Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter collection 11-15

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  A man’s voice said, “She’s stable.”

  Lillian smiled down at me. “You’re breathing for three, Anita. If you keep breathing, they won’t die.”

  I didn’t know what she meant. I wanted to ask, Who won’t die? Then something cold and liquid seemed to flow through my veins. I’d had something like it before, and my last thought before a different kind of darkness took me was, why was Lillian giving me morphine?

  I dreamed, or maybe I didn’t. But if it was heaven, it was too scary, and if it was hell, it wasn’t quite scary enough. I was at a ball, everyone in glittering clothes, centuries before I was born. Then the first couple turned to me, and they were masked. Everyone was wearing the Harlequin’s white masks. I stumbled back from the dancers and found that I was wearing a silver-and-white dress that was too wide to be graceful, and too tight through the ribs to let me breathe well. One of the couples bumped me and my heart was suddenly in my throat. My chest was tight and tighter, as if some huge fist were crushing my ribs. I fell to my knees and the dancers moved wide around me in a spill of skirts and petticoats. Their dresses brushed me as they whirled faceless around me.

  A voice came to the dream, Belle Morte’s purring contralto: “Ma petite, you are dying.”

  The hem of a crimson dress was at my hands. She knelt beside me. She was still the brunette beauty who had nearly conquered all of Europe once. All that dark hair piled atop her head, leaving her neck in that pale, white curve that we’d always loved. We…I tried to feel the rest of that we, but where Jean-Claude should have been was awful blankness.

  She leaned over me as I fell to the floor. “He is almost gone, our Jean-Claude,” she said. Her amber-brown eyes didn’t seem worried. She was simply making an observation. “Why do you not ask for my help, ma petite?”

  I wanted to say, Why would you help us? but there was no air to say anything. My spine tried to bow in the tightness of the corset, as I gasped like a fish left to die on the shore.

  “Oh,” she said, and with a flick of her will the dream changed. We were in her bedroom, on her huge four-poster bed. She knelt above me, with a huge knife in her hand. The world was going gray. I wasn’t even afraid.

  My body jerked, the corset gave, and I could suddenly breathe a little better. My chest still hurt, and I breathed too shallowly, but I could breathe. I looked down to find that she had cut the bodice of the dress all the way through the corset, so that there was a line of bare skin from my neck to my waist. She laid the knife beside her knees and spread the stays of the corset a little wider, as if she meant to skin me out of the dress, but she went back to kneeling beside me, in her red, red dress. Her skin seemed to glow against the crimson cloth.

  “What happens in my dreams can be very real, ma petite. Corsets here made your breathing there harder. You don’t have enough breath to spare.”

  “What’s happening?”

  She lay down beside me, her head on the pillow I was lying upon. A little too close for comfort, but I didn’t have the energy to spare for moving. “I felt Jean-Claude’s light snuffed out.”

  “He’s not dead,” I whispered.

  “Can you sense him?”

  It must have shown on my face, because she said, “Shhh, you are correct, he is not gone completely, but he is close to the edge. You are keeping him, both of them, alive. You and your second triumvirate of power. Something Jean-Claude did in this new emergency has taught you better control of the power between you and your other triumvirate; your kitty and your vampire.”

  I swallowed, and it hurt, though I couldn’t remember why it should. “Nathaniel, Damian.” I was feeling a little better, well enough to be afraid. I’d almost drained both of them to death once, or twice.

  “Do not fear for them. They are well enough, but they are feeding for you, giving you their energy as they are supposed to do in emergencies,” she said, and stroked my forehead, tracing down the edge of my jaw. It was an idle movement, like the way you’d stroke the curve of a couch you were sitting on. “The masks of the Harlequin were in your mind, ma petite. Have they come to your territory?”

  I wanted to tell her to stop calling me ma petite, but air was precious, so I answered, “Yes.”

  “Show me,” she said.

  Not Tell me, but Show me. I said, “How?”

  “You are of Belle Morte’s line. How do we trade power?”

