together, huddling for warmth. I have culled the flock, they are fewer now. Some of the females are pregnant, I can smell it on them, and that means lamb in the spring. I like to think I will keep enough alive that I can leave them be through the summer, to breed, to last through the next winter, eating the deer that are too skittish and skinny to bother with now. But if I cannot, if I get too hungry, I saw Fred looking at me through the window, in the long underwear I knitted for him and nothing else. I smiled at him, toothy, and he ducked away from my gaze, but not before I saw him fumble to shut the white curtain, his hands useless, mere cloven hooves.
ROYAL BLOODLINES
(A LUCIFER JONES STORY)
MIKE RESNICK
Back in 1936 I found myself in Hungary, which ain’t never gonna provide the Riviera with any serious competition for tourists. Each town I passed through was duller than the last, until I got to Budapest, which was considerably less exciting than Boise, Idaho, on a Tuesday afternoon.
I passed by an old rundown arena that did double duty, hosting hockey games on weeknights and dog shows on Saturdays, then walked by the only nightclub in town, which was featuring one of the more popular lady tuba soloists in the country, and finally I came to the Magyar Hotel and rented me a room. After I’d left my gear there I set out to scout out the city and see if there were enough depraved sinners to warrant building my tabernacle there and setting up shop in the salvation business. My unerring instincts led me right to a batch of them, who were holed up in the men’s room of the bus station, playing a game with which I was not entirely unfamiliar, as it consisted of fifty two pasteboards with numbers or pictures on ’em and enough money in the pot to make it interesting.
“Mind if I join you gents?” I asked, walking over to them.
“Either you put your shirt on backward, or else you’re a preacher,” said one of ’em in an English accent.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” I asked.
“We’d feel guilty taking your money,” he said.
“You ain’t got a thing to worry about,” I said, sitting down with them.
“Well,” he said with a shrug, “you’ve been warned.”
“I appreciate that, neighbor,” I said, “and just to show my good will, I absolve everyone here of any sins they committed between nine o’clock this morning and noon. Now, who deals?”
The game got going hot and heavy, and I had just about broken even, when the British feller dealt a hand of draw, and I picked up my cards and fanned ’em out and suddenly I was looking at four aces and a king, and two of my opponents had great big grins on their faces, the kind of grin you get when you pick up a flush or a full house, and one of ’em opened, and the other raised, and I raised again, and it was like I’d insulted their manhood, because they raised right back, and pretty soon everyone else had dropped out and the three of us were tossing money into the pot like there wasn’t no tomorrow, and just about the time we all ran out of money and energy and were about to show our cards, a little Hungarian kid ran into the room and shouted something in a foreign language—probably Hungarian, now as I come to think on it—and suddenly everyone grabbed their money and got up and started making for the exit.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I demanded. “Where do you guys think you’re going?”
“Away!” said the British feller.
“But we’re in the middle of a hand,” I protested.
“Lupo is coming!” said the Brit. “The game’s over!”
“Who the hell is Lupo?” I demanded.
“He’s more of a what. You’ll leave too, if you know what’s good for you!”
And suddenly, just like that, I was all alone in the men’s room of a Hungarian bus station, holding four totally useless aces and a king, and thinking that maybe Hungarians were more in need of a shrink than a preacher. Then the door opened, and in walked this thin guy with grayish skin and hair everywhere—on his head, his lip, his chin, even the backs of his hands.
“Howdy, Brother,” I said, and he nodded at me. “You better not plan on lingering too long,” I added. “Someone or something called Lupo is on its way here.”
He turned to face me and stared at me intently.
“I am Lupo,” he said.
“You are?”
“Count Basil de Chenza Lupo,” he continued. “Who are you?”
“The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service,” I said.
“Do you see any reason why you should run at the sight of me?” he continued.
“Except for the fact that you got a predatory look about you and probably ain’t on speaking terms with your barber, nary a one,” I answered.
“They are fools,” he said. “Fools and peasants, nothing more.”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but you could have timed your call of Nature just a mite better, considering I was holding four bullets and the pot had reached a couple of thousand dollars.”
“Bullet?” he said, kind of growling deep in his throat. “What kind?”
“Well, when you got four of ’em, there ain’t a lot left except clubs, diamonds, hearts, and spades,” I said.
“But not silver?” he said.
“Not as I recollect.”
“Good,” he said, suddenly looking much relieved. “I am sorry I have caused you such distress, Doctor Jones.”
“Well, I suppose when push comes to shove, it ain’t really your fault, Brother Basil,” I said.
“Nevertheless, I insist that you allow me to take you to dinner to make amends.”
“That’s right cordial of you,” I said. “I’m a stranger in town. You got any particular place in mind?”
“We will dine at The Strangled Elk,” he said. “It belongs to some Gypsy friends of mine.”
“Whatever suits you,” I said agreeably.
We walked out of the station, hit the main drag, and turned left.
“By the way, Brother Basil,” I said, “why were all them men running away from a nice, friendly gent like you?”
He shrugged. “They are superstitious peasants,” he said. “Let us speak no more of them.”
“Suits me,” I said. “People what entice a man of the cloth into a sinful game like poker and then run off when he’s got the high hand ain’t headed to no good end anyway.”
I noticed as we walked down the street that everyone was giving us a pretty wide berth, and finally we turned down a little alleyway where all the men were dark and swarthy and wearing shirts that could have been took in some at the arms, and the women were sultry and good looking and wearing colorful skirts and blouses, and Basil told me we were now among his Gypsy friends and no one would bother us, not that anyone had been bothering us before, and after a little while we came to a sign that said we’d reached The Strangled Elk, and we went inside.
It wasn’t the cleanest place I’d ever seen, but I’d been a couple of weeks between baths myself, so I can’t say that I minded it all that much. There was nobody there except one skinny old waiter, and Basil called him over and said something in Gypsy, and the waiter went away and came back a minute later with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Well, we filled the glasses and chatted about this and that, and then we drank some more and talked some more, and finally the waiter brought out a couple of steaks.
“Brother Basil,” I said, looking down at my plate, “I like my meat as rare as the next man, but I don’t believe this has been cooked at all.”
“I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “That is the way I always eat it, and the cook simply assumed you shared my taste.” He signaled to the waiter, said something else in Gypsy, and the waiter took my plate away. “It will be back in a few moments, properly cooked.”
“You always eat your steak like that?” I asked, pointing to the slab of raw meat in front of him.
