Danse Macabre ab-14

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  "Her energy feels different," he said, and his voice sounded farther away than it should have. He was tall, but I was only in his lap, not that far away.

  Other hands touched my face, my hands, my arms. My eyes were closed and I kept them that way; I didn't want to see them. Didn't want to see any of them. "She is cold." Jean-Claude's voice, his hand moving away from my cheek.

  Cold, yes, I was cold, so cold. Cold down to the core of my being, as if I'd never be warm again. Fur brushed my arm, and it made me open my eyes enough to see Nathaniel kneeling on the bed. His face was still a stranger's face behind the mix of animal and human. Once, just once, that face had been above me while we made love. Just the one time.

  Hands touched my face, moved me to look at Jean-Claude and Richard. Their hands, one on either side of my face. Their hands were so warm against my skin. It took me a long second to realize that both of their hands felt warm. Had Jean-Claude gained so much power from feeding on Augus­tine, so much that he was hot to the touch?

  I was having trouble focusing on their faces. I whispered, "Warm, you're both warm."

  Richard spoke slowly, carefully, as if he thought I might have trouble un­derstanding him, "Anita, you're colder to the touch than Jean-Claude."

  I frowned at him, and tried to focus on his face. I could almost do it, but it was as if my attention kept wandering before I could make my eyes do what I wanted. "Wrong, something's wrong." Still a whisper, but I said it out loud.

  "Yes," he said, "something is wrong." He looked at Jean-Claude. "I can't feel her. She's in my arms and I can't feel her energy."

  "She is drawing away from us," Jean-Claude said.

  "Drawing away, what does that mean?" Richard asked.

  "I believe ma petite is trying to break the bonds that bind her to us."

  "You mean break the triumvirate?"

  "Out."

  "Can she do that?" someone asked.

  "Anita can do anything she wants to do," Nathaniel's growling voice said.

  "I do not know if it is possible, but I know she is trying," Jean-Claude said.

  "It will destroy your power base," Asher's voice, though I couldn't make my eyes search the room for him.

  "So be it," Jean-Claude said. I fought to see him clearly, watch him look to Richard. "Why the tragic face, Richard? You could be free of the tri­umvirate, Richard, free of me."

  "You know it's what I want, but what would it cost us? She's cold to the touch."

  Jean-Claude's face loomed into view. uMa petite, drop your shields. Drop them just enough for me to sense you. Let me share energy with you. You are unwell."

  I shook my head, and the world swam in streamers of color. I had a mo­ment of nausea, and that was the moment that I realized I was sick. Sick at heart, sick of soul, sick of it all. Somewhere deep inside me, I was trying to undo all my decisions. I was trying to do a take-back, on a game that had played too far for a do-over. The front part of my brain knew it was too late, but it wasn't the front part of my brain that was in charge. How do you argue with the subconscious? How do you argue with a part of your brain you don't even know is there most of the time? The real bitch of the situation was, I wasn't sure I wanted to argue.

  I smelled the musk of leopard, and knew Nathaniel was beside me before his voice growled, "Damian."

  I opened my eyes, and found myself staring into a black blur of a face. Nathaniel moved back far enough for me to have a chance to focus on him. I repeated what he'd said. "Damian."

  "Damian will die," Nathaniel said.

  I blinked at him. I'd heard what he said, but it didn't seem to make sense to me. It must have shown on my face because Jean-Claude said, "I do not know if what your despair attempts is truly possible, but if you succeed, Damian will die. His blood flows only with your power, Anita. Without your power, your vampire servant will rise no more from his grave. He will die, and remain dead."

  I stared at him, and again, it was as if his words didn't truly reach me.

  He gripped my arm, tight, and tighter, until it hurt, but even that was a distant hurt. "Anita, I will not be blamed for this. If you accomplish this mir­acle, and break free of all of us, then you will kill Damian. I will not have you later say you did not understand. I will not take the blame, not for this." He was angry, but his anger could not touch me, and I was glad. His anger was no longer mine. I could cut him out, cut them all out of me.

