Simple, two words: Brother, Mother.

Complicated: Long story. Here’s the semi-condensed version.

I have 3 brothers (one that I don’t actually claim) and a shit load of adopted siblings. My brothers are all younger than me, strike one. My brother, Meatball (LOL another long story) is my mother’s favorite, strike two. Meatball hates me, strike three, I’m out.

Meatball has hated me since almost birth. He has been my mom’s favorite since birth. I think part of the reason is I am a lot like her, only not the “good” parts. The “good” parts he got. At least she thinks so. That and I was a “keep a nigga baby”, and he was not. I shit you not, I was a “keep a nigga baby”. Maybe you know what that means, maybe you don’t. I’ll explain. A “keep a nigga baby” is when the woman gets pregnant to “fix” the relationship, or the man, or both. My case was both. My mom’s reasoning behind getting pregnant was this: “Maybe if I get pregnant, the baby will fix things. Maybe he’ll stop cheating on me, his wife, with every piece of pussy he can get his hands on. Maybe he’ll stop beating me bloody and putting me in the hospital. Maybe he’ll treat me right, instead of telling me to fuck his friend. Maybe he’ll actually come home.”

Well, it didn’t work. On the night before I was born, my biological father (who I also do not claim, he’s not my dad. My dad is the man who was actually there, who raised me), rolled over and went back to sleep when my mom told him she was in labor. Then, when they finally did go to the hospital late the next morning, my biological father “went to get Taco Bell” for my mom. He came back to her three days later. He was out fucking this bitch named Delores. He was not there for my birth, bcz his dick had other ideas, and he thought with his little head, not the one on his shoulders. I know that they say that the male body only has enough blood to work one head at a time, but COME ON NOW!! I mean, fucking really!!

What the fuck??

 Your first child is being born, the first girl in 47 generations on your side, and you choose to cheat on your wife?!?!?!?!?!?

Anyways, Meatball is my mom’s favorite, he always has been, and it is unlikely that it will change. She even admits that he is her favorite. She will believe anything he says, seriously, unless she knows for a fact that he is wrong, and even then it usually doesn’t matter, she still goes for it. If he tells her that the grass is blue and the sky is green, she’ll go for it. He is her “perfect” child, her little golden boy, her apple polisher. AS far as she is concerned, the sun shines out of his ass. And he kisses her ass like there is no tomorrow. I will not kiss her ass. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. I will not bow down, I will not be broken, I will not be anything but what I am. She hates that, and always has. She still cannot accept me for who I am, she still wants me to be different, she wants me to change, to be perfect in her eyes. I WILL NOT!!

I AM ME, DEAL WITH IT!!!!!!! LOVE

ME, HATE ME, GET OVER IT, I

DON’T CARE. IF YOU DON’T LIKE

ME, DON’T TALK TO ME. Plain and simple.

That is her philosophy as well as mine. Gee, I wonder where I got it from.

I am all of her misdeeds and failures come to being, looking her in the face, with a face almost identical to hers. I am all of her fuck ups, all of her problems, all of the bad things she has done or wants to do, all of the things about her that she hates. I am her, when she was my age, with a few exceptions. One: I am not a drug addict like she was, and I’m not into the” life”, the chaos, the stealing, the robbing, murder, the lying, the insanity. Two: I have three children. Three: My children were taken from me and adopted out, she gave me up to her mother.

Meatball told her this very morning “I’ll get a job when I damn well please.” If I told her that she’d try to fight me, and I’d have to beat her ass like I did the last time she tried. I don’t want to do that, and I’m trying my hardest not to have anything like that happen. But she keeps on it, bitching at me, nagging at me, telling me that I’m not good enough, yelling at me, hounding me, bothering me every chance she gets, giving me a “gibs” (a slap upside the back of the head). She is hounding me to “get a job” not caring that I already have one, plus two part time/spare time “jobs”, or that I need computer time to work. Yet she doesn’t hound him about getting a job, “Because he’s enrolled in school, he’s just waiting for the semester to start.” I am also enrolled in school, waiting for the semester to start, but the difference is, I know when my classes start, he doesn’t know when his start.

I am hardly ever on the computer bcz Meatball is always on it, on MySpace and StickCam. He’s just fucking around, being a douche bag, like always. And she doesn’t care. She told me today that every time she comes over, I’m on the computer, on MySpace, doing nothing. She’s not taking into account that whenever she sees me on the computer, I just barely got on (literally less that two minutes before), or I have been working and putting in applications for a 9 to 5 for hours. I have sent in more than 500 applications for 9 to 5 jobs in the past month, and I haven’t been on the computer much. That is a lot of work, just to look for work.

Bcz what I do isn’t good enough. I sell Computer Tech Support. And I do this, the blogging. And I sell for PartyLite. None of that is good enough for her. And I have to do what she wants, bcz I am staying at her house with my fiancée. If I don’t, I have to go, And I have nowhere to go.

I was recently homeless, bcz of my ex-husband. I’m just getting back on my feet, and she is “here to help”, but all this isn’t helping!! Bitching at me every chance she gets, hitting me, yelling at me, downgrading me, THAT’S NOT HELPING!!!!

Plus I’m supposed to be keeping track of her stuff, dealing with her shit with Dad, they broke up on the 9th of July, two days before my birthday; she had me, my fiancée, and one of our friends move ALL of her shit out of Dad’s. She has a whole house full of shit, and not furniture either, and I’m supposed to keep track of all of it and know where it all is. And she has called me many times to yell at me for HER LOSING HER STUFF. Like I’m SUPPOSED to know what she did with it, or what Meatball did with her ATM card that she let him use. I’ve never even touched it.

Mom and Dad have a cycle. They’ll be together for 3 or 4 months, living together at Dad’s, then they’ll break up, he’ll kick her out. Two weeks later they are back together. As always, it happened just like that. Now they are back together, getting Handfasted ( a Pagan wedding ceremony).

I can’t take much more of this. Her and her shit, my brother and his shit, being a dick all the time, people eating our (me and my fiancée) food, our stuff slowly disappearing or being fucked with or moved whenever we leave the house. I can’t do this for much longer. I’m stuck, I have nowhere to go. I can’t stay, but I can’t go either. I don’t know what to do.

Shit. Fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

 FUCK FUCK !!!!!!!

I’m stuck, and I HATE being fucking stuck!! I was stuck for almost 5 fucking years with my ex-husband, isolated, no friends, no family, no phone, no money, nowhere to go even if I had money, and no way to get anywhere if I did have money or somewhere to go.  Now I’m stuck again, nowhere to go, but unable to stay.  Not without flipping out on her, anywany.  Or my brother.  Or one of my adopted brothers.  Or my fiancée.  SOMEONE!  When I reach that point, I really don’t care who gets it.  And I can’t really stop it once it starts, not until its over.

This song really fits what I’m feeling right now.  “I’m So Sick” by Flyleaf.

As always, Thanks for listening.

}{pixie}{

This “nasty, bad” pagan is quite upset! That is defamation of character, and grounds for a lawsuit against the Today Show. Not only did that upset me, but it hurt me. I have been fighting comments like that for nearly my whole life. My mother is also Pagan, and she was offended as well. Many of the people that I call my friends, people that I talk to are Pagans as well. None of us are “nasty” or “bad”.

If that horrible woman knew anything about Pagans, she wouldn’t have said those things. Unless, as I think is true, she is an opinionated, closed-minded woman with an unjust prejudice against religions other than her own.

Below in the articles, you can find several versions of the video clip of Kathy Lee Gifford’s thoughtless, rude insult to Pagans all across the globe.

Here are some other articles regarding this outrageous insult:

Kathie Lee Gifford owes Pagans an

Apology

Courtesy of: Newsvine

News Type: Event — Fri Jun 27, 2008 2:03 PM EDT
religion
Shirley L.

Kathie Lee, you spoke the other day without any regard to the “modern day” Pagan Community. Your comments, at our expense, were completely without merit and flatly and categorically denied by the Pagan Community. Did you even know that there was a modern day Pagan Community? I am filled with great pride and respect for the Pagans who came before me who paved the way for me to write this article in a public forum, for all to see, without fear of retribution.

Before you cast aspersions for our ilk, perhaps you may wish to know who we are. We are teachers, doctors, lawyers, common folk. We are Nielson raters, we are consumers, we are boycotters, picketers, and voters. We are your neighbors, your police officers, your service men and women. We cry, we feel, we bleed and we reason. It is unthinkable that you would choose the same words to use toward Christians, even given their violent histories, is it not? Yet, you never batted an eye lash when you chose your words to cast disparaging shadows upon Pagans.

Be mindful that we are everywhere and we matter. If not to you, to one another. A sincere apology would be in order, but better still, an education on what precisely a Pagan is, may be a better way for you to make amends. Educate yourself so that you might educate others. Consider who we are before casting your aspersions upon our community. Some of us died for your freedoms. Sargent Patrick Stewart - Brave to the end, died in the war and our government was attempting to thwart his grieving widow’s ability to place a pentacle upon his head stone. Why? For the same reason you didn’t bat an eye lash. Sargent Stewart was not a “nasty” Pagan, when he placed his own life down for your’s and mine, equally. Suppose that were your son, Cody? The shoe on the other foot pinches, does it not?

An apology, please.

Pagan News: Kathy Lee Gifford’s

“Pagan Comment”

Courtesy of: WordPress

I found this interesting. In this video clip , Kathy Lee Gifford , a (minor? I’d never heard of her) American television show host/actress makes a comment about “The pagans, the nasty, bad, pagans…”

I have to say, the choice of language is a little… sad. As a NeoPagan, and a proud one at that, I’m agreeing with Jason Pitzl-Waters and saying that, personally, I’m really not offended, and not just because her manner of “insulting” us is by calling us “nasty” and “bad”. If I was, say, four, then yes, perhaps I would be offended. But as it stands, I have to say that I disagree with (and find a little sad) the reaction of the general NeoPagan community, who are stating that Gifford’s comment, clearly not thought out, amounts to “hate speech”.

Why are we offended by the remarks of a woman who is clearly of sub-par intellect? Are we really that desperate to “prove” our persecution by secular society that we find it necessary to voice (over)reactionary, knee-jerk responses? Why are we wasting time trying to protest this stupidity, when there are plenty of real cases of discrimination occurring every day?

I agree that all discriminatory comments, no matter how stupid they are, are unacceptable. That doesn’t mean I’m going to take to court the next idiot who tells me that my religion isn’t real/valid. There’s such a thing as choosing your battles (I can think of better ones, the case of legal and political discrimination in the UK for a start), and I really don’t think these calls to petition and letter-write in order to try and “make” Gifford apologise to NeoPagans are the best use of our time and effort. We’d be better off fighting the more pressing issues of legal, political or religious discrimination, like that mentioned above, or trying to better our image in the public eye by promoting ourselves as rational human beings, rather than reactionary extremists who fly off the handle at the first signs of criticism (as is true of all extremist factions of any religion). Ring talkback radio shows and point out that perhaps Gifford’s television coaches should provide her with a better vocabulary, since she’s clearly not going to bother learning anything about what she’s talking about.

Thank You, Kathy Lee Gifford

Courtesy of: WitchVox

Author: Sandy Lareau [a WitchVox Sponsor]
Posted: July 1st. 2008
Times Viewed: 6,185

On Wednesday, 25 June 2008, Kathy Lee Gifford expressed her opinion about pagans. It wasn’t very good. In fact, she called us nasty, bad pagans. At approximately minute 4:40 in the segment, you can hear her reading options off a card and she stated, “Pagans … the nasty, bad pagans believed it was bad luck to carry metal on your right side.”

She called us nasty, bad pagans on the Today show, a nationally broadcast program. I was actually shocked.

You can view it here .

I was so shocked that I wrote an email to the Today staff. I kept it respectful but strong. In my email, I asked that they have Ms. Gifford issue an apology. In another part of my email, I asked what they thought would happen if Ms. Gifford had said, “Jews … the nasty, bad Jews believed it was bad luck to carry metal…” She’d probably be slapped with a lawsuit so hard that her ancestors would say, “ouch!”

I’m worried that the Today show will do nothing.

I’m worried that they will do nothing because we don’t have a public voice. I’m worried that she will issue some lame statement saying that she was referring to some obscure ancient sect or some other nonapology-apology. I’m afraid it will get buried on an obscure Today show Webpage. They can slander us nationally, but they tend to apologize quietly and without ceremony.

Look at what happened last year when the Lady Liberty League won Wiccan veterans the right to have pentacles on their headstones. Nothing that the Lady Liberty League does makes national news, but it should. That win was a huge, huge win for us!

So, how do we stand up to this most recent slander? It’s difficult when so many of us are “in the broom closet.” We’re afraid to stand out and stand up and protest in public because we might lose our jobs. Our kids. Our good standing in the communities in which we live. We are not heard because not enough of us speak out publicly because we are afraid of retaliation and negative retribution. I’m just as guilty as the rest.

I think something is changing, though. I think I’m starting to get more pissed off than afraid. I’m starting to think that maybe being out wouldn’t be so bad. People know me as a hard working, responsible citizen. Without shoving it down their throats, could I also be known as a pagan? Could I make a difference in their opinions of us? When I volunteer at the women’s shelter, should I let my pentacle hang out of my shirt? What if we all did just a little bit?

I don’t know, friends. I’m starting to believe that I’ve been hiding too long. I’m starting to think that we deserve to be out. We deserve to be open about our religions. We deserve to be apologized to when slandered on national television.

I’m starting to believe that it would be OK to lose my job for something I believe in so strongly. I don’t want to lose my job. I can probably get another job. But, I’m really established in my job. Do you go around in circles like this, too?

I’m guilty of hiding. I’m guilty of being afraid.

I WANT to swear to you, that from this day forward, I will hide no longer. I’m afraid to swear it. I want to wear my most tasteful pentacle to work. I’m afraid to wear it. I want to talk openly and casually with my colleagues about everything, including religion. I’m afraid I won’t get promoted when they find out that I am a Wiccan. And what will the customer think?

I’ve been keeping my religion hidden at work so that I do not offend anyone. Why am I doing that? Christians wear their crosses, Jewish men wear their Yamakas, and Shiite men wear turbans and the women veils. None of them worry about offending anyone. They are true to themselves. Why is it not ok for us to be true to ourselves?

I want to be out.

Goddess Mother, please help me find the strength to be out, to be respected for my differences as I respect others for theirs, and to be appreciated for my courage. I want to put my face out there for the whole world to see! Work is just going to have to deal with the fact that they have a witch on staff. That’s it.

I’m going to put my face on my column in the next issue of the magazine. I’m going to wear my pentacle to work once in a while. I’m going to do it, yes, but I’m going to do it slowly. I don’t want shock value, I want acceptance. I’m making a commitment to you, dear reader, and to myself. I’m coming out.

I’m going to get up really early and call the Today show on Monday (they’re on the east coast, I’m on the west coast). I’m going to try to find out just exactly what they plan to do about this, and I’m going to try to get a telephone interview with Jim Bell, the Executive Producer. Why not? Why have a magazine if I’m not going to use it to help the community?

Thank you, Ms. Gifford, for helping me get off my tush and for motivating me to make a positive change, and to stand up to you and people like you. Thank you Lord and Lady for giving me the courage to try to create positive change for the pagan community!

What about you? Will you join me? Will you help me stand up to people like Kathy Lee Gifford? Will you try to be more “out?” Please let me know what you think and what you plan to do by sending me an email: editor@modernwitchmagazine.com.

Blessings and best regards,

Sandy Lareau

If you are even half as

outraged as I am, please

go here to sign the

petition to NBC for a

formal apology. Thank

you.

As always, thanks for listening, Y’all!!

}{pixie}{

I am a skeptic. That means that I require evidence of something before believing it. And, with controversial topics such as psychic phenomena, I would require very compelling evidence indeed.

So, given that:

1. Sylvia Browne steadfastly avoids any scientific testing of her purported powers.

2. Her performances on television seem to be indistinguishable from “cold reading” (a method used by stage magicians and phony psychics to simulate “real” psychic powers).

3. Her track record of “psychic predictions” (as put forth on her web site and on television and radio appearances) appears to be no better than that obtained by educated guesses.

Given all that, I firmly believe that Sylvia Browne has not shown that she has “real psychic powers”, and that she should either prove them, or stop pretending she has them.

I have thought exactly that for several years. But I had been “outvoted” by nearly everone that I know. Even my own mother is a fan.  My own brother was ear hustlin’ as I was telling a friend about the site, and he stuck up for her.  He tried arguing that the only reason that Mr. Lancaster didn’t put up information on Sylvia Browne’s successes was that he has a biased opinion, and that Mr. Lancaster didn’t look very hard for “good articles” about “a selfless woman who never charges anyone”.  Obviously, my brother doesn’t know what he’s talking about, as Sylvia Browne charges $700 an hour for her phone readings.  I believe that my brother needs to look at Mr. Lancaster’s articles, located at http://www.stopsylviabrowne.com/articles/.

I was telling my friend about www.stopsylviabrowne.com  because she saw me writing this article, and mentioned how her mother had a reading with Sylvia Browne over the phone.  She said that everything that Sylvia Browne said was wrong and rude.  I will try to get her on here as a guest writer.

As for www.stopsylviabrowne.com , after reading everything on his site, I contacted Mr. Robert S. Lancaster via e-mail. Here is the e-mail and his response:

——– Original Message ——–
Subject: **IMPORTANT**
From: pixiedustglimmer@aim.com
Date: Wed, June 25, 2008 2:24 am
To: [edited for protection]@StopSylviaBrowne.com, [edited for protection]@StopSylviaBrowne.com

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Pixie, and I wish to subscribe to anything you put out about Sylvia Browne. I cannot stand that woman, she is a quack and gives people with actual “psychic” talents a bad name. I am SO glad that my significant other and I aren’t the only ones that feel that way. I have had a hard time finding people that do not adore that rude fake. My own mother is a fan of Sylvia Browne. More people should read your site, they would be in for a rude awakening. I, myself, have been pointing out some of the very same things that are mentioned on your site. I have put a link to your site on my personal MySpace page.

I also wish to do a blog piece on your website. It is not a MySpace blog, though I would like to write a piece referencing your site on my personal MySpace as well. It would be good for you, to get even more readers. As I’m seeing the blog right now, it would be referencing your site heavily, with several of the articles copied into it. Your site would get all of the credit for writing the articles, of course, as they were published on StopSylviaBrowne.com by you. And it would be a recurring blog, because of the updates on your site. My blogs would all have a link to your site, and maybe you could put a link to my blog in your site.

Please, reply. Let me know if I may reference your site in my blog. I would like to write my piece as soon as possible. Feel free to contact me via the below methods. You have my permission to use this letter for your site, should you choose, including my name and contact information.

Thank you for your time and consideration,

Pixie

MySpace:
www.MySpace.com/SweetAndSassyGoddess

My Blog:
www.poetryideasrandomthoughts.today.com/

His reply:

Pixie:

Thanks for writing, and for subscribing to the site Updates notifications.

Sorry for the delay in responding, but I am just now catching up on email after having been out of town.

Please feel free to reference my site in your blog. Thanks for doing so! But I would ask that you not copy entire articles, but just excerpts from them, and links to them.

By the way, while I was out of town, I saw Browne’s show at the Excalibur. An article about it is now up on the site.

Best regards,

Robert S. Lancaster

Webmaster,

www.StopSylviaBrowne.com

Here is the link to the article about the Sylvia Browne show at the Excalibur

http://www.stopsylviabrowne.com/articles/ispeakwithbrowne.shtml

Mr. Lancaster has also created a “scorecard” for Sylvia Browne’s Missing Person and Homicide Readings, located at http://www.stopsylviabrowne.com/articles/scorecard_missingmurdered.shtml

I have personally read each article that is on the scorecard, and checked all of it out, also.  I have yet to find a case where Mr. Lancaster is inaccurate.  Please, feel free to contact me if anyone has any information on any case where Sylvia Browne was correct.

Mr. Lancaster says this on his website: 

I have yet to find a single, documented case where Browne was substantially correct - or of any use to law enforcement - in any of her readings regarding missing persons or homicide cases.If you are aware of any such case, please let me know. I will research it, document it, and add it to this web site.

Mr. Lancaster also has this posted on www.stopsylviabrowne.com :

Analysis

So far, Sylvia Browne’s reading was largely wrong in every single one of the cases which were subsequently solved (and it should be noted that her readings apparently played no part in the cases being solved).

This does not coincide with Browne’s oft-repeated claim that she has an “87% accuracy rating.”

Here I will repeat an invitation which I have made many, many times on this web site:

If you are aware of any missing person or murder case regarding which Sylvia Browne performed a reading on the Montel Williams Show, and in which she was later proven to be largely correct, please send me whatever information you can recall regarding the reading. I will gladly research it and write it up for this web site.

In the year this site has been open to the public, I have made that invitation multiple times on this site, as well as in Sylvia Browne-friendly web forums, and in replies to dozens of people who have emailed me and accused me of ignoring “all the cases she got right.”

I am not ignoring them. I cannot find any.

Conclusion

I think that Sylvia Browne’s record in these cases speaks for itself

More to come in the days that follow.  I’m tired, with a migrane, and my brother is a dick (blasting Rock Band).  The next blog on Sylvia Browne will be some of my favorite articles from http://www.stopsylviabrowne.com/articles/scorecard_missingmurdered.shtml

As always, thanks for listening y’all!!

}{pixie}{

The Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter Series is by Laurell K. Hamilton, and is not my own work. It is a fairly well-known series, by a well-know author. I am in no way trying to portray the below mentioned books as my own work. This is just my views on Ms. Hamilton’s works of art.

There are several aspects of this blog, many chapters, with pieces taken from many sources (all will cited), including my own head. This blog will also have a guest writer, whom I shall call “Sensual Death”. If Asher were ‘real’, Sensual Death would be him. Sensual Death will have his own chapter, as will any other reader who wishes to be a guest on my blog.

This post is dedicated to excerpts from the books, in order. Each will have a section for commentary, thoughts and personal reviews.

Again, these are not my own works, and I am in no way trying to portray these works as my own.

All excerpts taken from http://www.laurellkhamilton.org.

Editor’s Note: Typos from original manuscript/http://www.laurellkhamilton.org retained.

Guilty Pleasures

by
Laurell K. HamiltonCopyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/GPChap1.htm

Book 1 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter 1

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 sports jacket. The polyester pants were a 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. 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 going to 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. Your afraid of me.”

“Not afraid, just cautious.”

“You don’t have to admit it. I can smell the fear on you, almost like something 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 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 am here to give you money. 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 alright 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 want to hire you to investigate some murders.”

“I am not a private investigator.”

“But you got one of ‘em on retainer to your outfit.”

I nodded. “You could hire Ms. Sims directly. You don’t need 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 the 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. Underbugeted 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 ole 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 you 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 your 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. Moneys real good. We want somebody 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, almost 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 who 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.

“Why won’t you help us?”

“I have clients to meet Willie. I am 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 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’ve stepped outta reach like that.” He stepped up close to me. Plaid jacket nearly brushing me. Pressed together like that, we were nearly the same height - short. His eyes were on a perfect level with mine. I stared hard at his shoulder.

It took everything I had not to step back from him. but damnit, undead or not, he was still 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 to convince the sweat along my spine 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 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 undead, for heaven’s sake, but he stood looking at me, and he was still Willy, 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 Willy peeking through. It was almost pity. “I wish you hadn’t said that, Anita. These people don’t like anybody telling them no.”

“I think you’ve over stayed 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 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 arguements or raise Albert Grundick from the dead and ask.

Everything I needed was in my car, even the chickens. I drew the silver crucifix from my blouse and let it hang in full view. I have several guns, and know how to use them. I keep a 9mm Browning High Power in my desk. The gun weighed a little over two pounds, silver bullets and all. Silver won’t kill a vampire, but it will 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 on 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 courderoy 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.

End of Chapter One.

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

* I read this book and I was hooked. I could not get enough, I couldn’t put it down. I finished this book in three hours. I fell in love with the Anita world. I love the world, I love the politics of it, I love the “monsters”. Laurell K. Hamilton is my favorite author, and this book series is exactly why. She writes like a “normal” person talks. Its not like she’s talking down to you, and its not too complicated. Its simple, eloquent, yet to the point. Its beautiful, descriptive, and captivating.

Her works draw you in, they get you wrapped up in the world that Anita lives in. It was amazingly hard for me to pull myself away from this book, the “magic”, the “monsters”, the people, the personalities, their whole lives. I love that even though Jean Claude isn’t mortal, he’s still a person, a regular person.

Even more than that, I love the fact that Anita is a beautiful, petite female, but she’s not passive, or naieve. She’s a smart ass, witty, tough as nails bad ass and she doesn’t need a “big strong man” to take care of her. She’s not submissive, she’s smart, has a mind and, damnit, you will listen to her opinion.

}{pixie}{ *

The Laughing Corpse

by
Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/LghCrpCh1.htm
Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

Book 2 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series
Chapter One

Harold Gaynor’s house sat in the middle of an intense green lawn, and graceful sweep of trees. The house gleamed in the hot August sunshine. Bert Vaughn, my boss, parked the car on the crushed gravel of the driveway. The gravel was so white, it looked like hand picked rock salt. Somewhere out of sight, the soft whir of sprinklers pattered. The grass was absolutely perfect in the middle of one of the worst droughts Missouri has had in over twenty years. Oh well, I wasn’t here to talk with Mr. Gaynor about water management. I was here to talk about raising the dead.

Not resurrection. I am not that good. I mean zombies. The shambling dead. Rotting corpses. Night of the living dead. That kind of zombie. Though less dramatic than Hollywood would ever put up on the screen. I am an animator. it’s a job, like selling.

Animating has only been a licensed business for about five years. Before that it was just an embarrassing curse, a religious experience or a tourist attraction. It still is in parts of New Orleans, but here in St. Louis it’s a business. A profitable one, thanks in large part to my boss. He’s a rascal, a a scalawag, a rouge, but damn if he doesn’t know how to make money. It’s a good trait for a business manager.

Bert was six three, broad shouldered,ex-college football player, with the beginnings of a beer gut. The dark blue suit he wore was tailored so the gut didn’t show. For eight hundred dollars the suit should have hid a herd of elephants. His white blond hair was trimmed in a crew cut, back in style after all these years. A boater’s tan made his pale hair and eyes dramatic with contrast.

Bert, adjusted his blue and red striped tie, mopping a bead of sweat off his tan forehead. “I heard on the news there’s a movement to use zombies in pesticide-contaminated fields. It would save lives.”

Zombies rot, Bert, there is no way to prevent that and they don’t stay smart enough long enough to be used as field labor.”

“It was just a thought. The dead have no rights under the law Anita.”

“Not yet.”

It was wrong to raise the dead so they could slave for us. It was just wrong, but no one listens to me. The government finally had to get into the act. There was a nationwide committee being formed of animators and other experts. We were suppose to look into the working conditions of local zombies.

Working conditions. They didn’t understand. You can’t give a corpse nice working conditions. They don’t appreciate it anyway. Zombies may walk, even talk, but they are very very dead.

Bert smiled indulgently at me. I fought the urge to pop him one in his smug face. “I know you and Charles are working on that committee.” Bert said. “Going around to all the businesses and checking up on the zombies. It makes great press for Animators, Inc.”

“I don’t do it for the good press.” I said.

“I know. You believe in your little cause.”

“You’re a condescending bastard.” I said, smiling sweetly up at him.

He grinned at me. “I know.”

I just shook my head; with Bert you can’t really win an insult match. He doesn’t give a damn what I think of him, as long as I work for him.

My navy blue suit jacket was suppose to be summer weight but it was a lie. Sweat trickled down my spine as soon as I stepped out of the car.

Bert turned to me, small eyes narrowing. His eyes lend themselves to suspicious squints. “You’re still wearing your gun.” he said.

“The jacket hides it Bert. Mr. Gaynor will never know.” Sweat started collecting under the straps of my shoulder holster. I could feel the silk blouse beginning to melt. I try not to wear silk and the shoulder rig at the same time. The silk starts to look indented, wrinkling where the straps cross. The gun was Browning Hi-Power 9mm, and I liked having it close at hand.

“Come on Anita. I don’t think you’ll need a gun in the middle of the afternoon, while visiting a client.” Bert’s voice held that patronizing tone that people use on children. Now, little girl, you know this is for your own good.

Bert didn’t care about my well being. He just didn’t want to spook Gaynor. The man had already given us a check for five thousand dollars. And that was just to drive out and talk to him. The implication was that there was more money if we agreed to take his case. A lot of money. Bert was all excited about that part. After all, Bert didn’t have to raise the corpse. I did.

The trouble was, Bert was probably right. I wouldn’t need the gun in broad daylight. Probably. “All right. Open the trunk.”

Bert opened the trunk of his nearly brand new Volvo. I was already taking off the jacket. He stood in front of me, hiding me from the house. God forbid they should see me hiding a gun in the trunk. What would they do, lock the doors and scream for help?

I folded the shoulder holster around the gun and laid it in the clean trunk. It smelled like a new car, plastic and faintly unreal. Bert shut the trunk, and I stared at it as if I could still see the gun.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I said. I didn’t like leaving my gun behind for any reason. Was that a bad sign? Bert motioned for me to come on.

I did, walking carefully over the gravel in my high heeled black pumps. Women may get to wear lots of pretty colors, but men get the comfortable shoes.

Bert was staring at the door, smile already set on his face. It was his best professional smile, dripping with sincerity. His pale grey eyes sparkled with good cheer. It was a mask. He could put it on and off like a light switch. He’d wear the same smile if you confessed to killing your own mother. As long as you wanted to pay to have her raised from the dead.

The door opened, and I knew Bert was wrong about me not needing the gun. The man was maybe five eight, but the orange polo shirt he wore strained over his chest. The black sports jacket seemed too small, as if when he moved the seams would split, like an insect’s skin that has been outgrown. Black, acid- washed jeans showed off a small waist, so he looked like someone had pinched him in the middle while the clay was still wet. His hair was very blond. He looked at us silently. His eyes were empty, dead as a doll’s. I caught a glimpse of the shoulder holster under the sports jacket and resisted the urge to kick Bert in the shins.

Either my boss didn’t notice the gun or he ignored it. “Hello, I’m Bert Vaughn, and this is my associate, Anita Blake. I believe Mr. Gaynor is expecting us.” Bert smiled at him charmingly.

The bodyguard - what else could he be - moved away from the door. Bert took that as an invitation and walked inside. I followed, not at all sure I wanted to. Harold Gaynor was a very rich man. Maybe he needed a bodyguard. Maybe people had threatened him. Or maybe he was one of those men that had enough money to keep muscle around whether he needed it or not.

Or maybe something else was going on. Something that needed guns and muscle, and men with dead, emotionless eyes. Not a cheery thought.

The air-conditioning was on high and the sweat gelled instantly. We followed the bodyguard down a long central hall that was paneled in dark, expensive looking wood. The hall runner looked oriental and was probably handmade.

Heavy wooden doors were set in the right-hand wall. The bodyguard opened the doors, and again stood to one side as we walked through. The room was a library, but I was betting no one ever read any of the books. The place was ceiling to floor with dark wood bookcases. There was even a second level of books and shelves reached by an elegant sweep of narrow staircase. All the books were hardcover, all the same size, colors muted and collected together like a collage. The furniture,was of course, red leather with brass buttons worked into it.

A man sat near the fall wall. He smiled when we came in. He was a large man, with a pleasant round face, double-chinned. He was sitting in an electric wheelchair, a small plaid blanket over his lap, hiding his legs.

“Mr. Vaughn and Ms. Blake, how nice of you to drive out.” His voice went with his face, pleasant, damn near amiable.

A slender black man sat in one of the leather chairs. He was over six feet tall, exactly how much was hard to tell. He was slumped down, long legs stretched out in front of him, with the ankles crossed. His legs were taller than I was. His brown eyes watched me as if trying to memorize me and would be graded later.

The blond bodyguard went to lean against the bookcases. He couldn’t quite cross his arms, jacket too tight, muscles too big. You really shouldn’t lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross your arms. Ruins the effect.

Mr. Gaynor said,”You’ve met Tommy.” He motioned towards the smiling bodyguard. “That’s Bruno.”

“Is that your real name or just a nickname?” I asked looking straight into Bruno’s eyes.

He shifted just a little in his chair. “Real name.”

I smiled.

“Why?” he asked.

“I’ve just never met a bodyguard whose real name was Bruno.”

“Is that suppose to be funny?” he asked.

I shook my head. Bruno. He never had a chance. It was like naming a girl Venus. All Bruno’s had to be bodyguards. It was a rule. Maybe a cop? Naw, it was a bad guy’s name. I smiled.

Bruno sat up in his chair, one smooth, muscular motion. He wasn’t wearing a gun that I could see, but there was a presence to him. Dangerous, it said, watch out.

Guess I shouldn’t have smiled.

Bert interrupted.”Anita, please. I do apologize, Mr. Gaynor…. Mr. Bruno. Ms. Blake has a rather peculiar sense of humor.

“Don’t apologize for me Bert. I don’t like it.” I don’t know what he was so sore about anyway. I hadn’t said the really insulting stuff out loud.

“Now, now,” Mr. Gaynor said,”No hard feelings. Right, Bruno?”

Bruno frowned and shook his head at me, not angry, sort of perplexed.

Bert flashed me an angry look, then turned smiling to the man in the wheelchair. “Now, Mr. Gaynor, I know you must be a busy man. So exactly how old is the zombie you want raised?”

“A man who gets right down to business. I like that.” Gaynor hesitated, staring at the door.

End of Chapter One.

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

* This book let me see that, as bad ass as I thought Anita was in Guilty Pleasures, she’s still just a regular person. But, it also showed a preview of just how powerful Anita had the potential to become.

}{pixie}{ *

CIRCUS OF THE

DAMNED

by
Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/CircusOfTheDamnedChapterOne.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton
Book 3 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter one

There was dried chicken blood imbedded under my fingernails. When you raise the dead for a living, you have to spill a little blood. It clung in flaking patches to my face and hands. I’d tried to clean the worst of it off before coming to this meeting, but some things only a shower would fix. I sipped coffee from a personalized mug that said, “Piss me off, pay the consequences,” and stared at the two men sitting across from me.

Mr. Jeremy Ruebens was short, dark, and grumpy. I’d never seen him when he wasn’t either frowning, or shouting. His small features were clustered in the middle of his face as if some giant hand had mashed them together before the clay had dried. His hands smoothed over the lapel of his coat, the dark blue tie, tie clip, white shirt collar. His hands folded in his lap for a second, then began their dance again, coat, tie, tie clip, collar, lap. I figured I could stand to watch him fidget maybe five more times before I screamed for mercy and promised him anything he wanted.

The second man was Karl Inger. I’d never met him before, He was a few inches over six feet. Standing, he had towered over Ruebens and me. A wavy mass of short-cut red hair graced a large face. He had honest-to-god muttonchop sideburns that grew into one of the fullest mustaches I’d ever seen. Everything was neatly trimmed except for his unruly hair. Maybe he was having a bad hair day.

Ruebens’s hands were making their endless dance for the fourth time. Four was my limit.

I wanted to go around the desk, grab his hands, and yell, “Stop that!” But I figured that was a little rude, even for me. “I don’t remember you being this twitchy, Ruebens,” I said.

He glanced at me. “Twitchy?”

I motioned at his hands, making their endless circuit. He frowned and placed his hands on top of his thighs. They remained there, motionless. Selfcontrol at its best.

“I am not twitchy, Miss Blake.”

“It’s Ms. Blake. And why are you so nervous, Mr. Ruebens?” I sipped my coffee.

“I am not accustomed to asking help from people like you.”

“People like me?” I made it a question.

He cleared his throat sharply. “You know what I mean.”

“No, Mr. Ruebens, I don’t.”

“Well, a zombie queen . . .” He stopped in mid-sentence. I was getting pissed, and it must have shown on my face. “No offense,” he said softly. “If you came here to call me names, get the hell out of my office. If you have real business, state it, then get the hell out of my office.”

Ruebens stood up. “I told you she wouldn’t help us.”

“Help you do what? You haven’t told me a damn thing,” I said.

“Perhaps we should just tell her why we have come,” Inger said. His voice was a deep, rumbling bass, pleasant.

Ruebens drew a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “Very well.” He sat back down in his chair. “The last time we met, I was a member of Humans Against Vampires.”

I nodded encouragingly and sipped my coffee.

“I have since started a new group, Humans First. We have the same goals as HAV, but our methods are more direct.” I stared at him. HAV’s main goal was to make vampires illegal again, so they could be hunted down like animals. It worked for me. I used to be a vampire slayer, hunter, whatever. Now I was a vampire executioner. I had to have a death warrant to kill a specific vampire, or it was murder. To get a warrant, you had to prove the vampire was a danger to society, which meant you had to wait for the vampire to kill people. The lowest kill was five humans, the highest was twenty-three. That was a lot of dead bodies. In the good ol’ days you could just kill a vampire on sight.

“What exactly does ‘more direct methods’ mean?”

“You know what it means,” Ruebens said.

“No,” I said, “I don’t.” I thought I did, but he was going to have to say it out loud.

“HAV has failed to discredit vampires through the media or the political machine. Humans First will settle for destroying them all.”

I smiled over my coffee mug. “You mean kill every last vampire in the United States?”

“That is the goal,” he said.

“It’s murder.”

“You have slain vampires. Do you really believe it is murder?” It was my turn to take a deep breath. A few months ago I would have said no. But now, I just didn’t know. “I’m not sure anymore, Mr. Ruebens.” “If the new legislation goes through, Ms. Blake, vampires will be able to vote. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then help us.”

“Quit dancing around, Ruebens; just tell me what you want.”

“Very well, then. We want the daytime resting place of the Master Vampire of the City.”

I just looked at him for a few seconds. “Are you serious?”

“I am in deadly earnest, Ms. Blake.”

I had to smile. “What makes you think I know the Master’s daytime retreat?”

It was Inger who answered. “Ms. Blake, come now. If we can admit to advocating murder, then you can admit to knowing the Master.” He smiled ever so gently.

“Tell me where you got the information and maybe I’ll confirm it, or maybe I won’t.”

His smile widened just a bit. “Now who’s dancing?”

He had a point. “If I say I know the Master, what then?”

“Give us his daytime resting place,” Ruebens said. He was leaning forward, an eager, nearly lustful look on his face. I wasn’t flattered. It wasn’t me getting his rocks off. It was the thought of staking the Master.