  I frowned up at her.

  “Kiss me, and but think of it, and I will know what you know.”

  I don’t know if I would have kissed her voluntarily, because I didn’t get a chance to decide. She pressed those ruby lips to my mouth, and I was suffocating again. I couldn’t breathe. I pushed at her, and she thought inside my head, “Think of the Harlequin.” It was as if it were an order, and my mind did what she asked.

  I thought of the meeting with Malcolm and his fear. I went back through the date with Nathaniel and the mask in the bathroom. The second mask with the musical notes on it, and the meeting planned. The mark on me, and the scent of wolf, and Jake keeping me safe. Then the last memory, where I saw my men dying, and the ghost on Richard, and the feeding with Rafael. She slowed the memory there, lingering on the rat king’s powers, then let the memories go back to speeding along, and using Rafael’s power to attack the one that had attacked us. It was the last memory that she slowed down completely. She stared at the pale faces of the vampires, the long dark hair, the glowing eyes, brown and gray respectively. Belle Morte studied the faces of the other vampires. She whispered, “Mercia, and Nivia.” The memory ended, and Belle Morte was simply lying beside me, propped on the pillows.

  I whispered, “You know them.”

  “Yes, but not that they were Harlequin. It is a deep, dark secret who is, and who is not, one of them. They are spies, and secrecy is their life blood. By their hands the Harlequin have broken their most profound taboo.”

  “What taboo?” I asked.

  “They are neutral, ma petite, utterly neutral, or how can they dispense justice? Did they give you a black mask? I did not see it in your memories.”

  “No, only the two white.”

  She laughed, and her face shone with joy. My heart hurt, but not from a physical blow. It hurt the way it sometimes does when you see someone you once adored do something to remind you why you loved them, and you know that that laugh will never again be for you.

  “They have broken the law then, the law they swore to uphold. Unless they deliver the black mask, they are not allowed to bring death. For Mercia and Nivia, it means true death, but for their fellow Harlequin it means something worse.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Disbandment. They will be no more, and those who are not killed will be forced to go back to their bloodlines, their old masters. To be neutral the Harlequin are freed of their ties to their creators. They are a law unto themselves, but if they are breaking the law, then they will be broken.”

  “Why does that”—I had to draw a breath to finish—“make you so happy?”

  She pouted out that full lower lip and said, “Poor thing, so hurt. I will help you.”

  “Appreciate the offer, but”—and I had to work for breath—“help us, why?”

  “Because you alive are witness enough to destroy the power of the Harlequin.”

  “Why,” breath, “do you care?”

  “They were once the private guards of the Mistress of the Dark. She is waking, I know that now.”

  “But when she wakes,” breath, “she won’t have them.”

  “Precisement,” Belle said.

  “But you need me, us, alive.”

  “Yes,” she said, and she looked at me the way that a hawk must look at a wounded mouse, eager, anticipatory.

  “Make you mad?” I whispered, and had to cough. It wasn’t my throat that was closing off. I didn’t think it was Jean-Claude’s. Something bad was happening to Richard.

  “I don’t hate you, ma petite,” she said. “I don’t hate anything that is useful to me,
and you are about to be very useful, ma petite.”

  “Anita,” I whispered.

  “Anita, Anita,” she purred as she leaned our faces closer, “if I want you to be my ma petite, you will be. Jean-Claude is near death and he protected you from me. I will save you all, but I will do it in a way that you will not like.” She leaned our faces close, and the hand that had been caressing my face was suddenly firm and solid as metal against my cheek, keeping me turned toward that lovely face. She began to lean in for a kiss.

  I spoke before our mouths touched. “A win-win situation, for you.”

  “Oh, yes.” She whispered it against my lips, then kissed me. But she didn’t just kiss me, she opened the ardeur between us. One moment all I could think about was breathing, Just keep breathing, and that I really didn’t want her to touch me, and the next she was kissing me, and I was kissing her back.

