"She loves another," Gretchen said. "Does it matter if she doubts him? She doubts you. She rejects you, Jean-Claude. Isn't that enough?"
"Did you do all that to her face?"
She stalked a tight circle like a tiger in a cage. "She does not love you as I do." She knelt in front of him, hands touching his legs, face staring up into his. "Please, I love you. I've always loved you. Kill her or let her marry this man. She doesn't deserve your adoration."
He ignored her. "Are you all right, ma petite?"
"I'm fine."
Gretchen dug fingers into his jeans, grabbing at him. "Please, please!"
I didn't like her, but the pain, the hopeless pain in her voice was horrible to hear. She'd tried to kill me and I still felt sorry for her.
"Leave us, Gretchen."
"No!" She clutched at him.
"I forbade you to harm her. You disobeyed me. I should kill you."
She just stayed kneeling, gazing up at him. I couldn't see her expression and was glad of it. I wasn't big on adoration. "Jean-Claude, please, please, I only did it for you. She doesn't love you."
His hand was suddenly around her neck. I hadn't seen him move. It was magic. Whatever was letting me look him in the eyes, it didn't stop him playing with my mind. Or maybe he was just that fast. Naw.
She tried to talk. His fingers closed, and the words came out as small, choked sounds. He stood, drawing her to her feet. Her hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to keep him from hanging her. He kept lifting until her feet dangled in the air. I knew she could fight him. I'd felt the strength in those delicate-seeming hands. Except for her hand on his wrist she didn't even struggle. Would she let him kill her? Would he do it? Could I stand here and just watch?
He stood there in his wonderful black shirt, looking elegant and scrumptious, and holding Gretchen with one arm, straight up. He walked towards his desk still holding her. He kept his balance effortlessly. Even a lycanthrope couldn't have done it, not like that. I watched his slender body walk across the carpet and knew he could pretend all he wanted to, but it wasn't human. He wasn't human.
He set her feet on the carpet on the far side of the desk. He relaxed his grip on her throat but didn't let her go.
"Jean-Claude, please. Who is she that the Master of the City should beg for her attention?"
He kept his hand resting on her throat, not squeezing now. He pushed the screen back with his free hand. It folded back to reveal a coffin. It sat up off the ground on a cloth-draped pedestal. The wood was nearly black and polished to a mirrorlike shine.
Gretchen's eyes widened. "Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude, I'm sorry. I didn't kill her. I could have. Ask her. I could have killed her, but I didn't. Ask her. Ask her!" Her voice was pure panic.
"Anita." That one word slithered across my skin, thick and full of forboding. I was very glad that that voice was not angry with me.
"She could have killed me with the first rush," I said.
"Why do you think she did not do it?"
"I think she got distracted trying to draw it out. To enjoy it more."
"No, no, I was just threatening her. Trying to frighten her away. I knew you wouldn't want me to kill her. I knew that, or she'd be dead."
"You were always a bad liar, Gretel."
Gretel?
He raised the lid on the coffin with one hand, drawing her nearer to it.
She jerked away from him. His fingernails drew bloody furrows on her throat. She stood behind the office chair, putting it between her and him, as if it would help. Blood trickled down her throat.
"Do not make me force you, Gretel."
"My name is Gretchen and has been for over a hundred years." It was the first real spirit I'd seen in her against Jean-Claude anyway. I fought the urge to applaud. It wasn't hard.
"You were Gretel when I found you, and you are Gretel still. Do not force me to remind you of what you are, Gretel."
"I will not go into that cursed box willingly. I won't do it."
"Do you really want Anita to see you at your worst?"
I thought I already had.
"I will not go." Her voice was firm, not confident, but stubborn. She meant it.
Jean-Claude stood very still. He raised one hand in a languid gesture. There was no other word for it. The movement was almost dancelike.
Gretchen staggered, grabbing at the chair for support. Her face seemed to have shrunk. It wasn't the drawing down of power that I had seen on her earlier. Not the ethereal corpse that would tear your throat out and dance in the blood. The flesh squeezed down, wrapping tight on the bones. She was withering. Not aging, dying.
