Willie McCoy had been a jerk before he died. His being dead
didn't change that. He sat across from me, wearing a loud plaid
sport jacket. The polyester pants were primary Crayola green. His
short, black hair was slicked back from a thin, triangular face. He
had always reminded me of a bit player in a gangster movie. The
kind that sells information, runs errands, and is expendable.
Of course now that Willie was a vampire, the expendable part
didn't count anymore. But he was still selling information and
running errands. No, death hadn't changed him much. But just in
case, I avoided looking directly into his eyes. It was standard
policy for dealing with vampires. He was a slime bucket, but now he
was an undead slime bucket. It was a new category for me.
We sat in the quiet air-conditioned hush of my office. The
powder blue walls, which Bert, my boss, thought would be soothing,
made the room feel cold.
"Mind if I smoke?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "I do."
"Damn, you aren't gonna make this easy, are you?"
I looked directly at him for a moment. His eyes were still
brown. He caught me looking, and I looked down at my desk.
Willie laughed, a wheezing snicker of a sound. The laugh hadn't
changed. "Geez, I love it. You're afraid of me."
"Not afraid, just cautious."
"You don't have to admit it. I can smell the fear on you, almost
like somethin' touching my face, my brain. You're afraid of me,
'cause I'm a vampire."
I shrugged; what could I say? How do you lie to someone who can
smell your fear? "Why are you here, Willie?"
"Geez, I wish I had a smoke." The skin began to jump at the
corner of his mouth.
"I didn't think vampires had nervous twitches."
His hand went up, almost touched it. He smiled, flashing fangs.
"Some things don't change."
I wanted to ask him, what does change? How does it feel to be
dead? I knew other vampires, but Willie was the first I had known
before and after death. It was a peculiar feeling. "What do you
want?"
"Hey, I'm here to give you money. To become a client."
I glanced up at him, avoiding his eyes. His tie tack caught the
overhead lights. Real gold. Willie had never had anything like that
before. He was doing all right for a dead man. "I raise the dead
for a living, no pun intended. Why would a vampire need a zombie
raised?"
He shook his head, two quick jerks to either side. "No, no
voodoo stuff. I wanna hire you to investigate some murderers."
"I am not a private investigator."
"But you got one of 'em on retainer to your outfit."
I nodded. "You could just hire Ms. Sims directly. You don't have
to go through me for that."
Again that jerky head shake. "But she don't know about vampires
the way you do."
I sighed. "Can we cut to the chase here, Willie? I have to
leave" - I glanced at the wall clock - "in fifteen minutes. I don't
like to leave a client waiting alone in a cemetery. They tend to
get jumpy."
He laughed. I found the snickery laugh comforting, even with the
fangs. Surely vampires should have rich, melodious laughs. "I'll
bet they do. I'll just bet they do." His face sobered suddenly, as
if a hand had wiped his laughter away.
I felt fear like a jerk in the pit of my stomach. Vampires could
change movements like clicking a switch. If he could do that, what
else could he do?
"You know about the vampires that are getting wasted over in the
District?"
He made it a question, so I answered. "I'm familiar with them."
Four vampires had been slaughtered in the new vampire club
district. Their hearts had been torn out, their heads cut off.
"You still working with the cops?"
"I am still on retainer with the new task force."
He laughed again. "Yeah, the spook squad. Underbudgeted and
undermanned, right."
"You've described most of the police work in this town."
"Maybe, but the cops feel like you do, Anita. What's one more
dead vampire? New laws don't change that."
It had only been two years since Addison v. Clark. The court
case gave us a revised version of what life was, and what death
wasn't. Vampirism was legal in the good of U. S. of A. We were one
of the few countries to acknowledge them. The immigration people
were having fits trying to keep foreign vampires from immigrating
in, well, flocks.
All sorts of questions were being fought out in court. Did heirs
have to give back their inheritance? Were you widowed if your
spouse became undead? Was it murder to slay a vampire? There was
even a movement to give them the vote. Times were a-changing.
I stared at the vampire in front of me and shrugged. Did I
really believe what was one more dead vampire? Maybe. "If you
believe I feel that way, why come to me at all?"
"Because you're the best at what you do. We need the best."
It was the first time he had said "we." "Who are you working
for, Willie?"
He smiled then, a close secretive smile, like he knew something I should know.
"Never you mind that. Money's real good.
We want somebody who knows the night life to be looking into these
murders."
"I've seen the bodies, Willie. I gave my opinions to the
police."
"What'd you think?" He leaned forward in the chair, small hands
flat on my desk. His fingernails were pale, almost white,
bloodless.
"I gave a full report to the police." I stared up at him,
almost looking him in the eye.
"Won't even give me that, will ya?"
"I am not at liberty to discuss police business with you."
"I told 'em you wouldn't go for this."
"Go for what? You haven't told me a damn thing."
"We want you to investigate the vampire killings, find out
who's, or what's, doing it. We'll pay you three times your normal
fee."
I shook my head. That explained why Bert, the greedy son of a
gun, had set up this meeting. He knew how I felt about vampires,
but my contract forced me to at least meet with any client that had
given Bert a retainer. My boss would do anything for money. Problem
was he thought I should, too. Bert and I would be having a "talk"
very soon.
I stood. "The police are looking into it. I am already giving
them all the help I can. In a way I am already working on the case.
Save your money."
He sat staring up at me, very still. It was not that lifeless
immobility of the long dead, but it was a shadow of it.
Fear ran up in my spine and into my throat. I fought an urge to
draw my crucifix out of my shirt and drive him from my office.
Somehow throwing a client out using a holy item seemed less than
professional. So I just stood there, waiting for him to move.
"Why won't you help us?"
"I have clients to meet, Willie. I'm sorry that I can't help
you."
"Won't help, you mean."
I nodded. "Have it your way." I walked around the desk to show
him to the door.
He moved with a liquid quickness that Willie had never had, but
I saw him move and was one step back from his reaching hand. "I'm
not just another pretty face to fall for mind tricks."
"You saw me move."
"I heard you move. You're the new dead, Willie. Vampire or not,
you've got a lot to learn."
He was frowning at me, hand still half-extended towards me.
"Maybe, but no human could a stepped outta reach like that." He
stepped up close to me, plaid jacket nearly brushing against me.
Pressed together like that, we were nearly the same height, short.
His eyes were on a perfect level with mine. I stared as hard as I
could at his shoulder.
It took everything I had not to step back from him. But dammit,
undead or not, he was Willie McCoy. I wasn't going to give him the
satisfaction.
He said, "You ain't human, any more than I am."
I moved to open the door. I hadn't stepped away from him. I had
stepped away to open the door. I tried convincing the sweat along
my spine that there was a difference. The cold feeling in my
stomach wasn't fooled either.
"I really have to be going now. Thank you for thinking of
Animators, Inc." I gave him my best professional smile, empty of
meaning as a light bulb, but dazzling.
He paused in the open doorway. "Why won't you work for us? I
gotta tell 'em something when I go back."
I wasn't sure, but there was something like fear in his voice.
Would he get in trouble for failing? I felt sorry for him and knew
it was stupid. He was the undead, for heaven's sake, but he stood
looking at me, and he was still Willie, with his funny coats and
small nervous hands.
"Tell them, whoever they are, that I don't work for
vampires."
"A firm rule?" Again he made it sound like a question.
"Concrete."
There was a flash of something on his face, the old Willie
peeking through. It was almost pity. "I wish you hadn't said that,
Anita. These people don't like anybody telling 'em no."
"I think you've overstayed your welcome. I don't like to be
threatened."
"It ain't a threat, Anita. It's the truth." He straightened his
tie, fondling the new gold tie tack, squared his thin shoulders and
walked out.
I closed the door behind him and leaned against it. My knees
felt weak. But there wasn't time for me to sit here and shake. Mrs.
Grundick was probably already at the cemetery. She would be
standing there with her little black purse and her grown sons,
waiting for me to raise her husband from the dead. There was a
mystery of two very different wills. It was either years of court
costs and arguments, or raise Albert Grundick from the dead and
ask.
Everything I needed was in my car, even the chickens. I drew the
silver crucifix free of my blouse and let it hang in full view. I
have several guns, and I know how to use them. I keep a 9 mm
Browning Hi-Power in my desk. The gun weighed a little over two
pounds, silver-plated bullets and all. Silver won't kill a vampire,
but it can discourage them. It forces them to have to heal the
wounds, almost human slow. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and
went out.
Craig our night secretary, was typing furiously at the computer
keyboard. His eyes widened as I walked over the thick carpeting.
Maybe it was the cross swinging on its long chain. Maybe it was the
shoulder rig tight across my back, and the gun out in plain sight.
He didn't mention either. Smart man.
I put my nice little corduroy jacket over it all. The jacket
didn't lie flat over the gun, but that was okay. I doubted the
Grundicks and their lawyers would notice.
Chapter 2
I had gotten to see the sun rise as I drove home that morning. I
hate sunrises. They mean I've overscheduled myself and worked all
bloody night. St. Louis has more trees edging its highways than any
other city I have driven through. I could almost admit the trees
looked nice in the first light of dawn, almost. My apartment always
looks depressingly white and cheerful in morning sunlight. The
walls are the same vanilla ice cream white as every apartment I've
ever seen. The carpeting is a nice shade of grey, preferable to
that dog poop brown that is more common.
The apartment is a roomy one-bedroom. I am told it has a nice
view of the park next door. You couldn't prove it by me. If I had
my choice, there would be no windows. I get by with heavy drapes
that turn the brightest day to cool twilight.
I switched the radio on low to drown the small noises of my
day-living neighbors. Sleep sucked me under to the soft music of
Chopin. A minute later the phone rang.
I lay there for a minute, cursing myself for forgetting to turn
on the answering machine. Maybe if I ignored it? Five rings later I
gave in. "Hello."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
It was a woman I didn't know. If it was a salesperson I was
going to become violent. "Who is this?" I blinked at the bedside
clock. It was eight. I'd had nearly two hours of sleep. Yippee.
"I'm Monica Vespucci." She said it like it should explain
everything. It didn't.
"Yes." I tried to sound helpful, encouraging. I think it came
out as a growl.
"Oh, my, uh. I'm the Monica that works with Catherine
Maison."
I huddled around the receiver and tried to think. I don't think
really well on two hours of sleep. Catherine was a good friend, a
name I knew. She had probably mentioned this woman to me, but for
the life of me, I couldn't place her. "Sure, Monica, yes. What do
you want?" It sounded rude, even to me. "I'm sorry if I don't sound
too good. I got off work at six."
"My god, you mean you've only had two hours of sleep. Do you
want to shoot me, or what?"
I didn't answer the question. I'm not that rude. "Did you want
something, Monica?"
"Sure, yes. I'm throwing a surprise bachelorette party for
Catherine. You know she gets married next month."
I nodded, remembered she couldn't see me, and mumbled, "I'm in
the wedding."
"Oh, sure, I knew that. Pretty dresses for the bridesmaids,
don't you think?"
Actually, the last thing I wanted to spend a hundred and twenty
dollars on was a long pink formal with puffy sleeves, but it was
Catherine's wedding. "What about the bachelorette party?"
"Oh. I'm rambling, aren't I? And you just desperate for
sleep."
I wondered if screaming at her would make her go away any her.
Naw, she'd probably cry. "What do you want, please, Monica?"
"Well, I know it's short notice, but everything just sort of
slipped up on me. I meant to call you a week ago, but I just never
got around to it."
This I believed. "Go on."
"The bachelorette party is tonight. Catherine says you don't
drink, so I was wondering if you could be designated driver."
I just lay there for a minute, wondering how mad to get, and if
it would do me any good. Maybe if I'd been more awake, I wouldn't
have said what I was thinking. "Don't you think this is awfully
short notice, since you want me to drive?"
"I know. I'm so sorry. I'm just so scattered lately. Catherine
gold me you usually have either Friday or Saturday night off. Is
Friday not your night off this week?"
As a matter of fact it was, but I didn't really want to give up
my only night off to this airhead on the other end of the phone. "I
do have the night off."
"Great! I'll give you directions, and you can pick us up after
work. Is that okay?"
It wasn't, but what else could I say. "That's fine."
"Pencil and paper?"
"You said you worked with Catherine, right?" I was actually
beginning to remember Monica.
"Why, yes."
"I know where Catherine works. I don't need directions."
"Oh, how silly of me, of course. Then we'll see you about five.
Dress up, but no heels. We may be dancing tonight."
I hate to dance. "Sure, see you then."
"See you tonight."
The phone went dead in my ear. I turned on the answering machine
and cuddled back under the sheets. Monica worked with Catherine,
that made her a lawyer. That was a frightening thought. Maybe she
was one of those people who was only organized at work. Naw.
It occurred to me then, when it was too late, that I could just
have refused the invitation. Damn. I was quick today. Oh, well, how
bad could it be? Watching strangers get blitzed out of their minds.
If I was lucky, maybe someone would throw up in my car.
I had the strangest dreams once I got back to sleep. All about
this woman I didn't know, a coconut cream pie, and Willie McCoy's
funeral.
Chapter 3
Monica Vespucci was wearing a button that said, "Vampires are
People, too." It was not a promising beginning to the evening. Her
white blouse was silk with a high, flared collar framing a dark,
health-club tan. Her hair was short and expertly cut; her makeup
perfect.
The button should have tipped me off to what kind of
bachelorette party she'd planned. Some days I'm just slow to catch
on.
I was wearing black jeans, knee-high boots, and a crimson
blouse. My hair was made to order for the outfit, black curling
just over the shoulders of the red blouse. The solid, nearly
black-brown of my eyes matches the hair. Only the skin stands out,
too pale, Germanic against the Latin darkness. A very ex-boyfriend
once described me as a little china doll. He meant it as a
compliment. I didn't take it that way. There are reasons why I
don't date much.
The blouse was long-sleeved to hide the knife sheath on my right
wrist and the scars on my left arm. I had left my gun locked in the
trunk of my car. I didn't think the bachelorette party would get
that out of hand.
"I'm so sorry that I put off planning this to the last minute,
Catherine. That's why there's only three of us. Everybody else had
plans," Monica said.
"Imagine that, people having plans for Friday night," I
said.
Monica stared at me as if trying to decide whether I was joking
or not.
Catherine gave me a warning glare. I gave them both my best
angelic smile. Monica smiled back. Catherine wasn't fooled.
Monica began dancing down the sidewalk, happy as a drunken clam.
She had had only two drinks with dinner. It was a bad sign.
"Be nice," Catherine whispered.
"What did I say?"
"Anita." Her voice sounded like my father's used to sound when
I'd stayed out too late.
I sighed. "You're just no fun tonight."
"I plan to be a lot of fun tonight." She stretched her arms
skyward. She still wore the crumpled remains of her business suit.
The wind blew her long, copper-colored hair. I've never been able
to decide if Catherine would be prettier if she cut her hair, so
you'd notice the face first, or if the hair was what made her
pretty.
"If I have to give up one of my few free nights, then I am going
to enjoy myself - immensely," she said.
There was a kind of fierceness to the last word. I stared up at
her. "You are not planning to get falling-down drunk, are you?"
"Maybe." She looked smug.
Catherine knew I didn't approve of, or rather, didn't understand
drinking. I didn't like having my inhibitions lowered. If I was
going to cut loose, I wanted to be in control of just how loose I
got.
We had left my car in a parking lot two blocks back. The one
with the wrought-iron fence around it. There wasn't much parking
down by the river. The narrow brick roads and ancient sidewalks had
been designed for horses, not automobiles. The streets had been
fresh-washed by a summer thunderstorm that had come and gone while
we ate dinner. The first stars glittered overhead, like diamonds
trapped in velvet.
Monica yelled, "Hurry up, slowpokes."
Catherine looked at me and grinned. The next thing I knew, she
was running towards Monica.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," I muttered. Maybe if I'd had drinks
with dinner, I'd have run, too, but I doubted it.
"Don't be an old stick in the mud," Catherine called back.
Stick in the mud? I caught up to them walking. Monica was
giggling. Somehow I had known she would be. Catherine and she were
leaning against each other laughing. I suspected they might be
laughing at me.
Monica calmed enough to fake an ominous stage whisper. "Do you
know what lies around this corner?"
As a matter of fact, I did. The last vampire killing had been
only four blocks from here. We were in what the vampires called
"the District." Humans called it the Riverfront, or Blood
Square, depending on if they were being rude or not.
"Guilty Pleasures," I said.
"Oh, pooh, you spoiled the surprise."
"What's Guilty Pleasures?" Catherine asked.
Monica giggled. "Oh, goodie, the surprise isn't spoiled after
all." She put her arm through Catherine's. "You are going to love
this, I promise you."
Maybe Catherine would; I knew I wouldn't, but I followed them
around the corner anyway. The sign was a wonderful swirling neon
the color of heart blood. The symbolism was not lost on me.
We went up three broad steps, and there was a vampire standing
in front of the propped-open door. He had a black crew cut and
small, pale eyes. His massive shoulders threatened to rip the tight
black t-shirt he wore. Wasn't pumping iron redundant after you
died?
Even standing on the threshold I could hear the busy hum of
voices, laughter, music. That rich, murmurous sound of many people
in a small space, determined to have a good time.
The vampire stood beside the door, very still. There was still a
movement to him, an aliveness, for lack of a better term. He
couldn't have been dead more than twenty years, if that. In the
dark he looked almost human, even to me. He had fed already
tonight. His skin was flushed and healthy. He looked damn near
rosy-cheeked. A meal of fresh blood will do that to you.
Monica squeezed his arm. "Ooo, feel that muscle."
He grinned, flashing fangs. Catherine gasped. He grinned
wider.
"Buzz here is an old friend, aren't you, Buzz?"
Buzz the vampire? Surely not.
But he nodded. "Go on in, Monica. Your table is waiting."
Table? What kind of clout did Monica have? Guilty Pleasures was
one of the hottest clubs in the District, and they did not take
reservations.
There was a large sign on the door. "No crosses, crucifixes, or
other holy items allowed inside." I read the sign and walked past
it. I had no intention of getting rid of my cross.
A rich, melodious voice floated around us. "Anita, how good of
of you to come."
The voice belonged to Jean-Claude, club owner and master
vampire. He looked like a vampire was supposed to look. Softly
curling hair tangled with the high white lace of an antique
shirt. Lace spilled over pale, long-fingered hands. The shirt hung
open, giving a glimpse of lean bare chest framed by more frothy
lace. Most men couldn't have worn a shirt like that. The vampire
made it seem utterly masculine.
"You two know each other?" Monica sounded surprised.
"Oh, yes," Jean-Claude said. "Ms. Blake and I have met
before."
"I've been helping the police work cases on the Riverfront."
"She is their vampire expert." He made the last word soft and
warm and vaguely obscene.
Monica giggled. Catherine was staring at Jean-Claude, eyes wide
and innocent. I touched her arm, and she jerked as if waking from a
dream. I didn't bother to whisper because I knew he would have
heard me anyway. "Important safety tip - never look a vampire in the
eye."
She nodded. The first hint of fear showed in her face.
"I would never harm such a lovely young woman." He took
Catherine's hand and raised it to his mouth. A mere brush of lips.
Catherine blushed.
He kissed Monica's hand as well. He looked at me and laughed.
"Do not worry, my little animator. I will not touch you. That would
be cheating."
He moved to stand next to me. I stared fixedly at his chest.
There was a burn scar almost hidden in the lace. The burn was in
the shape of a cross. How many decades ago had someone shoved a
cross into his flesh?
"Just as you having a cross would be an unfair advantage."
What could I say? In a way he was right.
It was a shame that it wasn't merely the shape of a cross that
hurt a vampire. Jean-Claude would have been in deep shit.
Unfortunately, the cross had to be blessed, and backed up by faith.
An atheist waving a cross at a vampire was a truly pitiful
sight.
He breathed my name like a whisper against my skin. "Anita, what
are you thinking?"
The voice was so damn soothing. I wanted to look up and see what
face went with such words. Jean-Claude had been intrigued by my
partial immunity to him. That and the cross-shaped burn scar on my
arm. He found the scar amusing. Every time we met, he did his best
to bespell me, and I did my best to ignore him. I had won up until
now.
"You never objected to me carrying a cross before."
"You were on police business then; now you are not."
I stared at his chest and wondered if the lace was as soft as it
looked; probably not.
"Are you so insecure in your own powers, little animator? Do you
believe that all your resistance to me resides in that piece of
silver around your neck?"
I didn't believe that, but I knew it helped. Jean-Claude was a
self-admitted two hundred and five years old. A vampire gains a lot
of power in two centuries. He was suggesting I was a coward. I was
not.
I reached up to unfasten the chain. He stepped away from me and
turned his back. The cross spilled silver into my hands. A blonde
human woman appeared beside me. She handed me a check stub and took
the cross. Nice, a holy item check girl.
I felt suddenly underdressed without my cross. I slept and
showered in it.
Jean-Claude stepped close again. "You will not resist the show
tonight, Anita. Someone will enthrall you."
"No," I said. But it's hard to be tough when you're staring at
someone's chest. You really need eye contact to play tough, but
that was a no-no.
He laughed. The sound seemed to rub over my skin, like the brush
of fur. Warm and feeling ever so slightly of death.
Monica grabbed my arm. "You're going to love this, I promise
you."
"Yes," Jean-Claude said. "It will be a night you will never
forget."
"Is that a threat?"
He laughed again, that warm awful sound. "This is a place of
pleasure, Anita, not violence."
Monica was pulling at my arm. "Hurry, the entertainment's about
to begin."
"Entertainment?" Catherine asked
I had to smile. "Welcome to the world's only vampire strip club,
Catherine."
"You are joking."
"Scout's honor." I glanced back at the door; I don't know why.
Jean-Claude stood utterly still, no sense of anything, as if he
were not there at all. Then he moved, one pale hand raised to his
lips. He blew me a kiss across the room. The night's entertainment
had begun.
Chapter 4
Our table was nearly bumping up against the stage. The room was
full of liquor and laughter, and a few faked screams as the vampire
waiters moved around the tables. There was an undercurrent of fear.
That peculiar terror that you get on roller coasters and at horror
movies. Safe terror.
The lights went out. Screams echoed through the room, high and
shrill. Real fear for an instant. Jean-Claude's voice came out of
the darkness. "Welcome to Guilty Pleasures. We are here to serve
you. To make your most evil thought come true."
His voice was silken whispers in the small hours of night. Damn,
he was good.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to feel my breath
upon your skin? My lips along your neck. The hard brush of teeth.
The sweet, sharp pain of fangs. Your heart beating frantically
against my chest. Your blood flowing into my veins. Sharing
yourself. Giving me life. Knowing that I truly could not live
without you, all of you."
Perhaps it was the intimacy of darkness; whatever, I felt as if
his voice was speaking just for me, to me. I was his chosen, his
special one. No, that wasn't right. Every woman in the club felt
the same. We were all his chosen. And perhaps there was more truth
in that than in anything else.
"Our first gentleman tonight shares your fantasy. He wanted to
know how the sweetest of kisses would feel. He has gone before you
to tell you that it is wondrous." He let silence fill the darkness,
until my own heartbeat sounded loud. "Phillip is with us
tonight."
Monica whispered, "Phillip!" A collective gasp ran through the
audience, then a soft chanting began. "Phillip, Phillip . . ." The
sound rose around us in the dark like a prayer.
The lights began to come up like at the end of a movie. A figure
stood in the center of the stage. A white t-shirt hugged his
upper body; not a muscleman, but well built. Not too much of a good
thing. A black leather jacket, tight jeans and boots completed the
outfit. He could have walked off any street. His thick, brown hair
was long enough to sweep his shoulders.
Music drifted into the twilit silence. The man swayed to the
sounds, hips rotating ever so slightly. He began to slip out of
leather jacket, moving almost in slow motion. The soft music seemed
to have a pulse. A pulse that his body moved with, swaying. The jacket
slid to the stage. He stared out at the audience for a minute
letting us see what there was to see. Scars hugged the bend of each arm,
until the skin had formed white mounds of tissue.
I swallowed hard. I wasn't sure what was about to happen, but
was betting I wasn't going to like it.
He swept back his long hair from his face with both hands. He
swayed and strutted around the edge of the stage. He stood near
table, looking down at us. His neck looked like a junkie's.
I had to look away. All those neat little bite marks, neat
little scars. I glanced up and found Catherine staring at her lap.
Monica leaning forward in her chair, lips half-parted.
He grabbed the t-shirt with strong hands and pulled. It peeled
away from his chest, ripping. Screams from the audience. A few of
them called his name. He smiled. The smile was dazzling, brilliant
melt-in-your-mouth sexy.
There was scar tissue on his smooth, bare chest: white scars,
pinkish scars, new scars, old scars. I just sat staring with my
mouth open.
Catherine whispered, "Dear God!"
"He's wonderful, isn't he?" Monica asked.
I glanced at her. Her flared collar had slipped, exposing two
neat puncture wounds, fairly old, almost scars. Sweet Jesus.
The music burst into a pulsing violence. He danced, swaying,
gyrating, throwing the strength of his body into every move. There
a white mass of scars over his left collarbone, ragged and vicious.
My stomach tightened. A vampire had torn through his collarbone,
ripped at him like a dog with a piece of meat. I knew, because I
had a similar scar. I had a lot of similar scars.
Dollar bills appeared in hands like mushrooms after a rain.
Monica was waving her money like a flag. I didn't want Phillip at
our table. I had to lean into Monica to be heard over the
noise.
"Monica, please, don't bring him over here."
Even as she turned to look at me, I knew it was too late.
Phillip of the many scars was standing on the stage, looking down
at us. I stared up into his very human eyes.
I could see the pulse in Monica's throat. She licked her lips;
her eyes were enormous. She stuffed the money down the front of his
pants.
Her hands traced his scars like nervous butterflies. She leaned
her face close to his stomach and began kissing his scars, leaving
red lipstick prints behind. He knelt as she kissed him, forcing her
mouth higher and higher up his chest.
He knelt, and she pressed lips to his face. He brushed his hair
back from his neck, as if he knew what she wanted. She licked the
newest bite scar, tongue small and pink, like a cat. I heard her
breath go out in a trembling sigh. She bit him, mouth locking over
the wound. Phillip jerked with pain, or just surprise. Her jaws
tightened, her throat worked. She was sucking the wound.
I looked across the table at Catherine. She was staring at them,
face blank with astonishment.
The crowd was going wild, screaming and waving money. Phillip
pulled away from Monica and moved on to another table. Monica
slumped forward, head collapsing into her lap, arms limp at her
side.
Had she fainted? I reached out to touch her shoulder and
realized I didn't want to touch her. I gripped her shoulder gently.
She moved, turning her head to look at me. Her eyes held that lazy
fullness that sex gives. Her mouth looked pale with most of the
lipstick worn away. She hadn't fainted; she was basking in the
afterglow.
I drew back from her, rubbing my hand against my jeans. My palms
were sweating.
Phillip was back on the stage. He had stopped dancing. He was
just standing there. Monica had left a small round mark on his
neck.
I felt the first stirrings of an old mind, flowing over the
crowd. Catherine asked, "What's happening?"
"It's all right," Monica said. She was sitting upright in her
chair, eyes still half-closed. She licked her lips and stretched,
hands over her head.
Catherine turned to me. "Anita, what is it?"
"Vampire," I said.
Fear flashed on her face, but it didn't last. I watched the fear
fade under the weight of the vampire's mind. She turned slowly to
stare at Phillip as he waited on the stage. Catherine was in no
danger. This mass hypnosis was not personal, and not permanent.
The vampire wasn't as old as Jean-Claude, nor as good. I sat
there feeling the press and flow of over a hundred years of power,
and it wasn't enough. I felt him move up through the tables. He had
gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the poor humans wouldn't see
him come. He would simply appear in their midst, like magic.
You don't get to surprise vampires often. I turned to watch the
vampire walk towards the stage. Every human face I saw was
enraptured, turned blindly to the stage, waiting. The vampire was
tall with high cheekbones, model-perfect, sculpted. He was too
masculine to be beautiful, and too perfect to be real.
He strode through the tables wearing a proverbial vampire
outfit, black tux and white gloves. He stopped one table away from
me, to stare. He held the audience in the palm of his mind,
helpless and waiting. But there I sat staring at him, though not at
his eyes.
His body stiffened, surprised. There's nothing like ruining the
calm of a hundred-year-old vampire to boost a girl's morale.
I looked past him to see Jean-Claude. He was staring at me. I
saluted him with my drink. He acknowledged it with a nod of his
head.
The tall vampire was standing beside Phillip. Phillip's eyes
were as blank as any human's. The spell or whatever drifted away.
With a thought he awoke the audience, and they gasped. Magic.
Jean-Claude's voice filled the sudden silence. "This is Robert.
Welcome him to our stage."
The crowd went wild, applauding and screaming. Catherine was
applauding along with everyone else. Apparently, she was
impressed.
The music changed again, pulsing and throbbing in the air,
almost painfully loud. Robert the vampire began to dance. He moved
with a careful violence, pumping to the music. He threw his white
gloves into the audience. One landed at my feet. I left it
there.
Monica said, "Pick it up."
I shook my head.
Another woman leaned over from another table. Her breath smelled
like whiskey. "You don't want it?"
I shook my head.
She got up, I suppose to get the glove. Monica beat her to it.
The woman sat down, looking unhappy.
The vampire had stripped, showing a smooth expanse of chest. He
dropped to the stage and did fingertip push-ups. The audience went
wild. I wasn't impressed. I knew he could bench press a car, if he
wanted to. What's a few pushups compared to that?
He began to dance around Phillip. Phillip turned to face him,
arms outspread, slightly crouched, as if he were ready for an
attack. They began circling each other. The music softened until it
was only a soft underscoring to the movements on stage.
The vampire began to move closer to Phillip. Phillip moved as if
trying to run from the stage. The vampire was suddenly there,
blocking his escape.
I hadn't seen him move. The vampire had just appeared in front
of the man. I hadn't seen him move. Fear drove all the air from my
body in an icy rush. I hadn't felt the mind trick, but it had
happened.
Jean-Claude was standing only two tables away. He raised one
pale hand in a salute to me. The bastard had been in my mind, and I
hadn't known it. The audience gasped, and I looked back to the
stage.
They were both kneeling; the vampire had one of Phillip's arms
pinned behind his back. One hand gripped Phillip's long hair,
pulling his neck back at a painful angle.
Phillip's eyes were wide and terrified. The vampire hadn't put
him under. He wasn't under! He was aware and scared. Dear God. He
was panting, his chest rising and falling in short gasps.
The vampire looked out at the audience and hissed, fangs
flashing in the lights. The hiss turned the beautiful face to
something bestial. His hunger rode out over the crowd. His need so
intense, it made my stomach cramp.
No, I would not feel this with him. I dug fingernails into the
palm of my hand and concentrated. The feeling faded. Pain helped. I
opened my shaking fingers and found four half-moons that slowly
filled with blood. The hunger beat around me, filling the crowd,
but not me, not me.
I pressed a napkin to my hand and tried to look
inconspicuous.
The vampire drew back his head.
"No," I whispered.
The vampire struck, teeth sinking into flesh. Phillip shrieked,
and it echoed in the club. The music died abruptly. No one moved.
You could have dropped a pin.
Soft, moist sucking sounds filled the silence. Phillip began to
moan, high in his throat. Over and over again, small helpless
sounds.
I looked out at the crowd. They were with the vampire, feeling
his hunger, his need, feeling him feed. Maybe sharing Phillip's
terror, I didn't know. I was apart from it, and glad.
The vampire stood, letting Phillip fall to the stage, limp,
unmoving. I stood without meaning to. The man's scarred back
convulsed in a deep, shattering breath, as if he were fighting back
from death. And maybe he was.
He was alive. I sat back down. My knees felt weak. Sweat covered
my palms and stung the cuts on my hand. He was alive, and he
enjoyed it. I wouldn't have believed it if someone had told me. I
would have called them a liar.
A vampire junkie. Surely to God, I'd seen everything now.
Jean-Claude whispered, "Who wants a kiss?"
No one moved for a heartbeat; then hands, holding money, raised
here and there. Not many, but a few. Most people looked confused,
as if they had woken from a bad dream. Monica was holding money
up.
Phillip lay where he had been dropped, chest rising and
falling.
Robert the vampire came to Monica. She tucked money down his
pants. He pressed his bloody, fanged mouth to her lips. The kiss
was long and deep, full of probing tongues. They were tasting each
other.
The vampire drew away from Monica. Her hands at his neck tried
to draw him back, but he pulled away. He turned to me. I shook my
head and showed him empty hands. No money here, folks.
He grabbed for me, snake-quick. No time to think. My chair
crashed to the floor. I was standing, just out of reach. No
ordinary human could have seen him coming. The jig, as they say,
was up.
A buzz of voices raised through the audience as they tried to
figure out what had happened. Just your friendly neighborhood
animator, folks, nothing to get excited about. The vampire was
still staring at me.
Jean-Claude was suddenly beside me, and I hadn't seen him come.
"Are you all right, Anita?"
His voice held things that the words didn't even hint at.
Promises whispered in darkened rooms, under cool sheets. He sucked
me under, rolled my mind like a wino after money, and it felt good.
Crash - Shrill - Noise thundered through my mind, chased the vampire
out, held him at bay.
My beeper had gone off. I blinked and staggered against our
table. He reached out to steady me. "Don't touch me," I said.
He smiled. "Of course."
I pushed the button on my beeper to silence it. Thank you God,
that I hung the beeper on my waistband instead of stuffing it in a
purse. I might never have heard it otherwise. I called from the
phone at the bar. The police wanted my expertise at the Hillcrest
Cemetery. I had to work on my night off. Yippee, and I meant
it.
I offered to take Catherine with me, but she wanted to stay.
Whatever else you can say about vampires, they are fascinating. It
went with the job description, like drinking blood and working
nights. It was her choice.
I promised to come back in time to drive them home. Then I
picked up my cross from the holy item check girl and slipped it
inside my shirt.
Jean-Claude was standing by the door. He said, "I almost had
you, my little animator."
I glanced at his face and quickly down. "Almost doesn't count,
you blood-sucking bastard."
Jean-Claude threw back his head and laughed. His laughter
followed me out into the night, like velvet rubbing along my
spine.
Chapter 5
The coffin lay on its side. A white scar of claw marks ran down
the dark varnish. The pale blue lining, imitation silk, was sliced
and gouged. One bloody handprint showed plainly; it could almost
have been human. All that was left of the older corpse was a
shredded brown suit, a finger bone gnawed clean and a scrap of
scalp. The man had been blond.
A second body lay perhaps five feet away. The man's clothes were
shredded. His chest had been ripped open, ribs cracked like
eggshells. Most of his internal organs were gone, leaving his body
cavity like a hollowed-out log. Only his face was untouched. Pale
eyes stared impossibly wide up into the summer stars.
I was glad it was dark. My night vision is good, but darkness
steals color. All the blood was black. The man's body was lost in
the shadows of the trees. I didn't have to see him, unless I walked
up to him. I had done that. I had measured the bite marks with my
trusty tape measure. With my little plastic gloves I had searched
the corpse over, looking for clues. There weren't any.
I could do anything I wanted to the scene of the crime. It had
already been videotaped and snapped from every possible angle. I
was always the last "expert" called in. The ambulance was waiting
to take the bodies away, once I was finished.
I was about finished. I knew what had killed the man. Ghouls. I
had narrowed the search down to a particular kind of undead. Bully
for me. The coroner could have told them that.
I was beginning to sweat inside the coverall I had put on to
protect my clothes. The coverall was originally for vampire
stakings, but I had started using it at crime scenes. There were
black stains at the knees and down the legs. There had been so much
blood in the grass. Thank you, dear God, that I didn't have to see
this in broad daylight.
I don't know why seeing something like this in daylight
makes it worse, but I'm more likely to dream about a daylight scene.
The blood is always so red and brown and thick.
Night softens it, makes it less real. I appreciated that.
I unzipped the front of my coverall, letting it gape open around
my clothes. The wind blew against me, amazingly cool. The air
smelled of rain. Another thunderstorm was moving this way.
The yellow police tape was wrapped around tree trunks, strung
through bushes. One yellow loop went around the stone feet of an
angel. The tape flapped and cracked in the growing wind. Sergeant
Rudolf Storr lifted the tape and walked towards me.
He was six-eight and built like a wrestler. He had a brisk,
striding walk. His close-cropped black hair left his ears bare.
Dolph was the head of the newest task force, the spook squad.
Officially, it was the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team,
R-P-I-T, pronounced rip it. It handled all supernatural-related
crime. It wasn't exactly a step up for his career. Willie McCoy had
been right; the task force was a half-hearted effort to placate the
press and the liberals.
Dolph had pissed somebody off, or he wouldn't have been here.
But Dolph, being Dolph, was determined to do the best job he could.
He was like a force of nature. He didn't yell, he was just there,
and things got done because of it.
"Well," he said.
That's Dolph, a man of many words. "It was a ghoul attack."
"And."
I shrugged. "And there are no ghouls in this cemetery."
He stared down at me, face carefully neutral. He was good at
that, didn't like to influence his people. "You just said it was a
ghoul attack."
"Yes, but they came from somewhere outside the cemetery."
"So?"
"I have never known of any ghouls to travel this far outside
their own cemetery." I stared at him, trying to see if he
understood what I was saying.
"Tell me about ghouls, Anita." He had his trusty little notebook
out, pen poised and ready.
"This cemetery is still holy ground. Cemeteries that have ghoul
infestations are usually very old or have satanic or certain voodoo
rites performed in them. The evil sort of uses up the blessing,
until the ground becomes unholy. Once that happens, ghouls
either move in or rise from the graves. No one's sure exactly
which."
"Wait, what do you mean, that no one knows?"
"Basically."
He shook his head, staring at the notes he'd made, frowning.
"Explain."
"Vampires are made by other vampires. Zombies are raised from
the grave by an animator or voodoo priest. Ghouls, as far as we
know, just crawl out of their graves on their own. There are
theories that very evil people become ghouls. I don't buy that.
There was a theory for a while that people bitten by a supernatural
being, wereanimal, vampire, whatever, would become a ghoul. But
I've seen whole cemeteries emptied, every corpse a ghoul. No way
they were all attacked by supernatural forces while alive."
"All right, we don't know where ghouls come from. What do we
know?"
"Ghouls don't rot like zombies. They retain their form more like
vampires. They are more than animal intelligent, but not by much.
They are cowards and won't attack a person unless she is hurt or
unconscious."
"They sure as hell attacked the groundskeeper."
"He could have been knocked unconscious somehow."
"How?"
"Someone would have had to knock him out."
"Is that likely?"
"No, ghouls don't work with humans, or any other undead. A
zombie will obey orders, vampires have their own thoughts. Ghouls
are like pack animals, wolves maybe, but a lot more dangerous. They
wouldn't be able to understand working with someone. If you're not
a ghoul, you're either meat or something to hide from."
"Then what happened here?"
"Dolph, these ghouls traveled quite a distance to reach this
cemetery. There isn't another one for miles. Ghouls don't travel
like that. So maybe, just maybe, they attacked the caretaker when
he came to scare them off. They should have run from him; maybe
they didn't."
"Could it be something, or someone, pretending to be
ghouls?"
"Maybe, but I doubt it. Whoever it was, they ate that man. A
human might do that, but a human couldn't tear the body apart like
that. They just don't have the strength."
"Vampire?"
"Vampires don't eat meat."
"Zombies?"
"Maybe. There are rare cases where zombies go a little crazy and
start attacking people. They seem to crave flesh. If they don't get
it, they'll start to decay."
"I thought zombies always decayed."
"Flesh-eating zombies last a lot longer than normal. There's one
case of a woman who is still human-looking after three years."
"They let her go around eating people?"
I smiled. "They feed her raw meat. I believe the article said
lamb was preferred."
"Article?"
"Every career has its professional journal, Dolph."
"What's it called?"
I shrugged. "The Animator; what else?"
He actually smiled. "Okay. How likely is it that it's
zombies?"
"Not very. Zombies don't run in packs unless they're ordered
to."
"Even" - he checked his notes - "flesh-eating zombies?"
"There have only been three documented cases. All of them were
solitary hunters."
"So, flesh-eating zombies, or a new kind of ghoul. That sum it
up?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Okay, thanks. Sorry to interrupt your night off." He closed his
notebook and looked at me. He was almost grinning. ""The secretary
said you were at a bachelorette party." He wiggled his eyebrows.
"Hoochie coochie."
"Don't give me a hard time, Dolph."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Riiight," I said. "If you don't need me anymore, I'll be
getting back."
"We're finished, for now. Call me if you think of anything
else."
"Will do." I walked back to my car. The bloody plastic gloves
were shoved into a garbage sack in the trunk. I debated on the
coveralls and finally folded them on top of the garbage sack. I
might be able to wear them one more time.
Dolph called out, "You be careful tonight, Anita. Wouldn't want
you picking up anything."
I glared back at him. The rest of the men waved at me and called
in unison, "We loove you."
"Gimme a break."
One called, "If I'd known you liked to see naked men, we could
have worked something out."
"The stuff you got, Zerbrowski, I don't want to see."
Laughter, and someone grabbed him around the neck. "She got you,
man . . . Give it up, she gets you every time."
I got into my car to the sound of masculine laughter, and one
offer to be my "luv" slave. It was probably Zerbrowski.
Chapter 6
I arrived back at Guilty Pleasures a little after midnight. Jean
Claude was standing at the bottom of the steps. He was leaning
against the wall, utterly still. If he was breathing, I couldn't
see it. The wind blew the lace on his shirt. A lock of black hair
trailed across the smooth paleness of his cheek.
"You smell of other people's blood, ma petite."
I smiled at him, sweetly. "It was no one you knew."
His voice when it came was low and dark, full of a quiet rage.
It slithered across my skin, like a cold wind. "Have you been
killing vampires, my little animator?"
"No." I whispered it, my voice suddenly hoarse. I had never
heard his voice like that.
"They call you The Executioner, did you know that?"
"Yes." He had done nothing to threaten me, yet nothing at that
moment would have forced me to pass him. They might as well have
barred the door.
"How many kills do you have to your credit?"
I didn't like this conversation. It wasn't going to end anywhere
I wanted to be. I knew one master vampire who could smell lies. I
didn't understand Jean-Claude's mood, but I wasn't about to lie to
him. "Fourteen."
"And you call us murderers."
I just stared at him, not sure what he wanted me to say.
Buzz the vampire came down the steps. He stared from Jean Claude
to me, then took up his post by the door, huge arms crossed over
his chest.
Jean-Claude asked, "Did you have a nice break?"
"Yes, thank you, master."
The master vampire smiled. "I've told you before, Buzz, don't
call me master."
"Yes, M-M . . . Jean-Claude."
The vampire gave his wondrous, nearly touchable laugh. "Come,
Anita, let us go inside where it is warmer."
It was over eighty degrees on the sidewalk. I didn't know what
in the world he was talking about. I didn't know what we'd been
talking about for the last few minutes.
Jean-Claude walked up the steps. I watched him disappear inside.
I stood staring at the door, not wanting to go inside. Something
was wrong, and I didn't know what.
"You going inside?" Buzz asked.
"I don't suppose you'd go inside, and ask Monica and the
redhaired woman she's with to come outside?"
He smiled, flashing fang. It's the mark of the new dead that
they flash their fangs around. They like the shock effect. "Can't
leave my post. I just had a break."
"Thought you'd say something like that."
He grinned at me.
I went into the twilit dark of the club. The holy item check
girl was waiting for me at the door. I gave her my cross. She gave
me a check stub. It wasn't a fair trade. Jean-Claude was nowhere in
sight.
Catherine was on the stage. She was standing motionless, eyes
wide. Her face had that open, fragile look that faces get when they
sleep, like a child's face. Her long, copper-colored hair glistened
in the lights. I knew a deep trance when I saw it.
"Catherine." I breathed her name and ran towards her. Monica was
sitting at our table, watching me come. There was an awful, knowing
smile on her face.
I was almost to the stage when a vampire appeared behind
Catherine. He didn't walk out from behind the curtain, he just
bloody appeared behind her. For the first time I understood what
humans must see. Magic.
The vampire stared at me. His hair was golden silk, his skin
ivory, eyes like drowning pools. I closed my eyes and shook my
head. This couldn't be happening. No one was that beautiful.
His voice was almost ordinary after the face, but it was a
command. "Call her."
I opened my eyes to find the audience staring at me. I glanced
at Catherine's blank face and knew what would happen, but like any
ignorant client I had to try. "Catherine, Catherine, can you hear
me?"
She never moved; only the faintest of movements showed her
breathing. She was alive, but for how long? The vampire had gotten
to her, deep trance. That meant he could call her anytime,
anywhere, and she would come. From this moment on, her life
belonged to him. Whenever he wanted it.
"Catherine, please!" There was nothing I could do, the damage
was done. Dammit, I should never have left her here, never!
The vampire touched her shoulder. She blinked and stared around,
surprised, scared. She gave a nervous laugh. "What happened?"
The vampire raised her hand to his lips. "You are now under my
power, my lovely one."
She laughed again, not understanding that he had told her the
absolute truth. He led her to the edge of the stage, and two
waiters helped her back to her seat. "I feel fuzzy," she said.
Monica patted her hand. "You were great."
"What did I do?"
"I'll tell you later. The show's not over yet." She stared at me
when she said the last.
I already knew I was in trouble. The vampire on the stage was
staring at me. It was like weight against my skin. His will, force,
personality, whatever it was, beat against me. I could feel it like
a pulsing wind. The skin on my arms crawled with it.
"I am Aubrey," the vampire said. "Give me your name."
My mouth was suddenly dry, but my name was not important. He
could have that. "Anita."
"Anita. How pretty."
My knees sort of buckled and spilled me into a chair. Monica was
staring at me, eyes enormous and eager.
"Come, Anita, join me on the stage." His voice wasn't as good as
Jean-Claude's, it just wasn't. There was no texture to it, but the
mind behind the voice was like nothing I had ever felt. It was
ancient, terribly ancient. The force of his mind made my bones
ache.
"Come."
I kept shaking my head, over and over. It was all I could do. No
words, no real thoughts, but I knew I could not get out of this
chair. If I came to him now, he would have power over me just as he
did Catherine. Sweat soaked through the back of my blouse.
"Come to me, now!"
I was standing, and I didn't remember doing it. Dear God, help
me! "No!" I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I tore my
own skin and welcomed the pain. I could breathe again.
His mind receded like the ocean pulling back. I felt
lightheaded, empty. I slumped against the table. One of the vampire
waiters was at my side. "Don't fight him. He gets angry if you
fight him."
I pushed him away. "If I don't fight him, he'll own me!"
The waiter looked almost human, one of the new dead. There was a
look on his face. It was fear.
I called to the thing on the stage, "I'll come to the stage if
you don't force me."
Monica gasped. I ignored her. Nothing mattered but getting
through the next few moments.
"Then by all means, come," the vampire said.
I stood away from the table and found I could stand without
falling. Point for me. I could even walk. Two points for me. I
stared at the hard, polished floor. If I concentrated just on
walking I would be all right. The first step of the stage came into
view. I glanced up.
Aubrey was standing in the center of the stage. He wasn't trying
to call me. He stood perfectly still. It was like he wasn't there
at all; he was a terrible nothingness. I could feel his stillness
like a pulse in my head. I think he could have stood in plain
sight, and unless he wanted me to, I would never have seen him.
"Come." Not a voice, but a sound inside my head. "Come to me.
"
I tried to move back and couldn't. My pulse thundered into my
throat. I couldn't breathe. I was choking! I stood with the force
of his mind twisting against me.
"Don't fight me!" He screamed in my head.
Someone was screaming, wordlessly, and it was me. If I stopped
fighting, it would be so easy, like drowning after you stop
struggling. A peaceful way to die. No, no. "No." My voice sounded
strange, even to me.
"What?" he asked. His voice held surprise.
"No," I said, and I looked up at him. I met his eyes with the
weight of all those centuries pulsing down. Whatever it was that
made me an animator, that helped me raise the dead, it was there
now. I met his eyes and stood still.
He smiled then, a slow spreading of lips. "Then I will come to
you."
"Please, please, don't." I could not step back. His mind held me
like velvet steel. It was everything I could do not to move
forward. Not to run to meet him.
He stopped, with our bodies almost touching. His eyes were a
solid, perfect brown, bottomless, endless. I looked away from his
face. Sweat trickled down my forehead.
"You smell of fear, Anita."
His cool hand traced the edge of my cheek. I started to shake
and couldn't stop. His fingers pulled gently through the waves of
my hair. "How can you face me this way?"
He breathed along my face, warm as silk. His breath slid to my
neck, warm and close. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. His hunger
pulsed against my skin. My stomach cramped with his need. He hissed
at the audience, and they squealed in terror. He was going to do
it.
Terror came in a blinding rush of adrenaline. I pushed away from
him. I fell to the stage and scrambled away on hands and knees.
An arm grabbed me around the waist, lifting. I screamed,
striking backwards with my elbow. It thudded home, and I heard him
gasp, but the arm tightened. Tightened until it was crushing
me.
I tore at my sleeve. Cloth ripped. He threw me onto my back. He
was crouched over me, face twisted with hunger. His lips curled
back from his teeth, fangs glistening.
Someone moved onto the stage, one of the waiters. The vampire
hissed at him, spittle running down his chin. There was nothing
human left.
It came for me in a blinding rush of speed and hunger. I pressed
the silver knife over his heart. A trickle of blood glistened down
his chest. He snarled at me, fangs gnashing like a dog on the end
of a chain. I screamed.
Terror had washed his power away. There was nothing left but
fear. He lunged for me and drove the point of the knife into his
skin. Blood began to drip over my hand and onto my blouse. His
blood.
Jean-Claude was suddenly there. "Aubrey, let her go."
The vampire growled deep and low in his throat. It was an animal
sound.
My voice was high and thin with fear; I sounded like a little
girl. "Get him off me, or I'll kill him!"
The vampire reared back, fangs slashing his own lips. "Get him
off me!"
Jean-Claude began to speak softly in French. Even when I
couldn't understand the language his voice was like velvet,
soothing. Jean-Claude knelt by us, speaking softly. The vampire
growled and lashed out, grabbing Jean-Claude's wrist.
He gasped, and it sounded like pain.
Should I kill him? Could I plunge the knife home before he tore
out my throat? How fast was he? My mind seemed to be working
incredibly fast. There was an illusion that I had all the time in
the world to decide and act.
I felt the vampire's weight heavier against my legs. His voice
sounded hoarse, but calm. "May I get up now?"
His face was human again, pleasant, handsome, but the illusion
didn't work anymore. I had seen him unmasked, and that image would
always stay with me. "Get off me, slowly."
He smiled then, a slow confident spread of lips. He moved off
me, human-slow. Jean-Claude waved him back until he stood near the
curtain.
"Are you all right, ma petite?"
I stared at the bloody silver knife and shook my head. "I don't
know."
"I did not mean for this to happen." He helped me sit up, and I
let him. The room had fallen silent. The audience knew something
had gone wrong. They had seen the truth behind the charming mask.
There were a lot of pale, frightened faces out there.
My right sleeve hung torn where I ripped it to get the
knife.
"Please, put away the knife," Jean-Claude said.
I stared at him, and for the first time I looked him in the eyes
and felt nothing. Nothing but emptiness.
"My word of honor that you will leave this place in safety. Put
the knife away."
It took me three tries to slide the knife into its sheath, my
hands were trembling so badly. Jean-Claude smiled at me,
tight-lipped. "Now, we will get off this stage." He helped me
stand. I would have fallen if his arm hadn't caught me. He kept a
tight grip on my left hand; the lace on his sleeve brushed my skin.
The lace wasn't soft at all.
Jean-Claude held his other hand out to Aubrey. I tried to pull
away, and he whispered, "No fear, I will protect you, I swear
it."
I believed him, I don't know why, maybe because I had no one
else to believe. He led Aubrey and me to the front of the stage.
His rich voice caressed the crowd. "We hope you enjoyed our little
melodrama. It was very realistic, wasn't it?"
The audience shifted uncomfortably, fear plain in their
faces.
He smiled out at them and dropped Aubrey's hand. He unbuttoned
my sleeve and pushed it back, exposing the burn scar. The cross was
dark against my skin. The audience was silent, still not
understanding. Jean-Claude pulled the lace away from his chest,
exposing his own cross-shaped burn.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then applause thundered
around the room. Screams and shouts, and whistles roared around
us.
They thought I was a vampire, and it had all been an act. I
stared at Jean-Claude's smiling face and the matching scars: his
chest, my arm.
Jean-Claude's hand pulled me down into a bow. As the applause
finally began to fade, Jean-Claude whispered, "We need to talk,
Anita. Your friend Catherine's life depends on your actions."
I met his eyes and said, "I killed the things that gave me this
scar."
He smiled broadly, showing just a hint of fang. "What a lovely
coincidence. So did I."
Chapter 7
Jean-Claude led us through the curtains at the back of the
stage. Another vampire stripper was waiting to go on. He was
dressed like a gladiator, complete with metal breastplate and short
sword. "Talk about an act that's hard to follow. Shit." He jerked
the curtain open and stalked through.
Catherine came through, her face so pale her freckles stood out
like brown ink spots. I wondered if I looked as pale? Naw. I didn't
have the skin tone for it.
"My God, are you all right?" she asked.
I stepped carefully over a line of cables that snaked across the
backstage floor and leaned against the wall. I began to relearn how
to breathe. "I'm fine," I lied.
"Anita, what is going on? What was that stuff on stage? You
aren't a vampire any more than I am."
Aubrey made a silent hiss behind her back, fangs straining,
making his lips bleed. His shoulders shook with silent
laughter.
Catherine gripped my arm. "Anita?"
I hugged her, and she hugged me back. I would not let her die
like this. I would not let it happen. She pulled away from me and
stared into my face. "Talk to me."
"Shall we talk in my office?" Jean-Claude asked.
"Catherine doesn't need to come."
Aubrey strolled closer. He seemed to glimmer in the twilight
dark, like a jewel. "I think she should come. It does concern her
intimately." He licked his bloody lips, tongue pink and quick as a
cat's.
"No, I want her out of this, any way I can get her out of
it."
"Out of what? What are you talking about?"
Jean-Claude asked, "Is she likely to go to the police?"
"Go to the police about what?" Catherine asked, her voice
getting louder with each question.
"If she did?"
"She would die," Jean-Claude said.
"Wait just a minute," Catherine said. "Are you threatening
me?"
Catherine's face was gaining a lot of color. Anger did that to
her. "She'll go to the police," I said.
"It is your choice."
"I'm sorry, Catherine, but it would be better for us all if you
didn't remember any of this."
"That's it! We are leaving, now." She grabbed my hand, and I
didn't stop her.
Aubrey moved up behind her. "Look at me, Catherine."
She stiffened. Her fingers dug into my hand; incredible tension
vibrated down her muscles. She was fighting it. God, help her. But
she didn't have any magic, or crucifixes. Strength of will was not
enough, not against something like Aubrey.
Her hand fell away from my arm, fingers going limp all at once.
Breath went out of her in a long, shuddering sigh. She stared at
something just a little over my head, something I couldn't see.
I whispered, "Catherine, I'm sorry."
"Aubrey can wipe her memory of this night. She will think she
drank too much, but that will not undo the damage."
"I know. The only thing that can break Aubrey's hold on her is
his death."
"She will be dust in her grave before that happens."
I stared at him, at the blood stain on his shirt. I smiled a
very careful smile.
"This little wound was luck and nothing more. Do not let it make
you overconfident," Aubrey said.
Overconfident; now that was funny. I barely managed not to
laugh. "I understand the threat, Jean-Claude. Either I do what you
want or Aubrey finishes what he started with Catherine."
"You have grasped the situation, ma petite."
"Stop calling me that. What is it exactly that you want from
me?"
"I believe Willie McCoy told you what we wanted."
"You want to hire me to check into the vampire murders?"
"Exactly."
"This," I motioned to Catherine's blank face, "was hardly
necessary. You could have beaten me up, threatened my life, offered
me more money. You could have done a lot of things before you did
this."
He smiled, lips tight. "All that would have taken time. And let
us be truthful. In the end you would still have refused us."
"Maybe."
"This way, you have no choice."
He had a point. "Okay, I'm on the case. Satisfied?"
"Very," Jean-Claude said, his voice very soft. "What of your
friend?"
"I want her to go home in a cab. And I want some guarantees that
old long-fang isn't going to kill her anyway."
Aubrey laughed, a rich sound that ended in a hysterical hissing.
He was bent over, shaking with laughter. "Long-fang, I like
that."
Jean-Claude glanced at the laughing vampire and said, "I will
give you my word that she will not be harmed if you help us."
"No offense, but that's not enough."
"You doubt my word." His voice growled low and warm, angry.
"No, but you don't hold Aubrey's leash. Unless he answers to you
you can't guarantee his behavior."
Aubrey's laughter had softened to a few faint giggles. I had
never heard a vampire giggle before. It wasn't a pleasant sound.
The laughter died completely, and he straightened. "No one holds my
leash, girl. I am my own master."
"Oh, get real. If you were over five hundred years old, and a
master vampire, you'd have cleaned up the stage with me. As it
was" - I flattened my hands palms up - "you didn't, which means you're
very old but not your own master."
He growled low in his throat, face darkening with anger. "How
dare you?"
"Think, Aubrey, she judged your age within fifty years. You are
not a master vampire, and she knew that. We need her."
"She needs to learn some humility." He stalked towards me, body
rigid with anger, hands clenching and unclenching in the air.
Jean-Claude stepped between us. "Nikolaos is expecting us to
bring her, unharmed."
Aubrey hesitated. He snarled; his jaws snapped on empty air. The
smack of his teeth biting together was a dull, angry sound.
They stared at each other. I could feel their wills straining
through the air, like a distant wind. It made the skin at the back
of my neck crawl. It was Aubrey who looked away, with an angry
graceful blink. "I will not anger, my master." He emphasized "my,"
making it clear that Jean-Claude was not "his" master.
I swallowed hard twice, and it sounded loud. If they wanted me
scared, they were doing a hell of a job. "Who is Nikolaos'?"
Jean-Claude turned to look at me, his face calm and beautiful.
"That question is not ours to answer."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He smiled, lips curling carefully so no fang showed. "Let us put
your friend in a cab, out of harm's way."
"What of Monica?"
He grinned then, fangs showing; he looked genuinely amused. "Are
you worried for her safety?"
It hit me then - the impromptu bachelorette party, there only
being the three of us. "She was the lure to get Catherine and me
down here."
He nodded, once down, once up.
I wanted to go back out and smash Monica's face in. The more I
thought about the idea, the better it sounded. As if by magic, she
parted the curtains and came back. I smiled at her, and it felt
good.
She hesitated, glancing from me to Jean-Claude and back. "Is
everything going according to plan?"
I walked towards her. Jean-Claude grabbed my arm. "Do not harm
her, Anita. She is under our protection."
"I swear to you that I will not lay a finger on her tonight. I
just want to tell her something."
He released my arm, slowly, like he wasn't sure it was a good
idea. I stepped next to Monica, until our bodies almost touched. I
whispered into her face, "If anything happens to Catherine, I will
see you dead."
She smirked at me, confident in her protectors. "They will bring
me back as one of them."
I felt my head shake, a little to the right, a little to the
left, a slow precise movement. "I will cut out your heart." I was
still smiling, I couldn't seem to stop. "Then I will burn it and
scatter the ashes in the river. Do you understand me?"
She swallowed audibly. Her health-club tan looked a little
green. She nodded, staring at me like I was the bogey man.
I think she believed I'd do it. Peachy keen. I hate to waste a
really good threat.
Chapter 8
I watched Catherine's cab vanish around the corner. She never
turned, or waved, or spoke. She would wake tomorrow with vague
memories. Just a night out with the girls.
I would like to have thought she was out of it, safe, but I knew
better. The air smelled thickly of rain. The street lights
glistened off the sidewalk. The air was almost too thick to
breathe. St. Louis in the summer. Peachy.
"Shall we go?" Jean-Claude asked.
He stood, white shirt gleaming in the dark. If the humidity
bothered him, it didn't show. Aubrey stood in the shadows near the
door. The only light on him was the crimson neon of the club sign.
He grinned at me, face painted red, body lost in shadows.
"It's a little too contrived, Aubrey," I said.
His grin wavered. "What do you mean?"
"You look like a B-movie Dracula."
He flowed down the steps, with that easy perfection that only
the really old ones have. The street light showed his face tight,
hands balled into fists.
Jean-Claude stepped in front of him and spoke low, voice a
soothing whisper. Aubrey turned away with a jerky shrug and began
to glide up the street.
Jean-Claude turned to me. "If you continue to taunt him, there
will come a point from which I cannot bring him back. And you will
die."
"I thought your job was to keep me alive for this Nikolaos."
He frowned. "It is, but I will not die to defend you. Do you
understand that?"
"I do now."
"Good. Shall we go?" He gestured down the sidewalk, in the
direction Aubrey had gone.
"We're going to walk?"
"It is not far." He held his hand out to me.
I stared at it and shook my head.
"It is necessary, Anita. I would not ask it otherwise."
"How is it necessary?"
"This night must remain secret from the police, Anita. Hold my
hand, play the besotted human with her vampire lover. It will
explain the blood on your blouse. It will explain where we are
going, and why."
His hand hung there, pale and slender. There was no tremor to
the fingers, no movement, as if he could stand there offering me
his hand forever. And maybe he could.
I took his hand. His long fingers curved over the back of my
hand. We began walking, his hand very still in mine. I could feel
the pulse in my hand against his skin. His pulse began to speed up
to match mine. I could feel his blood flow like a second heart.
"Have you fed tonight?" my voice sounded soft.
"Can you not tell?"
"I can never tell with you."
I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye. "I am flattered."
"You never answered my question."
"No," he said.
"No, you haven't answered me, or no, you haven't fed?"
He turned his head to me, as we walked. Sweat gleamed on his
upper lip. "What do you think, ma petite?" His voice was the
softest of whispers.
I jerked my hand, tried to get away, even though I knew it was
silly, and wouldn't work. His hand convulsed around mine, squeezed
until I gasped. He wasn't even trying hard.
"Do not struggle against me, Anita." His tongue slid across his
upper lip. "Struggling is - exciting."
"Why didn't you feed earlier?"
"I was ordered not to."
"Why?"
He didn't answer me. Rain began to patter down. Light and
cool.
"Why?" I repeated.
"I don't know." His voice was nearly lost in the soft fall of
rain. If it had been anyone else I would have said he was
afraid.
The hotel was tall and thin, and made of real brick. The sign
out front glowed blue and said, "Vacancy." There was no other sign.
Nothing to tell you what the place was called, or even what it was.
Just vacancy.
Rain glistened in Jean-Claude's hair, like black diamonds. My
top was sticking to my body. The blood had begun to wash away. Cold
water was just the thing for a fresh blood stain.
A police car eased around the corner. I tensed. Jean-Claude
jerked me against him. I put my palm against his chest to keep our
bodies from touching. His heart thudded under my hand.
The police car was going very slowly. A spotlight began to
search the shadows. They swept the District regularly. It was bad
for tourism if the tourists got wasted by our biggest
attractions.
Jean-Claude grabbed my chin and turned me to look at him. I
tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my chin. "Don't fight
me!"
"I won't look in your eyes!"
"My word that I will not try to bespell you. For this night you
may look into my eyes with safety. I swear it." He glanced at the
police car, still moving towards us. "If the police are brought
into this, I cannot promise what will happen to your friend."
I forced myself to relax in his arms, letting my body ease
against his. My heartbeat sounded loud, as if I had been running.
Then I realized it wasn't my heart I was hearing. Jean-Claude's
pulse was throbbing through my body. I could hear it, feel it,
almost squeeze it in my hand. I stared up at his face. His eyes
were the darkest blue I had ever seen, perfect as a midnight sky.
They were dark and alive, but there was no sense of drowning, no
pull. They were just eyes.
His face leaned towards me. He whispered, "I swear."
He was going to kiss me. I didn't want him to. But I didn't want
the police to stop and question us. I didn't want to explain the
blood stains, the torn blouse. His lips hesitated over my mouth.
His heartbeat was loud in my head, his pulse was racing, and my
breathing was ragged with his need.
His lips were silk, his tongue a quick wetness. I tried to pull
back and found his hand at the back of my neck, pressing my mouth
against his.
The police spotlight swept over us. I relaxed against
Jean-Claude, letting him kiss me. Our mouths pressed together. My
tongue found the smooth hardness of fangs. I pulled away, and he
let me. He pressed my face against his chest, one arm like steel
against my back, pressing me against him. He was trembling, and it
wasn't from the rain.
His breathing was ragged, his heart jumping under his skin
against my cheek. The slick roughness of his burn scar touched my
face.
His hunger poured over me in a violent wave, like heat. He had
been sheltering me from it, until now. "Jean-Claude!" I didn't try
to keep the fear out of my voice.
"Hush." A shudder ran through his body. His breath escaped in a
loud sigh. He released me so abruptly, I stumbled.
He walked away from me to lean against a parked car. He raised
his face up into the rain. I could still feel his heartbeat. I had
never been so aware of my own pulse, the blood flowing through my
veins. I hugged myself, shivering in the hot rain.
The police car had vanished into the streetlight darkness. After
perhaps five minutes Jean-Claude stood. I could no longer feel his
heartbeat. My own pulse was slow and regular. Whatever had happened
was over.
He walked past me and called over his shoulder. "Come, Nikolaos
awaits us inside."
I followed him through the door. He did not try to take my hand.
In fact he stayed out of reach, and I trailed after him through a
small square lobby. A human man sat behind the front desk. He
glanced up from the magazine he was reading. His eyes flicked to
Jean-Claude and back to me. He leered at me.
I glared back. He shrugged and turned back to his magazine.
Jean-Claude moved swiftly up the stairs, not waiting for me. He
didn't even look back. Maybe he could hear me walking behind him,
or maybe he didn't care if I followed.
I guess we weren't pretending to be lovers anymore. Fancy that.
I would almost have said the master vampire didn't trust himself
around me.
There was a long hallway with doors on either side. Jean-Claude
was halfway through one of those doors. I walked towards it. I
refused to hurry. They could damn well wait.
The room held a bed, a nightstand with a lamp, and three
vampires: Aubrey, Jean-Claude, and a strange female vampire. Aubrey
was standing in the far corner, near the window. He was smiling at
me. Jean-Claude stood near the door. The female vampire reclined on
the bed. She looked like a vampire should. Long, straight, black
hair fell around her shoulders. Her dress was full-skirted and
black. She wore high black boots with three-inch heels.
"Look into my eyes," she said.
I glanced at her, before I could stop myself, then stared down
at the floor.
She laughed, and it had the same quality of touch that
Jean-Claude's did. A sound that you could feel with your hands.
"Close the door, Aubrey," she said. Her r's were thick with some
accent that I couldn't place.
Aubrey brushed past me as he closed the door. He stayed in back
of me, where I couldn't see him. I moved to stand with my back to
the only empty wall, so I could see all of them, for what good it
would do me.
"Afraid?" Aubrey asked.
"Still bleeding?" I asked.
He crossed his arms over the blood stain on his shirt. "We shall
see who is bleeding come dawn."
"Aubrey, do not be childish." The vampire on the bed stood. Her
heels clicked against the bare floor. She stalked around me, and I
fought an urge to turn and keep her in sight. She laughed again, as
if she knew it.
"You wish me to guarantee your friend's safety?" she asked. She
had gone back to sink gracefully onto the bed. The bare, dingy room
seemed somehow worse with her sitting there in her
two-hundred-dollar leather boots.
"No," I said.
"That is what you asked, Anita," Jean-Claude said.
"I said that I wanted guarantees from Aubrey's master."
"You are speaking with my master, girl."
"No, I am not." The room was suddenly very still. I could hear
something scrambling inside the wall. I had to look up to make sure
the vampires were still in the room. They were all utterly still,
like statues, no sense of movement or breathing, or life. They were
all so damn old, but none of them were old enough to be
Nikolaos.
"I am Nikolaos," the female said, her voice coaxing and
breathing through the room. I wanted to believe her, but I
didn't.
"No," I said. "You are not Aubrey's master." I risked a glance
into her eyes. They were black and widened in surprise when I
looked at them. "You are very old, and very good, but you are not
old enough or strong enough to be Aubrey's master."
Jean-Claude said, "I told you she would see through it."
"Silence!"
"The game is over, Theresa. She knows."
"Only because you have told her."
"Tell them how you knew, Anita."
I shrugged. "She feels wrong. She just isn't old enough. There
is more of a sense of power from Aubrey than from her. That isn't
right."
"Do you still insist on speaking with our master?" the woman
asked.
"I still want guarantees on my friend's safety." I glanced
through the room, at each of them. "And I am getting tired of
stupid little games."
Aubrey was suddenly moving towards me. The world slowed. There
was no time for fear. I tried to back away, knowing there was
nowhere to go.
Jean-Claude rushed him, hands reaching. He wouldn't make it in
time.
Aubrey's hand came out of nowhere and caught me in the shoulder.
The blow knocked all the air from my body and sent me flying
backwards. My back slammed into the wall. My head hit a moment
later, hard. The world went grey. I slid down the wall. I couldn't
breathe. Tiny white shapes danced over the greyness. The world
began to go black. I slid to the floor. It didn't hurt; nothing
hurt. I struggled to breathe until my chest burned, and darkness
took everything away.
Chapter 9
Voices floated through the darkness. Dreams. "We shouldn't have
moved her."
"Did you want to disobey Nikolaos?"
"I helped bring her here, did I not?" It was a man's voice.
"Yes," a woman said.
I lay there with my eyes closed. I wasn't dreaming. I remembered
Aubrey's hand coming from nowhere. It had been an open backhand
slap. If he had closed his fist . . . but he hadn't. I was
alive.
"Anita, are you awake?"
I opened my eyes. Light speared into my head. I closed my eyes
against the light and the pain, but the pain stayed. I turned my
head, and that was a mistake. The pain was a nauseating ache. It
felt like the bones in my head were trying to slide off. I raised
hands to cover my eyes and groaned.
"Anita, are you all right?"
Why do people always ask you that when the answer is obviously
no? I spoke in a whisper, not sure how it would feel to talk. It
didn't feel too bad. "Just peachy keen."
"What?" This from the woman.
"I think she is being sarcastic," Jean-Claude said. He sounded
relieved. "She can't be hurt too badly if she is making jokes."
I wasn't sure about the hurt too badly part. Nausea flowed in
waves, from head to stomach, instead of the other way around. I was
betting I had a concussion. The question was, how bad?
"Can you move, Anita?"
"No," I whispered.
"Let me rephrase. If I help you, can you sit up?"
I swallowed, trying to breathe through the pain and nausea.
"Maybe."
Hands curved under my shoulders. The bones in my head
started sliding forward as he lifted. I gasped and swallowed.
"I'm going to be sick."
I rolled over on all fours. The movement was too rapid. The pan
was a whirl of light and darkness. My stomach heaved. Vomit burned
up my throat. My head was exploding.
Jean-Claude held me around the waist, one cool hand on my
forehead, holding the bones of my head in place. His voice held me,
a soothing sheet against my skin. He was speaking French, very
softly. I didn't understand a word of it, and didn't need to. His
voice held me, rocked me, took some of the pain.
He cradled me against his chest, and I was too weak to protest.
The pain had been screaming through my head; now it was distant, a
throbbing ache. It still felt obscene to turn my head, as if my
head were sliding apart, but the pain was different, bearable.
He wiped my face and mouth with a damp cloth. "Do you feel
better now?" he asked.
"Yes." I didn't understand where the pain had gone.
Theresa said, "Jean-Claude, what have you done?"
"Nikolaos wishes her to be aware and well for this visit. You
saw her. She needs a hospital, not more tormenting."
"So you helped her." The vampire's voice sounded amused.
"Nikolaos will not be pleased."
I felt him shrug. "I did what was necessary."
I could open my eyes without squinting or increasing the pain.
We were in a dungeon; there was no other word for it. Thick stone
walls enclosed a square room, perhaps twenty by twenty feet. Steps
led up to a barred, wooden door. There were even chains set in the
walls. Torches guttered along the walls. The only thing missing was
a rack and a black-hooded torturer, one with big, beefy arms, and a
tattoo that said "I love Mom." Yeah, that would have made it
perfect.
I was feeling better, much better. I shouldn't have been
recovering this quickly. I had been hurt before, badly. It didn't
just fade, not like this.
"Can you sit unaided?" Jean-Claude asked.
Surprisingly, the answer was yes. I sat with my back to the
wall. The pain was still there, but it just didn't hurt as much.
Jean-Claude got a bucket from near the stairs and washed it over
the floor. There was a very modern drain in the middle of the
floor.
Theresa stood staring at me, hands on hips. "You certainly are
recovering quickly." Her voice held amusement, and something else I
couldn't define.
"The pain, the nausea, it's almost gone. How?"
She smirked, lips curling. "You'll have to ask Jean-Claude that.
It's his doing, not mine."
"Because you could not have done it." There was a warm edge of
anger to his voice.
Her face paled. "I would not have, regardless."
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
Jean-Claude looked at me, beautiful face unreadable. His dark
eyes stared into mine. They were still just eyes.
"Go on, master vampire, tell her. See how grateful she is."
Jean-Claude stared at me, watching my face. "You are badly hurt,
a concussion. But Nikolaos will not let us take you to a hospital
until this . . . interview is over with. I feared you would die or
be unable to . . . function." I had never heard his voice so
uncertain. "So I shared my life-force with you."
I started to shake my head. Big mistake. I pressed hands to my
forehead. "I don't understand."
He spread his hands wide. "I do not have the words."
"Oh, allow me," Theresa said. "He has taken the first step to
making you a human servant."
"No." I was still having trouble thinking clearly, but I knew
that wasn't right. "He didn't try to trick me with his mind, or
eyes. He didn't bite me."
"I don't mean one of those pathetic half-creatures that have a
few bites and do our bidding. I mean a permanent human servant, one
that will never be bitten, never be hurt. One that will age almost
as slowly as we do."
I still didn't understand. Perhaps it showed in my face because
Jean-Claude said, "I took your pain and gave you some of my . . .
stamina."
"Are you experiencing my pain, then?"
"No, the pain is gone. I have made you a little harder to
hurt."
I still wasn't taking it all in, or maybe it was just beyond me.
"I don't understand."
"Listen, woman, he has shared with you what we consider a great
gift to be given only to people who have proven themselves
invaluable."
I stared at Jean-Claude. "Does this mean I am in your power
somehow?"
"Just the opposite," Theresa said, "you are now immune to his
glance, his voice, his mind. You will serve him out of willingness,
nothing more. You see what he has done."
I stared into her black eyes. They were just eyes.
She nodded. "Now you begin to understand. As an animator you had
partial immunity to our gaze. Now you have almost complete
immunity." She gave an abrupt barking laugh. "Nikolaos is going to
destroy you both." With that she stalked up the stairs, the heels
of her boots smacking against the stone. She left the door open
behind her.
Jean-Claude had come to stand over me. His face was
unreadable.
"Why?" I asked.
He just stared down at me. His hair had dried in unruly curls
around his face. He was still beautiful, but the hair made him seem
more real.
"Why?"
He smiled then, and there were tired lines near his eyes. "If
you died, our master would have punished us. Aubrey is already
suffering for his . . . indiscretion."
He turned and walked up the stairs. He moved up the steps like a
cat, all boneless, liquid grace.
He paused at the door and glanced back at me. "Someone will come
for you when Nikolaos decides it is time." He closed the door, and
I heard it latch and lock. His voice floated through the bars,
rich, almost bubbling with laughter, "And perhaps, because I liked
you." His laughter was bitter, like broken glass.
Chapter 10
I had to check the locked door. Rattle it, poke at the lock, as
if I knew how to pick locks. See if any bars were loose, though I
could never have squeezed through the small window anyway.
I checked the door because I could not resist it. It was the
same urge that made you rattle your trunk after you locked your
keys inside.
I have been on the wrong side of a lot of locked doors. Not a
one of them had just opened for me, but there was always a first
time. Yeah, I should live so long. Scratch that; bad phrase.
A sound brought me back to the cell and its seeping, damp walls.
A rat scurried against the far wall. Another peered around the edge
of the steps, whiskers twitching. I guess you can't have a dungeon
without rats, but I would have been willing to give it a try.
Something else pattered around the edge of the steps; in the
torchlight I thought it was a dog. It wasn't. A rat the size of a
German shepherd sat up on its sleek black haunches. It stared at
me, huge paws tucked close to its furry chest. It cocked one large,
black button eye at me. Lips drew back from yellowed teeth. The
incisors were five inches long, blunt-edged daggers.
I yelled, "Jean-Claude!"
The air filled with high-pitched squeals, echoing, as if they
were running up a tunnel. I stepped to the far edge of the stairs.
And I saw it. A tunnel cut into the wall, almost man-high. Rats
poured out of the tunnel in a thick, furry wave, squealing and
biting. They flowed out and began to cover the floor.
"Jean-Claude!" I beat on the door, jerked at the bars,
everything I had done before. It was useless. I wasn't getting out.
I kicked the door and screamed, "Dammit!" The sound echoed against
the stone walls and almost drowned out the sound of thousands of
scrambling claws.
"They will not come for you until we are finished."
I froze, hands still on the door. I turned, slowly. The voice
had come from inside the cell. The floor writhed and twisted with
furry little bodies. High-pitched squeals, the thick brush of fur,
the clatter of thousands of tiny claws filled the room. Thousands
of them, thousands.
Four giant rats sat like mountains in the writhing furry tide.
One of them stared at me with black button eyes. There was nothing
ratlike in the stare. I had never seen wererats before, but I was
betting that I was seeing them now.
One figure stood, legs half-bent. It was man-size, with a
narrow, ratlike face. A huge naked tail curved around its bent legs
like thick fleshy rope. It - no, he, definitely he - extended a clawed
hand. "Come down and join us, human." The voice sounded thick,
almost furry, with an edge of whine to it. Each word precise and a
little wrong. Rats' lips are not made for talking.
I was not coming down the steps. No way. I could taste my heart
in my throat. I knew a man who survived a werewolf attack, nearly
died, and didn't become a werewolf. I know another man who was
barely scratched and became a weretiger. Odds were, if I was so
much as scratched, in a month's time I would be playing fur-face,
complete with black button eyes and yellowish fangs. Dear God.
"Come down, human. Come down and play."
I swallowed hard. It felt like I was trying to swallow my heart.
"I don't think so."
It gave a hissing laugh. "We could come up and fetch you." He
strode through the lesser rats, and they parted for him
frantically, leaping on top of each other to avoid his touch. He
stood at the edge of the steps, looking up at me. His fur was
almost a honey-brown color, streaked with blond. "If we force you
off the steps, you won't like it much."
I swallowed hard. I believed him. I went for my knife and found
the sheath empty. Of course, the vampires had taken it. Dammit.
"Come down, human, come down and play."
"If you want me, you're going to have to come get me."
He curled his tail through his hands, stroking it. One clawed
hand ran through the fur of his belly, and stroked lower. I stared
very hard at his face, and he laughed at me.
"Fetch her."
Two of the dog-size rats moved towards the stairs. A small rat
squealed and rolled under their feet. It gave a high, piteous
shriek, then nothing. It twitched until the other rats covered it.
Tiny bones snapped. Nothing would go to waste.
I pressed against the door, as if I could sink through it. The
two rats crept up the steps, sleek well-fed animals. But there was
no animal in the eyes. Whatever was there was human,
intelligent.
"Wait, wait."
The rats hesitated.
The ratman said, "Yes?"
I swallowed audibly. "What do you want?"
"Nikolaos asked that we entertain you while you wait."
"That doesn't answer my question. What do you want me to do?
What do you want?"
Lips curled back from yellowed teeth. It looked like a snarl,
but I think it was a smile. "Come down to us, human. Touch us, let
us touch you. Let us teach you the joys of fur and teeth." He
rubbed claws through the fur of his thighs. It drew my attention to
him, between his legs. I looked away, and heat rushed up my skin. I
was blushing. Dammit!
My voice came out almost steady. "Is that supposed to be
impressive?" I asked.
He froze for an instant, then snarled, "Get her down here!"
Great, Anita, antagonize him. Imply that his equipment is a
little undersized.
His hissing laugh ran up my skin in cold waves. "We are going to
have fun tonight. I can tell."
The giant rats came up the steps, muscles working under fur,
whiskers thick as wire, wriggling furiously. I pressed my back
against the door and began to slide down the wood. "Please, please
don't." My voice sounded high and frightened, and I hated it.
"We've broken you so soon; how very sad," the ratman said.
The two giant rats were almost on me. I braced my back against
the door, knees tucked up, heels planted, the rest of the foot
slightly raised. A claw touched my leg, I flinched, but I waited.
It had to be right. Please, God, don't let them draw blood.
Whiskers scraped along my face, the weight of fur on top of me.
I kicked out, both feet hitting solidly in the rat. It raised
onto its hind legs and toppled backwards. It tittered, tail
lashing. I threw myself forward and smashed it in the chest. The
rat tumbled over the edge.
The second rat crouched, making a sound low in its throat. I
watched its muscles bunch, and I went down to one knee and braced.
If it leaped on me standing, I'd go over the edge. I was only
inches from the drop.
It leaped. I dropped flat to the floor and rolled. I shoved feet
and one hand into the warmth of its body and helped it along. The
rat plummeted over me and out of sight. I heard the frightened
shrieks as it fell. The sound was a thick "thumpth." Satisfying. I
doubted either of them were dead. But it was the best I could
do.
I stood, putting my back to the door again. The ratman wasn't
smiling anymore. I smiled at him sweetly, my best angelic smile. He
didn't seem impressed.
He made a motion like parting air, smooth. The lesser rats
flowed forward with his hand. A creeping brown tide of furry little
bodies began to boil up the steps.
I might be able to get a few of them, but not all of them. If he
wanted them to, they'd eat me alive, one tiny crimson bite at a
time.
Rats flowed around my feet, scrambling and arguing. Tiny bodies
bumped against my boots. One stretched itself thin, reaching up to
grab the edge of my boot. I kicked it off. It fell squealing over
the edge.
The giant rats had dragged one of their injured friends off to
one side. The rat wasn't moving. The other I had thrown off was
limping.
A rat leaped upward, claws hooked in my blouse. It hung there,
claws trapped in the cloth. I could feel its weight over my breast.
I grabbed it around its middle. Teeth sank into my hand until they
met, grinding skin, missing bone. I screamed, jerking the rat away
from me. It dangled from my hand like an obscene earring. Blood ran
down its fur. Another rat leaped on my blouse.
The ratman was smiling.
A rat was climbing for my face. I grabbed it by the tail and
pulled it away. I yelled, "Are you afraid to come yourself? Are you
afraid of me?" My voice was thin with panic, but I said it. "Your
friends are injured doing something you're afraid to do. Is that
it? Is it?"
The giant rats were staring from me to the ratman. He glanced at
them. "I am not afraid of a human."
"Then come up, take me yourself, if you can." The rat on my hand
dropped away in a spout of blood. The skin between thumb and
forefinger was ripped apart.
The lesser rats hesitated, staring wildly around. One was
halfway up my jeans. It dropped to the floor.
"I am not afraid."
"Prove it." My voice sounded a little steadier, maybe about nine
years old instead of five.
The giant rats were staring at him, intent, judging, waiting. He
made that same cutting-air motion in reverse. The rats squeaked and
stood on hind legs staring around, as if they couldn't believe it,
but they began to pour down the stairs the way they had come.
I leaned into the door, knees weak, cradling the bitten hand
against my chest. The ratman began to creep up the stairs. He moved
easily on the balls of his elongated feet, strong clawed toes
digging into the stone.
Lycanthropes are stronger and faster than humans. No mind
tricks, no sleight of hand, they are just better. I would not be
able to surprise the wererat, as I had the first. I doubted he
would grow angry enough to be stupid, but one could always hope. I
was hurt, unarmed, and outmatched. If I couldn't get him to make a
mistake, I was in deep shit.
A long, pink tongue curved over his teeth. "Fresh blood," he
said. He drew in a loud breath of air. "You stink of fear, human.
Blood and fear, smells like dinner to me." The tongue flicked out
and he laughed at me.
I slid my uninjured hand behind my back, as if reaching for
something. "Come closer, ratman, and we'll see how you like
silver."
The ratman hesitated, frozen, half-crouched on the top step.
"You have no silver."
"Want to bet your life on it?"
His clawed hands clutched each other. One of the large rats
squeaked something. He snarled down at it. "I am not afraid!"
If they egged him on, my bluff wasn't going to work. "You saw
what I did to your friends. That was without a weapon." My voice
sounded low and sure of itself. Good for me.
He eyed me out of one large patent-leather eye. His fur
glistened in the torchlight as if freshly washed. He gave a small
jump and was on the landing, just out of reach.
"I've never seen a blond rat before," I said. Anything to fill
the silence, anything to keep him from taking that one last step.
Surely Jean-Claude would come back for me soon. I laughed then,
abrupt and half-choked.
The ratman froze, staring at me. "Why are you laughing?" His
voice held just a hint of unease. Good.
"I was hoping that the vampires would come for me soon and save
me. You've got to admit that's funny."
He didn't seem to think it was funny. A lot of people don't get
my jokes. If I was less secure, I'd think my jokes weren't funny.
Naw.
I moved my hand behind my back, still pretending that there was
a knife in it. One of the giant rats squealed, and even to me it
sounded derisive. He would never live it down if I bluffed him. I
might not live it down if I didn't.
Most people, when confronted with a wererat, freeze or panic.
I'd had time to get used to the idea. I wasn't going to fade away
if he touched me. There was one possible solution where I could
save myself. If I was wrong, he was going to kill me. My stomach
turned a sharp flip-flop, and I had to swallow hard. Better dead
than furry. If he attacked me, I'd just as soon he killed me. Rats
were not my top choice for being a lycanthrope. If your luck was
bad, the smallest scratch could infect you.
If I was quick and lucky, I could go to a hospital and be
treated. Sort of like rabies. Of course sometimes the inoculations
worked, and sometimes they gave you lycanthropy.
He wrapped his long, naked tail through his clawed hands. "You
ever been had by a were?"
I wasn't sure if he was talking sex or as a meal. Neither
sounded pleasant. He was going to work up to it, get himself brave,
then he'd come for me, when he was ready. I wanted him to come when
I was ready.
I chose sex and said, "You haven't got what it takes,
ratman."
He stiffened, hand sliding down his body, claws combing fur.
"We'll see who has what, human."
"Is this the only way you get any sex, forcing yourself on
someone? Are you as ugly in human form as you are right now?"
He hissed at me, mouth wide, teeth bared. A sound rose out of
his body, deep and high, a whining growl. I'd never heard a sound
like it before. It rose up and down and filled the room with
violent, hissing echoes. His shoulders crouched.
I held my breath. I had pissed him off. Now we would see if my
plan worked, or if he killed me. He leaped forward. I dropped to
the floor, but he was ready for it. Incredible speed and he was on
me, snarling, claws reaching, screaming in my face.
I bunched my legs against my chest, or he would have been on top
of me. He put one claw-hand on my knees and began to push. I tucked
arms over my knees, fighting him. It was like fighting steel that
moved. He screamed again, high and hissing, spittle raining on me.
He went up on his knees to get a better angle at forcing my legs
down. I kicked outward, everything I had. He saw it coming and
tried to move back, but both feet hit him square between the legs.
The impact lifted him off his knees, and he collapsed to the
landing, claws scrambling on the stone. He was making a high,
whining, breathy sound. He couldn't seem to get enough air.
A second ratman came scrambling through the tunnel, and rats ran
everywhere, squeaking and squealing. I just sat there on the
landing as far away from the writhing blond ratman as I could get.
I stared at the new ratman, feeling tired and angry.
Dammit, it should have worked. The bad guys weren't allowed
reinforcements when I was already outnumbered. This one's fur was
black, jet absolute black. He wore a pair of jean cutoffs over his
slightly bent legs. He motioned, smooth and out from his body.
I swallowed my heart, pulse thudding. My skin crawled with the
memory of small bodies sliding over me. My hand throbbed where the
rat had bitten me. They'd tear me apart. "Jean-Claude!"
The rats moved, a flowing brownish tide, away from the stairs.
The rats ran squeaking and shrilling into the tunnel. All I could
do was stare.
The giant rats hissed at him, gesturing with noses and paws at
the fallen giant rat. "She was defending herself. What were you
doing?" The ratman's voice was low and deep, slurred only around
the edges. If I had closed my eyes, I might have said it was
human.
I didn't close my eyes. The giant rats left, crouch-dragging
their still unconscious friend. He wasn't dead, but he was hurt.
One giant rat glanced up at me as the others vanished into the
tunnel. Its empty black eye glared at me, promised me painful
things if we ever met again.
The blond ratman had stopped writhing and was lying very still,
panting, hands cradling himself. The new ratman said, "I told you
never to come here."
The first ratman struggled to sit up. The movement seemed to
hurt. "The master called and I obeyed."
"I am your king. You obey me." The black-furred rat began to
stride up the stairs, tail lashing angrily, almost catlike.
I stood and put the cell door at my back for the umpteenth time
that night.
The hurt ratman said, "You are only our king until you die. If
you stand against the master, that will be soon. She is powerful,
more powerful than you." His voice still sounded weak, thready, but
he was recovering. Anger will do that to you.
The rat king leaped, a black blur in motion. He jerked the
ratman off his feet, holding him with slightly bent elbows, feet
dangling off the ground. He held him close to his face. "I am your
king, and you will obey me or I will kill you." Clawed hands dug
into the blond ratman's throat, until he scrambled for air. The rat
king tossed the ratman down the stairs. He fell tumbling and nearly
boneless.
He glared up from the bottom in a painful, gasping heap. The
hatred in his eyes would have lit a bonfire.
"Are you all right?" the new ratman asked.
It took me a minute to realize he was speaking to me. I nodded.
Apparently I was being rescued, not that I had need of it. Of
course not. "Thank you."
"I did not come to save you," he said. "I have forbidden my
people to hunt for the vampire. That is why I came."
"Well, I know where I rate, somewhere above a flea. Thank you
anyway. Whatever your motives."
He nodded. "You are welcome."
I noticed a burn scar on his left forearm. It was the shape of a
crude crown. Someone had branded him. "Wouldn't it be easier just
to carry around a crown and scepter?"
He glanced down at his arm, then gave that rat smile, teeth
bare. "This leaves my hands free."
I looked up into his eyes to see if he was teasing me, and I
couldn't tell. You try reading rat faces.
"What do the vampires want with you?" he asked.
"They want me to work for them."
"Do it. They'll hurt you if you don't."
"Like they'll hurt you if you keep the rats away?"
He shrugged, an awkward motion. "Nikolaos thinks she is queen of
the rats because that is her animal to call. We are not merely
rats, but men, and we have a choice. I have a choice."
"Do what she wants, and she won't hurt you," I said.
Again that smile. "I give good advice. I do not always take
it."
"Me either," I said.
He stared at me out of one black eye, then turned towards the
door. "They are coming."
I knew who "they" were. The party was over. The vampires were
coming. The rat king sprang down the stairs and scooped up the
fallen ratman. He tossed him over his shoulder as if it were no
effort, then he was gone, running for the tunnel, fast, fast as a
mouse surprised by the kitchen light. A dark blur.
I heard heels clicking down the hallway, and I stepped away from
the door. It opened, and Theresa stood on the landing. She stared
down at me and the empty room, hands on hips, mouth squeezed tight.
"Where are they?"
I held up my wounded hand. "They did their part, then they
left."
"They weren't supposed to leave," she said. Theresa made an
exasperated sound low in her throat. "It was that rat king of
theirs, wasn't it?"
I shrugged. "They left; I don't know why."
"So calm, so unafraid. Didn't the rats frighten you?"
I shrugged again. When something works, stay with it.
"They were not supposed to draw blood." She stared at me. "Are
you going to shape shift next full moon?" Her voice held a hint of
curiosity. Curiosity killed the vampire. One could always hope.
"No," I said, and I left it at that. No explanation. If she
really wanted one, she could just beat me against the wall until I
told her what she wanted to hear. She wouldn't even break a sweat.
Of course, Aubrey was being punished for hurting me.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. "The rats were supposed to
frighten you, animator. They don't seem to have done their job."
"Maybe I don't frighten that easily." I met her eyes without
any effort. They were just eyes.
Theresa grinned at me suddenly, flashing fang. "Nikolaos will
find something that frightens you, animator. For fear is power."
She whispered the last as if afraid to say it too loud.
What did vampires fear? Did visions of sharpened stakes and
garlic haunt them, or were there worse things? How do you frighten
the dead?
"Walk in front of me, animator. Go meet your master."
"Isn't Nikolaos your master as well, Theresa?"
She stared at me, face blank, as if the laughter had been an
illusion. Her eyes were cold and dark. The rats' eyes had held more
personality. "Before the night is out, animator, Nikolaos will be
everyone's master."
I shook my head. "I don't think so."
"Jean-Claude's power has made you foolish."
"No," I said, "it isn't that."
"Then what, mortal?"
"I would rather die than be a vampire's flunky."
Theresa never blinked, only nodded, very slowly. "You may get
your wish."
The hair at the back of my neck crawled. I could meet her gaze,
but evil has a certain feel to it. A neck-ruffling,
throat-tightening feeling that tightens your gut. I have felt it
around humans as well. You don't have to be undead to be evil. But
it helps.
I walked in front of her. Theresa's boots clicked sharp echoes
from the hallway. Maybe it was only my fear talking, but I felt her
staring at me, like an ice cube sliding down my spine.
Chapter 11
The room was huge, like a warehouse, but the walls were solid,
massive stone. I kept waiting for Bela Lugosi to sweep around the
corner in his cape. What was sitting against one wall was almost as
good.
She had been about twelve or thirteen when she died. Small,
half-formed breasts showed under a long flimsy dress. It was pale
blue and looked warm against the total whiteness of her skin. She
had been pale when alive; as a vampire she was ghostly. Her hair
was that shining white-blonde that some children have before their
hair darkens to brown. This hair would never grow dark.
Nikolaos sat in a carved wooden chair. Her feet did not quite
touch the floor.
A male vampire moved to lean on the chair arm. His skin was a
strange shade of brownish ivory. He leaned over and whispered in
Nikolaos's ear.
She laughed, and it was the sound of chimes or bells. A lovely,
calculated sound. Theresa went to the girl in the chair, and stood
behind it, hands trailing in the long white-blonde hair.
A human male came to stand to the right of her chair. Back
against the wall, hands clasped at his side. He stared straight
ahead, face blank, spine rigid. He was nearly perfectly bald, face
narrow, eyes dark. Most men don't look good without hair. This one
did. He was handsome but had the air of a man who didn't care much
about that. I wanted to call him a soldier, though I didn't know
why.
Another man came to lean against Theresa. His hair was a sandy
blond, cut short. His face was strange, not good looking, but not
ugly, a face you would remember. A face that might become lovely if
you looked at it long enough. His eyes were a pale greenish
color.
He wasn't a vampire, but I might have been hasty calling him
human.
Jean-Claude came last to stand to the left of the chair. He
touched no one, and even standing with them, he was apart from
them.
"Well," I said, "all we need is the theme from Dracula, Prince
of Darkness, and we'll be all set."
Her voice was like her laugh, high and harmless. Planned
innocence. "You think you are funny, don't you?"
I shrugged. "It comes and goes."
She smiled at me. No fang showed. She looked so human, eyes
sparkling with humor, face rounded and pleasant. See how harmless I
am, just a pretty child. Right.
The black vampire whispered in her ear again. She laughed, so
high and clear you could have bottled it.
"Do you practice the laugh, or is it natural talent? Naw, I'm
betting you practice."
Jean-Claude's face twisted. I wasn't sure if he was trying not
to laugh, or not to frown. Maybe both. I affected some people that
way.
The laughter seeped out of her face, very human, until only her
eyes sparkled. There was nothing funny about the look in those
twinkling eyes. It was the sort of look that cats give small
birds.
Her voice lilted at the end of each word, a Shirley Temple
affectation. "You are either very brave, or very stupid."
"You really need at least one dimple to go with the voice."
Jean-Claude said softly, "I'm betting on stupid."
I glanced at him and then back at the ghoulie pack. "What I am
is tired, hurt, angry, and scared. I would very much like to get
the show over with, and get down to business."
"I am beginning to see why Aubrey lost his temper." Her voice
was dry, humorless. The lilting sing-song was dripping away like
melting ice.
"Do you know how old I am?"
I stared at her and shook my head.
"I thought you said she was good, Jean-Claude." She said his
name like she was angry with him.
"She is good."
"Tell me how old I am." Her voice was cold, an angry grownup's
voice.
"I can't. I don't know why, but I can't."
"How old is Theresa?"
I stared at the dark-haired vampire, remembering the weight of
her in my mind. She was laughing at me. "A hundred, maybe hundred
and fifty, no more."
Her face was unreadable, carved marble, as she asked, "Why, no
more?"
"That's how old she feels."
"Feels?"
"In my head, she feels a certain . . . degree of power." I
always hated to explain this part aloud. It always sounded
mystical. It wasn't. I knew vampires the way some people knew
horses, or cars. It was a knack. It was practice. I didn't think
Nikolaos would enjoy being compared to a horse, or car, so I kept
my mouth shut. See, not stupid after all.
"Look at me, human. Look into my eyes." Her voice was still
bland, with none of that commanding power that Jean-Claude had.
Geez, look into my eyes. You'd think the city's master vampire
could be more original. But I didn't say it out loud. Her eyes were
blue, or grey, or both. Her gaze was like a weight pressing against
my skin. If I put my hands up, I almost expected to be able to push
something away. I had never felt any vampire's gaze like that.
But I could meet her eyes. Somehow, I knew that wasn't supposed
to happen.
The soldier standing to her right was looking at me, as if I'd
finally done something interesting.
Nikolaos stood. She moved a little in front of her entourage.
She would only come to my collarbone, which made her short. She
stood there for a moment, looking ethereal and lovely like a
painting. No sense of life but a thing of lovely lines and careful
color.
She stood there without moving and opened her mind to me. It
felt like she had opened a door that had been locked. Her mind
crashed against mine, and I staggered. Thoughts ripped into me like
knives, steel-edged dreams. Fleeting bits of her mind danced in my
head; where they touched I was numbed, hurt.
I was on my knees, and I didn't remember falling. I was cold, so
cold. There was nothing for me. I was an insignificant thing,
beside that mind. How could I think to call myself an equal? How
could I do anything but crawl to her and beg to be forgiven? My
insolence was intolerable.
I began to crawl to her, on hands and knees. It seemed like the
right thing to do. I had to beg her forgiveness. I needed to be
forgiven. How else did you approach a goddess but on bended
knee?
No. Something was wrong. But what? I should ask the goddess to
forgive me. I should worship her, do anything she asked. No.
No.
"No." I whispered it. "No."
"Come to me, my child." Her voice was like spring after a long
winter. It opened me up inside. It made me feel warm and
welcome.
She held out pale arms to me. The goddess would let me embrace
her. Wondrous. Why was I cowering on the floor? Why didn't I run to
her?
"No." I slammed my hands into the stone. It stung, but not
enough. "No!" I smashed my fist into the floor. My whole arm
tingled and went numb. "NO!" I pounded my fists into the rock over
and over until they bled. Pain was sharp, real, mine. I screamed,
"Get out of my mind! You bitch!"
I crouched on the floor, panting, cradling my hands against my
stomach. My pulse was jumping in my throat. I couldn't breathe past
it. Anger washed through me, clean and sharp-edged. It chased the
last shadow of Nikolaos's mind away.
I glared up at her. Anger, and behind that terror. Nikolaos had
washed over my mind like the ocean in a seashell, filled me up and
emptied me out. She might have to drive me crazy to break me, but
she could do it if she wanted to. And there wasn't a damn thing I
could do to protect myself.
She stared down at me and laughed, that wondrous wind chime of a
laugh. "Oh, we have found something the animator fears. Yes, we
have." Her voice was lilting and pleasant. A child bride again.
Nikolaos knelt in front of me, sweeping the sky-blue dress under
her knees. Ladylike. She bent at the waist so she could look me in
the eyes. "How old am I, animator?"
I was starting to shake with reaction, shock. My teeth chattered
like I was freezing to death, and maybe I was. My voice squeezed
out between my teeth and the tight jerk of my jaw. "A thousand," I
said. "Maybe more."
"You were right, Jean-Claude. She is good." She pressed her face
nearly into mine. I wanted to push her away, but more than
anything, I didn't want her to touch me.
She laughed again, high and wild, heartrendingly pure. If I
hadn't been hurting so badly, I might have cried, or spit in her
face.
"Good, animator, we understand each other. You do what we want,
or I will peel your mind away like the layers of an onion." She
breathed against my face, voice dropping to a whisper. A child's
whisper with an edge of giggling to it. "You do believe I can do
that, don't you?"
I believed.
Chapter 12
I wanted to spit in that smooth, pale face, but I was afraid of
what she would do to me. A drop of sweat ran slowly down my face. I
wanted to promise her anything, anything, if she would never touch
me again. Nikolaos didn't have to bespell me; all she had had to do
was terrify me. The fear would control me. It was what she was
counting on. I could not let that happen.
"Get . . . out . . . of . . . my . . . face," I said.
She laughed. Her breath was warm and smelled like peppermint.
Breath mints. But underneath the clean, modern smell, very faint,
was the scent of fresh blood. Old death. Recent murder.
I wasn't shivering anymore. I said, "Your breath smells like
blood."
She jerked back, a hand going to her lips. It was such a human
gesture that I laughed. Her dress brushed my face as she stood. One
small, slippered foot kicked me in the chest.
The force tumbled me backwards, sharp pain, no air. For the
second time that night, I couldn't breathe. I lay flat on my
stomach, gasping, swallowing past the pain. I hadn't heard anything
break. Something should have broken.
The voice thudded over me, hot enough to scald. "Get her out of
here before I kill her myself."
The pain faded to a sharp ache. Air burned going down. My chest
was tight, like I'd swallowed lead.
"Stay where you are, Jean."
Jean-Claude was standing away from the wall, halfway to me.
Nikolaos commanded him to stillness with one small, pale hand.
"Can you hear me, animator?"
"Yes." My voice was strangled. I couldn't get enough air to
talk.
"Did I break something?" Her voice rose upward like a small
bird.
I coughed, trying to clear my throat, but it hurt. I huddled
around my chest while the ache faded. "No."
"Pity. But I suppose that would have slowed things down, or made
you useless to us." She seemed to think about the last as if that
had had possibilities. What would they have done to me if something
had been broken? I didn't want to know.
"The police are aware of only four vampire murders. There have
been six more."
I breathed in carefully. "Why not tell the police?"
"My dear animator, there are many among us who do not trust the
human laws. We know how equal human justice is for the undead." She
smiled, and again there should have been a dimple. "Jean-Claude was
the fifth most powerful vampire in this city. Now he is the
third."
I stared up at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say it was a
joke. She continued to smile, the same exact smile, like a piece of
wax. Were they playing me for a fool? "Something has killed two
master vampires? Stronger than" - I had to swallow before
continuing - "Jean-Claude?"
Her smile widened, flashing a distinct glimpse of fang. "You do
grasp the situation quickly. I will give you that. And perhaps that
will make Jean-Claude's punishment less - severe. He recommended you
to us, did you know that?"
I shook my head and glanced at him. He had not moved, not even
to breathe. Only his eyes looked at me. Dark blue like midnight
skies, almost fever-bright. He hadn't fed yet. Why wouldn't she let
him feed?
"Why is he being punished?"
"Are you worried about him?" Her voice held a mockery of
surprise. "My, my, my, aren't you angry that he brought you into
this?"
I stared at him for a moment. I knew then what I saw in his
eyes. It was fear. He was afraid of Nikolaos. And I knew if I had
any ally in this room, it was him. Fear will bind you closer than
love, or hate, and it works a hell of a lot quicker. "No," I
said.
"No, no." She minced the word, crying it up and down, a child's
imitation. "Fine." Her voice was suddenly lower, grownup,
shimmering with heat, angry. "We will give you a gift, animator. We
have a witness to the second murder. He saw Lucas die. He will tell
you everything he saw, won't he, Zachary?" She smiled at the
sandy-haired man.
Zachary nodded. He stepped from around the chair and swept a low
bow towards me. His lips were too thin for his face, his smile
crooked. Yet, the ice-green eyes stayed with me. I had seen that
face before, but where?
He strode to a small door. I hadn't seen it before. It was
hidden in the flickering shadows of the torches, but still I should
have noticed. I glanced at Nikolaos, and she nodded at me, a smile
curving her lips.
She had hidden the door from me without me knowing it. I tried
to stand, pushing myself up with my hands. Mistake. I gasped and
stood as quickly as I dared. The hands were already stiff with
bruises and scrapes. If I lived until morning, I was going to be
one sore puppy.
Zachary opened the door with a flourish, like a magician drawing
a curtain. A man stood in the door. He was dressed in the remains
of a business suit. A slender figure, a little thick around the
middle, too many beers, too little exercise. He was maybe
thirty.
"Come," Zachary said.
The man moved out into the room. His eyes were round with fear.
A pinkie ring winked in the firelight. He stank of fear and
death.
He was still tanned, eyes still full. He could pass for human
better than any vampire in the room, but he was more a corpse than
any of them. It was just a matter of time. I raised the dead for a
living. I knew a zombie when I saw one.
"Do you remember Nikolaos?" Zachary asked.
The zombie's human eyes grew large, and the color drained from
his face. Damn, he looked human. "Yes."
"You will answer Nikolaos's questions, do you understand
that?"
"I understand." His forehead wrinkled as if he were
concentrating on something, something he couldn't quite
remember.
"He would not answer our questions before. Would you?" Nikolaos
said.
The zombie shook its head, eyes staring at her with a sort of
fearful fascination. Birds must look at snakes that way.
"We tortured him, but he was most stubborn. Then before we could
continue our work, he hung himself. We really should have taken his
belt away." She sounded wistful, pouty. The zombie was staring at
her. "I . . . hung myself. I don't understand. I . . ."
"He doesn't know?" I asked.
Zachary smiled. "No, he doesn't. Isn't it fabulous? You know how
hard it is to make one so human, that he forgets he has died."
I knew. It meant somebody had a lot of power. Zachary was
staring at the confused undead like he was a work of art.
Precious. "You raised him?" I asked.
Nikolaos said, "Did you not recognize a fellow animator?" She
laughed, lightly, a breeze of far-off bells.
I glanced at Zachary's face. He was staring at me, eyes
memorizing me. Face blank, with a thread of something making the
skin under one eye jump. Anger, fear? Then he smiled at me,
brilliant, echoing. Again there was that shock of recognition.
"Ask your question, Nikolaos. He has to answer now."
"Is that true?" she asked me.
I hesitated, surprised that she had turned to me. "Yes."
"Who killed the vampire, Lucas?"
He stared at her, face crumbling. His breathing was shallow and
too fast.
"Why doesn't he answer me?"
"The question is too complex," Zachary explained. "He may not
remember who Lucas is."
"Then you ask him the questions, and I expect him to answer."
Her voice was warm with threat.
Zachary turned with a flourish, spreading arms wide. "Ladies
and gentlemen, behold, the undead." He grinned at his own joke. No
one else even smiled. I didn't get it either.
"Did you see a vampire murdered?"
The zombie nodded. "Yes."
"How was he murdered?"
"Heart torn out, head cut off." His voice was paper-thin with
fear.
"Who tore out his heart?"
The zombie started to shake his head over and over, quick,
jerky movements. "Don't know, don't know."
"Ask him what killed the vampire," I said.
Zachary shot me a look. His eyes were green glass. Bones stood
out in his face. Rage sculpted him into a skeleton with canvas
skin.
"This is my zombie, my business!"
"Zachary," Nikolaos said.
He turned to her, movements stiff.
"It is a good question. A reasonable question." Her voice was
low, calm. No one was fooled. Hell must be full of voices like
that. Deadly, but oh so reasonable.
"Ask her question, Zachary."
He turned back to the zombie, hands balled into fists. I didn't
understand where the anger was coming from. "What killed the
vampire?"
"Don't understand." The voice held a knife's edge of panic.
"What sort of creature tore out the heart? Was it a human?"
"No."
"Was it another vampire?"
"No."
This was why zombies still didn't do well in court. You had to
lead them by the hand, so to speak, to get answers. Lawyers accused
you of leading the witness. Which was true, but it didn't mean the
zombie was lying.
"Then what killed the vampire?"
Again that head shaking, back and forth, back and forth. He
opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He seemed to be choking on
the words, as if someone had stuffed paper down his throat.
"Can't!"
"What do you mean, can't?" Zachary screamed it at him and
slapped him across the face. The zombie threw up its arms to cover
its head. "You . . . will . . . answer . . . me." Each word was
punctuated with a slap.
The zombie fell to its knees and started to cry. "Can't!"
"Answer me, damn you!" He kicked the zombie, and it collapsed to
the ground, rolling into a tight ball.
"Stop it." I walked towards them. "Stop it!"
He kicked the zombie one last time and turned on me. "It's my
zombie! I can do what I want with him."
"That used to be a human being. It deserves more respect than
this." I knelt by the crying zombie. I felt Zachary looming over
me.
Nikolaos said, "Leave her alone, for now."
He stood there like an angry shadow pressing over my back. I
touched the zombie's arm. It flinched. "It's all right. I'm not
going to hurt you." Not going to hurt you. He had killed himself to
escape. But not even the grave was sanctuary enough. Before tonight
I would have said no animator would have raised the dead for such a
purpose. Sometimes the world is a worse place than I want to know
about.
I had to peel the zombie's hands from his face, then turn the
face up to stare at me. One look was enough. Dark eyes were
incredibly wide, fear, such fear. A thin line of spittle oozed from
his mouth.
I shook my head and stood. "You've broken him."
