Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter collection 11-15

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Fox said, “Shit,” as if he understood more about that whole shielding thing than most people did.

  “Was that wise, Marshal Blake, to let down your protection so early?”

  I answered, “This is a very old cemetery, your honor. Since I replaced Marshal Kirkland at the last minute, I didn’t realize how old. There is a remote chance in a place this old that there might be problems that would affect the raising. It’s standard practice to drop shields and let my power search the cemetery when I’m this unfamiliar with the area.” What I was saying was half-true. I was not going to admit that my shields had been ripped away by my own growing abilities.

  “Search for what?” the judge asked.

  “Sometimes very old cemeteries, especially those that haven’t been used in a while, like this one, can become unconsecrated. It’s like they need to be re-blessed before they qualify as consecrated ground again.”

  “And that would affect the zombie how?”

  Micah’s arms relaxed minutely, so that we were still holding each other but not pressed so fiercely against each other. He was right—we were going to be here awhile. I relaxed into his arms.

  “Well, it could mean there were ghouls in the cemetery, and they’re attracted to the freshly dead. They would have burrowed into the new grave and eaten Mr. Rose by now. There might, or might not, have been left enough of him for him to be able talk to you.”

  “Ghouls, really?” He started to ask something else, but I think it was only curiosity and not the case, because he shook his head and frowned. “Did you sense any ghouls?”

  “No, your honor.” The fact that I’d actually dropped shields more by accident than design would be our little secret. I’d told the truth about the ghouls, but they hadn’t been why my power danced out over the graves.

  “All very interesting, Marshal,” Salvia said, “but your shields being down doesn’t change that you are trying to rush these proceedings.”

  I turned in Micah’s arms enough to give Salvia the look he deserved. He must have had bad night vision, because he didn’t flinch. Franklin did, and it wasn’t even directed at him.

  “And what do you hope to gain by delaying things, Salvia?” I asked. “What difference does it make to your clients whether Rose rises now or two hours from now? It’s still going to happen tonight.”

  Micah leaned his face against my ear and spoke just barely above a breath. I don’t think he wanted to risk anyone else hearing. “His fear spiked. He is delaying for a reason.”

  I turned and breathed against his ear, “What could he hope to gain by an hour delay?”

  Micah nuzzled my ear and whispered, “I don’t know.”

  “Are we interrupting the two of you?” Laban this time.

  One of the agents muttered, “Get a room.”

  Great, we were going to piss everyone off. If I’d been working with police that I knew, I might have told them that the shapeshifter with me knew Salvia was lying and delaying with purpose, but over-sharing with the police—any flavor—isn’t always wise. Besides, Fox had no reason to believe us, and even if he did, what good would it do us? Maybe Salvia didn’t like cemeteries or zombies. A lot of people didn’t. Maybe he was only delaying the moment when the walking dead rose from the grave. Maybe.

  “Your honor,” I said, turning only enough to give them my face but keeping most of me in Micah’s arms. The warmth and pulse of him helped me think. The whispers of the dead couldn’t push past the life of him. He had become my shield. “Your honor, I would love it if you would stop the arguing and let me raise Mr. Rose from the dead. But if that isn’t possible, can I at least put up the circle of protection? Mr. Salvia will still be able to question me, but I will not have to cling to Mr. Callahan quite so tightly.”

  Micah whispered, “Aww.”

  It made me smile, which probably didn’t help convince the judge I was serious, but it made me feel better.

  “What does a protective circle have to do with why you are clinging to Mr. Callahan?” the judge asked.

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “No one here is too terribly stupid, Marshal. Try us.” Maybe the judge was also getting impatient with everybody.

  “The dead are crowding me. Burying myself against my assistant helps remind me of the living.”

  “But you are alive, Marshal. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Apparently not, your honor.”

  “I have no objection to you putting up your circle of protection, Marshal.”

  “I object,” Salvia said.

  “On what grounds?” the judge asked.

  “It is only another ploy to rush these proceedings.”

