[Anita Blake 17] - Skin Trade

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Vittorio’s voice. “Two dancers, if you let him go on your breasts.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I just yanked my shirt over my head and let it fall. I held him in my hand, working him, keeping him close; I didn’t want to lose ground. I had to let go to undo my bra and throw it over my shoulder to the floor with the shirt. Then I plunged my mouth back over him, cupping, and playing, and teasing until I felt him tighten in my mouth. I moved off him just in time, stroking him with my hand as he spilled upward, outward, in a thick, warm rain of it. It spattered across my shoulders, my breasts, and I threw my head back, thrust my breasts more forward, and it also kept it out of my eyes.

  Rick spasmed above me, rattling the chains, making small noises against the gag.

  Vittorio was huddled against the counter; he looked at me, at Rick, at the show of it, with a look of eager horror.

  I heard Ava and Rocco go to the door to let more of the hostages go. I started crawling toward the vampire, with my breasts hanging down, and the warm liquid beginning to drip. He pushed himself to his feet and screamed, “Kill them!”

  My skin ran with that sibilant magic, and I knew that Rocco had said the words, and the jinn were gone. Ava screamed, and I risked a glance to find that Ava had buried her knife in Rocco’s side, but he had her wrist, and I knew what he could do with that seemingly innocent touch.

  The glance was a mistake. Vittorio used that blinding speed to be up and at Requiem’s side. I couldn’t move fast enough, but I had one power that was fast as thought. I opened the ardeur and thrust it like a weapon at the vampire. It might not have worked except he’d just had me do one of his fantasies. The idea of me and sex was already firm in his mind. He wanted to look.

  I didn’t run. I stalked, I writhed, I made everything work, and he couldn’t look away. He was still staring at me when I wrapped my hand around his and cupped the vial of holy water, sending it to shatter harmlessly on the floor.

  “I will ruin him,” he whispered.

  “That’s not what you want.”

  “I can’t have what I want,” he said.

  I put his empty hands on my breasts, and held his gaze with mine. His hands started smoothing the liquid across my breasts, as if he didn’t realize he was doing it. “Your eyes,” he said, “your eyes are full of fire, like cognac diamonds.”

  “Say it,” I whispered.

  He leaned his face downward, as I leaned upward. “Say it,” I whispered.

  “Release, I want release.”

  His mouth met mine, and we kissed. One moment it was gentle, the next he fed at my mouth, so hard his fangs cut my lips and filled our mouths with the sweet taste of blood. Blood made my hungers rise, but it was too late for any of the others; all that was left was the ardeur. I had denied it, tried to cage it, control it, but in that moment I understood why kings had offered Belle Morte their crowns, why women had offered everything for one more night with Jean-Claude; I understood what it meant to be Belle Morte’s line. The ardeur wasn’t something I had to feed to stay alive, it was the way I fed. It was my blood.

  Vittorio made small eager noises against my mouth, his hands eager on my body. I felt the growing pressure of it build inside him, and I felt the ardeur mingle with the power of the beasts, all of it so warm and alive, so not vampire. His breathing quickened, his body tensed, and I drove the ardeur and the power of the tigers into him, like a seeking hand, and gave him, for a moment, a taste of it. I gave him the shadow of what he had lost, and his mouth tore away from mine in a scream, as his body spasmed against mine, his hands clutching at me. He collapsed to the floor beside the table, taking me, still in his arms, to the floor with him. He was crying and laughing. “How did you do that?”

  “I am Belle Morte’s line. I belong to Jean-Claude. We are meant to bring pleasure.”

  His hand searched the floor, and I knew what he meant to do before I saw the flash of silver. I rolled away from him, but he came for me, and he was simply too fast.

  Then a white blur crashed into his side, and a second joined it. The two weretigers grappled with the vampire, and his speed did no good because they were already touching him. I pushed backward so I could see the bed, and the chains were empty. I didn’t know where Max was, but I knew where his wife and Rick were. The other weretigers spilled out of the corner where they’d been frozen. I thought for one awful moment they meant to attack us, but they went for the fight and Vittorio.

  Max appeared by the kitchenette. He handed me a towel. I stood up and began to wipe myself off. We both kept our eyes on the fight, but it was a blur of claws and teeth.

  “You mind-fucked him, and that was the weakness I needed. The tigers are mine again.”

  Rocco came to me, holding pressure on his side wound. Ava lay behind him on the floor, staring sightless at the ceiling.

  “How did it feel?” I asked.

  “Good,” he said. “She wasn’t being controlled. She betrayed you, Max.”

  “I know. She felt we treated her as a second-class tiger, and she was right.”

  Blood sprayed out over the room. “That was arterial spray,” I said.

  “Fight’s over,” Max said.

  I dropped the towel onto the floor, picked up my shirt and bra from the floor, and went to Requiem. I jumped up on the table and undid his chains. He ripped off his own gag. I hugged him and he gasped. I touched the burns, and felt my eyes grow hot. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You saved me.”

