ABVH 01 - Guilty Pleasures

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  I swallowed my heart, pulse thudding. My skin crawled with the memory of small bodies sliding over me. My hand throbbed where the rat had bitten me. They’d tear me apart. “Jean-Claude!”

  The rats moved, a flowing brownish tide, away from the stairs. The rats ran squeaking and shrilling into the tunnel. All I could do was stare.

  The giant rats hissed at him, gesturing with noses and paws at the fallen giant rat. “She was defending herself. What were you doing?” The ratman’s voice was low and deep, slurred only around the edges. If I had closed my eyes, I might have said it was human.

  I didn’t close my eyes. The giant rats left, crouch-dragging their still unconscious friend. He wasn’t dead, but he was hurt. One giant rat glanced up at me as the others vanished into the tunnel. Its empty black eye glared at me, promised me painful things if we ever met again.

  The blond ratman had stopped writhing and was lying very still, panting, hands cradling himself. The new ratman said, “I told you never to come here.”

  The first ratman struggled to sit up. The movement seemed to hurt. “The master called and I obeyed.”

  “I am your king. You obey me.” The black-furred rat began to stride up the stairs, tail lashing angrily, almost catlike.

  I stood and put the cell door at my back for the umpteenth time that night.

  The hurt ratman said, “You are only our king until you die. If you stand against the master, that will be soon. She is powerful, more powerful than you.” His voice still sounded weak, thready, but he was recovering. Anger will do that to you.

  The rat king leaped, a black blur in motion. He jerked the ratman off his feet, holding him with slightly bent elbows, feet dangling off the ground. He held him close to his face. “I am your king, and you will obey me or I will kill you.” Clawed hands dug into the blond ratman’s throat, until he scrambled for air. The rat king tossed the ratman down the stairs. He fell tumbling and nearly boneless.

  He glared up from the bottom in a painful, gasping heap. The hatred in his eyes would have lit a bonfire.

  “Are you all right?” the new ratman asked.

  It took me a minute to realize he was speaking to me. I nodded. Apparently I was being rescued, not that I had need of it. Of course not. “Thank you.”

  “I did not come to save you,” he said. “I have forbidden my people to hunt for the vampire. That is why I came.”

  “Well, I know where I rate, somewhere above a flea. Thank you anyway. Whatever your motives.”

  He nodded. “You are welcome.”

  I noticed a burn scar on his left forearm. It was the shape of a crude crown. Someone had branded him. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to carry around a crown and scepter?”

  He glanced down at his arm, then gave that rat smile, teeth bare. “This leaves my hands free.”

  I looked up into his eyes to see if he was teasing me, and I couldn’t tell. You try reading rat faces.

  “What do the vampires want with you?” he asked.

  “They want me to work for them.”

  “Do it. They’ll hurt you if you don’t.”

  “Like they’ll hurt you if you keep the rats away?”

  He shrugged, an awkward motion. “Nikolaos thinks she is queen of the rats because that is her animal to call. We are not merely rats, but men, and we have a choice. I have a choice.”

  “Do what she wants, and she won’t hurt you,” I said.

  Again that smile. “I give good advice. I do not always take it.”

  “Me either,” I said.

  He stared at me out of one black eye, then turned towards the door. “They are coming.”

  I knew who “they” were. The party was over. The vampires were coming. The rat king sprang down the stairs and scooped up the fallen ratman. He tossed him over his shoulder as if it were no effort, then he was gone, running for the tunnel, fast, fast as a mouse surprised by the kitchen light. A dark blur.

  I heard heels clicking down the hallway, and I stepped away from the door. It opened, and Theresa stood on the landing. She stared down at me and the empty room, hands on hips, mouth squeezed tight. “Where are they?”

  I held up my wounded hand. “They did their part, then they left.”

  “They weren’t supposed to leave,” she said. Theresa made an exasperated sound low in her throat. “It was that rat king of theirs, wasn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “They left; I don’t know why.”

  “So calm, so unafraid. Didn’t the rats frighten you?”