"Damn right. No damn zombie is going to make a fool of me. He'll
answer the questions."
I whirled to stare at the man's angry eyes. "Don't you
understand? You've broken his mind."
"Zombies don't have minds."
"That's right, they don't. All they have, and for a very short
time, is the memory of what they were. If you treat them well, they
can retain their personalities for maybe a week, a little more, but
this . . ." I pointed at the zombie, then spoke to Nikolaos. "Ill
treatment will speed the process. Shock will destroy it."
"What are you saying, animator?"
"This sadist" - I jabbed a thumb at Zachary - "has destroyed the
zombie's mind. It won't be answering any more questions. Not for
anyone, not ever."
Nikolaos turned like a pale storm. Her eyes were blue glass. Her
words filled the room with a soft burning. "You arrogant.. ." A
tremor ran through her body, from small, slippered feet to long
white-blonde hair. I waited for the wooden chair to catch fire and
blaze from the fine heat of her anger.
The anger stripped away the child puppet. Bones stood out
against white paper skin. Hands grabbed at the air, clawed and
straining. One hand dug into the arm of her chair. The wood whined,
then cracked. The sound echoed against the stone walls. Her voice
burned along our skin. "Get out of here before I kill you. Take the
woman and see her safely back to her car. If you fail me again,
large or small, I will tear your throat out, and my children will
bathe in a shower of your blood."
Nicely graphic; a little melodramatic, but nicely graphic. I
didn't say it out loud. Hell, I wasn't even breathing. Any movement
might attract her. All she needed was an excuse.
Zachary seemed to sense it as well. He bowed, eyes never leaving
her face. Then without a word he turned and began to walk towards
the small door. His movements were unhurried, as if death wasn't
staring holes in his back. He paused at the open door and made a
motion as if to escort me through the door. I glanced at
Jean-Claude, still standing where she had left him. I had not asked
about Catherine's safety; there had been no opportunity. Things
were happening too fast. I opened my mouth; maybe Jean-Claude
guessed.
He silenced me with a wave of a slender, pale hand. The hand
seemed as white as the lace on his shirt. His eye sockets were
filled with blue flame. The long, black hair floated around his
suddenly death-pale face. His humanity was folding away. His power
flared across my skin, raising the hairs on my arms. I hugged
myself, staring at the creature that had been Jean-Claude.
"Run!" He screamed it at me, voice slashing into me. I should
have been bleeding from it. I hesitated and caught sight of
Nikolaos. She was levitating, ever so slowly, upward. Milkweed hair
danced around her skeleton head. She raised a clawed hand. Bones
and veins were caught in the amber of her skin.
Jean-Claude whirled, claw-hand slashing out at me. Something
slammed me into the wall and half out the door. Zachary caught my
arm and pulled me through.
I twisted free of him. The door thudded closed in my face. I
whispered, "Sweet Jesus."
Zachary was at the foot of a narrow stairway, leading up. He
held his hand out to me. His face was slick with sweat. "Please!"
He fluttered his hand at me like a trapped bird.
A smell oozed from under the door. It was the smell of rotting
corpses. The smell of bloated bodies, of skin cracked and ripening
in the sun, of blood slowed and rotting in quiet veins. I gagged
and backed away.
"Oh, God," Zachary whispered. He put one hand over his mouth and
nose, the other still held out to me.
I ignored his hand but stood beside him on the stairs. He opened
his mouth to say something, but the door creaked. The wood shook
and hammered, like a giant wind was beating against it. Wind
whooshed from under the door. My hair streamed in a tornado wind.
We backed up a few steps while the heavy wooden door fluttered and
kicked against a wind that couldn't be there. A storm indoors? The
sick smell of rotting flesh bled into the wind. We looked at each
other. There was that moment of recognition of us against them, or
it. We turned and started running like we were attached by
wires.
There couldn't be a storm behind that door. There couldn't be a
wind chasing us up the narrow stone stairs. There were no rotting
corpses in that room. Or were there? God, I didn't want to know. I
did not want to know.
Chapter 13
An explosion ripped up the stairs. The wind smashed us down like
toys. The door had blown. I scrambled on all fours trying to get
away, just get away. Zachary got to his feet, dragging me up by one
arm. We ran.
There was a howling from behind us, out of sight. The wind
roared up behind us. My hair streamed over my face, blinding me.
Zachary's hand grabbed mine and held on. The walls were smooth, the
stairs slick stone, there was nothing to hold on to. We flattened
ourselves against the stairs and hung onto each other.
"Anita." Jean-Claude's velvet voice whispered. "Anita." I fought
to look up into the wind, blinking to see. There was nothing there.
"Anita." The wind was calling my name. "Anita." Something
glimmered, blue fire. Two points of blue flame, hung on the wind.
Eyes - were those Jean-Claude's eyes? Was he dead?
The blue flames began to float downward. The wind didn't touch
them. I screamed, "Zachary!" But the sound was swallowed in the
roar of the wind. Did he see it, too, or was I going crazy?
The blue flames came lower and lower, and suddenly I didn't want
it to touch me, just as suddenly I knew that was what it was going
to do. Something told me that that would be a very bad thing.
I tore loose from Zachary. He screamed something at me, but the
wind roared and screeched between the narrow walls like a roller
coaster gone mad. There was no other sound. I started to crawl up
the stairs, wind beating against me, trying to crush me down. There
was one other sound, Jean-Claude's voice in my head. "Forgive
me."
The blue lights were suddenly in front of my face. I flattened
myself against a wall, hitting at the fire. My hands passed through
the burning. It wasn't there.
I screamed, "Leave me alone!"
The fire melted through my hands like they weren't there, and
into my eyes. The world was blue glass, silent, nothing, blue ice.
A whisper: "Run, run." I was sitting on the stairs again, blinking
into the wind. Zachary was staring at me.
The wind stopped like someone had turned a switch. The silence
was deafening. My breath was coming in short gasps. I had no pulse.
I couldn't feel my heartbeat. All I could hear was my breathing,
too loud, too shallow. I finally knew what they meant by breathless
with fear.
Zachary's voice was hoarse and too loud in the silence. I think
he was whispering, but it came out like a shout. "Your eyes, they
glowed blue!"
I whispered, "Hush, shhh." I didn't understand why, but someone
must not hear what he had just said, must not know what had
happened. My life depended on it. There was no more whispering in
my head, but the last bit of advice had been good. Run. Running
sounded very good.
The silence was dangerous. It meant the fight was over, and the
winner could turn its attention to other things. I did not want to
be one of those things.
I stood and offered a hand to Zachary. He looked puzzled but
took it, standing. I pulled him up the steps and started running. I
had to get away, had to, or I would die in this place, tonight,
now. I knew that with a surety that left no room for questions, no
time for hesitation. I was running for my life. I would die, if
Nikolaos saw me now. I would die.
And I would never know why.
Either Zachary felt the panic too, or he thought I knew
something he didn't, because he ran with me. When one of us
stumbled, the other pulled him, or her, to their feet, and we ran.
We ran until acid burned the muscles in my legs, and my chest
squeezed into a hard ache for lack of air.
This was why I jogged, so I could run like hell when something
was chasing me. Thinner thighs was not incentive enough. But this
was, running when you had to, running for your life. The silence
was heavy, almost touchable. It seemed to flow up the stairs, as if
searching for something. The silence chased us as surely as the
wind had.
The trouble with running up stairs, if you've ever had a knee
injury, is that you can't do it forever. Give me a flat surface,
and I can run for hours. Put me on an incline, and my knees give me
fits. It started as an ache, but it didn't take long to become a
sharp, grinding pain. Each step began to scream up my leg, until
the entire leg pulsed with it.
The knee began to pop as it moved, an audible sound. That was a
bad sign. The knee was threatening to go out on me. If it popped
out of joint, I'd be crippled here on the stairs with the silence
breathing around me. Nikolaos would find me and kill me. Why was I
so sure of that? No answer, but I knew it, knew it with every pull
of air. I didn't argue with the feeling.
I slowed and rested on the steps, stretching out the muscles in
my legs. Refusing to gasp as the muscles on my bad leg twitched. I
would stretch it out and feel better. The pain wouldn't go away,
I'd abused it too much for that, but I would be able to walk
without the knee betraying me.
Zachary collapsed on the stairs, obviously not a jogger. His
muscles would tighten up if he didn't keep moving. Maybe he knew
that. Maybe he didn't care.
I stretched my arms against the wall until my shoulders
stretched out. Just something familiar to do while I waited for the
knee to calm down. Something to do, while I listened for - what?
Something heavy and sliding, something ancient, long dead.
Sounds from above, higher up the stairs. I froze pressed against
the wall, palms flat against the cool stone. What now? What more?
Surely, to God, it would be dawn soon.
Zachary stood and turned to face up the stairs. I stood with my
back to the wall, so I could see up as well as down. I didn't want
something sneaking up on me from below while I was looking
upstairs. I wanted my gun. It was locked in my trunk, where it was
doing me a hell of a lot of good.
We were standing just below a landing, a turn in the stairs.
There have been times when I wished I could see around corners.
This was one of them. The scrape of cloth against stone, the rub of
shoes.
The man who walked around the corner was human, surprise,
surprise. His neck was even unmarked. Cotton-white hair was shaved
close to his head. The muscles in his neck bulged. His biceps were
bigger around than my waist. My waist is kinda small, but his arms
were still, ah, impressive. He was at least six-three, and there
wasn't enough fat on him to grease a cake pan.
His eyes were the crystalline paleness of January skies, a
distant, icy, blue. He was also the first bodybuilder I'd ever seen
who didn't have a tan. All that rippling muscle was done in white,
like Moby Dick. A black mesh tank top showed off every inch of his
massive chest. Black jogging shorts flared around the swell of his
legs. He had had to cut them up the sides to slip them over the
rock bulge of his thighs.
I whispered, "Jesus, how much do you bench press?"
He smiled, close-lipped. He spoke with the barest movement of
lips, never giving a glimpse of his incisors. "Four hundred."
I gave a low whistle. And said what he wanted me to say:
"Impressive."
He smiled, careful not to show teeth. He was trying to play the
vampire. Such a careful act being wasted on me. Should I tell him
that he screamed human? Naw, he might break me over his thigh like
kindling.
"This is Winter," Zachary said. The name was too perfect to be
real, like a 1940s movie star.
"What is happening?" he asked.
"Our master and Jean-Claude are fighting," Zachary said.
He drew a deep, sighing breath. His eyes widened just a bit.
"Jean-Claude?" He made it sound like a question.
Zachary nodded and smiled. "Yes, he's been holding out."
"Who are you?" he asked.
I hesitated; Zachary shrugged. "Anita Blake."
He smiled then, flashing nice normal teeth at last. "You're The
Executioner?"
"Yes."
He laughed. The sound echoed between the stone walls. The
silence seemed to tighten around us. The laughter stopped abruptly,
a dew of sweat on his lip. Winter felt it and feared it. His voice
came low, almost a whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard.
"You aren't big enough to be The Executioner."
I shrugged. "It disappoints me, too, sometimes."
He smiled, almost laughed again, but swallowed it. His eyes were
shiny.
"Let's all get out of here," Zachary said.
I was with him.
"I was sent to check on Nikolaos," Winter said.
The silence pulsed with the name. A bead of sweat dripped down
his face. Important safety tip: never say the name of an angry
master vampire when they are within "hearing" distance.
"She can take care of herself," Zachary whispered, but the sound
echoed anyway.
"Nooo," I said.
Zachary glared at me and I shrugged. Sometimes I just can't help
myself.
Winter stared at me, face as impersonal as carved marble; only
his eyes trembled. Mr. Macho. "Come," he said. He turned without
waiting to see if we would follow. We followed.
I would have followed him anywhere as long as he went upstairs.
All I knew was that nothing, absolutely nothing, could get me back
down those stairs. Not willingly. Of course, there are always other
options. I glanced up at Winter's broad back. Yeah, if you don't
want to do it willingly, there are always other options.
Chapter 14
The stairs opened into a square chamber. An electric bulb
dangled from the ceiling. I had never thought one dim electric
light could be beautiful, but it was. A sign that we were leaving
the underground chamber of horrors behind and approaching the real
world. I was ready to go home.
There were two doors leading out of the stone room, one straight
ahead and one to the right. Music floated through the one in front
of us. High, bright circus music. The door opened, and the music
boiled around us. There was a glimpse of bright colors and hundreds
of people milling about. A sign flashed, "Fun house." A carnival
midway, inside a building. I knew where I was. Circus of the
Damned.
The city's most powerful vampires slept under the Circus. It was
something to remember.
The door started to shut, dimming the music, cutting off the
bright signs. I looked into the eyes of a teenage girl, who was
straining to see around the doorway. The door clicked shut.
A man leaned against the door. He was tall and slender, dressed
like a riverboat gambler. Royal purple coat, lace at the neck and
down the front, straight black pants and boots. A straight-brimmed
hat shaded his face, and a gold mask covered everything but his
mouth and chin. Dark eyes stared at me through the gold mask.
His tongue danced over his lips and teeth: fangs, a vampire. Why
didn't that surprise me?
"I was afraid I would miss you, Executioner." His voice had a
Southern thickness.
Winter moved to stand between us. The vampire laughed, a rich
barking sound. "The muscle man here thinks he can protect you.
Shall I tear him to pieces to prove him wrong?"
"That won't be necessary," I said. Zachary moved up to stand
beside me.
"Do you recognize my voice?" the vampire asked.
I shook my head.
"It has been two years. I didn't know until this business came
up that you were The Executioner. I thought you died."
"Can we cut to the chase here? Who are you and what do you
want?"
"So eager, so impatient, so human." He raised gloved hands and
took off his hat. Short, auburn hair framed the gold mask.
"Please don't do this," Zachary said. "The master has ordered me
to see the woman safely to her car."
"I don't intend to harm a hair on her head - tonight." The gloves
lifted the mask away. The left side of the face was scarred,
pitted, melted away. Only his brown eye was still whole and alive,
rolling in a circle of pinkish-white scar tissue. Acid burns look
like that. Except it hadn't been acid. It had been Holy Water.
I remembered his body pinning me to the ground. His teeth
tearing at my arm while I tried to keep him off my throat. The
clean sharp snap of bone where he bit through. My screams. His hand
forcing my head back. Him rearing to strike. Helpless. He missed
the neck; I never knew why. Teeth sank around my collarbone,
snapped it. He lapped up my blood like a cat with cream. I lay
under his weight listening to him lap up my blood. The broken bones
didn't hurt yet; shock. I was beginning not to hurt, not to be
afraid. I was beginning to die.
My right hand reached out in the grass and touched something
smooth - glass. A vial of Holy Water that had been thrown out of my
bag, scattered by the half-human servants. The vampire never looked
at me. His face was pressed over the wound. His tongue was
exploring the hole he'd made. His teeth grated along the naked
bone, and I screamed.
He laughed into my shoulder, laughed while he killed me. I
flicked the lid open on the vial and splashed his face. Flesh
boiled. His skin popped and bubbled. He knelt over me, clutching
his face and shrieking.
I thought he had been trapped in the house when it burned down.
I had wanted him dead, wished him dead. I had wished that memory
away, pushed it back. Now here he stood, my favorite nightmare come
to life.
"What, no scream of horror? No gasp of fright? You disappoint
me, Executioner. Don't you admire your own handiwork?"
My voice came out strangled, hushed. "I thought you died."
"Now ya know different. And now I know you're alive, too. How
cosy."
He smiled, and the muscles on his scarred cheek pulled the smile
to one side, making it a grimace. Even vampires can't heal
everything. "Eternity, Executioner, eternity like this." He
caressed the scars with a gloved hand.
"What do you want?"
"Be brave, little girl, be brave as you want to be. I can feel
your fear. I want to see the scars I gave you, see that you
remember me, like I remember you."
"I remember you."
"Scars, girl, show me the scars."
"I show you the scars, then what?"
"Then you go home, or wherever you're going. The master has
given strict orders you are not be harmed until after you do your
job for us."
"Then?"
He smiled, a broad glistening expanse of teeth. "Then, I hunt
you down, and I pay you back for this." He touched his face. "Come,
girl, don't be shy, I seen it all before. I tasted your blood. Show
me the scars, and the muscle man won't have to die proving how
strong he is."
I glanced at Winter. Massive fists were crossed over his chest.
His spine nearly vibrated with readiness. The vampire was right;
Winter would die trying. I pushed the ripped sleeve above the
elbow. A mound of scar tissue decorated the bend in my arm; scars
dribbled down from it, like liquid, crisscrossing and flowing down
the outer edge of my arm. The cross-shaped burn took up the only
clear space on the inside of my forearm.
"I didn't think you'd ever use that arm again, after the way I
tore into it."
"Physical therapy is a wonderful thing."
"Ain't no physical therapy gonna help me."
"No," I said. The first button was missing on my blouse. One
more and I spread my shirt back to expose the collarbone. Scars
ridged it, crawled over it. It looked real attractive in a bathing
suit.
"Good," the vampire said. "You smell like cold sweat when you
think of me, little girl. I was hoping I haunted you the way you
haunted me."
"There is a difference, you know."
"And what might that be?"
"You were trying to kill me. I was defending myself."
"And why had you come to our house? To put stakes through our
hearts. You came to our house to kill us. We didn't go hunting for
you."
"But you did go hunting for twenty-three other people. That's a
lot of people. Your group had to be stopped."
"Who appointed you God? Who made you our executioner?"
I took a deep breath. It was steady, didn't tremble. Brownie
point for me. "The police."
"Bah." He spit on the floor. Very appealing. "You work real
hard, girl. You find the murderer, then we'll finish up."
"May I go now?"
"By all means. You're safe tonight, because the master says so,
but that will change."
Zachary said, "Out the side door." He walked nearly backwards
watching the vampire as we moved away. Winter stayed behind,
guarding our backs. Idiot.
Zachary opened the door. The night was hot and sticky. Summer
wind slapped against my face, humid, and close, and beautiful.
The vampire called, "Remember the name Valentine, 'cause you'll
be hearing from me."
Zachary and I walked out the door. It clanged shut behind us.
There was no handle on the outside, no way to open it. A one way
ticket, out. Out sounded just fine.
We started to walk. "You got a gun with silver bullets in it?"
he asked.
"Yes."
"I'd start carrying it if I were you."
"Silver bullets won't kill him."
"But it'll slow him down."
"Yeah." We walked for a few minutes in silence. The warm summer
night seemed to slide around us, hold us in sticky, curious
hands.
"What I need is a shotgun."
He looked at me. "You going to carry a shotgun with you day
after day?"
"Sawed off, it would fit under a coat."
"In the middle of a Missouri summer, you'd melt. Why not a
machine gun, or a flamethrower, while you're at it?"
"Machine gun has too wide a spread range. You may hit innocent
people. Flamethrower's bulky. Messy, too."
He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. "You've used a
flamethrower on vampires before?"
"No, but I saw it used."
"My god." He stared off into space for a moment, then asked,
"Did it work?"
"Like a charm; messy, though. And it burned the house down
around us. I thought it was a little extreme."
"I'll bet." We started walking again. "You must hate
vampires."
"I don't hate them."
"Then why do you kill them?"
"Because it's my job, and I'm good at it." We turned a corner,
and I could see the parking lot where I had left my car. It seemed
like I had parked my car days ago. My watch said hours. It was a
little like jet lag, but instead of crossing time zones, you
crossed events. So many traumatic events and your time sense screws
up. Too much happening in too short a space of time.
"I'm your daytime contact. If you need anything, or want to
give a message, here's my number." He shoved a matchbook into
my hand.
I glanced at the matchbook. It read "Circus of the Damned"
bleeding red onto a shiny black background. I shoved it in my jeans
pocket.
My gun was lying there in my trunk. I slipped into the shoulder
rig, not caring that I had no jacket to cover it. A gun out in
plain sight attracts attention, but most people leave you alone.
They often even start running, clearing a path before you. It made
chases very convenient.
Zachary waited until I was sitting in my car. He leaned into the
open door. "It can't just be a job, Anita. There's got to be a
better reason than that."
I glanced down at my lap and started the car. I looked up into
his pale eyes. "I'm afraid of them. It is a very natural human
trait to destroy that which frightens us."
"Most people spend their lives avoiding things they fear. You
run after them. That's crazy."
He had a point. I closed the door and left him standing in the
hot dark. I raised the dead and laid the undead to rest. It was
what I did. Who I was. If I ever started questioning my motives, I
would stop killing vampires. Simple as that.
I wasn't questioning my motives tonight, so I was still a
vampire slayer, still the name they had given me. I was The
Executioner.
Chapter 15
Dawn slid across the sky like a curtain of light. The morning
star glittered like a diamond chip against the easy flow of
light.
I had seen two sunrises in as many days. I was beginning to feel
grumpy. The trick would be to decide whom to be grumpy at, and what
to do about it. Right now all I wanted was to sleep. The rest could
wait, would have to wait. I had been running on fear, adrenaline,
and stubbornness for hours. In the quiet hush of the car I could
feel my body. It was not happy.
It hurt to grip the wheel, hurt to turn it. The bloody scrapes
on my hands looked a lot worse than they were, I hoped. My whole
body felt stiff. Everybody underrates bruises. They hurt. They
would hurt a lot more after I slept on them. There is nothing like
waking up the morning after a good beating. It's like a hangover
that covers your entire body.
The corridor of my apartment building was hushed. The whir of
the air conditioner breathed in the silence. I could almost feel
all the people asleep behind the doors. I had an urge to press my
ear to one of the doors and see if I could hear my neighbors
breathing. So quiet. The hour after dawn is the most private of
all. It is a time to be alone and enjoy the silence.
The only hour more hushed is three a.m. and I am not a fan of
three a.m.
I had my keys in my hand, had almost touched the door, when I
realized it was ajar. A tiny crack, almost closed, but not. I moved
to the right of the door and pressed my back against the wall. Had
they heard the keys jingling? Who was inside? Adrenaline was
flowing like fine champagne. I was alert to every shadow, the way
the light fell. My body was in emergency mode, and I hoped to God I
didn't need it.
I drew my gun and leaned against the wall. Now what? There was
no sound from inside the apartment, nothing. It could be
more vampires, but it was nearly true dawn. It wouldn't be
vampires. Who else would break into my apartment? I took a deep
breath and let it out. I didn't know. Didn't have the faintest
idea. You'd think I'd get used to not knowing what the hell is
going on, but I never do. It just makes me grumpy, and a little
scared.
I had several choices. I could leave and call the police, not a
bad choice. But what could they do that I couldn't, except walk in
and get killed in my place? That was unacceptable. I could wait in
the corridor until whoever it was got curious. That could take a
while, and the apartment might be empty. I'd feel pretty stupid
standing out here for hours, gun trained on an empty apartment. I
was tired, and I wanted to go to bed. Dammit!
I could always just go in, gun blazing. Naw. I could push the
door open and be lying on the floor and shoot anyone inside. If
they had a gun. If there was anyone inside.
The smart thing would be to outwait them, but I was tired. The
adrenaline rush was fading under the frustration of too many
choices. There comes a point when you just get tired. I didn't
think I could stand out here in the air-conditioned silence and
stay alert. I wouldn't fall asleep standing up, but it was a
thought. And another hour would see my neighbors up and about,
maybe caught in the crossfire. Unacceptable. Whatever was going to
happen needed to happen now.
Decision made. Good. Nothing like fear to wash your mind clean.
I moved as far from the door as I could and crossed over, gun
trained on the door. I moved along the left-hand wall towards the
hinge side of the door. It opened in. Just give it a push flat
against the wall; simple. Right.
I crouched down on one knee, my shoulders hunched as if I could
draw my head down like a turtle. I was betting that any gun would
hit above me, chest-high. Crouched down, I was a lot shorter than
chest-high.
I shoved the door open with my left hand and hugged the
doorsill. It worked like a charm. My gun was pointing at the bad
guy's chest. Except his hands were already in the air, and he was
smiling at me.
"Don't shoot," he said. "It's Edward."
I knelt there staring at him; anger rose like a warm tide. "You
bastard. You knew I was out here."
He steepled his fingers. "I heard the keys."
I stood, eyes searching the room. Edward had moved my white
overstuffed chair to face the door. Nothing else seemed to be
moved.
"I assure you, Anita, I am quite alone."
"That I believe. Why didn't you call out to me?"
"I wanted to see if you were still good. I could have blown you
away when you hesitated in front of the door, with your keys
jingling so nicely."
I shut the door behind me and locked it, though truthfully with
Edward inside I might have been safer locking myself out rather
than in. He was not an imposing man, not frightening, if you didn't
know him. He was five-eight, slender, blond, blue-eyed, charming.
But if I was The Executioner, he was Death itself. He was the
person I had seen use a flamethrower.
I had worked with him before, and heaven knows you felt safe
with him. He carried more firepower than Rambo, but he was a little
too careless of innocent bystanders. He began life as a hit man.
That much the police knew. I think humans became too easy so he
switched to vampires and lycanthropes. And I knew that if a time
came where it was more expedient to kill me than to be my "friend,"
he would do it. Edward had no conscience. It made him the perfect
killer.
"I've been up all bloody night, Edward. I'm not in the mood for
your games."
"How hurt are you?"
I shrugged and winced. "The hands are sore, bruises mostly. I'm
all right."
"Your night secretary said you were out at a bachelorette
party." He grinned at me, eyes sparkling. "It must have been some
party-"
"I ran into a vampire you might know."
He raised his yellow eyebrows and made a silent "Oh" with his
lips.
"Remember the house you nearly roasted down around us?"
"About two years ago. We killed six vampires, and two human
servants."
I walked past him and flopped onto the couch. "We missed
one."
"No, we didn't." His voice was very precise. Edward at his most
dangerous.
I looked at the carefully cut back of his head. "Trust me on
this one, Edward. He damn near killed me tonight." Which was a
partial truth, also known as a lie. If the vampires didn't want me
to tell the police, they certainly didn't want Death to know.
Edward was a whole lot more dangerous to them than the police.
"What one?"
"The one who nearly tore me to pieces. He calls himself
Valentine. He's still wearing the acid scars I gave him."
"Holy Water?"
"Yeah."
Edward came to sit beside me on the couch. He kept to one end, a
careful distance. "Tell me." His eyes were intense on my face.
I looked away. "There isn't much left to tell."
"You're lying, Anita. Why?"
I stared at him, anger coming in a rush. I hate to be caught in
a lie. "There have been some vampires murdered down along the
river. How long have you been in town, Edward?"
He smiled then, though at what I wasn't sure. "Not long. I heard
a rumor that you got to meet the city's head vampire tonight."
I couldn't stop it. My mouth fell open; the surprise was too
much to hide. "How the hell do you know that?"
He gave a graceful shrug. "I have my sources."
"No vampire would talk to you, not willingly."
Again that shrug that said everything and nothing at all.
"What have you done tonight, Edward?"
"What have you done tonight, Anita?"
Touché, Mexican standoff, whatever. "Why have you come to me
then? What do you want?"
"I want the location of the master vampire. The daytime resting
place."
I had recovered enough so that my face was bland, no surprise
here. "How would I know that?"
"Do you know?"
"No." I stood up. "I'm tired, and I want to go to bed. If
there's nothing else?"
He stood, too, still smiling, like he knew I had lied. "I'll be
in touch. If you do happen to run across the information I need . .
." He let the sentence trail off and started for the door.
"Edward."
He half-turned to me.
"Do you have a sawed-off shotgun?"
His eyebrows went up again. "I could get one for you."
"I'd pay."
"No, a gift."
"I can't tell you."
"But you do know?"
"Edward . . ."
"How deep are you in, Anita?"
"Eye level and sinking fast."
"I could help you."
"I know."
"Would helping you allow me to kill more vampires?"
"Maybe."
He grinned at me, brilliant, heart-stopping. The grin was his
very best harmless good ol' boy smile. I could never decide whether
the smile was real or just another mask. Would the real Edward
please stand up? Probably not.
"I enjoy hunting vampires. Let me in on it if you can."
"I will."
He paused with a hand on the doorknob. "I hope I have more luck
with my other sources than I did with you."
"What happens if you can't find the location from someone
else?"
"Why, I come back."
"And?"
"And you will tell me what I want to know. Won't you?" He was
still grinning at me, charming, boyish. He was also talking about
torturing me if he had to.
I swallowed, hard. "Give me a few days, Edward, and I might have
your information."
"Good. I'll bring the shotgun later today. If you're not home,
I'll leave it on the kitchen table."
I didn't ask how he'd get inside if I wasn't home. He would only
have smiled or laughed. Locks weren't much of a deterrent to
Edward. "Thank you. For the shotgun, I mean."
"My pleasure, Anita. Until tomorrow." He stepped out the door,
and it closed behind him.
Great. Vampires, now Edward. The day was about fifteen minutes
old. Not a very promising beginning. I locked the door, for what
good it would do me, and went to bed. The Browning Hi-Power was in
its second home, a modified holster strapped to the headboard of my
bed. The crucifix was cool metal around my neck. I was as safe as
I was going to be and almost too tired to
care.
I took one more thing to bed with me, a stuffed toy penguin
named Sigmund. I don't sleep with him often, just every once in a
while after someone tries to kill me. Everyone has their
weaknesses. Some people smoke. I collect stuffed penguins. If you
won't tell, I won't.
Chapter 16
I stood in the huge stone room where Nikolaos had sat. Only the
wooden chair remained, empty, alone. A coffin sat on the floor to
one side. Torchlight gleamed off the polished wood. A breeze eased
through the room. The torches wavered and threw huge black shadows
on the walls. The shadows seemed to move independent of the light.
The longer I looked at them, the more I was sure the shadows were
too dark, too thick.
I could taste my heart in my throat. My pulse was hammering in
my head. I couldn't breathe. Then I realized I was hearing a second
heartbeat, like an echo. "Jean-Claude?" The shadows cried,
"Jean-Claude," in high whining voices.
I knelt by the coffin and gripped the lid. It was all one piece,
and raised on smooth oiled hinges. Blood poured down the sides of
the coffin. The blood poured over my legs, splashed on my arms. I
screamed and stood, covered in blood. It was still warm.
"Jean-Claude!"
A pale hand raised out of the blood, spasmed, and collapsed
against the side of the coffin. Jean-Claude's face floated to the
top. My hand was reaching out. His heart was fluttering in my head,
but he was dead. He was dead! His hand was icy wax. His eyes flew
open. The dead hand grabbed my wrist.
"No!" I tried to pull my hand free. I went down on my knees in
the cooling blood and screamed, "Let me go!"
He sat up. He was covered in blood. The white shirt dripped with
it, like a bloody rag.
"No,"
He pulled my arm closer to him, and pulled me with it. I braced
one hand on the coffin. I would not go to him. I would not go! He
bent over my arm, mouth wide, fangs reaching. His heart beat
against the shadows like thunder. "Jean-Claude, no!"
He looked up at me, just before he struck. "I had no choice."
Blood began to drip down his face from his hair, until his face was
a bloody mask. Fangs sank into my arm. I screamed, and woke sitting
straight up in bed.
The doorbell was buzzing. I scrambled out of bed, forgetting. I
gasped. I had moved too fast for the beating I'd had last night. I
ached all over in places I couldn't possibly be bruised. My hands
were stiff with dried blood. They felt arthritic.
The doorbell was buzzing continuously as if someone was leaning
against it. Whoever it was, was going to get a hug for waking me
up. I was sleeping in an oversized shirt. Pulling last night's
jeans on was my version of a robe.
I put Sigmund the stuffed penguin back with all the rest. The
stuffed toys sat on a small loveseat against the far wall, under
the window. Penguins lined the floor around it like a plump fuzzy
tide.
It hurt to move. It even felt tight when I breathed. I yelled,
"I'm coming." It occurred to me, halfway to the door, that it might
be someone unfriendly. I padded back into the bedroom and got my
gun. My hand felt stiff and awkward around it. I should have
cleaned and bandaged the hands last night. Oh, well.
I knelt behind the chair Edward had moved in front of the door
and called, "Who is it?"
"It's Ronnie, Anita. We're supposed to work out this morning."
It was Saturday. I had forgotten. It was always amazing how
ordinary life was, even while people were trying to hurt you. I
felt like Ronnie should know about last night. Something so
extraordinary should touch all my life, but it didn't work that
way. When I'd been in the hospital with my arm in traction and
tubes running all through me, my stepmother had complained that I
wasn't married yet. She's worried that I will be an old maid at the
ripe age of twenty-four. Judith is not what you would call a
liberated woman.
My family does not cope well with what I do, the chances I take,
the injuries. So they ignore it as best they can. Except for my
sixteen-year-old stepbrother. Josh thinks I'm cool, neat, whatever
word they're using now.
Veronica Sims is different. She's my friend, and she
understands. Ronnie is a private detective. We take turns visiting
each other in the hospital.
I opened the door and let her in, gun limp at my side. She took
it all in and said, "Shit, you look awful."
I smiled. "Well, at least I took like I feel."
She came in and dropped her gym bag in front of the chair. "Can
you tell me what happened?" Not a demand, a question. Ronnie
understood that not everything could be shared.
"Sorry that I won't be able to work out today."
"Looks like you had all the workout you can handle. Go soak
those hands in the sink. I'll make coffee. Okay?"
I nodded and regretted it. Aspirins, aspirins sounded real good
right now. I stopped just before I went into the bathroom.
"Ronnie?"
"Yes." She stood there in my small kitchen, a measuring cup of
fresh coffee beans in one hand. She was five-nine. Sometimes, I
forget how tall that is. It amazes people that we can run together.
The trick is I set the pace, and I push myself. It's a very good
workout.
"I think I have some bagels in the fridge. Could you pop
them in the microwave with some cheese?"
She stared at me. "I've known you for three years, and this is
the first time I've ever heard you ask for food before ten
o'clock."
"Listen, if it's too much trouble, forget it."
"It isn't that, and you know it."
"Sorry. I'm just tired."
"Go doctor yourself, then you can tell me about it. Okay"
"Yeah." Soaking the hands did not make them feel better. It felt
like I was peeling the skin off my fingers. I patted them dry and
rubbed Neosporin ointment over the scrapes. "A topical
antibacterial," the label read. By the time I finished all the
Band-Aids, I looked like a pinkish-tan version of the mummy's
hand.
My back was a mass of dark bruises. My ribs were decorated in
putrid purple. There wasn't much I could do about it, except hope
the aspirin kicked in. Well, there was one thing I could do - move.
Stretching exercises would limber the body and give me movement
without pain, sort of. The stretching itself would feel like
torture. I'd do it later. I needed to eat first.
I was starving. Usually, the thought of eating before ten made
me nauseous. This morning I wanted food, needed food. Very weird.
Maybe it was stress.
The smell of bagels and melting cheese made my stomach ripple.
The smell of fresh brewed coffee made me want to chew the
couch.
I scarfed down two bagels and three cups of coffee while Ronnie
sat across from me, sipping her first cup. I looked up and found
her watching me. Her grey eyes were staring at me. I'd seen her
look at suspects like that. "What?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing. Can you catch your breath and tell me
about last night?"
I nodded, and it didn't hurt as much. Aspirin, nature's gift to
modern man. I told her, from Monica's call to my meeting with
Valentine. I didn't tell her that it all took place at the Circus
of the Damned. That was very dangerous information to have right
now. And I left out the blue lights on the stairs, the sound of
Jean-Claude's voice in my head. Something told me that was
dangerous information, too. I've learned to trust my instincts, so
I left it out.
Ronnie's good, she looked at me, and said, "Is that
everything?"
"Yes." An easy lie, simple, one word. I don't think Ronnie
bought it.
"Okay." She took a sip of coffee. "What do you want me to do?"
"Ask around. You have access to the hate groups. Like Humans
Against Vampires, The League of Human Voters, the usual. See if any
of them might be involved with the murders. I can't go near them."
I smiled. "After all, animators are one of the groups they
hate."
"But you do kill vampires."
"Yeah, but I also raise zombies. Too weird for the hardcore
bigot."
"All right. I'll check out HAV and the rest. Anything else?"
I thought about it and shook my head, almost no pain at all.
"Not that I can think of. Just be very careful. I don't want to
endanger you the way I did Catherine."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Right."
"It isn't your fault, none of this is."
"Tell that to Catherine and her fiancé if things go
bad."
"Anita, dammit, these creatures are using you. They want you
discouraged and frightened, so they can control you. If you let the
guilt mess with your head, you're going to get killed."
"Well, gee, Ronnie, just what I wanted to hear. If this is your
version of a pep talk, I'll skip the rally."
"You don't need cheering up. You need a good shaking."
"Thanks, I already had one last night."
"Anita, listen to me." She was staring at me, eyes intense, her
face searching mine, trying to see if I was really hearing her.
"You've done all you can for Catherine. I want you to concentrate
on keeping yourself alive. You're ass deep in enemies. Don't get
sidetracked."
She was right. Do what you can and move on. Catherine was out of
it, for now. It was the best I could do. "Ass-deep in enemies, but
ankle-deep in friends."
She grinned. "Maybe it'll even out."
I cradled the coffee in my bandaged hands. Warmth radiated
through the cup. "I'm scared."
"Which proves you aren't as stupid as you look."
"Gee, thanks a lot."
"You're welcome." She raised her coffee cup in a salute. "To
Anita Blake, animator, vampire slayer, and good friend. Watch your
back."
I clinked my cup against hers. "You watch yours, too. Being my
friend right now may not be the healthiest of avocations."
"Since when was that a news bulletin?"
Unfortunately, she had a point.
Chapter 17
I had two choices after Ronnie left: I could go back to sleep,
not a bad idea; or I could start solving the case that everyone was
so eager for me to work on. I could get by on four hours sleep, for
a while. I could not last nearly as long if Aubrey tore my throat
out. Guess I would go to work.
It is hard to wear a gun in St. Louis in the summertime.
Shoulder or hip holster, you have the same problem. If you wear a
jacket to cover the gun, you melt in the heat. If you keep the gun
in your purse, you get killed, because no woman can find anything
in her purse in under twelve minutes. It is a rule.
No one had been shooting at me yet; I was encouraged by that.
But I had also been kidnapped and nearly killed. I did not plan on
it happening again without a fight. I could bench press a hundred
pounds, not bad, not bad at all. But when you only weigh a hundred
and six, it puts you at a disadvantage. I would bet on me against
any human bad guy my size. Trouble was, there just weren't many bad
guys my size. And vampires, well, unless I could bench press
trucks, I was outclassed. So a gun.
I finally settled on a less than professional look. The t-shirt
was oversize, hitting me at mid-thigh. It billowed around me. The
only thing that saved it was the picture on the front, penguins
playing beach volleyball, complete with kiddie penguins making sand
castles to one side. I like penguins. I had bought the shirt to
sleep in and never planned to wear it where people could see me. As
long as the fashion police didn't see me, I was safe.
I looped a belt through a pair of black shorts for my
inside-the-pant holster. It was an Uncle Mike's Sidekick and I was
very fond of it, but it was not for the Browning. I had a second
gun for comfort and concealability: a Firestar, a compact little
9mm with a seven-shot magazine.
White jogging socks, with tasteful blue stripes that matched the
blue leather piping on my white Nikes, completed the outfit. It
made me look and feel about sixteen, an awkward sixteen, but when I
turned to the mirror there was no hint of the gun on my belt. The
shirt fell out and around it, invisible.
My upper body is slender, petite if you will, muscular and not
bad to look at. Unfortunately, my legs are about five inches too
short to ever be America's ideal legs. I will never have skinny
thighs, nor anything short of muscular calves. The outfit
emphasized my legs and hid everything else, but I had my gun and I
wouldn't melt in the heat. Compromise is an imperfect art.
My crucifix hung inside my shirt, but I added a small charm
bracelet to my left wrist. Three small crosses dangled from the
silver chain. My scars also were in plain sight, but in the summer
I try to pretend they aren't there. I cannot face the thought of
wearing long sleeves in hundred-degree weather with hundred-percent
humidity. My arms would fall off. The scars really aren't the first
thing you notice with my arms bare. Really.
Animators, Inc., had new offices. We'd been here only three
months. There was a psychologist's office across from us, nothing
less than a hundred an hour; a plastic surgeon down the hall; two
lawyers; one marriage counselor, and a real estate company. Four
years ago Animators, Inc., had worked out of a spare room above a
garage. Business was good.
Most of that good luck was due to Bert Vaughn, our boss. He was
a businessman, a showman, a moneymaker, a scalawag, and a
borderline cheat. Nothing illegal, not really, but . . . Most
people choose to think of themselves as white hats, good guys. A
few people wear black hats and enjoy it. Grey was Bert's color.
Sometimes I think if you cut him, he'd bleed green, fresh-minted
money.
He had turned what was an unusual talent, an embarrassing curse,
or a religious experience, raising the dead, into a profitable
business. We animators had the talent, but Bert knew how to make it
pay. It was hard to argue with that. But I was going to try.
The reception room's wallpaper is pale, pale green with small
oriental designs done in greens and browns. The carpet is thick and
soft green, too pale to be grass, but it tries. Plants are
everywhere.
A Ficus benjium grows to the right of the door, slender
as a willow with small leather green leaves. It nearly curls around
the chair in front of its pot. A second tree grows in the far
corner, tall and straight with the stiff spiky tops of palm trees
- Dracaena marginta. Or that's what it says on the tags
tied to the spindly trunks. Both trees brush the ceiling. Dozens of
smaller plants are pushed and potted in every spare corner of the
soft green room.
Bert thinks the pastel green is soothing, and the plants give it
that homey touch. I think it looks like an unhappy marriage between
a mortuary and a plant shop.
Mary, our day secretary, is over fifty. How much over is her own
business. Her hair is short and does not move in the wind. A carton
of hair spray sees to that. Mary is not into the natural look. She
has two grown sons and four grandchildren. She gave me her best
professional smile as I came through the door. "May I help . . .
Oh, Anita, I didn't think you were due in until five."
"I'm not, but I need to speak to Bert and get some things from
my office."
She frowned down at her appointment book, our appointment book.
"Well, Jamison is in your office right now with a client." There
are only three offices in our little area. One belongs to Bert, and
the other two rotate between the rest of us. Most of our work is
done in the field, or rather the graveyard, so we never really need
our offices all at the same time. It worked like time-sharing a
condo.
"How long will the client be?"
Mary glanced down at her notes. "It's a mother whose son is
thinking about joining the Church of Eternal Life."
"Is Jamison trying to talk him into it or out of it?"
"Anita!" Mary scolded me, but it was the truth. The Church of
Eternal Life was the vampire church. The first church in history
that could guarantee you eternal life, and prove it. No waiting
around. No mystery. Just eternity on a silver platter. Most people
don't believe in their immortal souls anymore. It isn't popular to
worry about Heaven and Hell, and whether you are an absolutely good
person. So the Church was gaining followers all over the place. If
you didn't believe that it destroyed your soul, what did you have
to lose? Daylight. Food. Not much to give up.
It was the soul part that bothered me. My immortal soul is not
for sale, not even for eternity. You see, I knew vampires could
die. I had proved it. No one seemed curious as to what happened to
a vampire's soul when it died. Could you be a good vampire and go
to Heaven? Somehow that didn't quite work for me.
"Is Bert with a client, too?"
She glanced once more at the appointment book. "No, he's free."
She looked up and smiled, as if she was pleased to be able to help
me. Maybe she was.
It is true that Bert took the smallest of the three offices. The
walls are a soft pastel blue, the carpet two colors darker. Bert
thinks it soothes the clients. I think it's like standing inside a
blue ice cube.
Bert didn't match the small blue office. There is nothing small
about Bert. Six-four, broad shoulders, a college athlete's figure
getting a little soft around the middle. His white hair is
close-cut over small ears. A boater's tan forces his pale eyes and
hair into sharp contrast. His eyes are a nearly colorless grey,
like dirty window glass. You have to work very hard to make dirty
grey eyes shine, but they were shining now. Bert was practically
beaming at me. It was a bad sign.
"Anita, what a pleasant surprise. Have a sit." He waved a
business envelope at me. "We got the check today."
"Check?" I asked.
"For looking into the vampire murders."
I had forgotten. I had forgotten that somewhere in all this I
had been promised money. It seemed ridiculous, obscene, that
Nikolaos would make everything better with money. From the look on
Bert's face, a lot of money.
"How much?"
"Ten thousand dollars." He stretched each word out, making it
last.
"It isn't enough."
He laughed. "Anna, getting greedy in your old age. I thought
that was my job."
"It isn't enough for Catherine's life, or mine."
His grin wilted slightly. His eyes looked wary, as if I was
about to tell him there was no Easter Bunny. I could almost hear
him wondering if he would have to return the check.
"What are you talking about, Anita?"
I told him, with a few minor revisions. No "Circus of the
Damned." No blue fire. No first vampire mark.
When I got to the part about Aubrey smashing me into the wall,
he said, "You are kidding."
"Want to see the bruises?"
I finished the story and watched his solemn, square face. His
large, blunt-fingered hands were folded on his desk. The check was
lying beside him atop his neat pile of manila folders. His face was
attentive, concerned. Empathy never worked well on Bert's face. I
could always see the wheels moving. The angles calculating.
"Don't worry, Bert, you can cash the check."
"Now, Anita, that wasn't..."
"Save it."
"Anita, truly I would never purposefully endanger you."
I laughed. "Bull."
"Anita!" He looked shocked, small eyes widening, one hand
touching his chest. Mr. Sincerity.
"I'm not buying, so save the bullshit for clients. I know you
too well."
He smiled then. It was his only genuine smile. The real Bert
Vaughn please stand up. His eyes gleamed but not with warmth, more
with pleasure. There is something measuring, obscenely
knowledgeable, about Bert's smile. As if he knew the darkest thing
you had ever done and would gladly keep silent - for a price.
There was something a little frightening about a man who knew he
was not a nice person and didn't give a damn. It went against
everything America holds dear. We are taught above all else to be
nice, to be liked, to be popular. A person who has set aside all
that is a maverick and a potentially dangerous human being.
"What can Animators, Inc., do to help?"
"I've already got Ronnie working on some things. I think the
fewer people involved, the fewer people in danger."
"You always were a humanitarian."
"Unlike some people I could mention."
"I had no idea what they wanted."
"No, but you knew how I felt about vampires."
He gave me a smile that said, "I know your secret, I know your
darkest dreams." That was Bert. Budding blackmailer.
I smiled back at him, friendly. "If you ever send me a vampire
client again without running it by me first, I'll quit."
"And go where?"
"I'll take my client list with me, Bert. Who is the one that
does the radio interviews? Who did the articles focus on? You made
sure it was me, Bert. You thought I was the most marketable of all
of us. The most harmless-looking, the most appealing. Like a puppy
at the pound. When people call Animators, Inc., who do they ask
for?"
His smile was gone, eyes like winter ice. "You wouldn't make it
without me."
"The question is, would you make it without me?"
"I'd make it."
"So would I"
We stared at each other for a long space of moments. Neither of
us was willing to look away, to blink first. Bert started to smile,
still staring into my eyes. The edges of a smile began to tug at my
mouth. We laughed together and that was that.
"All right, Anita, no more vampires."
I stood. "Thank you."
"Would you really quit?" His face was all laughing sincerity, a
tasteful, pleasant mask.
"I don't believe in idle threats, Bert. You know that."
"Yes," he said, "I know that. I honestly didn't know this job
would endanger your life."
"Would it have made a difference?"
He thought about it for a minute, then laughed. "No, but I would
have charged more."
"You keep making money, Bert. That's what you're good at."
"Amen."
I left him so he could fondle the check in privacy. Maybe
chuckle over it. It was blood money, no pun intended. Somehow, I
didn't think that bothered Bert. It bothered me.
Chapter 18
The door to the other office opened. A tall, blonde woman
stepped through. She was somewhere between forty and fifty.
Tailored golden pants encircled a slender waist. A sleeveless
blouse the color of an eggshell exposed tanned arms, a gold Rolex
watch, and a wedding band encircled with diamonds. The rock in the
engagement ring must have weighed a pound. I bet she hadn't even
blinked when Jamison talked price.
The boy that followed her was also slender and blond. He looked
about fifteen, but I knew he had to be at least eighteen. Legally,
you cannot join the Church of Eternal Life unless you are of age.
He couldn't drink legally yet, but he could choose to die and live
forever. Funny, how that didn't make much sense to me.
Jamison brought up the rear, smiling, solicitous. He was talking
softly to the boy as he walked them towards the door.
I got a business card out of my purse. I held it out towards the
woman. She looked at it, then at me. Her gaze slid over me from top
to bottom. She didn't seem impressed; maybe it was the shirt.
"Yes," she said.
Breeding. It takes real breeding to make a person feel like shit
with one word. Of course, it didn't bother me. No, the great golden
goddess did not make me feel small and grubby. Right. "The number
on this card is for a man who specializes in vampire cults. He's
good."
"I do not want my son brainwashed."
I managed a smile. Raymond Fields was my vampire cult expert,
and he didn't do brainwashing. He did do truth, no matter how
unpleasant. "Mr. Fields will give you the potential down side of
vampirism," I said.
"I believe Mr. Clarke has given us all the information we
need."
I raised my arm near her face. "1 didn't get these scars playing
touch football. Please, take the card. Call him, or not. It's up to
you."
She was a little pale under her expert makeup. Her eyes were a
little wide, staring at my arm. "Vampires did this?" Her voice was
small and breathy, almost human.
"Yes," I said.
Jamison took her elbow. "Mrs. Franks, I see you've met our
resident vampire slayer."
She looked at him, then back at me. Her careful face was
beginning to crumble. She licked her lips and turned back to me.
"Really." She was recovering quickly; she sounded superior
again.
I shrugged. What could I say? I pressed the card into her
manicured hand, and Jamison tactfully took it from her and pocketed
it. But she had let him. What could I do? Nothing. I had tried.
Period. Over. But I stared at her son. His face was incredibly
young.
I remembered when eighteen was grown-up. I had thought I knew
everything. I was about twenty-one when I figured out I knew
dip-wad. I still knew nothing, but I tried real hard. Sometimes,
that is the best you can do. Maybe the best anyone can do. Boy,
Miss Cynical in the morning.
Jamison was ushering them towards the door. I caught a few
sentences. "She was trying to kill them. They merely defended
themselves."
Yeah, that's me, hit person for the undead. Scourge of the
graveyard. Right. I left Jamison to his half-truths and went into
the office. I still needed the files. Life goes on, at least for
me. I couldn't stop seeing the boy's face, the wide eyes. His face
had been all golden tan, baby smooth. Shouldn't you at least have
to shave before you can kill yourself?
I shook my head as if I could shake the boy's face away. It
almost worked. I was kneeling with the folders in my hands when
Jamison came in the office. He shut the door behind him. I had
thought he might.
His skin was the color of dark honey, his eyes pale green; long,
tight curls framed his face. The hair was almost auburn. Jamison
was the first green-eyed, red-haired black man I had ever met. He
was slender, lean, not the thinness of exercise but of lucky
genetics. Jamison's idea of a workout was lifting shot glasses at a
good party.
"Don't ever do that again," he said.
"Do what?" I stood with the files clasped to my chest.
He shook his head and almost smiled, but it was an angry smile,
a flash of small white teeth. "Don't be a smart ass."
"Sorry," I said.
"Bullshit, you're not sorry."
"About trying to give Fields's card to the woman, no. I'm not
sorry. I'd do it again."
"I don't like to be undermined in front of my clients."
I shrugged.
"I mean it, Anita. Don't ever do that again."
I wanted to ask him, or what, but I didn't. "You aren't
qualified to counsel people about whether or not they become the
undead."
"Bert thinks I am."
"Bert would take money for a hit on the Pope if he thought he
could get away with it."
Jamison smiled, then frowned at me, then couldn't help himself
and smiled again. "You do have a way with words."
"Thanks."
"Don't undermine me with clients, okay?"
"I promise never to interfere when you are discussing raising
the dead."
"That isn't good enough," he said.
"It's the best you're going to get. You are not qualified to
counsel people. It's wrong."
"Little Miss Perfect. You murder people for money. You're
nothing but a damned assassin."
I took a deep breath, and let it out. I would not fight with him
today. "I execute criminals with the full blessing of the
law."
"Yeah, but you enjoy it. You get your jollies by pounding in the
stakes. You can't go a fucking week without bathing in someone's
blood."
I just stared at him. "Do you really believe that?" I asked.
He wouldn't look at me but finally said, "I don't know."
"Poor little vampires, poor misunderstood creatures. Right? The
one who branded me slaughtered twenty-three people before the
courts would give me the go-ahead." I yanked my shirt down to
expose the collarbone scar. "This vampire had killed ten people. He
specialized in little boys, said their meat was most tender. He's
not dead, Jamison. He got away. But he found me last night and
threatened my life."
"You don't understand them."
"No!" I shoved a finger in his chest. "You don't understand
them."
He glared down at me, nostrils flaring, breath coming in warm
gasps. I stepped back. I shouldn't have touched him; that was
against the rules. You never touch anyone in a fight unless you
want violence.
"I'm sorry, Jamison." I don't know if he understood what I was
apologizing for. He didn't say anything.
As I walked past him, he asked, "What are the files for?"
I hesitated, but he knew the files as well as I did. He'd know
what was missing. "The vampire murders."
We turned towards each other at the same moment. Staring. "You
took the money?" he asked.
That stopped me. "You knew about it?"
He nodded. "Bert tried to get them to hire me in your place.
They wouldn't go for it."
"And after all the good PR you've given them."
"I told Bert you wouldn't do it. That you wouldn't work for
vampires."
His slightly up-tilted eyes were studying my face, searching,
trying to squeeze some truth out. I ignored him, my face a pleasant
blankness. "Money talks, Jamison, even to me."
"You don't give a damn about money."
"Awful shortsighted of me, isn't it?" I said.
"I always thought so. You didn't do it for money." A statement.
"What was it?"
I didn't want Jamison in on this. He thought vampires were
fanged people. And they were very careful to keep him on the nice,
clean fringes. He never got his hands dirty, so he could afford to
pretend or ignore, or even lie to himself. I had gotten dirty once
too often. Lying to yourself was a good way to die. "Look, Jamison,
we don't agree on vampires, but anything that can kill vampires
could make meat pies out of human beings. I want to catch the
maniac before he, she, or it, does just that."
It wasn't a bad lie, as lies go. It was even plausible. He
blinked at me. Whether he believed me or not would depend on how
much he needed to believe me. How much he needed his world to stay
safe and clean. He nodded, once, very slowly. "You think you
can catch something the master vampires can't catch?"
"They seem to think so." I opened the door and he followed me
out. Maybe he would have asked more questions, maybe not, but a
voice interrupted.
"Anita, are you ready to go?"
We both turned, and I must have looked as puzzled as
Jamison.
I wasn't meeting anyone.
There was a man sitting in one of the lobby chairs, half-lost in
the jungle plants. I didn't recognize him at first. Thick brown
hair, cut short, stretched back from a very nice face. Black
sunglasses hid the eyes. He turned his head and spoiled the
illusion of short hair. A thick ponytail curled over his collar. He
was wearing a blue denim jacket with the collar up. A blood-red
tank top set off his tan. He stood slowly, smiled, and removed his
glasses.
It was Phillip of the many scars. I hadn't recognized him with
his clothes on. There was a bandage on the side of his neck, mostly
hidden by the jacket collar. "We need to talk," he said.
I closed my mouth and tried to look reasonably intelligent.
"Phillip, I didn't expect to see you so soon."
Jamison was looking from one to the other of us. He was
frowning. Suspicious. Mary was sitting, chin leaning on her hands,
enjoying the show.
The silence was damn awkward. Phillip put a hand out to Jamison.
I mumbled. "Jamison Clarke, this is Phillip . . . a friend." The
moment I said it, I wanted to take it back. "Friend" is what people
call their lovers. Beats the heck out of significant other.
Jamison smiled broadly. "So, you're Anita's . . . friend." He
said the last word slowly, rolling it around on his tongue.
Mary made a hubba-hubba motion with one hand. Phillip saw it and
flashed her a dazzling melt-your-libido smile. She blushed.
"Well, we have to go now. Come along, Phillip." I grabbed his
arm and began pulling him towards the door.
"Nice to meet you, Phillip," Jamison said. "I'll be sure to
mention you to all the rest of the guys who work here. I'm sure
they'd love to meet you sometime."
Jamison was really enjoying himself. "We're very busy right now,
Jamison. Maybe some other time," I said.
"Sure, sure," he said.
Jamison walked us to the door and held it for us. He grinned at
us as we walked down the hallway, arm in arm. Fudge buckets. I had
to let the smirking little creep think I had a lover. Good grief.
And he would tell everyone. Phillip slid his arm around my waist,
and I fought an urge to push him away. We were pretending, right,
right. I felt him hesitate as his hand brushed the gun on my
belt.
We met one of the real estate agents in the hall. She said hello
to me but stared at Phillip. He smiled at her. When we passed her
and were waiting for the elevator, I glanced back. Sure enough, she
was watching his backside as we walked away.
I had to admit it was a nice backside. She caught me looking at
her and hurriedly turned away.
"Defending my honor," Phillip asked.
I pushed away from him and punched the elevator button. "What
are you doing here?"
"Jean-Claude didn't come back last night. Do you know why?"
"I didn't do away with him, if that's what you're implying."
The doors opened. Phillip leaned against them, holding them open
with his body and one arm. The smile he flashed me was full of
potential, a little evil, a lot of sex. Did I really want to be
alone in an elevator with him? Probably not, but I was armed. He,
as far as I could tell, was not.
I walked under his arm without having to duck. The doors hushed
behind us. We were alone. He leaned into one comer, arms crossed
over his chest, staring at me from behind black lenses.
"Do you always do that?" I asked.
A slight smile. "Do what?"
"Pose."
He stiffened just a little, then relaxed against the wall.
"Natural talent."
I shook my head. "Uh-huh." I stared at the flickering floor
numbers.
"Is Jean-Claude all right?"
I glanced at him and didn't know what to say. The elevator
stopped. We got out. "You didn't answer me," he said softly.
I sighed. It was too long a story. "It's almost noon. I'll tell
you what I can over lunch."
He grinned. "Trying to pick me up, Ms. Blake?"
I smiled before I could stop myself. "You wish."
"Maybe," he said.
"Flirtatious little thing, aren't you?"
"Most women like it."
"I would like it better if I didn't think you'd flirt with my
ninety-year-old grandmother the same way you're flirting with me
now."
He coughed back a laugh. "You don't have a very high opinion of
me."
"I am a very judgmental person. It's one of my faults."
He laughed again, a nice sound. "Maybe I can hear about the rest
of your faults after you've told me where Jean-Claude is."
"I don't think so."
"Why not?"
I stopped just in front of the glass doors that led out into the
street. "Because I saw you last night. I know what you are, and I
know how you get your kicks."
His hand reached out and brushed my shoulder. "I get my kicks a
lot of different ways."
I frowned at his hand, and it moved away. "Save it, Phillip. I'm
not buying."
"Maybe by the end of lunch you will be."
I sighed. I had met men like Phillip before, handsome men who
are accustomed to women drooling over them. He wasn't trying to
seduce me; he just wanted me to admit that I found him attractive.
If I didn't admit it, he would keep pestering me. "I give up; you
win."
"What do I win?" he asked.
"You're wonderful, you're gorgeous. You are one of the best
looking men I have ever seen. From the soles of your boots, the
length of your skin-tight jeans, to the flat, rippling plains of
your stomach, to the sculpted line of your jaw, you are beautiful.
Now can we go to lunch and cut the nonsense?"
He lowered his sunglasses just enough to see over the top of
them. He stared at me like that for several minutes, then raised
the glasses back in place. "You pick the restaurant." He said it
flat, no teasing.
I wondered if I had offended him. I wondered if I cared.
Chapter 19
The heat outside the doors was solid, a wall of damp warmth that
melded to your skin like plastic wrap. "You're going to melt
wearing that jacket," I said.
"Most people object to the scars."
I unfolded my arms from around the folders and extended my left
arm. The scar glistened in the sunlight, shinier than the other
skin. "I won't tell if you won't."
He slipped off his sunglasses and stared at me. I couldn't read
his face. All I knew was that something was going on behind those
big brown eyes. His voice was soft. "Is that your only bite
scar?"
"No," I said.
His hands convulsed into fists, neck jerking, as if he'd had a
jolt of electricity. A tremor ran up his arms into his shoulders,
along his spine. He rotated his neck, as if to get rid of it. He
slipped the black lenses back on his face, his eyes anonymous. The
jacket came off. The scars at the bend of his arms were pale
against his tan. The collarbone scar peeked from under the edges of
the tank top. He had a nice neck, thick but not muscled, a stretch
of smooth, tanned skin. I counted four sets of bites on that
flawless skin. That was just the right side. The left was hidden by
a bandage.
"I can put the jacket back on," he said.
I had been staring at him. "No, it's just . . ."
"What?"
"It's none of my business."
"Ask anyway."
"Why do you do what you do?"
He smiled, but it was twisted, a wry smile. "That is a very
personal question."
"You did say ask anyway." I glanced across the street. "I
usually go to Mabel's, but we might be seen."
"Ashamed of me?" His voice held a harsh edge to it, like
sandpaper. His eyes were hidden, but his jaw muscles were
clenched.
"It isn't that," I said. "You are the one who came into the
office, pretending to be my 'friend'. If we go some place I'm
known, we'll have to continue the charade."
"There are women who would pay to have me escort them."
"I know, I saw them last night at the club."
"True, but the point is still that you're ashamed to be seen
with me. Because of this." His hand touched his neck, tentatively,
delicate as a bird.
I got the distinct impression I had hurt his feelings. That
didn't bother me, not really. But I knew what it was like to be
different. I knew what it was like to be an embarrassment to people
who should have known better. I knew better. It wasn't Phillip's
feelings but the principle of the thing. "Let's go."
"Where to?"
"To Mabel's."
"Thank you," he said. He rewarded me with one of those brilliant
smiles. If I had been less professional, it might have melted me
into my socks. There was a tinge of evil to it, a lot of sex, but
under that was a little boy peeking out, an uncertain little boy.
That was it. That was the attraction. Nothing is more appealing
than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.
It appeals not only to the woman in us all, but the mother. A
dangerous combination. Luckily, I was immune. Sure. Besides, I had
seen Phillip's idea of sex. He was definitely not my type.
Mabel's is a cafeteria, but the food is wonderful and reasonably
priced. On weekdays the place is filled to the brim with suits and
business skirts, thin little briefcases, and manila file folders.
On Saturdays it was nearly deserted.
Beatrice smiled at me from behind the steaming food. She was
tall and plump with brown hair and a tired face. Her pink uniform
didn't fit well through the shoulders, and the hairnet made her
face look too long. But she always smiled, and we always spoke.
"Hi, Beatrice." And without waiting to be asked, "This is
Phillip."
"Hi, Phillip," she said.
He gave her a smile every bit as dazzling as he had given the
real estate agent. She flushed, averted her eyes, and giggled. I
hadn't known Beatrice could do that. Did she notice the scars? Did
it matter to her?
It was too hot for meat loaf, but I ordered it anyway. It was
always moist and the catsup sauce just tangy enough. I even got
dessert, which I almost never do. I was starving. We managed to pay
and find a table without Phillip flirting with anyone else. A major
accomplishment.
"What has happened to Jean-Claude?" he asked.
"One more minute." I said grace over my food. He was staring at
me when I looked up. We ate, and I told him an edited version of
last night. Mostly, I told him about Jean-Claude and Nikolaos and
the punishment.
He had stopped eating by the time I finished. He was staring
over my head, at nothing that I could see. "Phillip?" I asked.
He shook his head and looked at me. "She could kill him."
"I got the impression she was just going to punish him. Do you
know what that would be?"
He nodded, voice soft, saying, "She traps them in coffins and
uses crosses to hold them inside. Aubrey disappeared for three
months. When I saw him again, he was like he is now. Crazy."
I shivered. Would Jean-Claude go crazy? I picked up my fork and
found myself halfway through a piece of blackberry pie. I hate
blackberries. Damn, I treat myself to pie and get the wrong kind.
What was the matter with me? The taste was still warm and thick in
my mouth. I took a big swig of Coke to wash it down. The Coke
didn't help much.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
I pushed the half-eaten pie away and opened one of the folders.
The first victim, one Maurice no last name, had lived with a woman
named Rebecca Miles. They had cohabited for five years. "Cohabited"
sounded better than "shacked up." "I'll talk to friends and lovers
of the dead vampires."
"I might know the names."
I stared at him, debating. I didn't want to share information
with him because I knew good ol' Phillip was the daytime eyes and
ears of the undead. Yet, when I had talked to Rebecca Miles in the
company of the police, she had told us zip. I didn't have time to
wade through crap. I needed information and fast. Nikolaos wanted
results. And what Nikolaos wanted, Nikolaos damn well better
get.
"Rebecca Miles," I said.
"I know her. She was Maurice's property." He shrugged an apology
at the word, but he let it stand. And I wondered what he
meant by it. "Where do we go first?" he asked.
"Nowhere. I don't want a civilian along while I work."
"I might be able to help."
"No offense, you look strong and maybe even quick, but that
isn't enough. Do you know how to fight? Do you carry a gun?"
"No gun, but I can handle myself."
I doubted that. Most people don't react well to violence. It
freezes them. There are a handful of seconds where the body
hesitates, the mind doesn't understand. Those few seconds can get
you killed. The only way to kill the hesitation is practice.
Violence has to become a part of your thinking. It makes you
cautious, suspicious as hell, and lengthens your life expectancy.
Phillip was familiar with violence, but only as the victim. I
didn't need a professional victim tagging along. Yet, I needed
information from people who wouldn't want to talk to me. They might
talk to Phillip.
I didn't expect to run into a gun battle in broad daylight. Nor
did I really expect anyone to jump me, at least not today. I've
been wrong before but . . . If Phillip could help me, I saw no harm
in it. As long as he didn't flash that smile at the wrong time and
get molested by nuns, we would be safe.
"If someone threatens me, can you stay out of it and let me do
my job, or would you charge in and try to save me?" I asked.
"Oh," he said. He stared down at his drink for a few minutes. "I
don't know."
Brownie point for him. Most people would have lied. "Then I'd
rather you didn't come."
"How are you going to convince Rebecca you work for the master
vampire of this city? The Executioner working for vampires?"
It sounded ridiculous even to me. "I don't know."
He smiled. "Then it's settled. I'll come along and help calm the
waters."
"I didn't agree to that."
"You didn't say no, either."
He had a point. I sipped my Coke and looked at his smug face for
perhaps a minute. He said nothing, only stared back. His face was
neutral, no challenge to it. There was no contest of egos as with
Bert. "Let's go," I said.
We stood. I left a tip. We went off in search of clues.
Chapter 20
Rebecca Miles lived in South City's Dogtown. The streets were
all named for states: Texas, Mississippi, Indiana. The building was
blind, most of the windows boarded up. The grass was tall as an
elephant's eye, but not half so beautiful. A block over were
expensive rehabs full of yuppies and politicians. There were no
yuppies on Rebecca's block.
Her apartment was on a long, narrow corridor. There was no air
conditioning in the hallway, and the heat was like chest-high fur,
thick and warm. One dim light bulb gleamed over the threadbare
carpeting. In places the off-green walls were patched with white
plaster, but it was clean. The smell of pine-scented Lysol was
thick and almost nauseating in the small, dark hallway. You could
probably have eaten off the carpeting if you had wanted to, but you
would have gotten fuzzies in your mouth. No amount of Lysol would
get rid of carpet fuzzies.
As we had discussed in the car, Phillip knocked on the door. The
idea was that he would calm any misgivings she might have about The
Executioner coming into her humble abode. It took fifteen minutes
of knocking and waiting before we heard someone moving around
behind the door.
The door opened as far as the chain would allow. I couldn't see
who answered the door. A woman's voice, thick with sleep, said,
"Phillip, what are you doing here?"
"Can I come in for a few minutes?" he asked. I couldn't see his
face, but I would have bet everything I owned that he was flashing
her one of his infamous smiles.
"Sure; sorry, you woke me up." The door closed, and the chain
rattled. The door reopened, wide. I still couldn't see around
Phillip. So I guess Rebecca didn't see me either.
Phillip walked in, and I followed behind him before the door
could close. The apartment was ovenlike, a gasping,
stranded-fish heat. The darkness should have made it cooler, but instead made
it claustrophobic. Sweat trickled down my face.
Rebecca Miles stood holding onto the door. She was thin, with
lifeless dark hair falling straight to her shoulders. High
cheekbones clung to the skin of her face. She was nearly
overwhelmed by the white robe she wore. Delicate was the phrase,
fragile. Small, dark eyes blinked at me. It was dim in the
apartment, thick drapes cutting out the light. She had only seen me
once, shortly after Maurice's death.
"Did you bring a friend?" she asked. She shut the door, and we
were in near darkness.
"Yes," Phillip said. "This is Anita Blake . . ."
Her voice came out small and choked. "The Executioner?"
"Yes, but. . .
She opened her small mouth and shrieked. She threw herself at
me, hands clawing and slapping. I braced and covered my face with
my forearms. She fought like a girl, all open-handed slaps,
scratches, and flailing arms. I grabbed her wrist and used her own
momentum to pull her past me. She stumbled to her knees with a
little help. I had her right arm in a joint lock. It puts pressure
on the elbow, it hurts, and a little extra push will snap the arm.
Most people don't fight well after you break their arm at the
elbow.
I didn't want to break the woman's arm. I didn't want to hurt
her at all. There were two bloody scratches on my arm where she had
gotten me. I guess I was lucky she hadn't had a gun.
She tried to move, and I pressed on the arm. I felt her tremble.
Her breath was coming in huge gasps. "You can't kill him! You
can't! Please, please don't." She started to cry, thin shoulders
shaking inside the too-big robe. I stood there, holding her arm,
causing her pain.
I released her arm, slowly, and stepped back out of reach. I
hoped she didn't attack again. I didn't want to hurt her, and I
didn't want her to hurt me. The scratches were beginning to
sting.
Rebecca Miles wasn't going to try again. She huddled against the
door, thin, starved hands locked around her knees. She sobbed,
gasping for air, "You . . . can't . . . kill him. Please!" She
started to rock back and forth, hugging herself tight as if she
might shatter, like weak glass.
Jesus, some days I hate my job. "Talk to her, Phillip. Tell her
we didn't come here to hurt anyone."
Phillip knelt beside her. He kept his hands at his sides as he
talked to her. I didn't hear what he said. Her shuddering sobs
floated after me through a right-hand doorway. It led into the
bedroom.
A coffin sat beside the bed, dark wood, maybe cherry, varnished
until it gleamed in the twilit dark. She thought I came to kill her
lover. Jesus.
The bathroom was small and cluttered. I hit the light switch,
and the harsh yellow light was not kind. Her makeup was scattered
around the cracked sink like casualties. The tub was nearly rotted
with rust. I found what I hoped was a clean washrag and ran cold
water over it. The water that trickled out was the color of weak
coffee. The pipes shuddered and clanked and whined. The water
finally ran clear. It felt good on my hands, but I didn't splash
any on my neck or face. It would have been cool, but the bathroom
was dirty. I couldn't use the water, not if I didn't have to. I
looked up as I squeezed the rag out. The mirror was shattered, a
spiderweb of cracks. It gave me my face back in broken pieces.
I didn't look in the mirror again. I walked back past the coffin
and hesitated. I had an urge to knock on the smooth wood. Anybody
home? I didn't do it. For all I knew, someone might have knocked
back.
Phillip had the woman on the couch. She was leaning against him,
boneless, panting, but the crying had almost stopped. She flinched
when she saw me. I tried not to look menacing, something I'm good
at, and handed the rag to Phillip. "Wipe her face and put it
against the back of her neck; it'll help."
He did what I asked, and she sat there with the damp rag against
her neck, staring at me. Her eyes were wide, a lot of white
showing. She shivered.
I found the light switch, and harsh light flooded the room. One
look at the room and I wanted to turn the light off again, but I
didn't. I thought Rebecca might attack me again if I sat beside
her, or maybe she'd have a complete breakdown. Wouldn't that be
pretty? The only chair was lopsided and had yellowed stuffing
bulging out one side. I decided to stand.
Phillip looked up at me. His sunglasses were hooked over the
front of his tank top. His eyes were wide and careful, as if he
didn't want me to know what he was thinking. One tanned arm was
wrapped around her shoulders, protective. I felt like a bully.
"I told her why we are here. I told her you wouldn't hurt
Jack."
"The coffin?" I smiled. I couldn't help it. He was a "jack in
the box."
"Yes," Phillip said. He stared at me as if grinning were not
appropriate.
It wasn't, so I stopped, but it was something of an effort.
I nodded. If Rebecca wanted to shack up with vampires, that was
her business. It certainly wasn't police business.
"Go on, Rebecca. She's trying to help us," Phillip said.
"Why?" she asked.
It was a good question. I had scared her and made her cry. I
answered her question. "The master of the city made me an offer I
couldn't refuse."
She stared at me, studying my face, like she was committing me
to memory. "I don't believe you," she said.
I shrugged. That's what you get for telling the truth. Someone
calls you a liar. Most people will accept a likely lie to an
unlikely truth. In fact, they prefer it.
"How could any vampire threaten The Executioner?" she asked.
I sighed. "I'm not the bogeyman, Rebecca. Have you ever met the
master of the city?"
"No."
"Then you'll have to trust me. I am scared shitless of the
master. Anybody in their right mind would be."
She still looked unconvinced, but she started talking. Her
small, light voice told the same story she'd told the police. Bland
and useless as a new-minted penny.
"Rebecca, I am trying to catch the person, or thing, that killed
your boyfriend. Please help me."
Phillip hugged her. "Tell her what you told me."
She glanced at him, then back at me. She sucked her lower lip in
and scraped it with her upper teeth, thoughtful. She took a deep,
shaky breath. "We were at a freak party that night."
I blinked, then tried to sound reasonably intelligent. "I know a
freak is someone who likes vampires. Is a freak party what I think
it is?"
Phillip was the one who nodded. "I go to them a lot." He
wouldn't look at me while he said it. "You can have a vampire most
any way you want it. And they can have you." He darted a glance at
my face, then down again. Maybe he didn't like what he saw.
I tried to keep my face blank, but I wasn't having much luck. A
freak party, dear God. But it was somewhere to start. "Did anything
special happen at the party?" I asked.
She blinked at me, face blank, as if she didn't understand. I
tried again. "Did anything out of the ordinary happen at the freak
party?" When in doubt, change your vocabulary.
She stared down into her lap and shook her head. Long, dark hair
trailed over her face like a thin curtain.
"Did Maurice have any enemies that you know of?"
Rebecca shook her head without even looking up. I glimpsed her
eyes through her hair like a frightened rabbit staring out from
behind a bush. Did she have more information, or had I used her up?
If I pushed she'd break, shatter, and maybe a clue would come
spilling out, then again, maybe not. Her hands were tangled in her
lap, white-knuckled. They trembled ever so slightly. How badly did
I want to know? Not that badly. I let it go. Anita Blake,
humanitarian.
Phillip tucked Rebecca in bed, while I waited in the living
room. I half-expected to hear giggling or some sound that said he
was working his charm. There was nothing but the quiet murmur of
voices and the cool rustle of sheets. When he came out of the
bedroom, his face was serious, solemn. He slipped his glasses back
on and hit the light switch. The room was a thick, hot darkness. I
heard him move in the ovenlike blackness. A rustle of jeans, a
scrape of boot. I fumbled for the doorknob, found it, flung it
open.
Pale light spilled in. Phillip was standing, staring at me, eyes
hidden. His body was relaxed, easy, but somehow I could feel his
hostility. We were no longer playing friends. I wasn't sure if he
was angry with me for some reason, or himself, or fate. When you
end up with a life like Rebecca's, there should be someone to
blame.
"That could have been me," he said.
I looked at him. "But it wasn't."
He spread his arms wide, flexing. "But it could be."
I didn't know what to say to that. What could I say? There but
for the grace of God go you? I doubted God had much to do with
Phillip's world.
Phillip made sure the door locked behind us, then said, "I know
at least two other murdered vampires were regulars on the party
circuit."
My stomach tightened, a little flutter of excitement. "Do you
think the rest of the . . . victims could be freak
aficionados?"
He shrugged. "I can find out." His face was still closed to me,
blank. Something had turned off his switch. Maybe it was Rebecca
Miles's small, starved hands. I know it hadn't done a lot for
me.
Could I trust him to find out? Would he tell me the truth? Would
it endanger him? No answers, just more questions, but at least the
questions were getting better. Freak parties. A common thread, a
real live clue. Hot dog.
Chapter 21
Inside my car I turned the air conditioning on full blast. Sweat
chilled on my skin, jelling in place. I turned the air down before
I got a headache from the temperature change.
Phillip sat as far away from me as he could get. His body was
half-turned, as much as the seat belt would allow, towards the
window. His eyes behind their sunglasses stared out and away.
Phillip didn't want to talk about what had just happened. How did I
know that? Anita the mind reader. No, just Anita the not so
stupid.
His whole body was hunched in upon itself. If I hadn't known
better, I'd have said he was in pain. Come to think of it, maybe he
was.
I had just bullied a very fragile human being. It hadn't felt
very good, but it beat the heck out of knocking her senseless. I
had not hurt her physically. Why didn't I believe that? Now, I was
going to question Phillip because he had given me a clue. The
proverbial lead. I couldn't let it go.
"Phillip?" I asked.
His shoulders tightened, but he continued to stare out the
window.
"Phillip, I need to know about the freak parties."
"Drop me at the club."
"Guilty Pleasures?" I asked. Brilliant repartee, that's me.
He nodded, still turned away.
"Don't you need to pick up your car?"
"I don't drive," he said. "Monica dropped me off at your
office."
"Did she now?" I felt the anger, instantaneous and warm.
He turned then, stared at me, face blank, eyes hidden. "Why are
you so angry at her? She just got you to the club, that's all."
I shrugged.
"Why?" His voice was tired, human, normal.
I wouldn't have answered the teasing flirt, but this person was
real. Real people deserve answers. "She's human, and she betrayed
other humans to nonhumans," I said.
"And that's a worse crime than Jean-Claude choosing you to be
our champion?"
"Jean-Claude is a vampire. You expect treachery from
vampires."
"You do. I do not."
"Rebecca Miles looks like a person who's been betrayed."
He flinched.
Great Anita, just great, let's emotionally abuse everyone we
meet today. But it was true.
He had turned back to the window, and I had to fill the pained
silence. "Vampires are not human. Their loyalty, first and
foremost, must be to their own kind. I understand that. Monica
betrayed her own kind. She also betrayed a friend. That is
unforgivable."
He twisted to look at me. I wished I could see his eyes. "So if
someone was your friend, you would do anything for them?"
I thought about that as we drove down 70 East. Anything? That
was a tall order. Almost anything? Yes. "Almost anything," I
said.
"So loyalty and friendship are very important to you?"
"Yes."
"Because you believe Monica betrayed both of those things, it
makes it a worse crime than anything the vampires did?"
I shifted in the seat, not happy with the way the conversation
was going. I am not a big one for personal analysis. I know who I
am and what I do, and that's usually enough. Not always, but most
of the time. "Not anything; I don't believe in many absolutes. But,
if you want a short version, yes, that's why I'm angry at
Monica."
He nodded, as if that were the answer he wanted. "She's afraid
of you; did you know that?"
I smiled, and it wasn't a very nice smile. I could feel the
edges curl up with a dark sort of satisfaction. "I hope the little
bitch is sweating it out, big time."
"She is," he said. His voice was very quiet.
I glanced at him, then quickly back to the road. I had a feeling
he didn't approve of my scaring Monica. Of course, that was his
problem. I was quite pleased with the results.
We were getting close to the Riverfront turnoff. He had still
not answered my question. In fact, he had very nicely avoided it.
"Tell me about freak parties, Phillip."
"Did you really threaten to cut out Monica's heart?"
"Yes. Are you going to tell me about the parties or not?"
"Would you really do it? Cut out her heart, I mean?"
"You answer my question, I'll answer yours." I turned the car
onto the narrow brick roads of the Riverfront. Two more blocks and
we would be at Guilty Pleasures.
"I told you what the parties are like. I've stopped going the
last few months."
I glanced at him again. I wanted to ask why. So I did.
"Why?"
"Damn, you do ask personal questions, don't you?"
"I didn't mean it to be."
I thought he wasn't going to answer the question, but he did. "I
got tired of being passed around. I didn't want to end up like
Rebecca, or worse."
I wanted to ask what was worse, but I let it go. I try not to be
cruel, just persistent. There are days when the difference is
pretty damn slight. "If you find out that all the vampires went to
freak parties, call me."
"Then what?" he asked.
"I need to go to a party." I parked in front of Guilty
Pleasures. The neon was quiet, a dim ghost of its nighttime self.
The place looked closed.
"You don't want to go to a party, Anita."
"I'm trying to solve a crime, Phillip. If I don't, my friend
dies. And I have no illusions about what the master will do to me
if I fail. A quick death would be the best I could hope for."
He shivered. "Yeah, yeah." He unbuckled the seat belt and rubbed
his hands along his arms, as if he were cold. "You never answered
my question about Monica," he said.
"You never really told me about the parties."
He looked down, staring at the tops of his thighs. "There's one
tonight. If you have to go, I'll take you." He turned to me, arms
still hugging his elbows. "The parties are always at a different
location. When I find out where, how do I get in touch with
you?"
"Leave a message on my answering machine, my home number." I
got a business card out of my purse and wrote my home
phone number on the back. He got his jean jacket out of the back
seat and stuffed the card into a pocket. He opened the door, and
the heat washed into the chill, air-conditioned car like the breath
of a dragon.
He leaned into the car, one arm on the roof, one on the door.
"Now, answer my question. Would you really cut out Monica's heart,
so she couldn't come back as a vampire?"
I stared into the blackness of his sunglasses and said,
"Yes."
"Remind me never to piss you off." He took a deep breath.
"You'll need to wear something that shows off your scars tonight.
Buy something if you don't have it." He hesitated, then asked, "Are
you as good at being a friend as you are an enemy?"
I took a deep breath and let it out. What could I say? "You
don't want me for an enemy, Phillip. I make a much better
friend."
"Yeah, I'll bet you do." He closed the door and walked up to the
club door. He knocked, and a few moments later the door opened. I
got a glimpse of a pale figure opening the door. It couldn't be a
vampire, could it? The door closed before I could see much.
Vampires could not come out in daylight. That was a rule. But until
last night I had known vampires could not fly. So much for what I
knew.
Whoever it was had been expecting Phillip. I pulled away from
the curb. Why had they sent him at his flirtatious best? Had he
been sent to charm me? Or was he the only human they could get at
short notice? The only daytime member of their little club. Except
for Monica. And I wasn't real fond of her right now. That was just
dandy with me.
I didn't think Phillip was lying about the freak parties, but
what did I know about Phillip? He stripped at Guilty Pleasures, not
exactly a character reference. He was a vampire junkie, better and
better. Was all that pain an act? Was he luring me someplace, just
as Monica had?
I didn't know. And I needed to know. There was one place I could
go that might have the answers. The only place in the District
where I was truly welcome. Dead Dave's, a nice bar that served a
mean hamburger. The proprietor was an ex-cop who had been kicked
off the force for being dead. Picky, picky. Dave liked to help out,
but he resented the prejudice of his former comrades. So he talked
to me. And I talked to the police. It was a nice little arrangement
that let Dave be pissed off at the police and still help them.
It made me nearly invaluable to the police. Since I was on
retainer, that pleased Bert to no end.
It being daytime, Dead Dave was tucked in his coffin, but Luther
would be there. Luther was the daytime manager and bartender. He
was one of the few people in the District who didn't have much to
do with vampires, except for the fact that he worked for one. Life
is never perfect.
I actually found a parking place not far from Dave's. Daytime
parking is a lot more open in the District. When the Riverfront
used to be human-owned businesses, there was never any parking on a
weekend, day or night. It was one of the few positives of the new
vampire laws. That and the tourism.
St. Louis was a real hot spot for vampire watchers. The only
place better was New York, but we had a lower crime rate. There was
a gang that had gone all vampire in New York. They had spread to
Los Angeles and tried to spread here. The police found the first
recruits chopped into bite-size pieces.
Our vampire community prides itself on being mainstream. A
vampire gang would be bad publicity, so they took care of it. I
admired the efficiency of it but wished they had done it
differently. I had had nightmares for weeks about walls that bled
and dismembered arms that crawled along the floor all by
themselves. We never did find the heads.
Chapter 22
Dead Dave's is all dark glass and glowing beer signs. At night
the front windows look like some sort of modern art, featuring
brand names. In the daylight everything is muted. Bars are sort of
like vampires; they are at their best after dark. There is
something tired and wistful about a daytime bar.
The air conditioning was up full blast, like the inside of a
freezer. It was almost a physical jolt after the skin-melting heat
outside. I stood just inside the door and waited for my eyes to
adjust to the twilight interior. Why are all bars so damn dark,
like caves, places to hide? The air smelled of stale cigarettes no
matter when you came in, as if years of smoke had settled into the
upholstery, like aromatic ghosts.
Two guys in business suits were settled at the farthest booth
from the door. They were eating and had manila folders spread
across the table top. Working on a Saturday. Just like me, well,
maybe not just like me. I was betting that no one had threatened to
tear their throats out. Of course, I could be wrong, but I doubted
it. I was betting the worst threat they had had this week was lack
of job security. Ah, the good old days.
There was a man crouched on a bar stool, nursing a tall drink.
His face was already slack, his movements very slow and precise, as
if he were afraid he'd spill something. Drunk at one-thirty in the
afternoon; not a good sign for him. But it wasn't my business. You
can't save everybody. In fact, there are days when I think you
can't save anyone. Each person has to save himself first, then you
can move in and help. I have found this philosophy does not work
during a gun battle, or a knife fight either. Outside of that it
works just fine.
Luther was polishing glasses with a very clean white towel. He
looked up when I slipped up on the bar stool. He nodded, a
cigarette dangling from his thick lips. Luther is large, nay, fat.
There is no other word for it, but it is hard fat, rock-solid,
almost a kind of muscle. His hands are huge-knuckled and as big as
my face. Of course, my face is small. He is a very dark black man,
nearly purplish black, like mahogany. The creamy chocolate of his
eyes is yellow-edged from too much cigarette smoke. I don't think I
have ever seen Luther without a cig clasped between his lips. He is
overweight, chain-smokes, and the grey in his hair marks him as
over fifty, yet he's never sick. Good genetics, I guess.
"What'll it be, Anita?" His voice matched his body, deep and
gravelly.
"The usual."
He poured me a short glass of orange juice. Vitamins. We
pretended it was a screwdriver, so my penchant for sobriety
wouldn't give the bar a bad name. Who wants to get drunk when there
are teetotalers in the crowd? And why in the world would I keep
coming to a bar if I didn't drink?
I sipped my fake screwdriver and said, "I need some info."
"Figured that. Whatcha need?"
"I need information on a man named Phillip, dances at Guilty
Pleasures."
One thick eyebrow raised. "Vamp?"
I shook my head. "Vampire junkie."
He took a big drag on his cig, making the end glow like a live
coal. He blew a huge puff of smoke politely away from me. "Whatcha
want to know about him?"
"Is he trustworthy?"
He stared at me for a heartbeat, then he grinned. "Trustworthy?
Hell, Anita, he's a junkie. Don't matter what he's strung out on,
drugs, liquor, sex, vampires, no diff. No junkie is trustworthy,
you know that."
I nodded. I did know that, but what could I do? "I have to trust
him, Luther. He's all I got."
"Damn, girl, you are moving in the wrong circles."
I smiled. Luther was the only person I let call me girl. All
women were "girl," all men "fella." "I need to know if you've heard
anything really bad about him," I said.
"What are you up to?" he asked.
"I can't say. I'd share it if I could, or if I thought it would
do any good."
He studied me for a moment, cig dribbling ash onto the
countertop. He wiped up the ash absentmindedly with his clean
white towel. "Okay, Anita, you've earned the right to say no,
this once, but next time you better have something to share."
I smiled. "Cross my heart."
He just shook his head and pulled a fresh cigarette out of the
pack he always kept behind the bar. He took one last drag of the
nearly burned cig, then clasped the fresh one between his lips. He
put the glowing orange end of the old cig against the fresh white
tip and sucked air. The paper and tobacco caught, flared
orange-red, and he stubbed out the old cig in the already full
ashtray he carried with him from place to place, like a teddy
bear.
"I know they got a dancer down at the club that is a freak. He
does the party circuit and is reeeal popular with a certain sort of
vamp." Luther shrugged, a massive movement like mountains
hiccuping. "Don't have no dirt on him, 'cept he's a junkie, and he
does the circuit. Shit, Anita, that's bad enough. Sounds like
someone to stay away from."
"I would if I could." It was my turn to shrug. "But you haven't
heard anything else about him?"
He thought for a moment, sucking on his new cigarette. "No, not
a word. He ain't a big player in the district. He's a professional
victim. Most of the talk is about the predators down here, not the
sheep." He frowned. "Just a minute. I got something, an idea." He
thought very carefully for a few minutes, then smiled broadly.
"Yeah, got some news on a predator. Vamp calls himself Valentine,
wears a mask. He been bragging that he did ol' Phillip the first
time."
"So," I said.
"Not the first time he was a junkie, girl, the first time
period. Valentine claims he jumped the boy when he was small, did
him good. Claims ol' Phillip liked it so much that's why he's a
junkie."
"Dear God." I remembered the nightmares, the reality, of
Valentine. What would it have been like to have been small when it
happened? What would it have done to me?
"You know Valentine?" Luther asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. He ever say how old Phillip was when the attack
took place?"
He shook his head. "No, but word is anything over twelve is too
old for Valentine, 'less it's revenge. He's a real big one for
revenge. Word is if the master didn't keep him in line, he'd be
damn dangerous."
"You bet your sweet ass he's dangerous."
"You know him." It wasn't a question.
I looked up at Luther. "I need to know where Valentine stays
during the day."
"That's two bits of information for nuthin'. I don't think
so."
"He wears a mask because I doused him with Holy Water about two
years ago. Until last night I thought he was dead, and he thought
the same about me. He's going to kill me, if he can."
"You awful hard to kill, Anita."
"There's a first time, Luther, and that's all it takes."
"I hear that." He started polishing already clean glasses. "I
don't know. Word gets out we giving you daytime resting places, it
could go bad for us. They could burn this place to the ground with
us inside."
"You're right. I don't have a right to ask." But I sat there on
the bar stool, staring at him, willing him to give me what I
needed. Risk your life for me old buddy ol' pal, I'd do the same for
you. Riiight.
"If you could swear you wouldn't use the info to kill him, I
could tell you," Luther said.
"It'd be a lie."
"You got a warrant to kill him?" he asked.
"Not active, but I could get one."
"Would you wait for it?"
"It's illegal to kill a vampire without a court order of
execution," I said.
He stared at me. "That ain't the question. Would you jump the
gun to make sure of the kill?"
"Might."
He shook his head. "You gonna be up on charges one of these
days, girl. Murder is a serious rap."
I shrugged. "Beats getting your throat torn out."
He blinked. "Well, now." He didn't seem to know what to say, so
he polished a sparkling glass over and over in his big hands. "I'll
have to ask Dave. If he says it's okay, you can have it."
I finished my orange juice and paid up, a little heavy on the
tip to keep things aboveboard. Dave would never admit he helped me
because of my tie with the police, so money had to exchange hands,
even if it wasn't nearly what the information was worth. "Thanks,
Luther."
"Word on the street is that you met the master last night. That
true?"
"You know about that before or after the fact?" I asked.
He looked pained. "Anita, we woulda told you if we'd known,
gratis."
I nodded. "Sorry, Luther, it's been a rough few nights."
"I'll bet. So the rumor's true?"
What could I say? Deny it? A lot of people seemed to know. I
guess you can't even trust the dead to keep a secret. "Maybe." I
might as well have said yes, because I didn't say no. Luther
understood the game. He nodded. "What did they want with you?"
"Can't say."
"Mmm . . . uh. Okay, Anita, you be damn careful. You might wanta
get some help, if there's anybody you can trust."
Trust? It wasn't lack of trust. "There may be only two ways out
of this mess, Luther. Death would be my choice. A quick death would
be best, but I doubt I'll get the chance if things go bad. What
friend am I supposed to drag into that?"
His round, dark face stared at me. "I don't have no answers,
girl. I wish I did."
"So do I."
The phone rang. Luther answered it. He looked at me and carried
the phone down on its long cord. "For you," he said.
I cradled the phone against my cheek. "Yes."
"It's Ronnie." Her voice was suppressed excitement, a kid on
Christmas morning.
My stomach tightened. "You have something?"
"There is a rumor going around Humans Against Vampires. A death
squad designed to wipe the vampires off the face of the earth."
"You have proof, a witness?"
"Not yet."
I sighed before I could stop myself.
"Come on, Anita, this is good news."
I cupped my hand over the phone and whispered, "I can't take a
rumor about HAV to the master. The vampires would slaughter them. A
lot of innocent people would get killed, and we're not even sure
that HAV is really behind the murders."
"All right, all right," Ronnie said. "I'll have something more
concrete by tomorrow, I promise. Bribe or threat, I'll get the
information."
"Thanks, Ronnie."
"What are friends for? Besides, Bert's going to have to pay for
overtime and bribes. I always love the look of pain when he has to
part with money."
I grinned into the phone. "Me, too."
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Going to a party."
"What?"
I explained as briefly as I could. After a long silence she
said, "That is very freaky."
I agreed with her. "You keep working your end, I'll try from
this side. Maybe we'll meet in the middle."
"It'd be nice to think so." Her voice sounded warm, almost
angry.
"What's wrong?"
"You're going in without backup, aren't you?" she asked.
"You're alone," I said.
"But I'm not surrounded by vampires and freakazoids."
"If you're at HAV headquarters, that last is debatable."
"Don't be cute. You know what I mean."
"Yes, Ronnie, I know what you mean. You are the only friend I
have who can handle herself." I shrugged, realized she couldn't see
it, and said, "Anybody else would be like Catherine, sheep among
wolves, and you know it."
"What about another animator?"
"Who? Jamison thinks vampires are nifty. Bert talks a good game,
but he doesn't endanger his lily white ass. Charles is a good
enough corpse-raiser, but he's squeamish, and he's got a
four-year-old kid. Manny doesn't hunt vampires anymore. He spent
four months in the hospital being put back together after his last
hunt."
"If I remember correctly, you were in the hospital, too," she
said.
"A broken arm and a busted collarbone were my worst injuries,
Ronnie. Manny almost died. Besides, he's got a wife and four
kids."
Manny had been the animator who trained me. He taught me how to
raise the dead, and how to slay vampires. Though admittedly I had
expanded on Manny's teachings. He was a traditionalist, a
stake-and-garlic man. He had carried a gun, but as backup, not as a
primary tool. If modern technology will allow me to take out a
vampire from a distance, rather than straddling its waist and
pounding a stake through its heart, heh, why not?
Two years ago, Rosita, Manny's wife, had come to me and begged
me not to endanger her husband anymore. Fifty-two was too old to
hunt vampires, she had said. What would happen to her and the
children? Somehow I had gotten all the blame, like a mother whose
favorite child had been led astray by the neighborhood ruffians.
She had made me swear before God that I would never again ask Manny
to join me on a hunt. If she hadn't cried, I would have held out,
refused. Crying was damned unfair in a fight. Once a person started
to cry, you couldn't talk anymore. You suddenly just wanted them to
stop crying, stop hurting, stop making you feel like the biggest
scum-bucket in the world. Anything to stop the tears.
Ronnie was quiet on the other end of the phone. "All right, but
you be careful."
"Careful as a virgin on her wedding night, I promise."
She laughed. "You are incorrigible."
"Everybody tells me that," I said.
"Watch your back."
"You do the same."
"I will." She hung up. The phone buzzed dead in my hands.
"Good news?" Luther asked.
"Yeah." Humans Against Vampires had a death squad. Maybe. But
maybe was better than what I'd had before. Look, folks, nothing up
my sleeves, nothing in my pockets, no idea in hell what I was
doing. Just blundering around trying to track down a killer that
has taken out two master vampires. If I was on the right track, I'd
attract attention soon. Which meant someone might try to kill me.
Wouldn't that be fun?
I would need clothes that showed off my vampire scars and
allowed me to hide weapons. It would not be an easy combination to
find.
I would have to spend the afternoon shopping. I hate to shop. I
consider it one of life's necessary evils, like brussels sprouts
and high-heeled shoes. Of course, it beat the heck out of having my
life threatened by vampires. But wait; we could go shopping now and
be threatened by vampires in the evening. A perfect way to spend a
Saturday night.
Chapter 23
I transferred all the smaller bags into one big bag, to leave
one hand free for my gun. You'd be amazed what a nice target you
make juggling two armloads of shopping bags. First drop the bags -
that is if one of the handles isn't tangled over your wrist - then
reach for your gun, pull, aim, fire. By the time you do all that
the bad guy has shot you twice and is walking away humming Dixie
between his teeth.
I had been downright paranoid all afternoon, aware of everyone
near me. Was I being followed? Had that man looked too long at me?
Was that woman wearing a scarf around her neck because she had bite
marks?
By the time I went for the car, my neck and shoulders were
knotted into one painful ache. The most frightening thing I'd seen
all afternoon had been the prices on the designer clothing.
The world was still bright blue and heat-soaked when I went for
my car. It's easy to forget the passage of time in a mall. It is
air conditioned, climate controlled, a private world where nothing
real touches you. Disneyland for shopaholics.
I shut my packages in the trunk and watched the sky darken. I
knew what fear felt like, a leaden balloon in the pit of your gut.
A nice, quiet dread.
I shrugged to loosen my shoulders. Rotated my neck until it
popped. Better, but still tight. I needed some aspirin. I had eaten
in the mall, something I almost never did. The moment I smelled the
food stalls, I had gone for them, starved.
The pizza had tasted like thin cardboard with imitation tomato
paste spread over it. The cheese had been rubbery and tasteless.
Yum, yum, mall food. Truth is, I love Corn Dog on a Stick and Mrs.
Field's Cookies.
I got one piece of pizza with just cheese, the way I like it,
but one piece with everything. I hate mushrooms and green
peppers.
Sausage belongs on the breakfast table, not on pizza. I didn't
know which bothered me more; that I ordered it in the first place,
or that I had eaten half of it before I realized what I was doing.
I was craving food that I normally hated. Why? One more question
without an answer. Why did this one scare me?
My neighbor, Mrs. Pringle, was walking her dog back and forth on
the grass in front of our apartment building. I parked and unloaded
my one overstuffed bag from the trunk.
Mrs. Pringle is over sixty, nearly six feet tall, stretched too
thin with age. Her faded blue eyes are bright and curious behind
silver-rimmed glasses. Her dog Custard is a Pomeranian. He looks
like a golden dandelion fluff with cat feet.
Mrs. Pringle waved at me, and I was trapped. I smiled and walked
over to them. Custard began jumping up on me, like he had springs
in his tiny legs. He looked like a wind-up toy. His yapping was
frequent and insistent, joyous.
Custard knows I don't like him, and in his twisted doggy mind he
is determined to win me over. Or maybe he just knows it irritates
me. Whatever.
"Anita, you naughty girl, why didn't you tell me you had a
beau?" Mrs. Pringle asked.
I frowned. "A beau?"
"A boyfriend," she said.
I didn't know what in the world she was talking about. "What do
you mean?"
"Be coy if you wish, but when a young woman gives her apartment
key to a man, it means something."
That lead balloon in my gut floated up a few inches. "Did you
see someone going in my apartment today?" I worked very hard at
keeping my face and voice casual.
"Yes, your nice young man. Very handsome."
I wanted to ask what he looked like, but if he was my boyfriend
with a key to my apartment, I should know. I couldn't ask. Very
handsome - could it be Phillip? But why? "When did he stop by?"
"Oh, around two this afternoon. I was just coming out to walk
Custard as he was going in."
"Did you see him leave?"
She was staring at me a little too hard. "No. Anita, was he not
supposed to be in your home? Did I let a burglar get away?"
"No." I managed a smile and almost a whole laugh. "I just didn't
expect him today, that's all. If you see anyone going into my
apartment, just let them. I'll have friends going in and out for a
few days."
Her eyes had narrowed; her delicate-boned hands were very still.
Even Custard was sitting in the grass, panting up at me. "Anita
Blake," she said, and I was reminded that she was a retired
schoolteacher, it was that kind of voice. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing, really. I've just never given my key to a man before,
and I'm a little unsure about it. Jittery." I gave her my best
wide-eyed innocent look. I resisted the urge to bat my eyes, but
everything else was working.
She crossed her arms over her stomach. I don't think she
believed me. "If you are that nervous about this young man, then he
is not the right one for you. If he was, you wouldn't be
jittery."
I felt light with relief. She believed. "You're probably right.
Thank you for the advice. I may even take it." I felt so good, I
patted Custard on top of his furry little head.
I heard Mrs. Pringle say as I walked away, "Now, Custard, do
your business and let's go upstairs."
For the second time in the same day I might have an intruder in
my apartment. I walked down the hushed corridor and drew my gun. A
door opened. A man and two children walked out. I slipped my gun
and my hand in the shopping bag, pretending to search for
something. I listened to their footsteps echo down the stairs.
I couldn't just sit out here with a gun. Someone would call the
police. Everybody was home from work, eating dinner, reading the
paper, playing with the kids. Suburban America was awake and alert.
You could not walk through it with a gun drawn.
I carried the shopping bag in my left hand in front of me, gun
and right hand still inside it. If worse came to worse, I'd shoot
through the bag. I walked two doors past my apartment and dug my
keys out of my purse. I sat the shopping bag against the wall and
transferred the gun to my left hand. I could shoot left-handed, not
as well, but it would have to do. I held the gun parallel to my
thigh and hoped nobody would come the wrong way down the hall and
see it. I knelt by the door, keys cupped in my right hand, quiet,
not jingling this time. I learn fast.
I held the gun in front of my chest and inserted the keys. The
lock clicked. I flinched and waited for gunshots or noise,
or something. Nothing. I slipped the keys into my pocket and
switched the gun back to my right hand. With just my wrist and part
of my arm in front of the door, I turned the knob and pushed
hard.
The door swung back and banged against the far wall, nobody
there. No gunshots at the door. Silence.
I was crouched by the doorjamb, gun straight out, scanning the
room. There was no one to see. The chair, still facing the door,
was empty this time. I would almost have been relieved to see
Edward.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs at the end of the hall. I had to
make a decision. I reached my left hand back and got the shopping
bag, never taking eyes or gun from the apartment. I scrambled
inside, shoving the bag ahead of me. I shoved the door closed,
still crouched by the floor.
The aquarium heater clicked, then whirred, and I jumped. Sweat
was oozing down my spine. The brave vampire slayer. If they could
only see me now. The apartment felt empty. There was no one here
but me, but just in case, I searched in closets, under beds.
Playing Dirty Harry as I slammed doors and flattened myself against
walls. I felt like a fool, but I would have been a bigger fool to
have trusted the apartment was empty and been wrong.
There was a shotgun on the kitchen table, along with two boxes
of ammo. A sheet of white typing paper lay under it. In neat, black
letters, it said, "Anita, you have twenty-four hours."
I stared at the note, reread it. Edward had been here. I don't
think I breathed for a minute. I was picturing my neighbor chatting
with Edward. If Mrs. Pringle had hesitated at his lie, showed fear,
would he have killed her?
I didn't know. I just didn't know. Dammit! I was like a plague.
Everyone around me was in danger, but what could I do?
When in doubt, take a deep breath and keep moving. A philosophy
I have lived by for years. I've heard worse, really.
The note meant I had twenty-four hours before Edward came for
the location of Nikolaos' daytime retreat. If I didn't give it to
him, I would have to kill him. I might not be able to do that.
I told Ronnie we were professionals, but if Edward was a
professional, then I was an amateur. And so was Ronnie.
Heavy damn sigh. I had to get dressed for the party. There just
wasn't time to worry about Edward. I had other problems
tonight.
My answering machine was blinking, and I switched it on.
Ronnie's voice first, telling me what she had already told me about
HAV. Evidently, she had called here first before contacting me at
Dave's bar. Then, "Anita, this is Phillip. I know the location for
the party. Pick me up in front of Guilty Pleasures at six-thirty.
Bye."
The machine clicked, whirred, and was silent. I had two hours to
dress and be there. Plenty of time. My average time for makeup is
fifteen minutes. Hair takes less, because all I do is run a brush
through it. Presto, I'm presentable.
I don't wear makeup often, so when I do, I always feel like it's
too dark, too fake. But I always get compliments on it, like, "Why
don't you wear eye shadow more often? It really brings out your
eyes," or my favorite, "You look so much better in makeup." All the
above implies that without makeup, you look like a candidate for
the spinster farm.
One piece of makeup I don't use is base. I can't imagine
smearing cake over my whole face. I own one bottle of clear nail
polish, but it isn't for my fingers, it's for my panty hose. If I
wear a pair of hose once without snagging them, I have had a very
good day.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. The
top slipped over my head with one thin strap. There was no back; it
tied across the small of my back in a cute little bow. I could have
done without the bow, but otherwise it wasn't too bad. The top
slipped into the black skirt, complete, dresslike without a break.
The tan bandages on my hands clashed with the dress. Oh, well. The
skirt was full and swirled when I moved. It had pockets.
Through those pockets were two thigh sheaths complete with
silver knives. All I had to do was slip my hands in and come out
with a weapon. Neat. Sweat is an interesting thing when you're
wearing a thigh sheath. I had not been able to figure out how to
hide a gun on me. I don't care how many times you've seen women
carry guns on a thigh holster on television, it is damn awkward.
You walk like a duck with a wet diaper on.
Hose and high-heeled black satin pumps completed the outfit. I
had owned the shoes and the weapons; everything else was new.
One other new item was a cute black purse with a thin strap that
would hang across my shoulders, leaving my hands free. I stuffed my
smaller gun, the Firestar, into it. I know, I know, by the time I
dug the gun from the depths of the purse, the bad guys would be
feasting on my flesh, but it was better than not having it at
all.
I slipped my cross on, and the silver looked good against the
black top. Unfortunately, I doubted the vampires would let me into
the party wearing a blessed crucifix. Oh, well. I'd leave it in the
car, along with the shotgun and ammo.
Edward had kindly left a box near the table. What I assumed he
had brought the gun up in. What had he told Mrs. Pringle, that it
was a present for me?
Edward had said twenty-four hours, but twenty-four hours from
when? Would he be here at dawn, bright and early, to torture the
information out of me? Naw, Edward didn't strike me as a morning
person. I was safe until at least afternoon. Probably.
Chapter 24
I slid into a no-parking zone in front of Guilty Pleasures.
Phillip was leaning against the building, arms loose at his sides.
He wore black leather pants. The thought of leather in this heat
made my knees break out in heat rash. His shirt was black fishnet,
which showed off both scars and tan. I don't know if it was the
leather or the fishnet, but the word "sleazy" came to mind. He had
passed over some invisible line, from flirt to hustler.
I tried to picture him at twelve. It didn't work. Whatever had
been done to him, he was what he was, and that was what I had to
deal with. I wasn't a psychiatrist who could afford to feel sorry
for the poor unfortunate. Pity is an emotion that can get you
killed. The only thing more dangerous is blind hate, and maybe
love.
Phillip pushed away from the wall and walked towards the car. I
unlocked his door, and he slid inside. He smelled of leather,
expensive cologne, and faintly of sweat.
I pulled away from the curb. "Aggressive little outfit there,
Phillip."
He turned to stare at me, face immobile, eyes hidden behind the
same sunglasses he had worn earlier. He lounged in the seat, one
leg bent and pressed against the door, the other spread wide, knee
tucked up on the seat. "Take Seventy West." His voice was rough,
almost hoarse.
There is that moment when you are alone with a man and you both
realize it. Alone together, there are always possibilities in that.
There is a nearly painful awareness of each other. It can lead to
awkwardness, to sex, or to fear, depending on the man and the
situation.
Well, we weren't having sex, you could make book on that. I
glanced at Phillip, and he was still turned towards me, lips
slightly parted. He'd taken off the sunglasses. His eyes were very
brown and very close. What the hell was going on?
We were on the highway and up to speed. I concentrated on the
cars around me, on driving, and tried to ignore him. But I could
feel the weight of his gaze along my skin. It was almost a
warmth.
He began to slide along the seat towards me. I was suddenly very
aware of the sound of leather rubbing along the upholstery. A warm,
animal sound. His arm slid across my shoulders, his chest leaning
into me.
"What do you think you're doing, Phillip!"
"What's wrong?" He breathed along my neck. "Isn't this
aggressive enough for you?"
I laughed; I couldn't help it. He stiffened beside me. "I didn't
mean to insult you, Phillip. I just didn't picture fishnet and
leather for tonight."
He stayed too close to me, pressing, warm, his voice still
strange and rough. "What do you like then?"
I glanced at him, but he was too close. I was suddenly staring
into his eyes from two inches away. His nearness ran through me
like an electric shock. I turned back to the road. "Get on your
side of the car, Phillip."
"What turns you," he whispered in my ear, "on?"
I'd had enough. "How old were you the first time Valentine
attacked you?"
His whole body jerked, and he scooted away from me. "Damn you!"
He sounded like he meant it.
"I'll make you a deal, Phillip. You don't have to answer my
question, and I won't answer yours."
His voice came out choked and breathy. "When did you see
Valentine? Is he going to be here tonight? They promised me he
wouldn't be here tonight." His voice held a thick edge of panic. I
had never heard such instant terror.
I didn't want to see Phillip afraid. I might start feeling sorry
for him, and I couldn't afford that. Anita Blake, hard as nails,
sure of herself, unaffected by crying men. Riiight. "I did not talk
to Valentine about you, Phillip, I swear."
"Then how. . ." He stopped, and I glanced at him. He'd slid the
sunglasses back in place. His face looked very tight and still
behind his dark glasses. Fragile. Sort of ruined the image.
