Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter collection 11-15

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “You’re not sorry,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not.”

  “How bad is it?”

  He let go of the carry-on handle and used his thumb to wipe across my chin. His thumb came away crimson.

  “Jesus, Micah.”

  “If you’d been wearing base, I wouldn’t have done it.” He lifted his thumb to his mouth and licked it, pushing way more of the thumb into his mouth than he needed to. I watched the movement sort of fascinated. “I love the taste of your lipstick.”

  I shook my head and looked away from him. “Stop teasing me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t work if you keep making me moon over you.”

  He laughed, that warm masculine sound again.

  I took hold of my carry-on and strode past him. “It’s not like you to tease me this much.”

  He caught up with me. “No, it’s usually Nathaniel, or Jean-Claude, or Asher. I behave myself unless you’re mad at me.”

  I thought about that and it made me slow. That and the three-inch heels. “Are you jealous of them?”

  “Not jealous in the way you mean. But, Anita, this is the first time that you and I have ever been on our own. Just you, just me, no one else.”

  That stopped me, literally, so that the man behind us cursed and had to go around abruptly. I turned and looked at Micah. “We’ve been alone before. We’ve gone out just the two of us.”

  “But never for more than a few hours. We’ve never been overnight, just us.”

  I thought about it because it seemed like in six months we should have managed at least one night with only the two of us. I thought, and thought, until my puzzler was sore, but he was right. We had never been overnight, just us.

  “Well, damn,” I said.

  He smiled at me, his lips still bright with my lipstick. “There’s a bathroom right over there.”

  We pulled the suitcases over against the wall and I left Micah in a small line of men who were also watching bags and purses. Some of them had children in tow.

  There was a line in the bathroom, of course, but once I made it clear I wasn’t jumping the line but repairing makeup, no one got mad. In fact, a few of them speculated, good-naturedly, on what I’d been doing to get my lipstick smeared that badly.

  I did look like I was wearing clown makeup. I got my little bag of makeup, which Micah had made sure I took in with me, out of the briefcase. I’d have probably forgotten it. I had very gentle eye makeup remover that worked on anything, including lipstick. I got the mess cleaned off, then reapplied lip liner and lipstick.

  The lipstick was very, very red. It made my skin seem almost translucent in its paleness. My hair gleamed black in the lights, matching the deep, solid brown of my eyes. I’d added a little eye shadow and mascara at home, and called the makeup done. I rarely wore base.

  Micah was right, without the base the makeup wasn’t ruined, but . . . but. I was still pissed about it. Still wanted to be angry. Wanted to be angry, not was still angry. Why did I want to hold on to the anger? Why did it make me mad that he had the ability to drown my anger with the touch of his body? Why did that bug me so much?

  Because it was me. I had a real talent for picking my love life apart until I broke it. I had promised myself, not that long ago, that I’d stop picking at things. That if my life worked, I’d just enjoy it. It sounded so simple, but it wasn’t. Why is it that the simplest plans are sometimes the hardest to do?

  I took a deep breath and paused at the full-length mirror on the way out. I would have worn black but Bert always thought that that gave the wrong impression. Too funereal, he’d say. My silk shell was the red of the lipstick, but Bert had already complained months ago: no more black and red—too aggressive. So I was in charcoal gray with a thin pattern of black and darker gray through it. The jacket hit me at the waist to meet up with the matching skirt.

  The skirt was pleated, forming a nice swing around my upper thighs when I moved. I’d tested it at home, but now I tested it again, just in case. Nope, not a glimpse of the top of my stockings. I didn’t own any panty hose anymore. I’d finally been won over to the truth that a comfortable garter belt, hard to find but worth the search, with a pair of nice hose was actually more comfortable than panty hose. You just had to make sure that no one caught a glimpse of them when you moved, unless you were on a date. Men reacted really oddly if they knew you were wearing stockings and a garter belt.