“How do you know the Master is a he?”

“There was an article in the Post-Dispatch. It was careful to mention no name, but the creature was clearly male,” Ruebens said.

I wondered how Jean-Claude would like being referred as a “creature.” Better not to find out. “I give you an address and you go in and what, stake him through the heart?”

Ruebens nodded. Inger smiled.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“You refuse to help us?” Ruebens asked.

“No, I simply don’t know the daytime resting place.” I was relieved to be able to tell the truth.

“You are lying to protect him,” Ruebens said. His face was growing darker; deep frown wrinkles showed on his forehead.

“I really don’t know, Mr. Ruebens, Mr. Inger. If you want a zombie raised, we can talk; otherwise . . .” I let the sentence trail off and gave them my best professional smile. They didn’t seem impressed. “We consented to meeting you at this ungodly hour, and we are paying a handsome fee for the consultation. I would think the least you could do is be polite.”

I wanted to say, “You started it,” but that would sound childish. “I offered you coffee. You turned it down.”

Ruebens’s scowl deepened, little anger lines showing around his eyes. “Do you treat all your . . . customers this way?”

“The last time we met, you called me a zombie-loving bitch. I don’t owe you anything.”

“You took our money.”

“My boss did that.”

“We met you here at dawn, Ms. Blake. Surely you can meet us halfway.” I hadn’t wanted to meet with Ruebens at all, but after Bert took their money, I was sort of stuck with it. I’d set the meeting at dawn, after my night’s work, but before I went to bed. This way I could drive home and get eight hours uninterrupted sleep. Let Ruebens’s sleep be interrupted.

“Could you find out the location of the Master’s retreat?” Inger asked.

“Probably, but if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because she is in league with him,” Ruebens said.

“Hush, Jeremy.”

Ruebens opened his mouth to protest, but Inger said, “Please, Jeremy, for the cause.”

Ruebens struggled visibly to swallow his anger, but he choked it down. Control.

“Why not, Ms. Blake?” Inger’s eyes were very serious, the pleasant sparkle seeping away like melting ice.

“I’ve killed master vampires before, none of them with a stake.” “How then?”

I smiled. “No, Mr. Inger, if you want lessons in vampire slaying, you’re going to have to go elsewhere. Just by answering your questions, I could be charged as an accessory to murder.”

“Would you tell us if we had a better plan?” Inger said.

I thought about that for a minute. Jean-Claude dead, really dead. It would certainly make my life easier, but . . . but.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because I think he’ll kill you. I don’t give humans over to the monsters, Mr. Inger, not even people who hate me.”

“We don’t hate you Ms. Blake.”

I motioned with the coffee mug towards Ruebens. “Maybe you don’t, but he does.”

Ruebens just glared at me. At least he didn’t try to deny it.

“If we come up with a better plan, can we talk to you again?” Inger asked.

I stared at Ruebens’s angry little eyes. “Sure, why not?”

Inger stood and offered me his hand. “Thank you, Ms. Blake. You have been most helpful.”

His hand enveloped mine. He was a large man, but he didn’t try using his size to make me feel small. I appreciated that.

“The next time we meet, Anita Blake, you will be more cooperative.” Ruebens said.

“That sounded like a threat, Jerry.”

Ruebens smiled, a most unpleasant smile. “Humans First believes the means justifies the end, Anita.”

I opened my royal purple suit jacket. Inside was a shoulder holster complete with a Browning Hi-Power 9mm. The purple skirt’s thin black belt was just sturdy enough to be looped through the shoulder holster. Executive terrorist chic.

“When it comes to survival, Jerry, I believe that, too.”

“We have not offered you violence,” Inger said.

“No, but ol’ Jerry here is thinking about it. I just want him and the rest of your little group to believe I’m serious. Mess with me, and people are going to die.”

“There are dozens of us,” Ruebens said, “and only one of you.”

“Yeah, but who’s going to be first in line?” I said.

“Enough of this, Jeremy, Ms. Blake. We didn’t come here to threaten you. We came for your help. We will come up with a better plan and talk to you again.”

“Don’t bring him,” I said.

“Of course,” Inger said. “Come along, Jeremy.” He opened the door. The soft clack of computer keys came from the outer office. “Good-bye Ms. Blake.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Inger, it’s been really unpleasant.”

Ruebens stopped in the doorway and hissed at me, “You are an abomination before God.”

“Jesus loves you, too,” I said, smiling. He slammed the door behind them. Childish.

I sat on the edge of my desk and waited to make sure they had left before going outside. I didn’t think they’d try anything in the parking lot, but I really didn’t want to start shooting people. Oh, I would if I had to, but it was better to avoid it. I had hoped flashing the gun would make Ruebens back off. It had just seemed to enrage him. I rotated my neck, trying to ease some of the tension away. It didn’t work.

I could go home, shower, and get eight hours uninterrupted sleep. Glorious. My beeper went off. I jumped like I’d been stung. Nervous, me?

I hit the button, and the number that flashed made me groan. It was the police. To be exact, it was the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team. The Spook Squad. They were responsible for all preternatural crime in Missouri. I was their civilian expert on monsters. Bert liked the retainer I got, but better yet, the good publicity.

The beeper went off again. Same number. “Shit,” I said it softly. “I heard you the first time, Dolph.” I thought about pretending that I’d already gone home, turned off the beeper, and was now unavailable, but I didn’t. If Detective Sergeant Rudolf Storr called me at half-past dawn, he needed my expertise. Damn. I called the number and through a series of relays finally got Dolph’s voice. He sounded tinny and faraway. His wife had gotten him a car phone for his birthday. We must have been near the limit of its range. It still beat the heck out of talking to him on the police radio. That always sounded like an alien language.

“Hi, Dolph, what’s up?”

“Murder.”

“What sort of murder?”

“The kind that needs your expertise,” he said.

“It’s too damn early in the morning to play twenty questions. Just tell me what’s happened.”

“You got up on the wrong side of bed this morning, didn’t you?”

“I haven’t been to bed yet.”

“I sympathize, but get your butt out here. It looks like we have a vampire victim on our hands.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Shit.”

“You could say that.”

“Give me the address,” I said.

He did. It was over the river and through the woods, way to hell and gone in Arnold. My office was just off Olive Boulevard. I had a forty-five-minute drive ahead of me, one way. Yippee. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Dolph said, then hung up.

I didn’t bother to say good-bye to the dial tone. A vampire victim. I’d never seen a lone kill. They were like potato chips; once the vamp tasted them, he couldn’t stop at just one. The trick was, how many people would die before we caught this one?

I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to drive to Arnold. I didn’t want to stare at dead bodies before breakfast. I wanted to go home. But somehow I didn’t think Dolph would understand. Police have very little sense of humor when they’re working on a murder case. Come to think of it, neither did I.

End of Chapter One

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

The Lunatic Cafe

Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/LunaticCafeChapterOne.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton
Book 4 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter One

It was two weeks before Christmas. A slow time of year for raising the dead. My last client of the night sat across from me. There had been no notation by his name. No note saying zombie raising or vampire slaying. Nothing. Which probably meant whatever he wanted me to do was something I wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do. Pre-Christmas was a dead time of year, no pun intended. My boss, Bert, took any job that would have us.

George Smitz was a tall man, well over six feet. He was broad shouldered, and muscular. Not the muscles you get from lifting weights and running around indoor tracks. The muscles you get from hard physical labor. I would have bet money that Mr. Smitz was a construction worker, farmer, or something similar. He was shaped large and square with grime embedded under his fingernails that soap would not touch.

He sat in front of me, crushing his toboggan hat, kneading it in his big hands. The coffee that he’d accepted sat cooling on the edge of my desk. He hadn’t taken so much as a sip.

I was drinking my coffee out of the Christmas mug that Bert, my boss, had insisted everyone bring in. A personalized holiday mug to add a personal touch to the office. My mug had a reindeer in a bathrobe and slippers with Christmas lights laced in its antlers, toasting the merry season with champagne and saying, “Bingle Jells.”

Bert didn’t really like my mug, but he let it go, probably afraid of what else I might bring in. He’d been very pleased with my outfit for the evening. A high-collared blouse so perfectly red I’d had to wear makeup to keep from looking pale. The skirt and matching jacket were a deep forest green. I hadn’t dressed for Bert. I had dressed for my date.

The silver outline of an angel gleamed in my lapel. I looked very Christmasy. The Browning Hi-Power 9mm didn’t look Christmasy at all, but since it was hidden under the jacket, that didn’t seem to matter. It might have bothered Mr. Smitz, but he looked worried enough to not care. As long as I didn’t shoot him personally.

“Now, Mr. Smitz, how may I help you today?” I asked.

He was staring at his hands and only his eyes rose to look at me. It was a little-boy gesture, an uncertain gesture. It sat oddly on the big man’s face. “I need help, and I don’t know who else to go to.”

“Exactly what kind of help do you need, Mr. Smitz?”

“It’s my wife.”

I waited for him to continue, but he stared at his hands. His hat was wadded into a tight ball.

“You want your wife raised from the dead?” I asked.

He looked up at that, eyes wide with alarm. “She’s not dead. I know that.”

“Then what can I possibly do for you, Mr. Smitz? I raise the dead, and am a legal vampire executioner. What in that job description could help your wife?”

“Mr. Vaughn said you knew all about lycanthropy.” He said that as if it explained everything. It didn’t.

“My boss makes a lot of claims, Mr. Smitz. But what does lycanthropy have to do with your wife?” This was the second time I’d asked about his wife. I seemed to be speaking English, but perhaps my questions were really Swahili and I just didn’t realize it. Or maybe whatever had happened was too awful for words. That happened a lot in my business.

He leaned forward, eyes intense on my face. I leaned forward, too, I couldn’t help myself. “Peggy, that’s my wife, she’s a lycanthrope.”

I blinked at him. “And?”

“If it came out, she’d lose her job.”

I didn’t argue with him. Legally, you couldn’t discriminate against lycanthropes, but it happened a lot. “What sort of work is Peggy in?”

“She’s a butcher.”

A lycanthrope that was a butcher. It was too perfect. But I could see why she’d lose her job. Food preparation with a potentially fatal disease. I don’t think so. I knew, and the health department knew, that lycanthropy can only be transferred by an attack in the animal form. Most people don’t believe that. Can’t say I blame them entirely. I don’t want to be fuzzy, either.

“She runs a specialty meat store. It’s a good business. She inherited it from her father.”

“Was he a lycanthrope, too?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, Peggy was attacked a few years back. She survived . . .” He shrugged. “But, you know.”

I did know. “So your wife is a lycanthrope and would lose her business if it came out. I understand that. But how can I help you?” I fought the urge to glance at my watch. I had the tickets. Richard couldn’t go in without me.

“Peggy’s missing.”

Ah. “I am not a private detective, Mr. Smitz. I don’t do missing persons.”

“But I can’t go to the police. They might find out.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“Two days.”

“My advice is to go to the police.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “No.”

I sighed. “I don’t know anything about finding a missing person. I raise the dead, slay vampires, that’s it.”

“Mr. Vaughn said you could help me.”

“Did you tell him your problem?”

He nodded.

Shit. Bert and I were going to have a long talk. “The police are good at their job, Mr. Smitz. Just tell them your wife is missing. Don’t mention the lycanthropy. See what they turn up.” I didn’t like telling a client to withhold information from the police, but it beat the heck out of not going at all.

“Ms. Blake, please, I’m worried. We’ve got two kids.”

I started to say all the reasons I couldn’t help him, then stopped. I had an idea. “Animators, Inc., has a private investigator on retainer. Veronica Sims has been involved in a lot of preternatural cases. She might be able to help you.”

“Can I trust her?”

“I do.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. “All right, how do I get in touch with her?”

“Let me give her a call, see if she can see you.”

“That would be great, thank you.”

“I want to help you, Mr. Smitz. Hunting missing spouses just isn’t my specialty.” I dialed the phone as I talked. I knew Ronnie’s number by heart. We exercised at least twice a week together, not to mention an occasional movie, dinner, whatever. Best friends, a concept that most women never outgrow. Ask a man who his best friend is and he’ll have to think about it. He won’t know right off the top of his head. A woman would. A man might not even be able to think of a name, not for his best friend. Women keep track of these things. Men don’t. Don’t ask me why.

Ronnie’s answering machine clicked in. “Ronnie, if you’re there, it’s Anita, pick up.”

The phone clicked, and a second later I was talking to the genuine article. “Hi, Anita. I thought you had a date with Richard tonight. Something wrong?”

See, best friends. “Not with the date. I’ve got a client here who I think is more up your alley than mine.”

“Tell me,” she said.

I did.

“Did you recommend he go to the police?”

“Yep.”

“He won’t go?”

“Nope.”

She sighed. “Well, I’ve done missing persons before but usually after the police have done everything they can. They have resources I can’t touch.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said.

“He won’t budge?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So it’s me or . . .”

“Bert took the job knowing it was a missing person. He might try giving it to Jamison.”

“Jamison doesn’t know his butt from a hole in the ground on anything but raising the dead.”

“Yeah, but he’s always eager to expand his repertoire.”

“Ask him if he can be at my office . . .” She paused while she leafed through her appointment book. Business must be good. “At nine tomorrow morning.” “Jesus, you always were an early riser.”

“One of my few faults,” she said.

I asked George Smitz if nine o’clock tomorrow was all right.

“Couldn’t she see me tonight?”

“He wants to see you tonight.”

She thought about that for a minute. “Why not? It’s not like I have a hot date, unlike some people I could mention. Sure, send him over. I’ll wait. Friday with a client is better than Friday night alone, I guess.”

“You’ve just hit a dry spell,” I said.

“And you’ve hit a wet spell.”

“Very funny.”

She laughed. “I’ll look forward to Mr. Smitz’s arrival. Enjoy Guys and Dolls.”

“I will. See you tomorrow morning for our run.”

“You sure you want me over there that early in case dream boat wants to stay over?”

“You know me better than that,” I said.

“Yeah, I do. Just kidding. See you tomorrow.”

We hung up. I gave Mr. Smitz Ronnie’s business card, directions to her office, and sent him on his way. Ronnie was the best I could do for him. It still bothered me that he wouldn’t go to the police, but hey, it wasn’t my wife. I’ve got two kids, he’d said. Not my problem. Really. Craig, our nighttime secretary, was at the desk, which meant it was after six. I was running late. There really wasn’t time to argue with Bert about Mr. Smitz, but . . .

I glanced at Bert’s office. It was dark. “Boss man gone home?” Craig glanced up from his computer keyboard. He has short, baby-fine brown hair. Round glasses to match a round face. He’s slender and taller than I am, but then who isn’t? He’s in his twenties with a wife and two babies.

“Mr. Vaughn left about thirty minutes ago.”

“It figures,” I said.

“Something wrong?”

I shook my head. “Schedule me some time to talk to the boss tomorrow.”

“I don’t know, Anita. He’s booked pretty solid.”

“Find some time, Craig. Or I’ll barge in on one of the other appointments.”

“You’re mad,” he said.

“You bet. Find the time. If he yells about it, tell him I pulled a gun on you.”

“Anita,” he said with a grin, as if I were teasing.

I left him riffling through the appointment book trying to squeeze me somewhere. I meant it. Bert would talk to me tomorrow. December was our slowest season for raising zombies. People seemed to think you couldn’t do it close to Christmas, as if it were black magic or something. So Bert scheduled other things to take up the slack. I was getting tired of clients with problems I could do nothing about. Smitz wasn’t the first this month, but he was going to be the last.

With that cheerful thought I bundled into my coat and left. Richard was waiting. If traffic cooperated, I might just make it before the opening number. Traffic on a Friday night, surely not.

End of chapter one

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

*Anita is stubborn, with a personality that you can become addicted to. She doesn’t sugar coat things, and she’s really blunt about things. Some would say that Anita has no tact, but I think that she says what needs to be said, what we’re all thinking as we read. The characters in these books are so well-written that its really easy for me to forget that they’re only in the book, not actual people. I feel like I know them. I can identify with all of them. Its almost like each character that Ms. Hamilton writes in these books is a small part of me, and that’s why I feel for them. They are realistic, as people, even though most of them aren’t mortal in one way or another. *

Bloody Bones

Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/BloodyBonesChapterOne.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton
Book 5 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter One

It was St. Patrick’s Day, and the only green I was wearing was a button that read, “Pinch me and you’re dead meat.” I’d started work last night with a green blouse on, but I’d gotten blood all over it from a beheaded chicken. Larry Kirkland, zombie-raiser in training, had dropped the decapitated bird. It did the little headless chicken dance and sprayed both of us with blood. I finally caught the damn thing, but the blouse was ruined.

I had to run home and change. The only thing not ruined was the charcoal grey suit jacket that had been in the car. I put it back on over a black blouse, black skirt, dark hose, and black pumps. Bert, my boss, didn’t like us wearing black to work, but if I had to be at the office at seven o’clock without any sleep at all, he would just have to live with it.

I huddled over my coffee mug, drinking it as black as I could swallow it. It wasn’t helping much. I stared at a series of 8-by-10 glossy blowups spread across my desktop. The first picture was of a hill that had been scraped open, probably by a bulldozer. A skeletal hand reached out of the raw earth. The next photo showed that someone had tried to carefully scrape away the dirt, showing the splintered coffin and bones to one side of the coffin. A new body. The bulldozer had been brought in again. It had plowed up the red earth and found a boneyard. Bones studded the earth like scattered flowers.

One skull spread its unhinged jaws in a silent scream. A scraggle of pale hair still clung to the skull. The dark, stained cloth wrapped around the corpse was the remnants of a dress. I spotted at least three femurs next to the upper half of a skull. Unless the corpse had had three legs, we were looking at a real mess.

The pictures were well done in a gruesome sort of way. The color made it easier to differentiate the corpses, but the high gloss was a little much. It looked like morgue photos done by a fashion photographer. There was probably an art gallery in New York that would hang the damn things and serve cheese and wine while people walked around saying, “Powerful, don’t you think? Very powerful.” They were powerful, and sad.

There was nothing but the photos. No explanation. Bert had said to come to his office after I’d looked at them. He’d explain everything. Yeah, I believed that. The Easter Bunny is a friend of mine, too.

I gathered the pictures up, slipped them into the envelope, picked my coffee mug up in the other hand, and went for the door.

There was no one at the desk. Craig had gone home. Mary, our daytime secretary, didn’t get in until eight. There was a two-hour space of time when the office was unmanned. That Bert had called me into the office when we were the only ones there bothered me a lot. Why the secrecy?

Bert’s office door was open. He sat behind his desk, drinking coffee, shuffling some papers around. He glanced up, smiled, and motioned me closer. The smile bothered me. Bert was never pleasant unless he wanted something.

His thousand-dollar suit framed a white-on-white shirt and tie. His grey eyes sparkled with good cheer. His eyes are the color of dirty window glass, so sparkling is a real effort. His snow-blond hair had been freshly buzzed. The crewcut was so short I could see scalp.

“Have a seat, Anita.”

I tossed the envelope on his desk and sat down. “What are you up to, Bert?”

His smile widened. He usually didn’t waste the smile on anybody but clients. He certainly didn’t waste it on me.

“You looked at the pictures?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Could you raise them from the dead?”

I frowned at him and sipped my coffee. “How old are they?”

“You couldn’t tell from the pictures?”

“In person I could tell you, but not just from pictures. Answer the question.” “Around two hundred years.”

I just stared at him. “Most animators couldn’t raise a zombie that old without a human sacrifice.”

“But you can,” he said.

“Yeah. I didn’t see any headstones in the pictures. Do we have any names?”

“Why?”

I shook my head. He’d been the boss for five years, started the company when it was just him and Manny, and he didn’t know shit about raising the dead. “How can you hang around a bunch of zombie-raisers for this many years and know so little about what we do?”

The smile slipped a little, the glow beginning to fade from his eyes. “Why do you need names?”

“You use names to call the zombie from the grave.”

“Without a name you can’t raise them?”

“Theoretically, no,” I said.

“But you can do it,” he said. I didn’t like how sure he was.

“Yeah, I can do it. John can probably do it, too.”

He shook his head. “They don’t want John.”

I finished the last of my coffee. “Who’s they?”

“Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein.”

“A law firm,” I said.

He nodded.

“No more games, Bert. Just tell me what the hell’s going on.”

“Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein have some clients building a very plush resort in the mountains near Branson. A very exclusive resort. A place where the wealthy country stars that don’t own a house in the area can go to get away from the crowds. Millions of dollars are at stake.”

“What’s the old cemetery have to do with it?”

“The land they’re building on was in dispute between two families. The courts decided the Kellys owned the land, and they were paid a great deal of money. The Bouvier family claimed it was their land and there was a family plot on it to prove it. No one could find the cemetery.”

Ah. “They found it,” I said.

“They found an old cemetery, but not necessarily the Bouvier family plot.”

“So they want to raise the dead and ask who they are?”

“Exactly.”

I shrugged. “I can raise a couple of the corpses in the coffins. Ask who they are. What happens if their last name is Bouvier?”

“They have to buy the land a second time. They think some of the corpses are Bouviers. That’s why they want all the bodies raised.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head, looking pleased. “Can you do it?”

“I don’t know. Give me the pictures again.” I set my coffee mug on his desk and took the pictures back. “Bert, they’ve screwed this six ways to Sunday. It’s a mass grave, thanks to the bulldozers. The bones are all mixed together. I’ve only read about one case of anyone raising a zombie from a mass grave. But they were calling a specific person. They had a name.” I shook my head. “Without a name it may not be possible.”

“Would you be willing to try?”

I spread the pictures over the desk, staring at them. The top half of a skull had turned upside down like a bowl. Two finger bones attached by something dry and desiccated that must once had been human tissue lay next to it. Bones, bones everywhere but not a name to speak.

Could I do it? I honestly didn’t know. Did I want to try? Yeah. I did.

“I’d be willing to try.”

“Wonderful.”

“Raising them a few every night is going to take weeks, even if I can do it. With John’s help it would be quicker.”

“It will cost them millions to delay that long,” Bert said.

“There’s no other way to do it.”

“You raised the Davidsons’ entire family plot, including Great-Grandpa. You weren’t even supposed to raise him. You can raise more than one at a time.” I shook my head. “That was an accident. I was showing off. They wanted to raise three family members. I thought I could save them money by doing it in one shot.”

“You raised ten family members, Anita. They only asked for three.”

“So?”

“So can you raise the entire cemetery in one night?”

“You’re crazy,” I said.

“Can you do it?”

I opened my mouth to say no, and closed it. I had raised an entire cemetery once. Not all of them had been two centuries old, but some of them had been older, nearly three hundred. And I raised them all. Of course, I had two human sacrifices to ride for power. It was a long story how I ended up with two people dying inside a circle of power. Self-defense, but the magic didn’t care. Death is death.

Could I do it? “I really don’t know, Bert.”

“That’s not a no,” he said. He had an eager, anticipatory look on his face.

“They must have offered you a bundle of money,” I said.

He smiled. “We’re bidding on the project.”

“We’re what?”

“They sent this package to us, the Resurrection Company in California and the Essential Spark in New Orleans.”

“They prefer ol an Vi t al t o t he Engl i s h t r ans l at i on, ” I sai d. Fr ankl y, i t sounded more like a beauty salon than an animating firm, but nobody had asked me. “So what? The lowest bid gets it?”

“That was their plan,” Bert said.

He looked entirely too satisfied with himself. “What?” I asked.

“Let me play it back to you,” he said. “There are what, three animators in the entire country that could raise a zombie that old without a human sacrifice? You and John are two of them. I’m including Phillipa Freestone of Resurrection in this.”

“Probably,” I said.

He nodded. “Okay. Could Phillipa raise without a name?”

“I don’t have any way of knowing that. John could. Maybe she could.”

“Could either she or John raise from the mass bones, not the ones in the coffin?”

That stopped me. “I don’t know.”

“Would either of them stand a chance of raising the entire graveyard?” He was staring at me very steadily.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I said.

“Just answer the question, Anita.”

“I know John couldn’t do it. I don’t think Phillipa is as good as John, so no, they couldn’t do it.”

“I’m going to up the bid,” Bert said.

I laughed. “Up the bid?”

“Nobody else can do it. Nobody but you. They tried treating this like any other construction problem. But there aren’t going to be any other bids, now are there?”

“Probably not,” I said.

“Then I’m going to take them to the cleaners,” he said with a smile.

I shook my head. “You greedy son of a bitch.”

“You get a share of the fee, you know.”

“I know.” We looked at each other. “What if I try and can’t raise them all in one night?”

“You’ll still be able to raise them all eventually, won’t you?”

“Probably.” I stood, picking up my coffee mug. “But I wouldn’t spend the check until after I’ve done it. I’m going to go get some sleep.”

“They want the bid this morning. If they accept our terms, they’ll fly you up in a private helicopter.”

“Helicopter-you know I hate to fly.”

“For this much money you’ll fly.”

“Great.”

“Be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“Don’t push it, Bert.” I hesitated at the door. “Let me take Larry with me.”

“Why? If John can’t do it, then Larry certainly can’t.”

I shrugged. “Maybe not, but there are ways to combine power during a raising. If I can’t do it alone, maybe I can get a boost from our trainee.”

He looked thoughtful. “Why not take John? Combined, you could do it.”

“Only if he’d give his power willingly to me. You think he’d do that?”

Bert shook his head.

“You going to tell him that the client didn’t want him? That you offered him to the client and they asked for me by name?”

“No,” Bert said.

“That’s why you’re doing it like this; no witnesses.”

“Time is of the essence, Anita.”

“Sure, Bert, but you didn’t want to face Mr. John Burke with yet another client that wants me over him.”

Bert looked down at his blunt-fingered hands clasped on the desktop. He looked up, grey eyes serious. “John is almost as good as you are, Anita. I don’t want to lose him.”

“You think he’ll walk if one more client asks for me?”

“His pride’s hurt,” Bert said.

“And there’s so much of it to hurt,” I said.

Bert smiled. “You needling him doesn’t help.”

I shrugged. It sounded petty to say he’d started it, but he had. We’d tried dating, and John couldn’t handle me being a female version of him. No; he couldn’t handle me being a better version of him.

“Try to behave yourself, Anita. Larry’s not up to speed yet; we need John.”

“I always behave myself, Bert.”

He sighed. “If you didn’t make me so much money, I wouldn’t put up with your shit.”

“Ditto,” I said.

That about summed up our relationship. Commerce at its best. We didn’t like each other, but we could do business together. Free enterprise at work.

End Of Chapter One

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

The Killing Dance

Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/KillingDanceChapterOne.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton
Book 6 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter One

The most beautifulcorpse I’d ever seen was sitting behind my desk. Jean-Claude’s white shirt gleamed in the light from the desk lamp. A froth of lace spilled down the front, peeking from inside his black velvet jacket. I stood behind him, my back to the wall, arms crossed over my stomach, which put my right hand comfortably close to the Browning Hi-Power in its shoulder holster. I wasn’t about to draw on Jean-Claude. It was the other vampire I was worried about.

The desk lamp was the only light in the room. The vampire had requested the overheads be turned out. His name was Sabin, and he stood against the far wall, huddling in the dark. He was covered head to foot in a black, hooded cape. He looked like something out of an old Vincent Price movie. I’d never seen a real vampire dress like that.

The last member of our happy little group was Dominic Dumare. He sat in one of the client chairs. He was tall, thin, but not weak. His hands were large and strong, big enough to palm my face. He was dressed in a three-piece black suit, like a chauffeur except for the diamond stickpin in his tie. A beard and thin mustache lined the strong bones of his face.

When he’d entered my office, I’d felt him like a psychic wind tripping down my spine. I’d only encountered two other people who had that taste to them. One had been the most powerful voodoo priestess I’d ever met. The second had been the second most powerful voodoo priest I’d ever met. The woman was dead. The man worked for Animators, Inc., just like I did. But Dominic Dumare wasn’t here to apply for a job.

“Ms. Blake, please be seated,” Dumare said. “Sabin finds it most offensive to sit when a lady is standing.”

I glanced behind him at Sabin. “I’ll sit down if he sits down,” I said.

Dumare looked at Jean-Claude. He gave a gentle, condescending smile. “Do you have such poor control over your human servant?”

I didn’t have to see Jean-Claude’s smile to know it was there. “Oh, you are on your own withma petite. She is my human servant, so declared before the council, but she answers to no one.”

“You seem proud of that,” Sabin said. His voice was British and very upper crust.

“She is the Executioner and has more vampire kills than any other human. She is a necromancer of such power that you have traveled halfway around the world to consult her. She is my human servant without a mark to hold her to me. She dates me without the aid of vampire glamor. Why should I not be pleased?”

Listening to him talk you’d have thought it was all his own idea. Fact was, he’d tried his best to mark me, and I’d managed to escape. We were dating because he’d blackmailed me. Date him or he’d kill my other boyfriend. Jean-Claude had managed to make it all work to his advantage. Why was I not surprised?

“Until her death you cannot mark any other human,” Sabin said. “You have cut yourself off from a great deal of power.”

“I am aware of what I have done,” Jean-Claude said.

Sabin laughed, and it was chokingly bitter. “We all do strange things for love.”

I would have given a lot to see Jean-Claude’s face at that moment. All I could see was his long black hair spilling over his jacket, black on black. His shoulders stiffened, hands sliding across the blotter on my desk. Then he went very still. That awful waiting stillness that only the old vampires have, as if, if they held still long enough, they would simply disappear.

“Is that what has brought you here, Sabin? Love?” Jean-Claude’s voice was neutral, empty.

Sabin’s laughter rode the air like broken glass. It felt like the very sound of it hurt something deep inside me. I didn’t like it.

“Enough games,” I said, “let’s get it done.”

“Is she always this impatient?” Dumare asked.

“Yes,” Jean-Claude said.

Dumare smiled, bright and empty as a lightbulb. “Did Jean-Claude tell you why we wished to see you?”

“He said Sabin caught some sort of disease from trying to go cold turkey.”

The vampire across the room laughed again, flinging it like a weapon across the room. “Cold turkey, very good, Ms. Blake, very good.”

The laughter ate over me like small cutting blades. I’d never experienced anything like that from just a voice. In a fight, it would have been distracting. Heck, it was distracting now. I felt liquid slide down my forehead. I raised my left hand to it. My fingers came away smeared with blood. I drew the Browning and stepped away from the wall. I aimed it at the black figure across the room. “He does that again, and I’ll shoot him.”

Jean-Claude rose slowly from the chair. His power flowed over me like a cool wind, raising goose bumps on my arms. He raised one pale hand, gone nearly translucent with power. Blood flowed down that gleaming skin.

Dumare stayed in his chair, but he, too, was bleeding from a cut nearly identical to mine. Dumare wiped the blood away, still smiling. “The gun will not be necessary,” he said.

“You have abused my hospitality,” Jean-Claude said. His voice filled the room with hissing echoes.

“There is nothing I can say to apologize,” Sabin said. “But I did not mean to do it. I am using so much of my power just to maintain myself that I do not have the control I once did.”

I moved slowly away from the wall, gun still pointed. I wanted to see Jean-Claude’s face. I needed to see how badly he was hurt. I eased around the desk until I could see him from the corner of my eye. His face was untouched, flawless and gleaming like mother of pearl.

He raised his hand, one thin line of blood still trailing down. “This is no accident.”

“Come into the light, my friend,” Dumare said. “You must let them see, or they will not understand.”

“I do not want to be seen.”

“You are very close to using up all my good will,” Jean-Claude said.

“Mine, too,” I added. I was hoping I could either shoot Sabin or put the gun down soon. Even a two-handed shooting stance is not meant to be maintained indefinitely. Your hands start to waver just a bit.

Sabin glided towards the desk. The black cloak spilled around his feet like a pool of darkness. All vampires were graceful, but this was ridiculous. I realized he wasn’t walking at all. He was levitating inside that dark cloak.

His power flowed over my skin like icy water. My hands were suddenly steady once more. Nothing like having several hundred years worth of vampire coming at you to sharpen your nerves.

Sabin stopped on the far side of the desk. He was expending power just to move, just to be here, as if like a shark, if he stopped moving he’d die.

Jean-Claude glided around me. His power danced over my body, raising the hair at the back of my neck, making my skin tight. He stopped almost within reach of the other vampire. “What has happened to you, Sabin?”

Sabin stood on the edge of the light. The lamp should have cast some light into the hood of his cloak, but it didn’t. The inside of the hood was as smooth and black and empty as a cave. His voice came out of that nothingness. It made me jump.

“Love, Jean-Claude, love happened to me. My beloved grew a conscience. She said it was wrong to feed upon people. We were once people, after all. For love of her, I tried to drink cold blood. I tried animal blood. But it was not enough to sustain me.”

I stared into that darkness. I kept pointing the gun, but I was beginning to feel silly. Sabin didn’t seem at all afraid of it, which was unnerving. Maybe he didn’t care. That was also unnerving. “She talked you into going vegetarian. Great,” I said. “You seem powerful enough.”

He laughed, and with the laughter, the shadows in his hood faded slowly, like a curtain lifting. He threw it back in one quick flourish.

I didn’t scream, but I gasped and took a step back. I couldn’t help myself. When I realized I’d done it, I stopped and made myself take back that step, meet his eyes. No flinching.

His hair was thick and straight and golden, falling like a shining curtain to his shoulders. But his skin . . . his skin had rotted away on half his face. It was like late-stage leprosy, but worse. The flesh was puss-filled, gangrenous, and should have stunk to high heaven. The other half of his face was still beautiful. The kind of face that medieval painters had borrowed for cherubim, a golden perfection. One crystalline blue eye rolled in its rotting socket as if in danger of spilling out onto his cheek. The other eye was secure and watched my face.

“You can put up the gun,ma petite. It was an accident, after all,” Jean-Claude said.

I lowered the Browning, but didn’t put it up. It took more effort than was pretty to say calmly, “This happened because you stopped feeding off of humans?”

“We believe so,” Dumare said.

I tore my gaze away from Sabin’s ravaged face and looked back at Dominic. “You think I can help cure him of this?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice.

“I heard of your reputation in Europe.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“No modesty, Ms. Blake. Among those of us who notice such things, you are gaining a certain notoriety.”

Notoriety, not fame. Hmmm.

“Put the gun away,ma petite. Sabin has done all the-what is your word-grandstanding he will do tonight. Haven’t you Sabin?”

“I fear so, it all seems to go so badly now.”

I holstered the gun and shook my head. “I honestly don’t have the faintest idea how to help you.”

“If you knew how, would you help me?” Sabin asked.

I looked at him and nodded. “Yes.”

“Even though I am a vampire and you are a vampire executioner.”

“Have you done anything in this country that you need killing for?”

Sabin laughed. The rotting skin stretched, and a ligament popped with a wet snap. I had to look away. “Not yet, Ms. Blake, not yet.” His face sobered quickly; the humor abruptly faded. “You school your face to show nothing, Jean-Claude, but I read the horror in your eyes.”

Jean-Claude’s skin had gone back to its usual milky perfection. His face was still lovely, perfect, but at least he’d stopped glowing. His midnight blue eyes were just eyes now. He was still beautiful, but it was a nearly human beauty. “Is it not worth a little horror?” he asked.

Sabin smiled, and I wished he hadn’t. The muscles on the rotted side didn’t work, and his mouth hung crooked. I glanced away, then made myself look back. If he could be trapped inside that face, I could look at it.

“Then you will help me?”

“I would aid you if I could, but it is Anita you have come to ask. She must give her own answer.”

“Well, Ms. Blake?”

“I don’t know how to help you,” I repeated.

“Do you understand how dire my circumstances are, Ms. Blake? The true horror of it, do you grasp it?”

“The rot probably won’t kill you, but it’s progressive, I take it?”

“Oh, yes, it’s progressive, virulently so.”

“I would help you if I could, Sabin, but what can I do that Dumare can’t? He’s a necromancer, maybe as powerful as I am, maybe more. Why do you need me?”

“I realize, Ms. Blake, that you don’t have something specifically for Sabin’s problem,” Dumare said. “As far as I can discover, he is the only vampire to ever suffer such a fate, but I thought if we came to another necromancer as powerful as myself-” he smiled modestly “-or nearly as powerful as myself, perhaps together we could work up a spell to help him.”

“A spell?” I glanced at Jean-Claude.

He gave that wonderful Gallic shrug that meant everything and nothing. “I know little of necromancy,ma petite. You would know if such a spell were possible more than I.”

“It is not only your ability as a necromancer that has brought us to you,” Dumare said. “You have also acted as a focus for at least two different animators, I believe that is the American word for what you do.”

I nodded. “The word’s right, but where did you hear I could act as a focus?”

“Come, Ms. Blake, the ability to combine another animator’s powers with your own and thus magnify both powers is a rare talent.”

“Can you act as a focus?” I asked.

He tried to look humble but actually looked pleased with himself. “I must confess, yes, I can act as a focus. Think of what the two of us could accomplish together.”

“We could raise a hell of a lot of zombies, but that won’t cure Sabin.”

“True enough.” Dumare leaned forward in his chair. His lean, handsome face flushed, eager, a true convert looking for disciples.

I wasn’t much of a follower.

“I would offer to teach you true necromancy, not this voodoo dabbling that you’ve been doing.”

Jean-Claude made a soft sound halfway between a laugh and a cough.

I glared at Jean-Claude’s amused face but said, “I’m doing just fine with this voodoo dabbling.”

“I meant no insult, Ms. Blake. You will need a teacher of some sort soon. If not me, then you must find someone else.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Control, Ms. Blake. Raw power, no matter how impressive, is not the same as power used with great care and great control.”

I shook my head. “I’ll help you if I can, Mr. Dumare. I’ll even participate in a spell if I check it out with a local witch I know first.”

“Afraid that I will try and steal your power?”

I smiled. “No, short of killing me, the best you or anyone else can do is borrow.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Ms. Blake.”

“You aren’t that much older than I am,” I said. Something crossed over his face, the faintest flicker, and I knew.

“You’re his human servant, aren’t you?”

Dominic smiled, spreading his hands. “Oui.”

I sighed. “I thought you said you weren’t trying to hide anything from me.”

“A human servant’s job is to be the daytime eyes and ears of his master. I am of no use to my master if vampire hunters can spot me for what I am.”

“I spotted you.”

“But in another situation, without Sabin at my side, would you have?”

I thought about that for a moment. “Maybe.” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Ms. Blake.”

Sabin said, “I am sure our time is up. Jean-Claude said you had a pressing engagement, Ms. Blake. Much more important than my little problem.” There was a little bite to that last.

