Obsidian Butterfly ab-9

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  "Oh, she's going to fit in just fine," Bernardo said, and there was something in his voice that made me look at his face. His handsome face had thinned to a blankness, an emptiness that left his dark brown eyes like two burned holes in his face. It was as if he'd dropped his mask and let me sec inside because I'd proven myself monster enough to handle it. Maybe I had. But I knew one thing: Olaf or Bernardo, either one, better not walk in their sleep.

  18

  THERE WAS A FIREPLACE against the far wall, but it was narrow and white, formed of the same smooth whiteness as the walls. There was an animal skull mounted over the fireplace. I would have said deer, but the skull was heavier than that and the horns long and curving. Not a deer, but something close kin, and not from this country. The narrow mantlepiece held two tusks, as in elephant tusks, and smaller animal skulls. A low white couch faced the fireplace. A large block of unpolished marble sat to one side of it with a small white china lamp on it. A small alcove above the lamp held a huge chunk of white crystal. There was a black lacquered table against the far wall between two doorways. A second larger lamp sat on the table. Two chairs sat facing each other in front of the fireplace. They had carved arms with winged lions on the arms and legs. They were black leather and looked vaguely Egyptian.

  "Your room is this way," Edward said.

  "No," I said, "I've waited a long time to see your home. Don't rush me."

  "Mind if I take your luggage through to your room while you explore?"

  "Help yourself," I said.

  "Gracious of you," he said, and put an extra touch of sarcasm into his voice.

  "Don't mention it," I said.

  Edward picked up both my bags, and said, "Come on, Bernardo. You can get dressed."

  "You didn't let us look around on our own," Bernardo said.

  "You didn't ask."

  "It's one of the joys of being a girl and not a guy," I said. "If I'm curious, I just ask."

  They went through a far door, though the room was small enough that "far" was relative. There was wood to one side of the fireplace in a woven basket of pale, almost white reeds. I ran my hand down the smooth coolness of the black marble coffee table that sat nearest the fireplace. There was a black vase on the table full of what looked like either small wild flowers or large black-eyed-Susans. The deep yellow gold and the brown center didn't really match anything in the room. Even the Navajo rug that took up most of the floor was in shades of black, white, and gray. There were more flowers in an alcove between the far doorways. The alcove was large enough to be a window except it didn't look out on anything. The flowers spilled from the opening like a mass of gold and brown water, a huge riotous bouquet.

  When Edward came back into the room, without Bernardo, I was sitting on the white couch with my feet stretched out underneath the coffee table. I had my hands clasped over my stomach and was trying to picture a roaring fire and a cold winter evening. But somehow the fireplace looked too clean, too sterile.

  He sat down beside me, shaking his head. "Happy?"

  I nodded.

  "What do you think?"

  "It's not a restful room," I said, "and for Heaven's sake look at all the wall space. Get some paintings."

  "I like it this way." He had settled down on the couch beside me, feet stretched out, hands on his stomach. He was mimicking me, but even that couldn't ruin my mood. I was going to see every room in detail before I left. I could have tried to be cool about it, but I didn't sweat being cool with Edward. We'd moved beyond that in our strange friendship. I really wasn't trying to play king of the hill with Edward. The fact that he was still playing the game with me just made him look silly. Though I hoped the game-playing was over for this trip.

  "Maybe I'll get you a painting for Christmas," I said.

  "We don't buy Christmas presents for each other," Edward said.

  We were both staring at the fireplace as if visualizing that make-believe Inc. "Maybe I'll start. One of those big-eyed children or a clown on velvet."

  "I won't hang it if I don't like it."

  I glanced at him. "Unless it's from Donna."

  He was very still suddenly. "Yes."

  "Donna added the flowers, didn't she," I said.

  "Yes," he said.

  "White lilies, or an orchid maybe, but not wild flowers, not in this room."

  "She thinks they brighten up the place."

  "Oh, they do," I said.

  He sighed.

