ABVH 01 - Guilty Pleasures

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  I had worked with him before, and heaven knows you felt safe with him. He carried more firepower than Rambo, but he was a little too careless of innocent bystanders. He began life as a hit man. That much the police knew. I think humans became too easy so he switched to vampires and lycanthropes. And I knew that if a time came where it was more expedient to kill me than to be my “friend,” he would do it. Edward had no conscience. It made him the perfect killer.

  “I’ve been up all bloody night, Edward. I’m not in the mood for your games.”

  “How hurt are you?”

  I shrugged and winced. “The hands are sore, bruises mostly. I’m all right.”

  “Your night secretary said you were out at a bachelorette party.” He grinned at me, eyes sparkling. “It must have been some party.”

  “I ran into a vampire you might know.”

  He raised his yellow eyebrows and made a silent “Oh” with his lips.

  “Remember the house you nearly roasted down around us?”

  “About two years ago. We killed six vampires, and two human servants.”

  I walked past him and flopped onto the couch. “We missed one.”

  “No, we didn’t.” His voice was very precise. Edward at his most dangerous.

  I looked at the carefully cut back of his head. “Trust me on this one, Edward. He damn near killed me tonight.” Which was a partial truth, also known as a lie. If the vampires didn’t want me to tell the police, they certainly didn’t want Death to know. Edward was a whole lot more dangerous to them than the police.

  “What one?”

  “The one who nearly tore me to pieces. He calls himself Valentine. He’s still wearing the acid scars I gave him.”

  “Holy Water?”

  “Yeah.”

  Edward came to sit beside me on the couch. He kept to one end, a careful distance. “Tell me.” His eyes were intense on my face.

  I looked away. “There isn’t much left to tell.”

  “You’re lying, Anita. Why?”

  I stared at him, anger coming in a rush. I hate to be caught in a lie. “There have been some vampires murdered down along the river. How long have you been in town, Edward?”

  He smiled then, though at what I wasn’t sure. “Not long. I heard a rumor that you got to meet the city’s head vampire tonight.”

  I couldn’t stop it. My mouth fell open; the surprise was too much to hide. “How the hell do you know that?”

  He gave a graceful shrug. “I have my sources.”

  “No vampire would talk to you, not willingly.”

  Again that shrug that said everything and nothing at all.

  “What have you done tonight, Edward?”

  “What have you done tonight, Anita?”

  Touché, Mexican standoff, whatever. “Why have you come to me then? What do you want?”

  “I want the location of the master vampire. The daytime resting place.”

  I had recovered enough so that my face was bland, no surprise here. “How would I know that?”

  “Do you know?”

  “No.” I stood up. “I’m tired, and I want to go to bed. If there’s nothing else?”

  He stood, too, still smiling, like he knew I had lied. “I’ll be in touch. If you do happen to run across the information I need . . .” He let the sentence trail off and started for the door.

  “Edward.”

  He half-turned to me.

  “Do you have a sawed-off shotgun?”

  His eyebrows went up again. “I could get one for you.”

  “I’d pay.”

  “No, a gift.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “But you do know?”

  “Edward . . .”

  “How deep are you in, Anita?”

  “Eye level and sinking fast.”

  “I could help you.”

  “I know.”

  “Would helping you allow me to kill more vampires?”

  “Maybe.”

  He grinned at me, brilliant, heart-stopping. The grin was his very best harmless good ol’ boy smile. I could never decide whether the smile was real or just another mask. Would the real Edward please stand up? Probably not.

  “I enjoy hunting vampires. Let me in on it if you can.”

  “I will.”

  He paused with a hand on the doorknob. “I hope I have more luck with my other sources than I did with you.”

  “What happens if you can’t find the location from someone else?”

  “Why, I come back.”

  “And?”

  “And you will tell me what I want to know. Won’t you?” He was still grinning at me, charming, boyish. He was also talking about torturing me if he had to.

  I swallowed, hard. “Give me a few days, Edward, and I might have your information.”

