Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter collection 11-15

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Her eyes were suddenly cop eyes, maybe a little more hostile than they needed to be, but cold and looking at me as if she could see into my head. It was part lie and part truth. She didn’t know as much as that look seemed to say, but she probably knew more than I wanted her to.

  “Don’t play games, Anita.”

  Oh, goody we were going to have a fight on a first-name basis. “I’m not very good at games, Jessica, so I don’t play them much.”

  Her hands gripped her knees tighter. I think to keep from gripping me. “Fine, Guilty Pleasures. I saw you at Guilty Pleasures last night.”

  My face showed nothing, because she’d given me plenty of time to brace for it. I just blinked at her and had a slight smile on my face. Pleasant, empty, on the outside. Inside I was thinking hard. How much had she seen at the club? How much did she remember? Had she been there for Primo’s part of the show?

  I almost said, I didn’t see you, but stopped myself. I wasn’t going to help her fill in any blanks. “So, you saw me at Guilty Pleasures. I’m dating the owner.”

  She looked away then, off toward the parked cars and beyond that a news van. The uniform that was still putting up yellow crime scene tape to help block off the parking area paused and looked at the van. Would someone warn Zerbrowski?

  Arnet turned and yelled, “Marconi, go tell Zerbrowski we’ve got a news van.”

  Marconi said, “Shiiit,” with real feeling to it, and went for the entryway.

  Great, it was like all I had to do was think and someone else did it for me. Cool. I would try to use this power only for good.

  She looked back at me. “How can you be dating him and Nathaniel at the same time?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  If looks could have hurt me, that one would have. “That’s not an answer, that’s an evasion.”

  I sighed. “Look, Jessica, I don’t owe you an answer to that particuliar question. Who I date, and why, or how, is none of your business.”

  Her hazel eyes got dark, almost solid brown. I realized it was her eyes’ version of going black with rage. “I thought I’d go down and see Nathaniel without you there. I thought maybe if you weren’t there to interfere . . .” She looked away then, stared out at the parked cars and the gawkers being kept back by the uniforms. Stared at them as if she were really seeing them, which I doubted. It was just somewhere for her eyes to go, while she talked.

  “But you were there. Oh, my God, were you there.” Her voice broke, not with tears, but with emotion. I didn’t understand this depth of emotion from her.

  “You’re acting like I stole Nathaniel from you. You never dated him. Hell, when you met him, he was already living with me.”

  She looked at me then, and it was unnerving to see the anger, because I didn’t understand it. “But I didn’t know that. You let me believe that he was just your friend. He let me believe it.”

  “Nathaniel likes to be nice to people.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Look, Arnet, sometimes Nathaniel flirts without really meaning to. I think it’s like an occupational hazard.”

  “You mean because he’s a stripper.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know what he did for a living until the wedding reception. I should have known he was some kind of hustler.”

  That pissed me off. “He isn’t a hustler.”

  “The hell he’s not. I’ve got a friend in juvie. He was picked up for prostitution twice before he hit fifteen. Male prostitution,” she said the last like it made it all somehow worse.

  I hadn’t actually known he’d been picked up for it, but I didn’t give her that. “I know what Nathaniel was doing before he got off the streets.” Which was sort of true and sort of not true, but not completely a lie.

  “Did you save him? Did you see him and take him home? Are you his sugar mama?”

  “Sugar mama. You made that up. That’s not really a word.”

  She had the grace to look embarrassed. I almost got a smile out of her, but she fought it off. “Whatever you want to call it. Are you? Is he your . . .”

  I didn’t help her. If she was going to say it, I wanted her to say it. “My what?” I asked, and my voice was a few octaves lower, cold, clear. It was a voice that, if you knew me, you might worry when you heard it.

  If Arnet was worried, it didn’t show. “Gigolo,” she said. She threw the word in my face like it was something solid and hurtful, as if she’d thrown a fist at me.