  Micah's voice, from the other side of me: "Breaking the triumvirate won't change the fact that you're pregnant, Anita. You'll still need to go to the hos­pital at two o'clock. That doesn't change."

  I turned and looked at him, though it seemed to take a long time for me to do it. "The ardeur will go away."

  "Are you sure of that?" he asked, quietly.

  Jean-Claude's voice: "In truth, I do not know if the gifts and curses you gain through the vampire marks will vanish if the triumvirate breaks. It may leave you as I found you, alone and safe in your own skin, if that is what you truly desire. Or you may retain some abilities, but lose the aid of..." He hesitated, finally finishing with, "all of us, in your struggle with the ardeur."

  I turned until I found his face, still out of focus, like I wasn't working quite right. "The ardeur will go away," I whispered.

  "I simply do not know what will happen, because what I feel you doing is impossible. Only true death should be able to break you free of my marks. Since what you attempt has never been done, I do not know what the outcome will be." His voice was utterly bland, empty, as if his words meant nothing.

  I tried to think about what he'd said. Even my thoughts seemed sluggish. What was wrong with me? I was hysterical, that was what was wrong with me. The moment I thought it that clearly, I started to calm. I didn't feel any better, really, but I could think. That was an improvement. I thought about being free of the ardeur, and that was a good thought. I thought about being free of Jean-Claude's marks, and all the metaphysical mess that came with it.

  My life being my own again, that sounded good. I thought about being just me, as Jean-Claude said, just me in my own skin. Just me, alone, again. Alone again. I had a moment of absolutely joyous nostalgia for my life before I'd acquired so many people. To come home to an empty house didn't seem awful, it seemed relaxing.

  Micah touched my face, turned me to look at him. I could see him clearly, finally. His kitty-cat eyes were so serious. "Nothing that is happening is worth dying over, Anita, please."

  I thought he meant Damian, then realized he didn't. I wasn't cold just be­cause I was trying to break the triumvirate. There was only one way to be free. One of us had to die. Could I break free? Maybe. Would I die trying? Maybe. The thought should have scared me, but it didn't. And that scared me. I know it sounds stupid, but it didn't scare me to think I might die, but it did scare me not to be scared. Stupid, but true.

  I had to do better than this, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I had to do better than this.

  Richard hugged me from behind, bending all that six-feet-plus of warmth and muscle around me. "Please, Anita, don't do this." His breath was so warm, almost hot, against my hair.

  I looked up at him, from inches away. His eyes were perfectly brown, warm, and full of so much emotion. "You'd be free."

  He shook his head, his eyes shiny. "I don't want to be free that badly."

  "Don't you?" I asked.

  "No, this price is too high. Don't leave me, not like this." He held me close, his hair long enough now that it tickled along my face. I buried my face in the warm, sweet scent of his neck, but I knew it was a lie.

  I cuddled against him, as tight and close as I could. I buried myself against the warmth and strength of him, and it still felt wonderful. It still felt so right, but I knew it wasn't. We were both too stubborn for it to work.

  I was crying again, and wasn't sure why. Crying my regrets out against the warmth of Richard's neck. The coulda-beens, shoulda-beens, woulda-beens. I wrapped myself around him, legs, arms, all of it, and clung to him, clun
g to him and cried.

  A hand stroked the back of my hair, and a voice said, "Ma petite, ma petite, drop these shields, let us inside again."

  I turned my head to look at him while I clung to Richard. I stared up into that face, those midnight-blue eyes. His hand stroked along the edge of my face, and it wasn't enough. Whatever I'd done to myself, I'd walled myself up tight. Since I hadn't tried to cut myself off on purpose, I didn't know how to undo what I'd done. How do you undo an accident?

  I tried to explain. "I'm head-blind. I can't feel anything metaphysically. I didn't mean to cut us up." I knew now I'd survive what I'd tried to do, but would everyone else? I reached out to Damian. Even dead in his coffin for die day, I should have been able to sense him. Notliing. Fear washed over me, and all the warmtli I'd started to regain flowed away on that tide of fear.

