not as badly; I was still impossibly fragile. My hands, arms, were skeletal, the skin shrunken. My face must have looked like a skull with eyes and hair.

"More," I said to Dugan. My voice was odd, hoarse. All that screaming had taken its toll. "Get me another one."

"I can't. I can't touch them." He'd pressed against the door.

I gave him a look. "You will. If not them, it'll be you. Sooner or later, you'll fall asleep in this cold. What you wanna bet that I last longer?"

He made a small noise in his throat, and he stooped to lug another man over.

Bristow. He'd been shot once, seemed to have caught it in the heart and hadn't bled too badly. It took ten long minutes for Dugan to swap the bodies around. He hesitated over cutting this new throat.

Impatient, I saved him the trouble and moved in. Kneeling put me on a level with Bristow's neck. He dangled, meaty arms hanging out from his thick body, looking like his namesake, a slaughtered hog.

As I drew near and stretched his neck just that much more, I realized he was also still alive. His eyes were open. And aware.

Oh, but this was good.

"Hello, Ignance," I whispered, grinning.

He gave a little moan. He wasn't too far gone. He could still be afraid. Maybe in his tiny little brain he'd finally worked out that there really was something different about me, something he should have been afraid of all along.

I drew in his fear-scent, tasting it like wine with nose and tongue. Heady stuff.

Unforgettable. Unique. Delightful.

It stirred things in me, long-buried things. Stuff I never looked at if I could help it. Dark, bloody insanity was the least of that dreadful hoard of sickness. It surged up and caught me hard, and this time I saw no reason to resist its pull. It was right, had always been right. Why hadn't I seen that?

I bit, hard and careless, tearing Bristow's flesh as he'd torn mine. He wailed and fought, not as strongly as Tib, just enough to make his blood pump out that much faster. I didn't get it all at first, but God, what was there... satisfying and potent. Who'd have thought the bastard would taste so wonderful?

My strength growing, I held him fast and fed and fed and fed. I could feel my limbs filling out. It had never hit me this strongly before. I'd enjoyed human blood, from the smallest sips taken in the ecstasy of love to vast gulps while trying to save my life, but it had never been this intense in its effect. Those other times I had not been trying to kill. Not on purpose. I'd come close to it, once, seduced by curiosity and lust. In the end, and, just in time for my victim, I'd snapped out of the spell. Not so now. No need for it. I wanted this man dead, and I would be his willing and joyful executioner.

His struggles diminished, eventually ceased. His heart fluttered frantically a little longer, trying to push blood that wasn't there, before giving up. He slipped quietly into that last silence with me still strongly holding him, feeding from him.

Cooling, but yet sweet. I drank long. Gravity, not a pumping muscle made that red fountain flow. The taste changed now that he was dead. The headlong rush of vitality too quickly faded, making the blood no different from that which had been stored in a bottle. Regardless, I drank like a bum on a binge, past the point where need ended and greed began.

Then past that point as well.

"Fleming! Stop!"

Continuing to drink, I sluggishly looked over. Apparently the sucking noises had been too much for Dugan's sensibilities.

He seemed aghast, was on the verge of tears. "You weren't like this in the cattle pen."

No, but I'd not been this close to death then. I could look back on that moment with fond affection for my complaisant innocence. How neatly I'd accomplished that feeding, taking care not to spill, being so tidy with my handkerchief. Now it was as though I'd bathed in the stuff.

And I liked it.

Slowly, I pulled away. There was nothing left. I'd taken it all.

"You were curious about me, my kind," I said, fighting off the threat of more thin laughter. "Well, here it is with the gloves off. Whatd'ya think?"

He had no words, though his expression was eloquent. He wanted no part of it.

I was oddly lightheaded. Had the impression I was standing outside of myself, hands clasped, watching a play starring me. It had been a very long time since my last experience with this feeling, but I remembered it. I was drunk. Very drunk.

The alcohol in Bristow's blood had me all but reeling. It felt good.

I levered to my feet, off balance a moment. It was reassuring to see everything solidly back on the floor again and no longer clinging to the ceiling. "And you didn't care for Sarah 'cause of a little drool? How about the unvarnished undead?

