Bullet ab-19

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  The dark-haired woman laid her hand on Noel. His body jumped as the power shoved into him. His human body split, gushing thick, warm, liquid around our knees. Fur flowed over him until he lay in the shape of a huge lion. Its dark mane was not very thick, not very impressive, but I didn’t give a damn. I just wanted him to breathe.

  Micah was suddenly there. He knelt on the other side of Nathaniel and took his other hand. The power jumped another octave.

  The woman touching him said, “Heartbeat, but he’s not breathing.”

  I felt lion, more lion, running down the hallway toward us. I knew it was Nicky still in lionman form. He was coming for the fight, coming toward the energy we were raising. I knew that the lions more than the other animal groups gave off energy to attract, or warn off, other lions, but I hadn’t understood until this moment that there were other things you could do with all that power.

  Noel spat blood onto the floor, but he had to be breathing to do that. The blonde kept the energy concentrated on him as I turned to look at Nicky. The golden lionman burst through the curtains and started toward the fight, but I said, “Nicky, I need you.”

  He never hesitated. He simply turned toward us and said, “Where do I go?”

  I said the first thing that came to mind. “Puppy pile, touch as much as you can.” It was all I could think of; the kind of vampire we were worked better with touch, and more touch couldn’t hurt. He laid all that golden lionman across Noel’s lion, and put his arm around Travis, drawing the still form in with us. Nicky put one hand out and grabbed my belt, putting his big fingers inside it against my bare waist. My lioness flared into that bonfire of energy, and Nicky’s rose with mine. It wasn’t as bright as it had been with Haven, but it was bright, and it was power, and it joined all the other power seamlessly. I realized what we’d missed, what we’d needed, willingness without will of its own. Nicky gave himself to this as he’d given himself to everything I’d asked of him since he became mine.

  Barriers broke that I hadn’t even known were still there. Richard stopped holding back, Damian stopped being afraid, Jean-Claude stopped being so careful, the blond woman let go of some deep anger, the dark-haired one let go of love searching for love, there wasn’t enough left of Travis to give up anything else, Nathaniel gave up the last of his fear that I’d grow tired of him, Micah gave up that hard, deep rage that I’d never even known was there, and I gave up my control. I wanted Noel alive more than I wanted to be in control.

  The power flared around us in a dark rainbow of energy. It blazed toward the ceiling. If it had been real fire it would have burned the Circus to the ground. We took that power and shoved it into Noel. I’d worked with other animators when we needed to raise a lot of, or very old, dead. I’d been trained to share power with others with similar talents and work as a unit. One magic is surprisingly like another.

  Travis grabbed hold of the nearest lioness. I thought he meant to be healed until I saw his own dim orange-gold lion flare and realized he was giving up his own energy to Noel. With all that energy he gave and did not keep for himself.

  Nicky wrapped his furred arms around the two lions. His grip on me tightened and he gave everything to me, no holding back, no fear, no hesitation. He let me have anything, everything, and he helped the rest of us give up, give in, and feed it to Noel. Noel shuddered and then he began to breathe. His furred side rose and fell, and I could hear his heartbeat. I could feel the rush and flow of the blood in his veins, feel the rise and fall of his life that we’d fought so hard to give him, and on the heels of that was a desire to bite him. It was a desire to bury my teeth in that warm fur until I found blood, and I realized that we’d given up our control, all of it. I was kneeling in a pile of wereanimals and vampires who’d given up their controls. We wanted flesh and blood. We wanted to feed.

  Richard’s voice, strained, said, “Anita, change it. Change it to something else, don’t let us.”

  Jean-Claude said, “Change the feeding to something we can survive, ma petite. Change it or we will tear the lion apart after saving him.”

  I was drowning in the scent of fur, the feel of flesh. I realized that Nicky was rubbing his face against Noel’s side. We so wanted to take a bite. “Help me, help us not do this. Jean-Claude, help me!”

  “The ardeur, ma petite, like this it will be . . .”

  “Do it!”

