Richard was just sitting there, meeting my eyes. There was no embarrassment, just interest, as if he didn't know quite what I was. It wasn't an unfriendly look.
"Footsie," Jean-Claude said. I didn't need to see his face to hear the smile in his voice.
"You know what I mean."
"I've never heard it called 'footsie' before."
"Stop doing that."
"What?"
I glared at him, but his eyes were sparkling with laughter. A slow smile touched his lips. He looked very human just then.
"What did you want to discuss, ma petite? It must be something very important to make you come near me voluntarily."
I searched his face for mockery, or anger, or anything, but his face was as smooth and pleasant as carved marble. The smile, the sparkling humor in his eyes, was like a mask. I had no way of telling what lay underneath. I wasn't even sure I wanted to know.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through my mouth. "Alright. Where were you last night?" I looked at his face, trying to catch any change of expression.
"Here," he said.
"All night?"
He smiled. "Yes."
"Can you prove it?"
The smile widened. "Do I need to?"
"Maybe," I said.
He shook his head. "Coyness, from you, ma petite. It does not become you."
So much for being slick and trying to pull information from the Master. "Are you sure you want this discussed in public?"
"You mean Richard?"
"Yes."
"Richard and I have no secrets from one another, ma petite. He is my human hands and eyes, since you refuse to be."
"What's that mean? I thought you could only have one human servant at a time."
"So you admit it." His voice held a slow curl of triumph.
"This isn't a game, Jean-Claude. People died tonight."
"Believe me, ma petite, whether you take the last marks and become my servant in more than name is no game to me."
"There was a murder last night," I said. Maybe if I concentrated just on the crime, on my job, I could avoid the verbal pitfalls.
"And?" he prompted.
"It was a vampire victim."
"Ah," he said, "my part in this becomes clear."
"I'm glad you find it funny," I said.
"Dying from vampire bites is only temporarily fatal, ma petite. Wait until the third night when the victim rises, then question him." The humor died from his eyes. "What is it that you are not telling me?"
"I found at least five different bite radiuses on the victim."
Something flickered behind his eyes. I wasn't sure what, but it was real emotion. Surprise, fear, guilt? Something.
"So you are looking for a rogue master vampire."
"Yep. Know any?"
He laughed. His whole face lit up from the inside, as if someone had lit a candle behind his skin. In one wild moment he was so beautiful, it made my chest ache. But it wasn't beauty that made me want to touch it. I remembered a Bengal tiger that I'd seen once in a zoo. It was big enough to ride on like a pony. Its fur was orange, black, cream, oyster-shell white. Its eyes were gold. The heavy paws wider than my outspread hand paced, paced, back and forth, back and forth, until it had worn a path in the dirt. Some genius had put one barred wall so close to the fence that held back the crowd, I could have reached through and touched the tiger easily. I had to ball my hands into fists and shove them in my pockets to keep from reaching through those bars and petting that tiger. It was so close, so beautiful, so wild, so . . . tempting.
I hugged my knees to my chest, hands clasped tightly together. The tiger would have taken my hand off, and yet there was that small part of me that regretted not reaching through the bars. I watched Jean-Claude's face, felt his laughter like velvet running down my spine. Would part of me always wonder what it would have been like if I had just said yes? Probably. But I could live with it.
He was staring at me, the laughter dying from his eyes like the last bit of light seeping from the sky. "What are you thinking, ma petite?"
"Can't you read my mind?" I asked.
"You know I cannot."
"I don't know anything about you, Jean-Claude, not a bloody thing."
"You know more about me than anyone else in the city."
"Yasmeen included?"
He lowered his eyes, almost embarrassed. "We are very old friends."
"How old?"
He met my eyes, but his face was empty, blank. "Old enough."
"That's not an answer," I said.
"No," he said, "it is an evasion."
So he wasn't going to answer my question; what else was new? "Are there any other master vampires in town besides you, Malcolm, and Yasmeen?"
He shook his head. "Not to my knowledge."
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what I said."
"You're the Master of the City. Aren't you supposed to know?"
"Things are a little unsettled, ma petite."
"Explain that."
He shrugged, and even in the bloodstained shirt it looked graceful. "Normally, as Master of the City, all other lesser master vampires would need my permission to stay in the city, but"--he shrugged again--"there are those who think I am not strong enough to hold the city."
"You've been challenged?"
"Let us just say I am expecting to be challenged."
"Why?" I asked.
"The other masters were afraid of Nikolaos," he said.
"And they're not afraid of you." It wasn't a question.
"Unfortunately, no."
"Why not?"
"They are not as easily impressed as you are, ma petite."
I started to say I wasn't impressed, but it wasn't true. Jean-Claude could smell it when I lied, so why bother?
"So there could be another master in the city without your knowledge."
"Yes."
"Wouldn't you sort of sense each other?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not."
"Thanks for clearing that up."
He rubbed fingertips across his forehead as if he had a headache. Did vampires get headaches? "I cannot tell you what I do not know."
"Would the . . ." I groped for a word, and couldn't find one--"more mundane vampires be able to kill someone without your permission?"
"Mundane?"
"Just answer the damn question."
"Yes, they could."