“Ma petitehas a date with her other beau.”

Sabin stared at Jean-Claude. “So you are truly allowing her to date another. I thought that at least must be rumor.”

“Very little of what you hear aboutma petite is rumor. Believe all you hear.”

Sabin chuckled, coughing, as if struggling to keep the laughter from spilling out his ruined mouth. “If I believed everything I heard, I would have come with an army.”

“You came with one servant because I allowed you only one servant,” JeanClaude said.

Sabin smiled. “Too true. Come Dominic, we must not take more of Ms. Blake’s so valuable time.”

Dominic stood obediently, towering over us both. Sabin was around my height. Of course, I wasn’t sure if his legs were still there. He might have been taller once.

“I don’t like you, Sabin, but I would never willingly leave another being in the shape you’re in. My plans tonight are important, but if I thought we could cure you immediately, I’d change them.”

The vampire looked at me. His blue, blue eyes were like staring down into clear ocean water. There was no pull to them. Either he was behaving himself or, like most vampires, he couldn’t roll me with his eyes anymore.

“Thank you, Ms. Blake. I believe you are sincere.” He extended a gloved hand from the voluminous cloak.

I hesitated, then took it. His hand squished ever so slightly, and it took a lot not to jerk back. I forced myself to shake his hand, to smile, to let go, and not to rub my hand on my skirt.

Dominic shook my hand as well. His was cool and dry. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Blake. I will contact you tomorrow and we will discuss things.”

“I’ll be expecting your call, Mr. Dumare.”

“Call me, Dominic, please.”

I nodded. “Dominic. We can discuss it, but I hate to take your money when I’m not sure that I can help you.”

“May I call you Anita?” he asked.

I hesitated and shrugged. “Why not.”

“Don’t worry about money,” Sabin said, “I have plenty of that for all the good it has done me.”

“How is the woman you love taking the change in your appearance?” JeanClaude asked.

Sabin looked at him. It was not a friendly look. “She finds it repulsive, as do I. She feels immense guilt. She has not left me, nor is she with me.”

“You’d lived for close to seven hundred years,” I said. “Why screw things up for a woman?”

Sabin turned to me, a line of ooze creeping down his face like a black tear. “Are you asking me if it was worth it, Ms. Blake?”

I swallowed and shook my head. “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry I asked.”

He drew the hood over his face. He turned back to me, black, a cup of shadows where his face should have been. “She was going to leave me, Ms. Blake. I thought that I would sacrifice anything to keep her by my side, in my bed. I was wrong.” He turned that blackness to Jean-Claude. “We will see you tomorrow night, Jean-Claude.”

“I look forward to it.”

Neither vampire offered to shake hands. Sabin glided for the door, the robe trailing behind him, empty. I wondered how much of his lower body was left and decided I didn’t want to know.

Dominic shook my hand again. “Thank you, Anita. You have given us hope.” He held my hand and stared into my face as if he could read something there. “And do think about my offer to teach you. There are very few of us who are true necromancers.”

I took back my hand. “I’ll think about it. Now I really do have to go.”

He smiled, held the door for Sabin, and out they went. Jean-Claude and I stood a moment in silence. I broke it first. “Can you trust them?”

Jean-Claude sat on the edge of my desk, smiling. “Of course not.”

“Then why did you agree to let them come?”

“The council has declared that no master vampires in the United States may quarrel until that nasty law that is floating around Washington is dead. One undead war, and the anti-vampire lobby would push through the law and make us illegal again.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think Brewster’s Law has a snowball’s chance. Vampires are legal in the United States. Whether I agree with it or not, I don’t think that’s going to change.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It’s sort of hard to say a group of beings is alive and has rights, then change your mind and say killing them on sight is okay again. The ACLU would have a field day.”

He smiled. “Perhaps. Regardless, the council has forced a truce on all of us until the law is decided one way or another.”

“So you can let Sabin in your territory, because if he misbehaves, the council will hunt him down and kill him.”

Jean-Claude nodded.

“But you’d still be dead,” I said.

He spread his hands, graceful, empty. “Nothing’s perfect.”

I laughed. “I guess not.”

“Now, aren’t you going to be late for your date with Monsieur Zeeman?”

“You’re being awfully civilized about this,” I said.

“Tomorrow night you will be with me,ma petite . I would be a poor . . . sport to begrudge Richard his night.”

“You’re usually a poor sport.”

“Now,ma petite, that is hardly fair. Richard is not dead, is he?”

“Only because you know that if you kill him, I’ll kill you.” I held a hand up before he could say it. “I’d try to kill you, and you’d try to kill me, etc.” This was an old argument.

“So, Richard lives, you date us both, and I am being patient. More patient than I have ever been with anyone.”

I studied his face. He was one of those men who was beautiful rather than handsome, but the face was masculine; you wouldn’t mistake him for female, even with the long hair. In fact, there was something terribly masculine about JeanClaude, no matter how much lace he wore.

He could be mine: lock, stock, and fangs. I just wasn’t sure I wanted him. “I’ve got to go,” I said.

He pushed away from my desk. He was suddenly standing close enough to touch. “Then go,ma petite .”

I could feel his body inches from mine like a shimmering energy. I had to swallow before I could speak. “It’s my office. You have to leave.”

He touched my arms lightly, a brush of fingertips. “Enjoy your evening,ma petite .” His fingers wrapped around my arms, just below the shoulders. He didn’t lean over me or draw me that last inch closer. He simply held my arms, and stared down at me.

I met his dark, dark blue eyes. There had been a time not so long ago that I couldn’t have met his gaze without falling into it and being lost. Now I could meet his eyes, but in some ways, I was just as lost. I raised up on tiptoe, putting my face close to his.

“I should have killed you a long time ago.”

“You have had your chances,ma petite. You keep saving me.”

“My mistake,” I said.

He laughed, and the sound slid down my body like fur against naked skin. I shuddered in his arms.

“Stop that,” I said.

He kissed me lightly, a brush of lips, so I couldn’t feel the fangs. “You would miss me if I were gone,ma petite. Admit it.”

I drew away from him. His hands slid down my arms, over my hands, until I drew my fingertips across his hands. “I’ve got to go.”

“So you said.”

“Just get out, Jean-Claude, no more games.”

His face sobered instantly as if a hand had wiped it clean. “No more games,ma petite . Go to your other lover.” It was his turn to raise a hand and say, “I know you are not truly lovers. I know you are resisting both of us. Brave,ma petite .” A flash of something, maybe anger, crossed his face and was gone like a ripple lost in dark water.

“Tomorrow night you will be with me and it will be Richard’s turn to sit at home and wonder.” He shook his head. “Even for you I would not have done what Sabin has done. Even for your love, there are things I would not do.” He stared at me suddenly fierce, anger flaring through his eyes, his face. “But what I do is enough.”

“Don’t go all self-righteous on me,” I said. “If you hadn’t interfered, Richard and I would be engaged, maybe more, by now.”

“And what? You would be living behind a white picket fence with two point whatever children. I think you lie to yourself more than to me, Anita.”

It was always a bad sign when he used my real name. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,ma petite , that you are as likely to thrive in domestic bliss as I am.” With that, he glided to the door and left. He closed the door quietly but firmly behind him.

Domestic bliss? Who me? My life was a cross between a preternatural soap opera and an action adventure movie. Sort ofAs the Casket Turns meetsRambo. White picket fences didn’t fit. Jean-Claude was right about that.

I had the entire weekend off. It was the first time in months. I’d been looking forward to this evening all week. But truthfully, it wasn’t Jean-Claude’s nearly perfect face that was haunting me. I kept flashing on Sabin’s face. Eternal life, eternal pain, eternal ugliness. Nice afterlife.

End Of Chapter One

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Burnt Offerings

Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/BurntOfferingsChapterOne.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton
Book 7 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter One

Most people don’t stare at the scars. They’ll look, of course, then do the eye slide. You know, the quick look, then drop the gaze, then just have to have that second look. But they make it quick. The wounds aren’t like freak show bad, but they are interesting. Captain Pete McKinnon, firefighter and arson investigator, sat across from me, big hands wrapped around a glass of iced tea that our secretary, Mary, had brought in for him. He was staring at my arms. Not the place most men look. But it wasn’t sexual. He was staring at the scars and didn’t seem a bit embarrassed about it.

My right arm had been sliced open twice by a knife. One scar was white and old. The second was still pink and new. My left arm was worse. A mound of white scar tissue sat at the bend of my arm. I’d have to lift weights for the rest of my life or the scars would stiffen and I’d lose mobility in the arm, or so my physical therapist had said. There was a cross-shaped burn mark, a little crooked now because of the ragged claw marks that a shapeshifted witch had given me. There were one or two other scars hidden under my blouse, but the arm really is the worst.

Bert, my boss, had requested that I wear my suit jacket or long-sleeved blouses in the office. He said that some clients had expressed reservations about my ah . . . occupationally acquired wounds. I hadn’t worn a long-sleeved blouse since he made the request. He’d turned the air conditioner up a little colder every day. It was so cold today I had goose bumps. Everyone else was bringing sweaters to work. I was shopping for midriff tops to show off my back scars.

McKinnon had been recommended to me by Sergeant Rudolph Storr, cop and friend. They’d played football in college together, and been friends ever since. Dolph didn’t use the word “friend” lightly, so I knew they were close.

“What happened to your arm?” McKinnon asked finally.

“I’m a legal vampire executioner. Sometimes they get pesky.” I took a sip of coffee.

“Pesky,” he said and smiled.

He sat his glass on the desk and slipped off his suit jacket. He was nearly as wide through the shoulders as I was tall. He was a few inches short of Dolph’s six foot eight, but he didn’t miss it by much. He was only in his forties, but his hair was completely grey with a little white starting at the temples. It didn’t make him look distinguished. It made him look tired.

He had me beat on scars. Burn scars crawled up his arms from his hands to disappear under the short sleeves of his white dress shirt. The skin was mottled pinkish, white, and a strange shade of tan like the skin of some animal that should shed regularly.

“That must have hurt,” I said.

“It did.” He sat there meeting my eyes with a long steady look. “You saw the inside of a hospital on some of that.”

“Yeah.” I pushed the sleeve up on my left arm and showed the shiny place where a bullet had grazed me. His eyes widened just a bit. “Now that we’ve proven we’re big tough he-men, can you just cut to the chase? Why are you here, Captain McKinnon?”

He smiled and draped his jacket over the back of his chair. He took the tea off my desk and sipped it. “Dolph said you wouldn’t like being sized up.”

“I don’t like passing inspections.”

“How do you know you passed?”

It was my turn to smile. “Women’s intuition. Now, what do you want?”

“Do you know what the term firebug means?”

“An arsonist,” I said.

He looked expectantly at me.

“A pyrokinetic, someone who can call fire psychically.”

He nodded. “You ever seen a real pyro?”

“I saw films of Ophelia Ryan,” I said.

“The old black-and-white ones?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“She’s dead now, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Burned to death in her bed, spontaneous combustion. A lot of the firebugs go up that way, as if when they’re old they lose control of it. You ever see one of them in person?”

“Nope.”

“Where’d you see the films?”

“Two semesters of Psychic Studies. We had a lot of psychics come in and talk to us, demonstrate their abilities, but pyrokinetics is such a rare ability, I don’t think the prof could find one.”

He nodded and drained the rest of his tea in one long swallow. “I met Ophelia Ryan once before she died. Nice lady.” He started to turn the ice-filled glass round and round in his large hands. He stared at the glass and not at me while he talked. “I met one other firebug. He was young, in his twenties. He’d started by setting empty houses on fire, like a lot of pyromaniacs. Then he did buildings with people in them, but everybody got out. Then he did a tenement, a real firetrap. He set every exit on fire. Killed over sixty people, mostly women and children.”

McKinnon stared up at me. The look in his eyes was haunted. “It’s still the largest body count I’ve ever seen at a fire. He did an office building the same way, but missed a couple of exits. Twenty-three dead.”

“How’d you catch him?”

“He started writing to the papers and the television. He wanted credit for the deaths. He set fire to a couple of cops before we got him. We were wearing those big silver suits that they wear to oil rig fires. He couldn’t get them to burn. We took him down to the police station, and that was the mistake. He set it on fire.”

“Where else could you have taken him?” I asked.

He shrugged massive shoulders. “I don’t know, somewhere else. I was still in the suit, and I held onto him. Told him we’d burn up together if he didn’t stop it. He laughed and set himself on fire.” McKinnon sat his glass very carefully on the edge of the desk.

“The flames were this soft blue color almost like a gas fire, but paler. Didn’t burn him, but somehow it set my suit on fire. The damn thing is rated for something like 6,000 degrees, and it started to melt. Human skin burns at 120 degrees, but somehow I didn’t melt into a puddle, just the suit. I had to strip it off while he laughed. He walked out the door and he didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to grab him.”

I didn’t say the obvious. I let him talk.

“I tackled him in the hallway and slammed him into a wall a couple of times. Funny thing, where my skin touched him, it didn’t burn. It was like the fire crawled over a space and started on my arms, so my hands are fine.”

I nodded. “There’s a theory that a pyro’s aura keeps them from burning. When you touched his skin, you were too close to his own aura, his own protection, to burn.”

He stared at me. “Maybe that is what happened, because I threw him hard up against the wall over and over. He was screaming, ‘I’ll burn you. I’ll burn you alive.’ Then the fire changed color to yellow, normal, and he started to burn. I let him go and went for the fire extinguisher. We couldn’t put the fire on his body out. The extinguishers worked on the walls, everything else, but it wouldn’t work on him. It was as if the fire was crawling out of his body from deep inside. We’d dampen some of the flames, but there was just more of it until he was made of fire.”

McKinnon’s eyes were distant and horror-filled as if he was still seeing it. “He didn’t die, Ms. Blake, not like he should of. He screamed for so long and we couldn’t help him. Couldn’t help him.” His voice trailed off. He just sat there staring at nothing.

I waited and finally said, gently, “Why are you here, Captain?”

He blinked and sort of shook himself. “I think we’ve got another firebug on our hands, Ms. Blake. Dolph said that if anyone could help us cut the loss of life, it was you.”

“Psychic ability isn’t technically preternatural. It’s just talent like throwing a great curve ball.”

He shook his head. “What I saw die on the floor of the station that day wasn’t human. It couldn’t have been human. Dolph says you’re the monster expert. Help me catch this monster before he kills.”

“He or she hasn’t killed yet? It’s just property damage?” I asked.

He nodded. “I could lose my job for coming to you. I should have bucked this up the line and gotten permission from the chain of command, but we’ve only lost a couple of buildings. I want to keep it that way.”

I took in a slow breath and let it out. “I’ll be happy to help, Captain, but I honestly don’t know what I can do for you.”

He pulled out a thick file folder. “Here’s everything we’ve got. Look it over and call me tonight.”

I took the folder from him and sat it in the middle of my desk blotter.

“My number’s in the file. Call me. Maybe it’s not a firebug. Maybe it’s something else. But whatever it is, Ms. Blake, it can bathe in flames and not burn. It can walk through a building and shed fire like sprinkling water. No accelerant, Ms. Blake, but the houses have gone up as if they’ve been soaked in something. When we get the wood in the lab, it’s clean. It’s like whatever is doing this can force the fire to do things it shouldn’t do.”

He glanced at his watch. “I’m running late. I’m working on getting you on this officially, but I’m afraid they’ll wait until people are dead. I don’t want to wait.”

“I’ll call you tonight, but it may be late. How late is too late to call?” “Any time, Ms. Blake, any time.”

I nodded and stood. I offered my hand. He shook it. His grip was firm, solid, but not too tight. A lot of male clients that wanted to know about the scars squeezed my hand like they wanted me to cry “uncle.” But McKinnon was secure. He had his own scars.

I’d barely sat back down when the phone rang. “What is it, Mary?”

“It’s me,” Larry said. “Mary didn’t think you’d mind her putting me straight through.” Larry Kirkland, vampire executioner trainee, was supposed to be over at the morgue staking vampires.

“Nope. What’s up?”

“I need a ride home.” There was just the slightest hesitation to his voice. “What’s wrong?”

He laughed. “I should know better than to be coy with you. I’m all stitched up. The doc says I’ll be fine.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Come pick me up and I’ll tell all.” Then the little son of a gun hung up on me. There was only one reason for him to not want to talk to me. He’d done something stupid and gotten hurt. Two bodies to stake. Two bodies that wouldn’t have risen for at least another night. What could have gone wrong? As the old saying goes, only one way to find out.

Mary rescheduled my appointments. I got my shoulder holster complete with Browning Hi-Power out of the top desk drawer and slipped it on. Since I’d stopped wearing my suit jacket in the office, I’d put the gun in the drawer, but outside the office and always after dark I wore a gun. Most of the creatures that had scarred me up were dead. The majority I’d done personally. Silverplated bullets are a wonderful thing.

End Of Chapter One

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Blue Moon

Laurell K. Hamilton
http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/BlueMoonChapterOne.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton
Book 8 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter One

Blue Moon I was dreaming of cool flesh and sheets the color of fresh blood. The phone shattered the dream, leaving only fragments, a glimpse of midnight blue eyes, hands gliding down my body, his hair flung across my face in a sweet, scented cloud. I woke in my own house, miles from Jean-Claude with the feel of his body clinging to me. I fumbled the phone from the bedside table and mumbled, “Hello.”
“Anita, is that you?” It was Daniel Zeeman, Richard’s baby brother. Daniel was twenty-four and cute as a bug’s ear. Baby didn’t really cover it. Richard had been my fiancé once upon a time — until I chose Jean-Claude over him. Sleeping with the other man put a real crimp in our social plans. Not that I blamed Richard. No, I blamed myself. It was one of the few things Richard and I still shared.
I squinted at the glowing dial of the bedside clock. 3:10 A.M. “Daniel, what’s wrong?” No one calls at ten after the witching hour with good news.
He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the next line. “Richard’s in jail.”
I sat up, sheets sliding in a bundle to my lap. “What did you say?” I was suddenly wide awake, heart thudding, adrenaline pumping.
“Richard is in jail,” he repeated.
I didn’t make him say it again, though I wanted to. “What for?” I asked.
“Attempted rape,” he said.
“What?” I said.
Daniel repeated it. It didn’t make any more sense the second time I heard it. “Richard is like the ultimate Boy Scout,” I said. “I’d believe murder before I’d believe rape.”
“I guess that’s a compliment,” he said.
“You know what I meant, Daniel. Richard wouldn’t do something like that.”
“I agree,” he said.
“Is he in Saint Louis?” I asked.
“No, he’s still in Tennesse. He finished up his requirements for his master’s degree and got arrested that night.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t exactly know,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They won’t let me see him,” Daniel said.
“Why not?”
“Mom got in to see him, but they wouldn’t let all of us in.”
“Has he got a lawyer?” I asked.
“He says he doesn’t need one. He says he didn’t do it.”
“Prison is full of people who didn’t do it, Daniel. He needs a lawyer. It’s his word against the woman’s. If she’s local and he isn’t, he’s in trouble,”
“He’s in trouble,” Daniel said.
“Shit,” I said.
“There’s more bad news,” he said.
I threw the covers back and stood, clutching the phone. “Tell me.”
“There’s going to be a blue moon this month.” He said it very quietly, no explanation, but I understood.
Richard was an alpha werewolf. He was head of the local pack. It was his only serious flaw. We’d broken up after I’d seen him eat somebody. What I’d seen had sent me running to Jean-Claude’s arms. I’d run from the werewolf to the vampire. Jean-Claude was Master of the City of Saint Louis. He was definitely not the more human of the two. I know there isn’t a lot to choose from between a bloodsucker and a flesh-eater, but at least after Jean-Claude finished feeding, there weren’t chunks between his fangs. A small distinction but a real one.
A blue moon meant a second full moon this month. The moon doesn’t actually turn blue most of the time, but it is where the old saying comes from — once in a blue moon. It happens about every three years or so. It was August, and the second full moon was only five days away. Richard’s control was very good, but I’d never heard of any werewolf, even an Ulfric, a pack leader, who could fight the change on the night of the full moon. No matter what flavor of animal you changed into, a lycanthrope was a lycanthrope. The full moon ruled them.
“We have to get him out of jail before the full moon,” Daniel said.
“Yeah,” I said. Richard was hiding what he was. He taught junior high science. If they found out he was a werewolf, he’d lose his job. It was illegal to discriminate on the basis of a disease, especially one as difficult to catch as lycanthropy, but they’d do it. No one wanted a monster teaching their kiddies. Not to mention that the only person in Richard’s family who knew his secret was Daniel. Mom and Pop Zeeman didn’t know.
“Give me a number to contact you at,” I said.
He did. “You’ll come down then,” he said.
“Yeah.”
He sighed. “Thanks. Mom is raising hell, but it’s not helping. We need someone here who understands the legal system.”
“I’ll have a friend call you with the name of good local lawyer before I get there. You may be able to arrange bail by the time I arrive.”
“If he’ll see the lawyer,” Daniel said.
“Is he being stupid?” I asked.
“He thinks that having the truth on his side is enough.”
It sounded like something Richard would say. There was more than one reason why we’d broken up. He clung to ideals that hadn’t even worked when they were in vogue. Truth, justice, and the American way certainly didn’t work within the legal system. Money, power, and luck were what worked. Or having someone on your side that was part of the system.
I was a vampire executioner. I was licensed to hunt and kill vampires once a court order of execution had been issued. I was licensed in three states. Tennessee was not one of them. But cops, as a general rule, would treat an executioner better than a civilian. We risked our lives and usually had a higher kill count than they did. Of course, the kills being vamps, some people didn’t count them as real kills. Had to be human for it to count.
“When can you get here?” Daniel asked.
“I’ve got some things to clear up here, but I’ll see you today before noon.”
“I hope you can talk some sense into Richard.”
I’d met their mother — more than once — so I said, “I’m surprised that Charlotte can’t talk sense to him.”
“Where do you think he gets this ‘truth will set you free’ bit?” Daniel asked.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll be there, Daniel.”
“I’ve got to go.” He hung up suddenly as if afraid of being caught. His mom had probably come into the room. The Zeemans had four sons and a daughter. The sons were all six feet or above. The daughter was five nine. They were all over twenty-one. And they were all scared of their mother. Not literally scared, but Charlotte Zeeman wore the pants in the family. One family dinner and I knew that.
I hung up the phone, turned on the lamp, and started to pack. It occurred to me while I was throwing things into a suitcase to wonder why the hell I was doing this. I could say that it was because Richard was the other third of a triumvirate of power that Jean-Claude had forged between the three of us. Master vampire, Ulfric, or wolf king, and necromancer. I was the necromancer. We were bound so tightly together that sometimes we invaded each other’s dreams by accident. Sometimes not so accidentally.
But I wasn’t riding to the rescue because Richard was our third. I could admit to myself, if to no one else, that I still loved Richard. Not the same way I loved Jean-Claude, but it was just as real. He was in trouble, and I would help him if I could. Simple. Complicated. Hurtful.
I wondered what Jean-Claude would think of me dropping everything to go rescue Richard. It didn’t really matter. I was going, and that was that. But I did spare a thought for how that might make my vampire lover feel. His heart didn’t always beat, but it could still break.
Love sucks. Sometimes it feels good. Sometimes it’s just another way to bleed.

End of chapter one

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Obsidian Butterfly
by
Laurell K. Hamilton

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/OBChp1.htm
Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

(This version is direct from Laurell’s files. May differ slightly from the print version.)
Book 9 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter 1

I was covered in blood, but it wasn’t mine, so it was okay. Not only was it not my blood, but it was all animal blood. If the worst casualties of the night were six chickens and a goat, I could live with it, and so could everyone else. I’d raised seven corpses in one night. It was a record even for me.

I pulled into my driveway at a quarter ’til dawn with the sky still dark and star-filled. I left the Jeep in the driveway too tired to mess with the garage. It was May, but it felt like April. Spring in St. Louis was usually a two day event between the end of winter and the beginning of summer. One day you were freezing your ass off and the next day it’d be eighty plus. But this year it had been spring, a wet gentle spring.

Except for the high number of zombies I’d raised, it had been a typical night. Everything from raising a civil war soldier for a local historical society to question, a will that needed a final signature to a son’s last confrontation with his abusive mother. I’d been neck deep in lawyers and therapists most of the night. If I heard, ‘How does that make you feel, Jonathan, or Cathy, or whoever?’, one more time tonight, I’d scream. I did not want to watch one more person ‘go with his, or her, feelings’ ever. At least with most of the lawyers the bereaved didn’t come to the graveside. The court appointed lawyer would ascertain that the zombie raised had enough cognitive ability to know what they were signing, then he would sign off on the contract as a witness. If the zombie couldn’t answer the questions then no legal signature. The corpse had to be of “sound” mind to sign a legally binding signature. I’d never raised a zombie that couldn’t pass the legal definition of soundness, but it happened sometimes. Jamison, a fellow animator at Animator’s Inc., had a pair of lawyers come to blows on top of the grave. What fun? The air was cool enough to make me shiver as I walked down the sidewalk to my door. I could hear the phone ringing as I fumbled the key into the lock. I hit the door with my shoulder, because no one ever calls just before dawn unless it’s important. For me that usually meant the police, which meant a murder scene. I kicked the door closed and ran for the phone in the kitchen. My answering machine had kicked on. My voice died on the machine and Edward’s voice came on.

“Anita, it’s Edward. If you’re there pick up.” Silence.

I was running full out and skidded on my high heels, grabbing the receiver as I slid into the wall and nearly dropped the phone. I yelled into the receiver as I juggled the phone, “Edward, Edward, it’s me. I’m here.” Edward was laughing softly when I could finally hear him.

“Glad I could be amusing. What’s up?” I asked.

“I’m calling in my favor,” he said quietly.

It was my turn for silence. Once upon a time Edward had come to my aid, been my back-up. He’d brought a friend, Harley, with him as more back-up. I’d ended up killing Harley. Now, Harley had tried to kill me first, and I’d just been quicker, but Edward had taken the killing personally. Picky, picky. Edward had given me a choice either he and I could draw down on each other and find out once and for all which of us was better, or I could owe him a favor. Some day he would call me up and ask for me to be his back-up like Harley. I’d agreed to the favor. I never wanted to come up against Edward for real. Because if I did I was pretty sure I’d end up dead.

Edward was a hitman. He specialized in monsters. Vampires, shapeshifters, anything and everything. There were people like me that did it legal, but Edward didn’t sweat the legalities, or hell, the ethics. He even occasionally did a human, but only if they had some sort of dangerous reputation. Other assassins, criminals, bad men, or women. Edward was an equal opportunity killer, he never discriminated, not for sex, religion, race, or even species. If it was dangerous Edward would hunt it and kill it. It’s what he lived for, what he was. He was a predator’s predator.

He’d been offered a contract on my life once. He’d turned it down and had come to town as my bodyguard, bringing Harley with him. I’d asked him, why he hadn’t taken the contract. His answer had been simple. If he took the contract he only got to kill me. If he protected me he thought he’d get to kill more people. Perfect Edward reasoning.

He’s either a sociopath or so close it makes little difference. I may be one of the few friends that Edward has but it’s like being friends with a tame leopard. It may curl on the foot of your bed and let you pet it’s head, but it can still eat your throat out. It just won’t do it tonight.

“Anita, you still there?”

“I’m here, Edward.”

“You don’t sound happy to hear from me.”

I wanted to ask him, what does change? How does it feel to 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?”

“Let’s just say I’m cautious,” I said.

He laughed again. “Cautious, no you’re not cautious, you’re suspicious.”

“Yeah,” I said. “So what’s the favor?”

“I need back up,” he said.

“What could be so terrible that Death needs back-up?”

“Ted Forrester needs back-up from Anita Blake, vampire executioner.”

Again that jerky head shake. “But she don’t know about vampires the way you do.”

Ted Forrester was Edward’s alter ego. His only legal identity that I was aware of. Ted was a bounty hunter that specialized in preternatural creatures that weren’t vampires. As a general rule vamps were a specialty item, which was one of the reasons that there were licensed vamp executioners but not licensed anything else executioners. Maybe vampires just have a better political lobby, but whatever , they get the most press. Bounty hunters like Ted filled in the blanks between the police and the licensed executioners. They worked mostly in rancher run states where it was still legal to hunt down varmints and kill them for money. Varmints still included lycanthropes. You could shoot them on sight in about six states as long as later a blood test proves they were lycanthropes. Some of the killings had been taken to court and were being contested but nothing had changed yet on a local level.

“So, what does Ted need me for?” Though truthfully I was relieved that it was

Ted asking and not Edward. Edward on his own probably meant illegal, maybe even murder. I wasn’t quite into cold-blooded murder, not yet.

“Come to Santa Fe and find out,” he said.

“New Mexico, Santa Fe, New Mexico?”

“Yes.”

“When?” I asked.

“Now.”

“Since I’m coming as Anita Blake, vamp executioner, I can flash my executioners license and bring my entire arsenal. “

“Bring what you want,” Edward said, “I’ll share my toys with you when you arrive.”

“I haven’t been to bed yet. Do I have time to get some sleep before I get on a plane?”

“Get a few hours sleep, but be here by afternoon. We’ve moved the bodies, but we’re saving the rest of the crime scene for you.”

“What sort of crime scene?”

“I’d say murder, but that’s not quite the right word. Slaughter, butcher, torture. Yes,” he said, as if trying the word over in his mind, ” a torture scene.”

It was the first time he had said “we”. “Are you trying to scare me?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Then stop the theatrics and just tell me what the hell happened.”

He sighed, and for the first time I heard a dragging tiredness in his voice. “We’ve got ten missing. Twelve confirmed dead.”

“Shit,” I said, “Why haven’t I heard anything on the news?”

“The disappearances made the tabloids. I think the headline was, “Bermuda Triangle in the Desert.’ The twelve dead were three families. Neighbors just found them today.”

“How long had they been dead?” I asked.

“Days, nearly two weeks for one family.”

“Jesus, why didn’t someone miss them sooner.”

“In the last ten years almost the entire population of Santa Fe has changed. We’ve got a huge influx of new people. Plus a lot of people have what amounts to vacation homes up here. The locals call the newcomers Californiators. “

“Cute,” I said, “but is Ted Forrester a local?”

“Ted lives near the city, yeah.”

A thrill went through me from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. Edward was the ultimate mystery man. I knew almost nothing about him, really. “Does this mean I get to see where you live?”

“You’ll be staying with Ted Forrester,” he said.

“But you’re Ted Forrester, Edward. I’ll be staying at your house, right?”

He was quiet for a heart beat, then, “Yes.”

Suddenly the whole trip seemed much more attractive. I was going to see Edward’s house. I was going to be able to pry into his personal life, if he had one. What could be better?

Though one thing was bothering me. “When you said families were the victims, does that include kids?”

“Strangely, no,” he said.

“Well, thank goodness for small blessings,” I said.

“You always were a soft touch for the kiddies,” he said.

“Does it really not bother you to see dead children?”

“No,” he said.

I just listened to him breath for a second or two. I knew that nothing bothered Edward. Nothing moved him. But children . . . every cop I knew hated to go to a scene where the vic was a child. There was something personal about it. Even those of us without children took it hard. That Edward didn’t, bothered me. Funny, but it did.

“It bothers me,” I said.

End of chapter one

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Narcissus In Chains

by
Laurell K. Hamilton

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/NICChp1.htm

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

This is a replacement for the previous version! This will be the final printed version of the book.
old-(This version is direct from Laurell’s files and may differ slightly from the final printed version.)
Book 10 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter 1

June had come in like it’s usually hot, sweaty self, but a freak cold front had moved in during the night. The car radio had been full of the record low temperatures. It was only low sixties, not that cold, but after weeks of eighty, and ninety plus, it felt down right frigid. My best friend, Ronnie Sims, and I were sitting in my Jeep with the windows down letting the unseasonably cool air drift in on us. Ronnie had turned thirty tonight. We were talking about how she felt about the big 3-0, and other girl talk. Considering that she’s a private detective and I raise the dead for a living it was pretty ordinary talk. Sex, guys, turning thirty, vampires, werewolves. You know, the usual.

We could have gone inside the house but there is something about the intimacy of a car after dark that makes you want to linger. Or maybe it was the sweet smell of spring like air coming through the windows like the caress of some half-remembered lover.

“Okay, so he’s a werewolf. No one’s perfect,” Ronnie said. “Date him, sleep with him, marry him. My votes for Richard.”

“I know you don’t like Jean-Claude.”

“Don’t like him!” Her hands gripped the passenger side door handle squeezing it until I would see the tension in her shoulders. I think she was counting to ten.

“If I killed as easily as you do I’d have killed that son of a bitch two years ago and your life would be a lot less complicated now.”

That last was an understatement. But . . . “I don’t want him dead, Ronnie.”

“He’s a vampire Anita. He is dead.” She had turned and looked at me in the dark. Her soft grey eyes and yellow hair had turned to silver and near white by the cold light of the stars. The shadows and bright reflected light left her face in bold relief like some modern painting. But the look on her face was almost frightening. There was a fearful determination there.

If it had been me with that look on my face, I’d have warned me not to do anything stupid, like kill Jean-Claude. But Ronnie wasn’t a shooter. She’d killed twice both times to save my life. I owed her, but she wasn’t a person who could hunt someone down in cold blood and kill them. Not even a vampire. I knew this about her, so I didn’t have to caution her. “I used to think I knew what dead was, or wasn’t, Ronnie.” I shook my head. “The line isn’t so clear cut.”

“He seduced you,” she said.

I looked away from her angry face. Staring at the foil wrapped swan in my lap. Deirdorfs and Hart where we’d had dinner got creative on their doggy bags; foil wrapped animals. I couldn’t argue with Ronnie and was getting tired of trying.

Finally, I said, “Every lover seduces you, Ronnie, that’s the way it works.”

She slammed her hands so hard into the dash board it startled me and must have hurt her hands. “Dammit, Anita, it’s not the same.”

I was starting to get angry and I didn’t want to be angry, not with Ronnie. I had taken her out to dinner to make her feel better, not to fight. Her steady boyfriend Louis Fannon was out of town at a conference, and she was bummed about that, and turning thirty. So I’d tried to make her feel better and she seemed determined to make me feel worse.

“Look, I haven’t seen either Jean-Claude or Richard for six months. I’m not dating either of them so we can skip the lecture on vampire ethics.”

“Now that’s an oxymoron,” she said.

“What is?” I asked.

“Vampire ethics,” she said.

I frowned at her. “That’s not fair, Ronnie.”

“You are a vampire executioner, Anita. You are the one who taught me that they aren’t just people with fangs. They are monsters.”

I’d had enough. I opened the car door and slid to the edge of the seat. Ronnie grabbed my shoulder.

“Anita, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

I didn’t turn around. I sat there with my feet hanging out the door, the cool air creeping into the closer warmth of the car.

“Then drop it, Ronnie. I mean drop it.”

She leaned over and gave me a quick hug from behind. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business who you sleep with.”

I leaned into the hug for a moment. “That’s right, it’s not.” Then I pulled away and got out of the car. My high heels crunched on the gravel of my driveway. Ronnie had wanted us to dress up, so we had. It was her birthday. It wasn’t until after dinner that I’d realized her diabolical scheme. She’d had me wear heels and a nice little black skirt outfit. The top was actually, gasp, a well-fitted halter top. Or would that be backless evening wear? However pricey it was, it was still a very short skirt and a halter top. Ronnie had helped me pick the outfit out about a week ago. I should have known her innocent, oh, let’s just both dress up, was a ruse. There had been other dresses that covered more skin and had longer hem lines, but none that camouflaged the belly band holster that cut across my lower waist. I’d actually taken the holster along with us on the shopping trip, just to be sure. Ronnie thought I was being paranoid, but I don’t go anywhere after dark unarmed. Period. The skirt was just roomy enough, and black enough to hide the fact that I had the belly band and a Firestar 9mm. The top, I wouldn’t exactly call it a blouse, was heavy enough material, what there was of it, that you really couldn’t see the handle of the gun under the cloth. All I had to do was lift the bottom of the top and the gun was actually right there, ready to be drawn. It was the most user friendly dress outfit I’d ever owned. Made me wish they made it in a different color so I could have two of them. Ronnie’s plan had been to go to a club on her birthday. A dance club. Eeek. I never went to clubs. I did not dance. But I went in with her. Yes, she got me out on the floor, mainly because her dancing alone was attracting too much unwanted male attention. At least with both of us dancing together the would-be cassanovas stayed at a distance. Though saying I danced was inaccurate. I stood and sort of swayed. Ronnie danced. She danced like it was her last night on earth and she had to put every muscle to good use. It was spectacular, and a little frightening. There was something almost desperate to it, as if Ronnie felt the cold hand of time creeping up faster and faster. Or maybe that was just me projecting my own insecurities. I’d turned twenty-six early in the year, and frankly at the rate I was going, I probably wouldn’t have to worry about hitting thirty. Death cures all ills. Well, most of them.

There had been one man who had attached himself to me instead of Ronnie. I didn’t understand why. She was a tall leggy blond and dancing like she was having sex with the music. But he offered me drinks. I don’t drink. He tried to slow dance. I refused. I finally had to be rude. Ronnie told me to dance with him, at least he was human. I’d told her that birthday guilt only went so far, and she’d used hers up.

The last thing on God’s green earth that I needed was another man in my life. I didn’t have a clue what to do with the two men already in my life. The fact that they were, respectively, a Master Vampire, and an Ulfric, werewolf king, was only part of the problem. That that was only part of the problem let you know just how deep a hole I was digging. Or would that be, already have dug? Yeah, already dug. I was about half way to China and still throwing dirt up in the air.

I’d been celibate for six months, so, as far as I knew, had they. Everyone waiting for me to make up my mind. Waiting for me to choose, or decide, something, anything.

I’d been a rock for half a year, because I’d stayed away from them. I hadn’t seen them, in the flesh anyway. I had returned no phone calls. I had run for the hills at the first hint of cologne. Why such drastic measures? Frankly, because almost every time I saw them I fell off the chastity wagon. They both had my libido, but I was trying to decide who had my heart. I still didn’t know. The only thing I had decided was that it was time to stop hiding. I had to see them, and figure out what we were all going to do. I’d decided two weeks ago that I needed to see them. It was the day that I’d refilled my birth control pill prescription, and started taking it again. The very last thing I needed was a surprise pregnancy. That the first thing I thought of when I thought of Richard and Jean-Claude was to go back on birth control tells you something about the effect they had on me.