1 couldn't stand it. "How did I find out what he did to
you?"
He nodded.
"I paid money to find out about your background. It came up. I
needed to know if I could trust you."
"Can you?"
"I don't know yet," I said.
He took several deep breaths. The first two trembled, but each
breath was a little more solid, until finally he had it under
control, for now. I thought of Rebecca Miles and her small,
starved-looking hands.
"You can trust me, Anita. I won't betray you. I won't." His
voice sounded lost, a little boy with all his illusions stripped
away.
I couldn't stomp all over that lost child voice. But I knew and
he knew that he would do anything the vampires wanted, anything,
including betraying me. A bridge was rising over the highway, a
tall latticework of grey metal. Trees hugged the road on either
side. The summer sky was pale watery blue, washed out by the heat
and the bright summer sun. The car bumped up on the bridge, and the
Missouri River stretched away on either side. The air seemed open
and distant over the rolling water. A pigeon fluttered onto the
bridge, settling beside maybe a dozen others, all strutting and
burring over the bridge.
I had actually seen seagulls on the river before, but you never
saw one near the bridge, just pigeons. Maybe seagulls didn't like
cars.
"Where are we going, Phillip?"
"What?"
I wanted to say, "Question too hard for you?" but I resisted. It
would have been like picking on him. "We're across the river. What
is our destination?"
"Take the Zumbehl exit and turn right."
I did what he said. Zumbehl veers to the right and spills you
automatically to a turn lane. I sat at the light and turned on red
when it was clear. There is a small gathering of stores to the
left, then an apartment complex, then trees, almost a woods, houses
tucked back in them. A nursing home is next and then a rather large
cemetery. I always wondered what the people in the nursing home
thought of living next door to a cemetery. Was it a ghoulish
reminder, no pun intended? A convenience, just in case?
The cemetery had been there a lot longer than the nursing home.
Some of the stones went back to the early 1800s. I always thought
the developer must have been a closet sadist to put the windows
staring out over the rolling tombstoned hills. Old age is enough of
a reminder of what comes next. No visual aids are needed.
Zumbehl is lined with other things - video store, kids clothing
boutique, a place that sold stained glass, gas stations, and a huge
apartment complex proclaiming, "Sun Valley Lake." There actually
was a lake large enough to sail on if you were very careful.
A few more blocks and we were in suburbia. Houses with tiny
yards stuffed with huge trees lined the road. There was a hill that
sloped downward. The speed limit was thirty. It was impossible to
keep the car to thirty going down the hill without using brakes.
Would there be a policeman at the bottom of the hill?
If he stopped us with Phillip in his little fishnet shirt, all
nicely scarred, would he be suspicious? Where are you going miss?
I'm sorry, officer, we have this illegal party to go to, and we're
running late. I used my brakes going down the hill. Of course,
there was no policeman. If I had been speeding, he'd have been
there. Murphy's law is the only true dependable in my life most of
the time.
"It's the big house on the left. Just pull into the driveway,"
Phillip said.
The house was dark red brick, two, maybe three stories, lots of
windows, at least two porches. Victorian American does still exist.
The yard was large with a private forest of tall, ancient trees.
The grass was too high, giving the place a deserted look. The drive
was gravel and wound through the trees to a modern garage that had
been designed to match the house and almost succeeded.
There were only two other cars here. I couldn't see into the
garage; maybe there were more inside.
"Don't leave the main room with anyone but me. If you do, I
can't help you," he said.
"Help me how?" I asked.
"This is our cover story. You are the reason I have missed so
many meetings. I left hints that not only are we lovers, but I've
been . . ." He spread his hands wide as if searching for a word. "
. . . cultivating you, until I felt you were ready for a
party."
"Cultivating me?" I turned off the car, and the silence settled
between us. He was staring at me. Even behind the glasses I felt
the weight of his gaze. The skin between my shoulders crawled.
"You are a reluctant survivor of a real attack, not a freak, or
a junkie, but I've talked you into a party. That's the story."
"Have you ever done this for real?" I asked.
"You mean given them someone?"
"Yes," I said.
He gave a rough snort. "You don't think much of me, do you?"
What was I supposed to say, no? "If we're lovers, that means we
have to play lovers all evening."
He smiled. This smile was different, anticipatory.
"You bastard."
He shrugged and rotated his neck as if his shoulders were tight.
"I'm not going to throw you down on the floor and ravish you, if
that's what you're worried about."
"I knew you wouldn't be doing that tonight." I was glad he
didn't know I had weapons. Maybe I could surprise him tonight.
He frowned at me. "Follow my lead. If anything I do makes you
uncomfortable, we'll discuss it." He smiled, dazzling, teeth white
and even against his tan.
"No discussion. You'll just stop."
He shrugged. "You might blow our cover and get us killed."
The car was filling with heat. A bead of sweat dripped down his
face. I opened my door and got out. The heat was like a second
skin. Cicadas droned, a high, buzzing song far up in the trees.
Cicadas and heat, ah, summer.
Phillip walked around the car, his boots crunching on the
gravel. "You might want to leave the cross in the car," he
said.
I had expected it, but I didn't have to like it. I put the
crucifix into the glove compartment, crawling over the seat to do
so. When I closed the door, my hand went to my neck. I wore the
chain so much it only felt odd when I wasn't wearing it.
Phillip held out his hand, and after a moment I took it. The
palm of his hand was cupped heat, slightly moist in the center.
The back door was shaded by a white lattice arch. A clematis
vine grew thick on one side. Flowers as big as my hand spread
purple to the tree-filtered sun. A woman was standing in the shadow
of the door, hidden from neighbors and passing cars. She wore sheer
black stockings held up by garter belts. A bra and matching
panties, both royal purple, left most of her body pale and naked.
She was wearing five-inch spikes that forced her legs to look long
and slender.
"I'm overdressed," I whispered to Phillip.
"Maybe not for long," he breathed into my hair.
"Don't bet your life on it." I stared up at him as I said it and
watched his face crumble into confusion. It didn't last long. The
smile came, a soft curl of lips. The serpent must have smiled
at Eve like that. I have this nice, shiny apple for you. Want some
candy, little girl?
Whatever Phillip thought he was selling, I wasn't buying. He
hugged me around the waist, one hand playing along the scars on my
arm, fingers digging into the scar tissue just a little. His breath
went out in a quick sigh. Jesus, what had I gotten myself into?
The woman was smiling at me, but her large brown eyes were fixed
on Phillip's hand where it played with my scar. Her tongue darted
out to wet her lips. I saw her chest rise and fall.
"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly."
"What did you say?" Phillip asked.
I shook my head. He probably didn't know the poem anyway. I
couldn't remember how it ended. I couldn't remember if the fly got
away. My stomach was tight. When Phillip's hand brushed my naked
back, I jumped.
The woman laughed, high and maybe a little drunk. I whispered
the fly's words as I went up the steps, "Oh, no, no, to ask me is
in vain for whoever goes up your winding stairs can ne'er come down
again."
Ne'er come down again. It had a bad ring to it.
Chapter 25
The woman pressed against the wall, so we could pass, and shut
the door behind us. I kept waiting for her to lock it so we
couldn't get away, but she didn't. I shoved Phillip's hand off my
scars, and he wrapped himself around my waist and led me down a
long narrow hall. The house was cool, air conditioning purring
against the heat. A square archway opened into a room.
It was a living room with all that implies - a couch, love seat,
two chairs, plants hanging in front of a bay window, afternoon
shadows snaking across the carpeting. Homey. A man stood in the
center of the room, a drink in his hand. He looked like he had just
come from Leather 'R' Us. Leather bands crisscrossed his chest and
arms, like Hollywood's idea of an oversexed gladiator.
I owed Phillip an apology. He'd dressed downright
conservatively. The happy homemaker came up behind us in her royal
purple lingerie and laid a hand on Phillip's arm. Her fingernails
were painted dark purple, almost black. The nails scratched along
his arm, leaving faint reddish tracks behind.
Phillip shivered beside me, his arm tightening around my waist.
Was this his idea of fun? I hoped not.
A tall, black woman rose from the couch. Her rather plentiful
breasts threatened to squeeze out of a black wire bra. A crimson
skirt with more holes than cloth hung from the bra and moved as she
walked, giving glimpses of dark flesh. I was betting she was naked
under the skirt.
There were pinkish scars on one wrist and her neck. A baby
junkie, new, almost fresh. She stalked around us, like we were for
sale and she wanted to get a good look. Her hand brushed my back,
and I stood away from Phillip, facing the woman.
"That scar on your back; what is it? It isn't vampire bites."
Her voice was low for a woman, an alto tenor maybe.
"A sharp piece of wood was slammed into my back by a human
servant." I didn't add that the sharp piece of wood had been one of
the stakes I brought with me, or that I had killed the human
servant later that same night.
"My name's Rochelle," she said.
"Anita."
The happy homemaker stepped up next to me, hand stroking over my
arm. I stepped away from her, her fingers sliding over my skin. Her
nails left little red lines on my arm. I resisted the urge to rub
them. I was a tough-as-nails vampire slayer; scratches didn't
bother me. The look in the woman's eyes did. She looked like she
wondered what flavor I was and how long I'd last. I had never been
looked at that way by another woman. I didn't like it much.
"I'm Madge. That's my husband Harvey," she said, pointing to Mr.
Leather, who had moved to stand beside Rochelle. "Welcome to our
home. Phillip has told us so much about you, Anita."
Harvey tried to come up behind me, but I stepped back towards
the couch, so I could face him. They were trying to circle like
sharks. Phillip was staring at me, hard. Right; I was supposed to
be enjoying myself, not acting like they all had communicable
diseases.
Which was the lesser evil? A sixty-four-thousand-dollar question
if ever I heard one. Madge licked her lips, slowly, suggestively.
Her eyes said she was thinking naughty things about me, and her. No
way. Rochelle swished her skirt, exposing far too much thigh. I had
been right. She was naked under the skirt. I'd die first.
That left Harvey. His small, blunt-fingered hands were playing
with the leather-and-metal studding of the little kilt he wore.
Fingers rubbing over and over the leather. Shit.
I flashed him my best professional smile, not seductive, but it
was better than a frown. His eyes widened and he took a step
towards me, hand reaching out towards my left arm. I took a deep
breath and held it, smile freezing in place.
His fingers barely traced over the bend of my arm, tickling down
the skin, until I shivered. Harvey took the shiver for an
invitation and moved in closer, bodies almost touching. I put a
hand on his chest to keep him from coming any closer. The hair on
his chest was coarse and thick, black. I've never been a fan of
hairy chests. Give me smooth any day. His arm began to encircle my
back. I wasn't sure what to do. If I took a step back I was going
to sit down on the couch, not a good idea. If I stepped forward I'd
be stepping into him, pressed against all that leather and
skin.
He smiled at me. "I've been dying to meet you."
He said "dying" like it was a dirty word, or an inside joke. The
others laughed, all except Phillip. He took my arm and pulled me
away from Harvey. I leaned into Phillip, even put my arms around
his waist. I had never hugged anyone in a fishnet shirt before. It
was an interesting sensation.
Phillip said, "Remember what I said."
"Sure, sure," Madge said. "She's yours, all yours, no sharing,
no halfsies." She stalked over to him, swaying in her tight lace
panties. With the heels on she could look him in the eye. "You can
keep her safe from us for now, but when the big boys get here,
you'll share. They'll make you share."
He stared at her until she looked away. "I brought her here, and
I'll take her home," he said.
Madge raised an eyebrow. "You're going to fight them? Phillip,
my boy, she must be a sweet piece of tail, but no bedwarmer is
worth pissing off the big guys."
I stepped away from Phillip and put a hand flat against her
stomach and pushed, just enough to make her back up. The heels made
her balance bad, and she almost fell. "Let's get something
straight," I said. "I am not a piece of anything, nor am I a
bedwarmer."
Phillip said, "Anita. . ."
"My, my, she's got a temper. Wherever did you find her,
Phillip?" Madge asked.
If there is anything I hate, it is being found amusing when I'm
angry. I stepped up close to her, and she smiled down at me. "Did
you know," I said, "that when you smile, you get deep wrinkles on
either side of your mouth? You are over forty, aren't you?"
She drew a deep, gasping breath and stepped back from me. "You
little bitch."
"Don't ever call me a piece of tail again, Madge, darling."
Rochelle was laughing silently, her considerable bosom shaking
like dark brown jello. Harvey stood straight-faced. If he had so
much as smiled, I think Madge would have hurt him. His eyes were
very shiny, but there was no hint of a smile.
A door opened and closed down the hall, farther into the house.
A woman stepped into the room. She was around fifty, or maybe a
hard forty. Very blonde hair framed a plump face. Even money the
blonde came out of a bottle. Plump little hands glittered with
rings, real stones. A long, black negligee swept the floor,
complete with an open lace robe. The flat black of the negligee was
kind to her figure, but not kind enough. She was overweight and
there was no hiding it. She looked like a PTA member, a Girl Scout
leader, a cookie baker, someone's mother. And there she stood in
the doorway, staring at Phillip.
She let out a little squeal and came running towards him. I got
out of the way before I was crushed in the stampede. Phillip had
just enough time to brace himself before she flung her considerable
weight into his arms. For a minute I thought he was going to fall
backwards into the floor with her on top, but his back
straightened, his legs tensed, and he righted them both.
Strong Phillip, able to lift overweight nymphomaniacs with both
hands.
Harvey said, "This is Crystal."
Crystal was kissing Phillip's chest, chubby, homey little hands
trying to pull his shirt out of his pants so she could touch his
bare flesh. She was like a cheerful little puppy in heat.
Phillip was trying to discourage her without much success. He
gave me a long glance. And I remembered what he had said, that he
had stopped coming to these parties. Was this why? Crystal and her
like? Madge of the sharp fingernails? I had forced him to bring me,
but in doing so, I had forced him to bring himself.
If you thought of it that way, it was my fault Phillip was here.
Damn, I owed him.
I patted the woman's cheek, softly. She blinked at me, and I
wondered if she was nearsighted. "Crystal," I said. I smiled my
best angelic smile. "Crystal, I don't mean to be rude, but you're
pawing my date."
Her mouth fell open; her pale eyes bugged out. "Date," she
squeaked. "No one has dates at a party."
"Well, I'm new to the parties. I don't know the rules yet. But
where I come from, one woman does not grope another woman's date.
At least wait until I turn my back, okay?"
Crystal's lower lip trembled. Her eyes began to fill with tears.
I had been gentle, kind even, and she was still going to cry. What
was she doing here with these people?
Madge came and put her arm around Crystal and led the woman
away. Madge was making soothing noises and patting her black silken
arms.
Rochelle said, "Very cold." She walked away from me towards a
liquor cabinet that was against one wall.
Harvey had also left, following Madge and Crystal without so
much as a backwards glance.
You'd think I'd kicked a puppy. Phillip let out a long breath
and set down on the couch. He clasped his hands in front of him,
between his knees. I sat down next to him, tucking my skirt down
over my legs.
"I don't think I can do this," he whispered.
I touched his arm. He was trembling, a constant shaking that I
didn't like at all. I hadn't realized what it would cost him to
come tonight, but I was beginning to find out.
"We can go," I said.
He turned very slowly and stared at me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we can go."
"You'd leave now without finding out anything because I'm having
problems?" he asked.
"Let's just say I like you better as the overconfident flirt.
You keep acting like a real person, and you'll have me all
confused. We can go if you can't handle it."
He took a deep breath and let it out, then shook himself like a
dog coming out of water. "I can do it. If I have a choice, I can do
it."
It was my turn to stare. "Why didn't you have a choice
before?"
He looked away. "I just felt like I had to bring you if you
wanted to come."
"No, dammit, that wasn't what you meant at all." I touched his
face and forced him to look at me. "Someone gave you orders to come
see me the other day, didn't they? It wasn't just to find out about
Jean-Claude, was it?"
His eyes were wide, and I could feel his pulse under my fingers.
"What are you afraid of, Phillip? Who's giving you orders?"
"Anita, please, I can't."
My hand dropped to my lap. "What are your orders, Phillip?"
He swallowed, and I watched his throat work. "I'm to keep you
safe here, that's all." His pulse was jumping under the bruised
bite in his neck. He licked his lips, not seductive, nervous. He
was lying to me. The trick was, how much of a lie and what
about?
I heard Madge's voice coming up the hall, all cheerful
seduction. Such a good hostess. She escorted two people into the
room. One was a woman with short auburn hair and too much eye
makeup, like green chalk smeared above her eyes. The second was
Edward, smiling, at his charming best, with his arm around Madge's
bare waist. She gave a rich, throaty laugh as he whispered
something to her.
I froze, for a second. It was so unexpected that I just froze.
If he had pulled out a gun, he could have killed me while I sat
with my mouth hanging open. What the hell was he doing here?
Madge led him and the woman towards the bar. He glanced back at
me over her shoulder and gave me a delicate smile that left his
blue eyes empty as a doll's.
I knew my twenty-four hours were not up. I knew that. Edward had
decided to come looking for Nikolaos. Had he followed us? Had he
listened to Phillip's message on my machine?
"What's wrong?" Phillip asked.
"What's wrong?" I said. "You are taking orders from somebody,
probably a vampire. . ." I finished the statement silently in my
head: And Death has just waltzed in the door to play freak while he
searches for Nikolaos. There was only one reason Edward searched
for a particular vampire. He meant to kill her, if he could.
The assassin might finally have met his match. I had thought I
wanted to be around when Edward finally lost. I wanted to see what
prey was too large for Death to conquer. I had seen this prey, up
close and personal. If Edward and Nikolaos met and she even
suspected that I had a hand in it . . . shit. Shit, shit, shit!
I should turn Edward in. He had threatened me, and he would
carry it out. He would torture me to get information. What did I
owe him? But I couldn't do it, wouldn't do it. A human being does
not turn another human being over to the monsters. Not for any
reason.
Monica had broken that rule, and I despised her for it. I think
I was the closest thing Edward had to a real friend. A person who
knows who and what you are and likes you anyway. I did like him,
despite or because of what he was. Even though I knew he'd kill me
if it worked out that way? Yes, even though. It didn't make much
sense when you looked at it that way. But I couldn't worry about
Edward's morality. The only person I had to face in the mirror was
me. The only moral dilemma I could solve was my own.
I watched Edward play kissy-face with Madge. He was much better
at role-playing than I was. He was also a much better liar.
I would not tell, and Edward had known I would not tell. In his
own way, he knew me, too. He had bet his life on my integrity, and
that pissed me off. I hate to be used. My virtue had become its own
punishment.
But maybe, I didn't know how yet, I could use Edward the way he
was using me. Perhaps I could use his lack of honor as he used my
honor now.
It had possibilities.
Chapter 26
The auburn-haired woman with Edward came over to the couch and
slid into Phillip's lap. She giggled and wrapped her arms around
his neck with a little kick of her feet. Her hands didn't wander
lower, and she didn't try to undress him. The night was looking up.
Edward followed behind the woman like a blond shadow. There was a
drink in his hand and a suitably harmless smile on his face.
If I hadn't known him, I would never have looked at him and
said, there, there is a dangerous man. Edward the Chameleon. He
balanced on the couch arm at the woman's back, one hand rubbing her
shoulder.
"Anita, this is Darlene," Phillip said.
I nodded. She giggled and kicked her little feet.
"This is Teddy. Isn't he scrumptious?"
Teddy? Scrumptious? I managed a smile, and Edward kissed the
side of her neck. She snuggled against his chest, managing to
wiggle in Phillip's lap at the same time. Coordination.
"Let me have a taste." Darlene sucked her lower lip under her
teeth and drew it out slowly.
Phillip's breath trembled. He whispered, "Yes."
I didn't think I was going to like this.
Darlene cupped his arm in her hands and raised it to her
mouth.
She bestowed a delicate kiss over one of his scars, then she
slid her legs down between his until she was kneeling at his feet,
still holding his arm. The full skirt of her dress was bunched up
around her waist, caught on his legs. She was wearing red lace
panties and matching garters. Color coordination.
Phillip's face had gone slack. He was staring at her as she
brought his arm towards her mouth. A small pink tongue licked his
arm, quick, out, wet, gone. She glanced up at Phillip, eyes dark
and full. She must have liked what she saw because she began to
lick his scars, one by one, delicate, a cat with cream. Her eyes
never left his face.
Phillip shuddered; his spine spasmed. He closed his eyes and
leaned his head back against the couch. Her hands went to his
stomach. She gripped the fishnet and pulled. It slid out of his
pants, and her hands stroked up bare chest.
He jerked, eyes wide, and caught her arms. He shook his head.
"No, no." His voice sounded hoarse, too deep.
"You want me to stop?" Darlene asked. Her eyes were nearly
closed, breath deep, lips full and waiting.
He was struggling to talk and make sense at the same time. "If
we do this . . . that leaves Anita alone. Fair game. Her first
party."
Darlene looked at me, maybe for the first time. "With scars like
that?"
"Scars are from a real attack. I talked her into the party." He
brought her hands out from under his shirt. "I can't desert her."
His eyes seemed to be focusing again. "She doesn't know the
rules."
Darlene leaned her head on his thigh. "Phillip, please, I've
missed you."
"You know what they'd do to her."
"Teddy will keep her safe. He knows the rules."
I asked, "You've been to other parties?"
"Yes," Edward said. He held my gaze for several seconds while I
tried to picture him at other parties. So this was where he got his
information about the vampire world, through the freaks.
"No," Phillip said. He stood, bringing Darlene to her feet,
still holding her forearms. "No," he said and his voice sounded
certain, confident. He released her and held out his hand to me. I
took it. What else could I do?
His hand was sweating and warm. He strode out of the room, and I
was forced to half-run in my heels to catch up with my hand.
He led me down the hall to the bathroom and we went in. He
locked the door and leaned against it, sweat beaded on his face,
eyes closed. I took back my hand, and he didn't fight me.
I looked around at the available seating and finally chose to
sit on the edge of the bathtub. It wasn't comfortable, but it
seemed the lesser of two evils. Phillip drew in great gulps of air
and finally turned to the sink. He ran water loud and splashing,
dipped his hands in, and covered his face again and again until he
stood, water dripping down his face. Droplets caught in his
eyelashes and hair. He blinked at himself in the mirror over the basin.
He looked startled, wide-eyed.
The water was dripping down his neck and chest. I stood and
handed him a towel from the rack. He didn't respond. I
mopped up his chest with the soft, clean-smelling folds of the
towel.
He finally took the towel and finished drying off. His hair
was dark and wet around his face. There was no way to dry it out.
"I did it," he said.
"Yes," I said, "you did it."
"I almost let her."
"But you didn't, Phillip. That's what counts."
He nodded, rapidly, head bobbing. "I guess so." He still seemed
out of breath.
"We better be getting back to the party."
He nodded. But he stayed where he was, breathing too deep, like
he couldn't get enough oxygen.
"Phillip, are you all right?" It was a stupid question, but
I couldn't think of what else to say.
He nodded. Mr. Conversation.
"Do you want to leave?" I asked.
He looked at me then. "That's the second time you've offered
that. Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would you offer to let me out of my promise?"
I shrugged and rubbed my hands over my arms. "Because...
because you seem to be in some kind of pain. Because you're
a junkie trying to kick the habit, sort of, and I don't want to
screw that up for you."
"That's a very . . . decent thing to offer." He said decent
like he wasn't used to the word.
"Do you want to leave?"
"Yes," he said, "but we can't."
"You said that before. Why can't we?"
"I can't, Anita, I can't."
"Yes, you can. Who are you taking orders from, Phillip? Tell
me. What is going on?" I was standing nearly touching him,
spitting each word into his chest, looking up at his face. It is
always hard to be tough when you have to look up to see someone's
eyes. But I've been short all my life, and practice makes perfect.
His hand slid around my shoulders. I pushed away from him, and
his hands locked behind my back. "Phillip, stop it."
I had my hands flat on his chest to keep our bodies from
pressing together. His shirt was wet and cold. His heart was
hammering in his chest. I swallowed hard and said, "Your shirt's
wet."
He released me so suddenly, I stumbled back from him. He drew
the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Of course, he had a
lot of practice in undressing himself. It would have been such a
nice chest without the scars.
He took one step towards me. "Stop, right where you are," I
said. "What is this sudden change of mood?"
"I like you; isn't that enough?"
I shook my head. "No, it isn't."
He dropped the shirt to the floor. I watched it fall like it was
important. Two steps and he was beside me. Bathrooms are so small.
I did the only thing I could think of - I stepped into the bathtub.
Not very dignified in high heels, but I wasn't pressed up against
Phillip's chest. Anything was an improvement.
"Somebody is watching us," he said.
I turned, slowly, like a bad horror movie. Twilight hung against
the sheer drapes, and a face peered out of the coming dark. It was
Harvey, Mr. Leather. The windows were too high for him to be
standing on the ground. Was he standing on a box? Or maybe they had
little platforms at all the windows, so you could watch the
show.
I let Phillip help me out of the bathtub. I whispered, "Could he
hear us?"
Phillip shook his head. His arms slid around my back again. "We
are supposed to be lovers. Do you want Harvey to stop believing
that?"
"This is blackmail."
He smiled, dazzling, hold it in your hand and stroke it, sexy.
My stomach tightened. He bent down, and I didn't stop him. The kiss
was everything advertised, full soft lips, a press of skin, a
heated weight. His hands tightened across my bare back, fingers
kneading the muscles along the spine until I relaxed against
him.
He kissed the lobe of my ear, breath warm. Tongue flicked along
the edge of my jaw. His mouth found the pulse in my throat, his
tongue searching for it, as if he were melting through the skin.
Teeth scraped over the beating of my neck. Teeth clamped down,
tight, hurting.
I shoved him back, away. "Shit! You bit me."
His eyes were unfocused, dazed. A crimson drop stained his lower
lip.
I touched a hand to my neck and came away with blood. "Damn
you!"
He licked my blood off his mouth. "I think Harvey believes the
performance. Now you're marked. You've got the proof of what you
are and why you came." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I won't
have to touch you again tonight. I'll see that no one else does
either. I swear."
My neck was throbbing; a bite, a freaking bite! "Do you know how
many germs are in the human mouth?"
He smiled at me, still a little unfocused. "No," he said.
I shoved him out of the way and dabbed water on the cut. It
looked like what it was, human teeth. It wasn't a perfect set of
bite marks, but it was close. "Damn you."
"We need to go out so you can hunt for clues." He had picked his
shirt up from the floor and stood there, holding it at his side.
Bare tanned chest, leather pants, lips full like he'd been sucking
on something. Me. "You look like an ad for Rent A Gigolo," I
said.
He shrugged. "Ready to go out?"
I was still touching the wound. I tried to be angry and
couldn't. I was scared. Scared of Phillip and what he was, or
wasn't. I hadn't expected it. Was he right? Would I be safe for the
rest of the night? Or had he just wanted to see what I tasted
like?
He opened the door and waited for me. I went out. As we walked
back to the living room, I realized Phillip had distracted me from
my question. Who was he working for? I still didn't know.
It was damn embarrassing that every time he took his shirt off,
my brain went out to lunch. But no more; I had had my first and
last kiss from Phillip of the many scars. From now on I would
remain the tough-as-nails vampire slayer, not to be distracted by
rippling muscles or nice eyes.
My fingers touched the bite mark. It hurt. No more Ms. Nice Guy.
If Phillip came near me again, I was going to hurt him. Of course,
knowing Phillip, he'd probably enjoy it.
Chapter 27
Madge stopped us in the hall. Her hand started to go up to my
throat. I grabbed her wrist. "Touchy, touchy," she said. "Didn't
you like it? Don't tell me you've been with Phillip a month and he
hasn't tasted you before?"
She pulled down the silky bra to expose the upper mound of her
breast. There was a perfect set of bite marks in the pale flesh.
"It's Phillip's trademark, didn't you know?"
"No," I said. I pushed past her and started to turn into the
living room. A man I did not know fell at my feet. Crystal was on
top of him, pinning him to the floor. He looked young and a little
frightened. His eyes looked up past Crystal, to me. I thought he
was going to ask for help, but she kissed him, sloppy and deep,
like she was drinking him from the mouth down. His hands began to
lift the silk folds of her skirt. Her thighs were incredibly white,
like beached whales.
I turned abruptly and went for the door. My heels made an
important-sounding clack on the hardwood floor. If I hadn't known
better, I would have said it sounded like I was running. I was not
running. I was just walking very fast.
Phillip caught up with me at the door. His hand pressed flat
against it to keep me from opening it. I took a deep, steadying
breath. I would not lose my temper, not yet.
"I'm sorry, Anita, but it's better this way. You're safe now,
from the humans."
I looked up at him and shook my head. "You just don't get it. I
need some air, Phillip. I'm not leaving for the night, if that's
what you're afraid of."
"I'll go out with you."
"No. That would defeat the purpose, Phillip. Since you are one
of the things I want to get away from."
He stepped back then, hand at his side. His eyes shut down,
guarded, hiding. Why had that hurt his feelings? I didn't know,
and I didn't want to know.
I opened the door, and the heat fell around me like fur.
"It's dark," he said. "They'll be here soon. I can't help you if
I'm not with you."
I stepped close to him and said in a near whisper, "Let's be
honest, Phillip. I'm a whole lot better at protecting myself than
you are. The first vampire that crooks its finger will have you for
lunch."
His face started to crumble, and I didn't want to see it.
"Dammit, Phillip, pull yourself together." I walked out onto the
trellis-covered porch and resisted an urge to slam the door behind
me. That would have been childish. I was feeling a little childish
about now, but I'd save it. You never know when some childish rage
may come in handy.
The cicadas and crickets filled the night. There was a wind
pulling at the tops of the tall trees, but it never touched the
ground. The air down here was as stale and close as plastic.
The heat felt good after the air-conditioned house. It was real
and somehow cleansing. I touched the bite on my neck. I felt dirty,
used, abused, angry, pissed off. I wasn't going to find anything
out here. If someone or something was killing off vampires who did
the freak circuit, it didn't seem to be such a bad idea.
Of course, whether I sympathized with the murderer was not the
point. Nikolaos expected me to solve the crimes, and I damn well
better do it.
I took a deep breath of the stiff air and felt the first
stirrings of . . . power. It oozed through the trees like wind, but
the touch of it didn't cool the skin. The hair at the back of my
neck was trying to crawl down my spine. Whoever it was, they were
powerful. And they were trying to raise the dead.
Despite the heat, we'd had a lot of rain, and my heels sank into
the grass immediately. I ended up walking in a sort of tiptoe
crouch, trying not to flounder in the soft earth.
The ground was littered with acorns. It was like walking on
marbles. I fell against a tree trunk, catching myself painfully
against the shoulder Aubrey had bruised so nicely.
A sharp bleating, high and panic-stricken, sounded. It was
close. Was it a trick of the still air or was it really a goat
bleating? The cry ended in a wet gurgle of sound, thick and
bubbling. The trees ended, and the ground was clear and
moon-silvered.
I slipped off one shoe and tried the ground. Damp, cool, but not
too bad. I slipped off the other shoe, tucked them in one hand, and
ran.
The back yard was huge, stretching out into the silvered dark.
It spread empty, except for a wall of overgrown hedges, like small
trees in the distance. I ran for the hedges. The grave had to be
there; there was no other place for it to hide.
The actual ritual for raising the dead is a short one, as
rituals go. The power poured out into the night and into the grave.
It built in a slow, steady rise, a warm "magic." It tugged at my
stomach and brought me to the hedges. They towered up, black in the
moonlight, hopelessly overgrown. There was no way I was squeezing
through them.
A man cried out. Then a woman: "Where is it? Where is the zombie
you promised us?"
"It was too old!" The man's voice was thin with fear.
"You said chickens weren't enough, so we got you a goat to kill.
But no zombie. I thought you were good at this."
I found a gate in the opposite side of the hedges. Metal,
rusted, and crooked in its frame. It groaned, a metal scream, as I
pushed it open. More than a dozen pairs of eyes turned to me. Pale
faces, the utter stillness of the undead. Vampires. They stood
among the ancient grave markers of the small family cemetery,
waiting. Nothing waits as patiently as the dead.
One of the vampires nearest me was the black male from
Nikolaos's lair. My pulse quickened, and I did a quick scan of the
crowd. She wasn't here, Thank you, God.
The vampire smiled and said, "Did you come to watch . . .
animator?" Had he almost said, "Executioner"? Was it a secret?
Whatever, he motioned the others back and let me see the show.
Zachary lay on the ground. His shirt was damp with blood. You can't
slit anything's throat without getting a little messy. Theresa was
standing over him, hands on hips. She was dressed in black. The
only skin showing was a strip of flesh down the middle, pale and
almost luminous in the starlight. Theresa, Mistress of the
Dark.
Her eyes flicked to me, a moment, then back to the man. "Well,
Zach-a-ri, where is our zombie?"
He swallowed audibly. "It's too old. There isn't enough
left."
"Only a hundred years old, animator. Are you so weak?"
He looked down at the ground. His fingers dug into the soft
earth. He glanced up at me, then quickly down. I didn't know.
what he was trying to tell me with that one glance. Fear? For me to
run? A plea for help? What?
"What good is an animator who can't raise the dead?" Theresa
asked. She dropped to her knees, suddenly beside him, hands
touching his shoulders. Zachary flinched but didn't try to get
away.
A ripple of almost-movement ran through the other vampires. I
could feel the whole circle at my back tense. They were going to
kill him. The fact that he couldn't raise the zombie was just an
excuse, part of the game.
Theresa ripped his shirt down the back. It fluttered around his
lower arms, still tucked into his waist. A collective sigh ran
through the vampires.
There was a woven rope band around his right upper arm. Beads
were worked into it. It was a gris-gris, a voodoo charm, but it
wouldn't help him now. No matter what it was supposed to do, it
wouldn't be enough.
Theresa did a stage whisper. "Maybe you're just fresh meat?"
The vampires began to move in, silent as wind in the grass.
I couldn't just watch. He was a fellow animator and a human
being. I couldn't just let him die, not like this, not in front of
me. "Wait," I said.
No one seemed to hear me. The vampires moved in, and I was
losing sight of Zachary. If one bit him, the feeding frenzy would
be on. I had seen that happen once. I would never get rid of the
nightmares if I saw it again.
I raised my voice and hoped they listened. "Wait! Didn't he
belong to Nikolaos? Didn't he call Nikolaos master?"
They hesitated, then parted for Theresa to stride through them
until she faced me. "This is not your business." She stared at me,
and I didn't avoid her gaze. One less thing to worry about.
"I'm making it my business," I said.
"Do you wish to join him?"
The vampires began to spread out from Zachary to encircle me as
well. I let them. There wasn't much I could do about it anyway.
Either I'd get us both out alive or I'd die, too, maybe, probably.
Oh, well.
"I wish to speak with him, one professional to another," I
said.
"Why?" she asked.
I stepped close to her, almost touching. Her anger was nearly
palpable. I was making her look bad in front of the others, and I
knew it, and she knew I knew it. I whispered, though some of the
others would hear me, "Nikolaos gave orders for the man to die, but
she wants me alive, Theresa. What would she do to you if I
accidentally died here tonight?" I breathed the last words into her
face. "Do you want to spend eternity locked in a cross-wrapped
coffin?"
She snarled and jerked away from me as if I had scalded her.
"Damn you, mortal, damn you to hell!" Her black hair crackled
around her face, her hands gripped into claws. "Talk to him, for
what good it will do you. He must raise this zombie, this zombie,
or he is ours. So says Nikolaos."
"If he raises the zombie, then he goes free, unharmed?" I
asked.
"Yes, but he cannot do it; he isn't strong enough."
"Which was what Nikolaos was counting on," I said.
Theresa smiled, a fierce tug of lips exposing fangs. "Yesss."
She turned her back on me and strode through the other vampires.
They parted for her like frightened pigeons. And I was standing up
to her. Sometimes bravery and stupidity are almost
interchangeable.
I knelt by Zachary. "Are you hurt?"
He shook his head. "I appreciate the gesture, but they're going
to try to kill me tonight." He looked up at me, pale eyes searching
my face. "There isn't anything you can do to stop them." He gave a
thin smile. "Even you have your limits."
"We can raise this zombie if you'll trust me."
He frowned, then stared at me. I couldn't read his expression:
puzzlement and something else. "Why?"
What could I say, that I couldn't just watch him die? He had
watched a man be tortured and hadn't lifted a hand. I opted for the
short reason. "Because I can't let them have you, if I can stop
it."
"I don't understand you, Anita, I don't understand you at
all."
"That makes two of us. Can you stand?"
He nodded. "What are you planning?"
"We're going to share our talent."
His eyes widened. "Shit, you can act as a focus?"
"I've done it twice before." Twice before with the same
person. Twice before with someone who had trained me as an animator.
Never with a stranger.
His voice dropped to a bare whisper. "Are you sure you want to
do this?"
"Save you?" I asked.
"Share your power," he said.
Theresa strode over to us in a swish of cloth. "Enough of this,
animator. He can't do it, so he pays the price. Either leave now,
or join us at our . . . feast."
"Are you having rare Who-roast-beast?" I asked.
"What are you talking about?"
"It's from Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
You know the part, 'And they'd Feast! Feast! Feast! Feast! They
would feast on Who-pudding, and rare Who-roast-beast.' "
"You are crazy."
"So I've been told."
"Do you want to die?" she asked.
I stood up, very slowly, and felt something build in me. A
sureness, an absolute certainty that she was not a danger to me.
Stupid, but it was there, solid and real. "Someone may kill me
before all this is over, Theresa" - I stepped into her, and she gave
ground - "but it won't be you."
I could almost taste her pulse in my mouth. Was she afraid of
me? Was I going crazy? I had just stood up to a hundred-year-old
vampire, and she had backed down. I felt disoriented, almost dizzy,
as if reality had moved and no one had warned me.
Theresa turned her back on me, hands balled into fists. "Raise
the dead, animators, or by all the blood ever spilled, I'll kill
you both."
I think she meant it. I shook myself like a dog coming out of
deep water. I had a baker's dozen worth of vampires to pacify and a
one-hundred-year-old corpse to raise. I could only handle a zillion
problems at a time. A zillion and one was beyond me.
"Get up, Zachary," I said. "Time to go to work."
He stood. "I've never worked with a focus before. You'll have to
tell me what to do."
"No problem," I said.
Chapter 28
The goat lay on its side. The bare white of its spine glimmered
in the moonlight. Blood still seeped into the ground from the
gaping wound. Eyes were rolled and glazed, tongue lolling out of
its mouth.
The older the zombie, the bigger the death needed. I knew that,
and that was why I avoided older zombies when I could. At a hundred
years the corpse was just so much dust. Maybe a few bone fragments
if you were lucky. They reformed to rise from the grave. If you had
the power to do it.
Problem was, most animators couldn't raise the long-dead, a
century and over. I could. I just didn't want to. Bert and I had
had long discussions about my preferences. The older the zombie,
the more we can charge. This was at least a twenty-thousand-dollar
job. I doubted I'd get paid tonight, unless living 'til morning was
payment enough. Yeah, I guess it was. Here's to seeing another
dawn.
Zachary came to stand beside me. He had torn the remnants of his
shirt off. He stood thin and pale beside me. His face was all
shadows and white flesh, high cheekbones almost cavernous. "What
next?" he asked.
The goat carcass was inside the blood circle he had traced
earlier; good. "Bring everything we need into the circle."
He brought a long hunting knife and a pint jar full of pale
faintly luminous ointment. I preferred a machete myself, but the
knife was huge, with one jagged edge and a gleaming point. The
knife was clean and sharp. He took good care of his tools. Brownie
point for him.
"We can't kill the goat twice," he said. "What are we going to
use?"
"Us," I said.
"What are you talking about?"
"We'll cut ourselves; fresh, live blood, as much as we're
willing to give."
"The blood loss would leave you too weak to go on."
I shook my head. "We already have a blood circle, Zachary We're
just going to rewalk, not redraw it."
"I don't understand."
"I don't have time to explain metaphysics to you. Every injury
is a small death. We'll give the circle a lesser death, and
reactivate it."
He shook his head. "I still don't get it."
I took a deep breath, and then realized I couldn't explain it to
him. It was like trying to explain the mechanics of breathing. You
could break it down into steps, but that didn't tell you what it
felt like to breathe. "I'll show you what I mean." If he didn't
feel this part of the ritual, understand it without words, the rest
wouldn't work anyway.
I held out my hand for the knife. He hesitated, then handed it
to me, hilt first. The thing felt top-heavy, but then it wasn't
designed for throwing. I took a deep breath and pressed the blade
edge against my left arm, just below the cross burn. A quick down
stroke, and blood welled up, dark and dripping. It stung, sharp and
immediate. I let out the breath I'd been holding and handed the
knife to Zachary.
He was staring from me to the knife.
"Do it, right arm, so we'll mirror each other," I said.
He nodded and made a quick slash across his right upper arm. His
breath hissed, almost a gasp.
"Kneel with me." I knelt, and he followed me down, mirroring me
as I asked. A man who could follow directions; not bad.
I bent my left arm at the elbow and raised it so the fingertips
were head-high, elbow shoulder-high. He did the same. "We clasp
hands and press the cuts together."
He hesitated, immobile.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
He shook his head, two quick shakes, and his hand wrapped around
mine. His arm was longer than mine, but we managed.
His skin felt uncomfortably cool against mine. I glanced up at
his face, but I couldn't read it. I had no idea what he was
thinking. I took a deep, cleansing breath and began. "We give our
blood to the earth. Life for death, death for life. Raise the dead
to drink our blood. Let us feed them as they obey us."
His eyes did widen then; he understood. One hurdle down. I stood
and drew him with me. I led him along the blood circle. I could
feel it, like an electric current up my spine. I stared straight
into his eyes. They were almost silver in the moonlight. We walked
the circle and ended where we had begun, by the sacrifice.
We sat in the blood-soaked grass. I dabbed my right hand in the
still-oozing blood of the goat's wound. I was forced to kneel to
reach Zachary's face. I smeared blood over his forehead, down his
cheeks. Smooth skin, the rub of new beard. I left a dark handprint
over his heart.
The woven band was like a ring of darkness on his arm. I smeared
blood along the beads, fingertips finding the soft brush of
feathers worked into the string. The gris-gris needed blood, I
could feel that, but not goat blood. I shrugged it away. Time to
worry about Zachary's personal magic later.
He smeared blood on my face. Fingertips only, as if afraid to
touch me. I could feel his hand shake as he traced my cheek. The
blood was a cool wetness over my breast. Heart blood.
Zachary unscrewed the jar of homemade ointment. It was a pale
off-white color with flecks of greenish light in it. The glowing
flecks were graveyard mold.
I rubbed ointment over the blood smears. The skin soaked it
up.
He brushed the cream on my face. It felt waxy, thick. I could
smell the pine scent of rosemary for memory, cinnamon and cloves
for preservation, sage for wisdom, and some sharp herb, maybe
thyme, to bind it all together. There was too much cinnamon in it.
The night suddenly smelled like apple pie.
We went together to smear ointment and blood on the tombstone.
The name was only soft grooves in the marble. I traced them with my
fingertips. Estelle Hewitt. Born 18 something, died 1866. There had
been more writing below the date and name, but it was gone, beyond
reading. Who had she been? I had never raised a zombie that I knew
nothing about. It wasn't always a good idea, but then this whole
thing wasn't a good idea.
Zachary stood at the foot of the grave. I stayed by the
tombstone. It felt like an invisible cord was stretched between
Zachary and me. We started the chant together, no questions needed.
"Hear us, Estelle Hewitt. We call you from the grave. By blood,
magic, and steel, we call you. Arise, Estelle, come to us, come to
us."
His eyes met mine, and I felt a tug along the invisible line
that bound us. He was powerful. Why hadn't he been able to do it
alone?
"Estelle, Estelle, come to us. Waken, Estelle, arise and come to
us." We called her name in ever-rising voices.
The earth shuddered. The goat slid to one side as the ground
erupted, and a hand clutched for air. A second hand grabbed at
nothing, and the earth began to pour the dead woman out.
It was then, only then, that I realized what was wrong, why he
hadn't been able to raise her on his own. I now knew where I had
seen him before. I had been at his funeral. There were so few
animators that if anyone died, you went, period. Professional
courtesy. I had glimpsed that angular face, rouged and painted.
Somebody had done a bad job of making him up, I remembered thinking
that at the time.
The zombie had almost pulled itself from the grave. It sat
panting, legs still trapped in the ground.
Zachary and I stared at each other over the grave. All I could
do was stare at him like an idiot. He was dead, but not a zombie,
not anything I'd ever heard of. I would have bet my life he was
human, and I may have done just that.
The woven band on his arm. The spell that hadn't been satisfied
with goat's blood. What was he doing to stay "alive"?
I had heard rumors of gris-gris that could cheat death. Rumors,
legends, fairy tales. But then again, maybe not.
Estelle Hewitt may have been pretty once, but a hundred years in
the grave takes a lot out of a person. Her skin was an ugly greyish
white, waxy, nearly expressionless, fake-looking. White gloves hid
the hands, stained with grave dirt. The dress was white and
lace-covered. I was betting on wedding finery. Dear God.
Black hair clung to her head in a bun, wisps of it tracing her
nearly skeletal face. All the bones showed, as if the skin were
clay molded over a framework. Her eyes were wild, dark, showing too
much white. At least they hadn't dried out like shriveled grapes. I
hated that.
Estelle sat by her grave and tried to gather her thoughts. It
would take a while. Even the recently dead took a few minutes to
orient themselves. A hundred years was a damn long time to be
dead.
I walked around the grave, careful to stay within the circle.
Zachary watched me come without a word. He hadn't been able to
raise the corpse because he was a corpse. The recently dead he
could still handle, but not long-dead. The dead calling the dead
from the grave; there was something really wrong with that.
I stared up at him, watching him grip the knife. I knew his
secret. Did Nikolaos? Did anyone? Yes, whoever had made the
gris-gris knew, but who else? I squeezed the skin around the cut on
my arm. I reached bloody fingers towards the gris-gris.
He caught my wrist, eyes wide. His breathing had quickened. "Not
you."
"Then who?"
"People who won't be missed."
The zombie we had raised moved in a rustle of petticoats and
hoops. It began crawling towards us.
"I should have let them kill you," I said.
He smiled then. "Can you kill the dead?"
I jerked my wrist free. "I do it all the time."
The zombie was scrambling at my legs. It felt like sticks
digging at me. "Feed it yourself, you son of a bitch," I said.
He held his wrist down to it. The zombie grabbed for it, clumsy,
eager. It sniffed his skin but released him untouched. "I don't
think I can feed it, Anita."
Of course not; fresh, live blood was needed to close the ritual.
Zachary was dead. He didn't qualify anymore. But I did.
"Damn you, Zachary, damn you."
He just stared at me.
The zombie was making a mewling sound low in her throat. Dear
God. I offered her my bleeding left arm. Her stick-hands dug into my
skin. Her mouth fastened over the wound, sucking. I fought the urge
to jerk away. I had made the bargain, had chosen the ritual. I had
no choice. I stared at Zachary while the thing fed on my blood. Our
zombie, a joint venture. Dammit.
"How many people have you killed to keep yourself alive?" I
asked.
"You don't want to know."
"How many!"
"Enough," he said.
I tensed, raising my arm, nearly lifting the zombie to her feet.
She cried, a soft sound, like a newborn kitten. She released my arm
so suddenly, she fell backwards. Blood dripped down her bony chin.
Her teeth were stained with it. I couldn't look at it, any of
it.
Zachary said, "The circle is open. The zombie is yours."
For a minute I thought he was talking to me; then I remembered
the vampires. They had been huddled in the dark, so still and
unmoving I had forgotten them. I was the only live thing in the
whole damn place. I had to get out of there.
I picked up my shoes and walked out of the circle. The vampires
made way for me. Theresa stopped me, blocking my path. "Why did you
let it suck your blood? Zombies don't do that."
I shook my head. Why did I think it would be faster to explain
than to fight about it? "The ritual had already gone wrong. We
couldn't start over without another sacrifice. So I offered myself
as the sacrifice."
She stared. "Yourself?"
"It was the best I could do, Theresa. Now get out of my way." I
was tired and sick. I had to get out of there, now. Maybe she heard
it in my voice. Maybe she was too eager to get to the zombie to
mess with me. I don't know, but she moved aside. She was just gone,
like the wind had swept her away. Let them play their mind games. I
was going home.
There was a small scream from behind me. A short, strangled
sound, as if the voice wasn't used to talking. I kept walking. The
zombie screamed, human memories still there, enough for fear. I
heard a rich laugh, a faint echo of Jean-Claude's. Where are you,
Jean-Claude?
I glanced back once. The vampires were closing in. The zombie
was stumbling from one side to the other, trying to run. But there
was nowhere to go.
I stumbled through the crooked gate. A wind had finally come
down out of the trees. Another scream sounded from behind the
hedges. I ran, and I didn't look back.
Chapter 29
I slipped on the damp grass. Hose are not made for running in. I
sat there, breathing, trying not to think. I had raised a zombie to
save another human being, who wasn't a human being. Now the zombie
I had raised was being tortured by vampires. Shit. The night wasn't
even half-over. I whispered, "What next?"
A voice answered, light as music. "Greetings, animator. You seem
to be having a full night."
Nikolaos was standing in the shadows of the trees. Willie McCoy
was with her, a little to one side, not quite beside her, like a
bodyguard or a servant. I was betting on servant.
"You seem agitated. What ever is the matter?" Her voice rose in
a lilting sing-song. The dangerous little girl had returned.
"Zachary raised the zombie. You can't use that as an excuse to
kill him." I laughed then, and it sounded abrupt and harsh even to
me. He was already dead. I didn't think she knew. She couldn't read
minds, only force the truth from them. I bet Nikolaos had never
thought to ask, "Are you alive, Zachary, or a walking corpse?" I
laughed and couldn't seem to stop.
"Anita, you all right?" Willie's voice was like his voice had
always been.
I nodded, trying to catch my breath. "I'm fine."
"I do not see the humor in the situation, animator." The child
voice was slipping, like a mask sliding down. "You helped Zachary
raise the zombie." She made it sound like an accusation.
"Yes."
I heard movement over the grass. Willie's footsteps, and nothing
else. I glanced up and saw Nikolaos moving towards me, noiseless as
a cat. She was smiling, a cute, harmless, model, beautiful child.
No. Her face was a little long. The perfect child bride wasn't
perfect anymore. The closer she came, the more flaws
I could pick out. Was I seeing her the way she really looked?
Was I?
"You are staring at me, animator." She laughed, high and wild,
wind chimes in a storm. "As if you'd seen a ghost." She knelt,
smoothing her slacks over her knees, as if they were a skirt. "Have
you seen a ghost, animator? Have you seen something that frightened
you? Or is it something else?" Her face was only an arm's length
away.
I was holding my breath, fingers digging into the ground. Fear
washed over me like a cool second skin. The face was so pleasant,
smiling, encouraging. She really needed a dimple to go with it all.
My voice was hoarse, and I had to cough to clear it. "I raised the
zombie. I don't want it hurt."
"But it is only a zombie, animator. They have no real
minds."
I just stared at that thin, pleasant face, afraid to look away
from her, afraid to look at her. My chest was tight with the urge
to run. "It was a human being. I don't want it tortured."
"They won't hurt it much. My little vampires will be
disappointed. The dead cannot feed off the dead."
"Ghouls can. They feed off the dead."
"But what is a ghoul, animator? Is it truly dead?"
"Yes."
"Am I dead?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" She had a small scar near her upper lip. She
must have gotten it before she died.
"I'm sure," I said.
She laughed then, a sound to bring a smile to your face and a
song to your heart. My stomach jerked at the noise. I might never
enjoy Shirley Temple movies again.
"I don't think you are sure in the least." She stood, one smooth
motion. A thousand years of practice makes perfect.
"I want the zombie put back, now, tonight," I said.
"You are not in a position to want anything." The voice was
cold, very adult. Children didn't know how to strip skin with their
voice.
"I raised it. I don't want it tortured."
"Isn't that too bad?"
What else could I say? "Please."
She stared down at me. "Why is it so important to you?"
I didn't think I could explain it to her. "It just is."
"How important?" she asked.
"I don't know what you mean."
"What would you be willing to endure for your zombie?"
Fear settled into a cold lump in the pit of my gut. "I don't
know what you mean."
"Yes, you do," she said.
I stood then, not that it would help. I was actually taller than
she was. She was tiny, a delicate fairy of a child. Right. "What do
you want?"
"Don't do it, Anita." Willie was standing away from us, as if
afraid to come too close. He was smarter dead than he had been
alive.
"Quiet, Willie." Her voice was conversational when she said it,
no yelling, no threat. But Willie fell silent instantly, like a
well-trained dog.
Maybe she caught my look. Whatever, she said, "I had Willie
punished for failing to hire you that first time."
"Punished?"
"Surely, Phillip has told you about our methods?"
I nodded. "A cross-wrapped coffin."
She smiled, brilliant, cheery. The shadows leeched it into a
leer. "Willie was very afraid that I would leave him in there for
months, or even years."
"Vampires can't starve to death. I understand the principle." I
added silently in my head: You bitch. I can only be terrified so
long before I get angry. Anger feels better.
"You smell of fresh blood. Let me taste you, and I will see your
zombie safe."
"Does taste mean bite?" I asked.
She laughed, sweet, heartrending. Bitch. "Yes, human, it means
bite." She was suddenly beside me. I jerked back without thinking.
She laughed again. "It seems Phillip has beaten me to it."
For a minute I couldn't think what she meant; then my hand went
to the bite mark on my neck. I felt suddenly uneasy, like she'd
caught me naked.
The laugh floated on the summer air. It was really beginning to
get on my nerves.
"No tasting," I said.
"Then let me enter your mind again. That's a type of
feeding."
I shook my head, too rapid, too many times. I'd die before I'd
let her in my mind again. If I had the choice.
A scream sounded in the not so far distance. Estelle was finding
her voice. I winced like I'd been slapped.
"Let me taste your blood, animator. No teeth." She flashed fang
as she said the last. "You stand and make no move to stop me. I
will taste the fresh wound on your neck. I won't feed on you."
"It's not bleeding anymore. It's clotted."
She smiled, oh so sweetly. "I'll lick it clean."
I swallowed hard. I didn't know if I could do it. Another scream
sounded, high and lost. God.
Willie said, "Anita. . ."
"Silence, or risk my anger." Her voice growled low and dark.
Willie seemed to shrink in upon himself. His face was a white
triangle under his black hair.
"It's all right, Willie. Don't get hurt on my account," I
said.
He stared at me across the distance, a few yards; it might as
well have been miles. Only the lost look on his face helped. Poor
Willie. Poor me.
"What good is it going to do you if you're not feeding off me?"
I asked.
"No good at all." She reached a small, pale hand towards me. "Of
course, fear is a kind of substance." Cool fingers slid around my
wrist. I flinched but didn't pull back. I was going to let her do
this, wasn't I?
"Call it shadow feeding, human. Blood and fear are always
precious, no matter how one obtains them." She stepped up to me.
She exhaled against my skin, and I backed away. Only her hand on my
wrist kept me close.
"Wait. I want the zombie freed now, first."
She just stared at me, then nodded slowly. "Very well." She
stared past me, pale eyes seeing things that weren't there or that
I couldn't see. I felt a tension through her hand, almost a jerk of
electricity. "Theresa will chase them off and have the animator lay
the zombie to rest."
"You did all that, just then?"
"Theresa is mine to command; didn't you know that?"
"Yeah, I guessed that." I had not known that any vampire could
do telepathy. Of course, before last night I hadn't thought they
could fly either. Oh, I was just learning all sorts of new
things.
"How do I know you're not just telling me that?" I asked.
"You will just have to trust me."
Now that was almost funny. If she had a sense of humor, maybe we
could work something out. Naw.
She pulled my wrist closer to her body and me with it. Her hand
was like fleshy steel. I couldn't pry her hand off, not with
anything short of a blowtorch. And I was all out of
blowtorches.
The top of her head fitted under my chin. She had to rise on
tiptoe to breathe on my neck. It should have ruined the menace. It
didn't. Soft lips touched my neck. I jerked. She laughed against my
skin, face pressed against me. I shivered and couldn't stop.
"I promise to be gentle." She laughed again, and I fought an
urge to shove her away. I would have given almost anything to hit
her, just once, hard. But I didn't want to die tonight. Besides,
I'd made a deal.
"Poor darling, you're shaking." She laid a hand on my shoulder
to steady herself. She brushed lips along the hollow of my neck.
"Are you cold?"
"Cut the crap. Just do it!"
She stiffened against me. "Don't you want me to touch you?"
"No," I said. Was she crazy? Rhetorical question.
Her voice was very still. "Where is the scar on my face?"
I answered without thinking. "Near your mouth."
"And how," she hissed, "did you know that?"
My heart leaped into my throat. Oops. I had let her know her
mind tricks weren't working, and they should have been.
Her hand dug into my shoulder. I made a small sound, but I
didn't cry out. "What have you been doing, animator?"
I didn't have the faintest idea. Somehow, I doubted she'd
believe that.
"Leave her alone!" Phillip came half-running through the trees.
"You promised me you wouldn't hurt her tonight."
Nikolaos didn't even turn around. "Willie." Just his name, but
like all good servants he knew what was wanted.
He stepped in front of Phillip, one arm straight out from his
body. He was going to stiff-arm him. Phillip sidestepped the arm
brushing past.
Willie never had been much of a fighter. Strength wasn't enough
if you had shit for balance.
Nikolaos touched my chin and turned my face back to hers. "Do
not force me to hold your attention, animator. You wouldn't like
the methods I would choose."
I swallowed audibly. She was probably right. "You have my full
attention, honest." My voice came out as a hoarse whisper, fear
squeezing it down. If I coughed to clear it, I'd cough in her face.
Not a good idea.
I heard the rush of feet swishing through the grass. I fought
the urge to look up and away from the vampire.
Nikolaos spun from me to face the footsteps. I saw her move, but
it was still blurring speed. She was just suddenly facing the other
way. Phillip was standing in front of her. Willie caught up to him
and grabbed an arm, but didn't seem to know what to do with it.
Would it occur to Willie that he could just crush the man's arm?
I doubted it.
It had occurred to Nikolaos. "Release him. If he wants to keep
coming, let him." Her voice promised a great deal of pain.
Willie stepped back. Phillip just stood there, staring past her
at me. "Are you all right, Anita?"
"Go back inside, Phillip. I appreciate the concern, but I made a
bargain. She isn't going to bite me."
He shook his head. "You promised she wouldn't be harmed.
"You promised." He was talking to Nikolaos again, carefully not
looking directly at her.
"And so she shall not be harmed. I keep my word, Phillip, most
of the time."
"I'm all right, Phillip. Don't get hurt because of me," I
said.
His face crumbled with confusion. He didn't seem to know what to
do. His courage seemed to have spilled out on the grass.
But he didn't back off. Big point for him. I would have backed
off, maybe. Probably. Oh, hell, Phillip was being brave, and I
didn't want to see him die because of it.
"Just go back, Phillip, please!"
"No," Nikolaos said. "If the little man is feeling brave, let
him try."
Phillip's hands flexed, as if trying to grab on to
something.
Nikolaos was suddenly beside him. I hadn't seen her move.
Phillip still hadn't. He was staring where she had been. She kicked
his legs out from under him. He fell to the grass, blinking up at
her like she'd just appeared.
"Don't hurt him!" I said.
A pale little hand shot out, the barest touch. His whole body
jerked backwards. He rolled on one side, blood staining his
face.
"Nikolaos, please!" I said. I had actually taken two steps
towards her. Voluntarily. I could always try for my gun. It
wouldn't kill her, but it might give Phillip time to run away. If
he would run.
Screams sounded from the direction of the house. A man's voice
yelled, "Perverts!"
"What is it?" I asked.
Nikolaos answered, "The Church of Eternal Life has sent its
congregation." She sounded mildly amused. "I must leave this little
get-together." She whirled to me, leaving Phillip dazed on the
grass. "How did you see my scar?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Little liar. We will finish this later." And she was gone,
running like a pale shadow under the trees. At least she hadn't
flown away. I didn't think my wits could handle that tonight.
I knelt by Phillip. He was bleeding where she had hit him. "Can
you hear me?"
"Yes." He managed to sit up. "We have to get out of here. The
churchgoers are always armed."
I helped him to stand. "Do they invade the freak parties
often?"
"Whenever they can," he said.
He seemed steady on his feet. Good, I could never have carried
him far.
Willie said, "I know I don't have a right to ask, but I'll help
you get to your car." He wiped his hands down his pants. "Can I
catch a ride?"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Can't you just disappear like
the rest of them?"
He shrugged. "Don't know how yet."
"Oh, Willie." I sighed. "Come on, let's get out of here."
He grinned at me. Being able to look him in the eyes made him
seem almost human. Phillip didn't object to the vampire joining us.
Why had I thought he would?
There were screams from the house. "Somebody's gonna call the
cops," Willie said.
He was right. I'd never be able to explain it. I grabbed
Phillip's hand and steadied myself while I put the high heels back
on. "If I'd known we'd be running from crazed fanatics tonight, I'd
have worn lower heels," I said.
I kept a grip on Phillip's arm to steady myself through the
minefield of acorns. This was not the time to twist an ankle.
We were almost to the gravel drive when three figures spilled
out of the house. One held a club. The others were vampires. They
didn't need a weapon. I opened my purse and got my gun out, held
down at my side, hidden against my skirt. I gave Phillip the car
keys. "Start the car; I'll cover our backs."
"I don't know how to drive," he said.
I had forgotten. "Shit!"
"I'll do it." Willie took the keys, and I let him.
One of the vampires rushed us, arms wide, hissing. Maybe he
meant to scare us; maybe he meant to do us harm. I'd had enough for
one night. I clicked off the safety, chambered a round and fired
into the ground at his feet.
He hesitated, almost stumbled. "Bullets can't hurt me,
human."
There was more movement under the trees. I didn't know if it was
friend or foe, or if it made a hell of a lot of difference. The
vampire kept coming. It was a residential neighborhood. Bullets can
travel a great distance before they hit something. I couldn't take
the chance.
I raised my arm, aimed, and fired. The bullet took him in the
stomach. He jerked and sort of crumpled over the wound. His face
held astonishment.
"Silver-plated bullets, fang-face."
Willie went for the car. Phillip hesitated between helping me
and going.
"Go, Phillip, now."
The second vampire was trying to circle around. "Stop right
where you are," I said. The vampire froze. "Anybody makes a
threatening gesture, I'm going to put a bullet in their brain."
"It won't kill us," the second vampire said.
"No, but it won't do you a hell of a lot of good, either."
The human with the club inched forward. "Don't," I told him.
The car started. I didn't dare glance back at it. I stepped
backwards, hoping I wouldn't trip in the damn high heels. If I
fell, they'd rush me. If they rushed me, somebody was going to
die.
"Come on, Anita, get in." It was Phillip, leaning out of the
passenger side door.
"Scoot over." He did, and I slid into the seat. The human rushed
us. "Drive, now!"
Willie spun gravel, and I slammed the door shut. I really didn't
want to kill anyone tonight. The human was shielding his face from
the gravel as we rushed down the driveway.
The car bounced wildly, nearly colliding with a tree. "Slow
down; we're safe," I said.
Willie eased back on the gas. He grinned at me. "We made
it."
"Yeah." I smiled back at him, but I wasn't so sure.
Blood was dripping down Phillip's face in a nice steady flow. He
voiced my thoughts. "Safe, but for how long?" He sounded as tired
as I felt.
I patted his arm. "Everything will be all right, Phillip."
He looked at me. His face seemed older than it had, tired. "You
don't believe that any more than I do."
What could I say? He was right.
Chapter 30
I clicked on the safety of my gun and struggled into a seat
belt. Phillip slumped down into the seat, long legs spreadeagled on
either side of the floorboard hump. His eyes were closed.
"Where to?" Willie asked.
Good question. I wanted to go home and go to sleep, but . . .
"Phillip's face needs patching up."
"You wanna take him to a hospital?"
"I'm all right," Phillip said. His voice was low and
strange.
"You aren't all right," I said.
He opened his eyes and turned to look at me. The blood had run
down his neck, a dark, glistening stream that shone in the flashes
of the streetlights. "You were hurt a lot worse last night," he said.
I looked away from him, out the window. I didn't know what to
say. "I'm all right now."
"I'll be all right, too."
I looked back at him. He was staring at me. I couldn't read the
expression on his face, and wanted to. "What are you thinking,
Phillip?"
He turned his head to stare straight ahead. His face was all
silhouette and shadows. "That I stood up to the master. I did it. I
did it!" His voice held a fierce warmth with the last. Fierce
pride.
"You were very brave," I said.
"I was, wasn't I?"
I smiled and nodded. "Yes."
"I hate to interrupt you two, but I need to know where to drive
this thing," Willie said.
"Drop me back at Guilty Pleasures," Phillip said.
"You should see a doc."
"They'll take care of me at the club."
"Ya sure?"
He nodded, then winced and turned to me. "You wanted to know who
was giving me orders. It was Nikolaos. You were right. That first
day. She wanted me to seduce you." He smiled. It didn't look right
with the blood. "Guess I wasn't up to the job."
"Phillip. . ." I said.
"No, its all right. You were right about me. I'm sick. No wonder
you didn't want me."
I glanced over at Willie. He was concentrating on his driving as
if his life depended on it. Damn, he was smarter dead than
alive.
I took a deep breath and tried to decide what to say. "Phillip .
. . The kiss before you . . . bit me." God, how did I say this? "It
was nice."
He glanced at me, quick, then away. "You mean that?"
"Yes."
An awkward silence stretched through the car. No sound but the
rush of pavement under the wheels. The night flashes of lights, and
the isolating darkness.
"Standing up to Nikolaos tonight was one of the bravest things
I've ever seen anybody do. Also one of the stupidest," I said.
He laughed, abrupt and surprised.
"Don't ever do it again. I don't want your death on my
hands."
"It was my choice," he said.
"No more heroics, okay?"
He glanced at me. "Would you be sorry if I died?"
"Yes."
"I guess that's something."
What did he want me to say? To confess undying love, or
something silly like that? How about undying lust? Either one would
be a lie. What did he want from me? I almost asked him, but I
didn't. I wasn't that brave.
Chapter 31
It was nearly three by the time I walked up the stairs to my
apartment. All the bruises were aching. My knees, feet, and lower
back were a nearly burning grind of pain from the high heels. I
wanted a long, hot shower and bed. Maybe if I were lucky I could
actually get eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Of course, I
wouldn't bet on it.
I got my keys in one hand and gun in the other. I held the gun
at my side, just in case a neighbor should open his or her door
unexpectedly. Nothing to fear, folks, just your friendly
neighborhood animator. Right.
For the first time in far too long my door was just the way I
left it: locked. Thank you, God. I was not in the mood to play cops
and robbers this very early morning.
I kicked off my shoes just inside the door, then stumbled to the
bedroom. The message light was blinking on my answering machine. I
laid my gun on the bed, hit the play button, and started
undressing.
"Hi, Anita, this is Ronnie. I got a meeting set up for tomorrow
with the guy from HAV. My office, eleven o'clock. If the time is
bad, leave a message on my machine, and I'll get back to you. Be
careful."
Click, whirr, and Edward's voice came out of the machine. "The
clock is ticking, Anita." Click.
Damn. "You like your little games, don't you, you son of a
bitch?" I was getting grumpy, and I didn't know what I was going to
do about Edward. Or Nikolaos, or Zachary, or Valentine, or Aubrey.
I did know I wanted a shower. I could start there. Maybe I'd have a
brilliant idea while I was scrubbing goat blood off my skin.
I locked the door to the bathroom and laid my gun on the top of
the toilet. I was beginning to get a little paranoid. Or maybe
realistic was a better word.
I turned the water on until it steamed, then stepped into it. I
was no closer to solving the vampire murders now than I had been
twenty-four hours ago.
Even if I solved the case, I still had problems. Aubrey and
Valentine were going to kill me once Nikolaos removed her
protection from me. Peachy. I wasn't even sure that Nikolaos
herself didn't have ideas in that direction. Now, Zachary, he was
killing people to feed his voodoo charm. I had heard of charms that
demanded human sacrifice. Charms that gave you a whole lot less
than immortality. Wealth, power, sex - the age-old wants. It was very
specific blood - children, or virgins, or preadolescent boys, or
little old ladies with blue hair and one wooden leg. All right, not
that specific, but there had to be a pattern to it. A string of
disappearances with similar victims. If Zachary had been simply
leaving the bodies to be found, the newspapers would have picked up
on it by now. Maybe.
He had to be stopped. If I hadn't interfered tonight, he would
have been stopped. No good deed goes unpunished.
I leaned palms against the bathroom tile, letting the water wash
down my back in nearly scalding rivulets. Okay, I had to kill
Valentine before he killed me. I had a warrant for his death. It
had never been revoked. Of course, I had to find him first.
Aubrey was dangerous, but at least he was out of the way until
Nikolaos let him out of his trapped coffin.
I could just turn Zachary over to the police. Dolph would listen
to me, but I didn't have a shred of proof. Hell, the magic was even
something I'd never heard of. If I couldn't understand what Zachary
was, how was I going to explain it to the police?
Nikolaos. Would she let me live if I solved the case? Or not? I
didn't know.
Edward was coming to get me tomorrow evening. I either gave him
Nikolaos or he took a piece of my hide. Knowing Edward, it would be
a painful piece to lose. Maybe I could just give him the vampire.
Just tell him what he wanted to know. And he fails to kill her, and
she comes and gets me. The one thing I wanted to avoid, almost more
than anything else, was Nikolaos coming to get me.
I dried off, ran a brush through my hair, and had to get
something to eat. I tried to tell myself I was too tired to eat. My
stomach didn't believe me.
It was four before I fell into bed. My cross was safely
around my neck. The gun in its holster behind the head board. And, just
for pure panic's sake, I slipped a knife between the mattress and
box springs. I'd never get to it in time to do any good, but . . .
Well, you never know.
I dreamed about Jean-Claude again. He was sitting at a table
eating blackberries.
"Vampires don't eat solid food," I said.
"Exactly." He smiled and pushed the bowl of fruit towards
me.
"I hate blackberries," I said.
"They were always my favorite. I hadn't tasted them in
centuries." His face looked wistful.
I picked up the bowl. It was cool, almost cold. The blackberries
were floating in blood. The bowl fell from my hands, slow, spilling
blood on the table, more than it could ever have held. Blood
dripped down the tabletop, onto the floor.
Jean-Claude stared at me over the bleeding table. His words came
like a warm wind. "Nikolaos will kill us both. We must strike
first, ma petite."
"What's this 'we' crap?"
He cupped pale hands in the flowing blood and held them out to
me, like a cup. Blood dripped out from between his fingers. "Drink.
It will make you strong."
I woke staring up into the darkness. "Damn you, Jean-Claude," I
whispered. "What have you done to me?"
There was no answer from the dark, empty room. Thank goodness
for small favors. The clock read six-oh-three a.m. I rolled over
and snuggled back into the covers. The whir of air conditioning
couldn't hide the sounds of one of my neighbors running water. I
switched on the radio. Mozart's piano concerto in E flat filled the
darkened room. It was really too lively to sleep to, but I wanted
noise. My choice of noise.
I don't know if it was Mozart or I was just too tired; whatever,
I went back to sleep. If I dreamed, I didn't remember it.
Chapter 32
The alarm shrieked through my sleep. It sounded like a car
alarm, hideously loud. I smashed my palm on the buttons.
Mercifully, it shut off. I blinked at the clock through half-slit
eyes. Nine a.m. Damn. I had forgotten to unset the alarm. I had
time to get dressed and make church. I did not want to get up. I
did not want to go to church. Surely, God would forgive me just
this once.
Of course, I did need all the help I could get right now. Maybe
I'd even have a revelation, and everything would fall into place.
Don't laugh; it had happened before. Divine aid is not something I
rely on, but every once in a while I think better at church.
When the world is full of vampires and bad guys, and a blessed
cross may be all that stands between you and death, it puts church
in a different light. So to speak.
I crawled out of bed, groaning. The phone rang. I sat on the
edge of the bed, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. It
did. "Anita, this is Sergeant Storr. We got another vampire
murder."
I picked up the receiver. "Hi, Dolph."
"Good. Glad I caught you before church."
"Is it another dead vampire?"
"Mmhuh."
"Just like the others?" I asked.
"Seems to be. Need you to come down and take a look."
I nodded, realized he couldn't see it, and said, "Sure,
when?"
"Right now."
I sighed. So much for church. They couldn't hold the body until
noon, or after, just for little ol' me. "Give me the location. Wait,
let me get a pen that works." I kept a notepad by the bed, but the
pen had died without my knowing it. "Okay, shoot."
The location was only about a block from Circus of the Damned.
"That's on the fringe of the District. None of the other
murders have been that far away from the Riverfront."
"True," he said.
"What else is different about this one?"
"You'll see it when you get here."
Mr. Information. "Fine, I'll be there in half an hour."
"See you then." The phone went dead.
"Well, good morning to you to, Dolph," I said to the receiver.
Maybe he wasn't a morning person either.
My hands were healing. I had taken the Band-Aids off last night
because they were covered with goat blood. The scrapes were
scabbing nicely, so I didn't bother with more Band-Aids.
One fat bandage covered the knife wound on my arm. I couldn't
hurt my left arm anymore. I had run out of room. The bite mark on
my neck was beginning to bruise. It looked like the world's worst
hicky. If Zerbrowski saw it, I would never live it down. I put a
Band-Aid on it. Now it looked like I was covering a vampire bite.
Damn. I left it. Let people wonder. None of their business
anyway.
I put a red polo shirt on, tucked into jeans. My Nikes, and a
shoulder harness for my gun, and I was all set. My shoulder rig has
a little pouch for extra ammo. I put fresh clips in it. Twenty-six
bullets. Watch out, bad guys. Truth was, most firefights were
finished before the first eight shots were gone. But there was
always a first time.
I carried a bright yellow windbreaker over my arm. I'd put it on
just in case the gun started making people nervous. I would be
working with the police. They'd have their guns out in plain sight.
Why couldn't I? Besides, I was tired of games. Let the bastards
know I was armed and willing.
There are always too many people at a murder scene. Not the
gawkers, the people who come to watch; you expect that. There is
always something fascinating about someone else's death. But the
place always swarms with police, mostly detectives with a
sprinkling of uniforms. So many cops for one little murder.
There was even a news van, with a huge satellite antenna
sticking out of its back like a giant ray gun from some 1940s
science fiction movie. There would be more news vans, I was betting
on that. I don't know how the police kept it quiet this long.
Vampire murders, gee whiz, sensationalism at its best. You don't
even have to add anything to make it bizarre.
I kept the crowd between myself and the cameraman. A reporter
with short blond hair and a stylish business suit was shoving a
microphone in Dolph's face. As long as I stayed near the gruesome
remains, I was safe. They might get me on film, but they wouldn't
be able to show it on television. Good taste and all, you know.
I had a little plastic-enclosed card, complete with picture,
that gave me access to police areas. I always felt like a junior
G-man when I clipped it to my collar.
I was stopped at the yellow police banner by a vigilant uniform.
He stared at my I. D. for several seconds, as if trying to decide
whether I was kosher or not. Would he let me through the line, or
would he call a detective over first?
I stood, hands at my sides, trying to look harmless. I'm
actually very good at that. I can look downright cute. The uniform
raised the tape and let me through. I resisted an urge to say,
"Atta boy." I did say, "Thank you."
The body lay near a lamp pole. Legs were spreadeagled. One arm
twisted under the body, probably broken. The center of the back was
missing, as if someone had shoved a hand through the body and just
scooped out the center. The heart would be gone, just like all the
others.
Detective Clive Perry was standing by the body. He was a tall,
slender, black man, and most recent member of the spook squad. He
always seemed so soft-spoken and pleasant. I could never imagine
Perry doing anything rude enough to piss someone off, but you
didn't get assigned to the squad without a reason.
He looked up from his notebook. "Hi, Ms. Blake."
"Hello, Detective Perry."
He smiled. "Sergeant Storr said you'd be coming down."
"Is everyone else finished with the body?"
He nodded. "It's all yours."
A dark brown puddle of blood spread out from under the body. I
knelt beside it. The blood had congealed to a tacky, gluelike
consistency. Rigor mortis had come and gone, if there had been
rigor mortis. Vampires didn't always react to "death" the way a
human body did. It made judging the time of death harder. But that
was the coroner's job, not mine.
The bright summer sun pressed down over the body. From the shape
and the black pants suit, I was betting it was female. It was sort
of hard to tell, lying on its stomach, chest caved in, and the
head missing. The spine showed white and glistening. Blood had
poured out of the neck like a broken bottle of red wine. The skin
was torn, twisted. It looked like somebody had ripped the freaking
head off.
I swallowed very hard. I hadn't thrown up on a murder victim in
months. I stood up and put a little distance between myself and the
body.
Could this have been done by a human being? No; maybe. Hell. If
it was a human being, then they were trying very hard to make it
look otherwise. No matter what a surface look revealed, the coroner
always found knife marks on the body. The question was, did the
knife marks come before or after death? Was it a human trying to
look like a monster, or a monster trying to look like a human?
"Where's the head?" I asked.
"You sure you feel all right?"
I looked up at him. Did I look pale? "I'll be fine." Me, big,
tough vampire slayer, no throw up at the sight of decapitated
heads. Right.
Perry raised his eyebrows but was too polite to push the issue.
He led me about eight feet down the sidewalk. Someone had thrown a
plastic cover over the head. A second smaller pool of congealing
blood oozed out from under the plastic.
Perry bent over and grasped the plastic. "You ready?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He lifted the plastic, like a
curtain backdrop to what lay on the sidewalk.
Long, black hair flowed around a pale face. The hair was matted
and sticky with blood. The face had been attractive but no more.
The features were slack, almost doll-like in their unreality. My
eyes saw it, but it took my brain a few seconds to register.
"Shit!"
"What is it?"
I stood up, fast, and took two steps out into the street. Perry
came to stand beside me. "Are you all right?"
I glanced back at the plastic with its grisly little lump. Was I
all right? Good question. I could identify this body.
It was Theresa.
Chapter 33
I arrived at Ronnie's office a few minutes before eleven. I
paused with my hand on the doorknob. I couldn't shake the image of
Theresa's head on the sidewalk. She had been cruel and had probably
killed hundreds of humans. Why did I feel pity for her? Stupidity,
I suppose. I took a deep breath and pushed the door inward.
Ronnie's office is full of windows. Light glares in from two
sides, south and west. Which means in the afternoon the room is
like a solar heater. No amount of air conditioning is going to
overcome that much sunshine.
You can see the District from Ronnie's sunshiny windows. If you
care to look.
Ronnie waved me through the door into the almost blinding glare
of her office.
A delicate-looking woman was sitting in a chair across from the
desk. She was Asian with shiny, black hair styled carefully back
from her face. A royal purple jacket, which matched her tailored
skirt, was folded neatly on the chair arm. A shiny, lavender blouse
brought attention to the up-tilted eyes and the faint lavender
shading on the lids and brow. Her ankles were crossed, hands folded
in her lap. She looked cool in her lavender blouse, even in the
sweltering sunshine.
It caught me off guard for a minute, seeing her like that, after
all these years. Finally, I closed my gaping mouth and walked
forward, hand extended. "Beverly, it has been a long time."
She stood neatly and put a cool hand in mine. "Three years."
Precise, that was Beverly all over.
"You two know each other?" Ronnie asked.
I turned back to her. "Bev didn't mention that she knew me?"
Ronnie shook her head.
I stared at the new woman. "Why didn't you mention it to
Ronnie?"
"I did not think it necessary." Bev had to raise her chin to
look me in the eye. Not many people have to do that. It's rare
enough that I always find it an odd sensation, as if I should stoop
down so we can be at eye level.
"Is someone going to tell me where you two know each other
from?" Ronnie asked.
Ronnie moved past us to sit behind her desk. She tilted the
chair slightly back on its swivel, crossed hands over stomach, and
waited. Her pure grey eyes, soft as kitten fur, stared at me.
"Do you mind if I tell her, Bev?"
Bev had sat down again, smooth and ladylike. She had real
dignity and had always impressed me as being a lady, in the best
sense of the word. "If you feel it necessary, I do not object," she
said.
Not exactly a rousing go-ahead, but it would do. I flopped down
in the other chair, very aware of my jeans and jogging shoes.
Beside Bev I looked like an ill-dressed child. For just a moment I
felt it; then it was gone. Remember, no one can make you feel
inferior without your consent. Eleanor Roosevelt said that. It is a
quote I try to live by. Most of the time I succeed.
"Bev's family were the victims of a vampire pack. Only Beverly
survived. I was one of the people who helped destroy the vampires."
Brief, to the point, a hell of a lot left out. Mostly the painful
parts.
Bev spoke in that quiet, precise voice of hers. "What Anita has
left out is that she saved my life at risk of her own." She glanced
down at her hands where they lay in her lap.
I remembered my first glimpse of Beverly Chin. One pale leg
thrashing against the floor. The flash of fangs as the vampire
reared to strike. A glimpse of pale, screaming face, and dark hair.
The pure terror as she screamed. My hand throwing a silver-bladed
knife and hitting the vampire's shoulder. Not a killing blow; there
had been no time. The creature had sprang to its feet, roaring at
me. I stood facing the thing with the last knife I had, gun long
since emptied, alone.
And I remembered Beverly Chin beating the vampire's head in with
a silver candlestick, while he crouched over me, breath warm on my
neck. Her shrieks echoed through my dreams for weeks, as she beat
the thing's head to pieces until blood and brain seeped out onto
the floor.
All that passed between us without words. We had saved each
other's lives; it is a bond that sticks with you. Friendships may
fade, but there is always that obligation, that knowledge forged of
terror and blood and shared violence, that never really leaves. It
was there between us after three long years, straining and
touchable.
Ronnie is a smart lady. She caught on to the awkward silence.
"Would anybody like a drink?"
"Nonalcoholic," Bev and I said together. We laughed at each
other, and the strain faded. We would never be true friends, but
perhaps we could stop being ghosts to each other.
Ronnie brought us two diet Cokes. I made a face but took it
anyway. I knew that was all she had in the office's little fridge.
We had had discussions about diet drinks, but she swore she liked
the taste. Liked the taste, garg!
Bev took hers graciously; perhaps that was what she drank at
home. Give me something fattening with a little taste to it any
day.
"Ronnie mentioned on the phone that there might be a death squad
attached to HAV. Is that true?" I said.
Bev stared down at the can, which she held with one hand cupped
underneath so it wouldn't stain her skirt. "I do not know
positively that it is true, but I believe it to be."
"Tell me what you've heard?" I asked.
"There was talk for a while of forming a squad to hunt the
vampires. To kill them as they have killed our . . . families. The
president of course vetoed the idea. We work within the system. We
are not vigilantes." She said it almost as a question, as if trying
to convince herself more than us. She was shaken by what might have
happened. Her neat little world collapsing again.
"But lately I have heard talk. People in our organization
bragging of slaying vampires."
"How were they supposedly killed?" I asked.
She looked at me, hesitated. "I do not know."
"No hint?"
She shook her head. "I believe I could find out for you. Is it
important?"
"The police have hidden certain details from the general public.
Things only the murderer would know."
"I see." She glanced down at the can in her hands, then up at
me. "I do not believe it is murder even if my people have done
what the papers say. Killing dangerous animals should not be a
crime."
In part I agreed with her. Once I had agreed with her
wholeheartedly. "Then why tell us?" I asked.
She looked directly at me, dark, nearly black eyes staring into
my face. "I owe you."
"You saved my life as well. You owe me nothing."
"There will always be a debt between us, always."
I looked into her face and understood. Bev had begged me not to
tell anyone that she had beaten the vampire's head in. I think it
horrified her that she was capable of such violence, regardless of
motive.
I had told the police that she distracted the vampire so I could
kill it. She had been disproportionately grateful for that small
white lie. Maybe if no one else knew, she could pretend it had
never happened. Maybe.
She stood, smoothing her skirt down in back. She sat her soda
can carefully on the edge of the desk. "I will leave a message with
Ms. Sims when I find out more."
I nodded. "I appreciate what you're doing." She might be
betraying her cause for me.
She laid her purple jacket over her arm, small purse clasped in
her hands. "Violence is not the answer. We must work within the
system. Humans Against Vampires stands for law and order, not
vigilantism." It sounded like a prerecorded speech. But I let it
go. Everyone needs something to believe in.
She shook hands with both of us. Her hand was cool and dry. She
left, slender shoulders very straight. The door closed firmly but
quietly behind her. To look at her you would never know that she
had been touched by extreme violence. Maybe that's the way she
wanted it. Who was I to argue?
Ronnie said, "Okay, now you fill me in. What have you found
out?"
"How do you know I've found out anything?" I asked.
"Because you looked a little green around the gills when you
came through the door."
"Great. And I thought I was hiding it."
She patted my arm. "Don't worry. I just know you too well,
that's all."
I nodded, taking the explanation for what it was, comforting
crap. But I took it anyway. I told her about Theresa's death. I
told her everything, except the dreams with Jean-Claude in them.
That was private.
She let out a low whistle. "Damn, you have been busy. Do you
think a human death squad is doing it?"
"You mean HAV?"
She nodded.
I took a deep breath and let it out. "I don't know. If it's
humans, I don't have the faintest idea how they're doing it. It
would take superhuman strength to rip a head off."
"A very strong human?" she asked.
The image of Winter's bulging arms flashed into my mind. "Maybe,
but that kind of strength. . ."
"Under pressure, little old grannies have lifted entire
cars."
She had a point. "How would you like to visit the Church of
Eternal Life?" I asked.
"Thinking about joining up?"
I frowned at her.
She laughed. "Okay, okay, stop glowering at me. Why are we
going?"
"Last night they raided the party with clubs. I'm not saying
they meant to kill anyone, but when you start beating on people" - I
shrugged - "accidents happen."
"You think the Church is behind it?"
"Don't know, but if they hate the freaks enough to storm their
parties, maybe they hate them enough to kill them."
"Most of the Church's members are vampires," she said.
"Exactly. Superhuman strength and the ability to get close to
the victims."
Ronnie smiled. "Not bad, Blake, not bad."
I bowed my head modestly. "Now all we got to do is prove
it."
Her eyes were still shiny with humor when she said, "Unless of
course they didn't do it."
"Oh, shut up. It's a place to start."
She spread her hands wide. "Hey, I'm not complaining. My father
always told me, 'Never criticize, unless you can do a better job.'
"
"You don't know what's going on either, huh?" I asked.
Her face sobered. "Wish I did."
So did I.
Chapter 34
The Church of Eternal Life, main building, is just off Page
Avenue, far from the District. The Church doesn't like to be
associated with the riffraff. Vampire strip club, Circus of the
Damned, tsk-tsk. How shocking. No, they think of themselves as
mainstream undead.
The church itself is set in an expanse of naked ground. Small
trees struggled to grow into big trees and shade the startling
white of the church. It seemed to glow in the hot July sunshine,
like a land-bound moon.
I pulled into the parking lot and parked on the shiny new black
asphalt. Only the ground looked normal, bare reddish earth churned
to mud. The grass had never had a chance.
"Pretty," Ronnie said. She nodded in the building's
direction.
I shrugged. "If you say so. Frankly, I never get used to the
generic effect."
"Generic effect?" she asked.
"The stained glass is all abstract color. No scenes of Christ,
no saints, no holy symbols. Clean and pure as a wedding gown fresh
out of plastic."
She got out of the car, sunglasses sliding into place. She
stared at the church, arms crossed over her stomach. "It looks like
they just unwrapped it and haven't put the trimmings on yet."
"Yeah, a church without God. What is wrong with this
picture?"
She didn't laugh. "Will anybody be up this time of day?"
"Oh, yes, they recruit during the day."
"Recruit?"
"You know, go door to door, like the Mormons and the Jehovah's
Witnesses."
She stared at me. "You've got to be kidding?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
She shook her head. "Door-to-door vampires. How" - she wiggled her
hands back and forth - "convenient."
"Yep," I said. "Let's go see who's minding the office."
Broad white steps led up to huge double doors. One of the doors
was open; the other had a sign that read, "Enter Friend and be at
Peace." I fought an urge to tear down the sign and stomp on it.
They were preying on one of the most basic fears of man - death.
Everyone fears death. People who don't believe in God have a hard
time with death being it. Die and you cease to exist. Poof. But at
the Church of Eternal Life, they promise just what the name says.
And they can prove it. No leap of faith. No waiting around. No
questions left unanswered. How does it feel to be dead? Just ask a
fellow church member.
Oh, and you'll never grow old either. No face-lifts, no tummy
tucks, just eternal youth. Not a bad deal, as long as you don't
believe in the soul.
As long as you don't believe the soul becomes trapped in the
vampire's body and can never reach Heaven. Or worse yet, that
vampires are inherently evil and you are condemned to Hell. The
Catholic Church sees voluntary vampirism as a kind of suicide. I
tend to agree. Though the Pope also excommunicated all animators,
unless we ceased raising the dead. Fine; I became Episcopalian.
Polished wooden pews ran in two wide rows up towards what would
have been an altar. There was a pulpit, but I couldn't call it an
altar. It was just a blank blue wall surrounded by more white
upsweeping walls.
The windows were red and blue stained glass. The sunlight
sparkled through them, making delicate colored patterns on the
white floor.
"Peaceful," Ronnie said.
"So are graveyards."
She smiled at me. "I'd thought you'd say that."
I frowned at her. "No teasing; we're here on business."
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
"Just back me up; look menacing if you can manage it. Look for
clues."
"Clues?" she asked.
"Yeah, you know, clues, ticket stubs, half-burned notes,
leads."
"Oh, those."
"Quit grinning at me, Ronnie."
She adjusted her sunglasses and did her best "cold" look. She's
pretty good at it. Thugs have been known to shrivel at twenty
paces. We would see how it worked on church members.
There was a small door to one side of the "altar." It led into a
carpeted hallway. The air-conditioned hush enveloped us. There were
bathrooms to the left, and an open room to the right. Perhaps this
is where they had . . . coffee after services. No, probably not
coffee. A rousing sermon followed by a little blood, perhaps?
The offices were marked with a little sign that said "Office."
How clever. There was an outer office, the proverbial secretarial
desk and etc.... A young man sat behind the desk. Slender, short
brown hair carefully cut. Wire-frame glasses decorated a pair of
really lovely brown eyes. There was a healing bite mark on his
throat.
He rose and came around the desk, hand extended, smiling at us.
"Greetings, friends, I'm Bruce. How may I help you today?"
The handshake was firm but not too firm, strong but not
overbearing, a friendly lingering touch, but not sexual. Really
good car salesmen shake hands like that. Real estate brokers, too.
I have this nice little soul, hardly used at all. The price is
right. Trust me. If his big brown eyes had looked any more sincere,
I would have given him a doggie biscuit and patted his head.
"I would like to set up an appointment to speak with Malcolm," I
said.
He blinked once. "Have a seat."
I sat. Ronnie leaned against the wall, to one side of the door.
Hands folded, looking cool and bodyguardish.
Bruce went back around his desk, after offering us coffee, and
sat with folded hands. "Now, Miss. . ."
"Ms. Blake."
He didn't flinch; he hadn't heard of me. How fleeting fame. "Ms.
Blake, why do you wish to meet with the head of our church? We have
many competent and understanding counselors that will help you make
your decision."
I smiled at him. I'll just bet you do, you little pipsqueak. "I
think Malcolm will want to speak with me. I have information about
the vampire murders."
His smile slipped. "If you have such information, then go to the
police."
"Even if I have proof that certain members of your church are
doing the murders?" A small bluff, otherwise known as a lie.
He swallowed, fingers pressing the top of his desk until the
fingertips turned white. "I don't understand. I mean . . ."
I smiled at him. "Let's just face it, Bruce. You are not
equipped to handle murder. It isn't in your training, now is
it?"
"Well, no, but . . ."
"Then just give me a time to come back tonight and see
Malcolm."
"I don't know. I . . ."
"Don't worry about it. Malcolm is the head of the church. He'll
take care of it."
He was nodding, too rapidly. His eyes flicked to Ronnie, then
back to me. He flipped through a leatherbound day planner on his
desk. "Nine, tonight." He picked up a pen, poised and ready. "If
you'll give me your full name, I'll pencil you in."
I started to point out that he wasn't using a pencil, but
decided to let it slide. "Anita Blake."
He still didn't recognize the name. So much for me being the
terror of vampireland. "And this is pertaining to?" He was
regaining his professionalism.
I stood up. "Murder, it's pertaining to murder."
"Oh, yes, I . . ." He scribbled something down. "Nine tonight,
Anita Blake, murder." He frowned down at the note as if there were
something wrong with it.
I decided to help him out. "Don't frown so. You've got the
message right."
He stared up at me. He looked a little pale.
"I'll be back. Make sure he gets the message."
Bruce nodded again, too fast, eyes large behind his glasses.
Ronnie opened the door, and I preceded her out. She brought up
the rear like a bad-movie bodyguard. When we were out into the main
church again, she laughed. "I think we scared him."
"Bruce scares easy."
She nodded, eyes shining.
The barest mention of violence, murder, and he had fallen apart.
When he "grew up," he was going to be a vampire. Sure.
The sunshine was nearly blinding after the dimness of the
church. I squinted, putting a hand over my eyes. I caught movement
from the corner of my eye.
Ronnie screamed, "Anita!"
Everything slowed down. I had plenty of time to stare at the man
and the gun in his hands. Ronnie smashed into me, carrying
us both down and back through the church door. Bullets thunked
into the door where I'd been.
Ronnie scrambled behind me, near the wall. I had my gun out and
lay on my side pressed against the door. My heart was thundering in
my ears. Yet I could hear everything. The wrinkle of my windbreaker
was like static. I heard the man walk up the steps. The son of a
bitch was gonna keep coming.
I inched forward. He walked up the steps. His shadow fell inside
the door. He wasn't even trying to hide. Maybe he thought I wasn't
armed. He was about to learn different.
Bruce called, "What's going on here?"
Ronnie yelled, "Get back inside."
I kept my eyes on the door. I would not get shot because of
Bruce distracted me. Nothing was important but that shadow in the
door, the halting footsteps. Nothing.
The man walked right into it. Gun in his hand, eyes searching
the church. Amateur.
I could have touched him with the barrel of my gun. "Don't
move." "Freeze" always sounds so melodramatic. Don't move, short,
to the point. "Don't move," I said.
He turned just his head, slow, towards me. "You're The
Executioner." His voice was soft, hesitant.
Was I supposed to deny it? Maybe. If he had come here to kill
The Executioner, definitely. "No," I said.
He started to turn. "Then it must be her." He was turning
towards Ronnie. Shit.
He raised his arm and started to point.
"Don't!" Ronnie screamed.
Too late. I fired, point-blank into his chest. Ronnie's shot
echoed mine. The impact raised him off his feet and sent him
staggering backwards. Blood blossomed on his shirt. He slammed into
the half-opened door and fell flat on his back through it. All I
could see were his legs.
I hesitated, listening. I couldn't hear any movement. I eased
around the door. He wasn't moving, but the gun was still clutched
in his hand. I pointed my gun at him and stalked to him. If he had
so much as twitched, I would have hit him again.
I kicked the gun out of his hand and checked the pulse in his
neck. Nada, zip. Dead.
I use ammunition that can take out vampires, if I get a lucky
shot, and if they're not ancient. The bullet had made a small hole
on the side it went in, but the other side of his chest was gone.
The bullet had done what it was supposed to do; expand, and make a
very big exit hole.
His neck lolled to one side. Two bite marks decorated his neck.
Dammit! Bite marks or not, he was dead. There wasn't enough left of
his heart to thread a needle. A lucky shot. A stupid amateur with a
gun.
Ronnie was leaning in the doorway, looking pale. Her gun was
pointed at the dead man. Her arms trembled ever so slightly.
She almost smiled. "I don't usually carry a gun during the day,
but I knew I'd be with you."
"Is that an insult?" I asked.
"No," she said, "reality."
I couldn't argue with that. I sat down on the cool stone steps;
my knees felt weak. The adrenaline was draining out of me, like
water from a broken cup.
Bruce was in the doorway, ice pale. "He . . . he tried to kill
you." His voice cracked with fear.
"Do you recognize him?" I asked.
He shook his head over and over again, rapid jerky
movements.
"Are you sure?"
"We . . . we do not . . . condone violence." He swallowed hard,
his voice a cracking whisper. "I don't know him."
The fear seemed genuine. Maybe he didn't know him, but that
didn't mean the dead man wasn't a member of the church. "Call the
police, Bruce."
He just stood there, staring at the corpse.
"Call the cops, okay?"
He stared at me, eyes glazed. I wasn't sure if he heard me or
not, but he went back inside.
Ronnie sat down beside me, staring out at the parking lot. Blood
was running down the white steps in tiny rivulets of scarlet.
"Jesus," she whispered.
"Yeah." I still held my gun loose-gripped in my hand. The danger
seemed to be over. Guess I could put away the gun. "Thanks for
pushing me out of the way," I said.
"You're welcome." She took a deep, shaky breath. "Thanks for
shooting him before he shot me."
"Don't mention it. Besides, you got a piece of him, too."
"Don't remind me."
I stared at her. "You all right?"
"No, I'm well and truly scared."
"Yeah." Of course, all Ronnie had to do was stay away from me. I
seemed to be the free-fire zone. A walking, talking menace to my
friends and coworkers. Ronnie could have died today, and it would
have been my fault. She had been a few seconds slower to shoot than
I was. Those few seconds could have cost her her life. Of course,
if she hadn't been here today, I might have died. One bullet in the
chest, and my gun wouldn't have done me a hell of a lot of
good.
I heard the distant whoop-whoop of police sirens. They must have
been damn close, or maybe it was another killing. Possible. Would
the police believe he was just a fanatic trying to kill The
Executioner? Maybe. Dolph wouldn't buy it.
The sunshine pressed down around us like bright yellow plastic.
Neither of us said a word. Maybe there was nothing left to say.
Thank you for saving my life. You're welcome. What else was
there?
I felt light and empty, almost peaceful. Numb. I must be getting
close to the truth, whatever that was. People were trying to kill
me. It was a good sign. Sort of. It meant I knew something
important. Important enough to kill for. The trouble was, I didn't
know what it was I was supposed to know.
Chapter 35
I was back at the church at 8:45 that night. The sky was a rich
purple. Pink clouds were stretched across it like cotton candy
pulled apart by eager kids and left to melt. True dark was only
minutes away. Ghouls would already be out and about. But the
vampires had a few heartbeats of waiting left.
I stood on the steps of the church, admiring the sunset. There
was no blood left. The white steps were as shiny and new as if this
afternoon had never happened. But I remembered. I had decided to
sweat in the July heat so I could carry an arsenal. The windbreaker
hid not only the shoulder rig and 9mm, plus extra ammo, but a knife
on each forearm. The Firestar was snug in the inner pant holster,
set for a right-hand cross draw. There was even a knife strapped to
my ankle.
Of course, nothing I was carrying would stop Malcolm. He was one
of the most powerful master vampires in the city. After seeing
Nikolaos and Jean-Claude, I'd say he ranked third. In the company I
was judging him against, third wasn't bad. So why confront him?
Because I couldn't think of what else to do.
I had left a letter detailing my suspicions about the church and
everybody else in a safe deposit box. Doesn't everybody have one?
Ronnie knew about it, and there was a letter on the secretary's
desk at Animators, Inc. It would go out Monday morning to Dolph,
unless I called up to stop it.
One attempt on my life and I was getting all paranoid. Fancy
that.
The parking lot was full. People were drifting inside the church
in small groups. A few had simply walked up, no cars. I stared hard
at them, Vampires, before full dark? But no, just humans.
I zipped the windbreaker partway up. Didn't want to disturb
services by flashing a gun.
A young woman, brown hair style-gelled into an artificial wave
over one eye, was handing out pamphlets just inside the door. A
guide to the service, I supposed. She smiled and said, "Welcome. Is
this your first time?"
I smiled back at her, pleasant, as if I wasn't carrying enough
weaponry to take out half the congregation. "I have an appointment
to see Malcolm."
Her smile didn't change. If anything it deepened, flashing a
dimple to one side of her lipsticked mouth. Somehow, I didn't think
she knew I'd killed someone today. People don't generally smile at
me when they know things like that.
"Just a minute; let me get someone to handle the door." She
walked away to tap a young man on the shoulder. She whispered
against his cheek and shoved the pamphlets into his hands.
She came back to me, hands smoothing along the burgundy dress
she wore. "If you'll follow me?"
She made it a question. What would she do if I said no? Probably
look puzzled. The young man was greeting a couple that had just
entered the church. The man wore a suit; the woman the proverbial
dress, hose, and sandals. They could have been coming to my church,
any church. As I followed the woman down the side aisle towards the
door, I glanced at a couple dressed in postmodern punk. Or whatever
phrase is common now. The girl's hair looked like Frankenstein's
Bride done in pink and green. A second glance and I wasn't sure;
maybe the pink and green was a guy. If so, his girlfriend's hair
was a buzz so close to her head, it looked like stubble.
The Church of Eternal Life attracted a wide following.
Diversity, that's the ticket. They appealed to the agnostic, the
atheist, the disillusioned mainstreamer, and some who had never
decided what they were. The church was nearly full, and it wasn't
dark yet. The vampires had yet to show. It had been a long time
since I'd seen a church this full, except at Easter, or Christmas.
Holiday Christians. A chill tiptoed along my spine.
This was the fullest church I'd been to in years. The vampire
church. Maybe the real danger wasn't the murderer. Maybe the real
danger was right here in this building.
I shook my head and followed my guide through the door, out of
the church, and past the coffee klatch area. There really was
coffee percolating on a white-draped table. There was also a bowl
of reddish punch that looked a little too viscous to be punch at
all.
The woman said, "Would you like some coffee?"
"No, thank you."
She smiled pleasantly and opened the door marked "Office" for
me. I went in. No one was there.
"Malcolm will be with you as soon as he wakens. If you like, I
can wait with you." She glanced at the door as she said it.
"I wouldn't want you to miss the service. I'll be fine
alone."
Her smile flashed into dimple again. "Thank you; I'm sure it
will be a short wait." With that she was gone, and I was alone.
Alone with the secretary's desk and the leatherbound day planner
for the Church of Eternal Life. Life was good.
I opened the planner to the week before the first vampire
murder. Bruce, the secretary, had very neat handwriting, each entry
very precise. Time, name, and a one-sentence description of the
meeting. 10:00, Jason MacDonald, Magazine interview. 9:00, Meeting
with Mayor, Zoning problems. Normal stuff for the Billy Graham of
Vampirism. Then two days before the first murder there was a
notation that was in a different handwriting. Smaller, no less
neat. 3:00, Ned. That was all, no last name, no reason for the
meeting. And Bruce didn't make the appointment. Methinks we have a
clue. Be still, my heart.
Ned was a short form of Edward, just like Teddy. Had Malcolm had
a meeting with the hit man of the undead? Maybe. Maybe not. It
could be a clandestine meeting with a different Ned. Or maybe Bruce
had been away from the desk and someone else had just filled in? I
went through the rest of the planner as quickly as I could. Nothing
else seemed out of the ordinary. Every other entry was in Bruce's
large, rolling hand.
Malcolm had met with Edward, if it had been Edward, two days
before the first death. If that was true, where did that leave
things? With Edward a murderer and Malcolm paying him to do it.
There was one problem with that. If Edward had wanted me dead, he'd
have done it himself. Maybe Malcolm panicked and sent one of his
followers to do it? Could be.
I was sitting in a chair against the wall, leafing through a
magazine, when the door opened. Malcolm was tall and almost
painfully thin, with large, bony hands that belonged to a more
muscular man. His short, curly hair was the shocking yellow of
goldfinch feathers. This was what blond hair looked like after
nearly three hundred years in the dark.
The last time I had seen Malcolm, he had seemed beautiful,
perfect. Now he was almost ordinary, like Nikolaos and her scar.
Had Jean-Claude given me the ability to see master vampires' true
forms?
Malcolm's presence filled the small room like invisible water,
chilling and pricking along my skin, knee-deep and rising. Give him
another nine hundred years, and he might rival Nikolaos. Of course,
I wouldn't be around to test my little theory.
I stood, and he swept into the room. He was dressed modestly in
a dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and blue silk tie. The pale
shirt made his eyes look like robin's eggs. He smiled, angular
face, beaming at me. He wasn't trying to cloud my mind. Malcolm was
very good at resisting the urge. His entire credibility rested on
the fact that he didn't cheat.
"Miss Blake, how good to see you." He didn't offer to shake
hands; he knew better. "Bruce left me a very confused message.
Something about the vampire murders?" His voice was deep and
soothing, like the ocean.
"I told Bruce I have proof that your church is involved with the
vampire murders."
"And do you?"
"Yes." I believed it. If he had met with Edward, I had my
murderer.
"Hmmm, you are telling the truth. Yet, I know that it is not
true." His voice rolled around me, warm and thick, powerful.
I shook my head. "Cheating, Malcolm, using your powers to probe
my mind. Tsk, tsk."
He shrugged, hands open at his sides. "I control my church, Miss
Blake. They would not do what you have accused them of."
"They raided a freak party last night with clubs. They hurt
people." I was guessing on that part.
He frowned. "There is a small faction of our followers who
persist in violence. The freak party, as you call it, is an
abomination and must be stopped, but through legal channels. I have
told my followers this."
"But do you punish them when they disobey you?" I asked.
"I am not a policeman, or a priest, to mete out punishment.
They are not children. They have their own minds."
"I'll bet they do."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"It means, Malcolm, that you are a master vampire. None of them
can stand against you. They'll do anything you want them to."
"I do not use mind powers on my congregation."
I shook my head. His power oozed over my arms like a cold wave.
He wasn't even trying. It was just spillover. Did he realize what
he was doing? Could it actually be an accident?
"You had a meeting two days before the first murder."
He smiled, careful not to show fangs. "I have many
meetings."
"I know, you are reeal popular, but you'll remember this
meeting. You hired a hit man to kill vampires." I watched his face,
but he was too good. There was a flicker in his eyes, unease maybe;
then it was gone, replaced by that shining blue-eyed
confidence.
"Miss Blake, why are you looking me in the eyes?"
I shrugged. "If you don't try to bespell me, it's safe."
"I have tried to convince you of that on several occasions, but
you always played it . . . safe. Now you are staring at me; why?"
He strode towards me, quick, nearly a blur of motion. My gun was in
my hand, no thinking needed. Instinct.
"My," he said.
I just stared at him, quite willing to put a bullet through his
chest if he came one step closer.
"You carry at least the first mark, Miss Blake. Some master
vampire has touched you. Who?"
I let out my breath in one long sigh. I hadn't even realized I'd
been holding it. "It's a long story."
"I believe you." He was suddenly standing near the door again,
as if he had never moved. Damn, he was good.
"You hired a man to slay the freak vampires," I said.
"No," he said, "I did not."
It is always unnerving when a person looks so damn blasé while I
point a gun at them. "You did hire an assassin."
He shrugged. Smiled. "You do not really expect me to do anything
but deny that, do you?"
"Guess not." What the heck, might as well ask. "Are you or your
church connected in any way to the vampire murders?"
He almost laughed. I didn't blame him. No one in their right
mind would just say yes, but sometimes you can learn things from
the way a person denies something. The choice of lies can be almost
as helpful as the truth.
"No, Miss Blake."
"You did hire an assassin." I made it a statement.
The smile drained from his face, goof. He stared at me, his
presence crawling along my skin like insects. "Miss Blake, I
believe it is time for you to leave."
"A man tried to kill me today."
"That is hardly my fault."
"He had two vampire bites in his neck."
Again that flicker in the eyes. Unease? Maybe.
"He was waiting for me outside your church. I was forced to kill
him on your steps." A small lie, but I didn't want Ronnie further
involved.
He was frowning now, a thread of anger like heat oozing through
the room. "I am unaware of this, Miss Blake. I will look into
it."
I lowered my gun but didn't put it away. You can only hold a
person at gunpoint so long. If they aren't afraid, and they aren't
going to hurt you, and you aren't going to shoot them, it gets
rather silly. "Don't be too hard on Bruce. He doesn't do well
around violence."
Malcolm straightened, pulling at his suit jacket. A nervous
gesture? Oh, boy. I'd hit a nerve.
"I will look into it, Miss Blake. If he was a member of our
church, we owe you an extreme apology."
I stared at him for a minute. What could I say to that? Thank
you? It didn't seem appropriate. "I know you hired a hit man,
Malcolm. Not exactly good press for your church. I think you are
behind the vampire murders. Your hands may not have spilled the
blood, but it was done with your approval."
"Please, go now, Miss Blake." He opened the door as he said
it.
I walked through, gun still in my hand. "Sure, I'll go, but I
won't go away."
He stared down at me, eyes angry. "Do you know what it means to
be marked by a master vampire?"
I thought a minute and wasn't sure how to answer it. Truth.
"No."
He smiled, and it was cold enough to freeze your heart. "You
will learn, Miss Blake. If it becomes too much for you, remember
our church is here to help." He closed the door in my face.
Softly.
I stared at the door. "And what is that supposed to mean?" I
whispered. No one answered me.
I put away my gun and spotted a small door marked "Exit." I took
it. The church was softly lit, candles maybe. Voices rose on the
night air, singing. I didn't recognize the words. The tune was
Bringing in the Sheaves. I caught one phrase: "We will live
forever, never more to die."
I hurried to my car and tried not to listen to the song. There
was something frightening about all those voices raised skyward,
worshipping . . . what? Themselves? Eternal youth? Blood? What?
Another question that I didn't have an answer to.
Edward was my murderer. The question was, could I turn him over
to Nikolaos? Could I turn over a human being to the monsters, even
to save myself? Another question that I didn't have an answer for.
Two days ago I would have said no. Now I just didn't know.