  If I’d known that Agent Fox had already been prejudiced against me, I might have worn a pantsuit. Too late now. Why was it a crime for a woman to look good?

  Would I get fewer rumors if I dressed down? Maybe. Of course, if I wore jeans and a T-shirt I got complaints that I was too casual and needed to look more professional. Sometimes you just can’t win for losing.

  I was delaying. Dammit. I did not want to go back out to Micah. Why? Because he was right, this was the first time we’d ever been alone together for this long.

  Why did that thought tighten my chest and make my pulse speed like something alive in my throat?

  I was scared. Scared of what? Scared of Micah? Sort of. But more scared of myself, I think. Scared that without Nathaniel, or Jean-Claude, or Asher, or someone to balance things, Micah and I wouldn’t work. That without everyone interfering, there wouldn’t be a relationship. That there would be too much time, too much truth, and it would all fall apart. I didn’t want it to fall apart. I didn’t want Micah to go away. And the moment you care that much, a man has you. He owns a little piece of your soul, and he can beat you to death with it.

  Don’t believe me? Then you’ve never been in love and had it go to hell. Lucky you.

  I took a deep calming breath and let it out slow. I used some of the breathing exercises I’d been studying. I was trying to learn to meditate. So far I was good at the breathing part, but I just couldn’t still my mind, not without it filling with ugly thoughts, ugly images. Too much violence inside my head. Too much violence in my life. Micah was one of my refuges. His arms, his body, his smile. His quiet acceptance of me, violence and all. Now I was back to being scared. Shit.

  I took another deep breath and walked out of the bathroom. I couldn’t hide in there all day; the Feds were waiting. Besides, you can’t hide from yourself. Can’t hide from your own head going ugly. Unfortunately.

  Micah smiled when he saw me. That smile that was just for me. That smile that seemed to loosen something tight and hard and bitter inside me. When he smiled at me like that, I could breathe better. So stupid, so stupid, to let anyone mean that much to you.

  Something must have shown on my face because the smile dimmed around the edges. He held his hand out to me.

  I went to him but didn’t take his hand because I knew the moment I did I wouldn’t be able to think as clearly.

  He let his hand fall. “What’s wrong?” The smile was gone, and it was my fault. But I’d learned to talk about my paranoias. Otherwise they grew.

  I stepped closer and dropped my voice as much as the murmurous noise of the airport would allow. “I’m scared.”

  He moved closer to me, lowering his head. “Of what?”

  “Being alone with you.”

  He smiled and started to reach for me. I didn’t step away. I let his hands touch my arms. He held me and searched my face as if looking for a clue. I don’t think he found one. He drew me into a hug and said, “Honey, if I’d dreamed that you’d be spooked about being alone with me, I wouldn’t have said it.”

  I clung to him, my cheek pressed into his shoulder. “It would have still been true.”

  “Yes, but if I hadn’t pointed it out, you probably wouldn’t have thought about it.” He held me close. “We’d have had our time away and it would never have occurred to you that it was the first time. I’m sorry.”

  I wrapped my hands tighter around the solidness of him. “I’m sorry, Micah. Sorry I’m such a mess.”

  He drew me away enough so he could gaze into my face. “You
are not a mess.”

  I gave him a look.

  He laughed and said, “Maybe a little messy, but not a mess.” His voice had gone all gentle. I loved his voice like that, loved that I was the only one his voice went soft for. So why couldn’t I just enjoy him, us? Hell if I knew.

  “The Feds are waiting for us,” I said.

  It was his turn to give me a look. Even with the dark glasses, I knew the look.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. I gave him a smile that almost worked. “I promise to try to enjoy the parts of this trip that are enjoyable. I promise to try to not get in my own way, or weird myself out about us being . . . just us.” I shrugged when I said the last.

  He touched the side of my face. “When will you stop panicking about being in love?”

  I shrugged again. “Never, soon, I don’t know.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Anita. I like it right here, beside you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you love me?”

  He looked startled. “You mean that, don’t you?”