You needed to be on the pill for at least a month to be safe, or as safe as you ever got. Four more weeks, five to be sure, then I’d call. Maybe.

I heard Ronnie’s heels running on the gravel. “Anita, Anita, wait, don’t be angry.”

The thing was, I wasn’t angry with her. I was angry with me. Angry that after all these months I still couldn’t decide between the two men. I stopped walking and waited for her huddled in my little black skirt outfit, the little foil swan in my hands. The night had turned cool enough to make me wish I’d worn a jacket. When Ronnie was up even with me I started walking again.

“I’m not mad, Ronnie, just tired. Tired of you, my family, Dolph, Zerbrowski, everyone, being so damned judgmental.” My heels hit the sidewalk with a sharp clack. Jean-Claude had once said he could tell if I was angry just by the sound of my heels on the floor. “Watch your step. You’re wearing higher heels than I am.” Ronnie was 5′ 8″ which meant with heels she was nearly six feet.

I was wearing two inch heels which put me at 5′ 5″. I get a much better work out when Ronnie and I jog together than she does.

The phone was ringing as I juggled the key and the foil wrapped leftovers. Ronnie took the leftovers, and I shoved the door open with my shoulder. I was running across the floor in my high heels before I remembered, I was on vacation. Which meant whatever emergency was calling at 2:05 in the morning was not my problem not for another two weeks at least. But old habits die hard, and I was at the phone before I remembered. I actually let the machine pick up while I stood there heart pounding. I was planning on ignoring it but . . . but I still stood ready to grab the receiver just in case.

Loud, booming music, and a man’s voice. I didn’t recognize the music, I recognized the man’s voice. “Anita it’s, Gregory. Nathaniel’s in trouble.”

Gregory was one of the wereleopards that I’d inherited when I killed their alpha, their leader. As a human, I wasn’t really up to the job, but until I found a replacement, even I was better than nothing. Wereanimals without a dominant to protect them were anyone’s meat, and if someone moved in and slaughtered them, it would sort of be my fault, so I acted as their protector, but the job was more complicated than I’d ever dreamed. Nathaniel was the problem. All the others were rebuilding their lives since their old leader had been killed, but not Nathaniel. He’d had a hard life; abused, raped, pimped out, and topped. Topped meant he’d been someone’s slave as in sex and pain. He was one of the few pure submissives I’d ever met, though admittedly my pool of acquaintance was limited.

I cursed softly and picked up the phone. “I’m here, Gregory, what’s happened now?” Even to me my voice sounded tired, and half-angry.

“If I had anyone else to call, Anita, I’d call them, but you’re it.” He sounded tired and angry, too. Great.

“Where’s Elizabeth? She was supposed to be riding shotgun on Nathaniel tonight.” I’d finally agree that Nathaniel could start going out to the Dominance and Submission clubs if he was accompanied by Elizabeth, and at least one other wereleopard. Tonight it had been Gregory riding shotgun, but without Elizabeth, Gregory wasn’t dominant enough to keep Nathaniel safe. A normal submissive would have been safe in one of the clubs with someone there to simply say, no thanks, we’ll pass. But Nathaniel was one of those rare subs that were almost incapable of saying no, and hints had been made that his idea of pain and sex could be very extreme, which meant that he might say yes, to things that were very, very bad for him. Wereanimals can take a lot of damage and not be permanently damaged, but there is a limit. A healthy bottom will say, stop when they’ve had too much, or they feel something bad happening, but Nathaniel wasn’t that healthy. So he had keepers with him to make sure no one really bad got hold of him. But it was more than that. A good dominant trusts their sub to say, when, before the damage is too great. The domm trusts the sub to know their own body and have enough self-preservation to call out before they are in past what their body can take. Nathaniel did not come with that safety feature, which meant a dominant with the best of intentions could end up hurting him badly before they realized he wouldn’t help himself.

I actually accompanied Nathaniel a few nights, as his Nimir-ra it was sort of my job to interview perspective . . . keepers. I’d gone prepared for the clubs to be one of the lower circles of hell and been pleasantly shocked. I’d had more trouble with sexual propositions in a normal bar on a Saturday night. In the clubs everyone was very careful not to impose themselves on you, or be seen as pushy. It was a small community, and if you got a reputation for being obnoxious you could find yourself black-listed and with no one to play with. I’d found the people in the scene were polite, and once you made it clear you were not there to play they left you alone. Like I said, a bar on Saturday night was harder. If you wanted to sit alone in a corner, no one bothered you, except tourists. Tourists were poisers, people not really into the scene, but liked to dress up and frequent the clubs. They didn’t know the rules, and hadn’t bothered to ask. They treated it as if a woman that would come to a place like this would do anything. I’d persuaded them differently. But I’d had to stop to going with Nathaniel. The other wereleopards said I gave off so much dominant vibe that no dominant would ever approach Nathaniel while I was with him, though we’d had so many offers for menage a trois of every description that I’d felt like I needed a button that said, “No, I don’t want to have a bondage three-way with you, thanks for asking, though.”

Elizabeth had supposedly been dominant enough, but not too much to take Nathaniel out and try to pick him up a . . . date.

“Elizabeth left,” Gregory said.

“Without Nathaniel?” I made it a question.

“Yes.”

“Well that just fries my bacon,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m angry with Elizabeth.”

“It gets better,” he said.

“How much better can it be, Gregory? You all assured me that these clubs were safe. A little bondage, a little light slap and tickle. You all convinced me that I couldn’t keep Nathaniel away from it indefinitely. You said that they had ways to monitor the area so no one could possibly get hurt. That’s what you and Zane and Cherry told me. Hell, I’ve seen it myself. There are safety monitors everywhere, it’s safer than some dates I’ve had, so what could have possibly gone wrong?”

“We couldn’t have anticipated this,” he said.

“Just get to the end of the story, Gregory, the foreplay is getting tedious.”

“Gregory is indisposed,” a man’s voice said.

“Who is this?”

“Marco.”

“New in town are you?” I asked.

“Something like that,” he said.

“We didn’t realize it was your pet we had at first. It wasn’t who we were hunting for, but now that we have him, we’re keeping him.”

“You can’t ‘keep’ him,” I said.

“Come down and take him away from us, if you can.” That strangely, smooth voice, made the threat all the more effective. There was no anger, nothing personal. It sounded like business, and I had no clue what it was about.

“Put Gregory back on,” I said.

“I don’t think so. He’s enjoying some personal time with my friends right now.”

“How do I know he’s still alive?” My voice was as unemotional as his, I wasn’t feeling anything yet, it was too sudden, too unexpected, like coming in on the middle of a movie.

“No one’s dead, yet,” the man said.

“How do I know that?”

He was quiet for a second, then, “What sort of people are you used to dealing with that you would ask if we’ve killed them first thing?”

“It’s been a rough year, now put Gregory on the phone, because until I know he’s alive, and he tells me the others are, this negotiation is stalled.”

“How do you know we are negotiating?” Marco asked.

“Call it a hunch.”

“My, you are direct.”

“You have no idea how direct I can be, Marco, put Gregory on the phone.”

There was the music filled silence, and more music, but no voices. “Gregory, Gregory, are you there? Is anyone there.” Shit, I thought.

“I’m afraid that your kitty-cat won’t squawl for us, a point of pride, I think.”

“Put the receiver to his ear, and let me talk to him.”

“As you wish.”

More of the loud music. I spoke as if I was sure that Gregory was listening. “Gregory, I need to know you’re alive. I need to know that Nathaniel and everyone else is alive. Talk to me, Gregory.”

His voice came squeezed tight, as if he were gritting his teeth. “Yesss.”

“Yes, what, they’re all alive?”

“Yess.”

“What are they doing to you?”

He screamed into the phone, and the sound raised the hairs on my neck, and danced down my arms in goosebumps. The sound stopped abruptly. “Gregory, Gregory!” I was yelling against the techno-beat of the music, but no one was answering.

Marco came back on the line. “They are all alive, if not quite well. The one they call Nathaniel is a lovely young man, all that long auburn hair and the most extraordinary violet eyes. So pretty, it would be a shame to spoil all that beauty. Of course, this one is lovely, too, blond, blue-eyed, some told me that they both work as strippers? Is that true?”

I wasn’t numb anymore, I was scared, and angry, and still had not a clue to why this was happening. My voice came out almost even, almost calm. “Yeah, it’s true. You’re new in town, Marco, so you don’t know me. But trust me, you don’t want to do this.”

“Perhaps not, but my alpha does.”

Ah, shapeshifter politics. I hated shapeshifter politics. “Why, the wereleopards are no threat to anyone.”

“Ours not to reason why, ours to do and die.”

A literate kidnapper, refreshing. “What do you want, Marco?”

“My alpha wants you to come down and rescue your cats, if you can.”

“What club are you at?”

“Narcissus in Chains.” And he hung up.

End of Chapter One.

Sorry! That’s it for chapter one. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Cerulean Sins

by
Laurell K. Hamilton

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/CeruleanSinsChapterOne.html

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/CSChapterTwo.htm

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/chapterthreeCS.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

Book 11 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter One

This text is directly from Laurell’s file. The final version of the printed edition may vary slightly.

It was October, seven days before Halloween. A busy time of year for raising the dead. You can raise zombies any day of the year. There’s nothing special about All Hallows Eve in connection to raising the physical dead. Yet, every year October is our big month. People want to believe that zombies crawl from their graves on Halloween. They don’t, not without help. My kind of help.

Mr. Leo Harlan didn’t have the look of a superstitious man. Of course, he didn’t have the look of anything. Harlan was medium. Medium height, dark hair, but not too dark. Skin neither too pale nor too tan. Eyes brown, but an indistinguishable shade of brown. In fact the most remarkable thing about Mr. Harlan was that there was nothing remarkable about him. Even his suit was dark, conservative. A businessman’s outfit that had been in style for the last twenty years and probably would still be in style twenty years down the road. His shirt was white, his tie neatly knotted, his not too big, not too small hands were well groomed but not manicured. His appearance told me so little that that it in itself was interesting, and vaguely disturbing.

I took a sip from my coffee mug with its motto, ‘If you slip me decaf, I’ll rip your head off.’ I’d brought it to work when our boss, Bert had put decaf in the coffee maker without telling anyone, thinking we wouldn’t notice. Half the office thought they had mono for a week until we discovered Bert’s dastardly plot.

The coffee that our secretary Mary had gotten for Mr. Harlan sat on the edge of my desk. His mug was the one with Animators Inc. on it and the logo. He’d taken a minute sip out of the mug when Mary had first handed it to him. He’d taken it black, but he sipped it like he hadn’t tasted it, or it didn’t really matter what it tasted like. He’d taken the coffee out of politeness, not out of desire.

I sipped my own coffee heavy on the sugar and cream, trying to make up for the late night work the night before. Caffeine and sugar, the two basic food groups.

His voice was like the rest of him, so ordinary it was extraordinary. He spoke with absolutely no accent, no hint of region, or country. “I want you to raise my ancestor, Ms. Blake.”

“So you said.”

“You seem to doubt me, Ms. Blake.”

“Call it skepticism.”

“Why would I come in here and lie to you?”

I shrugged. “People have done it before.”

“I assure you, Ms. Blake, I am telling the truth.”

Trouble was, I just didn’t believe him. Maybe I was being paranoid, but my left arm under the nice navy suit jacket was criss-crossed with scars; from the crooked cross-shaped burn scar where a vampire’s servant had branded me, to the slashing claw marks of a shape-sifted witch, and knife scars, thin and clean compared to the rest. My right arm had one knife scar, compared to the left, it was nothing. There were other scars hidden under the navy skirt and royal blue shell. Silk didn’t care if it slid over scars or smooth, untouched skin. I’d earned my right to be paranoid.

“What ancestor do you want raised, and why?” I smiled when I said it, pleasant, but it didn’t reach my eyes. I’d begun to have to work at my smiles reaching my eyes.

He smiled then, and it left his eyes as unaffected as my own. Smile because you were smiled at, not because it really meant anything. He reached out to pick up the coffee mug again, and this time I noticed a heaviness in the left front of his jacket. He wasn’t wearing a shoulder holster I’d have noticed that, but there was something heavier than a wallet in his left breast pocket. It could have been a lot of things, but my first thought was, gun. I’d learned to listen to my first thoughts. You’re not paranoid if people really are out to get you.

I had my own gun tucked under my left arm in a shoulder holster. It evened things up, but I did not want my office to turn into the O. K. Corral. He had a gun. Maybe. Probably. For all I knew it could have been a really heavy cigar case. But I’d have bet almost anything that that heaviness was a weapon. I could either sit here and try to talk myself out of it, or I could act as if I were right. If I was wrong, I’d apologize later; if I were right, well, I’d be alive. Better alive and rude, then dead and polite.

I interrupted his talk about his family tree. I hadn’t really heard any of it. I was fixated on that heaviness in his pocket. Until I found out whether it was a gun, or not, nothing else much mattered to me. I smiled and pushed it up into my eyes. “What is it exactly that you do for a living, Mr. Harlan?”

He drew a slightly deeper breath, settling into his chair, just a bit. It was the closest thing I’d seen to tension in the man. The first real, human movement. People fidget. Harlan didn’t.

People don’t like dealing with people who raise the dead. Don’t ask me why, but we make people nervous. Harlan wasn’t nervous, he wasn’t anything. He was just sitting across the desk from me, chilling, nondescript eyes pleasant and empty. I was betting he’d lied about his reason for coming here and he’d brought a gun hidden on his person in a place that wasn’t easy to spot. I was liking Leo Harlan less and less.

I sat my coffee mug gently on my desk blotter, still smiling. I’d freed up my hands, which was step one. Drawing my gun would be step two; I was hoping to avoid that.

“I want you to raise one of my ancestors, Ms. Blake. I don’t see where my work has any relevance here.”

“Humor me,” I said, still smiling, but feeling it slide out of my eyes like ice melting.

“Why should I?” he said.

“Because if you don’t I’ll refuse to take your case.”

“Mr. Vaughn, your boss, has already taken my money. He accepted on your behalf. “

I smiled and this time it held real humor. “Actually, Bert is only the business manager at Animators Inc., now. Most of us are full partners in the firm, like a law firm. Bert still handles the business end of things, but he’s not exactly my boss anymore.”

His face, if possible, went quieter, more closed, more secretive. It was like looking at a bad painting, one that had all the technicalities down, but no feel of life. The only humans I’d ever seen that could be this closed down were scary ones.

“I wasn’t aware of your change in status, Ms. Blake.” His voice had gone a tone deeper, but as empty as his face.

He was ringing every alarm bell I had, my shoulders were tight with the need to pull my gun first. My hands slid downward without me thinking about it. It wasn’t until his hands raised to the arms of his chair, that I realized what I’d done. We were both maneuvering to a better position to draw down.

The tension in my shoulders spilled into my stomach, tight and hard. Suddenly there was tension, thick and heavy like invisible lightning in the room. There was no more doubt. I saw it in his empty eyes, and the small smile on his face. This was a real smile, no fake, no pretence. We were seconds away from doing one of the most real things you can do one human being to another. We were about to try and kill one another. I watched, not his eyes, but his upper body, waiting for that betraying movement. There was no more doubt, we both knew. Into that heavy, heavy tension his voice fell like a stone thrown down a deep well. His voice alone almost made me go for my gun. “I am a contract killer, but I’m not here for you, Anita Blake.”

I didn’t take my eyes from his body, the tension didn’t slacken. “Why tell me then?” My voice was softer than his, almost breathy.

“Because I haven’t come to St. Louis to kill anyone. I really am interested in getting my ancestor raised from the dead.”

“Why?” I asked, still watching his body, still treading the tension.

“Even hitmen have hobbies, Ms. Blake.” His voice was matter of fact, but his body stayed very, very still. I realized, suddenly, that he was trying not to spook me.

I let my gaze flick to his face. His face was still bland, still unnaturally empty, but it also held something else . . . a trace of humor.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I didn’t know that coming to see you was tempting fate.”

“What do you mean?” I was trying to hold onto that edge of tension, but it was slipping away. He sounded too ordinary, too suddenly real, to keep thinking about drawing a gun and shooting up my office. It suddenly seemed a little silly, and yet . . . looking into his dead eyes that no humor ever completely filled now, it didn’t seem all that silly.

“There are people all over the world who would love to see me dead, Ms. Blake. There are people who have spent considerable money and effort to see that such a thing would happen, but no one has come close, until today.”

I shook my head. “This wasn’t close.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you, but I knew something of your reputation so I didn’t wear a gun in my usual manner. You noticed the weight of it when I bent forward that last time, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“If we’d had to draw down on each other, your holster is a few seconds faster than this inner jacket shit that I’m wearing.”

“Then why wear it?” I asked.

“I didn’t want to make you nervous by coming in here armed, but I don’t go anywhere unarmed, so I thought I’d be slick, and you wouldn’t notice.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Thanks for that, but we both know better.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but I let it go, no need to argue when I seemed to be winning.

“What do you want, Mr. Harlan, if that is your real name?”

He smiled at that. “I really do want my ancestor raised from the dead, I didn’t lie about that.” He seemed to think for a second. “Strange, but I haven’t lied about anything.” He looked puzzled. “It’s been a long time since that was true.”

“My condolences,” I said.

He frowned at me. “What?”

“It must be difficult never being able to tell the truth. I know I’d find it exhausting.”

He smiled, and again it was that slight flexing of lips that seemed to be his genuine smile. “I haven’t really thought about it in a long time.” He shrugged. “I guess you get use to it.”

It was my turn to shrug. “Maybe. What ancestor do you want raised and why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to raise this particular ancestor?”

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t believe the dead should be disturbed without a good reason.”

That small smile flexed again. “You’ve got animators in this town that raise zombies every night for entertainment.”

I nodded. “Then by all means go to one of them. They’ll do anything you want, pretty much, if the price is right.”

“Can they raise a corpse that’s almost four hundred years old?”

I shook my head. “Out of their league.”

“I heard an animator could raise almost anything if they were willing to do a human sacrifice.” His voice was quiet.

I shook my head, again. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Mr. Harlan. Some animators could raise a few hundred years worth of corpse with the help of a human sacrifice. Of course, that would be murder and thus illegal.”

“Rumor has it that you’ve done it.”

“Rumor can say anything it damn well pleases, I don’t do human sacrifice.”

“So you can’t raise my ancestor.” He made it a flat statement.

“I didn’t say that.”

He raised eyebrows, the closest to surprise that he’d shown. “You can raise a nearly four-hundred-year-old corpse without a human sacrifice?”

I nodded.

“Rumor said you could, but I didn’t believe it.”

“You believed that I did human sacrifice, but not that I could raise a few hundred years worth of dead people on my own.”

He shrugged. “I’m use to people killing other people, I’ve never seen anyone raised from the dead.”

“Lucky you.”

He smiled, and his eyes thawed just a little. “So you’ll raise my ancestor.”

“If you tell me a good enough reason for doing it.”

“You don’t get distracted much, do you, Ms. Blake.”

“Tenacious, that’s me,” I said, and smiled. Maybe I’d spent too much time around really bad people, but now that I knew that Leo Harlan wasn’t here to kill me, or anyone else in town, I had no problem with him. Why did I believe him? For the same reason I hadn’t believed him the first time. Instinct, maybe.

“I’ve followed the official records of my family in this country back as far as I can, but my original ancestor is on no official documents. I believe he gave a false name from the beginning. Until I get his true name I can’t track my family through Europe. I very much wish to do that.”

“Raise him, ask his real name, his real reason for coming to this country, and put him back?” I made it a question.

Harlan nodded. “Exactly.”

“It sounds reasonable enough.”

“So you’ll do it,” he said.

“Yes, but it ain’t cheap. I’m probably the only animator in this country that can raise someone this old without using a human sacrifice. It’s sort of a seller’s market, if you catch my drift.”

“In my own way, Ms. Blake, I am as good at my job as you are at yours.” He tried to look humble and failed. He looked pleased with himself, all the way to those ordinary, and frightening, brown eyes. “I can pay, Ms. Blake, never fear.”

I mentioned an outrageous figure. He never flinched. He started to reach into the inside of his jacket. I said, “Don’t.”

“My credit card, Ms. Blake, nothing more.” Though he took his hands out of his jacket and held them, fingers spread, so I could see them clearly.

“You can finish the paperwork and pay in the outer office. I’ve got other appointments to keep.”

He almost smiled. “Of course.” He stood. I stood. Neither of us offered to shake hands. He hesitated at the door; I stopped a ways back, not following as closely as I normally do. Room to maneuver, you know.

“When can you do the job?”

“I’m booked solid tonight. I might be able to squeeze you in on Wednesday. Maybe Thursday.”

“What happened to Tuesday?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Booked up.”

“You said, and I quote, I’m booked solid tonight. Then you mentioned Wednesday.”

I shrugged again. There was a time when I wasn’t good at lying, even now I’m not great at it, but not for the same reasons. I felt my eyes going flat and empty, as I said, “I meant to say I was booked up for the next two nights, not just tonight.”

He stared at me, hard enough to make me want to squirm. I fought off the urge, and just gave him blank, vaguely friendly eyes.

“Tuesday is the night of the full moon,” he said in a quiet voice.

I blinked at him, fighting to keep the surprise off my face, and I succeeded, but I failed on my body language. My shoulders tensed, my hands flexed. Most people noticed your face not the rest of you, but Harlan was a man who would notice. Damnit.

“So it’s the full moon, yippee-skippy, what of it?” My voice was matter of fact, no tension, or very little.

He gave that small smile of his. “You’re not very good at being coy, Ms. Blake.”

“No, I’m not, but since I’m not being coy, that’s not a problem.”

“Ms. Blake,” he said, voice almost cajoling, “please, do not insult my intelligence.”

I thought about saying, but it’s so easy, but didn’t. First, it wasn’t easy at all; second, I was a little nervous about where this line of questioning was going. But I was not going to help him get where he was going by volunteering information. Say less, it irritates people.

“I haven’t insulted your intelligence.”

He did a frown, that I think was as true as that small smile. The real Harlan peeking through. “Rumor says, that you haven’t worked on the night of the full moon for a few months now.” He seemed very serious all of a sudden, not in a menacing way, but almost as if I’d been impolite, forgotten my table manners, or something.

“Maybe I’m Wiccan, it is a religious holy day, or rather night.”

“Are you Wiccan, Ms. Blake?”

It never took me long to grow tired of word games. “No, Mr. Harlan, I am not.”

“Then why don’t you work on the night of the full moon?” He was studying my face, searching it, as if for some reason the answer were more important than it should have been.

I knew what he wanted me to say. He wanted me to confess to being a shapeshifter of some kind. Trouble was I couldn’t confess, because it wasn’t true. I was the first human Nimir-Ra, leopard queen, of a wereleopard pard in their history.

I’d inherited the leopards when I was forced to kill their old leader, to keep him from killing me. I was also Bolverk of the local werewolf pack. Bolverk was more than a bodyguard, less than an executioner. It was basically someone who did the things that the Ulfric either couldn’t, or wouldn’t do. Richard Zeeman was our local Ulfric. He’d been my off again, on again honey-bun for a couple of years. Right now it was off, very off. His parting shot to me had been, “I don’t want to love someone who is more at home with the monsters than I am.” What do you say to that? What can you say? Damned if I know. They say love conquerors everything, they lie.

As Nimir-Ra and Bolverk I had people depending on me, so I took the full moon off, so I’d be available. It was simple really, and nothing I was willing to share with Leo Harlan.

“I sometimes take personal days, Mr. Harlan, if they’ve coincided with the full moon I assure you it was accidental.”

“Rumor says you got cut up by a shifter a few months back, and now you’re one of them.” His voice was still quiet, but I was ready for this one. My face, my body, everything was calm, because he was wrong.

“I am not a shapeshifter, Mr. Harlan.”

His eyes narrowed, like he didn’t believe me. “I don’t believe you, Ms. Blake.”

I sighed. “I don’t really care if you believe me, or not, Mr. Harlan. My being a lycanthrope, or not, has no bearing on how good I am at raising the dead.” “Rumor says you’re the best, but you keep telling me the rumors are wrong. Are you really as good as they say you are?”

“Better.”

“You’re rumored to have raised entire graveyards.”

I shrugged. “You’ll turn a girl’s head with talk like that.”

“Are you saying it’s true?”

“Does it really matter? I can raise your ancestor, Mr. Harlan. I’m one of the few, if not the only, animator in this country that could do it without resorting to a human sacrifice.” I smiled at him, my professional smile, the one that was all bright and shiny and empty of meaning as a light bulb. “Will Wednesday or Thursday be alright?”

He nodded. “I’ll leave my cell phone number, you can reach me twenty-four hours a day.”

“Are you in a hurry for this?”

“Let’s just say that I never know when an offer may come my way that I would find hard to resist.”

“Not just money,” I said.

He gave that smile again. “No, not just money, Ms. Blake. I have enough money, but a job that holds new interests . . . new challenges. I’m always searching for that.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Harlan. There’s always someone out there bigger and badder than you are.”

“I have not found it so.”

I smiled then. “Either you’re even scarier than you seem, or you haven’t been meeting the right people.”

He looked at me for a long moment, until I felt the smile slide from my eyes. I met his dead eyes with my own. In that moment that well of quietness filled me. It was a peaceful place, the place I went when I killed. A great white static empty place, where nothing hurt, where nothing felt. Looking into Harlan’s empty eyes I wondered if his head was white and empty and staticy. I almost asked, but I didn’t, because for just a second I thought he’d lied, lied about it all, and he was going to try and draw his gun from his jacket. It would explain why he wanted to know if I was a shapeshifter. For a heartbeat, or two, I thought I’d have to kill Mr. Leo Harlan. I wasn’t scared now, or nervous, I just readied myself for it. It was his choice, live or die. There was nothing but that slow eternal second where choices are made and lives are lost.

Then he shook himself, almost like a bird settling it’s feathers back in place. “I was about to remind you that I am a very scary person all by myself, but I won’t now. It would be stupid to keep playing with you like this, like poking a rattle snake with a stick.”

I just looked at him with empty eyes, still held in that quiet place. My voice came out slow, careful, like my body felt. “I hope you haven’t lied to me today, Mr. Harlan.”

He gave that unsettling smile. “So do I, Ms. Blake, so do I.” With that odd comment he opened the door, carefully, never taking his eyes from me, shut it firmly behind him, and left me alone with the adrenaline rush draining like a puddle to my feet.

It wasn’t fear that left me weak, just the adrenaline building with nowhere to go. I raised the dead for a living and was a legal vampire executioner, wasn’t that unique enough? Did I have to attract scary clients too?

I knew I should have told Harlan no dice, but I had told him the truth. I could raise this zombie, and no one else in the country could do it without a human sacrifice. Call me funny, but I was pretty sure that if I turned it down Harlan would find someone else to do it. Someone else that didn’t have either my abilities or my morals. Sometimes you deal with the devil not because you want to, but because if you don’t, someone else will.

End of Chapter One.

Chapter Two

Lindel Cemetery was one of those new modern cemeteries where all the head stones are low to the ground and you aren’t allowed to plant flowers. It makes mowing easier, but it also makes for a depressingly empty space. Just flat land with little oblong shapes in the dark. It was as empty and featureless as the dark side of the moon, and about as cheerful. Give me a cemetery with tombs and mausoleums, stone angels weeping over the portraits of children, the Mother Mary praying for us all, her silent eyes turned heavenward. A cemetery should have something to remind the people passing by that there is a heaven, and not just a hole in the ground with rock on top of it.

I was here to raise Gordon Bennington from the dead because Fidelis Insurance Company hoped he was a suicide, not an accidental death. There was a multi-million dollar insurance claim at stake. The police had ruled the death accidental but Fidelis wasn’t satisfied. The opted to pay my rather substantial fee in the hopes of saving millions. I was expensive, but not that expensive. Compared with what they stood to lose, I was a bargain.

There were three groups of cars in the cemetery. Two of the groups were at least fifty feet apart because both Mrs. Bennington and Fideles’s head lawyer, Arthur Conroy, had restraining orders against each other. The third group of two cars was parked in between the others. A marked police car and an unmarked police car. Don’t ask me to explain how I knew it was an unmarked police car, it just had that look.

I parked a little in back of the first group of cars. I got out of my brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee, which was partially purchased by money I got from my now deceased Jeep, Country Squire. The insurance company hadn’t wanted to pay up on my claim. They didn’t believe me that werehyenas had eaten my last Jeep. They sent out some people to take photos and measurements, to see the bloodstains. They paid up, but they also dropped my policy. I’m paying month by month to a new company that will grant me a full policy, if, and only if, I can manage not to destroy another car for two years. Fat chance of that. My sympathies were all for Gordon Bennington’s family. Of course, it’s hard to have sympathy for an insurance company that is trying to squirm out of paying a widow with three children.

The cars closest to me turned out to be Fidelis Insurance. Arthur Conroy came towards me hand out stretched. He was on the tall end of short, with thinning blond hair that he combed over his bald spot as if that hid it, silver-frame glasses that framed large grey eyes. If his eye lashes and eyebrows had been darker then his eyes would have been his best feature, but his eyes were so large and unadorned that he looked vaguely froglike. Or maybe my recent disagreement with my insurance company had made me uncharitable. Maybe.

He had a near solid wall of other dark suited men, some of them larger and more football player looking than lawyer. I shook Conroy’s hand and glanced behind him at the two six foot plus men.

“Bodyguards?” I made it a question.

Conroy’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

I shook my head. “They look like bodyguards, Mr. Conroy.”

I shook hands with the other two Fidelis people. I didn’t offer to shake hands with the bodyguards. Most of them won’t shake hands even if you do offer. I don’t know if it ruins the tough guy image or they just want to keep their gun hands free. Either way, I didn’t offer and neither did they.

The dark-haired one with shoulders nearly as broad as I was tall, smiled though. “So you’re Anita Blake.”

“And you are?”

“Rex, Rex Canducci.”

I raised eyebrows at him. “Is Rex really you’re first name?”

He laughed, that surprised burst of laughter that is so masculine, and usually at a woman’s expense. “No.”

I didn’t bother to ask what his real first name was, probably something embarrassing like Florence, or Rosie. The second bodyguard was blond and silent. He watched me with small pale eyes. I didn’t like him.

“And you are?” I asked.

He blinked as if asking had surprised him. Most people ignored bodyguards, some out of fear and not knowing what to do, because they’ve never met one; some because they have, and they’re just furniture, ignored until needed.

He hesitated, then said, “Balfour.”

I waited a second, but he didn’t add anything. “Balfour, one name, like Madonna or Cher,” I said, voice mild.

His eyes narrowed, his shoulders a little tense. He’d been too easy to rattle. He had the stare down and the sense of menace, but he was local muscle. Scary looking, and knew it, but maybe not much else.

Rex intervened, “I thought you’d be taller,” he made it a joke with his happy-to-meet-you voice.

Balfour’s shoulders had relaxed, the tension draining way. They’d worked together before, and Rex knew that his partner was not the most stable cookie in the box.

I met Rex’s eyes. Balfour would be a problem if things turned messy, he’d over react. Rex wouldn’t.

I heard raised voices, one of them a woman. Shit. I’d told Mrs. Bennington’s lawyers to keep her home. They’d either ignored me, or been unable to withstand Mrs. Bennington’s winning personality.

The nice plain-clothes policeman was talking to her, his voice calm, but carrying in a low, wordless rumble, as he, apparently, tried to keep her fifty feet away from Conroy. She’d slapped the lawyer, and he’d bitch-slapped her back, she’d then put a fist to his jaw, and sat him on his ass. That was about the time the court bailiffs had had to step in, and break things up.

I’d been present for all the festivities because I was part of the court settlement, sort of. Tonight would decide the issue. If Gordon Bennington rose from the grave and said he’d died by accident, Fidelis had to pay. If he’ admitted to suicide, then Mrs. Bennington got nothing. I called her Mrs. Bennington, at her insistence. I’d said, Ms. Bennington and she’d nearly bitten my head off. She was not one of those liberated women. She liked being a wife and mother. I was glad for her, it meant more freedom for the rest of us.

I sighed and walked across the white gravel driveway towards the sound of rising voices. I passed the uniformed cop leaning against his car. I nodded, said, “Hi.”

He nodded back, his eyes mostly on the insurance people as if someone had told him that it was his job to make sure they didn’t start coming over. Or maybe he just didn’t like the size of Rex and Balfour. Both men had the officer by a hundred pounds. He was slender for a police officer, and still had that untried look in his face, as if he hadn’t been on the job long, and hadn’t quite decided whether he wanted to be on the job at all.

Mrs. Bennington was yelling at the nice officer who was barring her way. “Those bastards have hired her, and she’ll do what they say. She’ll make Gordon lie, I know it!”

I sighed. I’d tried to explain to everyone that the dead don’t lie, pretty much only the judge had believed me, and the cops. I think Fideles thought all that money had insured their outcome, the way they wanted it, and Mrs. Bennington . . . well, she thought I worked for the insurance company, which made me the enemy.

She finally spotted me over the cop’s broad shoulders. In her high heels she was taller than the officer. Which meant she was tall, and he wasn’t very. Maybe 5’ 9”, tops.

Mrs. Bennington tried to push past him, yelling at me now. He moved just enough so that he blocked her way, but didn’t have to grab her. She banged against his shoulder, frowned down at him, but it stopped her yelling, for a second.

“Get out of my way,” she said.

“Mrs. Bennington,” his deep voice grumbled, “Ms. Blake is here by order of the court. You have to let her do her job.” He had short grey hair, cut a little long on top almost a butch cut done long. I didn’t think it was a fashion statement, more like he hadn’t time to go to the barbershop in awhile.

She tried to push past him again, and this time she grabbed him, as if she’d move him out of her way. He wasn’t tall, but he was broad, built like a square, a muscular square. She realized quickly that she couldn’t push him, so she moved to walk around him, still determined to give me a piece of her mind.

He had to grab her arm to keep her away from me. She raised a hand to him, and his deep voice came clear in the still October night, “If you hit me, I will hand-cuff you and put you in the back of the squad car until we’re all finished here.”

She hesitated, her hand raised, but there must have been something in his face, still turned away from me, that said, clearly, he meant every word.

The tone of voice had been enough for me. I’d have done what he said.

Finally, she lowered her arm. “I’ll have your badge if you touch me.”

“Striking a police officer is considered a crime, Mrs. Bennington,” he said in that deep voice.

Even by moonlight you could see the astonishment on her face, as if somehow she hadn’t quite realized any of the rules applied to her. The realization seemed to take a lot of the wind out of her, and she settled back, actually let her cadre of lawyers take her in their dark suited arms and lead her a little away from the nice police officer.

I was the only one close enough to hear him say, “If she’d been my wife, I’d have shot myself to.”

I laughed, I couldn’t help it.

He turned, eyes angry, defensive, but whatever he saw in my face made him smile.

“Count yourself lucky,” I said, “I’ve seen Mrs. Bennington on several occasions.” I held out my hand.

He shook like he meant business, good, solid. “Lt. Nicols, and my condolences on having to deal with . . .” he hesitated.

I finished the sentence for him, “ . . .that crazy bitch, I believe that is the phrase you’re searching for.”

He nodded. “That is the phrase. I sympathize with a widow and children getting the money that is due them,” he said, “but she makes it awful hard to sympathize with her personally.”

“I’ve noticed that,” I said, smiling.

He laughed, and reached into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. “Mind?”

“Not out here in the open, I guess. Besides, you’ve earned it, dealing with our wonderful Mrs. Bennington.”

He tapped the cigarette out with one of those expert movements that long time smokers have. “If Gordon Bennington rises from the grave and says he offed himself, she is going to go ballistic, Ms. Blake. I’m not allowed to shoot her, but I’m not sure what else I’m going to be able to do with her.”

“Maybe her lawyers can sit on her, I think there’s enough of them to hold her down.”

He put the cig between his lips, still talking. “They’ve been fu .. . freaking useless, too afraid of loosing their fee.”

“Fucking useless, Lt., fucking useless is the phrase you’re searching for.”

He laughed again, hard enough he had to take the cigarette out of his mouth. “Fucking useless, yeah, that’s the phrase.” He put the cig between his lips, took out one of those big metal lighters that you don’t see much anymore. The flame flared orangey-red, as he cupped it automatically even though there was no wind. When he had the end of his cig glowing bright he snapped the lighter shut, and slid it back into his pocket with one hand and took the cig out of his mouth to blow a long line of smoke with the other.

I took an involuntary step back to avoid the smoke, but we were outdoors and Mrs. Bennington was enough to drive anyone to smoke, or would that be drink?

“Can you call in more men?”

“They won’t be allowed to shoot her either,” Nicols said.

I smiled. “No, but maybe they can form a wall of flesh and keep her from hurting anyone.”

“I could probably get another uniform, maybe two, but that’s it. She’s got connections with the top brass because she’s got money, and may end up having a lot more after tonight, but she’s also been fucking unpleasant.” He seemed to relish saying the f-word almost as much as the cigarette, as if he’d had to watch his language around the grieving widow, and it had hurt.

“Her political clout getting a little tarnished,” I said.

“The papers plastered her decking Conroy all over the front page. The powers that be are worried that this is going to turn into a mess, and they don’t want the mess to land on them.”

“So they’re distancing themselves in case she does something even more unfortunate,” I said.

He took a deep, deep pull off the cig, holding it almost like someone smoking a joint, then let the smoke trickle out of his mouth and nose as he answered me, “Distancing, that’s one word for it.”

“Bailing, jumping ship, abandoning ship . . .”

He was laughing again, and he hadn’t finished all the smoke, so he choked just a little, but didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t know if you’re really this amusing or I just needed a laugh.”

“It’s stress,” I said, “most people don’t find me funny at all.”

He gave me a look sort of sideways out of surprisingly pale eyes. I was betting they were blue in sunlight. “I heard that about you, that you were a pain in the ass, and rub a lot of people the wrong way.”

I shrugged. “A girl does what she can.”

He smiled. “But the same people that said you could be a pain in the ass, had no trouble working a case with you. Fact is, Ms. Blake,” he threw the cigarette on the ground, “most said they’d take you as back-up to a lot of cops they could name.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, because there is no higher praise between policemen than that they’d let you back them up in a life or death situation.

“You’re, going to make me blush, Lt. Nicols.” I didn’t look at him as I said it.

He seemed to be gazing down at the still smoldering cigarette on the white gravel. “Zerbrowski over at RPIT says that you don’t blush much.”

