ABVH 01 - Guilty Pleasures

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  It was Phillip of the many scars. I hadn’t recognized him with his clothes on. There was a bandage on the side of his neck, mostly hidden by the jacket collar. “We need to talk,” he said.

  I closed my mouth and tried to look reasonably intelligent. “Phillip, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

  Jamison was looking from one to the other of us. He was frowning. Suspicious. Mary was sitting, chin leaning on her hands, enjoying the show.

  The silence was damn awkward. Phillip put a hand out to Jamison. I mumbled. “Jamison Clarke, this is Phillip . . . a friend.” The moment I said it, I wanted to take it back. “Friend” is what people call their lovers. Beats the heck out of significant other.

  Jamison smiled broadly. “So, you’re Anita’s . . . friend.” He said the last word slowly, rolling it around on his tongue.

  Mary made a hubba-hubba motion with one hand. Phillip saw it and flashed her a dazzling melt-your-libido smile. She blushed.

  “Well, we have to go now. Come along, Phillip.” I grabbed his arm and began pulling him towards the door.

  “Nice to meet you, Phillip,” Jamison said. “I’ll be sure to mention you to all the rest of the guys who work here. I’m sure they’d love to meet you sometime.”

  Jamison was really enjoying himself. “We’re very busy right now, Jamison. Maybe some other time,” I said.

  “Sure, sure,” he said.

  Jamison walked us to the door and held it for us. He grinned at us as we walked down the hallway, arm in arm. Fudge buckets. I had to let the smirking little creep think I had a lover. Good grief. And he would tell everyone. Phillip slid his arm around my waist, and I fought an urge to push him away. We were pretending, right, right. I felt him hesitate as his hand brushed the gun on my belt.

  We met one of the real estate agents in the hall. She said hello to me but stared at Phillip. He smiled at her. When we passed her and were waiting for the elevator, I glanced back. Sure enough, she was watching his backside as we walked away.

  I had to admit it was a nice backside. She caught me looking at her and hurriedly turned away.

  “Defending my honor,” Phillip asked.

  I pushed away from him and punched the elevator button. “What are you doing here?”

  “Jean-Claude didn’t come back last night. Do you know why?”

  “I didn’t do away with him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  The doors opened. Phillip leaned against them, holding them open with his body and one arm. The smile he flashed me was full of potential, a little evil, a lot of sex. Did I really want to be alone in an elevator with him? Probably not, but I was armed. He, as far as I could tell, was not.

  I walked under his arm without having to duck. The doors hushed behind us. We were alone. He leaned into one corner, arms crossed over his chest, staring at me from behind black lenses.

  “Do you always do that?” I asked.

  A slight smile. “Do what?”

  “Pose.”

  He stiffened just a little, then relaxed against the wall. “Natural talent.”

  I shook my head. “Uh-huh.” I stared at the flickering floor numbers.

  “Is Jean-Claude all right?”

  I glanced at him and didn’t know what to say. The elevator stopped. We got out. “You didn’t answer me,” he said softly.

  I sighed. It was too long a story. “It’s almost noon. I’ll tell you what I can over lunch.”

  He grinned. “Trying to pick me up, Ms. Blake?”

  I smiled before I could stop myself. “You wish.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Flirtatious little thing, aren’t you?”

  “Most women like it.”

  “I would like it better if I didn’t think you’d flirt with my ninety-year-old grandmother the same way you’re flirting with me now.”

  He coughed back a laugh. “You don’t have a very high opinion of me.”

  “I am a very judgmental person. It’s one of my faults.”

  He laughed again, a nice sound. “Maybe I can hear about the rest of your faults after you’ve told me where Jean-Claude is.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  I stopped just in front of the glass doors that led out into the street. “Because I saw you last night. I know what you are, and I know how you get your kicks.”

  His hand reached out and brushed my shoulder. “I get my kicks a lot of different ways.”

  I frowned at his hand, and it moved away. “Save it, Phillip. I’m not buying.”