  “Good. I’ll bring the shotgun later today. If you’re not home, I’ll leave it on the kitchen table.”

  I didn’t ask how he’d get inside if I wasn’t home. He would only have smiled or laughed. Locks weren’t much of a deterrent to Edward. “Thank you. For the shotgun, I mean.”

  “My pleasure, Anita. Until tomorrow.” He stepped out the door, and it closed behind him.

  Great. Vampires, now Edward. The day was about fifteen minutes old. Not a very promising beginning. I locked the door, for what good it would do me, and went to bed. The Browning Hi-Power was in its second home, a modified holster strapped to the headboard of my bed. My spare crucifix was cool metal around my neck. I was as safe as I was going to be and almost too tired to care.

  I took one more thing to bed with me, a stuffed toy penguin named Sigmund. I don’t sleep with him often, just every once in a while after someone tries to kill me. Everyone has their weaknesses. Some people smoke. I collect stuffed penguins. If you won’t tell, I won’t.

  16

  I STOOD IN the huge stone room where Nikolaos had sat. Only the wooden chair remained, empty, alone. A coffin sat on the floor to one side. Torchlight gleamed off the polished wood. A breeze eased through the room. The torches wavered and threw huge black shadows on the walls. The shadows seemed to move independent of the light. The longer I looked at them, the more I was sure the shadows were too dark, too thick.

  I could taste my heart in my throat. My pulse was hammering in my head. I couldn’t breathe. Then I realized I was hearing a second heartbeat, like an echo. “Jean-Claude?” The shadows cried, “Jean-Claude,” in high whining voices.

  I knelt by the coffin and gripped the lid. It was all one piece, and raised on smooth oiled hinges. Blood poured down the sides of the coffin. The blood poured over my legs, splashed on my arms. I screamed and stood, covered in blood. It was still warm. “Jean-Claude!”

  A pale hand raised out of the blood, spasmed, and collapsed against the side of the coffin. Jean-Claude’s face floated to the top. My hand was reaching out. His heart was fluttering in my head, but he was dead. He was dead! His hand was icy wax. His eyes flew open. The dead hand grabbed my wrist.

  “No!” I tried to pull my hand free. I went down on my knees in the cooling blood and screamed, “Let me go!”

  He sat up. He was covered in blood. The white shirt dripped with it, like a bloody rag.

  “No!”

  He pulled my arm closer to him, and pulled me with it. I braced one hand on the coffin. I would not go to him. I would not go! He bent over my arm, mouth wide, fangs reaching. His heart beat against the shadows like thunder. “Jean-Claude, no!”

  He looked up at me, just before he struck. “I had no choice.” Blood began to drip down his face from his hair, until his face was a bloody mask. Fangs sank into my arm. I screamed, and woke sitting straight up in bed.

  The doorbell was buzzing. I scrambled out of bed, forgetting. I gasped. I had moved too fast for the beating I’d had last night. I ached all over in places I couldn’t possibly be bruised. My hands were stiff with dried blood. They felt arthritic.

  The doorbell was buzzing continuously as if someo
ne was leaning against it. Whoever it was, was going to get a hug for waking me up. I was sleeping in an oversized shirt. Pulling last night’s jeans on was my version of a robe.

  I put Sigmund the stuffed penguin back with all the rest. The stuffed toys sat on a small loveseat against the far wall, under the window. Penguins lined the floor around it like a plump fuzzy tide.

  It hurt to move. It even felt tight when I breathed. I yelled, “I’m coming.” It occurred to me, halfway to the door, that it might be someone unfriendly. I padded back into the bedroom and got my gun. My hand felt stiff and awkward around it. I should have cleaned and bandaged the hands last night. Oh, well.

  I knelt behind the chair Edward had moved in front of the door and called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ronnie, Anita. We’re supposed to work out this morning.”

  It was Saturday. I had forgotten. It was always amazing how ordinary life was, even while people were trying to hurt you. I felt like Ronnie should know about last night. Something so extraordinary should touch all my life, but it didn’t work that way. When I’d been in the hospital with my arm in traction and tubes running all through me, my stepmother had complained that I wasn’t married yet. She’s worried that I will be an old maid at the ripe age of twenty-four. Judith is not what you would call a liberated woman.

