Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Collection 6-10

by Laurell Hamilton

  “You refused the power,” he said.

  He was right. In the end, I’d panicked and hadn’t gotten the full dose. “Whatever.” I eased through the wolves, but they didn’t move. I walked out, brushing through fur like wading through a fur coat factory. Every brush of breathing, living animal scared me. Panic climbed at my throat, and I still had enough glow left to know that my fear excited them. The more scared I got, the more I smelled like food.

  I kept the gun ready, but I knew if they went for me, I was dead. There were too many of them. They watched me walk. They stubbornly refused to move, forcing me to brush their furred bodies. I realized they were using me for a sort of appetizer, my fear to spice their food, the brush of my human body to flavor their chase.

  When I passed the last furred body, the sound of tearing flesh brought my head around. I couldn’t stop myself in time. Richard’s muzzle was raised skyward, slick with blood, throwing down a piece of meat that I tried not to recognize.

  I ran. The woods that I’d glided through with Richard’s help suddenly became an obstacle course. I ran, and tripped, and fell, and ran some more. I finally got back to the parking lot. I had driven because nobody but me was going home tonight. They’d stay here and have a moonlight jamboree.

  Edward and Harley had watched all of it from a nearby hill with night scopes. I wondered what they thought of the show.

  38

  * * *

  EDWARD made me promise to go back to the Circus for one more night. Marcus was dead, so there was no more money, but if someone else had taken the contract, they might not know that yet. It would be a shame to get killed after all the effort we’d put in to save me. I walked all the way down the damn stairs to the iron-bound door before I realized I didn’t have a key, and nobody was expecting me.

  The clear liquid that had gushed out of Richard’s body had dried to a sticky, viscous substance somewhere between blood and glue. I needed a bath. I needed clean clothes. I needed to stop seeing Richard’s mouth while he ate pieces of Marcus. The harder I tried not to flash on it, the clearer the image got.

  I banged on the door until my hands stung, then I kicked it. No one came. “Shit!” I screamed at no one and everyone. “Shit!”

  The feel of his body on top of mine. His bones and muscle sliding on top of me like a bag of snakes. The warm rush of power, and that moment when I had wanted to drop to my knees and feed. What if I had swallowed the power whole? What if I hadn’t backed off? Would I have fed on Marcus? Would I have done that and enjoyed it?

  I screamed wordlessly, smacking my hands into the door, kicking it, beating on it. I collapsed to my knees, stinging palms pressed against the wood. I leaned my head against the door and cried.

  “Ma petite, what has happened?” Jean-Claude stood behind me on the stairs. “Richard is not dead. I would feel it.”

  I turned and pressed my back against the door. I wiped at the tears on my face. “He’s not dead, not even close.”

  “Then what is wrong?” He came down the steps like he was dancing, too graceful for words, even after an evening spent with shapeshifters. His shirt was a deep, rich blue, not quite dark enough to be navy, the sleeves were full, with wide cuffs, the collar high but soft, almost as if it were a scarf. I’d never seen him in blue of any shade. It made his midnight blue eyes seem bluer, darker. His jeans were black and tight enough to be skin, the boots were knee-high, with a trailing edge of black leather that flopped as he moved.

  He knelt beside me, not touching me, almost like he was afraid to. “Ma petite, your cross.”

  I stared down at it. It wasn’t glowing, not yet. I wrapped my hand around the cross and jerked, snapping the chain. I flung it away. It fell against the wall, glinting silver in the faint light. “Happy?”

  Jean-Claude looked at me. “Richard lives. Marcus is dead. Correct?”

  I nodded.

  “Then why the tears, ma petite? I do not think I have ever seen you cry.”

  “I am not crying.”

  He touched my cheek with one fingertip and came away with a single tear trembling on the end of his finger. He raised it to his lips, the tip of his tongue licked it off his skin. “You taste like your heart has broken, ma petite.”

  My throat choked tight. I couldn’t breathe past the tears. The harder I tried not to cry, the faster the tears flowed. I hugged myself, and my hands touched the sticky gunk that covered me. I held my hands away from my body like I’d touched something unclean. I stared at Jean-Claude with my hands held out in front of me.

