Anita Blake 4 - Lunatic Cafe

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  " 'Tis the season," he said. He gave me a one-armed hug, quick like you'd give a friend, but his arm stayed over my shoulders. It was still early enough in our dating that touching each other was new, unexpected, exhilarating. We kept looking for excuses to touch each other. Trying to be nonchalant about it. Not fooling each other. Not sure we cared. I slipped my arm around his waist and leaned just a bit. It was my right arm. If we were attacked now, I'd never draw my gun in time. I stayed there for a minute thinking it just might be worth it. I moved around him, offering my left hand to him.

  I don't know if he caught a glimpse of the gun or just figured it out, but his eyes widened. He leaned close to me, whispering against my hair. "A gun here, at the Fox? You think the ushers will let you in?"

  "They did last time."

  He got a strange look on his face. "You always go armed?"

  I shrugged. "After dark, yes."

  His eyes were puzzled, but he let it go. Before this year I'd sometimes gone out after dark unarmed but it had been a rough year. A lot of different people had tried to kill me. I was small even for a woman. I jogged, lifted weights, had a black belt in judo, but I was still outclassed by most professional bad guys. They tended to also lift weights, know martial arts, and outweigh me by a hundred pounds or more. I couldn't arm-wrestle them, but I could shoot them.

  Also a lot of this year I'd been up against vampires, and other preternatural creepie-crawlies. They could lift large trucks with a single hand or worse. Silver bullets might not kill a vampire, but it certainly slowed them down. Enough for me to run like hell. To get away. To survive.

  Richard knew what I did for a living. He'd even seen some of the messy parts. But I still expected him to blow it. To start playing the male protector and bitch about the gun or something. It was almost a permanent tightness in my gut, waiting for this man to say something awful. Something that would ruin it, destroy it, hurt.

  So far, so good.

  The crowd started flowing towards the stairs, parting on either side to the corridors leading into the main theater. We shuffle-stepped with the crowd, holding hands to keep from being separated. Sure.

  Once free of the lobby, the crowd flowed towards the different aisles like water searching for the quickest route downstream. The quickest route was still pretty slow. I dug the tickets out of the pocket of my suit jacket. I didn't have a purse. There was a small brush, a lipstick, lipliner, eye shadow, ID, and my car keys stuffed in my coat pockets. My beeper was tucked in the front of my skirt, discreetly to one side. When not dressed up, I wore a fanny pack.

  The usher, an older woman with glasses, shone a tiny flashlight on our tickets. She took us to our seats, motioned us in, and went back up to assist the next group of helpless people. The seats were good, near the middle, sort of close to the stage. Close enough.

  Richard had scooted in to sit on my left without being asked. He's a quick study. It's one of the reasons we're still going out. That and the fact that I lust after his body something terrible.

  I spread my coat over the seat, spreading it out so it wouldn't be bulky. His arm snaked across my chair, fingers touching my shoulder. I fought the urge to lay my head on his shoulder. Too hokey, then thought, what the hell. I snuggled into the bend of his neck, just breathing in the scent of his skin. His aftershave was clean and sweet, but underneath was the smell of his skin, his flesh. It made it so the aftershave would never smell the same on anyone else. Frankly, without a drop of aftershave I loved the smell of Richard's neck.

  I straightened up, pulling just a little away from him. He looked at me questioningly. "Something wrong?"

  "Nice aftershave," I said. No need to confess that I'd had an almost irresistible urge to nibble his neck. It was too embarrassing.

  The lights dimmed and the music began. I'd never actually seen Guys and Dolls except in the movies. The one with Marlon Brando and Jean Simmons. Richard's idea of a date was caving, hiking, things that required your oldest clothes and a pair of good walking shoes. Nothing wrong with that. I like the outdoors, but I wanted to try a dress-up date. I wanted to see Richard in a suit and let him see me in something frillier than jeans. I was after all a girl, whether I liked to admit it or not.

  But having proposed the date, I didn't want to do the usual dipsy-duo of dinner and a movie. So I'd called up the Fox to see what was playing and asked Richard if he liked musicals. He did. Another point in his favor. Since it was my idea, I bought the tickets. Richard had not argued, not even to pay half. After all, I hadn't offered to pay for our last dinner. It hadn't occurred to me. I was betting paying for the tickets occurred to Richard, but he'd let it go. Good man.