  I laughed, and she didn’t like it.

  “What’s so damned funny? I saw you on stage with him, Blake. I saw what you did to him. You and that vampire of yours.”

  I gave her wide eyes then, because I finally thought I had a glimmer of why she was so pissed at me. “Are you under the impression that I whisked Nathaniel off the streets as a child and made him my boy-whore?”

  She looked away then. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She turned back to me, still angry. “I saw what you did to him last night. You chained him up. You hurt him. You humiliated him in front of all those people.”

  It was my turn to look off into the distance, because I was trying to think how to explain without explaining too much. I was also wondering if I even owed Jessica Arnet an explanation. If we didn’t need to work together, and I hadn’t been afraid she’d share what she’d seen with the rest of RPIT, I might not have explained anything, but we did work together, and I didn’t want her version getting around the squad room. Not that my version was going to be that much better if it got spread around. At their core, most policemen are closet, or not so closet, conservatives.

  How do you explain color to the blind? How to explain that pain can be pleasure to someone who isn’t wired that way? You can’t, not really, but I tried anyway.

  “It took me a long time to understand what Nathaniel wanted from me.”

  She looked at me, horrified. “You’re going to blame him? You’re going to blame the victim?”

  This was not going to go well. “Have you ever met someone who’s been blind from birth?”

  She frowned at me. “What?”

  “Someone who’s never seen color, ever.”

  “No,” she said, “but what does that have to do with Nathaniel?”

  “You’re blind, Jessica, how do I explain to you what blue looks like?”

  “What are you babbling about?” she asked.

  “How do I explain to you that Nathaniel enjoyed being on stage, that he sort of forced the situation on me?”

  “You’re the victim, please, you weren’t chained up.”

  I shrugged. “I’m saying there was no victim on stage last night, just a bunch of consenting adults.”

  She was shaking her head. “No, I know what I saw.”

  “You know what you would have felt if it had been you chained on stage and treated like that, and you’re assuming that because that’s how you would feel, that that’s how everyone would feel. Not everyone feels the same way about things.”

  “I know that. I’m not a child.”

  “Then stop acting like one.”

  She stood up then and stared down at me, her hands in fists at her sides. “I am not acting like a child.”

  “You’re right, you’re being way too judgmental to be a child.”

  Zerbrowski called, “Anita, we need to roll.”

  I stood up, brushed off the back of my jeans, and yelled, “I’m coming.” I looked at Arnet and tried to think of anything that would make this better. Nothing came to mind. “Nathaniel is my sweetie, Jessica, I would never hurt him.”

  “I saw you hurt him,” she said, and she sort of threw the words at me like she had the word gigolo.

  “He doesn’t see it that way.”

  “He doesn’t know any better,” she said.

  I smiled and fought the urge to give one of those laughs that is half nerves and half exasperation. “You want
to save him. You want to ride in and save him from a life of degradation.”

  She didn’t say anything, just glared at me.

  “Anita, we need to go, now,” Zerbrowski yelled. He was standing in the open door of his car.

  I glanced back at Arnet. “I thought Nathaniel needed saving once, too, needed me to fix him. What I didn’t understand is that he isn’t broken, well, not more broken than the rest of us.” And that was probably more truth than I owed Detective Jessica Arnet. I left it at that, and jogged for Zerbrowski’s car. He asked me how it had gone with Arnet. I told him it could have gone better.

  “How better?” He asked as we eased past the news van and a crowd of gawkers.

  “Oh, like the Valentine’s Day Massacre could have been a better party.”

  He gave me a look. “Jesus, Anita, it isn’t enough that you and Dolph are pissed at each other, you’ve got pick a fight with Arnet?”

  “I didn’t pick a fight with either of them. You know I didn’t pick one with Dolph.” We were easing past the tape and barriers that the uniforms had moved for us. The television crew had the camera pointed straight at us. Great. I resisted the urge to give them the finger, or something else equally childish.