  My family does not cope well with what I do, the chances I take, the injuries. So they ignore it as best they can. Except for my sixteen-year-old stepbrother. Josh thinks I’m cool, neat, whatever word they’re using now.

  Veronica Sims is different. She’s my friend, and she understands. Ronnie is a private detective. We take turns visiting each other in the hospital.

  I opened the door and let her in, gun limp at my side. She took it all in and said, “Shit, you look awful.”

  I smiled. “Well, at least I look like I feel.”

  She came in and dropped her gym bag in front of the chair. “Can you tell me what happened?” Not a demand, a question. Ronnie understood that not everything could be shared.

  “Sorry that I won’t be able to work out today.”

  “Looks like you had all the workout you can handle. Go soak those hands in the sink. I’ll make coffee. Okay?”

  I nodded and regretted it. Aspirins, aspirins sounded real good right now. I stopped just before I went into the bathroom. “Ronnie?”

  “Yes.” She stood there in my small kitchen, a measuring cup of fresh coffee beans in one hand. She was five-nine. Sometimes, I forget how tall that is. It amazes people that we can run together. The trick is I set the pace, and I push myself. It’s a very good workout.

  “I think I have some bagels in the fridge. Could you pop them in the microwave with some cheese?”

  She stared at me. “I’ve known you for three years, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard you ask for food before ten o’clock.”

  “Listen, if it’s too much trouble, forget it.”

  “It isn’t that, and you know it.”

  “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

  “Go doctor yourself, then you can tell me about it. Okay?”

  “Yeah.” Soaking the hands did not make them feel better. It felt like I was peeling the skin off my fingers. I patted them dry and rubbed Neosporin ointment over the scrapes. “A topical antibacterial,” the label read. By the time I finished all the Band-Aids, I looked like a pinkish-tan version of the mummy’s hand.

  My back was a mass of dark bruises. My ribs were decorated in putrid purple. There wasn’t much I could do about it, except hope the aspirin kicked in. Well, there was one thing I could do—move. Stretching exercises would limber the body and give me movement without pain, sort of. The stretching itself would feel like torture. I’d do it later. I needed to eat first.

  I was starving. Usually, the thought of eating before ten made me nauseous. This morning I wanted food, needed food. Very weird. Maybe it was stress.

  The smell of bagels and melting cheese made my stomach ripple. The smell of fresh brewed coffee made me want to chew the couch.

  I scarfed down two bagels and three cups of coffee while Ronnie sat across from me, sipping her first cup. I looked up and found her watching me. Her grey eyes were staring at me. I’d seen her look at suspects like that. “What?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Nothing. Can you catch your breath and tell me about last night?”

  I nodded, and it didn’t hurt as much. Aspirin, nature’s gift to modern man. I told her, from Monica’s call to my meeting with Valentine. I didn’t tell her that it all took place at the Circus of the Damned. That was very dangerous information to have right now. And I left out the blue lights on the stairs, the sound of Jean-Claude’s voice in my head. Something told me that was dangerous information, too. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, so I left it out.

  Ronnie’s good, she looked at me, and said, “Is that everything?”

  “Yes.” An easy lie, simple, one word. I don’t think Ronnie bought it.

  “Okay.” She took a sip of coffee. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Ask around. You have access to the hate groups. Like Humans Against Vampires, The League of Human Voters, the usual. See if any of them might be involved with the murders. I can’t go near them.” I smiled. “After all, animators are one of the groups they hate.”

  “But you do kill vampires.”

  “Yeah, but I also raise zombies. Too weird for the hardcore bigot.”

  “All right. I’ll check out HAV and the rest. Anything else?”

  I thought about it and shook my head, almost no pain at all. “Not that I can think of. Just be very careful. I don’t want to endanger you the way I did Catherine.”

  “That wasn’t your fault.”

  “Right.”