Chapter 36
I didn't want to go back to my apartment. Edward would be coming
tonight. Tell him where Nikolaos slept in daylight or he'd force
the information from me. Complicated enough. Now, I thought he was
my murderer. Very complicated.
The best thing I could think of was to avoid him. That wouldn't
work forever, but maybe I'd have a brainstorm and figure it all
out. All right, there wasn't much chance of that, but one could
always hope.
Maybe Ronnie would have a message for me. Something helpful. God
knows I needed all the help I could get. I pulled the car into a
service station that had a pay phone out front. I had one of those
high-tech answering machines that allowed me to read my messages
without having to go home for them. Maybe I could avoid Edward all
night, if I slept in a hotel. Sigh. If I'd had any solid proof at
all right that minute, I'd have called the police.
I heard the tape whir and click; then, "Anita, it's Willie, they
got Phillip. The guy you was with. They're hurtin' him, bad! You
gotta come-" The phone went dead, abruptly. Like he'd been cut
off.
My stomach tightened. A second message came up. "This is you
know who. You've heard Willie's message. Come and get it, animator.
I don't really have to threaten your pretty lover, do I?"
Nikolaos's laughter filled the phone, scratchy and distant with
tape.
There was a loud click and Edward's voice came over the phone.
"Anita, tell me where you are. I can help you."
"They'll kill Phillip," I said. "Besides, you aren't on my side,
remember."
"I'm the closest thing you've got to an ally."
"God help me, then." I hung up on him, hard. Phillip had tried
to defend me last night. Now he was paying for it. I yelled,
"Dammit!"
A man pumping gas stared at me.
"What are you looking at?" I nearly yelled that, too. He dropped
his eyes and concentrated very hard on filling his tank with
gas.
I got behind the wheel of my car and sat there for a few
minutes. I was so angry, I was shaking. I could feel the tension in
my teeth. Dammit. Dammit! I was too angry to drive. It wouldn't
help Phillip if I got in a car accident on the way.
I tried breathing deep gulps of air. It didn't help. I turned
the key in the ignition. "No speeding, can't afford to get stopped
by the cops. Easy does it, Anita, easy does it." I talk to myself
every once in a while. Give myself very good advice. Sometimes I
even take it.
I put the car in gear and drove out onto the road - carefully.
Anger rode up my back and into my shoulders and neck. I gripped the
steering wheel too hard and found that my hands weren't quite
healed. Sharp little jabs of pain, but not enough. There wasn't
enough pain in the whole world to get rid of the anger.
Phillip was being hurt because of me. Just like Catherine and
Ronnie. No more. No freaking more. I was going to get Phillip, save
him any way I could; then I was turning the whole blasted thing
over to the police. Without proof, yeah, without anything to back
it up. I was bailing out before more people got hurt.
The anger was almost enough to hide the fear behind it. If
Nikolaos was tormenting Phillip for last night, she might not be
too happy with me either. I was going back down those stairs into
the master's lair, at night. Didn't seem real bright when you put
it that way.
The anger was fading in a wash of cold, skin-shivering fear.
"No!" I would not go in there afraid. I held onto my anger with
everything I had. This was the closest I'd come to hate in a long
time. Hatred; now there's an emotion that'll spread warmth through
your body.
Most hatred is based on fear, one way or another. Yeah. I
wrapped myself in anger, with a dash of hate, and at the bottom of
it all was an icy center of pure terror.
Chapter 37
The Circus of the Damned is housed in an old warehouse. Its name
is emblazoned across the roof in colored lights. Giant clown
figurines dance around the words in frozen pantomime. If you look
very closely at the clowns, you notice they have fangs. But only if
you look very closely.
The sides of the building are strung with huge plastic cloth
signs, like an old-fashioned sideshow. One banner showed a man
being hung; "The Death Defying Count Alcourt," it said. Zombies
crawled from a graveyard in one picture; "Watch the Dead Rise from
the Grave." A very bad drawing showed a man halfway between wolf
and man shape; Fabian, the Werewolf. There were other signs. Other
attractions. None of them looked very wholesome.
Guilty Pleasures treads a thin line between entertainment and
the sadistic. The Circus goes over the edge and down into the
abyss.
And here I go inside. Oh, joy in the morning.
Noise hits you at the door. A blast of carnival sound, the push
and shove of the crowd, the rustling of hundreds of people. The
lights spill and scream in a hundred different colors, all
eye-searing, all guaranteed to attract attention, or make you lose
your lunch. Of course, maybe that was just my nerves.
The smell is formed of cotton candy, corn dogs, the cinnamon
smell of elephant ears, snow cones, sweat, and under it all a
neck-ruffling smell. Blood smells like sweet copper pennies, and
that smell mingles over everything. Most people don't recognize it.
But there is another scent on the air, not just blood, but
violence. Of course, violence has no smell. Yet, always here, there
is - something. The barest hint of long-closed rooms and rotting
cloth.
I had never come here before, except on police business. What I
wouldn't have given for a few uniforms right now.
The crowd parted like water in front of a ship. Winter, Mr.
Muscles, moved through the people, and instinctively they moved out
of his way. I'd have moved out of his way, too, but I didn't think
I'd get the chance.
Winter was wearing a proverbial strongman's outfit. It had fake
zebra stripes on a white background and left most of his upper body
exposed. His legs in the striped leotard rippled and corded, like
it was a second skin. His bicep, unflexed, was bigger around than
both my arms. He stopped in front of me, towering over me, and
knowing it.
"Is your entire family obscenely tall, or is it just you?" I
asked.
He frowned, eyes narrowing. I don't think he got it. Oh, well.
"Follow me," he said. With that he turned and walked back through
the crowd.
I guess I was supposed to follow like a good little girl. Shit.
A large blue tent took up one corner of the warehouse. People were
lining up, showing tickets. A man was calling out in a booming
voice, "Almost show time, folks. Present your tickets and enter.
See the hanging man. Count Alcourt will be executed before your
very eyes."
I had paused to listen. Winter was not waiting. Luckily, his
broad, white back didn't blend with the crowd. I had to trot to
catch up with him. I hate having to do that. It makes me feel like
a child running after an adult. If a little running was the worst
thing I experienced tonight, things would be just hunky-dory.
There was a full-size Ferris wheel, its glowing top nearly
brushing the ceiling. A man held a baseball out to me. "Try your
luck, little lady."
I ignored him. I hate being called little lady. I glanced at the
prizes to be won. It ran long on stuffed animals and ugly dolls.
The stuffed toys were mostly predators: soft plush panthers,
toddler-size bears, spotted snakes, and giant fuzzy-toothed
bats.
There was a bald man in white clown makeup selling tickets to
the mirror maze. He stared at the children as they went inside his
glass house. I could almost feel the weight of his eyes on their
backs, like he would memorize every line of their small bodies.
Nothing would have gotten me past him into that sparkling river of
glass.
The Funhouse was next, more clowns and screams, the shooting
whoosh of air. The metal sidewalk leading into its depths
buckled and twisted. A little boy nearly fell. His mother dragged
him to his feet. Why would any parent bring their child here, to
this frightening place?
There was even a haunted house; it was almost funny. Sort of
redundant, if you ask me. The whole freaking place was a house of
horrors.
Winter had paused before the little door leading into the back
areas. He was frowning at me, massive arms almost crossed over
equally massive chest. The arms didn't quite fold right, too much
muscle for that, but he was trying.
He opened the door. I went inside. The tall, bald man who had
been with Nikolaos that first time was standing against the wall,
at attention. His handsome, narrow face, the eyes very prominent
because there was no hair, nothing much else to stare at, looked at
me the way elementary school teachers look at troublemaking
children. You must be punished, young lady. But what had I done
wrong?
The man's voice was deep, faintly British, cultured, but human.
"Search her for weapons before we go down."
Winter nodded. Why talk when gestures will do? His big hands
lifted my jacket and took the gun. He shoved one shoulder so that I
spun around. He found the second gun, too. Had I really thought
they'd let me keep the weapons? Yes, I guess I had. Stupid me.
"Check her arms for knives."
Damn.
Winter gripped my jacket sleeves like he meant to tear them.
"Wait, please. I'll just take the jacket off. You can search it,
too, if you like."
Winter took the knives on my arms. The bald-headed man searched
the yellow windbreaker for concealed weapons. He didn't find any.
Winter patted my legs down, but not well. He missed the knife at my
ankle. I had one weapon, and they didn't know it. Bully for me.
Down the long stairs and into the empty throne room. Maybe it
showed on my face because the man said, "The master waits for us,
with your friend."
The man led the way as he had down the stairs. Winter brought up
the rear. Perhaps they thought I would make a break for it. Right.
Where would I go?
They stopped at the dungeon. How had I known they would? The
bald-headed man knocked on the door twice, not too hard, not too
soft.
There was silence; then bright, high laughter drifted from
inside. My skin crawled with the sound. I did not want to see
Nikolaos again. I did not want to be in a cell again. I wanted to
go home.
The door opened. Valentine made a hand-sweeping motion. "Come
in, come in." He was wearing a silver mask this time. A strand of
his auburn hair was stuck to the forehead of the mask, sticky with
blood.
My heart thudded into my throat. Phillip, are you alive? It was
all I could do not to yell out.
Valentine stepped against the door as if waiting for me to pass.
I glanced at the nameless bald man. His face was unreadable. He
motioned me ahead of him. What could I do? I went.
What I saw stopped me at the top of the steps. I couldn't go
farther. I couldn't. Aubrey stood against the far wall, grinning at
me. His hair was still golden; his face, bestial. Nikolaos stood in
a dress of flowing white that made her skin look like chalk, her
hair cotton-white. She was sprinkled with blood, like someone had
taken a red ink pen and splattered her.
Her grey-blue eyes stared up at me. She laughed again, rich and
pure and wicked. I had no other word for it. Wicked. She caressed a
white, blood-spattered hand against Phillip's bare chest. She
rolled her fingertip over his nipple, and laughed.
He was chained to the wall at wrist and ankle. His long, brown
hair had fallen forward, hiding one eye. His muscular body was
covered in bites. Blood rained down his tan skin in thin crimson
lines. He stared up at me from that one brown eye, the other hidden
in his hair. Despair. He knew he had been brought here to die, like
this, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. But there
was something I could do. There had to be. God, please let there
be!
The man touched my shoulder, and I jumped. The vampires laughed.
The man did not. I walked down the steps to stand a few feet in
front of Phillip. He wouldn't look at me.
Nikolaos touched his naked thigh and ran her fingers up it. His
body tightened, hands clenching into fists.
"Oh, we have been having a fine time with your lover here,"
Nikolaos said. Her voice was sweet as ever. The child bride
incarnate. Bitch.
"He isn't my lover."
She pouted out her lower lip. "Now, Anita, no lying. That's no
fun." She stalked towards me, slender hips swaying to some inner
dance. She reached for me, and I backed up, bumping into Winter.
"Animator, animator," she said. "When will you learn that you
cannot fight me?"
I don't think she wanted me to argue, so I didn't.
She reached for me again, with one bloody, dainty hand. "Winter
can hold you, if you like."
Stay still, or we hold you down. Great choices. I stayed still.
I watched those pale fingers glide towards my face. I ground my
fingernails into the palms of my hands. I would not move away from
her. I would not move. Her fingers touched my forehead, and I felt
the cool wetness of blood. She brushed it down my temple to my
cheek and traced her fingers over my lower lip. I think I stopped
breathing.
"Lick your lips," she said.
"No," I said.
"Oh, you are a stubborn one. Has Jean-Claude given you this
courage?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Her eyes darkened, face clouding over. "Don't be coy, Anita. It
does not become you." Her voice was suddenly adult, hot enough to
scald. "I know your little secret."
"I don't know what you are talking about," I said, and I meant
it. I didn't understand the anger.
"If you like, we can play games for a little while longer." She
was suddenly standing beside Phillip, and I hadn't seen her move.
"Did that surprise you, Anita? I am still master of this city. I
have powers that you and your master have never even dreamed
of."
My master? What the hell was she talking about? I didn't have a
master.
She rubbed her hands along the side of his chest, over his
rib cage. Her hand wiped away the blood to show the skin smooth
and untouched. She stood in front of him and didn't come to his
collarbone. Phillip had closed his eyes. Her head arched backwards,
a glimpse of fangs, lips drawn back in a snarl.
"No." I stepped towards them. Winter's hands descended on my
shoulders. He shook his head, slow and careful. I was not to
interfere.
She drove her fangs into his side. His whole body stiffened,
neck arching, arms jerking at the chains.
"Leave him alone!" I drove an elbow into Winter's stomach. He
grunted, and his fingers dug into my shoulders until I wanted to
scream. His arms enveloped me, tight to his chest, no movement
allowed.
She raised her face from Phillip's skin. Blood trickled down her
chin. She licked her lips with a tiny pink tongue. "Ironic," she
said in a voice years older than the body would ever be. "I sent
Phillip to seduce you. Instead, you seduced him."
"We are not lovers." I felt ridiculous with Winter's arms
crushing me to his chest.
"Denial will not help either of you," she said.
"What will help us?" I asked.
She motioned, and Winter released me. I stepped away from him,
out of reach. It put me closer to Nikolaos, perhaps not an
improvement.
"Let us discuss your future, Anita." She began to walk up the
steps. "And your lover's future."
I assumed she meant Phillip, and I didn't correct her. The
nameless man motioned for me to follow her up the stairs. Aubrey
was moving closer to Phillip. They would be alone together.
Unacceptable.
"Nikolaos, please."
Maybe it was the "please." She turned. "Yes," she said.
"May I ask two things?"
She was smiling at me, amused with me. An adult's amusement with
a child who had used a new word. I didn't care what she thought of
me as long as she did what I wanted. "You may ask," she said.
"That when we go, all the vampires leave this room." She was
still staring at me, smiling, so far so good. "And that I be
allowed to speak with Phillip privately."
She laughed, high and wild, chimes in a storm wind. "You are
bold, mortal. I give you that. I begin to see what Jean-Claude sees
in you."
I let the comment go because I felt like I was missing part of
the meaning. "May I have what I ask, please?"
"Call me master, and you will have it."
I swallowed and it was loud in the sudden stillness. "Please. .
. master." See, I didn't choke on the word after all.
"Very good, animator, very good indeed." Without her needing
to say anything, Valentine and Aubrey went up the steps and out
the door. They didn't even argue. That was frightening all on its
own.
"I will leave Burchard at the top of the steps. He has human
hearing. If you whisper, he won't be able to hear you at all."
"Burchard?" I asked.
"Yes, animator, Burchard, my human servant." She stared at me as
if that was significant. My expression didn't seem to please her.
She frowned. Then she turned abruptly in a swing of white skirts.
Winter followed her like an obedient puppy on steroids.
Burchard, the once nameless man, took up a post in front of the
closed door. He stared straight ahead, not at us. Privacy, or as
close as we were getting to it.
I went to Phillip and he still wouldn't look at me. His thick,
brown hair acted like a kind of curtain between us. "Phillip, what
happened?"
His voice was an abused whisper; screaming will do that to you.
I had to stand on tiptoe and nearly press my body against his to
hear him. "Guilty Pleasures; they took me from there."
"Didn't Robert try to stop them?" For some reason that seemed
important. I had only met Robert once, but part of me was angry
that he had not protected Phillip. He was in charge of things while
Jean-Claude was away. Phillip was one of those things.
"Wasn't strong enough."
I lost my balance and was forced to catch myself, hands flat
against his ruined chest. I jerked back, hands held out from me,
bloody.
Phillip closed his eyes and leaned back into the wall. His
throat worked hard at swallowing. There were two fresh bites on his
neck. They were going to bleed him to death if someone didn't get
carried away first.
He lowered his head and tried to look at me, but his hair had
spilled into both eyes. I wiped the blood on my jeans and went back
to stand almost on tiptoe next to him. I brushed the hair back from
his eyes, but it spilled forward again. It was beginning to bug me.
I combed my fingers through his hair until it stayed out of his
face. His hair was softer than it looked, thick and warm with the
heat of his body.
He almost smiled. His voice breaking as he whispered, "Few
months back, I'd have paid money for this."
I stared at him, then realized he was trying to make a joke.
God. My throat felt tight.
Burchard said, "It is time to go."
I stared into Phillip's eyes, perfect brown, torchlight dancing
in them like black mirrors. "I won't leave you here, Phillip."
His eyes flickered to the man on the stairs and back to me. Fear
turned his face young, helpless. "See you later," he said.
I stepped back from him. "You can count on it."
"It is not wise to keep her waiting," Burchard said.
He was probably right. Phillip and I stared at each other for a
handful of moments. The pulse in his throat jumped under his skin
like it was trying to escape. My throat ached; my chest was tight.
The torchlight flickered in my vision for just a second. I turned
away and walked to the steps. We tough-as-nails vampire slayers
don't cry. At least, never in public. At least, never when we can
help it.
Burchard held the door open for me. I glanced back at Phillip
and waved, like an idiot. He watches me go, his eyes too large for
his face suddenly, like a child who watches its parent leave the
room before all the monsters are gone.
I had to leave him like that - alone, helpless. God help me.
Chapter 38
Nikolaos sat in her carved wooden chair, tiny feet swinging off
the ground. Charming.
Aubrey leaned against the wall, tongue running over his lips,
getting the last bit of blood off them. Valentine stood very still
beside him, staring at me.
Winter stood beside me. The prison guard.
Burchard went to stand by Nikolaos, one hand on the back of her
chair.
"What, animator, no jokes?" Nikolaos asked. Her voice was still
the grown-up version. It was like she had two voices and could
change them with a push of a button.
I shook my head. I didn't feel very funny.
"Have we broken your spirit? Taken the fight out of you?"
I stared at her. Anger flared through me like a wave of heat.
"What do you want, Nikolaos?"
"Oh, that's much better." Her voice rose and fell, a little-girl
giggle at the end of each word. I might never like children
again.
"Jean-Claude should be growing weak inside his coffin. Starving,
but instead he is strong and well fed. How can this be?"
I didn't have the faintest idea, so I kept quiet. Maybe it was
rhetorical?
It wasn't. "Answer me, A-n-i-t-a." She stretched my name out,
biting off each syllable.
"I don't know."
"Oh, but you do."
I didn't, but she wasn't going to believe me. "Why are you
hurting Phillip?"
"He needed to be taught a lesson, after last night."
"Because he stood up to you?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, "because he stood up to me." She scooted out of
the chair and pattered towards me. She did a little turn so the
white dress billowed around her. She freaking skipped over to me,
smiling. "And because I was angry with you. I torture your lover,
and maybe I won't torture you. And perhaps, this demonstration will
give you fresh incentive to find the vampire murderer." Her pretty
little face was turned up to me, pale eyes gleaming with humor. She
was good.
I swallowed hard, and I asked the question I had to ask, "Why
were you angry with me?"
She cocked her head to one side. If she hadn't been
blood-spattered, it would have been cute. "Could it be that you do
not know?" She turned back to Burchard. "What think you, my friend?
Is she ignorant?"
He straightened his shoulders and said, "I believe that it is
possible."
"Oh, Jean-Claude has been a very naughty boy. Giving the second
mark to an unsuspecting mortal."
I stood very still. I was remembering blue, fiery eyes on the
stairs, and Jean-Claude's voice in my head. All right, I had
suspected it, but I still didn't understand what it meant. "What
does the second mark mean?"
She licked her lips, soft like a kitten. "Shall we explain,
Burchard? Shall we tell her what we know?"
"If she truly does not know, mistress, we must enlighten her,"
he said.
"Yes," she said and glided back to the chair. "Burchard, tell
her how old you are."
"I am six hundred and three years of age."
I stared at his smooth face and shook my head. "But you're
human, not a vampire."
"I have been given the fourth mark and will live as long as my
mistress needs me."
"No, Jean-Claude wouldn't do that to me," I said.
Nikolaos made a small shrugging motion with her hands. "I had
pressed him very hard. I knew of the first mark to heal you. I
suppose he was desperate to save himself."
I remembered the echo of his voice in my head. "I'm sorry. I had
no choice." Damn him, there were always choices. "He's been in my
dreams every night. What does that mean?"
"He is communicating with you, animator. With the third mark
will come more direct mind contact."
I shook my head. "No."
"No what, animator? No third mark, or no you don't believe us?"
she asked.
"I don't want to be anyone's servant."
"Have you been eating more than usual?" she asked.
The question was so odd, I just stared for a minute, then I
remembered. "Yes. Is that important?"
Nikolaos frowned. "He is siphoning energy from you, Anita. He is
feeding through your body. He should be growing weak by now, but
you will keep him strong."
"I didn't mean to."
"I believe you," she said. "Last night when I realized what he
had done, I was beside myself with anger. So I took your
lover."
"Please believe me, he is not my lover."
"Then why did he risk my anger to save you last night?
Friendship? Decency? I think not."
All right, let her believe it. Just get us out alive, that was
the goal. Nothing else mattered. "What can Phillip and I do to make
amends?"
"Oh, so polite, I like that." She put a hand on Burchard's
waist, a casual gesture like petting a dog. "Shall we show her what
she has to look forward to?"
His whole body tensed as if an electric current had run through
it. "If my mistress wishes."
"I do," she said.
Burchard knelt in front of her, face about chest level. Nikolaos
looked over his head at me. "This," she said, "is the fourth mark."
Her hands went to the small pearl buttons that decorated the front
of the white dress. She spread the cloth wide, baring small
breasts. They were a child's breasts, small and half-formed. She
drew a fingernail beside her left breast. The skin opened like
earth behind a plow, spilling blood in a red line down her chest
and stomach.
I could not see Burchard's face as he leaned forward. His hands
slid around her waist. His face buried between her breasts. She
tensed, back arching. Soft, sucking sounds filled the room's
stillness.
I looked away, staring at anything but them, as if I had found
them having sex but couldn't leave. Valentine was staring at me. I
stared back. He tipped an imaginary hat at me and flashed fangs. I
ignored him.
Burchard was sitting beside the chair, half-leaning against it.
His face was slack and flushed, his chest rising and falling in
deep gasps. He wiped blood from his mouth with a shaking hand.
Nikolaos sat very still, head back, eyes closed. Perhaps sex wasn't
such a bad analogy after all.
Nikolaos spoke with her eyes closed, head thrown back, voice
thick. "Your friend, Willie, is back in a coffin. He felt sorry for
Phillip. We will have to cure him of such instincts."
She raised her head abruptly, eyes bright, almost glittering, as
if they had a light all their own. "Can you see my scar today?"
I shook my head. She was the beautiful child, complete and
whole. No imperfections. "You look perfect again, why?"
"Because I am expending energy to make it so. I am having to
work at it." Her voice was low and warm, a building heat like
thunderstorms in the distance.
The hair at the back of my neck crawled. Something bad was about
to happen.
"Jean-Claude has his followers, Anita. If I kill him, they will
make him a martyr. But if I prove him weak, powerless, they just
fall away and follow me, or follow no one."
She stood, dress buttoned to her neck once more. Her cotton-white
hair seemed to move as if a wind stirred it, but there was no wind.
"I will destroy something Jean-Claude has given his protection
to."
How fast could I get to the knife on my leg? And what good would
it do me?
"I will prove to all that Jean-Claude can protect nothing. I am
master of all."
Egocentric bitch. Winter grabbed my arm before I could do
anything. Too busy watching the vampires to notice the humans.
"Go," she said. "Kill him."
Aubrey and Valentine stood away from the wall and bowed. Then
they were gone, as if they had vanished. I turned to Nikolaos.
She smiled. "Yes, I clouded your mind, and you did not see them
go."
"Where are they going?" My stomach was tight. I think I already
knew the answer.
"Jean-Claude has given Phillip his protection; thus he must
die."
"No."
Nikolaos smiled. "Oh, but yes."
A scream ripped through the hallway. A man's scream. Phillip's
scream.
"No!" I half-fell to my knees; only Winter's hand kept me from
falling to the floor. I pretended to faint, sagging in his grip. He
released me. I grabbed the knife from its ankle sheath. Winter and
I were close to the hallway, far away from Nikolaos and her human.
Maybe far enough.
Winter was staring at her as if waiting for orders. I came up
off the ground and drove the knife into his groin. The knife sank
in, and blood poured out as I drew the blade free and raced for the
hallway.
I was at the door when the first trickle of wind oozed down my
back. I didn't look back. I opened the door.
Phillip sagged in the chains. Blood poured in a bright red flood
down his chest. It splattered onto the floor, like rain. Torchlight
glittered on the wet bone of his spine. Someone had ripped his
throat out.
I staggered against the wall as if someone had hit me. I
couldn't get enough air. Someone kept whispering, "Oh, God, oh,
God," over and over, and it was me. I walked down the steps with my
back pressed against the wall. I couldn't take my eyes from him.
Couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't cry.
The torchlight reflected in his eyes, giving the illusion of
movement. A scream built in my gut and spilled out my throat.
"Phillip!"
Aubrey stepped between me and Phillip. He was covered in blood.
"I look forward to visiting your lovely friend, Catherine."
I wanted to run at him, screaming. Instead, I leaned against the
wall, knife held down at my side, unnoticed. The goal was no longer
to get out alive. The goal was to kill Aubrey. "You son of a bitch,
you fucking son of a bitch." My voice sounded utterly calm, no
emotion whatsoever. I wasn't afraid. I didn't feel anything.
Aubrey's face frowned at me through a mask of Phillip's blood.
"Do not say such things to me."
"You ugly, stinking, mother-fucking bastard."
He glided to me, just like I wanted him to. He put a hand on my
shoulder. I screamed in his face as loud as I could. He hesitated
for just a heartbeat. I shoved the knife blade between his ribs. It
was sharp and thin, and I shoved it hilt deep. His body stiffened,
leaning into me. Eyes wide and surprised. His mouth opened and
closed, but no sound came out. He toppled to the floor, fingers
grabbing at air.
Valentine was instantly there, kneeling by the body. "What have
you done?" He couldn't see the knife. It was shielded by Aubrey's
body.
"I killed him, you son of a bitch, just like I'm going to kill
you."
Valentine jerked to his feet, started to say something, and all
hell broke loose. The cell door crashed inward and smashed to bits
against the far wall. A tornado wind blasted into the room.
Valentine dropped to his knees, head touching the floor. He was
bowing. I flattened myself against the wall. The wind clawed at my
face, tangling my hair in front of my eyes.
The noise grew less, and I squinted up at the door. Nikolaos
floated just above the top step. Her hair crackled around her head,
like spider silk. Her skin had shrunken against her bones, until
she was skeletal. Her eyes glowed, pale blue fire. She started
floating down the steps, hands outstretched.
I could see her veins like blue lights under her skin. I ran.
Ran for the far wall, and the tunnel the ratmen had used.
The wind threw me against the wall, and I scrambled on hands and
feet towards the tunnel. The hole was large, and black, cool air
brushed my face, and something grabbed my ankle.
I screamed. The thing that was Nikolaos dragged me back. It
slammed me against the wall and pinned my wrists in one clawed
hand. The body leaned into my legs, bone under cloth.
The lips had receded, exposing the fangs and teeth. The skeletal
head hissed, "You will learn obedience, to me!" It screamed in my
face, and I screamed back. Wordlessly, an animal screaming in a
trap.
My heart was thudding in my throat. I couldn't breathe.
"Nooo!"
The thing shrieked, "Look at me!"
And I did. I fell into the blue fire that was her eyes. The fire
burrowed into my brain, pain. Her thoughts cut me up like knives,
slicing away parts of me. Her rage scalded and burned until I
thought the skin was peeling away from my face. Claws scrapped the
inside of my skull, grinding bone into dust.
When I could see again, I was huddled by the wall, and she was
standing over me, not touching, not needing to. I was shaking,
shaking so badly my teeth chattered. I was cold, so cold.
"Eventually, animator, you will call me master, and you will
mean it." She was suddenly kneeling over me. She pressed her
slender body over mine, hands pinning my shoulders to the floor. I
couldn't move.
The beautiful little girl leaned her face against my cheek and
whispered, "I am going to sink fangs into your neck, and there is
nothing you can do to stop me."
Her delicate shell of an ear was brushing my lips. I sank teeth
into it until I tasted blood. She shrieked and jerked away, blood
running down the side of her neck.
Bright razor claws tore through my brain. Her pain, her rage,
turning my brain into silly putty. I think I was screaming again,
but I couldn't hear it. After a while I couldn't hear anything.
Darkness came. It swallowed up Nikolaos and left me alone, floating
in the dark.
Chapter 39
I woke up, which was a pleasant surprise all on its own. I was
blinking up into an electric light set in a ceiling. I was alive,
and I wasn't in the dungeon. Good things to know.
Why should it surprise me that I was alive? My fingers caressed
the rough, knobby fabric of the couch I was lying on. There was a
picture hanging over the couch. A river scene with flatboats,
mules, people. Someone came to stand over me, long yellow hair,
square-jawed, handsome face. Not as inhumanly beautiful as he had
been to me before, but still handsome. I guess you had to be
handsome to be a stripper.
My voice came out in a harsh croak. "Robert."
He knelt beside me. "I was afraid you wouldn't wake up before
dawn. Are you hurt?"
"Where . . ." I cleared my throat and that helped a little.
"Where am I?"
"Jean-Claude's office at Guilty Pleasures."
"How did I get here?"
"Nikolaos brought you. She said, 'Here's your master's whore.' "
I watched his throat work as he swallowed. It reminded me of
something, but I couldn't think what.
"You know what Jean-Claude has done?" I asked.
Robert nodded. "My master has marked you twice. When I speak to
you, I am speaking to him."
Did he mean that figuratively or literally? I really didn't want
to know.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
There was something in the way he asked it that meant I
shouldn't feel all right. My throat hurt. I raised a hand and
touched it. Dried blood. On my neck.
I closed my eyes, but that didn't help. A small sound escaped my
throat, very like a whimper. Phillip's image was burned on
my mind. The blood pouring from his throat, torn pink meat. I
shook my head and tried to breathe deep and slow. It was no good.
"Bathroom," I said.
Robert showed me where it was. I went inside, knelt on the cool
floor, and threw up in the toilet, until I was empty and nothing
but bile came up. Then I walked to the sink and splashed cold water
in my mouth and on my face. I stared at myself in the mirror above
the sink. My eyes looked black, not brown, my skin sickly. I looked
like shit and felt worse.
And there on the right side of my neck was the real thing. Not
Phillip's healing bite marks, but fang marks. Tiny, diminutive,
fang marks. Nikolaos had . . . contaminated me. To prove she could
harm Jean-Claude's human servant. She had proved how tough she was,
oh, yeah. Real tough.
Phillip was dead. Dead. Try the word over in your mind, but
could I say it out loud? I decided to try. "Phillip is dead," I
told my reflection.
I crumbled the brown paper towel and stuffed it in the metal
trash can. It wasn't enough. I screamed, "Ahhh!" I kicked the trash
can, over and over until it toppled to the floor, spilling its
contents.
Robert came through the door. "Are you all right?"
"Does it look like I'm all right?" I yelled.
He hesitated in the doorway. "Is there anything I can do to
help?"
"You couldn't even keep them from taking Phillip!"
He winced as if I had hit him. "I did my best."
"Well, it wasn't good enough, was it?" I was still screaming
like a mad person. I sank to my knees, and all that rage choked up
my throat and spilled out my eyes. "Get out!"
He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Get out of here!"
He closed the door behind him. And I sat in the floor and rocked
and cried and screamed. When my heart felt as empty as my stomach,
I felt leaden, used up.
Nikolaos had killed Phillip and bitten me to prove how powerful
she was. I bet she thought I'd be scared absolutely shitless of
her. She was right on that. But I spend most of my waking hours
confronting and destroying things that I fear. A thousand-year-old
master vampire was a tall order, but a girl's got to have a
goal.
Chapter 40
The club was quiet and dark. There was no one there but me. It
must have been after dawn. The club was hushed and full of that
waiting silence that all buildings get after the people go home. As
if once we leave, the building has a life of its own, if only we
would leave it in peace. I shook my head and tried to concentrate.
To feel something. All I wanted was to go home and try to sleep.
And pray I didn't dream.
There was a yellow Post-it note on the door. It read, "Your
weapons are behind the bar. The master brought those, too.
Robert."
I put both guns in place and the knives. The one I had used on
Winter and Aubrey was missing. Was Winter dead? Maybe. Was Aubrey
dead? Hopefully. Usually it took a master vampire to survive a blow
to the heart, but I'd never tried it on a five-hundred-year-old
walking corpse. If they took the knife out, he might be tough
enough to survive it. I had to call Catherine. And tell her what?
Get out of town, a vampire is after you. Didn't sound like
something she'd buy. Shit.
I walked out into the soft white light of dawn. The street was
empty and awash in that gentle morning air. The heat hadn't had
time to creep in. It was almost cool. Where was my car? I heard
footsteps a second before the voice said, "Don't move. I have a gun
pointed at your back."
I clasped my hands atop my head without being asked. "Good
morning, Edward," I said.
"Good morning, Anita," he said. "Stand very still, please." He
stood just behind me, gun pressing against my spine. He frisked me
completely, top to bottom. Nothing haphazard about Edward; that's
one of the reasons he's still alive. He stepped back from me, and
said, "You may turn around now."
He had my Firestar tucked into his belt, the Browning loose in
his left hand. I don't know what he did with the knives.
He smiled, boyish and charming, gun very steadily pointed at my
chest. "No more hiding. Where is this Nikolaos?" he asked.
I took a deep breath and let it out. I thought about accusing
him of being the vampire murderer, but now didn't seem to be a good
time. Maybe later, when he wasn't pointing a gun at me. "May I
lower my arms?" I asked.
He gave a slight nod.
I lowered my arms slowly. "I want one thing clear between us,
Edward. I'll give you the information, but not because I'm afraid
of you. I want her dead. And I want a piece of it."
His smile widened, eyes glittering with pleasure. "What happened
last night?"
I glanced down at the sidewalk, then up. I stared into his blue
eyes and said, "She had Phillip killed."
He was watching my face very closely. "Go on."
"She bit me. I think she plans on making me a personal
servant."
He put his gun back in his shoulder holster and came to stand
next to me. He turned my head to one side to see the bite mark
better. "You need to clean this bite. It's going to hurt like
hell."
"I know. Will you help me?"
"Sure." His smile softened. "Here I was going to cause you pain
to get information. Now you ask me to help you pour acid on a
wound."
"Holy Water," I said.
"It's going to feel the same," he said.
Unfortunately, he was right.
Chapter 41
I sat with my back pressed against the cool porcelain of the
bathtub. The front and side of my shirt was clinging to me,
water-soaked. Edward knelt beside me, a half-empty bottle of Holy
Water in one hand. We were on the third bottle. I had thrown up
only once. Bully for me.
We had started with me sitting on the edge of the sink. I had
not stayed there long. I had jumped, yelled, and whimpered. I had
also called Edward a son of a bitch. He didn't hold it against
me.
"How do you feel?" he asked. His face was utterly blank. I
couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself or hating it.
I glared up at him. "Like someone's been shoving a red-hot knife
against my throat."
"I mean, do you want to stop and rest awhile?"
I took a deep breath. "No. I want it clean, Edward. All the
way.'
He shook his head, almost smiled. "It is customary to do this
over a matter of days, you know."
"Yes," I said.
"But you want it all in one marathon session?" His gaze was very
steady, as if the question were more important than it seemed.
I looked away from the intensity of his eyes. I didn't want to
be stared at right now. "I don't have a few days. I need this wound
clean before nightfall."
"Because Nikolaos will come visit you again," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"And unless this first wound is purified, she'll have a hold on
you."
I took a deep breath and it trembled. "Yes."
"Even if we clean the bite, she may still be able to call you.
If she's as powerful as you say she is."
"She's that powerful and more." I rubbed my hands along my
jeans. "You think Nikolaos can turn me against you, even if we
clean the bite?" I looked up at him then, hoping to be able to read
his face.
He stared down at me. "We vampire slayers take our chances."
"That wasn't a no," I said.
He gave a flash of smile. "It wasn't a yes, either."
Oh, goody, Edward didn't know either. "Pour some more on, before
I lose my nerve."
He did smile then, eyes gleaming. "You will never lose your
nerve. Your life, probably, but never your nerve."
It was a compliment and meant as one. "Thank you."
He put a hand on my shoulder, and I turned my face away. My
heart was thudding in my throat until all I could hear was my blood
pulsing inside my head. I wanted to run, to lash out, to scream,
but I had to sit there and let him hurt me. I hate that. It had
always taken at least two people to give me injections when I was a
child. One person to man the needle and one to hold me down.
Now I held myself down. If Nikolaos bit me twice, I would
probably do anything she wanted me to. Even kill. I had seen it
happen before, and that vampire had been child's play compared to
the master.
The water trickled down my skin and hit the bite mark like
molten gold, scalding through my body. It was eating through my
skin and bone. Destroying me. Killing me.
I shrieked. I couldn't hold it. Too much pain. Couldn't run
away. Had to scream.
I was lying on the floor, my cheek pressed against the coolness
of it, breathing in short, hungry gasps.
"Slow your breathing, Anita. You're hyperventilating. Breathe,
slow and easy, or you're going to pass out."
I opened my mouth and took in a deep breath; it wheezed and
screamed down my throat. I was choking on air. I coughed and fought
to breathe. I was light-headed and a little sick by the time I
could take a deep breath, but I hadn't passed out. A zillion
brownie points for me.
Edward almost had to lie on the floor to put his face near mine.
"Can you hear me?"
I managed, "Yes."
"Good. I want to try to put the cross against the bite. Do you
agree or do you think it's too soon?"
If we hadn't cleansed the wound with enough Holy Water, the
cross would burn me, and I'd have a fresh scar. I had been brave
above and beyond the call of duty. I didn't want to play anymore. I
opened my mouth to say, "No," but it wasn't what came out. "Do it,"
I said. Shit. I was going to be brave.
He brushed my hair away from my neck. I lay on the floor and
pressed my hands into fists, trying to prepare myself. There is no
real way to prepare yourself for somebody shoving a branding iron
into your neck.
The chain rustled and slithered through Edward's hands. "Are you
ready?"
No. "Just do it, dammit."
He did. The cross pressed against my skin, cool metal, no
burning, no smoke, no seared flesh, no pain. I was pure, or as pure
as I started out.
He dangled the crucifix in front of my face. I grabbed it with
one hand and squeezed until my hand shook. It didn't take long.
Tears seeped from the corners of my eyes. I wasn't crying, not
really. I was exhausted.
"Can you sit up?" he asked.
I nodded and forced myself to sit, leaning against the
bathtub.
"Can you stand up?" he asked.
I thought about it, and decided no, I didn't think I could. My
whole body was weak, shaky, nauseous. "Not without help."
Edward knelt beside me, put an arm behind my shoulders and one
under my knees, and lifted me in his arms. He stood in one smooth
motion, no strain.
"Put me down," I said.
He looked at me. "What?"
"I am not a child. I don't want to be carried."
He drew a loud breath, then said, "All right." He lowered me to
my feet and let go. I staggered against the wall and slid to the
floor. The tears were back, dammit. I sat in the floor, crying, too
weak to walk from my bathroom to my bed. God!
Edward just stood there, looking down at me, face neutral and
unreadable as a cat.
My voice came out almost normal, no hint of crying. "I hate
being helpless. I hate it!"
"You are one of the least helpless people I know," Edward said.
He knelt beside me again, draped my right arm over his shoulders,
grabbed my right wrist with his hand. His other arm encircled
my waist. The height difference made it a little awkward, but he
managed to give me the illusion that I walked to the bed.
The stuffed penguins sat against the wall. Edward hadn't said
anything about them. If he wouldn't mention it, I wouldn't. Who
knows, maybe Death slept with a teddy bear? Naw.
The heavy drapes were still closed, leaving the room in
permanent twilight. "Rest. I'll stand guard and see that none of
the bogeys sneak up on you."
I believed him.
Edward brought the white chair from the living room and sat it
against the bedroom wall, near the door. He slipped his shoulder
holster back on, gun ready at hand. He had brought a gym bag up
from the car with us. He unzipped it and drew out what looked like
a miniature machine gun. I didn't know much about machine guns, and
all I could think of was an Uzi.
"What kind of gun is that?" I asked.
"A Mini-Uzi."
What do you know? I had been right. He popped the clip and
showed me how to load it, where the safety was, all the finer
points, like it was a new car. He sat down in the chair with the
machine gun on his knees.
My eyes kept fluttering shut, but I said, "Don't shoot any of my
neighbors, okay?"
I think he smiled. "I'll try not to."
I nodded. "Are you the vampire murderer?"
He smiled then, bright, charming. "Go to sleep, Anita."
I was on the edge of sleep when his voice called me back, soft
and faraway. "Where is Nikolaos's daytime retreat?"
I opened my eyes and tried to focus on him. He was still sitting
in the chair, motionless. "I'm tired, Edward, not stupid." His
laughter bubbled up around me as I fell asleep.
Chapter 42
Jean-Claude sat in the carved throne. He smiled at me and
extended one long-fingered hand. "Come," he said.
I was wearing a long, white dress that had lace of its own. I
had never dreamed of myself in anything like it. I glanced up at
Jean-Claude. It was his choice, not mine. Fear tightened my throat.
"It's my dream," I said.
He held out both hands and said, "Come."
And I went to him. The dress whispered and scraped on the
stones, a continuous rustling noise. It grated on my nerves. I was
suddenly standing in front of him. I raised my hands towards his
slowly. I shouldn't do it. Bad idea, but I couldn't seem to stop
myself.
His hands wrapped around mine, and I knelt before him. He drew
my hands to the lace that spilled down the front of his shirt,
forced my fingers to take two handfuls of it.
He cupped his hands over mine, holding them tight; then he
ripped his shirt open using my hands.
His chest was smooth and pale with black hair curling in a line
down the middle. The hair thickened over the flatness of his
stomach, incredibly black against the white of his belly. The burn
scar was firm and shiny and out of place against the perfection of
his body.
He gripped my chin in one hand, raising my face towards him. His
other hand touched his chest, just below his right nipple. He drew
blood on his pale skin. It trickled down his chest in a bright,
crimson line.
I tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my jaw like a
vise. I shouted, "No!"
I hit at him with my left hand. He caught my wrist and held it.
I used my right hand to grip the floor and shoved with my knees. He
held me at jaw and wrist like a butterfly on a pin. You can
move, but you can't get away. I dropped to a sitting position, forcing
him to strangle me or lower me to the ground. He lowered me.
I kicked out with everything I had. Both feet connected with his
knee. Vampires can feel pain. He dropped my jaw so suddenly, I fell
backwards. He grabbed both my wrists and jerked me to my knees,
body pinned on either side by his legs. He sat in the chair, knees
controlling my lower body, hands like chains on my wrists.
A high, tinkling laughter filled the room. Nikolaos stood to one
side, watching us. Her laughter echoed through the room, growing
louder and louder, like music gone mad.
Jean-Claude transferred both my wrists to one hand, and I could
not stop him. His free hand stroked my cheek, smoothing down the
line of my neck. His fingers tightened at the base of my skull and
began to push.
"Jean-Claude, please, don't do this!"
He pressed my face closer and closer to the wound on his chest.
I struggled, but his fingers were welded to my skull, a part of me.
"NO!"
Nikolaos's laughter changed to words. "Scratch the surface, and
we are all much alike, animator."
I screamed, "Jean-Claude!"
His voice came like velvet, warm and dark, sliding through my
mind. "Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, two minds with but one
body, two souls wedded as one." For one bright, shining moment, I
saw it, felt it. Eternity with Jean-Claude. His touch . . . forever.
His lips. His blood.
I blinked and found my lips almost touching the wound in his
chest. I could have reached out and licked it. "Jean-Claude, no!
Jean-Claude!" I screamed it. "God help me!" I screamed that,
too.
Darkness and someone gripping my shoulder. I didn't even think
about it. Instinct took over. The gun from the headboard was in
my hand and turning to point.
A hand trapped my arm under the pillow, pointing the gun at the
wall, a body pressing against mine. "Anita, Anita, it's Edward.
Look at me!"
I blinked up at Edward, who was pinning my arms. His breathing
was coming a little fast.
I stared at the gun in my hand and back at Edward. He was still
holding my arms. I guess I didn't blame him.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Say something, Anita."
"I had a nightmare," I said.
He shook his head. "No shit." He released me slowly.
I slid the gun back in its holster.
"Who's Jean-Claude?" he asked.
"Why?"
"You were calling his name."
I brushed a hand over my forehead, and it came away slick with
sweat. The clothes I'd slept in and the sheet were drenched with
it. These nightmares were beginning to get on my nerves.
"What time is it?" The room looked too dark, as if the sun had
gone down. My stomach tightened. If it was near dark, Catherine
wouldn't have a chance.
"Don't panic; it's just clouds. You've got about four hours
until dusk."
I took a deep breath and staggered into the bathroom. I splashed
cold water on my face and neck. I looked ghost-pale in the mirror.
Had the dream been Jean-Claude's doing or Nikolaos's? If it had
been Nikolaos, did she already control me? No answers. No answers
to anything.
Edward was sitting in the white chair when I came back out. He
watched me like I was an interesting species of insect that he had
never seen before.
I ignored him and called Catherine's office. "Hi, Betty, this is
Anita Blake. Is Catherine in?"
"Hello, Ms. Blake. I thought you knew that Ms. Maison is going
to be out of town from the thirteenth until the twentieth on a
deposition."
Catherine had told me, but I forgot. I finally lucked out. It
was about time. "I forgot, Betty. Thanks a lot. Thanks more than
you'll ever know."
"Glad to be of help. Ms. Maison has scheduled the first fitting
for the bridesmaid dresses on the twenty-third." She said it like
it should make me feel better. It didn't.
"I won't forget. Bye."
"Have a nice day."
I hung up and phoned Irving Griswold. He was a reporter for the
Saint Louis Post-Dispatch. He was also a werewolf. Irving
the werewolf. It didn't quite work, but then what did? Charles the
werewolf, naw. Justin, Oliver, Wilbur, Brent? Nope.
Irving answered on the third ring.
"It's Anita Blake."
"Well, hi, what's up?" He sounded suspicious, as if I never
called him unless I wanted something.
"Do you know any wererats?"
He was quiet for almost too long; then, "Why do you want to
know?"
"I can't tell you."
"You mean you want my help, but I don't get a story out of
it."
I sighed. "That's about it."
"Then why should I help you?"
"Don't give me a hard time, Irving. I've given you plenty of
exclusives. My information is what got you your first front page
byline. So don't give me grief."
"A little grouchy today, aren't you?"
"Do you know a wererat or don't you?"
"I do."
"I need to get a message to the Rat King."
He gave a low whistle that was piercing over the phone. "You
don't ask for much, do you? I might be able to get you a meeting
with the wererat I know, but not their king."
"Give the Rat King this message; got a pencil?"
"Always," he said.
"The vampires didn't get me, and I didn't do what they
wanted."
Irving read it back to me. When I confirmed it, he said, "You're
involved with vampires and wererats, and I don't get an
exclusive."
"No one's going to get this one, Irving. It's going to be too
messy for that."
He was silent a moment. "Okay. I'll try to set up a meeting. I
should know sometime tonight."
"Thanks, Irving."
"You be careful, Blake. I'd hate to lose my best source of front
page bylines."
"Me, too," I said.
I had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang again. I picked
it up without thinking. A phone rings, you pick it up, years of
training. I haven't had my answering machine long enough to shake
it completely.
"Anita, this is Bert."
"Hi, Bert." I sighed, quietly.
"I know you are working on the vampire case, but I have
something you might be interested in."
"Bert, I am way over my head already. Anything else and I may
never see daylight." You'd think Bert would ask if I was all right.
How I was doing. But no, not my boss.
"Thomas Jensen called today."
My spine straightened. "Jensen called?"
"That's right."
"He's going to let us do it?"
"Not us, you. He specifically asked for you. I tried to get him
to take someone else, but he wouldn't do it. And it has to be
tonight. He's afraid he'll chicken out."
"Damn," I said softly.
"Do I call him back and cancel, or can you give me a time to
have him meet you?"
Why did everything have to come at once? One of life's
rhetorical questions. "Have him meet me at full dark tonight."
"That's my girl. I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"I'm not your girl, Bert. How much is he paying you?"
"Thirty thousand dollars. The five-thousand-dollar down payment
has already arrived by special messenger."
"You are an evil man, Bert."
"Yes," he said, "and it pays very well, thank you." He hung up
without saying good-bye. Mr. Charm.
Edward was staring at me. "Did you just take a job raising the
dead, for tonight?"
"Laying the dead to rest actually, but yes."
"Does raising the dead take it out of you?"
"It?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Energy, stamina, strength."
"Sometimes."
"How about this job? Is it an energy drain?"
I smiled. "Yes."
He shook his head. "You can't afford to be used up, Anita."
"I won't be used up," I said. I took a deep breath and tried to
think how to explain things to Edward. "Thomas Jensen lost his
daughter twenty years ago. Seven years ago he had her raised as a
zombie."
"So?"
"She committed suicide. No one knew why at the time. It was
later learned that Mr. Jensen had sexually abused his daughter and
that was why she had killed herself."
"And he raised her from the dead." Edward grimaced. "You don't
mean. . ."
I waved my hands as if I could erase the sudden vivid image.
"No, no, not that. He felt remorseful and raised her to say he was
sorry."
"And?"
"She wouldn't forgive him."
He shook his head. "I don't understand."
"He raised her to make amends, but she had died hating him,
fearing him. The zombie wouldn't forgive him, so he wouldn't put
her back. As her mind deteriorated and her body, too, he kept her
with him as a sort of punishment."
"Jesus."
"Yeah," I said. I walked to the closet and got out my gym bag.
Edward carried guns in his; I carried my animator paraphernalia in
it. Sometimes, I carried my vampire-slaying kit in it. The
matchbook Zachary gave me was in the bottom of the bag. I stuffed
it in my pants pocket. I don't think Edward saw me. He does catch
on if a clue sits up and barks. "Jensen finally agreed to put her
in the ground if I'll do it. I can't say no. He's sort of a legend
among animators. The closest we come to a ghost story."
"Why tonight? If it's waited seven years, why not a few more
nights?"
I kept putting things in the gym bag. "He insisted. He's afraid
he'll lose his nerve if he has to wait. Besides, I may not be alive
a few nights from now. He might not let anybody else do it."
"That is not your problem. You didn't raise his zombie."
"No, but I am an animator first. Vampire slaying is . . . a
sideline. I am an animator. It isn't just a job."
He was still staring at me. "I don't understand why, but I
understand you have to do it."
"Thanks."
He smiled. "Your show. Mind if I come along to make sure no one
offs you while you're gone?"
I glanced at him. "Ever see a zombie raising?"
"No."
"You're not squeamish, are you?" I smiled when I said it.
He stared at me, blue eyes gone suddenly cold. His whole face
became different. There was nothing there, no expression, except
that awful coldness. Emptiness. I'd had a leopard look at me like
that once, through the cage bars, no emotion I understood, thoughts
so alien it might as well have inhabited a different planet.
Something that could kill me, skillfully, efficiently, because that
was what it was meant to do, if it was hungry, or if I annoyed
it.
I didn't faint from fear or run screaming from the room, but it
was something of an effort. "You've proved your point, Edward. Can
the perfect-killer routine, and let's go."
His eyes didn't revert to normal instantly but had to warm up,
like dawn easing through the sky.
I hoped Edward never turned that look on me for real. If he did,
one of us would die. Odds are it would be me.
Chapter 43
The night was almost perfectly black. Thick clouds hid the sky.
A wind rushed along the ground and smelled of rain.
Iris Jensen's grave marker was smooth, white marble. It was a
nearly life-size angel, wings outspread, arms open, welcoming. You
could still read the lettering by flashlight: "Beloved daughter.
Sadly missed." The same man who had had the angel carved, who sadly
missed her, had been molesting her. She had killed herself to
escape him, and he had brought her back. That was why I was out
here in the dark, waiting for the Jensens, not him, but her. Even
though I knew her mind was gone by now, I wanted Iris Jensen in the
ground and at peace.
I couldn't explain that to Edward, so I hadn't tried. A huge oak
stood sentinel over the empty grave. The wind rushed through the
leaves and sent them skittering and whispering overhead. It sounded
too dry, like autumn leaves instead of summer. The air felt cool
and damp, rain almost upon us. It wasn't unbearably hot for
once.
I had picked up a pair of chickens. They clucked softly from
inside their crate where they sat near the grave. Edward leaned
against my car, ankles crossed, arms loose at his sides. The gym
bag was open by me on the ground. The machete I used gleamed from
inside.
"Where is he?" Edward asked.
I shook my head. "I don't know." It had been almost an hour
since full dark. The cemetery grounds were mostly bare; only a few
trees dotted the soft roll of hills. We should have been seeing car
lights on the gravel road. Where was Jensen? Had he chickened
out?
Edward stepped away from the car and walked to stand beside me.
"I don't like it, Anita."
I wasn't too thrilled either, but. . . "We'll give it
another fifteen minutes. If he's not here by then, we'll leave."
Edward glanced around the open ground. "Not much cover around
here."
"I don't think we have to worry about snipers."
"You said someone shot at you, right?"
I nodded. He had a point. Goosebumps marched up my arms. The
wind blew a hole in the clouds and moonlight streamed down. Off in
the distance a small building gleamed silver-grey in the light.
"What's that?" Edward asked.
"The maintenance shed," I said. "You think the grass cuts
itself?"
"Never thought about it," he said.
The clouds rolled in again and plunged the cemetery into
blackness. Everything became soft shapes; the white marble seemed
to glow with its own light.
There was the sound of scrabbling claws on metal. I whirled. A
ghoul sat on top of my car. It was naked and looked as if a human
being had been stripped and dipped into silver-grey paint, almost
metallic. But the teeth and claws on its hands and feet were long
and black, curved talons. The eyes glowed crimson.
Edward moved up beside me, gun in his hand.
I had my gun out, too. Practice, practice, and you don't have to
think about it.
"What's it doing up there?" he asked.
"Don't know." I waved my free hand at it and said, "Scat!"
It crouched, staring at me. Ghouls are cowards; they don't
attack healthy human beings. I took two steps, waving my gun at it.
"Go away, shoo!" Any show of force sends them scuttling away. This
one just sat there. I backed away.
"Edward," I said, softly.
"Yes."
'I didn't sense any ghouls in this cemetery."
"So? You missed one."
"There's no such thing as just one ghoul. They travel in packs.
And you don't miss them. They leave a sort of psychic stench
behind. Evil."
"Anita." His voice was soft, normal, but not normal. I glanced
where he was looking and saw two more ghouls creeping up behind
us.
We stood almost back to back, guns pointing out. "I saw a
ghoul attack earlier this week. Healthy man killed, a cemetery
where there were no ghouls."
"Sounds familiar," he said.
"Yeah. Bullets won't kill them."
"I know. What are they waiting for?" he asked.
"Courage, I think."
"They're waiting for me," a voice said. Zachary stepped around
the trunk of the tree. He was smiling.
I think my mouth dropped to the ground. Maybe that was what he
was smiling at. I knew then. He wasn't killing human beings to feed
his gris-gris. He was killing vampires. Theresa had tormented him,
so she had been the next victim. There were still some questions
though, big ones.
Edward glanced at me, then back at Zachary. "Who is this?" he
asked.
"The vampire murderer, I presume," I said.
Zachary gave a little bow. A ghoul leaned against his leg, and
he stroked its nearly bald head. "When did you guess?"
"Just now. I'm a little slow this year."
He frowned then. "I thought you'd figure it out eventually."
"That's why you destroyed the zombie witness's mind. To save
yourself."
"It was fortunate that Nikolaos left me in charge of questioning
the man." He smiled when he said it.
"I'll bet," I said. "How did you get the two-biter to shoot me
at the church?"
"That was easy. I told him the orders came from Nikolaos."
Of course. "How are you getting the ghouls out of their
cemetery? How come they obey your orders?"
"You know the theory that if you bury an animator in a cemetery,
you get ghouls."
"Yeah."
"When I came out of the grave, they came with me, and they were
mine. Mine."
I glanced at the creatures and found that there were more of
them. At least twenty, a big pack. "So you're saying that's where
ghouls come from." I shook my head. "There aren't enough animators
in the world to account for all the ghouls."
"I've been thinking about that," he said. "I think that the more
zombies you raise in a cemetery, the greater your chances for
ghouls."
"You mean like a cumulative effect?"
"Exactly. I've been wanting to talk this over with another
animator, but you see the problem."
"Yes," I said, "I do. Can't talk shop without admitting what you
are and what you've done."
Edward fired without warning. The bullet took Zachary in the
chest and twisted him around. He lay face down, the ghouls frozen;
then Zachary raised himself up on his elbows. He stood with a
little help from an anxious ghoul. "Sticks and stones may break my
bones, but bullets will never hurt me."
"Great, a comedian," I said.
Edward fired again, but Zachary darted behind the tree
trunk.
He called, hidden from sight. "Now, now, no hitting the head.
I'm not sure what would happen if you put a bullet in my
brain."
"Let's find out," Edward said.
"Good-bye, Anita. I won't stay around to watch." He walked away
with a troop of ghouls surrounding him. He was crouched in the
middle of them, hiding I supposed from a bullet in the brain, but
for a minute I couldn't pick him out.
Two more ghouls appeared around the car, crouched low on the
gravel drive. One was female with the tatters of a dress still
clinging to her.
"Let's give them something to be afraid of," Edward said. I felt
him move, and his gun fired twice. A high-pitched squealing filled
the night. The ghoul on my car leaped to the ground and hid. But
there were more of them moving in from all sides. At least fifteen
of them had been left behind for us to play with.
I fired and hit one of them. It fell to its side and rolled in
the gravel, making that same high-pitched noise, like a wounded
rabbit. Piteous and animal.
"Is there anyplace we can run to?" Edward asked.
"The maintenance shed," I said.
"Is it wood?"
"Yes."
"It won't stop them."
"No," I said, "but it will get us out of the open."
"Okay, any advice before we start to move?"
"Don't run until we are very close to the shed. If you run,
they'll chase you. They'll think you're scared."
"Anything else?" he asked.
"You don't smoke, do you?"
"No, why?"
"They're afraid of fire."
"Great; we're going to be eaten alive because neither one of us
smokes."
I almost laughed. He sounded so thoroughly disgusted, but a
ghoul was crouching to leap at me, and I had to shoot it between
the eyes. No time for laughter.
"Let's go, slow and easy," I said.
"I wish the machine gun wasn't in the car."
"Me, too."
Edward fired three shots, and the night filled with squeals and
animal screams. We started walking towards the distant shed. I'd
say maybe a quarter of a mile away. It was going to be a long
walk.
A ghoul charged us. I dropped it, and it spilled to the grass,
but it was like shooting targets, no blood, just empty holes. It
hurt, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
I was walking nearly backwards, one hand back feeling Edward's
forward movement. There were too many of them. We were not going to
make it to the shed. No way. One of the chickens made a soft,
questioning cluck. I had an idea.
I shot one of the chickens. It flopped, and the other bird
panicked, beating its wings against the wooden crate. The ghouls
froze, then one put its face into the air and sniffed.
Fresh blood, boys, come and get it. Fresh meat. Two ghouls were
suddenly racing for the chickens. The rest followed, scrambling
over each other to crack the wood and get to the juicy morsels
inside.
"Keep walking, Edward, don't run, but walk a little faster. The
chickens won't hold them long."
We walked a little faster. The sounds of scrambling claws,
cracking bone, the splatter of blood, the squabbling howls of the
ghouls - it was an unwelcome preview.
Halfway to the shed, a howl went up through the night, long and
hostile. No dog ever sounded like that. I glanced back, and the
ghouls were rushing over the ground on all fours.
"Run!" I said.
We ran.
We crashed against the shed door and found the damn thing
padlocked. Edward shot the lock off; no time to pick it. The ghouls
were close, howling as they came.
We scrambled inside, closing the door, for what good it would do
us. There was one small window high up near the ceiling; moonlight
suddenly spilled through it. There was a herd of lawnmowers against
one wall, some of them hanging from hooks. Gardening shears, hedge
trimmers, trowels, a curl of garden hose. The whole shed smelled of
gasoline and oily rags.
Edward said, "There's nothing to put against the door,
Anita."
He was right. We'd blown the lock off. Where was a heavy object
when you needed it? "Roll a lawnmower against it."
"That won't hold them long."
"It's better than nothing," I said. He didn't move, so I rolled
a lawnmower against the door.
"I won't die, eaten alive," he said. He put a fresh clip in his
gun. "I'll do you first if you want, or you can do it
yourself."
I remembered then that I had shoved the matchbook Zachary had
given me in my pocket. Matches, we had matches!
"Anita, they're almost here. Do you want to do it yourself?"
I pulled the matchbook out of my pocket. Thank you, God. "Save
your bullets, Edward." I lifted a can of gasoline in one hand.
"What are you planning?" he asked.
The howls were crashing around us; they were almost here.
"I'm going to set the shed on fire." I splashed gasoline on the
door. The smell was sharp and tugged at the back of my throat.
"With us inside?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'd rather shoot myself, if it's all the same to you."
"I don't plan to die tonight, Edward."
A claw smashed through the door, talons raking the wood, tearing
it apart. I lit a match and threw it on the gasoline-soaked door.
It went up with a blue-white whoosh of flame. The ghoul screamed,
covered in fire, stumbling back from the ruined door.
The stench of burning flesh mingled with gasoline. Burnt hair. I
coughed, putting a hand over my mouth. The fire was eating up the
wood of the shed, spreading to the roof. We didn't need more
gasoline; the damn thing was a fire trap. With us inside. I hadn't
thought it would spread this fast.
Edward was standing near the back wall, hand over his mouth. His
voice came muffled. "You did have a plan to get us out, right?"
A hand crashed through the wood, clawing at him. He backed away
from it. The ghoul began to tear through the wood, leering at us.
Edward shot it between the eyes, and it disappeared from sight.
I grabbed a rake from the far wall. Cinders were beginning to
float down on us. If the smoke didn't get us first, the shed was
going to collapse on top of us. "Take off your shirt," I said.
He didn't even ask why. Practical to the end. He stripped the
shoulder rig off and pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it to
me, and slipped the gun over his bare chest.
I wrapped the shirt over the tines of the rake and soaked it
with gasoline. I set it on fire from the walls; no need for
matches. The front of the shed was raining fire on us. Tiny burning
stings like wasps on my skin.
Edward had caught on. He found an axe and started chopping at
the hole the ghoul had made. I carried the improvised torch and a
can of gasoline in my hands. The thought occurred to me that the
heat was going to set the gasoline off. We weren't going to
suffocate from smoke; we were going to blow up.
"Hurry!" I said.
Edward squeezed through the opening, and I followed, nearly
burning him with the torch. There wasn't a ghoul for a hundred
yards. They were smarter than they looked. We ran, and the
explosion slammed into my back like a huge wind. I tumbled over
into the grass, all the air knocked out of me. Bits of burning wood
clattered to the ground on either side of me. I covered my head and
prayed. My luck, I'd get caught by a flying nail.
Silence, or no more explosions. I raised my head cautiously. The
shed was gone, nothing left. Bits of wood burned in the grass
around me. Edward was lying on the ground, nearly touching distance
from me. He stared at me. Did my face look as surprised as his did?
Probably.
Our improvised torch was slowly setting the grass on fire. He
knelt and raised it up.
I found the gasoline can unharmed and got to my feet. Edward
followed, carrying the torch. The ghouls seemed to have fled, smart
ghouls, but just in case . . . We didn't even have to discuss it.
Paranoia, we had that in common.
We walked towards the car. The adrenaline was gone, and I was
tireder than before. A person only has so much adrenaline; then you
start running on numb.
The chicken crate was history; nameless bits and pieces were
scattered around the grave. I didn't look any closer. I stopped to
pick up my gym bag. It was untouched, just lying there. Edward
moved ahead of me and tossed the torch on the gravel driveway. The
wind rustled through the trees; then Edward yelled, "Anita!"
I rolled. Edward's gun fired, and something fell squealing on
the grass. I stared at the ghoul while Edward pumped bullets into
it. When I swallowed my heart back down into my chest, I crawled to
the gasoline can and unscrewed it.
The ghoul screamed. Edward was driving the ghoul with the
burning torch. I splashed gasoline on the cringing thing, dropped
to my knees, and said, "Light it."
Edward shoved the torch home. Fire whooshed over the ghoul, and
it started screaming. The night stank of burning meat and hair. And
gasoline.
It rolled over and over on the ground trying to put out the
fire, but it wouldn't go out.
I whispered, "You're next, Zachary baby. You are next."
The shirt had burned away, and Edward tossed the rake to the
ground. "Let's get out of here," he said.
I agreed wholeheartedly. I unlocked the car, tossed my gym bag
in the back seat, and started the car. The ghoul was lying on the
grass, not moving, burning.
Edward was in the passenger seat with the machine gun in his
lap. For the first time since I'd met him, Edward looked shaken.
Scared, even.
"You going to sleep with that machine gun?" I asked.
He glanced at me. "You going to sleep with your gun?" he
asked.
Point for Edward. I took the narrow gravel turns as quick as I
dared. My Nova wasn't built for speed maneuvering. Having a wreck
here in the cemetery didn't seem like a real good idea tonight. The
headlights bounced over the tombstones, but nothing moved. No
ghouls in sight.
I took a deep breath and let it out. This was the second attempt
on my life in as many days. Frankly, I'd rather be shot at.
44
We drove in silence for a long time. It was Edward who finally
spoke into the wheel-rushing quiet. "I don't think we should go
back to your apartment," he said.
"Agreed."
"I'll take you to my hotel. Unless you have someplace else you'd
rather go?"
Where could I go? Ronnie's? I didn't want her endangered
anymore. Who else could I endanger? No one. No one but Edward, and
he could handle it. Maybe better than I could.
My beeper trembled against my waist, sending shock waves all
along my rib cage. I hated putting the beeper on silent mode. The
damn thing always scared me when it went off.
Edward said, "What the hell happened? You jumped like something
bit you."
I hit the button on the beeper, to shut it off and see who had
called. The number lit up briefly. "My beeper went off on silent
mode. No noise, just vibration."
He glanced at me. "You are not going to call work." He made it
sound like a statement or an order.
"Look, Edward, I'm not feeling so hot, so don't argue with
me."
I heard his breath ease out, but what could he say? I was
driving. Short of drawing his gun and hijacking me, he was along
for the ride. I took the next exit and located a pay phone at a
convenience store. The store lot was fully lit and made me a
wonderful target, but after the ghouls I wanted light.
Edward watched me get out of the car with my billfold gripped in
my hand. He did not get out to watch my back. Fine, I had my gun.
If he wanted to pout, let him.
I called work. Craig, our night secretary, answered. "Animators,
Inc. May I help you?"
"Hi, Craig, this is Anita. What's up?"
"Irving Griswold called, says to call him back ASAP or the
meeting's off. He said you'd know what that meant. Do you?"
"Yes. Thanks, Craig."
"You sound awful."
"Good night, Craig." I hung up on him. I felt tired and
sluggish, and my throat hurt. I wanted to curl up somewhere dark
and quiet for about a week. Instead, I called Irving. "It's me," I
said.
"Well, it's about time. Do you know the trouble I've gone
through to set this up? You almost missed it."
"If you don't quit talking, I may still miss it. Tell me where
and when."
He did. If we hurried, we'd make it. "Why is everyone so hot to
do everything tonight?" I said.
"Hey, if you don't want to meet, that's fine."
"Irving, I've had a very, very long night, so stop bitching at
me."
"Are you all right?"
What a stupid question. "Not really, but I'll live."
"If you're hurt, I'll try to get the meeting postponed, but I
can't promise anything, Anita. It was your message that got him
this far."
I leaned my forehead against the metal of the booth. "I'll be
there, Irving."
"I won't be." He sounded thoroughly disgusted. "One of the
conditions was no reporters and no police."
I had to smile. Poor Irving; he was getting left out of
everything. He hadn't been attacked by ghouls and almost blown up,
though. Maybe I should save my pity for myself.
"Thanks, Irving, I owe you one."
"You owe me several," he said. "Be careful. I don't know what
you're into this time, but it sounds bad."
He was fishing, and I knew it. "Good night, Irving." I hung up
before he could ask any more questions.
I called Dolph's home phone number. I don't know why it couldn't
wait until morning, but I had almost died tonight. If I did die, I
wanted someone to hunt Zachary down.
Dolph answered on the sixth ring. His voice sounded gruff with
sleep. "Yes."
"This is Anita Blake, Dolph."
"What's wrong?" His voice sounded almost alert.
"I know who the murderer is."
"Tell me."
I told him. He took notes and asked questions. The biggest
question came at the end. "Can you prove any of this?"
"I can prove he wears a gris-gris. I can testify that he
confessed to me. He tried to kill me; that I witnessed
personally."
"It's going to be a tough sell to a jury or a judge."
"I know."
"I'll see what I can find out."
"We've almost got a solid case on him, Dolph."
"True, but it all hinges on you being alive to testify."
"Yeah, I'll be careful."
"You come down tomorrow and get all this information recorded
officially."
"I will."
"Good work."
"Thanks," I said.
"Good night, Anita."
"Good night, Dolph."
I eased back into the car. "We have a meeting with the wererats
in forty-five minutes."
"Why is it so important?" he asked.
"Because I think they can show us a back way into Nikolaos's
lair. If we come in the front door, we'll never make it." I started
the car and pulled out into the road.
"Who else did you call?" he asked.
So he had been paying attention. "The police."
"What?"
Edward never likes dealing with the police. Fancy that. "If
Zachary manages to kill me, I want someone else to be looking into
it."
He was silent for a little while. Then he asked, "Tell me about
Nikolaos."
I shrugged. "She's a sadistic monster, and she's over a thousand
years old."
"I look forward to meeting her."
"Don't," I said.
"We've killed master vampires before, Anita. She's just one
more."
"No. Nikolaos is at least a thousand years old. I don't think
I've ever been so frightened of anything in my life."
He was silent, face unreadable.
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
"That I love a challenge." Then he smiled, a beautiful,
spreading smile. Shit. Death had seen his ultimate goal. The
biggest catch of all. He wasn't afraid of her, and he should have
been.
There aren't that many places open at one-thirty A.M., but
Denny's is. There was something wrong with meeting wererats in
Denny's over coffee and donuts. Shouldn't we have been meeting in
some dark alley? I wasn't complaining, mind you. It just struck me
as . . . funny.
Edward went in first to make sure it wasn't another setup. If he
took a table, it was safe. If he came back out, it wasn't safe.
Simple. No one knew what he looked like yet. As long as he wasn't
with me, he could go anywhere and no one would try to kill him.
Amazing. I was beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary.
Edward took a table. Safe. I walked into the bright lights and
artificial comfort of the restaurant. The waitress had dark circles
under her eyes, cleverly disguised by thick base, which made the
circles look sort of pinkish. I looked past her. A man was
motioning to me. Hand straight up, finger crooked like he was
calling the waitress, or some other subservient.
"I see my party, now. Thanks anyway," I said.
The restaurant was mostly empty in the wee hours of Monday, or
rather Tuesday morning. Two men sat at a table in front of the
first man. They looked normal enough, but there was a sense of
contained energy that seemed to spark in the air around them.
Lycanthropes. I would have bet my life on it, and maybe I was.
There was a couple, male and female, sitting catty-corner from
the first two. I would have bet money they were lycanthropes,
too.
Edward had taken a table near them, but not too near. He had
hunted lycanthropes before; he knew what to look for as well.
As I passed the table, one of the men looked up. Pure brown
eyes, so dark they were almost black, stared into mine. His face
was square, body slender, small build, muscles worked in his arms
as he folded his hands under his chin and looked at me. I stared
back; then I was past him and to the booth where the Rat King
sat.
He was tall, at least six feet, dark brown skin, with thick,
shortcut black hair, brown eyes. His face was thin, arrogant, lips
almost too soft for the haughty expression he gave me. He was darkly
handsome, strongly Mexican, and his suspicion rode the air like
lightning.
I eased into the booth. I took a deep, steadying breath and
looked across the counter at him.
"I got your message. What do you want?" His voice was soft but
deep, without a trace of accent.
"I want you to lead myself and at least one man into the tunnels
beneath the Circus of the Damned."
His frown deepened, forming faint wrinkles between his eyes.
"Why should I do this for you?"
"Do you want your people free of the master's influence?"
He nodded. Still frowning.
I was really winning him over. "Guide us in through the dungeon
entrance, and I'll take care of it"
He clasped his hands together on the table. "How can I trust
you?"
"I am not a bounty hunter. I have never harmed a
lycanthrope."
"We cannot fight beside you if you go against her. Even I cannot
fight her. She calls to me. I don't answer, but I feel it. I can
keep the small rats and my people from helping her against you, but
that is all."
"Just get us inside. We'll do the rest."
"Are you so confident?"
"I'm willing to bet my life on it," I said.
He steepled his fingers against his lips, elbows on the table.
The burn scar in his forearm was still there even in human
form, a rough, four-pointed crown. "I'll get you inside," he said.
I smiled. "Thank you."
He stared at me. "When you come back out alive, then you can
thank me."
"It's a deal." I held my hand out. After a moment's hesitation,
he took it. We shook on it.
"You wish to wait a few days?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I want to go in tomorrow."
He cocked his head to one side. "Are you sure?"
"Why? Is that a problem?"
"You are hurt. I thought you might wish to heal."
I was a little bruised, and my throat hurt, but. . . "How did
you know?"
"You smell like death has brushed you close tonight"
I stared at him. Irving never does this to me, the supernatural
powers bit. I'm not saying he can't, but he works hard at being
human. This man did not.
I took a deep breath. "That is my business."
He nodded. "We will call you and give you the place and
time."
I stood up. He remained sitting. There didn't seem to be
anything else to say, so I left.
About ten minutes later Edward got into the car with me. "What
now?" he asked.
"You mentioned your hotel room. I'm going to sleep while I
can."
"And tomorrow?"
"You take me out and show me how the shotgun works."
"Then?" he asked.
"Then we go after Nikolaos," I said.
He gave a shaky breath, almost a laugh. "Oh, boy."
Oh, boy? "Glad to see someone is enjoying all this."
He grinned at me. "I love my work," he said.
I had to smile. Truth was, I loved my work, too.
Chapter 45
During the day I learned how to use a shotgun. That night I went
caving with wererats.
The cave was dark. I stood in absolute blackness, gripping my
flashlight. I touched my hand to my forehead and couldn't see a
damn thing but the funny white images your eyes make when there is
no light. I was wearing a hard hat with a light on it, turned off
at present. The wererats had insisted on it. All around me were
sounds. Cries, moans, the popping of bone, a curious sliding sound
like a knife drawing out of flesh. The wererats were changing from
human to animal. It sounded like it hurt - a lot. They had made me
swear not to turn on a light until they told me to.
I had never wanted to see so badly in my life. It couldn't be so
horrible. Could it? But a promise is a promise. I sounded like
Horton the Elephant. "A person is a person no matter how small."
What the hell was I doing standing in the middle of a cave, in the
dark, surrounded by wererats, quoting Dr. Seuss, and trying to kill
a one-thousand-year-old vampire?
It had been one of my stranger weeks.
Rafael, the Rat King, said, "You may turn on your lights."
I did, instantly. My eyes seemed to leech on the light, eager to
see. The ratmen stood in small groups in the wide, flat-roofed
tunnel. There were ten of them. I had counted them in human form.
Now the seven males were fur-covered and wearing jean cutoffs. Two
wore loose t-shirts. The three women wore loose dresses, like
maternity clothes. Their black button eyes glittered in the light.
Everybody was furry.
Edward came to stand near me. He was staring at the weres, face
distant, unreadable. I touched his arm. I had told Rafael that I
was not a bounty hunter, but Edward was, sometimes. I hoped I had
not endangered these people.
"Are you ready?" Rafael asked. He was the same sleek black
ratman I remembered.
"Yes," I said.
Edward nodded.
The wererats scattered to either side of us, scrambling over
low, weathered flowstone. I said to no one in particular, "I
thought caves were damp."
A smaller ratman in a t-shirt said, "Cherokee Caverns is dead
cave."
"I don't understand."
"Live cave has water and growing formations. A dry cave where
none of the formations are growing is called dead cave."
"Oh," I said.
He drew lips back from huge teeth, a smile, I think. "More than
you wanted to know, huh?"
Rafael hissed back, "We are not here to give guided tours,
Louie. Now be quiet, both of you."
Louie shrugged and scrambled ahead of me. He was the same human
that had been with Rafael in the restaurant, the one with the dark
eyes.
One of the females was nearly grey-furred. Her name was Lillian,
and she was a doctor. She carried a backpack full of medical
supplies. They seemed to be planning on us getting hurt. At least
that meant they thought we would come out alive. I was beginning to
wonder about that part myself.
Two hours later the ceiling dropped to a point where I couldn't
stand upright. And I learned what the hard hats they had given
Edward and me were for. I scraped my head on the rock at least a
thousand times. I'd have knocked myself unconscious long before we
saw Nikolaos.
The rats seemed designed for the tunnel, sliding along,
flattening their bodies in a strange, scrambling grace. Edward and
I could not match it. Not even close.
He cursed softly behind me. His five inches of extra height were
causing him pain. My lower back was an aching burn. He had to be in
worse shape. There were pockets where the ceiling opened up and we
could stand. I started looking very forward to them, like air
pockets to a diver.
The quality of darkness changed. Light - there was light up ahead,
not much, but it was there. It flickered at the far end of the
tunnel like a mirage.
Rafael crouched beside us. Edward sat flat on the dry rock. I
joined him. "There is your dungeon. We will wait here until near
dark. If you have not come out, we will leave. After Nikolaos is
dead, if we can, we will help you."
I nodded; the light on my hard hat nodded with me. "Thank you
for helping us."
He shook his narrow, ratty face. "I have delivered you to the
devil's door. Do not thank me for that."
I glanced at Edward. His face was still distant, unreadable. If
he was interested in what the ratman had just said, I couldn't tell
it. We might as well have been talking about a grocery list.
Edward and I knelt before the opening into the dungeon.
Torchlight flickered, incredibly bright after the darkness. Edward
was cradling his Uzi that hung on a strap across his chest. I had
the shotgun. I was also carrying my two pistols, two knives, and a
derringer stuffed in the pocket of my jacket. It was a present from
Edward. He had handed it to me with this advice: "It kicks like a
sonofabitch, but press it under someone's chin, and it will blow
their fucking head off." Nice to know.
It was daylight outside. There shouldn't be a vampire stirring,
but Burchard would be there. And if he saw us, Nikolaos would know.
Somehow, she'd know. Goosebumps marched up my arms.
We scrambled inside, ready to kill and maim. The room was empty.
All that adrenaline sort of sat in my body, making my breathing too
quick and my heart pound for no reason. The spot where Phillip had
been chained was clean. Someone had scrubbed it down real good.
I fought an urge to touch the wall where he'd been.
Edward called softly, "Anita." He was at the door.
I hurried up to him.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"She killed Phillip in here."
"Keep your mind on business. I don't want to die because you're
daydreaming."
I started to get angry and swallowed it. He was right.
Edward tried the door, and it opened. No prisoners, no need to
lock it. I took the left side of the door, and he took the right.
The corridor was empty.
My hands were sweating on the shotgun. Edward led off down the
right hand side of the corridor. I followed him into the
dragon's lair. I didn't feel much like a knight. I was fresh out
of shiny steeds, or was that shiny armor?
Whatever. We were here. This was it. I could taste my heart in
my throat.
Chapter 46
The dragon didn't come out and eat us right away. In fact, the
place was quiet. As the cliche goes, too quiet.
I stepped close to Edward and whispered, "I don't mean to
complain, but where is everybody?"
He leaned his back against the wall and said, "Maybe you killed
Winter. That just leaves Burchard. Maybe he's on an errand."
I shook my head. "This is too easy."
"Don't worry. Something will go wrong soon." He continued down
the corridor, and I followed. It took me three steps to realize
Edward had made a joke.
The corridor opened into a huge room like Nikolaos's throne
room, but there was no chair here. There were coffins. Five of them
spaced around the room on raised platforms, so they didn't have to
sit on the floor in the draft. Tall, iron candelabra burned in the
room, one at the foot and head of each coffin.
Most vampires made some effort to hide their coffins, but not
Nikolaos.
"Arrogant," Edward whispered.
"Yes," I whispered back. You always whispered around the
coffins, at first, as if it were a funeral and they could hear
you.
There was a neck-ruffling smell to the room, stale. It caught at
the back of my throat and was almost a taste, faintly metallic. It
was like the smell of snakes kept in cages. You knew there was
nothing warm and furry in this room just by smell. And that really
doesn't do it justice. It was the smell of vampires.
The first coffin was dark, well-varnished wood, with golden
handles. It was wider at the shoulder area and then narrowed,
following the contour of the human body. Older coffins did that
sometimes.
"We start here," I said.
Edward didn't argue. He let the machine gun hang by its strap
and drew his pistol. "You're covered," he said.
I laid the shotgun on the floor in front of the coffin, gripped
the edge of the lid, said a quick prayer, and lifted. Valentine lay
in the coffin. His scarred face was bare. He was still dressed as a
riverboat gambler but this time in black. His frilly shirt was
crimson. The colors didn't look good against his auburn hair. One
hand was half-curled over his thigh, a careless sleeper's gesture.
A very human gesture.
Edward peered into the coffin, gun pointed ceilingward. "This
the one you threw Holy Water on?"
I nodded.
"Did a bang-up job," Edward said.
Valentine never moved. I couldn't even see him breathe. I wiped
my sweating palms on my jeans and felt for a pulse in his wrist.
Nothing. His skin was cool to the touch. He was dead. It wasn't
murder, no matter what the new laws said. You can't kill a
corpse.
The wrist pulsed. I jerked back like he'd burned me.
"What's wrong?" Edward asked.
"I got a pulse."
"It happens sometimes."
I nodded. Yeah, it happened sometimes. If you waited long
enough, the heart did beat, blood did flow, but so slow that it
was painful to watch. Dead. I was beginning to think I didn't know
what that meant.
I knew one thing. If night fell with us here, we would die, or
wish we had. Valentine had helped kill over twenty people. He had
nearly killed me. When Nikolaos withdrew her protection, he'd
finish the job if he could. We had come to kill Nikolaos. I think
she would withdraw her protection ASAP. As the old saying goes, it
was him or me. I preferred him.
I shook off the shoulder straps of the backpack.
"What are you looking for?" Edward asked.
"Stake and hammer," I said without looking up.
"Not going to use the shotgun?"
I glanced up at him. "Oh, right. Why not rent a marching band
while we're at it?"
"If you just want to be quiet, there is another way." He had a
slight smile on his face.
I had the sharpened stake in my hand, but I was willing to
listen. I've staked most of the vampires that I've killed, but it
never gets easier. It is hard, messy work, though I don't throw up
anymore. I am a professional, after all.
He took a small case out of his own backpack. It held syringes.
He drew out an ampule of some greyish liquid. "Silver nitrate," he
said.
Silver. Bane of the undead. Scourge of the supernatural. And all
nicely modernized. "Does it work?" I asked.
"It works." He filled one syringe and asked, "How old is this
one?"
"A little over a hundred," I said.
"Two ought to do it." He shoved the needle into the big vein in
Valentine's neck. Before he had filled the syringe a second time,
the body shivered. He shoved the second dose into the neck.
Valentine's body arched against the walls of the coffin. His mouth
opened and closed. He gasped for air as if he were drowning.
Edward filled up another syringe and handed it towards me. I
stared at it.
"It isn't going to bite," he said.
I took it gingerly between my thumb and the first two fingers on
my right hand.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked.
"I'm not a big fan of needles."
He grinned. "You're afraid of needles?"
I scowled at him. "Not exactly."
Valentine's body shook and bucked, hands thumping against the
wooden walls. It made a small, helpless noise. His eyes never
opened. He was going to sleep through his own death.
He gave one last shuddering jump, then collapsed against the
side of the coffin like a broken rag doll.
"He doesn't look very dead," I said.
"They never do."
"Stake their heart and chop off their heads, and you know
they're dead."
"This isn't staking," he said.
I didn't like it. Valentine lay there looking very whole and
nearly human. I wanted to see some rotting flesh and bones turning
to dust. I wanted to know he was dead.
"No one has ever gotten up out of their coffin after a syringe
full of silver nitrate, Anita."
I nodded but remained unconvinced.
"You check the other side. Go on."
I went, but I kept glancing back at Valentine. He had haunted my
nightmares for years, nearly killed me. He just didn't look dead
enough for me.
I opened the first coffin on my side, one-handed, holding the
syringe carefully. An injection of silver nitrate probably wouldn't
do me much good either. The coffin was empty. The white imitation
silk lining had conformed to the body like a mattress, but the body
wasn't there.
I flinched and stared around the room, but there was nothing
there. I stared slowly upward, hoping that there was nothing
floating above me. There wasn't. Thank you, God.
I remembered to breathe finally. It was probably Theresa's
coffin. Yeah, that was it. I left it open and went to the next one.
It was a newer model, probably fake wood, but nice and polished.
The black male was in it. I had never gotten his name. Now I never
would. I knew what it meant, coming in here. Not just defending
yourself but taking out the vampires while they lay helpless. As
far as I knew, this vampire had never hurt anyone. I laughed then;
he was Nikolaos's protege. Did I really think he'd never tasted
human blood? No. I pressed the needle against his neck and
swallowed hard. I hated needles. No particular reason.
I shoved it in and closed my eyes while I depressed the plunger.
I could have pounded a stake through his heart, but sticking a
needle in him put cold chills down my spine.
Edward called, "Anita!"
I whirled and found Aubrey sitting up in his coffin. He had
Edward by the throat and was slowly lifting him off his feet.
The shotgun was still by Valentine's coffin. Damn! I drew the
9mm and fired at Aubrey's forehead. The bullet tossed his head
back, but he just smiled and raised Edward straight-armed, legs
dangling.
I ran for the shotgun.
Edward was having to use both hands to keep himself from being
strangled by his own weight. He dropped one hand, fumbling for the
machine gun.
Aubrey caught his wrist.
I picked up the shotgun, took two steps towards them and fired
from three feet away. Aubrey's head exploded; blood and brains
spattered over the wall. The hands lowered Edward to the floor
but didn't let go. Edward drew a ragged breath. The right hand
convulsed around his throat, fingers digging for his windpipe.
I had to step around Edward to fire at the chest. The blast took
out the heart and most of the left side of the chest. The left arm
sort of hung there by strands of tissue and bone. The corpse
flopped back into its coffin.
Edward dropped to his knees, breath wheezing and choking through
his throat.
"Nod if you can breathe, Edward," I said. Though if Aubrey had
crushed his windpipe I don't know what I could have done. Run back
and gotten Lillian the doctor rat, maybe.
Edward nodded. His face was a mottled reddish purple, but he was
breathing.
My ears were ringing with the sound of the shotgun inside the
stone walls. So much for surprise. So much for silver nitrate. I
pumped another round into the gun and went to Valentine's coffin. I
blew him apart. Now, he was dead.
Edward staggered to his feet. He croaked, "How old was that
thing?"
"Over five hundred," I said.
He swallowed, and it looked like it hurt. "Shit."
"I wouldn't try sticking any needles into Nikolaos."
He managed to glare at me, still half-leaning against Aubrey's
coffin.
I turned to the fifth coffin. The one we had saved until last
without any talk between us. It was set against the far wall. A
dainty white coffin, too small for an adult. Candlelight gleamed on
the carvings in the lid.
I was tempted to just blow a hole in the coffin, but I had to
see her. I had to see what I was shooting at. My heart started
thudding in my throat; my chest was tight. She was a master
vampire. Killing them, even in daylight, is a chancy thing. Their
gaze can trap you until nightfall. Their minds. Their voices. So
much power. And Nikolaos was the most powerful I'd ever seen. I had
my blessed cross. I would be all right. I had had too many crosses
taken from me to feel completely safe. Oh, well. I tried to raise
the lid one-handed, but it was heavy and not balanced for easy
opening like modem coffins. "Can you back me on this, Edward? Or
are you still relearning how to breathe?"
Edward came to stand beside me. His face looked almost its
normal color. He took hold of the lid and I readied the
shotgun.
He lifted and the whole lid slid off. It wasn't hinged on.
I said, "Shiiit!"
The coffin was empty.
"Are you looking for me?" A high, musical voice called from the
doorway. "Freeze; I believe that is the word. We have the drop on
you."
"I wouldn't advise going for your gun," Burchard said.
I glanced at Edward and found his hands close to the machine gun
but not close enough. His face was unreadable, calm, normal. Just a
Sunday drive. I was so scared I could taste bile at the back of my
throat. We looked at each other and raised our hands.
"Turn around slowly," Burchard said.
We did.
He was holding a semiautomatic rifle of some kind. I'm not the
gun freak Edward is, so I didn't know the make and model, but I
knew it'd make a big hole. There was also a sword hilt sticking
over his back. A sword, an honest-to-god sword.
Zachary was standing beside him, holding a pistol. He held it
two-handed, arms stiff. He didn't seem happy.
Burchard held the rifle like he was born with it. "Drop your
weapons, please, and lace your fingers on top of your heads."
We did what he asked. Edward dropped the machine gun, and I lost
the shotgun. We had plenty more guns.
Nikolaos stood to one side. Her face was cold, angry. Her voice,
when it came, echoed through the room. "I am older then anything
you have ever imagined. Did you think daylight holds me prisoner?
After a thousand years?" She walked out into the room, careful not
to cross in front of Burchard and Zachary. She glanced at the
remains in the coffins. "You will pay for this, animator." She
smiled then, and I had never seen anything more evil. "Strip them
of the rest of their weaponry, Burchard; then we will give the
animator a treat."
They stood in front of us but not too close. "Up against the
wall, animator," Burchard said. "If the man moves, Zachary, shoot
him."
Burchard shoved me into the wall and frisked me very thoroughly.
He didn't check my teeth or have me drop my pants, but that was
about it. He found everything I was carrying. Even the derringer.
He shoved my cross into his pocket. Maybe I could tattoo one on my
arm? Probably wouldn't work.
I went out to stand with Zachary, and Edward got his turn. I
stared at Zachary. "Does she know?" I asked.
"Shut up."
I smiled. "She doesn't, does she?"
"Shut up!"
Edward came back, and we stood there with our hands on top of
our heads, weapons gone. It was not a pretty sight.
Adrenaline was bubbling like champagne, and my pulse was
threatening to jump out of my throat. I wasn't afraid of the guns,
not really. I was afraid of Nikolaos. What would she do to us? To
me? If I had a choice, I'd force them to shoot me. It had to be
better than anything Nikolaos had in her evil little mind.
"They are unarmed, Mistress," Burchard said.
"Good," she said. "Do you know what we were doing while you
destroyed my people?"
I didn't think she wanted an answer, so I didn't give her
one.
"We were preparing a friend of yours, animator."
My stomach jerked. I had a wild image of Catherine, but she was
out of town. My god, Ronnie. Did they have Ronnie?
It must have showed on my face because Nikolaos laughed, high
and wild, an excited tittering.
"I really hate that laugh," I said.
"Silence," Burchard said.
"Oh, Anita, you are so amusing. I will enjoy making you one of
my people." Her voice started high and childlike and ended low
enough to crawl down my spine.
She called out in a clear voice, "Enter this room now."
I heard shuffling footsteps; then Phillip walked into the room.
The horrible wound at his throat was thick, white scar tissue. He
stared around the room as if he didn't really see it.
I whispered, "Dear God."
They had raised him from the dead.
Chapter 47
Nikolaos danced around him. The skirt of her pastel pink dress
swirled around her. The large, pink bow in her hair bobbed as she
twirled, arms outstretched. Her slender legs were covered in white
leotards. The shoes were white with pink bows.
She stopped, laughing and breathless. A healthy pink flush on
her cheeks, eyes sparkling. How did she do that?
"He looks very alive, doesn't he?" She stalked around him, hand
brushing his arm. He drew away from her, eyes following her every
move, afraid. He remembered her. God help us. He remembered
her.
"Do you want to see him put through his paces?" she asked.
I hoped I didn't understand her. I fought to keep my face blank.
I must have succeeded because she stomped over to me, hands on
hips.
"Well," she said, "do you want to watch your lover perform?"
I swallowed bile, hard. Maybe I should just throw up on her.
That would teach her. "With you?" I asked.
She sidled up to me, hands clasped behind her back. "It could be
you. Your choice."
Her face was almost touching mine. Eyes so damned wide and
innocent that it seemed sacrilegious. "Neither sounds very
appealing," I said.
"Pity." She half-skipped back to Phillip. He was naked, and his
tanned body was still handsome. What were a few more scars?
"You didn't know I was going to be here, so why raise Phillip
from the dead?" I asked.
She turned on the heels of her little shoes. "We raised him so
he could try to kill Aubrey. Murdered zombies can be so much fun,
while they try to kill their murderers. We thought we'd give him a
chance while Aubrey was asleep. Aubrey can move if you disturb
him." She glanced at Edward. "But then you know that."
"You were going to let Aubrey kill him again," I said.
She nodded, head bobbing. "Mmm-uh."
"You bitch," I said.
Burchard shoved the rifle butt into my stomach, and I dropped to
my knees. I panted, trying to breathe. It didn't help much.
Edward was staring very fixedly at Zachary, who was holding the
pistol square on his chest. You didn't have to be good at that
range or even lucky. Just squeeze the trigger and kill someone.
Poof.
"I can make you do whatever I please," Nikolaos said.
A fresh spurt of adrenaline rushed through me. It was too much.
I threw up in the corner. Nerves and being hit very hard in the
stomach with a rifle. Nerves I'd had before; the rifle butt was a
new experience.
"Tsk, tsk," Nikolaos said. "Do I frighten you that much?"
I managed to stand up at last. "Yes," I said. Why deny it?
She clapped her hands together. "Oh, goody." Her face shifted
gears, instant switch. The little girl was gone, and no amount of
pink, frilly dresses would bring her back. Nikolaos's face was
thinner, alien. The eyes were great drowning pools. "Hear me,
Anita. Feel my power in your veins."
I stood there, staring at the floor, fear like a cold rush on my
skin. I waited for something to tug at my soul. Her power to roll
me under and away. Nothing happened.
Nikolaos frowned. The little girl was back. "I bit you,
animator. You should crawl if I ask it. What did you do?"
I breathed a small, heartfelt prayer, and answered her. "Holy
Water."
She snarled. "This time we will keep you with us until after the
third bite. You will take Theresa's place. Perhaps then you will be
more eager to find out who is murdering vampires."
I fought with everything in me not to glance at Zachary. Not
because I didn't want to give him away, I would do that, but I was
waiting for the moment when it would help us. It might get Zachary
killed, but it wouldn't take out Burchard or Nikolaos. Zachary was
the least dangerous person in this whole room.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, but I do, animator."
"I would rather die."
She spread her arms wide. "But I want you to die, Anita, I want
you to die."
"That makes us even," I said.
She giggled. The sound made my teeth hurt. If she really wanted
to torture me, all she had to do was lock me in a room and laugh at
me. Now that would be hell.
"Come on, boys and girls, let's go play in the dungeon."
Nikolaos led the way. Burchard motioned for us to follow. We did.
Zachary and he brought up the rear, guns in hand. Phillip stood
uncertainly in the middle of the room, watching us go.
Nikolaos called back, "Have him follow us, Zachary."
Zachary called, "Come, Phillip, follow me."
He turned and walked after us, his eyes still uncertain and not
really focused.
"Go on," Burchard said. He half-raised the rifle, and I
went.
Nikolaos called back, "Gazing at your lover; how nice."
It wasn't a long enough walk to the dungeon door. If they tried
to chain me to the wall, I'd rush them. I'd force them to kill me.
Which meant I'd better rush Zachary. Burchard might wound me or
knock me unconscious, and that would be very, very bad.
Nikolaos led us down the steps and out into the floor. What a
day for a parade. Phillip followed, but he was looking around now,
really seeing things. He froze, staring at the place where Aubrey
had killed him. His hand reached out to touch the wall. He flexed
his hand, rubbing fingers into his palm as if he was feeling
something. A hand went to his neck and found the scar. He screamed.
It echoed against the walls.
"Phillip," I said.
Burchard held me back with the rifle. Phillip crouched in the
corner, face hidden, arms locked around his knees. He was making a
high, keening noise.
Nikolaos laughed.
"Stop it, stop it!" I walked towards Phillip, and Burchard
shoved the gun against my chest. I yelled into his face, "Shoot me,
shoot me, dammit! It's got to be better than this."
"Enough," Nikolaos said. She stalked over to me, and I gave
ground. She kept walking, forcing me to back up until I bumped
against the wall. "I don't want you shot, Anita, but I want you
hurt. You killed Winter with your little knife. Let's see how good
you really are." She strode away from me. "Burchard, give her back
her knives."
He never even hesitated or asked why. He just walked over to
me and handed them to me, hilt first. I didn't question it
either. I took them.
Nikolaos was suddenly beside Edward. He started to move away.
"Kill him if he moves again, Zachary."
Zachary came to stand close, gun out.
"Kneel, mortal," she said.
Edward didn't do it. He glanced at me. Nikolaos kicked him in
the bend of the knee hard enough to make him grunt. He dropped to
one knee, and she grabbed his right arm and tugged it behind his
back. One slender hand grabbed his throat.
"I'll tear out your throat if you move, human. I can feel your
pulse like a butterfly beating against my hand." She laughed and
filled the room with warm, jostling horror. "Now, Burchard, show
her what it means to use a knife."
Burchard went to the far wall, with the door above him at the
top of the steps. He laid the rifle on the floor, and unbuckled his
sword harness, and laid that beside the rifle. Then he drew a long
knife with a nearly triangular blade.
He did some quick stretches to limber his muscles, and I stood
staring at him.
I know how to use a knife. I can throw well; I practice that.
Most people are afraid of knives. If you show yourself willing to
carve someone up, they tend to be afraid of you. Burchard was not
most people. He went down into a slight crouch, knife held loose
but firm in his right hand.
"Fight Burchard, animator, or this one dies." She pulled his
arm, sharp, but he didn't cry out. She could dislocate his
shoulder, and Edward wouldn't cry out.
I put the knife back in its right wrist sheath. Fighting with a
knife in each hand may look nifty, but I've never really mastered
it. A lot of people don't. Hey, Burchard didn't have two knives
either. "Is this to the death?" I asked.
"You will not be able to kill Burchard, Anita. So silly.
Burchard is only going to cut you. Let you taste the blade, nothing
too serious. I don't want you to lose too much blood." There was an
undercurrent of laughter in her voice, then it was gone. Her voice
crawled through the room like a fire-wind. "I want to see you
bleed."
Great.
Burchard began to circle me, and I kept the wall at my back. He
rushed me, knife flashing. I held my ground, dodging his blade, and
slashing at him as he darted in. My knife hit empty air. He was
standing out of reach, staring at me. He had had six hundred years
of practice, give or take. I couldn't top that. I couldn't even
come close.
He smiled. I gave him a slight nod. He nodded back. A sign of
respect between two warriors, maybe. Either that, or he was playing
with me. Guess which way I voted?
His knife was suddenly there, slicing my arm open. I slashed
outward and caught him across the stomach. He darted into me, not
away. I dodged the knife and stumbled away from the wall. He
smiled. Dammit, he'd wanted to get me out in the open. His reach
was twice mine.
The pain in my arm was sharp and immediate. But there was a thin
line of crimson on his flat stomach. I smiled at him. His eyes
flinched, just a little. Was the mighty warrior uneasy? I hoped
so.
I backed away from him. This was ridiculous. We were going to
die, piece by piece, both of us. What the hell. I charged Burchard,
slashing. It caught him by surprise, and he backpedaled. I mirrored
his crouch, and we began to circle the floor.
And I said, "I know who the murderer is."
Burchard's eyebrows raised.
Nikolaos said, "What did you say?"
"I know who is killing vampires."
Burchard was suddenly inside my arm, slicing my shirt. It didn't
hurt. He was playing with me.
"Who?" Nikolaos said. "Tell me, or I will kill this human."
"Sure," I said.
Zachary screamed, "No!" He turned to fire at me. The bullet
whined overhead. Burchard and I both sank to the floor.
Edward screamed. I half-rose to run to him. His arm was twisted
at a funny angle, but he was alive.
Zachary's gun went off twice, and Nikolaos took it away from
him, tossing it to the floor. She grabbed him and forced him
against her body, bending him at the waist, cradling him. Her head
darted downward. Zachary shrieked.
Burchard was on his knees, watching the show. I stabbed my knife
into his back. It thunked solid and hilt-deep. His spine stiffened,
one hand trying to tear out the blade. I didn't wait to see if he
could do it. I drew my other knife and plunged it into the side of
his throat. Blood poured down my hand when I took the knife out. I
stabbed him again, and he fell slowly forward, face down on the
floor.
Nikolaos let Zachary drop to the floor and turned, face
bloodstained, the front of her pink dress crimson. Blood spattered
on her white leotards. Zachary's throat was torn out. He lay
gasping on the floor but still moving, alive.
She stared at Burchard's body, then screamed, a wild banshee
sound that wailed and echoed. She rushed me, hands outstretched. I
threw the knife, and she batted it away. She hit me, the force of
her body slamming me into the floor, her scrambling on top of me.
She was still screaming, over and over. She held my head to one
side. No mind tricks, brute strength.
I screamed, "Nooo!"
A gun fired, and Nikolaos jerked, once, twice. She rose off me,
and I felt the wind. It was creeping through the room like the
beginnings of a storm.
Edward leaned against the wall, holding Zachary's dropped
gun.
Nikolaos went for him, and he emptied the gun into her frail
body. She didn't even hesitate.
I sat up and watched her stalk towards Edward. He threw the
empty gun at her. She was suddenly on him, forcing him back into
the floor.
The sword lay on the floor, nearly as tall as I was. I drew it
out of its sheath. Heavy, awkward, drawing my arm down. I raised it
over my head, flat of the blade half resting on my shoulder, and
ran for Nikolaos.
She was talking again in a high, sing-song voice. "I will make
you mine, mortal. Mine!"
Edward screamed. I couldn't see why. I raised the sword, and its
weight carried it down and across, like it was meant to. It bit
into her neck with a great wet thunk. The sword grated on bone, and
I drew it out. The tip fell to scrape on the floor.
Nikolaos turned to me and started to stand. I raised the sword,
and it cut outward, swinging my body with it. Bone cracked, and I
fell to the floor as Nikolaos tumbled to her knees. Her head still
hung by strips of meat and skin. She blinked at me and tried to
stand up.
I screamed and drove the blade upward with everything I had. It
took her between the breasts, and I stood running with it, shoving
it in. Blood poured. I pinned her against the wall. The blade
shoved out her back, scraping along the wall as she slid
downward.
I dropped to my knees beside the body. Yes, the body. She was
dead!
I looked back at Edward. There was blood on his neck. "She bit
me," he said.
I was gasping for air, having trouble breathing, but it was
wonderful. I was alive and she wasn't. She fucking wasn't. "Don't
worry, Edward, I'll help you. Plenty of Holy Water left." I
smiled.
He stared at me a minute, then laughed, and I laughed with him.
We were still laughing when the wererats crept in from the tunnel.
Rafael, the Rat King, stared at the carnage with black-button eyes.
"She is dead."
"Ding dong, the witch is dead," I said.
Edward picked it up, half-singing, "The wicked old witch."
We collapsed into laughter again, and Lillian the doctor, all
covered with fur, tended our hurts, Edward first.
Zachary was still lying on the ground. The wound at his throat
was beginning to close up, skin knitting together. He would live,
if that was the right word.
I picked my knife up off the floor and staggered to him. The
rats watched me. No one interfered. I dropped to my knees beside
him and ripped the sleeve of his shirt. I laid the gris-gris bare.
He still couldn't talk but his eyes widened.
"Remember when I tried to touch this with my own blood? You
stopped me. You seemed afraid, and I didn't understand why." I sat
beside him and watched him heal. "Every gris-gris has a thing you
must do for it, vampire blood for this one, and one thing you must
never do, or the magic stops. Poof." I held up my arm, dripping
blood quite nicely. "Human blood, Zachary; is that bad?"
He managed a noise like, "Don't."
Blood dripped down my elbow and hung, thick and trembling over
his arm. He sort of shook his head, no, no. The blood dripped down
and splatted on his arm, but it didn't touch the gris-gris.
His whole body relaxed.
"I've got no patience today, Zachary." I rubbed blood along the
woven band.
His eyes flared, showing white. He made a strangling noise in
his throat. His hands scrabbled at the floor. His chest jerked as
if he couldn't breathe. A sigh ran out of his body, a long whoosh
of breath, and he was quiet.
I checked for a pulse; nothing. I cut the gris-gris off with my
knife, balled it in my hand, and shoved it in my pocket. Evil piece
of work.
Lillian came to bind my arm up. "This is just temporary. You'll
need stitches."
I nodded and got to my feet.
Edward called, "Where are you going?"
"To get the rest of our guns." To find Jean-Claude. I didn't say
that part out loud. I didn't think Edward would understand.
Two of the ratmen went with me. That was fine. They could come
as long as they didn't interfere. Phillip was still huddled in the
corner. I left him there.
I did get the guns. I strung the machine gun over my shoulders
and kept the shotgun in my hands. Loaded for bear. I had killed a
one-thousand-year-old vampire. Naw, not me. Surely not.
The ratmen and I found the punishment room. There were six
coffins in it. Each had a blessed cross on its lid and silver
chains to hold the lid down. The third coffin held Willie, so
deeply asleep that he seemed like he would never wake. I left him
like that, to wake with the night. To go on about his business.
Willie wasn't a bad person. And for a vampire he was excellent.
All the other coffins were empty, only the last one still
unopened. I undid the chains and laid the cross on the ground.
Jean-Claude stared up at me. His eyes were midnight fire, his smile
gentle. I flashed on the first dream and the coffin filled with
blood, him reaching for me. I stepped back, and he rose from the
coffin.
The ratmen stepped back, hissing.
"It's all right," I said. "He's sort of on our side."
He stepped from the coffin like he'd had a good nap. He smiled
and extended a hand. "I knew you would do it, ma petite."
"You arrogant son of a bitch." I smashed the shotgun butt into
his stomach. He doubled over just enough. I hit him in the jaw. .
He rocked back. "Get out of my mind!"
He rubbed his face and came away with blood. "The marks are
permanent, Anita. I cannot take them back."
I gripped the shotgun until my hands ached. Blood began to
trickle down my arm from the wound. I thought about it. For one
moment, I considered blowing his perfect face away. I didn't do it.
I would probably regret it later.
"Can you stay out of my dreams, at least?" I asked.
"That, I can do. I am sorry, ma petite."
"Stop calling me that."
He shrugged. His black hair had nearly crimson highlights in the
torchlight. Breathtaking. "Stop playing with my mind,
Jean-Claude."
"Whatever do you mean?" he asked.
"I know that the otherworldly beauty is a trick. So stop
it."
"I am not doing it," he said.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"When you have the answer, Anita, come back to me, and we will
talk."
I was too tired for riddles. "Who do you think you are? Using
people like this."
"I am the new master of the city," he said. He was suddenly next
to me, fingers touching my cheek. "And you put me upon the
throne."
I jerked away from him. "You stay away from me for a while,
Jean-Claude, or I swear. . ."
"You'll kill me?" he said. He was smiling, laughing at me.
I didn't shoot him. And some people say I have no sense of
humor.
I found a room with a dirt floor and several shallow graves.
Phillip let me lead him to the room. It was only when we stood
staring down at the fresh-turned earth that he turned to me.
"Anita?"
"Hush," I said.
"Anita, what's happening?"
He was beginning to remember. He would become more alive in a
few hours, up to a point. It would almost be the real Phillip for a
day, or two.
"Anita?" His voice was high and uncertain. A little boy afraid
of the dark. He grabbed my arm, and his hand felt very real. His
eyes were still that perfect brown. "What's going on?"
I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. His skin was warm. "You
need to rest, Phillip. You're tired."
He nodded. "Tired," he said.
I led him to the soft dirt. He lay down on it, then sat up, eyes
wild, grabbing for me. "Aubrey! He. . ."
"Aubrey's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."
"Dead?" He stared down the length of his body as if just seeing
it. "Aubrey killed me."
I nodded. "Yes, Phillip."
"I'm scared."
I held him, rubbing his back in smooth, useless circles. His
arms hugged me like he would never let go.
"Anita!"
"Hush, hush. It's all right. It's all right."
"You're going to put me back, aren't you?" He drew back so he
could see my face.
"Yes," I said.
"I don't want to die."
"You're already dead."
He stared down at his hands, flexing them. "Dead?" he whispered.
"Dead?" He lay down on the fresh-turned earth. "Put me back," he
said.
And I did.
At the end his eyes closed and his face went slack, dead. He
sank into the grave and was gone.
I dropped to my knees beside Phillip's grave, and wept.
Chapter 48
Edward had a dislocated shoulder and two broken bones in his
arm, plus one vampire bite. I had fourteen stitches. We both
healed. Phillip's body was moved to a local cemetery. Every time I
work in it, I have to go by and say hello. Even though I know
Phillip is dead and doesn't care. Graves are for the living, not
the dead. It gives us something to concentrate on instead of the
fact that our loved one is rotting under the ground. The dead don't
care about pretty flowers and carved marble statues.
Jean-Claude sent me a dozen pure white, long-stemmed roses. The
card read, "If you have answered the question truthfully, come
dancing with me."
I wrote "No" on the back of the card and slipped it under the
door at Guilty Pleasures, during daylight hours. I had been
attracted to Jean-Claude. Maybe I still was. So what? He thought it
changed things. It didn't. All I had to do was visit Phillip's
grave to know that. Oh, hell, I didn't even have to go that far. I
know who and what I am. I am The Executioner, and I don't date
vampires. I kill them.