  The judge sighed loud enough for all of us to hear it. “Mr. Salvia, I think these proceedings have been delayed enough tonight. We are all past worrying about them being rushed.” He looked at the watch on his wrist, one of those timepieces with glowing hands. “It is now after three in the morning. If we do not hurry this along, dawn will get here before the marshal gets to do her job. And we will have all wasted our night for nothing.” The judge looked at me. “Raise your circle, Marshal.”

  The bag was on the ground where Micah had dropped it when he grabbed for me. I let loose of him enough to kneel by it. The moment I wasn’t pressed against him, that breathing, whispering presence was stronger. I was gaining strength from the dead, but they were also gaining something from me. I didn’t understand entirely what that something was, but we needed to stop it. The circle would do that.

  The only thing we needed for the circle was the machete. I pulled it out, and the moment the blade bared in the moonlight, people gasped. I guess it was a big blade, but I liked big blades.

  I laid the machete on top of the gym bag and shrugged out of the suit jacket. Micah took it from me without being asked. He’d never actually helped me at a zombie raising. I realized that when I’d told the lawyers and agents what was about to happen, I’d been telling him, too. Funny, he was such a big piece of my everyday life that I had forgotten that this other big piece was something he’d never seen. Did I take Micah for granted? I hoped not.

  Removing the suit jacket had left my shoulder holster and gun very naked. With normal clients I might have kept the jacket on, because guns spooked people, but the clients were the FBI—they were okay around guns. Besides, the jacket was new and I didn’t want to get blood on it. I should have been cold in the autumn night, but the air was too full of magic. Since I was dealing with the dead the magic should have been cool, but tonight it was warm. Warm the way almost all other magic is warm.

  Salvia said, “Do you need a gun to raise the dead?”

  I guess even when working for the FBI there are still civilians to placate. I gave Salvia a look and couldn’t quite make it friendly. “I’m a federal marshal and a vampire executioner, Mr. Salvia. I don’t go anywhere unarmed.”

  I picked up the machete in my right hand and was holding out my other arm when Micah grabbed my right wrist.

  I looked at him. “What are you doing?” I asked, and I couldn’t keep the unhappy tone out of my voice. Keeping it from being hostile was hard enough.

  He leaned in, speaking low. “Didn’t we already discuss this, Anita? You’re using my blood for the circle, right?”

  I blinked at him. It actually took me a few seconds to understand what he meant. The fact that it took any time at all to see his logic meant that there was something going on with the dead in the ground that shouldn’t have been happening. My power easing through the cemetery had done something to the graves. If I put my blood on the ground, what more would that do? But there was something in me, or at least in my magic, that wanted that deeper connection. My magic, for lack of a better word, wanted to pour my blood along the ground and bring the dead to some kind of half-life. Would it make them ghosts? Would they be zombies? Ghouls? What the hell was happening with my power lately? No answers, because there was no one living to ask. Vampires had made it standard policy to kill necromanc
ers. Raise a zombie if you want to, talk to a few ghosts, but necromancers of legend could control all undead. Even the vamps. They feared us. But standing there with Micah’s hand on my wrist, I felt the energy from the graves almost visible in the air. That energy was wanting the blood, wanting what would happen next.

  Franklin’s voice came strangled from the dark. “Don’t do it, Blake.”

  I looked at him. He was rubbing his arms, as if he felt that press of power. Fox was looking at him, too. I hadn’t outed Franklin, but if he wasn’t careful tonight, he was going to do it himself.

  “I won’t do it,” I said.

  Franklin’s eyes were too wide. The last time I’d seen him had been over the bloody remains of a serial killer’s victim. Did the newly dead talk to him? Was he able to see souls, too? Maybe it wasn’t me he hadn’t liked in New Mexico. Maybe it was his own untrained gifts.

  I turned back to Micah. “Your turn.”

  I saw the tension in Micah’s shoulders ease. He released my wrist, and I let the machete point at the ground. He smiled. “Which arm do you want?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “You’re right-handed, so left. Always better to use the nondominant hand for it.”

  I looked back at Fox. “If you could hold the jackets for Micah?”

