Anita Blake 4 - Lunatic Cafe

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  "That's a lot of money. What does he want me to do?"

  "Raise an ancestor from the dead. He's under a family curse. A witch told him if he could talk to the ancestor that the curse originated with, she might be able to lift it."

  "Why double the fee?"

  "The curse started with one of two brothers. He doesn't know which one."

  "So I have to raise them both."

  "If we're lucky, only one."

  "But you keep the second fee anyway," I said.

  Bert nodded vigorously, happy as a greedy clam. "It's even your job description, and besides, even you wouldn't let a fellow go through his life with feathers on his head if you could help him, now would you?"

  "You smug bastard," I said, but my voice sounded tired even to me.

  Bert just smiled. He knew he'd won.

  "You'll clear clients with me that aren't zombie raisings or vampire slayings?" I said.

  "If you have the time to read up on every client I see, then I certainly have time to write up a report."

  "I don't need to read about every client, just the ones you're sending my way."

  "But, Anita, you know it's just luck of the draw which of you is on duty on any given day."

  "Damn you, Bert."

  "You've kept Ms. Drew waiting long enough, don't you think?"

  I stood up. It was no use. I was outmaneuvered. He knew it. I knew it. The only thing left was a graceful retreat.

  "Your two o'clock canceled. I'll have Mary send Gunderson in."

  "Is there anything you wouldn't schedule in as a client, Bert?"

  He seemed to think about that for a minute, then shook his head. "If they could pay the fee, no."

  "You are a greedy son of a bitch."

  "I know."

  It was no use. I wasn't winning this one. I went for the door.

  "You're wearing a gun." He sounded outraged.

  "Yeah, what of it?"

  "I think you can meet clients in broad daylight at our offices without being armed."

  "I don't think so."

  "Just put the gun in the desk drawer like you used to."

  "Nope." I opened the door.

  "I don't want you meeting clients armed, Anita."

  "Your problem, not mine."

  "I could make it yours," he said. His face was flushed, voice tight with anger. Maybe we were going to get to fight after all.

  I closed the door. "You mean fire me?"

  "I am your boss."

  "We can argue about clients, but the gun is not negotiable."

  "The gun frightens clients."

  "Send the squeamish ones to Jamison," I said.

  "Anita"—he stood up like an angry storm—"I don't want you wearing the gun in the office."

  I smiled sweetly. "Fuck you, Bert." So much for a graceful exit.

  Chapter 16

  I closed the door and realized I had accomplished nothing but pissing Bert off. Not a bad hour's work, but not a great accomplishment. I was going to tell Ms. Drew that I might be able to help her. Bert was right about good press. I nodded at Gunderson as I passed him. He smiled back. Somehow I didn't think he really wanted me to raise the dead. I'd find out soon enough.

  Ms. Drew was sitting legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. The picture of elegant patience.

  "I may be able to help you, Ms. Drew. I'm not sure, but I may know someone who can help you."

  She stood up, offering me a manicured hand. "That would be wonderful, Ms. Blake. I certainly appreciate your help."

  "Does Mary have a number where I can reach you?"

  "Yes." She smiled.

  I smiled. I opened the door, and she walked past me in a cloud of expensive perfume. "Mr. Gunderson, I can see you now."

  He stood, laying the magazine he'd been leafing through on the small table beside the Ficus benjium. He didn't move with that dancelike grace that the other shapeshifters had. But then swans weren't particularly graceful on land.

  "Have a seat, Mr. Gunderson."

  "Please, Kaspar."

  I leaned on the edge of the desk, staring down at him. "What are you doing here, Kaspar?"

  He smiled. "Marcus wants to apologize for last night."

  "Then he should have come in person."

  His smiled widened. "He thought that offering a sizable monetary reward might make up for our lack of hospitality last night."

  "He was wrong."

  "You aren't going to give an inch, are you?"

  "Nope."

  "Are you not going to help us?"

