The Laughing Corpse abvh-2

by Laurell Kaye Hamilton

  I stood up, glancing around the club to see if they had planned for this eventuality. Willie came running to the stage. He wrapped his arms around the zombie’s waist and pulled, lifted the much taller body off its feet, but the hands kept squeezing.

  The comedian slipped to his knees, making little argh sounds. His face was going from red to purple. The audience was laughing. They thought it was part of the show. It was a heck of a lot funnier than the act.

  I stepped up to the stage and said softly to Willie, “Need some help?”

  He stared at me, still clinging to the zombie’s waist. With his extraordinary strength Willie could have ripped a finger at a time off the man’s neck and probably saved him. But super-vampire strength doesn’t help you if you don’t think how to use it. Willie never thought. Of course, the zombie might crush the man’s windpipe before even a vampire could peel its fingers away. Maybe. Best not to find out.

  I thought the comedian was a putz. But I couldn’t stand there and watch him die. Really, I couldn’t.

  “Stop,” I said. Low and for the zombie’s ears. He stopped squeezing, but his hands were still tight. The comedian was going limp. “Release him.”

  The zombie let go. The man fell in a near faint on the stage. Willie straightened up from his frantic tugging at the deadman. He smoothed his tomato-red suit back into place. His hair was still perfectly slick. Too much hair goop for a mere zombie wrestling to displace his hairdo.

  “Thanks,” he whispered. Then he stood to his full five feet four and said, “The Amazing Albert and his pet zombie, ladies and gentlemen.” The audience had been a bit uncertain, but the applause began. When the Amazing Albert staggered to his feet, the applause exploded. He croaked into the microphone. “Ernie thinks it’s time to go home now. You’ve been a great audience.” The applause was loud and genuine.

  The comedian left the stage. The zombie stayed and stared at me. Waiting, waiting for another order. I don’t know why everyone can’t speak and have zombies obey them. It doesn’t even feel like magic to me. There is no tingle of the skin, no breath of power. I speak and the zombies listen. Me and E. F. Hutton.

  “Follow Albert and obey his orders until I tell you otherwise.” The zombie looked down at me for a second, then turned slowly and shuffled after the man. The zombie wouldn’t kill him now. I wouldn’t tell the comedian that, though. Let him think his life was in danger. Let him think he had to let me lay the zombie to rest. It was what I wanted. It was probably what the zombie wanted.

  Ernie certainly didn’t seem to like being the straight man in a comedy routine. Hecklers are one thing. Choking the comic to death is a little extreme.

  Willie escorted me back to my table. I sat down and sipped my Coke. He sat down across from me. He looked shaken. His small hands trembled as he sat across from me. He was a vampire, but he was still Willie McCoy. I wondered how many years it would take for the last remnants of his personality to disappear. Ten years, twenty, a century? How long before the monster ate the man?

  If it took that long. It wouldn’t be my problem. I wouldn’t be there to see it. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to see it.

  “I never liked zombies,” Willie said.

  I stared at him. “Are you afraid of zombies?”

  His eyes flickered to me, then down to the table. “No.”

  I grinned at him. “You’re afraid of zombies. You’re phobic.”

  He leaned across the table. “Don’t tell. Please don’t tell.” There was real fear in his eyes.

  “Who would I tell?”

  “You know.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Willie.”

  “The MASTER.” You could hear “master” was in all caps.

  “Why would I tell Jean-Claude?”

  He was whispering now. A new comedian had come up on stage, there was laughter and noise, and still he whispered. “You’re his human servant, whether you like it or not. When we speak to you, he tells us we’re speaking to him.”

  We were leaning almost face-to-face now. The gentle brush of his breath smelled like breath mints. Almost all vampires smell like breath mints. I don’t know what they did before mints were invented. Had stinky breath, I guess.

  “You know I’m not his human servant.”

  “But he wants you to be.”

  “Just because Jean-Claude wants something doesn’t mean he gets it,” I said.

  “You don’t know what he’s like.”

  “I think I do...”

