“I will leave you alone with your pomme de sangs and each other.” Asher was standing next to the bed, belting the sash at his waist, securing the robe around him. He stood very straight with that perfect posture that all the old nobles seemed to have, but still he huddled inside the robe.
I rolled onto my stomach, gazing at him, trying to read his face, his body. The discomfort I could read, and even pain. And it must have shown on my face, because Asher dropped his gaze, that wonderful golden hair sliding over the scarred side of his face, so that when he looked up, you could see nothing but the perfect half of him, that one ice-blue eye.
I had a sudden memory of lying in a different bed in a huge dark room surrounded by dozens of candles until the shadows moved and rippled with every small breath of air, every movement of a pale arm. I lay in that trembling golden darkness in the embrace of a pale, dark-haired woman. I gazed up at her, and her face was like something carved of alabaster, with lips red and perfect, hair like the darkness of night made into furred silk, falling around her nude perfection like a veil. Her eyes were pale brown, like dark honey. I knew it was Belle Morte, as if I’d always known her face.
The door opened, and Asher entered, wearing a robe more elaborate, heavier than the one he wore now. But still he huddled in it, held it around his body, afraid. I saw the scars on his face—fresh, raw—and it was . . . painful. My chest went tight with the sight of his ruin. I went to my knees, reaching out to him, moving a body that I’d never been inside. Jean-Claude reaching out to Asher all those centuries ago. But she lay there nude and perfect showing every curve, every secret place to the candlelight, and turned him away. I couldn’t remember the words she used, only the look on her face, the utter arrogance, the distaste. The look on Asher’s face as he turned from her to Jean-Claude, to me. The look of pain, and he let that glorious hair fall forward, hiding his face, and it was the first time we’d seen him do that, hide from us.
I felt her hands on our body as she turned back to us, as if Asher were no longer there, but we remembered the look on his face, the line of his body as he left that room. I blinked and was back in Jean-Claude’s bedroom, watching Asher in his brown silk robe walking towards the door. And the line of his shoulders, the way he held himself, made my chest tight, closed my throat, made my eyes hot with things unsaid and unshed.
“Don’t go.” I heard myself say it, and I glanced up at Jean-Claude. His face was careful, unreadable, but for just a moment I saw his eyes, and the pain I was feeling was only an echo of what filled his eyes.
Asher stopped at the door and turned, his hair falling over his face, the robe covering everything else. He said nothing, just looked back at me, at us.
I repeated, “Don’t go, Asher, don’t go.”
“Why not?” he asked, his voice as careful and neutral as he could make it.
I couldn’t tell him about the shared memory. It would sound like pity, and it wasn’t that—not exactly. I couldn’t think of a good lie. But this wasn’t really the time for lies, anyway. Only truth would heal this. “I can’t stand to watch you walk away like this.”
He moved his gaze from me to Jean-Claude, and there was anger in him now. “You had no right to share that memory with her.”
“I do not choose what ma petite knows and what she does not.”
“Very well,” Asher said. “Now you know how she cast me out of her bed. How she cast me out of his bed.”
“That was your choice,” Jean-Claude said.
“How could you bear to touch me? I couldn’t bear to touch me.” He stayed near the door with his head turned to one side, so all you could see was a wave of golden hair. His voice held bitterness the way it could sometimes hold joy—a bitterness that was hard to swallow, like choking on broken glass. Asher’s voice and laugh weren’t as good as Jean-Claude’s, but he seemed better at sharing sorrow and regret than Jean-Claude.
“Why?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Why what?”
“Why did she cast you out?”
Jean-Claude moved beside me, and I realized two things. One, he was shielding from me, from all of us, so I couldn’t sense him, and two, his body movement alone let me know he wasn’t happy.
Asher grabbed his hair, forced it back from his face, showed the scars to the light. “This, this. Our mistress was a collector of beauty, and I am no longer beautiful. It pained her visibly to see me.”