Willie McCoy had been a jerk before he died. His being dead
didn't change that. He sat across from me, wearing a loud plaid
sport jacket. The polyester pants were primary Crayola green. His
short, black hair was slicked back from a thin, triangular face. He
had always reminded me of a bit player in a gangster movie. The
kind that sells information, runs errands, and is expendable.
Of course now that Willie was a vampire, the expendable part
didn't count anymore. But he was still selling information and
running errands. No, death hadn't changed him much. But just in
case, I avoided looking directly into his eyes. It was standard
policy for dealing with vampires. He was a slime bucket, but now he
was an undead slime bucket. It was a new category for me.
We sat in the quiet air-conditioned hush of my office. The
powder blue walls, which Bert, my boss, thought would be soothing,
made the room feel cold.
"Mind if I smoke?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "I do."
"Damn, you aren't gonna make this easy, are you?"
I looked directly at him for a moment. His eyes were still
brown. He caught me looking, and I looked down at my desk.
Willie laughed, a wheezing snicker of a sound. The laugh hadn't
changed. "Geez, I love it. You're afraid of me."
"Not afraid, just cautious."
"You don't have to admit it. I can smell the fear on you, almost
like somethin' touching my face, my brain. You're afraid of me,
'cause I'm a vampire."
I shrugged; what could I say? How do you lie to someone who can
smell your fear? "Why are you here, Willie?"
"Geez, I wish I had a smoke." The skin began to jump at the
corner of his mouth.
"I didn't think vampires had nervous twitches."
His hand went up, almost touched it. He smiled, flashing fangs.
"Some things don't change."
I wanted to ask him, what does change? How does it feel to be
dead? I knew other vampires, but Willie was the first I had known
before and after death. It was a peculiar feeling. "What do you
want?"
"Hey, I'm here to give you money. To become a client."
I glanced up at him, avoiding his eyes. His tie tack caught the
overhead lights. Real gold. Willie had never had anything like that
before. He was doing all right for a dead man. "I raise the dead
for a living, no pun intended. Why would a vampire need a zombie
raised?"
He shook his head, two quick jerks to either side. "No, no
voodoo stuff. I wanna hire you to investigate some murderers."
"I am not a private investigator."
"But you got one of 'em on retainer to your outfit."
I nodded. "You could just hire Ms. Sims directly. You don't have
to go through me for that."
Again that jerky head shake. "But she don't know about vampires
the way you do."
I sighed. "Can we cut to the chase here, Willie? I have to
leave" - I glanced at the wall clock - "in fifteen minutes. I don't
like to leave a client waiting alone in a cemetery. They tend to
get jumpy."
He laughed. I found the snickery laugh comforting, even with the
fangs. Surely vampires should have rich, melodious laughs. "I'll
bet they do. I'll just bet they do." His face sobered suddenly, as
if a hand had wiped his laughter away.
I felt fear like a jerk in the pit of my stomach. Vampires could
change movements like clicking a switch. If he could do that, what
else could he do?
"You know about the vampires that are getting wasted over in the
District?"
He made it a question, so I answered. "I'm familiar with them."
Four vampires had been slaughtered in the new vampire club
district. Their hearts had been torn out, their heads cut off.
"You still working with the cops?"
"I am still on retainer with the new task force."
He laughed again. "Yeah, the spook squad. Underbudgeted and
undermanned, right."
"You've described most of the police work in this town."
"Maybe, but the cops feel like you do, Anita. What's one more
dead vampire? New laws don't change that."
It had only been two years since Addison v. Clark. The court
case gave us a revised version of what life was, and what death
wasn't. Vampirism was legal in the good of U. S. of A. We were one
of the few countries to acknowledge them. The immigration people
were having fits trying to keep foreign vampires from immigrating
in, well, flocks.
All sorts of questions were being fought out in court. Did heirs
have to give back their inheritance? Were you widowed if your
spouse became undead? Was it murder to slay a vampire? There was
even a movement to give them the vote. Times were a-changing.
I stared at the vampire in front of me and shrugged. Did I
really believe what was one more dead vampire? Maybe. "If you
believe I feel that way, why come to me at all?"
"Because you're the best at what you do. We need the best."
It was the first time he had said "we." "Who are you working
for, Willie?"
He smiled then, a close secretive smile, like he knew something I should know.
"Never you mind that. Money's real good.
We want somebody who knows the night life to be looking into these
murders."
"I've seen the bodies, Willie. I gave my opinions to the
police."
"What'd you think?" He leaned forward in the chair, small hands
flat on my desk. His fingernails were pale, almost white,
bloodless.
"I gave a full report to the police." I stared up at him,
almost looking him in the eye.
"Won't even give me that, will ya?"
"I am not at liberty to discuss police business with you."
"I told 'em you wouldn't go for this."
"Go for what? You haven't told me a damn thing."
"We want you to investigate the vampire killings, find out
who's, or what's, doing it. We'll pay you three times your normal
fee."
I shook my head. That explained why Bert, the greedy son of a
gun, had set up this meeting. He knew how I felt about vampires,
but my contract forced me to at least meet with any client that had
given Bert a retainer. My boss would do anything for money. Problem
was he thought I should, too. Bert and I would be having a "talk"
very soon.
I stood. "The police are looking into it. I am already giving
them all the help I can. In a way I am already working on the case.
Save your money."
He sat staring up at me, very still. It was not that lifeless
immobility of the long dead, but it was a shadow of it.
Fear ran up in my spine and into my throat. I fought an urge to
draw my crucifix out of my shirt and drive him from my office.
Somehow throwing a client out using a holy item seemed less than
professional. So I just stood there, waiting for him to move.
"Why won't you help us?"
"I have clients to meet, Willie. I'm sorry that I can't help
you."
"Won't help, you mean."
I nodded. "Have it your way." I walked around the desk to show
him to the door.
He moved with a liquid quickness that Willie had never had, but
I saw him move and was one step back from his reaching hand. "I'm
not just another pretty face to fall for mind tricks."
"You saw me move."
"I heard you move. You're the new dead, Willie. Vampire or not,
you've got a lot to learn."
He was frowning at me, hand still half-extended towards me.
"Maybe, but no human could a stepped outta reach like that." He
stepped up close to me, plaid jacket nearly brushing against me.
Pressed together like that, we were nearly the same height, short.
His eyes were on a perfect level with mine. I stared as hard as I
could at his shoulder.
It took everything I had not to step back from him. But dammit,
undead or not, he was Willie McCoy. I wasn't going to give him the
satisfaction.
He said, "You ain't human, any more than I am."
I moved to open the door. I hadn't stepped away from him. I had
stepped away to open the door. I tried convincing the sweat along
my spine that there was a difference. The cold feeling in my
stomach wasn't fooled either.
"I really have to be going now. Thank you for thinking of
Animators, Inc." I gave him my best professional smile, empty of
meaning as a light bulb, but dazzling.
He paused in the open doorway. "Why won't you work for us? I
gotta tell 'em something when I go back."
I wasn't sure, but there was something like fear in his voice.
Would he get in trouble for failing? I felt sorry for him and knew
it was stupid. He was the undead, for heaven's sake, but he stood
looking at me, and he was still Willie, with his funny coats and
small nervous hands.
"Tell them, whoever they are, that I don't work for
vampires."
"A firm rule?" Again he made it sound like a question.
"Concrete."
There was a flash of something on his face, the old Willie
peeking through. It was almost pity. "I wish you hadn't said that,
Anita. These people don't like anybody telling 'em no."
"I think you've overstayed your welcome. I don't like to be
threatened."
"It ain't a threat, Anita. It's the truth." He straightened his
tie, fondling the new gold tie tack, squared his thin shoulders and
walked out.
I closed the door behind him and leaned against it. My knees
felt weak. But there wasn't time for me to sit here and shake. Mrs.
Grundick was probably already at the cemetery. She would be
standing there with her little black purse and her grown sons,
waiting for me to raise her husband from the dead. There was a
mystery of two very different wills. It was either years of court
costs and arguments, or raise Albert Grundick from the dead and
ask.
Everything I needed was in my car, even the chickens. I drew the
silver crucifix free of my blouse and let it hang in full view. I
have several guns, and I know how to use them. I keep a 9 mm
Browning Hi-Power in my desk. The gun weighed a little over two
pounds, silver-plated bullets and all. Silver won't kill a vampire,
but it can discourage them. It forces them to have to heal the
wounds, almost human slow. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and
went out.
Craig our night secretary, was typing furiously at the computer
keyboard. His eyes widened as I walked over the thick carpeting.
Maybe it was the cross swinging on its long chain. Maybe it was the
shoulder rig tight across my back, and the gun out in plain sight.
He didn't mention either. Smart man.
I put my nice little corduroy jacket over it all. The jacket
didn't lie flat over the gun, but that was okay. I doubted the
Grundicks and their lawyers would notice.
Chapter 2
I had gotten to see the sun rise as I drove home that morning. I
hate sunrises. They mean I've overscheduled myself and worked all
bloody night. St. Louis has more trees edging its highways than any
other city I have driven through. I could almost admit the trees
looked nice in the first light of dawn, almost. My apartment always
looks depressingly white and cheerful in morning sunlight. The
walls are the same vanilla ice cream white as every apartment I've
ever seen. The carpeting is a nice shade of grey, preferable to
that dog poop brown that is more common.
The apartment is a roomy one-bedroom. I am told it has a nice
view of the park next door. You couldn't prove it by me. If I had
my choice, there would be no windows. I get by with heavy drapes
that turn the brightest day to cool twilight.
I switched the radio on low to drown the small noises of my
day-living neighbors. Sleep sucked me under to the soft music of
Chopin. A minute later the phone rang.
I lay there for a minute, cursing myself for forgetting to turn
on the answering machine. Maybe if I ignored it? Five rings later I
gave in. "Hello."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
It was a woman I didn't know. If it was a salesperson I was
going to become violent. "Who is this?" I blinked at the bedside
clock. It was eight. I'd had nearly two hours of sleep. Yippee.
"I'm Monica Vespucci." She said it like it should explain
everything. It didn't.
"Yes." I tried to sound helpful, encouraging. I think it came
out as a growl.
"Oh, my, uh. I'm the Monica that works with Catherine
Maison."
I huddled around the receiver and tried to think. I don't think
really well on two hours of sleep. Catherine was a good friend, a
name I knew. She had probably mentioned this woman to me, but for
the life of me, I couldn't place her. "Sure, Monica, yes. What do
you want?" It sounded rude, even to me. "I'm sorry if I don't sound
too good. I got off work at six."
"My god, you mean you've only had two hours of sleep. Do you
want to shoot me, or what?"
I didn't answer the question. I'm not that rude. "Did you want
something, Monica?"
"Sure, yes. I'm throwing a surprise bachelorette party for
Catherine. You know she gets married next month."
I nodded, remembered she couldn't see me, and mumbled, "I'm in
the wedding."
"Oh, sure, I knew that. Pretty dresses for the bridesmaids,
don't you think?"
Actually, the last thing I wanted to spend a hundred and twenty
dollars on was a long pink formal with puffy sleeves, but it was
Catherine's wedding. "What about the bachelorette party?"
"Oh. I'm rambling, aren't I? And you just desperate for
sleep."
I wondered if screaming at her would make her go away any her.
Naw, she'd probably cry. "What do you want, please, Monica?"
"Well, I know it's short notice, but everything just sort of
slipped up on me. I meant to call you a week ago, but I just never
got around to it."
This I believed. "Go on."
"The bachelorette party is tonight. Catherine says you don't
drink, so I was wondering if you could be designated driver."
I just lay there for a minute, wondering how mad to get, and if
it would do me any good. Maybe if I'd been more awake, I wouldn't
have said what I was thinking. "Don't you think this is awfully
short notice, since you want me to drive?"
"I know. I'm so sorry. I'm just so scattered lately. Catherine
gold me you usually have either Friday or Saturday night off. Is
Friday not your night off this week?"
As a matter of fact it was, but I didn't really want to give up
my only night off to this airhead on the other end of the phone. "I
do have the night off."
"Great! I'll give you directions, and you can pick us up after
work. Is that okay?"
It wasn't, but what else could I say. "That's fine."
"Pencil and paper?"
"You said you worked with Catherine, right?" I was actually
beginning to remember Monica.
"Why, yes."
"I know where Catherine works. I don't need directions."
"Oh, how silly of me, of course. Then we'll see you about five.
Dress up, but no heels. We may be dancing tonight."
I hate to dance. "Sure, see you then."
"See you tonight."
The phone went dead in my ear. I turned on the answering machine
and cuddled back under the sheets. Monica worked with Catherine,
that made her a lawyer. That was a frightening thought. Maybe she
was one of those people who was only organized at work. Naw.
It occurred to me then, when it was too late, that I could just
have refused the invitation. Damn. I was quick today. Oh, well, how
bad could it be? Watching strangers get blitzed out of their minds.
If I was lucky, maybe someone would throw up in my car.
I had the strangest dreams once I got back to sleep. All about
this woman I didn't know, a coconut cream pie, and Willie McCoy's
funeral.
Chapter 3
Monica Vespucci was wearing a button that said, "Vampires are
People, too." It was not a promising beginning to the evening. Her
white blouse was silk with a high, flared collar framing a dark,
health-club tan. Her hair was short and expertly cut; her makeup
perfect.
The button should have tipped me off to what kind of
bachelorette party she'd planned. Some days I'm just slow to catch
on.
I was wearing black jeans, knee-high boots, and a crimson
blouse. My hair was made to order for the outfit, black curling
just over the shoulders of the red blouse. The solid, nearly
black-brown of my eyes matches the hair. Only the skin stands out,
too pale, Germanic against the Latin darkness. A very ex-boyfriend
once described me as a little china doll. He meant it as a
compliment. I didn't take it that way. There are reasons why I
don't date much.
The blouse was long-sleeved to hide the knife sheath on my right
wrist and the scars on my left arm. I had left my gun locked in the
trunk of my car. I didn't think the bachelorette party would get
that out of hand.
"I'm so sorry that I put off planning this to the last minute,
Catherine. That's why there's only three of us. Everybody else had
plans," Monica said.
"Imagine that, people having plans for Friday night," I
said.
Monica stared at me as if trying to decide whether I was joking
or not.
Catherine gave me a warning glare. I gave them both my best
angelic smile. Monica smiled back. Catherine wasn't fooled.
Monica began dancing down the sidewalk, happy as a drunken clam.
She had had only two drinks with dinner. It was a bad sign.
"Be nice," Catherine whispered.
"What did I say?"
"Anita." Her voice sounded like my father's used to sound when
I'd stayed out too late.
I sighed. "You're just no fun tonight."
"I plan to be a lot of fun tonight." She stretched her arms
skyward. She still wore the crumpled remains of her business suit.
The wind blew her long, copper-colored hair. I've never been able
to decide if Catherine would be prettier if she cut her hair, so
you'd notice the face first, or if the hair was what made her
pretty.
"If I have to give up one of my few free nights, then I am going
to enjoy myself - immensely," she said.
There was a kind of fierceness to the last word. I stared up at
her. "You are not planning to get falling-down drunk, are you?"
"Maybe." She looked smug.
Catherine knew I didn't approve of, or rather, didn't understand
drinking. I didn't like having my inhibitions lowered. If I was
going to cut loose, I wanted to be in control of just how loose I
got.
We had left my car in a parking lot two blocks back. The one
with the wrought-iron fence around it. There wasn't much parking
down by the river. The narrow brick roads and ancient sidewalks had
been designed for horses, not automobiles. The streets had been
fresh-washed by a summer thunderstorm that had come and gone while
we ate dinner. The first stars glittered overhead, like diamonds
trapped in velvet.
Monica yelled, "Hurry up, slowpokes."
Catherine looked at me and grinned. The next thing I knew, she
was running towards Monica.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," I muttered. Maybe if I'd had drinks
with dinner, I'd have run, too, but I doubted it.
"Don't be an old stick in the mud," Catherine called back.
Stick in the mud? I caught up to them walking. Monica was
giggling. Somehow I had known she would be. Catherine and she were
leaning against each other laughing. I suspected they might be
laughing at me.
Monica calmed enough to fake an ominous stage whisper. "Do you
know what lies around this corner?"
As a matter of fact, I did. The last vampire killing had been
only four blocks from here. We were in what the vampires called
"the District." Humans called it the Riverfront, or Blood
Square, depending on if they were being rude or not.
"Guilty Pleasures," I said.
"Oh, pooh, you spoiled the surprise."
"What's Guilty Pleasures?" Catherine asked.
Monica giggled. "Oh, goodie, the surprise isn't spoiled after
all." She put her arm through Catherine's. "You are going to love
this, I promise you."
Maybe Catherine would; I knew I wouldn't, but I followed them
around the corner anyway. The sign was a wonderful swirling neon
the color of heart blood. The symbolism was not lost on me.
We went up three broad steps, and there was a vampire standing
in front of the propped-open door. He had a black crew cut and
small, pale eyes. His massive shoulders threatened to rip the tight
black t-shirt he wore. Wasn't pumping iron redundant after you
died?
Even standing on the threshold I could hear the busy hum of
voices, laughter, music. That rich, murmurous sound of many people
in a small space, determined to have a good time.
The vampire stood beside the door, very still. There was still a
movement to him, an aliveness, for lack of a better term. He
couldn't have been dead more than twenty years, if that. In the
dark he looked almost human, even to me. He had fed already
tonight. His skin was flushed and healthy. He looked damn near
rosy-cheeked. A meal of fresh blood will do that to you.
Monica squeezed his arm. "Ooo, feel that muscle."
He grinned, flashing fangs. Catherine gasped. He grinned
wider.
"Buzz here is an old friend, aren't you, Buzz?"
Buzz the vampire? Surely not.
But he nodded. "Go on in, Monica. Your table is waiting."
Table? What kind of clout did Monica have? Guilty Pleasures was
one of the hottest clubs in the District, and they did not take
reservations.
There was a large sign on the door. "No crosses, crucifixes, or
other holy items allowed inside." I read the sign and walked past
it. I had no intention of getting rid of my cross.
A rich, melodious voice floated around us. "Anita, how good of
of you to come."
The voice belonged to Jean-Claude, club owner and master
vampire. He looked like a vampire was supposed to look. Softly
curling hair tangled with the high white lace of an antique
shirt. Lace spilled over pale, long-fingered hands. The shirt hung
open, giving a glimpse of lean bare chest framed by more frothy
lace. Most men couldn't have worn a shirt like that. The vampire
made it seem utterly masculine.
"You two know each other?" Monica sounded surprised.
"Oh, yes," Jean-Claude said. "Ms. Blake and I have met
before."
"I've been helping the police work cases on the Riverfront."
"She is their vampire expert." He made the last word soft and
warm and vaguely obscene.
Monica giggled. Catherine was staring at Jean-Claude, eyes wide
and innocent. I touched her arm, and she jerked as if waking from a
dream. I didn't bother to whisper because I knew he would have
heard me anyway. "Important safety tip - never look a vampire in the
eye."
She nodded. The first hint of fear showed in her face.
"I would never harm such a lovely young woman." He took
Catherine's hand and raised it to his mouth. A mere brush of lips.
Catherine blushed.
He kissed Monica's hand as well. He looked at me and laughed.
"Do not worry, my little animator. I will not touch you. That would
be cheating."
He moved to stand next to me. I stared fixedly at his chest.
There was a burn scar almost hidden in the lace. The burn was in
the shape of a cross. How many decades ago had someone shoved a
cross into his flesh?
"Just as you having a cross would be an unfair advantage."
What could I say? In a way he was right.
It was a shame that it wasn't merely the shape of a cross that
hurt a vampire. Jean-Claude would have been in deep shit.
Unfortunately, the cross had to be blessed, and backed up by faith.
An atheist waving a cross at a vampire was a truly pitiful
sight.
He breathed my name like a whisper against my skin. "Anita, what
are you thinking?"
The voice was so damn soothing. I wanted to look up and see what
face went with such words. Jean-Claude had been intrigued by my
partial immunity to him. That and the cross-shaped burn scar on my
arm. He found the scar amusing. Every time we met, he did his best
to bespell me, and I did my best to ignore him. I had won up until
now.
"You never objected to me carrying a cross before."
"You were on police business then; now you are not."
I stared at his chest and wondered if the lace was as soft as it
looked; probably not.
"Are you so insecure in your own powers, little animator? Do you
believe that all your resistance to me resides in that piece of
silver around your neck?"
I didn't believe that, but I knew it helped. Jean-Claude was a
self-admitted two hundred and five years old. A vampire gains a lot
of power in two centuries. He was suggesting I was a coward. I was
not.
I reached up to unfasten the chain. He stepped away from me and
turned his back. The cross spilled silver into my hands. A blonde
human woman appeared beside me. She handed me a check stub and took
the cross. Nice, a holy item check girl.
I felt suddenly underdressed without my cross. I slept and
showered in it.
Jean-Claude stepped close again. "You will not resist the show
tonight, Anita. Someone will enthrall you."
"No," I said. But it's hard to be tough when you're staring at
someone's chest. You really need eye contact to play tough, but
that was a no-no.
He laughed. The sound seemed to rub over my skin, like the brush
of fur. Warm and feeling ever so slightly of death.
Monica grabbed my arm. "You're going to love this, I promise
you."
"Yes," Jean-Claude said. "It will be a night you will never
forget."
"Is that a threat?"
He laughed again, that warm awful sound. "This is a place of
pleasure, Anita, not violence."
Monica was pulling at my arm. "Hurry, the entertainment's about
to begin."
"Entertainment?" Catherine asked
I had to smile. "Welcome to the world's only vampire strip club,
Catherine."
"You are joking."
"Scout's honor." I glanced back at the door; I don't know why.
Jean-Claude stood utterly still, no sense of anything, as if he
were not there at all. Then he moved, one pale hand raised to his
lips. He blew me a kiss across the room. The night's entertainment
had begun.
Chapter 4
Our table was nearly bumping up against the stage. The room was
full of liquor and laughter, and a few faked screams as the vampire
waiters moved around the tables. There was an undercurrent of fear.
That peculiar terror that you get on roller coasters and at horror
movies. Safe terror.
The lights went out. Screams echoed through the room, high and
shrill. Real fear for an instant. Jean-Claude's voice came out of
the darkness. "Welcome to Guilty Pleasures. We are here to serve
you. To make your most evil thought come true."
His voice was silken whispers in the small hours of night. Damn,
he was good.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to feel my breath
upon your skin? My lips along your neck. The hard brush of teeth.
The sweet, sharp pain of fangs. Your heart beating frantically
against my chest. Your blood flowing into my veins. Sharing
yourself. Giving me life. Knowing that I truly could not live
without you, all of you."
Perhaps it was the intimacy of darkness; whatever, I felt as if
his voice was speaking just for me, to me. I was his chosen, his
special one. No, that wasn't right. Every woman in the club felt
the same. We were all his chosen. And perhaps there was more truth
in that than in anything else.
"Our first gentleman tonight shares your fantasy. He wanted to
know how the sweetest of kisses would feel. He has gone before you
to tell you that it is wondrous." He let silence fill the darkness,
until my own heartbeat sounded loud. "Phillip is with us
tonight."
Monica whispered, "Phillip!" A collective gasp ran through the
audience, then a soft chanting began. "Phillip, Phillip . . ." The
sound rose around us in the dark like a prayer.
The lights began to come up like at the end of a movie. A figure
stood in the center of the stage. A white t-shirt hugged his
upper body; not a muscleman, but well built. Not too much of a good
thing. A black leather jacket, tight jeans and boots completed the
outfit. He could have walked off any street. His thick, brown hair
was long enough to sweep his shoulders.
Music drifted into the twilit silence. The man swayed to the
sounds, hips rotating ever so slightly. He began to slip out of
leather jacket, moving almost in slow motion. The soft music seemed
to have a pulse. A pulse that his body moved with, swaying. The jacket
slid to the stage. He stared out at the audience for a minute
letting us see what there was to see. Scars hugged the bend of each arm,
until the skin had formed white mounds of tissue.
I swallowed hard. I wasn't sure what was about to happen, but
was betting I wasn't going to like it.
He swept back his long hair from his face with both hands. He
swayed and strutted around the edge of the stage. He stood near
table, looking down at us. His neck looked like a junkie's.
I had to look away. All those neat little bite marks, neat
little scars. I glanced up and found Catherine staring at her lap.
Monica leaning forward in her chair, lips half-parted.
He grabbed the t-shirt with strong hands and pulled. It peeled
away from his chest, ripping. Screams from the audience. A few of
them called his name. He smiled. The smile was dazzling, brilliant
melt-in-your-mouth sexy.
There was scar tissue on his smooth, bare chest: white scars,
pinkish scars, new scars, old scars. I just sat staring with my
mouth open.
Catherine whispered, "Dear God!"
"He's wonderful, isn't he?" Monica asked.
I glanced at her. Her flared collar had slipped, exposing two
neat puncture wounds, fairly old, almost scars. Sweet Jesus.
The music burst into a pulsing violence. He danced, swaying,
gyrating, throwing the strength of his body into every move. There
a white mass of scars over his left collarbone, ragged and vicious.
My stomach tightened. A vampire had torn through his collarbone,
ripped at him like a dog with a piece of meat. I knew, because I
had a similar scar. I had a lot of similar scars.
Dollar bills appeared in hands like mushrooms after a rain.
Monica was waving her money like a flag. I didn't want Phillip at
our table. I had to lean into Monica to be heard over the
noise.
"Monica, please, don't bring him over here."
Even as she turned to look at me, I knew it was too late.
Phillip of the many scars was standing on the stage, looking down
at us. I stared up into his very human eyes.
I could see the pulse in Monica's throat. She licked her lips;
her eyes were enormous. She stuffed the money down the front of his
pants.
Her hands traced his scars like nervous butterflies. She leaned
her face close to his stomach and began kissing his scars, leaving
red lipstick prints behind. He knelt as she kissed him, forcing her
mouth higher and higher up his chest.
He knelt, and she pressed lips to his face. He brushed his hair
back from his neck, as if he knew what she wanted. She licked the
newest bite scar, tongue small and pink, like a cat. I heard her
breath go out in a trembling sigh. She bit him, mouth locking over
the wound. Phillip jerked with pain, or just surprise. Her jaws
tightened, her throat worked. She was sucking the wound.
I looked across the table at Catherine. She was staring at them,
face blank with astonishment.
The crowd was going wild, screaming and waving money. Phillip
pulled away from Monica and moved on to another table. Monica
slumped forward, head collapsing into her lap, arms limp at her
side.
Had she fainted? I reached out to touch her shoulder and
realized I didn't want to touch her. I gripped her shoulder gently.
She moved, turning her head to look at me. Her eyes held that lazy
fullness that sex gives. Her mouth looked pale with most of the
lipstick worn away. She hadn't fainted; she was basking in the
afterglow.
I drew back from her, rubbing my hand against my jeans. My palms
were sweating.
Phillip was back on the stage. He had stopped dancing. He was
just standing there. Monica had left a small round mark on his
neck.
I felt the first stirrings of an old mind, flowing over the
crowd. Catherine asked, "What's happening?"
"It's all right," Monica said. She was sitting upright in her
chair, eyes still half-closed. She licked her lips and stretched,
hands over her head.
Catherine turned to me. "Anita, what is it?"
"Vampire," I said.
Fear flashed on her face, but it didn't last. I watched the fear
fade under the weight of the vampire's mind. She turned slowly to
stare at Phillip as he waited on the stage. Catherine was in no
danger. This mass hypnosis was not personal, and not permanent.
The vampire wasn't as old as Jean-Claude, nor as good. I sat
there feeling the press and flow of over a hundred years of power,
and it wasn't enough. I felt him move up through the tables. He had
gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the poor humans wouldn't see
him come. He would simply appear in their midst, like magic.
You don't get to surprise vampires often. I turned to watch the
vampire walk towards the stage. Every human face I saw was
enraptured, turned blindly to the stage, waiting. The vampire was
tall with high cheekbones, model-perfect, sculpted. He was too
masculine to be beautiful, and too perfect to be real.
He strode through the tables wearing a proverbial vampire
outfit, black tux and white gloves. He stopped one table away from
me, to stare. He held the audience in the palm of his mind,
helpless and waiting. But there I sat staring at him, though not at
his eyes.
His body stiffened, surprised. There's nothing like ruining the
calm of a hundred-year-old vampire to boost a girl's morale.
I looked past him to see Jean-Claude. He was staring at me. I
saluted him with my drink. He acknowledged it with a nod of his
head.
The tall vampire was standing beside Phillip. Phillip's eyes
were as blank as any human's. The spell or whatever drifted away.
With a thought he awoke the audience, and they gasped. Magic.
Jean-Claude's voice filled the sudden silence. "This is Robert.
Welcome him to our stage."
The crowd went wild, applauding and screaming. Catherine was
applauding along with everyone else. Apparently, she was
impressed.
The music changed again, pulsing and throbbing in the air,
almost painfully loud. Robert the vampire began to dance. He moved
with a careful violence, pumping to the music. He threw his white
gloves into the audience. One landed at my feet. I left it
there.
Monica said, "Pick it up."
I shook my head.
Another woman leaned over from another table. Her breath smelled
like whiskey. "You don't want it?"
I shook my head.
She got up, I suppose to get the glove. Monica beat her to it.
The woman sat down, looking unhappy.
The vampire had stripped, showing a smooth expanse of chest. He
dropped to the stage and did fingertip push-ups. The audience went
wild. I wasn't impressed. I knew he could bench press a car, if he
wanted to. What's a few pushups compared to that?
He began to dance around Phillip. Phillip turned to face him,
arms outspread, slightly crouched, as if he were ready for an
attack. They began circling each other. The music softened until it
was only a soft underscoring to the movements on stage.
The vampire began to move closer to Phillip. Phillip moved as if
trying to run from the stage. The vampire was suddenly there,
blocking his escape.
I hadn't seen him move. The vampire had just appeared in front
of the man. I hadn't seen him move. Fear drove all the air from my
body in an icy rush. I hadn't felt the mind trick, but it had
happened.
Jean-Claude was standing only two tables away. He raised one
pale hand in a salute to me. The bastard had been in my mind, and I
hadn't known it. The audience gasped, and I looked back to the
stage.
They were both kneeling; the vampire had one of Phillip's arms
pinned behind his back. One hand gripped Phillip's long hair,
pulling his neck back at a painful angle.
Phillip's eyes were wide and terrified. The vampire hadn't put
him under. He wasn't under! He was aware and scared. Dear God. He
was panting, his chest rising and falling in short gasps.
The vampire looked out at the audience and hissed, fangs
flashing in the lights. The hiss turned the beautiful face to
something bestial. His hunger rode out over the crowd. His need so
intense, it made my stomach cramp.
No, I would not feel this with him. I dug fingernails into the
palm of my hand and concentrated. The feeling faded. Pain helped. I
opened my shaking fingers and found four half-moons that slowly
filled with blood. The hunger beat around me, filling the crowd,
but not me, not me.
I pressed a napkin to my hand and tried to look
inconspicuous.
The vampire drew back his head.
"No," I whispered.
The vampire struck, teeth sinking into flesh. Phillip shrieked,
and it echoed in the club. The music died abruptly. No one moved.
You could have dropped a pin.
Soft, moist sucking sounds filled the silence. Phillip began to
moan, high in his throat. Over and over again, small helpless
sounds.
I looked out at the crowd. They were with the vampire, feeling
his hunger, his need, feeling him feed. Maybe sharing Phillip's
terror, I didn't know. I was apart from it, and glad.
The vampire stood, letting Phillip fall to the stage, limp,
unmoving. I stood without meaning to. The man's scarred back
convulsed in a deep, shattering breath, as if he were fighting back
from death. And maybe he was.
He was alive. I sat back down. My knees felt weak. Sweat covered
my palms and stung the cuts on my hand. He was alive, and he
enjoyed it. I wouldn't have believed it if someone had told me. I
would have called them a liar.
A vampire junkie. Surely to God, I'd seen everything now.
Jean-Claude whispered, "Who wants a kiss?"
No one moved for a heartbeat; then hands, holding money, raised
here and there. Not many, but a few. Most people looked confused,
as if they had woken from a bad dream. Monica was holding money
up.
Phillip lay where he had been dropped, chest rising and
falling.
Robert the vampire came to Monica. She tucked money down his
pants. He pressed his bloody, fanged mouth to her lips. The kiss
was long and deep, full of probing tongues. They were tasting each
other.
The vampire drew away from Monica. Her hands at his neck tried
to draw him back, but he pulled away. He turned to me. I shook my
head and showed him empty hands. No money here, folks.
He grabbed for me, snake-quick. No time to think. My chair
crashed to the floor. I was standing, just out of reach. No
ordinary human could have seen him coming. The jig, as they say,
was up.
A buzz of voices raised through the audience as they tried to
figure out what had happened. Just your friendly neighborhood
animator, folks, nothing to get excited about. The vampire was
still staring at me.
Jean-Claude was suddenly beside me, and I hadn't seen him come.
"Are you all right, Anita?"
His voice held things that the words didn't even hint at.
Promises whispered in darkened rooms, under cool sheets. He sucked
me under, rolled my mind like a wino after money, and it felt good.
Crash - Shrill - Noise thundered through my mind, chased the vampire
out, held him at bay.
My beeper had gone off. I blinked and staggered against our
table. He reached out to steady me. "Don't touch me," I said.
He smiled. "Of course."
I pushed the button on my beeper to silence it. Thank you God,
that I hung the beeper on my waistband instead of stuffing it in a
purse. I might never have heard it otherwise. I called from the
phone at the bar. The police wanted my expertise at the Hillcrest
Cemetery. I had to work on my night off. Yippee, and I meant
it.
I offered to take Catherine with me, but she wanted to stay.
Whatever else you can say about vampires, they are fascinating. It
went with the job description, like drinking blood and working
nights. It was her choice.
I promised to come back in time to drive them home. Then I
picked up my cross from the holy item check girl and slipped it
inside my shirt.
Jean-Claude was standing by the door. He said, "I almost had
you, my little animator."
I glanced at his face and quickly down. "Almost doesn't count,
you blood-sucking bastard."
Jean-Claude threw back his head and laughed. His laughter
followed me out into the night, like velvet rubbing along my
spine.
Chapter 5
The coffin lay on its side. A white scar of claw marks ran down
the dark varnish. The pale blue lining, imitation silk, was sliced
and gouged. One bloody handprint showed plainly; it could almost
have been human. All that was left of the older corpse was a
shredded brown suit, a finger bone gnawed clean and a scrap of
scalp. The man had been blond.
A second body lay perhaps five feet away. The man's clothes were
shredded. His chest had been ripped open, ribs cracked like
eggshells. Most of his internal organs were gone, leaving his body
cavity like a hollowed-out log. Only his face was untouched. Pale
eyes stared impossibly wide up into the summer stars.
I was glad it was dark. My night vision is good, but darkness
steals color. All the blood was black. The man's body was lost in
the shadows of the trees. I didn't have to see him, unless I walked
up to him. I had done that. I had measured the bite marks with my
trusty tape measure. With my little plastic gloves I had searched
the corpse over, looking for clues. There weren't any.
I could do anything I wanted to the scene of the crime. It had
already been videotaped and snapped from every possible angle. I
was always the last "expert" called in. The ambulance was waiting
to take the bodies away, once I was finished.
I was about finished. I knew what had killed the man. Ghouls. I
had narrowed the search down to a particular kind of undead. Bully
for me. The coroner could have told them that.
I was beginning to sweat inside the coverall I had put on to
protect my clothes. The coverall was originally for vampire
stakings, but I had started using it at crime scenes. There were
black stains at the knees and down the legs. There had been so much
blood in the grass. Thank you, dear God, that I didn't have to see
this in broad daylight.
I don't know why seeing something like this in daylight
makes it worse, but I'm more likely to dream about a daylight scene.
The blood is always so red and brown and thick.
Night softens it, makes it less real. I appreciated that.
I unzipped the front of my coverall, letting it gape open around
my clothes. The wind blew against me, amazingly cool. The air
smelled of rain. Another thunderstorm was moving this way.
The yellow police tape was wrapped around tree trunks, strung
through bushes. One yellow loop went around the stone feet of an
angel. The tape flapped and cracked in the growing wind. Sergeant
Rudolf Storr lifted the tape and walked towards me.
He was six-eight and built like a wrestler. He had a brisk,
striding walk. His close-cropped black hair left his ears bare.
Dolph was the head of the newest task force, the spook squad.
Officially, it was the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team,
R-P-I-T, pronounced rip it. It handled all supernatural-related
crime. It wasn't exactly a step up for his career. Willie McCoy had
been right; the task force was a half-hearted effort to placate the
press and the liberals.
Dolph had pissed somebody off, or he wouldn't have been here.
But Dolph, being Dolph, was determined to do the best job he could.
He was like a force of nature. He didn't yell, he was just there,
and things got done because of it.
"Well," he said.
That's Dolph, a man of many words. "It was a ghoul attack."
"And."
I shrugged. "And there are no ghouls in this cemetery."
He stared down at me, face carefully neutral. He was good at
that, didn't like to influence his people. "You just said it was a
ghoul attack."
"Yes, but they came from somewhere outside the cemetery."
"So?"
"I have never known of any ghouls to travel this far outside
their own cemetery." I stared at him, trying to see if he
understood what I was saying.
"Tell me about ghouls, Anita." He had his trusty little notebook
out, pen poised and ready.
"This cemetery is still holy ground. Cemeteries that have ghoul
infestations are usually very old or have satanic or certain voodoo
rites performed in them. The evil sort of uses up the blessing,
until the ground becomes unholy. Once that happens, ghouls
either move in or rise from the graves. No one's sure exactly
which."
"Wait, what do you mean, that no one knows?"
"Basically."
He shook his head, staring at the notes he'd made, frowning.
"Explain."
"Vampires are made by other vampires. Zombies are raised from
the grave by an animator or voodoo priest. Ghouls, as far as we
know, just crawl out of their graves on their own. There are
theories that very evil people become ghouls. I don't buy that.
There was a theory for a while that people bitten by a supernatural
being, wereanimal, vampire, whatever, would become a ghoul. But
I've seen whole cemeteries emptied, every corpse a ghoul. No way
they were all attacked by supernatural forces while alive."
"All right, we don't know where ghouls come from. What do we
know?"
"Ghouls don't rot like zombies. They retain their form more like
vampires. They are more than animal intelligent, but not by much.
They are cowards and won't attack a person unless she is hurt or
unconscious."
"They sure as hell attacked the groundskeeper."
"He could have been knocked unconscious somehow."
"How?"
"Someone would have had to knock him out."
"Is that likely?"
"No, ghouls don't work with humans, or any other undead. A
zombie will obey orders, vampires have their own thoughts. Ghouls
are like pack animals, wolves maybe, but a lot more dangerous. They
wouldn't be able to understand working with someone. If you're not
a ghoul, you're either meat or something to hide from."
"Then what happened here?"
"Dolph, these ghouls traveled quite a distance to reach this
cemetery. There isn't another one for miles. Ghouls don't travel
like that. So maybe, just maybe, they attacked the caretaker when
he came to scare them off. They should have run from him; maybe
they didn't."
"Could it be something, or someone, pretending to be
ghouls?"
"Maybe, but I doubt it. Whoever it was, they ate that man. A
human might do that, but a human couldn't tear the body apart like
that. They just don't have the strength."
"Vampire?"
"Vampires don't eat meat."
"Zombies?"
"Maybe. There are rare cases where zombies go a little crazy and
start attacking people. They seem to crave flesh. If they don't get
it, they'll start to decay."
"I thought zombies always decayed."
"Flesh-eating zombies last a lot longer than normal. There's one
case of a woman who is still human-looking after three years."
"They let her go around eating people?"
I smiled. "They feed her raw meat. I believe the article said
lamb was preferred."
"Article?"
"Every career has its professional journal, Dolph."
"What's it called?"
I shrugged. "The Animator; what else?"
He actually smiled. "Okay. How likely is it that it's
zombies?"
"Not very. Zombies don't run in packs unless they're ordered
to."
"Even" - he checked his notes - "flesh-eating zombies?"
"There have only been three documented cases. All of them were
solitary hunters."
"So, flesh-eating zombies, or a new kind of ghoul. That sum it
up?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Okay, thanks. Sorry to interrupt your night off." He closed his
notebook and looked at me. He was almost grinning. ""The secretary
said you were at a bachelorette party." He wiggled his eyebrows.
"Hoochie coochie."
"Don't give me a hard time, Dolph."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Riiight," I said. "If you don't need me anymore, I'll be
getting back."
"We're finished, for now. Call me if you think of anything
else."
"Will do." I walked back to my car. The bloody plastic gloves
were shoved into a garbage sack in the trunk. I debated on the
coveralls and finally folded them on top of the garbage sack. I
might be able to wear them one more time.
Dolph called out, "You be careful tonight, Anita. Wouldn't want
you picking up anything."
I glared back at him. The rest of the men waved at me and called
in unison, "We loove you."
"Gimme a break."
One called, "If I'd known you liked to see naked men, we could
have worked something out."
"The stuff you got, Zerbrowski, I don't want to see."
Laughter, and someone grabbed him around the neck. "She got you,
man . . . Give it up, she gets you every time."
I got into my car to the sound of masculine laughter, and one
offer to be my "luv" slave. It was probably Zerbrowski.
Chapter 6
I arrived back at Guilty Pleasures a little after midnight. Jean
Claude was standing at the bottom of the steps. He was leaning
against the wall, utterly still. If he was breathing, I couldn't
see it. The wind blew the lace on his shirt. A lock of black hair
trailed across the smooth paleness of his cheek.
"You smell of other people's blood, ma petite."
I smiled at him, sweetly. "It was no one you knew."
His voice when it came was low and dark, full of a quiet rage.
It slithered across my skin, like a cold wind. "Have you been
killing vampires, my little animator?"
"No." I whispered it, my voice suddenly hoarse. I had never
heard his voice like that.
"They call you The Executioner, did you know that?"
"Yes." He had done nothing to threaten me, yet nothing at that
moment would have forced me to pass him. They might as well have
barred the door.
"How many kills do you have to your credit?"
I didn't like this conversation. It wasn't going to end anywhere
I wanted to be. I knew one master vampire who could smell lies. I
didn't understand Jean-Claude's mood, but I wasn't about to lie to
him. "Fourteen."
"And you call us murderers."
I just stared at him, not sure what he wanted me to say.
Buzz the vampire came down the steps. He stared from Jean Claude
to me, then took up his post by the door, huge arms crossed over
his chest.
Jean-Claude asked, "Did you have a nice break?"
"Yes, thank you, master."
The master vampire smiled. "I've told you before, Buzz, don't
call me master."
"Yes, M-M . . . Jean-Claude."
The vampire gave his wondrous, nearly touchable laugh. "Come,
Anita, let us go inside where it is warmer."
It was over eighty degrees on the sidewalk. I didn't know what
in the world he was talking about. I didn't know what we'd been
talking about for the last few minutes.
Jean-Claude walked up the steps. I watched him disappear inside.
I stood staring at the door, not wanting to go inside. Something
was wrong, and I didn't know what.
"You going inside?" Buzz asked.
"I don't suppose you'd go inside, and ask Monica and the
redhaired woman she's with to come outside?"
He smiled, flashing fang. It's the mark of the new dead that
they flash their fangs around. They like the shock effect. "Can't
leave my post. I just had a break."
"Thought you'd say something like that."
He grinned at me.
I went into the twilit dark of the club. The holy item check
girl was waiting for me at the door. I gave her my cross. She gave
me a check stub. It wasn't a fair trade. Jean-Claude was nowhere in
sight.
Catherine was on the stage. She was standing motionless, eyes
wide. Her face had that open, fragile look that faces get when they
sleep, like a child's face. Her long, copper-colored hair glistened
in the lights. I knew a deep trance when I saw it.
"Catherine." I breathed her name and ran towards her. Monica was
sitting at our table, watching me come. There was an awful, knowing
smile on her face.
I was almost to the stage when a vampire appeared behind
Catherine. He didn't walk out from behind the curtain, he just
bloody appeared behind her. For the first time I understood what
humans must see. Magic.
The vampire stared at me. His hair was golden silk, his skin
ivory, eyes like drowning pools. I closed my eyes and shook my
head. This couldn't be happening. No one was that beautiful.
His voice was almost ordinary after the face, but it was a
command. "Call her."
I opened my eyes to find the audience staring at me. I glanced
at Catherine's blank face and knew what would happen, but like any
ignorant client I had to try. "Catherine, Catherine, can you hear
me?"
She never moved; only the faintest of movements showed her
breathing. She was alive, but for how long? The vampire had gotten
to her, deep trance. That meant he could call her anytime,
anywhere, and she would come. From this moment on, her life
belonged to him. Whenever he wanted it.
"Catherine, please!" There was nothing I could do, the damage
was done. Dammit, I should never have left her here, never!
The vampire touched her shoulder. She blinked and stared around,
surprised, scared. She gave a nervous laugh. "What happened?"
The vampire raised her hand to his lips. "You are now under my
power, my lovely one."
She laughed again, not understanding that he had told her the
absolute truth. He led her to the edge of the stage, and two
waiters helped her back to her seat. "I feel fuzzy," she said.
Monica patted her hand. "You were great."
"What did I do?"
"I'll tell you later. The show's not over yet." She stared at me
when she said the last.
I already knew I was in trouble. The vampire on the stage was
staring at me. It was like weight against my skin. His will, force,
personality, whatever it was, beat against me. I could feel it like
a pulsing wind. The skin on my arms crawled with it.
"I am Aubrey," the vampire said. "Give me your name."
My mouth was suddenly dry, but my name was not important. He
could have that. "Anita."
"Anita. How pretty."
My knees sort of buckled and spilled me into a chair. Monica was
staring at me, eyes enormous and eager.
"Come, Anita, join me on the stage." His voice wasn't as good as
Jean-Claude's, it just wasn't. There was no texture to it, but the
mind behind the voice was like nothing I had ever felt. It was
ancient, terribly ancient. The force of his mind made my bones
ache.
"Come."
I kept shaking my head, over and over. It was all I could do. No
words, no real thoughts, but I knew I could not get out of this
chair. If I came to him now, he would have power over me just as he
did Catherine. Sweat soaked through the back of my blouse.
"Come to me, now!"
I was standing, and I didn't remember doing it. Dear God, help
me! "No!" I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I tore my
own skin and welcomed the pain. I could breathe again.
His mind receded like the ocean pulling back. I felt
lightheaded, empty. I slumped against the table. One of the vampire
waiters was at my side. "Don't fight him. He gets angry if you
fight him."
I pushed him away. "If I don't fight him, he'll own me!"
The waiter looked almost human, one of the new dead. There was a
look on his face. It was fear.
I called to the thing on the stage, "I'll come to the stage if
you don't force me."
Monica gasped. I ignored her. Nothing mattered but getting
through the next few moments.
"Then by all means, come," the vampire said.
I stood away from the table and found I could stand without
falling. Point for me. I could even walk. Two points for me. I
stared at the hard, polished floor. If I concentrated just on
walking I would be all right. The first step of the stage came into
view. I glanced up.
Aubrey was standing in the center of the stage. He wasn't trying
to call me. He stood perfectly still. It was like he wasn't there
at all; he was a terrible nothingness. I could feel his stillness
like a pulse in my head. I think he could have stood in plain
sight, and unless he wanted me to, I would never have seen him.
"Come." Not a voice, but a sound inside my head. "Come to me.
"
I tried to move back and couldn't. My pulse thundered into my
throat. I couldn't breathe. I was choking! I stood with the force
of his mind twisting against me.
"Don't fight me!" He screamed in my head.
Someone was screaming, wordlessly, and it was me. If I stopped
fighting, it would be so easy, like drowning after you stop
struggling. A peaceful way to die. No, no. "No." My voice sounded
strange, even to me.
"What?" he asked. His voice held surprise.
"No," I said, and I looked up at him. I met his eyes with the
weight of all those centuries pulsing down. Whatever it was that
made me an animator, that helped me raise the dead, it was there
now. I met his eyes and stood still.
He smiled then, a slow spreading of lips. "Then I will come to
you."
"Please, please, don't." I could not step back. His mind held me
like velvet steel. It was everything I could do not to move
forward. Not to run to meet him.
He stopped, with our bodies almost touching. His eyes were a
solid, perfect brown, bottomless, endless. I looked away from his
face. Sweat trickled down my forehead.
"You smell of fear, Anita."
His cool hand traced the edge of my cheek. I started to shake
and couldn't stop. His fingers pulled gently through the waves of
my hair. "How can you face me this way?"
He breathed along my face, warm as silk. His breath slid to my
neck, warm and close. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. His hunger
pulsed against my skin. My stomach cramped with his need. He hissed
at the audience, and they squealed in terror. He was going to do
it.
Terror came in a blinding rush of adrenaline. I pushed away from
him. I fell to the stage and scrambled away on hands and knees.
An arm grabbed me around the waist, lifting. I screamed,
striking backwards with my elbow. It thudded home, and I heard him
gasp, but the arm tightened. Tightened until it was crushing
me.
I tore at my sleeve. Cloth ripped. He threw me onto my back. He
was crouched over me, face twisted with hunger. His lips curled
back from his teeth, fangs glistening.
Someone moved onto the stage, one of the waiters. The vampire
hissed at him, spittle running down his chin. There was nothing
human left.
It came for me in a blinding rush of speed and hunger. I pressed
the silver knife over his heart. A trickle of blood glistened down
his chest. He snarled at me, fangs gnashing like a dog on the end
of a chain. I screamed.
Terror had washed his power away. There was nothing left but
fear. He lunged for me and drove the point of the knife into his
skin. Blood began to drip over my hand and onto my blouse. His
blood.
Jean-Claude was suddenly there. "Aubrey, let her go."
The vampire growled deep and low in his throat. It was an animal
sound.
My voice was high and thin with fear; I sounded like a little
girl. "Get him off me, or I'll kill him!"
The vampire reared back, fangs slashing his own lips. "Get him
off me!"
Jean-Claude began to speak softly in French. Even when I
couldn't understand the language his voice was like velvet,
soothing. Jean-Claude knelt by us, speaking softly. The vampire
growled and lashed out, grabbing Jean-Claude's wrist.
He gasped, and it sounded like pain.
Should I kill him? Could I plunge the knife home before he tore
out my throat? How fast was he? My mind seemed to be working
incredibly fast. There was an illusion that I had all the time in
the world to decide and act.
I felt the vampire's weight heavier against my legs. His voice
sounded hoarse, but calm. "May I get up now?"
His face was human again, pleasant, handsome, but the illusion
didn't work anymore. I had seen him unmasked, and that image would
always stay with me. "Get off me, slowly."
He smiled then, a slow confident spread of lips. He moved off
me, human-slow. Jean-Claude waved him back until he stood near the
curtain.
"Are you all right, ma petite?"
I stared at the bloody silver knife and shook my head. "I don't
know."
"I did not mean for this to happen." He helped me sit up, and I
let him. The room had fallen silent. The audience knew something
had gone wrong. They had seen the truth behind the charming mask.
There were a lot of pale, frightened faces out there.
My right sleeve hung torn where I ripped it to get the
knife.
"Please, put away the knife," Jean-Claude said.
I stared at him, and for the first time I looked him in the eyes
and felt nothing. Nothing but emptiness.
"My word of honor that you will leave this place in safety. Put
the knife away."
It took me three tries to slide the knife into its sheath, my
hands were trembling so badly. Jean-Claude smiled at me,
tight-lipped. "Now, we will get off this stage." He helped me
stand. I would have fallen if his arm hadn't caught me. He kept a
tight grip on my left hand; the lace on his sleeve brushed my skin.
The lace wasn't soft at all.
Jean-Claude held his other hand out to Aubrey. I tried to pull
away, and he whispered, "No fear, I will protect you, I swear
it."
I believed him, I don't know why, maybe because I had no one
else to believe. He led Aubrey and me to the front of the stage.
His rich voice caressed the crowd. "We hope you enjoyed our little
melodrama. It was very realistic, wasn't it?"
The audience shifted uncomfortably, fear plain in their
faces.
He smiled out at them and dropped Aubrey's hand. He unbuttoned
my sleeve and pushed it back, exposing the burn scar. The cross was
dark against my skin. The audience was silent, still not
understanding. Jean-Claude pulled the lace away from his chest,
exposing his own cross-shaped burn.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then applause thundered
around the room. Screams and shouts, and whistles roared around
us.
They thought I was a vampire, and it had all been an act. I
stared at Jean-Claude's smiling face and the matching scars: his
chest, my arm.
Jean-Claude's hand pulled me down into a bow. As the applause
finally began to fade, Jean-Claude whispered, "We need to talk,
Anita. Your friend Catherine's life depends on your actions."
I met his eyes and said, "I killed the things that gave me this
scar."
He smiled broadly, showing just a hint of fang. "What a lovely
coincidence. So did I."
Chapter 7
Jean-Claude led us through the curtains at the back of the
stage. Another vampire stripper was waiting to go on. He was
dressed like a gladiator, complete with metal breastplate and short
sword. "Talk about an act that's hard to follow. Shit." He jerked
the curtain open and stalked through.
Catherine came through, her face so pale her freckles stood out
like brown ink spots. I wondered if I looked as pale? Naw. I didn't
have the skin tone for it.
"My God, are you all right?" she asked.
I stepped carefully over a line of cables that snaked across the
backstage floor and leaned against the wall. I began to relearn how
to breathe. "I'm fine," I lied.
"Anita, what is going on? What was that stuff on stage? You
aren't a vampire any more than I am."
Aubrey made a silent hiss behind her back, fangs straining,
making his lips bleed. His shoulders shook with silent
laughter.
Catherine gripped my arm. "Anita?"
I hugged her, and she hugged me back. I would not let her die
like this. I would not let it happen. She pulled away from me and
stared into my face. "Talk to me."
"Shall we talk in my office?" Jean-Claude asked.
"Catherine doesn't need to come."
Aubrey strolled closer. He seemed to glimmer in the twilight
dark, like a jewel. "I think she should come. It does concern her
intimately." He licked his bloody lips, tongue pink and quick as a
cat's.
"No, I want her out of this, any way I can get her out of
it."
"Out of what? What are you talking about?"
Jean-Claude asked, "Is she likely to go to the police?"
"Go to the police about what?" Catherine asked, her voice
getting louder with each question.
"If she did?"
"She would die," Jean-Claude said.
"Wait just a minute," Catherine said. "Are you threatening
me?"
Catherine's face was gaining a lot of color. Anger did that to
her. "She'll go to the police," I said.
"It is your choice."
"I'm sorry, Catherine, but it would be better for us all if you
didn't remember any of this."
"That's it! We are leaving, now." She grabbed my hand, and I
didn't stop her.
Aubrey moved up behind her. "Look at me, Catherine."
She stiffened. Her fingers dug into my hand; incredible tension
vibrated down her muscles. She was fighting it. God, help her. But
she didn't have any magic, or crucifixes. Strength of will was not
enough, not against something like Aubrey.
Her hand fell away from my arm, fingers going limp all at once.
Breath went out of her in a long, shuddering sigh. She stared at
something just a little over my head, something I couldn't see.
I whispered, "Catherine, I'm sorry."
"Aubrey can wipe her memory of this night. She will think she
drank too much, but that will not undo the damage."
"I know. The only thing that can break Aubrey's hold on her is
his death."
"She will be dust in her grave before that happens."
I stared at him, at the blood stain on his shirt. I smiled a
very careful smile.
"This little wound was luck and nothing more. Do not let it make
you overconfident," Aubrey said.
Overconfident; now that was funny. I barely managed not to
laugh. "I understand the threat, Jean-Claude. Either I do what you
want or Aubrey finishes what he started with Catherine."
"You have grasped the situation, ma petite."
"Stop calling me that. What is it exactly that you want from
me?"
"I believe Willie McCoy told you what we wanted."
"You want to hire me to check into the vampire murders?"
"Exactly."
"This," I motioned to Catherine's blank face, "was hardly
necessary. You could have beaten me up, threatened my life, offered
me more money. You could have done a lot of things before you did
this."
He smiled, lips tight. "All that would have taken time. And let
us be truthful. In the end you would still have refused us."
"Maybe."
"This way, you have no choice."
He had a point. "Okay, I'm on the case. Satisfied?"
"Very," Jean-Claude said, his voice very soft. "What of your
friend?"
"I want her to go home in a cab. And I want some guarantees that
old long-fang isn't going to kill her anyway."
Aubrey laughed, a rich sound that ended in a hysterical hissing.
He was bent over, shaking with laughter. "Long-fang, I like
that."
Jean-Claude glanced at the laughing vampire and said, "I will
give you my word that she will not be harmed if you help us."
"No offense, but that's not enough."
"You doubt my word." His voice growled low and warm, angry.
"No, but you don't hold Aubrey's leash. Unless he answers to you
you can't guarantee his behavior."
Aubrey's laughter had softened to a few faint giggles. I had
never heard a vampire giggle before. It wasn't a pleasant sound.
The laughter died completely, and he straightened. "No one holds my
leash, girl. I am my own master."
"Oh, get real. If you were over five hundred years old, and a
master vampire, you'd have cleaned up the stage with me. As it
was" - I flattened my hands palms up - "you didn't, which means you're
very old but not your own master."
He growled low in his throat, face darkening with anger. "How
dare you?"
"Think, Aubrey, she judged your age within fifty years. You are
not a master vampire, and she knew that. We need her."
"She needs to learn some humility." He stalked towards me, body
rigid with anger, hands clenching and unclenching in the air.
Jean-Claude stepped between us. "Nikolaos is expecting us to
bring her, unharmed."
Aubrey hesitated. He snarled; his jaws snapped on empty air. The
smack of his teeth biting together was a dull, angry sound.
They stared at each other. I could feel their wills straining
through the air, like a distant wind. It made the skin at the back
of my neck crawl. It was Aubrey who looked away, with an angry
graceful blink. "I will not anger, my master." He emphasized "my,"
making it clear that Jean-Claude was not "his" master.
I swallowed hard twice, and it sounded loud. If they wanted me
scared, they were doing a hell of a job. "Who is Nikolaos'?"
Jean-Claude turned to look at me, his face calm and beautiful.
"That question is not ours to answer."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He smiled, lips curling carefully so no fang showed. "Let us put
your friend in a cab, out of harm's way."
"What of Monica?"
He grinned then, fangs showing; he looked genuinely amused. "Are
you worried for her safety?"
It hit me then - the impromptu bachelorette party, there only
being the three of us. "She was the lure to get Catherine and me
down here."
He nodded, once down, once up.
I wanted to go back out and smash Monica's face in. The more I
thought about the idea, the better it sounded. As if by magic, she
parted the curtains and came back. I smiled at her, and it felt
good.
She hesitated, glancing from me to Jean-Claude and back. "Is
everything going according to plan?"
I walked towards her. Jean-Claude grabbed my arm. "Do not harm
her, Anita. She is under our protection."
"I swear to you that I will not lay a finger on her tonight. I
just want to tell her something."
He released my arm, slowly, like he wasn't sure it was a good
idea. I stepped next to Monica, until our bodies almost touched. I
whispered into her face, "If anything happens to Catherine, I will
see you dead."
She smirked at me, confident in her protectors. "They will bring
me back as one of them."
I felt my head shake, a little to the right, a little to the
left, a slow precise movement. "I will cut out your heart." I was
still smiling, I couldn't seem to stop. "Then I will burn it and
scatter the ashes in the river. Do you understand me?"
She swallowed audibly. Her health-club tan looked a little
green. She nodded, staring at me like I was the bogey man.
I think she believed I'd do it. Peachy keen. I hate to waste a
really good threat.
Chapter 8
I watched Catherine's cab vanish around the corner. She never
turned, or waved, or spoke. She would wake tomorrow with vague
memories. Just a night out with the girls.
I would like to have thought she was out of it, safe, but I knew
better. The air smelled thickly of rain. The street lights
glistened off the sidewalk. The air was almost too thick to
breathe. St. Louis in the summer. Peachy.
"Shall we go?" Jean-Claude asked.
He stood, white shirt gleaming in the dark. If the humidity
bothered him, it didn't show. Aubrey stood in the shadows near the
door. The only light on him was the crimson neon of the club sign.
He grinned at me, face painted red, body lost in shadows.
"It's a little too contrived, Aubrey," I said.
His grin wavered. "What do you mean?"
"You look like a B-movie Dracula."
He flowed down the steps, with that easy perfection that only
the really old ones have. The street light showed his face tight,
hands balled into fists.
Jean-Claude stepped in front of him and spoke low, voice a
soothing whisper. Aubrey turned away with a jerky shrug and began
to glide up the street.
Jean-Claude turned to me. "If you continue to taunt him, there
will come a point from which I cannot bring him back. And you will
die."
"I thought your job was to keep me alive for this Nikolaos."
He frowned. "It is, but I will not die to defend you. Do you
understand that?"
"I do now."
"Good. Shall we go?" He gestured down the sidewalk, in the
direction Aubrey had gone.
"We're going to walk?"
"It is not far." He held his hand out to me.
I stared at it and shook my head.
"It is necessary, Anita. I would not ask it otherwise."
"How is it necessary?"
"This night must remain secret from the police, Anita. Hold my
hand, play the besotted human with her vampire lover. It will
explain the blood on your blouse. It will explain where we are
going, and why."
His hand hung there, pale and slender. There was no tremor to
the fingers, no movement, as if he could stand there offering me
his hand forever. And maybe he could.
I took his hand. His long fingers curved over the back of my
hand. We began walking, his hand very still in mine. I could feel
the pulse in my hand against his skin. His pulse began to speed up
to match mine. I could feel his blood flow like a second heart.
"Have you fed tonight?" my voice sounded soft.
"Can you not tell?"
"I can never tell with you."
I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye. "I am flattered."
"You never answered my question."
"No," he said.
"No, you haven't answered me, or no, you haven't fed?"
He turned his head to me, as we walked. Sweat gleamed on his
upper lip. "What do you think, ma petite?" His voice was the
softest of whispers.
I jerked my hand, tried to get away, even though I knew it was
silly, and wouldn't work. His hand convulsed around mine, squeezed
until I gasped. He wasn't even trying hard.
"Do not struggle against me, Anita." His tongue slid across his
upper lip. "Struggling is - exciting."
"Why didn't you feed earlier?"
"I was ordered not to."
"Why?"
He didn't answer me. Rain began to patter down. Light and
cool.
"Why?" I repeated.
"I don't know." His voice was nearly lost in the soft fall of
rain. If it had been anyone else I would have said he was
afraid.
The hotel was tall and thin, and made of real brick. The sign
out front glowed blue and said, "Vacancy." There was no other sign.
Nothing to tell you what the place was called, or even what it was.
Just vacancy.
Rain glistened in Jean-Claude's hair, like black diamonds. My
top was sticking to my body. The blood had begun to wash away. Cold
water was just the thing for a fresh blood stain.
A police car eased around the corner. I tensed. Jean-Claude
jerked me against him. I put my palm against his chest to keep our
bodies from touching. His heart thudded under my hand.
The police car was going very slowly. A spotlight began to
search the shadows. They swept the District regularly. It was bad
for tourism if the tourists got wasted by our biggest
attractions.
Jean-Claude grabbed my chin and turned me to look at him. I
tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my chin. "Don't fight
me!"
"I won't look in your eyes!"
"My word that I will not try to bespell you. For this night you
may look into my eyes with safety. I swear it." He glanced at the
police car, still moving towards us. "If the police are brought
into this, I cannot promise what will happen to your friend."
I forced myself to relax in his arms, letting my body ease
against his. My heartbeat sounded loud, as if I had been running.
Then I realized it wasn't my heart I was hearing. Jean-Claude's
pulse was throbbing through my body. I could hear it, feel it,
almost squeeze it in my hand. I stared up at his face. His eyes
were the darkest blue I had ever seen, perfect as a midnight sky.
They were dark and alive, but there was no sense of drowning, no
pull. They were just eyes.
His face leaned towards me. He whispered, "I swear."
He was going to kiss me. I didn't want him to. But I didn't want
the police to stop and question us. I didn't want to explain the
blood stains, the torn blouse. His lips hesitated over my mouth.
His heartbeat was loud in my head, his pulse was racing, and my
breathing was ragged with his need.
His lips were silk, his tongue a quick wetness. I tried to pull
back and found his hand at the back of my neck, pressing my mouth
against his.
The police spotlight swept over us. I relaxed against
Jean-Claude, letting him kiss me. Our mouths pressed together. My
tongue found the smooth hardness of fangs. I pulled away, and he
let me. He pressed my face against his chest, one arm like steel
against my back, pressing me against him. He was trembling, and it
wasn't from the rain.
His breathing was ragged, his heart jumping under his skin
against my cheek. The slick roughness of his burn scar touched my
face.
His hunger poured over me in a violent wave, like heat. He had
been sheltering me from it, until now. "Jean-Claude!" I didn't try
to keep the fear out of my voice.
"Hush." A shudder ran through his body. His breath escaped in a
loud sigh. He released me so abruptly, I stumbled.
He walked away from me to lean against a parked car. He raised
his face up into the rain. I could still feel his heartbeat. I had
never been so aware of my own pulse, the blood flowing through my
veins. I hugged myself, shivering in the hot rain.
The police car had vanished into the streetlight darkness. After
perhaps five minutes Jean-Claude stood. I could no longer feel his
heartbeat. My own pulse was slow and regular. Whatever had happened
was over.
He walked past me and called over his shoulder. "Come, Nikolaos
awaits us inside."
I followed him through the door. He did not try to take my hand.
In fact he stayed out of reach, and I trailed after him through a
small square lobby. A human man sat behind the front desk. He
glanced up from the magazine he was reading. His eyes flicked to
Jean-Claude and back to me. He leered at me.
I glared back. He shrugged and turned back to his magazine.
Jean-Claude moved swiftly up the stairs, not waiting for me. He
didn't even look back. Maybe he could hear me walking behind him,
or maybe he didn't care if I followed.
I guess we weren't pretending to be lovers anymore. Fancy that.
I would almost have said the master vampire didn't trust himself
around me.
There was a long hallway with doors on either side. Jean-Claude
was halfway through one of those doors. I walked towards it. I
refused to hurry. They could damn well wait.
The room held a bed, a nightstand with a lamp, and three
vampires: Aubrey, Jean-Claude, and a strange female vampire. Aubrey
was standing in the far corner, near the window. He was smiling at
me. Jean-Claude stood near the door. The female vampire reclined on
the bed. She looked like a vampire should. Long, straight, black
hair fell around her shoulders. Her dress was full-skirted and
black. She wore high black boots with three-inch heels.
"Look into my eyes," she said.
I glanced at her, before I could stop myself, then stared down
at the floor.
She laughed, and it had the same quality of touch that
Jean-Claude's did. A sound that you could feel with your hands.
"Close the door, Aubrey," she said. Her r's were thick with some
accent that I couldn't place.
Aubrey brushed past me as he closed the door. He stayed in back
of me, where I couldn't see him. I moved to stand with my back to
the only empty wall, so I could see all of them, for what good it
would do me.
"Afraid?" Aubrey asked.
"Still bleeding?" I asked.
He crossed his arms over the blood stain on his shirt. "We shall
see who is bleeding come dawn."
"Aubrey, do not be childish." The vampire on the bed stood. Her
heels clicked against the bare floor. She stalked around me, and I
fought an urge to turn and keep her in sight. She laughed again, as
if she knew it.
"You wish me to guarantee your friend's safety?" she asked. She
had gone back to sink gracefully onto the bed. The bare, dingy room
seemed somehow worse with her sitting there in her
two-hundred-dollar leather boots.
"No," I said.
"That is what you asked, Anita," Jean-Claude said.
"I said that I wanted guarantees from Aubrey's master."
"You are speaking with my master, girl."
"No, I am not." The room was suddenly very still. I could hear
something scrambling inside the wall. I had to look up to make sure
the vampires were still in the room. They were all utterly still,
like statues, no sense of movement or breathing, or life. They were
all so damn old, but none of them were old enough to be
Nikolaos.
"I am Nikolaos," the female said, her voice coaxing and
breathing through the room. I wanted to believe her, but I
didn't.
"No," I said. "You are not Aubrey's master." I risked a glance
into her eyes. They were black and widened in surprise when I
looked at them. "You are very old, and very good, but you are not
old enough or strong enough to be Aubrey's master."
Jean-Claude said, "I told you she would see through it."
"Silence!"
"The game is over, Theresa. She knows."
"Only because you have told her."
"Tell them how you knew, Anita."
I shrugged. "She feels wrong. She just isn't old enough. There
is more of a sense of power from Aubrey than from her. That isn't
right."
"Do you still insist on speaking with our master?" the woman
asked.
"I still want guarantees on my friend's safety." I glanced
through the room, at each of them. "And I am getting tired of
stupid little games."
Aubrey was suddenly moving towards me. The world slowed. There
was no time for fear. I tried to back away, knowing there was
nowhere to go.
Jean-Claude rushed him, hands reaching. He wouldn't make it in
time.
Aubrey's hand came out of nowhere and caught me in the shoulder.
The blow knocked all the air from my body and sent me flying
backwards. My back slammed into the wall. My head hit a moment
later, hard. The world went grey. I slid down the wall. I couldn't
breathe. Tiny white shapes danced over the greyness. The world
began to go black. I slid to the floor. It didn't hurt; nothing
hurt. I struggled to breathe until my chest burned, and darkness
took everything away.
Chapter 9
Voices floated through the darkness. Dreams. "We shouldn't have
moved her."
"Did you want to disobey Nikolaos?"
"I helped bring her here, did I not?" It was a man's voice.
"Yes," a woman said.
I lay there with my eyes closed. I wasn't dreaming. I remembered
Aubrey's hand coming from nowhere. It had been an open backhand
slap. If he had closed his fist . . . but he hadn't. I was
alive.
"Anita, are you awake?"
I opened my eyes. Light speared into my head. I closed my eyes
against the light and the pain, but the pain stayed. I turned my
head, and that was a mistake. The pain was a nauseating ache. It
felt like the bones in my head were trying to slide off. I raised
hands to cover my eyes and groaned.
"Anita, are you all right?"
Why do people always ask you that when the answer is obviously
no? I spoke in a whisper, not sure how it would feel to talk. It
didn't feel too bad. "Just peachy keen."
"What?" This from the woman.
"I think she is being sarcastic," Jean-Claude said. He sounded
relieved. "She can't be hurt too badly if she is making jokes."
I wasn't sure about the hurt too badly part. Nausea flowed in
waves, from head to stomach, instead of the other way around. I was
betting I had a concussion. The question was, how bad?
"Can you move, Anita?"
"No," I whispered.
"Let me rephrase. If I help you, can you sit up?"
I swallowed, trying to breathe through the pain and nausea.
"Maybe."
Hands curved under my shoulders. The bones in my head
started sliding forward as he lifted. I gasped and swallowed.
"I'm going to be sick."
I rolled over on all fours. The movement was too rapid. The pan
was a whirl of light and darkness. My stomach heaved. Vomit burned
up my throat. My head was exploding.
Jean-Claude held me around the waist, one cool hand on my
forehead, holding the bones of my head in place. His voice held me,
a soothing sheet against my skin. He was speaking French, very
softly. I didn't understand a word of it, and didn't need to. His
voice held me, rocked me, took some of the pain.
He cradled me against his chest, and I was too weak to protest.
The pain had been screaming through my head; now it was distant, a
throbbing ache. It still felt obscene to turn my head, as if my
head were sliding apart, but the pain was different, bearable.
He wiped my face and mouth with a damp cloth. "Do you feel
better now?" he asked.
"Yes." I didn't understand where the pain had gone.
Theresa said, "Jean-Claude, what have you done?"
"Nikolaos wishes her to be aware and well for this visit. You
saw her. She needs a hospital, not more tormenting."
"So you helped her." The vampire's voice sounded amused.
"Nikolaos will not be pleased."
I felt him shrug. "I did what was necessary."
I could open my eyes without squinting or increasing the pain.
We were in a dungeon; there was no other word for it. Thick stone
walls enclosed a square room, perhaps twenty by twenty feet. Steps
led up to a barred, wooden door. There were even chains set in the
walls. Torches guttered along the walls. The only thing missing was
a rack and a black-hooded torturer, one with big, beefy arms, and a
tattoo that said "I love Mom." Yeah, that would have made it
perfect.
I was feeling better, much better. I shouldn't have been
recovering this quickly. I had been hurt before, badly. It didn't
just fade, not like this.
"Can you sit unaided?" Jean-Claude asked.
Surprisingly, the answer was yes. I sat with my back to the
wall. The pain was still there, but it just didn't hurt as much.
Jean-Claude got a bucket from near the stairs and washed it over
the floor. There was a very modern drain in the middle of the
floor.
Theresa stood staring at me, hands on hips. "You certainly are
recovering quickly." Her voice held amusement, and something else I
couldn't define.
"The pain, the nausea, it's almost gone. How?"
She smirked, lips curling. "You'll have to ask Jean-Claude that.
It's his doing, not mine."
"Because you could not have done it." There was a warm edge of
anger to his voice.
Her face paled. "I would not have, regardless."
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
Jean-Claude looked at me, beautiful face unreadable. His dark
eyes stared into mine. They were still just eyes.
"Go on, master vampire, tell her. See how grateful she is."
Jean-Claude stared at me, watching my face. "You are badly hurt,
a concussion. But Nikolaos will not let us take you to a hospital
until this . . . interview is over with. I feared you would die or
be unable to . . . function." I had never heard his voice so
uncertain. "So I shared my life-force with you."
I started to shake my head. Big mistake. I pressed hands to my
forehead. "I don't understand."
He spread his hands wide. "I do not have the words."
"Oh, allow me," Theresa said. "He has taken the first step to
making you a human servant."
"No." I was still having trouble thinking clearly, but I knew
that wasn't right. "He didn't try to trick me with his mind, or
eyes. He didn't bite me."
"I don't mean one of those pathetic half-creatures that have a
few bites and do our bidding. I mean a permanent human servant, one
that will never be bitten, never be hurt. One that will age almost
as slowly as we do."
I still didn't understand. Perhaps it showed in my face because
Jean-Claude said, "I took your pain and gave you some of my . . .
stamina."
"Are you experiencing my pain, then?"
"No, the pain is gone. I have made you a little harder to
hurt."
I still wasn't taking it all in, or maybe it was just beyond me.
"I don't understand."
"Listen, woman, he has shared with you what we consider a great
gift to be given only to people who have proven themselves
invaluable."
I stared at Jean-Claude. "Does this mean I am in your power
somehow?"
"Just the opposite," Theresa said, "you are now immune to his
glance, his voice, his mind. You will serve him out of willingness,
nothing more. You see what he has done."
I stared into her black eyes. They were just eyes.
She nodded. "Now you begin to understand. As an animator you had
partial immunity to our gaze. Now you have almost complete
immunity." She gave an abrupt barking laugh. "Nikolaos is going to
destroy you both." With that she stalked up the stairs, the heels
of her boots smacking against the stone. She left the door open
behind her.
Jean-Claude had come to stand over me. His face was
unreadable.
"Why?" I asked.
He just stared down at me. His hair had dried in unruly curls
around his face. He was still beautiful, but the hair made him seem
more real.
"Why?"
He smiled then, and there were tired lines near his eyes. "If
you died, our master would have punished us. Aubrey is already
suffering for his . . . indiscretion."
He turned and walked up the stairs. He moved up the steps like a
cat, all boneless, liquid grace.
He paused at the door and glanced back at me. "Someone will come
for you when Nikolaos decides it is time." He closed the door, and
I heard it latch and lock. His voice floated through the bars,
rich, almost bubbling with laughter, "And perhaps, because I liked
you." His laughter was bitter, like broken glass.
Chapter 10
I had to check the locked door. Rattle it, poke at the lock, as
if I knew how to pick locks. See if any bars were loose, though I
could never have squeezed through the small window anyway.
I checked the door because I could not resist it. It was the
same urge that made you rattle your trunk after you locked your
keys inside.
I have been on the wrong side of a lot of locked doors. Not a
one of them had just opened for me, but there was always a first
time. Yeah, I should live so long. Scratch that; bad phrase.
A sound brought me back to the cell and its seeping, damp walls.
A rat scurried against the far wall. Another peered around the edge
of the steps, whiskers twitching. I guess you can't have a dungeon
without rats, but I would have been willing to give it a try.
Something else pattered around the edge of the steps; in the
torchlight I thought it was a dog. It wasn't. A rat the size of a
German shepherd sat up on its sleek black haunches. It stared at
me, huge paws tucked close to its furry chest. It cocked one large,
black button eye at me. Lips drew back from yellowed teeth. The
incisors were five inches long, blunt-edged daggers.
I yelled, "Jean-Claude!"
The air filled with high-pitched squeals, echoing, as if they
were running up a tunnel. I stepped to the far edge of the stairs.
And I saw it. A tunnel cut into the wall, almost man-high. Rats
poured out of the tunnel in a thick, furry wave, squealing and
biting. They flowed out and began to cover the floor.
"Jean-Claude!" I beat on the door, jerked at the bars,
everything I had done before. It was useless. I wasn't getting out.
I kicked the door and screamed, "Dammit!" The sound echoed against
the stone walls and almost drowned out the sound of thousands of
scrambling claws.
"They will not come for you until we are finished."
I froze, hands still on the door. I turned, slowly. The voice
had come from inside the cell. The floor writhed and twisted with
furry little bodies. High-pitched squeals, the thick brush of fur,
the clatter of thousands of tiny claws filled the room. Thousands
of them, thousands.
Four giant rats sat like mountains in the writhing furry tide.
One of them stared at me with black button eyes. There was nothing
ratlike in the stare. I had never seen wererats before, but I was
betting that I was seeing them now.
One figure stood, legs half-bent. It was man-size, with a
narrow, ratlike face. A huge naked tail curved around its bent legs
like thick fleshy rope. It - no, he, definitely he - extended a clawed
hand. "Come down and join us, human." The voice sounded thick,
almost furry, with an edge of whine to it. Each word precise and a
little wrong. Rats' lips are not made for talking.
I was not coming down the steps. No way. I could taste my heart
in my throat. I knew a man who survived a werewolf attack, nearly
died, and didn't become a werewolf. I know another man who was
barely scratched and became a weretiger. Odds were, if I was so
much as scratched, in a month's time I would be playing fur-face,
complete with black button eyes and yellowish fangs. Dear God.
"Come down, human. Come down and play."
I swallowed hard. It felt like I was trying to swallow my heart.
"I don't think so."
It gave a hissing laugh. "We could come up and fetch you." He
strode through the lesser rats, and they parted for him
frantically, leaping on top of each other to avoid his touch. He
stood at the edge of the steps, looking up at me. His fur was
almost a honey-brown color, streaked with blond. "If we force you
off the steps, you won't like it much."
I swallowed hard. I believed him. I went for my knife and found
the sheath empty. Of course, the vampires had taken it. Dammit.
"Come down, human, come down and play."
"If you want me, you're going to have to come get me."
He curled his tail through his hands, stroking it. One clawed
hand ran through the fur of his belly, and stroked lower. I stared
very hard at his face, and he laughed at me.
"Fetch her."
Two of the dog-size rats moved towards the stairs. A small rat
squealed and rolled under their feet. It gave a high, piteous
shriek, then nothing. It twitched until the other rats covered it.
Tiny bones snapped. Nothing would go to waste.
I pressed against the door, as if I could sink through it. The
two rats crept up the steps, sleek well-fed animals. But there was
no animal in the eyes. Whatever was there was human,
intelligent.
"Wait, wait."
The rats hesitated.
The ratman said, "Yes?"
I swallowed audibly. "What do you want?"
"Nikolaos asked that we entertain you while you wait."
"That doesn't answer my question. What do you want me to do?
What do you want?"
Lips curled back from yellowed teeth. It looked like a snarl,
but I think it was a smile. "Come down to us, human. Touch us, let
us touch you. Let us teach you the joys of fur and teeth." He
rubbed claws through the fur of his thighs. It drew my attention to
him, between his legs. I looked away, and heat rushed up my skin. I
was blushing. Dammit!
My voice came out almost steady. "Is that supposed to be
impressive?" I asked.
He froze for an instant, then snarled, "Get her down here!"
Great, Anita, antagonize him. Imply that his equipment is a
little undersized.
His hissing laugh ran up my skin in cold waves. "We are going to
have fun tonight. I can tell."
The giant rats came up the steps, muscles working under fur,
whiskers thick as wire, wriggling furiously. I pressed my back
against the door and began to slide down the wood. "Please, please
don't." My voice sounded high and frightened, and I hated it.
"We've broken you so soon; how very sad," the ratman said.
The two giant rats were almost on me. I braced my back against
the door, knees tucked up, heels planted, the rest of the foot
slightly raised. A claw touched my leg, I flinched, but I waited.
It had to be right. Please, God, don't let them draw blood.
Whiskers scraped along my face, the weight of fur on top of me.
I kicked out, both feet hitting solidly in the rat. It raised
onto its hind legs and toppled backwards. It tittered, tail
lashing. I threw myself forward and smashed it in the chest. The
rat tumbled over the edge.
The second rat crouched, making a sound low in its throat. I
watched its muscles bunch, and I went down to one knee and braced.
If it leaped on me standing, I'd go over the edge. I was only
inches from the drop.
It leaped. I dropped flat to the floor and rolled. I shoved feet
and one hand into the warmth of its body and helped it along. The
rat plummeted over me and out of sight. I heard the frightened
shrieks as it fell. The sound was a thick "thumpth." Satisfying. I
doubted either of them were dead. But it was the best I could
do.
I stood, putting my back to the door again. The ratman wasn't
smiling anymore. I smiled at him sweetly, my best angelic smile. He
didn't seem impressed.
He made a motion like parting air, smooth. The lesser rats
flowed forward with his hand. A creeping brown tide of furry little
bodies began to boil up the steps.
I might be able to get a few of them, but not all of them. If he
wanted them to, they'd eat me alive, one tiny crimson bite at a
time.
Rats flowed around my feet, scrambling and arguing. Tiny bodies
bumped against my boots. One stretched itself thin, reaching up to
grab the edge of my boot. I kicked it off. It fell squealing over
the edge.
The giant rats had dragged one of their injured friends off to
one side. The rat wasn't moving. The other I had thrown off was
limping.
A rat leaped upward, claws hooked in my blouse. It hung there,
claws trapped in the cloth. I could feel its weight over my breast.
I grabbed it around its middle. Teeth sank into my hand until they
met, grinding skin, missing bone. I screamed, jerking the rat away
from me. It dangled from my hand like an obscene earring. Blood ran
down its fur. Another rat leaped on my blouse.
The ratman was smiling.
A rat was climbing for my face. I grabbed it by the tail and
pulled it away. I yelled, "Are you afraid to come yourself? Are you
afraid of me?" My voice was thin with panic, but I said it. "Your
friends are injured doing something you're afraid to do. Is that
it? Is it?"
The giant rats were staring from me to the ratman. He glanced at
them. "I am not afraid of a human."
"Then come up, take me yourself, if you can." The rat on my hand
dropped away in a spout of blood. The skin between thumb and
forefinger was ripped apart.
The lesser rats hesitated, staring wildly around. One was
halfway up my jeans. It dropped to the floor.
"I am not afraid."
"Prove it." My voice sounded a little steadier, maybe about nine
years old instead of five.
The giant rats were staring at him, intent, judging, waiting. He
made that same cutting-air motion in reverse. The rats squeaked and
stood on hind legs staring around, as if they couldn't believe it,
but they began to pour down the stairs the way they had come.
I leaned into the door, knees weak, cradling the bitten hand
against my chest. The ratman began to creep up the stairs. He moved
easily on the balls of his elongated feet, strong clawed toes
digging into the stone.
Lycanthropes are stronger and faster than humans. No mind
tricks, no sleight of hand, they are just better. I would not be
able to surprise the wererat, as I had the first. I doubted he
would grow angry enough to be stupid, but one could always hope. I
was hurt, unarmed, and outmatched. If I couldn't get him to make a
mistake, I was in deep shit.
A long, pink tongue curved over his teeth. "Fresh blood," he
said. He drew in a loud breath of air. "You stink of fear, human.
Blood and fear, smells like dinner to me." The tongue flicked out
and he laughed at me.
I slid my uninjured hand behind my back, as if reaching for
something. "Come closer, ratman, and we'll see how you like
silver."
The ratman hesitated, frozen, half-crouched on the top step.
"You have no silver."
"Want to bet your life on it?"
His clawed hands clutched each other. One of the large rats
squeaked something. He snarled down at it. "I am not afraid!"
If they egged him on, my bluff wasn't going to work. "You saw
what I did to your friends. That was without a weapon." My voice
sounded low and sure of itself. Good for me.
He eyed me out of one large patent-leather eye. His fur
glistened in the torchlight as if freshly washed. He gave a small
jump and was on the landing, just out of reach.
"I've never seen a blond rat before," I said. Anything to fill
the silence, anything to keep him from taking that one last step.
Surely Jean-Claude would come back for me soon. I laughed then,
abrupt and half-choked.
The ratman froze, staring at me. "Why are you laughing?" His
voice held just a hint of unease. Good.
"I was hoping that the vampires would come for me soon and save
me. You've got to admit that's funny."
He didn't seem to think it was funny. A lot of people don't get
my jokes. If I was less secure, I'd think my jokes weren't funny.
Naw.
I moved my hand behind my back, still pretending that there was
a knife in it. One of the giant rats squealed, and even to me it
sounded derisive. He would never live it down if I bluffed him. I
might not live it down if I didn't.
Most people, when confronted with a wererat, freeze or panic.
I'd had time to get used to the idea. I wasn't going to fade away
if he touched me. There was one possible solution where I could
save myself. If I was wrong, he was going to kill me. My stomach
turned a sharp flip-flop, and I had to swallow hard. Better dead
than furry. If he attacked me, I'd just as soon he killed me. Rats
were not my top choice for being a lycanthrope. If your luck was
bad, the smallest scratch could infect you.
If I was quick and lucky, I could go to a hospital and be
treated. Sort of like rabies. Of course sometimes the inoculations
worked, and sometimes they gave you lycanthropy.
He wrapped his long, naked tail through his clawed hands. "You
ever been had by a were?"
I wasn't sure if he was talking sex or as a meal. Neither
sounded pleasant. He was going to work up to it, get himself brave,
then he'd come for me, when he was ready. I wanted him to come when
I was ready.
I chose sex and said, "You haven't got what it takes,
ratman."
He stiffened, hand sliding down his body, claws combing fur.
"We'll see who has what, human."
"Is this the only way you get any sex, forcing yourself on
someone? Are you as ugly in human form as you are right now?"
He hissed at me, mouth wide, teeth bared. A sound rose out of
his body, deep and high, a whining growl. I'd never heard a sound
like it before. It rose up and down and filled the room with
violent, hissing echoes. His shoulders crouched.
I held my breath. I had pissed him off. Now we would see if my
plan worked, or if he killed me. He leaped forward. I dropped to
the floor, but he was ready for it. Incredible speed and he was on
me, snarling, claws reaching, screaming in my face.
I bunched my legs against my chest, or he would have been on top
of me. He put one claw-hand on my knees and began to push. I tucked
arms over my knees, fighting him. It was like fighting steel that
moved. He screamed again, high and hissing, spittle raining on me.
He went up on his knees to get a better angle at forcing my legs
down. I kicked outward, everything I had. He saw it coming and
tried to move back, but both feet hit him square between the legs.
The impact lifted him off his knees, and he collapsed to the
landing, claws scrambling on the stone. He was making a high,
whining, breathy sound. He couldn't seem to get enough air.
A second ratman came scrambling through the tunnel, and rats ran
everywhere, squeaking and squealing. I just sat there on the
landing as far away from the writhing blond ratman as I could get.
I stared at the new ratman, feeling tired and angry.
Dammit, it should have worked. The bad guys weren't allowed
reinforcements when I was already outnumbered. This one's fur was
black, jet absolute black. He wore a pair of jean cutoffs over his
slightly bent legs. He motioned, smooth and out from his body.
I swallowed my heart, pulse thudding. My skin crawled with the
memory of small bodies sliding over me. My hand throbbed where the
rat had bitten me. They'd tear me apart. "Jean-Claude!"
The rats moved, a flowing brownish tide, away from the stairs.
The rats ran squeaking and shrilling into the tunnel. All I could
do was stare.
The giant rats hissed at him, gesturing with noses and paws at
the fallen giant rat. "She was defending herself. What were you
doing?" The ratman's voice was low and deep, slurred only around
the edges. If I had closed my eyes, I might have said it was
human.
I didn't close my eyes. The giant rats left, crouch-dragging
their still unconscious friend. He wasn't dead, but he was hurt.
One giant rat glanced up at me as the others vanished into the
tunnel. Its empty black eye glared at me, promised me painful
things if we ever met again.
The blond ratman had stopped writhing and was lying very still,
panting, hands cradling himself. The new ratman said, "I told you
never to come here."
The first ratman struggled to sit up. The movement seemed to
hurt. "The master called and I obeyed."
"I am your king. You obey me." The black-furred rat began to
stride up the stairs, tail lashing angrily, almost catlike.
I stood and put the cell door at my back for the umpteenth time
that night.
The hurt ratman said, "You are only our king until you die. If
you stand against the master, that will be soon. She is powerful,
more powerful than you." His voice still sounded weak, thready, but
he was recovering. Anger will do that to you.
The rat king leaped, a black blur in motion. He jerked the
ratman off his feet, holding him with slightly bent elbows, feet
dangling off the ground. He held him close to his face. "I am your
king, and you will obey me or I will kill you." Clawed hands dug
into the blond ratman's throat, until he scrambled for air. The rat
king tossed the ratman down the stairs. He fell tumbling and nearly
boneless.
He glared up from the bottom in a painful, gasping heap. The
hatred in his eyes would have lit a bonfire.
"Are you all right?" the new ratman asked.
It took me a minute to realize he was speaking to me. I nodded.
Apparently I was being rescued, not that I had need of it. Of
course not. "Thank you."
"I did not come to save you," he said. "I have forbidden my
people to hunt for the vampire. That is why I came."
"Well, I know where I rate, somewhere above a flea. Thank you
anyway. Whatever your motives."
He nodded. "You are welcome."
I noticed a burn scar on his left forearm. It was the shape of a
crude crown. Someone had branded him. "Wouldn't it be easier just
to carry around a crown and scepter?"
He glanced down at his arm, then gave that rat smile, teeth
bare. "This leaves my hands free."
I looked up into his eyes to see if he was teasing me, and I
couldn't tell. You try reading rat faces.
"What do the vampires want with you?" he asked.
"They want me to work for them."
"Do it. They'll hurt you if you don't."
"Like they'll hurt you if you keep the rats away?"
He shrugged, an awkward motion. "Nikolaos thinks she is queen of
the rats because that is her animal to call. We are not merely
rats, but men, and we have a choice. I have a choice."
"Do what she wants, and she won't hurt you," I said.
Again that smile. "I give good advice. I do not always take
it."
"Me either," I said.
He stared at me out of one black eye, then turned towards the
door. "They are coming."
I knew who "they" were. The party was over. The vampires were
coming. The rat king sprang down the stairs and scooped up the
fallen ratman. He tossed him over his shoulder as if it were no
effort, then he was gone, running for the tunnel, fast, fast as a
mouse surprised by the kitchen light. A dark blur.
I heard heels clicking down the hallway, and I stepped away from
the door. It opened, and Theresa stood on the landing. She stared
down at me and the empty room, hands on hips, mouth squeezed tight.
"Where are they?"
I held up my wounded hand. "They did their part, then they
left."
"They weren't supposed to leave," she said. Theresa made an
exasperated sound low in her throat. "It was that rat king of
theirs, wasn't it?"
I shrugged. "They left; I don't know why."
"So calm, so unafraid. Didn't the rats frighten you?"
I shrugged again. When something works, stay with it.
"They were not supposed to draw blood." She stared at me. "Are
you going to shape shift next full moon?" Her voice held a hint of
curiosity. Curiosity killed the vampire. One could always hope.
"No," I said, and I left it at that. No explanation. If she
really wanted one, she could just beat me against the wall until I
told her what she wanted to hear. She wouldn't even break a sweat.
Of course, Aubrey was being punished for hurting me.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. "The rats were supposed to
frighten you, animator. They don't seem to have done their job."
"Maybe I don't frighten that easily." I met her eyes without
any effort. They were just eyes.
Theresa grinned at me suddenly, flashing fang. "Nikolaos will
find something that frightens you, animator. For fear is power."
She whispered the last as if afraid to say it too loud.
What did vampires fear? Did visions of sharpened stakes and
garlic haunt them, or were there worse things? How do you frighten
the dead?
"Walk in front of me, animator. Go meet your master."
"Isn't Nikolaos your master as well, Theresa?"
She stared at me, face blank, as if the laughter had been an
illusion. Her eyes were cold and dark. The rats' eyes had held more
personality. "Before the night is out, animator, Nikolaos will be
everyone's master."
I shook my head. "I don't think so."
"Jean-Claude's power has made you foolish."
"No," I said, "it isn't that."
"Then what, mortal?"
"I would rather die than be a vampire's flunky."
Theresa never blinked, only nodded, very slowly. "You may get
your wish."
The hair at the back of my neck crawled. I could meet her gaze,
but evil has a certain feel to it. A neck-ruffling,
throat-tightening feeling that tightens your gut. I have felt it
around humans as well. You don't have to be undead to be evil. But
it helps.
I walked in front of her. Theresa's boots clicked sharp echoes
from the hallway. Maybe it was only my fear talking, but I felt her
staring at me, like an ice cube sliding down my spine.
Chapter 11
The room was huge, like a warehouse, but the walls were solid,
massive stone. I kept waiting for Bela Lugosi to sweep around the
corner in his cape. What was sitting against one wall was almost as
good.
She had been about twelve or thirteen when she died. Small,
half-formed breasts showed under a long flimsy dress. It was pale
blue and looked warm against the total whiteness of her skin. She
had been pale when alive; as a vampire she was ghostly. Her hair
was that shining white-blonde that some children have before their
hair darkens to brown. This hair would never grow dark.
Nikolaos sat in a carved wooden chair. Her feet did not quite
touch the floor.
A male vampire moved to lean on the chair arm. His skin was a
strange shade of brownish ivory. He leaned over and whispered in
Nikolaos's ear.
She laughed, and it was the sound of chimes or bells. A lovely,
calculated sound. Theresa went to the girl in the chair, and stood
behind it, hands trailing in the long white-blonde hair.
A human male came to stand to the right of her chair. Back
against the wall, hands clasped at his side. He stared straight
ahead, face blank, spine rigid. He was nearly perfectly bald, face
narrow, eyes dark. Most men don't look good without hair. This one
did. He was handsome but had the air of a man who didn't care much
about that. I wanted to call him a soldier, though I didn't know
why.
Another man came to lean against Theresa. His hair was a sandy
blond, cut short. His face was strange, not good looking, but not
ugly, a face you would remember. A face that might become lovely if
you looked at it long enough. His eyes were a pale greenish
color.
He wasn't a vampire, but I might have been hasty calling him
human.
Jean-Claude came last to stand to the left of the chair. He
touched no one, and even standing with them, he was apart from
them.
"Well," I said, "all we need is the theme from Dracula, Prince
of Darkness, and we'll be all set."
Her voice was like her laugh, high and harmless. Planned
innocence. "You think you are funny, don't you?"
I shrugged. "It comes and goes."
She smiled at me. No fang showed. She looked so human, eyes
sparkling with humor, face rounded and pleasant. See how harmless I
am, just a pretty child. Right.
The black vampire whispered in her ear again. She laughed, so
high and clear you could have bottled it.
"Do you practice the laugh, or is it natural talent? Naw, I'm
betting you practice."
Jean-Claude's face twisted. I wasn't sure if he was trying not
to laugh, or not to frown. Maybe both. I affected some people that
way.
The laughter seeped out of her face, very human, until only her
eyes sparkled. There was nothing funny about the look in those
twinkling eyes. It was the sort of look that cats give small
birds.
Her voice lilted at the end of each word, a Shirley Temple
affectation. "You are either very brave, or very stupid."
"You really need at least one dimple to go with the voice."
Jean-Claude said softly, "I'm betting on stupid."
I glanced at him and then back at the ghoulie pack. "What I am
is tired, hurt, angry, and scared. I would very much like to get
the show over with, and get down to business."
"I am beginning to see why Aubrey lost his temper." Her voice
was dry, humorless. The lilting sing-song was dripping away like
melting ice.
"Do you know how old I am?"
I stared at her and shook my head.
"I thought you said she was good, Jean-Claude." She said his
name like she was angry with him.
"She is good."
"Tell me how old I am." Her voice was cold, an angry grownup's
voice.
"I can't. I don't know why, but I can't."
"How old is Theresa?"
I stared at the dark-haired vampire, remembering the weight of
her in my mind. She was laughing at me. "A hundred, maybe hundred
and fifty, no more."
Her face was unreadable, carved marble, as she asked, "Why, no
more?"
"That's how old she feels."
"Feels?"
"In my head, she feels a certain . . . degree of power." I
always hated to explain this part aloud. It always sounded
mystical. It wasn't. I knew vampires the way some people knew
horses, or cars. It was a knack. It was practice. I didn't think
Nikolaos would enjoy being compared to a horse, or car, so I kept
my mouth shut. See, not stupid after all.
"Look at me, human. Look into my eyes." Her voice was still
bland, with none of that commanding power that Jean-Claude had.
Geez, look into my eyes. You'd think the city's master vampire
could be more original. But I didn't say it out loud. Her eyes were
blue, or grey, or both. Her gaze was like a weight pressing against
my skin. If I put my hands up, I almost expected to be able to push
something away. I had never felt any vampire's gaze like that.
But I could meet her eyes. Somehow, I knew that wasn't supposed
to happen.
The soldier standing to her right was looking at me, as if I'd
finally done something interesting.
Nikolaos stood. She moved a little in front of her entourage.
She would only come to my collarbone, which made her short. She
stood there for a moment, looking ethereal and lovely like a
painting. No sense of life but a thing of lovely lines and careful
color.
She stood there without moving and opened her mind to me. It
felt like she had opened a door that had been locked. Her mind
crashed against mine, and I staggered. Thoughts ripped into me like
knives, steel-edged dreams. Fleeting bits of her mind danced in my
head; where they touched I was numbed, hurt.
I was on my knees, and I didn't remember falling. I was cold, so
cold. There was nothing for me. I was an insignificant thing,
beside that mind. How could I think to call myself an equal? How
could I do anything but crawl to her and beg to be forgiven? My
insolence was intolerable.
I began to crawl to her, on hands and knees. It seemed like the
right thing to do. I had to beg her forgiveness. I needed to be
forgiven. How else did you approach a goddess but on bended
knee?
No. Something was wrong. But what? I should ask the goddess to
forgive me. I should worship her, do anything she asked. No.
No.
"No." I whispered it. "No."
"Come to me, my child." Her voice was like spring after a long
winter. It opened me up inside. It made me feel warm and
welcome.
She held out pale arms to me. The goddess would let me embrace
her. Wondrous. Why was I cowering on the floor? Why didn't I run to
her?
"No." I slammed my hands into the stone. It stung, but not
enough. "No!" I smashed my fist into the floor. My whole arm
tingled and went numb. "NO!" I pounded my fists into the rock over
and over until they bled. Pain was sharp, real, mine. I screamed,
"Get out of my mind! You bitch!"
I crouched on the floor, panting, cradling my hands against my
stomach. My pulse was jumping in my throat. I couldn't breathe past
it. Anger washed through me, clean and sharp-edged. It chased the
last shadow of Nikolaos's mind away.
I glared up at her. Anger, and behind that terror. Nikolaos had
washed over my mind like the ocean in a seashell, filled me up and
emptied me out. She might have to drive me crazy to break me, but
she could do it if she wanted to. And there wasn't a damn thing I
could do to protect myself.
She stared down at me and laughed, that wondrous wind chime of a
laugh. "Oh, we have found something the animator fears. Yes, we
have." Her voice was lilting and pleasant. A child bride again.
Nikolaos knelt in front of me, sweeping the sky-blue dress under
her knees. Ladylike. She bent at the waist so she could look me in
the eyes. "How old am I, animator?"
I was starting to shake with reaction, shock. My teeth chattered
like I was freezing to death, and maybe I was. My voice squeezed
out between my teeth and the tight jerk of my jaw. "A thousand," I
said. "Maybe more."
"You were right, Jean-Claude. She is good." She pressed her face
nearly into mine. I wanted to push her away, but more than
anything, I didn't want her to touch me.
She laughed again, high and wild, heartrendingly pure. If I
hadn't been hurting so badly, I might have cried, or spit in her
face.
"Good, animator, we understand each other. You do what we want,
or I will peel your mind away like the layers of an onion." She
breathed against my face, voice dropping to a whisper. A child's
whisper with an edge of giggling to it. "You do believe I can do
that, don't you?"
I believed.
Chapter 12
I wanted to spit in that smooth, pale face, but I was afraid of
what she would do to me. A drop of sweat ran slowly down my face. I
wanted to promise her anything, anything, if she would never touch
me again. Nikolaos didn't have to bespell me; all she had had to do
was terrify me. The fear would control me. It was what she was
counting on. I could not let that happen.
"Get . . . out . . . of . . . my . . . face," I said.
She laughed. Her breath was warm and smelled like peppermint.
Breath mints. But underneath the clean, modern smell, very faint,
was the scent of fresh blood. Old death. Recent murder.
I wasn't shivering anymore. I said, "Your breath smells like
blood."
She jerked back, a hand going to her lips. It was such a human
gesture that I laughed. Her dress brushed my face as she stood. One
small, slippered foot kicked me in the chest.
The force tumbled me backwards, sharp pain, no air. For the
second time that night, I couldn't breathe. I lay flat on my
stomach, gasping, swallowing past the pain. I hadn't heard anything
break. Something should have broken.
The voice thudded over me, hot enough to scald. "Get her out of
here before I kill her myself."
The pain faded to a sharp ache. Air burned going down. My chest
was tight, like I'd swallowed lead.
"Stay where you are, Jean."
Jean-Claude was standing away from the wall, halfway to me.
Nikolaos commanded him to stillness with one small, pale hand.
"Can you hear me, animator?"
"Yes." My voice was strangled. I couldn't get enough air to
talk.
"Did I break something?" Her voice rose upward like a small
bird.
I coughed, trying to clear my throat, but it hurt. I huddled
around my chest while the ache faded. "No."
"Pity. But I suppose that would have slowed things down, or made
you useless to us." She seemed to think about the last as if that
had had possibilities. What would they have done to me if something
had been broken? I didn't want to know.
"The police are aware of only four vampire murders. There have
been six more."
I breathed in carefully. "Why not tell the police?"
"My dear animator, there are many among us who do not trust the
human laws. We know how equal human justice is for the undead." She
smiled, and again there should have been a dimple. "Jean-Claude was
the fifth most powerful vampire in this city. Now he is the
third."
I stared up at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say it was a
joke. She continued to smile, the same exact smile, like a piece of
wax. Were they playing me for a fool? "Something has killed two
master vampires? Stronger than" - I had to swallow before
continuing - "Jean-Claude?"
Her smile widened, flashing a distinct glimpse of fang. "You do
grasp the situation quickly. I will give you that. And perhaps that
will make Jean-Claude's punishment less - severe. He recommended you
to us, did you know that?"
I shook my head and glanced at him. He had not moved, not even
to breathe. Only his eyes looked at me. Dark blue like midnight
skies, almost fever-bright. He hadn't fed yet. Why wouldn't she let
him feed?
"Why is he being punished?"
"Are you worried about him?" Her voice held a mockery of
surprise. "My, my, my, aren't you angry that he brought you into
this?"
I stared at him for a moment. I knew then what I saw in his
eyes. It was fear. He was afraid of Nikolaos. And I knew if I had
any ally in this room, it was him. Fear will bind you closer than
love, or hate, and it works a hell of a lot quicker. "No," I
said.
"No, no." She minced the word, crying it up and down, a child's
imitation. "Fine." Her voice was suddenly lower, grownup,
shimmering with heat, angry. "We will give you a gift, animator. We
have a witness to the second murder. He saw Lucas die. He will tell
you everything he saw, won't he, Zachary?" She smiled at the
sandy-haired man.
Zachary nodded. He stepped from around the chair and swept a low
bow towards me. His lips were too thin for his face, his smile
crooked. Yet, the ice-green eyes stayed with me. I had seen that
face before, but where?
He strode to a small door. I hadn't seen it before. It was
hidden in the flickering shadows of the torches, but still I should
have noticed. I glanced at Nikolaos, and she nodded at me, a smile
curving her lips.
She had hidden the door from me without me knowing it. I tried
to stand, pushing myself up with my hands. Mistake. I gasped and
stood as quickly as I dared. The hands were already stiff with
bruises and scrapes. If I lived until morning, I was going to be
one sore puppy.
Zachary opened the door with a flourish, like a magician drawing
a curtain. A man stood in the door. He was dressed in the remains
of a business suit. A slender figure, a little thick around the
middle, too many beers, too little exercise. He was maybe
thirty.
"Come," Zachary said.
The man moved out into the room. His eyes were round with fear.
A pinkie ring winked in the firelight. He stank of fear and
death.
He was still tanned, eyes still full. He could pass for human
better than any vampire in the room, but he was more a corpse than
any of them. It was just a matter of time. I raised the dead for a
living. I knew a zombie when I saw one.
"Do you remember Nikolaos?" Zachary asked.
The zombie's human eyes grew large, and the color drained from
his face. Damn, he looked human. "Yes."
"You will answer Nikolaos's questions, do you understand
that?"
"I understand." His forehead wrinkled as if he were
concentrating on something, something he couldn't quite
remember.
"He would not answer our questions before. Would you?" Nikolaos
said.
The zombie shook its head, eyes staring at her with a sort of
fearful fascination. Birds must look at snakes that way.
"We tortured him, but he was most stubborn. Then before we could
continue our work, he hung himself. We really should have taken his
belt away." She sounded wistful, pouty. The zombie was staring at
her. "I . . . hung myself. I don't understand. I . . ."
"He doesn't know?" I asked.
Zachary smiled. "No, he doesn't. Isn't it fabulous? You know how
hard it is to make one so human, that he forgets he has died."
I knew. It meant somebody had a lot of power. Zachary was
staring at the confused undead like he was a work of art.
Precious. "You raised him?" I asked.
Nikolaos said, "Did you not recognize a fellow animator?" She
laughed, lightly, a breeze of far-off bells.
I glanced at Zachary's face. He was staring at me, eyes
memorizing me. Face blank, with a thread of something making the
skin under one eye jump. Anger, fear? Then he smiled at me,
brilliant, echoing. Again there was that shock of recognition.
"Ask your question, Nikolaos. He has to answer now."
"Is that true?" she asked me.
I hesitated, surprised that she had turned to me. "Yes."
"Who killed the vampire, Lucas?"
He stared at her, face crumbling. His breathing was shallow and
too fast.
"Why doesn't he answer me?"
"The question is too complex," Zachary explained. "He may not
remember who Lucas is."
"Then you ask him the questions, and I expect him to answer."
Her voice was warm with threat.
Zachary turned with a flourish, spreading arms wide. "Ladies
and gentlemen, behold, the undead." He grinned at his own joke. No
one else even smiled. I didn't get it either.
"Did you see a vampire murdered?"
The zombie nodded. "Yes."
"How was he murdered?"
"Heart torn out, head cut off." His voice was paper-thin with
fear.
"Who tore out his heart?"
The zombie started to shake his head over and over, quick,
jerky movements. "Don't know, don't know."
"Ask him what killed the vampire," I said.
Zachary shot me a look. His eyes were green glass. Bones stood
out in his face. Rage sculpted him into a skeleton with canvas
skin.
"This is my zombie, my business!"
"Zachary," Nikolaos said.
He turned to her, movements stiff.
"It is a good question. A reasonable question." Her voice was
low, calm. No one was fooled. Hell must be full of voices like
that. Deadly, but oh so reasonable.
"Ask her question, Zachary."
He turned back to the zombie, hands balled into fists. I didn't
understand where the anger was coming from. "What killed the
vampire?"
"Don't understand." The voice held a knife's edge of panic.
"What sort of creature tore out the heart? Was it a human?"
"No."
"Was it another vampire?"
"No."
This was why zombies still didn't do well in court. You had to
lead them by the hand, so to speak, to get answers. Lawyers accused
you of leading the witness. Which was true, but it didn't mean the
zombie was lying.
"Then what killed the vampire?"
Again that head shaking, back and forth, back and forth. He
opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He seemed to be choking on
the words, as if someone had stuffed paper down his throat.
"Can't!"
"What do you mean, can't?" Zachary screamed it at him and
slapped him across the face. The zombie threw up its arms to cover
its head. "You . . . will . . . answer . . . me." Each word was
punctuated with a slap.
The zombie fell to its knees and started to cry. "Can't!"
"Answer me, damn you!" He kicked the zombie, and it collapsed to
the ground, rolling into a tight ball.
"Stop it." I walked towards them. "Stop it!"
He kicked the zombie one last time and turned on me. "It's my
zombie! I can do what I want with him."
"That used to be a human being. It deserves more respect than
this." I knelt by the crying zombie. I felt Zachary looming over
me.
Nikolaos said, "Leave her alone, for now."
He stood there like an angry shadow pressing over my back. I
touched the zombie's arm. It flinched. "It's all right. I'm not
going to hurt you." Not going to hurt you. He had killed himself to
escape. But not even the grave was sanctuary enough. Before tonight
I would have said no animator would have raised the dead for such a
purpose. Sometimes the world is a worse place than I want to know
about.
I had to peel the zombie's hands from his face, then turn the
face up to stare at me. One look was enough. Dark eyes were
incredibly wide, fear, such fear. A thin line of spittle oozed from
his mouth.
I shook my head and stood. "You've broken him."
"Damn right. No damn zombie is going to make a fool of me. He'll
answer the questions."