  “Maybe by the end of lunch you will be.”

  I sighed. I had met men like Phillip before, handsome men who are accustomed to women drooling over them. He wasn’t trying to seduce me; he just wanted me to admit that I found him attractive. If I didn’t admit it, he would keep pestering me. “I give up; you win.”

  “What do I win?” he asked.

  “You’re wonderful, you’re gorgeous. You are one of the best-looking men I have ever seen. From the soles of your boots, the length of your skintight jeans, to the flat, rippling planes of your stomach, to the sculpted line of your jaw, you are beautiful. Now can we go to lunch and cut the nonsense?”

  He lowered his sunglasses just enough to see over the top of them. He stared at me like that for several minutes, then raised the glasses back in place. “You pick the restaurant.” He said it flat, no teasing.

  I wondered if I had offended him. I wondered if I cared.

  19

  THE HEAT OUTSIDE the doors was solid, a wall of damp warmth that melded to your skin like plastic wrap. “You’re going to melt wearing that jacket,” I said.

  “Most people object to the scars.”

  I unfolded my arms from around the folders and extended my left arm. The scar glistened in the sunlight, shinier than the other skin. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  He slipped off his sunglasses and stared at me. I couldn’t read his face. All I knew was that something was going on behind those big brown eyes. His voice was soft. “Is that your only bite scar?”

  “No,” I said.

  His hands convulsed into fists, neck jerking, as if he’d had a jolt of electricity. A tremor ran up his arms into his shoulders, along his spine. He rotated his neck, as if to get rid of it. He slipped the black lenses back on his face, his eyes anonymous. The jacket came off. The scars at the bend of his arms were pale against his tan. The collarbone scar peeked from under the edges of the tank top. He had a nice neck, thick but not muscled, a stretch of smooth, tanned skin. I counted four sets of bites on that flawless skin. That was just the right side. The left was hidden by a bandage.

  “I can put the jacket back on,” he said.

  I had been staring at him. “No, it’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Ask anyway.”

  “Why do you do what you do?”

  He smiled, but it was twisted, a wry smile. “That is a very personal question.”

  “You did say ask anyway.” I glanced across the street. “I usually go to Mabel’s, but we might be seen.”

  “Ashamed of me?” His voice held a harsh edge to it, like sandpaper. His eyes were hidden, but his jaw muscles were clenched.

  “It isn’t that,” I said. “You are the one who came into the office, pretending to be my ‘friend.’ If we go some place I’m known, we’ll have to continue the charade.”

  “There are women who would pay to have me escort them.”

  “I know, I saw them last night at the club.”

  “True, but the point is still that you’re ashamed to be seen with me. Because of this.” His hand touched his neck, tentatively, delicate as a bird.

  I got the distinct impression I had hurt his feelings. That didn’t bother me, not really. But I knew what it was like to be different. I knew what it was like to be an embarrassment to people who should have known better. I knew better. It wasn’t Phillip�
��s feelings but the principle of the thing. “Let’s go.”

  “Where to?”

  “To Mabel’s.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He rewarded me with one of those brilliant smiles. If I had been less professional, it might have melted me into my socks. There was a tinge of evil to it, a lot of sex, but under that was a little boy peeking out, an uncertain little boy. That was it. That was the attraction. Nothing is more appealing than a handsome man who is also uncertain of himself.

  It appeals not only to the woman in us all, but the mother. A dangerous combination. Luckily, I was immune. Sure. Besides, I had seen Phillip’s idea of sex. He was definitely not my type.

  Mabel’s is a cafeteria, but the food is wonderful and reasonably priced. On weekdays the place is filled to the brim with suits and business skirts, thin little briefcases, and manila file folders. On Saturdays it was nearly deserted.

  Beatrice smiled at me from behind the steaming food. She was tall and plump with brown hair and a tired face. Her pink uniform didn’t fit well through the shoulders, and the hairnet made her face look too long. But she always smiled, and we always spoke.