  I grabbed the edge of Jean-Claude's robe. "I can't feel Damian! I can't feel him, at all!"

  "We must breach your shields, ma petite. We must reawaken your powers."

  I nodded. "Yes."

  "I am your master, Anita, my very marks can keep me out of your shields. We are running out of time for Damian. I would ask diat you allow Asher and Requiem to help me breach your shields."

  "I don't understand."

  "I do not have time to explain, but it does not truly matter which of us breaks down tiiese new stronger walls, only that they break. Once broken, riien your own power will be set free, and it will find Damian."

  I wanted to argue, but diat emptiness where Damian should have been scared me. I nodded. "Do it."

  "You must take off your cross first."

  I didn't ask how he knew I was wearing one. Richard let me slide down his body enough so I could use my hands to unhook die chain. Jean-Claude had stepped away, not far, but far enough diat he would not accidentally touch it. I spilled die chain into Richard's waiting hand.

  I met his eyes, while his hand closed around my cross. "Put it in die bed­side drawer," I said.

  He nodded. "So it won't glow."

  I nodded. I admitted to myself in diat one moment why I'd stopped wear­ ing a cross most of die time. Oh, I kept one in my vampire-hunting bag, but I didn't wear one much. To bed, but, oh, hell. I kept waiting for die cross to glow when I did sometliing. I kept waiting for tlie cross to glow because of some vampiric ability diat I'd inherited from Jean-Claude. I kept waiting for it to glow against me. What was left of my nerves couldn't have handled it, today.

  Richard moved across die bed enough to lean over and open the bedside table drawer. He set the cross in carefully, and closed die drawer. He crawled back across die bed, until he was kneeling in front of me again. "I spend so much effort keeping you out of my mind, my heart, and now it's like diis void inside me. I keep trying to break up with you, stupid me. It's like trying to break up with your own hand. You can live widiout it, but you're not whole."

  "Can you sense Damian?" Jean-Claude asked.

  "I can sense vampires with a cross on, Jean-Claude; that's never made any difference to my necromancy."

  "Humor me," he said.

  I humored him. I shook my head. "Empty, like he's not there." I'd man­aged to chase the fear back, but it fluttered through my stomach, tingled the tips of my fingers. "Is it too late? Please, God, don't let it be too late." In­side my head, I added, Don't let me have killed him.

  I watched Jean-Claude's eyes spill blue, until his pupils and the white were lost to the glowing, deep blue of his power. I sat on the bed only a few yards from him, while his power rose enough to fill his eyes with fire, and I felt nothing. At least my necromancy should have felt it, if not the vampire marks. I'd been psychically blind, head-blind, from shock or ill­ness before, but never to this degree. It both scared me, and gave me hope. Maybe I couldn't sense Damian because I couldn't have sensed anyone right then.

  Richard shivered beside me, then slid to the floor. "You don't feel that, do you?" His eyes were a little wide. The small hairs on his arms were standing at attention.

  "No," I said.

  He looked at Micah and Nathaniel, who were still on the bed, though they'd moved back to give us room. "I think we all need to clear a space for them to work."

  Micah kissed my cheek. Nathaniel brushed his cheek against mine, scent-marking me. They slid off the far side of the bed. Jean-Claude moved up until he was beside the bed. He raised a hand above my face. I felt it, the press of his aura, but faintly, as if my skin were wrapped in cotton, and he could not touch me.

  He laid his hand against my face, and that one touch spread in a shiver­ing line across my skin. "Ma petite." The words breathed along my spine, as if he'd spilled a line of water down my skin. I shivered for him again, and it felt great, but... I opened my eyes and looked up at him. "It's like years ago. I always felt your voice, your touch, but..."

  "You have shut yourself away, ma petite, in a tower formed partially of my own vampire marks. You have used my own power against me."

  "Not on purpose," I said.

  Asher glided into view. His eyes were already full of pale blue light. He'd called power, and I'd felt nothing. He came to stand beside Jean-Claude. "More drastic measures, I think."