I whirled to stare at the man's angry eyes. "Don't you
understand? You've broken his mind."
"Zombies don't have minds."
"That's right, they don't. All they have, and for a very short
time, is the memory of what they were. If you treat them well, they
can retain their personalities for maybe a week, a little more, but
this . . ." I pointed at the zombie, then spoke to Nikolaos. "Ill
treatment will speed the process. Shock will destroy it."
"What are you saying, animator?"
"This sadist" - I jabbed a thumb at Zachary - "has destroyed the
zombie's mind. It won't be answering any more questions. Not for
anyone, not ever."
Nikolaos turned like a pale storm. Her eyes were blue glass. Her
words filled the room with a soft burning. "You arrogant.. ." A
tremor ran through her body, from small, slippered feet to long
white-blonde hair. I waited for the wooden chair to catch fire and
blaze from the fine heat of her anger.
The anger stripped away the child puppet. Bones stood out
against white paper skin. Hands grabbed at the air, clawed and
straining. One hand dug into the arm of her chair. The wood whined,
then cracked. The sound echoed against the stone walls. Her voice
burned along our skin. "Get out of here before I kill you. Take the
woman and see her safely back to her car. If you fail me again,
large or small, I will tear your throat out, and my children will
bathe in a shower of your blood."
Nicely graphic; a little melodramatic, but nicely graphic. I
didn't say it out loud. Hell, I wasn't even breathing. Any movement
might attract her. All she needed was an excuse.
Zachary seemed to sense it as well. He bowed, eyes never leaving
her face. Then without a word he turned and began to walk towards
the small door. His movements were unhurried, as if death wasn't
staring holes in his back. He paused at the open door and made a
motion as if to escort me through the door. I glanced at
Jean-Claude, still standing where she had left him. I had not asked
about Catherine's safety; there had been no opportunity. Things
were happening too fast. I opened my mouth; maybe Jean-Claude
guessed.
He silenced me with a wave of a slender, pale hand. The hand
seemed as white as the lace on his shirt. His eye sockets were
filled with blue flame. The long, black hair floated around his
suddenly death-pale face. His humanity was folding away. His power
flared across my skin, raising the hairs on my arms. I hugged
myself, staring at the creature that had been Jean-Claude.
"Run!" He screamed it at me, voice slashing into me. I should
have been bleeding from it. I hesitated and caught sight of
Nikolaos. She was levitating, ever so slowly, upward. Milkweed hair
danced around her skeleton head. She raised a clawed hand. Bones
and veins were caught in the amber of her skin.
Jean-Claude whirled, claw-hand slashing out at me. Something
slammed me into the wall and half out the door. Zachary caught my
arm and pulled me through.
I twisted free of him. The door thudded closed in my face. I
whispered, "Sweet Jesus."
Zachary was at the foot of a narrow stairway, leading up. He
held his hand out to me. His face was slick with sweat. "Please!"
He fluttered his hand at me like a trapped bird.
A smell oozed from under the door. It was the smell of rotting
corpses. The smell of bloated bodies, of skin cracked and ripening
in the sun, of blood slowed and rotting in quiet veins. I gagged
and backed away.
"Oh, God," Zachary whispered. He put one hand over his mouth and
nose, the other still held out to me.
I ignored his hand but stood beside him on the stairs. He opened
his mouth to say something, but the door creaked. The wood shook
and hammered, like a giant wind was beating against it. Wind
whooshed from under the door. My hair streamed in a tornado wind.
We backed up a few steps while the heavy wooden door fluttered and
kicked against a wind that couldn't be there. A storm indoors? The
sick smell of rotting flesh bled into the wind. We looked at each
other. There was that moment of recognition of us against them, or
it. We turned and started running like we were attached by
wires.
There couldn't be a storm behind that door. There couldn't be a
wind chasing us up the narrow stone stairs. There were no rotting
corpses in that room. Or were there? God, I didn't want to know. I
did not want to know.
Chapter 13
An explosion ripped up the stairs. The wind smashed us down like
toys. The door had blown. I scrambled on all fours trying to get
away, just get away. Zachary got to his feet, dragging me up by one
arm. We ran.
There was a howling from behind us, out of sight. The wind
roared up behind us. My hair streamed over my face, blinding me.
Zachary's hand grabbed mine and held on. The walls were smooth, the
stairs slick stone, there was nothing to hold on to. We flattened
ourselves against the stairs and hung onto each other.
"Anita." Jean-Claude's velvet voice whispered. "Anita." I fought
to look up into the wind, blinking to see. There was nothing there.
"Anita." The wind was calling my name. "Anita." Something
glimmered, blue fire. Two points of blue flame, hung on the wind.
Eyes - were those Jean-Claude's eyes? Was he dead?
The blue flames began to float downward. The wind didn't touch
them. I screamed, "Zachary!" But the sound was swallowed in the
roar of the wind. Did he see it, too, or was I going crazy?
The blue flames came lower and lower, and suddenly I didn't want
it to touch me, just as suddenly I knew that was what it was going
to do. Something told me that that would be a very bad thing.
I tore loose from Zachary. He screamed something at me, but the
wind roared and screeched between the narrow walls like a roller
coaster gone mad. There was no other sound. I started to crawl up
the stairs, wind beating against me, trying to crush me down. There
was one other sound, Jean-Claude's voice in my head. "Forgive
me."
The blue lights were suddenly in front of my face. I flattened
myself against a wall, hitting at the fire. My hands passed through
the burning. It wasn't there.
I screamed, "Leave me alone!"
The fire melted through my hands like they weren't there, and
into my eyes. The world was blue glass, silent, nothing, blue ice.
A whisper: "Run, run." I was sitting on the stairs again, blinking
into the wind. Zachary was staring at me.
The wind stopped like someone had turned a switch. The silence
was deafening. My breath was coming in short gasps. I had no pulse.
I couldn't feel my heartbeat. All I could hear was my breathing,
too loud, too shallow. I finally knew what they meant by breathless
with fear.
Zachary's voice was hoarse and too loud in the silence. I think
he was whispering, but it came out like a shout. "Your eyes, they
glowed blue!"
I whispered, "Hush, shhh." I didn't understand why, but someone
must not hear what he had just said, must not know what had
happened. My life depended on it. There was no more whispering in
my head, but the last bit of advice had been good. Run. Running
sounded very good.
The silence was dangerous. It meant the fight was over, and the
winner could turn its attention to other things. I did not want to
be one of those things.
I stood and offered a hand to Zachary. He looked puzzled but
took it, standing. I pulled him up the steps and started running. I
had to get away, had to, or I would die in this place, tonight,
now. I knew that with a surety that left no room for questions, no
time for hesitation. I was running for my life. I would die, if
Nikolaos saw me now. I would die.
And I would never know why.
Either Zachary felt the panic too, or he thought I knew
something he didn't, because he ran with me. When one of us
stumbled, the other pulled him, or her, to their feet, and we ran.
We ran until acid burned the muscles in my legs, and my chest
squeezed into a hard ache for lack of air.
This was why I jogged, so I could run like hell when something
was chasing me. Thinner thighs was not incentive enough. But this
was, running when you had to, running for your life. The silence
was heavy, almost touchable. It seemed to flow up the stairs, as if
searching for something. The silence chased us as surely as the
wind had.
The trouble with running up stairs, if you've ever had a knee
injury, is that you can't do it forever. Give me a flat surface,
and I can run for hours. Put me on an incline, and my knees give me
fits. It started as an ache, but it didn't take long to become a
sharp, grinding pain. Each step began to scream up my leg, until
the entire leg pulsed with it.
The knee began to pop as it moved, an audible sound. That was a
bad sign. The knee was threatening to go out on me. If it popped
out of joint, I'd be crippled here on the stairs with the silence
breathing around me. Nikolaos would find me and kill me. Why was I
so sure of that? No answer, but I knew it, knew it with every pull
of air. I didn't argue with the feeling.
I slowed and rested on the steps, stretching out the muscles in
my legs. Refusing to gasp as the muscles on my bad leg twitched. I
would stretch it out and feel better. The pain wouldn't go away,
I'd abused it too much for that, but I would be able to walk
without the knee betraying me.
Zachary collapsed on the stairs, obviously not a jogger. His
muscles would tighten up if he didn't keep moving. Maybe he knew
that. Maybe he didn't care.
I stretched my arms against the wall until my shoulders
stretched out. Just something familiar to do while I waited for the
knee to calm down. Something to do, while I listened for - what?
Something heavy and sliding, something ancient, long dead.
Sounds from above, higher up the stairs. I froze pressed against
the wall, palms flat against the cool stone. What now? What more?
Surely, to God, it would be dawn soon.
Zachary stood and turned to face up the stairs. I stood with my
back to the wall, so I could see up as well as down. I didn't want
something sneaking up on me from below while I was looking
upstairs. I wanted my gun. It was locked in my trunk, where it was
doing me a hell of a lot of good.
We were standing just below a landing, a turn in the stairs.
There have been times when I wished I could see around corners.
This was one of them. The scrape of cloth against stone, the rub of
shoes.
The man who walked around the corner was human, surprise,
surprise. His neck was even unmarked. Cotton-white hair was shaved
close to his head. The muscles in his neck bulged. His biceps were
bigger around than my waist. My waist is kinda small, but his arms
were still, ah, impressive. He was at least six-three, and there
wasn't enough fat on him to grease a cake pan.
His eyes were the crystalline paleness of January skies, a
distant, icy, blue. He was also the first bodybuilder I'd ever seen
who didn't have a tan. All that rippling muscle was done in white,
like Moby Dick. A black mesh tank top showed off every inch of his
massive chest. Black jogging shorts flared around the swell of his
legs. He had had to cut them up the sides to slip them over the
rock bulge of his thighs.
I whispered, "Jesus, how much do you bench press?"
He smiled, close-lipped. He spoke with the barest movement of
lips, never giving a glimpse of his incisors. "Four hundred."
I gave a low whistle. And said what he wanted me to say:
"Impressive."
He smiled, careful not to show teeth. He was trying to play the
vampire. Such a careful act being wasted on me. Should I tell him
that he screamed human? Naw, he might break me over his thigh like
kindling.
"This is Winter," Zachary said. The name was too perfect to be
real, like a 1940s movie star.
"What is happening?" he asked.
"Our master and Jean-Claude are fighting," Zachary said.
He drew a deep, sighing breath. His eyes widened just a bit.
"Jean-Claude?" He made it sound like a question.
Zachary nodded and smiled. "Yes, he's been holding out."
"Who are you?" he asked.
I hesitated; Zachary shrugged. "Anita Blake."
He smiled then, flashing nice normal teeth at last. "You're The
Executioner?"
"Yes."
He laughed. The sound echoed between the stone walls. The
silence seemed to tighten around us. The laughter stopped abruptly,
a dew of sweat on his lip. Winter felt it and feared it. His voice
came low, almost a whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard.
"You aren't big enough to be The Executioner."
I shrugged. "It disappoints me, too, sometimes."
He smiled, almost laughed again, but swallowed it. His eyes were
shiny.
"Let's all get out of here," Zachary said.
I was with him.
"I was sent to check on Nikolaos," Winter said.
The silence pulsed with the name. A bead of sweat dripped down
his face. Important safety tip: never say the name of an angry
master vampire when they are within "hearing" distance.
"She can take care of herself," Zachary whispered, but the sound
echoed anyway.
"Nooo," I said.
Zachary glared at me and I shrugged. Sometimes I just can't help
myself.
Winter stared at me, face as impersonal as carved marble; only
his eyes trembled. Mr. Macho. "Come," he said. He turned without
waiting to see if we would follow. We followed.
I would have followed him anywhere as long as he went upstairs.
All I knew was that nothing, absolutely nothing, could get me back
down those stairs. Not willingly. Of course, there are always other
options. I glanced up at Winter's broad back. Yeah, if you don't
want to do it willingly, there are always other options.
Chapter 14
The stairs opened into a square chamber. An electric bulb
dangled from the ceiling. I had never thought one dim electric
light could be beautiful, but it was. A sign that we were leaving
the underground chamber of horrors behind and approaching the real
world. I was ready to go home.
There were two doors leading out of the stone room, one straight
ahead and one to the right. Music floated through the one in front
of us. High, bright circus music. The door opened, and the music
boiled around us. There was a glimpse of bright colors and hundreds
of people milling about. A sign flashed, "Fun house." A carnival
midway, inside a building. I knew where I was. Circus of the
Damned.
The city's most powerful vampires slept under the Circus. It was
something to remember.
The door started to shut, dimming the music, cutting off the
bright signs. I looked into the eyes of a teenage girl, who was
straining to see around the doorway. The door clicked shut.
A man leaned against the door. He was tall and slender, dressed
like a riverboat gambler. Royal purple coat, lace at the neck and
down the front, straight black pants and boots. A straight-brimmed
hat shaded his face, and a gold mask covered everything but his
mouth and chin. Dark eyes stared at me through the gold mask.
His tongue danced over his lips and teeth: fangs, a vampire. Why
didn't that surprise me?
"I was afraid I would miss you, Executioner." His voice had a
Southern thickness.
Winter moved to stand between us. The vampire laughed, a rich
barking sound. "The muscle man here thinks he can protect you.
Shall I tear him to pieces to prove him wrong?"
"That won't be necessary," I said. Zachary moved up to stand
beside me.
"Do you recognize my voice?" the vampire asked.
I shook my head.
"It has been two years. I didn't know until this business came
up that you were The Executioner. I thought you died."
"Can we cut to the chase here? Who are you and what do you
want?"
"So eager, so impatient, so human." He raised gloved hands and
took off his hat. Short, auburn hair framed the gold mask.
"Please don't do this," Zachary said. "The master has ordered me
to see the woman safely to her car."
"I don't intend to harm a hair on her head - tonight." The gloves
lifted the mask away. The left side of the face was scarred,
pitted, melted away. Only his brown eye was still whole and alive,
rolling in a circle of pinkish-white scar tissue. Acid burns look
like that. Except it hadn't been acid. It had been Holy Water.
I remembered his body pinning me to the ground. His teeth
tearing at my arm while I tried to keep him off my throat. The
clean sharp snap of bone where he bit through. My screams. His hand
forcing my head back. Him rearing to strike. Helpless. He missed
the neck; I never knew why. Teeth sank around my collarbone,
snapped it. He lapped up my blood like a cat with cream. I lay
under his weight listening to him lap up my blood. The broken bones
didn't hurt yet; shock. I was beginning not to hurt, not to be
afraid. I was beginning to die.
My right hand reached out in the grass and touched something
smooth - glass. A vial of Holy Water that had been thrown out of my
bag, scattered by the half-human servants. The vampire never looked
at me. His face was pressed over the wound. His tongue was
exploring the hole he'd made. His teeth grated along the naked
bone, and I screamed.
He laughed into my shoulder, laughed while he killed me. I
flicked the lid open on the vial and splashed his face. Flesh
boiled. His skin popped and bubbled. He knelt over me, clutching
his face and shrieking.
I thought he had been trapped in the house when it burned down.
I had wanted him dead, wished him dead. I had wished that memory
away, pushed it back. Now here he stood, my favorite nightmare come
to life.
"What, no scream of horror? No gasp of fright? You disappoint
me, Executioner. Don't you admire your own handiwork?"
My voice came out strangled, hushed. "I thought you died."
"Now ya know different. And now I know you're alive, too. How
cosy."
He smiled, and the muscles on his scarred cheek pulled the smile
to one side, making it a grimace. Even vampires can't heal
everything. "Eternity, Executioner, eternity like this." He
caressed the scars with a gloved hand.
"What do you want?"
"Be brave, little girl, be brave as you want to be. I can feel
your fear. I want to see the scars I gave you, see that you
remember me, like I remember you."
"I remember you."
"Scars, girl, show me the scars."
"I show you the scars, then what?"
"Then you go home, or wherever you're going. The master has
given strict orders you are not be harmed until after you do your
job for us."
"Then?"
He smiled, a broad glistening expanse of teeth. "Then, I hunt
you down, and I pay you back for this." He touched his face. "Come,
girl, don't be shy, I seen it all before. I tasted your blood. Show
me the scars, and the muscle man won't have to die proving how
strong he is."
I glanced at Winter. Massive fists were crossed over his chest.
His spine nearly vibrated with readiness. The vampire was right;
Winter would die trying. I pushed the ripped sleeve above the
elbow. A mound of scar tissue decorated the bend in my arm; scars
dribbled down from it, like liquid, crisscrossing and flowing down
the outer edge of my arm. The cross-shaped burn took up the only
clear space on the inside of my forearm.
"I didn't think you'd ever use that arm again, after the way I
tore into it."
"Physical therapy is a wonderful thing."
"Ain't no physical therapy gonna help me."
"No," I said. The first button was missing on my blouse. One
more and I spread my shirt back to expose the collarbone. Scars
ridged it, crawled over it. It looked real attractive in a bathing
suit.
"Good," the vampire said. "You smell like cold sweat when you
think of me, little girl. I was hoping I haunted you the way you
haunted me."
"There is a difference, you know."
"And what might that be?"
"You were trying to kill me. I was defending myself."
"And why had you come to our house? To put stakes through our
hearts. You came to our house to kill us. We didn't go hunting for
you."
"But you did go hunting for twenty-three other people. That's a
lot of people. Your group had to be stopped."
"Who appointed you God? Who made you our executioner?"
I took a deep breath. It was steady, didn't tremble. Brownie
point for me. "The police."
"Bah." He spit on the floor. Very appealing. "You work real
hard, girl. You find the murderer, then we'll finish up."
"May I go now?"
"By all means. You're safe tonight, because the master says so,
but that will change."
Zachary said, "Out the side door." He walked nearly backwards
watching the vampire as we moved away. Winter stayed behind,
guarding our backs. Idiot.
Zachary opened the door. The night was hot and sticky. Summer
wind slapped against my face, humid, and close, and beautiful.
The vampire called, "Remember the name Valentine, 'cause you'll
be hearing from me."
Zachary and I walked out the door. It clanged shut behind us.
There was no handle on the outside, no way to open it. A one way
ticket, out. Out sounded just fine.
We started to walk. "You got a gun with silver bullets in it?"
he asked.
"Yes."
"I'd start carrying it if I were you."
"Silver bullets won't kill him."
"But it'll slow him down."
"Yeah." We walked for a few minutes in silence. The warm summer
night seemed to slide around us, hold us in sticky, curious
hands.
"What I need is a shotgun."
He looked at me. "You going to carry a shotgun with you day
after day?"
"Sawed off, it would fit under a coat."
"In the middle of a Missouri summer, you'd melt. Why not a
machine gun, or a flamethrower, while you're at it?"
"Machine gun has too wide a spread range. You may hit innocent
people. Flamethrower's bulky. Messy, too."
He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. "You've used a
flamethrower on vampires before?"
"No, but I saw it used."
"My god." He stared off into space for a moment, then asked,
"Did it work?"
"Like a charm; messy, though. And it burned the house down
around us. I thought it was a little extreme."
"I'll bet." We started walking again. "You must hate
vampires."
"I don't hate them."
"Then why do you kill them?"
"Because it's my job, and I'm good at it." We turned a corner,
and I could see the parking lot where I had left my car. It seemed
like I had parked my car days ago. My watch said hours. It was a
little like jet lag, but instead of crossing time zones, you
crossed events. So many traumatic events and your time sense screws
up. Too much happening in too short a space of time.
"I'm your daytime contact. If you need anything, or want to
give a message, here's my number." He shoved a matchbook into
my hand.
I glanced at the matchbook. It read "Circus of the Damned"
bleeding red onto a shiny black background. I shoved it in my jeans
pocket.
My gun was lying there in my trunk. I slipped into the shoulder
rig, not caring that I had no jacket to cover it. A gun out in
plain sight attracts attention, but most people leave you alone.
They often even start running, clearing a path before you. It made
chases very convenient.
Zachary waited until I was sitting in my car. He leaned into the
open door. "It can't just be a job, Anita. There's got to be a
better reason than that."
I glanced down at my lap and started the car. I looked up into
his pale eyes. "I'm afraid of them. It is a very natural human
trait to destroy that which frightens us."
"Most people spend their lives avoiding things they fear. You
run after them. That's crazy."
He had a point. I closed the door and left him standing in the
hot dark. I raised the dead and laid the undead to rest. It was
what I did. Who I was. If I ever started questioning my motives, I
would stop killing vampires. Simple as that.
I wasn't questioning my motives tonight, so I was still a
vampire slayer, still the name they had given me. I was The
Executioner.
Chapter 15
Dawn slid across the sky like a curtain of light. The morning
star glittered like a diamond chip against the easy flow of
light.
I had seen two sunrises in as many days. I was beginning to feel
grumpy. The trick would be to decide whom to be grumpy at, and what
to do about it. Right now all I wanted was to sleep. The rest could
wait, would have to wait. I had been running on fear, adrenaline,
and stubbornness for hours. In the quiet hush of the car I could
feel my body. It was not happy.
It hurt to grip the wheel, hurt to turn it. The bloody scrapes
on my hands looked a lot worse than they were, I hoped. My whole
body felt stiff. Everybody underrates bruises. They hurt. They
would hurt a lot more after I slept on them. There is nothing like
waking up the morning after a good beating. It's like a hangover
that covers your entire body.
The corridor of my apartment building was hushed. The whir of
the air conditioner breathed in the silence. I could almost feel
all the people asleep behind the doors. I had an urge to press my
ear to one of the doors and see if I could hear my neighbors
breathing. So quiet. The hour after dawn is the most private of
all. It is a time to be alone and enjoy the silence.
The only hour more hushed is three a.m. and I am not a fan of
three a.m.
I had my keys in my hand, had almost touched the door, when I
realized it was ajar. A tiny crack, almost closed, but not. I moved
to the right of the door and pressed my back against the wall. Had
they heard the keys jingling? Who was inside? Adrenaline was
flowing like fine champagne. I was alert to every shadow, the way
the light fell. My body was in emergency mode, and I hoped to God I
didn't need it.
I drew my gun and leaned against the wall. Now what? There was
no sound from inside the apartment, nothing. It could be
more vampires, but it was nearly true dawn. It wouldn't be
vampires. Who else would break into my apartment? I took a deep
breath and let it out. I didn't know. Didn't have the faintest
idea. You'd think I'd get used to not knowing what the hell is
going on, but I never do. It just makes me grumpy, and a little
scared.
I had several choices. I could leave and call the police, not a
bad choice. But what could they do that I couldn't, except walk in
and get killed in my place? That was unacceptable. I could wait in
the corridor until whoever it was got curious. That could take a
while, and the apartment might be empty. I'd feel pretty stupid
standing out here for hours, gun trained on an empty apartment. I
was tired, and I wanted to go to bed. Dammit!
I could always just go in, gun blazing. Naw. I could push the
door open and be lying on the floor and shoot anyone inside. If
they had a gun. If there was anyone inside.
The smart thing would be to outwait them, but I was tired. The
adrenaline rush was fading under the frustration of too many
choices. There comes a point when you just get tired. I didn't
think I could stand out here in the air-conditioned silence and
stay alert. I wouldn't fall asleep standing up, but it was a
thought. And another hour would see my neighbors up and about,
maybe caught in the crossfire. Unacceptable. Whatever was going to
happen needed to happen now.
Decision made. Good. Nothing like fear to wash your mind clean.
I moved as far from the door as I could and crossed over, gun
trained on the door. I moved along the left-hand wall towards the
hinge side of the door. It opened in. Just give it a push flat
against the wall; simple. Right.
I crouched down on one knee, my shoulders hunched as if I could
draw my head down like a turtle. I was betting that any gun would
hit above me, chest-high. Crouched down, I was a lot shorter than
chest-high.
I shoved the door open with my left hand and hugged the
doorsill. It worked like a charm. My gun was pointing at the bad
guy's chest. Except his hands were already in the air, and he was
smiling at me.
"Don't shoot," he said. "It's Edward."
I knelt there staring at him; anger rose like a warm tide. "You
bastard. You knew I was out here."
He steepled his fingers. "I heard the keys."
I stood, eyes searching the room. Edward had moved my white
overstuffed chair to face the door. Nothing else seemed to be
moved.
"I assure you, Anita, I am quite alone."
"That I believe. Why didn't you call out to me?"
"I wanted to see if you were still good. I could have blown you
away when you hesitated in front of the door, with your keys
jingling so nicely."
I shut the door behind me and locked it, though truthfully with
Edward inside I might have been safer locking myself out rather
than in. He was not an imposing man, not frightening, if you didn't
know him. He was five-eight, slender, blond, blue-eyed, charming.
But if I was The Executioner, he was Death itself. He was the
person I had seen use a flamethrower.
I had worked with him before, and heaven knows you felt safe
with him. He carried more firepower than Rambo, but he was a little
too careless of innocent bystanders. He began life as a hit man.
That much the police knew. I think humans became too easy so he
switched to vampires and lycanthropes. And I knew that if a time
came where it was more expedient to kill me than to be my "friend,"
he would do it. Edward had no conscience. It made him the perfect
killer.
"I've been up all bloody night, Edward. I'm not in the mood for
your games."
"How hurt are you?"
I shrugged and winced. "The hands are sore, bruises mostly. I'm
all right."
"Your night secretary said you were out at a bachelorette
party." He grinned at me, eyes sparkling. "It must have been some
party-"
"I ran into a vampire you might know."
He raised his yellow eyebrows and made a silent "Oh" with his
lips.
"Remember the house you nearly roasted down around us?"
"About two years ago. We killed six vampires, and two human
servants."
I walked past him and flopped onto the couch. "We missed
one."
"No, we didn't." His voice was very precise. Edward at his most
dangerous.
I looked at the carefully cut back of his head. "Trust me on
this one, Edward. He damn near killed me tonight." Which was a
partial truth, also known as a lie. If the vampires didn't want me
to tell the police, they certainly didn't want Death to know.
Edward was a whole lot more dangerous to them than the police.
"What one?"
"The one who nearly tore me to pieces. He calls himself
Valentine. He's still wearing the acid scars I gave him."
"Holy Water?"
"Yeah."
Edward came to sit beside me on the couch. He kept to one end, a
careful distance. "Tell me." His eyes were intense on my face.
I looked away. "There isn't much left to tell."
"You're lying, Anita. Why?"
I stared at him, anger coming in a rush. I hate to be caught in
a lie. "There have been some vampires murdered down along the
river. How long have you been in town, Edward?"
He smiled then, though at what I wasn't sure. "Not long. I heard
a rumor that you got to meet the city's head vampire tonight."
I couldn't stop it. My mouth fell open; the surprise was too
much to hide. "How the hell do you know that?"
He gave a graceful shrug. "I have my sources."
"No vampire would talk to you, not willingly."
Again that shrug that said everything and nothing at all.
"What have you done tonight, Edward?"
"What have you done tonight, Anita?"
Touché, Mexican standoff, whatever. "Why have you come to me
then? What do you want?"
"I want the location of the master vampire. The daytime resting
place."
I had recovered enough so that my face was bland, no surprise
here. "How would I know that?"
"Do you know?"
"No." I stood up. "I'm tired, and I want to go to bed. If
there's nothing else?"
He stood, too, still smiling, like he knew I had lied. "I'll be
in touch. If you do happen to run across the information I need . .
." He let the sentence trail off and started for the door.
"Edward."
He half-turned to me.
"Do you have a sawed-off shotgun?"
His eyebrows went up again. "I could get one for you."
"I'd pay."
"No, a gift."
"I can't tell you."
"But you do know?"
"Edward . . ."
"How deep are you in, Anita?"
"Eye level and sinking fast."
"I could help you."
"I know."
"Would helping you allow me to kill more vampires?"
"Maybe."
He grinned at me, brilliant, heart-stopping. The grin was his
very best harmless good ol' boy smile. I could never decide whether
the smile was real or just another mask. Would the real Edward
please stand up? Probably not.
"I enjoy hunting vampires. Let me in on it if you can."
"I will."
He paused with a hand on the doorknob. "I hope I have more luck
with my other sources than I did with you."
"What happens if you can't find the location from someone
else?"
"Why, I come back."
"And?"
"And you will tell me what I want to know. Won't you?" He was
still grinning at me, charming, boyish. He was also talking about
torturing me if he had to.
I swallowed, hard. "Give me a few days, Edward, and I might have
your information."
"Good. I'll bring the shotgun later today. If you're not home,
I'll leave it on the kitchen table."
I didn't ask how he'd get inside if I wasn't home. He would only
have smiled or laughed. Locks weren't much of a deterrent to
Edward. "Thank you. For the shotgun, I mean."
"My pleasure, Anita. Until tomorrow." He stepped out the door,
and it closed behind him.
Great. Vampires, now Edward. The day was about fifteen minutes
old. Not a very promising beginning. I locked the door, for what
good it would do me, and went to bed. The Browning Hi-Power was in
its second home, a modified holster strapped to the headboard of my
bed. The crucifix was cool metal around my neck. I was as safe as
I was going to be and almost too tired to
care.
I took one more thing to bed with me, a stuffed toy penguin
named Sigmund. I don't sleep with him often, just every once in a
while after someone tries to kill me. Everyone has their
weaknesses. Some people smoke. I collect stuffed penguins. If you
won't tell, I won't.
Chapter 16
I stood in the huge stone room where Nikolaos had sat. Only the
wooden chair remained, empty, alone. A coffin sat on the floor to
one side. Torchlight gleamed off the polished wood. A breeze eased
through the room. The torches wavered and threw huge black shadows
on the walls. The shadows seemed to move independent of the light.
The longer I looked at them, the more I was sure the shadows were
too dark, too thick.
I could taste my heart in my throat. My pulse was hammering in
my head. I couldn't breathe. Then I realized I was hearing a second
heartbeat, like an echo. "Jean-Claude?" The shadows cried,
"Jean-Claude," in high whining voices.
I knelt by the coffin and gripped the lid. It was all one piece,
and raised on smooth oiled hinges. Blood poured down the sides of
the coffin. The blood poured over my legs, splashed on my arms. I
screamed and stood, covered in blood. It was still warm.
"Jean-Claude!"
A pale hand raised out of the blood, spasmed, and collapsed
against the side of the coffin. Jean-Claude's face floated to the
top. My hand was reaching out. His heart was fluttering in my head,
but he was dead. He was dead! His hand was icy wax. His eyes flew
open. The dead hand grabbed my wrist.
"No!" I tried to pull my hand free. I went down on my knees in
the cooling blood and screamed, "Let me go!"
He sat up. He was covered in blood. The white shirt dripped with
it, like a bloody rag.
"No,"
He pulled my arm closer to him, and pulled me with it. I braced
one hand on the coffin. I would not go to him. I would not go! He
bent over my arm, mouth wide, fangs reaching. His heart beat
against the shadows like thunder. "Jean-Claude, no!"
He looked up at me, just before he struck. "I had no choice."
Blood began to drip down his face from his hair, until his face was
a bloody mask. Fangs sank into my arm. I screamed, and woke sitting
straight up in bed.
The doorbell was buzzing. I scrambled out of bed, forgetting. I
gasped. I had moved too fast for the beating I'd had last night. I
ached all over in places I couldn't possibly be bruised. My hands
were stiff with dried blood. They felt arthritic.
The doorbell was buzzing continuously as if someone was leaning
against it. Whoever it was, was going to get a hug for waking me
up. I was sleeping in an oversized shirt. Pulling last night's
jeans on was my version of a robe.
I put Sigmund the stuffed penguin back with all the rest. The
stuffed toys sat on a small loveseat against the far wall, under
the window. Penguins lined the floor around it like a plump fuzzy
tide.
It hurt to move. It even felt tight when I breathed. I yelled,
"I'm coming." It occurred to me, halfway to the door, that it might
be someone unfriendly. I padded back into the bedroom and got my
gun. My hand felt stiff and awkward around it. I should have
cleaned and bandaged the hands last night. Oh, well.
I knelt behind the chair Edward had moved in front of the door
and called, "Who is it?"
"It's Ronnie, Anita. We're supposed to work out this morning."
It was Saturday. I had forgotten. It was always amazing how
ordinary life was, even while people were trying to hurt you. I
felt like Ronnie should know about last night. Something so
extraordinary should touch all my life, but it didn't work that
way. When I'd been in the hospital with my arm in traction and
tubes running all through me, my stepmother had complained that I
wasn't married yet. She's worried that I will be an old maid at the
ripe age of twenty-four. Judith is not what you would call a
liberated woman.
My family does not cope well with what I do, the chances I take,
the injuries. So they ignore it as best they can. Except for my
sixteen-year-old stepbrother. Josh thinks I'm cool, neat, whatever
word they're using now.
Veronica Sims is different. She's my friend, and she
understands. Ronnie is a private detective. We take turns visiting
each other in the hospital.
I opened the door and let her in, gun limp at my side. She took
it all in and said, "Shit, you look awful."
I smiled. "Well, at least I took like I feel."
She came in and dropped her gym bag in front of the chair. "Can
you tell me what happened?" Not a demand, a question. Ronnie
understood that not everything could be shared.
"Sorry that I won't be able to work out today."
"Looks like you had all the workout you can handle. Go soak
those hands in the sink. I'll make coffee. Okay?"
I nodded and regretted it. Aspirins, aspirins sounded real good
right now. I stopped just before I went into the bathroom.
"Ronnie?"
"Yes." She stood there in my small kitchen, a measuring cup of
fresh coffee beans in one hand. She was five-nine. Sometimes, I
forget how tall that is. It amazes people that we can run together.
The trick is I set the pace, and I push myself. It's a very good
workout.
"I think I have some bagels in the fridge. Could you pop
them in the microwave with some cheese?"
She stared at me. "I've known you for three years, and this is
the first time I've ever heard you ask for food before ten
o'clock."
"Listen, if it's too much trouble, forget it."
"It isn't that, and you know it."
"Sorry. I'm just tired."
"Go doctor yourself, then you can tell me about it. Okay"
"Yeah." Soaking the hands did not make them feel better. It felt
like I was peeling the skin off my fingers. I patted them dry and
rubbed Neosporin ointment over the scrapes. "A topical
antibacterial," the label read. By the time I finished all the
Band-Aids, I looked like a pinkish-tan version of the mummy's
hand.
My back was a mass of dark bruises. My ribs were decorated in
putrid purple. There wasn't much I could do about it, except hope
the aspirin kicked in. Well, there was one thing I could do - move.
Stretching exercises would limber the body and give me movement
without pain, sort of. The stretching itself would feel like
torture. I'd do it later. I needed to eat first.
I was starving. Usually, the thought of eating before ten made
me nauseous. This morning I wanted food, needed food. Very weird.
Maybe it was stress.
The smell of bagels and melting cheese made my stomach ripple.
The smell of fresh brewed coffee made me want to chew the
couch.
I scarfed down two bagels and three cups of coffee while Ronnie
sat across from me, sipping her first cup. I looked up and found
her watching me. Her grey eyes were staring at me. I'd seen her
look at suspects like that. "What?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing. Can you catch your breath and tell me
about last night?"
I nodded, and it didn't hurt as much. Aspirin, nature's gift to
modern man. I told her, from Monica's call to my meeting with
Valentine. I didn't tell her that it all took place at the Circus
of the Damned. That was very dangerous information to have right
now. And I left out the blue lights on the stairs, the sound of
Jean-Claude's voice in my head. Something told me that was
dangerous information, too. I've learned to trust my instincts, so
I left it out.
Ronnie's good, she looked at me, and said, "Is that
everything?"
"Yes." An easy lie, simple, one word. I don't think Ronnie
bought it.
"Okay." She took a sip of coffee. "What do you want me to do?"
"Ask around. You have access to the hate groups. Like Humans
Against Vampires, The League of Human Voters, the usual. See if any
of them might be involved with the murders. I can't go near them."
I smiled. "After all, animators are one of the groups they
hate."
"But you do kill vampires."
"Yeah, but I also raise zombies. Too weird for the hardcore
bigot."
"All right. I'll check out HAV and the rest. Anything else?"
I thought about it and shook my head, almost no pain at all.
"Not that I can think of. Just be very careful. I don't want to
endanger you the way I did Catherine."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Right."
"It isn't your fault, none of this is."
"Tell that to Catherine and her fiancé if things go
bad."
"Anita, dammit, these creatures are using you. They want you
discouraged and frightened, so they can control you. If you let the
guilt mess with your head, you're going to get killed."
"Well, gee, Ronnie, just what I wanted to hear. If this is your
version of a pep talk, I'll skip the rally."
"You don't need cheering up. You need a good shaking."
"Thanks, I already had one last night."
"Anita, listen to me." She was staring at me, eyes intense, her
face searching mine, trying to see if I was really hearing her.
"You've done all you can for Catherine. I want you to concentrate
on keeping yourself alive. You're ass deep in enemies. Don't get
sidetracked."
She was right. Do what you can and move on. Catherine was out of
it, for now. It was the best I could do. "Ass-deep in enemies, but
ankle-deep in friends."
She grinned. "Maybe it'll even out."
I cradled the coffee in my bandaged hands. Warmth radiated
through the cup. "I'm scared."
"Which proves you aren't as stupid as you look."
"Gee, thanks a lot."
"You're welcome." She raised her coffee cup in a salute. "To
Anita Blake, animator, vampire slayer, and good friend. Watch your
back."
I clinked my cup against hers. "You watch yours, too. Being my
friend right now may not be the healthiest of avocations."
"Since when was that a news bulletin?"
Unfortunately, she had a point.
Chapter 17
I had two choices after Ronnie left: I could go back to sleep,
not a bad idea; or I could start solving the case that everyone was
so eager for me to work on. I could get by on four hours sleep, for
a while. I could not last nearly as long if Aubrey tore my throat
out. Guess I would go to work.
It is hard to wear a gun in St. Louis in the summertime.
Shoulder or hip holster, you have the same problem. If you wear a
jacket to cover the gun, you melt in the heat. If you keep the gun
in your purse, you get killed, because no woman can find anything
in her purse in under twelve minutes. It is a rule.
No one had been shooting at me yet; I was encouraged by that.
But I had also been kidnapped and nearly killed. I did not plan on
it happening again without a fight. I could bench press a hundred
pounds, not bad, not bad at all. But when you only weigh a hundred
and six, it puts you at a disadvantage. I would bet on me against
any human bad guy my size. Trouble was, there just weren't many bad
guys my size. And vampires, well, unless I could bench press
trucks, I was outclassed. So a gun.
I finally settled on a less than professional look. The t-shirt
was oversize, hitting me at mid-thigh. It billowed around me. The
only thing that saved it was the picture on the front, penguins
playing beach volleyball, complete with kiddie penguins making sand
castles to one side. I like penguins. I had bought the shirt to
sleep in and never planned to wear it where people could see me. As
long as the fashion police didn't see me, I was safe.
I looped a belt through a pair of black shorts for my
inside-the-pant holster. It was an Uncle Mike's Sidekick and I was
very fond of it, but it was not for the Browning. I had a second
gun for comfort and concealability: a Firestar, a compact little
9mm with a seven-shot magazine.
White jogging socks, with tasteful blue stripes that matched the
blue leather piping on my white Nikes, completed the outfit. It
made me look and feel about sixteen, an awkward sixteen, but when I
turned to the mirror there was no hint of the gun on my belt. The
shirt fell out and around it, invisible.
My upper body is slender, petite if you will, muscular and not
bad to look at. Unfortunately, my legs are about five inches too
short to ever be America's ideal legs. I will never have skinny
thighs, nor anything short of muscular calves. The outfit
emphasized my legs and hid everything else, but I had my gun and I
wouldn't melt in the heat. Compromise is an imperfect art.
My crucifix hung inside my shirt, but I added a small charm
bracelet to my left wrist. Three small crosses dangled from the
silver chain. My scars also were in plain sight, but in the summer
I try to pretend they aren't there. I cannot face the thought of
wearing long sleeves in hundred-degree weather with hundred-percent
humidity. My arms would fall off. The scars really aren't the first
thing you notice with my arms bare. Really.
Animators, Inc., had new offices. We'd been here only three
months. There was a psychologist's office across from us, nothing
less than a hundred an hour; a plastic surgeon down the hall; two
lawyers; one marriage counselor, and a real estate company. Four
years ago Animators, Inc., had worked out of a spare room above a
garage. Business was good.
Most of that good luck was due to Bert Vaughn, our boss. He was
a businessman, a showman, a moneymaker, a scalawag, and a
borderline cheat. Nothing illegal, not really, but . . . Most
people choose to think of themselves as white hats, good guys. A
few people wear black hats and enjoy it. Grey was Bert's color.
Sometimes I think if you cut him, he'd bleed green, fresh-minted
money.
He had turned what was an unusual talent, an embarrassing curse,
or a religious experience, raising the dead, into a profitable
business. We animators had the talent, but Bert knew how to make it
pay. It was hard to argue with that. But I was going to try.
The reception room's wallpaper is pale, pale green with small
oriental designs done in greens and browns. The carpet is thick and
soft green, too pale to be grass, but it tries. Plants are
everywhere.
A Ficus benjium grows to the right of the door, slender
as a willow with small leather green leaves. It nearly curls around
the chair in front of its pot. A second tree grows in the far
corner, tall and straight with the stiff spiky tops of palm trees
- Dracaena marginta. Or that's what it says on the tags
tied to the spindly trunks. Both trees brush the ceiling. Dozens of
smaller plants are pushed and potted in every spare corner of the
soft green room.
Bert thinks the pastel green is soothing, and the plants give it
that homey touch. I think it looks like an unhappy marriage between
a mortuary and a plant shop.
Mary, our day secretary, is over fifty. How much over is her own
business. Her hair is short and does not move in the wind. A carton
of hair spray sees to that. Mary is not into the natural look. She
has two grown sons and four grandchildren. She gave me her best
professional smile as I came through the door. "May I help . . .
Oh, Anita, I didn't think you were due in until five."
"I'm not, but I need to speak to Bert and get some things from
my office."
She frowned down at her appointment book, our appointment book.
"Well, Jamison is in your office right now with a client." There
are only three offices in our little area. One belongs to Bert, and
the other two rotate between the rest of us. Most of our work is
done in the field, or rather the graveyard, so we never really need
our offices all at the same time. It worked like time-sharing a
condo.
"How long will the client be?"
Mary glanced down at her notes. "It's a mother whose son is
thinking about joining the Church of Eternal Life."
"Is Jamison trying to talk him into it or out of it?"
"Anita!" Mary scolded me, but it was the truth. The Church of
Eternal Life was the vampire church. The first church in history
that could guarantee you eternal life, and prove it. No waiting
around. No mystery. Just eternity on a silver platter. Most people
don't believe in their immortal souls anymore. It isn't popular to
worry about Heaven and Hell, and whether you are an absolutely good
person. So the Church was gaining followers all over the place. If
you didn't believe that it destroyed your soul, what did you have
to lose? Daylight. Food. Not much to give up.
It was the soul part that bothered me. My immortal soul is not
for sale, not even for eternity. You see, I knew vampires could
die. I had proved it. No one seemed curious as to what happened to
a vampire's soul when it died. Could you be a good vampire and go
to Heaven? Somehow that didn't quite work for me.
"Is Bert with a client, too?"
She glanced once more at the appointment book. "No, he's free."
She looked up and smiled, as if she was pleased to be able to help
me. Maybe she was.
It is true that Bert took the smallest of the three offices. The
walls are a soft pastel blue, the carpet two colors darker. Bert
thinks it soothes the clients. I think it's like standing inside a
blue ice cube.
Bert didn't match the small blue office. There is nothing small
about Bert. Six-four, broad shoulders, a college athlete's figure
getting a little soft around the middle. His white hair is
close-cut over small ears. A boater's tan forces his pale eyes and
hair into sharp contrast. His eyes are a nearly colorless grey,
like dirty window glass. You have to work very hard to make dirty
grey eyes shine, but they were shining now. Bert was practically
beaming at me. It was a bad sign.
"Anita, what a pleasant surprise. Have a sit." He waved a
business envelope at me. "We got the check today."
"Check?" I asked.
"For looking into the vampire murders."
I had forgotten. I had forgotten that somewhere in all this I
had been promised money. It seemed ridiculous, obscene, that
Nikolaos would make everything better with money. From the look on
Bert's face, a lot of money.
"How much?"
"Ten thousand dollars." He stretched each word out, making it
last.
"It isn't enough."
He laughed. "Anna, getting greedy in your old age. I thought
that was my job."
"It isn't enough for Catherine's life, or mine."
His grin wilted slightly. His eyes looked wary, as if I was
about to tell him there was no Easter Bunny. I could almost hear
him wondering if he would have to return the check.
"What are you talking about, Anita?"
I told him, with a few minor revisions. No "Circus of the
Damned." No blue fire. No first vampire mark.
When I got to the part about Aubrey smashing me into the wall,
he said, "You are kidding."
"Want to see the bruises?"
I finished the story and watched his solemn, square face. His
large, blunt-fingered hands were folded on his desk. The check was
lying beside him atop his neat pile of manila folders. His face was
attentive, concerned. Empathy never worked well on Bert's face. I
could always see the wheels moving. The angles calculating.
"Don't worry, Bert, you can cash the check."
"Now, Anita, that wasn't..."
"Save it."
"Anita, truly I would never purposefully endanger you."
I laughed. "Bull."
"Anita!" He looked shocked, small eyes widening, one hand
touching his chest. Mr. Sincerity.
"I'm not buying, so save the bullshit for clients. I know you
too well."
He smiled then. It was his only genuine smile. The real Bert
Vaughn please stand up. His eyes gleamed but not with warmth, more
with pleasure. There is something measuring, obscenely
knowledgeable, about Bert's smile. As if he knew the darkest thing
you had ever done and would gladly keep silent - for a price.
There was something a little frightening about a man who knew he
was not a nice person and didn't give a damn. It went against
everything America holds dear. We are taught above all else to be
nice, to be liked, to be popular. A person who has set aside all
that is a maverick and a potentially dangerous human being.
"What can Animators, Inc., do to help?"
"I've already got Ronnie working on some things. I think the
fewer people involved, the fewer people in danger."
"You always were a humanitarian."
"Unlike some people I could mention."
"I had no idea what they wanted."
"No, but you knew how I felt about vampires."
He gave me a smile that said, "I know your secret, I know your
darkest dreams." That was Bert. Budding blackmailer.
I smiled back at him, friendly. "If you ever send me a vampire
client again without running it by me first, I'll quit."
"And go where?"
"I'll take my client list with me, Bert. Who is the one that
does the radio interviews? Who did the articles focus on? You made
sure it was me, Bert. You thought I was the most marketable of all
of us. The most harmless-looking, the most appealing. Like a puppy
at the pound. When people call Animators, Inc., who do they ask
for?"
His smile was gone, eyes like winter ice. "You wouldn't make it
without me."
"The question is, would you make it without me?"
"I'd make it."
"So would I"
We stared at each other for a long space of moments. Neither of
us was willing to look away, to blink first. Bert started to smile,
still staring into my eyes. The edges of a smile began to tug at my
mouth. We laughed together and that was that.
"All right, Anita, no more vampires."
I stood. "Thank you."
"Would you really quit?" His face was all laughing sincerity, a
tasteful, pleasant mask.
"I don't believe in idle threats, Bert. You know that."
"Yes," he said, "I know that. I honestly didn't know this job
would endanger your life."
"Would it have made a difference?"
He thought about it for a minute, then laughed. "No, but I would
have charged more."
"You keep making money, Bert. That's what you're good at."
"Amen."
I left him so he could fondle the check in privacy. Maybe
chuckle over it. It was blood money, no pun intended. Somehow, I
didn't think that bothered Bert. It bothered me.
Chapter 18
The door to the other office opened. A tall, blonde woman
stepped through. She was somewhere between forty and fifty.
Tailored golden pants encircled a slender waist. A sleeveless
blouse the color of an eggshell exposed tanned arms, a gold Rolex
watch, and a wedding band encircled with diamonds. The rock in the
engagement ring must have weighed a pound. I bet she hadn't even
blinked when Jamison talked price.
The boy that followed her was also slender and blond. He looked
about fifteen, but I knew he had to be at least eighteen. Legally,
you cannot join the Church of Eternal Life unless you are of age.
He couldn't drink legally yet, but he could choose to die and live
forever. Funny, how that didn't make much sense to me.
Jamison brought up the rear, smiling, solicitous. He was talking
softly to the boy as he walked them towards the door.
I got a business card out of my purse. I held it out towards the
woman. She looked at it, then at me. Her gaze slid over me from top
to bottom. She didn't seem impressed; maybe it was the shirt.
"Yes," she said.
Breeding. It takes real breeding to make a person feel like shit
with one word. Of course, it didn't bother me. No, the great golden
goddess did not make me feel small and grubby. Right. "The number
on this card is for a man who specializes in vampire cults. He's
good."
"I do not want my son brainwashed."
I managed a smile. Raymond Fields was my vampire cult expert,
and he didn't do brainwashing. He did do truth, no matter how
unpleasant. "Mr. Fields will give you the potential down side of
vampirism," I said.
"I believe Mr. Clarke has given us all the information we
need."
I raised my arm near her face. "1 didn't get these scars playing
touch football. Please, take the card. Call him, or not. It's up to
you."
She was a little pale under her expert makeup. Her eyes were a
little wide, staring at my arm. "Vampires did this?" Her voice was
small and breathy, almost human.
"Yes," I said.
Jamison took her elbow. "Mrs. Franks, I see you've met our
resident vampire slayer."
She looked at him, then back at me. Her careful face was
beginning to crumble. She licked her lips and turned back to me.
"Really." She was recovering quickly; she sounded superior
again.
I shrugged. What could I say? I pressed the card into her
manicured hand, and Jamison tactfully took it from her and pocketed
it. But she had let him. What could I do? Nothing. I had tried.
Period. Over. But I stared at her son. His face was incredibly
young.
I remembered when eighteen was grown-up. I had thought I knew
everything. I was about twenty-one when I figured out I knew
dip-wad. I still knew nothing, but I tried real hard. Sometimes,
that is the best you can do. Maybe the best anyone can do. Boy,
Miss Cynical in the morning.
Jamison was ushering them towards the door. I caught a few
sentences. "She was trying to kill them. They merely defended
themselves."
Yeah, that's me, hit person for the undead. Scourge of the
graveyard. Right. I left Jamison to his half-truths and went into
the office. I still needed the files. Life goes on, at least for
me. I couldn't stop seeing the boy's face, the wide eyes. His face
had been all golden tan, baby smooth. Shouldn't you at least have
to shave before you can kill yourself?
I shook my head as if I could shake the boy's face away. It
almost worked. I was kneeling with the folders in my hands when
Jamison came in the office. He shut the door behind him. I had
thought he might.
His skin was the color of dark honey, his eyes pale green; long,
tight curls framed his face. The hair was almost auburn. Jamison
was the first green-eyed, red-haired black man I had ever met. He
was slender, lean, not the thinness of exercise but of lucky
genetics. Jamison's idea of a workout was lifting shot glasses at a
good party.
"Don't ever do that again," he said.
"Do what?" I stood with the files clasped to my chest.
He shook his head and almost smiled, but it was an angry smile,
a flash of small white teeth. "Don't be a smart ass."
"Sorry," I said.
"Bullshit, you're not sorry."
"About trying to give Fields's card to the woman, no. I'm not
sorry. I'd do it again."
"I don't like to be undermined in front of my clients."
I shrugged.
"I mean it, Anita. Don't ever do that again."
I wanted to ask him, or what, but I didn't. "You aren't
qualified to counsel people about whether or not they become the
undead."
"Bert thinks I am."
"Bert would take money for a hit on the Pope if he thought he
could get away with it."
Jamison smiled, then frowned at me, then couldn't help himself
and smiled again. "You do have a way with words."
"Thanks."
"Don't undermine me with clients, okay?"
"I promise never to interfere when you are discussing raising
the dead."
"That isn't good enough," he said.
"It's the best you're going to get. You are not qualified to
counsel people. It's wrong."
"Little Miss Perfect. You murder people for money. You're
nothing but a damned assassin."
I took a deep breath, and let it out. I would not fight with him
today. "I execute criminals with the full blessing of the
law."
"Yeah, but you enjoy it. You get your jollies by pounding in the
stakes. You can't go a fucking week without bathing in someone's
blood."
I just stared at him. "Do you really believe that?" I asked.
He wouldn't look at me but finally said, "I don't know."
"Poor little vampires, poor misunderstood creatures. Right? The
one who branded me slaughtered twenty-three people before the
courts would give me the go-ahead." I yanked my shirt down to
expose the collarbone scar. "This vampire had killed ten people. He
specialized in little boys, said their meat was most tender. He's
not dead, Jamison. He got away. But he found me last night and
threatened my life."
"You don't understand them."
"No!" I shoved a finger in his chest. "You don't understand
them."
He glared down at me, nostrils flaring, breath coming in warm
gasps. I stepped back. I shouldn't have touched him; that was
against the rules. You never touch anyone in a fight unless you
want violence.
"I'm sorry, Jamison." I don't know if he understood what I was
apologizing for. He didn't say anything.
As I walked past him, he asked, "What are the files for?"
I hesitated, but he knew the files as well as I did. He'd know
what was missing. "The vampire murders."
We turned towards each other at the same moment. Staring. "You
took the money?" he asked.
That stopped me. "You knew about it?"
He nodded. "Bert tried to get them to hire me in your place.
They wouldn't go for it."
"And after all the good PR you've given them."
"I told Bert you wouldn't do it. That you wouldn't work for
vampires."
His slightly up-tilted eyes were studying my face, searching,
trying to squeeze some truth out. I ignored him, my face a pleasant
blankness. "Money talks, Jamison, even to me."
"You don't give a damn about money."
"Awful shortsighted of me, isn't it?" I said.
"I always thought so. You didn't do it for money." A statement.
"What was it?"
I didn't want Jamison in on this. He thought vampires were
fanged people. And they were very careful to keep him on the nice,
clean fringes. He never got his hands dirty, so he could afford to
pretend or ignore, or even lie to himself. I had gotten dirty once
too often. Lying to yourself was a good way to die. "Look, Jamison,
we don't agree on vampires, but anything that can kill vampires
could make meat pies out of human beings. I want to catch the
maniac before he, she, or it, does just that."
It wasn't a bad lie, as lies go. It was even plausible. He
blinked at me. Whether he believed me or not would depend on how
much he needed to believe me. How much he needed his world to stay
safe and clean. He nodded, once, very slowly. "You think you
can catch something the master vampires can't catch?"
"They seem to think so." I opened the door and he followed me
out. Maybe he would have asked more questions, maybe not, but a
voice interrupted.
"Anita, are you ready to go?"
We both turned, and I must have looked as puzzled as
Jamison.
I wasn't meeting anyone.
There was a man sitting in one of the lobby chairs, half-lost in
the jungle plants. I didn't recognize him at first. Thick brown
hair, cut short, stretched back from a very nice face. Black
sunglasses hid the eyes. He turned his head and spoiled the
illusion of short hair. A thick ponytail curled over his collar. He
was wearing a blue denim jacket with the collar up. A blood-red
tank top set off his tan. He stood slowly, smiled, and removed his
glasses.
It was Phillip of the many scars. I hadn't recognized him with
his clothes on. There was a bandage on the side of his neck, mostly
hidden by the jacket collar. "We need to talk," he said.
I closed my mouth and tried to look reasonably intelligent.
"Phillip, I didn't expect to see you so soon."
Jamison was looking from one to the other of us. He was
frowning. Suspicious. Mary was sitting, chin leaning on her hands,
enjoying the show.
The silence was damn awkward. Phillip put a hand out to Jamison.
I mumbled. "Jamison Clarke, this is Phillip . . . a friend." The
moment I said it, I wanted to take it back. "Friend" is what people
call their lovers. Beats the heck out of significant other.
Jamison smiled broadly. "So, you're Anita's . . . friend." He
said the last word slowly, rolling it around on his tongue.
Mary made a hubba-hubba motion with one hand. Phillip saw it and
flashed her a dazzling melt-your-libido smile. She blushed.
"Well, we have to go now. Come along, Phillip." I grabbed his
arm and began pulling him towards the door.
"Nice to meet you, Phillip," Jamison said. "I'll be sure to
mention you to all the rest of the guys who work here. I'm sure
they'd love to meet you sometime."
Jamison was really enjoying himself. "We're very busy right now,
Jamison. Maybe some other time," I said.
"Sure, sure," he said.
Jamison walked us to the door and held it for us. He grinned at
us as we walked down the hallway, arm in arm. Fudge buckets. I had
to let the smirking little creep think I had a lover. Good grief.
And he would tell everyone. Phillip slid his arm around my waist,
and I fought an urge to push him away. We were pretending, right,
right. I felt him hesitate as his hand brushed the gun on my
belt.
We met one of the real estate agents in the hall. She said hello
to me but stared at Phillip. He smiled at her. When we passed her
and were waiting for the elevator, I glanced back. Sure enough, she
was watching his backside as we walked away.
I had to admit it was a nice backside. She caught me looking at
her and hurriedly turned away.
"Defending my honor," Phillip asked.
I pushed away from him and punched the elevator button. "What
are you doing here?"
"Jean-Claude didn't come back last night. Do you know why?"
"I didn't do away with him, if that's what you're implying."
The doors opened. Phillip leaned against them, holding them open
with his body and one arm. The smile he flashed me was full of
potential, a little evil, a lot of sex. Did I really want to be
alone in an elevator with him? Probably not, but I was armed. He,
as far as I could tell, was not.
I walked under his arm without having to duck. The doors hushed
behind us. We were alone. He leaned into one comer, arms crossed
over his chest, staring at me from behind black lenses.
"Do you always do that?" I asked.
A slight smile. "Do what?"
"Pose."
He stiffened just a little, then relaxed against the wall.
"Natural talent."
I shook my head. "Uh-huh." I stared at the flickering floor
numbers.
"Is Jean-Claude all right?"
I glanced at him and didn't know what to say. The elevator
stopped. We got out. "You didn't answer me," he said softly.
I sighed. It was too long a story. "It's almost noon. I'll tell
you what I can over lunch."
He grinned. "Trying to pick me up, Ms. Blake?"
I smiled before I could stop myself. "You wish."
"Maybe," he said.
"Flirtatious little thing, aren't you?"
"Most women like it."
"I would like it better if I didn't think you'd flirt with my
ninety-year-old grandmother the same way you're flirting with me
now."
He coughed back a laugh. "You don't have a very high opinion of
me."
"I am a very judgmental person. It's one of my faults."
He laughed again, a nice sound. "Maybe I can hear about the rest
of your faults after you've told me where Jean-Claude is."
"I don't think so."
"Why not?"
I stopped just in front of the glass doors that led out into the
street. "Because I saw you last night. I know what you are, and I
know how you get your kicks."
His hand reached out and brushed my shoulder. "I get my kicks a
lot of different ways."
I frowned at his hand, and it moved away. "Save it, Phillip. I'm
not buying."
"Maybe by the end of lunch you will be."
I sighed. I had met men like Phillip before, handsome men who
are accustomed to women drooling over them. He wasn't trying to
seduce me; he just wanted me to admit that I found him attractive.
If I didn't admit it, he would keep pestering me. "I give up; you
win."
"What do I win?" he asked.
"You're wonderful, you're gorgeous. You are one of the best
looking men I have ever seen. From the soles of your boots, the
length of your skin-tight jeans, to the flat, rippling plains of
your stomach, to the sculpted line of your jaw, you are beautiful.
Now can we go to lunch and cut the nonsense?"
He lowered his sunglasses just enough to see over the top of
them. He stared at me like that for several minutes, then raised
the glasses back in place. "You pick the restaurant." He said it
flat, no teasing.
I wondered if I had offended him. I wondered if I cared.
Chapter 19
The heat outside the doors was solid, a wall of damp warmth that
melded to your skin like plastic wrap. "You're going to melt
wearing that jacket," I said.
"Most people object to the scars."
I unfolded my arms from around the folders and extended my left
arm. The scar glistened in the sunlight, shinier than the other
skin. "I won't tell if you won't."
He slipped off his sunglasses and stared at me. I couldn't read
his face. All I knew was that something was going on behind those
big brown eyes. His voice was soft. "Is that your only bite
scar?"
"No," I said.
His hands convulsed into fists, neck jerking, as if he'd had a
jolt of electricity. A tremor ran up his arms into his shoulders,
along his spine. He rotated his neck, as if to get rid of it. He
slipped the black lenses back on his face, his eyes anonymous. The
jacket came off. The scars at the bend of his arms were pale
against his tan. The collarbone scar peeked from under the edges of
the tank top. He had a nice neck, thick but not muscled, a stretch
of smooth, tanned skin. I counted four sets of bites on that
flawless skin. That was just the right side. The left was hidden by
a bandage.
"I can put the jacket back on," he said.
I had been staring at him. "No, it's just . . ."
"What?"
"It's none of my business."
"Ask anyway."
"Why do you do what you do?"
He smiled, but it was twisted, a wry smile. "That is a very
personal question."
"You did say ask anyway." I glanced across the street. "I
usually go to Mabel's, but we might be seen."
"Ashamed of me?" His voice held a harsh edge to it, like
sandpaper. His eyes were hidden, but his jaw muscles were
clenched.
"It isn't that," I said. "You are the one who came into the
office, pretending to be my 'friend'. If we go some place I'm
known, we'll have to continue the charade."
"There are women who would pay to have me escort them."
"I know, I saw them last night at the club."
"True, but the point is still that you're ashamed to be seen
with me. Because of this." His hand touched his neck, tentatively,
delicate as a bird.
I got the distinct impression I had hurt his feelings. That
didn't bother me, not really. But I knew what it was like to be
different. I knew what it was like to be an embarrassment to people
who should have known better. I knew better. It wasn't Phillip's
feelings but the principle of the thing. "Let's go."
"Where to?"
"To Mabel's."
"Thank you," he said. He rewarded me with one of those brilliant
smiles. If I had been less professional, it might have melted me
into my socks. There was a tinge of evil to it, a lot of sex, but
under that was a little boy peeking out, an uncertain little boy.
That was it. That was the attraction. Nothing is more appealing
than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.
It appeals not only to the woman in us all, but the mother. A
dangerous combination. Luckily, I was immune. Sure. Besides, I had
seen Phillip's idea of sex. He was definitely not my type.
Mabel's is a cafeteria, but the food is wonderful and reasonably
priced. On weekdays the place is filled to the brim with suits and
business skirts, thin little briefcases, and manila file folders.
On Saturdays it was nearly deserted.
Beatrice smiled at me from behind the steaming food. She was
tall and plump with brown hair and a tired face. Her pink uniform
didn't fit well through the shoulders, and the hairnet made her
face look too long. But she always smiled, and we always spoke.
"Hi, Beatrice." And without waiting to be asked, "This is
Phillip."
"Hi, Phillip," she said.
He gave her a smile every bit as dazzling as he had given the
real estate agent. She flushed, averted her eyes, and giggled. I
hadn't known Beatrice could do that. Did she notice the scars? Did
it matter to her?
It was too hot for meat loaf, but I ordered it anyway. It was
always moist and the catsup sauce just tangy enough. I even got
dessert, which I almost never do. I was starving. We managed to pay
and find a table without Phillip flirting with anyone else. A major
accomplishment.
"What has happened to Jean-Claude?" he asked.
"One more minute." I said grace over my food. He was staring at
me when I looked up. We ate, and I told him an edited version of
last night. Mostly, I told him about Jean-Claude and Nikolaos and
the punishment.
He had stopped eating by the time I finished. He was staring
over my head, at nothing that I could see. "Phillip?" I asked.
He shook his head and looked at me. "She could kill him."
"I got the impression she was just going to punish him. Do you
know what that would be?"
He nodded, voice soft, saying, "She traps them in coffins and
uses crosses to hold them inside. Aubrey disappeared for three
months. When I saw him again, he was like he is now. Crazy."
I shivered. Would Jean-Claude go crazy? I picked up my fork and
found myself halfway through a piece of blackberry pie. I hate
blackberries. Damn, I treat myself to pie and get the wrong kind.
What was the matter with me? The taste was still warm and thick in
my mouth. I took a big swig of Coke to wash it down. The Coke
didn't help much.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
I pushed the half-eaten pie away and opened one of the folders.
The first victim, one Maurice no last name, had lived with a woman
named Rebecca Miles. They had cohabited for five years. "Cohabited"
sounded better than "shacked up." "I'll talk to friends and lovers
of the dead vampires."
"I might know the names."
I stared at him, debating. I didn't want to share information
with him because I knew good ol' Phillip was the daytime eyes and
ears of the undead. Yet, when I had talked to Rebecca Miles in the
company of the police, she had told us zip. I didn't have time to
wade through crap. I needed information and fast. Nikolaos wanted
results. And what Nikolaos wanted, Nikolaos damn well better
get.
"Rebecca Miles," I said.
"I know her. She was Maurice's property." He shrugged an apology
at the word, but he let it stand. And I wondered what he
meant by it. "Where do we go first?" he asked.
"Nowhere. I don't want a civilian along while I work."
"I might be able to help."
"No offense, you look strong and maybe even quick, but that
isn't enough. Do you know how to fight? Do you carry a gun?"
"No gun, but I can handle myself."
I doubted that. Most people don't react well to violence. It
freezes them. There are a handful of seconds where the body
hesitates, the mind doesn't understand. Those few seconds can get
you killed. The only way to kill the hesitation is practice.
Violence has to become a part of your thinking. It makes you
cautious, suspicious as hell, and lengthens your life expectancy.
Phillip was familiar with violence, but only as the victim. I
didn't need a professional victim tagging along. Yet, I needed
information from people who wouldn't want to talk to me. They might
talk to Phillip.
I didn't expect to run into a gun battle in broad daylight. Nor
did I really expect anyone to jump me, at least not today. I've
been wrong before but . . . If Phillip could help me, I saw no harm
in it. As long as he didn't flash that smile at the wrong time and
get molested by nuns, we would be safe.
"If someone threatens me, can you stay out of it and let me do
my job, or would you charge in and try to save me?" I asked.
"Oh," he said. He stared down at his drink for a few minutes. "I
don't know."
Brownie point for him. Most people would have lied. "Then I'd
rather you didn't come."
"How are you going to convince Rebecca you work for the master
vampire of this city? The Executioner working for vampires?"
It sounded ridiculous even to me. "I don't know."
He smiled. "Then it's settled. I'll come along and help calm the
waters."
"I didn't agree to that."
"You didn't say no, either."
He had a point. I sipped my Coke and looked at his smug face for
perhaps a minute. He said nothing, only stared back. His face was
neutral, no challenge to it. There was no contest of egos as with
Bert. "Let's go," I said.
We stood. I left a tip. We went off in search of clues.
Chapter 20
Rebecca Miles lived in South City's Dogtown. The streets were
all named for states: Texas, Mississippi, Indiana. The building was
blind, most of the windows boarded up. The grass was tall as an
elephant's eye, but not half so beautiful. A block over were
expensive rehabs full of yuppies and politicians. There were no
yuppies on Rebecca's block.
Her apartment was on a long, narrow corridor. There was no air
conditioning in the hallway, and the heat was like chest-high fur,
thick and warm. One dim light bulb gleamed over the threadbare
carpeting. In places the off-green walls were patched with white
plaster, but it was clean. The smell of pine-scented Lysol was
thick and almost nauseating in the small, dark hallway. You could
probably have eaten off the carpeting if you had wanted to, but you
would have gotten fuzzies in your mouth. No amount of Lysol would
get rid of carpet fuzzies.
As we had discussed in the car, Phillip knocked on the door. The
idea was that he would calm any misgivings she might have about The
Executioner coming into her humble abode. It took fifteen minutes
of knocking and waiting before we heard someone moving around
behind the door.
The door opened as far as the chain would allow. I couldn't see
who answered the door. A woman's voice, thick with sleep, said,
"Phillip, what are you doing here?"
"Can I come in for a few minutes?" he asked. I couldn't see his
face, but I would have bet everything I owned that he was flashing
her one of his infamous smiles.
"Sure; sorry, you woke me up." The door closed, and the chain
rattled. The door reopened, wide. I still couldn't see around
Phillip. So I guess Rebecca didn't see me either.
Phillip walked in, and I followed behind him before the door
could close. The apartment was ovenlike, a gasping,
stranded-fish heat. The darkness should have made it cooler, but instead made
it claustrophobic. Sweat trickled down my face.
Rebecca Miles stood holding onto the door. She was thin, with
lifeless dark hair falling straight to her shoulders. High
cheekbones clung to the skin of her face. She was nearly
overwhelmed by the white robe she wore. Delicate was the phrase,
fragile. Small, dark eyes blinked at me. It was dim in the
apartment, thick drapes cutting out the light. She had only seen me
once, shortly after Maurice's death.
"Did you bring a friend?" she asked. She shut the door, and we
were in near darkness.
"Yes," Phillip said. "This is Anita Blake . . ."
Her voice came out small and choked. "The Executioner?"
"Yes, but. . .
She opened her small mouth and shrieked. She threw herself at
me, hands clawing and slapping. I braced and covered my face with
my forearms. She fought like a girl, all open-handed slaps,
scratches, and flailing arms. I grabbed her wrist and used her own
momentum to pull her past me. She stumbled to her knees with a
little help. I had her right arm in a joint lock. It puts pressure
on the elbow, it hurts, and a little extra push will snap the arm.
Most people don't fight well after you break their arm at the
elbow.
I didn't want to break the woman's arm. I didn't want to hurt
her at all. There were two bloody scratches on my arm where she had
gotten me. I guess I was lucky she hadn't had a gun.
She tried to move, and I pressed on the arm. I felt her tremble.
Her breath was coming in huge gasps. "You can't kill him! You
can't! Please, please don't." She started to cry, thin shoulders
shaking inside the too-big robe. I stood there, holding her arm,
causing her pain.
I released her arm, slowly, and stepped back out of reach. I
hoped she didn't attack again. I didn't want to hurt her, and I
didn't want her to hurt me. The scratches were beginning to
sting.
Rebecca Miles wasn't going to try again. She huddled against the
door, thin, starved hands locked around her knees. She sobbed,
gasping for air, "You . . . can't . . . kill him. Please!" She
started to rock back and forth, hugging herself tight as if she
might shatter, like weak glass.
Jesus, some days I hate my job. "Talk to her, Phillip. Tell her
we didn't come here to hurt anyone."
Phillip knelt beside her. He kept his hands at his sides as he
talked to her. I didn't hear what he said. Her shuddering sobs
floated after me through a right-hand doorway. It led into the
bedroom.
A coffin sat beside the bed, dark wood, maybe cherry, varnished
until it gleamed in the twilit dark. She thought I came to kill her
lover. Jesus.
The bathroom was small and cluttered. I hit the light switch,
and the harsh yellow light was not kind. Her makeup was scattered
around the cracked sink like casualties. The tub was nearly rotted
with rust. I found what I hoped was a clean washrag and ran cold
water over it. The water that trickled out was the color of weak
coffee. The pipes shuddered and clanked and whined. The water
finally ran clear. It felt good on my hands, but I didn't splash
any on my neck or face. It would have been cool, but the bathroom
was dirty. I couldn't use the water, not if I didn't have to. I
looked up as I squeezed the rag out. The mirror was shattered, a
spiderweb of cracks. It gave me my face back in broken pieces.
I didn't look in the mirror again. I walked back past the coffin
and hesitated. I had an urge to knock on the smooth wood. Anybody
home? I didn't do it. For all I knew, someone might have knocked
back.
Phillip had the woman on the couch. She was leaning against him,
boneless, panting, but the crying had almost stopped. She flinched
when she saw me. I tried not to look menacing, something I'm good
at, and handed the rag to Phillip. "Wipe her face and put it
against the back of her neck; it'll help."
He did what I asked, and she sat there with the damp rag against
her neck, staring at me. Her eyes were wide, a lot of white
showing. She shivered.
I found the light switch, and harsh light flooded the room. One
look at the room and I wanted to turn the light off again, but I
didn't. I thought Rebecca might attack me again if I sat beside
her, or maybe she'd have a complete breakdown. Wouldn't that be
pretty? The only chair was lopsided and had yellowed stuffing
bulging out one side. I decided to stand.
Phillip looked up at me. His sunglasses were hooked over the
front of his tank top. His eyes were wide and careful, as if he
didn't want me to know what he was thinking. One tanned arm was
wrapped around her shoulders, protective. I felt like a bully.
"I told her why we are here. I told her you wouldn't hurt
Jack."
"The coffin?" I smiled. I couldn't help it. He was a "jack in
the box."
"Yes," Phillip said. He stared at me as if grinning were not
appropriate.
It wasn't, so I stopped, but it was something of an effort.
I nodded. If Rebecca wanted to shack up with vampires, that was
her business. It certainly wasn't police business.
"Go on, Rebecca. She's trying to help us," Phillip said.
"Why?" she asked.
It was a good question. I had scared her and made her cry. I
answered her question. "The master of the city made me an offer I
couldn't refuse."
She stared at me, studying my face, like she was committing me
to memory. "I don't believe you," she said.
I shrugged. That's what you get for telling the truth. Someone
calls you a liar. Most people will accept a likely lie to an
unlikely truth. In fact, they prefer it.
"How could any vampire threaten The Executioner?" she asked.
I sighed. "I'm not the bogeyman, Rebecca. Have you ever met the
master of the city?"
"No."
"Then you'll have to trust me. I am scared shitless of the
master. Anybody in their right mind would be."
She still looked unconvinced, but she started talking. Her
small, light voice told the same story she'd told the police. Bland
and useless as a new-minted penny.
"Rebecca, I am trying to catch the person, or thing, that killed
your boyfriend. Please help me."
Phillip hugged her. "Tell her what you told me."
She glanced at him, then back at me. She sucked her lower lip in
and scraped it with her upper teeth, thoughtful. She took a deep,
shaky breath. "We were at a freak party that night."
I blinked, then tried to sound reasonably intelligent. "I know a
freak is someone who likes vampires. Is a freak party what I think
it is?"
Phillip was the one who nodded. "I go to them a lot." He
wouldn't look at me while he said it. "You can have a vampire most
any way you want it. And they can have you." He darted a glance at
my face, then down again. Maybe he didn't like what he saw.
I tried to keep my face blank, but I wasn't having much luck. A
freak party, dear God. But it was somewhere to start. "Did anything
special happen at the party?" I asked.
She blinked at me, face blank, as if she didn't understand. I
tried again. "Did anything out of the ordinary happen at the freak
party?" When in doubt, change your vocabulary.
She stared down into her lap and shook her head. Long, dark hair
trailed over her face like a thin curtain.
"Did Maurice have any enemies that you know of?"
Rebecca shook her head without even looking up. I glimpsed her
eyes through her hair like a frightened rabbit staring out from
behind a bush. Did she have more information, or had I used her up?
If I pushed she'd break, shatter, and maybe a clue would come
spilling out, then again, maybe not. Her hands were tangled in her
lap, white-knuckled. They trembled ever so slightly. How badly did
I want to know? Not that badly. I let it go. Anita Blake,
humanitarian.
Phillip tucked Rebecca in bed, while I waited in the living
room. I half-expected to hear giggling or some sound that said he
was working his charm. There was nothing but the quiet murmur of
voices and the cool rustle of sheets. When he came out of the
bedroom, his face was serious, solemn. He slipped his glasses back
on and hit the light switch. The room was a thick, hot darkness. I
heard him move in the ovenlike blackness. A rustle of jeans, a
scrape of boot. I fumbled for the doorknob, found it, flung it
open.
Pale light spilled in. Phillip was standing, staring at me, eyes
hidden. His body was relaxed, easy, but somehow I could feel his
hostility. We were no longer playing friends. I wasn't sure if he
was angry with me for some reason, or himself, or fate. When you
end up with a life like Rebecca's, there should be someone to
blame.
"That could have been me," he said.
I looked at him. "But it wasn't."
He spread his arms wide, flexing. "But it could be."
I didn't know what to say to that. What could I say? There but
for the grace of God go you? I doubted God had much to do with
Phillip's world.
Phillip made sure the door locked behind us, then said, "I know
at least two other murdered vampires were regulars on the party
circuit."
My stomach tightened, a little flutter of excitement. "Do you
think the rest of the . . . victims could be freak
aficionados?"
He shrugged. "I can find out." His face was still closed to me,
blank. Something had turned off his switch. Maybe it was Rebecca
Miles's small, starved hands. I know it hadn't done a lot for
me.
Could I trust him to find out? Would he tell me the truth? Would
it endanger him? No answers, just more questions, but at least the
questions were getting better. Freak parties. A common thread, a
real live clue. Hot dog.
Chapter 21
Inside my car I turned the air conditioning on full blast. Sweat
chilled on my skin, jelling in place. I turned the air down before
I got a headache from the temperature change.
Phillip sat as far away from me as he could get. His body was
half-turned, as much as the seat belt would allow, towards the
window. His eyes behind their sunglasses stared out and away.
Phillip didn't want to talk about what had just happened. How did I
know that? Anita the mind reader. No, just Anita the not so
stupid.
His whole body was hunched in upon itself. If I hadn't known
better, I'd have said he was in pain. Come to think of it, maybe he
was.
I had just bullied a very fragile human being. It hadn't felt
very good, but it beat the heck out of knocking her senseless. I
had not hurt her physically. Why didn't I believe that? Now, I was
going to question Phillip because he had given me a clue. The
proverbial lead. I couldn't let it go.
"Phillip?" I asked.
His shoulders tightened, but he continued to stare out the
window.
"Phillip, I need to know about the freak parties."
"Drop me at the club."
"Guilty Pleasures?" I asked. Brilliant repartee, that's me.
He nodded, still turned away.
"Don't you need to pick up your car?"
"I don't drive," he said. "Monica dropped me off at your
office."
"Did she now?" I felt the anger, instantaneous and warm.
He turned then, stared at me, face blank, eyes hidden. "Why are
you so angry at her? She just got you to the club, that's all."
I shrugged.
"Why?" His voice was tired, human, normal.
I wouldn't have answered the teasing flirt, but this person was
real. Real people deserve answers. "She's human, and she betrayed
other humans to nonhumans," I said.
"And that's a worse crime than Jean-Claude choosing you to be
our champion?"
"Jean-Claude is a vampire. You expect treachery from
vampires."
"You do. I do not."
"Rebecca Miles looks like a person who's been betrayed."
He flinched.
Great Anita, just great, let's emotionally abuse everyone we
meet today. But it was true.
He had turned back to the window, and I had to fill the pained
silence. "Vampires are not human. Their loyalty, first and
foremost, must be to their own kind. I understand that. Monica
betrayed her own kind. She also betrayed a friend. That is
unforgivable."
He twisted to look at me. I wished I could see his eyes. "So if
someone was your friend, you would do anything for them?"
I thought about that as we drove down 70 East. Anything? That
was a tall order. Almost anything? Yes. "Almost anything," I
said.
"So loyalty and friendship are very important to you?"
"Yes."
"Because you believe Monica betrayed both of those things, it
makes it a worse crime than anything the vampires did?"
I shifted in the seat, not happy with the way the conversation
was going. I am not a big one for personal analysis. I know who I
am and what I do, and that's usually enough. Not always, but most
of the time. "Not anything; I don't believe in many absolutes. But,
if you want a short version, yes, that's why I'm angry at
Monica."
He nodded, as if that were the answer he wanted. "She's afraid
of you; did you know that?"
I smiled, and it wasn't a very nice smile. I could feel the
edges curl up with a dark sort of satisfaction. "I hope the little
bitch is sweating it out, big time."
"She is," he said. His voice was very quiet.
I glanced at him, then quickly back to the road. I had a feeling
he didn't approve of my scaring Monica. Of course, that was his
problem. I was quite pleased with the results.
We were getting close to the Riverfront turnoff. He had still
not answered my question. In fact, he had very nicely avoided it.
"Tell me about freak parties, Phillip."
"Did you really threaten to cut out Monica's heart?"
"Yes. Are you going to tell me about the parties or not?"
"Would you really do it? Cut out her heart, I mean?"
"You answer my question, I'll answer yours." I turned the car
onto the narrow brick roads of the Riverfront. Two more blocks and
we would be at Guilty Pleasures.
"I told you what the parties are like. I've stopped going the
last few months."
I glanced at him again. I wanted to ask why. So I did.
"Why?"
"Damn, you do ask personal questions, don't you?"
"I didn't mean it to be."
I thought he wasn't going to answer the question, but he did. "I
got tired of being passed around. I didn't want to end up like
Rebecca, or worse."
I wanted to ask what was worse, but I let it go. I try not to be
cruel, just persistent. There are days when the difference is
pretty damn slight. "If you find out that all the vampires went to
freak parties, call me."
"Then what?" he asked.
"I need to go to a party." I parked in front of Guilty
Pleasures. The neon was quiet, a dim ghost of its nighttime self.
The place looked closed.
"You don't want to go to a party, Anita."
"I'm trying to solve a crime, Phillip. If I don't, my friend
dies. And I have no illusions about what the master will do to me
if I fail. A quick death would be the best I could hope for."
He shivered. "Yeah, yeah." He unbuckled the seat belt and rubbed
his hands along his arms, as if he were cold. "You never answered
my question about Monica," he said.
"You never really told me about the parties."
He looked down, staring at the tops of his thighs. "There's one
tonight. If you have to go, I'll take you." He turned to me, arms
still hugging his elbows. "The parties are always at a different
location. When I find out where, how do I get in touch with
you?"
"Leave a message on my answering machine, my home number." I
got a business card out of my purse and wrote my home
phone number on the back. He got his jean jacket out of the back
seat and stuffed the card into a pocket. He opened the door, and
the heat washed into the chill, air-conditioned car like the breath
of a dragon.
He leaned into the car, one arm on the roof, one on the door.
"Now, answer my question. Would you really cut out Monica's heart,
so she couldn't come back as a vampire?"
I stared into the blackness of his sunglasses and said,
"Yes."
"Remind me never to piss you off." He took a deep breath.
"You'll need to wear something that shows off your scars tonight.
Buy something if you don't have it." He hesitated, then asked, "Are
you as good at being a friend as you are an enemy?"
I took a deep breath and let it out. What could I say? "You
don't want me for an enemy, Phillip. I make a much better
friend."
"Yeah, I'll bet you do." He closed the door and walked up to the
club door. He knocked, and a few moments later the door opened. I
got a glimpse of a pale figure opening the door. It couldn't be a
vampire, could it? The door closed before I could see much.
Vampires could not come out in daylight. That was a rule. But until
last night I had known vampires could not fly. So much for what I
knew.
Whoever it was had been expecting Phillip. I pulled away from
the curb. Why had they sent him at his flirtatious best? Had he
been sent to charm me? Or was he the only human they could get at
short notice? The only daytime member of their little club. Except
for Monica. And I wasn't real fond of her right now. That was just
dandy with me.
I didn't think Phillip was lying about the freak parties, but
what did I know about Phillip? He stripped at Guilty Pleasures, not
exactly a character reference. He was a vampire junkie, better and
better. Was all that pain an act? Was he luring me someplace, just
as Monica had?
I didn't know. And I needed to know. There was one place I could
go that might have the answers. The only place in the District
where I was truly welcome. Dead Dave's, a nice bar that served a
mean hamburger. The proprietor was an ex-cop who had been kicked
off the force for being dead. Picky, picky. Dave liked to help out,
but he resented the prejudice of his former comrades. So he talked
to me. And I talked to the police. It was a nice little arrangement
that let Dave be pissed off at the police and still help them.
It made me nearly invaluable to the police. Since I was on
retainer, that pleased Bert to no end.
It being daytime, Dead Dave was tucked in his coffin, but Luther
would be there. Luther was the daytime manager and bartender. He
was one of the few people in the District who didn't have much to
do with vampires, except for the fact that he worked for one. Life
is never perfect.
I actually found a parking place not far from Dave's. Daytime
parking is a lot more open in the District. When the Riverfront
used to be human-owned businesses, there was never any parking on a
weekend, day or night. It was one of the few positives of the new
vampire laws. That and the tourism.
St. Louis was a real hot spot for vampire watchers. The only
place better was New York, but we had a lower crime rate. There was
a gang that had gone all vampire in New York. They had spread to
Los Angeles and tried to spread here. The police found the first
recruits chopped into bite-size pieces.
Our vampire community prides itself on being mainstream. A
vampire gang would be bad publicity, so they took care of it. I
admired the efficiency of it but wished they had done it
differently. I had had nightmares for weeks about walls that bled
and dismembered arms that crawled along the floor all by
themselves. We never did find the heads.
Chapter 22
Dead Dave's is all dark glass and glowing beer signs. At night
the front windows look like some sort of modern art, featuring
brand names. In the daylight everything is muted. Bars are sort of
like vampires; they are at their best after dark. There is
something tired and wistful about a daytime bar.
The air conditioning was up full blast, like the inside of a
freezer. It was almost a physical jolt after the skin-melting heat
outside. I stood just inside the door and waited for my eyes to
adjust to the twilight interior. Why are all bars so damn dark,
like caves, places to hide? The air smelled of stale cigarettes no
matter when you came in, as if years of smoke had settled into the
upholstery, like aromatic ghosts.
Two guys in business suits were settled at the farthest booth
from the door. They were eating and had manila folders spread
across the table top. Working on a Saturday. Just like me, well,
maybe not just like me. I was betting that no one had threatened to
tear their throats out. Of course, I could be wrong, but I doubted
it. I was betting the worst threat they had had this week was lack
of job security. Ah, the good old days.
There was a man crouched on a bar stool, nursing a tall drink.
His face was already slack, his movements very slow and precise, as
if he were afraid he'd spill something. Drunk at one-thirty in the
afternoon; not a good sign for him. But it wasn't my business. You
can't save everybody. In fact, there are days when I think you
can't save anyone. Each person has to save himself first, then you
can move in and help. I have found this philosophy does not work
during a gun battle, or a knife fight either. Outside of that it
works just fine.
Luther was polishing glasses with a very clean white towel. He
looked up when I slipped up on the bar stool. He nodded, a
cigarette dangling from his thick lips. Luther is large, nay, fat.
There is no other word for it, but it is hard fat, rock-solid,
almost a kind of muscle. His hands are huge-knuckled and as big as
my face. Of course, my face is small. He is a very dark black man,
nearly purplish black, like mahogany. The creamy chocolate of his
eyes is yellow-edged from too much cigarette smoke. I don't think I
have ever seen Luther without a cig clasped between his lips. He is
overweight, chain-smokes, and the grey in his hair marks him as
over fifty, yet he's never sick. Good genetics, I guess.
"What'll it be, Anita?" His voice matched his body, deep and
gravelly.
"The usual."
He poured me a short glass of orange juice. Vitamins. We
pretended it was a screwdriver, so my penchant for sobriety
wouldn't give the bar a bad name. Who wants to get drunk when there
are teetotalers in the crowd? And why in the world would I keep
coming to a bar if I didn't drink?
I sipped my fake screwdriver and said, "I need some info."
"Figured that. Whatcha need?"
"I need information on a man named Phillip, dances at Guilty
Pleasures."
One thick eyebrow raised. "Vamp?"
I shook my head. "Vampire junkie."
He took a big drag on his cig, making the end glow like a live
coal. He blew a huge puff of smoke politely away from me. "Whatcha
want to know about him?"
"Is he trustworthy?"
He stared at me for a heartbeat, then he grinned. "Trustworthy?
Hell, Anita, he's a junkie. Don't matter what he's strung out on,
drugs, liquor, sex, vampires, no diff. No junkie is trustworthy,
you know that."
I nodded. I did know that, but what could I do? "I have to trust
him, Luther. He's all I got."
"Damn, girl, you are moving in the wrong circles."
I smiled. Luther was the only person I let call me girl. All
women were "girl," all men "fella." "I need to know if you've heard
anything really bad about him," I said.
"What are you up to?" he asked.
"I can't say. I'd share it if I could, or if I thought it would
do any good."
He studied me for a moment, cig dribbling ash onto the
countertop. He wiped up the ash absentmindedly with his clean
white towel. "Okay, Anita, you've earned the right to say no,
this once, but next time you better have something to share."
I smiled. "Cross my heart."
He just shook his head and pulled a fresh cigarette out of the
pack he always kept behind the bar. He took one last drag of the
nearly burned cig, then clasped the fresh one between his lips. He
put the glowing orange end of the old cig against the fresh white
tip and sucked air. The paper and tobacco caught, flared
orange-red, and he stubbed out the old cig in the already full
ashtray he carried with him from place to place, like a teddy
bear.
"I know they got a dancer down at the club that is a freak. He
does the party circuit and is reeeal popular with a certain sort of
vamp." Luther shrugged, a massive movement like mountains
hiccuping. "Don't have no dirt on him, 'cept he's a junkie, and he
does the circuit. Shit, Anita, that's bad enough. Sounds like
someone to stay away from."
"I would if I could." It was my turn to shrug. "But you haven't
heard anything else about him?"
He thought for a moment, sucking on his new cigarette. "No, not
a word. He ain't a big player in the district. He's a professional
victim. Most of the talk is about the predators down here, not the
sheep." He frowned. "Just a minute. I got something, an idea." He
thought very carefully for a few minutes, then smiled broadly.
"Yeah, got some news on a predator. Vamp calls himself Valentine,
wears a mask. He been bragging that he did ol' Phillip the first
time."
"So," I said.
"Not the first time he was a junkie, girl, the first time
period. Valentine claims he jumped the boy when he was small, did
him good. Claims ol' Phillip liked it so much that's why he's a
junkie."
"Dear God." I remembered the nightmares, the reality, of
Valentine. What would it have been like to have been small when it
happened? What would it have done to me?
"You know Valentine?" Luther asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. He ever say how old Phillip was when the attack
took place?"
He shook his head. "No, but word is anything over twelve is too
old for Valentine, 'less it's revenge. He's a real big one for
revenge. Word is if the master didn't keep him in line, he'd be
damn dangerous."
"You bet your sweet ass he's dangerous."
"You know him." It wasn't a question.
I looked up at Luther. "I need to know where Valentine stays
during the day."
"That's two bits of information for nuthin'. I don't think
so."
"He wears a mask because I doused him with Holy Water about two
years ago. Until last night I thought he was dead, and he thought
the same about me. He's going to kill me, if he can."
"You awful hard to kill, Anita."
"There's a first time, Luther, and that's all it takes."
"I hear that." He started polishing already clean glasses. "I
don't know. Word gets out we giving you daytime resting places, it
could go bad for us. They could burn this place to the ground with
us inside."
"You're right. I don't have a right to ask." But I sat there on
the bar stool, staring at him, willing him to give me what I
needed. Risk your life for me old buddy ol' pal, I'd do the same for
you. Riiight.
"If you could swear you wouldn't use the info to kill him, I
could tell you," Luther said.
"It'd be a lie."
"You got a warrant to kill him?" he asked.
"Not active, but I could get one."
"Would you wait for it?"
"It's illegal to kill a vampire without a court order of
execution," I said.
He stared at me. "That ain't the question. Would you jump the
gun to make sure of the kill?"
"Might."
He shook his head. "You gonna be up on charges one of these
days, girl. Murder is a serious rap."
I shrugged. "Beats getting your throat torn out."
He blinked. "Well, now." He didn't seem to know what to say, so
he polished a sparkling glass over and over in his big hands. "I'll
have to ask Dave. If he says it's okay, you can have it."
I finished my orange juice and paid up, a little heavy on the
tip to keep things aboveboard. Dave would never admit he helped me
because of my tie with the police, so money had to exchange hands,
even if it wasn't nearly what the information was worth. "Thanks,
Luther."
"Word on the street is that you met the master last night. That
true?"
"You know about that before or after the fact?" I asked.
He looked pained. "Anita, we woulda told you if we'd known,
gratis."
I nodded. "Sorry, Luther, it's been a rough few nights."
"I'll bet. So the rumor's true?"
What could I say? Deny it? A lot of people seemed to know. I
guess you can't even trust the dead to keep a secret. "Maybe." I
might as well have said yes, because I didn't say no. Luther
understood the game. He nodded. "What did they want with you?"
"Can't say."
"Mmm . . . uh. Okay, Anita, you be damn careful. You might wanta
get some help, if there's anybody you can trust."
Trust? It wasn't lack of trust. "There may be only two ways out
of this mess, Luther. Death would be my choice. A quick death would
be best, but I doubt I'll get the chance if things go bad. What
friend am I supposed to drag into that?"
His round, dark face stared at me. "I don't have no answers,
girl. I wish I did."
"So do I."
The phone rang. Luther answered it. He looked at me and carried
the phone down on its long cord. "For you," he said.
I cradled the phone against my cheek. "Yes."
"It's Ronnie." Her voice was suppressed excitement, a kid on
Christmas morning.
My stomach tightened. "You have something?"
"There is a rumor going around Humans Against Vampires. A death
squad designed to wipe the vampires off the face of the earth."
"You have proof, a witness?"
"Not yet."
I sighed before I could stop myself.
"Come on, Anita, this is good news."
I cupped my hand over the phone and whispered, "I can't take a
rumor about HAV to the master. The vampires would slaughter them. A
lot of innocent people would get killed, and we're not even sure
that HAV is really behind the murders."
"All right, all right," Ronnie said. "I'll have something more
concrete by tomorrow, I promise. Bribe or threat, I'll get the
information."
"Thanks, Ronnie."
"What are friends for? Besides, Bert's going to have to pay for
overtime and bribes. I always love the look of pain when he has to
part with money."
I grinned into the phone. "Me, too."
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Going to a party."
"What?"
I explained as briefly as I could. After a long silence she
said, "That is very freaky."
I agreed with her. "You keep working your end, I'll try from
this side. Maybe we'll meet in the middle."
"It'd be nice to think so." Her voice sounded warm, almost
angry.
"What's wrong?"
"You're going in without backup, aren't you?" she asked.
"You're alone," I said.
"But I'm not surrounded by vampires and freakazoids."
"If you're at HAV headquarters, that last is debatable."
"Don't be cute. You know what I mean."
"Yes, Ronnie, I know what you mean. You are the only friend I
have who can handle herself." I shrugged, realized she couldn't see
it, and said, "Anybody else would be like Catherine, sheep among
wolves, and you know it."
"What about another animator?"
"Who? Jamison thinks vampires are nifty. Bert talks a good game,
but he doesn't endanger his lily white ass. Charles is a good
enough corpse-raiser, but he's squeamish, and he's got a
four-year-old kid. Manny doesn't hunt vampires anymore. He spent
four months in the hospital being put back together after his last
hunt."
"If I remember correctly, you were in the hospital, too," she
said.
"A broken arm and a busted collarbone were my worst injuries,
Ronnie. Manny almost died. Besides, he's got a wife and four
kids."
Manny had been the animator who trained me. He taught me how to
raise the dead, and how to slay vampires. Though admittedly I had
expanded on Manny's teachings. He was a traditionalist, a
stake-and-garlic man. He had carried a gun, but as backup, not as a
primary tool. If modern technology will allow me to take out a
vampire from a distance, rather than straddling its waist and
pounding a stake through its heart, heh, why not?
Two years ago, Rosita, Manny's wife, had come to me and begged
me not to endanger her husband anymore. Fifty-two was too old to
hunt vampires, she had said. What would happen to her and the
children? Somehow I had gotten all the blame, like a mother whose
favorite child had been led astray by the neighborhood ruffians.
She had made me swear before God that I would never again ask Manny
to join me on a hunt. If she hadn't cried, I would have held out,
refused. Crying was damned unfair in a fight. Once a person started
to cry, you couldn't talk anymore. You suddenly just wanted them to
stop crying, stop hurting, stop making you feel like the biggest
scum-bucket in the world. Anything to stop the tears.
Ronnie was quiet on the other end of the phone. "All right, but
you be careful."
"Careful as a virgin on her wedding night, I promise."
She laughed. "You are incorrigible."
"Everybody tells me that," I said.
"Watch your back."
"You do the same."
"I will." She hung up. The phone buzzed dead in my hands.
"Good news?" Luther asked.
"Yeah." Humans Against Vampires had a death squad. Maybe. But
maybe was better than what I'd had before. Look, folks, nothing up
my sleeves, nothing in my pockets, no idea in hell what I was
doing. Just blundering around trying to track down a killer that
has taken out two master vampires. If I was on the right track, I'd
attract attention soon. Which meant someone might try to kill me.
Wouldn't that be fun?
I would need clothes that showed off my vampire scars and
allowed me to hide weapons. It would not be an easy combination to
find.
I would have to spend the afternoon shopping. I hate to shop. I
consider it one of life's necessary evils, like brussels sprouts
and high-heeled shoes. Of course, it beat the heck out of having my
life threatened by vampires. But wait; we could go shopping now and
be threatened by vampires in the evening. A perfect way to spend a
Saturday night.
Chapter 23
I transferred all the smaller bags into one big bag, to leave
one hand free for my gun. You'd be amazed what a nice target you
make juggling two armloads of shopping bags. First drop the bags -
that is if one of the handles isn't tangled over your wrist - then
reach for your gun, pull, aim, fire. By the time you do all that
the bad guy has shot you twice and is walking away humming Dixie
between his teeth.
I had been downright paranoid all afternoon, aware of everyone
near me. Was I being followed? Had that man looked too long at me?
Was that woman wearing a scarf around her neck because she had bite
marks?
By the time I went for the car, my neck and shoulders were
knotted into one painful ache. The most frightening thing I'd seen
all afternoon had been the prices on the designer clothing.
The world was still bright blue and heat-soaked when I went for
my car. It's easy to forget the passage of time in a mall. It is
air conditioned, climate controlled, a private world where nothing
real touches you. Disneyland for shopaholics.
I shut my packages in the trunk and watched the sky darken. I
knew what fear felt like, a leaden balloon in the pit of your gut.
A nice, quiet dread.
I shrugged to loosen my shoulders. Rotated my neck until it
popped. Better, but still tight. I needed some aspirin. I had eaten
in the mall, something I almost never did. The moment I smelled the
food stalls, I had gone for them, starved.
The pizza had tasted like thin cardboard with imitation tomato
paste spread over it. The cheese had been rubbery and tasteless.
Yum, yum, mall food. Truth is, I love Corn Dog on a Stick and Mrs.
Field's Cookies.
I got one piece of pizza with just cheese, the way I like it,
but one piece with everything. I hate mushrooms and green
peppers.
Sausage belongs on the breakfast table, not on pizza. I didn't
know which bothered me more; that I ordered it in the first place,
or that I had eaten half of it before I realized what I was doing.
I was craving food that I normally hated. Why? One more question
without an answer. Why did this one scare me?
My neighbor, Mrs. Pringle, was walking her dog back and forth on
the grass in front of our apartment building. I parked and unloaded
my one overstuffed bag from the trunk.
Mrs. Pringle is over sixty, nearly six feet tall, stretched too
thin with age. Her faded blue eyes are bright and curious behind
silver-rimmed glasses. Her dog Custard is a Pomeranian. He looks
like a golden dandelion fluff with cat feet.
Mrs. Pringle waved at me, and I was trapped. I smiled and walked
over to them. Custard began jumping up on me, like he had springs
in his tiny legs. He looked like a wind-up toy. His yapping was
frequent and insistent, joyous.
Custard knows I don't like him, and in his twisted doggy mind he
is determined to win me over. Or maybe he just knows it irritates
me. Whatever.
"Anita, you naughty girl, why didn't you tell me you had a
beau?" Mrs. Pringle asked.
I frowned. "A beau?"
"A boyfriend," she said.
I didn't know what in the world she was talking about. "What do
you mean?"
"Be coy if you wish, but when a young woman gives her apartment
key to a man, it means something."
That lead balloon in my gut floated up a few inches. "Did you
see someone going in my apartment today?" I worked very hard at
keeping my face and voice casual.
"Yes, your nice young man. Very handsome."
I wanted to ask what he looked like, but if he was my boyfriend
with a key to my apartment, I should know. I couldn't ask. Very
handsome - could it be Phillip? But why? "When did he stop by?"
"Oh, around two this afternoon. I was just coming out to walk
Custard as he was going in."
"Did you see him leave?"
She was staring at me a little too hard. "No. Anita, was he not
supposed to be in your home? Did I let a burglar get away?"
"No." I managed a smile and almost a whole laugh. "I just didn't
expect him today, that's all. If you see anyone going into my
apartment, just let them. I'll have friends going in and out for a
few days."
Her eyes had narrowed; her delicate-boned hands were very still.
Even Custard was sitting in the grass, panting up at me. "Anita
Blake," she said, and I was reminded that she was a retired
schoolteacher, it was that kind of voice. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing, really. I've just never given my key to a man before,
and I'm a little unsure about it. Jittery." I gave her my best
wide-eyed innocent look. I resisted the urge to bat my eyes, but
everything else was working.
She crossed her arms over her stomach. I don't think she
believed me. "If you are that nervous about this young man, then he
is not the right one for you. If he was, you wouldn't be
jittery."
I felt light with relief. She believed. "You're probably right.
Thank you for the advice. I may even take it." I felt so good, I
patted Custard on top of his furry little head.
I heard Mrs. Pringle say as I walked away, "Now, Custard, do
your business and let's go upstairs."
For the second time in the same day I might have an intruder in
my apartment. I walked down the hushed corridor and drew my gun. A
door opened. A man and two children walked out. I slipped my gun
and my hand in the shopping bag, pretending to search for
something. I listened to their footsteps echo down the stairs.
I couldn't just sit out here with a gun. Someone would call the
police. Everybody was home from work, eating dinner, reading the
paper, playing with the kids. Suburban America was awake and alert.
You could not walk through it with a gun drawn.
I carried the shopping bag in my left hand in front of me, gun
and right hand still inside it. If worse came to worse, I'd shoot
through the bag. I walked two doors past my apartment and dug my
keys out of my purse. I sat the shopping bag against the wall and
transferred the gun to my left hand. I could shoot left-handed, not
as well, but it would have to do. I held the gun parallel to my
thigh and hoped nobody would come the wrong way down the hall and
see it. I knelt by the door, keys cupped in my right hand, quiet,
not jingling this time. I learn fast.
I held the gun in front of my chest and inserted the keys. The
lock clicked. I flinched and waited for gunshots or noise,
or something. Nothing. I slipped the keys into my pocket and
switched the gun back to my right hand. With just my wrist and part
of my arm in front of the door, I turned the knob and pushed
hard.
The door swung back and banged against the far wall, nobody
there. No gunshots at the door. Silence.
I was crouched by the doorjamb, gun straight out, scanning the
room. There was no one to see. The chair, still facing the door,
was empty this time. I would almost have been relieved to see
Edward.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs at the end of the hall. I had to
make a decision. I reached my left hand back and got the shopping
bag, never taking eyes or gun from the apartment. I scrambled
inside, shoving the bag ahead of me. I shoved the door closed,
still crouched by the floor.
The aquarium heater clicked, then whirred, and I jumped. Sweat
was oozing down my spine. The brave vampire slayer. If they could
only see me now. The apartment felt empty. There was no one here
but me, but just in case, I searched in closets, under beds.
Playing Dirty Harry as I slammed doors and flattened myself against
walls. I felt like a fool, but I would have been a bigger fool to
have trusted the apartment was empty and been wrong.
There was a shotgun on the kitchen table, along with two boxes
of ammo. A sheet of white typing paper lay under it. In neat, black
letters, it said, "Anita, you have twenty-four hours."
I stared at the note, reread it. Edward had been here. I don't
think I breathed for a minute. I was picturing my neighbor chatting
with Edward. If Mrs. Pringle had hesitated at his lie, showed fear,
would he have killed her?
I didn't know. I just didn't know. Dammit! I was like a plague.
Everyone around me was in danger, but what could I do?
When in doubt, take a deep breath and keep moving. A philosophy
I have lived by for years. I've heard worse, really.
The note meant I had twenty-four hours before Edward came for
the location of Nikolaos' daytime retreat. If I didn't give it to
him, I would have to kill him. I might not be able to do that.
I told Ronnie we were professionals, but if Edward was a
professional, then I was an amateur. And so was Ronnie.
Heavy damn sigh. I had to get dressed for the party. There just
wasn't time to worry about Edward. I had other problems
tonight.
My answering machine was blinking, and I switched it on.
Ronnie's voice first, telling me what she had already told me about
HAV. Evidently, she had called here first before contacting me at
Dave's bar. Then, "Anita, this is Phillip. I know the location for
the party. Pick me up in front of Guilty Pleasures at six-thirty.
Bye."
The machine clicked, whirred, and was silent. I had two hours to
dress and be there. Plenty of time. My average time for makeup is
fifteen minutes. Hair takes less, because all I do is run a brush
through it. Presto, I'm presentable.
I don't wear makeup often, so when I do, I always feel like it's
too dark, too fake. But I always get compliments on it, like, "Why
don't you wear eye shadow more often? It really brings out your
eyes," or my favorite, "You look so much better in makeup." All the
above implies that without makeup, you look like a candidate for
the spinster farm.
One piece of makeup I don't use is base. I can't imagine
smearing cake over my whole face. I own one bottle of clear nail
polish, but it isn't for my fingers, it's for my panty hose. If I
wear a pair of hose once without snagging them, I have had a very
good day.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. The
top slipped over my head with one thin strap. There was no back; it
tied across the small of my back in a cute little bow. I could have
done without the bow, but otherwise it wasn't too bad. The top
slipped into the black skirt, complete, dresslike without a break.
The tan bandages on my hands clashed with the dress. Oh, well. The
skirt was full and swirled when I moved. It had pockets.
Through those pockets were two thigh sheaths complete with
silver knives. All I had to do was slip my hands in and come out
with a weapon. Neat. Sweat is an interesting thing when you're
wearing a thigh sheath. I had not been able to figure out how to
hide a gun on me. I don't care how many times you've seen women
carry guns on a thigh holster on television, it is damn awkward.
You walk like a duck with a wet diaper on.
Hose and high-heeled black satin pumps completed the outfit. I
had owned the shoes and the weapons; everything else was new.
One other new item was a cute black purse with a thin strap that
would hang across my shoulders, leaving my hands free. I stuffed my
smaller gun, the Firestar, into it. I know, I know, by the time I
dug the gun from the depths of the purse, the bad guys would be
feasting on my flesh, but it was better than not having it at
all.
I slipped my cross on, and the silver looked good against the
black top. Unfortunately, I doubted the vampires would let me into
the party wearing a blessed crucifix. Oh, well. I'd leave it in the
car, along with the shotgun and ammo.
Edward had kindly left a box near the table. What I assumed he
had brought the gun up in. What had he told Mrs. Pringle, that it
was a present for me?
Edward had said twenty-four hours, but twenty-four hours from
when? Would he be here at dawn, bright and early, to torture the
information out of me? Naw, Edward didn't strike me as a morning
person. I was safe until at least afternoon. Probably.
Chapter 24
I slid into a no-parking zone in front of Guilty Pleasures.
Phillip was leaning against the building, arms loose at his sides.
He wore black leather pants. The thought of leather in this heat
made my knees break out in heat rash. His shirt was black fishnet,
which showed off both scars and tan. I don't know if it was the
leather or the fishnet, but the word "sleazy" came to mind. He had
passed over some invisible line, from flirt to hustler.
I tried to picture him at twelve. It didn't work. Whatever had
been done to him, he was what he was, and that was what I had to
deal with. I wasn't a psychiatrist who could afford to feel sorry
for the poor unfortunate. Pity is an emotion that can get you
killed. The only thing more dangerous is blind hate, and maybe
love.
Phillip pushed away from the wall and walked towards the car. I
unlocked his door, and he slid inside. He smelled of leather,
expensive cologne, and faintly of sweat.
I pulled away from the curb. "Aggressive little outfit there,
Phillip."
He turned to stare at me, face immobile, eyes hidden behind the
same sunglasses he had worn earlier. He lounged in the seat, one
leg bent and pressed against the door, the other spread wide, knee
tucked up on the seat. "Take Seventy West." His voice was rough,
almost hoarse.
There is that moment when you are alone with a man and you both
realize it. Alone together, there are always possibilities in that.
There is a nearly painful awareness of each other. It can lead to
awkwardness, to sex, or to fear, depending on the man and the
situation.
Well, we weren't having sex, you could make book on that. I
glanced at Phillip, and he was still turned towards me, lips
slightly parted. He'd taken off the sunglasses. His eyes were very
brown and very close. What the hell was going on?
We were on the highway and up to speed. I concentrated on the
cars around me, on driving, and tried to ignore him. But I could
feel the weight of his gaze along my skin. It was almost a
warmth.
He began to slide along the seat towards me. I was suddenly very
aware of the sound of leather rubbing along the upholstery. A warm,
animal sound. His arm slid across my shoulders, his chest leaning
into me.
"What do you think you're doing, Phillip!"
"What's wrong?" He breathed along my neck. "Isn't this
aggressive enough for you?"
I laughed; I couldn't help it. He stiffened beside me. "I didn't
mean to insult you, Phillip. I just didn't picture fishnet and
leather for tonight."
He stayed too close to me, pressing, warm, his voice still
strange and rough. "What do you like then?"
I glanced at him, but he was too close. I was suddenly staring
into his eyes from two inches away. His nearness ran through me
like an electric shock. I turned back to the road. "Get on your
side of the car, Phillip."
"What turns you," he whispered in my ear, "on?"
I'd had enough. "How old were you the first time Valentine
attacked you?"
His whole body jerked, and he scooted away from me. "Damn you!"
He sounded like he meant it.
"I'll make you a deal, Phillip. You don't have to answer my
question, and I won't answer yours."
His voice came out choked and breathy. "When did you see
Valentine? Is he going to be here tonight? They promised me he
wouldn't be here tonight." His voice held a thick edge of panic. I
had never heard such instant terror.
I didn't want to see Phillip afraid. I might start feeling sorry
for him, and I couldn't afford that. Anita Blake, hard as nails,
sure of herself, unaffected by crying men. Riiight. "I did not talk
to Valentine about you, Phillip, I swear."
"Then how. . ." He stopped, and I glanced at him. He'd slid the
sunglasses back in place. His face looked very tight and still
behind his dark glasses. Fragile. Sort of ruined the image.