  Fox took them from him without a word. A very cooperative man, especially for FBI. They tended to argue, or at least question more. Micah took off his own suit jacket and laid it on top of the growing pile in Fox’s arms.

  Micah’s shirt had French cuffs, which meant he had to undo a cuff link before he could roll up his left sleeve. He put the cuff link in his pant’s pocket.

  “What are you doing, Marshal Blake?” the judge asked.

  “I’m going to use Mr. Callahan’s blood to walk the circle.”

  “Use his blood?” This was from Beck, the court reporter, and her voice was several octaves higher than when she’d said hello.

  The judge looked at her as if she’d done something unforgivable. She apologized to him, but her fingers never stopped typing on her little machine. I think she’d actually taken down her own surprised comment.

  I wondered if the dirty look from the judge got recorded, or if only out-loud sounds counted.

  “My understanding is that if you were going to use the chicken, you would behead it,” the judge said in his deep courtroom voice.

  “That’s right.”

  “I assume you aren’t going to behead Mr. Callahan.” He made it sort of light, almost joking, but I think that his prejudice was showing. I mean, if you’ll raise the dead, what other evil are you capable of? Maybe even human sacrifice?

  I didn’t take it personally. He’d been polite about it; maybe I was just being overly sensitive. “I’ll make a small cut on his arm, smear the blade with the blood, and walk the circle. I may have him walk beside me, so I can renew the blood from the wound as we move around the circle, but that’s all.”

  The judge smiled. “I thought we should be clear, Marshal.”

  “Clear is good, your honor.” I left it at that. The nights when I would have gotten insulted because people hinted that all animators did human sacrifice were past. People were afraid of what I did. It made them believe the worst. The price of doing business was that people thought you did awful, immoral things.

  I’d cut other people before, used their blood to help me or combine with mine, but I’d never held their hand while I did it. I stood on Micah’s left side and interlaced the fingers of our left hands together so that our palms touched. I stretched his arm out and laid the blade’s edge against the smooth, untouched skin of his arm.

  The underside of my left arm looked like Dr. Frankenstein had been at me. Micah’s was smooth and perfect, untouched. I didn’t want to change that.

  “I’ll heal,” he said softly. “It’s not silver.”

  He was right, but . . . I simply did not want to hurt him.

  “Is there a problem, Marshal?” the judge asked.

  “No,” I said, “no problem.”

  “Then can we move things along? It’s not getting any warmer out here.”

  I turned to look at him. He was huddled in his long coat. I glanced down at my own bare arms, not even a goose bump in sight. I gazed up at Micah, in his shirtsleeves. Being a shapeshifter, he wasn’t really a good judge of how cold it was, or how warm. I took a moment to glance at everybody. Most of them were buttoned up, some with hands in pockets like the judge. There were only three people who had their coats open, and, even as I watched, Fox began to shrug out of his own trench coat. The other two people were Salvia and Franklin. Franklin I’d expected, but not Salvia. If he was that sensitive, it could explain his fear. Nothing like a little psychic ability to make you not want to be around a major ritual. I might raise the dead on a regular basis, but magically it’s a big deal to breathe life into the dead. Even temporarily.

  “Marshal Blake,” the judge said, “I’ll ask one more time. Is there a problem?”

  I settled my gaze back on him. “You want to open a vein for me, Judge?”

  He looked startled. “No, no, I do not.”

  “Then don’t rush me when I’ve got someone else’s arm under my blade.”

  Fox and Franklin both made noises. Fox seemed to be turning a laugh into a cough. Franklin was shaking his head, but not like he was unhappy with me.

  The court reporter’s fingers never faltered. She recorded his impatience and my angry answer. She, apparently, was going to record everything. I wondered if she’d tried to record the cough and the inarticulate noise from the agents. I should probably watch what I said, but I doubted I would. I mean, I could try, but watching what I said was usually a losing battle. Maybe I’d feel more polite after the power circle went up. Maybe.

  Micah touched my face with his free hand, made me look at him. He gave me that peaceful smile. “Just do it, Anita.”