  I shrugged again. When something works, stay with it.

  “They were not supposed to draw blood.” She stared at me. “Are you going to shape shift next full moon?” Her voice held a hint of curiosity. Curiosity killed the vampire. One could always hope.

  “No,” I said, and I left it at that. No explanation. If she really wanted one, she could just beat me against the wall until I told her what she wanted to hear. She wouldn’t even break a sweat. Of course, Aubrey was being punished for hurting me.

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “The rats were supposed to frighten you, animator. They don’t seem to have done their job.”

  “Maybe I don’t frighten that easily.” I met her eyes without any effort. They were just eyes.

  Theresa grinned at me suddenly, flashing fang. “Nikolaos will find something that frightens you, animator. For fear is power.” She whispered the last as if afraid to say it too loud.

  What did vampires fear? Did visions of sharpened stakes and garlic haunt them, or were there worse things? How do you frighten the dead?

  “Walk in front of me, animator. Go meet your master.”

  “Isn’t Nikolaos your master as well, Theresa?”

  She stared at me, face blank, as if the laughter had been an illusion. Her eyes were cold and dark. The rats’ eyes had held more personality. “Before the night is out, animator, Nikolaos will be everyone’s master.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Jean-Claude’s power has made you foolish.”

  “No,” I said, “it isn’t that.”

  “Then what, mortal?”

  “I would rather die than be a vampire’s flunky.”

  Theresa never blinked, only nodded, very slowly. “You may get your wish.”

  The hair at the back of my neck crawled. I could meet her gaze, but evil has a certain feel to it. A neck-ruffling, throat-tightening feeling that tightens your gut. I have felt it around humans as well. You don’t have to be undead to be evil. But it helps.

  I walked in front of her. Theresa’s boots clicked sharp echoes from the hallway. Maybe it was only my fear talking, but I felt her staring at me, like an ice cube sliding down my spine.

  11

  THE ROOM WAS huge, like a warehouse, but the walls were solid, massive stone. I kept waiting for Bela Lugosi to sweep around the corner in his cape. What was sitting against one wall was almost as good.

  She had been about twelve or thirteen when she died. Small, half-formed breasts showed under a long flimsy dress. It was pale blue and looked warm against the total whiteness of her skin. She had been pale when alive; as a vampire she was ghostly. Her hair was that shining white-blonde that some children have before their hair darkens to brown. This hair would never grow dark.

  Nikolaos sat in a carved wooden chair. Her feet did not quite touch the floor.

  A male vampire moved to lean on the chair arm. His skin was a strange shade of brownish ivory. He leaned over and whispered in Nikolaos’s ear.

  She laughed, and it was the sound of chimes or bells. A lovely, calculated sound. Theresa went to the girl in the chair, and stood behind it, hands trailing in the long white-blonde hair.

  A human male came to stand to the right of her chair. Back against the wall, hands clasped at his side. He stared straight ahead, face blank, spine rigid. He was nearly perfectly bald, face narrow, eyes dark. Most men don’t look good without hair. This one did. He was handsome but had the air of a man who
didn’t care much about that. I wanted to call him a soldier, though I didn’t know why.

  Another man came to lean against Theresa. His hair was a sandy blond, cut short. His face was strange, not good-looking, but not ugly, a face you would remember. A face that might become lovely if you looked at it long enough. His eyes were a pale greenish color.

  He wasn’t a vampire, but I might have been hasty calling him human.

  Jean-Claude came last to stand to the left of the chair. He touched no one, and even standing with them, he was apart from them.

  “Well,” I said, “all we need is the theme from Dracula, Prince of Darkness, and we’ll be all set.”

  Her voice was like her laugh, high and harmless. Planned innocence. “You think you are funny, don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “It comes and goes.”

  She smiled at me. No fang showed. She looked so human, eyes sparkling with humor, face rounded and pleasant. See how harmless I am, just a pretty child. Right.

  The black vampire whispered in her ear again. She laughed, so high and clear you could have bottled it.

  “Do you practice the laugh, or is it natural talent? Naw, I’m betting you practice.”

