Anita Blake 12 - Incubus Dreams

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Micah’s so-calm voice came from my other shoulder. “It was Belle Morte’s fault, the wicked, sexy vampire of the west. If she hadn’t been messing with Anita, trying to use the ardeur to control her, then it wouldn’t have risen hours ahead of schedule.” Belle Morte, Beautiful Death, was the creator of Jean-Claude’s bloodline. I’d never met her in physical person, but I’d met her metaphysically, and that had been bad enough. Micah laid a hand across my shoulders, but managed to put his hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, too. Comforting us both. “You haven’t collapsed since Anita’s been able to stretch the feedings out more.”

  Nathaniel sighed so heavily that I felt the movement against my body. “I haven’t gotten stronger, she has.” He sounded so sad, so disappointed in himself.

  I leaned in against his shoulder, enough that Micah was able to literally hug us both at the same time. “I’m your Nimir-Ra, I’m supposed to be stronger, right?”

  He gave me a faint smile.

  I laid my head on his shoulder, curving my face into the bend of his neck, and getting that whiff of vanilla. He’d always smelled like vanilla to me. I’d thought once it was shampoo, or soap, but it wasn’t. It was his scent for me. I hadn’t had the courage yet to ask Micah if Nathaniel’s skin smelled like vanilla to him, too. Because I wasn’t sure what it would mean if I was the only one who found Nathaniel’s scent so very sweet.

  “You want to ask Anita something,” Jason said.

  Nathaniel tensed against me, then in a small voice, he asked, “Do I still get my dance?”

  It was my turn to tense. I couldn’t control it, it was involuntary. Nathaniel got very still beside me, because he’d felt it, too. I didn’t want to dance, that was true, but I also had a very clear memory of thinking, just minutes ago with Micah, that I’d rather have been dancing. I’d messed up once tonight, I didn’t want to do it twice. “Sure, dancing sounds great.”

  That made Micah and Nathaniel pull back enough to look at me. Jason was just staring down at me. “What did you say?” Nathaniel said.

  “I said, dancing sounds great.” Their astonishment almost made it worthwhile.

  “Where is Anita, and what have you done with her?” Jason asked, face mock serious.

  I didn’t try to explain. I couldn’t figure out a slick way of saying to Micah, I’d rather have danced, and it’s my fault we missed it, without spilling his secrets in front of Nathaniel and Jason. So I just stood, and offered my hand to Nathaniel.

  After a second of staring at it, and me, he took it, almost tentatively, as if he were afraid I’d take it back. I think he’d come ready for an argument about the dancing, and not getting one had thrown him.

  I smiled at the surprise on his face. “Let’s go inside.”

  He gave me one of his rare full-out smiles, the one that made his entire face light up. For that one smile, I’d have given him a lot more than just a dance.

  8

  « ^ »

  Of course, my good intentions lasted about as long as it took to be escorted onto the dance floor. Then suddenly I was expected to dance. In front of people. In front of people that were mostly cops. Cops that I worked with on a regular basis. No one is as merciless if you give them ammunition, no pun intended, as a bunch of policemen. If I danced badly, I’d be teased. If I danced well, I’d be teased worse. If they realized I was dancing well with a stripper, the teasing would be endless. If they realized I was dancing badly with a stripper, the jokes would be, well, bad. Either way you cut it, I was so screwed.

  I felt fourteen again, and awkward as hell. But it was almost impossible to be awkward with Nathaniel as your partner. Maybe it was his day job, but he knew how to bring out the best in someone on the dance floor. All I had to do was let go of my inhibitions and follow his body. Easy, maybe, but not for me. I like the few inhibitions I have left, thank you, and I’m going to cling to them as long as I can.

  What I was clinging to now was Nathaniel. Not much scares me, not really, but airplane rides, and dancing in public are on that short list. My heart was in my throat, and I kept fighting the urge to stare at my feet. The men had spent an afternoon proving that I could dance, at home, with only people who were my friends watching. But suddenly, in public in front of a less than friendly audience, all my lessons seemed to have fled. I was reduced to clinging to Nathaniel’s hand and shoulder, turning in those useless circles that have nothing to do with the song, and everything to do with fear, and the inability to dance.