“You are beautiful, Asher. That she couldn’t see that isn’t your fault.”
He let his hair fall back. It slid over the scars, hiding them. He had almost stopped doing that when he was here in the Circus. I’d forgotten how, when he first arrived in St. Louis, he had automatically hidden whenever you looked directly at him. He had used every shadow, every fall of light to hide the scars and highlight the beauty that remained untouched. He had stopped doing that around me.
It hurt my heart to see him hide. I tried to keep the sheet over me as I crawled towards the edge of the bed, but it was all tangled and trapped under Jason’s and Jean-Claude’s weight. Screw it, everyone here had seen the show. I wanted to wipe that hurt look from Asher’s face more than I wanted to be modest.
Jason moved out of my way without uttering a single teasing comment. Unheard of! I crawled off the bed and walked towards Asher, and other memories spilled over me like cards thrown in the air. How many times had he watched Jean-Claude and Belle Morte and Julianna and so many others walk towards him nude and eager. Even Jean-Claude had failed him. There had been that shadow in his eyes formed of guilt. Guilt at failing to save Julianna, failing to save Asher. But Asher had assumed it was rejection and that Jean-Claude touched him only out of pity. It hadn’t been pity—I had the memory of it—it had been pain. They had become constant reminders of how each had failed the other. A constant reminder of the woman they’d both loved, and lost. Until the pain was all they had left. Asher had turned it into hate, and Jean-Claude had simply turned away.
I walked through the memories like moving through cobwebs, things that brushed me, clung to me, but did not stop me. His hands were behind his back, his body leaning against the door, pinning them, and I knew why. Through Jean-Claude’s “gift” I knew that Asher wanted to touch me and didn’t trust himself enough to have his hands out in front of him. But it wasn’t me he wanted to touch. In a way he was like Nathaniel; he saw in me what he needed to see, not exactly what was there.
I touched his hair where it hid his face. He flinched. I swept the hair back from his face, standing on tip-toe to reach him, putting one hand lightly on his chest for balance. He moved away from me, taking a step into the room. I grabbed his robe, but he stayed turned away as the robe pulled back from the perfect half of his chest. “Look at me, Asher, please.”
He stayed turned away, and I finally had to walk those few steps to him. I was short enough that, standing right in front of him, I could look up underneath the hair into his face. He turned away again, and I stretched up, putting a hand on either side of his face, turning him to look at me. It put my body against his just for balance, and I felt the reluctance in his body, the need to move away. But he stayed immobile under my touch. He kept his hands behind his back, as if I’d tied them there.
The skin under one hand was so smooth, the other so rough. He could have fought me, but he didn’t. He let me turn his face to me. I wrapped my hands in the thickness of his golden hair, holding it back from his face. I stared into his upturned face. The eyes, that impossible pale blue, were unreal, like the eyes of a husky. His lips were still full and kissable, his nose still a perfect profile. Even the scars that started far on the right side of his face were just another part of Asher—just another piece of him that I loved. I’d always assumed that any emotions I felt for Asher were from Jean-Claude’s memories of him when they were lovers, companions for over twenty years. But staring at him now, I realized that that was only part of it.
I held memories of his body smooth and perfect. But that wasn’t
what I thought of when I thought of Asher. I pictured him as he was now, and I still loved him. It wasn’t the way I felt about Jean-Claude, or Richard, but it was real, and it was mine. Maybe it wouldn’t have existed if I hadn’t had Jean-Claude’s memories and emotions to build on, but whatever the foundation, I had feelings for Asher that were all mine, no one else’s. I realized with something like a shock that it wasn’t just everyone else’s heart I could see into. I turned and looked back at Jean-Claude, tried to ask with my eyes what I was thinking.
“To know another’s heart, you must first know your own, ma petite.” His voice was soft, no reproach.
I turned back to Asher, and there was something in his eyes—half wonderment, half pain—as if he expected me to hurt him in some way. He was probably right. But if so, I wouldn’t mean to do it. Sometimes the greatest wounds are the ones we try the hardest not to inflict.