  Jean-Claude’s face twisted. I wasn’t sure if he was trying not to laugh, or not to frown. Maybe both. I affected some people that way.

  The laughter seeped out of her face, very human, until only her eyes sparkled. There was nothing funny about the look in those twinkling eyes. It was the sort of look that cats give small birds.

  Her voice lilted at the end of each word, a Shirley Temple affectation. “You are either very brave, or very stupid.”

  “You really need at least one dimple to go with the voice.”

  Jean-Claude said softly, “I’m betting on stupid.”

  I glanced at him and then back at the ghoulie pack. “What I am is tired, hurt, angry, and scared. I would very much like to get the show over with, and get down to business.”

  “I am beginning to see why Aubrey lost his temper.” Her voice was dry, humorless. The lilting sing-song was dripping away like melting ice.

  “Do you know how old I am?”

  I stared at her and shook my head.

  “I thought you said she was good, Jean-Claude.” She said his name like she was angry with him.

  “She is good.”

  “Tell me how old I am.” Her voice was cold, an angry grownup’s voice.

  “I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t.”

  “How old is Theresa?”

  I stared at the dark-haired vampire, remembering the weight of her in my mind. She was laughing at me. “A hundred, maybe hundred and fifty, no more.”

  Her face was unreadable, carved marble, as she asked, “Why, no more?”

  “That’s how old she feels.”

  “Feels?”

  “In my head, she feels a certain . . . degree of power.” I always hated to explain this part aloud. It always sounded mystical. It wasn’t. I knew vampires the way some people knew horses, or cars. It was a knack. It was practice. I didn’t think Nikolaos would enjoy being compared to a horse, or car, so I kept my mouth shut. See, not stupid after all.

  “Look at me, human. Look into my eyes.” Her voice was still bland, with none of that commanding power that Jean-Claude had.

  Geez, look into my eyes. You’d think the city’s master vampire could be more original. But I didn’t say it out loud. Her eyes were blue, or grey, or both. Her gaze was like a weight pressing against my skin. If I put my hands up, I almost expected to be able to push something away. I had never felt any vampire’s gaze like that.

  But I could meet her eyes. Somehow, I knew that wasn’t supposed to happen.

  The soldier standing to her right was looking at me, as if I’d finally done something interesting.

  Nikolaos stood. She moved a little in front of her entourage. She would only come to my collarbone, which made her short. She stood there for a moment, looking ethereal and lovely like a painting. No sense of life but a thing of lovely lines and careful color.

  She stood there without moving and opened her mind to me. It felt like she had opened a door that had been locked. Her mind crashed against mine, and I staggered. Thoughts ripped into me like knives, steel-edged dreams. Fleeting bits of her mind danced in my head; where they touched I was numbed, hurt.

  I was on my knees, and I didn’t remember falling. I was cold, so cold. There was nothing for me. I was an insignificant thing, beside that mind. How could I think to call myself an equal? How could I do anything but crawl to her and beg to be forgiven? My insolence was intolerable.

  I began to crawl to her, on hands and knees. It seemed like the right thing to do. I had to beg her forgiveness. I needed to be forgiven. How else did you approach a goddess but on bended knee?

  No. Something was wrong. But what? I should ask the goddess to forgive me. I should worship her, do anything she asked. No. No.

  “No.” I whispered it. “No.”

  “Come to me, my child.” Her voice was like spring after a long winter. It opened me up inside. It made me feel warm and welcome.

  She held out pale arms to me. The goddess would let me embrace her. Wondrous. Why was I cowering on the floor? Why didn’t I run to her?

  “No.” I slammed my hands into the stone. It stung, but not enough. “No!” I smashed my fist into the floor. My whole arm tingled and went numb. “NO!” I pounded my fists into the rock over and over until they bled. Pain was sharp, real, mine. I screamed, “Get out of my mind! You bitch!”

  I crouched on the floor, panting, cradling my hands against my stomach. My pulse was jumping in my throat. I couldn’t breathe past it. Anger washed through me, clean and sharp-edged. It chased the last shadow of Nikolaos’s mind away.