  I wasn’t the only one that screamed it; Micah and Richard echoed me. We all valued our control above almost everything, but in this moment we were out of control. It was just a matter of what we lost. I wanted to sink fangs and claws into that soft, breathing form. It was as if the power had turned on itself and become about death instead of life.

  I smelled flowers, jasmine. Oh, God. But it wasn’t her or not her alone, and not her voice that echoed through my head. It was a male voice that I’d never heard before. “Feed and I will feast,” and then he laughed, a manic, insane sound.

  I heard Jean-Claude think it—“The Lover of Death, God help us all”—and I knew in the fast-forward way that he could communicate with his servants that the Lover of Death, Morte d’Amour, fed on death the way that Belle fed on lust. He was the creator of the vampires that rotted, but were the hardest to kill of all. He would feed on the energy of every life we took. He was the ultimate carrion crow, a psychic vulture.

  Jean-Claude took that need to stab and tear and bite, to taste raw flesh and have fresh blood gush in our mouths and over our bodies, and turned it to the only other hunger we had. One moment I was kneeling there with the feel of him behind me. I knew where everyone was and what we were doing, and then the ardeur hit the energy we’d raised. Hit it and exploded all that power out into the room.

  I had a moment to hear the Lover of Death wail, “No, I cannot feed on that.” I smelled jasmine and disappointment, because the Mother of All Darkness could only feed on what her host could feed on. Belle had escaped somehow and no one else could feed on the feast we were about to give them.

  I had a moment of fierce happiness about that, and then there was nothing but hands and bodies and things to do with teeth that didn’t kill, but would leave a mark.

  18

  I DREAMED. I knew it was a dream, but I also knew I wasn’t alone in the dream. I walked through a building I’d never been in, turning on lights, but just behind me each room went dark again. I couldn’t turn the lights on fast enough and in the last room where I turned on the light, there was a moment of brightness and then darkness came.

  I woke, pulse in my throat and the amulet around my neck glowing softly. The glow faded, but I knew it had been her. The Mother of All Darkness had hunted me in my dream. She wasn’t strong enough to talk to me without another vampire’s body or powers to help her. Alone she was just that shiver that makes you walk faster at night. You don’t know why you do it, but some part of you remembers that the dark is never really empty.

  As my pulse slowed, and the glow faded, I saw and felt where I was, and my pulse went right back up into my throat. There was a weight across my shoulders and something across my lower legs and I was staring into Wicked’s face from inches away. What I could see of him seemed to be nude, and the only reason I couldn’t see below the waist was that there was a woman collapsed face down across him. Her long yellow hair hid just how nude he might be, but she was nude.

  I raised my head on the white carpet, knowing we were still in the living room of the Circus. Raising my head showed me that the drapes that made up this side of the “walls” had been torn down. There were more bodies in the twisted drapes, arms and legs, hair, a face that I recognized as one of the female vampires who worked at Danse Macabre. She’d been in the coffin room last night getting ready to bed down for the day, which meant that the ardeur had spread outside this room. Shit.

  I was almost afraid to rise up more. Almost afraid to find out whose arm was across my shoulders, because I could feel it was probably male and the line of body touching mine seemed to be nude, just like I was. Fu
ck. The weight across my lower legs was someone else’s legs, no, not just legs. Male, whoever it was. Crap.

  Fuck this, I had to get up. I even had to see who it was, I couldn’t hide. Nope, it was too late for that. I rose up on my elbows. The arm across my shoulders rolled limply down my body. I took a deep breath and turned to see who belonged to the arm.

  People look different out of their clothes, especially facedown on carpet. Short dark hair, curly, broad shoulders, darker complected, tall . . . It was the pile of ripped clothes on the other side of me with the pale trench coat on top that let me know it was Jesse the werelion. I had no memory of how he got out of his clothes. Did that mean we hadn’t had sex and he’d just collapsed here, or that I just wasn’t going to remember what I’d done?