“Zerbrowski is a cheerfully lecherous shit,” I said.

He chuckled, a deep roll of laughter, and stomped out his cigarette, so that even that small glow was lost in the dark. “That he is, that he is. You ever met his wife?”

“I’ve met Katie.”

“Ever wonder how Zerbrowski managed to nab her?”

“Every damn time I see her,” I said.

He sighed. “I’ll call for another squad car, try for two uniforms. Let’s get this done, and get the hell away from these people.”

“Let’s,” I said.

He went to call for more back-up.
I went to fetch my zombie raising equipment. Since one of my main tools is a machete bigger than my forearm I’d left it in the car.
It tends to scare people. I would try very hard tonight not scare the bodyguards, or the nice policemen.
I was pretty sure there was nothing I could do to scare Mrs. Bennington.
I was also pretty sure there was nothing I could do to make her happy with me.

End of chapter two.

Chapter Three

My zombie raising equipment was in a grey Nike gym bag. Some animators have elaborate cases. I’ve even seen one who had a little suitcase that turned into a table like a magician trick or a street vendor. Me. I made sure everything was packed tight so nothing got broken or scratched up, but other than that I didn’t see the point to being fancier than you needed to be. If people wanted a show they could go down to the Circus of the Damned and watch zombies crawl from the grave with actors pretending to be terrified of them. As for me, I wasn’t an entertainer, I was an animator, and this was work.

I turned down Halloween parties every year, where people wanted me to raise zombies at the stroke of midnight or some such nonsense. The scarier my reputation got, the more people wanted me to come be scary for them. I’d told Bert I could always go and threaten to shoot all the partygoers, that’d be scary. Bert had not been amused. But he had stopped asking me to do parties.

I’d been trained to use an ointment spread over face, hands, heart. The smell of rosemary, like breathing in a Christmas tree, still held a great nostalgic for me, but I didn’t use the ointment anymore. I’d raised the dead in emergencies without it, more than once, so it got me to thinking. Some believed it helped the spirits enter you, so the powers that be could use you to raise the dead. Most, in America anyway, believed that the scent and touch of the herbal mixture empowered your psychic abilities, or even helped open your psychic abilities so they’d work at all. I never seemed to have any trouble raising the dead. My psychic abilities were always on line for animating. So, I still carried the ointment, just in case, but I didn’t use it anymore.

The three things I did still need for animating were steel, fresh blood, and salt. Though the salt was to put the zombie back in the grave once we were finished with it. I’d cut my paraphernalia to absolute minimum, and recently, I’d cut it down even more. I mean that cut part literally.

My left hand was covered in little bandages. I was using those clear ones, so I didn’t look like a tan version of the mummy’s hand. There were larger bandages on my left forearm. All the wounds were self-inflicted, and it was beginning to piss me off.

I had been learning how to control my growing psychic powers by studying with Marianne, who had been a psychic when I met her, but had become a witch. She was Wiccan now, though not all witches are Wiccan, and if Marianne had been another flavor of witch, I wouldn’t have had to cut myself up. Marianne as my teacher, shared some of my karmic debt, or so her group, read coven, believed. The fact that I killed an animal every time I raised the dead, three, four times a night, almost every night, had made her coven rant, rave, scream, and basically lose it. Blood magic is black magic to a Wiccan. Taking a life for magical purposes, any life, even a chicken, is very black magic.

How could Marianne have tied herself to someone who was being so . . . evil?

To help Marianne’s karmic burden, and mine, the coven assured me, I’d tried to raise the dead without killing anything. I’d raised the dead in emergencies without an animal to sacrifice, so I’d tried. Surprise, surprise I could raise the dead without killing anything, but I could not raise the dead without fresh blood. Blood magic is still black magic to Wiccan’s, so what to do? The compromise was that I would try and use only my own blood to raise the dead. I wasn’t even sure it would work; usually I need somebody else’s blood. But it did work, for the recently dead, at least.

I’d started out slicing up my left forearm, but that had rapidly lost its appeal, since I needed to do it three or more times a night. Then I’d taken to pricking my fingers, a little blood seemed to be enough for dead under six months. But I’d run out of fingers, and my arm had enough scars without me adding ones myself. I’d also found that when I practiced left hand shooting that I was slower, because the cuts freaking hurt. I would not cut up my right hand, because I couldn’t afford to be slower with my right. I’m sorry I had to kill a few chickens or goats to raise the dead, but the animal’s lives were not worth my own. There I’ve said it, a totally selfish judgment call.

My left hand hurt, and I was tired of being covered in bandages and Neosporin. And I couldn’t raise anything over six months with only a pin prick of blood, the cut needed to be bigger, and that just hurt. I wasn’t masochistic enough to keep doing this.

I was going to have to call Marianne and tell her I’d failed the Wiccan test of goodness. Why should they be any different, most right wing Christian groups hated me too?

I glanced behind me at my audience. Two new uniformed police officers had joined Lt. Nicols and Officer Newman. The police stood in the middle of the two groups, which had been allowed to come close enough to the grave to hear what the zombie would say. It was way closer than fifty feet, but both parties needed to hear Gordon Bennington, or so the judge had ruled. The judge in question had actually joined us, along with a court reporter and her little machine. He’d also brought along two burly looking bailiffs which made me think the judge was even smarter than he looked, and I’d been pretty impressed before. Not every judge will take zombie testimony.

For tonight Lindel graveyard was court. I was just glad that Court T. V. hadn’t gotten wind of it. It was just the kind of weird crap that they liked to televise. You know transsexual’s custody case; female teacher rapes thirteen-year-old boy student; pro-football players murder trial. The O. J. Simpson trial has not been a good influence on American television.

The judge said in his booming, court voice, which echoed strangely in the flat emptiness of the cemetery, “Go ahead Ms. Blake, we’re all assembled.”

Ordinarily I’d have beheaded a chicken and used it’s body to help me sprinkle a blood circle, a circle of power, to contain the zombie once it was raised so it wouldn’t go wondering all over the place. The circle also helped focus power and raise energy. The problem was that if I’d tried to get enough blood out of my body to walk even a small circle of power, I’d have been finished for the night, too dizzy and too light headed to do anything else. So what’s a morally up right animator supposed to do?

I unsheathed the machete and heard several gasps behind me. It was a big blade, but I’d found that beheading a chicken one-handed needed a big, sharp blade. I stared at my left hand and tried to find a space that was bandage free. I put the top edge of the blade against my middle finger; the symbolism was not lost on me, and pressed my finger against the blade. I kept the machete too sharp to risk drawing the blade down my finger. It would be a bitch to need stitches because I’d cut too deep.

The cut didn’t hurt immediately which meant I’d probably cut deeper than I wanted. I raised my hand so the moonlight fell on it, and saw the first dark welling of blood. The moment I saw it, the cut hurt. Why was it that everything hurt worse when you realized you were bleeding?

I began to walk the circle, holding the steel point downward, my bleeding finger flat to the earth so that occasional drops would hit the ground. I’d never truly felt the machete carving the magic circle through the ground, through me, until I stopped killing animals. It had probably always been like a steel pencil tracing my circle, but I’d never ever been able to feel it over the stronger rush of the death. I felt each drop of blood that fell, felt the earth almost hungry for it, like rain in a drought, but it wasn’t the moisture the earth drank, it was the power. I knew when I’d walked the entire circle around the headstone, because the moment I touched the place where I’d begun the circle closed with a skin-tingling, hair-raising rush.

I turned to face the headstone, feeling the circle around me like an invisible trembling in the air. I went to the headstone which was at the far end of the circle. I tapped the headstone with the machete. “Gordon Bennington, with steel I call you from your grave.” I touched my bloody hand to the cold stone. “With blood I call you from your grave.” I moved back to the far edge of the circle, at the foot of the grave. “Hear me now, Gordon Bennington, hear and obey. With steel, blood, and power, I command you to rise from your grave. Rise from your grave and walk amongst us.”

The earth rolled like heavy water, and just spilled the body upward. In the movies the zombies always crawl from the grave with reaching hands like the ground tries to keep them prisoner, but most of the time, the earth gives freely, and the zombie just rises to the top, like something floating to the surface. There were no flowers to get in the way this time, nothing for the body to trip over as he sat up and looked around.

One thing I had noticed with not killing the animals was that my zombies weren’t as pretty. With a chicken I could have made Gordon Bennington look like his photo in the paper, with only my own blood, he looked like what he was, a reanimated corpse.

He wasn’t awful, I’d seen much worse, but his widow screamed, long and loud and began to sob. There had been more than one reason I wanted Mrs. Bennington to stay home.

The nice dark suit hid the chest wound that had killed him, so it was only the odd color of his skin. The way the flesh had begun to sink into the bones of his face. His eyes left too round, too large, to bare, so they rolled in their sockets barely contained by the waxy flesh. His blond hair was patchy and looked like it had grown, but that was illusion, caused by the shrinking of the meat of his body. Hair and fingernails do not grow after death, contrary to popular rumor.

There was one other thing I had to do to help Gordon Bennington to speak. I walked across the now solid ground and knelt by his puzzled, wizened face. I couldn’t smooth my skirt down in back because one hand was full of machete and the other was bleeding. Everyone got a nice long glimpse of thigh, but it didn’t really matter, we were about to do the thing that disturbed me the most about not sacrificing a little poultry.

I held out my hand towards Gordon Bennington’s face. “Drink, Gordon, drink of my blood and speak to us.”

Those round, rolling eyes, stared at me, then his sunken nose caught the scent of blood, and he grabbed my hand with both of his, and lowered his mouth to the wound. His hands felt like cold wax with sticks inside it. His mouth was almost lipless, so his teeth pressed close in my flesh as he sucked at my hand. His tongue whipped back and forth on the wound like something separate and alive in his mouth, feeding from me.

I took a deep, steadying breath, breath in and out, in and out. I would not be sick. Nope. I would not embarrass myself in front of this many people.

When I thought he’d had enough, I said, “Gordon Bennington.”

He didn’t react, just kept his mouth pressed to the wound, his hands clutching my wrist.

I tapped him gently with the side of the machete on top of his head. “Mr. Bennington, people are waiting to talk to you.”

I don’t know if it was the words or the tap with the blade, but he looked up, and slowly began to pull back from my hand. His eyes held more of him now. The blood always seemed to do that, fill them back up with themselves.

“Are you Gordon Bennington?” I asked. We had to be all formal.

He shook his head.

The judge said, “We need you to answer out loud, Mr. Bennington, for the record.”

He just stared up at me. I repeated what the judge had said, and Bennington spoke, “I am, was, Gordon Bennington.”

One of the up sides to raising the dead with just my blood was that they always knew they were dead. I’d raised them before where they didn’t know that, and that was a bitch, telling someone that they were dead, and you were about to put them back in the grave. Real nightmare stuff, that was.

“How did you die, Mr. Bennington?” I asked.

He sighed, drawing in air, and I heard it whistle, because most of the right side of his chest was missing. The suit hid it, but I’d seen the forensic photos, besides I knew what a mess a .-shotgun makes at close range.

“I got shot.”

There was a tension behind me, I could feel it over the buzz of the power circle. “How did you get shot?” I asked, voice calm, soothing.

“I shot myself going down the stairs to our basement.”

There was a cry of triumph from one side of the crowd and an inarticulate scream from the other.

“Did you shoot yourself on purpose?” I asked.

“No, of course not. I tripped, gun went off, so stupid, really. So stupid.”

There was a lot of screaming behind me. Mostly Mrs. Bennington yelling, “I told you so, little bitch . . .”

I turned and called, “Judge —- did you hear all that?”

“Most of it,” he said. He turned that booming voice on over drive and shouted, “Mrs. Bennington, if you will be quiet long enough to listen, your husband has just said, he died by accident.”

“Gail,” Gordon Bennington’s voice was tentative, “Gail, are there?”

I did not want a tearful reunion on top of the grave. “Are we finished, judge, can I put him back?”

“No,” this from Fidelis Insurance’s lawyers. Conroy stepped closer. “We have some questions for Mr. Bennington.”

They asked questions, at first I had to repeat them for Bennington to be able to answer, but he got better at answering. He didn’t look any better, physically, but he was gathering himself up, being more alert, more aware of his surroundings. He spotted his wife, and said, “Gail, I’m so sorry. You were right about the guns. I wasn’t careful enough. I’m so sorry to leave you and the kids.”

Mrs. Bennington came towards us, with her lawyers in tow. I thought I’d have to ask them to keep her off the grave, but she stopped outside the circle, as if she could feel it. Sometimes the people that turn out to be psychically gifted surprise you. I doubt if she was even aware of why she stopped moving forward. Of course, she was holding her hands tight to her body. She was not reaching out to touch her husband. I don’t think she wanted to find out what that waxy looking skin felt like. I couldn’t blame her.

Conroy and the other lawyers tried to keep asking questions, but it was the judge who said, “Gordon Bennington has answered all your questions in detail. It’s time to let him get back to . . . rest.”

I agreed. Mrs. Bennington was in tears and Gordon would have been too, except his tear ducts had dried up months ago.

I got Gordon Bennington’s attention. “Mr. Bennington I’m going to put you back now.”

“Will Gail and the children get the insurance money now?”

I glanced behind me at the judge. He nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Bennington, they will.”

He smiled, or tried to. “Thank you, then, I’m ready.” He gazed back at his wife who was still kneeling on the grass by his grave. “I’m glad I got to say good-bye.”

She was shaking her head, over and over, tears streaming down her face. “Me, too, Gordie, me, too. I miss you.”

“I miss you to, my little hell cat.”

She burst into sobs at that. Hiding her face in her hands. If one of the lawyers hadn’t grabbed her she’d have fallen to the ground.

My little hell cat didn’t sound like a term of endearment to me, but hey, it proved Gordon Bennington had really known his wife. It probably also proved that she would miss him for the rest of her life. I could forgive her a few temper tantrums in the face of that much pain.

I squeezed on the wound in my hand and thankful got a little more blood. Some nights I had to reopen a wound, or make another one, to get the zombie put back. I touched bloody hand to his forehead, leaving a small dark mark.

“With blood I bind you to your grave, Gordon Bennington.” I touched him with the edge of the machete, gently. “With steel I bind you to your grave.” I switched the machete to my left hand and picked up the open container of salt that I’d left inside the circle. I sprinkled him with salt, and it sounded like dry sleet as it hit him. “With salt I bind you to your grave, Gordon Bennington, go and rise no more.”

With the touch of salt his eyes lost their alertness, he was empty as he lay back on the earth. The ground swallowed him like some great beast had rippled it’s fur and he was just gone, swallowed back into the grave. Gordon Bennington’s corpse was back where it belonged and there was nothing to mark this grave from any other. Not so much as a blade of grass was out of place. Magic.

I still had to walk the circle backwards and uncast it. Normally, I don’t have an audience for that part. The zombie goes back in the grave, everyone leaves. But Conroy of Fidelis Insurance was arguing with the judge, who was threatening to cite him for contempt. Mrs. Bennington was just not in a condition to walk, yet.

The police were just standing around watching the show. Lt. Nicols looked at me and shook his head, smiling. He walked over to me as the circle went down and I began to clean my new wound with antiseptic wipes.

He lowered his voice so the truly grieving widow wouldn’t hear him. “You could not pay me enough to let that thing suck my blood.”

I half-shrugged, holding gauze over my finger so it would stop bleeding. “You’d be surprised what people pay for this kind of work.”

“It ain’t enough,” he said, an unlit cigarette already in his hand.

I started to give some flip answer when I felt the presence of a vampire, like a chill across my skin. Out there in the dark, someone was waiting. There was a gust of wind, and there was no wind tonight. I looked up, and no one else did, because humans never look up, never expect death to fall upon them from the sky.

I had seconds to say, “Don’t shoot, he’s a friend,” before Asher appeared in our midst, almost touching distance from me, his long hair streaming behind him, his booted feet touching down. He was forced to make a half running step to catch the momentum of his flight, which brought him to my side.

I turned and put myself in front of his body. He was too tall for me to cover all of him, but I did my best, moving us so that if anyone shot at him they’d risk hitting me. Every policeman, every bodyguard had drawn a gun, and every barrel was pointed at Asher, and me.

End of chapter three.

Chapter Four

I stared at the half circle of guns, trying to keep an eye on everyone at once and failing, because there were too many of them. I kept my hands out from my body, fingers spread, universal sign for I’m harmless. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was going for my own gun, that would be bad.

“He’s a friend,” I said, voice a little high, but otherwise calm.

“Whose friend?” Nicols said.

“Mine,” I said.

“Well, he ain’t my friend,” one of the uniforms said.

“He’s not a threat,” I said, pressing my body back enough that I could feel Asher in a long line against me.

He said something in French, everybody gripped their guns a little tighter. “English, Asher, English.”

He took a deep shuddering breath, as if he wasn’t breathing much. “It was not my intent to frighten anyone.”

Asher knew better than to fly into the middle of a bunch of mundanes, especially cops. It had only been a few years since the police were allowed to shoot a vampire on sight, just for being a vampire. It had only been four years since Addison V. Clark had made vamps ‘alive’ again, at least to the law. They were citizens with rights now, and shooting them on sight without just cause was murder. But it still happened now and then.

“If you shoot with me in the way, a civilian, you can all kiss your badges good-bye.”

“I don’t have a badge to lose.” It was Balfour, of course, being tough, but he had a big gun to go with his big talk.

I looked at him. “If you shoot, you better kill me, because you won’t get a second chance.”

“Nobody’s shooting anybody,” Nicols said, and I was close enough to hear him mutter, “damnit,” under his breath.

He’d moved his gun to point at the bodyguards. “Put the guns down, now.” The other policemen had followed his lead and suddenly the circle of guns was pointed away from me, and at Balfour and Rex. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and sagged a little against Asher.

He knew better than to have surprised a bunch of humans, some policemen, by flying into their midst. Nothing freaked people out like seeing vampires do things that were impossible. He’d also spoken in French, which meant he was scared enough, or angry enough, to have forgotten his English. Something was very wrong, and I couldn’t ask him, not yet. First, get out of the line of fire, then fix the rest.

We were standing so close together that his wavy golden hair brushed against my own black curls. He put his hands on my shoulders, and there was a tension to his hands. He was scared. What had happened?

The police had convinced the bodyguards to put their guns away. The uniforms divided up and walked the two interested parties back to their respective cars. It left Nicols, the judge, and the court reporter standing near us. At least the court reporter wasn’t still typing.

Nicols turned to me, his gun pointed downward, tapping a little against the leg of his slacks. He frowned, eyes flicking to Asher, then to me. He knew enough not to risk staring the vampire in the eyes. They could bespell you with their eyes, if they wanted to. I was immune because I was the human servant of the Master Vampire of the City. Through Jean-Claude I was safe from most of what Asher could do. Not all, but most.

Nicols was obviously unhappy. “Okay, what was so damned urgent that he had to fly in here like that?”

Damn, he was too good a cop. Even though he’d probably dealt very little with vampires, he’d made the logic jump that only an emergency would make Asher appear like he did.

His eyes flicked up to Asher again, then down to my face. “It’s a good way to get yourself shot, Mr. . .”

“Asher,” I answered for him.

“I didn’t ask you, Ms. Blake. I asked him.”

“I am Asher,” he said in a voice that fell on the air like a caress. He was using vampire powers to make himself more acceptable. If Nicols figured out what he was doing, it would back-fire. But it didn’t.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Asher.”

“Just Asher,” and the voice glided across my skin so soothing. I had some immunity to the voice, but Nicols didn’t.

He blinked, then frowned, puzzled. “Fine, Asher, what the hell is the rush?”

Asher’s fingers tightened minutely on my shoulders, and I felt him take a breath. I had a second to hope that he wasn’t going to try an Obi-Wan on Lt. Nicols. You know, these are not the droids you’re looking for. Nicols was stronger willed than that.

“Musette has been gravely injured. I came to take Anita to her side.”

I felt the color drain from my face, my breath caught in my throat. Musette was one of Belle Morte’s lieutenants. Belle Morte was the fountain head of Jean-Claude and Asher’s bloodline. She was also a member of the Council of Vampires that had a home base somewhere in Europe. Every time council members had visited us people had died. Some of them ours, some of them theirs. But Belle Morte had never sent anyone, until now. There had been some careful negotiations about Musette coming over for a visit. She was due a month from now, just after Thanksgiving. So what the hell was she doing in town a week before Halloween? I didn’t for a minute believe Musette was hurt. It was just Asher’s sneaky way of telling me how bad things were in front of witnesses.

I didn’t have to pretend to be shocked, or scared, my face looked like someone who’d just gotten bad news. Nicols nodded, as if satisfied. “You close to this Musette?”

“Lt., can we please go? I want to get there as soon as possible.” I was already looking around for my gym bag. I was just glad it was already packed. My skin was cold with the thought of what Musette might be doing right now to people I cared about. The very mention of her name had made Jean-Claude and Asher go pale.

He nodded again, putting up his gun. “Yeah, go on. I hope . . . your friend is okay.”

I looked up at him, and didn’t try to hide the confusion in my eyes. “I hope so, too.” I wasn’t thinking of Musette, I was thinking of everyone else. So many people she could hurt if she had the blessing of the council, or at least the blessing of Belle Morte. I’d learned that council politics meant that just because you had an enemy in one member didn’t mean they all hated you. In fact, many of the council seemed to believe the old Sicilian adage, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

The judge murmured his thanks, and hopes for speedy recover of my friend. The court reporter didn’t say anything she was gazing at Asher as if mesmerized. I didn’t think he’d bespelled her, more like she’d never seen anything so beautiful, and maybe she hadn’t.

His hair in the reflected glow of the headlights was truly gold, a curtain of nearly metallic waves to flow like a shining sea across the right side of his face. The hair looked even more gold against the dark brown of his silk shirt. The shirt was long-sleeved and untucked over blue jeans and brown boots. He looked like he’d dressed in haste, but I knew it was how he usually dressed. He made sure that the left side of his face, that most perfect of profiles was what shown to the light. Asher was a master at using light and shadow to highlight what he wished seen, and hide what he did not. The one eye that was visible was a clear, pale blue like the eyes of a Siberian husky dog. Human beings just didn’t have eyes like that. Even in life he must have been extraordinary.

You got glimpses of that full mouth, the glimmer of his other blue, blue eye. What he was careful not to show to the light was that a few inches past his eye, trailing in a line nearly to his mouth were scars. Rivulets of scars, where holy water had been poured on that most beautiful of faces. More scars ran down the right side of his body, hidden under the clothes.

The court reporter stared at him so still, as if she’d stopped breathing. Asher saw it, and stiffened beside me. Perhaps because he knew that with a flick of his head he could show her the scars and watch that adoration turn to horror, or pity.

I touched his arm. “Let’s go.”

He walked towards my Jeep, normally he sort of glided, as if vampire feet never rolled on gravel but floated just above it. Tonight he moved almost as heavy as a human.

Neither of us spoke until we were inside my Jeep. We had the privacy of the darkened car, no one would overhear us now.

I buckled myself in while I talked, “What’s happened?”

“Musette arrived an hour ago.”

I put the Jeep in gear and began to drive carefully over the gravel drive around the still parked police cars. I waved at Nicols as we went past and he waved back, a cigarette flaring in his other hand.

“I thought we hadn’t finished negotiating on how many people she could bring over with her, yet.”

“We had not.” His voice held sorrow so thick you could have squeezed it out, tears in your cup. Jean-Claude’s voice was better at sharing joy, seduction, but Asher was the master at sharing the darker emotions.

I glanced at him. He was staring straight a head, his face very still, hiding whatever he was feeling. “Then didn’t she break some treaty or law or something by invading our territory like this?”

He nodded, his hair sliding around his face, hiding himself from me. I hated to watch him hide his scars from me. I found him beautiful, scars and all, but he never quite believed me. I think he thought the attraction was part Jean-Claude’s memories in my head, and pity. It wasn’t pity, but I couldn’t deny Jean-Claude’s memories. I was Jean-Claude’s human servant, and that gave me all kinds of interesting side benefits. One of those benefits was getting glimpses of Jean-Claude’s memories.

I remembered Asher’s skin like cool silk on my fingertips, every inch of him flawless. But it was Jean-Claude’s fingers that had done the touching, not mine. The fact that I remembered the touch of Asher’s skin so strongly that even now, I had the urge to reach for his hand, just to see if the memory was real, was just one of those odd things I had to live with. Even if Jean-Claude had been in the car, he wouldn’t have touched Asher either. It had been centuries since they’d been part of a ménage a trois with Julianna, Asher’s human servant. Julianna had been burned as a witch by the same people that had used holy water to cleanse Asher’s evil. Jean-Claude had been able to save Asher, but he’d been too late for Julianna. Neither of the men had forgiven Jean-Claude for his tardiness.

“If Musette broke the law, can’t we punish her, or kick her out of our territory?” I was at the edge of the cemetery now, watching for nonexistent traffic.

“If it were another master vampire come so rudely, then we would be within our rights to slay her, but it is Musette. As you are Bolverk for the werewolves, so Musette is Belle’s . . .” He seemed to be searching for the word. “I do not know the word in English, but in French, Musette is the bourreau. She is our boogeyman, Anita, and she has been such for over six hundred years.”

“Fine,” I said, “she’s scary, I accept that, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s invaded our lands. If we let her get away with it, she’ll try for more.”

“Anita, it is more than that. She is the . . .” he seemed to grope for a word, again. That he was forgetting this many English words spoke to how frightened he was. “The vaisseau, why can I not think of the English for it?”

“You’re upset.”

“I am frightened,” he said, “but Belle Morte has made Musette her vessel. To harm Musette is to harm Belle.

“Literally?” I asked, as I turned onto Mackenzie.

“Non, it is more like a courtesy than magic. She has given Musette her seal, her ring of office, which means Musette in effect speaks for Belle, we are forced to treat her as we would treat Belle Morte herself. This was most unexpected.”

“What difference does this vaisseau make?” I asked. We were stuck at the light on Watson, staring at the McDonald’s and the Union Planters Bank.

“If Musette were not Belle’s vessel than we could punish her for coming early and breaking off negotiations. But if we punish her now, then it would mean that we would do the same to Belle if she came here.”

“So? Why wouldn’t we punish Belle for entering our territory so rudely, as you put it?”

Asher looked at me then, but I couldn’t hold eye contact because the light had finally changed. “You do not understand what you are saying, Anita.”

“Explain it to me then.”

“Belle is our Jet d’Sang, our fountainhead. She is our bloodline. We cannot harm her.”

“Why not?”

He looked at me full face, letting his hair fall back so that his whole face showed at last. I think he was too shocked at my question to worry about hiding himself.

“It is not done, that is all.”

“What is not done? Defending your territory against all encroachers.”

“Attacking the head of your line, your jet d’sang, your fountain of blood, it is just not done.”

“And I say again, why not? Belle has insulted us not the other way around. Jean-Claude has negotiated in good faith. It’s Musette that’s been the bad little vampire. And if she comes with Belle’s blessing then Belle is abusing her status. She thinks we’ll just take whatever she dishes out.”

“Dishes out?” he made it a question.

“Whatever she does to us, she thinks we’ll just take it, just suck it up and take it without complaining.”

“She is right,” Asher said.

I frowned at him, then turned still frowning back to the road. “Why? Why shouldn’t we treat any threat or insult the same?”

He ran his hands through his thick hair, pulling it back from his face. The streetlights criss-crossed his face in light and shadow. We were stopped at another light with an SUV beside us so that their window was even with ours. The woman behind the wheel glanced at us, then did a double take. Her eyes went round, and Asher didn’t notice. I looked at her and she looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring. Americans are taught not to stare at anything that isn’t perfect. It’s like to look at it is to make it more real. Ignore it, it’ll go away.

Asher never noticed as the light changed and we drove off. He was exposing his face to strangers, and not noticing the effect it was having. No matter how angry, no matter how sad, no matter how anything, he never forgot the scars. They predominated his thoughts, his actions, his life. For him to forget like this said more than anything how serious the situation was, and I still didn’t understand why.

“I don’t understand, Asher. We defended ourselves when council members invaded our territory awhile back. We hurt them, did our best to kill them. Why is this different?”

He let go of his hair, and swung it back into place like a curtain. I don’t think he was any less upset, it was just habit. “Last time it was not Belle Morte.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Mon Dieu, do you not understand what it means that Belle is the mother of our line?”

“Apparently I don’t, explain it to me. I assume we’re going to the Circus of the Damned.”

“Oui.” He stared out the window of the Jeep, as if looking for inspiration in the electric lights, the strip malls, and fast food restaurants.

He finally turned to face me. “How do I explain to you what you have never understood? You have never had a king or queen, you are American and young, and you do not understand the duty owed a liege lord.”

I shrugged. “I guess I don’t.”

“Then how do I explain to you what it is we owe Belle Morte, and how it would be . . . treason to raise a hand against her.”

I shook my head. “That’s a great theory, Asher, but I’ve dealt with enough vampire politics to know one thing. If we let her push us around, she’ll see it as a sign of weakness, and she’ll push and push until she sees just how weak, or how strong we are.”

“We are not at war with Belle Morte,” he said.

“No, but if she thinks we are weak enough, that might be next. I’ve seen how you guys operate. The big vampire fish eat the little vampire fish. We can’t afford for Musette or Belle to think we’re a little fish.”

“Anita, don’t you understand, yet? We are a little fish, compared to Belle Morte, we are a very little fish indeed.”

End of chapter four.

Sorry! That’s it for chapters one thru four. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Incubus Dreams

by
Laurell K. Hamilton

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/IncubusChapterOne.html

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/IncubusDreamsChapterTwo.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

Book 12 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Chapter One

It was an October wedding. The bride was a witch who solved preternatural crimes. The groom raised the dead and slew vampires for a living. It sounded like a Halloween joke, but it wasn’t.

The groom’s side wore traditional black tuxedos with orange bow ties and white shirts. The bride’s side wore orange formals. You don’t see Halloween orange prom dresses all that often. I’d been terrified that I was going have to shell out three hundred dollars for one of the monstrosities. But since I was on the groom’s side I got to wear a tux. Larry Kirkland, groom, co-worker, and friend, had stuck to his guns. He refused to make me wear a dress, unless I wanted to wear one. Hmm, let me see. Three hundred dollars, or more, for a very orange formal that I’d burn before I’d wear again, or less than a hundred dollars to rent a tux that I could return. Wait, let me think.

I got the tux. I did have to buy a pair of black tie-up shoes. The tux shop didn’t have any size seven in women’s. Oh, well. Even with the seventy-dollar shoes that I would probably never wear again, I still counted myself very lucky.

As I watched the four bridesmaids in their poofy orange dresses walk down the isle of the packed church, their hair done up on their heads in ringlets, and more make-up than I’d ever seen any of them wear, I was feeling very, very lucky. They had little round bouquets of orange and white flowers with black lace and orange and black ribbons trailing down from the flowers. I just had to stand up at the front of the church with my one hand holding the wrist of the other arm. The wedding coordinator had seemed to believe that all the groomsmen would pick their noses, or something equally embarrassing, if they didn’t keep their hands busy. So she’d informed them that they were to stand with their hands clasped on opposite wrist. No hands in pockets, no crossed arms, no hands clasped in front of their groins. I’d arrived late to the rehearsal, big surprise, and the wedding coordinator had seemed to believe that I would be a civilizing influence on the men, just because I happened to be a girl. It didn’t take her long to figure out that I was as uncouth as the men. Frankly, I thought we all behaved ourselves really well. She just didn’t seem really comfortable around men, or around me. Maybe it was the gun I was wearing.

But none of the groomsmen, myself included, had done anything for her to complain about. This was Larry’s day, and none of use wanted to screw it up. Oh, and Tammy’s day.

The bride entered the church on her father’s arm. Her mother was already in the front pew dressed in a pale melon orange that actually looked good on her. She was beaming and crying, and, seemed to be both miserable and deliriously happy all at the same time. Mrs. Reynolds was the reason for the big church wedding. Both Larry and Tammy would have been happy with something smaller, but Tammy didn’t seem to be able to say no to her mother, and Larry was just trying to get along with his future in law.

Detective Tammy Reynolds was a vision in white, complete with a veil that covered her face like a misty dream. She, too, was wearing more make-up than I’d ever seen her in, but the drama of it, suited the beaded neckline, and full, bell-like skirt. The dress looked like it could have walked down the isle on it’s own, or at least stood on it’s on. They’d done something with her hair so that it was smooth and completely back from her face, so that you could see just how striking she was. I’d never really noticed that Detective Tammy was beautiful.

I was standing at the end of the groomsmen, me and Larry’s three brothers, so I had to crane a little to see his face. It was worth the look. He was pale enough that his freckles stood out on his skin like ink spots. His blue eyes were wide. They’d done something to his short red curls so they lay almost smooth. He looked good, if he didn’t faint. He gazed at Tammy as if he’d been hit with a hammer right between the eyes. Of course, if they’d done two hours worth of make-up on Larry, he might have been a vision, too. But men don’t have to worry about it. The double standard is alive and well. The woman is supposed to be beautiful on her wedding day, the groom is just supposed to stand there and not embarrass himself, or her.

I leaned back in line and tried not to embarrass anyone. I’d tied my hair back while it was still wet so that it lay flat and smooth to my head. I wasn’t cutting my hair so it was the best I could do to look like a boy. There were other parts of my anatomy that didn’t help the boy look either. I am curvy, and even in a tux built for a man, I was still curvy. No one complained, but the wedding coordinator had rolled her eyes when she saw me. What she said out loud was, “You need more make-up.”

“None of the other groomsmen are wearing make-up,” I said.

“Don’t you want to look pretty?”

Since I’d thought I already looked pretty good, there was only one reply, “Not particularly.”

That had been the last conversation the wedding lady and I had had. She positively avoided me, after that. I think she’d been mean on purpose, because I wasn’t helping her keep the other groomsmen in line. She seemed to believe that just because we both had ovaries instead of balls that we should have joined forces. Besides, why should I worry about being pretty? It was Tammy and Larry’s day, not mine. If, and that was a very big if, I ever got married, then I’d worry about it. Until then, screw it. Besides, I was already wearing more make-up than I normally did. Which for me meant any. My stepmother Judith keeps telling me that when I hit thirty I’ll feel differently about all this girl stuff. I’ve only got three years to go until the big 3-0, so far panic has not set in.

Tammy’s father placed her hand in Larry’s. Tammy was three inches taller than Larry, in heels, she was more. I was standing close enough to the groom to see the look that Tammy’s father gave Larry. It was not a friendly look. Tammy was three months, almost four months pregnant, and it was Larry’s fault. Or rather it was Tammy and Larry’s fault, but I don’t think that’s how her father viewed it. No, Mr. Nathan Reynolds definitely seemed to blame Larry, as if Tammy had been snatched virgin from her bed and brought back deflowered, and pregnant.

Mr. Reynolds raised Tammy’s blusher on her veil to reveal all that carefully made up beauty. He kissed her solemnly on the cheek, threw one last dark look at Larry, and turned smiling and pleasant to join his wife in the front pew. The fact that he’d gone from a look that dark, to pleasant and smiling when he knew the church would see his face, bothered me. I didn’t like that Larry’s new father-in-law was capable of lying that well. Made me wonder what he did for a living. But I was naturally suspicious, comes from working too closely with the police for too long. Cynicism is so contagious.

We all turned towards the altar, and the familiar ceremony began. I’d been to dozens of weddings over the years, almost all Christian, almost all standard denominations, so the words were strangely familiar. Funny, how you don’t think you’ve memorized something until you hear it, and realize you have. “Dearly, beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in Holy matrimony.”

It wasn’t a Catholic or Episcopalian wedding, so we didn’t have to kneel, or do much of anything. We wouldn’t even be getting communion during the ceremony. I have to admit my mind began to wonder a bit. I’ve never been a big fan of weddings. I understand they’re necessary, but I was never one of those girls who fantasized about what my wedding would be like someday. I don’t remember ever thinking about it until I got engaged in college, and when that fell through, I went back to not thinking about it. I’d been engaged very briefly to Richard Zeeman, junior high science teacher, and local Ulfric, Wolf-King, but he’d dumped me because I was more at home with the monsters than he was. Now, I’d pretty much settled into the idea that I would never marry. Never have those words spoken over me and my honey-bun. A tiny part of me that I’d never admit to out loud was sad about that. Not the wedding part, I think I would hate my own wedding just as much as anyone else’s, but not having one single person to call my own. I’d been raised middle-class, middle America, small town, and that meant the fact that I was currently dating a minimum of three men, maybe four, depending on how you looked at it, still made me squirm with something painfully close to embarrassment. I was working on not being uncomfortable about it, but there were issues that needed to be worked out. For instance, who do you bring as your date to a wedding? The wedding was in a church complete with holy items so two of the men were out. Vampires didn’t do well around holy items. Watching Jean-Claude and Asher burst into flame as they come through the door would probably have put a damper on the festivities. That left me with one official boyfriend, Micah Callahan, and one friend, who happened to be a boy, Nathaniel Graison.

They’d come to the part where the rings were exchanged, which meant the maid of honor, and the best man had something to do. The woman got to hold Tammy’s huge spill of white flowers, and the man got to hand over the jewelry. It all seemed so terribly sexist. Just once I’d like to see the men have to hold flowers and the women fork over the jewelry. I’d been told once by a friend that I was too liberated for my own good. Maybe. All I knew was that if I ever did get engaged again I’d decided either both of us got an engagement ring, or neither of us did. Of course, again, that not getting married part meant that the engagement was probably off the board, too. Oh, well.

At last, they were man and wife. We all turned, the reverend presented them to the church as Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Kirkland, though I knew for a fact that Tammy was keeping her maiden name, so really it should have been Mr. Lawrence Kirkland and Ms. Tammy Reynolds.

We all fell into two lines. I got to offer my arm to Detective Jessica Arnet. She took the arm, and with her in heels, I was about five inches shorter than she was. She smiled at me. I’d noticed she was pretty about a month ago, because she was flirting with Nathaniel, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized she could be beautiful. Her dark hair was pulled completely back from her face, so that the delicate triangle of her cheeks and chin was all you saw. The make-up had widened her eyes, added color to her cheeks, and carved pouting lips out of her thin ones. I realized that the orange that made most of the bridesmaids look wan, brought out rich highlights in her skin and hair, made her eyes shine. So few people look good in orange, it’s one of the reasons they use it in so many prisons, like an extra punishment. But Detective Arnet looked wonderful in it. It almost made me wish I’d let the wedding lady talk me into the extra make-up. Almost.