  I sighed. "I'm working on it. But I'm not sure what I can do. What or who could take out eight shapeshifters without a struggle?"

  "I have no idea. None of us do. That is why we have come to you."

  Great. They knew less than I did. Not comforting. "Marcus gave me a list of people to question." I handed it to him. "Any thoughts, or additions?"

  He frowned, eyebrows arching together. The white eyebrows were not hair. I blinked, trying to concentrate. The fact that he was feathery seemed to bother me a lot more than it should have.

  "These are all rivals for Marcus's power. You met most of them at the cafe."

  "Do you really think he suspects them, or is he just making trouble for his rivals?" I asked.

  "I don't know."

  "Marcus said you could answer my questions. Do you actually know anything that I don't?"

  "I would say that I know a great deal more about the shapeshifting community than you do," he said. He sounded a trifle offended.

  "Sorry, I think it's just wishful thinking on Marcus's part that his rivals are the bad guys. Not your fault he's playing games."

  "Marcus often tries to manage things. You saw that last night."

  "His management skills haven't impressed me so far."

  "He believes that if there were one ruler for all shapeshifters, we would be a force to rival the vampires."

  He might be right on that. "He wants to be that ruler," I said.

  "Of course."

  The intercom buzzed. "Excuse me a minute." I hit the button. "What is it, Mary?"

  "Richard Zeeman on line two. He says he's returning your message."

  I hesitated, then said, "I'll take it." I picked up the phone, very aware that Kaspar was sitting there listening. I could have asked him to step outside, but I was getting tired of playing musical clients.

  "Hi, Richard."

  "I got your message on my answering machine," he said. His voice was very careful, as if he were balancing a glass of water filled to the very brim.

  "I think we need to talk," I said.

  "I agree."

  My, weren't we being cautious this afternoon. "I'm supposed to be the one that's mad. Why does your voice sound so funny?"

  "I heard about last night."

  I waited for him to say more, but the silence just stretched to infinity. I filled it. "Look, I have a client with me right now. You want to meet and talk?"

  "Very much." He said it as though he weren't really looking forward to it.

  "I have a dinner break around six. You want to meet at the Chinese place on Olive?"

  "Doesn't sound very private."

  "What did you have in mind?"

  "My place."

  "I only get an hour, Richard, I don't have time to drive that far."

  "Your place, then."

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Just no."

  "What we need to say to each other isn't going to go over well in public. You know that."

  I did. Dammit. "All right, we'll meet at my place a little after six. Do you want me to pick up something?"

  "You're at work. It'll be easier for me to pick up something. You want mooshu pork and crab ragoon?"

  "Yeah." We'd dated enough that he could order food for me without asking. But he asked anyway. Brownie point for him.

  "I'll see you at about six-fifteen then," he said.

  "See you."

  "Bye, Anita."

/>   "Bye." We hung up. My stomach was one hard knot of dread. If we were going to have "the" fight, the breakup fight, I didn't want to have it at my apartment, but Richard was right. We didn't want to be screaming about lycanthropes and killing people in a public restaurant. Still, it was not going to be a good time.

  "Is Richard angry about last night?" Kaspar asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "I need the complete stories about the disappearances: struggles, who last saw them, that sort of thing."

  "Marcus said all questions directly about the disappearances should be answered only by him."

  "You always do what he says?"

  "Not always, but he's quite adamant about this, Anita. I am not a predator. I cannot defend myself against Marcus at his worst."

  "Would he really kill you for going against his wishes?"

  "Perhaps not kill me, but I would be hurting for a very, very long time."

  I shook my head. "He doesn't sound any better than most master vampires I know."

  "I don't personally know any master vampires. I am forced to take your word for that."

  I had to smile. I knew more monsters than the monsters did. "Would Richard know?"

  "Perhaps, and if not, he could help you find out."

  I wanted to ask him if Richard was as bad as Marcus. I wanted to know if my sweetie was really a beast at heart. I didn't ask. If I wanted to know about Richard, I should ask Richard.