She opened her mouth and screamed.
"My God, what's happening to her?"
Gretchen stood clutching bird-thin hands on the chair back. She looked like a mummified corpse. Her bright lipstick was a gruesome slash across her face. Even her yellow hair had thinned, dry and brittle as straw.
Jean-Claude walked towards her, still graceful, still lovely, still monstrous. "I gave you eternal life and I can take it back, never forget that."
She made a low mewling sound in her throat. She held out one feeble hand to him, beseeching.
"Into the box," he said. His voice made that last word dark and terrible, as if he'd said "hell" and meant it.
He had beaten the fight out of her, or maybe stolen was the word. I'd never seen anything like this. A new vampire power that I'd never even heard whispered in folklore. Shit.
Gretchen took a trembling step towards the coffin. Two painful, dragging steps and she lost her grip on the chair. She fell, bone-thin arms catching her full weight, the way you're not supposed to. A good way to get your arm broken. Gretchen didn't seem to be worried about broken bones. Couldn't blame her.
She knelt on the floor, head hanging as if she didn't have the strength to rise. Jean-Claude just stood there, staring at her. He made no move to help her. If it had been anyone but Gretchen, I might have helped her myself.
I must have made some movement towards her because Jean-Claude made a back-away gesture to me. "If she fed on a human at this moment, all her strength would return. She is very frightened. I would not tempt her right now, ma petite."
I stayed where I was. I hadn't planned on helping her, but I didn't like watching it.
"Crawl," he said.
She started to crawl.
I'd had enough. "You've made your point, Jean-Claude. If you want her in the coffin, just pick her up and put her there."
He looked at me. There was something almost amused in his face. "You feel pity for her, ma petite. She meant to kill you. You know that."
"I'd have no problem shooting her, but this . . ." I didn't have a word for it. He wasn't just humiliating her. He was stripping her of herself. I shook my head. "You're tormenting her. If it's for my benefit, I've seen enough. If it's for your benefit, then stop it."
"It is for her benefit, ma petite. She has forgotten who her master is. A month or two in a coffin will remind her of that."
Gretchen had reached the foot of the pedestal. She had grabbed handfuls of the cloth but couldn't drag herself to her feet.
"I think she's been reminded enough."
"You are so harsh, ma petite, so pragmatic, yet suddenly something will move you to pity. And your pity is as strong as your hate."
"But not nearly as fun," I said.
He smiled and lifted the lid of the coffin. The inside was white silk, of course. He knelt and lifted Gretchen. Her limbs lay awkwardly in his arms as if they didn't quite work. As he lifted her over the lip of the coffin, her long coat dragged against the wood. Something in her pocket clunked, solid and heavy.
I almost hated to ask—almost. "If that's my gun in her pocket, I need it back."
He laid her almost gently in the silk lining, then rifled her pockets. He held the Browning in one hand and began to lower the lid. Her skeletal hands raised, trying to stop its descent.
Watching those thin hands beat at the air, I almost
let it go. "There should be another gun and a knife."
He widened his eyes at me, but nodded. He held the Browning out to me. I walked forward and took it. I was standing close enough to see her eyes. They were pale and cloudy, like the eyes of the very old, but there was enough expression left for terror.
Her eyes rolled wildly, staring at me. There was a mute appeal in that look. Desperation was too mild a word for it. She looked at me, not Jean-Claude, as if she knew that I was the only person in the room that gave a damn. If it bothered Jean-Claude, you couldn't tell it by his face.
I tucked the Browning under my arm. It felt good to have it back. He held the Firestar out to me. "I cannot find the knife. If you want to search her yourself, feel free."
I stared down at the dry, wrinkled skin, the lipless face. Her neck was as skinny as a chicken's. I shook my head. "I don't want it that bad."
He laughed, and even now the sound curled along my skin like velvet. A joyous sociopath.
