“Sure thing, give me just a minute.”
He learned that her name was Hannah O’Shea, she was the barman’s wife, and they made a decent living running this place. When she came to set a basin and lantern on the chair, which was also a washstand apparently, Rick carefully closed the door behind her. She turned at the sound, and he caug
ht her gaze. Murmured words of comfort until she drifted into a stupor, settling on the bed as if she slept. He took her wrist and drank from it.
Not much. Not enough to do serious harm. A few swallows of rich blood, which filled him with fire and life. The burning in his veins settled, the thirst quenched. Hannah might be a little dizzy for the evening, but he held her gaze and reassured her that all was well, she just needed to drink some water and eat a little something, it was probably the heat made her feel a little off. She agreed, apologizing for nodding off like that, and he gently sent her off to the rest of her business.
It was not a perfect system, but it worked well enough in emergencies. He could now safely move among the saloon’s patrons without fear of losing himself. Time was, he had friends who knew what he was and were willing to offer up some of their blood for him. He’d been so grateful—not just for the blood but for the companionship. Now—he’d been alone in the wilderness too long.
Denver. Denver would be different.
He washed, shaved, put on his spare shirt—smelled a little of horse, but he aired it out the best he could. Put on his coat. He trusted he made a presentable enough picture.
At last, he emerged. He probably didn’t look too awful.
The saloon was exactly what he expected, full of miners and cowboys, workmen and itinerates finishing their day by drinking and gambling the money they’d earned. The place was popular, the bar and tables full. Several card games were in progress—and yes, Holliday was still at the table against the far wall. A crowd two deep gathered to watch. Man had a reputation, after all.
Ricardo sidled up to lean against the bar, to take stock of the place, to think for a minute about what he needed to do next. Get a horse, get to Denver, settle in. Place like this ought to be just a stop on the road. But he was intrigued. He’d met legends before and known he was seeing something special.
“Get you a drink?” asked the barman—Frank, Ricardo remembered.
“Whiskey,” Ricardo said. “Just a bit.” He didn’t drink—not in the usual sense, anyway—but it was good to have something in hand to blend in. Frank poured him a shot, and Ricardo had a thought. He asked, “How long has Holliday been in town?”
“Just a few days. On his way to Leadville I hear, but there’s plenty of action in town, he decided to stay for a few.”
“And you get the usual cut?”
He grinned happily, and Ricardo thought about all those miners and prospectors working to get rich at entirely the wrong end of things.
Ricardo leaned in. “You have any work needs doing around here? I’m looking to earn some cash before I head out. And I wouldn’t mind sticking around to see the action.”
The barman nodded in perfect understanding. He could charge admission to watch Holliday deal faro. “Been a little shorthanded. What all can you do?”
“Anything,” Ricardo said.
“Tend bar? Clean the place? Deal with riffraff?”
“Oh yes,” Ricardo said, a curl on his lip. He didn’t even have to catch the man’s gaze and twist his will to make him believe. Holliday brought in business, but he brought in trouble, too, and they were trying to balance the both. A strong young man behind the bar might help with keeping folks in line.
So, Ricardo had a job.
Four nights in, Ricardo had become familiar, part of the furniture. He’d demonstrated his value to Frank—after that first shot of whiskey, he didn’t take another drink. Nothing better than a sober barman. He’d stopped two fights already without fuss or trouble. Just grabbed the miscreants by their collars, looked them in the eyes, and walked them out the door. Had a knack for it, Frank observed happily, and gave Ricardo a bonus both times it happened. If regular folk felt safe in his place, they’d come spend their money.
Ricardo could bend this whole town to his will. Gather to himself a whole collection of servants who worshipped him. This was what his kind normally did, what they were made to do.
He’d heard the arguments, and he did not like them. He didn’t want servants, he wanted friends, just a few. But they died so quickly, and the older he got, the quicker they died. More than three centuries, and the paradox of his existence was still revealing itself to him.
Holliday was always at his table when Ricardo emerged for the night and rarely retired before he did. Coughing kept him awake, he said, and if he was awake, he might as well be making money. Every couple of hours he’d come to the bar to refill his drink, and he’d talk. Each night, a little more.
“I have heard of some folk having a sensitivity to sunlight,” Holliday said, drinking off the last from his tumbler and holding it out for more. Ricardo obliged. “Your condition appears to be most severe.”
They had done this dance for four days. Somehow, Holliday knew what he was and seemed to be watching for bodies stashed under the bar, studying Ricardo’s mouth for a glimpse of telltale fangs. But Ricardo was very careful.
“I manage,” he said. He could always find a man or two in back sleeping it off. A couple of girls he could pay for an hour of company. None of them remembered what he did to them. He never drank from anyone twice. He was able to gather some strength before the next leg of his journey. “As a medical man, you must see that kind of thing a lot.”
“Oh, not so much. You have to know what to look for.”
“And of course, you do.”