  The curtain came up and the opening street scene paraded before us, bright colors, stylized, perfect and cheerful, and just what I needed. "The Fugue for Tinhorns" filled the bright stage and flowed out into the happy dark. Good music, humor, soon to be dancers, Richard's body next to mine, a gun under my arm. What more could a girl ask for?

  Chapter 3

  A trickle of people had slipped out before the end of the musical, to beat the crowd. I always stayed until the very end. It seemed unfair to slink away before you could applaud. Besides, I hated missing the end of anything. I was always convinced that the bit I'd miss would be the best part.

  We joined in enthusiastically with a standing ovation. I've never lived in any city that gives so many standing Os. Admittedly sometimes, like tonight, the show was wonderful, but I've seen people stand on productions that didn't deserve it. I don't stand unless I mean it.

  Richard sat back down after the lights came up. "I'd rather wait until the crowd thins out. If you don't mind." There was a look in his brown eyes that said he didn't think I would.

  I didn't. We'd driven separate cars. When we left the Fox, the evening was over. Apparently, neither of us wanted to leave. I knew I didn't.

  I leaned on the seats in front of us, gazing down at him. He smiled up at me, eyes gleaming with lust, if not love. I was smiling, too. Couldn't seem to help myself.

  "You know this is a very sexist musical," he said.

  I thought about that a moment, then nodded. "Yep."

  "But you like it?"

  I nodded.

  His eyes narrowed a bit, "I thought you might be offended."

  "I have better things to worry about than whether Guys and Dolls reflects a balanced worldview."

  He laughed—a short, happy sound. "Good. For a minute there I thought I'd have to get rid of my Rodgers and Hammerstein collection."

  I studied his face, trying to decide if he was teasing me. I didn't think so. "You really collect Rodgers and Hammerstein sound tracks?"

  He nodded, eyes bright with laughter.

  "Just Rodgers and Hammerstein, or all musicals?"

  "I don't have them all, but all."

  I shook my head.

  "What's wrong?"

  "You're a romantic."

  "You make it sound like a bad thing."

  "That happy-ever-after shit is fine on stage, but it doesn't have a lot to do with life."

  It was his turn to study my face. Evidently, he didn't like what he saw, because he frowned. "This date was your idea. If you don't approve of all this happy stuff, why'd you bring me?"

  I shrugged. "After I asked you on a dress-up date, I didn't know where to take you. I didn't want to do the usual. Besides, I like musicals. I just don't think they reflect reality."

  "You're not as tough as you pretend to be."

  "Yes," I said, "I am."

  "I don't believe that. I think you like that happy-ever-after shit as much as I do. You're just afraid to believe in it anymore."

  "Not afraid, just cautious."

  "Been disappointed too many times?" He made it a question.

  "Maybe." I crossed my arms on my stomach. A psychologist would have said I was closed off, uncommunicative. Fuck them.

  "What are you thinking?"

  I shrugged.

  "Tell me, please."

/>   I stared into his sincere brown eyes and wanted to go home alone. Instead. "Happy ever after is just a lie, Richard, and has been since I was eight."

  "Your mother's death," he said.

  I just looked at him. I was twenty-four years old and the pain of that first loss was still raw. You could deal with it, endure it, but never escape it. Never truly believe in the great, good place. Never truly believe that the bad thing wasn't going to come swooping down and take it all away. I'd rather fight a dozen vampires than one senseless accident.

  He pried my hand from its grip on my arm. "I won't die on you, Anita. I promise."

  Someone laughed, a low chuckle that brushed the skin like fingertips. Only one person had that nearly touchable laugh—Jean-Claude. I turned, and there he was, standing in the middle of the aisle. I hadn't heard him come. Hadn't sensed any movement. He was just there like magic.

  "Don't make promises you can't keep, Richard."

  Chapter 4

  I pushed away from the seats, taking a step forward to give Richard room to stand. I felt him at my back, a comforting presence if I hadn't been more worried about his safety than my own.