  “Hi, Beatrice.” And without waiting to be asked, “This is Phillip.”

  “Hi, Phillip,” she said.

  He gave her a smile every bit as dazzling as he had given the real estate agent. She flushed, averted her eyes, and giggled. I hadn’t known Beatrice could do that. Did she notice the scars? Did it matter to her?

  It was too hot for meat loaf, but I ordered it anyway. It was always moist and the catsup sauce just tangy enough. I even got dessert, which I almost never do. I was starving. We managed to pay and find a table without Phillip flirting with anyone else. A major accomplishment.

  “What has happened to Jean-Claude?” he asked.

  “One more minute.” I said grace over my food. He was staring at me when I looked up. We ate, and I told him an edited version of last night. Mostly, I told him about Jean-Claude and Nikolaos and the punishment.

  He had stopped eating by the time I finished. He was staring over my head, at nothing that I could see. “Phillip?” I asked.

  He shook his head and looked at me. “She could kill him.”

  “I got the impression she was just going to punish him. Do you know what that would be?”

  He nodded, voice soft, saying, “She traps them in coffins and uses crosses to hold them inside. Aubrey disappeared for three months. When I saw him again, he was like he is now. Crazy.”

  I shivered. Would Jean-Claude go crazy? I picked up my fork and found myself halfway through a piece of blackberry pie. I hate blackberries. Damn, I treat myself to pie and get the wrong kind. What was the matter with me? The taste was still warm and thick in my mouth. I took a big swig of Coke to wash it down. The Coke didn’t help much.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  I pushed the half-eaten pie away and opened one of the folders. The first victim, one Maurice no last name, had lived with a woman named Rebecca Miles. They had cohabited for five years. “Cohabited” sounded better than “shacked up.” “I’ll talk to friends and lovers of the dead vampires.”

  “I might know the names.”

  I stared at him, debating. I didn’t want to share information with him because I knew good ol’ Phillip was the daytime eyes and ears of the undead. Yet, when I had talked to Rebecca Miles in the company of the police, she had told us zip. I didn’t have time to wade through crap. I needed information and fast. Nikolaos wanted results. And what Nikolaos wanted, Nikolaos damn well better get.

  “Rebecca Miles,” I said.

  “I know her. She was Maurice’s—property.” He shrugged an apology at the word, but he let it stand. And I wondered what he meant by it. “Where do we go first?” he asked.

  “Nowhere. I don’t want a civilian along while I work.”

  “I might be able to help.”

  “No offense, you look strong and maybe even quick, but that isn’t enough. Do you know how to fight? Do you carry a gun?”

  “No gun, but I can handle myself.”

  I doubted that. Most people don’t react well to violence. It freezes them. There are a handful of seconds where the body hesitates, the mind doesn’t understand. Those few seconds can get you killed. The only way to kill the hesitation is practice. Violence has to become a part of your thinking. It makes you cautious, suspicious as hell, and lengthens your life expectancy. Phillip was familiar with violence, but only as the victim. I didn’t need a professional victim tagging along. Yet, I needed information from people who wouldn’t want to talk to me. They might talk to Phillip.

  I didn’t expect to run into a gun battle in broad daylight. Nor did I really expect anyone to jump me, at least not today. I’ve been wrong before but . . . If Phillip could help me, I saw no harm in it. As long as he didn’t flash that smile at the wrong time and get molested by nuns, we would be safe.

  “If someone threatens me, can you stay out of it and let me do my job, or would you charge in and try to save me?” I asked.

  “Oh,” he said. He stared down at his drink for a few minutes. “I don’t know.”

  Brownie point for him. Most people would have lied. “Then I’d rather you didn’t come.”

  “How are you going to convince Rebecca you work for the master vampire of this city? The Executioner working for vampires?”

  It sounded ridiculous even to me. “I don’t know.”

  He smiled. “Then it’s settled. I’ll come along and help calm the waters.”