  “Anita,” Nathaniel said.

  I kept staring at my feet, and trying to not see that we were being watched from around the room.

  “Anita, look at me, please.”

  I raised my face, and whatever he saw in my eyes made him smile, and filled his own eyes with a sort of soft wonderment. “You really are afraid.” He said it like he hadn’t believed it before.

  “Would I ever admit to being afraid, if I wasn’t?”

  He smiled. “Good point.” His voice was soft. “Just look at my face, my eyes, no one else matters but the person you’re dancing with. Just don’t look at anyone else.”

  “You sound like you’ve given this advice before.”

  He shrugged. “A lot of women are uncomfortable on stage, at first.”

  I gave him raised eyebrows.

  “I used to do an act in formal wear, and I’d pick someone from the audience to dance with. Very formal, very Fred Astaire.”

  Somehow, Fred Astaire was not a name that came to mind when I thought of Guilty Pleasures. I said as much.

  His smile was less gentle and more his own. “If you ever came down to the club to watch one of us work instead of just giving us a ride, you’d know what we did.”

  I gave him a look.

  “You’re dancing,” he said.

  Of course, once he pointed out that I’d been dancing, I stopped. It was like walking on water, if you thought about it, you couldn’t do it.

  Nathaniel pulled gently on my hand and pushed gently on my shoulder and got us going again. I finally settled for staring at his chest, watching his body movements as if he’d been a bad guy and it was a fight. Watch the central body for the first telltale movements.

  “At home you moved to the rhythm of the song, not just where I moved you.”

  “That was at home,” I said, staring at his chest and letting him move me around the floor. It was damn passive for me, but I couldn’t lead, because I couldn’t dance. To lead you have to know what you’re doing.

  The song stopped. I’d made it through one song in public. Yeah! I looked up and met Nathaniel’s gaze. I expected him to look pleased, or happy, or a lot of things, but that wasn’t what was on his face. In fact, I couldn’t read the expression on his face. It was serious again, but other than that… we stood there, staring at each other, while I tried to figure out what was happening, and I think he tried to work up to saying something. But what? What had him all serious-faced?

  I had time to ask, “What, what’s wrong?” then the next song came on. It was fast, with a beat, and I was so out of there. I let go of Nathaniel, stepped back, and had turned, and actually gotten a step away, before he grabbed my hand. Grabbed my hand and pulled me in against him so hard and so fast that I stumbled. If I hadn’t caught myself with one arm around his body, I’d have fallen. I was suddenly acutely aware of the firmness of his back against my arm, the curve of his side cupped in the hollow of my hand. I was holding him so close to the front of my body that it seemed every inch of us from chest to groin pressed against one another. His face was painfully close to mine. His mouth so close it seemed a shame not to lay a kiss upon those lips.

  His eyes were half-startled, as if I’d grabbed him, and I had, but I hadn’t meant to. Then he swayed to one side and took me with him. And just like that we were dancing, but it was different from any dancing I’d ever done. I didn’t follow his movements with my eyes, I followed them with my body. He moved, and I moved with him, not because I was supposed to, but for the same
reason a tree bends in the wind, because it must.

  I moved because he moved. I moved because I finally understood what they’d all been talking about; rhythm, beat, but it wasn’t the beat of the music I was hearing, it was the rhythm of Nathaniel’s body, pressed so close that all I could feel was him. His body, his hands, his face. His mouth was temptingly close, but I did not close that distance. I gave myself over to his body, the warm strength in his hands, but I did not take the kiss he offered. For he was offering himself in the way that Nathaniel had, no demand, just the open-ended offer of his flesh for the taking. I ignored that kiss the way I’d ignored so many others.

  He leaned into me, and I had a moment, just a moment, before his lips touched mine, to say, no, stop. But I didn’t say it. I wanted that kiss. That much I could admit to myself.

