Free A Song In The Dark by P. N. Elrod Page B

it down.
    Fed. Until it was an agony.
    Fed. Until it was past agony.
    And then beyond that.
    When I finally broke off and reeled away I had to grab the fence to keep my feet. I held on like a drunk, head sagging, brain spinning, as the red stuff billowed through my guts at hurricane force. For a second I teetered close to vomiting, but the urge passed, and my belly gradually settled into sluggish acceptance of the awful glut.
    I heard someone groaning nearby and snapped my head around to find him before realizing I was the guilty party. What a terrible sound it was, of pleasure and pain chasing each other in a tightening circle, neither one winning, neither one stopping, both leaving me exhausted and nerved up at the same time.
    This, I told myself for the umpteenth time, was not good.
    Down in a dark little cavity within, in a sad, chilly place I didn’t like looking into but could never forget about, clanged the weary and terrifying alarm of what was happening.
    The blood kept me alive.
    And the blood was killing me.

4
    N EON lights, streetlights, warm lights from house windows, cold lights hovering meekly in doorways, and no lights at all in some patches, Strome drove us past a myriad of such beacons of city life until we reached the fiery red diamond-shaped windows of Lady Crymsyn, my nightclub. As soon as we paused in front a man was there opening the car door for me. I stepped out, protected from a thin sleet by the entry’s arched red canopy. I greeted the doorman, then bent for a last word to Strome.
    â€œSee how things are going with Hoyle and phone me. If I’m not in my office, ring the booth downstairs. I’ll be here the rest of the night.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œWhat d’you mean?”
    â€œYou don’t look so good.”
    I didn’t expect that. Not from him. “I’m fine.”
    Pushing away from the Caddy, I barely gave the doormantime to do the other half of his job. He moved quick, though, ushering me inside, then came in after. Some places insisted on having a guy stand his whole shift out in the cold, but I didn’t see the point. Just as many customers would go out as came in, and so long as he did his job he could decide for himself where he wanted to be.
    Wilton was busy at the lobby bar setting drinks before a newly arrived foursome, and nodded a greeting my way. There was a concerned look on his face, too. He’d been getting ready to open when Strome came to take me away.
    I tossed the greeting back and asked how things were going so Wilton would know I was none the worse.
    â€œSlow, but a good crowd for the weather,” he replied.
    â€œAny sign of Myrna?” Myrna used to be a bartender here long before I bought the place. Now she was a ghost. I didn’t have anything to do with causing that.
    â€œNot yet.” Wilton was the only guy here who didn’t mind working the front by himself. He liked Myrna even if she did switch the bottles around. “Whoops—spoke too soon.”
    â€œWhat d’ya mean?”
    He pulled out a bowl of book matches and put it on the bar. Instead of being in orderly rows, neatly folded to show red covers with the club’s name in silver letters, they were all opened wide and tossed every which way.
    â€œGuess she got bored,” he said, looking bemused.
    â€œAsk her if she won’t put ’em back right again.”
    â€œIf she likes ’em that way, who am I to argue?”
    The hatcheck girl came to take my things, but I waved her off, heading for the stairs and my office. I’d left a stack of work there a few ice ages ago.
    From the short, curving passage that led into the main room came Bobbi’s clear strong voice. She was doing abetter job with “The Touch of Your Lips” than Bing Crosby could ever hope for. I paused next to the easel display for her. It held a large black velvet rectangle where her name glittered from silver cutout letters, surrounded