Danse Macabre ab-14

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  the coffin room where he'd spent his day asleep. It would take him a few min­utes to get here, so I turned to Nathaniel. "Don't ever do that again."

  "Try to save Damian?" He tried to make a joke of it, and I wouldn't let him.

  I touched his face. "Don't joke, Nathaniel."

  He snuggled his cheek against my hand. "You saved us."

  My throat was tight, and I'd be damned if I'd cry again today. "It was a near thing, and you know it."

  Micah put a hand on both our shoulders. He gripped us tight, as if he were fighting an urge to shake us. His face said how scared he'd been, more clearly than any words.

  Requiem gathered his cloak from the floor, wrapped it around himself, and went for the door. He never looked back. Maybe he understood finally that he wasn't food. I hoped so, because I needed less complication in my life, not more.

  Remus went to Jean-Claude. He stood very straight and started a salute, then stopped himself in midmotion, like an old habit come back to haunt. The voice he used was one of those hardy, soldier voices. "Request permis­sion to get me and my men out of here."

  Jean-Claude looked at him, his head to one side, like Remus had done something more interesting than I was seeing. "And what if we need pro­tecting, Remus?"

  Remus shook his head. "We can't protect you from this, sir."

  Jean-Claude looked behind him, closer to the fireplace. I was still lying down, so I couldn't see what he was looking at. "I think some of your men would disagree, Remus. I think several of them would have been more than happy to help protect ma petite, in these circumstances." His voice was mild as butter as he said it.

  Remus's jaw tightened so hard that it looked painful. His voice came out strained, as if he were gritting his teeth. "I don't believe that that was what our Oba had in mind when he let you hire us, sir."

  "Perhaps you should ask Narcissus what your rules of engagement are, Remus," Jean-Claude said.

  Remus gave one curt nod. "I'll do that, sir, but with permission, can I get my men the hell out of here?"

  I watched the thought travel across Jean-Claude's face, that he might say no. But that it was that clear to read meant he was doing it for Remus to see. "Go, and take the men with you who wish to leave."

  Remus shook his head, hands in fists at his side. "No, sir, I am in com­mand here, and I say we all go."

  Jean-Claude looked around the room, as if memorizing faces. He finally nodded. "Go, and take your men, Remus. I will speak with Narcissus."

  Remus looked uncertain then, but shook his head again. "I'm not saying that Narcissus wouldn't enjoy the show, sir, but I think if the detail included this kind of thing, he wouldn't have sent ex-military and ex-cops to you." He stared as hard as he could at Jean-Claude's shoulder. I realized that Remus was avoiding the vampire's gaze. "If Narcissus wanted our duties"—he seemed to search for words—"expanded, he has other... men to send."

  "But not all the men in the room are hyena, Remus," Jean-Claude said. "Do you speak for Raphael's rats as well?"

  "I am in command until relieved, so yes, yes, sir, I do."

  Another voice came from the far wall, male, and deep, but I couldn't place it, at first. Pepito walked into view. "I'm Raphael's man, and I agree with Remus." Pepito was a large unshakable man, but he looked shaken now. Pos­itively pale, he was. What had they felt when the ardeur moved through the room testing them for yumminess? Whatever they had felt, it had scared both Pepito and Remus badly. Or maybe offended them? Maybe.

  "Then, by all means, go," Jean-Claude said, and he made a sweeping ges­ture toward the door.

  Remus headed for the door, but he didn't go through it. He opened it, and held it. Pepito motioned to the men farther back in the room. I would have had to sit up to see past the headboard, and I wasn't sure I wanted to see. I started to tug at the sheets. For some reason I wanted a little covering as the guards trailed out.