  My hands slid over that satin dress, and the body underneath, and my hands knew that body—though my hands were smaller than they should have been. Jean-Claude’s memories kept getting in the way, coloring what was happening. When her mouth found my breast, and sucked, it startled me, because the body I was remembering didn’t have breasts. She bit me, driving dainty fangs around my nipple. It made me cry out, brought my body writhing off the bed. She raised a bloody mouth and smiled at me, her eyes filled with amber light. She climbed my body and pressed that bloody mouth to mine. I kissed that mouth as if it were air, and food, and water, all rolled into one. I marveled at how small her mouth was, how dainty. How I’d longed to kiss this mouth again. I knew in this moment what I had never known from Jean-Claude, how much it had cost him to leave her. They say that once you love Belle Morte you never stop, and I knew in that kiss, with her body on top of mine, that it was true. He still loved her, would always love her, and nothing would change that, not even me.

  The ardeur started to feed then, at that bloody kiss, but this was Belle Morte, the creator of the ardeur. You did not feed from her and stop. You fed until she stopped you.

  The knife cut us out of the dresses, and where it nicked the skin we licked and drank each other’s blood, and it didn’t seem wrong, or a bad thing to do. The taste of her blood was sweet, and slow, and I knew that vampire blood was not a meal, but it could be foreplay.

  I ended up on top of her, and my body kept forgetting that it wasn’t male. I pressed her to the bed, with my body between her legs. But I could not do what I was remembering. I swore in frustration, because more than anything in the world in that moment I wanted to pierce her body. I wanted to plunge parts that I did not have into parts of her that I did.

  She lay underneath me with that dark hair spilling around her body, across the silk of the pillows. Her lips parted, her eyes filled with that eager light. I knew what she was, knew it better through Jean-Claude than most. I knew that she would slit my throat and make love in the blood while I died, but in that moment with her looking up at us, I didn’t care. I just wanted her to keep giving us that look.

  She laid me back against the sheets and began to kiss her way down my body. I watched her eyes roll up, watching my face, as she licked, and bit, and drew small pinpricks of blood where dainty fangs pierced too close. It wasn’t my memory that made me writhe at the sight of her over my groin. At first, it felt wrong, because I was expecting a different sensation, but Belle had spent two thousand years learning about pleasure, and she knew this pleasure, too. I gazed down at her with her mouth between my legs, and her tongue found me, traced me, licked me, and finally she sucked me, lightly at first, then deeper and deeper, until fangs bit deep as she sucked me, and I wasn’t certain if it was the pleasure that brought the orgasm, or the pain. The ardeur fed, and fed, and fed.

  I screamed, and writhed, and clawed at the pillows, and only after I lay back boneless, eyes fluttering blind with pleasure, did she raise her face from my body.

  She stared up at me with eyes that glowed so bright, she looked blind with power. She laughed, and the sound trailed down my body and made me cry out again. “I do see what he sees in you, ma petite, I truly do. I have fed you enough to keep you all alive, but Mercia and Nivia, and any of the Harlequin that took part in this, will have to kill you before you can testify against them. They will not know that I know.”

  I tried to say, tell people, but my mouth couldn’t work quite yet. Hell, if there’d been an emergency I couldn’t have rolled off the bed, and it wasn’t the medical emergency part that kept me lying there. It was a few thousand years of practiced sex that made me lie there and look at her, or try to look at her. The world was still white-edged with orgasm.

  “I believe that they have allies for their illegal activities among the council, so I must go slowly here, but you need to be well there.” She smiled at me, and it was the smile that Eve must have used in the Garden of Eden; Want a bite of apple, little girl? “I will send a call out to my bloodline in your territory. Jean-Claude is still too hurt to stop it. I will talk to them as of old, before they had Jean-Claude’s new power to hide behind. When you wake, you will need powerful food for the ardeur. You must share that power with Jean-Claude and your wolf.”

  I managed to whisper, “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “You will,” she said, and she came to straddle my body, leaning in until our lips met. I could taste my body on her mouth. We kissed, and the dream broke, and I woke, with the taste of her kiss on my lips.