  "Unless you have more information, Kaspar, I have work to do." It sounded grumpy even to me. I smiled to try to soften it but didn't take it back. I wanted this whole mess to go away, and he was a reminder of it.

  He stood. "If you need any assistance, please call."

  "You'll only be able to give me the assistance Marcus okays, right?"

  A slight flush colored his pale skin, a pink glow like colored sugar. "I am afraid so."

  "I don't think I'll be calling," I said.

  "You don't trust Marcus?"

  I laughed, but it was harsh, not amused. "Do you?"

  He smiled, and gave a slight nod of his head. "I suppose not." He moved for the door.

  I had my hand on the doorknob when I turned and asked, "Is it really a family curse?"

  "My affliction?"

  "Yeah."

  "Not a family one, but a curse, yes."

  "Like in the fairy tale?" I said.

  "Fairy tale sounds like such a gentle thing. The original stories are often quite gruesome."

  "I've read some of them."

  "Have you read The Swan Princess in its original Norse?"

  "Can't say I have."

  "It's even worse in the original language."

  "Sorry to hear that," I said.

  "So am I." He stepped closer to the door, and I had to open it to let him go. I dearly wanted to hear the story from his own lips, but there was a pain in his eyes that was raw enough to cut skin. I couldn't press against that much pain.

  He stepped past me. I let him go. I was really going to have to find my textbook on fairy tales as truth from that comparative literature class. It had been a long time since I'd read The Swan Princess.

  Chapter 17

  It was more like six-thirty by the time I walked down the hallway to my apartment. I had half expected to see Richard sitting in the hall, but it was empty. The tightness in my stomach eased just a bit. A reprieve, even of a few minutes, was still a reprieve.

  I had my keys in the door when the door behind me opened. I dropped the keys, leaving them dangling. My right hand went for the Browning. It was instinct, not something I thought about. My hand was on the butt, but I hadn't drawn it when Mrs. Pringle appeared in the door. I eased my hand away from the gun and smiled. I don't think she realized what I was doing because her smile never faltered.

  She was tall and thin with age. Her white hair was wrapped in a bun at the nape of her neck. Mrs. Pringle never wore makeup and never apologized for being over sixty. She seemed to enjoy being old.

  "Anita, you're running a little late tonight," she said. Custard, her Pomeranian, yapped in the background like a stuck record.

  I frowned at her. Six-thirty was early for me to get home. Before I could say anything, Richard appeared behind her in the doorway. His hair fell around his face in a mass of rich brown waves. He was wearing one of my favorite sweaters. It was solid forest green and squishy soft to the touch. Custard was barking at him, inches away from his leg, as if working up courage for a quick nip.

  "Custard, stop that," Mrs. Pringle said. She looked up at Richard. "I've never seen him behave like this around anyone. Anita can tell you that he likes almost everyone." She looked to me for support, embarrassed about her dog being rude to a guest.

  I nodded. "You're right. I've never seen him act like this before." I was looking at Richard. His face was as closed and careful as I'd ever seen it.

  "He acts like this around other dogs sometimes, tries to boss them," she said. "Do you have a dog, Mr. Zeeman? Maybe Custard smells him on you."

  "No," Richard said, "I don't have a dog."

  "I found your beau sitting in the hall with his sack of food. I thought he might like to wait inside. I'm sorry that Custard has made the visit so unpleasant."

  "I always enjoy talking shop with another teacher," he said.

  "So polite," she said. Her face had broken into a wonderful smile. She'd only met Richard once or twice in the hall, but she liked him. Even before she found out he was a teacher. Snap judgment.

  Richard stepped around her into the hall. Custard followed him, yipping furiously. The dog looked like an overly ambitious dandelion. But it was a pissed dandelion. The dog bounced forward on tiny feet, giving a little hop with each bark.

  "Custard, get back in here."