I must have stared, because she frowned, and only then did I start forward, and take our place in line. We filed out like good little wedding party members. We’d already endured the photographer for group shots. He’d be hunting the bride and groom for those candid moments; cutting the cake, throwing the bouquet, removing the garter. Once we got through the receiving line, I could fade into the background and no one would care.

We all stood in a line as we’d been drilled. Bride and groom at the front of the line, because, let’s face it, that’s who everyone is really here to see. The rest of us strung out behind them along the wall, waiting to shake hands with mostly strangers. Tammy’s family were local, but I’d never met any of them. Larry’s family were all out-of-towners. I knew the policemen that had been invited, other than that, it was all nod and smile, nod and smile, shake a hand, or two, nod and smile.

I must have been concentrating very hard on the people I was meeting, because it surprised me when Micah Callahan, my official date, was suddenly in front of me. He was exactly my height. Short for man or woman. His rich, brown hair was nearly as curly as mine, and today his hair fell around his shoulders, loose. He’d done that for me. He didn’t like his hair loose, and I understood why. He was always delicate looking for a man, with all that hair framing him, his face was almost as delicate a triangle as Detective Arnet’s. His lower lip fuller than his upper lip, which gave him a perpetual pout, and though wider than a woman’s mouth, didn’t really help. But the body under his black tailored suit, that helped. . Wide shoulders, slender waist and hips, a swimmer’s body, though that wasn’t his sport.

From the neck down you’d never mistake him for a girl. It was just the face, and the hair. He’d left the shirt open at the neck so that it framed the hollow in his throat. I could see myself reflected darkly in his sunglasses. It was actually a little dim in the hallway, so why the sunglasses? His eyes were kitty-cat eyes, leopard, to be exact. They were yellow and green all at the same time. What color predominated between the two depended on what color he wore, his mood, the lighting. Today, because of the shirt, they’d be very green, but with a hint of yellow, like dappled light in the forest.

He was a wereleopard, Nimir-Raj of the local pard, by rights he should have been able to pass for human. But if you spend too much time in animal form sometimes you don’t come all the way back. He didn’t want to squeak the mundanes, so he’d wear the glasses today.

His hand was very warm in mine, and that one small touch was enough, enough to bring some of the careful shielding down. The shielding that had kept me from sensing him all through the ceremony like a second heartbeat. He was Nimir-Raj, to my Nimir-Ra. Leopard King and Queen. Though my idea of the arrangement was closer to Queen and consort, partners, but I reserved presidential veto. I’m a control freak, what can I say? I was the first human Nimir-ra in the wereleopards long history. Though since I raise the dead for a living and am a legal vampire executioner, there are people who’ll argue the human part. They’re just jealous.

I started to pull him in against me for a hug, but he gave a small shake of his head. He was right. He was right. If just holding his hand sped my pulse like candy on my tongue, then a hug would be bad. Through a series of metaphysical accidents, I held something close to the beast that lived in Micah. That beast and Micah’s beast knew each other, knew each other in the way of old lovers. That part of us that was not human knew each other better than our human halves. I still knew almost nothing about him, really. Even though we lived together. On a metaphysical level we were bound tighter than any ceremony or piece of paper could make us; in real everyday life, I was wondering what to do with him. He was the perfect partner. My other half, the missing piece. He complimented me in almost everyway. And when he was standing this close, it all seemed so right. Give me a little distance and I was beginning to wonder when the other shoe would drop and he would stop being wonderful. I’d never had a man in my life yet, that didn’t spoil it somehow. Why should Micah be different?

He didn’t so much kiss me, as lay the feel of his breath against my cheek. He breathed, “Until later.” That one light touch made me shiver so violently that he had to steady me with a touch on my arm.

He smiled at me, that knowing smile that a man gives when he understands just how much his touch affects a woman. I didn’t like that smile. It made me feel like he took his time with me for granted. The moment I thought it, I knew it wasn’t true. It wasn’t even fair. So why had I thought it at all? Because I am a master at screwing up my own love life. If something works too well, I’ve got to poke at it, prod it, until it breaks, or bites me. I was trying not to do that anymore, but old habits, especially bad ones, die-hard.

Micah moved off down the line, and Detective Arnet gave me a questioning look out of her heavily painted, but lovely eyes. She opened her mouth, as if to ask, if I were all right, but the next person in line distracted her. Nathaniel was distracting, no doubt about that.

Jessica Arnet was a few inches taller than Nathaniel’s 5′ 6″, so she had to look down to meet that lavender gaze. No exaggeration, on the color. His eyes weren’t blue, but truly a pale purple, lavender, spring lilacs. He wore a banded collar shirt that was almost the same color as his eyes, so that the lavender was even more vibrant, drowningly beautiful, those eyes.

He offered his hand, but she hugged him. Hugged him, because I think for the first time she was in a public situation where no one would think it was strange. So she hugged him, because she could.

There was a fraction of a moment’s hesitation, then he hugged her back, but he turned his head so he could look at me. His eyes said clearly, help me.

She hadn’t done that much yet, just a hug, where a handshake would have done, but the look in Nathaniel’s eyes, were much more serious than what she’d done. As if it bothered him more than it should have. Since in his day job he’s a stripper, you’d think he’d be used to women pawing him. Of course, maybe that was the point. He wasn’t at work.

She stayed molded to his body, and he stayed holding, with only that mute look in his eyes to say he was unhappy. His body seemed happy and relaxed in the hug. He never showed Jessica Arnet his confused eyes.

The hug had gone on longer than was polite, and I finally realized what part of the problem was. Nathaniel was the least dominant person I’d ever met. He wanted out of the hug, but he could not be the first one to pull back. Jessica had to let him go, and she was probably waiting for him to move away, and getting all the wrong singles from the fact that he wasn’t moving away. Shit. How do I end up with men in my life that have such interesting problems? Lucky, I guess.

I held out my hand towards him, and the relief on his face was clear enough that anyone down the hall would have seen it, and understood it. He kept his face turned so Jessica never saw that look. It would have hurt her feelings, and Nathaniel didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Which meant that he didn’t see her shining face, all aglow with what she thought was mutual attraction. Truthfully, I’d thought Nathaniel liked her, at least a little, but his face said otherwise. To me, anyway.

Nathaniel came to my hand like a scared child that’s just been saved from the neighborhood bully. I drew him into a hug, and he clung to me, pressing our bodies tighter than I would have liked in public, but I couldn’t blame him, not really. He wanted the comfort of physical contact, and I think he’d figured out that Jessica Arnet had gotten the wrong idea.

I held him, as close as I could, as close as I’d wanted to hold Micah. But with Micah, it might have led to embarrassing things, but not with Nathaniel. With Nathaniel I could control myself. I wasn’t in love with him. I caressed the long braid of his auburn hair that fell nearly to his ankles. I played with the braid, as if it were other more intimate things, hoping that Jessica would take the hint. I should have known that a little extra hugging wouldn’t have done the job.

I drew back from the hug first, and he kept his gaze on my face. I could study his face and understand what she saw there, so handsome, so amazingly beautiful. His shoulders had broadened in the last few months, weight lifting, or just the fact that he was twenty and still filling out. He was luscious to look at, and I was almost certain he would be nearly as luscious in bed as he looked. But though he was living with me; cleaning my house, buying my groceries, running my errands, I still hadn’t had intercourse with him. I was really trying to avoid that, since I didn’t plan on keeping him. Someday Nathaniel would need to find a new place to live, a new life, because I wouldn’t always need him the way I did now.

I was human, but just as I was the first human Nimir-Ra, the leopards had ever had, I was also the first human servant of a master vampire to acquire certain . . . abilities. With those abilities came some downsides. One of those downsides was needing to feed the arduer every twelve hours, or so. The arduer is French for flame, roughly translates to being consumed, being consumed by love. But it isn’t exactly love.

I stared up into Nathaniel’s wide lilac eyes, cradled his face between my hands. I did the only thing I could think of that might keep Jessica Arnet from embarrassing them both at the reception to follow. I kissed him. I kissed him, because he needed me to do it. I kissed him because it was strangely the right thing to do. I kissed him because he was my pomme de sang, my apple of blood. I kissed him because he was my food, and I hated the fact that anyone was my food. I fed off of Micah, too, but he was my partner, my boyfriend, and he was dominant enough to say no, if he wanted to. Nathaniel wanted me to take him, wanted to belong to me, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Months from now the arduer would be under control and I wouldn’t need a pomme de sang. What would Nathaniel do when I didn’t need him anymore?

I drew back from the kiss and watched Nathaniel’s face shine at me the way Jessica Arnet’s face had shone at him. I wasn’t in love with Nathaniel, but staring up into that happy, handsome face, I was afraid that I couldn’t say the same for him. I was using him. Not for sex, but for food. He was food, just food, but even as I thought it, I knew it was partly a lie. You don’t fall in love with your steak, because it can’t hold you, can’t press warm lips in the bend of your neck, and whisper, “Thank you,” as it glides down the hallway in the charcoal gray slacks that fit it’s ass like a second skin, and spill roomy over the thighs, that you happen to know are even lovelier out of the pants than in. When I turned to the next smiling person in line, I caught Detective Jessica Arnet giving me a look. It wasn’t an entirely friendly look. Great, just great.

End of Chapter One

Chapter Two

The Halloween theme continued into the reception hall. Orange and black crepe paper streamers dangled everywhere; cardboard skeletons, rubber bats and paper ghosts floated overhead. There was a fake spider web against one wall big enough to hang someone from. The table centerpieces were realistic looking Jack ‘o’ lanterns with flickering electric grins. The fake skeletons were long enough to be a hazard to anyone much taller than I was. Which meant most guests were having the tops of their hair brushed by little cardboard skeleton toes. Unfortunately, Tammy was 5′ 8″ without heels, with heels she got her veil tangled with the decorations. The bridesmaids finally got Tammy’s veil unhooked from the skeletal toes, but it ruined the entrance for the bride and groom. If Tammy had wanted the decorations safe for the tall people she shouldn’t have left it to Larry and his brothers. There wasn’t a one of them over 5′ 6″. Don’t blame me, groomsmen or not, I had not helped decorate the hall. It was not my fault. There were other things that I was going to get blamed for, but they weren’t my fault either. Well, mostly not my fault.

I’d escorted Jessica Arnet into the room. She hadn’t smiled at me as I led her into the room. She’d looked way too serious. When Tammy’s veil was safely secure once more, Jessica had gone to the table where Micah and Nathaniel were sitting. She’d leaned into Nathaniel, and when I say leaned, I meant it. Like leaned on him, so that the line of her body touched his shoulder and arm. It was bold, and discreet at the same time. If I hadn’t been watching for it, I might not have realized what she was doing. She spoke quietly to him. He finally shook his head, and she turned and wove her way through the small tables full of guests. She took the last empty seat at the long table where the wedding party was trapped. The last empty chair was beside me. We got to sit down in the order we got to enter. Goody.

In the middle of the toasts, after Larry’s brother had made the groom blush, but before the parents had had their turn, Jessica leaned into me, close enough that her perfume was sweet and a little too close.

She whispered, “Does Nathaniel really live with you?”

I’d been afraid the question would be hard. This one was easy. “Yes,” I said.

“I asked if he was your boyfriend, and he said, that he slept in your bed. I thought that was an odd way to answer.” She turned her head so I was suddenly way too close to her face, those wide searching —- eyes. I was struck again by how lovely she was, and felt stupid for not noticing sooner. But I didn’t notice girls, I noticed boys. So sue me, I was heterosexual. It wasn’t her beauty that struck me, but the demand, the intelligence, in her eyes. She searched my face, and I realized that no matter how pretty she was, she was still a cop, and she was trying to smell the lie here. Because she had smelled one.

She hadn’t asked me a question, so I didn’t answer. I rarely got in trouble by keeping my mouth shut.

She gave a small frown. “Is he your boyfriend? If he is, then I’ll leave it alone. But you could have told me sooner, so I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself.”

I wanted to say, you didn’t make a fool of yourself, but I didn’t. I was too busy trying to think of an answer that would be honest, and not get Nathaniel and me in more trouble. I settled for the evasion he’d used. “Yes, he sleeps in my bed.”

She gave a small shake to her head, a stubborn look closing over her face. “That isn’t what I asked, Anita. You’re lying. You’re both lying. I can smell it.” She frowned. “Just tell me the truth. If you have a prior claim, say so, now.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I have a prior claim, apparently.”

The frown deepened putting frown lines between the pretty eyes. “Apparently, what does that mean? Either he’s your boyfriend, or he’s not.”

“Maybe boyfriend isn’t the right word,” I said, and tried to think of a word that didn’t include pomme de sang. The police didn’t really know how deeply involved with the monsters I was, they suspected, but they didn’t know. Knowing is different from suspicion. Knowing will hold up in court; suspicion won’t even get you a search warrant.

“Then what is the right word?” she whispered, but it held an edge of hiss, as if she were fighting not to yell. “Are you lovers?”

What was I suppose to say? If I said, yes, Nathaniel would be free of Jessica’s unwanted attentions, but it would also mean that everyone on the St. Louis police force would know that Nathaniel was my lover. It wasn’t my reputation I was worried about, that was pretty much trashed. A girl can’t be coffin-bait for the Master of the City and be a good girl. Most people feel that if a woman will do a vampire, she’ll do anything. Not true, but there you go. No, not my reputation at stake, but Nathaniel’s. If it got out that he was my lover, then no other woman would make a play for him. If he didn’t want to date Jessica, fine, but he needed to date someone. Someone besides me. If I wasn’t going to keep Nathaniel forever, like almost death do you part ever, then he needed a bigger social circle. He needed a real girlfriend.

So I hesitated, weighing a dozen words, and not finding a single one that would help the situation. My cell phone went off, as I fumbled for it, to stop the soft, incessant ringing, I was too relieved to be irritated. It could have been a wrong number at that moment, and I still would have felt I owed them flowers.

It wasn’t a wrong number. It was Lt. Rudolph Storr, head of the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team. He had opted to be on duty during the wedding so that other people could attend. He’d asked Tammy if she was inviting any nonhumans, and when she’d said, she didn’t like that term, but if he meant lycanthropes, the answer was yes, Dolph had suddenly decided he’d be on duty, and not come to the wedding. He was having a personal problem with the monsters. His son was about to marry a vampire, and that vampire was trying to persuade Dolph’s son to join her in eternal life. To say that Dolph was not taking it well was an understatement. He’d trashed an interrogation room; manhandled me; and damn near gotten himself brought up on charges. I’d arranged a dinner with Dolph, his wife Lucille, their son, — and future daughter-in-law. I’d persuaded —- to put off the decision to join the undead. The wedding was still on, but it was a start. His son still being among the living had helped Dolph deal with his crisis of faith. Deal with it enough that he was talking to me again. Deal with it enough that he called me in on a case again.

His voice was brisk, almost normal, “Anita?”

“Yeah,” I whispered, cupping the phone with my hand. It wasn’t like every cop in the place, which was most of the guests, wasn’t wondering whom I was talking to, and why.

“Got a body for you to look at.”

“Now?” I made it a question.

“The ceremony is over, right? I didn’t call in the middle of it.”

“It’s over. I’m in the reception.”

“Then I need you here.”

“Where’s here?” I asked.

He told me.

“I know the strip club area across the river, but I’m not familiar with the club name.”

“You won’t be able to miss it,” he said, “it’ll be the only club with it’s own police escort.”

It took me a second to realize that he had made a joke. Dolph didn’t make jokes at murder scenes, ever. I opened my mouth to remark on it, but the phone was dead in my hand. Dolph never had been much for good-byes.

Detective Arnet leaned in, and asked, “Was that Lt. Storr?”

“Yeah,” I whispered, “murder scene, gotta run.”

She opened her mouth, as if she was going to say something else, but I was already moving up the table. I was going to give my apologies to Larry and Tammy, then I got to go look at a body. I was sorry to miss the rest of the reception and all, but I had a murder scene to go to. Not only would I get away from Arnet’s questions, but I wouldn’t have to dance with Micah, or Nathaniel, or anybody. The night was looking up. I felt a little guilty, but I was glad somebody was dead.

End of Chapter Two

Sorry! That’s it for chapters one and two. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Micah

by
Laurell K. Hamilton

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/MicahCh1.html

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/micah2.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

Book 13 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Micah’s Story: Witness Protection Chapter One

It was half past dawn when the phone rang. It shattered the first dream of the night into a thousand pieces so that I couldn’t even remember what the dream had been about. I just woke gasping and confused, asleep just long enough to feel worse, but not rested.

Nathaniel groaned beside me, mumbling, “What time is it?”

Micah’s voice came from the other side of the bed, his voice low and growling,thick with sleep, “Early.”

I tried to sit up, sandwiched between the two of them, where I always slept, but I was trapped. Trapped in the sheets, one arm tangled in Nathaniel’s hair. He usually braided it for bed, but last night we’d all gotten in late, even by our standards, and we’d all just fallen into bed as soon as we could manage it.

“I’m trapped,” I said, trying to extract my hand from his hair without hurting him, or tangling worse. His hair was thick and fell to his ankles, there was lots of it to tangle.

“Let the machine pick up,” Micah said. He’d raised up on his elbows enough to see the clock. “We’ve had less than an hour of sleep.” His hair was a mass of tousled curls around his face and shoulders. His face dim in the darkness of the black-out curtains.

I finally got my hand free of Nathaniel’s warm, vanilla scented hair. I lay on my side, propped on my elbow, waiting for the machine to kick in and let us know whether it was the police for me, or the Furry coalition hotline for Micah. Nathaniel, as a stripper, didn’t get emergency calls much. Just as well, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what a stripper emergency call would be. The only ideas I could come up with were either silly, or nefarious. Ten rings, and the machine finally kicked on.

Micah spoke over the sound of his own voice on the machine’s message, “Who set the machine on the second phone line to ten rings?”

“Me,” Nathaniel said, “it seemed like a better idea when I did it.”

We’d put in the second phone line because Micah was the main help for a hotline where the new wereanimals could call and get advice, or a rescue. You know, I’m at a bar and I’m about to lose control come get me before I turn furry in public. It wasn’t technically illegal to be a wereanimal, but new ones sometimes lost control and ate someone before they came to their senses. They’d probably get shot to death by the local police before they could be charged with murder. If the police had silver bullets. If not … it could get very, very bad.

Micah understood the problems of the furred, because he was the local Nimir-Raj, leopard king.

There was a moment of breathing on the message, too fast, frantic. The sound made me sit up in bed letting the sheets pool into my lap. “Anita, Anita, this is Larry. You there?” He sounded scared.

Nathaniel got the receiver before I did, but he said, “Hey, Larry, she’s here.” He handed me the receiver his face worried.

Larry Kirkland fellow federal marshal, animator, and vampire executioner, didn’t panic that easily anymore. He’d grown, or aged, since he’d started working with me.

“Larry, what’s wrong?”

“Anita, thank God,” his voice held more relief than I ever wanted to hear in anyone’s voice. It meant they expected me to do something important for them. Something that would take some awful pressure or problem off their hands.

“What’s wrong, Larry?” I asked, and I couldn’t keep the worry out of my own voice.

He swallowed hard enough for me to hear it. “I’m okay, but Tammy isn’t.”

I clutched the receiver. His wife was Detective Tammy Reynolds member of the Regional Preternatural Investigation Squad. My first thought was that she’d been hurt in the line of duty. “What happened to Tammy?”

Micah leaned in against me. Nathaniel had gone very quiet beside me. We’d all been at their wedding. Hell I’d been at the altar on Larry’s side.

“The baby, Anita she’s in labor.”

It should have made me feel better, but it didn’t, or not by much. “She’s only five months pregnant, Larry.”

“I know, I know. They’re trying to get the labor pains stopped, but they don’t know…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Tammy and Larry had been dating for awhile when Tammy ended up pregnant. They’d married when she was four months pregnant. Now the baby that had made them both change all their plans might never be born. Or at least not and survive. Shit.

“Larry, I’m . . . Jesus, Larry, I’m so sorry. Tell me what I can do to help.” I couldn’t think of anything, but whatever he asked, I’d do it. He was my friend, and there was such anguish in his voice. He’d never mastered that empty cop voice.

“I’m due on an eight AM flight to raise a witness for the FBI.”

“The federal witness that died before he could testify,” I said.

“Yeah,” Larry said, “they need the animator that brings him back to be one of us that’s also a federal marshal. Me being a federal marshal was one of the reasons the judge agreed to allow the zombie’s testimony.”

“I remember,” I said, but I wasn’t happy. I wouldn’t turn it down, or chicken out, not with Tammy in the hospital, but I hated to fly. No, I was afraid to fly. Damn it.

“I know how much you hate to fly,” he said.

That made me smile, that he’d be trying to make me feel better when his life was about to break apart. “It’s okay, Larry. I’ll see if the flight has some empty seats, if not I’ll get a later flight, but I’ll go.”

“All my files on it are at Animators Inc. I’d stopped by the office to get them and load up the brief case when Tammy called. I think my brief case is just sitting on the floor in our office. I got all the files in it. The Agent in charge is,” and he hesitated, “I can’t remember. Oh, hell, Anita, I can’t remember.” His voice was panicking again.

“It’s okay, Larry. I’ll find it. I’ll call the Feds and tell them there’s been a change of cast.”

“Bert’s going to be pissed,” Larry said, “your rates are almost four times what mine are for a zombie raising.”

“We can’t change the price in mid-contract,” I said.

“No,” and he almost laughed, “but Bert is going to be pissed that we didn’t try.”

I laughed, because he was right. Bert had been our boss, but he’d been reduced to business manager, because all the animators at Animator’s Inc had gotten together and staged a palace coup. We’d offered him business manager, or nothing. He’d taken it, especially when he realized his income wouldn’t be affected.

“I’ll get the files from the office. I’ll get a flight. I’ll be there. You just take care of yourself and Tammy.”

“Thanks, Anita, I don’t know what I . . .I’ve got to go, the doctor’s here.” And he was gone.

I handed the phone to Nathaniel, who placed it gently in the cradle.

“How bad is it?” Micah said.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think Larry knows, not really.” I started to crawl out of the covers, and the nest of warmth that their bodies made.

“Where are you going?” Micah asked.

“I’ve got a plane to schedule, and files to find.”

“Are you thinking of going out of town on a plane by yourself?” Micah asked. He was sitting up, knees tucked to his chest, arms encircling them.

I looked back at him from the foot of the bed. “Yeah.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow, or the day after.”

“Then you need to book at least two seats on the plane.”

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. I raised the dead and was a legal vampire executioner. That’s what the police knew for certain. I was a federal marshal because all the vamp executioners that could pass the fire arms test had been grandfathered in, so that the executioners could both have more powers, and be better regulated, or that was the idea. But I was also the human servant of the Master vampire of St. Louis, Jean-Claude. Through the ties to Jean-Claude I’d inherited some abilities. One of those abilities was the arduer. It was as if sex were food, and if I didn’t eat enough I got sick.

That wasn’t so bad, but I could also hurt anyone that I was metaphysically tied to. Not just hurt, but potentially drain them of life. Or the arduer could simply choose someone at random to feed from. Which meant the arduer raised, chose a victim, and I didn’t always have a lot of choice in who it chose. Ick.

So I fed from my boyfriends, and a few friends. You couldn’t feed off the same person all the time, because you could accidentally love them to death. Jean-Claude held the arduer, and had had to feed it for centuries, but my version was a little different from his, or maybe I just wasn’t as good at controlling it yet. I was working on it, but my control wasn’t perfect, and it would be a bad thing to lose control of it on an airplane full of strangers. Or a van full of federal agents.

“What am I going to do?” I asked, “I cannot take my boyfriend on a federal case.”

“You aren’t going as a federal marshal, not really.” Micah said. “It’s your skills as an animator that they want, so say that I’m your assistant. They won’t know any different.”

“Why do you get to go?” Nathaniel asked. He lay back on the pillows, the sheets just barely covering his nakedness.

“Because she fed on you last,” Micah said. He moved enough to touch Nathaniel’s shoulder. “I can feed her more often than you can without passing out, or getting sick.”

“Because you’re the Nimir-Raj and I’m just a regular wereleopard.” There was a moment of sullenness in his voice, then he sighed. “I don’t mean to be a problem, but I’ve never stayed here with both of you gone.”

Micah and I looked at each other, and had one of those moments. We’d all been living together for about six months. But they’d both moved in at the same time. I’d never dated either of them alone, not really. I mean I’d gone out with them individually, and sex wasn’t always a group activity, but the sleeping arrangements were. Micah and I both had a certain need for personal time, alone time, but Nathaniel didn’t. He didn’t much like being alone.

“Do you want to stay at Jean-Claude’s place while we’re gone?” I asked.

“Will he want me there without you?” Nathaniel asked.

I knew what he meant, but . . . “Jean-Claude likes you.”

“He won’t mind,” Micah said, “and Asher won’t mind at all.”

There was something about the way he said that last that made me look at him. Asher was Jean-Claude’s second in command. They’d been friends, enemies, lovers, enemies, and shared a woman that they both loved in a few decades of happiness in centuries of unhappiness.

“Why’d you say it like that?” I asked.

“Asher likes men more than Jean-Claude does,” Micah said.

I frowned at him. “Are you saying that he made a pass at you, or Nathaniel?”

Micah laughed. “No, in fact, Asher is always very, very careful around us. Considering that we’ve both been naked in a bed with Asher, Jean-Claude, and you, more than once, I’d say that Asher’s been a perfect gentleman.”

“So why the comment about Asher liking men more than

Jean-Claude?” I asked.

“It’s the way Asher watches Nathaniel when you aren’t looking.”

I looked at the other man in my bed. He looked utterly at home half-naked in my sheets. “Does Asher bother you?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Have you noticed him looking at you the way Micah just said?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel said, face still peaceful.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

He smiled. “I’m a stripper, Anita. I get a lot of people looking at me like that.”

“But you don’t sleep naked in a bed with them.”

“I don’t sleep naked in a bed with Asher either. He takes blood from me, so he can fuck you. It may be sensual, but it’s not about sex, it’s about blood.”

I frowned, trying to think my way through the tangle that had become my love life. “But Micah’s implying that Asher sees you as more than food.”

“I’m not implying,” Micah said, “I’m stating that if Asher didn’t think you and Jean-Claude would be pissed he’d have already asked Nathaniel to be more than friends.”

I just stared from one to the other of them. “He would?”

They both nodded in unison, as if they’d practiced.

“And you both knew this?”

They nodded again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you, or I, were always there to protect Nathaniel,” Micah said, “now we won’t be.”

I sighed.

“I’ll be okay,” Nathaniel said, “if I’m really that worried about my virtue I’ll bunk in with Jason.” He smiled even wider.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, I sounded angry, because I had totally missed the whole Asher liking Nathaniel thing. Sometimes I felt slow, and sometimes I felt totally unprepared for dealing with the men in my life.

“The look on your face, so worried, so surprised.” He bounced up off the bed, leaving the sheet behind him. He crawled towards me, naked, and beautiful. I was at the end of the bed, and had nowhere to go. But he came at me so fast, that I tried to back up, and ended up falling off the bed. I sat naked in the floor, trying to decide if I had any dignity left to save.

Nathaniel leaned over the bed and grinned at me. “If I tell you that was really cute, will you be mad at me?”

“Yes,” I said, but was fighting not to smile.

He leaned his upper body off the bed, towards me. “Then I won’t say it,” he said, “I love you, Anita.” He leaned down, but if we were going to kiss I had to come to my knees and meet him half way. I moved into the kiss he was offering, and whispered against his lips, “I love you,too.”

“Tell me what city we’re flying to,” Micah said from the bed, “and I’ll see about flights.”

I broke the kiss enough to mumble, “Philadelphia.”

Nathaniel leaned in to me again, one hand holding onto the bedpost to hold him in place. The muscles of the arm flexed effortlessly, as he used the other hand to smooth hair away from my face. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” I said, and I realized that I meant it. But one “assistant” I might be able to explain to the FBI, not two. Two and they’d begin to wonder who they were, and exactly what they were assisting me with. Or that’s what I told myself. Staring into the startling lavender of Nathaniel’s eyes, I wondered if I cared what the FBI thought of me enough to leave him behind. Almost not, almost.

End chapter one

*This is raw copy straight from Laurell’s file.*

Chapter Two:

We picked up Larry’s files on the way to the airport. Micah drove so I could find a phone number to call, and let everyone in Philly know that there’d been a change of cast. The business card read, Special Agent Chester Fox. He answered on the second ring, “Fox.” Not even a hello, what was it about police work that made you have bad phone manners?

“This is Federal Marshal Anita Blake, you’re expecting Marshal Kirkland this morning.”

“He’s not coming,” Fox said.

“No, but I am.”

“What happened to Kirkland?”

“His wife is in the hospital.” I wondered how much I owed him on the phone. I decided not much.

“I hope she’s going to be alright?” His voice had lost some of it’s edge. He sounded almost friendly. It made me think better of him.

“She probably will, but they’re not sure about the baby.”

Silence for a moment. I’d probably over shared. That girlness again. Harder to be terse.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry that Marshal Kirkland couldn’t make it, and even sorrier for the reason. I hope things work out for them.”

“Me, too. So I’m filling in.”

“I know who you are Marshal Blake,” he was back to not sounding entirely happy, “your reputation preceeds you.” That last was definitely not happy.

“Are we going to have a problem here, Agent Fox?”

“Special Agent Fox,” he said.

“Fine, are we going to have a problem here Special Agent Fox?”

“Are you aware that you have the highest kill count of any legal vampire exectuioner in this country?”

“Yeah, actually, I am aware of that.”

“You’re coming here to raise the dead, Marshal, not execute anyone, is that clear.”

Now I was getting pissed. “I don’t kill people for the hell of it, Special Agent Fox.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” His voice was quiet.

“Don’t believe all the rumors you hear, Fox.”

“If I believed them all, I wouldn’t let you step foot in my city, Blake.”

Micah touched my leg, just comforting, while he drove one-handed. We were already on 70, which meant we’d be at the airport in just moments.

“You know, Fox, if you’re this unhappy with me, we can turn around and not come. Raise your own damn zombie.”

“We?”

“I’m bringing an assistant,” I said, voice angry.

“And exactly what does he assist you with?” And his voice was full of that tone, that tone that men have been using against women for centuries. That tone that manages to imply we’re sluts without ever saying so.

“I’m going to be very clear here, Special Agent Fox.” My voice was that calm, cold angry, that I did in place of screaming. Micah’s hand tightened on my thigh. “Your attitude makes me think we won’t be able to work together. That you’ve listened to so many rumors, that you wouldn’t know truth if bit you on the ass.”

He started to say something, but I cut him off. “Think very carefully about the next thing you say, Special Agent Fox, because depending on what it is, I may or, may not be seeing you in Philly today, or ever.”

“Are you saying if I don’t play nice you won’t play at all.” His voice was as cold as mine had been.

“Nice, hell, Fox, I’d just take professional at this point. What has got your panties in a twist about me?”

He sighed over the phone. “I researched the Federal Marshals that were also animators. It’s a short list.”

“Yeah,” I said, “it is.”

“Kirkland comes in, does the job, leaves. Every time you get involved in a case, it all seems to go to hell.”

I took a deep breath, and counted twenty, ten didn’t do it. “Go back through and look at the kind of cases that I get called in on, Fox. No one calls me in unless things have already gone south. It’s not a cause and effect.”

“You have worked some rough shit, I’ll grant that, Marshal Blake.” He sighed again. “But you’ve got a reputation for killing first and asking questions later. As for rumors, you’re right, they don’t paint a very flattering picture of you.”

“You might bear in mind, Fox, that any man you’ve heard dirty stories about me from didn’t get to fuck me.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“So you’re saying that it’s sour grapes, because he didn’t get the prize.”

“Who are we talking about?”

He was quiet for a second or two. “You worked a serial killer case in New Mexico about two years ago. Do you remember it.”

“Anyone who worked that case will remember it, Agent Fox, Special Agent Fox. Some things you don’t forget.”

“Did you date anyone while you were out there?”

The question puzzled me. “You mean in New Mexico?”

“Yes.”

“No, why?”

“There was a cop named Rameriez.”

“I remember Detective Rameriez. He asked me out, I said, no, and he didn’t trash me.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because he was a good guy, and good guys don’t trash you just because you turned them down.”

Micah was idling infront of one of the parking garages on NOTE; STREET NAME HERE. We’d turned off of 70, and I hadn’t really noticed. “Are we parking?” he asked. What Micah was asking was, are we going to Philadelphia?

“Did any of the agents on scene ask you out?” his voice was serious, and not hostile now.

“Not that I remember.”

“Did you have a problem with anyone while you were there?”

“Lots of people.”

“You admit it.”

“Fox, I am female, pretty, have a badge and a gun, raise the dead for a living, and slay vampires. A lot of people have issues with some of the above. Hell, a Lieutenant in New Mexico quoted the Bible at me.”

“What quote?”

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

“He did not.” He sounded shocked, something you don’t hear much from the F.B.I.

“Yeah, he did.”

“What did you do?”

“I planted a big kiss right on his mouth.”

He made a startled sound that could have been a laugh. “You did what?”

“It bothered him a hell of a lot more than hitting him would have, and it didn’t get me dragged out in cuffs. But I’m betting the other cops who saw me do it, gave him hell.”

Fox was laughing now.

There were cars behind us, honking. “Anita, are we going?”

“My assistant wants to know if we’re going to Philly today. Are we?”

His voice still held that edge of laughter. “Yeah, come on down.”

I said to Micah, “We’re going to Philly.”

Fox said, “Marshal Blake, I am going to do what I never do, and if you tell anyone I did, I’ll deny it.”

“What are you going to do?”

Micah pressed the big red button and waited for our ticket. I’d told him to do valet. When you drag your ass in at O dark thirty, valet was worth it.

“I apologize,” Fox said, “I listened to someone that was there in New Mexico. His version of your run-in with the Leutienant was different from yours.”

“What did he say?”

We were in the dimness of the parking garage now.

“He said you hit on a married man, and got pissy when he said, no.”

“If you’d ever met Lietinant Marks, you’d know that wasn’t true.”

“Not cute enough.”

I hesitated. “I guess physically, he wasn’t that bad, but looks aren’t everything. Personality, good manners, sanity, all nice things to have.”

Micah had pulled around the little glass building. The attendant was coming towards us. We were moments away from needing to get out of the car. “If we’re going to make the flight I gotta go.”

“Why’d you turn down Detective Rameriez?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure it was any of his business, but I answered, “I was dating someone back home. I didn’t think it was fair to any of us to complicate things.”

“Someone said you were all over him at the last crime scene.”

I knew what he was referring to. “We hugged each other, Agent Fox, because after seeing what was in that house I think we both needed to touch something warm and alive. I let one man hold my hand and all the other men think I’m fucking him. God, there are times when I really hate being the only woman around this kind of shit.”

I was out of the car. Micah was getting our bags out of the back.

“Now that’s not fair, Marshal, if I’d hugged Rameriez, or let him hold my hand, there’d be rumors, too.”

It stopped me for a second, then I laughed. “Well, damn, I guess you’re right.”

Micah had traded the key for a little ticket stub. He popped the handles on the carry-on bags. I took one of them, but let him take my brief case, since I was still on the phone. The little bus was waiting for us, and a few more passengers.

“I’ll look forward to meeting you Marshal Blake. Time I stopped listening to second hand stories.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“See you on the ground.” And he was gone.

I folded the phone shut, and was already going up the steps before the attendant tried to take my bag. It was the skirt outfit and the heels. I always had more offers to help with luggage when I was dressed like a girl.

Micah came up behind me mostly ignored. Though he was dressed up, too. We’d chosen his most conservative suit, but there’s only so much you can do with a black Italian cut designer suit. It looked like what it was, expensive. No one would mistake him for a fed of any kind. We’d put his thick, curly hair back in a tight braid, which almost gave the illusion of short hair. He’d put a white shirt with the suit, and a conservative tie.

We settled into the back row of seats. He’d kept his sunglasses on even in the darkened parking garage. Because behind those dark glasses were a pair of leopard eyes. A very bad man had forced him into animal form long enough, and often enough, that he couldn’t return completely to human form. His eyes were yellow-green chaurtrese, and not human. They were beautiful in the tan of his skin, but they tended to freak people out, so the glasses.

I wondered how the F. B. I. would take the eyes? Did I care? No. Things had worked out with Special Agent Fox, or seemed to be working out. But someone who had been in New Mexico was trashing me. Who? Why? Did I care? Yeah, actually, I did.

End of chapter two

Sorry! That’s it for chapters one and two. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

Danse Macabre

by
Laurell K. Hamilton

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/DanseMacabreChapterOne.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

Book 14 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

Release Date July 2006. This is the correct date. (Please note, this has not been edited. So there may be some errors, like Ronnie and Anita forgetting Ronnie had been married previously. Those will be fixed in the final edition.)

Chapter One:

It was the first week of November. I was supposed to be out jogging, but instead I was sitting at my breakfast table talking about men, sex, werewolves, vampires, and that thing that most unmarried but sexual active women fear most of all - a missed period.

Veronica (Ronnie) Sims, best friend and private detective, sat across from me at my little four-seater breakfast table. The table sat on a little raised alcove in a bay window. I did breakfast most mornings at that view out into the deck and the trees beyond. Today, the view wasn’t pretty, because the inside of my head was too ugly to see it. Panic will do that to you.

“You’re sure you missed October? You didn’t just count wrong?” Ronnie asked.

I shook my head and stared into my coffee cup. “I’m two weeks overdue.”

She reached across the table and patted my hand. “Two weeks, you had me scared. Two weeks could be anything, Anita. Stress will throw you off that much, and God knows you’ve had enough stress.” She squeezed my hand. “That last serial killer case was only about two weeks ago.” She squeezed my hand harder. “Just what I read in the paper and saw on the news was bad.”

I’d stopped telling Ronnie all my bad stuff years ago, when my cases as a legal vampire executioner had gotten so much bloodier than her cases as a private eye. Now I was a federal marshal along with most of the other legal vamp hunters in the United States. It meant that I had even more access to even more awful shit. Things that Ronnie, or any of my female friends didn’t want to know about. I didn’t fault them. I’d rather not have had that many nightmares in my own head. No, I didn’t fault Ronnie, but it meant that some of the most awful stuff couldn’t be shared with her. I was just glad we’d made up a long-standing grumpiness in time to have her here for this particular disaster. I was able to talk about the bad parts of the cases with some of the men in my life, but I couldn’t have shared the missed period with any of them. It concerned one of them entirely too much.