  24

  I WOKE GASPING in a room that was too bright, too white. There was something in my arm that hurt when I tried to move it. I couldn’t think where I was, couldn’t think about anything but the smell and taste and feel of Belle Morte. I woke crying her name, or trying to. My voice was a harsh croak of sound.

  Cherry’s face appeared beside the bed. Her ultrashort blond hair and overly dark Goth makeup couldn’t quite hide the fact that she was pretty. She was also a registered nurse, though she had lost her job at the local hospital when they found out she was a wereleopard. “Anita, oh my God, oh my God.”

  I tried to say her name, and couldn’t make words.

  “Don’t try to talk. I’ll send for the doctor.” She got me water and one of those bendy straws, and let me take a minute sip. I heard a door open and close, running feet getting farther away. Who had she sent for the doctor?

  Cherry’s eyes were shiny, and only after her eyeliner began to run in black tears down the pale makeup did I realize she was crying. “They say it’s waterproof, but they so lie.” She let me have another sip of water.

  I managed to croak, “Why does my throat hurt?”

  “I…” She looked solemn again. “We had to intubate Richard.”

  “Intubate?” I made it a question.

  “Put a tube down his throat. A machine is doing his breathing for him.”

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  She wiped at the black tears again, smearing them worse. “But you’re awake, you’re all right.” She nodded, over and over, as if that would make it more true. I was almost sure that away from me, her leopard queen, she was more controlled as a nurse, but she sure did cry easily for a medical professional.

  There were soft footfalls, and Doctor Lillian was at my bedside. Her graying hair was in a careless knot at the back of her neck, with strands of hair flying about her slender face. Her pale eyes smiled along with her lips. Relief was plain on her face for a moment.

  “Did you slap me?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

  “You did slap me, didn’t you?”

  “It was a close thing, Anita. We almost lost you all.”

  “Cherry says Richard is hooked up to machines, that he’s not breathing on his own.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Shouldn’t he have healed by now?”

  “It’s only the night of the same day, Anita. You haven’t been out that long.”

  “It feels longer.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure it does. I think now that we’
ve got his body breathing, he will heal, but if we hadn’t been able to keep his heart and lungs going…”

  “You’re worried.”

  “His heart stopped, Anita. If he were human I’d be worried about brain damage from lack of oxygen.”

  “But he’s not human,” I said.

  “No, but he is very hurt. He should heal perfectly, but in truth, I’ve never seen a lycanthrope come back from an injury this severe. His heart was pierced by a silver bullet. It was a killing shot.”

  “But he’s not dead,” I said.

  “No, he’s not.”

  I looked up at her. “Jesus, you don’t give good medical blank face either.”

  “Jean-Claude is in a sort of coma. Asher tells me that it is a type of hibernation while he heals himself, but truthfully, vampire medicine is confusing. They’re dead, so how unhealthy can they be? We hooked him up to brainwave monitors, and that’s letting us know he’s still in there.”

  “But if you didn’t have the monitors?” I asked.

  “I’d think he was dead,” she said.

  “We’re not dead.”

  She smiled. “No, you’re not. Nathaniel has been eating for five, and he’s still lost two pounds in less than a day. Damian has taken more blood than any vampire should be able to hold, and still he feeds. Asher says they are helping fuel the three of you.”

  I nodded, remembering what Belle had said. “He’s right.” I thought about letting my thoughts of Nathaniel and Damian find them for me, let me see them. But I was afraid I’d mess it up. Afraid that somehow I’d cut off the energy they were feeding us, or take too much. Apparently it was working, and I was simply grateful that it was working the way it was supposed to. Belle had said that I’d learned from Jean-Claude how to do it, but she was wrong. I think Jean-Claude had done it for us before he passed out, because I had no idea how it was working. I very carefully didn’t make my shields between me and the boys any stronger, or weaker. I just tried to maintain. It was working; don’t fuck with it.