  I looked up at him, in his satin robe, the deep burnished gold of it that

  was nothing to the shine of his own hair. "What did you have in mind?" I asked.

  Jean-Claude stepped back, giving his place to the other man. Asher raised his hand, laying it against my face in an echo of what Jean-Claude had done moments before. They had always been able to echo each other like that, I thought, and on the tail of that thought, memory crashed over me. I'd shared Jean-Claude's memories before, but not like this. It wasn't one mem­ory, or two, but hundreds. Hundreds of images flooding my mind, drown­ing me in the scent of Asher's skin, the spill of Belle's hair around our bodies like a second body to caress us all. A woman with hair the color of copper spilled across our pillows, and our mouths locked on her neck, her hands struggling at the scarves that bound her to the bed. A blond, whose breasts we marked together, so that she bore twin love bites. A man in a long, pow­dered wig, his pants down around his knees, and both of us between his thighs, not for sex, but for blood, and it was what he wanted. Women with their clothing in disarray, red hair in every shade from nearly blond to dark­est auburn; blondes from white to gold; brunettes from deep brown to true black; skin like ripe grain, or dark coffee, or wood. Tall, short, thin, fat, starved; bodies flowing under our hands, against our bodies, so that it was as if I experienced a thousand nights of debauchery in heartbeats. But in every memory they moved like shadows of each other. Jean-Claude took the woman, or the man, for sex, or blood, or both, and knew that his golden shadow would be there. That Asher would match his movements, that he would be there to help, to catch the pleasure and make it more. I hadn't re­alized until that moment that they weren't lovers, but more than that. They had been truly the best and closest person in each other's lives.

  I drowned in their memories, drowned in the scent of a thousand lovers, a thousand victims, a thousand pleasures won and lost. I drowned, and like any drowning man, I reached out to save myself.

  I reached out metaphysically for someone, anyone. The memories hit Richard like a flood hitting a boulder. I felt the memories crash against him, sweep up and around him. I heard him cry out, and waited for him to push me away, to lock me out, but he didn't. He let me cling to him, let me try to make him my rock in the flood of sensations and memories. I felt his confu­sion, his fear, his revulsion, and his desire to push it all away, to not have these memories, of all memories. The thought came: there are worse memories.

  Jean-Claude's voice. "Non, ma petite, mon ami, enough, enough." His voice was soft, coaxing. I was lying on the bed, with him holding my hand. He was rubbing my hand the way people do when they're trying to warm you.

  "I'm here," I said, but my voice sounded echoing, tinny.

  The bed moved violently. Richard had collapsed on it. His breathing was ragged, his eye
s showing too much white. He grabbed my other hand. He felt frightened, shocky, and I realized that he'd taken over some of my reac­tion. He'd sucked it away like metaphysical poison.

  I licked dry lips and said, "I'm sorry."

  "You asked for help," he said, in a strained voice. "I gave it."

  He usually cut himself out of the memories I got from Jean-Claude; of all the times to not shy away, he picked these memories.

  "I would have preferred other memories to share, ma petite, but when you breached your unnatural shields, I did not dare restrict your access to me. I did not dare shut the marks down again." He stroked my hair like I was still sick, but he cast a worried look at Richard.

  "I won't run," Richard said, "I knew what you were, what you both were." He glanced at Asher, who still stood near the bed.

  Asher put his hand on Jean-Claude's shoulder, and it was too soon after the memories to see them touching. Except this time they weren't Jean-Claude's memories, I just had to wade through the fact that some of that flood of memories had stayed with me.

  Richard flinched as if he'd been slapped, and I knew that I wasn't the only one who had kept some of it.

  Micah yelled, "Nathaniel!"

  I looked around the room for Nathaniel, and couldn't see him. Micah was on the floor. I fought to sit up, and Richard helped me. Jean-Claude was al­ready around the bed, and kneeling with Micah, beside Nathaniel. He was human again, all that lovely hair spread around his body. He wasn't moving.