  “I shouldn’t have said that about Dolph. I know you didn’t start that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s eating Arnet?”

  “If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”

  “You’re not going to tell your version first?”

  “No one ever believes my version, Zerbrowski. I’m fucking coffin bait. If you’ll fuck vampires, you’ll do anything, right?” And just like that, I started to cry. Not loud, but tears, real tears. I turned away and stared out the window. I had no idea why I was crying. Stupid, so stupid.

  Did I really care what Arnet thought of me? No. Did I care if she trashed my reputation to the rest of the squad? Yeah, I guess I did. Shit.

  Zerbrowski was either so astounded that I was crying that he didn’t know what to say, or he was treating me like he’d treat any other cop. If they don’t want you to see them cry, you don’t see it. Zerbrowski drove to the Church of Eternal Life, concentrating on the road like a son of a bitch. I stared out the window the entire time, and cried.

  64

  THE PARKING LOT was full, and I mean full. So full that Zerbrowski parked in front of the church in the fire only zone. We had Marconi and Smith in a car behind us, along with two marked cars. Apparently, Zerbrowski had been planning our strategy while I was trying to fix things with Arnet. Apparently, Abrahams or Arnet had been left in charge of the murder scene. I was betting on Abrahams. I wouldn’t have left Arnet in charge of a little league team tonight. Of course, I might have been a little prejudiced right that moment.

  He had two uniforms station themselves at the doors, and he told them to get their holy items out. “Nobody leaves, unless you clear it with me, is that clear?” It was clear. I suggested that there was another door at the parish hall entrance, and since we had enough manpower to cover it, Zerbrowski just nodded and said, “Do it.” It was like he was channeling Dolph, but it worked. Everyone just did what he said.

  Marconi shook his head and said what I’d been thinking. “Commanding presence tonight, Zerbrowski.”

  “You’re just jealous that he’s better at channeling Dolph than you are,” I said.

  Marconi smiled at me and gave a nod. But his hand was at his belt, and he was moving his gun a little more forward. Sometimes the more jokes you do, the more nervous you are.

  Smith was new enough that his eyes were all sparkly, and he was almost vibrating with eagerness, like a dog straining at a leash. He hadn’t been a detective for a month yet, and that can make you eager to prove yourself. I hoped not too eager, since I’d recommended him.

  Zerbrowski noticed and gave me a nod, like he’d keep an eye on him. He asked my advice about only one thing. “Do we go in bold, or quiet?”

  I thought about it for a second, then shrugged. “They know we’re here, Zerbrowski, at least the ones near the back.”

  “They can hear us?”

  I nodded. “But let’s ask an usher near the back to get Malcolm’s attention. Being polite doesn’t cost a thing.”

  He nodded, then went to the big, polished, wood doors. Before he could push them open, a man opened them from inside. He was young with short brown hair and glasses. I’d seen him before on another case. His name began with a B, like Brandon, or Brian, or Bruce, or something. Bruce, I thought. He eased the door shut behind him, before we had more than a glimpse of people turning to stare. His brown eyes were still lovely behind his glasses, and there was still healing bite marks on his neck. It was as if no time had passed, but it was nice to know that he was still among the living.

  “You are interrupting our worship service?” His voice was soft, measured.

  “You’re Bruce, right?”

  His eyes widened just a little. “I’m surprised you remembered me, Ms. Blake.”

  “Marshal Blake, actually,” I smiled when I said it.

  His eyes did that little widening act again. “Do I say congratulations?”

  “Is he stalling?” Zerbrowski asked.

  “Not in the way you mean,” I said. “He doesn’t want us to interrupt the services, but I don’t think he’d deliberately hide a murderer.”

  That got me another eye widening. “Murderer? What are you talking about, Ms. Marshal Blake? We of the church do not advocate violence in any aspect of our lives.”

  “There’s a dead woman in the home of one of your members who would argue that, if she could,” Zerbrowski said.