  Micah pulled the sheets up and covered most of me and Nathaniel. Micah stayed kneeling by us on the bed, while the bodyguards trooped out. I fought two opposing instincts. I wanted to hide under the sheet, so no one would see me, and I wouldn't have to meet anyone's eyes. But I knew if I did that I'd never be able to look any of them in the face again. I did the only thing I could do; I glared at them. A defiant front was all the hope I had to main­tain any level of control or respect from any of them. Yeah, it had been an emergency and I had had to feed the ardeur. Technically, the guards under­stood that. But in reality, as Remus had said, most of them were ex-military or ex-cops. Which meant a woman was always working uphill with them anyway. They'd seen me have sex with one man, and once the story got around it would be more. The really weird thing about the rumors would be that some of the men who had actually witnessed everything would be con­vinced that I'd had sex with more men. I'd be lucky if some of them didn't claim they themselves had had sex with me. I'd had rumors start after crime scenes where I'd done nothing sexual. This had not been nothing.

  Most of the guards seemed as eager to avoid eye contact as I was. But not everyone. I glared most of them down, but a few gave me bold eyes. The kind of look you don't want to see outside a strip club. The look that said you'd gone from a human being to just being tits and ass. I tried to remem­ber who looked at me that way, so I could keep them away from me later.

  Micah leaned over Nathaniel and me, whispering, "I see them." He was memorizing faces, too. Good, because I was still shaky, and didn't trust my own eyes to hold the right faces in the right places.

  I always have trouble holding a glare when I'm more naked than the rest of the room. Nathaniel cuddled against me, under the sheet. He brought one arm free of the covers, so he could lay his bare arm across my covered waist. He rubbed his chin along the side of my breast, dragging the sheet down so that I had to hold it in place. I looked at him, ready to tell him to watch it, but the look on his face stopped the words before they could start.

  He was staring at the men, too, but he wasn't glaring. His face held heat, and the promise of sex, but over it all was possessiveness. That look that a man gets when another man encroaches on his "woman." Nathaniel, who shared better than any man in my life, was marking his territory. That dark, possessive look never wavered from the parade of men. He rested the side of his chin against the mound of my breast, making it clear that he had a right to be there, like that, with me, and rfiey did not. I didn't think Nathaniel would grasp the problem, but he had.

  There was a holdup at the door, a confusion of movement, like a traffic jam. I saw the flash of blood-red hair, and expected it to be Damian on his own power, but it wasn't. Richard came through the door, his arm around Damian's waist, the vampire's arm over his shoulder. Damian leaned so heav­ily on him that Richard half-dragged him toward the bed.

  I sat up, leaving the sheet at my waist and not caring that I was topless. Nathaniel sat up, too; we both reached toward them. I said, "Damian!" I reached for him with less-physical parts. His energy was weak, but it was more as if he hadn't woken up completely from his daytime torpor.

  His legs gave out completely, and Richard carried him in his arms like a child the last few feet. He laid Damian beside me. The long, red hair hid the vampire's face. I moved the hair away so I could see his face. He blinked up at me, eyes a perfect bright green, green as summer grass. It was Damian's eyes that had raised the bar so high on green-colored eyes. No one else's eyes could compare. He tried to focus on me, but didn't seem able to do it.

  I touched his face, and his skin was icy. "I fed the ardeur—why isn't he better than this?"

  Jean-Claude came to lay his hand on Damian's forehead. Richard said, "I

  found him collapsed against the wall just down from the coffin room. When Remus called for reinforcements, all the guards came here. Damian was try­ing to crawl to you."

  "What made you think to check on him?" Micah asked, still kneeling on the bed.

  "I remembered how bad he got the last time his tie to Anita broke. I thought someone
should check on him."

  "Very good thinking, mon ami." Jean-Claude touched my cheek, then Nathaniel's while keeping his other hand on Damian's face. He finally stepped back from all of us, frowning. "I believe part of what is wrong is sim­ply that Damian has woken too early. Only the very powerful masters among us wake before noon, even deep underground. Damian is no master. I be­lieve you, ma petite, called him from his coffin, but even with extra energy it was too soon."

  I held one icy hand in both of mine. "Will he be all right? Did I hurt him?"

  "I'll be all right." Damian's voice was slow, heavy, as if he were drugged.

  I smiled down at him. "Damian, I'm so sorry."

  He managed a weak smile. "It would be nice," he took a labored breath, "if you'd stop almost killing me because you don't want to screw other peo­ple."

  I didn't know whether to smile or be exasperated.

  "I believe that Damian would feel better if Nathaniel touched him, as well," Jean-Claude said.

