Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter collection 11-15

by Laurell K. Hamilton

He ran into me, or nearly. He had to grab my arms to keep from smacking into the back of me. It startled both of us. He apologized before I’d finished turning around.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were . . . stopping.” He sounded breathless and way more upset than he should have been.

  I was left staring up at him, wondering why he was nervous. Then I saw what he was doing with his hands. He was running them up and down the sleeves of his trench coat, as if he’d touched something and was trying to wipe it off. He wasn’t being insulting. I doubt he even realized he was doing it. I might have done the same thing if I’d touched someone else’s magic unexpectedly. It was like walking through metaphysical cobwebs; you had to brush it off. He had felt at least some of the power I was getting off the graves.

  I might have asked Franklin why he’d been hiding that he was psychic, but Fox and Micah came up to us, and somehow I didn’t think Franklin would want me being that insightful in front of them. Had he told the FBI that he was talented? I was betting not. It had been a plus in only the last two, three years tops. Before that they looked at it as a psychological disorder. You didn’t get to be a federal agent with a psychological disorder.

  It did explain why he had a serious dislike of me. If he was hiding what he was, he wouldn’t want to be around someone who complemented his talents, whatever they might be. No, if you were hiding, you didn’t want to be around people who were out of the broom closet, as it were.

  “Is there a problem?” Fox asked.

  Franklin said, “No, no problem,” a little too fast.

  I just shook my head, still looking up at the taller man.

  I don’t think Fox believed us, but he let it go. We weren’t talking, so he was out of options. He gave us both a look, then said, “Then if there’s no problem, everyone is waiting for us.”

  I nodded again, then thought to ask, “Is Rose’s grave the newest one in this cemetery?”

  Fox thought about it, then nodded. “Yes, why?”

  I smiled at him and knew that it was a dreamy smile, as if I were listening to music he couldn’t hear. “Just wanted to know what I was looking for, that’s all.”

  “I can take you to the grave, Marshal. You don’t need to look for it.”

  I wanted to look for it. I wanted to walk the cemetery a tombstone at a time and find it myself.

  Micah answered for me. “That would be good, Fox. Lead the way.”

  I looked at him and fought to make it friendly. He gave me a look in return that was a warning. In the dark, with all the trees around, I doubted anyone else could have seen his expression as clearly as I did. But we both had better-than-normal night vision, though I doubted mine could compare to his kitty-cat eyes. Those eyes were bare for all to see now. Too dark for his black-lensed sunglasses, but you’d be surprised how many people wouldn’t notice the strangeness of his eyes. Even in full light, a lot of people wouldn’t see his eyes for what they were. People see what they want to see, unless forced to see the truth.

  I looked full into his eyes and read the warning there, the worry. Was I really all right? the look asked.

  The truth was yes and no. I felt great, but it was the kind of great that could go south fast and hard. One minute fine, the next moment the power could do something unfortunate.

  I took a deep breath and tried to center and ground, the way I’d been taught, but that was a skill I’d learned from a psychic and witch. Her talents ran to prophecy and empathy so finely tuned it was almost telepathy. She didn’t raise the dead. She didn’t truly understand my talent.

  Drawing myself into the center of my body was great—I felt steadier, more myself and less power-fuzzed—but the moment I tried to ground all that power into the earth, to bleed some of it off, it turned. Turned so that it didn’t go deep but out and away. My power chased through the ground so that I sensed the graves, all the graves, like I was the center of a great wheel. The graves were the points along the spokes, and I knew them all. I didn’t drop my shields that I hid behind to keep the dead from bothering me. The shields were just not there.

  I’d known that my power was growing, but I hadn’t truly understood what that might mean until right this second. I knew the dead in every grave here. I knew which still had a remnant of energy. What graves would have shivery spots if you walked over them, the last gasp of what had once been a ghost. Most of the graves were quiet, only bones and rags and dust. I’d been able to stand in a cemetery and do this for years. But what had changed was: one, I hadn’t done it on purpose, and two, every grave I touched was a little more energetic for my power having breathed over it. That was new.