  I glared up at her. Anger, and behind that terror. Nikolaos had washed over my mind like the ocean in a seashell, filled me up and emptied me out. She might have to drive me crazy to break me, but she could do it if she wanted to. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to protect myself.

  She stared down at me and laughed, that wondrous wind chime of a laugh. “Oh, we have found something the animator fears. Yes, we have.” Her voice was lilting and pleasant. A child bride again.

  Nikolaos knelt in front of me, sweeping the sky-blue dress under her knees. Ladylike. She bent at the waist so she could look me in the eyes. “How old am I, animator?”

  I was starting to shake with reaction, shock. My teeth chattered like I was freezing to death, and maybe I was. My voice squeezed out between my teeth and the tight jerk of my jaw. “A thousand,” I said. “Maybe more.”

  “You were right, Jean-Claude. She is good.” She pressed her face nearly into mine. I wanted to push her away, but more than anything, I didn’t want her to touch me.

  She laughed again, high and wild, heartrendingly pure. If I hadn’t been hurting so badly, I might have cried, or spit in her face.

  “Good, animator, we understand each other. You do what we want, or I will peel your mind away like the layers of an onion.” She breathed against my face, voice dropping to a whisper. A child’s whisper with an edge of giggling to it. “You do believe I can do that, don’t you?”

  I believed.

  12

  I WANTED TO spit in that smooth, pale face, but I was afraid of what she would do to me. A drop of sweat ran slowly down my face. I wanted to promise her anything, anything, if she would never touch me again. Nikolaos didn’t have to bespell me; all she had had to do was terrify me. The fear would control me. It was what she was counting on. I could not let that happen.

  “Get . . . out . . . of . . . my . . . face,” I said.

  She laughed. Her breath was warm and smelled like peppermint. Breath mints. But underneath the clean, modern smell, very faint, was the scent of fresh blood. Old death. Recent murder.

  I wasn’t shivering anymore. I said, “Your breath smells like blood.”

  She jerked back, a hand going to her lips. It w
as such a human gesture that I laughed. Her dress brushed my face as she stood. One small, slippered foot kicked me in the chest.

  The force tumbled me backwards, sharp pain, no air. For the second time that night, I couldn’t breathe. I lay flat on my stomach, gasping, swallowing past the pain. I hadn’t heard anything break. Something should have broken.

  The voice thudded over me, hot enough to scald. “Get her out of here before I kill her myself.”

  The pain faded to a sharp ache. Air burned going down. My chest was tight, like I’d swallowed lead.

  “Stay where you are, Jean.”

  Jean-Claude was standing away from the wall, halfway to me. Nikolaos commanded him to stillness with one small, pale hand.

  “Can you hear me, animator?”

  “Yes.” My voice was strangled. I couldn’t get enough air to talk.

  “Did I break something?” Her voice rose upward like a small bird.

  I coughed, trying to clear my throat, but it hurt. I huddled around my chest while the ache faded. “No.”

  “Pity. But I suppose that would have slowed things down, or made you useless to us.” She seemed to think about the last as if that had had possibilities. What would they have done to me if something had been broken? I didn’t want to know.

  “The police are aware of only four vampire murders. There have been six more.”

  I breathed in carefully. “Why not tell the police?”

  “My dear animator, there are many among us who do not trust the human laws. We know how equal human justice is for the undead.” She smiled, and again there should have been a dimple. “Jean-Claude was the fifth most powerful vampire in this city. Now he is the third.”

  I stared up at her, waiting for her to laugh, to say it was a joke. She continued to smile, the same exact smile, like a piece of wax. Were they playing me for a fool? “Something has killed two master vampires? Stronger than”—I had to swallow before continuing—“Jean-Claude?”

  Her smile widened, flashing a distinct glimpse of fang. “You do grasp the situation quickly. I will give you that. And perhaps that will make Jean-Claude’s punishment less—severe. He recommended you to us, did you know that?”