  Jean-Claude was dressed in a shiny black tux, complete with tails. A white vest with minute black dots bordered the gleaming whiteness of his shirt. The collar was high and stiff, with a cravat of soft black cloth tied around it and tucked into the vest as if ties had never been invented. The stickpin in his vest was made of silver-and-black onyx. His shoes had spats on them, like the ones Fred Astaire used to wear, though I suspected the entire outfit was of a much older style.

  His hair was fashionably long, the nearly black curls edging the white collar. I knew what color his eyes were, but I didn't look at them now. They were midnight blue, the color of a really good sapphire. Never look a vampire in the eyes. It's a rule.

  With the master vampire of the city standing there, waiting, I realized how empty the theater was. We'd waited out the crowd, all right. We were alone in the echoing silence. The distant murmur of the departing crowd was like white noise. It meant nothing to us. I stared at the shiny mother-of-pearl buttons on Jean-Claude's vest. It was hard to be tough when you couldn't meet someone's eyes. But I'd manage.

  "God, Jean-Claude, don't you ever wear anything but black and white?"

  "Don't you like it, ma petite?" He gave a little spin so I could get the whole effect. The outfit suited him beautifully. Of course, everything he wore seemed made to order, perfect, lovely, just like him.

  "Somehow I didn't think Guys and Dolls would be your cup of tea, Jean-Claude."

  "Or yours, ma petite." The voice was rich like cream, with a warmth that only two things could give it: anger or lust. I was betting it wasn't lust.

  I had the gun, and silver bullets would slow him down, but it wouldn't kill him. Of course, Jean-Claude wouldn't jump us in public. He was much too civilized for that. He was a business vampire, an entrepreneur. Entrepreneurs, dead or alive, didn't go around tearing people's throats out. Normally.

  "Richard, you're unusually quiet." He stared past me. I didn't glance back to see what Richard was doing. Never take your eyes off the vampire in front of you to glance at the werewolf in back of you. One problem at a time.

  "Anita can speak for herself," Richard said.

  Jean-Claude's attention flicked back to me. "That is certainly true. But I came to see how the two of you enjoyed the play."

  "And pigs fly," I said.

  "You don't believe me?"

  "Not hardly," I said.

  "Come, Richard, how did you enjoy your evening?" There was an edge of laughter to his voice but under that was still the anger. Master vampires are not good to be around when they're angry.

  "It was wonderful until you showed up." There was a note of warmth to Richard's voice, the beginnings of anger. I'd never seen him angry.

  "How could my mere presence spoil your . . . date?" The last was spit out, scalding hot.

  "Why are you so pissed tonight, Jean-Claude?" I asked.

  "Why, ma petite, I never get . . . pissed."

  "Bullshit."

  "He's jealous of you and me," Richard said.

  "I am not jealous."

  "You're always telling Anita how you can smell her desire for you. Well, I can smell yours. You want her so bad you can"—Richard gave an almost bitter sound—"taste it."

  "And you, Monsieur Zeeman, you don't lust after her?"

  "Stop talking like I'm not here," I said.

  "Anita asked me out on a date. I said yes."

  "Is this true, ma petite?" His voice had gone very quiet. Scarier than anger, that quietness.

  I wanted to say no, but he'd smell a lie. "It's true. What of it?"

  Silence. He just stood there utterly still. If I hadn't been looking right at him, I wouldn't have known he was there. The dead make no noise.

  My beeper went off. Richard and I jumped as if we'd been shot. Jean-Claude was motionless as if he hadn't heard it.

  I hit the button, and the number that flashed made me groan.

  "What is it?" Richard asked. He laid his hand on my shoulder.

  "The police. I've got to find a phone." I leaned back against Richard's chest. His hand squeezed my shoulder. I stared at the vampire in front of me. Would Jean-Claude hurt him after I'd gone? I wasn't sure.

  "You got a cross on you?" I didn't bother to whisper. Jean-Claude would have heard me anyway.

  "No."

  I half turned. "No! You're out after dark without a cross?"

  He shrugged. "I'm a shapeshifter. I can take care of myself."