  “Mon Dieu, what has happened?” He tried to hug me, but I pushed him away.

  “You’ll get it all over you.”

  He stared at the thick, clear gunk on his hand. “How did you get this close to a shapeshifting werewolf?” An idea flowed across his face. “It’s Richard. You saw him change.”

  I nodded. “He changed on top of me. It was . . . Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.”

  Jean-Claude pulled me into his arms. I pushed at him. “You’ll ruin your clothes.”

  “Ma petite, ma petite, it’s all right. It is all right.”

  “No, it’s not.” I sagged against him. I let him wrap me in his arms. I clutched at him, hands digging into the silk of his shirt. I buried my face against his chest and whispered, “He ate Marcus. He ate him.”

  “He’s a werewolf, ma petite. That’s what they do.”

  It was such an odd thing to say, and so terribly true, that I laughed—an abrupt, almost angry sound. The laughter died in choking, and the choking became sobs.

  I held onto Jean-Claude like he was the last sane thing in the world. I buried myself against him and wept. It was like something deep inside me had broken, and I was crying out bits of myself onto his body.

  His voice came to me dimly, as if he had been speaking for a long time, but I hadn’t heard. He was speaking French, softly, whispering it into my hair, stroking my back, rocking me gently.

  I lay in his arms, quiet. I had no more tears left. I felt empty and light, numb.

  Jean-Claude smoothed my hair back from my forehead. He brushed his lips across my skin, like Richard had done earlier tonight. Even that thought couldn’t make me cry again. It was too soon.

  “Can you stand, ma petite?”

  “I think so.” My voice sounded distant, strange. I stood, still in the circle of his arms, leaning against him. I pushed away from him gently. I stood on my own, a little shaky, but better than nothing.

  His dark blue shirt was plastered to his chest, covered with werewolf goop and tears. “Now we both need a bath,” I said.

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Please, Jean-Claude, no sexual innuendo until after I’m clean.”

  “Of course, ma petite. It was crude of me tonight. My apologies.”

  I stared at him. He was being far too nice. Jean-Claude was a lot of things, but nice wasn’t one of them.

  “If you’re up to something, I don’t want to know about it. I can’t handle any deep, dark plots tonight, okay?”

  He smiled and gave a low, sweeping bow, never taking his eyes off me. The way you bow on the judo mat when you’re afraid the person may pound you if you look away.

  I shook my head. He was up to something. Nice to know that not everyone had suddenly become something else. One thing I could always depend on was Jean-Claude. Pain in the ass that he was, he always seemed to be there. Dependable in his own twisted way. Jean-Claude dependable? I must have been more tired than I thought.

  39

  * * *

  JEAN-CLAUDE opened the bedroom door and stepped inside, ushering me through with a sweep of graceful hands. The bed stopped me. There’d been a change of bedding. Red sheets covered the bed. Crimson drapes formed a half canopy over the nearly black wood. There were still a dozen pillows on the bed and they were all screaming, brilliant red. Even after the night I’d had, it was eye-catching.

  “I like the new decor, I guess.”

  “The linens needed to b
e changed. You are always complaining that I should use more color.”

  I stared at the bed. “I’ll stop complaining.”

  “I will run your bath.” He went into the bathroom without a single joke or risqué comment. It was almost unnerving.

  Whoever had changed the sheets had also removed the chairs that Edward and Harley had used. I didn’t want to sit on the clean sheets still covered in whatever the hell I was covered in. I sat down on the white carpet and tried not to think. Not thinking is a lot harder than it sounds. My thoughts kept chasing each other, like a werewolf chasing its tail. The image tore a laugh from my throat, and on the end of it a sound like a sob or a moan. I put the back of my hand against my mouth. I didn’t like that sound coming out of me. It sounded hopeless, beaten.

  I was not beaten, dammit, but I was hurt. If what I felt had been an actual wound, I’d have been bleeding to death.

  The bathroom door opened at long last. A puff of warm, moist air flowed around Jean-Claude. He had taken off his shirt, and the cross-shaped burn scar marred the perfection of his chest. He held his boots in one hand, a towel as scarlet as the sheets in the other.