She squeezed my hand hard, and leaned back. Her grey eyes were all sympathy, and apology. She was still feeling guilty that she’d let her issues about commitment and men rain all over our friendship. She’d come here today to cry on my shoulder about the fact that she was moving in with her boyfriend, Louie Fane, Dr. Louis Fane, thank you very much. He had his doctorate in biology and taught at Washington University. He also turned furry once a month, and was a lieutenant of the local wererat rodere, their word for pack.

“If Louie wasn’t hiding what he was from his colleagues we’d be going to the big party tonight,” she said.

“He teaches people’s kids, Ronnie, he can’t afford to find out what they’d do if they found out he had lycanthropy.”

“College isn’t kids, it’s definitely grown-up.”

“Parents won’t see it that way,” I said. I looked at her, and finally said, “Are you changing the subject?”

“It’s only two weeks, Anita, after one of the most violent cases you’ve ever had. I wouldn’t even loose sleep over it.”

“Yeah, but you’re period is erratic, mines not. I’ve never been two weeks late before.”

She pushed a strand of blond hair back behind her ear. The new hair cut framed her face nicely, but it didn’t stay out of her eyes, and she was always pushing it back.

“Never?”

I shook my head, and sipped coffee. It was cold. I got up and went to dump it in the sink.

“What’s the latest you’ve ever been?” she asked.

“Two days, I think five once, but I wasn’t having sex with anyone, so it wasn’t scary. I mean unless there was a star in the east I was safe, just late.” I poured coffee from the French press, which emptied it. I was so going to need more coffee.

Ronnie came to stand next to me, while I put more hot water on the stove. She leaned her butt against the cabinets and drank her coffee, but she was watching me.

“Let me run this back at you. You’ve never been two weeks late, ever, and you’ve never missed a whole month before?”

“Not since this whole mess started when I was fourteen, no.”

“I always envied you the regular as clock work schedule,” she said.

I started dismantling the French press, taking out the lid with its filter on a stick. “Well, the clock is broken right now.”

“Shit,” she said, softly.

“You can say that again.”

“You need a pregnancy test,” she said.

“No, shit.” I dumped the grounds into the trash can, and shook my head. “I can’t go shopping for one tonight.”

“Can’t you make a quick stop on the way to Jean- Claude’s big party?”

Jean-Claude, Master Vampire of the City of St. Louis, and my sweetie, was throwing one of the biggest bashes of the year to welcome to town the first ever mostly vampire dance company. He was one of their patrons, and when you spend that much money you apparently get to spend more to throw a party to celebrate that the money was helping the dance troupe find rave reviews in their cross-country tour. There was going to be national and international media there tonight. It was like a big deal, and I as his main squeeze had to be on his arm, smiling, and dressed up. In fact I was due at his place in about an hour to have him get me into what I was wearing. I’d never have been able to get myself decked out for something like this, not without help. The dress alone needed a maid. But strangely, appearing in public in a formal dress that had a corset for a bodice just didn’t seem like that big a deal right that moment. I had other things to worry about. Unfortunately.

“Yeah, Ronnie, I’m riding in with Micah and Nathaniel. Even if I stop, Nathaniel will insist on going in with me, or wondering why I don’t let him go. I don’t want any of them to know until I’ve got the test and it’s yes, or no. Maybe it is just nerves, stress, and the test will say no. Then I won’t have to tell anybody.”

“Where are your two handsome housemates?”

“Jogging. I was supposed to go with them, but I told them you’d called and needed me to hold your hand about moving in with Louie.”

“I did,” she said, and sipped her coffee. “But suddenly me being nervous about sharing space with a man for the first time in my life, just doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”

I leaned my hands against the sink, and looked at her through a curtain of my long dark hair. It had gotten too long for my tastes, but Micah had made me a deal. If I cut my hair, he’d cut his, because he preferred his hair shorter, too. So my hair was down to my waist for the first time since junior high, and it was really beginning to get on my nerves. Of course, today, everything was getting on my nerves.

“Until I know for sure, I don’t want them to know.” “Even if it’s yes, Anita, you don’t have to tell them. I’ll close up my agency for a few days. We’ll go away on a girl’s retreat, and you can come back without a problem.”

I pushed my hair back, so I could see her clearly. I think my face showed what I was thinking, because she said, “What?”

“Are you honestly saying, that I don’t tell any of them. That I just go away for a while and make sure that there’s no baby to worry about?”

“It’s your body,” she said.

“Yeah, and I took my chances by having sex with this many men on a regular basis.”

“You’re on the pill,” she said.

“Yeah, and if I’d wanted to be a hundred percent safe I’d have still used condoms, but I didn’t. If I’m . . . pregnant, then I’ll deal, but not like that.”

“You can’t mean you’d keep it.”

I shook my head. “I’m not even sure I’m pregnant, but if I was, I couldn’t not tell the father. I’m in a committed relationship with several of them. I’m not married, but we live together. We share a life. I couldn’t just make this kind of choice without talking to them first.”

She shook her head. “No man ever wants you to get an abortion if you’re in a relationship. They always want you barefoot and pregnant.”

“That’s you’re mother’s issues talking, not yours, or at least not mine.”

She looked away, wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I can tell what I’d do, and it wouldn’t involve telling Louie.”

I sighed, and stared out the little window above the sink. A lot of things to say went through my head, none of them helpful. I finally settled for, “Well, it isn’t you and Louie having this particular problem. It’s me, and . . .”

“And who?” she said. “Who got you knocked up?”

“Thanks for putting it that way.”

“I could ask, who’s the father, but that’s just creepy. If you are, then it’s this little tiny, microscopic lump of cells. It’s not a baby. It’s not a person, not yet.”

I shook my head. “We’ll agree to disagree on that one.”

“You’re pro-choice,” she said.

I nodded. “Yep, I am, but I also believe that abortion is taking a life. I agree women have the right to choose, but I also think that it’s still taking a life.”

“That’s like saying you’re pro-choice and pro-life. You can’t be both.”

“I’m pro-choice because I’ve never been a fourteen- year-old incest victim pregnant by their father, or a woman who’s going to die if the pregnancy continues, or even a teenager who made a mistake. I want women to have choices, but I also believe that it’s a life, especially once it’s big enough to live outside the womb.”

“Once a Catholic, always a Catholic,” she said.

“Maybe, but being excommunicated, you’d think that cured me.” The Pope had declared that all animators, zombie raisers, were excommunate until they repented their evil ways, and stopped doing it. What His Holiness didn’t seem to grasp is that raising the dead was a psychic ability and if we didn’t raise it for money on a regular basis, that we’d eventually raise the dead by accident. I had accidentally raised a pet as a child, and a suicidal teacher in college. I’d always wondered if there had been others that just never found me. Maybe some of the accidental zombies that occasional show up were psychic abilities gone wrong, or untrained. All I knew was that if the Pope had ever woken up as a child with his dead dog curled up in bed with him, he’d want the power controlled. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d believe that it was evil and he’d pray it into submission. My prayers just didn’t have that kind of punch to them.

“You can’t mean you’d actually have this . . . thing, baby, whatever.”

I sighed. “I don’t know, but I do know that I could never just go away, get an abortion, and never tell my boyfriends. Never tell them that one of them might have made a child with me. I just couldn’t do it.”

She was shaking her head so hard that her hair fell around her face, covered the upper half of it. She ran her hands through it sharply, like she was pulling on it.

“I’ve tried to understand that you’re happy living with not one, but two men. I’ve tried to understand that you love that vampire son of a bitch, somehow. I’ve tried, but if you actually breed. Actually have a baby, I just don’t get that. I won’t be able to understand that.”

“Then don’t, then go. If you can’t deal, then go.”

“I didn’t mean that. I just meant that I can’t understand why you would complicate your life this way.”

“Complicate, yeah, I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

She crossed her arms tight over her chest. She was tall, slender and leggy, and blond. Everything I’d wanted to be as a child. But she was small chested enough that she could fold her arm over her breasts instead of under them, something I couldn’t have done. But her legs went on forever in a skirt, and mine did not. Oh, well.

“Okay, then if you’re going to tell them, tell Micah and Nathaniel and get a test and test yourself.”

“Not until after the test. I don’t want anyone to know until I know for sure.”

She looked up at the ceiling, closed her eyes, and sighed. “Anita, you live with two of them. You sleep over with two more of them. You are never alone. When are you going to have time to run in and get a test, let alone have the privacy to use it?”

“I can pick one up at work on Monday.”

She stared at me. “Monday! It’s Thursday. I’d go fucking crazy if I had to wait that long. You’ll go crazy. You can’t wait nearly four days.”

“Maybe my period will start. Maybe by Monday I won’t need it.”

“Anita, you wouldn’t have told me if you weren’t pretty sure you needed a pregnancy test.”

“When Nathaniel and Micah get back, they’ll jump in the shower and we’ll go straight to Jean-Claude. We’ll get dressed and we go to the party. There won’t be time tonight.”

“Friday, promise me that Friday you’ll get one.”

“I’ll try, but . . .”

“Besides, when you start asking your lovers to use condoms, won’t they figure something out.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Yeah, I heard you say if you’d used condoms you’d be safe, don’t tell me that you’re not going to want to use them for a while. Could you really have unprotected sex right now, and enjoy it?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Then what are you going to tell the boys about this sudden need for condoms? Hell, Micah had a vasectomy before you even met him. He’s like super safe.”

I sighed again. “You’re right, damnit, but you are.” “So pick up the test on the way to the big show- down.”

“No, I’m not going to rain all over Jean-Claude’s big event. He’s planned this for months.”

“You didn’t mention it to me.”

“I didn’t plan it, he did. The ballet isn’t really my thing.” Truthfully, he hadn’t mentioned it to me until they were coming to St. Louis, but I kept that part to myself. It would just give Ronnie another reason to say that Jean-Claude was keeping secrets from me. Well, now it was my turn to keep secrets.

“And how will Mr. Fang-Face feel about being a father?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Sorry, how will Jean-Claude feel about being a daddy?”

“It’s probably not his.”

She looked at me. “You’re having sex with him, a lot, why isn’t it his?”

“Because he’s over four-hundred-years-old and when a vampire gets that old, they aren’t very fertile. That goes for Asher, and Damian, too.”

“Oh, God,” she said, “I’d forgotten that you had sex with Damian.”

“Yeah,” I said.

She covered her eyes with her hands. “I’m sorry, Anita. I’m sorry that it’s weirding me out that my uptight monogamous friend is suddenly sleeping with not one, but three vampires.”

“I didn’t plan it that way.”

“I know that.” She hugged me, and I stayed stiff against her. She wasn’t being comforting enough for me to relax in her arms. She hugged me tighter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m being a jerk. But if it’s not the vampires then who else, but your house boys.”

I pulled away from her. “Don’t call them my house boys. They have names, and just because I like living with someone, and you don’t, don’t make that my problem.”

“Fine, that leaves Micah and Nathaniel.”

“Micah is fixed, so it can’t be him?”

Her eyes went wide. “That leaves Nathaniel. Jesus, Anita, Nathaniel as the father to be.”

A moment ago, I might have agreed with her, but now it pissed me off. It wasn’t her place to disparage my boyfriends. “What’s wrong with Nathaniel?” I said, and my voice was not entirely happy.

She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look. “He’s twenty and a stripper. Twenty-year-old strippers are the entertainment at your bachelorette party. You don’t have babies with them.”

I letting the anger seep into my eyes. “Nathaniel told me you didn’t see him as real, as a person. I told him he was wrong. I told him you were my friend, and you wouldn’t disrespect him like that. I guess I was wrong.”

She didn’t back down or apologize. She was angry and staying that way. “last time I checked Nathaniel was supposed to be food, just food, not the love of your life.”

“I didn’t say he was the love of my life, and yeah, he started out as my pomme de sang, but that doesn’t . . .”

But she interrupted me. “Your apple of blood, right, that’s what pomme de sang means?”

I nodded.

“If you were a vampire you’d be taking blood from your little stripper, but thanks to that blood-sucking son of a bitch you have to feed off of sex. Sex for god’s sake. First that bastard made you his blood whore, and now . . .” She stopped abruptly, a startled almost frightened look on her face, as if she knew she’d gone too far.

I gave her a flat, cold look. The look that says my anger has moved from hot to cold. It’s never a good sign. “Go on, Ronnie, say it.”

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said, “you did. Now I’m just a whore.” My voice sounded as cold as my eyes felt. Too angry and too hurt to be anything but cold. Hot angry can feel good, but the cold will protect you better.

She started to cry. I just stared at her, speechless. What the hell was going on? We were fighting, she wasn’t allowed to cry in the middle of it. Especially not when she was the one being a cruel bastard. I could count on one hand the times I’d seen Ronnie cry, and still have fingers left over.

I was still angry, but I was puzzled, too, and that took a little of the edge off. “Shouldn’t I be the one in tears here?” I asked, because I couldn’t think of what else to say. I was mad at her and I’d be damned if I would comfort her, right now.

She spoke in that breathless, hiccupping voice that serious crying can give you. “I’m sorry, oh, god, Anita, I’m sorry. I’m just so jealous.”

I raised eyebrows at her. “What are you talking about? Jealous of what?”

“The men,” she said in that shivering, uncertain voice. It was like she was someone else for a moment, or maybe this was just part of Ronnie that she didn’t let people see. “All the damned men. I’m about to give up everybody. Everybody but Louie, and he’s great, but dmanit I’ve had lovers. I hit triple digits.”

I wasn’t sure that being able to number your lovers at over a hundred was a good thing, but it was something that Ronnie and I had agreed to disagree over a long time ago. I did not say, look who’s the whore, or other hurtful remarks I could have made. I let all the cheap shots I could have made go. She was the one crying.

“And now I’m giving it all up, all of it, for just one man.” She leaned her hands against the cabinet as if she needed the support.

“You said sex with Louie was great. I think you’ve used words like fantastic, and mind-blowing.”

She nodded, her hair spilling around her face so that I couldn’t see her eyes for a moment. “It is, he is, but he’s just one man. What if I get bored, or he gets bored with me? How can just one be enough?” She looked up at that last remark, her grey eyes wide and frightened.

I made a small helpless gesture, and said, “You’re asking the wrong person, Ronnie. I’d planned on monogamy. It seemed like a good idea to me.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” She wiped at the tears on her face in harsh angry motions, as if the touch of them made her even more upset. “How is it that you, my girlfriend who had only three men in her entire life, ends up dating and fucking five men?”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I tried to concentrate on the hard facts. “Six men,” I said.

She frowned at me, her eyes taking on that look that meant she was counting in her head. “I only count five.”

“You’re leaving someone out, Ronnie.”

“No,” and she started counting on her fingers, “Jean-Claude, Asher, Damian, Nathaniel, and Micah. That’s it.”

I shook my head, again. “I had unprotected sex with one more man last month.” I could have said it differently, but maybe if we got back to my personal disaster, we could stop talking about Ronnie’s penis envy. She needed more therapy that I knew how to do lately.

She frowned harder, then she got it. “Oh, no, no,” she said.

I nodded. Happy to see from her expression that she got the full awfulness of it.

“You just had sex with him once, right?”

I shook my head, as if I was shaking my head, no, over and over again. “Not just once.”

She was looking at me so hard, that I couldn’t hold her gaze. Even with the tear tracks drying on her face, she was suddenly Ronnie again. Ronnie had a good hard stare. I couldn’t meet it, and was left looking at the cabinets. “How much more than, not just once?” She asked.

I started to blush and couldn’t stop it. Damnit.

“You’re blushing that’s not a good sign,” she said.

I stared down at the counter top, using my long hair to hide my face.

Her voice was gentler, when she said, “How many times, Anita? How many times in the month you’ve been back together?”

“Seven,” I said, still not looking up. I hated admitting it, because the number alone said louder than any words, just how much I enjoyed being in Richard’s bed.

“Seven times in a month,” she said, “wow, that’s . . . “

I looked up, and the look was enough.

“Sorry, sorry, just . . .” She looked as if she wasn’t sure whether she was going to laugh, or be sad about it. She controlled herself, and finally sounded sad, when she said, “Oh, my God, Richard.”

I nodded, again.

“Richard,” she whispered his name, and looked suitably horrified. It was worth a little horror.

Richard Zeeman and I had been off again, on again, for years. Mostly off. We’d been engaged briefly until I saw him eat someone. He was the leader, Ulfric, of the local werewolf pack. He was also a junior high science teacher, and an all round boy scout. If boy scouts were 6′ 1″, muscled, amazingly handsome, and had an amazing ability to be self-destructive. He hated being a monster, and he hated me for being more comfortable with the monsters than he was. He hated a lot of things, but we’d made up just enough to have fallen into bed in the last few weeks. But as my Grandma Blake told me, once was enough.

Of all the men in my life the worst possible choice would have been Richard, because he of all of them would try for the white picket fence and a normal life. Normal wasn’t possible for me, or him, but I knew that, and he didn’t, not really, not yet. Even if I was pregnant, even if I kept being pregnant, I wasn’t going to marry anyone. I wasn’t going to change my living arrangements. My life worked the way it was, and Richard’s idea of domestic bliss, was not mine.

She gave an abrupt laugh, then swallowed it. I was glaring at her. “Come on, Anita, I’m allowed to be impressed that you’ve managed to have sex with him seven times in the space of a month. I mean, you don’t even live together, and you’re having more sex than some of our married friends.”

I kept giving her the look that makes bad guys run for cover, but Ronnie was my friend, and it’s harder to impress you’re friends with the scary-look. They know you won’t really hurt them. The fight was dying under the weight of friendship, and my problem being more immediate than her years of issues unresolved.

Ronnie touched my arm. “Oh, it wouldn’t be Richard’s. You’re having sex with Nathaniel at least every other day.”

“Sometimes twice a day,” I said.

She smiled. “Well, my, my . . .” then waved her hand as if to keep from distracting herself. “But the odds are, that it’s Nathaniel’s, right.”

I smiled at her. “You sound happy about that now.”

She shrugged. “Well, a choice of evils, ya know.”

“Thanks a lot, Ronnie.”

“You know what I meant,” she said.

“No, I don’t think I do.” I think I was ready to be angry about her thinking the men in my life were a choice of evils, but I didn’t get a chance to be angry, because two of the men in my life were coming through the front door.

I heard them unlocking the door, before it opened, and their voices came raised, and a little breathless from the run. They’d been able to run faster, and, or further, without me along. I was, after all, still human, and they were not.

Standing between the island and the cabinets we couldn’t see the door, only hear them laughing as they came towards the doorway to the kitchen.

“How can you do that?” Ronnie asked, voice soft.

“What?” I asked, frowning.

“You were smiling.”

I looked at her.

“You smiled just at the sound of their voices, even with everything . . .”

I stopped her with a hand on her arm. One way I knew I didn’t want them to find out about the maybe baby was by overhearing a conversation. Their hearing was a little too keen to risk it. And here they came, my two live-in sweeties.

Micah was in front, looking back over his shoulder, still laughing, talking. He was my height, short, slender and muscular in that swimmer sort of way. He had to have his suits tailored because he needed an extra small athletic cut. You didn’t get that off the rack. He’d come to me tanned and stayed that way from jogging outside, mostly shirtless, all summer and autumn. He’d added a t-shirt to the short-shorts today. His hair was that deep, rich brown that some people get after starting life as very blond. His dark hair was tied back in a low pony tail that couldn’t hide how curly it was, almost as curly as mine. He’d taken off his sunglasses so when I moved into his arms I could look up into his chartreuse eyes. Yellow-green leopard eyes in his delicate face. A very bad man had forced him to stay in leopard form until when he came back to human he couldn’t come all the way back.

We kissed and our arms just seemed to automatically glide around each other, to press our bodies as close together as we could with clothes on. He’d affected me this way almost from the moment we had seen each other. Lust at first sight. They say it doesn’t last, but we were six months and counting.

I melted against his body and kissed him fiercely, deeply. Partly it was what I always wanted to do when I saw him. Partly I was scared and touching and being touched made me feel better. Not long ago I’d have been more discreet in front of company, but my nerves just weren’t good enough to pretend today.

He didn’t get embarrassed, or tell me not in front of Ronnie, the way Richard would have done. He kissed me back with the same drowning intensity. His hands holding me like he’d never let me go. We drew back, breathless and laughing.

“Was that for my benefit?” Ronnie asked, and her voice was not happy.

I turned around, still half in Micah’s arms. I looked at her angry eyes and suddenly was ready to be angry back. “Not everything is about you, Ronnie.”

“Are you telling me you kiss him like that every time he comes home?” The anger was back, and she used it. “He’s been gone, what, an hour? I’ve seen you greet him after a day’s work, and like that.”

“Like what?” I asked, voice sliding down. If she wanted to fight, we could fight.

“Like he was air and you couldn’t breath him in fast enough.”

Micah’s voice was mild, placating, trying to talk us both down. “Did we interrupt something?”

I turned to face Ronnie, squarely. “I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend the way I want to kiss him without getting your permission, Ronnie.”

“Don’t try and tell me you weren’t rubbing my face in it, just now, with the show.”

“Go get some therapy, Ronnie, because I am fucking tired of your issues raining all over me.”

“I confided in you,” she said, voice strangled with some emotion I didn’t understand, “and you put on a show like that in front of me. How could you?”

“Oh, that wasn’t a show,” Nathaniel said from just inside the doorway, “but if it’s a show you want, we can do that, too.” He glided into the kitchen on the balls of his feet showing the grace of both his dance training and that otherworldly grace of the wereleopard. He pulled his tank top off in one smooth gesture and let it fall to the floor. I actually backed up a step, before I caught myself. I hadn’t realized until that moment that he was angry with Ronnie. What little cutting remarks had she been making to him, that I hadn’t heard? When he told me she didn’t see him as real, he’d been trying to tell me more than I had heard. That I’d missed something big, was there in his angry eyes.

He tore the tie from his pony tail and let his ankle-length auburn hair fall around his nearly naked body. The jogging short-short just didn’t cover that much.

I had time to say, “Nathaniel . . .” and he was in front of me. That otherworldly energy that all lycanthropes could give off shivered off his skin and along my body. He was 5′ 6″ just tall enough for me to have to look up to meet his eyes. His anger had turned them from lavender to the deeper color of lilacs, if flowers could burn with anger, and force of personality. Nathaniel was in those eyes and with that one look he dared me, challenged me, to turn him down.

I didn’t want to turn him down. I wanted to wrap his body and that skin-crawling energy around me like a coat. Lately almost any stress seemed to feed into sex. Scared; sex would make me feel better. Angry; sex would calm me. Sad; sex made me happy. Was I addicted to sex? Maybe. But Nathaniel wasn’t offering actual sex. He just wanted as much attention as I’d given Micah. Seemed fair to me.

I closed the distance between us with my hands, my mouth, my body. The energy of his beast spilled around us like being plunged in a warm bath that had a mild electric charge. He’d been one of the least of my leopards until a metaphysical accident had taken him from pomme de sang, food, to my animal to call. I was the first human servant to gain the vampire ability to call an animal. All leopards were mine to call, but Nathaniel was my special pet. We’d both gained from the magical bonding, but he’d gained more.

He lifted me up, using just his hands on my thighs. Even through my jeans he made sure I knew he was happy to be pressed against my body. So happy that it forced a small sound from me.

Ronnie’s voice came harsh, ugly, like she was choking on her anger. “And when the baby comes, are you going to fuck in front of it, too?”

Nathaniel froze against me. Micah’s voice came from behind us, “Baby?”

Chapter Two

That one word fell into the room like a thunderbolt, except that afterwards the room was quiet. So quiet, that I could hear the blood pounding in my head. Nathaniel’s body so still against mine, that if I hadn’t felt his pulse against my hand, it would have been like he wasn’t there. I was afraid to move, afraid to breath. It was like a moment before a gun fight, when you know it’s going to happen, and that anything, any movement, will start it off, and you don’t want to be the one that makes it happen.

Nathaniel looked down at me, and the look was enough. It broke the unnatural silence, and sound spilled around us. Micah said, “Did Ronnie say, baby?”

“Yeah, I said, baby.” Her voice was ugly with anger. Nathaniel let me slide to the floor, his hands going to my shoulders. His eyes were so serious that I had to fight to keep meeting them. I did it, though my eyes flinched as if the force of his questions was a light too bright to meet.

“Are you pregnant?” he asked, voice soft.

“I’m not sure,” I said, and I gave Ronnie the glare she deserved. “I was going to wait until I was sure before I told any of you guys. But I had to tell someone. I thought, hey, I’ll my best friend, but I guess I was wrong.”

“The kiss with Micah may not have been for my benefit,” Ronnie said in that ugly voice that I didn’t recognize as hers, “but your pet stripper and you, that was for my benefit.”

I turned so that I was facing her, Nathaniel at my back. “You’re jealous of the men in my life, yeah, I get that now.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and said, “I guess that’s fair. I tell your secret, you tell mine.”

I shook my head. “Me telling Nathaniel and Micah that you are jealous of how many men are in my bed, isn’t the same as telling them that I may be pregnant.” I had a mean idea, so I said it, “But it might be close if I told Louie that you were jealous of my boyfriends. Does he know that you can number your old lovers in triple digits?” Yeah, it was mean, but she’d earned it. Only family can fight as dirty as best friends.

She paled a little, and that was enough to answer the question. “He doesn’t know,” I said, and made it a statement.

“I think he deserves to know,” Nathaniel said, and again there was that tone in his anger that said it was more personal than it should have been between them.

“I’d planned on telling him,” she said.

“When?” he asked, and he moved around me, so that he was facing her.

I glanced at Micah, and he shook his head, as if he didn’t know what was going on either. Good to know we were both confused.

“When you’d moved in together, married him, or never?”

“We’re not getting married,” she said in a voice that was just a little desperate, as if her fear was washing her anger away. She rallied then, “You did that little show with Anita to rub my face in the fact that I’m about to become monogamous. You’re always doing shit like that.”

“And how many times have you said, ‘Oh, it’s Anita little stripper, or pet stripper, or how’s tricks, or my personal favorite, you’re damned cute for a walking, talking, beef steak, or it that beef cake?”

“Jesus, Nathaniel.” I looked at Ronnie. “Did you say all that to him?”

The anger faded around the edges as she finally looked uncomfortable. “Maybe, but not like he makes it sound.”

“Then why didn’t you say it in front of me?” I asked. “If there was nothing wrong with saying it, why not in front of me.”

“Or me,” Micah said, “I would have told you if she’d been saying things like that to Nathaniel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Nathaniel?” I asked.

He gave me his angry eyes. “I told you she didn’t see me as real, as a person.”

“But, you didn’t tell me what she’d said, I needed to know.”

He shrugged. “She’s your best friend, and you’d just made up after a big fight. I didn’t want to start another one.”

“I was just kidding around,” Ronnie said, but the tone in her voice didn’t believe her either.

I looked at her. “How would you feel if I said stuff like that to Louie?”

“You can’t call him a stripper, or an ex-prostitute, because he’s not.” The moment she said it, her face showed me she knew she shouldn’t have. “I didn’t mean . . .” she began, but it wasn’t me that put her in her place, it was Nathaniel.

“I know why you call me names,” he said, and he moved in closer, not touching, but invading the hell out of her personal space. “I see the way you watch me. You want me, but like Anita does. You just want me for a night, or a weekend, or a month, then you’d be done like you’re always done with everybody. I know why you don’t want to commit to Louie.” I’d never seen him like this, relentless. I actually made a small move, as if I’d stop him, but Micah caught my eye, and shook his head. His face was serious, almost grim. I guess he was right. Nathaniel had earned this, and Ronnie had, too. But it wasn’t going to end anywhere I wanted to be.

He said again, “I know why you don’t want to commit to Louie.”

She said in a small, weak voice, “Why?”

“Because it torments you to know that you will never know how I am in bed.”

“Oh,” she said in a voice that was almost her own, “so I’m not wanting Louie because you’re such a stud?”

“Not me, Ronnie, but the next me. The next guy you get obsessed about. Not love obsessed, but I-wonder- what-he’d-be-like-in-bed obsessed. And you’ve always been beautiful enough, hot enough, to get anyone you’ve ever wanted, right?”

She stared at him as if he were something horrible. He prompted her, “Right?”

She nodded, and whispered, “Yes.”

“You knew Anita wasn’t fucking me, so you thought if she didn’t want me maybe it would be okay, but I didn’t pick up on any of it. I ignored the hints, so you started to get mean about it. Maybe you didn’t even know why you were doing it.” He leaned in so close that she moved back until her butt hit the cabinet, and she had nowhere else to go. “You kept belittling me in front of Anita, and worse behind her back, as if you’d convince her she didn’t want to keep me. That I wasn’t good enough to keep. Real enough to keep. Have you ever set your sights on anyone and not fucked them, at least once?”

She gave a little trembling shake of her head. She was biting her lower lip, and tears gleamed unshed in her eyes.

“Then suddenly, Anita is going to keep me, and you don’t poach your friend’s guys. That is a rule. You thought I was just food, and you could have me, at least once. Suddenly I’m a boyfriend, and it’s against your rules to try for me, but you still wanted me. Just once. Just once to feel me inside you . . .”

I called it then, “Enough, Nathaniel, enough.” My voice was shaky. This had gotten so ugly, so fast. How had I missed it?

Nathaniel moved back from her slowly, and said, “I used to believe in women like you, Ronnie. I used to think that anyone who wanted me that badly, must love me, at least a little.” He shook his head. “But people like you don’t love anyone, not even themselves.”

“Nathaniel,” Micah said, as if he’d been shocked by that one, too.

Nathaniel ignored him. “You need to find out what you’re running from, Ronnie, before it ruins the best thing you’ve ever found.”

She spoke in a harsh whisper, “You mean, Louie.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I mean Louie. He loves you. He really, truly loves you, not just for a night, or a month, but for years. Part of you wants that or you wouldn’t still be with him.”

She swallowed hard enough that it sounded like it hurt. “I’m scared.”

He nodded, again. “What if you love him? What if you give him your whole heart and then he dumps you the way you dumped so many others?”

She gave that trembling nod of hers again. “Yes.”

“You need help, Ronnie, professional help. I can recommend someone.”

I knew Nathaniel saw a therapist, but I’d never heard him talk about it with anyone before, not like this.

“I’ve been with her for a few years. She’s good. She’s helped me a lot.” His face was gentler than it had been.

Ronnie looked at him like he was the snake and she was the helpless little bird.

He went to the corkboard above the phone. There were business cards pinned to it; important numbers, notes. He took one of the cards down. He walked back over to Ronnie and held it out to her. “If she can’t take you, she’ll know someone good who can.”

Ronnie took the card carefully, just by the corner as if she was afraid it would bite. She gave him wide, frightened eyes, but she put the card in her jeans pocket. She let out a deep breath, and turned to me. “I’m sorry, Anita. I’m sorry about everything.” She looked at Nathaniel, then back at me. “And now I’m going to leave the mess behind and let you guys clean it up like I’ve always done. I am sorry.” And she walked out. We all waited until we heard the door close behind her.

The three of us stood for a few seconds in silence, waiting for the shock waves to settle. But of course there were other problems than just Ronnie’s issues.

Micah turned to me, and said, “Are we in a mess?” “I’m not sure yet,” I said.

“But you think you’re pregnant?” he said.

I nodded. “I missed last month. I’d planned on finding out for sure before I told anyone.” I sighed and crossed my arms under my breasts. “I haven’t bought a pregnancy test, because I wasn’t sure how to take it without one of you finding out.”

Nathaniel came to stand beside me, but to one side so he wouldn’t block my view of Micah. “Anita, you shouldn’t have to go through this alone. At least one of us should be holding your hand while you wait for the little strip to turn colors.”

I looked up at him. “You sound like you’ve done this before?”

“Once, she wasn’t sure it was mine, but I was the only friend she had to hold her hand.”

“I thought I was your first girlfriend.”

“She found out I’d never been with a girl, so she took care of it.” His voice made it seem utterly matter of fact. “I wasn’t very good at it, but she came up pregnant. It was probably one of her customers, but it could have been mine.”

“Customers?” Micah made it a question.

“She was in the game, too, like I was then.”

I knew ‘the game’ meant she’d been a prostitute, but ‘the game’ usually meant when he was on the street. He’d been off the street by sixteen. “How old were you?” I asked.

“Thirteen,” he said.

The look on my face made him laugh. “Anita, I’d never been with a girl, but I’d seen a lot of men. She thought I should know what’s like to be with a girl. She was my friend, protected me sometimes, when she could.”

“How old was she?” Micah asked.

“Fifteen.”

“Jesus,” I said.

He smiled, that gentle, almost condescending smile that always let me know what a sheltered life I’d led.

“And she got pregnant,” Micah said, softly.

Nathaniel nodded. “The odds were that it wasn’t mine. We had sex twice. Once so I could see if I liked it. The second time so I could get better at it.” His face softened in a way I’d never seen before.

“You loved her,” I said, voice as gentle as I could make it.

He nodded. “My first crush.”

“What was her name?” Micah asked.

“Jeanie, her name was Jeanie.”

I almost didn’t ask, but it was the most he’d ever talked about that part of his life, so I asked. “What happened?”

“I held her hand while the test turned positive. Her pimp paid for an abortion. I went with her. Me, and another girl.” He shrugged, and the soft light faded in his eyes. “She couldn’t have kept it. I knew that. We all knew it.” He looked suddenly sad, lost.

I wanted to take that lost look out of his eyes, so I hugged him, and he let me, and he hugged me back.

“What happened to Jeanie?” Micah asked.

He stiffened in my arms, and I knew then, it would not be a good answer. “She died. She got into the wrong car one night, and the John killed her.”

I hugged him tighter. “I am so sorry, Nathaniel.”

He hugged me one fierce, tight hug, then he moved back enough to see my face. “I was thirteen and she was fifteen. We were street hookers. We were both drug addicts. There wasn’t going to be a baby.” His eyes were so serious. “I’m twenty, and you’re twenty-seven. We both have good jobs, money, a house. I’ve been clean for three, almost four years.”

I pulled back from him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we have choices, Anita. Choices that I didn’t have the last time.”

My pulse was in my throat, threatening to choke me. “Even if I am . . .” and it took me two tries to say, “pregnant, I’m not sure I’m keeping it. You understand that, right?” My chest was so tight I could barely breath.

“It’s your body,” he said, “I respect that. I’m just saying that we have more than one way to go here, that’s all. It has to be mostly your choice.”

“Yes,” Micah said, “you’re the woman, and like it, or not, the final choice has to be yours.”

“Your body, your choice,” Nathaniel said, “but we need a pregnancy test. We need to know.”

“We’re running late now,” I said, “you guys need to show and we have to go to Jean-Claude’s place.”

“Can you really just go to the party with this hanging over us?” Nathaniel asked.

“I have to.”

He shook his head. “It’s fashionable to be late, and once he knows why, Jean-Claude won’t mind us being late.”

“But . . .” I said.

“He’s right,” Micah said, “or am I the only one that thinks I would go crazy smiling and nodding tonight, and not knowing.”

I hugged myself tighter. “But what if it’s positive, what if . . .” I couldn’t even finish it.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Micah said.

“Whatever happens, Anita, it will be okay. I promise,” Nathaniel said.

It was my turn to look into his face and realize how young he was. We were only seven years apart in age, but they could be an important seven years. He promised, it would be alright, but some promises you can’t keep no matter how hard you try.

That tight feeling climbed up my throat and spilled out my eyes. I started to cry, and couldn’t stop it. Nathaniel wrapped his arms around me, held me against his body, and a moment later Micah moved in behind me. They both held me, while I cried my fear and confusion and anger at myself. Self-loathing didn’t even begin to cover it.

When the crying slowed, and I could breath without hiccupping, Nathaniel said, “I’ll go out and get the test. Micah can shower while I’m gone. I should be back in time to clean up and we’ll only be a little late.”

I pushed myself away, enough to see his face. “But what if it’s a yes, I mean how can I go to the party if it’s a yes?”

Micah leaned over my shoulder, putting his face next to mine. “You don’t want to know,” he said, “because you’ll find it easier to pretend tonight, if you don’t know.”

I nodded, my cheek sliding against his.

“I’ll get the test,” Nathaniel said, “and we’ll use it later tonight, after the party. But we are getting one, or two, to take with us.” For someone who was supposed to be a submissive his voice held no compromise. It was simple fact.

“What if someone finds it in our stuff?” I asked.

“Anita, you’re going to have to tell Jean-Claude and Asher sometime,” Nathaniel said.

“Only if its positive,” I said.

He gave me a look, but nodded. “Okay, only if it’s positive.”

Positive. It seemed like such the wrong word. If I was pregnant it was definitely a negative. A really, big, scary negative.

End chapter two.

Chapter Three

I had a key to the new back door of the Circus of the Damned. No more waiting around for someone to let us inside. Yea.

I’d actually turned the key, and felt the lock click over, when the door started opening inward. Security was pretty good at the Circus of late, since we’d made a deal with the local wererats. But it wasn’t a wererat that opened the door; it was a werewolf.

Graham was tall enough and muscular enough to make it impossible to move through the door without brushing him. He stood for a moment looking down at me, at us, I guess, though it felt more personal than that. His perfectly straight black hair managed to fall decoratively over his brown eyes, and still be very, very short on the bottom, so the strong line of his neck was left bare and strangely tempting. His eyes tilted up at the edges, and I now knew that he had his Japanese mother’s eyes and hair, but the rest of him seemed to have been copied from his ex-navy, and very Nordic looking father.

Graham had been the only one of the lycanthropes I’d ever known, to have their parents visit his place of work. Since his usual job was security at Guilty Pleasures, a vampire and furry strip club, that had been an interesting night.

I thought for a moment Graham would stay in the door way and make me push past him. I think for a moment, so did he, but he finally moved back enough to give us some room. He was already dressed in what all the security would be wearing tonight; black slacks, black t-shirt, though the shirt should probably have been a size larger. The one he was wearing looked like it was having trouble holding on, as if one flex too many and it would shred.

I was actually in the storeroom with it’s boxes, and it’s harsh industrial lighting before I realized none of us had said, hi. It seemed a little late for that, but I was a girl. We can usually think of something to say.

“Been lifting heavier weights than normal?” I asked. “Yes.” And he gave me that smile that lately he’d been wasting on me, when he wasn’t scowling at me. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

I didn’t like the smile. It seemed to demand things from me that I wasn’t willing to give to Graham. Didn’t I have enough men in my life and my bed without adding anyone else? I thought so, but Graham didn’t.