  He touched my arm. I didn’t jerk back this time. I was too intent on what he was saying. “He’s been different since the old master died. He’s a lot more powerful than even you know.”

  This much I had suspected. “So why shouldn’t I tell him you’re afraid of zombies?”

  “He’ll use it to punish me.”

  I stared at him, our eyes inches apart. “You mean he’s torturing people to control them.”

  He nodded.

  “Shit.”

  “You won’t tell?”

  “I won’t tell. Promise,” I said.

  He looked so relieved, I patted his hand. The hand felt like a hand. His body didn’t feel wood hard anymore. Why? I didn’t know, and if I asked Willie, he probably wouldn’t know either. One of the mysteries of...death.

  “Thanks.”

  “I thought you said that Jean-Claude was the kindest master you’ve ever had.”

  “He is,” Willie said.

  Now that was a frightening truth. If being tormented by your darkest fear was the kindest, how much worse had Nikolaos been. Hell, I knew the answer to that one. She’d been psychotic. Jean-Claude wasn’t cruel just for the sake of watching people squirm. There was reason to his cruelty. It was a step up.

  “I gotta go. Thanks for helping with the zombie.” He stood.

  “You were brave, you know,” I said.

  He flashed a grin my way, fangs glinting in the dim light. The smile vanished from his face like someone had turned a switch. “I can’t afford to be anything else.”

  Vampires are a lot like wolf packs. The weak are either dominated or destroyed. Banishment is not an option. Willie was moving up in the ranks. A sign of weakness could stop that rise or worse. I’d often wondered what vampires feared. One of them feared zombies. It would have been funny if I hadn’t seen the fear in his eyes.

  The comic on stage was a vampire. He was the new dead. Skin chalk-white, eyes like burned holes in paper. His gums were bloodless and receding from canines that would have been the envy of any German shepherd. I had never seen a vampire look so monstrous. They all usually made an effort to appear human. This one wasn’t.

  I had missed the audience’s reaction to his first appearance, but now they were laughing. If I had thought the zombie jokes were bad, these were worse. A woman at the next table laughed so hard, tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “I went to New York, tough city. A gang jumped me, but I put the bite on them.” People were holding their ribs as if in pain.

  I didn’t get it. It was genuinely not funny. I gazed around the crowd and found every eye fixed on the stage. They peered up at him with the helpless devotion of the bespelled.

  He was using mind tricks. I’d seen vampires seduce, threaten, terrify, all by concentrating. But I had never seen them cause laughter. He was forcing them to laugh.

  It wasn’t the worst abuse of vampiric powers I’d ever seen. He wasn’t trying to hurt them. And this mass hypnosis was harmless, temporary. But it was wrong. Mass mind control was one of the top scary things that most people don’t know vampires can do.

  I knew, and I didn’t like it. He was the fresh dead and even before Jean-Claude’s marks, the comic couldn’t have touched me. Being an animator gave you partial immunity to vampires. It was one of the reasons that animators are so often vampire slayers. We’ve got a leg up, so to speak.

  I had called Charles earlier, but I still didn’t see him. He is not easy to miss in a cro
wd, sort of like Godzilla going through Tokyo. Where was he? And when would Jean-Claude be ready to see me? It was now after eleven. Trust him to browbeat me into a meeting and then make me wait. He was such an arrogant son of a bitch.

  Charles came through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen area. He strode through the tables, heading for the door. He was shaking his head and murmuring to a small Asian man who was having to quick-run to keep up.

  I waved, and Charles changed direction towards me. I could hear the smaller man arguing, “I run a very good, clean kitchen.”

  Charles murmured something that I couldn’t hear. The bespelled audience was oblivious. We could have shot off a twenty-one-gun salute, and they wouldn’t have flinched. Until the vampire comic was finished, they would hear nothing else.

  “What are you, the damn health department?” the smaller man asked. He was dressed in a traditional chef’s outfit. He had the big floppy hat wadded up in his hands. His dark uptilted eyes were sparkling with anger.