  "Maybe I'll tell her how much you love those pictures of dogs playing poker and she can buy you some prints."

  "She wouldn't believe it," he said.

  "No, but I bet I could come up with something that she would believe that you'd hate just as much."

  He stared at me. "You wouldn't."

  "I might."

  "This sounds like the opening to blackmail. What do you want?"

  I stared at him, studying that blank face. "So you're admitting that Donna and her crew are important enough for you so that blackmail would work."

  He just looked at me with those pitiless eyes, but the blank face wasn't enough now. There was a chink in his armor big enough to drive a truck through. "They're hostages, Edward, if anyone ever thinks of it."

  He looked away from me, closing his eyes. "Do you really think you're telling me something I haven't thought about?"

  "My apologies, you're right. Like teaching your grandmother to suck eggs."

  "What?" He turned and was half-laughing.

  I shrugged. "Just an old saying. It means that I'm lecturing someone who taught me what I'm lecturing about."

  "And what have I taught you?" he asked, humor dying, face turning serious.

  "You can't take all the credit. My mother's death started the lesson early, but I learned that if you care for people, they can die. If other people know you care for someone, they can use that person against you. You ask why I don't date humans. Hostages, Edward. My life is just too damn violent for cannon fodder to be near and dear to my heart. You taught me that."

  "And now I've broken the rule," he said, voice soft.

  "Yep," I said.

  "And where does that leave Richard and Jean-Claude?" he asked.

  "Oh, I make you uncomfortable and now it's my turn."

  "Just answer the question."

  I thought about it for a second, or two, then answered truthfully, because I'd spent a lot of the last six months thinking about it, about them. "Jean-Claude is so not cannon fodder. If anyone I've ever met knows how to take care of himself, it's Jean-Claude. I guess you can't be a four-hundred-year-old anything without being a survivor."

  "And Richard?" Edward was watching my face as he asked, studying me as I so often studied him, and I wondered for the first time if my face was empty more often than it was full, if I hid my emotions, my thoughts, even when I wasn't meaning to. How can you really tell what your own face shows?

  "Richard can survive a shotgun blast to the chest with non-silver shot. Can you say the same about Donna?" It was blunt, maybe too blunt, but it was truthful.

  His eyes shut down like curtains had pulled, hiding, hiding. There was no one home. It was the face he wore when he killed sometimes, though sometimes when he killed he wore the most joyous expression I ever saw on his face.

  "You told me that they huddle around your humanity. Are you saying you huddle around their monstrousness?" he asked.

  I looked into that so carefully unreadable face, and nodded. "Yeah, it took me a while to realize it and longer to accept it. I've lost enough people in my life, Edward. I'm tired of it. The chances are very good that both the boys will outlive me." I held up my hand before he could say it. "I know that Jean-Claude isn't alive. Trust me. I probably know that better than you do."

  "You guys look serious. Talking about the case?" Bernardo walked into the room wearing blue jeans and nothing else. He'd tied all that hair back in a loose braid. He padded barefoot towards us, and it made my chest tight. It was one of Richard's favorite ways to walk arou
nd the house. He only put shoes and a shirt on to go out or if company was coming over.

  I watched a very handsome man walk towards me, but I wasn't really seeing him. I was seeing Richard, missing him. I sighed and struggled to sit up straighten on the couch. Call it a hunch but I was betting that Edward didn't have heart to heart talks with Bernardo, at least not about Donna.

  Edward had also straightened. "No, we weren't talking about the case," he said.

  Bernardo looked from one to the other of us with a smile playing on his lips. But his eyes didn't match. He didn't like the serious air and it not being about the case, and him not knowing what it was about. I'd have asked. Edward wouldn't have told me, but I'd have still asked. Sometimes it was good to be a girl.

  "You said you had the files on the Santa Fe cases," I said.

  Edward nodded, standing. "I'll bring them to the dining room. Bernardo, show her the way."

  "My pleasure," he said.