  A pained expression crossed Bruce’s face. “Are you certain that it is the home of one of our members?”

  We both nodded.

  Bruce looked down at the ground, then nodded, as if he’d decided something. “If you will remain near the back of the church, I will tell Malcolm what has happened.”

  Zerbrowski looked at me as if to ask if that was okay. I shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”

  Bruce smiled, obviously relieved. “Good, good, please keep your voices low. This is a church, and we are having services.” He led the way through those highly polished doors. The uniforms stayed outside, but Marconi and Smith followed us in.

  There was no vestibule inside the doors. The doors led directly into the nave, so we were just suddenly facing pews packed full of congregation members. The vamps close to the doors were already glancing our way.

  Bruce motioned for us to stay where we were, then walked wide around the pews up the side underneath the red and blue abstract stained glass windows. Where there should have been saints or the stations of the cross, or at a least a cross or two, there was nothing but the bare white walls. I think that was why the church always looked unfinished to me, naked like the walls needed clothes.

  It’s never comfortable for me to be standing in front of a group of people unexpectedly. To be on display, especially when it’s a potentially hostile group. Zerbrowski had his smile in place, the good-to-meet-you smile. The one that I’d finally realized was his version of a blank face. Marconi looked bored. A lot of cops perfect that I’ve-seen-worse boredom after a few years on the force. Smith’s face was all shiny with excitement like a kid on Christmas morning. He was looking around at everything and totally not bothered by the staring crowd. I guess most cops don’t get to see inside the Church of Eternal Life much, or see hundreds of vampires in one place at one time. Hell, even I didn’t usually see that many at one time in one place.

  The first few pews had had their look-see at us, but the glances spread upward from there. Quick glances with whispers, so it was like a wind moved through the room. A wind that turned faces toward us, widened eyes, sent more furious whispers spreading through the room, until it crashed against the pulpit and the strangely empty altar area at the front of the church.

  Malcolm was standing at the white altar, but had already stepped out from behind it and moved to on
e side so he could meet Bruce, as the young man came up to one side of the raised area. Even the steps leading up to it were white. The only color was a strip of blue cloth that hung in the back of the sanctuary. A brilliant royal blue that moved slightly in the central air, as if the cloth didn’t sit flat to the wall. I wondered what was behind the cloth. It was the only thing that was different since I’d last been inside the building, some three years ago. About two years ago, the building had been fire-bombed by right-wing extremists. The attack hadn’t stopped the church. The attack had gotten the Church of Eternal Life some of its best national and international coverage ever, and donations had flooded in from people that were not so much for vampires as against violence. I’d seen what had been left when the fire department had gotten through with the building. Standing here now, I would never have known there had ever been even a small fire in this white, white space, let alone a bomb.

  Malcolm spoke with Bruce at the side of the altar area. I wasn’t at all surprised when he came down the wide main aisle between the pews. Bruce trailed after him. The first thing you notice about Malcolm is that his short blond curls are the bright yellow of goldfinch feathers. Three hundred plus years in the dark will do that to bright blond hair. The next thing is, he’s tall, and almost painfully thin, so that he looks even taller than he truly is. He was wearing a black suit tonight, modest cut, but thanks to Jean-Claude’s fashion sense, I knew that that simple-seeming suit was tailored to that lean body, and probably cost more than most people make in a month. The shirt was a blue that helped point out that his eyes were the blue of a robin’s eggs. His tie was narrow and black with a silver tie bar, unadorned. Up close once you can look past the hair and the eyes, Malcolm has a very angular face, almost a homely face, as if the angles needed smoothing out to make them work together.

  The first time I’d ever set eyes on Malcolm I’d thought him beautiful, but with even one vampire mark on me, I’d known differently. He prided himself on not using his vampire powers on us mere mortals, but he wasted enough to make himself seem handsome. That bit of mind-fucking he allowed himself. Vanity, all is vanity.