You should give it a try!"

"You promised to get us out of here," he said, easing along the wall away from me.

"I guess I did, and I'm a man of my word."

What a amazing song the blood made, playing light through my brain. No beating heart within to keep time, but you couldn't have everything. I was still able to dance, though, and cut a turn on my way to the door. Nearly slipped. The floor was slick. What a mess. Not mine to clean up. I'd have one of the waiters see to it.

I'd bring the whole damn crew down here, band and all. In a space like this, the music would boom through the huge building. Lots of room for dancing.

Fell against the door. It rattled. I threw a disgusted look at Dugan. A grown guy like him, and he couldn't take care of a little thing like this? It was cardboard, nothing but cardboard. Pressed against it, tried to vanish. Oh, that wasn't working right now. No matter. One good shove.

Ow. Bare wet shoulder on freezing cold metal. All right, another shove, hit it hard and fast.

Crack, crash, thump, as its hinges came out and the slab of metal-sheathed wood slammed open and fell with a boom. Dark office. Didn't hold my interest.

Stagger across to the other door. Huh. Even that sissy in the back could take care of this one. Well, maybe not. I went against it before noticing it opened inward.

No problem. Grasped the knob and pulled it like a bad tooth. Let it fall with a clunk. No lock, no prison. Very simple. I greeted the fresh night air.

Damn, that tasted fine. Much better than the stale stuff trapped in the meat locker.

Dugan hurtled past me. There was a car in the street, missing its driver's door.

He got into it, jangled some keys. He was shaking, stealing quick looks at me while trying to find the starter. The motor turned over, and he gunned out, nearly stripping the gears in his haste.

I wanted to chase after him, but it was just too much trouble. He'd go to his friends. I'd look them up later. We'd have a big party. I'd find out just how much Four Roses Anthony darling could pack away in one sitting. Maybe Bobbi would oblige me and sock back a bottle, then I'd take it out of her again so I could keep on feeling like this. We'd make a contest of it...

Missed my footing and fell. Landed painfully in a wet gutter. Rolled on my back in the cold street. This wasn't nice at all.

Took stock. Pants and shoes, but no shirt and coat. Can't get into any class places without those. No money. Wallet was in my missing coat.

Not promising, said the spectator outside of myself. He looked just like me but was dressed and cleaned up. Indulgently bemused expression on his mug. Held my wrist toward him. I still had my watch. So what if it was so thick with dried blood I couldn't tell the time. I could pawn it for some booze...

The spectator wasn't applauding this performance. He shook his head and pointed toward the wings. I didn't like being onstage anyway. MC work was as far as it went; leave the entertainment to the talents.

Crept to my feet again, left the gutter, began walking. No shirt, no shelter, and it was getting damned cold all of a sudden. I should go back and find my clothes...

They've been cut off, the spectator told me.

Shied away from thinking about what happened after that.

I plodded on, vaguely recognizing the streets. Of course. Escott's office was around here. Rent was cheap this close to the Yards. The stink was hell in the summer when the wind was wrong, but you got used to it. One more corner, halfway down the block, up the stairs... only to find the pebble-glassed door with his name painted on it was locked. Couldn't remember where the key might be.

Too bad. I pulled the knob off this one, too, and pushed inside.

This place was too plain. Just the same old desk and chair and empty white walls. I'd go nuts in here. Maybe that was his problem. He was nuts and didn't know it. But then I heard all English guys were crazy.

I dropped behind the desk and grabbed the phone, dialing the number and waiting a while before realizing I'd not taken the earpiece off its cradle. That was damn funny.

But the spectator visibly sighed, rolling his eyes. Try again.

I did so, calling home. Let it ring a dozen times. Gave up. Who should I call next?

The spectator pointed at me.

Well, that made sense. I dialed. Ring-ring-ring a lot of times, then a man said hello.

"Hello?" I echoed back.

"Is that you, Mr. Fleming?"

"Hello, I'm calling Mr. Fleming. He's got to be there or I wouldn't have called."

"This is Wilton, Mr. Fleming. You okay? You sound funny."