  I held the door open for Richard. He had a white take-out sack and a coat in his arms. The dog gave a running bound, darting in to nip his ankle. Richard looked down at the dog. Custard stopped a nose away from his pants leg. He rolled eyes upward, a look in his doggy eyes that I'd never seen before. A considering look as if he wondered if Richard really would eat him.

  Richard slipped through the door. Custard just stood there in the hallway, as subdued as I'd ever seen him. "Thanks for looking after Richard, Mrs. Pringle."

  "My pleasure. He's a nice young man," she said. Her tone of voice said more than the words. "Nice young man" meant marry him. My stepmother, Judith, would agree with her. Except that Judith would have said it out loud, no hinting.

  I smiled and closed the door. Custard started yapping at the door. I locked the door out of habit and turned to face the music.

  Richard had draped his leather coat across the back of the couch. The take-out sack was sitting on the small kitchenette table. He lifted out cartons of food. I put my coat on the back of the couch by his and slipped off the high heels. I lost about two inches of height and felt much better.

  "Nice jacket," he said. His voice was still neutral.

  "Thanks." I had been going to take the jacket off, but he liked it, so I kept it on. Silly, but true. We were both being so careful. The tension in the room was choking.

  I got plates out of the cabinet. I got a cold Coke from the fridge for me and poured a glass of water for Richard. He didn't like carbonated beverages. I'd taken to keeping a jug of cold water in the fridge just for him. My throat felt tight as I set the drinks on the table.

  He set out silverware. We moved around my minuscule kitchen like dancers, knowing where each would be, never bumping unless it was on purpose. Tonight there was no touching. We left the lights off. The only light was from the living room, leaving the kitchen in semidarkness like a cave. It was almost as if neither one of us wanted to see clearly.

  We sat down at last. We stared at each other over the food on the plates: mooshu pork for me, cashew chicken for Richard. The smell of hot Chinese food filled the apartment. Warm and comforting on most occasions. Tonight it nauseated me. A double order of
crab ragoon sat on a plate between us. He had filled a saucer with sweet-and-sour sauce. It was the way we always ate Chinese, sharing a bowl of sauce.

  Damn.

  His chocolate brown eyes stared at me. I was the one who looked away first. I didn't want to do this. "So, do all dogs react like that to you?"

  "No, just the dominant ones."

  I looked up at that. "Custard is dominant to you?"

  "He thinks so."

  "Unhealthy," I said.

  He smiled. "I don't eat dogs."

  "I didn't mean . . . oh, shit." If we were going to do this, might as well do it right. "Why didn't you tell me about Marcus?"

  "I didn't want to involve you."

  "Why not?"

  "Jean-Claude involved you with Nikolaos. You told me how much you hated that. Resented it. If I brought you in to help me with Marcus, what would be the difference?"

  "It's not the same," I said.

  "How? I won't use you like Jean-Claude did. I won't do it."

  "If I volunteer, you're not using me."

  "What are you going to do? Kill him?" There was a bitterness in his voice, anger.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You might as well take your jacket off. I saw the gun."

  I opened my mouth to protest and closed it. Explaining in the middle of a fight that I wanted to look good for him sounded silly. I stood up and took the jacket off. I draped it carefully over the back of the chair, taking a lot of time with it. "There. Happy?"

  "Is that gun your answer to everything?"

  "Why do you suddenly have a problem with me carrying a gun?"

  "Alfred was my friend."

  That stopped me. It hadn't even occurred to me that Richard might like Alfred. "I didn't know he was your friend."

  "Would it have made a difference?"

  I thought about that. "Maybe."

  "You didn't have to kill him."

  "I had this conversation with Marcus last night. They left me no choice, Richard. I warned him, more than once."

  "I heard all about it. The pack's buzzing with it. How you wouldn't back down. You rejected Marcus's protection. You shot another one of us." He shook his head. "Oh, everyone's real impressed."

  "I didn't do it to impress them."

  He took a deep breath. "I know, that's what scares me."