He closed the lid, and she made horrible sounds, as though she were trying to scream and had no voice to do it with. Her thin hands beat against the lid.
Jean-Claude snapped the locks in place and leaned over the closed coffin. He whispered, "Sleep." Almost immediately the sounds slowed. He repeated the word once more, and the sounds ceased.
"How did you do that?"
"Quiet her?"
I shook my head. "All of it."
"I am her master."
"No, Nikolaos was your master, but she couldn't do that. She'd have done it to you if she could have."
"Perceptive of you, and very true. I made Gretchen. Nikolaos did not make me. Being the master vampire that brings someone over gives you certain powers over them. As you saw."
"Nikolaos had made most of the vampires in her little entourage, right?"
He nodded.
"If she could have done what you just did, I'd have seen it. She'd have shown it off."
He gave a small smile. "Again perceptive. There are a variety of powers that a master vampire can possess. Calling an animal, levitation, resistance to silver."
"Is that why my knife didn't seem to hurt Gretchen?"
"Yes."
"But each master has a different arsenal of gifts."
"Arsenal, it is an appropriate word. Now, where were we, ma petite? Ah, yes, I could kill Richard."
Here we go again.
Chapter 25
"Did you hear me, ma petite? I could kill your Richard." He pulled the screen back into place. The coffin and its terrible contents gone just like that.
"You don't want to do that."
"Oh, but I do, ma petite. I would love to tear out his heart and watch him die." He walked past me. The black shirt fanned around him, exposing his stomach as he moved.
"I told you, I'm not sure I'm going to marry him. I'm not even sure I'm going to be dating him anymore. Isn't that enough?"
"No, ma petite. You love him. I can smell his scent on your skin. You have kissed him tonight. With all your doubts, you have held him close."
"Hurt him and I'll kill you, simple as that." My voice was very matter-of-fact.
"You would try to kill me, but I am not so easily killed." He sat down on the couch again, shirt spreading out around him, leaving most of his upper body exposed. The cross-shaped burn scar was a shiny imperfection on his flawless skin.
I stayed standing. He hadn't offered me a seat anyway. "Maybe we'd kill each other. It's your choice of music, Jean-Claude, but once we start this dance, it doesn't stop until one of us is dead."
"I am not allowed to harm Richard. Is he allowed to harm me?"
Good question. "I don't think it'll come up."
"You have dated him for months, and I have said little. Before you marry him, I want equal time."
I looked at him. "What do you mean, 'equal time'?"
"Date me, Anita, give me a chance to woo you."
"Woo me?"
"Yes," he said.
I just stared at him. I didn't know what to say. "I've been trying to avoid you for months. I'm not just going to give in now."
"Then I will start the music, and we will dance. Even if I die, and you die. Richard will die first, that I can promise you. Surely dating me is not a fate worse than that."
He had a point, and yet . . . "I don't give in to threats."
"Then I appeal to your sense of fair play, ma petite. You have allowed Richard to win your heart. If you had dated me first, would it be my heart you hold so dear? If you had not fought our mutual attraction, would you even have given Richard a second glance?"
I couldn't say yes, and be honest. I wasn't sure. I had refused Jean-Claude because he wasn't human. He was a monster and I didn't date monsters. But last night I'd had a glimpse of what Richard might be. I'd felt a power that rivaled Jean-Claude's creep along my skin. It was getting harder to tell the humans from the monsters. I was even beginning to wonder about myself. There are more roads to monsterdom than most people realize.
"I don't believe in casual sex. I haven't slept with Richard, either."
"I am not blackmailing you into sex, ma petite. I am trying to get equal time."
"If I agree, then what?"
"Why, I pick you up on Friday night."
"Like a date-date?"
He nodded. "We might even discover how you are meeting my eyes with impunity."
"Let's just stick to as normal a date as we can."
"As you like."
I stared at him. He looked at me. He would pick me up on Friday. We had a date. I wondered how Richard would feel about that.
"I can't date both of you indefinitely."