  Nathaniel took Damian's other hand in his, and the power jumped be­tween us. It made me gasp. It was as if a circuit had been completed. The en­ergy hummed from my hand, through Damian's body, into Nathaniel's hand and back again.

  Damian drew in a huge, gasping breath, almost like it hurt. He swore, softly.

  "Does it hurt?" Nathaniel asked, looking worried.

  "Wonderful," Damian whispered, "feels wonderful. You're so warm."

  Strangely, I was almost certain he was talking to Nathaniel.

  "Sir, excuse me, sir." It was Remus; nerves always made him default to military-speak. Of course, it worked. Jean-Claude and Richard both turned to look at him. We all looked at him, except for Damian, who had closed his eyes.

  "Yes, Remus," Jean-Claude said.

  He finally looked at me, sort of. He never liked direct eye contact, but he seemed unable to stare at my shoulder, like normal, because too much of my

  breasts were in the way. "I owe you an apology, Blake." He said it in such a way that, apology or no, it was obvious he didn't want to be saying it.

  I gave him as good an eye contact as he'd let me. "What apology do you owe me, Remus?"

  He blushed, and it filled some pieces of his face with bright color, but lines in between paled, so that you could see where all the pieces of his face didn't quite match up. "I thought you were just a..." He stopped, seemed to think about it, and finally said, "Well, you know what I was thinking."

  I could have been mean, and said nope, I didn't know, and tried to force him to say it all out loud. But truthfully, I didn't want to hear him call me a slut. Thinking it had been enough.

  "It's okay, Remus, I might think the same thing if I were on the outside of it looking in."

  He gave a small smile. "If it really is life and death for you and your peo­ple, then you need to talk to Narcissus about guards and food." He almost laughed. "Maybe give them a different color of shirt." He shook his head, and just stopped talking. He turned on his heel and left, as if whatever he'd been about to say, he wanted to stop before he said it, and leaving was the only solution. When the door closed behind him, and we were totally guard-free, Micah spoke for most of us, I think. "He's an odd one."

  I just nodded. Odd one about covered Remus. I'd thought my not under­standing him was because I didn't know him that well, but I was beginning to think that months from now, I'd have no more clue to why he did or didn't do things. Some people are mysteries, and knowing them well doesn't make them less mysterious. Less confusing sometimes, but not less mysterious.

  Asher leaned against the post of the bed, near us. He had a look on his face that I used to think meant teasing, but now I knew meant worse and darker things. "Richard," he said, so pleasantly, "did you truly leave us be­cause you worried for Damian's safety?"

  Richard gave him narrow eyes. "Yes."

  "Really?" Asher managed to put in that one word a world of doubt.

  Richard shifted, uncomfortably, as if he didn't know what to do with his hands. "I didn't want to see Anita feed on Requiem. Does that make you happy, to know that?" he asked of Asher.

  Asher leaned his cheek against the carved wood, and nodded. "Actually, yes, it does."

  "Why? Why does my discomfort please you?"

  Asher wrapped his hands around the post, using it like a prop, as if the scene were staged. Most of the vampires had a certain flair for the dramatic.

  Belle's vamps had more than their share sometimes. He didn't answer Richard's question, but made a statement. "You could have stayed, Richard, because she didn't feed on Requiem."

  "Stop it, Asher," I said.

  "Stop what?" he asked, and the glint in his eyes let me know he knew ex­actly -what and that he was angry about something. Angry with Richard, maybe, or maybe angry about something else entirely. Mysterious and con­fusing didn't apply only to Remus.

  "If you're mad about something, say so. If you're not, then stop the whole angry teasing routine."

  Damian's grip on my hand tightened. Maybe he was just feeling stronger, or maybe he was trying to remind me not to get angry. One of his jobs as my vampire servant was to help me fight off those angry impulses. His own iron self-control had been forged by she-who-made-him. Any strong emotion was eventually punished, horribly punished. I'd shared enough of Damian's memories to know that his creator made Belle Morte seem the heart of kind­ness by comparison. Damian had learned to control all his emotions, his urges, because to do otherwise had been disaster.