  Asher was lying near the fireplace on his side, wrapped around Meng Die, who lay on her back. Her shoulder-length black hair was spread around her like a fan, her body pale and perfect, and if they’d had sex together then all bets were off. It hadn’t been about who you were attracted to last night, apparently. There was someone else on the other side of the mound of clothes but I couldn’t see enough to know who it was, and since they weren’t touching me I stopped trying to look. I looked down my body and again nude I wouldn’t have been sure, but I thought Lisandro’s face was turned toward me. His long black hair had come undone from his ponytail and trailed across his shoulders, almost hiding scratch marks on his back. One of his legs was partially across mine, his groin still pressed against my hip. I’d had enough sex to be pretty sure he’d been doing me from behind and then collapsed beside me, and then the lights had gone out. That meant the scratch marks weren’t mine. A small blessing. He wasn’t one of the guards that willingly fed me. Something about a wife. Shit. Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I had to have sex with my boss because there was this metaphysical explosion and it was either fuck or kill each other. Yeah, that was a conversation disaster waiting to happen.

  I debated on whether they’d wake if I tried to crawl out from between them. If they were vampires, I wouldn’t have worried, but wereanimals are like people; they just wake up.

  “I do not believe they will wake, ma petite, if you wish to move.”

  I turned my head, craning back over my shoulder. My neck hurt. I raised my hand to find a bite mark. Jean-Claude was sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs. He was nude, legs carefully crossed, his long black curls disarrayed on one side as if there were something in it that . . . I just stopped that thought in its tracks. I didn’t want to think about it, any of it.

  I explored the wound and knew it was a vampire bite. As I started to crawl out from between Jesse and Lisandro, there were other sharp little pains in different places. Some of them weren’t in typical places for a vampire to take blood. What the fuck was that about?

  There were bite marks over one nipple, and higher up the chest. I was on all fours, looking down the line of my body, debating whether my legs would hold me. There was dried blood between my thighs, but it didn’t have the feel to it of someone too large and too vigorous. It felt like I had multiple bites along both sides of my thighs. This many bites, I shouldn’t have woken up at all. That many bites should have bled me dry.

  I had a moment of my skin running cold with fear, and then I suddenly felt a whole lot better about waking up nude, in the middle of what looked like a hell of an orgy. It was better than not waking up at all.

  Jean-Claude was in front of me, his hands on my arms, helping me to my feet. I had a moment of looking into his face, unreadable, shut down, and then I wrapped my arms around him, put my head against his chest, and started to shake. He held me, kissed the top of my head, and murmured, “Ma petite, I am so sorry.”

  “Not to complain,” I said in a voice that was a lot less solid than his, “but why didn’t I bleed to death from all the vampire feedings? I’ve got at least eight. That’s enough to drain me dry.”

  He stroked my hair, and answered me, “I am not certain. I believe the ardeur saved you. There are multiple bites on most of the wereanimals, but none are dead. The ardeur is about life. I turned the Lover of Death’s urge to life. My last solid thought was that we would not feed on death; we fed on life, on love, and I would not have my people serve the dark. We would serve the light.”

  I turned my head so I could look up into his face. “You really thought all that? I didn’t have time to think much of anything.”

  He smiled at me. “It was in French, but that is the gist of what I tried to do with the power.”

  I hugged him tighter. “Is it night again?”

  “No.”

  I frowned up at him. “You’re awake again. What time is it?”

  “We all passed out from the ardeur, but I do not believe I died at dawn.”

  “Sometimes you don’t die at dawn when you and I are touching, but we weren’t, were we?”

  “Non, but there was a great deal of power to feed on, ma petite.”

  I was almost afraid to look around, but I couldn’t be a coward. I couldn’t tolerate that, so . . . I turned in his arms and looked farther into the room. There were bodies everywhere. They lay so still that if Jean-Claude hadn’t told me no one was dead I’d have wanted to start checking pulses. Micah was on the other side of the room, as if he hadn’t moved far from where we’d all started with the werelions. There was a pile of bodies near him, like a prettier version of the plague engravings depicting wagonloads of bodies to dump. Micah lay partially on top of that pile. I thought at first that the body entwined with him, arms and legs, was one of the male guards, but realized that I had the only man with long, straight, dark hair by me. I looked at that muscular back, those shoulders, those arms, and suddenly could see that it was Claudia. Her head was on Micah’s chest, his arms and one leg around her, his head back against someone else’s back.