  His lips brushed mine, gentle, then the kiss became part of the swaying of our bodies, so that as our bodies rocked, so the kiss moved with us. He kissed me as his body moved, and I turned my face up to him and gave myself to the movement of his mouth as I’d given myself to the movement of his body. The brush of lips became a full-blown kiss, and it was his tongue that pierced my lips, that filled my mouth, his mouth that filled mine. But it was my hand that left his back and traced his face, cupped his cheek, pressed my body deeper against his, so that I felt him stretched tight and firm under his clothes. The feel of him pressed so tight against my clothes and my body brought a small sound from my mouth, and the knowledge that the ardeur had risen early. Hours early. A distant part of me thought, Fuck. The rest of me agreed, but not in the way I meant it.

  I drew back from his mouth, tried to breathe, tried to think. His hand came up to cup the back of my head, to press my mouth back to his, so that I drowned in his kiss. Drowned in the pulse and beat of his body. Drowned on the rhythms and tide of his desire. The ardeur allowed, sometimes, a glimpse into another heart, or at least their libido. I’d learned to control that part, but tonight it was as if my fragile control had been ripped away, and I stood pressed into the curves and firmness of Nathaniel’s body with nothing to protect me from him. Always before he’d been safe. He’d never pushed an advantage, never gone over a line that I drew, not by word or deed; now suddenly, he was ignoring all my signals, all my silent walls. No, not ignoring them, smashing through them. Smashing them down with his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, his body pushing against mine. I could not fight the ardeur and Nathaniel, not at the same time.

  I saw what he wanted. I felt it. Felt his frustration. Months of being good. Of behaving himself, of not pushing his advantage. I felt all those months of good behavior shatter around us and leave us stripped and suffocating in a desire that seemed to fill the world. Until that moment I hadn’t understood how very good he’d been. I hadn’t understood what I’d been turning down. I hadn’t understood what he was offering. I hadn’t understood… anything.

  I pulled back from him, put a hand on his chest to keep him from closing that distance again.

  “Please, Anita, please, please,” his voice was low and urgent, but it was as if he couldn’t bring himself to put it into words. But the ardeur didn’t need words. I suddenly felt his body again, even though we stood feet apart. He was so hard and firm and aching. Aching, because I’d denied him release. Denied him release for months. I’d never had full-blown sex with Nathaniel, because I could feed without it. It had never occurred to me what that might mean for him. But now I could feel his body, heavy, aching with a passion that had been building for months. When last I’d touched Nathaniel’s needs this completely, he’d simply wanted to belong to me. That was still there but there was a demand in him, a near screaming need. A need that I’d neglected. Hell, a need that I’d pretended didn’t exist. Now, suddenly, Nathaniel wasn’t letting me ignore that need anymore.

  I had a moment of clear thinking, because I felt guilty. Guilty that I’d left him wanting for so long, while I had my own needs met. I’d thought that having real sex with him would be using him; now suddenly that one glimpse into his heart let me understand that what I’d done to him had used him more surely than intercourse. I’d used Nathaniel like he was some kind of sex toy, something to bring me pleasure and be cleaned up and put back in a drawer. I was suddenly ashamed, ashamed that I’d treated him like an object, when that wasn’t how he wanted to be treated.

  The guilt hit me like a cold shower, the proverbial slap in the face, and I used it to pack the ardeur away, for another hour or two, at least.

  It was as if Nathaniel felt the heat spill away from me. He gave me those wide lavender eyes, huge, and glittering, glittering with unshed tears. He let his hands drop from my arms, and since I’d already dropped my hands away, we stood on the dance floor with distance between us. A distance that neither of us tried to close.

  The first shining tear trailed down his cheek.

  I reached out to him, and said, “Nathaniel.”

  He shook his head and backed away a step, another, then he turned and ran. Jason and Micah tried to catch him as he rushed past them, but he avoided their hands with a graceful gesture of his upper body that left them with nothing but air. He ran out the door, and they both turned to follow. But it wasn’t either of them who had to chase him down. It was me. I was the one who owed him an apology. The trouble was, I wasn’t exactly clear on what I would be apologizing for. For using him, or for not using him enough.