  Charles is only six-one, but he seems bigger. His body is one wide piece from broad shoulders to feet. He seems to have no waist. He is like a moving mountain. Huge. His perfectly brown eyes are the same color as his skin. Wonderfully dark. His hand is big enough to cover my face.

  The Asian chef looked like an angry puppy beside Charles. He grabbed Charles’s arm. I don’t know what he thought he was going to do, but Charles stopped moving. He stared down at the offending hand and said very carefully, voice almost painfully deep, “Do not touch me.”

  The chef dropped his arm like he’d been burned. He took a step back. Charles was only giving him part of the “look.” The full treatment had been known to send would-be muggers screaming for help. Part of the look was enough for one irate chef.

  His voice was calm, reasonable when he spoke again, “I run a clean kitchen.”

  Charles shook his head. “You can’t have zombies near the food preparation. It’s illegal. The health codes forbid corpses near food.”

  “My assistant is a vampire. He’s dead.”

  Charles rolled his eyes at me. I sympathized. I’d had the same discussion with a chef or two. “Vampires are not considered legally dead anymore, Mr. Kim. Zombies are.”

  “I don’t understand why.”

  “Zombies rot and carry disease just like any dead body. Just because they move around doesn’t mean they aren’t a depository for disease.”

  “I don’t...”

  “Either keep the zombies away from the kitchen or we will close you down. Do you understand that?”

  “And you’d have to explain to the owner why his business was not making money,” I said, smiling up at both of them.

  The chef looked a bit pale. Fancy that. “I...I understand. It will be taken care of.”

  “Good,” Charles said.

  The chef darted one frightened look at me, then began to thread his way back to the kitchen. It was funny how Jean-Claude was beginning to scare so many people. He’d been one of the more civilized vampires before he became head bloodsucker. Power corrupts.

  Charles sat down across from me. He seemed too big for the table. “I got your message. What’s going on?”

  “I need an escort to the Tenderloin.”

  It’s hard to tell when Charles blushes, but he squirmed in his chair. “Why in the world do you want to go down there?”

  “I need to find someone who works down there.”

  “Who?”

  “A prostitute,” I said.

  He squirmed again. It was like watching an uncomfortable mountain. “Caroline is not going to like this.”

  “Don’t tell her,” I said.

  “You know Caroline and I don’t lie to each other, about anything.”

  I fought to keep my face neutral. If Charles had to explain his every move to his wife, that was his choice. He didn’t have to let Caroline control him. He chose to do it. But it grated on me like having your teeth cleaned.

  “Just tell her that you had extra animator business. She won’t ask details.” Caroline thought that our job was gross. Beheading chickens, raising zombies, how uncouth.

  “Why do you need to find this prostitute?”

  I ignored the question and answered another one. The less Charles knew about Harold Gaynor, the safer he’d be. “I just need someone to look menacing. I don’t want to have to shoot some poor slob because he made a pass at me. Okay?”

  Charles nodded. “I’ll come. I’m flattered you asked.”

  I smiled encouragingly at him. Truth was that Manny was more dangerous and much better backup. But Manny was like me. He didn’t look dangerous. Charles did. I needed a good bluff tonight, not firepower.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight. Jean-Claude had kept me waiting an hour. I looked behind me and caught Willie’s gaze. He came towards me immediately. I would try to use this power only for good.

  He bent close, but not too close. He glanced at Charles, acknowledging him with a nod. Charles nodded back. Mr. Stoic.

  “What ya want?” Willie said.

  “Is Jean-Claude ready to see me or not?”

  “Yeah, I was just coming to get ya. I didn’t know you was expecting company tonight.” He looked at Charles.

  “He’s a coworker.”

  “A zombie raiser?” Willie asked.

  Charles said, “Yes.” His dark face was impassive. His look was quietly menacing.

  Willie seemed impressed. He nodded. “Sure, ya got zombie work after you see Jean-Claude?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I stood and spoke softly to Charles, though chances were that Willie would hear it. Even the newly dead hear better than most dogs.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Alright,” he said, “but I need to get home soon.”