  “Where’s Nathaniel?” I asked.

  “In the hallway with Jason, J.J., and a few others.”

  “Richard, Damian?”

  Someone groaned, the bodies on the loveseat began to shift, and one tanned, muscular arm came out from all the paler bodies. Richard’s face, his hair wild around him, rose from the other bodies as if he were struggling to the surface of thick water. He looked bleary-eyed and confused for a second, and then I watched comprehension fill his face. I wondered if I’d looked as shocked.

  He looked at the woman in his lap, and I realized it was the blond vampire, Gretchen. She was completely limp as he stood with her in his arms. His moving made the others slide into the spot he’d emptied on the loveseat. I recognized Byron, one of the vampire strippers at Guilty Pleasures. The woman who collapsed against Byron had bright red hair. It had to be Cardinal. Richard put Gretchen gently on the floor since there was no more room on the loveseat. His back was covered in scratch marks, some of them bloody. Were some of them mine?

  He turned and there was dried blood coming down one side of his neck, and his thighs. He had a bite at the bend of his elbow, too. He, like me, should have been dead from blood loss.

  He had more scratches on his arms, and even down the sides of his body. Someone, or someones, had liked nails. He had to pick his way between the bodies. I realized the big glass coffee table was missing. I glanced around Jean-Claude and found the remains of the table in the tangle of torn draperies.

  “I do not think I will buy another glass table.” Jean-Claude said. “Metal, perhaps.”

  Richard was almost to us; he just had to concentrate on where his feet went in the labyrinth of body parts. “I don’t remember anything after you turned the craving for death into the ardeur,” he said, still looking at the floor as he finished the last few careful steps.

  “Me, either,” I said.

  “Nor I,” Jean-Claude said.

  Richard caught his foot on a leg that had been hidden under the pile of clothes. Jean-Claude and I both caught his arm, an automatic gesture. I got a sudden flash of memory: Jean-Claude and Richard kissing passionately. Richard ripping Jean-Claude’s b
lack shirt away to show white skin through the tattered black, and then Richard’s part was gone. I was suddenly thrown deeper into the sensory memory of Jean-Claude behind me, inside me, and Noel in human form in front of me. I was going down on him, and the blond female lion was coming in to kiss him.

  I was suddenly standing by myself not touching anyone. I had to blink hard to see the here and now. “What was that?” I asked.

  “Memory,” Jean-Claude said.

  “It stopped when I pulled away. I didn’t want to see what happened next.” Richard sounded so angry. What did he think had happened? Oh, and had it? All I remembered was them kissing and him helping me undress Jean-Claude, but I had a vague memory of other hands pulling at Richard, pulling him away.

  “I don’t think you did what you think you did,” I said.

  He glared at me, and I knew he was shielding as hard as he could so that his anger didn’t touch us with heat, or raise my beast. I appreciated the control, but I also knew that if he thought he and Jean-Claude had had full-blown sex, it could ruin all the positive work he’d done. It could throw everything back the way it had been. I liked us getting along better, but I wasn’t sure how to save it.

  “We did not have sex, Richard,” Jean-Claude said.

  “I saw us,” he said.

  “You saw a kiss and a little petting, but it was Gretchen who touched you and pulled you away.”

  “I woke up with her in my lap. She loves you in a stalker, obsessed sort of way. Shouldn’t her depth of love for you keep her safe from the ardeur? I thought love kept you safe.”

  “She was likely pulling you away from me, but once she touched you the ardeur spread to her, and she likes men well enough that she did not have enough defenses to leave you for me. She does not love me; she is obsessed with me. Obsession is not love, Richard, it is a type of possessing. Love is not about owning someone, but about loving them.”