  He gripped my hand, not as tight as normal. He wasn't well, by any means, but I felt calm flow from him to me. That calm not of gentle medi­tation and the modern ideal of peace of mind, but of the older ideal, when control was carved from pain and hardship, and painted in scars across your flesh.

  "Is Damian whispering peaceful things in your head, Anita?" Asher asked. His tone was still teasing and light, but underneath was a razor's edge of spite.

  "You know how wanting total honesty is just another way for me to be a pain in the ass," I said.

  Asher looked at me, his eyes like winter sky. "Yes."

  "What you're doing now is your way of being angry without being angry. Teasing with a bite to it."

  He wrapped his arms around the post, letting his hair slide forward to hide the scarred side of his face. It was an old trick, one he rarely did when it was just Jean-Claude and me. He gazed at the room with the perfection of his profile framed by his glittering froth of hair.

  "Am I angry?" He made the question winsome.

  "Yes," I said, and it was a statement. "Question is, what are you angry about?"

  "I have not admitted to being angry." But he kept that perfect profile, that shine of hair, so that he showed himself to what he considered his best ad-

  vantage. He was breathtaking, but I'd begun to value the full-face view, im­perfections and all, more than this angry coyness. This show meant he was uncomfortable, or trying to persuade us to do something. Asher seldom flirted without an agenda. Sometimes it was foreplay, or just to make us smile, but other times... well, I did not trust his mood.

  "Asher wants me to know who you fed on, and you don't want me to know." Richard had summed it up nicely.

  I hung my head. Damian laid his lips against my knuckles, not quite a kiss. I only had to open my eyes to stare down into his face, where he lay on the bed. He gazed up at me, and his eyes held not sympathy, but strength, con­trol. You can do this, his eyes seemed to say, you can do this, because you must. He was right.

  I looked up at Richard. I thought about raising the sheet and hiding my breasts, but everyone left in the room had seen them before. Modesty wouldn't get me out of Richard's reaction to my newest conquest.

  "Who was it?" he asked.

  I turned to Asher, and said, "You told me earlier today that you were sorry, that you were putting your hurt feelings ahead of my disaster. You apologized, and tried to make amends. Is that all your apology is worth, Asher? An hour of remorse, and you go back to being a bastard?"


  His eyes flashed with anger, and his power trailed over my body like a cold wind. Then he swallowed it, the power, the anger. He turned a mild, if empty, face to me. "I can only apologize once more, ma cherie, you are ab­solutely right. I am throwing a fit." He stepped away from the bed, and did a low, sweeping bow that trailed the edge of his hair on the floor. He rose up with a flourish, as if he were moving a cape with one hand.

  "Why are you throwing a fit?" I asked.

  "Truth?" He made it a question.

  I nodded, not truly certain I wanted this particular truth.

  "Because he will never be my lover. He will be your lover, but never ours together."

  For a moment I wasn't sure which he he was talking about it. The confu­sion must have shown on my face, because he said, "You see, ma cherie, that is it, that is it, exactement. My statement could refer to so many of your men that you do not even know to whom I refer."

  Damian's hand squeezed mine again. I wasn't certain whether it was to comfort me, or to comfort him. Damian was a touch homophobic, and Asher was not a comforting presence if that was your particuliar phobia.

  "Are you saying you're pissed because I keep picking men who aren't bi­sexual?"

  Asher seemed to think about it for a moment, then nodded. "I believe I am. I don't think I knew until you asked so point-blank, but yes, I believe that is why I am angry." He looked past me to Jean-Claude. "As he will not turn to me for fear you would leave him, so I do not turn to others for fear that he will use it as an excuse to pull even further away from me."

  "We agreed that we would have this discussion at a later time," Jean-Claude said, in a voice that was as empty as any I'd ever heard from him.

  Asher nodded. "I thought I could wait, but I am choking on things unsaid, Jean-Claude." He pointed to Richard. "But we must be careful in front of him, too. It would not do to frighten him away. We wouldn't want him to know that we find him beautiful, would we?"

  "Asher," I started to say, but Micah finished it for me. "After the visiting masters leave town, and we know what we're doing about the baby, then we'll all sit down and talk about your... grievances."