  “I didn’t agree to that.”

  “You didn’t say no, either.”

  He had a point. I sipped my Coke and looked at his smug face for perhaps a minute. He said nothing, only stared back. His face was neutral, no challenge to it. There was no contest of egos as with Bert. “Let’s go,” I said.

  We stood. I left a tip. We went off in search of clues.

  20

  REBECCA MILES LIVED in South City’s Dogtown. The streets were all named for states: Texas, Mississippi, Indiana. The building was blind, most of the windows boarded up. The grass was tall as an elephant’s eye, but not half so beautiful. A block over were expensive rehabs full of yuppies and politicians. There were no yuppies on Rebecca’s block.

  Her apartment was on a long, narrow corridor. There was no air conditioning in the hallway, and the heat was like chest-high fur, thick and warm. One dim light bulb gleamed over the threadbare carpeting. In places the off-green walls were patched with white plaster, but it was clean. The smell of pine-scented Lysol was thick and almost nauseating in the small, dark hallway. You could probably have eaten off the carpeting if you had wanted to, but you would have gotten fuzzies in your mouth. No amount of Lysol would get rid of carpet fuzzies.

  As we had discussed in the car, Phillip knocked on the door. The idea was that he would calm any misgivings she might have about The Executioner coming into her humble abode. It took fifteen minutes of knocking and waiting before we heard someone moving around behind the door.

  The door opened as far as the chain would allow. I couldn’t see who answered the door. A woman’s voice, thick with sleep, said, “Phillip, what are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in for a few minutes?” he asked. I couldn’t see his face, but I would have bet everything I owned that he was flashing her one of his infamous smiles.

  “Sure; sorry, you woke me up.” The door closed, and the chain rattled. The door reopened, wide. I still couldn’t see around Phillip. So I guess Rebecca didn’t see me either.

  Phillip walked in, and I followed behind him before the door could close. The apartment was ovenlike, a gasping, stranded-fish heat. The darkness should have made it cooler, but instead made it claustrophobic. Sweat trickled down my face.

  Rebecca Miles stood holding onto the door. She was thin, with lifeless dark hair falling straight to her shoulders. High cheekbones clung to the skin of her face. She was nearly overwhelmed by the white robe she wore. Delicate
was the phrase, fragile. Small, dark eyes blinked at me. It was dim in the apartment, thick drapes cutting out the light. She had only seen me once, shortly after Maurice’s death.

  “Did you bring a friend?” she asked. She shut the door, and we were in near darkness.

  “Yes,” Phillip said. “This is Anita Blake . . .”

  Her voice came out small and choked. “The Executioner?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  She opened her small mouth and shrieked. She threw herself at me, hands clawing and slapping. I braced and covered my face with my forearms. She fought like a girl, all open-handed slaps, scratches, and flailing arms. I grabbed her wrist and used her own momentum to pull her past me. She stumbled to her knees with a little help. I had her right arm in a joint lock. It puts pressure on the elbow, it hurts, and a little extra push will snap the arm. Most people don’t fight well after you break their arm at the elbow.

  I didn’t want to break the woman’s arm. I didn’t want to hurt her at all. There were two bloody scratches on my arm where she had gotten me. I guess I was lucky she hadn’t had a gun.

  She tried to move, and I pressed on the arm. I felt her tremble. Her breath was coming in huge gasps. “You can’t kill him! You can’t! Please, please don’t.” She started to cry, thin shoulders shaking inside the too-big robe. I stood there, holding her arm, causing her pain.

  I released her arm, slowly, and stepped back out of reach. I hoped she didn’t attack again. I didn’t want to hurt her, and I didn’t want her to hurt me. The scratches were beginning to sting.

  Rebecca Miles wasn’t going to try again. She huddled against the door, thin, starved hands locked around her knees. She sobbed, gasping for air, “You . . . can’t . . . kill him. Please!” She started to rock back and forth, hugging herself tight as if she might shatter, like weak glass.