I let what I was feeling fill my eyes, my face. It was the only gift I had to give him. His expression softened, and what I saw in those lovely eyes was at the same time wonderful and painful. He dropped to his knees, one tear trailing down his smooth cheek. The look on his face was full of so many things. “The look in your eyes heals a part of my heart, ma cherie, and wounds another.”
“Love is such a bitch,” I said.
He laughed and hugged me around the waist, the roughness of his right cheek pressed into my belly, and I valued that more than anything else he could have done. I stroked his hair and held him against me. I looked across the room to Jean-Claude, and the look on his face was drowning deep, a longing so immense that there were no words to hold it. He wanted Asher and me. He wanted what he had had so many centuries ago. He’d once told Asher that he’d once almost been happy, and that had been when he was in Asher’s and Julianna’s arms. Before she died and Asher was saved but no longer Belle Morte’s perfect golden boy. Jean-Claude had been forced to take Asher back to the vampire Council to have him healed. Jean-Claude had traded a hundred years of his own freedom to the Council for the favor of them saving Asher’s life. Then Jean-Claude had fled, and Asher had stayed behind, blaming Jean-Claude for Julianna’s death and for his ruin. Jean-Claude had gone from being in love, and being loved by two people, to losing one lover and having the other one hate him.
We gazed at each other. The look in Jean-Claude’s eyes was so raw, like a fresh wound that still bled. He wanted to secure his power base with the triumvirate. He did want that—needed it—but there were other things that he wanted, almost needed. And one of those was hugging my waist, pressing his face to my stomach.
Jean-Claude lowered his eyes as if he couldn’t control what was in them. He was the master of blank, careful expression. The fact that what he felt was too strong to hide said more than anything else. He couldn’t shield his emotions right now. They were too strong; they shattered all his careful control, and a part of me was glad.
In that moment I wanted to give him what he most desired. I wanted to do it because I loved him, but it was more than that. I suddenly realized that with Richard gone from our bed, other things were suddenly possible. I turned back to Asher, gazing down on the top of his head, and knew that to be held in the circle of both our arms would heal something inside him that might never heal any other way.
The ardeur flared through me, hot, so hot, as if my skin must feel feverish. Asher drew back from me, letting his arms drop slowly to his sides. He gazed up at me, and the look in his eyes was enough. I knew he felt the hunger, too.
“It feels hot,” I said. “Always before your power has felt cool, or cold even. It’s Richard’s beast that holds the heat.”
“Lust is warm, ma petite, even among the cold-blooded.”
I turned towards the bed and was suddenly very aware that I was nude. I was really going to have to get a robe. It wasn’t Jean-Claude’s gaze that made me look away, it was Nathaniel and Jason. Everyone in this room responded to me, in different ways, for very different reasons. But it was all fodder for this . . . need inside me.
Asher made some small movement that drew my attention back to him. I started to reach for him, to push his robe from his shoulders, to watch it fall to the floor. I hugged my arms to me, as if I was cold, but I wasn’t cold. It was my turn not to trust where my hands were. The temptation was so thick everywhere I looked that there seemed no place to walk in safety. I felt trapped. Trapped, not in the room, but in the desire.
When I was sure I could talk without sounding as confused as I felt, I asked, “Is this thing permanent, or will it go away when we all adjust to the marks being married?”
“I do not know, ma petite. I wish I could tell you something more certain. If you were truly of my get, truly vampire, then I would say, yes, it is permanent. But you are my human servant. You have manifested powers in the past, and some have come and gone.” He raised his hands. “There is no way to be sure.”
“Is it always like this, never satisfied, never finished?”
“No, you can sate yourself, but it takes much to do it. Usually, one must be content with enough to keep the desire from overwhelming you.”
“And you haven’t fed like this in months, because you thought I would disapprove?”