  I realized I did. I had one of those aha moments. I didn’t think I was very lovable, so why did he love me? Why did anyone love me?

  I touched his lips with my fingers. “Don’t answer now. We don’t have time for deep therapy. Business now. We’ll work on my neuroses later.”

  He started to say something but I shook my head.

  “Let’s go meet Special Agent Fox.” When I took my hand away from his lips, he just nodded. One of the reasons we worked as a couple was that Micah knew when to let it go, whatever the “it” of the moment happened to be.

  This was one of those times when I truly didn’t know why he put up with me. Why anyone put up with me. I didn’t want to ruin this. I didn’t want to pick at Micah and me until we unraveled. I wanted to leave it alone and enjoy it. I just didn’t know how to do that.

  We got our bags settled, and off we went. We had FBI to meet and a zombie to raise. Raising the dead was easy; love was hard.

  CHAPTER

  4

  We met the Feds at the baggage return area, as arranged. How did we know who the FBI agents were in the crowd of people, most of the men dressed in suits?

  They looked like agents. I don’t know what it is about FBI training but Feds always just seem to look like what they are. All flavors of cops tend to look like cops, but only FBI looks like FBI and not plain cops. Don’t know what they do to them down in Quantico, but whatever it is, it sticks.

  Special Agent Chester Fox, agent in charge, was very Native American. The short hair, the suit, the perfect fitting-in couldn’t hide the fact that he was so very not like the rest of them. I understood now some of his pissiness on the phone. He was the first Native American agent that I’d ever found involved in a case that had nothing to do with Native Americans. If you happened to be Native American, you could usually look forward to a career of dealing with cases that called for your ethnicity but not necessarily your talents. Cases involving Native American issues were also not usually career makers, though they could be career breakers. Another interesting thing about the FBI and its dealing with Native Americans was that if you looked Indian enough, they would assign you even if the case involved a totally different tribe, with a totally different language and customs. You’re Indian, right? Aren’t all Indians the same?

  No. But then the American government—whatever branch—has never really grasped the concept of tribal identity.

  The agent with him, I knew. Agent Franklin was tall, slender with skin dark enough to actually be black. His hair was cut shorter and closer to his head than the last time I’d seen him in New Mexico, but his hands were still graceful and nervous. He smoothed those poet’s hands down his overcoat. He caught me looking and stopped that nervous dance. He offered me a hand just as if he hadn’t called me a slut to his partner.

  I took his hand. No hard feelings here. I even smiled though I knew it didn’t reach my eyes. Franklin didn’t even try to look pleased to see me. He wasn’t rude, but he didn’t pretend he was happy either.

  “Agent Franklin, I’m surprised to see you here.”

  He took back his hand. “Didn’t your friend Bradford tell you I’d been reassigned?” He said friend like he meant more, and the rest was bitter. Not obvious bitter, but it had that feel to it. Nothing he said was rude enough to start a fight, but it was close.

  Special Agent Bradley Bradford was head of the FBI’s Special Research section, which dealt with preternatural serial killers, or crimes involving the preternatural.

  There’d been a lot of controversy about splitting those crimes out of the Investigative Support unit, the one that usually handled serial killers. At short acquaintance, Franklin had made his feelings clear on the situation. He’d been against it.

  Since Bradford was his boss at the time, that had been a problem. Apparently, Franklin had been reassigned, a nonvoluntary reassignment. Not good for a career in the FBI. I was taking fallout for a political squabble that I’d had nothing to do with. Great, just great.

  I started to introduce Micah, but Fox beat me to it. “Callahan, Micah Callahan.” Fox was already offering his hand and smiling, way more broadly than he’d smiled for me. How did an FBI agent know Micah? “You look good.”

  Micah smiled not quite as broadly, like he wasn’t as happy to see Agent Fox. What the hell was going on?