  “Stop it, Blake.” Franklin’s voice was tight with anxiety.

  I looked at him. “Stop what?” I asked, but my voice was lazy with power.

  “Don’t toy with him, Anita,” Micah said.

  “I’m missing something,” Fox said.

  I nodded. “Yeah, you are.” I could have let Franklin’s cat out of the bag, but I didn’t. I knew what it felt like to be different and to want nothing, absolutely nothing, as much as simply to be normal. I’d given up on that a long time ago. It wasn’t possible for me and never had been. Maybe it wouldn’t be possible for Franklin either, but that wasn’t my call. I did the only thing I could for him. I lied.

  “When Franklin and I bumped into each other, he caught an edge of my power. It happens sometimes when my shields are down.” That was a lie. It happened only if your abilities were similar to mine in some way, or you were so strongly psychic in some other way that you would sense any strong psychic gift used near you. Either Franklin had abilities with the dead like mediumship, being able to talk with the recently departed. Or he was powerful in some other way. Naw. If he’d been that gifted, he wouldn’t have been able to hide it. I was betting that somewhere in his background was a family member who could talk to spirits. Someone he probably hated or was embarrassed about. You dislike most in others what you hate in yourself.

  Fox said, “Is that right, Franklin? You bumped into the marshal.”

  Franklin nodded. “Yes.” One word, no emotion to it, but the relief in his eyes was too raw. He turned away from Fox, from me, to hide those relieved eyes. He knew I knew, and he knew I’d lied for him. He owed me. I hoped he understood that.

  Fox looked from one of us to the other, as if he suspected we were lying, or at least hiding something. He looked at Micah and got a shrug. Fox shook his head and said, “Fine.” He looked at us a heartbeat longer, then shook his head, as if he’d decided to let it go. “We’re going to be the last to arrive at graveside, Marshal Blake. I don’t want to leave the federal judge and the lawyers waiting too long in the middle of a cemetery, so I’ll lead the way. I think it will be faster that way.”

  I couldn’t argue the faster part. “Then lead the way, Special Agent Fox.”

  He gave me one more hard look. It was a good look, as those kinds of looks go. But if he thought I was going to break down and fess up because of a hard look, he was wrong. I gave him a pleasant, even eager face, but nothing helpful.

  He sighed and settled his shoulders, as if his shoulder holster chafed. He started off through the cemetery. Franklin fell into line behind him without a backward glance.

  Micah and I followed them. Micah had us drop back enough to whisper, “You’re having trouble controlling your power tonight, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “Then should you be raising the dead?”

  “I think it will be one of the easier raisings I’ve ever done. There’s so much power.”

  He grabbed my arm. “Do you even know that you’re touching every tombstone as you walk by it?”

  I stood there with his hand on my arm and stared at him. “I’m what?”

  “You’re caressing the tops of the tombstones like you’d stroke a hand through flowers in a field.”

  I look
ed at the worry in his face and knew that he wasn’t lying, but . . . “Was I?”

  “Yes,” he said, and his grip on my arm was suddenly almost painful.

  “You’re hurting me,” I said.

  “Does it help?”

  I frowned at him, then realized what he meant. The small pain had pushed back the power. I could think about something other than the dead. My first clear thought was fear. “I don’t know what’s wrong tonight. I really don’t. I knew I was gaining abilities from the vampires, but I didn’t think it would bleed over to the zombie stuff. I mean, that’s my magic, not Jean-Claude’s, not Richard’s. Mine. Whatever happens metaphysically, it doesn’t usually mess with my basic talent.”

  “Should you cancel tonight?” he asked.

  I licked my lips, tasting the fresh lipstick I’d put on after we’d made love. I shook my head, moving into the circle of his arms. I hugged him. “If this is a new power level, then one night won’t make a difference.” I held him, breathing in the warm solidity of him.