"Would five vampires hunt in a pack without a master vampire to referee?"
He nodded. "Very nice choice of word, ma petite, and the answer is no. We are solitary hunters, given a choice."
I nodded. "So either you, Malcolm, Yasmeen, or some mysterious master is behind it."
"Not Yasmeen. She is not strong enough."
"Okay, then you, Malcolm, or a mysterious master."
"Do you really think I have gone rogue?" He was smiling at me, but his eyes held something more serious. Did it matter to him what I thought of him? I hoped not.
"I don't know."
"You would confront me, thinking I might be insane? How indiscreet of you."
"If you don't like the answer, you shouldn't have asked the question," I said.
"Very true."
The office door opened. Dolph came out, notebook in hand. "You can go home, Anita. I'll check the statements with you tomorrow."
I nodded. "Thanks."
"Heh, I know where you live." He smiled.
I smiled back. "Thanks, Dolph." I stood up.
Jean-Claude stood in one smooth motion like he was a puppet pulled up by invisible strings. Richard stood slower, using the wall to stand, as if he were stiff. Standing, Richard was taller than Jean-Claude by at least three inches. Which made Richard six-one. Almost too tall for my taste, but no one was asking me.
"And could we talk to you some more, Jean-Claude?" Dolph said.
Jean-Claude said, "Of course, detective." He walked down the hall. There was a stiffness in the w
ay he moved. Did vampires bruise? Had he been hurt in the fight? Did it matter? No, no, it didn't. In a way Jean-Claude was right; if he had been human, even an egotistical son of a bitch, there might have been possibilities. I'm not prejudiced, but God help me, the man has to at least be alive. Walking corpses, no matter how pretty, are just not my cup of tea.
Dolph held the door for Jean-Claude. Dolph looked back at us. "You're free to go, too, Mr. Zeeman."
"What about my friend Stephen?"
Dolph glanced at the sleeping shapeshifter. "Take him home. Let him sleep it off. I'll talk to him tomorrow." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Make that later today."
"I'll tell Stephen when he wakes up."
Dolph nodded and closed the door. We were alone in the buzzing silence of the hallway. Of course, maybe it was just my own ears buzzing.
"Now what?" Richard said.
"We go home," I said.
"Rashida drove."
I frowned. "Who?"
"The other shapeshifter, the woman whose arm was torn up."
I nodded. "Take Stephen's car."
"Rashida drove us both."
I shook my head. "So you're stranded."
"Looks that way."
"You could call a cab," I said.
"No money." He almost smiled.
"Fine; I'll drive you home."
"And Stephen?"
"And Stephen," I said. I was smiling and I didn't know why, but it was better than crying.
"You don't even know where I live. It could be Kansas City."
"If it's a ten-hour drive, you're on your own," I said. "But if it's reasonable, I'll drive you."
"Is Meramec Heights reasonable?"
"Sure."
"Let me get the rest of my clothes," he said.
"You look fully dressed to me," I answered.
"I've got a coat around here somewhere."
"I'll wait here," I said.
"You'll watch Stephen?" Something like fear crossed his face, filled his eyes.
"What are you afraid of?" I asked.
"Airplanes, guns, large predators, and master vampires."
"I agree with two out of four," I said.
"I'll go get my coat."
I slid down to sit beside the sleeping werewolf. "We'll be waiting."
"Then I'll hurry." He smiled when he said it. He had a very nice smile.
Richard came back wearing a long black coat. It looked like real leather. It flapped like a cape around his bare chest. I liked the way the leather framed his chest. He buttoned the coat and tied the leather belt tight. The black leather went with the long hair and handsome face; the grey sweats and Nikes did not. He knelt and picked Stephen up in his arms, then stood. The leather creaked as his upper arms strained. Stephen was my height and probably didn't weigh twenty pounds more than I did. Petite. Richard carried him like he wasn't heavy.
"My, my, grandmother, what strong arms you have."
"Is my line, 'The better to hold you with'?" He was looking at me very steadily.
I felt heat creeping up my face. I hadn't meant to flirt, not on purpose. "You want a ride, or not?" My voice was rough, angry with embarrassment.
"I want a ride," he said quietly.
"Then can the sarcasm."
"I wasn't being sarcastic."
I stared up at him. His eyes were perfectly brown like chocolate. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. A tactic I should probably use more often.
I turned and walked away, fishing my car keys out as I moved. Richard followed behind. Stephen snuffled against his chest, pulling the blanket close in his sleep.
"Is your car very far?"
"A few blocks; why?"
"Stephen isn't dressed for the cold."
I frowned at him. "What, you want me to drive the car around and pick you up?"
"That would be very nice," he said.
I opened my mouth to say no, then closed it. The thin blanket wasn't much protection, and some of Stephen's injuries were from saving my life. I could drive the car around.
I satisfied myself with grumbling under my breath, "I can't believe I'm a door-to-door taxi for a werewolf."
Richard either didn't hear me, or chose to ignore it. Smart, handsome, junior high science teacher, degree in preternatural biology, what more could I ask for? Give me a minute and I'd think of something.
9
THE CAR RODE IN its own tunnel of darkness. The headlights were a moving circle of light. The October night closed behind the car like a door.