  I could only nod.

  “Get dressed, Anita,” Rocco said. “I’ve got to call the cavalry in and warn them that the tigers are on our side.” I looked where he was looking, and found the white tigers, some in tigerman form, covered in blood. Vittorio was in pieces on the ground. Now that he was dead, they’d stopped feeding. Vampire is bitter meat, so I’m told.

  I dressed and promised myself a shower later. Max offered to take Requiem to his own underground resting place until nightfall. I kissed Requiem, and turned toward the police as they spilled in through the door behind Rocco, but it was all over. This time Edward and the guys had missed the party.

  Epilogue

  REQUIEM SPENT THE rest of the day in the downstairs area with Max. Rocco and I had a lot of ’splaining to do. We left out some things. Ava attacked him and he was forced to use the maximum of his power. He probably could have stopped sooner, but why? She was dead either way because of the warrant.

  Bibiana asked, in private, “You gave him his first pleasure in centuries; why did he attack you?”

  Max and I exchanged looks, and he said, “He knew he’d do anything to have that feeling again. He knew that Anita owned him lock, stock, and barrel, and he couldn’t have that.”

  “He’d rather have power than the pleasure?” she asked.

  “He knew it would be a choice,” Max said. “I think Anita’s leash may be shorter than the one you keep me on.” They had laughed good-naturedly and hugged.

  Requiem suggested that we cut the burns away the next night, and try to heal it with sex, as we’d done with other fresh wounds in the past. It worked. He’s perfect again. It makes the idea of trying it on Asher possible. But we’ll start with a little piece of skin, just in case the deeper burns make it not work.

  Denis-Luc St. John’s sister never gave him my message. He called, upset that he’d missed it all, but his sister wasn’t sorry—he was alive. I kind of agree with his sister.

  Lieutenant Grimes said that if I ever get tired of being a vampire hunter, to let him know; I could test and see if I could become their first female member. I was flattered, really flattered. I actually didn’t say no. I can’t see living in Vegas, but I could see working on a SWAT unit like theirs. Their pilot program of using practitioners is successful enough that other cities are talking about it—not St. Louis so far, but I have hopes. Would I really give up hunting vampires? I’d still help hunt them, but the idea of working on a unit where the idea is to save lives and not take them is pretty appealing.

&nb
sp; I took Crispin and Domino home with me to St. Louis. The redhead, I sent home to his clan. Their queen has requested a visit in a neutral city, since I keep poaching her males—one of them being her son, the first one, Alex. So far the red tigers don’t seem as affected by me as the white or the black. Sebastian went back to his life. He is drawn to me, but he doesn’t want to go back into servitude to anyone. I don’t blame him.

  Cynric was a different problem. Yes, he was legal in Vegas, and yes, his legal guardians, Max and Bibiana, were fine with it, so no court charges, but he is besotted with me. It’s worse than Crispin, because he had fewer internal protections. He was just so young, so open, and because the tigers, or at least the white clan, try for monogamy, I was his first. The thought of a massive ardeur feed, with a group orgy thrown in, as anyone’s first time just makes me ill.

  They’re keeping him in Vegas for at least a year, because next birthday he’ll be legal in Missouri. I told Bibiana it doesn’t matter, he’d still be a child, but she said, “You have made him your tiger to call, Anita, you must take responsibility for that.”

  “I didn’t mind-fuck him, Vittorio did.”

  “But you are who he pines for.”

  I made the mistake of asking, “What do you want me to do about him?”

  “Let him come visit next year.”

  I told her we’d discuss it, but really, not only no, but hell no.

  The SWAT operators in the hospital are all awake. They found a girlfriend, or wife, or child, or parent to give them a kiss of love. It all worked, though one operator had never married, parents dead, and so they finally brought his dog in; one good face-licking later and his master was up and around. Ain’t love grand?

  Jean-Claude, Asher, and I have talked about what happened in Vegas, with the ardeur and Vittorio at the end. We agree with Max about why he attacked me, but why did sex disrupt all that ancient vampire ability? Jean-Claude finally said, “Everyone believes that Belle Morte’s line is weak because our power is love, but really, ma petite, what is more powerful than love?” I could have argued that I’d seen hate kill love, or violence, or . . . but in the end, maybe he’s right. I know that Vittorio wasn’t beaten by power. He was beaten by the offer of love. “ ’Twas beauty that killed the beast,” the old movie said. ’Twas love that killed this one, or maybe lust, but sometimes I’m not sure there’s as much difference as we like to think between the two. Not if you mean it.

  I wasn’t lying when I offered the ardeur to Vittorio. In that moment, I wanted to give him back what he’d lost because I could feel his need, feel the great sorrow of it that had turned to such rage. I wanted to hold him and make it better, and I did, and he tried to kill me for it. Men—who knows what they really want?