  “There’s always a learning curve to new abilities, Anita,” he whispered into my hair. “Even if that ability is only a stronger version of something else. Do we really want the learning curve to be on the FBI’s dime?”

  He had a point, a good one, but . . . “I’ll be able to raise this zombie, Micah.”

  “But what else will you raise?” he asked.

  I drew back enough to see his face. “How did you understand that?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re afraid of? Not that you can’t raise the dead, but that you’ll raise more than you were paid for?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.” I shivered and drew away so I could rub my arms. “That’s exactly it.”

  “The protective circle is usually to keep things out,” he said. “Right?”

  I nodded again.

  “Tonight, I think maybe it will be to keep you in.”

  “So I don’t spread over more of the graves,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “They should have chickens waiting for me to slaughter. I know Larry would have told them to bring the livestock.”

  Fox yelled, “Marshal, Callahan, are you coming?”

  “We’ll be there in a minute,” Micah called. He leaned into me, hands on my arms. “Do you really think chicken blood will keep this contained?”

  “Not their blood, but their lives, yes,” I said.

  “I’m not sure adding fresh death to your magic tonight is a good idea.”

  “What choice do I have, Micah? I can make a small cut in my arm or hand and use the blood, but I’m not sure what my blood touching the graveyard will do tonight. So much power tonight, it’s intoxicating.”

  “Then use my blood,” he said.

  I looked at him. “You’ve never shared blood for a zombie raising.”

  “No, but I let Jean-Claude take blood from me. How much different can it be?”

  There were many answers to that, but I settled for “A lot different. I can’t cloud your mind to make it not hurt.”

  “It’s a little cut, Anita. I’m okay with it.”

  I sighed and hugged him again. A lot of men will date you, and some will sleep with you, and a few are content to play second fiddle to your job, but how many will literally open a vein for you? Not many.

  I gave him a quick kiss. “Let’s go raise Mr. Rose from the dead.”

  He picked up the bag with all the zombie-raising paraphernalia in it. He’d carry it. After all, he was the assistant. He needed to look useful. We finished the walk to the grave hand in hand. Maybe it wasn’t professional, but I didn’t care anymore. Besides, once I cut his arm open with the machete, no one would complain that he wasn’t assisting me enough. No, they’d think he was more than earning his paycheck. The fact that he didn’t get paid to be my assistant would be our little secret.

  CHAPTER

  10

  One of the things in the gym bag that Micah was holding was a machete longer than my forearm. Even with a badge I might have had trouble getting it on the plane, except for the magical artifact law. Magical practitioners who earned their living from their magical talent could not be denied access to their magical tools. They were to be treated the same way as crosses, or Stars Of David. The machete had had to go through checked baggage until the Supreme Court put through the exclusion act. Made it all so much more convenient for me.

  We were introduced to everyone. I gave a special nod to the court reporter, the only other woman there. I spent a lot of time being the only woman everywhere I went. I’d begun to like having other women around. It made me feel less like a freak. The only girl in the all-boys club had begun to get a little lonely of late.

  The lawyers on one side were unhappy with me from the moment they saw me. How relieved they must have been when Rose died quietly of natural causes before he could testify. Now here I was, about to bring him back from the dead so he could testify after all. What’s the world coming to when even the dead can testify in federal court?

  Arthur Salvia was the head lawyer on the side that wasn’t happy to see me. His name sounded vaguely familiar, as if he’d been in the news for something, but I couldn’t place it. “Your honor, I must protest again. Mr. Rose died before he could testify in court. The testimony of a dead man is not admissible.”

  “I get to say what is admissible, Mr. Salvia. You’ll get your chance to cross-examine the witness.” He frowned and turned to me. “That is correct, Ms. Blake? The zombie will be able to be cross-examined?”

  I nodded, realized he might not have the night vision to see it, and said, “Yes, your honor. The zombie will be able to answer questions and respond to cross-examination.”