  “I washed up in the sink while the tub filled.” He walked barefoot across the white carpeting. “I’m afraid I used the last clean towel. I will fetch you more.”

  I took my hand away from my mouth and nodded. I finally managed to say, “Fine.”

  I stood before he could offer to help me up. I didn’t need any help.

  Jean-Claude moved to one side. His black hair lay in nearly tight curls across his pale shoulders, curled from the humidity of the bathroom. I ignored him as much as it was humanly possible and walked inside.

  The room was warm and misty, the black marble tub full of bubbles. He offered me a black lacquer tray from the vanity top. Shampoos, soap, bath crystals, and what looked like oils were grouped on the tray.

  “Get out so I can undress.”

  “It took two people to dress you tonight, ma petite. Won’t you need help getting undressed?” His voice was utterly bland. His face so still, his eyes so innocent, it made me smile.

  I sighed. “If you get the two straps in back, I think I can manage the rest. But no monkey business.” I held my hands over the bra because one strap would loosen it. The other strap, as far as I could tell, was the pivot point for the rest of the outfit.

  His fingers moved to the top strap. I watched him in the fogged mirror. The strap came unbuckled, and the leather gave with a small sigh. He moved to the second strap without so much as an extra caress. He undid it and took a step back. “No monkey business, ma petite.” He backed out of the room, and I watched him go like a phantom in the mist-covered mirrors. When the door was shut, I started on the rest of the straps. It was like peeling myself to get the goo-soaked leather off.

  I put the tray of bath accessories on the tub edge and slipped into the water. The water was hot, just this side of too hot. I sank into it up to my chin, but I couldn’t relax. The gunk clung to my body in patches. I had to get it off me. I sat up in the tub and started scrubbing. The soap smelled like gardenia. The shampoos smelled like herbs. Trust Jean-Claude not to buy a name brand from the grocery store.

  I washed my hair twice, sinking under the water and coming up for air. I was scrubbed and virtuous, or at least clean. The mirrors had cleared and I had only myself to stare at. I’d washed off all the careful makeup. I smoothed my thick, black hair back from my face. My eyes were enormous and nearly black. My skin so pale, it was almost white. I looked shocked, ethereal, unreal.

  There was a soft knock on the door. “Ma petite, may I come in?”

  I glanced down at myself. The bubbles were still holding. I drew a pile of them a little closer to my chest and said, “Come in.” It took a lot of effort not to hunch down in the water. I sat up straight, trusting in the bubbles. Besides, I would not huddle. So I was naked in a tub of bubble bath. So what. No one can embarrass you unless you let them.

  Jean-Claude came in with two thick, red towels. He closed the door behind him with a small smile. “We wouldn’t want to let the hot air out.”

  I narrowed my eyes but said, “I guess not.”

  “Where do you want the towels? Here?” He started to lay them on the vanity.

  “I can’t reach them there,” I said.

  “Here?” He laid them on top of the stool. He stood there, staring down at me, still wearing nothing but the black jeans. His feet were startlingly pale against the black carpet.

  “Still too far away.”

  He sat down on the edge of the tub, placing the towels on the floor. He stared down at me as if he could will the bubbles away. “Is this close enough?”

  “Maybe a little too close,” I said.

  He trailed fingertips over the bubbles at the edge of the tub. “Do you feel better now, ma petite?”

  “I said no sexual innuendo, remember.”

  “As I remember, you said no sexual innuendo until after you were clean.” He smiled at me. “You’re clean.”

  I sighed. “Trust you to be literal.”

  He trailed his fingers in the water. He turned his shoulder enough that I could see the whip scars on his back. They were slick and white, and I suddenly had an urge to trace them with my fingers.

  He turned back to face me. He wiped his wet fingers across his chest, trailing shining lines of moisture across the flat slickness of the burn scar, down along his belly. His fingers played with the line of dark hair that vanished into his pants.

  I closed my eyes and let out a sigh.

  “What is the matter, ma petite?” I felt him leaning over me. “Are you faint?”

