Hideaway

Hell, he would have to do so with an exceptional offering, a collection that was superior in both its overall composition and in the character of each of its components.
    He had made a previous acquisition at Rip It three months ago, a girl who insisted her name was Neon. In his car, when he tried to knock her unconscious, one blow didn't do the job, and she fought back with a ferocity that was exhilarating. Even later, in the bottom floor of the funhouse, when she regained consciousness, she resisted fiercely, though bound at wrists and ankles. She squirmed and thrashed, biting him until he repeatedly bashed her skull against the concrete floor.
    Now, just as he finished his beer, he saw another woman who reminded him of Neon. Physically they were far different, but spiritually they were the same: hard cases, angry for reasons they didn't always understand themselves, worldly beyond their years, with all the potential violence of tigresses. Neon had been five-four, brunette, with a dusky complexion. This one was a blonde in her early twenties, about five-seven. Lean and rangy. Riveting eyes the same shade of blue as a pure gas flame, yet icy. She was wearing a ragged black denim jacket over a tight black sweater, a short black skirt, and boots.
    In an age when attitude was admired more than intelligence, she knew how to carry herself for the maximum impact. She moved with her shoulders back and her head lifted almost haughtily. Her self-possession was as intimidating as spiked armor. Although every man in the room looked at her in a way that said he wanted her, none of them dared to come on to her, for she appeared to be able to emasculate with a single word or look.
    Her powerful sexuality, however, was what made her of interest to Vassago. Men would always be drawn to her—he noticed that those flanking him at the bar were watching her even now—and some would not be intimidated. She possessed a savage vitality that made even Neon seem timid. When her defenses were penetrated, she would be lubricious and disgustingly fertile, soon fat with new life, a wild but fruitful brood mare.
    He decided that she had two great weaknesses. The first was her clear conviction that she was superior to everyone she met and was, therefore, untouchable and safe, the same conviction that had made it possible for royalty, in more innocent times, to walk among commoners in complete confidence that everyone they passed would draw back respectfully or drop to their knees in awe. The second weakness was her extreme anger, which she stored in such quantity that Vassago seemed to be able to see it crackling off her smooth pale skin, like an overcharge of electricity.
    He wondered how he might arrange her death to best symbolize her flaws. Soon he had a couple of good ideas.
    She was with a group of about six men and four women, though she did not seem to be attached to any one of them. Vassago was trying to decide on an approach to her when, not entirely to his surprise, she approached him. He supposed their encounter was inevitable. They were, after all, the two most dangerous people at the dance.
    Just as the band took a break and the decibel level fell to a point at which the interior of the club would no longer have been lethal to cats, the blonde came to the bar. She pushed between Vassago and another man, ordered and paid for a beer. She took the bottle from the bartender, turned sideways to face Vassago, and looked at him across the top of the open bottle, from which wisps of cold vapor rose like smoke.
    She said, “You blind?”
    “To some things, Miss.”
    She looked incredulous. “Miss?”
    He shrugged.
    “Why the sunglasses?” she asked.
    “I've been to Hell.”
    “What's that supposed to mean?”
    “Hell is cold, dark.”
    “That so? I still don't get the sunglasses.”
    “Over there, you learn to see in total darkness.”
    “This is an interesting line of bullshit.”
    “So now I'm sensitive to light.”
    “A real different line of bullshit.”
    He said nothing.
    She drank some beer, but her eyes never left him.
    He liked the way her throat muscles worked when she swallowed.
    After a moment she said, “This your usual line of crap, or do you just make it up as you go?”
    He shrugged again.
    “You were watching me,” she said.
    “So?”
    “You're right. Every asshole in here is watching me most of the time.”
    He was studying her intensely blue eyes. What he thought he might do was cut them out, then