  He nodded too, then said, “There, Mr. Salvia. You will get your chance to cross-examine Mr. Rose.”

  “Mr. Rose is dead, your honor. I renew my objections to this entire proceeding—”

  The judge held up his hand. “Heard and noted, Mr. Salvia, but save the rest of your objections for the appeal.”

  Salvia settled back. He was not happy.

  Micah leaned in very close to my ear and whispered, “He smells like fear.”

  The lawyer for the accused was allowed to be nervous, but fear? That seemed a bit strong. Was he afraid of the graveyard and the whole zombie thing, or was it something else?

  There was a wire mesh cage over to one side with a chicken in it. The bird clucked softly to itself, making the sleepy noises chickens make when they’re settling down for the night. The chicken wasn’t afraid. It didn’t know it had been brought to play blood sacrifice. Larry would have needed it. I didn’t. I’d discovered that I could use a little bit of my own blood to represent the sacrifice needed to raise the dead by accident. Or necessity, after Marianne, the woman who was helping me learn to control my metaphysical abilities, had gotten grief from her coven.

  She hadn’t been Wiccan when I first started going to her. She’d just been psychic. Then she got religion, and suddenly she was asking if I could raise the dead without killing an animal. Something about her coven speculating that she, as my teacher, would take on some of my bad karma from doing death magic. So I tried. I could do it. The zombie wasn’t always as well put together, or as smart, but it still talked and could answer questions. Good enough for government work, as they say. But constantly having cuts all over my left hand and arm got old. I refused to cut my gun hand. It hurt, and I was beginning to run out of fresh places to cut. I decided that since I ate meat anyway, it wasn’t so different from slaughtering a few animals to do my job. But the whole experience had taught me that I could, if I had to, raise the newly dead without killing an animal. Very recently, I’d discovered that I didn’t need any blood to raise a zombie sometimes.

  I guess I should have known I could, because I’d accidentally raised the dead when I was younger. A beloved dog that crawled out of the grave to follow me home; a college prof that committed suicide and came to my dorm room one night.

  That should ha
ve told me that the blood wasn’t absolutely necessary, but I’d been taught zombie-raising by a man who needed the blood, needed the sacrifice, needed the herbal salve, and all of it. I’d done it the way I’d been taught, until recently.

  I was saving the lives of a lot of livestock, but it wasn’t doing my nerves any good.

  The judge asked in a voice that managed to be both friendly and condescending, “Could you explain what you’re about to do so we’ll understand what’s happening and for Elaine—Ms. Beck—to get it into the court record?” He motioned at the dark-haired woman at her little folding stool and table.

  His request stopped me. In all the years I’d been raising the dead, no one had ever asked me to explain. Most people treated me like a dirty little secret. Something you may need to do, but you don’t want to know the details. Like sausage making. People love eating sausage, but they don’t want to know too many details about how it’s made.

  I closed my mouth, then managed to say, “Fine.” Of course, since I’d never explained before, I wasn’t sure how to explain at all. How do you explain magic to people who don’t do magic? How do you explain psychic gifts to people who have none? Hell if I knew, but I tried.

  “First we’ll do a circle of protection,” I said.

  Salvia asked, “I have a question for Marshal Blake.”

  “She’s not a witness, Mr. Salvia,” the judge said.

  “Without her abilities, this testimony would be impossible to retrieve. Is that not true, your honor?”

  The judge seemed to think about that for a second or two. “Yes, but all I’ve asked of the marshal is that she explain the mechanics of what she is about to do. That isn’t witness testimony.”

  “No, but she is an expert witness, the same as any other forensic expert.”

  “I’m not certain that an animator is a forensic expert, Mr. Salvia.”

  “But she is an expert on raising the dead, correct?”

  Again the judge thought about it. He saw the trap that his little request for an explanation for the court record had gotten us into. If I had information for the court record, then my information was suddenly open to questioning by the attorneys. Shit.