  Edward said, "Treating Anita like a girl would be a mistake, Bernardo. It would piss me off to have to replace you this late in the game." With that, Edward left through the far right door. There was a wash of night air and a buzz of insects before he closed the door behind him.

  Bernardo looked at me, shaking his head. "I've never heard Edward talk about any woman the way he talks about you."

  I raised eyebrows at him. "Meaning?"

  "Dangerous. He talks about you like you're dangerous." Intelligence showed in his solid brown eyes, an intelligence that had been hiding behind his good looks and charming smile. An intelligence that didn't show when he had his monster face on. For the first time I thought that it might be a mistake to underestimate him. He was more than just a gun for hire. How much more remained to be seen.

  "What, I'm supposed to say I am dangerous?"

  "Are you?" he asked, still studying me with that intense expression.

  I smiled at him. "Well, you get to go down the hall first."

  He tilted his head to one side. "Why don't we go together, side by side?"

  "Because the hall's too narrow, or am I wrong?"

  "You're not wrong, but do you really think I'll shoot you in the back?" He spread his arms wide and turned a slow circle. "Do I look armed?" He was smiling when he faced me again, charming.

  I didn't buy it. "Unless I run my hands through all that thick hair and down your pants, I don't know you're unarmed."

  The smile faded a touch. "Most people don't think about the hair." Which meant that he did have something hidden away. If he was truly unarmed, he'd have teased and offered me a chance to search.

  "It's got to be a blade. The hair isn't thick enough to hide a gun, not even a derringer," I said.

  He reached behind his head and drew out a slender blade that he'd woven through his hair. He held it up, then flipped it hilt to blade, back and forth, dancing it through his long slender fingers.

  "Isn't it an ethnic stereotype that you're good with a knife?" I asked.

  He laughed, but not like it was funny. He bounced the blade once more in his hand, and it made me tense. I was still standing behind the couch, but knew that if he were really good, I'd never get behind cover or draw my gun in time. He was just too damn close.

  "I can cut my hair and put on a suit, but I'm still going to be an Indian to most people. If you can't change it, might as well embrace it." He slipped the knife back into his hair, making it look smooth and easy. I'd have had to use a mirror and even then I'd have probably cut off half my hair.

  "You try to play in corporate America?" I asked.

  "Yeah," he said.

  "So now you don't do corporate stuff."

  "I still play in corporate America. I protect the suits that want flashy muscle. Something exotic to impress their friends about what a big shot they are."

  "You do the knife act on command?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Sometimes."

  "I hope it pays well," I said.

  He smiled. "It either pays well or I don't do it. I may be their token Indian but I'm a rich token Indian. If you're as good as Edward thinks you are, you'd do better at bodyguard work than I do."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "Because the majority of protective work wants their bodyguard to blend in. They want you not to be flashy or exotic. You're pretty, but it's more a girl next door pretty, nothing too beautiful."

  I agreed with him, but said, "Oh, that won you a lot of brownie points."

  "You've pretty much told me I don't have a chance so why should I bother lying?"

  I had to smile. "Point taken."

  "You may be a little dark around the edges, but you can pass for white," Bernardo said.

  "I'm not passing, Bernardo. I am white. My mother just happened to be Mexican."

  "You got your father's skin?" he asked.

  I nodded. "Yeah, what of it?"

  "No one's ever got up in your face about it, have they?"

  I thought about it. My stepmother's hurried comments to strangers that I was not hers. No, I wasn't adopted. I was her stepdaughter. Me and Cinderella. The really rude ones would ask, "What was her mother?"

  Judith would always answer quickly, "Her mother was Mexican." Though lately it was Hispanic-American. No one could accuse Judith of not being politically correct on the issue of race. My mother had died long before people had worried about political correctness being in vogue. If someone asked, she always said proudly, "Mexican." If it was good enough for my mother, it was good enough for me.