"Allow me a few months, as you have given Richard. If I cannot win you from him, then I will retire from the field."
"You'll leave me alone and you won't harm Richard?"
He nodded.
"You give me your word?"
"My word of honor."
I took it. It was the best offer I was going to get. I wasn't sure how much his word of honor was worth, but it gave us time. Time to work something else out. I didn't know what else, but there had to be something. Something besides dating the freaking Master of the City.
Chapter 26
There was a knock on the door. It opened without Jean-Claude's giving permission. Somebody was pushy. Raina stalked in through the door. Pushy was one word for it.
She was wearing a rust-collared trench coat with the belt tied very tight at her waist. The buckle flopped loosely as she glided into the room. She undid a multicolored scarf and shook her auburn hair. It shimmered in the light.
Gabriel followed at her back in a black trench coat. His-and-her outfits. His hair and strange grey eyes looked as good with his coat as Raina's did with hers. Earrings glittered from the earlobe to the curl at the top of his ear. Every piece of metal was silver.
Kaspar Gunderson followed at their heels. He was wearing a pale tweed coat and one of those hats with a little feather in the band. He looked like an elegant version of everybody's 1950s dream dad. He didn't look happy to be here.
Robert stood sort of hovering in the doorway. "I told them you were busy, Jean-Claude. I told them you didn't want to be disturbed." He was practically wringing his hands with anxiety. After what I'd seen done to Gretchen I didn't blame him for being afraid.
"Come in, Robert, and close the door behind you," Jean-Claude said.
"I really need to oversee the next act. I . . ."
"Come in and close the door, Robert."
The century-old vampire did as he was told. He closed the door and leaned against it, one hand on the doorknob as if that would keep him safe. The right sleeve of his white shirt was sliced up, and blood trickled out of fresh claw marks. His throat showed more blood, as if a clawed hand had lifted him by the throat. Like Jean-Claude had done to Gretchen, but with talons.
"I told you what would happen if you failed me again, Robert. In anything, large or small." Jean-Claude's voice was a whisper that filled the
room like wind.
Robert dropped to his knees on the white carpet. "Please, master, please." He extended his hands towards Jean-Claude. A thick drop of blood plopped from his arm to the carpet. The blood seemed very red against the white, white carpet.
Raina smiled. I was betting I knew whose claw marks Robert was sporting. Kaspar went to sit on the couch, distancing himself from the show. Gabriel was looking at me. "Nice coat," he said.
We were both wearing black trench coats. Great. "Thanks," I said.
He grinned flashing, pointy teeth.
I wanted to ask him if the silver earrings hurt but Robert made a low whimpering noise, and I turned back to the main show.
"Come to me, Robert." Jean-Claude's voice had heat to it, enough to scald.
Robert went nearly prone on the carpet, abasing himself. "Please, master. Please don't."
Jean-Claude stalked towards him, fast enough to have his black shirt sweeping behind him like a miniature cape. His pale skin flashed against the black cloth. He stopped beside the cowering vampire. Jean-Claude's shirt swirled around the suddenly quiet body. Jean-Claude stood utterly still. The cloth had more life to it than he did.
Jesus. "He tried, Jean-Claude," I said. "Leave him alone."
Jean-Claude stared at me, his eyes a bottomless blue. I looked away from those eyes. Maybe I could meet his gaze with impunity, but then again . . . He was always full of surprises.
"I was under the impression, ma petite, that you did not like Robert."
"I don't, but I've seen enough punishment for one night. They bloodied him just because he wouldn't let them in your office a few minutes early. Why aren't you mad about that?"
Raina walked over to Jean-Claude. The spiked heels of her metallic copper pumps made indents in the carpet. A trail of stab wounds.
Jean-Claude watched her come. His face was neutral but there was something about the way he held himself. Was he afraid of her? Maybe. But there was a wariness to his body as she moved closer. He wasn't happy. More and more curious.
Anita Blake 4 - Lunatic Cafe Page 20