  “Fox, I . . .” Micah tried again. “The last time you saw me, I was still in the hospital. I must have looked like shit, so I guess anything’s an improvement.” I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, though I doubted anyone else could. You had to know him really well to hear that note in his voice.

  “Someone who came that close to dying is allowed to look like shit,” Fox said.

  I knew then that this probably had something to do with the attack that had made Micah a wereleopard. All I knew about it for certain was that it had been violent. Once someone uses the words violent and attack, you don’t press for details. I’d figured he’d tell me more when he was ready.

  Micah turned to me. His face was having trouble deciding what to do, and I was betting he was glad that the glasses hid his eyes. “Special Agent Fox was one of the agents who questioned me after my attack.”

  I hadn’t known that his mauling had gotten federal attention. I couldn’t think why it would have but I couldn’t ask that here and now because it would be admitting too much ignorance. Also, I wasn’t sure how much Micah wanted to share in the airport with people walking around us.

  I covered. I can do blank pleasant cop face with the best of them. I did it now. “What are the odds that he’d be the agent in charge of this case?” I said, smiling, as if I knew exactly what we were talking about. I’d give Micah a chance to explain later, when we didn’t have an audience.

  “I didn’t know that you were an animator,” Fox said, still talking to Micah.

  “I’m not.” And Micah left it at that.

  Fox waited for him to add more, but Micah smiled and didn’t. Fox would have let it go, but Franklin didn’t. Some people just can’t leave well enough alone.

  “Are you a vampire executioner?” Franklin asked.

  Micah shook his head.

  “You’re not a federal marshal.” And Franklin said it like he was positive.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Let it go, Franklin,” Fox said.

  “She’s brought a civilian along on a federal case.”

  “We’ll talk about this in the car,” Fox said, and the look he gave Franklin stopped the taller man in midsentence.

  Fox asked me, “Do we need to wait for more bags?”

  “No,” I said. “We’re going back home tomorrow, right?”

  “That’s the plan,” he said, but his face was not happy, as if the whole thing with Franklin was still bothering him.

  “Then we’re ready to go.”

  He actually smiled. “A woman who packs light—that�
�s rare.”

  “Sexist,” I said.

  He gave me a nod. “Sorry, you’re right. I apologize.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No sweat.”

  He led the way out the doors, and there were two cars waiting. One had two other agents with it, and the other was empty and waiting for us.

  Fox spoke over his shoulder at us. “With the new regulations, even the FBI doesn’t get to leave cars parked unattended.”

  “Glad to hear the new rules apply to everyone,” I said, more for something to say than because I cared. I wanted to look at Micah and was afraid to. Afraid if I gave him too much attention, he’d fall apart or feel like he had to explain in front of them. Of course, by not looking at him, he might think I was mad about him not sharing details. But . . . oh, hell.

  We were pretending he was just my assistant. Holding his hand or giving him a kiss might expose that lie. Or give Franklin even more reason to think I was sleeping around. I hadn’t thought about what it might mean to introduce Micah as my assistant. I guess I hadn’t really thought it through at all. In my own defense, I hadn’t had time to come up with a good explanation for why I needed to bring my boyfriend along. Assistant had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  I did the only thing I could think of to reassure him and keep the assistant thing going: I patted him on the shoulder. It wasn’t much, but he rewarded me with a smile, as if he’d known the mental gymnastics I was going through. Maybe he did.

  Fox drove. Franklin rode shotgun. Micah, the briefcase, and I rode in the backseat. The other car followed us as we pulled away.

  “We’ll drop you at the motel,” Fox began.

  Micah interrupted him. “Actually, I booked us into the Four Seasons.”

  “Jesus,” Franklin said.

  “The FBI won’t pick up the tab for the Four Seasons,” Fox said.

  “We wouldn’t expect it,” Micah said.

  I sat there wondering why Micah had changed hotels, then realized that Fox had said motel. Oh. Micah wanted a nicer place for our first night alone together. Logical—so why did it make my stomach tight? What was he expecting of our first night alone?