  I opened my eyes. He had leaned his entire upper body across the tub, right arm on the far rim, the left near my shoulder. His hip was so far over the water that if I’d touched his chest, he’d have fallen in.

  “I don’t faint,” I said.

  His face leaned down over mine. “So glad to hear it.” He kissed me lightly, a brush of lips, but even that small movement made my stomach jerk.

  I gasped and pushed him away. He fell into the tub, going completely under, only his feet sticking out. He landed on my naked body, and I screamed.

  He came up for air, his long, black hair streaming around his face, across his shoulders. He looked as surprised as I’d ever seen him. He crawled off me, mainly because I was shoving at him. He struggled to his feet. Water streamed down his body. He stared down at me. I was huddled against the side, staring up at him, pissed.

  He shook his head and laughed. The sound filled the room, played along my skin like a hand. “I have been a lady’s man for nearly three hundred years, Anita. Why is it only with you that I am awkward?”

  “Maybe it’s a hint,” I said.

  “Perhaps.”

  I stared up at him. He stood there, knee deep in bubble bath. He was soaking wet and should have been ridiculous, but he wasn’t. He was beautiful.

  “How can you be so damn beautiful when I know what you are?”

  He knelt in the water. The bubbles covered his waist, so he looked naked. Water trailed down his chest in fine beads. I wanted to run my hands over him. I wanted to lick the water off his skin. I drew my legs to my chest and locked my arms around them, not trusting myself.

  He moved towards me. The water sloshed and curled around my naked body. He stayed kneeling, so close that his jeans brushed my huddled legs. The feel of him in the water, that close, made me hide my face against my knees. The pounding of my heart gave me away. I knew he could taste my need on the air.

  “Tell me to go, ma petite, and I will go.” I felt him lean over me, his face just above my wet hair.

  Slowly, I raised my face.

  He placed a hand on the tub edge, one arm on either side of me, bringing his chest dangerously close to my face. I watched the water bead on his skin, the way that he sometimes watched blood on mine: a need almost too overwhelming to deny, an urge so complete that I didn’t want to say no.


  I unclenched my arms from my knees and leaned forward. I whispered, “Don’t go.” I touched hands to his waist, tentative, as if it should burn, but his skin was cool under the slickness of water. Cool and smooth to the touch. I glanced up at his face and knew that there was something close to fear on my own face.

  His face was lovely, and uncertain, as if he didn’t know what to do next. It was a look I never thought to see on Jean-Claude’s face when I was naked in his arms.

  I kept my eyes on his face as I moved my mouth towards his stomach. I ran my tongue over his skin, a quick, tentative movement.

  He sighed, eyes fluttering shut, body almost sagging. I pressed my mouth against his skin, drinking the water off of him. I couldn’t reach his chest. I moved to my knees, hands steadying me against his slender waist.

  The air was cool against my naked breasts. Kneeling had bared them. I froze, suddenly unsure. I wanted desperately to see his face and was afraid to look up.

  His fingertips brushed my shoulders, sliding down the wet skin. I shivered and glanced up. The look on his face caught my breath in my throat. Tenderness, need, amazement.

  “You are so beautiful, ma petite.” He put his fingertips to my lips before I could protest. “You are beautiful. On this I do not lie.”

  His fingers moved across my lips, down my chin. He slid his hands to my shoulders, down my back, in slow, teasing lines. His hands stopped on either side of my waist, mirroring my hands on his own waist.

  “Now what?” My voice was a little breathless.

  “Whatever you like, ma petite.”

  I massaged my hands against his waist, feeling the flesh underneath, feeling him under my hands. I spread my hands wide, splaying my fingers tense against his skin, dragging my hands up his ribs.

  He kneaded his fingers into my waist, pressing his hands against my ribs. He inched his hands upward along my sides. Strong fingers pressed into my skin just enough to make me sigh. He stopped with his thumbs below my breasts. His touch was feather light, almost not touching at all. But that one small brush of his skin against my breasts made my body react, tightening, nipples hardening. My body wanted him. Wanted him so badly that my skin felt large and aching with the thought of it.