  I understood. He was on a short leash. His own fault, but it seemed to bother me more than it bothered Charles. Maybe it was one of the reasons I’m not married. I’m not big on compromise.

  Chapter 21

  Willie led me through a door and a short hallway. As soon as the door closed behind us, the noise was muted, distant as a dream. The lights were bright after the dimness of the club. I blinked against it. Willie looked rosy-cheeked in the bright light, not quite alive, but healthy for a deadman. He’d fed tonight on something, or someone. Maybe a willing human, maybe animal. Maybe.

  The first door on the left said “Manager’s Office.” Willie’s office? Naw.

  Willie opened the door and ushered me in. He didn’t come in the office. His eyes flicked towards the desk, then he backed out, shutting the door behind him.

  The carpeting was pale beige; the walls eggshell-white. A large black-lacquered desk sat against the far wall. A shiny black lamp seemed to grow out of the desk. There was a blotter perfectly placed in the center of the desk. There were no papers, no paper clips, just Jean-Claude sitting behind the desk.

  His long pale hands were folded on the blotter. Soft curling black hair, midnight-blue eyes, white shirt with its strange button-down cuffs. He was perfect sitting there, perfectly still like a painting. Beautiful as a wet dream, but not real. He only looked perfect. I knew better.

  There were two brown metal filing cabinets against the left wall. A black leather couch took up the rest of the wall. There was a large oil painting above the couch. It was a scene of St. Louis in the 1700s. Settlers coming downriver in flatboats. The sunlight was autumn thick. Children ran and played. It didn’t match anything in the room.

  “The picture yours?” I asked.

  He gave a slight nod.

  “Did you know the painter?”

  He smiled then, no hint of fangs, just the beautiful spread of lips. If there had been a vampire GQ, Jean-Claude would have been their cover boy.

  “The desk and couch don’t match the rest of the decor,” I said.

  “I am in the midst of remodeling,” he said.

  He just sat there looking at me. “You asked for this meeting, Jean-Claude. Let’s
get on with it.”

  “Are you in a hurry?” His voice had dropped lower, the brush of fur on naked skin.

  “Yes, I am. So cut to the chase. What do you want?”

  The smile widened, slightly. He actually lowered his eyes for a moment. It was almost coy. “You are my human servant, Anita.”

  He used my name. Bad sign that. “No,” I said, “I’m not.”

  “You bear two marks, only two more remain.” His face still looked pleasant, lovely. The expression didn’t match what he was saying.

  “So what?”

  He sighed. “Anita...” He stopped in midsentence and stood. He came around the desk. “Do you know what it means to be Master of the City?” He leaned on the desk, half sitting. His shirt gaped open showing an expanse of pale chest. One nipple showed small and pale and hard. The cross-shaped scar was an insult to such pale perfection.

  I had been staring at his bare chest. How embarrassing. I met his gaze and managed not to blush. Bully for me.

  “There are other benefits to being my human servant, ma petite.” His eyes were all pupil, black and drowning deep.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “No lies, ma petite, I can feel your desire.” His tongue flicked across his lips. “I can taste it.”

  Great, just great. How do you argue with someone who can feel what you’re feeling? Answer: don’t argue, agree. “Alright, I lust after you. Does that make you happy?”

  He smiled. “Yes.” One word, but it flowed through my mind, whispering things that he had not said. Whispers in the dark.

  “I lust after a lot of men, but that doesn’t mean I have to sleep with them.”

  His face was almost slack, eyes like drowning pools. “Casual lust is easily defeated,” he said. He stood in one smooth motion. “What we have is not casual, ma petite. Not lust, but desire.” He moved towards me, one pale hand outstretched.

  My heart was thudding in my throat. It wasn’t fear. I didn’t think it was a mind trick. It felt real. Desire, he called it, maybe it was. “Don’t,” my voice was hoarse, a whisper.

  He, of course, did not stop. His fingers traced the edge of my cheek, barely touching. The brush of skin on skin. I stepped away from him, forced to draw a deep shaking breath. I could be as uncool as I wanted, he could feel my discomfort. No sense pretending.