  I shook my head. "Getting your throat ripped out once wasn't enough?"

  "I'm still alive," he said.

  "I know you heal from almost anything, but for God's sake, Richard, you don't heal from everything." I started pulling the silver chain of my crucifix out of my blouse. "You can borrow mine."

  "Is that real silver?" Richard asked.

  "Yes."

  "I can't. I'm allergic to silver, remember."

  Ah. Stupid me. Some preternatural expert offering silver to a lycanthrope. I tucked the chain back in my blouse.

  "He's no more human than I am, ma petite."

  "At least I'm not dead."

  "That can be remedied."

  "Stop it, both of you."

  "Have you seen her bedroom, Richard? Her collection of toy penguins?"

  I took a deep breath and let it out. I was not going to stand here and explain how Jean-Claude had managed to see my bedroom. Did I really have to say, out loud, that I didn't sleep with the walking dead?

  "You're trying to make me jealous, and it won't work," Richard said.

  "But there is that worm of doubt in you, Richard. I know it. You are my creature to call, my wolf, and I know you doubt her."

  "I don't doubt Anita." But there was a defensiveness in his voice that I didn't like at all.

  "I don't belong to you, Jean-Claude," Richard said. "I'm second in line to lead the pack. I come and go where I please. The alpha rescinded his orders about obeying you, after you nearly got me killed."

  "Your pack leader was most upset that you survived," Jean-Claude said sweetly.

  "Why would the pack leader want Richard dead?" I asked.

  Jean-Claude looked past me at Richard. "You haven't told her that you're in a battle of succession?"

  "I will not fight Marcus."

  "Then you will die." Jean-Claude made it sound very simple.

  My beeper sounded again. Same number. "I'm coming, Dolph," I muttered.

  I glanced at Richard. Anger glittered in his eyes. His hands were balled into fists. I was standing close enough to feel the tension coming off him like waves.

  "What's going on, Richard?"

  He gave a quick shake of his head. "My business, not yours."

  "If someone's threatening you, it is my business."

  He stared down at me. "No, you aren't one of us. I won't involve you."

  "I can handle myself, R
ichard."

  He just shook his head.

  "Marcus wants to involve you, ma petite. Richard refuses. It is a . . . bone of contention between them. One of many."

  "How do you know so much about it?" I asked.

  "We leaders of the preternatural community must deal with each other. For everyone's safety."

  Richard just stood staring at him. It occurred to me for the first time that he seemed to look Jean-Claude in the eyes, with no ill effects. "Richard, can you meet his eyes?"

  Richard's eyes flicked down to me, then back to Jean-Claude. "Yes. I'm a monster, too. I can look him in the eyes."

  I shook my head. "Irving can't look him in the eyes. It's not just being a werewolf."

  "As I am a master vampire, so our handsome friend here is a master werewolf. Though they do not call them that. Alpha males, is it not? Pack leaders."

  "I prefer pack leader."

  "I'll just bet you do," I said.

  Richard looked hurt, his face crumbling like a child's. "You're angry with me, why?"

  "You've got all this heavy shit going on with your pack leader, and you don't tell me. Jean-Claude keeps hinting your leader wants you dead. That true?"

  "Marcus won't kill me," Richard said.

  Jean-Claude laughed. The sound had a bitter undertaste to it, as if it hadn't been laughter at all. "You are a fool, Richard."

  My beeper went off again. I checked the number, and turned it off. It wasn't like Dolph to call this many times, this close together. Something bad was happening. I needed to go. But . . .

  "I don't have time to get the full story right this second." I poked a finger into the middle of Richard's chest. I gave Jean-Claude my back. He'd already done the damage he'd intended. "You are going to tell me every last bit of what's going on."

  "I don't . . ."

  "Save it. You either share this problem, or we don't date anymore."

  He looked shocked. "Why?"

  "Either you kept me out to protect me, which I'm going to hate. Or you have some other reason. It better be a damn good reason and not just some male ego shit."

  Jean-Claude laughed again. This time the sound wrapped me around like flannel, warm and comforting, thick and soft next to naked skin. I shook my head. Just Jean-Claude's laughter was an invasion of privacy.