1 couldn't stand it. "How did I find out what he did to
you?"
He nodded.
"I paid money to find out about your background. It came up. I
needed to know if I could trust you."
"Can you?"
"I don't know yet," I said.
He took several deep breaths. The first two trembled, but each
breath was a little more solid, until finally he had it under
control, for now. I thought of Rebecca Miles and her small,
starved-looking hands.
"You can trust me, Anita. I won't betray you. I won't." His
voice sounded lost, a little boy with all his illusions stripped
away.
I couldn't stomp all over that lost child voice. But I knew and
he knew that he would do anything the vampires wanted, anything,
including betraying me. A bridge was rising over the highway, a
tall latticework of grey metal. Trees hugged the road on either
side. The summer sky was pale watery blue, washed out by the heat
and the bright summer sun. The car bumped up on the bridge, and the
Missouri River stretched away on either side. The air seemed open
and distant over the rolling water. A pigeon fluttered onto the
bridge, settling beside maybe a dozen others, all strutting and
burring over the bridge.
I had actually seen seagulls on the river before, but you never
saw one near the bridge, just pigeons. Maybe seagulls didn't like
cars.
"Where are we going, Phillip?"
"What?"
I wanted to say, "Question too hard for you?" but I resisted. It
would have been like picking on him. "We're across the river. What
is our destination?"
"Take the Zumbehl exit and turn right."
I did what he said. Zumbehl veers to the right and spills you
automatically to a turn lane. I sat at the light and turned on red
when it was clear. There is a small gathering of stores to the
left, then an apartment complex, then trees, almost a woods, houses
tucked back in them. A nursing home is next and then a rather large
cemetery. I always wondered what the people in the nursing home
thought of living next door to a cemetery. Was it a ghoulish
reminder, no pun intended? A convenience, just in case?
The cemetery had been there a lot longer than the nursing home.
Some of the stones went back to the early 1800s. I always thought
the developer must have been a closet sadist to put the windows
staring out over the rolling tombstoned hills. Old age is enough of
a reminder of what comes next. No visual aids are needed.
Zumbehl is lined with other things - video store, kids clothing
boutique, a place that sold stained glass, gas stations, and a huge
apartment complex proclaiming, "Sun Valley Lake." There actually
was a lake large enough to sail on if you were very careful.
A few more blocks and we were in suburbia. Houses with tiny
yards stuffed with huge trees lined the road. There was a hill that
sloped downward. The speed limit was thirty. It was impossible to
keep the car to thirty going down the hill without using brakes.
Would there be a policeman at the bottom of the hill?
If he stopped us with Phillip in his little fishnet shirt, all
nicely scarred, would he be suspicious? Where are you going miss?
I'm sorry, officer, we have this illegal party to go to, and we're
running late. I used my brakes going down the hill. Of course,
there was no policeman. If I had been speeding, he'd have been
there. Murphy's law is the only true dependable in my life most of
the time.
"It's the big house on the left. Just pull into the driveway,"
Phillip said.
The house was dark red brick, two, maybe three stories, lots of
windows, at least two porches. Victorian American does still exist.
The yard was large with a private forest of tall, ancient trees.
The grass was too high, giving the place a deserted look. The drive
was gravel and wound through the trees to a modern garage that had
been designed to match the house and almost succeeded.
There were only two other cars here. I couldn't see into the
garage; maybe there were more inside.
"Don't leave the main room with anyone but me. If you do, I
can't help you," he said.
"Help me how?" I asked.
"This is our cover story. You are the reason I have missed so
many meetings. I left hints that not only are we lovers, but I've
been . . ." He spread his hands wide as if searching for a word. "
. . . cultivating you, until I felt you were ready for a
party."
"Cultivating me?" I turned off the car, and the silence settled
between us. He was staring at me. Even behind the glasses I felt
the weight of his gaze. The skin between my shoulders crawled.
"You are a reluctant survivor of a real attack, not a freak, or
a junkie, but I've talked you into a party. That's the story."
"Have you ever done this for real?" I asked.
"You mean given them someone?"
"Yes," I said.
He gave a rough snort. "You don't think much of me, do you?"
What was I supposed to say, no? "If we're lovers, that means we
have to play lovers all evening."
He smiled. This smile was different, anticipatory.
"You bastard."
He shrugged and rotated his neck as if his shoulders were tight.
"I'm not going to throw you down on the floor and ravish you, if
that's what you're worried about."
"I knew you wouldn't be doing that tonight." I was glad he
didn't know I had weapons. Maybe I could surprise him tonight.
He frowned at me. "Follow my lead. If anything I do makes you
uncomfortable, we'll discuss it." He smiled, dazzling, teeth white
and even against his tan.
"No discussion. You'll just stop."
He shrugged. "You might blow our cover and get us killed."
The car was filling with heat. A bead of sweat dripped down his
face. I opened my door and got out. The heat was like a second
skin. Cicadas droned, a high, buzzing song far up in the trees.
Cicadas and heat, ah, summer.
Phillip walked around the car, his boots crunching on the
gravel. "You might want to leave the cross in the car," he
said.
I had expected it, but I didn't have to like it. I put the
crucifix into the glove compartment, crawling over the seat to do
so. When I closed the door, my hand went to my neck. I wore the
chain so much it only felt odd when I wasn't wearing it.
Phillip held out his hand, and after a moment I took it. The
palm of his hand was cupped heat, slightly moist in the center.
The back door was shaded by a white lattice arch. A clematis
vine grew thick on one side. Flowers as big as my hand spread
purple to the tree-filtered sun. A woman was standing in the shadow
of the door, hidden from neighbors and passing cars. She wore sheer
black stockings held up by garter belts. A bra and matching
panties, both royal purple, left most of her body pale and naked.
She was wearing five-inch spikes that forced her legs to look long
and slender.
"I'm overdressed," I whispered to Phillip.
"Maybe not for long," he breathed into my hair.
"Don't bet your life on it." I stared up at him as I said it and
watched his face crumble into confusion. It didn't last long. The
smile came, a soft curl of lips. The serpent must have smiled
at Eve like that. I have this nice, shiny apple for you. Want some
candy, little girl?
Whatever Phillip thought he was selling, I wasn't buying. He
hugged me around the waist, one hand playing along the scars on my
arm, fingers digging into the scar tissue just a little. His breath
went out in a quick sigh. Jesus, what had I gotten myself into?
The woman was smiling at me, but her large brown eyes were fixed
on Phillip's hand where it played with my scar. Her tongue darted
out to wet her lips. I saw her chest rise and fall.
"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly."
"What did you say?" Phillip asked.
I shook my head. He probably didn't know the poem anyway. I
couldn't remember how it ended. I couldn't remember if the fly got
away. My stomach was tight. When Phillip's hand brushed my naked
back, I jumped.
The woman laughed, high and maybe a little drunk. I whispered
the fly's words as I went up the steps, "Oh, no, no, to ask me is
in vain for whoever goes up your winding stairs can ne'er come down
again."
Ne'er come down again. It had a bad ring to it.
Chapter 25
The woman pressed against the wall, so we could pass, and shut
the door behind us. I kept waiting for her to lock it so we
couldn't get away, but she didn't. I shoved Phillip's hand off my
scars, and he wrapped himself around my waist and led me down a
long narrow hall. The house was cool, air conditioning purring
against the heat. A square archway opened into a room.
It was a living room with all that implies - a couch, love seat,
two chairs, plants hanging in front of a bay window, afternoon
shadows snaking across the carpeting. Homey. A man stood in the
center of the room, a drink in his hand. He looked like he had just
come from Leather 'R' Us. Leather bands crisscrossed his chest and
arms, like Hollywood's idea of an oversexed gladiator.
I owed Phillip an apology. He'd dressed downright
conservatively. The happy homemaker came up behind us in her royal
purple lingerie and laid a hand on Phillip's arm. Her fingernails
were painted dark purple, almost black. The nails scratched along
his arm, leaving faint reddish tracks behind.
Phillip shivered beside me, his arm tightening around my waist.
Was this his idea of fun? I hoped not.
A tall, black woman rose from the couch. Her rather plentiful
breasts threatened to squeeze out of a black wire bra. A crimson
skirt with more holes than cloth hung from the bra and moved as she
walked, giving glimpses of dark flesh. I was betting she was naked
under the skirt.
There were pinkish scars on one wrist and her neck. A baby
junkie, new, almost fresh. She stalked around us, like we were for
sale and she wanted to get a good look. Her hand brushed my back,
and I stood away from Phillip, facing the woman.
"That scar on your back; what is it? It isn't vampire bites."
Her voice was low for a woman, an alto tenor maybe.
"A sharp piece of wood was slammed into my back by a human
servant." I didn't add that the sharp piece of wood had been one of
the stakes I brought with me, or that I had killed the human
servant later that same night.
"My name's Rochelle," she said.
"Anita."
The happy homemaker stepped up next to me, hand stroking over my
arm. I stepped away from her, her fingers sliding over my skin. Her
nails left little red lines on my arm. I resisted the urge to rub
them. I was a tough-as-nails vampire slayer; scratches didn't
bother me. The look in the woman's eyes did. She looked like she
wondered what flavor I was and how long I'd last. I had never been
looked at that way by another woman. I didn't like it much.
"I'm Madge. That's my husband Harvey," she said, pointing to Mr.
Leather, who had moved to stand beside Rochelle. "Welcome to our
home. Phillip has told us so much about you, Anita."
Harvey tried to come up behind me, but I stepped back towards
the couch, so I could face him. They were trying to circle like
sharks. Phillip was staring at me, hard. Right; I was supposed to
be enjoying myself, not acting like they all had communicable
diseases.
Which was the lesser evil? A sixty-four-thousand-dollar question
if ever I heard one. Madge licked her lips, slowly, suggestively.
Her eyes said she was thinking naughty things about me, and her. No
way. Rochelle swished her skirt, exposing far too much thigh. I had
been right. She was naked under the skirt. I'd die first.
That left Harvey. His small, blunt-fingered hands were playing
with the leather-and-metal studding of the little kilt he wore.
Fingers rubbing over and over the leather. Shit.
I flashed him my best professional smile, not seductive, but it
was better than a frown. His eyes widened and he took a step
towards me, hand reaching out towards my left arm. I took a deep
breath and held it, smile freezing in place.
His fingers barely traced over the bend of my arm, tickling down
the skin, until I shivered. Harvey took the shiver for an
invitation and moved in closer, bodies almost touching. I put a
hand on his chest to keep him from coming any closer. The hair on
his chest was coarse and thick, black. I've never been a fan of
hairy chests. Give me smooth any day. His arm began to encircle my
back. I wasn't sure what to do. If I took a step back I was going
to sit down on the couch, not a good idea. If I stepped forward I'd
be stepping into him, pressed against all that leather and
skin.
He smiled at me. "I've been dying to meet you."
He said "dying" like it was a dirty word, or an inside joke. The
others laughed, all except Phillip. He took my arm and pulled me
away from Harvey. I leaned into Phillip, even put my arms around
his waist. I had never hugged anyone in a fishnet shirt before. It
was an interesting sensation.
Phillip said, "Remember what I said."
"Sure, sure," Madge said. "She's yours, all yours, no sharing,
no halfsies." She stalked over to him, swaying in her tight lace
panties. With the heels on she could look him in the eye. "You can
keep her safe from us for now, but when the big boys get here,
you'll share. They'll make you share."
He stared at her until she looked away. "I brought her here, and
I'll take her home," he said.
Madge raised an eyebrow. "You're going to fight them? Phillip,
my boy, she must be a sweet piece of tail, but no bedwarmer is
worth pissing off the big guys."
I stepped away from Phillip and put a hand flat against her
stomach and pushed, just enough to make her back up. The heels made
her balance bad, and she almost fell. "Let's get something
straight," I said. "I am not a piece of anything, nor am I a
bedwarmer."
Phillip said, "Anita. . ."
"My, my, she's got a temper. Wherever did you find her,
Phillip?" Madge asked.
If there is anything I hate, it is being found amusing when I'm
angry. I stepped up close to her, and she smiled down at me. "Did
you know," I said, "that when you smile, you get deep wrinkles on
either side of your mouth? You are over forty, aren't you?"
She drew a deep, gasping breath and stepped back from me. "You
little bitch."
"Don't ever call me a piece of tail again, Madge, darling."
Rochelle was laughing silently, her considerable bosom shaking
like dark brown jello. Harvey stood straight-faced. If he had so
much as smiled, I think Madge would have hurt him. His eyes were
very shiny, but there was no hint of a smile.
A door opened and closed down the hall, farther into the house.
A woman stepped into the room. She was around fifty, or maybe a
hard forty. Very blonde hair framed a plump face. Even money the
blonde came out of a bottle. Plump little hands glittered with
rings, real stones. A long, black negligee swept the floor,
complete with an open lace robe. The flat black of the negligee was
kind to her figure, but not kind enough. She was overweight and
there was no hiding it. She looked like a PTA member, a Girl Scout
leader, a cookie baker, someone's mother. And there she stood in
the doorway, staring at Phillip.
She let out a little squeal and came running towards him. I got
out of the way before I was crushed in the stampede. Phillip had
just enough time to brace himself before she flung her considerable
weight into his arms. For a minute I thought he was going to fall
backwards into the floor with her on top, but his back
straightened, his legs tensed, and he righted them both.
Strong Phillip, able to lift overweight nymphomaniacs with both
hands.
Harvey said, "This is Crystal."
Crystal was kissing Phillip's chest, chubby, homey little hands
trying to pull his shirt out of his pants so she could touch his
bare flesh. She was like a cheerful little puppy in heat.
Phillip was trying to discourage her without much success. He
gave me a long glance. And I remembered what he had said, that he
had stopped coming to these parties. Was this why? Crystal and her
like? Madge of the sharp fingernails? I had forced him to bring me,
but in doing so, I had forced him to bring himself.
If you thought of it that way, it was my fault Phillip was here.
Damn, I owed him.
I patted the woman's cheek, softly. She blinked at me, and I
wondered if she was nearsighted. "Crystal," I said. I smiled my
best angelic smile. "Crystal, I don't mean to be rude, but you're
pawing my date."
Her mouth fell open; her pale eyes bugged out. "Date," she
squeaked. "No one has dates at a party."
"Well, I'm new to the parties. I don't know the rules yet. But
where I come from, one woman does not grope another woman's date.
At least wait until I turn my back, okay?"
Crystal's lower lip trembled. Her eyes began to fill with tears.
I had been gentle, kind even, and she was still going to cry. What
was she doing here with these people?
Madge came and put her arm around Crystal and led the woman
away. Madge was making soothing noises and patting her black silken
arms.
Rochelle said, "Very cold." She walked away from me towards a
liquor cabinet that was against one wall.
Harvey had also left, following Madge and Crystal without so
much as a backwards glance.
You'd think I'd kicked a puppy. Phillip let out a long breath
and set down on the couch. He clasped his hands in front of him,
between his knees. I sat down next to him, tucking my skirt down
over my legs.
"I don't think I can do this," he whispered.
I touched his arm. He was trembling, a constant shaking that I
didn't like at all. I hadn't realized what it would cost him to
come tonight, but I was beginning to find out.
"We can go," I said.
He turned very slowly and stared at me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we can go."
"You'd leave now without finding out anything because I'm having
problems?" he asked.
"Let's just say I like you better as the overconfident flirt.
You keep acting like a real person, and you'll have me all
confused. We can go if you can't handle it."
He took a deep breath and let it out, then shook himself like a
dog coming out of water. "I can do it. If I have a choice, I can do
it."
It was my turn to stare. "Why didn't you have a choice
before?"
He looked away. "I just felt like I had to bring you if you
wanted to come."
"No, dammit, that wasn't what you meant at all." I touched his
face and forced him to look at me. "Someone gave you orders to come
see me the other day, didn't they? It wasn't just to find out about
Jean-Claude, was it?"
His eyes were wide, and I could feel his pulse under my fingers.
"What are you afraid of, Phillip? Who's giving you orders?"
"Anita, please, I can't."
My hand dropped to my lap. "What are your orders, Phillip?"
He swallowed, and I watched his throat work. "I'm to keep you
safe here, that's all." His pulse was jumping under the bruised
bite in his neck. He licked his lips, not seductive, nervous. He
was lying to me. The trick was, how much of a lie and what
about?
I heard Madge's voice coming up the hall, all cheerful
seduction. Such a good hostess. She escorted two people into the
room. One was a woman with short auburn hair and too much eye
makeup, like green chalk smeared above her eyes. The second was
Edward, smiling, at his charming best, with his arm around Madge's
bare waist. She gave a rich, throaty laugh as he whispered
something to her.
I froze, for a second. It was so unexpected that I just froze.
If he had pulled out a gun, he could have killed me while I sat
with my mouth hanging open. What the hell was he doing here?
Madge led him and the woman towards the bar. He glanced back at
me over her shoulder and gave me a delicate smile that left his
blue eyes empty as a doll's.
I knew my twenty-four hours were not up. I knew that. Edward had
decided to come looking for Nikolaos. Had he followed us? Had he
listened to Phillip's message on my machine?
"What's wrong?" Phillip asked.
"What's wrong?" I said. "You are taking orders from somebody,
probably a vampire. . ." I finished the statement silently in my
head: And Death has just waltzed in the door to play freak while he
searches for Nikolaos. There was only one reason Edward searched
for a particular vampire. He meant to kill her, if he could.
The assassin might finally have met his match. I had thought I
wanted to be around when Edward finally lost. I wanted to see what
prey was too large for Death to conquer. I had seen this prey, up
close and personal. If Edward and Nikolaos met and she even
suspected that I had a hand in it . . . shit. Shit, shit, shit!
I should turn Edward in. He had threatened me, and he would
carry it out. He would torture me to get information. What did I
owe him? But I couldn't do it, wouldn't do it. A human being does
not turn another human being over to the monsters. Not for any
reason.
Monica had broken that rule, and I despised her for it. I think
I was the closest thing Edward had to a real friend. A person who
knows who and what you are and likes you anyway. I did like him,
despite or because of what he was. Even though I knew he'd kill me
if it worked out that way? Yes, even though. It didn't make much
sense when you looked at it that way. But I couldn't worry about
Edward's morality. The only person I had to face in the mirror was
me. The only moral dilemma I could solve was my own.
I watched Edward play kissy-face with Madge. He was much better
at role-playing than I was. He was also a much better liar.
I would not tell, and Edward had known I would not tell. In his
own way, he knew me, too. He had bet his life on my integrity, and
that pissed me off. I hate to be used. My virtue had become its own
punishment.
But maybe, I didn't know how yet, I could use Edward the way he
was using me. Perhaps I could use his lack of honor as he used my
honor now.
It had possibilities.
Chapter 26
The auburn-haired woman with Edward came over to the couch and
slid into Phillip's lap. She giggled and wrapped her arms around
his neck with a little kick of her feet. Her hands didn't wander
lower, and she didn't try to undress him. The night was looking up.
Edward followed behind the woman like a blond shadow. There was a
drink in his hand and a suitably harmless smile on his face.
If I hadn't known him, I would never have looked at him and
said, there, there is a dangerous man. Edward the Chameleon. He
balanced on the couch arm at the woman's back, one hand rubbing her
shoulder.
"Anita, this is Darlene," Phillip said.
I nodded. She giggled and kicked her little feet.
"This is Teddy. Isn't he scrumptious?"
Teddy? Scrumptious? I managed a smile, and Edward kissed the
side of her neck. She snuggled against his chest, managing to
wiggle in Phillip's lap at the same time. Coordination.
"Let me have a taste." Darlene sucked her lower lip under her
teeth and drew it out slowly.
Phillip's breath trembled. He whispered, "Yes."
I didn't think I was going to like this.
Darlene cupped his arm in her hands and raised it to her
mouth.
She bestowed a delicate kiss over one of his scars, then she
slid her legs down between his until she was kneeling at his feet,
still holding his arm. The full skirt of her dress was bunched up
around her waist, caught on his legs. She was wearing red lace
panties and matching garters. Color coordination.
Phillip's face had gone slack. He was staring at her as she
brought his arm towards her mouth. A small pink tongue licked his
arm, quick, out, wet, gone. She glanced up at Phillip, eyes dark
and full. She must have liked what she saw because she began to
lick his scars, one by one, delicate, a cat with cream. Her eyes
never left his face.
Phillip shuddered; his spine spasmed. He closed his eyes and
leaned his head back against the couch. Her hands went to his
stomach. She gripped the fishnet and pulled. It slid out of his
pants, and her hands stroked up bare chest.
He jerked, eyes wide, and caught her arms. He shook his head.
"No, no." His voice sounded hoarse, too deep.
"You want me to stop?" Darlene asked. Her eyes were nearly
closed, breath deep, lips full and waiting.
He was struggling to talk and make sense at the same time. "If
we do this . . . that leaves Anita alone. Fair game. Her first
party."
Darlene looked at me, maybe for the first time. "With scars like
that?"
"Scars are from a real attack. I talked her into the party." He
brought her hands out from under his shirt. "I can't desert her."
His eyes seemed to be focusing again. "She doesn't know the
rules."
Darlene leaned her head on his thigh. "Phillip, please, I've
missed you."
"You know what they'd do to her."
"Teddy will keep her safe. He knows the rules."
I asked, "You've been to other parties?"
"Yes," Edward said. He held my gaze for several seconds while I
tried to picture him at other parties. So this was where he got his
information about the vampire world, through the freaks.
"No," Phillip said. He stood, bringing Darlene to her feet,
still holding her forearms. "No," he said and his voice sounded
certain, confident. He released her and held out his hand to me. I
took it. What else could I do?
His hand was sweating and warm. He strode out of the room, and I
was forced to half-run in my heels to catch up with my hand.
He led me down the hall to the bathroom and we went in. He
locked the door and leaned against it, sweat beaded on his face,
eyes closed. I took back my hand, and he didn't fight me.
I looked around at the available seating and finally chose to
sit on the edge of the bathtub. It wasn't comfortable, but it
seemed the lesser of two evils. Phillip drew in great gulps of air
and finally turned to the sink. He ran water loud and splashing,
dipped his hands in, and covered his face again and again until he
stood, water dripping down his face. Droplets caught in his
eyelashes and hair. He blinked at himself in the mirror over the basin.
He looked startled, wide-eyed.
The water was dripping down his neck and chest. I stood and
handed him a towel from the rack. He didn't respond. I
mopped up his chest with the soft, clean-smelling folds of the
towel.
He finally took the towel and finished drying off. His hair
was dark and wet around his face. There was no way to dry it out.
"I did it," he said.
"Yes," I said, "you did it."
"I almost let her."
"But you didn't, Phillip. That's what counts."
He nodded, rapidly, head bobbing. "I guess so." He still seemed
out of breath.
"We better be getting back to the party."
He nodded. But he stayed where he was, breathing too deep, like
he couldn't get enough oxygen.
"Phillip, are you all right?" It was a stupid question, but
I couldn't think of what else to say.
He nodded. Mr. Conversation.
"Do you want to leave?" I asked.
He looked at me then. "That's the second time you've offered
that. Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would you offer to let me out of my promise?"
I shrugged and rubbed my hands over my arms. "Because...
because you seem to be in some kind of pain. Because you're
a junkie trying to kick the habit, sort of, and I don't want to
screw that up for you."
"That's a very . . . decent thing to offer." He said decent
like he wasn't used to the word.
"Do you want to leave?"
"Yes," he said, "but we can't."
"You said that before. Why can't we?"
"I can't, Anita, I can't."
"Yes, you can. Who are you taking orders from, Phillip? Tell
me. What is going on?" I was standing nearly touching him,
spitting each word into his chest, looking up at his face. It is
always hard to be tough when you have to look up to see someone's
eyes. But I've been short all my life, and practice makes perfect.
His hand slid around my shoulders. I pushed away from him, and
his hands locked behind my back. "Phillip, stop it."
I had my hands flat on his chest to keep our bodies from
pressing together. His shirt was wet and cold. His heart was
hammering in his chest. I swallowed hard and said, "Your shirt's
wet."
He released me so suddenly, I stumbled back from him. He drew
the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Of course, he had a
lot of practice in undressing himself. It would have been such a
nice chest without the scars.
He took one step towards me. "Stop, right where you are," I
said. "What is this sudden change of mood?"
"I like you; isn't that enough?"
I shook my head. "No, it isn't."
He dropped the shirt to the floor. I watched it fall like it was
important. Two steps and he was beside me. Bathrooms are so small.
I did the only thing I could think of - I stepped into the bathtub.
Not very dignified in high heels, but I wasn't pressed up against
Phillip's chest. Anything was an improvement.
"Somebody is watching us," he said.
I turned, slowly, like a bad horror movie. Twilight hung against
the sheer drapes, and a face peered out of the coming dark. It was
Harvey, Mr. Leather. The windows were too high for him to be
standing on the ground. Was he standing on a box? Or maybe they had
little platforms at all the windows, so you could watch the
show.
I let Phillip help me out of the bathtub. I whispered, "Could he
hear us?"
Phillip shook his head. His arms slid around my back again. "We
are supposed to be lovers. Do you want Harvey to stop believing
that?"
"This is blackmail."
He smiled, dazzling, hold it in your hand and stroke it, sexy.
My stomach tightened. He bent down, and I didn't stop him. The kiss
was everything advertised, full soft lips, a press of skin, a
heated weight. His hands tightened across my bare back, fingers
kneading the muscles along the spine until I relaxed against
him.
He kissed the lobe of my ear, breath warm. Tongue flicked along
the edge of my jaw. His mouth found the pulse in my throat, his
tongue searching for it, as if he were melting through the skin.
Teeth scraped over the beating of my neck. Teeth clamped down,
tight, hurting.
I shoved him back, away. "Shit! You bit me."
His eyes were unfocused, dazed. A crimson drop stained his lower
lip.
I touched a hand to my neck and came away with blood. "Damn
you!"
He licked my blood off his mouth. "I think Harvey believes the
performance. Now you're marked. You've got the proof of what you
are and why you came." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I won't
have to touch you again tonight. I'll see that no one else does
either. I swear."
My neck was throbbing; a bite, a freaking bite! "Do you know how
many germs are in the human mouth?"
He smiled at me, still a little unfocused. "No," he said.
I shoved him out of the way and dabbed water on the cut. It
looked like what it was, human teeth. It wasn't a perfect set of
bite marks, but it was close. "Damn you."
"We need to go out so you can hunt for clues." He had picked his
shirt up from the floor and stood there, holding it at his side.
Bare tanned chest, leather pants, lips full like he'd been sucking
on something. Me. "You look like an ad for Rent A Gigolo," I
said.
He shrugged. "Ready to go out?"
I was still touching the wound. I tried to be angry and
couldn't. I was scared. Scared of Phillip and what he was, or
wasn't. I hadn't expected it. Was he right? Would I be safe for the
rest of the night? Or had he just wanted to see what I tasted
like?
He opened the door and waited for me. I went out. As we walked
back to the living room, I realized Phillip had distracted me from
my question. Who was he working for? I still didn't know.
It was damn embarrassing that every time he took his shirt off,
my brain went out to lunch. But no more; I had had my first and
last kiss from Phillip of the many scars. From now on I would
remain the tough-as-nails vampire slayer, not to be distracted by
rippling muscles or nice eyes.
My fingers touched the bite mark. It hurt. No more Ms. Nice Guy.
If Phillip came near me again, I was going to hurt him. Of course,
knowing Phillip, he'd probably enjoy it.
Chapter 27
Madge stopped us in the hall. Her hand started to go up to my
throat. I grabbed her wrist. "Touchy, touchy," she said. "Didn't
you like it? Don't tell me you've been with Phillip a month and he
hasn't tasted you before?"
She pulled down the silky bra to expose the upper mound of her
breast. There was a perfect set of bite marks in the pale flesh.
"It's Phillip's trademark, didn't you know?"
"No," I said. I pushed past her and started to turn into the
living room. A man I did not know fell at my feet. Crystal was on
top of him, pinning him to the floor. He looked young and a little
frightened. His eyes looked up past Crystal, to me. I thought he
was going to ask for help, but she kissed him, sloppy and deep,
like she was drinking him from the mouth down. His hands began to
lift the silk folds of her skirt. Her thighs were incredibly white,
like beached whales.
I turned abruptly and went for the door. My heels made an
important-sounding clack on the hardwood floor. If I hadn't known
better, I would have said it sounded like I was running. I was not
running. I was just walking very fast.
Phillip caught up with me at the door. His hand pressed flat
against it to keep me from opening it. I took a deep, steadying
breath. I would not lose my temper, not yet.
"I'm sorry, Anita, but it's better this way. You're safe now,
from the humans."
I looked up at him and shook my head. "You just don't get it. I
need some air, Phillip. I'm not leaving for the night, if that's
what you're afraid of."
"I'll go out with you."
"No. That would defeat the purpose, Phillip. Since you are one
of the things I want to get away from."
He stepped back then, hand at his side. His eyes shut down,
guarded, hiding. Why had that hurt his feelings? I didn't know,
and I didn't want to know.
I opened the door, and the heat fell around me like fur.
"It's dark," he said. "They'll be here soon. I can't help you if
I'm not with you."
I stepped close to him and said in a near whisper, "Let's be
honest, Phillip. I'm a whole lot better at protecting myself than
you are. The first vampire that crooks its finger will have you for
lunch."
His face started to crumble, and I didn't want to see it.
"Dammit, Phillip, pull yourself together." I walked out onto the
trellis-covered porch and resisted an urge to slam the door behind
me. That would have been childish. I was feeling a little childish
about now, but I'd save it. You never know when some childish rage
may come in handy.
The cicadas and crickets filled the night. There was a wind
pulling at the tops of the tall trees, but it never touched the
ground. The air down here was as stale and close as plastic.
The heat felt good after the air-conditioned house. It was real
and somehow cleansing. I touched the bite on my neck. I felt dirty,
used, abused, angry, pissed off. I wasn't going to find anything
out here. If someone or something was killing off vampires who did
the freak circuit, it didn't seem to be such a bad idea.
Of course, whether I sympathized with the murderer was not the
point. Nikolaos expected me to solve the crimes, and I damn well
better do it.
I took a deep breath of the stiff air and felt the first
stirrings of . . . power. It oozed through the trees like wind, but
the touch of it didn't cool the skin. The hair at the back of my
neck was trying to crawl down my spine. Whoever it was, they were
powerful. And they were trying to raise the dead.
Despite the heat, we'd had a lot of rain, and my heels sank into
the grass immediately. I ended up walking in a sort of tiptoe
crouch, trying not to flounder in the soft earth.
The ground was littered with acorns. It was like walking on
marbles. I fell against a tree trunk, catching myself painfully
against the shoulder Aubrey had bruised so nicely.
A sharp bleating, high and panic-stricken, sounded. It was
close. Was it a trick of the still air or was it really a goat
bleating? The cry ended in a wet gurgle of sound, thick and
bubbling. The trees ended, and the ground was clear and
moon-silvered.
I slipped off one shoe and tried the ground. Damp, cool, but not
too bad. I slipped off the other shoe, tucked them in one hand, and
ran.
The back yard was huge, stretching out into the silvered dark.
It spread empty, except for a wall of overgrown hedges, like small
trees in the distance. I ran for the hedges. The grave had to be
there; there was no other place for it to hide.
The actual ritual for raising the dead is a short one, as
rituals go. The power poured out into the night and into the grave.
It built in a slow, steady rise, a warm "magic." It tugged at my
stomach and brought me to the hedges. They towered up, black in the
moonlight, hopelessly overgrown. There was no way I was squeezing
through them.
A man cried out. Then a woman: "Where is it? Where is the zombie
you promised us?"
"It was too old!" The man's voice was thin with fear.
"You said chickens weren't enough, so we got you a goat to kill.
But no zombie. I thought you were good at this."
I found a gate in the opposite side of the hedges. Metal,
rusted, and crooked in its frame. It groaned, a metal scream, as I
pushed it open. More than a dozen pairs of eyes turned to me. Pale
faces, the utter stillness of the undead. Vampires. They stood
among the ancient grave markers of the small family cemetery,
waiting. Nothing waits as patiently as the dead.
One of the vampires nearest me was the black male from
Nikolaos's lair. My pulse quickened, and I did a quick scan of the
crowd. She wasn't here, Thank you, God.
The vampire smiled and said, "Did you come to watch . . .
animator?" Had he almost said, "Executioner"? Was it a secret?
Whatever, he motioned the others back and let me see the show.
Zachary lay on the ground. His shirt was damp with blood. You can't
slit anything's throat without getting a little messy. Theresa was
standing over him, hands on hips. She was dressed in black. The
only skin showing was a strip of flesh down the middle, pale and
almost luminous in the starlight. Theresa, Mistress of the
Dark.
Her eyes flicked to me, a moment, then back to the man. "Well,
Zach-a-ri, where is our zombie?"
He swallowed audibly. "It's too old. There isn't enough
left."
"Only a hundred years old, animator. Are you so weak?"
He looked down at the ground. His fingers dug into the soft
earth. He glanced up at me, then quickly down. I didn't know.
what he was trying to tell me with that one glance. Fear? For me to
run? A plea for help? What?
"What good is an animator who can't raise the dead?" Theresa
asked. She dropped to her knees, suddenly beside him, hands
touching his shoulders. Zachary flinched but didn't try to get
away.
A ripple of almost-movement ran through the other vampires. I
could feel the whole circle at my back tense. They were going to
kill him. The fact that he couldn't raise the zombie was just an
excuse, part of the game.
Theresa ripped his shirt down the back. It fluttered around his
lower arms, still tucked into his waist. A collective sigh ran
through the vampires.
There was a woven rope band around his right upper arm. Beads
were worked into it. It was a gris-gris, a voodoo charm, but it
wouldn't help him now. No matter what it was supposed to do, it
wouldn't be enough.
Theresa did a stage whisper. "Maybe you're just fresh meat?"
The vampires began to move in, silent as wind in the grass.
I couldn't just watch. He was a fellow animator and a human
being. I couldn't just let him die, not like this, not in front of
me. "Wait," I said.
No one seemed to hear me. The vampires moved in, and I was
losing sight of Zachary. If one bit him, the feeding frenzy would
be on. I had seen that happen once. I would never get rid of the
nightmares if I saw it again.
I raised my voice and hoped they listened. "Wait! Didn't he
belong to Nikolaos? Didn't he call Nikolaos master?"
They hesitated, then parted for Theresa to stride through them
until she faced me. "This is not your business." She stared at me,
and I didn't avoid her gaze. One less thing to worry about.
"I'm making it my business," I said.
"Do you wish to join him?"
The vampires began to spread out from Zachary to encircle me as
well. I let them. There wasn't much I could do about it anyway.
Either I'd get us both out alive or I'd die, too, maybe, probably.
Oh, well.
"I wish to speak with him, one professional to another," I
said.
"Why?" she asked.
I stepped close to her, almost touching. Her anger was nearly
palpable. I was making her look bad in front of the others, and I
knew it, and she knew I knew it. I whispered, though some of the
others would hear me, "Nikolaos gave orders for the man to die, but
she wants me alive, Theresa. What would she do to you if I
accidentally died here tonight?" I breathed the last words into her
face. "Do you want to spend eternity locked in a cross-wrapped
coffin?"
She snarled and jerked away from me as if I had scalded her.
"Damn you, mortal, damn you to hell!" Her black hair crackled
around her face, her hands gripped into claws. "Talk to him, for
what good it will do you. He must raise this zombie, this zombie,
or he is ours. So says Nikolaos."
"If he raises the zombie, then he goes free, unharmed?" I
asked.
"Yes, but he cannot do it; he isn't strong enough."
"Which was what Nikolaos was counting on," I said.
Theresa smiled, a fierce tug of lips exposing fangs. "Yesss."
She turned her back on me and strode through the other vampires.
They parted for her like frightened pigeons. And I was standing up
to her. Sometimes bravery and stupidity are almost
interchangeable.
I knelt by Zachary. "Are you hurt?"
He shook his head. "I appreciate the gesture, but they're going
to try to kill me tonight." He looked up at me, pale eyes searching
my face. "There isn't anything you can do to stop them." He gave a
thin smile. "Even you have your limits."
"We can raise this zombie if you'll trust me."
He frowned, then stared at me. I couldn't read his expression:
puzzlement and something else. "Why?"
What could I say, that I couldn't just watch him die? He had
watched a man be tortured and hadn't lifted a hand. I opted for the
short reason. "Because I can't let them have you, if I can stop
it."
"I don't understand you, Anita, I don't understand you at
all."
"That makes two of us. Can you stand?"
He nodded. "What are you planning?"
"We're going to share our talent."
His eyes widened. "Shit, you can act as a focus?"
"I've done it twice before." Twice before with the same
person. Twice before with someone who had trained me as an animator.
Never with a stranger.
His voice dropped to a bare whisper. "Are you sure you want to
do this?"
"Save you?" I asked.
"Share your power," he said.
Theresa strode over to us in a swish of cloth. "Enough of this,
animator. He can't do it, so he pays the price. Either leave now,
or join us at our . . . feast."
"Are you having rare Who-roast-beast?" I asked.
"What are you talking about?"
"It's from Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
You know the part, 'And they'd Feast! Feast! Feast! Feast! They
would feast on Who-pudding, and rare Who-roast-beast.' "
"You are crazy."
"So I've been told."
"Do you want to die?" she asked.
I stood up, very slowly, and felt something build in me. A
sureness, an absolute certainty that she was not a danger to me.
Stupid, but it was there, solid and real. "Someone may kill me
before all this is over, Theresa" - I stepped into her, and she gave
ground - "but it won't be you."
I could almost taste her pulse in my mouth. Was she afraid of
me? Was I going crazy? I had just stood up to a hundred-year-old
vampire, and she had backed down. I felt disoriented, almost dizzy,
as if reality had moved and no one had warned me.
Theresa turned her back on me, hands balled into fists. "Raise
the dead, animators, or by all the blood ever spilled, I'll kill
you both."
I think she meant it. I shook myself like a dog coming out of
deep water. I had a baker's dozen worth of vampires to pacify and a
one-hundred-year-old corpse to raise. I could only handle a zillion
problems at a time. A zillion and one was beyond me.
"Get up, Zachary," I said. "Time to go to work."
He stood. "I've never worked with a focus before. You'll have to
tell me what to do."
"No problem," I said.
Chapter 28
The goat lay on its side. The bare white of its spine glimmered
in the moonlight. Blood still seeped into the ground from the
gaping wound. Eyes were rolled and glazed, tongue lolling out of
its mouth.
The older the zombie, the bigger the death needed. I knew that,
and that was why I avoided older zombies when I could. At a hundred
years the corpse was just so much dust. Maybe a few bone fragments
if you were lucky. They reformed to rise from the grave. If you had
the power to do it.
Problem was, most animators couldn't raise the long-dead, a
century and over. I could. I just didn't want to. Bert and I had
had long discussions about my preferences. The older the zombie,
the more we can charge. This was at least a twenty-thousand-dollar
job. I doubted I'd get paid tonight, unless living 'til morning was
payment enough. Yeah, I guess it was. Here's to seeing another
dawn.
Zachary came to stand beside me. He had torn the remnants of his
shirt off. He stood thin and pale beside me. His face was all
shadows and white flesh, high cheekbones almost cavernous. "What
next?" he asked.
The goat carcass was inside the blood circle he had traced
earlier; good. "Bring everything we need into the circle."
He brought a long hunting knife and a pint jar full of pale
faintly luminous ointment. I preferred a machete myself, but the
knife was huge, with one jagged edge and a gleaming point. The
knife was clean and sharp. He took good care of his tools. Brownie
point for him.
"We can't kill the goat twice," he said. "What are we going to
use?"
"Us," I said.
"What are you talking about?"
"We'll cut ourselves; fresh, live blood, as much as we're
willing to give."
"The blood loss would leave you too weak to go on."
I shook my head. "We already have a blood circle, Zachary We're
just going to rewalk, not redraw it."
"I don't understand."
"I don't have time to explain metaphysics to you. Every injury
is a small death. We'll give the circle a lesser death, and
reactivate it."
He shook his head. "I still don't get it."
I took a deep breath, and then realized I couldn't explain it to
him. It was like trying to explain the mechanics of breathing. You
could break it down into steps, but that didn't tell you what it
felt like to breathe. "I'll show you what I mean." If he didn't
feel this part of the ritual, understand it without words, the rest
wouldn't work anyway.
I held out my hand for the knife. He hesitated, then handed it
to me, hilt first. The thing felt top-heavy, but then it wasn't
designed for throwing. I took a deep breath and pressed the blade
edge against my left arm, just below the cross burn. A quick down
stroke, and blood welled up, dark and dripping. It stung, sharp and
immediate. I let out the breath I'd been holding and handed the
knife to Zachary.
He was staring from me to the knife.
"Do it, right arm, so we'll mirror each other," I said.
He nodded and made a quick slash across his right upper arm. His
breath hissed, almost a gasp.
"Kneel with me." I knelt, and he followed me down, mirroring me
as I asked. A man who could follow directions; not bad.
I bent my left arm at the elbow and raised it so the fingertips
were head-high, elbow shoulder-high. He did the same. "We clasp
hands and press the cuts together."
He hesitated, immobile.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
He shook his head, two quick shakes, and his hand wrapped around
mine. His arm was longer than mine, but we managed.
His skin felt uncomfortably cool against mine. I glanced up at
his face, but I couldn't read it. I had no idea what he was
thinking. I took a deep, cleansing breath and began. "We give our
blood to the earth. Life for death, death for life. Raise the dead
to drink our blood. Let us feed them as they obey us."
His eyes did widen then; he understood. One hurdle down. I stood
and drew him with me. I led him along the blood circle. I could
feel it, like an electric current up my spine. I stared straight
into his eyes. They were almost silver in the moonlight. We walked
the circle and ended where we had begun, by the sacrifice.
We sat in the blood-soaked grass. I dabbed my right hand in the
still-oozing blood of the goat's wound. I was forced to kneel to
reach Zachary's face. I smeared blood over his forehead, down his
cheeks. Smooth skin, the rub of new beard. I left a dark handprint
over his heart.
The woven band was like a ring of darkness on his arm. I smeared
blood along the beads, fingertips finding the soft brush of
feathers worked into the string. The gris-gris needed blood, I
could feel that, but not goat blood. I shrugged it away. Time to
worry about Zachary's personal magic later.
He smeared blood on my face. Fingertips only, as if afraid to
touch me. I could feel his hand shake as he traced my cheek. The
blood was a cool wetness over my breast. Heart blood.
Zachary unscrewed the jar of homemade ointment. It was a pale
off-white color with flecks of greenish light in it. The glowing
flecks were graveyard mold.
I rubbed ointment over the blood smears. The skin soaked it
up.
He brushed the cream on my face. It felt waxy, thick. I could
smell the pine scent of rosemary for memory, cinnamon and cloves
for preservation, sage for wisdom, and some sharp herb, maybe
thyme, to bind it all together. There was too much cinnamon in it.
The night suddenly smelled like apple pie.
We went together to smear ointment and blood on the tombstone.
The name was only soft grooves in the marble. I traced them with my
fingertips. Estelle Hewitt. Born 18 something, died 1866. There had
been more writing below the date and name, but it was gone, beyond
reading. Who had she been? I had never raised a zombie that I knew
nothing about. It wasn't always a good idea, but then this whole
thing wasn't a good idea.
Zachary stood at the foot of the grave. I stayed by the
tombstone. It felt like an invisible cord was stretched between
Zachary and me. We started the chant together, no questions needed.
"Hear us, Estelle Hewitt. We call you from the grave. By blood,
magic, and steel, we call you. Arise, Estelle, come to us, come to
us."
His eyes met mine, and I felt a tug along the invisible line
that bound us. He was powerful. Why hadn't he been able to do it
alone?
"Estelle, Estelle, come to us. Waken, Estelle, arise and come to
us." We called her name in ever-rising voices.
The earth shuddered. The goat slid to one side as the ground
erupted, and a hand clutched for air. A second hand grabbed at
nothing, and the earth began to pour the dead woman out.
It was then, only then, that I realized what was wrong, why he
hadn't been able to raise her on his own. I now knew where I had
seen him before. I had been at his funeral. There were so few
animators that if anyone died, you went, period. Professional
courtesy. I had glimpsed that angular face, rouged and painted.
Somebody had done a bad job of making him up, I remembered thinking
that at the time.
The zombie had almost pulled itself from the grave. It sat
panting, legs still trapped in the ground.
Zachary and I stared at each other over the grave. All I could
do was stare at him like an idiot. He was dead, but not a zombie,
not anything I'd ever heard of. I would have bet my life he was
human, and I may have done just that.
The woven band on his arm. The spell that hadn't been satisfied
with goat's blood. What was he doing to stay "alive"?
I had heard rumors of gris-gris that could cheat death. Rumors,
legends, fairy tales. But then again, maybe not.
Estelle Hewitt may have been pretty once, but a hundred years in
the grave takes a lot out of a person. Her skin was an ugly greyish
white, waxy, nearly expressionless, fake-looking. White gloves hid
the hands, stained with grave dirt. The dress was white and
lace-covered. I was betting on wedding finery. Dear God.
Black hair clung to her head in a bun, wisps of it tracing her
nearly skeletal face. All the bones showed, as if the skin were
clay molded over a framework. Her eyes were wild, dark, showing too
much white. At least they hadn't dried out like shriveled grapes. I
hated that.
Estelle sat by her grave and tried to gather her thoughts. It
would take a while. Even the recently dead took a few minutes to
orient themselves. A hundred years was a damn long time to be
dead.
I walked around the grave, careful to stay within the circle.
Zachary watched me come without a word. He hadn't been able to
raise the corpse because he was a corpse. The recently dead he
could still handle, but not long-dead. The dead calling the dead
from the grave; there was something really wrong with that.
I stared up at him, watching him grip the knife. I knew his
secret. Did Nikolaos? Did anyone? Yes, whoever had made the
gris-gris knew, but who else? I squeezed the skin around the cut on
my arm. I reached bloody fingers towards the gris-gris.
He caught my wrist, eyes wide. His breathing had quickened. "Not
you."
"Then who?"
"People who won't be missed."
The zombie we had raised moved in a rustle of petticoats and
hoops. It began crawling towards us.
"I should have let them kill you," I said.
He smiled then. "Can you kill the dead?"
I jerked my wrist free. "I do it all the time."
The zombie was scrambling at my legs. It felt like sticks
digging at me. "Feed it yourself, you son of a bitch," I said.
He held his wrist down to it. The zombie grabbed for it, clumsy,
eager. It sniffed his skin but released him untouched. "I don't
think I can feed it, Anita."
Of course not; fresh, live blood was needed to close the ritual.
Zachary was dead. He didn't qualify anymore. But I did.
"Damn you, Zachary, damn you."
He just stared at me.
The zombie was making a mewling sound low in her throat. Dear
God. I offered her my bleeding left arm. Her stick-hands dug into my
skin. Her mouth fastened over the wound, sucking. I fought the urge
to jerk away. I had made the bargain, had chosen the ritual. I had
no choice. I stared at Zachary while the thing fed on my blood. Our
zombie, a joint venture. Dammit.
"How many people have you killed to keep yourself alive?" I
asked.
"You don't want to know."
"How many!"
"Enough," he said.
I tensed, raising my arm, nearly lifting the zombie to her feet.
She cried, a soft sound, like a newborn kitten. She released my arm
so suddenly, she fell backwards. Blood dripped down her bony chin.
Her teeth were stained with it. I couldn't look at it, any of
it.
Zachary said, "The circle is open. The zombie is yours."
For a minute I thought he was talking to me; then I remembered
the vampires. They had been huddled in the dark, so still and
unmoving I had forgotten them. I was the only live thing in the
whole damn place. I had to get out of there.
I picked up my shoes and walked out of the circle. The vampires
made way for me. Theresa stopped me, blocking my path. "Why did you
let it suck your blood? Zombies don't do that."
I shook my head. Why did I think it would be faster to explain
than to fight about it? "The ritual had already gone wrong. We
couldn't start over without another sacrifice. So I offered myself
as the sacrifice."
She stared. "Yourself?"
"It was the best I could do, Theresa. Now get out of my way." I
was tired and sick. I had to get out of there, now. Maybe she heard
it in my voice. Maybe she was too eager to get to the zombie to
mess with me. I don't know, but she moved aside. She was just gone,
like the wind had swept her away. Let them play their mind games. I
was going home.
There was a small scream from behind me. A short, strangled
sound, as if the voice wasn't used to talking. I kept walking. The
zombie screamed, human memories still there, enough for fear. I
heard a rich laugh, a faint echo of Jean-Claude's. Where are you,
Jean-Claude?
I glanced back once. The vampires were closing in. The zombie
was stumbling from one side to the other, trying to run. But there
was nowhere to go.
I stumbled through the crooked gate. A wind had finally come
down out of the trees. Another scream sounded from behind the
hedges. I ran, and I didn't look back.
Chapter 29
I slipped on the damp grass. Hose are not made for running in. I
sat there, breathing, trying not to think. I had raised a zombie to
save another human being, who wasn't a human being. Now the zombie
I had raised was being tortured by vampires. Shit. The night wasn't
even half-over. I whispered, "What next?"
A voice answered, light as music. "Greetings, animator. You seem
to be having a full night."
Nikolaos was standing in the shadows of the trees. Willie McCoy
was with her, a little to one side, not quite beside her, like a
bodyguard or a servant. I was betting on servant.
"You seem agitated. What ever is the matter?" Her voice rose in
a lilting sing-song. The dangerous little girl had returned.
"Zachary raised the zombie. You can't use that as an excuse to
kill him." I laughed then, and it sounded abrupt and harsh even to
me. He was already dead. I didn't think she knew. She couldn't read
minds, only force the truth from them. I bet Nikolaos had never
thought to ask, "Are you alive, Zachary, or a walking corpse?" I
laughed and couldn't seem to stop.
"Anita, you all right?" Willie's voice was like his voice had
always been.
I nodded, trying to catch my breath. "I'm fine."
"I do not see the humor in the situation, animator." The child
voice was slipping, like a mask sliding down. "You helped Zachary
raise the zombie." She made it sound like an accusation.
"Yes."
I heard movement over the grass. Willie's footsteps, and nothing
else. I glanced up and saw Nikolaos moving towards me, noiseless as
a cat. She was smiling, a cute, harmless, model, beautiful child.
No. Her face was a little long. The perfect child bride wasn't
perfect anymore. The closer she came, the more flaws
I could pick out. Was I seeing her the way she really looked?
Was I?
"You are staring at me, animator." She laughed, high and wild,
wind chimes in a storm. "As if you'd seen a ghost." She knelt,
smoothing her slacks over her knees, as if they were a skirt. "Have
you seen a ghost, animator? Have you seen something that frightened
you? Or is it something else?" Her face was only an arm's length
away.
I was holding my breath, fingers digging into the ground. Fear
washed over me like a cool second skin. The face was so pleasant,
smiling, encouraging. She really needed a dimple to go with it all.
My voice was hoarse, and I had to cough to clear it. "I raised the
zombie. I don't want it hurt."
"But it is only a zombie, animator. They have no real
minds."
I just stared at that thin, pleasant face, afraid to look away
from her, afraid to look at her. My chest was tight with the urge
to run. "It was a human being. I don't want it tortured."
"They won't hurt it much. My little vampires will be
disappointed. The dead cannot feed off the dead."
"Ghouls can. They feed off the dead."
"But what is a ghoul, animator? Is it truly dead?"
"Yes."
"Am I dead?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" She had a small scar near her upper lip. She
must have gotten it before she died.
"I'm sure," I said.
She laughed then, a sound to bring a smile to your face and a
song to your heart. My stomach jerked at the noise. I might never
enjoy Shirley Temple movies again.
"I don't think you are sure in the least." She stood, one smooth
motion. A thousand years of practice makes perfect.
"I want the zombie put back, now, tonight," I said.
"You are not in a position to want anything." The voice was
cold, very adult. Children didn't know how to strip skin with their
voice.
"I raised it. I don't want it tortured."
"Isn't that too bad?"
What else could I say? "Please."
She stared down at me. "Why is it so important to you?"
I didn't think I could explain it to her. "It just is."
"How important?" she asked.
"I don't know what you mean."
"What would you be willing to endure for your zombie?"
Fear settled into a cold lump in the pit of my gut. "I don't
know what you mean."
"Yes, you do," she said.
I stood then, not that it would help. I was actually taller than
she was. She was tiny, a delicate fairy of a child. Right. "What do
you want?"
"Don't do it, Anita." Willie was standing away from us, as if
afraid to come too close. He was smarter dead than he had been
alive.
"Quiet, Willie." Her voice was conversational when she said it,
no yelling, no threat. But Willie fell silent instantly, like a
well-trained dog.
Maybe she caught my look. Whatever, she said, "I had Willie
punished for failing to hire you that first time."
"Punished?"
"Surely, Phillip has told you about our methods?"
I nodded. "A cross-wrapped coffin."
She smiled, brilliant, cheery. The shadows leeched it into a
leer. "Willie was very afraid that I would leave him in there for
months, or even years."
"Vampires can't starve to death. I understand the principle." I
added silently in my head: You bitch. I can only be terrified so
long before I get angry. Anger feels better.
"You smell of fresh blood. Let me taste you, and I will see your
zombie safe."
"Does taste mean bite?" I asked.
She laughed, sweet, heartrending. Bitch. "Yes, human, it means
bite." She was suddenly beside me. I jerked back without thinking.
She laughed again. "It seems Phillip has beaten me to it."
For a minute I couldn't think what she meant; then my hand went
to the bite mark on my neck. I felt suddenly uneasy, like she'd
caught me naked.
The laugh floated on the summer air. It was really beginning to
get on my nerves.
"No tasting," I said.
"Then let me enter your mind again. That's a type of
feeding."
I shook my head, too rapid, too many times. I'd die before I'd
let her in my mind again. If I had the choice.
A scream sounded in the not so far distance. Estelle was finding
her voice. I winced like I'd been slapped.
"Let me taste your blood, animator. No teeth." She flashed fang
as she said the last. "You stand and make no move to stop me. I
will taste the fresh wound on your neck. I won't feed on you."
"It's not bleeding anymore. It's clotted."
She smiled, oh so sweetly. "I'll lick it clean."
I swallowed hard. I didn't know if I could do it. Another scream
sounded, high and lost. God.
Willie said, "Anita. . ."
"Silence, or risk my anger." Her voice growled low and dark.
Willie seemed to shrink in upon himself. His face was a white
triangle under his black hair.
"It's all right, Willie. Don't get hurt on my account," I
said.
He stared at me across the distance, a few yards; it might as
well have been miles. Only the lost look on his face helped. Poor
Willie. Poor me.
"What good is it going to do you if you're not feeding off me?"
I asked.
"No good at all." She reached a small, pale hand towards me. "Of
course, fear is a kind of substance." Cool fingers slid around my
wrist. I flinched but didn't pull back. I was going to let her do
this, wasn't I?
"Call it shadow feeding, human. Blood and fear are always
precious, no matter how one obtains them." She stepped up to me.
She exhaled against my skin, and I backed away. Only her hand on my
wrist kept me close.
"Wait. I want the zombie freed now, first."
She just stared at me, then nodded slowly. "Very well." She
stared past me, pale eyes seeing things that weren't there or that
I couldn't see. I felt a tension through her hand, almost a jerk of
electricity. "Theresa will chase them off and have the animator lay
the zombie to rest."
"You did all that, just then?"
"Theresa is mine to command; didn't you know that?"
"Yeah, I guessed that." I had not known that any vampire could
do telepathy. Of course, before last night I hadn't thought they
could fly either. Oh, I was just learning all sorts of new
things.
"How do I know you're not just telling me that?" I asked.
"You will just have to trust me."
Now that was almost funny. If she had a sense of humor, maybe we
could work something out. Naw.
She pulled my wrist closer to her body and me with it. Her hand
was like fleshy steel. I couldn't pry her hand off, not with
anything short of a blowtorch. And I was all out of
blowtorches.
The top of her head fitted under my chin. She had to rise on
tiptoe to breathe on my neck. It should have ruined the menace. It
didn't. Soft lips touched my neck. I jerked. She laughed against my
skin, face pressed against me. I shivered and couldn't stop.
"I promise to be gentle." She laughed again, and I fought an
urge to shove her away. I would have given almost anything to hit
her, just once, hard. But I didn't want to die tonight. Besides,
I'd made a deal.
"Poor darling, you're shaking." She laid a hand on my shoulder
to steady herself. She brushed lips along the hollow of my neck.
"Are you cold?"
"Cut the crap. Just do it!"
She stiffened against me. "Don't you want me to touch you?"
"No," I said. Was she crazy? Rhetorical question.
Her voice was very still. "Where is the scar on my face?"
I answered without thinking. "Near your mouth."
"And how," she hissed, "did you know that?"
My heart leaped into my throat. Oops. I had let her know her
mind tricks weren't working, and they should have been.
Her hand dug into my shoulder. I made a small sound, but I
didn't cry out. "What have you been doing, animator?"
I didn't have the faintest idea. Somehow, I doubted she'd
believe that.
"Leave her alone!" Phillip came half-running through the trees.
"You promised me you wouldn't hurt her tonight."
Nikolaos didn't even turn around. "Willie." Just his name, but
like all good servants he knew what was wanted.
He stepped in front of Phillip, one arm straight out from his
body. He was going to stiff-arm him. Phillip sidestepped the arm
brushing past.
Willie never had been much of a fighter. Strength wasn't enough
if you had shit for balance.
Nikolaos touched my chin and turned my face back to hers. "Do
not force me to hold your attention, animator. You wouldn't like
the methods I would choose."
I swallowed audibly. She was probably right. "You have my full
attention, honest." My voice came out as a hoarse whisper, fear
squeezing it down. If I coughed to clear it, I'd cough in her face.
Not a good idea.
I heard the rush of feet swishing through the grass. I fought
the urge to look up and away from the vampire.
Nikolaos spun from me to face the footsteps. I saw her move, but
it was still blurring speed. She was just suddenly facing the other
way. Phillip was standing in front of her. Willie caught up to him
and grabbed an arm, but didn't seem to know what to do with it.
Would it occur to Willie that he could just crush the man's arm?
I doubted it.
It had occurred to Nikolaos. "Release him. If he wants to keep
coming, let him." Her voice promised a great deal of pain.
Willie stepped back. Phillip just stood there, staring past her
at me. "Are you all right, Anita?"
"Go back inside, Phillip. I appreciate the concern, but I made a
bargain. She isn't going to bite me."
He shook his head. "You promised she wouldn't be harmed.
"You promised." He was talking to Nikolaos again, carefully not
looking directly at her.
"And so she shall not be harmed. I keep my word, Phillip, most
of the time."
"I'm all right, Phillip. Don't get hurt because of me," I
said.
His face crumbled with confusion. He didn't seem to know what to
do. His courage seemed to have spilled out on the grass.
But he didn't back off. Big point for him. I would have backed
off, maybe. Probably. Oh, hell, Phillip was being brave, and I
didn't want to see him die because of it.
"Just go back, Phillip, please!"
"No," Nikolaos said. "If the little man is feeling brave, let
him try."
Phillip's hands flexed, as if trying to grab on to
something.
Nikolaos was suddenly beside him. I hadn't seen her move.
Phillip still hadn't. He was staring where she had been. She kicked
his legs out from under him. He fell to the grass, blinking up at
her like she'd just appeared.
"Don't hurt him!" I said.
A pale little hand shot out, the barest touch. His whole body
jerked backwards. He rolled on one side, blood staining his
face.
"Nikolaos, please!" I said. I had actually taken two steps
towards her. Voluntarily. I could always try for my gun. It
wouldn't kill her, but it might give Phillip time to run away. If
he would run.
Screams sounded from the direction of the house. A man's voice
yelled, "Perverts!"
"What is it?" I asked.
Nikolaos answered, "The Church of Eternal Life has sent its
congregation." She sounded mildly amused. "I must leave this little
get-together." She whirled to me, leaving Phillip dazed on the
grass. "How did you see my scar?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Little liar. We will finish this later." And she was gone,
running like a pale shadow under the trees. At least she hadn't
flown away. I didn't think my wits could handle that tonight.
I knelt by Phillip. He was bleeding where she had hit him. "Can
you hear me?"
"Yes." He managed to sit up. "We have to get out of here. The
churchgoers are always armed."
I helped him to stand. "Do they invade the freak parties
often?"
"Whenever they can," he said.
He seemed steady on his feet. Good, I could never have carried
him far.
Willie said, "I know I don't have a right to ask, but I'll help
you get to your car." He wiped his hands down his pants. "Can I
catch a ride?"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Can't you just disappear like
the rest of them?"
He shrugged. "Don't know how yet."
"Oh, Willie." I sighed. "Come on, let's get out of here."
He grinned at me. Being able to look him in the eyes made him
seem almost human. Phillip didn't object to the vampire joining us.
Why had I thought he would?
There were screams from the house. "Somebody's gonna call the
cops," Willie said.
He was right. I'd never be able to explain it. I grabbed
Phillip's hand and steadied myself while I put the high heels back
on. "If I'd known we'd be running from crazed fanatics tonight, I'd
have worn lower heels," I said.
I kept a grip on Phillip's arm to steady myself through the
minefield of acorns. This was not the time to twist an ankle.
We were almost to the gravel drive when three figures spilled
out of the house. One held a club. The others were vampires. They
didn't need a weapon. I opened my purse and got my gun out, held
down at my side, hidden against my skirt. I gave Phillip the car
keys. "Start the car; I'll cover our backs."
"I don't know how to drive," he said.
I had forgotten. "Shit!"
"I'll do it." Willie took the keys, and I let him.
One of the vampires rushed us, arms wide, hissing. Maybe he
meant to scare us; maybe he meant to do us harm. I'd had enough for
one night. I clicked off the safety, chambered a round and fired
into the ground at his feet.
He hesitated, almost stumbled. "Bullets can't hurt me,
human."
There was more movement under the trees. I didn't know if it was
friend or foe, or if it made a hell of a lot of difference. The
vampire kept coming. It was a residential neighborhood. Bullets can
travel a great distance before they hit something. I couldn't take
the chance.
I raised my arm, aimed, and fired. The bullet took him in the
stomach. He jerked and sort of crumpled over the wound. His face
held astonishment.
"Silver-plated bullets, fang-face."
Willie went for the car. Phillip hesitated between helping me
and going.
"Go, Phillip, now."
The second vampire was trying to circle around. "Stop right
where you are," I said. The vampire froze. "Anybody makes a
threatening gesture, I'm going to put a bullet in their brain."
"It won't kill us," the second vampire said.
"No, but it won't do you a hell of a lot of good, either."
The human with the club inched forward. "Don't," I told him.
The car started. I didn't dare glance back at it. I stepped
backwards, hoping I wouldn't trip in the damn high heels. If I
fell, they'd rush me. If they rushed me, somebody was going to
die.
"Come on, Anita, get in." It was Phillip, leaning out of the
passenger side door.
"Scoot over." He did, and I slid into the seat. The human rushed
us. "Drive, now!"
Willie spun gravel, and I slammed the door shut. I really didn't
want to kill anyone tonight. The human was shielding his face from
the gravel as we rushed down the driveway.
The car bounced wildly, nearly colliding with a tree. "Slow
down; we're safe," I said.
Willie eased back on the gas. He grinned at me. "We made
it."
"Yeah." I smiled back at him, but I wasn't so sure.
Blood was dripping down Phillip's face in a nice steady flow. He
voiced my thoughts. "Safe, but for how long?" He sounded as tired
as I felt.
I patted his arm. "Everything will be all right, Phillip."
He looked at me. His face seemed older than it had, tired. "You
don't believe that any more than I do."
What could I say? He was right.
Chapter 30
I clicked on the safety of my gun and struggled into a seat
belt. Phillip slumped down into the seat, long legs spreadeagled on
either side of the floorboard hump. His eyes were closed.
"Where to?" Willie asked.
Good question. I wanted to go home and go to sleep, but . . .
"Phillip's face needs patching up."
"You wanna take him to a hospital?"
"I'm all right," Phillip said. His voice was low and
strange.
"You aren't all right," I said.
He opened his eyes and turned to look at me. The blood had run
down his neck, a dark, glistening stream that shone in the flashes
of the streetlights. "You were hurt a lot worse last night," he said.
I looked away from him, out the window. I didn't know what to
say. "I'm all right now."
"I'll be all right, too."
I looked back at him. He was staring at me. I couldn't read the
expression on his face, and wanted to. "What are you thinking,
Phillip?"
He turned his head to stare straight ahead. His face was all
silhouette and shadows. "That I stood up to the master. I did it. I
did it!" His voice held a fierce warmth with the last. Fierce
pride.
"You were very brave," I said.
"I was, wasn't I?"
I smiled and nodded. "Yes."
"I hate to interrupt you two, but I need to know where to drive
this thing," Willie said.
"Drop me back at Guilty Pleasures," Phillip said.
"You should see a doc."
"They'll take care of me at the club."
"Ya sure?"
He nodded, then winced and turned to me. "You wanted to know who
was giving me orders. It was Nikolaos. You were right. That first
day. She wanted me to seduce you." He smiled. It didn't look right
with the blood. "Guess I wasn't up to the job."
"Phillip. . ." I said.
"No, its all right. You were right about me. I'm sick. No wonder
you didn't want me."
I glanced over at Willie. He was concentrating on his driving as
if his life depended on it. Damn, he was smarter dead than
alive.
I took a deep breath and tried to decide what to say. "Phillip .
. . The kiss before you . . . bit me." God, how did I say this? "It
was nice."
He glanced at me, quick, then away. "You mean that?"
"Yes."
An awkward silence stretched through the car. No sound but the
rush of pavement under the wheels. The night flashes of lights, and
the isolating darkness.
"Standing up to Nikolaos tonight was one of the bravest things
I've ever seen anybody do. Also one of the stupidest," I said.
He laughed, abrupt and surprised.
"Don't ever do it again. I don't want your death on my
hands."
"It was my choice," he said.
"No more heroics, okay?"
He glanced at me. "Would you be sorry if I died?"
"Yes."
"I guess that's something."
What did he want me to say? To confess undying love, or
something silly like that? How about undying lust? Either one would
be a lie. What did he want from me? I almost asked him, but I
didn't. I wasn't that brave.
Chapter 31
It was nearly three by the time I walked up the stairs to my
apartment. All the bruises were aching. My knees, feet, and lower
back were a nearly burning grind of pain from the high heels. I
wanted a long, hot shower and bed. Maybe if I were lucky I could
actually get eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Of course, I
wouldn't bet on it.
I got my keys in one hand and gun in the other. I held the gun
at my side, just in case a neighbor should open his or her door
unexpectedly. Nothing to fear, folks, just your friendly
neighborhood animator. Right.
For the first time in far too long my door was just the way I
left it: locked. Thank you, God. I was not in the mood to play cops
and robbers this very early morning.
I kicked off my shoes just inside the door, then stumbled to the
bedroom. The message light was blinking on my answering machine. I
laid my gun on the bed, hit the play button, and started
undressing.
"Hi, Anita, this is Ronnie. I got a meeting set up for tomorrow
with the guy from HAV. My office, eleven o'clock. If the time is
bad, leave a message on my machine, and I'll get back to you. Be
careful."
Click, whirr, and Edward's voice came out of the machine. "The
clock is ticking, Anita." Click.
Damn. "You like your little games, don't you, you son of a
bitch?" I was getting grumpy, and I didn't know what I was going to
do about Edward. Or Nikolaos, or Zachary, or Valentine, or Aubrey.
I did know I wanted a shower. I could start there. Maybe I'd have a
brilliant idea while I was scrubbing goat blood off my skin.
I locked the door to the bathroom and laid my gun on the top of
the toilet. I was beginning to get a little paranoid. Or maybe
realistic was a better word.
I turned the water on until it steamed, then stepped into it. I
was no closer to solving the vampire murders now than I had been
twenty-four hours ago.
Even if I solved the case, I still had problems. Aubrey and
Valentine were going to kill me once Nikolaos removed her
protection from me. Peachy. I wasn't even sure that Nikolaos
herself didn't have ideas in that direction. Now, Zachary, he was
killing people to feed his voodoo charm. I had heard of charms that
demanded human sacrifice. Charms that gave you a whole lot less
than immortality. Wealth, power, sex - the age-old wants. It was very
specific blood - children, or virgins, or preadolescent boys, or
little old ladies with blue hair and one wooden leg. All right, not
that specific, but there had to be a pattern to it. A string of
disappearances with similar victims. If Zachary had been simply
leaving the bodies to be found, the newspapers would have picked up
on it by now. Maybe.
He had to be stopped. If I hadn't interfered tonight, he would
have been stopped. No good deed goes unpunished.
I leaned palms against the bathroom tile, letting the water wash
down my back in nearly scalding rivulets. Okay, I had to kill
Valentine before he killed me. I had a warrant for his death. It
had never been revoked. Of course, I had to find him first.
Aubrey was dangerous, but at least he was out of the way until
Nikolaos let him out of his trapped coffin.
I could just turn Zachary over to the police. Dolph would listen
to me, but I didn't have a shred of proof. Hell, the magic was even
something I'd never heard of. If I couldn't understand what Zachary
was, how was I going to explain it to the police?
Nikolaos. Would she let me live if I solved the case? Or not? I
didn't know.
Edward was coming to get me tomorrow evening. I either gave him
Nikolaos or he took a piece of my hide. Knowing Edward, it would be
a painful piece to lose. Maybe I could just give him the vampire.
Just tell him what he wanted to know. And he fails to kill her, and
she comes and gets me. The one thing I wanted to avoid, almost more
than anything else, was Nikolaos coming to get me.
I dried off, ran a brush through my hair, and had to get
something to eat. I tried to tell myself I was too tired to eat. My
stomach didn't believe me.
It was four before I fell into bed. My cross was safely
around my neck. The gun in its holster behind the head board. And, just
for pure panic's sake, I slipped a knife between the mattress and
box springs. I'd never get to it in time to do any good, but . . .
Well, you never know.
I dreamed about Jean-Claude again. He was sitting at a table
eating blackberries.
"Vampires don't eat solid food," I said.
"Exactly." He smiled and pushed the bowl of fruit towards
me.
"I hate blackberries," I said.
"They were always my favorite. I hadn't tasted them in
centuries." His face looked wistful.
I picked up the bowl. It was cool, almost cold. The blackberries
were floating in blood. The bowl fell from my hands, slow, spilling
blood on the table, more than it could ever have held. Blood
dripped down the tabletop, onto the floor.
Jean-Claude stared at me over the bleeding table. His words came
like a warm wind. "Nikolaos will kill us both. We must strike
first, ma petite."
"What's this 'we' crap?"
He cupped pale hands in the flowing blood and held them out to
me, like a cup. Blood dripped out from between his fingers. "Drink.
It will make you strong."
I woke staring up into the darkness. "Damn you, Jean-Claude," I
whispered. "What have you done to me?"
There was no answer from the dark, empty room. Thank goodness
for small favors. The clock read six-oh-three a.m. I rolled over
and snuggled back into the covers. The whir of air conditioning
couldn't hide the sounds of one of my neighbors running water. I
switched on the radio. Mozart's piano concerto in E flat filled the
darkened room. It was really too lively to sleep to, but I wanted
noise. My choice of noise.
I don't know if it was Mozart or I was just too tired; whatever,
I went back to sleep. If I dreamed, I didn't remember it.
Chapter 32
The alarm shrieked through my sleep. It sounded like a car
alarm, hideously loud. I smashed my palm on the buttons.
Mercifully, it shut off. I blinked at the clock through half-slit
eyes. Nine a.m. Damn. I had forgotten to unset the alarm. I had
time to get dressed and make church. I did not want to get up. I
did not want to go to church. Surely, God would forgive me just
this once.
Of course, I did need all the help I could get right now. Maybe
I'd even have a revelation, and everything would fall into place.
Don't laugh; it had happened before. Divine aid is not something I
rely on, but every once in a while I think better at church.
When the world is full of vampires and bad guys, and a blessed
cross may be all that stands between you and death, it puts church
in a different light. So to speak.
I crawled out of bed, groaning. The phone rang. I sat on the
edge of the bed, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. It
did. "Anita, this is Sergeant Storr. We got another vampire
murder."
I picked up the receiver. "Hi, Dolph."
"Good. Glad I caught you before church."
"Is it another dead vampire?"
"Mmhuh."
"Just like the others?" I asked.
"Seems to be. Need you to come down and take a look."
I nodded, realized he couldn't see it, and said, "Sure,
when?"
"Right now."
I sighed. So much for church. They couldn't hold the body until
noon, or after, just for little ol' me. "Give me the location. Wait,
let me get a pen that works." I kept a notepad by the bed, but the
pen had died without my knowing it. "Okay, shoot."
The location was only about a block from Circus of the Damned.
"That's on the fringe of the District. None of the other
murders have been that far away from the Riverfront."
"True," he said.
"What else is different about this one?"
"You'll see it when you get here."
Mr. Information. "Fine, I'll be there in half an hour."
"See you then." The phone went dead.
"Well, good morning to you to, Dolph," I said to the receiver.
Maybe he wasn't a morning person either.
My hands were healing. I had taken the Band-Aids off last night
because they were covered with goat blood. The scrapes were
scabbing nicely, so I didn't bother with more Band-Aids.
One fat bandage covered the knife wound on my arm. I couldn't
hurt my left arm anymore. I had run out of room. The bite mark on
my neck was beginning to bruise. It looked like the world's worst
hicky. If Zerbrowski saw it, I would never live it down. I put a
Band-Aid on it. Now it looked like I was covering a vampire bite.
Damn. I left it. Let people wonder. None of their business
anyway.
I put a red polo shirt on, tucked into jeans. My Nikes, and a
shoulder harness for my gun, and I was all set. My shoulder rig has
a little pouch for extra ammo. I put fresh clips in it. Twenty-six
bullets. Watch out, bad guys. Truth was, most firefights were
finished before the first eight shots were gone. But there was
always a first time.
I carried a bright yellow windbreaker over my arm. I'd put it on
just in case the gun started making people nervous. I would be
working with the police. They'd have their guns out in plain sight.
Why couldn't I? Besides, I was tired of games. Let the bastards
know I was armed and willing.
There are always too many people at a murder scene. Not the
gawkers, the people who come to watch; you expect that. There is
always something fascinating about someone else's death. But the
place always swarms with police, mostly detectives with a
sprinkling of uniforms. So many cops for one little murder.
There was even a news van, with a huge satellite antenna
sticking out of its back like a giant ray gun from some 1940s
science fiction movie. There would be more news vans, I was betting
on that. I don't know how the police kept it quiet this long.
Vampire murders, gee whiz, sensationalism at its best. You don't
even have to add anything to make it bizarre.
I kept the crowd between myself and the cameraman. A reporter
with short blond hair and a stylish business suit was shoving a
microphone in Dolph's face. As long as I stayed near the gruesome
remains, I was safe. They might get me on film, but they wouldn't
be able to show it on television. Good taste and all, you know.
I had a little plastic-enclosed card, complete with picture,
that gave me access to police areas. I always felt like a junior
G-man when I clipped it to my collar.
I was stopped at the yellow police banner by a vigilant uniform.
He stared at my I. D. for several seconds, as if trying to decide
whether I was kosher or not. Would he let me through the line, or
would he call a detective over first?
I stood, hands at my sides, trying to look harmless. I'm
actually very good at that. I can look downright cute. The uniform
raised the tape and let me through. I resisted an urge to say,
"Atta boy." I did say, "Thank you."
The body lay near a lamp pole. Legs were spreadeagled. One arm
twisted under the body, probably broken. The center of the back was
missing, as if someone had shoved a hand through the body and just
scooped out the center. The heart would be gone, just like all the
others.
Detective Clive Perry was standing by the body. He was a tall,
slender, black man, and most recent member of the spook squad. He
always seemed so soft-spoken and pleasant. I could never imagine
Perry doing anything rude enough to piss someone off, but you
didn't get assigned to the squad without a reason.
He looked up from his notebook. "Hi, Ms. Blake."
"Hello, Detective Perry."
He smiled. "Sergeant Storr said you'd be coming down."
"Is everyone else finished with the body?"
He nodded. "It's all yours."
A dark brown puddle of blood spread out from under the body. I
knelt beside it. The blood had congealed to a tacky, gluelike
consistency. Rigor mortis had come and gone, if there had been
rigor mortis. Vampires didn't always react to "death" the way a
human body did. It made judging the time of death harder. But that
was the coroner's job, not mine.
The bright summer sun pressed down over the body. From the shape
and the black pants suit, I was betting it was female. It was sort
of hard to tell, lying on its stomach, chest caved in, and the
head missing. The spine showed white and glistening. Blood had
poured out of the neck like a broken bottle of red wine. The skin
was torn, twisted. It looked like somebody had ripped the freaking
head off.
I swallowed very hard. I hadn't thrown up on a murder victim in
months. I stood up and put a little distance between myself and the
body.
Could this have been done by a human being? No; maybe. Hell. If
it was a human being, then they were trying very hard to make it
look otherwise. No matter what a surface look revealed, the coroner
always found knife marks on the body. The question was, did the
knife marks come before or after death? Was it a human trying to
look like a monster, or a monster trying to look like a human?
"Where's the head?" I asked.
"You sure you feel all right?"
I looked up at him. Did I look pale? "I'll be fine." Me, big,
tough vampire slayer, no throw up at the sight of decapitated
heads. Right.
Perry raised his eyebrows but was too polite to push the issue.
He led me about eight feet down the sidewalk. Someone had thrown a
plastic cover over the head. A second smaller pool of congealing
blood oozed out from under the plastic.
Perry bent over and grasped the plastic. "You ready?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He lifted the plastic, like a
curtain backdrop to what lay on the sidewalk.
Long, black hair flowed around a pale face. The hair was matted
and sticky with blood. The face had been attractive but no more.
The features were slack, almost doll-like in their unreality. My
eyes saw it, but it took my brain a few seconds to register.
"Shit!"
"What is it?"
I stood up, fast, and took two steps out into the street. Perry
came to stand beside me. "Are you all right?"
I glanced back at the plastic with its grisly little lump. Was I
all right? Good question. I could identify this body.
It was Theresa.
Chapter 33
I arrived at Ronnie's office a few minutes before eleven. I
paused with my hand on the doorknob. I couldn't shake the image of
Theresa's head on the sidewalk. She had been cruel and had probably
killed hundreds of humans. Why did I feel pity for her? Stupidity,
I suppose. I took a deep breath and pushed the door inward.
Ronnie's office is full of windows. Light glares in from two
sides, south and west. Which means in the afternoon the room is
like a solar heater. No amount of air conditioning is going to
overcome that much sunshine.
You can see the District from Ronnie's sunshiny windows. If you
care to look.
Ronnie waved me through the door into the almost blinding glare
of her office.
A delicate-looking woman was sitting in a chair across from the
desk. She was Asian with shiny, black hair styled carefully back
from her face. A royal purple jacket, which matched her tailored
skirt, was folded neatly on the chair arm. A shiny, lavender blouse
brought attention to the up-tilted eyes and the faint lavender
shading on the lids and brow. Her ankles were crossed, hands folded
in her lap. She looked cool in her lavender blouse, even in the
sweltering sunshine.
It caught me off guard for a minute, seeing her like that, after
all these years. Finally, I closed my gaping mouth and walked
forward, hand extended. "Beverly, it has been a long time."
She stood neatly and put a cool hand in mine. "Three years."
Precise, that was Beverly all over.
"You two know each other?" Ronnie asked.
I turned back to her. "Bev didn't mention that she knew me?"
Ronnie shook her head.
I stared at the new woman. "Why didn't you mention it to
Ronnie?"
"I did not think it necessary." Bev had to raise her chin to
look me in the eye. Not many people have to do that. It's rare
enough that I always find it an odd sensation, as if I should stoop
down so we can be at eye level.
"Is someone going to tell me where you two know each other
from?" Ronnie asked.
Ronnie moved past us to sit behind her desk. She tilted the
chair slightly back on its swivel, crossed hands over stomach, and
waited. Her pure grey eyes, soft as kitten fur, stared at me.
"Do you mind if I tell her, Bev?"
Bev had sat down again, smooth and ladylike. She had real
dignity and had always impressed me as being a lady, in the best
sense of the word. "If you feel it necessary, I do not object," she
said.
Not exactly a rousing go-ahead, but it would do. I flopped down
in the other chair, very aware of my jeans and jogging shoes.
Beside Bev I looked like an ill-dressed child. For just a moment I
felt it; then it was gone. Remember, no one can make you feel
inferior without your consent. Eleanor Roosevelt said that. It is a
quote I try to live by. Most of the time I succeed.
"Bev's family were the victims of a vampire pack. Only Beverly
survived. I was one of the people who helped destroy the vampires."
Brief, to the point, a hell of a lot left out. Mostly the painful
parts.
Bev spoke in that quiet, precise voice of hers. "What Anita has
left out is that she saved my life at risk of her own." She glanced
down at her hands where they lay in her lap.
I remembered my first glimpse of Beverly Chin. One pale leg
thrashing against the floor. The flash of fangs as the vampire
reared to strike. A glimpse of pale, screaming face, and dark hair.
The pure terror as she screamed. My hand throwing a silver-bladed
knife and hitting the vampire's shoulder. Not a killing blow; there
had been no time. The creature had sprang to its feet, roaring at
me. I stood facing the thing with the last knife I had, gun long
since emptied, alone.
And I remembered Beverly Chin beating the vampire's head in with
a silver candlestick, while he crouched over me, breath warm on my
neck. Her shrieks echoed through my dreams for weeks, as she beat
the thing's head to pieces until blood and brain seeped out onto
the floor.
All that passed between us without words. We had saved each
other's lives; it is a bond that sticks with you. Friendships may
fade, but there is always that obligation, that knowledge forged of
terror and blood and shared violence, that never really leaves. It
was there between us after three long years, straining and
touchable.
Ronnie is a smart lady. She caught on to the awkward silence.
"Would anybody like a drink?"
"Nonalcoholic," Bev and I said together. We laughed at each
other, and the strain faded. We would never be true friends, but
perhaps we could stop being ghosts to each other.
Ronnie brought us two diet Cokes. I made a face but took it
anyway. I knew that was all she had in the office's little fridge.
We had had discussions about diet drinks, but she swore she liked
the taste. Liked the taste, garg!
Bev took hers graciously; perhaps that was what she drank at
home. Give me something fattening with a little taste to it any
day.
"Ronnie mentioned on the phone that there might be a death squad
attached to HAV. Is that true?" I said.
Bev stared down at the can, which she held with one hand cupped
underneath so it wouldn't stain her skirt. "I do not know
positively that it is true, but I believe it to be."
"Tell me what you've heard?" I asked.
"There was talk for a while of forming a squad to hunt the
vampires. To kill them as they have killed our . . . families. The
president of course vetoed the idea. We work within the system. We
are not vigilantes." She said it almost as a question, as if trying
to convince herself more than us. She was shaken by what might have
happened. Her neat little world collapsing again.
"But lately I have heard talk. People in our organization
bragging of slaying vampires."
"How were they supposedly killed?" I asked.
She looked at me, hesitated. "I do not know."
"No hint?"
She shook her head. "I believe I could find out for you. Is it
important?"
"The police have hidden certain details from the general public.
Things only the murderer would know."
"I see." She glanced down at the can in her hands, then up at
me. "I do not believe it is murder even if my people have done
what the papers say. Killing dangerous animals should not be a
crime."
In part I agreed with her. Once I had agreed with her
wholeheartedly. "Then why tell us?" I asked.
She looked directly at me, dark, nearly black eyes staring into
my face. "I owe you."
"You saved my life as well. You owe me nothing."
"There will always be a debt between us, always."
I looked into her face and understood. Bev had begged me not to
tell anyone that she had beaten the vampire's head in. I think it
horrified her that she was capable of such violence, regardless of
motive.
I had told the police that she distracted the vampire so I could
kill it. She had been disproportionately grateful for that small
white lie. Maybe if no one else knew, she could pretend it had
never happened. Maybe.
She stood, smoothing her skirt down in back. She sat her soda
can carefully on the edge of the desk. "I will leave a message with
Ms. Sims when I find out more."
I nodded. "I appreciate what you're doing." She might be
betraying her cause for me.
She laid her purple jacket over her arm, small purse clasped in
her hands. "Violence is not the answer. We must work within the
system. Humans Against Vampires stands for law and order, not
vigilantism." It sounded like a prerecorded speech. But I let it
go. Everyone needs something to believe in.
She shook hands with both of us. Her hand was cool and dry. She
left, slender shoulders very straight. The door closed firmly but
quietly behind her. To look at her you would never know that she
had been touched by extreme violence. Maybe that's the way she
wanted it. Who was I to argue?
Ronnie said, "Okay, now you fill me in. What have you found
out?"
"How do you know I've found out anything?" I asked.
"Because you looked a little green around the gills when you
came through the door."
"Great. And I thought I was hiding it."
She patted my arm. "Don't worry. I just know you too well,
that's all."
I nodded, taking the explanation for what it was, comforting
crap. But I took it anyway. I told her about Theresa's death. I
told her everything, except the dreams with Jean-Claude in them.
That was private.
She let out a low whistle. "Damn, you have been busy. Do you
think a human death squad is doing it?"
"You mean HAV?"
She nodded.
I took a deep breath and let it out. "I don't know. If it's
humans, I don't have the faintest idea how they're doing it. It
would take superhuman strength to rip a head off."
"A very strong human?" she asked.
The image of Winter's bulging arms flashed into my mind. "Maybe,
but that kind of strength. . ."
"Under pressure, little old grannies have lifted entire
cars."
She had a point. "How would you like to visit the Church of
Eternal Life?" I asked.
"Thinking about joining up?"
I frowned at her.
She laughed. "Okay, okay, stop glowering at me. Why are we
going?"
"Last night they raided the party with clubs. I'm not saying
they meant to kill anyone, but when you start beating on people" - I
shrugged - "accidents happen."
"You think the Church is behind it?"
"Don't know, but if they hate the freaks enough to storm their
parties, maybe they hate them enough to kill them."
"Most of the Church's members are vampires," she said.
"Exactly. Superhuman strength and the ability to get close to
the victims."
Ronnie smiled. "Not bad, Blake, not bad."
I bowed my head modestly. "Now all we got to do is prove
it."
Her eyes were still shiny with humor when she said, "Unless of
course they didn't do it."
"Oh, shut up. It's a place to start."
She spread her hands wide. "Hey, I'm not complaining. My father
always told me, 'Never criticize, unless you can do a better job.'
"
"You don't know what's going on either, huh?" I asked.
Her face sobered. "Wish I did."
So did I.
Chapter 34
The Church of Eternal Life, main building, is just off Page
Avenue, far from the District. The Church doesn't like to be
associated with the riffraff. Vampire strip club, Circus of the
Damned, tsk-tsk. How shocking. No, they think of themselves as
mainstream undead.
The church itself is set in an expanse of naked ground. Small
trees struggled to grow into big trees and shade the startling
white of the church. It seemed to glow in the hot July sunshine,
like a land-bound moon.
I pulled into the parking lot and parked on the shiny new black
asphalt. Only the ground looked normal, bare reddish earth churned
to mud. The grass had never had a chance.
"Pretty," Ronnie said. She nodded in the building's
direction.
I shrugged. "If you say so. Frankly, I never get used to the
generic effect."
"Generic effect?" she asked.
"The stained glass is all abstract color. No scenes of Christ,
no saints, no holy symbols. Clean and pure as a wedding gown fresh
out of plastic."
She got out of the car, sunglasses sliding into place. She
stared at the church, arms crossed over her stomach. "It looks like
they just unwrapped it and haven't put the trimmings on yet."
"Yeah, a church without God. What is wrong with this
picture?"
She didn't laugh. "Will anybody be up this time of day?"
"Oh, yes, they recruit during the day."
"Recruit?"
"You know, go door to door, like the Mormons and the Jehovah's
Witnesses."
She stared at me. "You've got to be kidding?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
She shook her head. "Door-to-door vampires. How" - she wiggled her
hands back and forth - "convenient."
"Yep," I said. "Let's go see who's minding the office."
Broad white steps led up to huge double doors. One of the doors
was open; the other had a sign that read, "Enter Friend and be at
Peace." I fought an urge to tear down the sign and stomp on it.
They were preying on one of the most basic fears of man - death.
Everyone fears death. People who don't believe in God have a hard
time with death being it. Die and you cease to exist. Poof. But at
the Church of Eternal Life, they promise just what the name says.
And they can prove it. No leap of faith. No waiting around. No
questions left unanswered. How does it feel to be dead? Just ask a
fellow church member.
Oh, and you'll never grow old either. No face-lifts, no tummy
tucks, just eternal youth. Not a bad deal, as long as you don't
believe in the soul.
As long as you don't believe the soul becomes trapped in the
vampire's body and can never reach Heaven. Or worse yet, that
vampires are inherently evil and you are condemned to Hell. The
Catholic Church sees voluntary vampirism as a kind of suicide. I
tend to agree. Though the Pope also excommunicated all animators,
unless we ceased raising the dead. Fine; I became Episcopalian.
Polished wooden pews ran in two wide rows up towards what would
have been an altar. There was a pulpit, but I couldn't call it an
altar. It was just a blank blue wall surrounded by more white
upsweeping walls.
The windows were red and blue stained glass. The sunlight
sparkled through them, making delicate colored patterns on the
white floor.
"Peaceful," Ronnie said.
"So are graveyards."
She smiled at me. "I'd thought you'd say that."
I frowned at her. "No teasing; we're here on business."
"What exactly do you want me to do?"
"Just back me up; look menacing if you can manage it. Look for
clues."
"Clues?" she asked.
"Yeah, you know, clues, ticket stubs, half-burned notes,
leads."
"Oh, those."
"Quit grinning at me, Ronnie."
She adjusted her sunglasses and did her best "cold" look. She's
pretty good at it. Thugs have been known to shrivel at twenty
paces. We would see how it worked on church members.
There was a small door to one side of the "altar." It led into a
carpeted hallway. The air-conditioned hush enveloped us. There were
bathrooms to the left, and an open room to the right. Perhaps this
is where they had . . . coffee after services. No, probably not
coffee. A rousing sermon followed by a little blood, perhaps?
The offices were marked with a little sign that said "Office."
How clever. There was an outer office, the proverbial secretarial
desk and etc.... A young man sat behind the desk. Slender, short
brown hair carefully cut. Wire-frame glasses decorated a pair of
really lovely brown eyes. There was a healing bite mark on his
throat.
He rose and came around the desk, hand extended, smiling at us.
"Greetings, friends, I'm Bruce. How may I help you today?"
The handshake was firm but not too firm, strong but not
overbearing, a friendly lingering touch, but not sexual. Really
good car salesmen shake hands like that. Real estate brokers, too.
I have this nice little soul, hardly used at all. The price is
right. Trust me. If his big brown eyes had looked any more sincere,
I would have given him a doggie biscuit and patted his head.
"I would like to set up an appointment to speak with Malcolm," I
said.
He blinked once. "Have a seat."
I sat. Ronnie leaned against the wall, to one side of the door.
Hands folded, looking cool and bodyguardish.
Bruce went back around his desk, after offering us coffee, and
sat with folded hands. "Now, Miss. . ."
"Ms. Blake."
He didn't flinch; he hadn't heard of me. How fleeting fame. "Ms.
Blake, why do you wish to meet with the head of our church? We have
many competent and understanding counselors that will help you make
your decision."
I smiled at him. I'll just bet you do, you little pipsqueak. "I
think Malcolm will want to speak with me. I have information about
the vampire murders."
His smile slipped. "If you have such information, then go to the
police."
"Even if I have proof that certain members of your church are
doing the murders?" A small bluff, otherwise known as a lie.
He swallowed, fingers pressing the top of his desk until the
fingertips turned white. "I don't understand. I mean . . ."
I smiled at him. "Let's just face it, Bruce. You are not
equipped to handle murder. It isn't in your training, now is
it?"
"Well, no, but . . ."
"Then just give me a time to come back tonight and see
Malcolm."
"I don't know. I . . ."
"Don't worry about it. Malcolm is the head of the church. He'll
take care of it."
He was nodding, too rapidly. His eyes flicked to Ronnie, then
back to me. He flipped through a leatherbound day planner on his
desk. "Nine, tonight." He picked up a pen, poised and ready. "If
you'll give me your full name, I'll pencil you in."
I started to point out that he wasn't using a pencil, but
decided to let it slide. "Anita Blake."
He still didn't recognize the name. So much for me being the
terror of vampireland. "And this is pertaining to?" He was
regaining his professionalism.
I stood up. "Murder, it's pertaining to murder."
"Oh, yes, I . . ." He scribbled something down. "Nine tonight,
Anita Blake, murder." He frowned down at the note as if there were
something wrong with it.
I decided to help him out. "Don't frown so. You've got the
message right."
He stared up at me. He looked a little pale.
"I'll be back. Make sure he gets the message."
Bruce nodded again, too fast, eyes large behind his glasses.
Ronnie opened the door, and I preceded her out. She brought up
the rear like a bad-movie bodyguard. When we were out into the main
church again, she laughed. "I think we scared him."
"Bruce scares easy."
She nodded, eyes shining.
The barest mention of violence, murder, and he had fallen apart.
When he "grew up," he was going to be a vampire. Sure.
The sunshine was nearly blinding after the dimness of the
church. I squinted, putting a hand over my eyes. I caught movement
from the corner of my eye.
Ronnie screamed, "Anita!"
Everything slowed down. I had plenty of time to stare at the man
and the gun in his hands. Ronnie smashed into me, carrying
us both down and back through the church door. Bullets thunked
into the door where I'd been.
Ronnie scrambled behind me, near the wall. I had my gun out and
lay on my side pressed against the door. My heart was thundering in
my ears. Yet I could hear everything. The wrinkle of my windbreaker
was like static. I heard the man walk up the steps. The son of a
bitch was gonna keep coming.
I inched forward. He walked up the steps. His shadow fell inside
the door. He wasn't even trying to hide. Maybe he thought I wasn't
armed. He was about to learn different.
Bruce called, "What's going on here?"
Ronnie yelled, "Get back inside."
I kept my eyes on the door. I would not get shot because of
Bruce distracted me. Nothing was important but that shadow in the
door, the halting footsteps. Nothing.
The man walked right into it. Gun in his hand, eyes searching
the church. Amateur.
I could have touched him with the barrel of my gun. "Don't
move." "Freeze" always sounds so melodramatic. Don't move, short,
to the point. "Don't move," I said.
He turned just his head, slow, towards me. "You're The
Executioner." His voice was soft, hesitant.
Was I supposed to deny it? Maybe. If he had come here to kill
The Executioner, definitely. "No," I said.
He started to turn. "Then it must be her." He was turning
towards Ronnie. Shit.
He raised his arm and started to point.
"Don't!" Ronnie screamed.
Too late. I fired, point-blank into his chest. Ronnie's shot
echoed mine. The impact raised him off his feet and sent him
staggering backwards. Blood blossomed on his shirt. He slammed into
the half-opened door and fell flat on his back through it. All I
could see were his legs.
I hesitated, listening. I couldn't hear any movement. I eased
around the door. He wasn't moving, but the gun was still clutched
in his hand. I pointed my gun at him and stalked to him. If he had
so much as twitched, I would have hit him again.
I kicked the gun out of his hand and checked the pulse in his
neck. Nada, zip. Dead.
I use ammunition that can take out vampires, if I get a lucky
shot, and if they're not ancient. The bullet had made a small hole
on the side it went in, but the other side of his chest was gone.
The bullet had done what it was supposed to do; expand, and make a
very big exit hole.
His neck lolled to one side. Two bite marks decorated his neck.
Dammit! Bite marks or not, he was dead. There wasn't enough left of
his heart to thread a needle. A lucky shot. A stupid amateur with a
gun.
Ronnie was leaning in the doorway, looking pale. Her gun was
pointed at the dead man. Her arms trembled ever so slightly.
She almost smiled. "I don't usually carry a gun during the day,
but I knew I'd be with you."
"Is that an insult?" I asked.
"No," she said, "reality."
I couldn't argue with that. I sat down on the cool stone steps;
my knees felt weak. The adrenaline was draining out of me, like
water from a broken cup.
Bruce was in the doorway, ice pale. "He . . . he tried to kill
you." His voice cracked with fear.
"Do you recognize him?" I asked.
He shook his head over and over again, rapid jerky
movements.
"Are you sure?"
"We . . . we do not . . . condone violence." He swallowed hard,
his voice a cracking whisper. "I don't know him."
The fear seemed genuine. Maybe he didn't know him, but that
didn't mean the dead man wasn't a member of the church. "Call the
police, Bruce."
He just stood there, staring at the corpse.
"Call the cops, okay?"
He stared at me, eyes glazed. I wasn't sure if he heard me or
not, but he went back inside.
Ronnie sat down beside me, staring out at the parking lot. Blood
was running down the white steps in tiny rivulets of scarlet.
"Jesus," she whispered.
"Yeah." I still held my gun loose-gripped in my hand. The danger
seemed to be over. Guess I could put away the gun. "Thanks for
pushing me out of the way," I said.
"You're welcome." She took a deep, shaky breath. "Thanks for
shooting him before he shot me."
"Don't mention it. Besides, you got a piece of him, too."
"Don't remind me."
I stared at her. "You all right?"
"No, I'm well and truly scared."
"Yeah." Of course, all Ronnie had to do was stay away from me. I
seemed to be the free-fire zone. A walking, talking menace to my
friends and coworkers. Ronnie could have died today, and it would
have been my fault. She had been a few seconds slower to shoot than
I was. Those few seconds could have cost her her life. Of course,
if she hadn't been here today, I might have died. One bullet in the
chest, and my gun wouldn't have done me a hell of a lot of
good.
I heard the distant whoop-whoop of police sirens. They must have
been damn close, or maybe it was another killing. Possible. Would
the police believe he was just a fanatic trying to kill The
Executioner? Maybe. Dolph wouldn't buy it.
The sunshine pressed down around us like bright yellow plastic.
Neither of us said a word. Maybe there was nothing left to say.
Thank you for saving my life. You're welcome. What else was
there?
I felt light and empty, almost peaceful. Numb. I must be getting
close to the truth, whatever that was. People were trying to kill
me. It was a good sign. Sort of. It meant I knew something
important. Important enough to kill for. The trouble was, I didn't
know what it was I was supposed to know.
Chapter 35
I was back at the church at 8:45 that night. The sky was a rich
purple. Pink clouds were stretched across it like cotton candy
pulled apart by eager kids and left to melt. True dark was only
minutes away. Ghouls would already be out and about. But the
vampires had a few heartbeats of waiting left.
I stood on the steps of the church, admiring the sunset. There
was no blood left. The white steps were as shiny and new as if this
afternoon had never happened. But I remembered. I had decided to
sweat in the July heat so I could carry an arsenal. The windbreaker
hid not only the shoulder rig and 9mm, plus extra ammo, but a knife
on each forearm. The Firestar was snug in the inner pant holster,
set for a right-hand cross draw. There was even a knife strapped to
my ankle.
Of course, nothing I was carrying would stop Malcolm. He was one
of the most powerful master vampires in the city. After seeing
Nikolaos and Jean-Claude, I'd say he ranked third. In the company I
was judging him against, third wasn't bad. So why confront him?
Because I couldn't think of what else to do.
I had left a letter detailing my suspicions about the church and
everybody else in a safe deposit box. Doesn't everybody have one?
Ronnie knew about it, and there was a letter on the secretary's
desk at Animators, Inc. It would go out Monday morning to Dolph,
unless I called up to stop it.
One attempt on my life and I was getting all paranoid. Fancy
that.
The parking lot was full. People were drifting inside the church
in small groups. A few had simply walked up, no cars. I stared hard
at them, Vampires, before full dark? But no, just humans.
I zipped the windbreaker partway up. Didn't want to disturb
services by flashing a gun.
A young woman, brown hair style-gelled into an artificial wave
over one eye, was handing out pamphlets just inside the door. A
guide to the service, I supposed. She smiled and said, "Welcome. Is
this your first time?"
I smiled back at her, pleasant, as if I wasn't carrying enough
weaponry to take out half the congregation. "I have an appointment
to see Malcolm."
Her smile didn't change. If anything it deepened, flashing a
dimple to one side of her lipsticked mouth. Somehow, I didn't think
she knew I'd killed someone today. People don't generally smile at
me when they know things like that.
"Just a minute; let me get someone to handle the door." She
walked away to tap a young man on the shoulder. She whispered
against his cheek and shoved the pamphlets into his hands.
She came back to me, hands smoothing along the burgundy dress
she wore. "If you'll follow me?"
She made it a question. What would she do if I said no? Probably
look puzzled. The young man was greeting a couple that had just
entered the church. The man wore a suit; the woman the proverbial
dress, hose, and sandals. They could have been coming to my church,
any church. As I followed the woman down the side aisle towards the
door, I glanced at a couple dressed in postmodern punk. Or whatever
phrase is common now. The girl's hair looked like Frankenstein's
Bride done in pink and green. A second glance and I wasn't sure;
maybe the pink and green was a guy. If so, his girlfriend's hair
was a buzz so close to her head, it looked like stubble.
The Church of Eternal Life attracted a wide following.
Diversity, that's the ticket. They appealed to the agnostic, the
atheist, the disillusioned mainstreamer, and some who had never
decided what they were. The church was nearly full, and it wasn't
dark yet. The vampires had yet to show. It had been a long time
since I'd seen a church this full, except at Easter, or Christmas.
Holiday Christians. A chill tiptoed along my spine.
This was the fullest church I'd been to in years. The vampire
church. Maybe the real danger wasn't the murderer. Maybe the real
danger was right here in this building.
I shook my head and followed my guide through the door, out of
the church, and past the coffee klatch area. There really was
coffee percolating on a white-draped table. There was also a bowl
of reddish punch that looked a little too viscous to be punch at
all.
The woman said, "Would you like some coffee?"
"No, thank you."
She smiled pleasantly and opened the door marked "Office" for
me. I went in. No one was there.
"Malcolm will be with you as soon as he wakens. If you like, I
can wait with you." She glanced at the door as she said it.
"I wouldn't want you to miss the service. I'll be fine
alone."
Her smile flashed into dimple again. "Thank you; I'm sure it
will be a short wait." With that she was gone, and I was alone.
Alone with the secretary's desk and the leatherbound day planner
for the Church of Eternal Life. Life was good.
I opened the planner to the week before the first vampire
murder. Bruce, the secretary, had very neat handwriting, each entry
very precise. Time, name, and a one-sentence description of the
meeting. 10:00, Jason MacDonald, Magazine interview. 9:00, Meeting
with Mayor, Zoning problems. Normal stuff for the Billy Graham of
Vampirism. Then two days before the first murder there was a
notation that was in a different handwriting. Smaller, no less
neat. 3:00, Ned. That was all, no last name, no reason for the
meeting. And Bruce didn't make the appointment. Methinks we have a
clue. Be still, my heart.
Ned was a short form of Edward, just like Teddy. Had Malcolm had
a meeting with the hit man of the undead? Maybe. Maybe not. It
could be a clandestine meeting with a different Ned. Or maybe Bruce
had been away from the desk and someone else had just filled in? I
went through the rest of the planner as quickly as I could. Nothing
else seemed out of the ordinary. Every other entry was in Bruce's
large, rolling hand.
Malcolm had met with Edward, if it had been Edward, two days
before the first death. If that was true, where did that leave
things? With Edward a murderer and Malcolm paying him to do it.
There was one problem with that. If Edward had wanted me dead, he'd
have done it himself. Maybe Malcolm panicked and sent one of his
followers to do it? Could be.
I was sitting in a chair against the wall, leafing through a
magazine, when the door opened. Malcolm was tall and almost
painfully thin, with large, bony hands that belonged to a more
muscular man. His short, curly hair was the shocking yellow of
goldfinch feathers. This was what blond hair looked like after
nearly three hundred years in the dark.
The last time I had seen Malcolm, he had seemed beautiful,
perfect. Now he was almost ordinary, like Nikolaos and her scar.
Had Jean-Claude given me the ability to see master vampires' true
forms?
Malcolm's presence filled the small room like invisible water,
chilling and pricking along my skin, knee-deep and rising. Give him
another nine hundred years, and he might rival Nikolaos. Of course,
I wouldn't be around to test my little theory.
I stood, and he swept into the room. He was dressed modestly in
a dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and blue silk tie. The pale
shirt made his eyes look like robin's eggs. He smiled, angular
face, beaming at me. He wasn't trying to cloud my mind. Malcolm was
very good at resisting the urge. His entire credibility rested on
the fact that he didn't cheat.
"Miss Blake, how good to see you." He didn't offer to shake
hands; he knew better. "Bruce left me a very confused message.
Something about the vampire murders?" His voice was deep and
soothing, like the ocean.
"I told Bruce I have proof that your church is involved with the
vampire murders."
"And do you?"
"Yes." I believed it. If he had met with Edward, I had my
murderer.
"Hmmm, you are telling the truth. Yet, I know that it is not
true." His voice rolled around me, warm and thick, powerful.
I shook my head. "Cheating, Malcolm, using your powers to probe
my mind. Tsk, tsk."
He shrugged, hands open at his sides. "I control my church, Miss
Blake. They would not do what you have accused them of."
"They raided a freak party last night with clubs. They hurt
people." I was guessing on that part.
He frowned. "There is a small faction of our followers who
persist in violence. The freak party, as you call it, is an
abomination and must be stopped, but through legal channels. I have
told my followers this."
"But do you punish them when they disobey you?" I asked.
"I am not a policeman, or a priest, to mete out punishment.
They are not children. They have their own minds."
"I'll bet they do."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"It means, Malcolm, that you are a master vampire. None of them
can stand against you. They'll do anything you want them to."
"I do not use mind powers on my congregation."
I shook my head. His power oozed over my arms like a cold wave.
He wasn't even trying. It was just spillover. Did he realize what
he was doing? Could it actually be an accident?
"You had a meeting two days before the first murder."
He smiled, careful not to show fangs. "I have many
meetings."
"I know, you are reeal popular, but you'll remember this
meeting. You hired a hit man to kill vampires." I watched his face,
but he was too good. There was a flicker in his eyes, unease maybe;
then it was gone, replaced by that shining blue-eyed
confidence.
"Miss Blake, why are you looking me in the eyes?"
I shrugged. "If you don't try to bespell me, it's safe."
"I have tried to convince you of that on several occasions, but
you always played it . . . safe. Now you are staring at me; why?"
He strode towards me, quick, nearly a blur of motion. My gun was in
my hand, no thinking needed. Instinct.
"My," he said.
I just stared at him, quite willing to put a bullet through his
chest if he came one step closer.
"You carry at least the first mark, Miss Blake. Some master
vampire has touched you. Who?"
I let out my breath in one long sigh. I hadn't even realized I'd
been holding it. "It's a long story."
"I believe you." He was suddenly standing near the door again,
as if he had never moved. Damn, he was good.
"You hired a man to slay the freak vampires," I said.
"No," he said, "I did not."
It is always unnerving when a person looks so damn blasé while I
point a gun at them. "You did hire an assassin."
He shrugged. Smiled. "You do not really expect me to do anything
but deny that, do you?"
"Guess not." What the heck, might as well ask. "Are you or your
church connected in any way to the vampire murders?"
He almost laughed. I didn't blame him. No one in their right
mind would just say yes, but sometimes you can learn things from
the way a person denies something. The choice of lies can be almost
as helpful as the truth.
"No, Miss Blake."
"You did hire an assassin." I made it a statement.
The smile drained from his face, goof. He stared at me, his
presence crawling along my skin like insects. "Miss Blake, I
believe it is time for you to leave."
"A man tried to kill me today."
"That is hardly my fault."
"He had two vampire bites in his neck."
Again that flicker in the eyes. Unease? Maybe.
"He was waiting for me outside your church. I was forced to kill
him on your steps." A small lie, but I didn't want Ronnie further
involved.
He was frowning now, a thread of anger like heat oozing through
the room. "I am unaware of this, Miss Blake. I will look into
it."
I lowered my gun but didn't put it away. You can only hold a
person at gunpoint so long. If they aren't afraid, and they aren't
going to hurt you, and you aren't going to shoot them, it gets
rather silly. "Don't be too hard on Bruce. He doesn't do well
around violence."
Malcolm straightened, pulling at his suit jacket. A nervous
gesture? Oh, boy. I'd hit a nerve.
"I will look into it, Miss Blake. If he was a member of our
church, we owe you an extreme apology."
I stared at him for a minute. What could I say to that? Thank
you? It didn't seem appropriate. "I know you hired a hit man,
Malcolm. Not exactly good press for your church. I think you are
behind the vampire murders. Your hands may not have spilled the
blood, but it was done with your approval."
"Please, go now, Miss Blake." He opened the door as he said
it.
I walked through, gun still in my hand. "Sure, I'll go, but I
won't go away."
He stared down at me, eyes angry. "Do you know what it means to
be marked by a master vampire?"
I thought a minute and wasn't sure how to answer it. Truth.
"No."
He smiled, and it was cold enough to freeze your heart. "You
will learn, Miss Blake. If it becomes too much for you, remember
our church is here to help." He closed the door in my face.
Softly.
I stared at the door. "And what is that supposed to mean?" I
whispered. No one answered me.
I put away my gun and spotted a small door marked "Exit." I took
it. The church was softly lit, candles maybe. Voices rose on the
night air, singing. I didn't recognize the words. The tune was
Bringing in the Sheaves. I caught one phrase: "We will live
forever, never more to die."
I hurried to my car and tried not to listen to the song. There
was something frightening about all those voices raised skyward,
worshipping . . . what? Themselves? Eternal youth? Blood? What?
Another question that I didn't have an answer to.
Edward was my murderer. The question was, could I turn him over
to Nikolaos? Could I turn over a human being to the monsters, even
to save myself? Another question that I didn't have an answer for.