“Years. And yes.”
I stared at him across the room with Asher still kneeling in front of me. I’d always thought of Jean-Claude as the weaker-willed of the three of us—Richard, him, and me. Now I stood there afraid to move, afraid not to move, wanting to do things that were not me, not mine, not even Jean-Claude’s. I’d known that the lycanthropes spoke of their animal half as something separate from them—their beast—but I’d never understood that some of the vampires’ powers were the same way. Desires, hungers, so strong and overwhelming that they were like separate beings trapped inside your head, your body, your blood.
Asher made a small movement, and I turned to him. My hand reached out to stroke his hair before I’d turned completely to face him, as if my body had been moving without my eyes or my brain. His hair was thicker textured, more like mine, not the baby-fine curls of Jean-Claude or Jason, or the velvet silk of Nathaniel. I bundled my hands into Asher’s hair as if I’d memorize the feel of it. Somewhere between mine and Richard’s, somewhere in the middle, but not warm like Richard’s was to the touch. Asher hadn’t fed today, and he had no warmth to give. His skin was cool under my fingertips as I traced his cheek.
I spoke without looking at Jean-Claude. “How have you stood it? How could you fight the need all this time?”
“You are a fledgling, ma petite. Your control will never be weaker than now. I have had centuries to practice my control.”
I made myself stop petting Asher. But he took my hand as I moved it back and laid a gentle kiss on my knuckles. Even that small touch made me catch my breath. My voice came out weak. “So you can go without feeding the desire.”
“No, ma petite.”
I turned and stared at him, and Asher rubbed his thumb in small circles on my hand. I remembered that small touch as precious, a habit he had no matter which of us he held hands with. “You said you hadn’t fed like this.”
“I have had no sex, nor touched anyone in such a complete manner as you have done with Nathaniel. But I must feed the desire, just as I must take blood.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
“You remember what happened to Sabin when he stopped taking human blood?”
I nodded. Asher’s thumb continued its small circle on my hand, and it made things low in my body tighten. “Sabin started to rot while he was still alive.” I stared into Jean-Claude’s perfect face. “Is that what would happen to you?”
He sat back on the bed in his black robe. Jason had moved against the headboard as if watching a show, and Nathaniel still lay on his stomach where I’d left him, watching us with pale eyes. “There was a vampire of Belle’s lineage who renounced the lust. He took only animals, as well, and I believe would have rotted as Sabin did, but he did not have the time. He began to age in a
matter of days. When he was a wizened thing, Belle had him killed.”
“But you haven’t aged, what have you been doing?” It wasn’t accusatory. I simply wanted to know, because I could feel Asher on the end of my hand like something huge and . . . like something I couldn’t live without. I’d wanted Nathaniel, I’d wanted Jason, I’d wanted Micah, but not like this. I think it was Jean-Claude’s feelings that made this so much more.
“It is possible to feed from a distance without touching,” Jean-Claude said.
“That’s why a strip club was your first business. You were feeding off the lust.”
“Oui, ma petite.”
“Teach me to feed from a distance.” Even as I said distance Asher drew my hand to his cheek and rubbed against it like a cat. I had to close my eyes for a second, but I didn’t tell him to stop.
“Feeding from a distance is a poor substitute for a true feeding.”
I opened my eyes and stared at him across the room, and now I could feel him. I could feel his need—for blood, sex, love, and the touch of our flesh against his. He wrapped his arms around his body, as if he were cold, or didn’t trust himself not to leave the bed and come to us.
“Teach me anyway,” I said.
“I cannot, not this soon. In a few nights I will instruct you, but your control is not . . . complete enough yet.”
I started to say, “try me,” but Asher drew my finger into his mouth in one long, wet line, and I suddenly couldn’t think.
“Come to bed, ma petite,” Jean-Claude said. “If you feed here, there is a chance you may be sated enough that you will not press our so-stubborn Richard.”
Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Collection 6-10 Page 217