Stephen was asleep in the back seat of my Nova. Richard sat in the passenger seat, half-turned in his seat to look at me. It was just polite to look at someone when you talk to them. But I felt at a disadvantage because I had to watch the road. All he had to do was stare at me.
"What do you do in your spare time?" Richard asked.
I shook my head. "I don't have spare time."
"Hobbies?"
"I don't think I have any of those, either."
"You must do something besides shoot large snakes in the head," he said.
I smiled and glanced at him. He leaned towards me as much as the seat belt would allow. He was smiling, too, but there was something in his eyes, or his posture, that said he was serious. Interested in what I would say.
"I'm an animator," I said.
He clasped his hands together, left elbow propped on the back of the seat. "Okay, when you're not raising the dead, what do you do?"
"Work on preternatural crimes with the police, mostly murders."
"And?" he said.
"And I execute rogue vampires."
"And?"
"And nothing," I said. I glanced at him again. In the dark I couldn't see his eyes--their color was too dark for that--but I could feel his gaze. Probably imagination. Yeah. I'd been hanging around Jean-Claude too long. The smell of Richard's leather coat mingled with a faint whiff of his cologne. Something expensive and sweet. It went very nicely with the smell of leather.
"I work. I exercise. I go out with friends." I shrugged. "What do you do when you're not teaching?"
"Scuba diving, caving, bird watching, gardening, astronomy." His smile was a dim whiteness in the near dark.
"You must have a lot more free time than I do."
"Actually, the teacher always has more homework than the students," he said.
"Sorry to hear that."
He shrugged; the leather creaked and slithered over his skin. Good leather always moved like it was still alive.
"Do you watch TV?" he asked.
"My television broke two years ago, and I never replaced it."
"You must do something for fun."
I thought about it. "I collect toy penguins." The minute I said it, I wished I hadn't.
He grinned at me. "Now we're getting somewhere. The Executioner collects stuffed toys. I like it."
"Glad to hear it." My voice sounded grumpy even to me.
"What's wrong?" he said.
"I'm not very good at small talk," I said.
"You were doing fine."
No, I wasn't, but I wasn't sure how to explain it to him. I didn't like talking about myself to strangers. Especially strangers with ties to Jean-Claude.
"What do you want from me?" I said.
"I'm just passing the time."
"No, you weren't." His shoulder-length hair had fallen around his face. He was taller, thicker, but the outline was familiar. He looked like Phillip in the shadowed dark. Phillip was the only other human being I'd ever seen with the monsters.
Phillip sagged in the chains. Blood poured in a bright red flood down his chest. It splattered onto the floor, like rain. Torchlight glittered on the wet bone of his spine. Someone had ripped his throat out.
I staggered against the wall as if someone had hit me. I couldn't get enough air. Someone kept whispering, "Oh, God, oh, God," over and over, and it was me. I walked down the steps with my back pressed against the wall. I couldn't take my eyes from him. Couldn't l
ook away. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't cry.
The torchlight reflected in his eyes, giving the illusion of movement. A scream built in my gut and spilled out my throat. "Phillip!"
Something cold slithered up my spine. I was sitting in my car with the ghost of guilty conscience. It hadn't been my fault that Phillip died. I certainly didn't kill him, but . . . but I still felt guilty. Someone should have saved him, and since I was the last one with a chance to do it, it should have been me. Guilt is a many splendored thing.
"What do you want from me, Richard?" I asked.
"I don't want anything," he said.
"Lies are ugly things, Richard."
"What makes you think I'm lying?"
"Finely honed instinct," I said.
"Has it really been that long since a man tried to make polite small talk with you?"
I started to look at him, and decided not to. It had been that long. "The last person who flirted with me was murdered. It makes a girl a little cautious."
He was quiet for a minute. "Fair enough, but I still want to know more about you."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
He had me there. "How do I know Jean-Claude didn't tell you to make friends?"
"Why would he do that?"
I shrugged.
"Okay, let's start over. Pretend we met at the health club."
"Health club?" I said.
He smiled. "Health club. I thought you looked great in your swimsuit."
"Sweats," I said.
He nodded. "You looked cute in your sweats."
"I liked looking great better."
"If I get to imagine you in a swimsuit, you can look great; sweats only get cute."
"Fair enough."
"We made pleasant small talk and I asked you out."
I had to look at him. "Are you asking me out?"
"Yes, I am."
I shook my head and turned back to the road. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?" he asked.
"I told you."
"Just because one person got killed on you doesn't mean everyone will."
I gripped the steering wheel tight enough to make my hands hurt. "I was eight when my mother died. My father remarried when I was ten." I shook my head. "People go away and they don't come back."
"Sounds scary." His voice was soft and low.
I didn't know what had made me say that. I didn't usually talk about my mother to strangers, or anybody else for that matter. "Scary," I said softly. "You could say that."
"If you never let anyone get close to you, you don't get hurt, is that it?"
"There are also a lot of very jerky men in the twenty-one-to-thirty age group," I said.
He grinned. "I'll give you that. Nice-looking, intelligent, independent women are not exactly plentiful either."
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