So there I said to the spectator. I can be amusing. "I am great! Strome and Derner are okay like me. Maybe. You tell that to Gordy. They didn't stick around an' they shoulda-"

"Is Mr. Escott there?"

"Strangely, he is not, and this was his office the last I heard, but Bristow is bust-o, only you can't tell anyone. Wasn't me that did it. Wish it had been, but the tooth fairy ain't taking orders."

"You want I should find Mr. Escott?"

"Why? Does he owe you money?" I began to snicker, couldn't stop.

"Where are you, Mr. Fleming?"

"On the damn phone, where do you think?" Another burst of laughter. I couldn't stop at all.

"You need some help?"

"Yes, I think I do. We'll put in to the NRA tomorrow. Work for everyone.

Bulldozers and picks and shovels, and we'll make a new parking lot. Picks... pick, ice pick. Those things hurt like hell. Did you know that? They still do. Ow." I hung up, satisfied I'd done a good job.

Crick in my back from all the work. A really bad crick. It had no business hurting that much. Maybe if I had a nap, it would go away. Escott kept a cot in the next room. He wouldn't mind me using it.

This half of the joint was plain, too. He should do it up like my nightclub. Put in some pictures or something. I swiped sullenly at an unrelieved white wall, leaving behind a smear of red. Uh-oh. Tried to wipe it off Made it worse.

Washroom, towels there. Clean it before it dries.

Stared with shock at the empty mirror over the sink. Now that was taking the plain-jane stuff just too damned far. Where had I gone? The spectator reflection peered over where my shoulder should be, shrugging.

Well, a lot you know. He looked way too much like me. Maybe I could look at him instead of the mirror.

As long as I was there, I washed my hands. God, that water was cold. Sluiced it over my arms, face, and torso. The sink filled up with red; the floor and walls got splattered. A new job for the waiters. They'd want a raise for this.

A very insistent alarm clock went off. I shut the water and, dripping, searched for the annoyance. It was still dark out. I didn't have to get up for work until eight.

My editor didn't come in until nine, and what he didn't see wouldn't hurt me...

Ringing, ringing. Oh. It was the damn phone.

"Hello?"

"Jack? Are you all right?"

"I'm great! Who's this?"

He sounded surprised. "It's Charles. What's happened to you? Where's Dugan?"

"Driving around-"

"What?"

"He didn't look so good, but I'm just great!"

Pause at the other end. I cheerfully waited him out. "Jack, I want you to stay right there in the office. Promise me you won't leave."

"Sure. Bring up a bottle. There's a legger lives just around the corner from me.

His stuff won't blind you. You know the one?"

"Erm-yes, of course. You'll stay there?"

"We need ice."

"I'll get some. You sit and wait for me, all right?"

"Sure!"

There was a hard clunk as he hung up. Guess he was in a hurry. Poor duck should get out more. Where had I met him ... ?

Gosh, I was cold. Still hadn't quite cleaned up all the way, either. Won't get a girl at the party looking like this. Where was my shirt? Maybe I should stay home for once. Funny kind of house. You call that a bed? Was I back in the army again?

Naw, couldn't be, this place didn't have any roaches. France was full of 'em. Rats, too. They liked the trenches.

Uh-oh, something ugly down that road I didn't want to see again, either. Pull back, look for a flop instead. There, easy does it so the cot doesn't break under me. Wrestle the blanket around. Warmer, now. Hey, a radio. I must be rich. Nice one, too. Didn't have to wear a headset to listen.

Dance music. Funny stuff. Didn't like it. Twirled the dial. Lots of static.

Everyone's gone to bed already, dammit. There, couple of guys talking. Sounded like Shakespeare. Yeah, that'll put me out.

Their recording must have gotten scratched, the needle stuck in the same groove. One of them kept saying wake up, wake up. Then he started shaking me.

Ow. That hurt something in my back.

"Lay off, f'cryin' out loud! You'll wake Mom 'n' Dad!" I waved away one of my older brothers, trying to bury myself under the quilts. Those guys were always picking on me.

"Jack, are you all right?"

"I'm great!"