  “It isn’t your fault, none of this is.”

  “Tell that to Catherine and her fiancé if things go bad.”

  “Anita, dammit, these creatures are using you. They want you discouraged and frightened, so they can control you. If you let the guilt mess with your head, you’re going to get killed.”

  “Well, gee, Ronnie, just what I wanted to hear. If this is your version of a pep talk, I’ll skip the rally.”

  “You don’t need cheering up. You need a good shaking.”

  “Thanks, I already had one last night.”

  “Anita, listen to me.” She was staring at me, eyes intense, her face searching mine, trying to see if I was really hearing her. “You’ve done all you can for Catherine. I want you to concentrate on keeping yourself alive. You’re ass-deep in enemies. Don’t get sidetracked.”

  She was right. Do what you can and move on. Catherine was out of it, for now. It was the best I could do. “Ass-deep in enemies, but ankle-deep in friends.”

  She grinned. “Maybe it’ll even out.”

  I cradled the coffee in my bandaged hands. Warmth radiated through the cup. “I’m scared.”

  “Which proves you aren’t as stupid as you look.”

  “Gee, thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome.” She raised her coffee cup in a salute. “To Anita Blake, animator, vampire slayer, and good friend. Watch your back.”

  I clinked my cup against hers. “You watch yours, too. Being my friend right now may not be the healthiest of avocations.”

  “Since when was that a news bulletin?”

  Unfortunately, she had a point.

  17

  I HAD TWO choices after Ronnie left: I could go back to sleep, not a bad idea; or I could start solving the case that everyone was so eager for me to work on. I could get by on four hours sleep, for a while. I could not last nearly as long if Aubrey tore my throat out. Guess I would go to work.

  It is hard to wear a gun in St. Louis in the summertime. Shoulder or hip holster, you have the same problem. If you wear a jacket to cover the gun, you melt in the heat. If you keep the gun in your purse, you get killed, because no woman can find anything in her purse in under twelve minutes. It is a rule.

  No o
ne had been shooting at me yet; I was encouraged by that. But I had also been kidnapped and nearly killed. I did not plan on it happening again without a fight. I could bench press a hundred pounds, not bad, not bad at all. But when you only weigh a hundred and six, it puts you at a disadvantage. I would bet on me against any human bad guy my size. Trouble was, there just weren’t many bad guys my size. And vampires, well, unless I could bench press trucks, I was outclassed. So a gun.

  I finally settled on a less than professional look. The t-shirt was oversize, hitting me at mid-thigh. It billowed around me. The only thing that saved it was the picture on the front, penguins playing beach volleyball, complete with kiddie penguins making sand castles to one side. I like penguins. I had bought the shirt to sleep in and never planned to wear it where people could see me. As long as the fashion police didn’t see me, I was safe.

  I looped a belt through a pair of black shorts for my inside-the-pant holster. It was an Uncle Mike’s Sidekick and I was very fond of it, but it was not for the Browning. I had a second gun for comfort and concealability: a Firestar, a compact little 9mm with a seven-shot magazine.

  White jogging socks, with tasteful blue stripes that matched the blue leather piping on my white Nikes, completed the outfit. It made me look and feel about sixteen, an awkward sixteen, but when I turned to the mirror there was no hint of the gun on my belt. The shirt fell out and around it, invisible.

  My upper body is slender, petite if you will, muscular and not bad to look at. Unfortunately, my legs are about five inches too short to ever be America’s ideal legs. I will never have skinny thighs, nor anything short of muscular calves. The outfit emphasized my legs and hid everything else, but I had my gun and I wouldn’t melt in the heat. Compromise is an imperfect art.

  My crucifix hung inside my shirt, but I added a small charm bracelet to my left wrist. Three small crosses dangled from the silver chain. My scars also were in plain sight, but in the summer I try to pretend they aren’t there. I cannot face the thought of wearing long sleeves in hundred-degree weather with hundred-percent humidity. My arms would fall off. The scars really aren’t the first thing you notice with my arms bare. Really.