  9

  « ^ »

  The first person I saw when I hit the parking lot wasn’t any of the men, it was Ronnie. Veronica Simms, private detective, one time my best friend, was standing off to one side from the door. She was hugging herself so hard, it looked painful. She’s 5’8”, a lot of leg, and she’d added high heels and a short red dress to show off the legs. She’d once told me if she had my chest she’d never wear another high neck shirt in her life. She’d been kidding, but when she dressed up, she showed off all that nice long stretch of leg. Her blond hair was cut at shoulder length, but she’d curled the edges under tonight so the hair bobbed above the spaghetti straps on her nearly bare shoulders. It was bobbing a lot, because she was talking low and angry to someone I couldn’t see clearly.

  I took another step into the parking lot, and the shadows cleared, and I saw Louis Fane. Louie taught biology at Washington University. He had his doctorate and was a wererat. The university knew about the doctorate but not about what he did on the full moons. He was an inch or two shorter than Ronnie, built compact, but strong. His shoulders filled out the suit he was wearing nicely. He’d cut his dark hair short and neat since last I’d seen him. His dark eyes were almost black, and his clean-cut face was as angry as I’d ever seen it.

  I couldn’t hear what they were saying, only the tone, and the tone was pissed. I realized I’d been staring, and it was none of my business. Even if Ronnie and I had still been working out together three times a week, which we weren’t, it still wouldn’t have been any of my business. Ronnie had had problems with me dating a vampire, Jean-Claude in particular, but her main objection seemed to be the vampire part. At a time when I’d needed girl advice and a little sympathy, she’d offered only her own outrage, and anger.

  We’d started seeing each other less and less over the last few months, until it had gotten to the point where we hadn’t talked in a couple of months. I’d known she and Louie were still dating, because he and I had mutual friends. I wondered what the fight was about, but it wasn’t my fight. My fight was waiting out there in the parking lot, leaning against the side of my Jeep. All three of them were leaning against the Jeep. It was like a lineup, or an ambush.

  I hesitated in the middle of the asphalt, debating on whether to go back and offer to referee Ronnie and Louie’s fight. It wasn’t kindness that made me want to go back; it was cowardice. I’d have much rather gotten dragged into someone else’s fight than face what was waiting for me. Other people’s emotional pain, no matter how painful, is so much less painful than your own.

  But Ronnie wou
ldn’t thank me for interfering, and it really wasn’t my business. Maybe I’d call her tomorrow and see if she’d talk, see if there was still enough friendship left to save. I missed her.

  I stood there in the darkened parking lot, caught between the fight behind me and the fight waiting for me. Strangely, I didn’t want to fight with anyone. I was suddenly tired, so terribly tired, and it had nothing to do with the late hour, or a long day.

  I walked to the waiting men, and no one smiled at me, but then I didn’t smile at them either. I guess it wasn’t a smiling kind of conversation.

  “Nathaniel says you didn’t want to dance with him,” Micah said.

  “Not true,” I said. “I danced, twice. What I didn’t want to do was play kissy-face in front of the cops.”

  Micah looked at Nathaniel. Nathaniel looked at the ground. “You kissed me earlier in front of Detective Arnet. Why was this different?”

  “I kissed you to give Jessica the clue to stop hitting on you, because you wanted me to save you from her.”

  He raised his eyes, and they were like two pretty wounds, so pain-filled. “So, you only kissed me to save me, not because you wanted to?”

  Oh, hell. Out loud I tried again, though the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that I was going to lose this argument. Lately, around Nathaniel, I always felt like I was doing something wrong, or at least not right. “That isn’t what I meant,” I said.

  “It’s what you said.” This from Micah.

  “Don’t you start,” I said, and I heard the anger in my voice before I could stop it. The anger had been there already, I just hadn’t been aware of it. I was angry a lot, especially when I wasn’t comfortable. I liked anger better than embarrassment. Marianne, who was helping me learn to control the ever growing list of psychic powers, said that I used anger to shield myself from any unwanted emotion. She was right, I accepted that she was right, but she and I hadn’t come up with an alternative solution, yet. What’s a girl to do if she can’t get angry, and she can’t run away from the problem? Hell if I know. Marianne had encouraged me to be honest, emotionally honest with myself and those closest to me. Emotional honesty. It sounds so harmless, so wholesome; it’s neither.