He’d actually bunked over at my house a couple of times, and slept with us here at Jean-Claude’s place. I do mean slept. It was not a euphemism for more. But he’d made it very clear that he was hoping for more.

“Is everyone else ready to go, but us?” Micah asked. Graham turned to him, and gave a little bow mostly from the neck. I think it was a partial apology for ignoring him. Micah was one of the animal kings in this town, which meant you did not disrespect him, unless you meant to disrespect him. “Yes, Nimir-raj.” Graham grinned.

“Though, some of the vampires haven’t been ready very long. You’re not as late as you think you are.” The look on his face said that we’d missed some amusing, though probably frantic preparations. Just as well, I was frantic enough without anyone else’s problems.

He gave a belated hello to Nathaniel, though I wasn’t sure he minded. Nathaniel wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about the tall werewolf. Yet another reason that Graham wasn’t on my short list.

It occurred to me as we followed him to the inner door with it’s heavier lock, that if I had given into Graham’s hints I’d have him on the list of would-be fathers for my would-be baby.

I was suddenly cold, and my stomach did that tight squeezing thing it does when you’ve had a truly awful thought. There was nothing wrong with Graham, other than the fact that I barely knew him, and I suspected he wanted to be my lover for a while, but not forever. I wasn’t much into men that weren’t long term planners. I was very, very glad that I’d stood firm with Graham, as he led the way down the stone steps that led into the underground. Let’s hear it for morals, or at least some semblance of standards.

Nathaniel took my elbow, and it made me jump. “You okay?” he asked softly.

I shook my head. I was glad I was still in jogging shoes on the oddly spaced stone steps. There were a lot of steps, and they all seemed spaced for something that didn’t walk upright, or at least didn’t walk like a human being.

I leaned into him for a moment, let him hug me one armed. We had the pregnancy test tucked into the over night bag, he was carrying. It held not only his stuff, but mine. Due to needing dress shoes for all of us, and some other dressy bits from home, Micah was also carrying a small suitcase. Normally, we came with no luggage. There were extra toothbrushes and underwear to be had. There were even extra clothes to be borrowed. Jean- Claude had tried to get me to leave outfits over here, but I found it confusing to have entire outfits travel back and forth. I kept leaving the only blouse that matched something at the place I wasn’t staying. I was either going to have to buy pieces that mixed and matched better, or stop sleeping away from home quite so often. Since the sleeping over part wasn’t likely to change, it meant I’d have to go shopping soon. Jean-Claude had offered to have a wardrobe designed and made for me, that would solve the problem, but I was a little afraid of what he might “design”. He and I didn’t always agree on clothing.

Nathaniel finished hugging me, but kept my hand in his, as we went down the steps. Once upon a time I’d minded having a man hang onto me, but not tonight. Tonight I held his hand tight, as if the touch of it were a lifeline. How was I going to get through the night without breaking down? Normally I’d have bet on me to hold myself together no matter what was happening, but not tonight, not about . . . We had a pregnancy test with us. I realized when Nathaniel came out with it, why I had never quite gotten around to getting one earlier in the day. Buying the test made it more real, more possible. Damnit, but it did.

Graham waited for us at the landing where the stairs made a blind turn. His face fought not to frown at me as I walked hand in hand with Nathaniel. It wasn’t the sharing me with another man part, he was already doing that with Meng Die and at least two other men. No, his problem was about the fact that Nathaniel wasn’t very dominant. The werewolves, and most of the wereanimals, operated on the strongest, the meanest, the toughest get the best. You did not win points in the local werewolf pack by being kind, or patient, or a good cook. Graham just couldn’t wrap his head around why I preferred someone like Nathaniel to someone like him. Him being stronger, tougher, meaner, taller. Graham had a pretty high opinion of himself and just couldn’t understand why I preferred my men prettier rather than tougher. I’d tried to explain it to him, but finally given up. I’d told him that I loved Nathaniel, and he, Graham, didn’t need to understand why. He just had to accept that it was true, and move on.

He’d accepted that I loved who I loved, but the look on his face as he watched us, showed clearly that he hadn’t understood. I suspected, strongly, that Graham had never really been in love. Until you have been, at least once, you really can’t understand it. You can lust after people you don’t love, or, I’m told, love people you don’t lust after, but love and lust have only one thing in common. They are both four letter words beginning with ‘L’.

Micah moved past him, but Graham just kept standing, looking back at Nathaniel and me. The look on his face was way too serious for comfort. We ran out of steps and came even with him. He sighed. “I have a message from Jean-Claude.” His tone alone said he knew I was going to like it.

“What kind of message?” I asked, and didn’t try and keep the suspicion out of my voice.

Micah came back around the corner, a question in his eyes. I shrugged. I didn’t have any answers.

Graham said, “There are two masters of the city downstairs in the livingroom.” He said it flat and empty, as if that would make it better, or as if he didn’t know what tone to give so he gave it nothing.

I frowned at him. “Why are there two masters of the city in the livingroom. I’m assuming you’re not counting Jean-Claude as one of them.”

He shook his head.

“Then why are there, Graham? Why aren’t they at Danse Macabre, waiting for us, with the other masters?”

“Jean-Claude said,” and here, Graham, closed his eyes, as if he were remembering, “These two masters are, or were at one time, my friends.”

That made me raise an eyebrow. The older vamps didn’t use the word ‘friend’ lightly.

Graham continued his message, eyes still closed, “They have also offered the greatest bounty to your search for a new pomme de sang. I thought there would be time to speak with them before the party.” He opened his eyes. “I don’t think he expected you to be this late.”

“I thought you said, that until minutes ago most of the vamps weren’t ready either.”

He sighed again. “They weren’t, but I think Jean- Claude planned on you and he and Asher getting dressed first and visiting with these guys.”

“Why didn’t you give me the message up top? Why wait until now?”

He looked at me, his eyes peeking through the silky fringe of his overly long bangs. It always made me think of an animal peering at me through the grass. The upper layer hadn’t been this long when I met him.

“What, Graham, what?” I asked, because he just kept looking at me.

“I knew you wouldn’t like seeing any of them early. I didn’t want to be the one who gave you bad news. You’re

already mad at me. I didn’t want to make it worse.” “I am not mad at you, Graham.”

“If you’re not mad at me, then why don’t you like me better?”

“I don’t dislike you, Graham, I just don’t want to fuck you. I’m allowed not to fuck you, just because you want to fuck me.”

“Don’t fuck me then, just feed the arduer off of me. Feed it the way you fed off of Nathaniel for months without intercourse.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to introduce the passion of the arduer to someone I’m not keeping. It’s cruel.”

“The arduer is like the greatest orgasmic experience that any of the vampire lines can give to a mortal,” Graham’s face was full of such eagerness, his hands reaching out to the air as if he’d draw the arduer out of it, and hug it to him. “I just want to know what it feels like. The real deal, not the little tastes I’ve had by accident. Why is that wrong, Anita? Why is it wrong to want that?”

“She’s afraid you’ll become addicted,” Micah said, voice soft.

Graham shook his head. “I’ve never been addicted to anything in my life.”

“Lucky you,” Nathaniel said.

“Please, Anita, don’t go to strangers to feed the arduer. To feed the hunger that you inherited from Jean- Claude. Don’t go to strangers when there are people right here that would do almost anything to feed your need.”

I made an exasperated sound, that was almost a scream of frustration, and moved past him. I left him on the landing because I didn’t know what else to say to him. I hadn’t known what to say to him for days now.

Graham had been one of the local men that Jean- Claude had encouraged me to “interview” as my new pomme de sang. Jean-Claude thought that if I’d “interview” them a little more intimately, that I’d have a new pomme by now. He’d called me stubborn. Asher had called me foolish, to refuse to try such bounty. Maybe it was foolish. I hadn’t told Ronnie that all the men in my life had given me a short list of other men to “try-out”. She’d have freaked even worse than she already had, because if Louie had been that generous with her, she’d have been a happy camper. But Ronnie wasn’t me, and what might make her happy, just seemed to confuse me.

I heard Graham hurrying behind us, but he didn’t try for more talk. He moved past us to get the heavy metal door that led into the inner sanctum. He opened the door for us without another word, or even a glance. He had his bodyguard face on, the one that was all business, and made him one of the best of the wolves for security work. When he was concentrating on his job, he was actually pretty good at it. The trouble was that he kept getting distracted. A bodyguard that is more interested in having sex with you than guarding you is no bodyguard at all.

Clay was just inside the door. He was as tall as Graham, but his hair was blond and curly and careless. Where Graham took time and attention with his appearance, Clay just didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t sloppy, just comfortable. He was wearing the same black on black outfit, but he’d put black jogging shoes with his slacks instead of dress shoes. He looked good, but a little uncomfortable out of jeans. I sympathized, or would soon.

Clay had been on the vampire’s list for pomme de sang. But after one night of sharing a bed, I’d let him go back to the bed he wanted to sleep in. He fucked and slept with Meng Die when she wasn’t entertaining someone else. He had made it clear to her that he wanted to be her pomme de sang. He came to my bed because he was ordered to, not because he wanted to. I’d just told Jean-Claude that Clay didn’t do it for me, and he’d gone back to Meng Die. Though she didn’t treat Clay like a beloved mistress, more like someone she liked to fuck, but wasn’t sure she wanted to keep. But it was where Clay wanted to be, and if that was what he wanted, then who was I to bitch. At least he hadn’t gotten upset about being sent back to the minor leagues. Graham had, and Requiem had. Byron was upset, but not because he couldn’t have me. He liked boys more than girls, and kicking him out of my bed meant he didn’t get as close to Jean-Claude and Asher and Nathaniel and Micah, and . . . well, you get the idea.

Since I hadn’t found a new pomme among the locals Jean-Claude and Elinore, one of our new British vamps, had come up with an idea. A wonderfully, awful idea. Since masters of the city were coming from all over the United States for the party and the ballet, why didn’t we have a sort of contest. The masters could bring some candidates for my new pomme de sang.

I’d said, no, at first, but they’d convinced me that I could just turn them all down. But it was a way to get them to behave better while they were visiting us. I mean, if you’re looking at what amounts to your new in- laws, you mind your manners. I couldn’t argue with the reasoning, but it meant that I felt like a piece of prize beef, or would be cheesecake?

I’d told them all, “I’m just not the Cinderella type.”

Nathaniel’s reply had been, “But you’re not Cinderella, Anita, you’re the prince. You’re Prince Charming.”

Well, I guess if you have to choose between being the princess who is trying to catch the prince’s eye, or the prince who doesn’t want to be caught, prince was better. Or at least that’s what I told myself as Clay led us through the drapes that formed the walls of the livingroom.

The first of the “princesses” were in the that room, waiting to meet their “prince”. Eeek.

End Of Chapter Three

Sorry! That’s it for chapters one, two and three. See your favorite bookseller to read the rest of the story.

The Harlequin

by
Laurell K. Hamilton

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/TheHarlequinChapterOne.html

http://www.laurellkhamilton.org/Anita/TheHarlequinChapterSix.html

Copyrighted to Laurell K. Hamilton

Book 15 of the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter Series

***This one is a bit different than the rest of the chapters available from www.laurellkhamilton.org. The others have multiple chapters, but they are consecutive, starting at one and going as high as four. The Harlequin, however, has chapters one and six available.***

Chapter One

Malcolm, the head of the Church of Eternal life, the vampire church, sat across from me. He’d never been in my office before. In fact, the last time I’d seen him, he’d accused me of doing black magic, and being a whore. I’d also killed one of his congregation members on church grounds in front of him and the rest of his congregation. The dead vamp had been a serial killer. I’d had a court order of execution, but still, it hadn’t made Malcolm and me buddies.

I sat behind my desk, sipping coffee from my newest Christmas themed mug. A little girl sat on Santa’s lap saying “Define good.” I worked hard every year to find the most offensive mug I could so that Bert, our business manager, could throw a fit. It had become one of my holiday traditions. I’d at least dressed for the season in red skirt and jacket. The shirt was blue, instead of green, but it was still very festive, for me. I had a new gun in my shoulder holster. A friend of mine had finally persuaded me to give up my Browning Hi-Power for something that fit my hand a little better. The Browning was at home in the gun safe, and the Heckler and Koch P200 was in the holster. I felt like I was cheating.

Once upon a time, I’d thought Malcolm handsome, but that had been when his vampire tricks worked on me. Without vampire wiles to cloud my perception, Malcolm was good looking in a way, but not handsome. His bone structure was too rough, almost as if it hadn’t quite gotten smoothed out before they put that pale skin on it. His hair was cut short and had a little curl to it, because to take the curl out of it he’d had to have shave it. The hair was a bright, bright, canary yellow. It’s what blond hair does if you take it out of the sun for a few hundred years. He looked at me with his blue eyes, and smiled, and the smile filled his face with personality. That same personality that made his Sunday morning television program such a hit. It wasn’t magic, it was just him. Charisma for lack of a better word. There was force to Malcolm that had nothing to do with vampire powers and everything to do with who he was, not what he was. He’d have been a leader and a mover of men even if he’d been alive.

The smile softened his features, filled his face with that zeal that was both compelling, and frightening. He was a true believer, head of a church of true believers. The whole idea of a vampire church still creeped me out, but it was the fastest growing denomination in the country.

“I was surprised to see your name on my appointment book, Malcolm,” I said, finally.

“I understand that, Ms. Blake. I am almost equally surprised to be here.”

“Fine, we’re both surprised. Why are you here?”

“I suspect you have, or will soon have, a warrant of execution for a member of my church.”

I managed to keep my face blank, but felt the stiffness in my shoulders. He’d see the reaction, and he’d know what it meant. Master vampires don’t miss much. “You have a lot of members, Malcolm, could you narrow it down a little. Who exactly are we talking about?”

“Don’t be coy, Ms. Blake.”

“I’m not being coy.”

“You’re trying to insinuate that you have a warrant for more than one of my vampires. I do not believe it, and neither do you.”

I should have felt insulted, because I wasn’t lying. Two of his up-standing vamps had been very naughty. “If your vampires were fully blood-oathed to you, you’d know I was telling the truth, because you’d be able to enforce your moral code in entirely new ways.”

A blood-oath was what a vamp did when he joined a new vampire group, a new kiss. He literally took blood from the Master of the City. It meant the master had a lot more control over them and the lesser vamps gained in power, too. If their master was powerful enough. A weak master wasn’t much help, but Jean-Claude, St. Louis’s master of the city and my sweetie, wasn’t weak. Of course, the master gained power from the oath, as well. The more powerful vamp they could oath, the more they gained. Like so many vampire powers it was a two way street.

“I do not want to enforce my moral code. I want my people to choose to be good people,” Malcolm said.

“Until your congregation is blood-oathed to some master vampire, they are loose cannons, Malcolm. You control them by force of personality and morality. Vampires only understand fear, and power.”

“How can you say that? You are the lover of at least two vampires, Ms. Blake. How can you say that, and mean it?”

I shrugged. “Maybe because I am dating two vampires.”

“If that is what being Jean-Claude’s human servant has taught you, Ms. Blake, then it is sad things he is teaching you.”

“He is the Master of the City of St. Louis, Malcolm, not you. You, and your church, go unmolested by his tolerance.”

“I go unmolested because the Church grew powerful under the previous master of the city, and by the time Jean-Claude rose to power, we were hundreds. He did not have the power to bring me, and my people to heel.”

I sipped coffee and thought about my next answer, because I couldn’t argue with him. He was probably right. “Regardless of how we got where we are, Malcolm, you have several hundred vampires in this city. Jean-Claude let you have them because he thought you were blood-oathing them. We learned in October that you aren’t. Which means that the vamps with you are cut off from an awful lot of their potential power. I’m okay with that, I guess. Their choice, if they understand that it is a choice, but no blood-oath means that they are not mystically tied to anyone but the vamp that made them. You, I’m told do the deed, most of the time. Though the church deacons do recruit sometimes.”

“How our church is organized is not your concern.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is.”

“Do you serve Jean-Claude now, when you say that, or is it as a federal marshal that you criticize me?” He narrowed those blue eyes. “I do not think the federal government knows or understands enough of vampires to care whether I blood-oath my people.”

“Blood-oathing makes sure the vamps don’t do things behind the back for the master.”

“Blood-oathing takes away their free will, Ms. Blake.”

“Maybe, but I’ve seen the damage they can do with their free will. A good master of the city can guarantee that there is no crime among his people.”

“They are his slaves,” Malcolm said.

I shrugged, and sat back in my chair. “Are you here to talk about the warrant, or to talk about the deadline Jean-Claude gave your church?”

“Both.”

“Jean-Claude has given you and your church members their choices, Malcolm. Either you blood oath them, or Jean-Claude does. Or they can move to another city to be blood oathed there, but it has to be done.”

“It is a choice of who they would be slaves to, Ms. Blake. It is no choice at all.”

“Jean-Claude was generous, Malcolm. By vampire law he could have just killed you and your entire congregation.”

“And how would the law, how would you, as a federal marshal, have felt about such slaughter?”

“Are you saying that my being a federal marshal limits Jean-Claude’s options?”

“He values your love, Anita, and you would not love a man that could slaughter my followers.”

“You don’t add yourself to that list, why?”

“You are a legal vampire executioner, Anita. If I broke human law, you would kill me yourself. You would not fault Jean-Claude for doing the same if I broke vampiric law.”

“You think I’d just let him kill you?”

“I think you would kill me for him, if you felt justified.”

A small part of me wanted to argue, but he was right. I’d been grandfathered in like most of the vamp executioners that had two or more years on the job and could pass the firearms test. The idea was making us federal marshals was the quickest way to grant us the ability to cross state lines and to control us more. The crossing state lines and having a badge was great; I wasn’t sure how controlled we were. Of course, I was the only vampire hunter that was also dating their Master of the City. Most saw it as a conflict of interest. Frankly, so did I, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

“You do not argue with me,” Malcolm said.

“I can’t decide if you think I’m a civilizing influence on Jean-Claude, or a bad one.”

“I saw you once as his victim, Anita. Now I am no longer certain who is the victim, and who the victimizer.”

“Should I be offended?”

He just looked at me.

“The last time I was in your church you called me evil, and accused me of black magic. You called Jean-Claude immoral, and me his whore, or something like that.”

“You were trying to take away one of my people to be killed with no trail. You shot him to death on the church grounds.”

“He was a serial killer. I had an order of execution for everyone involved in those crimes.”

“All the vampires, you mean.”

“Are you implying that humans or shapeshifters were involved?”

“No, but if they had been, you would never have been allowed to shoot them to death with the police helping you do it.”

“I’ve had warrants for shapeshifters before.”

“But those are rare, Anita, and there are no orders of execution for humans.”

“The death penalty still exists, Malcolm.”

“After a trial, and years of appeals, if you are human.”

“What do you want from me, Malcolm?”

“I want justice.”

“The law isn’t about justice, Malcolm, it’s about the law.”

“She did not do the crime she is accused of, as our wandering brother Avery Seabrook was innocent of the crime you sought him for.” He called any of his church group that joined Jean-Claude, wanderers. The fact that Avery, the vampire, had a last name meant he was very recently dead, and that he was an American vampire. Vampires only had one name like Madonna, or Cher, and only one vamp per country could have that name. Duels were fought over the right to use names. Until now, until America. We had vampires with last names, unheard of.

“I cleared Avery. Legally, I didn’t have to.”

“No, you could have shot him dead, found out your mistake later, and suffered nothing under the law.”

“I did not write this law, Malcolm, I just carry it out.”

“Vampires did not write this law either, Anita.”

“That’s true, but no human could have mesmerized other humans so that they helped in their own kidnappings. Humans couldn’t fly off with their victims in their arms.”

“And that justifies slaughtering us?”

I shrugged again. I was going to leave this argument alone because I’d begun to not like that part of my job. I didn’t think vampires were monsters anymore, it made killing them harder. It made executing them when they couldn’t fight back monstrous with me as the monster.

“What do you want me to do, Malcolm? Sally Hunter’s has a warrant with her name on it. Witnesses saw her leave the dead woman’s apartment. The woman died by vampire attack. I know it wasn’t any of Jean-Claude’s vampires. That leaves yours.” Hell, I had her driver’s liscene picture in the file with the warrant. I have to admit that having a picture to go with it made me feel more like an assassin. A picture so I’d get the right one.

“Are you so certain of that?”

I blinked at him, the slow blink that gave me time to think, but didn’t look like I was thinking furiously.

“What are you trying to say, Malcolm? I’m not good at subtle, just tell me what you came to say.”

“Something powerful, someone powerful, came to my church last week. They hid themselves. I could not find them in the new faces of my congregation, but I know that someone powerful, immensely powerful was there.” He leaned forward, his calm exterior cracking round the edges. “Do you understand how powerful they would have to be for me to sense them, use all my powers to search the room for them, yet not be able to find them?”

I thought about it. Malcolm was no master of the city, but he was probably in the top five of the most powerful vampires in town. Maybe higher, if he wasn’t so terribly moral. It limited him in some ways.

I licked my lips, careful of the lipstick, and nodded. “Did they want you to know they were there, or was that part an accident?”

He actually showed surprise for a moment before he got control of his face. He played human too much for the media, he was beginning to loose that stillness of features that the old ones have. “I don’t know,” and even his voice was no longer smooth.

“Did the vamp do it to taunt you, or was it arrogance?”

He shook his head. “I do not know.”

I had a moment of revelation. “You came here because you think Jean-Claude should know, but you can’t let your congregation see you going to the Master of the City. It would undermine your whole free will thing.”

He settled back into his chair, fighting to keep the anger off his face, and failing. He was even more scared than I thought, for him to be loosing it this badly in front of someone he disliked. Hell, he’d come to me for help. He was desperate.

“But you can come to me as a federal marshal, and tell me. Because you know I’ll tell Jean-Claude.”

“Think what you like, Ms. Blake.”

We weren’t on first name basis anymore. I’d hit it on the head. “A big, bad, vamp checks your church out. You aren’t vampire enough to smoke him out, and you come to me, to Jean-Claude and all his immoral power structure. You come to the very people you say you hate.”

He stood up. “The crime that Sally is accused of, happened less than twenty-four hours after he, it, they, came to my church. I do not think that is a coincidence.” “I’m not lying about the second order of execution, Malcolm. Its in my desk drawer, right now, with a driver’s liscene picture of the vampire in question.”

He sat back down. “What name is one it?”

“Why so you can warn . . . them?” I’d almost said, she, because it was another female vamp.

“My people are not perfect, Ms. Blake, but I believe that another vampire has come to town and is framing them.” “Why, why would someone do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“No one has bothered Jean-Claude or his people.”

“I know,” Malcolm said.

“Without a true master, a true blood-oathed, mystically connected, master, your congregation are just sheep waiting for the wolves to come get them.”

“Jean-Claude said as much a month ago.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“I thought at first that it was one of the new vampires that has joined Jean-Claude. One of the ones from Europe, but it is not. It is something more powerful than that. Or it is a group of vampires combining their powers through their master’s marks. I have felt such power only once before.”

“When?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We are forbidden to speak of it, on penalty of death. Only if they contact us directly can we break this silence.”

“It sounds like you’ve already been contacted,” I said.

He shook his head, again. “They are tampering with me, and my people, because technically, I am outside normal vampire law. Did Jean-Claude report to the Council that my church had not blood oathed any of it’s followers?”

I nodded. “Yes, he did.”

He put his big hands over his face, and leaned over his knees, almost as if he was faint. He whispered, “I feared as much.”

“Okay, Malcolm, you’re moving too fast for me here. What does Jean-Claude reporting to the council have to do with some group of powerful vamps messing with your church?”

He looked at me, but his eyes had gone gray with worry. “Tell him what I have told you. He will understand.”

“But I don’t.”

“I have until New Year’s Day to give Jean-Claude my answer about the blood-oathing. He has been generous and patient, but there are those among the council that are neither of those things. I had hoped they would be proud of what I had accomplished. I thought it would please them, but I fear now that the council is not ready to see my brave new world of free will.”

“Free will is for humans, Malcolm. The preternatural community is about control.”

He stood again. “You have almost complete discretion on how the warrant is executed, Anita, will you use some of that discretion to find the truth before you kill my followers?”

I stood up. “I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I would not ask that. I ask only that you look for the truth before it is too late for Sally, and my other follower, whose name you will not even give me.” He sighed. “I have not sent Sally running out of town, why would I warn the other?”

“You came through the door knowing Sally was in trouble, I’m not helping you figure the other bad guy out.” “It is a man then?”

I just looked at him, glad that I could give full eye contact. It had always been so hard to do the tough stare back when I couldn’t look a vamp in the eyes.

He straightened his shoulders as if only now aware that he was slumping. “You won’t even give me that, will you? Please tell Jean-Claude what I have told you. I should have come to you immediately. I thought morals kept me from running to the very power structure I despise, but it wasn’t morals, it was sin; the sin of pride. I hope that my pride has not cost more of my followers their lives.” He went for the door.

I called after him. “Malcolm.”

He turned.

“How big an emergency is this?” “Big.” “Will a couple of hours make a difference?”

He thought about it. “Perhaps, why do you ask?”

“I won’t be seeing Jean-Claude tonight. I just wanted to know if I should call him, give him a head’s up.”

“Yes, by all means, give him his head’s up.” He frowned at me. “Why would you not see your master tonight, Anita? Aren’t you living with him?”

“Actually, no, I stay over at his place about half the week, but I’ve got my own place still.”

“Will you be killing more of my kindred tonight?”

I shook my head.

“Then you will raise my other colder brethren. Who’s blissful death will you disturb tonight, Anita? Who’s zombie will you raise so some human can get their inheritance, or a wife can be consoled?”

“No zombies tonight,” I said. I was too puzzled by his attitude on the zombies to be insulted. I’d never heard a vampire claim any kinship with zombies, or ghouls, or anything but other vamps.

“Then what will keep you from your master’s arms?”

“I’ve got a date, not that it’s any of your business.”

“But not a date with Jean-Claude, or Asher?”

I shook my head.

“Your wolf king then, Richard?”

I shook my head, again.

“Who would you abandon those three for, Anita. Ah, your leopard king, Micah.”

“Wrong again.”

“I am amazed that you are answering my questions.”

“So am I, actually, I think it’s because you keep calling me a whore, and I think I want to rub your face in it.”

“What, the fact that you are a whore?” His face showed nothing when he said it.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” I said.

“Do what, Ms. Blake?”

“I knew you couldn’t play nice long enough to get my help. I knew if I kept at you, you’d get snotty and mean.”

He gave a small bow, just from the neck. “I told you, Ms. Blake, my sin is pride.”

“And what’s my sin, Malcolm?”

“Do you want me to insult you, Ms. Blake?”

“I just want to hear you say it.”

“Why?”

“Why not,” I said.

“Very well, your sin is lust, Ms. Blake, as it is the sin of your master and all his vampires.”

I shook my head, and felt that unpleasant smile curl my lips. The smile that left my eyes cold, and usually meant I was well and truly pissed. “That’s not my sin, Malcolm, not the one nearest and dearest to my heart.” “And what would your sin be, Ms. Blake?”

“Wrath, Malcolm, it’s wrath.”

“Are you saying I’ve made you angry?”

“I’m always angry, Malcolm, you just gave me a target to focus it on.”

“Do you envy anyone, Ms. Blake?”

I thought about it, then shook my head. “Not really, no.”

“I will not ask about Sloth, you work entirely too hard for that to be an issue. You are not greedy, nor a glutton. Are you prideful?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

“Wrath, lust, and pride, then?”

I nodded. “I guess, if we’re keeping score.”

“Oh, someone is keeping score, Ms. Blake, never doubt that.”

“I’m Christian, too, Malcolm.”

“Do you worry about getting into Heaven, Ms. Blake?”

It was such an odd question that I answered it. “I did, for awhile, but my faith still makes my cross glow. My prayers still have the power to chase the evil things away. God hasn’t forsaken me, just all the right wing fundamentalist Christians want to believe he has. I’ve seen evil, Malcolm real evil, and you aren’t that.”

He smiled, and it was gentle, and almost embarrassed. “Have I come to you for absolution, Ms. Blake?”

“I don’t think I’m the one to give you absolution.” “I would like a priest to hear my sins before I die, Ms. Blake, but none will come near me. They are holy, and the very trappings of their calling will burst into flames at my presence.”

“Not true. The holy items only go off if the true believer panics, or if you try vampire powers on them.”

He blinked at me, and I realized his eyes held unshed tears, shimmering in the over head lights. “Is this true, Ms. Blake?”

“I promise it is.” His attitude was beginning to make me afraid for him. I didn’t want to be afraid for Malcolm. I had enough people in my life that I cared for enough to worry about; I did not need to add the undead Billy Graham to my list.

“Do you know any priests that might be willing to hear a very long confession?”

“I might, though I don’t know if they’re allowed to give you absolution since technically in the eyes of the church you’re already dead. You have ties to a lot of the religious community, Malcolm, surely one of the other leaders would be willing.”

“I do not want to ask them, Anita. I do not want them to know my sins. I would rather . . .” he hesitated, then spoke, but I was pretty sure, it wasn’t the sentence he started to use, “quietly, I would rather it be done quietly.”

“Why the sudden need for confession and absolution?”

“I am still a believer, Ms. Blake, being a vampire has not changed that. I wish to die absolved of my sins.” “Why are you expecting to die?”

“Tell Jean-Claude what I have told you about the stranger, or strangers in my church. Tell him about my desire for a priest to hear my confession. He will understand.”

“Malcolm . . .”

He kept walking, but stopped with his hand on the door. “I take back what I said, Ms. Blake, I am not sorry I came. I am only sorry I did not come days ago.” With that he walked out, and closed the door softly behind him.

I sat down at my desk and called Jean-Claude. I had no idea what was going on, but something was up, something big. Something bad.

End Of Chapter One

Chapter Six

I opened that tie I had to Jean-Claude. Opened it, and thought, where are you? I felt him, or saw him, or some other word that they hadn’t invented yet, for seeing and feeling what someone else was doing in another room that you couldn’t see, or know about. He was on stage, using that voice of his to announce an act.

I drew back enough to be solidly on Nathaniel’s arm. Sometimes when I tried mind to mind stuff, I had trouble walking. “Jean-Claude is on stage, so we’ll go in the front.”

“Whatever you say,” he said.

Once, in our relationship, he’d meant that. He’d been my little submissive wereleopard. I’d worked long and hard to make him more, to force him to be more demanding. Try to do a good deed, and it bites you on the ass.

The bouncer at the door was tall, blond, and way too cheerful for the job. Clay was one of Richard’s werewolves, and when he wasn’t body guarding someone, he worked security here. Clay’s gift was avoiding fights. He was really good at calming things down. A much more useful ability for a bouncer than brute strength. Last week Clay had been helping guard my body. No pun intended. There’d been a metaphysical accident, and it had looked for awhile like I’d be turning into a wereanimal for real, so I’d had different lycanthropes with me, so that whatever I changed into, I was covered. But I had gotten some control over it all, and it looked like I still wasn’t going to turn furry. Clay had been one of my watch-wolves. He was happy to be off the duty. I scared Clay. He was afraid the arduer would make him my sexual slave. Okay, he didn’t say that exactly. Maybe it was just me projecting my terrors on him. Maybe.

His smile slipped a little when he saw me, his face going all serious. He gave me a hard look as he said, “How’s it going, Anita?” He wasn’t just being polite, as afraid as he was of some of my metaphysical abilities; he’d been convinced it wasn’t a good idea to take all my guards off duty. He thought it was too soon.

“I’m fine, Clay.”

He peered at me, leaning that six foot frame down to my five foot three. He studied me, as the crowd behind us grew to four. His gaze went to Nathaniel. “Has she really been fine?”

“She’s been fine.”

Clay stood up straight, and motioned us through. He looked positively suspicious as he did it though.

“Honest,” Nathaniel whispered as we went by, “not a twinge of anything furry.”

Clay nodded and turned to the next group. He was the gate keeper tonight. We entered in the permanent dimness of the club. The noise was soft, murmurous, like the sea. The music picked up, and the crowd noise was both drowned out, and got louder. The murmur of it was drowned out with the rise of the music, but the screams and yells of encouragement were louder.

The woman behind the coat area came out, smiling. “Crosses aren’t allowed in the club.”

I’d forgotten I was wearing one outside my clothes; usually I just tucked it out of sight, and got to avoid the holy-item-check-girl.

I spilled the cross inside my sweater. “Sorry, forgot.”

“I’m sorry, but just hiding it isn’t enough. I’ll give you a claim check just like for a coat.”

Great she was new, and didn’t know me. “Call Jean-Claude over, or Buzz, I get a pass on this one.”

Nathaniel took off his hat and gave her a grin. Even in the dim light I could see her blush. “Brandon,” she breathed, “I didn’t recognize you.”

“I’m in disguise,” he said, and gave her that look that was part mischief, part flirting.

“Is she with you?”

I was holding onto his arm, of course we were together. But I stood there and was quiet. Nathaniel would handle it. Me, yelling at her wouldn’t help things. Honest.

Nathaniel leaned over, and whispered, “Sheila thinks you’re a fan that just grabbed me at the door.”

Oh. I gave her a real smile. “Sorry, I’m his girl friend.”

Nathaniel nodded to confirm it, as if women claimed to be his girlfriend all the time. It made me look at his smiling, peaceful face, and wonder how many over zealous fans he had. How weird did it get?

Sheila leaned into us to whisper over the rising music. “Sorry, but Jean-Claude’s orders are that just because you’re dating a dancer, the holy item still doesn’t get inside.”

On one hand, it was good that she was good at her job. On the other hand, it was beginning to irritate me.

Two of the black shirted security people came over to us. I think the hat and coat fooled them, too. They didn’t act like they recognized either one of us. Lisandro was tall, dark, handsome, with shoulder length hair tied back in a pony tail. He was a wererat, which meant somewhere on him was a gun. A quick glance didn’t show it under the black t-shirt and jeans, so it was probably at the small of his back. The wererats were mostly ex-military, ex-police, or had never been on the ‘right’ side of the law. They always went armed.

The other security guy was taller, and way more muscled. The weight-lifting meant he was probably a werehyena. Their leader had a thing for weight-lifters.

“Anita,” Lisandro said, “what’s the hold up?”

“She wants my cross.”

He looked at Sheila. “She’s Jean-Claude’s human servant. She gets a pass.”

The woman actually blushed and apologized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, and you being with Brandon. I . . .”

I held up a hand. “It’s okay; really, just let us get out of the doorway.” There was a crowd behind us, that went out the door. Clay was peeking inside, wondering what was happening.

Lisandro helped us ease through the room away from the door, but not quite to the tables, closer to the drink area. I would have said bar area, but they weren’t allowed to serve liquor. Yet another of the interesting zoning laws about strip clubs on this side of the river.

The weight-lifter stayed near the door to help sort the crowd with Sheila.

I could finally see who was dancing to the music. Byron was near the end of his act because he was down to a very small g-string. It left the pale, muscled body very bare. His short brown hair, curled haphazardly as if some of his customers had mussed it. A woman was stuffing money down the front of the g-string. I felt him use a small slap of power to capture her just enough with his eyes, to keep her hand out of his pants. It skirted the edge of legal, but the vamps had found that a tiny bit of control could keep them from getting hurt on stage. I’d seen bloody nail marks, and even a few bite marks on Nathaniel and Jason. It was a lot more dangerous to strip for women than for men, apparently. All the dancers agreed that men behaved themselves better.

Byron writhed around the eager circle of women that had surrounded the front of the stage. He laughed, and joked. They ran hands over his body, and rained money down on his skin. I’d had sex with him once, to feed the arduer. We’d both enjoyed it, but Byron and I both agreed that it wasn’t our cup of tea. That each other wasn’t our cup of tea. Besides, the weight-lifting helped him pass for eighteen, but he’d died at fifteen. Yeah, he was several hundred years old, but his body wasn’t. His body was still that of an athletic teenager. I was still disturbed by the fact that I’d had sex with him. Also, Byron preferred men to women. He’d do bisexual, if it came his way, but he was one of the few men that spent more time ogling my boyfriends than me. I found that disturbing, too.

Jean-Claude was standing near the back of the stage, lost in shadow, letting Byron have his limelight. Jean-Claude turned to look at me. His pale face lost in the darkness of his hair and clothes. He breathed through my mind, “Await me in my office, Ma petite.”

Lisandro leaned over and whisper-shouted over the music, “Jean-Claude said to take you through to the office.”

“Just now?” I asked, puzzled, because to my knowledge no one but me should have heard it.

Lisandro gave me puzzled back, and shook his head. “No, after you called. He said to take you back to the office when you got here.”

I nodded, and let him lead us to the door. Nathaniel had kept his hat and coat on. He didn’t want to be recognized for several reasons. It was rude to distract the audience from Byron’s show, and ‘Brandon’ wasn’t working tonight. Lisandro unlocked the door, and ushered us through.

The door closed behind us, and it was blessedly quiet. The rear area wasn’t soundproof, but it was sound-muffled. I hadn’t realized how loud the music was until it stopped. Or maybe that was just how bad my nerves were tonight.

Lisandro led us down the hallway to the door on the left hand side. Jean-Claude’s office was it’s usual elegant black and white self. There was even an oriental screen in one corner that hid an emergency coffin. Sort of a vampire’s version of a roll away. Only the couch against the wall and the carpet were new. Asher and I had ruined the old stuff with sex that got so out of hand, I’d ended up in the hospital.

Lisandro closed the door and leaned against it, on this side. “You staying?” I asked.

He nodded. “Jean-Claude’s orders. He wants you to have bodyguards again.”

“When did he order that?”

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“Shit.”

“Did your beast try to rise again?” he asked.

I shook my head.

Nathaniel had sat the box on Jean-Claude’s black lacquer desk. He took off the hat and coat, and laid them on one of the two chairs in front of the desk. “I’ve got to get a lighter weight hat, if I’m going to keep using it for a disguise. The leather is just too warm.” He wiped a thin bead of sweat off his forehead.

“If your beast didn’t try and rise again, then why are you back to needing bodyguards?” Lisandro asked.

I opened my mouth, closed it. “I don’t know how much Jean-Claude will want you to know. I’m not even sure how much anyone is allowed to know.”

“About what?”

I shrugged. “I’ll tell you if I can.” “If you’re going to get me killed, can I at least know why?”

“I’ve never got you hurt before.”

“No, but we’ve lost two of our rats guarding you, An