  That memory I didn't share. I'd never really shared it with my father. I wasn't about to start with a stranger. I chose another memory that didn't hurt quite so much. "I was engaged once until his mother found out my mother had been Mexican. He was blond and blue-eyed, the epitome of WASP breeding. My future-in-law didn't like the idea of me darkening her family tree." That was a brief, unemotional way to say some very painfully things. He had been my first love, my first lover. I thought he was everything to me, but I wasn't everything to him. I'd never let myself fall so completely into anyone's arms before or since. Jean-Claude and Richard were both still paying the bill for that first love.

  "Do you think of yourself as white?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. Now ask me if I think I'm white enough?"

  Bernardo looked at me. "Are you white enough?"

  "Not according to some people."

  "Like who?"

  "Like none of your damn business."

  He spread his hands. "Sorry, didn't mean to step on your toes."

  "Yes, you did," I said.

  "You think so?"

  "Yeah," I said. "I think you're jealous."

  "Of what?"

  "That I can pass and you can't."

  He opened his mouth and emotions flowed over his face like water; anger, humor, denial. He finally settled on a smile, but it wasn't a happy one. "You really are a bitch, aren't you?"

  I nodded. "You don't pull on my chain and I won't pull on yours."

  "Deal," he said. The smile flashed wider. "Now, allow me to escort your lily white ass to the dining room."

  I shook my head. "Lead on, tall, dark, and studly, as long as I get to watch your ass while we walk down the hall."

  "Only if you promise to tell me how you like the view."

  I widened my eyes. "You mean give you a critique on your butt?"

  He nodded and the smile looked happy now.

  "Are you this big an egotist or just trying to embarrass me?"

  "Guess."

  "Both," I said.

  The smile spread to a grin. "You are as smart as you look."

  "Just get moving, Romeo. Edward doesn't like to be kept waiting."

  "Damn straight."

  We went down the short hallway; him leading, me following. He put an extra glide into his walk, and yes, I watched the show. Call it a hunch, but I was betting Bernardo would actually ask me for the critique, probably out loud in front of other people. Why is it when you have a sure thing to bet on, there's never anyone around
to take your money?

  19

  THERE WERE MORE heavy dark beams in the dining room, more off-white walls. If the chairs were a clue, the dining table was black and silver. But the table was hidden under a tablecloth that looked like another Navajo rug. Though this one had some color, dull red stripes running with black and white. There was even a black metal candelabra with red candles in the middle of the table. It was nice to see some color that hadn't been added by Donna. It had taken me years to break Jean-Claude of his fixation on black and white decor. Since I was just Edward's friend and nothing more, it wasn't my business how he decorated.

  There was a fireplace in the corner nearly identical to the one in the living room except for a black piece of wood set into the white stucco. I would have called it a mantel, but it didn't stick out that far. The true mantel was decorated in more red candles of every shape and size, some sitting with their waxy bottoms directly on the mantel, some in black metal holders. There were two round ones that stuck up above the rest on the kind of holders where you spear the candle to hold it into place. A silver-edged mirror that looked antique was hung behind the candles so that when they were burned, you'd get their reflection. Strange, I hadn't thought Edward was the candlelight type.

  There were no windows in the room, just a molded doorway leading out the other side. The walls were utterly white and utterly blank. Somehow the lack of decoration made the room seem more claustrophobic rather than less.

  A man appeared in the far doorway. He had to bend over to keep his bald head from smacking the top of the door. He was taller than Dolph, who was six foot eight, which meant he was the tallest person I'd ever met. The only hair on his head was heavy black eyebrows and a shadow of beard along his chin and cheeks. He was wearing the draw string bottoms of men's pajamas. They were black and looked satin. He had on slippers, the kind that have no heels and always seem in danger of falling off. Olaf, because who else could it be, moved in the slippers like they were part of his flesh. Once he got over stooping through the door, he moved like a well-oiled machine, muscles rippling under his pale skin. He was tall, but there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. It was all hard, lean, muscle. He walked around the table towards us, and I moved without thinking to keep the table between us.