Two days ago I would have said no. Now I just didn't know.
Chapter 36
I didn't want to go back to my apartment. Edward would be coming
tonight. Tell him where Nikolaos slept in daylight or he'd force
the information from me. Complicated enough. Now, I thought he was
my murderer. Very complicated.
The best thing I could think of was to avoid him. That wouldn't
work forever, but maybe I'd have a brainstorm and figure it all
out. All right, there wasn't much chance of that, but one could
always hope.
Maybe Ronnie would have a message for me. Something helpful. God
knows I needed all the help I could get. I pulled the car into a
service station that had a pay phone out front. I had one of those
high-tech answering machines that allowed me to read my messages
without having to go home for them. Maybe I could avoid Edward all
night, if I slept in a hotel. Sigh. If I'd had any solid proof at
all right that minute, I'd have called the police.
I heard the tape whir and click; then, "Anita, it's Willie, they
got Phillip. The guy you was with. They're hurtin' him, bad! You
gotta come-" The phone went dead, abruptly. Like he'd been cut
off.
My stomach tightened. A second message came up. "This is you
know who. You've heard Willie's message. Come and get it, animator.
I don't really have to threaten your pretty lover, do I?"
Nikolaos's laughter filled the phone, scratchy and distant with
tape.
There was a loud click and Edward's voice came over the phone.
"Anita, tell me where you are. I can help you."
"They'll kill Phillip," I said. "Besides, you aren't on my side,
remember."
"I'm the closest thing you've got to an ally."
"God help me, then." I hung up on him, hard. Phillip had tried
to defend me last night. Now he was paying for it. I yelled,
"Dammit!"
A man pumping gas stared at me.
"What are you looking at?" I nearly yelled that, too. He dropped
his eyes and concentrated very hard on filling his tank with
gas.
I got behind the wheel of my car and sat there for a few
minutes. I was so angry, I was shaking. I could feel the tension in
my teeth. Dammit. Dammit! I was too angry to drive. It wouldn't
help Phillip if I got in a car accident on the way.
I tried breathing deep gulps of air. It didn't help. I turned
the key in the ignition. "No speeding, can't afford to get stopped
by the cops. Easy does it, Anita, easy does it." I talk to myself
every once in a while. Give myself very good advice. Sometimes I
even take it.
I put the car in gear and drove out onto the road - carefully.
Anger rode up my back and into my shoulders and neck. I gripped the
steering wheel too hard and found that my hands weren't quite
healed. Sharp little jabs of pain, but not enough. There wasn't
enough pain in the whole world to get rid of the anger.
Phillip was being hurt because of me. Just like Catherine and
Ronnie. No more. No freaking more. I was going to get Phillip, save
him any way I could; then I was turning the whole blasted thing
over to the police. Without proof, yeah, without anything to back
it up. I was bailing out before more people got hurt.
The anger was almost enough to hide the fear behind it. If
Nikolaos was tormenting Phillip for last night, she might not be
too happy with me either. I was going back down those stairs into
the master's lair, at night. Didn't seem real bright when you put
it that way.
The anger was fading in a wash of cold, skin-shivering fear.
"No!" I would not go in there afraid. I held onto my anger with
everything I had. This was the closest I'd come to hate in a long
time. Hatred; now there's an emotion that'll spread warmth through
your body.
Most hatred is based on fear, one way or another. Yeah. I
wrapped myself in anger, with a dash of hate, and at the bottom of
it all was an icy center of pure terror.
Chapter 37
The Circus of the Damned is housed in an old warehouse. Its name
is emblazoned across the roof in colored lights. Giant clown
figurines dance around the words in frozen pantomime. If you look
very closely at the clowns, you notice they have fangs. But only if
you look very closely.
The sides of the building are strung with huge plastic cloth
signs, like an old-fashioned sideshow. One banner showed a man
being hung; "The Death Defying Count Alcourt," it said. Zombies
crawled from a graveyard in one picture; "Watch the Dead Rise from
the Grave." A very bad drawing showed a man halfway between wolf
and man shape; Fabian, the Werewolf. There were other signs. Other
attractions. None of them looked very wholesome.
Guilty Pleasures treads a thin line between entertainment and
the sadistic. The Circus goes over the edge and down into the
abyss.
And here I go inside. Oh, joy in the morning.
Noise hits you at the door. A blast of carnival sound, the push
and shove of the crowd, the rustling of hundreds of people. The
lights spill and scream in a hundred different colors, all
eye-searing, all guaranteed to attract attention, or make you lose
your lunch. Of course, maybe that was just my nerves.
The smell is formed of cotton candy, corn dogs, the cinnamon
smell of elephant ears, snow cones, sweat, and under it all a
neck-ruffling smell. Blood smells like sweet copper pennies, and
that smell mingles over everything. Most people don't recognize it.
But there is another scent on the air, not just blood, but
violence. Of course, violence has no smell. Yet, always here, there
is - something. The barest hint of long-closed rooms and rotting
cloth.
I had never come here before, except on police business. What I
wouldn't have given for a few uniforms right now.
The crowd parted like water in front of a ship. Winter, Mr.
Muscles, moved through the people, and instinctively they moved out
of his way. I'd have moved out of his way, too, but I didn't think
I'd get the chance.
Winter was wearing a proverbial strongman's outfit. It had fake
zebra stripes on a white background and left most of his upper body
exposed. His legs in the striped leotard rippled and corded, like
it was a second skin. His bicep, unflexed, was bigger around than
both my arms. He stopped in front of me, towering over me, and
knowing it.
"Is your entire family obscenely tall, or is it just you?" I
asked.
He frowned, eyes narrowing. I don't think he got it. Oh, well.
"Follow me," he said. With that he turned and walked back through
the crowd.
I guess I was supposed to follow like a good little girl. Shit.
A large blue tent took up one corner of the warehouse. People were
lining up, showing tickets. A man was calling out in a booming
voice, "Almost show time, folks. Present your tickets and enter.
See the hanging man. Count Alcourt will be executed before your
very eyes."
I had paused to listen. Winter was not waiting. Luckily, his
broad, white back didn't blend with the crowd. I had to trot to
catch up with him. I hate having to do that. It makes me feel like
a child running after an adult. If a little running was the worst
thing I experienced tonight, things would be just hunky-dory.
There was a full-size Ferris wheel, its glowing top nearly
brushing the ceiling. A man held a baseball out to me. "Try your
luck, little lady."
I ignored him. I hate being called little lady. I glanced at the
prizes to be won. It ran long on stuffed animals and ugly dolls.
The stuffed toys were mostly predators: soft plush panthers,
toddler-size bears, spotted snakes, and giant fuzzy-toothed
bats.
There was a bald man in white clown makeup selling tickets to
the mirror maze. He stared at the children as they went inside his
glass house. I could almost feel the weight of his eyes on their
backs, like he would memorize every line of their small bodies.
Nothing would have gotten me past him into that sparkling river of
glass.
The Funhouse was next, more clowns and screams, the shooting
whoosh of air. The metal sidewalk leading into its depths
buckled and twisted. A little boy nearly fell. His mother dragged
him to his feet. Why would any parent bring their child here, to
this frightening place?
There was even a haunted house; it was almost funny. Sort of
redundant, if you ask me. The whole freaking place was a house of
horrors.
Winter had paused before the little door leading into the back
areas. He was frowning at me, massive arms almost crossed over
equally massive chest. The arms didn't quite fold right, too much
muscle for that, but he was trying.
He opened the door. I went inside. The tall, bald man who had
been with Nikolaos that first time was standing against the wall,
at attention. His handsome, narrow face, the eyes very prominent
because there was no hair, nothing much else to stare at, looked at
me the way elementary school teachers look at troublemaking
children. You must be punished, young lady. But what had I done
wrong?
The man's voice was deep, faintly British, cultured, but human.
"Search her for weapons before we go down."
Winter nodded. Why talk when gestures will do? His big hands
lifted my jacket and took the gun. He shoved one shoulder so that I
spun around. He found the second gun, too. Had I really thought
they'd let me keep the weapons? Yes, I guess I had. Stupid me.
"Check her arms for knives."
Damn.
Winter gripped my jacket sleeves like he meant to tear them.
"Wait, please. I'll just take the jacket off. You can search it,
too, if you like."
Winter took the knives on my arms. The bald-headed man searched
the yellow windbreaker for concealed weapons. He didn't find any.
Winter patted my legs down, but not well. He missed the knife at my
ankle. I had one weapon, and they didn't know it. Bully for me.
Down the long stairs and into the empty throne room. Maybe it
showed on my face because the man said, "The master waits for us,
with your friend."
The man led the way as he had down the stairs. Winter brought up
the rear. Perhaps they thought I would make a break for it. Right.
Where would I go?
They stopped at the dungeon. How had I known they would? The
bald-headed man knocked on the door twice, not too hard, not too
soft.
There was silence; then bright, high laughter drifted from
inside. My skin crawled with the sound. I did not want to see
Nikolaos again. I did not want to be in a cell again. I wanted to
go home.
The door opened. Valentine made a hand-sweeping motion. "Come
in, come in." He was wearing a silver mask this time. A strand of
his auburn hair was stuck to the forehead of the mask, sticky with
blood.
My heart thudded into my throat. Phillip, are you alive? It was
all I could do not to yell out.
Valentine stepped against the door as if waiting for me to pass.
I glanced at the nameless bald man. His face was unreadable. He
motioned me ahead of him. What could I do? I went.
What I saw stopped me at the top of the steps. I couldn't go
farther. I couldn't. Aubrey stood against the far wall, grinning at
me. His hair was still golden; his face, bestial. Nikolaos stood in
a dress of flowing white that made her skin look like chalk, her
hair cotton-white. She was sprinkled with blood, like someone had
taken a red ink pen and splattered her.
Her grey-blue eyes stared up at me. She laughed again, rich and
pure and wicked. I had no other word for it. Wicked. She caressed a
white, blood-spattered hand against Phillip's bare chest. She
rolled her fingertip over his nipple, and laughed.
He was chained to the wall at wrist and ankle. His long, brown
hair had fallen forward, hiding one eye. His muscular body was
covered in bites. Blood rained down his tan skin in thin crimson
lines. He stared up at me from that one brown eye, the other hidden
in his hair. Despair. He knew he had been brought here to die, like
this, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. But there
was something I could do. There had to be. God, please let there
be!
The man touched my shoulder, and I jumped. The vampires laughed.
The man did not. I walked down the steps to stand a few feet in
front of Phillip. He wouldn't look at me.
Nikolaos touched his naked thigh and ran her fingers up it. His
body tightened, hands clenching into fists.
"Oh, we have been having a fine time with your lover here,"
Nikolaos said. Her voice was sweet as ever. The child bride
incarnate. Bitch.
"He isn't my lover."
She pouted out her lower lip. "Now, Anita, no lying. That's no
fun." She stalked towards me, slender hips swaying to some inner
dance. She reached for me, and I backed up, bumping into Winter.
"Animator, animator," she said. "When will you learn that you
cannot fight me?"
I don't think she wanted me to argue, so I didn't.
She reached for me again, with one bloody, dainty hand. "Winter
can hold you, if you like."
Stay still, or we hold you down. Great choices. I stayed still.
I watched those pale fingers glide towards my face. I ground my
fingernails into the palms of my hands. I would not move away from
her. I would not move. Her fingers touched my forehead, and I felt
the cool wetness of blood. She brushed it down my temple to my
cheek and traced her fingers over my lower lip. I think I stopped
breathing.
"Lick your lips," she said.
"No," I said.
"Oh, you are a stubborn one. Has Jean-Claude given you this
courage?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Her eyes darkened, face clouding over. "Don't be coy, Anita. It
does not become you." Her voice was suddenly adult, hot enough to
scald. "I know your little secret."
"I don't know what you are talking about," I said, and I meant
it. I didn't understand the anger.
"If you like, we can play games for a little while longer." She
was suddenly standing beside Phillip, and I hadn't seen her move.
"Did that surprise you, Anita? I am still master of this city. I
have powers that you and your master have never even dreamed
of."
My master? What the hell was she talking about? I didn't have a
master.
She rubbed her hands along the side of his chest, over his
rib cage. Her hand wiped away the blood to show the skin smooth
and untouched. She stood in front of him and didn't come to his
collarbone. Phillip had closed his eyes. Her head arched backwards,
a glimpse of fangs, lips drawn back in a snarl.
"No." I stepped towards them. Winter's hands descended on my
shoulders. He shook his head, slow and careful. I was not to
interfere.
She drove her fangs into his side. His whole body stiffened,
neck arching, arms jerking at the chains.
"Leave him alone!" I drove an elbow into Winter's stomach. He
grunted, and his fingers dug into my shoulders until I wanted to
scream. His arms enveloped me, tight to his chest, no movement
allowed.
She raised her face from Phillip's skin. Blood trickled down her
chin. She licked her lips with a tiny pink tongue. "Ironic," she
said in a voice years older than the body would ever be. "I sent
Phillip to seduce you. Instead, you seduced him."
"We are not lovers." I felt ridiculous with Winter's arms
crushing me to his chest.
"Denial will not help either of you," she said.
"What will help us?" I asked.
She motioned, and Winter released me. I stepped away from him,
out of reach. It put me closer to Nikolaos, perhaps not an
improvement.
"Let us discuss your future, Anita." She began to walk up the
steps. "And your lover's future."
I assumed she meant Phillip, and I didn't correct her. The
nameless man motioned for me to follow her up the stairs. Aubrey
was moving closer to Phillip. They would be alone together.
Unacceptable.
"Nikolaos, please."
Maybe it was the "please." She turned. "Yes," she said.
"May I ask two things?"
She was smiling at me, amused with me. An adult's amusement with
a child who had used a new word. I didn't care what she thought of
me as long as she did what I wanted. "You may ask," she said.
"That when we go, all the vampires leave this room." She was
still staring at me, smiling, so far so good. "And that I be
allowed to speak with Phillip privately."
She laughed, high and wild, chimes in a storm wind. "You are
bold, mortal. I give you that. I begin to see what Jean-Claude sees
in you."
I let the comment go because I felt like I was missing part of
the meaning. "May I have what I ask, please?"
"Call me master, and you will have it."
I swallowed and it was loud in the sudden stillness. "Please. .
. master." See, I didn't choke on the word after all.
"Very good, animator, very good indeed." Without her needing
to say anything, Valentine and Aubrey went up the steps and out
the door. They didn't even argue. That was frightening all on its
own.
"I will leave Burchard at the top of the steps. He has human
hearing. If you whisper, he won't be able to hear you at all."
"Burchard?" I asked.
"Yes, animator, Burchard, my human servant." She stared at me as
if that was significant. My expression didn't seem to please her.
She frowned. Then she turned abruptly in a swing of white skirts.
Winter followed her like an obedient puppy on steroids.
Burchard, the once nameless man, took up a post in front of the
closed door. He stared straight ahead, not at us. Privacy, or as
close as we were getting to it.
I went to Phillip and he still wouldn't look at me. His thick,
brown hair acted like a kind of curtain between us. "Phillip, what
happened?"
His voice was an abused whisper; screaming will do that to you.
I had to stand on tiptoe and nearly press my body against his to
hear him. "Guilty Pleasures; they took me from there."
"Didn't Robert try to stop them?" For some reason that seemed
important. I had only met Robert once, but part of me was angry
that he had not protected Phillip. He was in charge of things while
Jean-Claude was away. Phillip was one of those things.
"Wasn't strong enough."
I lost my balance and was forced to catch myself, hands flat
against his ruined chest. I jerked back, hands held out from me,
bloody.
Phillip closed his eyes and leaned back into the wall. His
throat worked hard at swallowing. There were two fresh bites on his
neck. They were going to bleed him to death if someone didn't get
carried away first.
He lowered his head and tried to look at me, but his hair had
spilled into both eyes. I wiped the blood on my jeans and went back
to stand almost on tiptoe next to him. I brushed the hair back from
his eyes, but it spilled forward again. It was beginning to bug me.
I combed my fingers through his hair until it stayed out of his
face. His hair was softer than it looked, thick and warm with the
heat of his body.
He almost smiled. His voice breaking as he whispered, "Few
months back, I'd have paid money for this."
I stared at him, then realized he was trying to make a joke.
God. My throat felt tight.
Burchard said, "It is time to go."
I stared into Phillip's eyes, perfect brown, torchlight dancing
in them like black mirrors. "I won't leave you here, Phillip."
His eyes flickered to the man on the stairs and back to me. Fear
turned his face young, helpless. "See you later," he said.
I stepped back from him. "You can count on it."
"It is not wise to keep her waiting," Burchard said.
He was probably right. Phillip and I stared at each other for a
handful of moments. The pulse in his throat jumped under his skin
like it was trying to escape. My throat ached; my chest was tight.
The torchlight flickered in my vision for just a second. I turned
away and walked to the steps. We tough-as-nails vampire slayers
don't cry. At least, never in public. At least, never when we can
help it.
Burchard held the door open for me. I glanced back at Phillip
and waved, like an idiot. He watches me go, his eyes too large for
his face suddenly, like a child who watches its parent leave the
room before all the monsters are gone.
I had to leave him like that - alone, helpless. God help me.
Chapter 38
Nikolaos sat in her carved wooden chair, tiny feet swinging off
the ground. Charming.
Aubrey leaned against the wall, tongue running over his lips,
getting the last bit of blood off them. Valentine stood very still
beside him, staring at me.
Winter stood beside me. The prison guard.
Burchard went to stand by Nikolaos, one hand on the back of her
chair.
"What, animator, no jokes?" Nikolaos asked. Her voice was still
the grown-up version. It was like she had two voices and could
change them with a push of a button.
I shook my head. I didn't feel very funny.
"Have we broken your spirit? Taken the fight out of you?"
I stared at her. Anger flared through me like a wave of heat.
"What do you want, Nikolaos?"
"Oh, that's much better." Her voice rose and fell, a little-girl
giggle at the end of each word. I might never like children
again.
"Jean-Claude should be growing weak inside his coffin. Starving,
but instead he is strong and well fed. How can this be?"
I didn't have the faintest idea, so I kept quiet. Maybe it was
rhetorical?
It wasn't. "Answer me, A-n-i-t-a." She stretched my name out,
biting off each syllable.
"I don't know."
"Oh, but you do."
I didn't, but she wasn't going to believe me. "Why are you
hurting Phillip?"
"He needed to be taught a lesson, after last night."
"Because he stood up to you?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, "because he stood up to me." She scooted out of
the chair and pattered towards me. She did a little turn so the
white dress billowed around her. She freaking skipped over to me,
smiling. "And because I was angry with you. I torture your lover,
and maybe I won't torture you. And perhaps, this demonstration will
give you fresh incentive to find the vampire murderer." Her pretty
little face was turned up to me, pale eyes gleaming with humor. She
was good.
I swallowed hard, and I asked the question I had to ask, "Why
were you angry with me?"
She cocked her head to one side. If she hadn't been
blood-spattered, it would have been cute. "Could it be that you do
not know?" She turned back to Burchard. "What think you, my friend?
Is she ignorant?"
He straightened his shoulders and said, "I believe that it is
possible."
"Oh, Jean-Claude has been a very naughty boy. Giving the second
mark to an unsuspecting mortal."
I stood very still. I was remembering blue, fiery eyes on the
stairs, and Jean-Claude's voice in my head. All right, I had
suspected it, but I still didn't understand what it meant. "What
does the second mark mean?"
She licked her lips, soft like a kitten. "Shall we explain,
Burchard? Shall we tell her what we know?"
"If she truly does not know, mistress, we must enlighten her,"
he said.
"Yes," she said and glided back to the chair. "Burchard, tell
her how old you are."
"I am six hundred and three years of age."
I stared at his smooth face and shook my head. "But you're
human, not a vampire."
"I have been given the fourth mark and will live as long as my
mistress needs me."
"No, Jean-Claude wouldn't do that to me," I said.
Nikolaos made a small shrugging motion with her hands. "I had
pressed him very hard. I knew of the first mark to heal you. I
suppose he was desperate to save himself."
I remembered the echo of his voice in my head. "I'm sorry. I had
no choice." Damn him, there were always choices. "He's been in my
dreams every night. What does that mean?"
"He is communicating with you, animator. With the third mark
will come more direct mind contact."
I shook my head. "No."
"No what, animator? No third mark, or no you don't believe us?"
she asked.
"I don't want to be anyone's servant."
"Have you been eating more than usual?" she asked.
The question was so odd, I just stared for a minute, then I
remembered. "Yes. Is that important?"
Nikolaos frowned. "He is siphoning energy from you, Anita. He is
feeding through your body. He should be growing weak by now, but
you will keep him strong."
"I didn't mean to."
"I believe you," she said. "Last night when I realized what he
had done, I was beside myself with anger. So I took your
lover."
"Please believe me, he is not my lover."
"Then why did he risk my anger to save you last night?
Friendship? Decency? I think not."
All right, let her believe it. Just get us out alive, that was
the goal. Nothing else mattered. "What can Phillip and I do to make
amends?"
"Oh, so polite, I like that." She put a hand on Burchard's
waist, a casual gesture like petting a dog. "Shall we show her what
she has to look forward to?"
His whole body tensed as if an electric current had run through
it. "If my mistress wishes."
"I do," she said.
Burchard knelt in front of her, face about chest level. Nikolaos
looked over his head at me. "This," she said, "is the fourth mark."
Her hands went to the small pearl buttons that decorated the front
of the white dress. She spread the cloth wide, baring small
breasts. They were a child's breasts, small and half-formed. She
drew a fingernail beside her left breast. The skin opened like
earth behind a plow, spilling blood in a red line down her chest
and stomach.
I could not see Burchard's face as he leaned forward. His hands
slid around her waist. His face buried between her breasts. She
tensed, back arching. Soft, sucking sounds filled the room's
stillness.
I looked away, staring at anything but them, as if I had found
them having sex but couldn't leave. Valentine was staring at me. I
stared back. He tipped an imaginary hat at me and flashed fangs. I
ignored him.
Burchard was sitting beside the chair, half-leaning against it.
His face was slack and flushed, his chest rising and falling in
deep gasps. He wiped blood from his mouth with a shaking hand.
Nikolaos sat very still, head back, eyes closed. Perhaps sex wasn't
such a bad analogy after all.
Nikolaos spoke with her eyes closed, head thrown back, voice
thick. "Your friend, Willie, is back in a coffin. He felt sorry for
Phillip. We will have to cure him of such instincts."
She raised her head abruptly, eyes bright, almost glittering, as
if they had a light all their own. "Can you see my scar today?"
I shook my head. She was the beautiful child, complete and
whole. No imperfections. "You look perfect again, why?"
"Because I am expending energy to make it so. I am having to
work at it." Her voice was low and warm, a building heat like
thunderstorms in the distance.
The hair at the back of my neck crawled. Something bad was about
to happen.
"Jean-Claude has his followers, Anita. If I kill him, they will
make him a martyr. But if I prove him weak, powerless, they just
fall away and follow me, or follow no one."
She stood, dress buttoned to her neck once more. Her cotton-white
hair seemed to move as if a wind stirred it, but there was no wind.
"I will destroy something Jean-Claude has given his protection
to."
How fast could I get to the knife on my leg? And what good would
it do me?
"I will prove to all that Jean-Claude can protect nothing. I am
master of all."
Egocentric bitch. Winter grabbed my arm before I could do
anything. Too busy watching the vampires to notice the humans.
"Go," she said. "Kill him."
Aubrey and Valentine stood away from the wall and bowed. Then
they were gone, as if they had vanished. I turned to Nikolaos.
She smiled. "Yes, I clouded your mind, and you did not see them
go."
"Where are they going?" My stomach was tight. I think I already
knew the answer.
"Jean-Claude has given Phillip his protection; thus he must
die."
"No."
Nikolaos smiled. "Oh, but yes."
A scream ripped through the hallway. A man's scream. Phillip's
scream.
"No!" I half-fell to my knees; only Winter's hand kept me from
falling to the floor. I pretended to faint, sagging in his grip. He
released me. I grabbed the knife from its ankle sheath. Winter and
I were close to the hallway, far away from Nikolaos and her human.
Maybe far enough.
Winter was staring at her as if waiting for orders. I came up
off the ground and drove the knife into his groin. The knife sank
in, and blood poured out as I drew the blade free and raced for the
hallway.
I was at the door when the first trickle of wind oozed down my
back. I didn't look back. I opened the door.
Phillip sagged in the chains. Blood poured in a bright red flood
down his chest. It splattered onto the floor, like rain. Torchlight
glittered on the wet bone of his spine. Someone had ripped his
throat out.
I staggered against the wall as if someone had hit me. I
couldn't get enough air. Someone kept whispering, "Oh, God, oh,
God," over and over, and it was me. I walked down the steps with my
back pressed against the wall. I couldn't take my eyes from him.
Couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't cry.
The torchlight reflected in his eyes, giving the illusion of
movement. A scream built in my gut and spilled out my throat.
"Phillip!"
Aubrey stepped between me and Phillip. He was covered in blood.
"I look forward to visiting your lovely friend, Catherine."
I wanted to run at him, screaming. Instead, I leaned against the
wall, knife held down at my side, unnoticed. The goal was no longer
to get out alive. The goal was to kill Aubrey. "You son of a bitch,
you fucking son of a bitch." My voice sounded utterly calm, no
emotion whatsoever. I wasn't afraid. I didn't feel anything.
Aubrey's face frowned at me through a mask of Phillip's blood.
"Do not say such things to me."
"You ugly, stinking, mother-fucking bastard."
He glided to me, just like I wanted him to. He put a hand on my
shoulder. I screamed in his face as loud as I could. He hesitated
for just a heartbeat. I shoved the knife blade between his ribs. It
was sharp and thin, and I shoved it hilt deep. His body stiffened,
leaning into me. Eyes wide and surprised. His mouth opened and
closed, but no sound came out. He toppled to the floor, fingers
grabbing at air.
Valentine was instantly there, kneeling by the body. "What have
you done?" He couldn't see the knife. It was shielded by Aubrey's
body.
"I killed him, you son of a bitch, just like I'm going to kill
you."
Valentine jerked to his feet, started to say something, and all
hell broke loose. The cell door crashed inward and smashed to bits
against the far wall. A tornado wind blasted into the room.
Valentine dropped to his knees, head touching the floor. He was
bowing. I flattened myself against the wall. The wind clawed at my
face, tangling my hair in front of my eyes.
The noise grew less, and I squinted up at the door. Nikolaos
floated just above the top step. Her hair crackled around her head,
like spider silk. Her skin had shrunken against her bones, until
she was skeletal. Her eyes glowed, pale blue fire. She started
floating down the steps, hands outstretched.
I could see her veins like blue lights under her skin. I ran.
Ran for the far wall, and the tunnel the ratmen had used.
The wind threw me against the wall, and I scrambled on hands and
feet towards the tunnel. The hole was large, and black, cool air
brushed my face, and something grabbed my ankle.
I screamed. The thing that was Nikolaos dragged me back. It
slammed me against the wall and pinned my wrists in one clawed
hand. The body leaned into my legs, bone under cloth.
The lips had receded, exposing the fangs and teeth. The skeletal
head hissed, "You will learn obedience, to me!" It screamed in my
face, and I screamed back. Wordlessly, an animal screaming in a
trap.
My heart was thudding in my throat. I couldn't breathe.
"Nooo!"
The thing shrieked, "Look at me!"
And I did. I fell into the blue fire that was her eyes. The fire
burrowed into my brain, pain. Her thoughts cut me up like knives,
slicing away parts of me. Her rage scalded and burned until I
thought the skin was peeling away from my face. Claws scrapped the
inside of my skull, grinding bone into dust.
When I could see again, I was huddled by the wall, and she was
standing over me, not touching, not needing to. I was shaking,
shaking so badly my teeth chattered. I was cold, so cold.
"Eventually, animator, you will call me master, and you will
mean it." She was suddenly kneeling over me. She pressed her
slender body over mine, hands pinning my shoulders to the floor. I
couldn't move.
The beautiful little girl leaned her face against my cheek and
whispered, "I am going to sink fangs into your neck, and there is
nothing you can do to stop me."
Her delicate shell of an ear was brushing my lips. I sank teeth
into it until I tasted blood. She shrieked and jerked away, blood
running down the side of her neck.
Bright razor claws tore through my brain. Her pain, her rage,
turning my brain into silly putty. I think I was screaming again,
but I couldn't hear it. After a while I couldn't hear anything.
Darkness came. It swallowed up Nikolaos and left me alone, floating
in the dark.
Chapter 39
I woke up, which was a pleasant surprise all on its own. I was
blinking up into an electric light set in a ceiling. I was alive,
and I wasn't in the dungeon. Good things to know.
Why should it surprise me that I was alive? My fingers caressed
the rough, knobby fabric of the couch I was lying on. There was a
picture hanging over the couch. A river scene with flatboats,
mules, people. Someone came to stand over me, long yellow hair,
square-jawed, handsome face. Not as inhumanly beautiful as he had
been to me before, but still handsome. I guess you had to be
handsome to be a stripper.
My voice came out in a harsh croak. "Robert."
He knelt beside me. "I was afraid you wouldn't wake up before
dawn. Are you hurt?"
"Where . . ." I cleared my throat and that helped a little.
"Where am I?"
"Jean-Claude's office at Guilty Pleasures."
"How did I get here?"
"Nikolaos brought you. She said, 'Here's your master's whore.' "
I watched his throat work as he swallowed. It reminded me of
something, but I couldn't think what.
"You know what Jean-Claude has done?" I asked.
Robert nodded. "My master has marked you twice. When I speak to
you, I am speaking to him."
Did he mean that figuratively or literally? I really didn't want
to know.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
There was something in the way he asked it that meant I
shouldn't feel all right. My throat hurt. I raised a hand and
touched it. Dried blood. On my neck.
I closed my eyes, but that didn't help. A small sound escaped my
throat, very like a whimper. Phillip's image was burned on
my mind. The blood pouring from his throat, torn pink meat. I
shook my head and tried to breathe deep and slow. It was no good.
"Bathroom," I said.
Robert showed me where it was. I went inside, knelt on the cool
floor, and threw up in the toilet, until I was empty and nothing
but bile came up. Then I walked to the sink and splashed cold water
in my mouth and on my face. I stared at myself in the mirror above
the sink. My eyes looked black, not brown, my skin sickly. I looked
like shit and felt worse.
And there on the right side of my neck was the real thing. Not
Phillip's healing bite marks, but fang marks. Tiny, diminutive,
fang marks. Nikolaos had . . . contaminated me. To prove she could
harm Jean-Claude's human servant. She had proved how tough she was,
oh, yeah. Real tough.
Phillip was dead. Dead. Try the word over in your mind, but
could I say it out loud? I decided to try. "Phillip is dead," I
told my reflection.
I crumbled the brown paper towel and stuffed it in the metal
trash can. It wasn't enough. I screamed, "Ahhh!" I kicked the trash
can, over and over until it toppled to the floor, spilling its
contents.
Robert came through the door. "Are you all right?"
"Does it look like I'm all right?" I yelled.
He hesitated in the doorway. "Is there anything I can do to
help?"
"You couldn't even keep them from taking Phillip!"
He winced as if I had hit him. "I did my best."
"Well, it wasn't good enough, was it?" I was still screaming
like a mad person. I sank to my knees, and all that rage choked up
my throat and spilled out my eyes. "Get out!"
He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Get out of here!"
He closed the door behind him. And I sat in the floor and rocked
and cried and screamed. When my heart felt as empty as my stomach,
I felt leaden, used up.
Nikolaos had killed Phillip and bitten me to prove how powerful
she was. I bet she thought I'd be scared absolutely shitless of
her. She was right on that. But I spend most of my waking hours
confronting and destroying things that I fear. A thousand-year-old
master vampire was a tall order, but a girl's got to have a
goal.
Chapter 40
The club was quiet and dark. There was no one there but me. It
must have been after dawn. The club was hushed and full of that
waiting silence that all buildings get after the people go home. As
if once we leave, the building has a life of its own, if only we
would leave it in peace. I shook my head and tried to concentrate.
To feel something. All I wanted was to go home and try to sleep.
And pray I didn't dream.
There was a yellow Post-it note on the door. It read, "Your
weapons are behind the bar. The master brought those, too.
Robert."
I put both guns in place and the knives. The one I had used on
Winter and Aubrey was missing. Was Winter dead? Maybe. Was Aubrey
dead? Hopefully. Usually it took a master vampire to survive a blow
to the heart, but I'd never tried it on a five-hundred-year-old
walking corpse. If they took the knife out, he might be tough
enough to survive it. I had to call Catherine. And tell her what?
Get out of town, a vampire is after you. Didn't sound like
something she'd buy. Shit.
I walked out into the soft white light of dawn. The street was
empty and awash in that gentle morning air. The heat hadn't had
time to creep in. It was almost cool. Where was my car? I heard
footsteps a second before the voice said, "Don't move. I have a gun
pointed at your back."
I clasped my hands atop my head without being asked. "Good
morning, Edward," I said.
"Good morning, Anita," he said. "Stand very still, please." He
stood just behind me, gun pressing against my spine. He frisked me
completely, top to bottom. Nothing haphazard about Edward; that's
one of the reasons he's still alive. He stepped back from me, and
said, "You may turn around now."
He had my Firestar tucked into his belt, the Browning loose in
his left hand. I don't know what he did with the knives.
He smiled, boyish and charming, gun very steadily pointed at my
chest. "No more hiding. Where is this Nikolaos?" he asked.
I took a deep breath and let it out. I thought about accusing
him of being the vampire murderer, but now didn't seem to be a good
time. Maybe later, when he wasn't pointing a gun at me. "May I
lower my arms?" I asked.
He gave a slight nod.
I lowered my arms slowly. "I want one thing clear between us,
Edward. I'll give you the information, but not because I'm afraid
of you. I want her dead. And I want a piece of it."
His smile widened, eyes glittering with pleasure. "What happened
last night?"
I glanced down at the sidewalk, then up. I stared into his blue
eyes and said, "She had Phillip killed."
He was watching my face very closely. "Go on."
"She bit me. I think she plans on making me a personal
servant."
He put his gun back in his shoulder holster and came to stand
next to me. He turned my head to one side to see the bite mark
better. "You need to clean this bite. It's going to hurt like
hell."
"I know. Will you help me?"
"Sure." His smile softened. "Here I was going to cause you pain
to get information. Now you ask me to help you pour acid on a
wound."
"Holy Water," I said.
"It's going to feel the same," he said.
Unfortunately, he was right.
Chapter 41
I sat with my back pressed against the cool porcelain of the
bathtub. The front and side of my shirt was clinging to me,
water-soaked. Edward knelt beside me, a half-empty bottle of Holy
Water in one hand. We were on the third bottle. I had thrown up
only once. Bully for me.
We had started with me sitting on the edge of the sink. I had
not stayed there long. I had jumped, yelled, and whimpered. I had
also called Edward a son of a bitch. He didn't hold it against
me.
"How do you feel?" he asked. His face was utterly blank. I
couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself or hating it.
I glared up at him. "Like someone's been shoving a red-hot knife
against my throat."
"I mean, do you want to stop and rest awhile?"
I took a deep breath. "No. I want it clean, Edward. All the
way.'
He shook his head, almost smiled. "It is customary to do this
over a matter of days, you know."
"Yes," I said.
"But you want it all in one marathon session?" His gaze was very
steady, as if the question were more important than it seemed.
I looked away from the intensity of his eyes. I didn't want to
be stared at right now. "I don't have a few days. I need this wound
clean before nightfall."
"Because Nikolaos will come visit you again," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"And unless this first wound is purified, she'll have a hold on
you."
I took a deep breath and it trembled. "Yes."
"Even if we clean the bite, she may still be able to call you.
If she's as powerful as you say she is."
"She's that powerful and more." I rubbed my hands along my
jeans. "You think Nikolaos can turn me against you, even if we
clean the bite?" I looked up at him then, hoping to be able to read
his face.
He stared down at me. "We vampire slayers take our chances."
"That wasn't a no," I said.
He gave a flash of smile. "It wasn't a yes, either."
Oh, goody, Edward didn't know either. "Pour some more on, before
I lose my nerve."
He did smile then, eyes gleaming. "You will never lose your
nerve. Your life, probably, but never your nerve."
It was a compliment and meant as one. "Thank you."
He put a hand on my shoulder, and I turned my face away. My
heart was thudding in my throat until all I could hear was my blood
pulsing inside my head. I wanted to run, to lash out, to scream,
but I had to sit there and let him hurt me. I hate that. It had
always taken at least two people to give me injections when I was a
child. One person to man the needle and one to hold me down.
Now I held myself down. If Nikolaos bit me twice, I would
probably do anything she wanted me to. Even kill. I had seen it
happen before, and that vampire had been child's play compared to
the master.
The water trickled down my skin and hit the bite mark like
molten gold, scalding through my body. It was eating through my
skin and bone. Destroying me. Killing me.
I shrieked. I couldn't hold it. Too much pain. Couldn't run
away. Had to scream.
I was lying on the floor, my cheek pressed against the coolness
of it, breathing in short, hungry gasps.
"Slow your breathing, Anita. You're hyperventilating. Breathe,
slow and easy, or you're going to pass out."
I opened my mouth and took in a deep breath; it wheezed and
screamed down my throat. I was choking on air. I coughed and fought
to breathe. I was light-headed and a little sick by the time I
could take a deep breath, but I hadn't passed out. A zillion
brownie points for me.
Edward almost had to lie on the floor to put his face near mine.
"Can you hear me?"
I managed, "Yes."
"Good. I want to try to put the cross against the bite. Do you
agree or do you think it's too soon?"
If we hadn't cleansed the wound with enough Holy Water, the
cross would burn me, and I'd have a fresh scar. I had been brave
above and beyond the call of duty. I didn't want to play anymore. I
opened my mouth to say, "No," but it wasn't what came out. "Do it,"
I said. Shit. I was going to be brave.
He brushed my hair away from my neck. I lay on the floor and
pressed my hands into fists, trying to prepare myself. There is no
real way to prepare yourself for somebody shoving a branding iron
into your neck.
The chain rustled and slithered through Edward's hands. "Are you
ready?"
No. "Just do it, dammit."
He did. The cross pressed against my skin, cool metal, no
burning, no smoke, no seared flesh, no pain. I was pure, or as pure
as I started out.
He dangled the crucifix in front of my face. I grabbed it with
one hand and squeezed until my hand shook. It didn't take long.
Tears seeped from the corners of my eyes. I wasn't crying, not
really. I was exhausted.
"Can you sit up?" he asked.
I nodded and forced myself to sit, leaning against the
bathtub.
"Can you stand up?" he asked.
I thought about it, and decided no, I didn't think I could. My
whole body was weak, shaky, nauseous. "Not without help."
Edward knelt beside me, put an arm behind my shoulders and one
under my knees, and lifted me in his arms. He stood in one smooth
motion, no strain.
"Put me down," I said.
He looked at me. "What?"
"I am not a child. I don't want to be carried."
He drew a loud breath, then said, "All right." He lowered me to
my feet and let go. I staggered against the wall and slid to the
floor. The tears were back, dammit. I sat in the floor, crying, too
weak to walk from my bathroom to my bed. God!
Edward just stood there, looking down at me, face neutral and
unreadable as a cat.
My voice came out almost normal, no hint of crying. "I hate
being helpless. I hate it!"
"You are one of the least helpless people I know," Edward said.
He knelt beside me again, draped my right arm over his shoulders,
grabbed my right wrist with his hand. His other arm encircled
my waist. The height difference made it a little awkward, but he
managed to give me the illusion that I walked to the bed.
The stuffed penguins sat against the wall. Edward hadn't said
anything about them. If he wouldn't mention it, I wouldn't. Who
knows, maybe Death slept with a teddy bear? Naw.
The heavy drapes were still closed, leaving the room in
permanent twilight. "Rest. I'll stand guard and see that none of
the bogeys sneak up on you."
I believed him.
Edward brought the white chair from the living room and sat it
against the bedroom wall, near the door. He slipped his shoulder
holster back on, gun ready at hand. He had brought a gym bag up
from the car with us. He unzipped it and drew out what looked like
a miniature machine gun. I didn't know much about machine guns, and
all I could think of was an Uzi.
"What kind of gun is that?" I asked.
"A Mini-Uzi."
What do you know? I had been right. He popped the clip and
showed me how to load it, where the safety was, all the finer
points, like it was a new car. He sat down in the chair with the
machine gun on his knees.
My eyes kept fluttering shut, but I said, "Don't shoot any of my
neighbors, okay?"
I think he smiled. "I'll try not to."
I nodded. "Are you the vampire murderer?"
He smiled then, bright, charming. "Go to sleep, Anita."
I was on the edge of sleep when his voice called me back, soft
and faraway. "Where is Nikolaos's daytime retreat?"
I opened my eyes and tried to focus on him. He was still sitting
in the chair, motionless. "I'm tired, Edward, not stupid." His
laughter bubbled up around me as I fell asleep.
Chapter 42
Jean-Claude sat in the carved throne. He smiled at me and
extended one long-fingered hand. "Come," he said.
I was wearing a long, white dress that had lace of its own. I
had never dreamed of myself in anything like it. I glanced up at
Jean-Claude. It was his choice, not mine. Fear tightened my throat.
"It's my dream," I said.
He held out both hands and said, "Come."
And I went to him. The dress whispered and scraped on the
stones, a continuous rustling noise. It grated on my nerves. I was
suddenly standing in front of him. I raised my hands towards his
slowly. I shouldn't do it. Bad idea, but I couldn't seem to stop
myself.
His hands wrapped around mine, and I knelt before him. He drew
my hands to the lace that spilled down the front of his shirt,
forced my fingers to take two handfuls of it.
He cupped his hands over mine, holding them tight; then he
ripped his shirt open using my hands.
His chest was smooth and pale with black hair curling in a line
down the middle. The hair thickened over the flatness of his
stomach, incredibly black against the white of his belly. The burn
scar was firm and shiny and out of place against the perfection of
his body.
He gripped my chin in one hand, raising my face towards him. His
other hand touched his chest, just below his right nipple. He drew
blood on his pale skin. It trickled down his chest in a bright,
crimson line.
I tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my jaw like a
vise. I shouted, "No!"
I hit at him with my left hand. He caught my wrist and held it.
I used my right hand to grip the floor and shoved with my knees. He
held me at jaw and wrist like a butterfly on a pin. You can
move, but you can't get away. I dropped to a sitting position, forcing
him to strangle me or lower me to the ground. He lowered me.
I kicked out with everything I had. Both feet connected with his
knee. Vampires can feel pain. He dropped my jaw so suddenly, I fell
backwards. He grabbed both my wrists and jerked me to my knees,
body pinned on either side by his legs. He sat in the chair, knees
controlling my lower body, hands like chains on my wrists.
A high, tinkling laughter filled the room. Nikolaos stood to one
side, watching us. Her laughter echoed through the room, growing
louder and louder, like music gone mad.
Jean-Claude transferred both my wrists to one hand, and I could
not stop him. His free hand stroked my cheek, smoothing down the
line of my neck. His fingers tightened at the base of my skull and
began to push.
"Jean-Claude, please, don't do this!"
He pressed my face closer and closer to the wound on his chest.
I struggled, but his fingers were welded to my skull, a part of me.
"NO!"
Nikolaos's laughter changed to words. "Scratch the surface, and
we are all much alike, animator."
I screamed, "Jean-Claude!"
His voice came like velvet, warm and dark, sliding through my
mind. "Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, two minds with but one
body, two souls wedded as one." For one bright, shining moment, I
saw it, felt it. Eternity with Jean-Claude. His touch . . . forever.
His lips. His blood.
I blinked and found my lips almost touching the wound in his
chest. I could have reached out and licked it. "Jean-Claude, no!
Jean-Claude!" I screamed it. "God help me!" I screamed that,
too.
Darkness and someone gripping my shoulder. I didn't even think
about it. Instinct took over. The gun from the headboard was in
my hand and turning to point.
A hand trapped my arm under the pillow, pointing the gun at the
wall, a body pressing against mine. "Anita, Anita, it's Edward.
Look at me!"
I blinked up at Edward, who was pinning my arms. His breathing
was coming a little fast.
I stared at the gun in my hand and back at Edward. He was still
holding my arms. I guess I didn't blame him.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Say something, Anita."
"I had a nightmare," I said.
He shook his head. "No shit." He released me slowly.
I slid the gun back in its holster.
"Who's Jean-Claude?" he asked.
"Why?"
"You were calling his name."
I brushed a hand over my forehead, and it came away slick with
sweat. The clothes I'd slept in and the sheet were drenched with
it. These nightmares were beginning to get on my nerves.
"What time is it?" The room looked too dark, as if the sun had
gone down. My stomach tightened. If it was near dark, Catherine
wouldn't have a chance.
"Don't panic; it's just clouds. You've got about four hours
until dusk."
I took a deep breath and staggered into the bathroom. I splashed
cold water on my face and neck. I looked ghost-pale in the mirror.
Had the dream been Jean-Claude's doing or Nikolaos's? If it had
been Nikolaos, did she already control me? No answers. No answers
to anything.
Edward was sitting in the white chair when I came back out. He
watched me like I was an interesting species of insect that he had
never seen before.
I ignored him and called Catherine's office. "Hi, Betty, this is
Anita Blake. Is Catherine in?"
"Hello, Ms. Blake. I thought you knew that Ms. Maison is going
to be out of town from the thirteenth until the twentieth on a
deposition."
Catherine had told me, but I forgot. I finally lucked out. It
was about time. "I forgot, Betty. Thanks a lot. Thanks more than
you'll ever know."
"Glad to be of help. Ms. Maison has scheduled the first fitting
for the bridesmaid dresses on the twenty-third." She said it like
it should make me feel better. It didn't.
"I won't forget. Bye."
"Have a nice day."
I hung up and phoned Irving Griswold. He was a reporter for the
Saint Louis Post-Dispatch. He was also a werewolf. Irving
the werewolf. It didn't quite work, but then what did? Charles the
werewolf, naw. Justin, Oliver, Wilbur, Brent? Nope.
Irving answered on the third ring.
"It's Anita Blake."
"Well, hi, what's up?" He sounded suspicious, as if I never
called him unless I wanted something.
"Do you know any wererats?"
He was quiet for almost too long; then, "Why do you want to
know?"
"I can't tell you."
"You mean you want my help, but I don't get a story out of
it."
I sighed. "That's about it."
"Then why should I help you?"
"Don't give me a hard time, Irving. I've given you plenty of
exclusives. My information is what got you your first front page
byline. So don't give me grief."
"A little grouchy today, aren't you?"
"Do you know a wererat or don't you?"
"I do."
"I need to get a message to the Rat King."
He gave a low whistle that was piercing over the phone. "You
don't ask for much, do you? I might be able to get you a meeting
with the wererat I know, but not their king."
"Give the Rat King this message; got a pencil?"
"Always," he said.
"The vampires didn't get me, and I didn't do what they
wanted."
Irving read it back to me. When I confirmed it, he said, "You're
involved with vampires and wererats, and I don't get an
exclusive."
"No one's going to get this one, Irving. It's going to be too
messy for that."
He was silent a moment. "Okay. I'll try to set up a meeting. I
should know sometime tonight."
"Thanks, Irving."
"You be careful, Blake. I'd hate to lose my best source of front
page bylines."
"Me, too," I said.
I had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang again. I picked
it up without thinking. A phone rings, you pick it up, years of
training. I haven't had my answering machine long enough to shake
it completely.
"Anita, this is Bert."
"Hi, Bert." I sighed, quietly.
"I know you are working on the vampire case, but I have
something you might be interested in."
"Bert, I am way over my head already. Anything else and I may
never see daylight." You'd think Bert would ask if I was all right.
How I was doing. But no, not my boss.
"Thomas Jensen called today."
My spine straightened. "Jensen called?"
"That's right."
"He's going to let us do it?"
"Not us, you. He specifically asked for you. I tried to get him
to take someone else, but he wouldn't do it. And it has to be
tonight. He's afraid he'll chicken out."
"Damn," I said softly.
"Do I call him back and cancel, or can you give me a time to
have him meet you?"
Why did everything have to come at once? One of life's
rhetorical questions. "Have him meet me at full dark tonight."
"That's my girl. I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"I'm not your girl, Bert. How much is he paying you?"
"Thirty thousand dollars. The five-thousand-dollar down payment
has already arrived by special messenger."
"You are an evil man, Bert."
"Yes," he said, "and it pays very well, thank you." He hung up
without saying good-bye. Mr. Charm.
Edward was staring at me. "Did you just take a job raising the
dead, for tonight?"
"Laying the dead to rest actually, but yes."
"Does raising the dead take it out of you?"
"It?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Energy, stamina, strength."
"Sometimes."
"How about this job? Is it an energy drain?"
I smiled. "Yes."
He shook his head. "You can't afford to be used up, Anita."
"I won't be used up," I said. I took a deep breath and tried to
think how to explain things to Edward. "Thomas Jensen lost his
daughter twenty years ago. Seven years ago he had her raised as a
zombie."
"So?"
"She committed suicide. No one knew why at the time. It was
later learned that Mr. Jensen had sexually abused his daughter and
that was why she had killed herself."
"And he raised her from the dead." Edward grimaced. "You don't
mean. . ."
I waved my hands as if I could erase the sudden vivid image.
"No, no, not that. He felt remorseful and raised her to say he was
sorry."
"And?"
"She wouldn't forgive him."
He shook his head. "I don't understand."
"He raised her to make amends, but she had died hating him,
fearing him. The zombie wouldn't forgive him, so he wouldn't put
her back. As her mind deteriorated and her body, too, he kept her
with him as a sort of punishment."
"Jesus."
"Yeah," I said. I walked to the closet and got out my gym bag.
Edward carried guns in his; I carried my animator paraphernalia in
it. Sometimes, I carried my vampire-slaying kit in it. The
matchbook Zachary gave me was in the bottom of the bag. I stuffed
it in my pants pocket. I don't think Edward saw me. He does catch
on if a clue sits up and barks. "Jensen finally agreed to put her
in the ground if I'll do it. I can't say no. He's sort of a legend
among animators. The closest we come to a ghost story."
"Why tonight? If it's waited seven years, why not a few more
nights?"
I kept putting things in the gym bag. "He insisted. He's afraid
he'll lose his nerve if he has to wait. Besides, I may not be alive
a few nights from now. He might not let anybody else do it."
"That is not your problem. You didn't raise his zombie."
"No, but I am an animator first. Vampire slaying is . . . a
sideline. I am an animator. It isn't just a job."
He was still staring at me. "I don't understand why, but I
understand you have to do it."
"Thanks."
He smiled. "Your show. Mind if I come along to make sure no one
offs you while you're gone?"
I glanced at him. "Ever see a zombie raising?"
"No."
"You're not squeamish, are you?" I smiled when I said it.
He stared at me, blue eyes gone suddenly cold. His whole face
became different. There was nothing there, no expression, except
that awful coldness. Emptiness. I'd had a leopard look at me like
that once, through the cage bars, no emotion I understood, thoughts
so alien it might as well have inhabited a different planet.
Something that could kill me, skillfully, efficiently, because that
was what it was meant to do, if it was hungry, or if I annoyed
it.
I didn't faint from fear or run screaming from the room, but it
was something of an effort. "You've proved your point, Edward. Can
the perfect-killer routine, and let's go."
His eyes didn't revert to normal instantly but had to warm up,
like dawn easing through the sky.
I hoped Edward never turned that look on me for real. If he did,
one of us would die. Odds are it would be me.
Chapter 43
The night was almost perfectly black. Thick clouds hid the sky.
A wind rushed along the ground and smelled of rain.
Iris Jensen's grave marker was smooth, white marble. It was a
nearly life-size angel, wings outspread, arms open, welcoming. You
could still read the lettering by flashlight: "Beloved daughter.
Sadly missed." The same man who had had the angel carved, who sadly
missed her, had been molesting her. She had killed herself to
escape him, and he had brought her back. That was why I was out
here in the dark, waiting for the Jensens, not him, but her. Even
though I knew her mind was gone by now, I wanted Iris Jensen in the
ground and at peace.
I couldn't explain that to Edward, so I hadn't tried. A huge oak
stood sentinel over the empty grave. The wind rushed through the
leaves and sent them skittering and whispering overhead. It sounded
too dry, like autumn leaves instead of summer. The air felt cool
and damp, rain almost upon us. It wasn't unbearably hot for
once.
I had picked up a pair of chickens. They clucked softly from
inside their crate where they sat near the grave. Edward leaned
against my car, ankles crossed, arms loose at his sides. The gym
bag was open by me on the ground. The machete I used gleamed from
inside.
"Where is he?" Edward asked.
I shook my head. "I don't know." It had been almost an hour
since full dark. The cemetery grounds were mostly bare; only a few
trees dotted the soft roll of hills. We should have been seeing car
lights on the gravel road. Where was Jensen? Had he chickened
out?
Edward stepped away from the car and walked to stand beside me.
"I don't like it, Anita."
I wasn't too thrilled either, but. . . "We'll give it
another fifteen minutes. If he's not here by then, we'll leave."
Edward glanced around the open ground. "Not much cover around
here."
"I don't think we have to worry about snipers."
"You said someone shot at you, right?"
I nodded. He had a point. Goosebumps marched up my arms. The
wind blew a hole in the clouds and moonlight streamed down. Off in
the distance a small building gleamed silver-grey in the light.
"What's that?" Edward asked.
"The maintenance shed," I said. "You think the grass cuts
itself?"
"Never thought about it," he said.
The clouds rolled in again and plunged the cemetery into
blackness. Everything became soft shapes; the white marble seemed
to glow with its own light.
There was the sound of scrabbling claws on metal. I whirled. A
ghoul sat on top of my car. It was naked and looked as if a human
being had been stripped and dipped into silver-grey paint, almost
metallic. But the teeth and claws on its hands and feet were long
and black, curved talons. The eyes glowed crimson.
Edward moved up beside me, gun in his hand.
I had my gun out, too. Practice, practice, and you don't have to
think about it.
"What's it doing up there?" he asked.
"Don't know." I waved my free hand at it and said, "Scat!"
It crouched, staring at me. Ghouls are cowards; they don't
attack healthy human beings. I took two steps, waving my gun at it.
"Go away, shoo!" Any show of force sends them scuttling away. This
one just sat there. I backed away.
"Edward," I said, softly.
"Yes."
'I didn't sense any ghouls in this cemetery."
"So? You missed one."
"There's no such thing as just one ghoul. They travel in packs.
And you don't miss them. They leave a sort of psychic stench
behind. Evil."
"Anita." His voice was soft, normal, but not normal. I glanced
where he was looking and saw two more ghouls creeping up behind
us.
We stood almost back to back, guns pointing out. "I saw a
ghoul attack earlier this week. Healthy man killed, a cemetery
where there were no ghouls."
"Sounds familiar," he said.
"Yeah. Bullets won't kill them."
"I know. What are they waiting for?" he asked.
"Courage, I think."
"They're waiting for me," a voice said. Zachary stepped around
the trunk of the tree. He was smiling.
I think my mouth dropped to the ground. Maybe that was what he
was smiling at. I knew then. He wasn't killing human beings to feed
his gris-gris. He was killing vampires. Theresa had tormented him,
so she had been the next victim. There were still some questions
though, big ones.
Edward glanced at me, then back at Zachary. "Who is this?" he
asked.
"The vampire murderer, I presume," I said.
Zachary gave a little bow. A ghoul leaned against his leg, and
he stroked its nearly bald head. "When did you guess?"
"Just now. I'm a little slow this year."
He frowned then. "I thought you'd figure it out eventually."
"That's why you destroyed the zombie witness's mind. To save
yourself."
"It was fortunate that Nikolaos left me in charge of questioning
the man." He smiled when he said it.
"I'll bet," I said. "How did you get the two-biter to shoot me
at the church?"
"That was easy. I told him the orders came from Nikolaos."
Of course. "How are you getting the ghouls out of their
cemetery? How come they obey your orders?"
"You know the theory that if you bury an animator in a cemetery,
you get ghouls."
"Yeah."
"When I came out of the grave, they came with me, and they were
mine. Mine."
I glanced at the creatures and found that there were more of
them. At least twenty, a big pack. "So you're saying that's where
ghouls come from." I shook my head. "There aren't enough animators
in the world to account for all the ghouls."
"I've been thinking about that," he said. "I think that the more
zombies you raise in a cemetery, the greater your chances for
ghouls."
"You mean like a cumulative effect?"
"Exactly. I've been wanting to talk this over with another
animator, but you see the problem."
"Yes," I said, "I do. Can't talk shop without admitting what you
are and what you've done."
Edward fired without warning. The bullet took Zachary in the
chest and twisted him around. He lay face down, the ghouls frozen;
then Zachary raised himself up on his elbows. He stood with a
little help from an anxious ghoul. "Sticks and stones may break my
bones, but bullets will never hurt me."
"Great, a comedian," I said.
Edward fired again, but Zachary darted behind the tree
trunk.
He called, hidden from sight. "Now, now, no hitting the head.
I'm not sure what would happen if you put a bullet in my
brain."
"Let's find out," Edward said.
"Good-bye, Anita. I won't stay around to watch." He walked away
with a troop of ghouls surrounding him. He was crouched in the
middle of them, hiding I supposed from a bullet in the brain, but
for a minute I couldn't pick him out.
Two more ghouls appeared around the car, crouched low on the
gravel drive. One was female with the tatters of a dress still
clinging to her.
"Let's give them something to be afraid of," Edward said. I felt
him move, and his gun fired twice. A high-pitched squealing filled
the night. The ghoul on my car leaped to the ground and hid. But
there were more of them moving in from all sides. At least fifteen
of them had been left behind for us to play with.
I fired and hit one of them. It fell to its side and rolled in
the gravel, making that same high-pitched noise, like a wounded
rabbit. Piteous and animal.
"Is there anyplace we can run to?" Edward asked.
"The maintenance shed," I said.
"Is it wood?"
"Yes."
"It won't stop them."
"No," I said, "but it will get us out of the open."
"Okay, any advice before we start to move?"
"Don't run until we are very close to the shed. If you run,
they'll chase you. They'll think you're scared."
"Anything else?" he asked.
"You don't smoke, do you?"
"No, why?"
"They're afraid of fire."
"Great; we're going to be eaten alive because neither one of us
smokes."
I almost laughed. He sounded so thoroughly disgusted, but a
ghoul was crouching to leap at me, and I had to shoot it between
the eyes. No time for laughter.
"Let's go, slow and easy," I said.
"I wish the machine gun wasn't in the car."
"Me, too."
Edward fired three shots, and the night filled with squeals and
animal screams. We started walking towards the distant shed. I'd
say maybe a quarter of a mile away. It was going to be a long
walk.
A ghoul charged us. I dropped it, and it spilled to the grass,
but it was like shooting targets, no blood, just empty holes. It
hurt, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
I was walking nearly backwards, one hand back feeling Edward's
forward movement. There were too many of them. We were not going to
make it to the shed. No way. One of the chickens made a soft,
questioning cluck. I had an idea.
I shot one of the chickens. It flopped, and the other bird
panicked, beating its wings against the wooden crate. The ghouls
froze, then one put its face into the air and sniffed.
Fresh blood, boys, come and get it. Fresh meat. Two ghouls were
suddenly racing for the chickens. The rest followed, scrambling
over each other to crack the wood and get to the juicy morsels
inside.
"Keep walking, Edward, don't run, but walk a little faster. The
chickens won't hold them long."
We walked a little faster. The sounds of scrambling claws,
cracking bone, the splatter of blood, the squabbling howls of the
ghouls - it was an unwelcome preview.
Halfway to the shed, a howl went up through the night, long and
hostile. No dog ever sounded like that. I glanced back, and the
ghouls were rushing over the ground on all fours.
"Run!" I said.
We ran.
We crashed against the shed door and found the damn thing
padlocked. Edward shot the lock off; no time to pick it. The ghouls
were close, howling as they came.
We scrambled inside, closing the door, for what good it would do
us. There was one small window high up near the ceiling; moonlight
suddenly spilled through it. There was a herd of lawnmowers against
one wall, some of them hanging from hooks. Gardening shears, hedge
trimmers, trowels, a curl of garden hose. The whole shed smelled of
gasoline and oily rags.
Edward said, "There's nothing to put against the door,
Anita."
He was right. We'd blown the lock off. Where was a heavy object
when you needed it? "Roll a lawnmower against it."
"That won't hold them long."
"It's better than nothing," I said. He didn't move, so I rolled
a lawnmower against the door.
"I won't die, eaten alive," he said. He put a fresh clip in his
gun. "I'll do you first if you want, or you can do it
yourself."
I remembered then that I had shoved the matchbook Zachary had
given me in my pocket. Matches, we had matches!
"Anita, they're almost here. Do you want to do it yourself?"
I pulled the matchbook out of my pocket. Thank you, God. "Save
your bullets, Edward." I lifted a can of gasoline in one hand.
"What are you planning?" he asked.
The howls were crashing around us; they were almost here.
"I'm going to set the shed on fire." I splashed gasoline on the
door. The smell was sharp and tugged at the back of my throat.
"With us inside?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'd rather shoot myself, if it's all the same to you."
"I don't plan to die tonight, Edward."
A claw smashed through the door, talons raking the wood, tearing
it apart. I lit a match and threw it on the gasoline-soaked door.
It went up with a blue-white whoosh of flame. The ghoul screamed,
covered in fire, stumbling back from the ruined door.
The stench of burning flesh mingled with gasoline. Burnt hair. I
coughed, putting a hand over my mouth. The fire was eating up the
wood of the shed, spreading to the roof. We didn't need more
gasoline; the damn thing was a fire trap. With us inside. I hadn't
thought it would spread this fast.
Edward was standing near the back wall, hand over his mouth. His
voice came muffled. "You did have a plan to get us out, right?"
A hand crashed through the wood, clawing at him. He backed away
from it. The ghoul began to tear through the wood, leering at us.
Edward shot it between the eyes, and it disappeared from sight.
I grabbed a rake from the far wall. Cinders were beginning to
float down on us. If the smoke didn't get us first, the shed was
going to collapse on top of us. "Take off your shirt," I said.
He didn't even ask why. Practical to the end. He stripped the
shoulder rig off and pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it to
me, and slipped the gun over his bare chest.
I wrapped the shirt over the tines of the rake and soaked it
with gasoline. I set it on fire from the walls; no need for
matches. The front of the shed was raining fire on us. Tiny burning
stings like wasps on my skin.
Edward had caught on. He found an axe and started chopping at
the hole the ghoul had made. I carried the improvised torch and a
can of gasoline in my hands. The thought occurred to me that the
heat was going to set the gasoline off. We weren't going to
suffocate from smoke; we were going to blow up.
"Hurry!" I said.
Edward squeezed through the opening, and I followed, nearly
burning him with the torch. There wasn't a ghoul for a hundred
yards. They were smarter than they looked. We ran, and the
explosion slammed into my back like a huge wind. I tumbled over
into the grass, all the air knocked out of me. Bits of burning wood
clattered to the ground on either side of me. I covered my head and
prayed. My luck, I'd get caught by a flying nail.
Silence, or no more explosions. I raised my head cautiously. The
shed was gone, nothing left. Bits of wood burned in the grass
around me. Edward was lying on the ground, nearly touching distance
from me. He stared at me. Did my face look as surprised as his did?
Probably.
Our improvised torch was slowly setting the grass on fire. He
knelt and raised it up.
I found the gasoline can unharmed and got to my feet. Edward
followed, carrying the torch. The ghouls seemed to have fled, smart
ghouls, but just in case . . . We didn't even have to discuss it.
Paranoia, we had that in common.
We walked towards the car. The adrenaline was gone, and I was
tireder than before. A person only has so much adrenaline; then you
start running on numb.
The chicken crate was history; nameless bits and pieces were
scattered around the grave. I didn't look any closer. I stopped to
pick up my gym bag. It was untouched, just lying there. Edward
moved ahead of me and tossed the torch on the gravel driveway. The
wind rustled through the trees; then Edward yelled, "Anita!"
I rolled. Edward's gun fired, and something fell squealing on
the grass. I stared at the ghoul while Edward pumped bullets into
it. When I swallowed my heart back down into my chest, I crawled to
the gasoline can and unscrewed it.
The ghoul screamed. Edward was driving the ghoul with the
burning torch. I splashed gasoline on the cringing thing, dropped
to my knees, and said, "Light it."
Edward shoved the torch home. Fire whooshed over the ghoul, and
it started screaming. The night stank of burning meat and hair. And
gasoline.
It rolled over and over on the ground trying to put out the
fire, but it wouldn't go out.
I whispered, "You're next, Zachary baby. You are next."
The shirt had burned away, and Edward tossed the rake to the
ground. "Let's get out of here," he said.
I agreed wholeheartedly. I unlocked the car, tossed my gym bag
in the back seat, and started the car. The ghoul was lying on the
grass, not moving, burning.
Edward was in the passenger seat with the machine gun in his
lap. For the first time since I'd met him, Edward looked shaken.
Scared, even.
"You going to sleep with that machine gun?" I asked.
He glanced at me. "You going to sleep with your gun?" he
asked.
Point for Edward. I took the narrow gravel turns as quick as I
dared. My Nova wasn't built for speed maneuvering. Having a wreck
here in the cemetery didn't seem like a real good idea tonight. The
headlights bounced over the tombstones, but nothing moved. No
ghouls in sight.
I took a deep breath and let it out. This was the second attempt
on my life in as many days. Frankly, I'd rather be shot at.
44
We drove in silence for a long time. It was Edward who finally
spoke into the wheel-rushing quiet. "I don't think we should go
back to your apartment," he said.
"Agreed."
"I'll take you to my hotel. Unless you have someplace else you'd
rather go?"
Where could I go? Ronnie's? I didn't want her endangered
anymore. Who else could I endanger? No one. No one but Edward, and
he could handle it. Maybe better than I could.
My beeper trembled against my waist, sending shock waves all
along my rib cage. I hated putting the beeper on silent mode. The
damn thing always scared me when it went off.
Edward said, "What the hell happened? You jumped like something
bit you."
I hit the button on the beeper, to shut it off and see who had
called. The number lit up briefly. "My beeper went off on silent
mode. No noise, just vibration."
He glanced at me. "You are not going to call work." He made it
sound like a statement or an order.
"Look, Edward, I'm not feeling so hot, so don't argue with
me."
I heard his breath ease out, but what could he say? I was
driving. Short of drawing his gun and hijacking me, he was along
for the ride. I took the next exit and located a pay phone at a
convenience store. The store lot was fully lit and made me a
wonderful target, but after the ghouls I wanted light.
Edward watched me get out of the car with my billfold gripped in
my hand. He did not get out to watch my back. Fine, I had my gun.
If he wanted to pout, let him.
I called work. Craig, our night secretary, answered. "Animators,
Inc. May I help you?"
"Hi, Craig, this is Anita. What's up?"
"Irving Griswold called, says to call him back ASAP or the
meeting's off. He said you'd know what that meant. Do you?"
"Yes. Thanks, Craig."
"You sound awful."
"Good night, Craig." I hung up on him. I felt tired and
sluggish, and my throat hurt. I wanted to curl up somewhere dark
and quiet for about a week. Instead, I called Irving. "It's me," I
said.
"Well, it's about time. Do you know the trouble I've gone
through to set this up? You almost missed it."
"If you don't quit talking, I may still miss it. Tell me where
and when."
He did. If we hurried, we'd make it. "Why is everyone so hot to
do everything tonight?" I said.
"Hey, if you don't want to meet, that's fine."
"Irving, I've had a very, very long night, so stop bitching at
me."
"Are you all right?"
What a stupid question. "Not really, but I'll live."
"If you're hurt, I'll try to get the meeting postponed, but I
can't promise anything, Anita. It was your message that got him
this far."
I leaned my forehead against the metal of the booth. "I'll be
there, Irving."
"I won't be." He sounded thoroughly disgusted. "One of the
conditions was no reporters and no police."
I had to smile. Poor Irving; he was getting left out of
everything. He hadn't been attacked by ghouls and almost blown up,
though. Maybe I should save my pity for myself.
"Thanks, Irving, I owe you one."
"You owe me several," he said. "Be careful. I don't know what
you're into this time, but it sounds bad."
He was fishing, and I knew it. "Good night, Irving." I hung up
before he could ask any more questions.
I called Dolph's home phone number. I don't know why it couldn't
wait until morning, but I had almost died tonight. If I did die, I
wanted someone to hunt Zachary down.
Dolph answered on the sixth ring. His voice sounded gruff with
sleep. "Yes."
"This is Anita Blake, Dolph."
"What's wrong?" His voice sounded almost alert.
"I know who the murderer is."
"Tell me."
I told him. He took notes and asked questions. The biggest
question came at the end. "Can you prove any of this?"
"I can prove he wears a gris-gris. I can testify that he
confessed to me. He tried to kill me; that I witnessed
personally."
"It's going to be a tough sell to a jury or a judge."
"I know."
"I'll see what I can find out."
"We've almost got a solid case on him, Dolph."
"True, but it all hinges on you being alive to testify."
"Yeah, I'll be careful."
"You come down tomorrow and get all this information recorded
officially."
"I will."
"Good work."
"Thanks," I said.
"Good night, Anita."
"Good night, Dolph."
I eased back into the car. "We have a meeting with the wererats
in forty-five minutes."
"Why is it so important?" he asked.
"Because I think they can show us a back way into Nikolaos's
lair. If we come in the front door, we'll never make it." I started
the car and pulled out into the road.
"Who else did you call?" he asked.
So he had been paying attention. "The police."
"What?"
Edward never likes dealing with the police. Fancy that. "If
Zachary manages to kill me, I want someone else to be looking into
it."
He was silent for a little while. Then he asked, "Tell me about
Nikolaos."
I shrugged. "She's a sadistic monster, and she's over a thousand
years old."
"I look forward to meeting her."
"Don't," I said.
"We've killed master vampires before, Anita. She's just one
more."
"No. Nikolaos is at least a thousand years old. I don't think
I've ever been so frightened of anything in my life."
He was silent, face unreadable.
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
"That I love a challenge." Then he smiled, a beautiful,
spreading smile. Shit. Death had seen his ultimate goal. The
biggest catch of all. He wasn't afraid of her, and he should have
been.
There aren't that many places open at one-thirty A.M., but
Denny's is. There was something wrong with meeting wererats in
Denny's over coffee and donuts. Shouldn't we have been meeting in
some dark alley? I wasn't complaining, mind you. It just struck me
as . . . funny.
Edward went in first to make sure it wasn't another setup. If he
took a table, it was safe. If he came back out, it wasn't safe.
Simple. No one knew what he looked like yet. As long as he wasn't
with me, he could go anywhere and no one would try to kill him.
Amazing. I was beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary.
Edward took a table. Safe. I walked into the bright lights and
artificial comfort of the restaurant. The waitress had dark circles
under her eyes, cleverly disguised by thick base, which made the
circles look sort of pinkish. I looked past her. A man was
motioning to me. Hand straight up, finger crooked like he was
calling the waitress, or some other subservient.
"I see my party, now. Thanks anyway," I said.
The restaurant was mostly empty in the wee hours of Monday, or
rather Tuesday morning. Two men sat at a table in front of the
first man. They looked normal enough, but there was a sense of
contained energy that seemed to spark in the air around them.
Lycanthropes. I would have bet my life on it, and maybe I was.
There was a couple, male and female, sitting catty-corner from
the first two. I would have bet money they were lycanthropes,
too.
Edward had taken a table near them, but not too near. He had
hunted lycanthropes before; he knew what to look for as well.
As I passed the table, one of the men looked up. Pure brown
eyes, so dark they were almost black, stared into mine. His face
was square, body slender, small build, muscles worked in his arms
as he folded his hands under his chin and looked at me. I stared
back; then I was past him and to the booth where the Rat King
sat.
He was tall, at least six feet, dark brown skin, with thick,
shortcut black hair, brown eyes. His face was thin, arrogant, lips
almost too soft for the haughty expression he gave me. He was darkly
handsome, strongly Mexican, and his suspicion rode the air like
lightning.
I eased into the booth. I took a deep, steadying breath and
looked across the counter at him.
"I got your message. What do you want?" His voice was soft but
deep, without a trace of accent.
"I want you to lead myself and at least one man into the tunnels
beneath the Circus of the Damned."
His frown deepened, forming faint wrinkles between his eyes.
"Why should I do this for you?"
"Do you want your people free of the master's influence?"
He nodded. Still frowning.
I was really winning him over. "Guide us in through the dungeon
entrance, and I'll take care of it"
He clasped his hands together on the table. "How can I trust
you?"
"I am not a bounty hunter. I have never harmed a
lycanthrope."
"We cannot fight beside you if you go against her. Even I cannot
fight her. She calls to me. I don't answer, but I feel it. I can
keep the small rats and my people from helping her against you, but
that is all."
"Just get us inside. We'll do the rest."
"Are you so confident?"
"I'm willing to bet my life on it," I said.
He steepled his fingers against his lips, elbows on the table.
The burn scar in his forearm was still there even in human
form, a rough, four-pointed crown. "I'll get you inside," he said.
I smiled. "Thank you."
He stared at me. "When you come back out alive, then you can
thank me."
"It's a deal." I held my hand out. After a moment's hesitation,
he took it. We shook on it.
"You wish to wait a few days?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I want to go in tomorrow."
He cocked his head to one side. "Are you sure?"
"Why? Is that a problem?"
"You are hurt. I thought you might wish to heal."
I was a little bruised, and my throat hurt, but. . . "How did
you know?"
"You smell like death has brushed you close tonight"
I stared at him. Irving never does this to me, the supernatural
powers bit. I'm not saying he can't, but he works hard at being
human. This man did not.
I took a deep breath. "That is my business."
He nodded. "We will call you and give you the place and
time."
I stood up. He remained sitting. There didn't seem to be
anything else to say, so I left.
About ten minutes later Edward got into the car with me. "What
now?" he asked.
"You mentioned your hotel room. I'm going to sleep while I
can."
"And tomorrow?"
"You take me out and show me how the shotgun works."
"Then?" he asked.
"Then we go after Nikolaos," I said.
He gave a shaky breath, almost a laugh. "Oh, boy."
Oh, boy? "Glad to see someone is enjoying all this."
He grinned at me. "I love my work," he said.
I had to smile. Truth was, I loved my work, too.
Chapter 45
During the day I learned how to use a shotgun. That night I went
caving with wererats.
The cave was dark. I stood in absolute blackness, gripping my
flashlight. I touched my hand to my forehead and couldn't see a
damn thing but the funny white images your eyes make when there is
no light. I was wearing a hard hat with a light on it, turned off
at present. The wererats had insisted on it. All around me were
sounds. Cries, moans, the popping of bone, a curious sliding sound
like a knife drawing out of flesh. The wererats were changing from
human to animal. It sounded like it hurt - a lot. They had made me
swear not to turn on a light until they told me to.
I had never wanted to see so badly in my life. It couldn't be so
horrible. Could it? But a promise is a promise. I sounded like
Horton the Elephant. "A person is a person no matter how small."
What the hell was I doing standing in the middle of a cave, in the
dark, surrounded by wererats, quoting Dr. Seuss, and trying to kill
a one-thousand-year-old vampire?
It had been one of my stranger weeks.
Rafael, the Rat King, said, "You may turn on your lights."
I did, instantly. My eyes seemed to leech on the light, eager to
see. The ratmen stood in small groups in the wide, flat-roofed
tunnel. There were ten of them. I had counted them in human form.
Now the seven males were fur-covered and wearing jean cutoffs. Two
wore loose t-shirts. The three women wore loose dresses, like
maternity clothes. Their black button eyes glittered in the light.
Everybody was furry.
Edward came to stand near me. He was staring at the weres, face
distant, unreadable. I touched his arm. I had told Rafael that I
was not a bounty hunter, but Edward was, sometimes. I hoped I had
not endangered these people.
"Are you ready?" Rafael asked. He was the same sleek black
ratman I remembered.
"Yes," I said.
Edward nodded.
The wererats scattered to either side of us, scrambling over
low, weathered flowstone. I said to no one in particular, "I
thought caves were damp."
A smaller ratman in a t-shirt said, "Cherokee Caverns is dead
cave."
"I don't understand."
"Live cave has water and growing formations. A dry cave where
none of the formations are growing is called dead cave."
"Oh," I said.
He drew lips back from huge teeth, a smile, I think. "More than
you wanted to know, huh?"
Rafael hissed back, "We are not here to give guided tours,
Louie. Now be quiet, both of you."
Louie shrugged and scrambled ahead of me. He was the same human
that had been with Rafael in the restaurant, the one with the dark
eyes.
One of the females was nearly grey-furred. Her name was Lillian,
and she was a doctor. She carried a backpack full of medical
supplies. They seemed to be planning on us getting hurt. At least
that meant they thought we would come out alive. I was beginning to
wonder about that part myself.
Two hours later the ceiling dropped to a point where I couldn't
stand upright. And I learned what the hard hats they had given
Edward and me were for. I scraped my head on the rock at least a
thousand times. I'd have knocked myself unconscious long before we
saw Nikolaos.
The rats seemed designed for the tunnel, sliding along,
flattening their bodies in a strange, scrambling grace. Edward and
I could not match it. Not even close.
He cursed softly behind me. His five inches of extra height were
causing him pain. My lower back was an aching burn. He had to be in
worse shape. There were pockets where the ceiling opened up and we
could stand. I started looking very forward to them, like air
pockets to a diver.
The quality of darkness changed. Light - there was light up ahead,
not much, but it was there. It flickered at the far end of the
tunnel like a mirage.
Rafael crouched beside us. Edward sat flat on the dry rock. I
joined him. "There is your dungeon. We will wait here until near
dark. If you have not come out, we will leave. After Nikolaos is
dead, if we can, we will help you."
I nodded; the light on my hard hat nodded with me. "Thank you
for helping us."
He shook his narrow, ratty face. "I have delivered you to the
devil's door. Do not thank me for that."
I glanced at Edward. His face was still distant, unreadable. If
he was interested in what the ratman had just said, I couldn't tell
it. We might as well have been talking about a grocery list.
Edward and I knelt before the opening into the dungeon.
Torchlight flickered, incredibly bright after the darkness. Edward
was cradling his Uzi that hung on a strap across his chest. I had
the shotgun. I was also carrying my two pistols, two knives, and a
derringer stuffed in the pocket of my jacket. It was a present from
Edward. He had handed it to me with this advice: "It kicks like a
sonofabitch, but press it under someone's chin, and it will blow
their fucking head off." Nice to know.
It was daylight outside. There shouldn't be a vampire stirring,
but Burchard would be there. And if he saw us, Nikolaos would know.
Somehow, she'd know. Goosebumps marched up my arms.
We scrambled inside, ready to kill and maim. The room was empty.
All that adrenaline sort of sat in my body, making my breathing too
quick and my heart pound for no reason. The spot where Phillip had
been chained was clean. Someone had scrubbed it down real good.
I fought an urge to touch the wall where he'd been.
Edward called softly, "Anita." He was at the door.
I hurried up to him.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"She killed Phillip in here."
"Keep your mind on business. I don't want to die because you're
daydreaming."
I started to get angry and swallowed it. He was right.
Edward tried the door, and it opened. No prisoners, no need to
lock it. I took the left side of the door, and he took the right.
The corridor was empty.
My hands were sweating on the shotgun. Edward led off down the
right hand side of the corridor. I followed him into the
dragon's lair. I didn't feel much like a knight. I was fresh out
of shiny steeds, or was that shiny armor?
Whatever. We were here. This was it. I could taste my heart in
my throat.
Chapter 46
The dragon didn't come out and eat us right away. In fact, the
place was quiet. As the cliche goes, too quiet.
I stepped close to Edward and whispered, "I don't mean to
complain, but where is everybody?"
He leaned his back against the wall and said, "Maybe you killed
Winter. That just leaves Burchard. Maybe he's on an errand."
I shook my head. "This is too easy."
"Don't worry. Something will go wrong soon." He continued down
the corridor, and I followed. It took me three steps to realize
Edward had made a joke.
The corridor opened into a huge room like Nikolaos's throne
room, but there was no chair here. There were coffins. Five of them
spaced around the room on raised platforms, so they didn't have to
sit on the floor in the draft. Tall, iron candelabra burned in the
room, one at the foot and head of each coffin.
Most vampires made some effort to hide their coffins, but not
Nikolaos.
"Arrogant," Edward whispered.
"Yes," I whispered back. You always whispered around the
coffins, at first, as if it were a funeral and they could hear
you.
There was a neck-ruffling smell to the room, stale. It caught at
the back of my throat and was almost a taste, faintly metallic. It
was like the smell of snakes kept in cages. You knew there was
nothing warm and furry in this room just by smell. And that really
doesn't do it justice. It was the smell of vampires.
The first coffin was dark, well-varnished wood, with golden
handles. It was wider at the shoulder area and then narrowed,
following the contour of the human body. Older coffins did that
sometimes.
"We start here," I said.
Edward didn't argue. He let the machine gun hang by its strap
and drew his pistol. "You're covered," he said.
I laid the shotgun on the floor in front of the coffin, gripped
the edge of the lid, said a quick prayer, and lifted. Valentine lay
in the coffin. His scarred face was bare. He was still dressed as a
riverboat gambler but this time in black. His frilly shirt was
crimson. The colors didn't look good against his auburn hair. One
hand was half-curled over his thigh, a careless sleeper's gesture.
A very human gesture.
Edward peered into the coffin, gun pointed ceilingward. "This
the one you threw Holy Water on?"
I nodded.
"Did a bang-up job," Edward said.
Valentine never moved. I couldn't even see him breathe. I wiped
my sweating palms on my jeans and felt for a pulse in his wrist.
Nothing. His skin was cool to the touch. He was dead. It wasn't
murder, no matter what the new laws said. You can't kill a
corpse.
The wrist pulsed. I jerked back like he'd burned me.
"What's wrong?" Edward asked.
"I got a pulse."
"It happens sometimes."
I nodded. Yeah, it happened sometimes. If you waited long
enough, the heart did beat, blood did flow, but so slow that it
was painful to watch. Dead. I was beginning to think I didn't know
what that meant.
I knew one thing. If night fell with us here, we would die, or
wish we had. Valentine had helped kill over twenty people. He had
nearly killed me. When Nikolaos withdrew her protection, he'd
finish the job if he could. We had come to kill Nikolaos. I think
she would withdraw her protection ASAP. As the old saying goes, it
was him or me. I preferred him.
I shook off the shoulder straps of the backpack.
"What are you looking for?" Edward asked.
"Stake and hammer," I said without looking up.
"Not going to use the shotgun?"
I glanced up at him. "Oh, right. Why not rent a marching band
while we're at it?"
"If you just want to be quiet, there is another way." He had a
slight smile on his face.
I had the sharpened stake in my hand, but I was willing to
listen. I've staked most of the vampires that I've killed, but it
never gets easier. It is hard, messy work, though I don't throw up
anymore. I am a professional, after all.
He took a small case out of his own backpack. It held syringes.
He drew out an ampule of some greyish liquid. "Silver nitrate," he
said.
Silver. Bane of the undead. Scourge of the supernatural. And all
nicely modernized. "Does it work?" I asked.
"It works." He filled one syringe and asked, "How old is this
one?"
"A little over a hundred," I said.
"Two ought to do it." He shoved the needle into the big vein in
Valentine's neck. Before he had filled the syringe a second time,
the body shivered. He shoved the second dose into the neck.
Valentine's body arched against the walls of the coffin. His mouth
opened and closed. He gasped for air as if he were drowning.
Edward filled up another syringe and handed it towards me. I
stared at it.
"It isn't going to bite," he said.
I took it gingerly between my thumb and the first two fingers on
my right hand.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked.
"I'm not a big fan of needles."
He grinned. "You're afraid of needles?"
I scowled at him. "Not exactly."
Valentine's body shook and bucked, hands thumping against the
wooden walls. It made a small, helpless noise. His eyes never
opened. He was going to sleep through his own death.
He gave one last shuddering jump, then collapsed against the
side of the coffin like a broken rag doll.
"He doesn't look very dead," I said.
"They never do."
"Stake their heart and chop off their heads, and you know
they're dead."
"This isn't staking," he said.
I didn't like it. Valentine lay there looking very whole and
nearly human. I wanted to see some rotting flesh and bones turning
to dust. I wanted to know he was dead.
"No one has ever gotten up out of their coffin after a syringe
full of silver nitrate, Anita."
I nodded but remained unconvinced.
"You check the other side. Go on."
I went, but I kept glancing back at Valentine. He had haunted my
nightmares for years, nearly killed me. He just didn't look dead
enough for me.
I opened the first coffin on my side, one-handed, holding the
syringe carefully. An injection of silver nitrate probably wouldn't
do me much good either. The coffin was empty. The white imitation
silk lining had conformed to the body like a mattress, but the body
wasn't there.
I flinched and stared around the room, but there was nothing
there. I stared slowly upward, hoping that there was nothing
floating above me. There wasn't. Thank you, God.
I remembered to breathe finally. It was probably Theresa's
coffin. Yeah, that was it. I left it open and went to the next one.
It was a newer model, probably fake wood, but nice and polished.
The black male was in it. I had never gotten his name. Now I never
would. I knew what it meant, coming in here. Not just defending
yourself but taking out the vampires while they lay helpless. As
far as I knew, this vampire had never hurt anyone. I laughed then;
he was Nikolaos's protege. Did I really think he'd never tasted
human blood? No. I pressed the needle against his neck and
swallowed hard. I hated needles. No particular reason.
I shoved it in and closed my eyes while I depressed the plunger.
I could have pounded a stake through his heart, but sticking a
needle in him put cold chills down my spine.
Edward called, "Anita!"
I whirled and found Aubrey sitting up in his coffin. He had
Edward by the throat and was slowly lifting him off his feet.
The shotgun was still by Valentine's coffin. Damn! I drew the
9mm and fired at Aubrey's forehead. The bullet tossed his head
back, but he just smiled and raised Edward straight-armed, legs
dangling.
I ran for the shotgun.
Edward was having to use both hands to keep himself from being
strangled by his own weight. He dropped one hand, fumbling for the
machine gun.
Aubrey caught his wrist.
I picked up the shotgun, took two steps towards them and fired
from three feet away. Aubrey's head exploded; blood and brains
spattered over the wall. The hands lowered Edward to the floor
but didn't let go. Edward drew a ragged breath. The right hand
convulsed around his throat, fingers digging for his windpipe.
I had to step around Edward to fire at the chest. The blast took
out the heart and most of the left side of the chest. The left arm
sort of hung there by strands of tissue and bone. The corpse
flopped back into its coffin.
Edward dropped to his knees, breath wheezing and choking through
his throat.
"Nod if you can breathe, Edward," I said. Though if Aubrey had
crushed his windpipe I don't know what I could have done. Run back
and gotten Lillian the doctor rat, maybe.
Edward nodded. His face was a mottled reddish purple, but he was
breathing.
My ears were ringing with the sound of the shotgun inside the
stone walls. So much for surprise. So much for silver nitrate. I
pumped another round into the gun and went to Valentine's coffin. I
blew him apart. Now, he was dead.
Edward staggered to his feet. He croaked, "How old was that
thing?"
"Over five hundred," I said.
He swallowed, and it looked like it hurt. "Shit."
"I wouldn't try sticking any needles into Nikolaos."
He managed to glare at me, still half-leaning against Aubrey's
coffin.
I turned to the fifth coffin. The one we had saved until last
without any talk between us. It was set against the far wall. A
dainty white coffin, too small for an adult. Candlelight gleamed on
the carvings in the lid.
I was tempted to just blow a hole in the coffin, but I had to
see her. I had to see what I was shooting at. My heart started
thudding in my throat; my chest was tight. She was a master
vampire. Killing them, even in daylight, is a chancy thing. Their
gaze can trap you until nightfall. Their minds. Their voices. So
much power. And Nikolaos was the most powerful I'd ever seen. I had
my blessed cross. I would be all right. I had had too many crosses
taken from me to feel completely safe. Oh, well. I tried to raise
the lid one-handed, but it was heavy and not balanced for easy
opening like modem coffins. "Can you back me on this, Edward? Or
are you still relearning how to breathe?"
Edward came to stand beside me. His face looked almost its
normal color. He took hold of the lid and I readied the
shotgun.
He lifted and the whole lid slid off. It wasn't hinged on.
I said, "Shiiit!"
The coffin was empty.
"Are you looking for me?" A high, musical voice called from the
doorway. "Freeze; I believe that is the word. We have the drop on
you."
"I wouldn't advise going for your gun," Burchard said.
I glanced at Edward and found his hands close to the machine gun
but not close enough. His face was unreadable, calm, normal. Just a
Sunday drive. I was so scared I could taste bile at the back of my
throat. We looked at each other and raised our hands.
"Turn around slowly," Burchard said.
We did.
He was holding a semiautomatic rifle of some kind. I'm not the
gun freak Edward is, so I didn't know the make and model, but I
knew it'd make a big hole. There was also a sword hilt sticking
over his back. A sword, an honest-to-god sword.
Zachary was standing beside him, holding a pistol. He held it
two-handed, arms stiff. He didn't seem happy.
Burchard held the rifle like he was born with it. "Drop your
weapons, please, and lace your fingers on top of your heads."
We did what he asked. Edward dropped the machine gun, and I lost
the shotgun. We had plenty more guns.
Nikolaos stood to one side. Her face was cold, angry. Her voice,
when it came, echoed through the room. "I am older then anything
you have ever imagined. Did you think daylight holds me prisoner?
After a thousand years?" She walked out into the room, careful not
to cross in front of Burchard and Zachary. She glanced at the
remains in the coffins. "You will pay for this, animator." She
smiled then, and I had never seen anything more evil. "Strip them
of the rest of their weaponry, Burchard; then we will give the
animator a treat."
They stood in front of us but not too close. "Up against the
wall, animator," Burchard said. "If the man moves, Zachary, shoot
him."
Burchard shoved me into the wall and frisked me very thoroughly.
He didn't check my teeth or have me drop my pants, but that was
about it. He found everything I was carrying. Even the derringer.
He shoved my cross into his pocket. Maybe I could tattoo one on my
arm? Probably wouldn't work.
I went out to stand with Zachary, and Edward got his turn. I
stared at Zachary. "Does she know?" I asked.
"Shut up."
I smiled. "She doesn't, does she?"
"Shut up!"
Edward came back, and we stood there with our hands on top of
our heads, weapons gone. It was not a pretty sight.
Adrenaline was bubbling like champagne, and my pulse was
threatening to jump out of my throat. I wasn't afraid of the guns,
not really. I was afraid of Nikolaos. What would she do to us? To
me? If I had a choice, I'd force them to shoot me. It had to be
better than anything Nikolaos had in her evil little mind.
"They are unarmed, Mistress," Burchard said.
"Good," she said. "Do you know what we were doing while you
destroyed my people?"
I didn't think she wanted an answer, so I didn't give her
one.
"We were preparing a friend of yours, animator."
My stomach jerked. I had a wild image of Catherine, but she was
out of town. My god, Ronnie. Did they have Ronnie?
It must have showed on my face because Nikolaos laughed, high
and wild, an excited tittering.
"I really hate that laugh," I said.
"Silence," Burchard said.
"Oh, Anita, you are so amusing. I will enjoy making you one of
my people." Her voice started high and childlike and ended low
enough to crawl down my spine.
She called out in a clear voice, "Enter this room now."
I heard shuffling footsteps; then Phillip walked into the room.
The horrible wound at his throat was thick, white scar tissue. He
stared around the room as if he didn't really see it.
I whispered, "Dear God."
They had raised him from the dead.
Chapter 47
Nikolaos danced around him. The skirt of her pastel pink dress
swirled around her. The large, pink bow in her hair bobbed as she
twirled, arms outstretched. Her slender legs were covered in white
leotards. The shoes were white with pink bows.
She stopped, laughing and breathless. A healthy pink flush on
her cheeks, eyes sparkling. How did she do that?
"He looks very alive, doesn't he?" She stalked around him, hand
brushing his arm. He drew away from her, eyes following her every
move, afraid. He remembered her. God help us. He remembered
her.
"Do you want to see him put through his paces?" she asked.
I hoped I didn't understand her. I fought to keep my face blank.
I must have succeeded because she stomped over to me, hands on
hips.
"Well," she said, "do you want to watch your lover perform?"
I swallowed bile, hard. Maybe I should just throw up on her.
That would teach her. "With you?" I asked.
She sidled up to me, hands clasped behind her back. "It could be
you. Your choice."
Her face was almost touching mine. Eyes so damned wide and
innocent that it seemed sacrilegious. "Neither sounds very
appealing," I said.
"Pity." She half-skipped back to Phillip. He was naked, and his
tanned body was still handsome. What were a few more scars?
"You didn't know I was going to be here, so why raise Phillip
from the dead?" I asked.
She turned on the heels of her little shoes. "We raised him so
he could try to kill Aubrey. Murdered zombies can be so much fun,
while they try to kill their murderers. We thought we'd give him a
chance while Aubrey was asleep. Aubrey can move if you disturb
him." She glanced at Edward. "But then you know that."
"You were going to let Aubrey kill him again," I said.
She nodded, head bobbing. "Mmm-uh."
"You bitch," I said.
Burchard shoved the rifle butt into my stomach, and I dropped to
my knees. I panted, trying to breathe. It didn't help much.
Edward was staring very fixedly at Zachary, who was holding the
pistol square on his chest. You didn't have to be good at that
range or even lucky. Just squeeze the trigger and kill someone.
Poof.
"I can make you do whatever I please," Nikolaos said.
A fresh spurt of adrenaline rushed through me. It was too much.
I threw up in the corner. Nerves and being hit very hard in the
stomach with a rifle. Nerves I'd had before; the rifle butt was a
new experience.
"Tsk, tsk," Nikolaos said. "Do I frighten you that much?"
I managed to stand up at last. "Yes," I said. Why deny it?
She clapped her hands together. "Oh, goody." Her face shifted
gears, instant switch. The little girl was gone, and no amount of
pink, frilly dresses would bring her back. Nikolaos's face was
thinner, alien. The eyes were great drowning pools. "Hear me,
Anita. Feel my power in your veins."
I stood there, staring at the floor, fear like a cold rush on my
skin. I waited for something to tug at my soul. Her power to roll
me under and away. Nothing happened.
Nikolaos frowned. The little girl was back. "I bit you,
animator. You should crawl if I ask it. What did you do?"
I breathed a small, heartfelt prayer, and answered her. "Holy
Water."
She snarled. "This time we will keep you with us until after the
third bite. You will take Theresa's place. Perhaps then you will be
more eager to find out who is murdering vampires."
I fought with everything in me not to glance at Zachary. Not
because I didn't want to give him away, I would do that, but I was
waiting for the moment when it would help us. It might get Zachary
killed, but it wouldn't take out Burchard or Nikolaos. Zachary was
the least dangerous person in this whole room.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Oh, but I do, animator."
"I would rather die."
She spread her arms wide. "But I want you to die, Anita, I want
you to die."
"That makes us even," I said.
She giggled. The sound made my teeth hurt. If she really wanted
to torture me, all she had to do was lock me in a room and laugh at
me. Now that would be hell.
"Come on, boys and girls, let's go play in the dungeon."
Nikolaos led the way. Burchard motioned for us to follow. We did.
Zachary and he brought up the rear, guns in hand. Phillip stood
uncertainly in the middle of the room, watching us go.
Nikolaos called back, "Have him follow us, Zachary."
Zachary called, "Come, Phillip, follow me."
He turned and walked after us, his eyes still uncertain and not
really focused.
"Go on," Burchard said. He half-raised the rifle, and I
went.
Nikolaos called back, "Gazing at your lover; how nice."
It wasn't a long enough walk to the dungeon door. If they tried
to chain me to the wall, I'd rush them. I'd force them to kill me.
Which meant I'd better rush Zachary. Burchard might wound me or
knock me unconscious, and that would be very, very bad.
Nikolaos led us down the steps and out into the floor. What a
day for a parade. Phillip followed, but he was looking around now,
really seeing things. He froze, staring at the place where Aubrey
had killed him. His hand reached out to touch the wall. He flexed
his hand, rubbing fingers into his palm as if he was feeling
something. A hand went to his neck and found the scar. He screamed.
It echoed against the walls.
"Phillip," I said.
Burchard held me back with the rifle. Phillip crouched in the
corner, face hidden, arms locked around his knees. He was making a
high, keening noise.
Nikolaos laughed.
"Stop it, stop it!" I walked towards Phillip, and Burchard
shoved the gun against my chest. I yelled into his face, "Shoot me,
shoot me, dammit! It's got to be better than this."
"Enough," Nikolaos said. She stalked over to me, and I gave
ground. She kept walking, forcing me to back up until I bumped
against the wall. "I don't want you shot, Anita, but I want you
hurt. You killed Winter with your little knife. Let's see how good
you really are." She strode away from me. "Burchard, give her back
her knives."
He never even hesitated or asked why. He just walked over to
me and handed them to me, hilt first. I didn't question it
either. I took them.
Nikolaos was suddenly beside Edward. He started to move away.
"Kill him if he moves again, Zachary."
Zachary came to stand close, gun out.
"Kneel, mortal," she said.
Edward didn't do it. He glanced at me. Nikolaos kicked him in
the bend of the knee hard enough to make him grunt. He dropped to
one knee, and she grabbed his right arm and tugged it behind his
back. One slender hand grabbed his throat.
"I'll tear out your throat if you move, human. I can feel your
pulse like a butterfly beating against my hand." She laughed and
filled the room with warm, jostling horror. "Now, Burchard, show
her what it means to use a knife."
Burchard went to the far wall, with the door above him at the
top of the steps. He laid the rifle on the floor, and unbuckled his
sword harness, and laid that beside the rifle. Then he drew a long
knife with a nearly triangular blade.
He did some quick stretches to limber his muscles, and I stood
staring at him.
I know how to use a knife. I can throw well; I practice that.
Most people are afraid of knives. If you show yourself willing to
carve someone up, they tend to be afraid of you. Burchard was not
most people. He went down into a slight crouch, knife held loose
but firm in his right hand.
"Fight Burchard, animator, or this one dies." She pulled his
arm, sharp, but he didn't cry out. She could dislocate his
shoulder, and Edward wouldn't cry out.
I put the knife back in its right wrist sheath. Fighting with a
knife in each hand may look nifty, but I've never really mastered
it. A lot of people don't. Hey, Burchard didn't have two knives
either. "Is this to the death?" I asked.
"You will not be able to kill Burchard, Anita. So silly.
Burchard is only going to cut you. Let you taste the blade, nothing
too serious. I don't want you to lose too much blood." There was an
undercurrent of laughter in her voice, then it was gone. Her voice
crawled through the room like a fire-wind. "I want to see you
bleed."
Great.
Burchard began to circle me, and I kept the wall at my back. He
rushed me, knife flashing. I held my ground, dodging his blade, and
slashing at him as he darted in. My knife hit empty air. He was
standing out of reach, staring at me. He had had six hundred years
of practice, give or take. I couldn't top that. I couldn't even
come close.
He smiled. I gave him a slight nod. He nodded back. A sign of
respect between two warriors, maybe. Either that, or he was playing
with me. Guess which way I voted?
His knife was suddenly there, slicing my arm open. I slashed
outward and caught him across the stomach. He darted into me, not
away. I dodged the knife and stumbled away from the wall. He
smiled. Dammit, he'd wanted to get me out in the open. His reach
was twice mine.
The pain in my arm was sharp and immediate. But there was a thin
line of crimson on his flat stomach. I smiled at him. His eyes
flinched, just a little. Was the mighty warrior uneasy? I hoped
so.
I backed away from him. This was ridiculous. We were going to
die, piece by piece, both of us. What the hell. I charged Burchard,
slashing. It caught him by surprise, and he backpedaled. I mirrored
his crouch, and we began to circle the floor.
And I said, "I know who the murderer is."
Burchard's eyebrows raised.
Nikolaos said, "What did you say?"
"I know who is killing vampires."
Burchard was suddenly inside my arm, slicing my shirt. It didn't
hurt. He was playing with me.
"Who?" Nikolaos said. "Tell me, or I will kill this human."
"Sure," I said.
Zachary screamed, "No!" He turned to fire at me. The bullet
whined overhead. Burchard and I both sank to the floor.
Edward screamed. I half-rose to run to him. His arm was twisted
at a funny angle, but he was alive.
Zachary's gun went off twice, and Nikolaos took it away from
him, tossing it to the floor. She grabbed him and forced him
against her body, bending him at the waist, cradling him. Her head
darted downward. Zachary shrieked.
Burchard was on his knees, watching the show. I stabbed my knife
into his back. It thunked solid and hilt-deep. His spine stiffened,
one hand trying to tear out the blade. I didn't wait to see if he
could do it. I drew my other knife and plunged it into the side of
his throat. Blood poured down my hand when I took the knife out. I
stabbed him again, and he fell slowly forward, face down on the
floor.
Nikolaos let Zachary drop to the floor and turned, face
bloodstained, the front of her pink dress crimson. Blood spattered
on her white leotards. Zachary's throat was torn out. He lay
gasping on the floor but still moving, alive.
She stared at Burchard's body, then screamed, a wild banshee
sound that wailed and echoed. She rushed me, hands outstretched. I
threw the knife, and she batted it away. She hit me, the force of
her body slamming me into the floor, her scrambling on top of me.
She was still screaming, over and over. She held my head to one
side. No mind tricks, brute strength.
I screamed, "Nooo!"
A gun fired, and Nikolaos jerked, once, twice. She rose off me,
and I felt the wind. It was creeping through the room like the
beginnings of a storm.
Edward leaned against the wall, holding Zachary's dropped
gun.
Nikolaos went for him, and he emptied the gun into her frail
body. She didn't even hesitate.
I sat up and watched her stalk towards Edward. He threw the
empty gun at her. She was suddenly on him, forcing him back into
the floor.
The sword lay on the floor, nearly as tall as I was. I drew it
out of its sheath. Heavy, awkward, drawing my arm down. I raised it
over my head, flat of the blade half resting on my shoulder, and
ran for Nikolaos.
She was talking again in a high, sing-song voice. "I will make
you mine, mortal. Mine!"
Edward screamed. I couldn't see why. I raised the sword, and its
weight carried it down and across, like it was meant to. It bit
into her neck with a great wet thunk. The sword grated on bone, and
I drew it out. The tip fell to scrape on the floor.
Nikolaos turned to me and started to stand. I raised the sword,
and it cut outward, swinging my body with it. Bone cracked, and I
fell to the floor as Nikolaos tumbled to her knees. Her head still
hung by strips of meat and skin. She blinked at me and tried to
stand up.
I screamed and drove the blade upward with everything I had. It
took her between the breasts, and I stood running with it, shoving
it in. Blood poured. I pinned her against the wall. The blade
shoved out her back, scraping along the wall as she slid
downward.
I dropped to my knees beside the body. Yes, the body. She was
dead!
I looked back at Edward. There was blood on his neck. "She bit
me," he said.
I was gasping for air, having trouble breathing, but it was
wonderful. I was alive and she wasn't. She fucking wasn't. "Don't
worry, Edward, I'll help you. Plenty of Holy Water left." I
smiled.
He stared at me a minute, then laughed, and I laughed with him.
We were still laughing when the wererats crept in from the tunnel.
Rafael, the Rat King, stared at the carnage with black-button eyes.
"She is dead."
"Ding dong, the witch is dead," I said.
Edward picked it up, half-singing, "The wicked old witch."
We collapsed into laughter again, and Lillian the doctor, all
covered with fur, tended our hurts, Edward first.
Zachary was still lying on the ground. The wound at his throat
was beginning to close up, skin knitting together. He would live,
if that was the right word.
I picked my knife up off the floor and staggered to him. The
rats watched me. No one interfered. I dropped to my knees beside
him and ripped the sleeve of his shirt. I laid the gris-gris bare.
He still couldn't talk but his eyes widened.
"Remember when I tried to touch this with my own blood? You
stopped me. You seemed afraid, and I didn't understand why." I sat
beside him and watched him heal. "Every gris-gris has a thing you
must do for it, vampire blood for this one, and one thing you must
never do, or the magic stops. Poof." I held up my arm, dripping
blood quite nicely. "Human blood, Zachary; is that bad?"
He managed a noise like, "Don't."
Blood dripped down my elbow and hung, thick and trembling over
his arm. He sort of shook his head, no, no. The blood dripped down
and splatted on his arm, but it didn't touch the gris-gris.
His whole body relaxed.
"I've got no patience today, Zachary." I rubbed blood along the
woven band.
His eyes flared, showing white. He made a strangling noise in
his throat. His hands scrabbled at the floor. His chest jerked as
if he couldn't breathe. A sigh ran out of his body, a long whoosh
of breath, and he was quiet.
I checked for a pulse; nothing. I cut the gris-gris off with my
knife, balled it in my hand, and shoved it in my pocket. Evil piece
of work.
Lillian came to bind my arm up. "This is just temporary. You'll
need stitches."
I nodded and got to my feet.
Edward called, "Where are you going?"
"To get the rest of our guns." To find Jean-Claude. I didn't say
that part out loud. I didn't think Edward would understand.
Two of the ratmen went with me. That was fine. They could come
as long as they didn't interfere. Phillip was still huddled in the
corner. I left him there.
I did get the guns. I strung the machine gun over my shoulders
and kept the shotgun in my hands. Loaded for bear. I had killed a
one-thousand-year-old vampire. Naw, not me. Surely not.
The ratmen and I found the punishment room. There were six
coffins in it. Each had a blessed cross on its lid and silver
chains to hold the lid down. The third coffin held Willie, so
deeply asleep that he seemed like he would never wake. I left him
like that, to wake with the night. To go on about his business.
Willie wasn't a bad person. And for a vampire he was excellent.
All the other coffins were empty, only the last one still
unopened. I undid the chains and laid the cross on the ground.
Jean-Claude stared up at me. His eyes were midnight fire, his smile
gentle. I flashed on the first dream and the coffin filled with
blood, him reaching for me. I stepped back, and he rose from the
coffin.
The ratmen stepped back, hissing.
"It's all right," I said. "He's sort of on our side."
He stepped from the coffin like he'd had a good nap. He smiled
and extended a hand. "I knew you would do it, ma petite."
"You arrogant son of a bitch." I smashed the shotgun butt into
his stomach. He doubled over just enough. I hit him in the jaw. .
He rocked back. "Get out of my mind!"
He rubbed his face and came away with blood. "The marks are
permanent, Anita. I cannot take them back."
I gripped the shotgun until my hands ached. Blood began to
trickle down my arm from the wound. I thought about it. For one
moment, I considered blowing his perfect face away. I didn't do it.
I would probably regret it later.
"Can you stay out of my dreams, at least?" I asked.
"That, I can do. I am sorry, ma petite."
"Stop calling me that."
He shrugged. His black hair had nearly crimson highlights in the
torchlight. Breathtaking. "Stop playing with my mind,
Jean-Claude."
"Whatever do you mean?" he asked.
"I know that the otherworldly beauty is a trick. So stop
it."
"I am not doing it," he said.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"When you have the answer, Anita, come back to me, and we will
talk."
I was too tired for riddles. "Who do you think you are? Using
people like this."
"I am the new master of the city," he said. He was suddenly next
to me, fingers touching my cheek. "And you put me upon the
throne."
I jerked away from him. "You stay away from me for a while,
Jean-Claude, or I swear. . ."
"You'll kill me?" he said. He was smiling, laughing at me.
I didn't shoot him. And some people say I have no sense of
humor.
I found a room with a dirt floor and several shallow graves.
Phillip let me lead him to the room. It was only when we stood
staring down at the fresh-turned earth that he turned to me.
"Anita?"
"Hush," I said.
"Anita, what's happening?"
He was beginning to remember. He would become more alive in a
few hours, up to a point. It would almost be the real Phillip for a
day, or two.
"Anita?" His voice was high and uncertain. A little boy afraid
of the dark. He grabbed my arm, and his hand felt very real. His
eyes were still that perfect brown. "What's going on?"
I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. His skin was warm. "You
need to rest, Phillip. You're tired."
He nodded. "Tired," he said.
I led him to the soft dirt. He lay down on it, then sat up, eyes
wild, grabbing for me. "Aubrey! He. . ."
"Aubrey's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."
"Dead?" He stared down the length of his body as if just seeing
it. "Aubrey killed me."
I nodded. "Yes, Phillip."
"I'm scared."
I held him, rubbing his back in smooth, useless circles. His
arms hugged me like he would never let go.
"Anita!"
"Hush, hush. It's all right. It's all right."
"You're going to put me back, aren't you?" He drew back so he
could see my face.
"Yes," I said.
"I don't want to die."
"You're already dead."
He stared down at his hands, flexing them. "Dead?" he whispered.
"Dead?" He lay down on the fresh-turned earth. "Put me back," he
said.
And I did.
At the end his eyes closed and his face went slack, dead. He
sank into the grave and was gone.
I dropped to my knees beside Phillip's grave, and wept.
Chapter 48
Edward had a dislocated shoulder and two broken bones in his
arm, plus one vampire bite. I had fourteen stitches. We both
healed. Phillip's body was moved to a local cemetery. Every time I
work in it, I have to go by and say hello. Even though I know
Phillip is dead and doesn't care. Graves are for the living, not
the dead. It gives us something to concentrate on instead of the
fact that our loved one is rotting under the ground. The dead don't
care about pretty flowers and carved marble statues.
Jean-Claude sent me a dozen pure white, long-stemmed roses. The
card read, "If you have answered the question truthfully, come
dancing with me."
I wrote "No" on the back of the card and slipped it under the
door at Guilty Pleasures, during daylight hours. I had been
attracted to Jean-Claude. Maybe I still was. So what? He thought it
changed things. It didn't. All I had to do was visit Phillip's
grave to know that. Oh, hell, I didn't even have to go that far. I
know who and what I am. I am The Executioner, and I don't date
vampires. I kill them.