  I laid the blade edge against that smooth skin and whispered, “If it were done when ’tis done, ’twere well it were done quickly . . .”

  He said, “Are you quoting Macbeth?”

  “Yes.” And I cut him.

  CHAPTER

  11

  The blood looked black in the moonlight. Micah was utterly silent as his blood eased from the cut, and I moved the blade so that it could catch the heavy drip of his blood. So calm. Calm about this as he was calm about nearly everything, as if nothing could move him from the the center of himself. As I learned more of what his life had been like, I knew that this still-water calm had been hard won. My calmness was the calmness of metal, but he was water. He was the still forest pool. Throw a stone in, and once the ripples fade, it’s as it was. Throw a stone at metal and it leaves a dent. There were nights when I felt like I was covered in dings and dents. Holding Micah’s hand, with his blood welling onto the cool gleam of my blade, I could feel the echo of that watery calm.

  The autumn night was suddenly scented with the sweet, metallic perfume of fresh blood. Once that smell had meant work: raising the dead or a crime scene. But thanks to my ties to Jean-Claude and Richard and the wereleopards, the scent of blood meant oh-so-much more.

  Then I looked up from the blood and met Micah’s eyes, those pale leopard eyes, and realized that I didn’t need to look all the way to St. Louis for why the blood smelled good.

  His pulse began to beat against my palm like a second heartbeat. That heartbeat pushed the blood out of him faster than it should have, as if my power, or our power, called it. The cut wasn’t that deep, but the blood poured over our hands in a hot wash.

  “Oh, my God!” The only female voice, so that was the court reporter. Men cursed, and someone else was making sounds like he might lose his dinner. If this bothered them, then they’d never make it through the zombie part.

  I let go of Micah’s hand, and the moment I did, the blood flow slowed. Slowed to what it should have been. Something about our combined energies had made it flow faster, hotter. He watched me back away from him w
ith the dripping machete. I started walking the circle, dripping his blood along the way, with my gaze still tied to his. There were no dead whispering in my head now. The night was too alive for that. I walked the circle suddenly painfully aware of how much I’d been missing in that nightscape. I could feel the wind against my skin in a way that I hadn’t a second ago. There were so many scents, it was like being blind, and suddenly being given sight. Smell was something we humans didn’t really use at all, not like this.

  I knew there was something small and furry in the tree over the grave. Before I’d smelled only that dry autumnal scent of leaves. Now I could smell different leaves, different scents of the individual trees. I didn’t know what each scent was, but I could suddenly pick out dozens of different trees, bushes. Even the ground underfoot was a wealth of scent. This wasn’t even a good night for scent, too cool, but we could hunt. We could—

  “Anita,” Micah said, his voice abrupt and startling.

  It made me stumble and brought me back to myself. It was almost like waking from a dream. It had only been recently that everyone realized that some of my new abilities, though they came through vampire marks, made me more like a lycanthrope than a vamp. A new lycanthrope that didn’t always have the control you might want in public.

  I was almost back to Micah. I’d nearly walked the complete circle, as if my body had gone on without me while my mind tried to cope with a thousand different kinds of sensory input. Moments like this gave me an entirely new sympathy with dogs that were nose-deaf. It wasn’t that the ears didn’t work but that the nose was working so much more that nothing mattered but the scent. The scent you were tracking. What was it, where was it, could we catch it, could we eat it?

  “Anita?” Micah made it a question, as if he knew what I’d been sensing. Of course, it was his sense of smell I’d been borrowing. He did know.

  My heart was in my throat, my pulse singing with that rush of adrenaline. I looked down at the ground and found I was only a few blood drops away from completing the circle.

  But I hadn’t concentrated at all. I’d walked circles with just naked steel and my will. Was the blood enough with me on automatic pilot? There was really only one way to find out. I let the blood drip from the machete and took those last few steps. I took my last step, but it was that last drop of Micah’s blood that held power like the hot breath of some great beast. That power slid over me, over him, and out into the night, as that last drop of blood fell.