WHEN we reached our house, Micah and Nathaniel got out of the Jeep first. I followed behind, slowly, still not sure what I was going to do.
The living room was dark as I entered the house. The only light was from the kitchen. One or both of them had walked through the pitch-dark living room and only hit a light switch when they went to the kitchen to check messages on the machine, which was on the kitchen counter. Leopards’ eyes are better in the dark than a human’s, and Micah’s eyes were permanently stuck in kitty-cat mode. He often walked through the entire house with no lights, just drifting from room to room, avoiding every obstacle, gliding through the dark with the same confidence I used in bright light.
There was enough light from the kitchen, so I, too, left the living room dark. The white couch seemed to give off its own glow, though I knew that was illusion, made up of the reflective quality of the white, white cloth. I was pretty sure the men had both gone to change for the night. Most lycanthropes, whatever the flavor, preferred fewer clothes, and Micah didn’t like dressing up, not if it included a tie. I walked into the empty kitchen not because I needed to, but because I wasn’t ready to go to the bedroom. I still didn’t know what I was going to do.
The kitchen held a large dining room table now. The breakfast nook on its little raised platform with its bay window looking out over the woods still held a smaller four-seater table. Four had been more chairs than I needed when I moved into this house. Now, because we usually had at least some of the other wereleopards bunking over due to an emergency, or, often, just the need to be close to more of their group, their pard, we needed a six-seater table. Actually we needed a bigger one than that, but it was all my kitchen would hold.
There was a vase in the middle of the table. Jean-Claude had sent me a dozen white roses a week, after we started dating. Once we had sex, he’d added one red rose so it was actually thirteen. One red rose like a spot of blood in a sea of white roses and white baby’s breath. It certainly made a statement.
I smelled the roses, and the red one had the strongest scent. Hard to find white roses that smelled good. All I had to do was call Jean-Claude. He was fast enough to fly here before dawn. I’d fed off of him before, I could do it again. Of course, that would simply be putting off the decision. No, it would be hiding. I hated cowardice almost worse than anything else, and calling on my vampire lover in this instance was cowardice.
The phone rang. I jumped back so hard that the roses rocked in their vase. You’d think I was nervous, or guilty of something. I got the phone on the second ring. It was for Micah, a Furry Coalition emergency.
One of the shifters had had an accident. He was in the hospital emergency room right now. But the cops were making noises about taking him to a so-called safe house. They were actually prisons for lycanthropes. Once you went in, they never let you out.
Someone had to go and get him before that could happen.
Micah got on the phone long enough to take the address and name of the hospital down, then hung up. He looked at me, face careful, neutral with an edge of concern. “I’m okay with you and Nathaniel being here alone for the ardeur. The question is, are you okay with it?”
I shrugged.
He shook his head. “No, Anita, I need an answer before I leave.”
I sighed. “You need to get there before the wolf loses it. Go, we’ll be all right.”
He looked like he didn’t believe me.
“Go,” I said.
“It’s not just you I’m worried about, Anita.”
“I will do my best for Nathaniel, Micah.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means what it says.”
He didn’t look happy with the answer.
“If you wait around for me to say, Oh, yes, it’s fine that I’m going to feed the ardeur and fuck Nathaniel; the wolf in question will have shapeshifted, been shot by the cops, and maybe taken some civilians with him before you even leave the house.”
“You’re both important to me, Anita. Our pard is important to me. What happens here tonight, could change . . . everything.”
I swallowed hard, because I suddenly didn’t want to meet his eyes.
He touched my chin, raised my face up to meet his gaze. “Anita.”
“I’ll be good,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll do my best, and that is the best I can offer. I won’t really know what I’m going to do until the ardeur rises. Sorry, but that’s the truth. To say anything else would be a lie.”
He took a deep breath that made his chest rise and fall nicely. “I guess I’ll have to settle for that.”
“What exactly do you want me to say?” I asked.
He leaned in, and laid a gentle kiss against my lips. We rarely kissed so chaste, but this close to the ardeur, he was being careful. “I want you to say you’ll take care of this.”
“Define take care of it?”
He sighed again, shook his head, and stepped back. “I’ve got to get dressed.”
“Are you taking your car or the Jeep?”
“I’ll take my car.” He smiled at me, almost sadly, and left to go get dressed. He made a soft exclamation as he went around the corner. He spoke in low voices with another man. The cadence was wrong for Nathaniel.
Damian glided around the corner. “You must be very distracted not to have sensed me sooner.” He was right, I was good at sensing the undead. No vamp should have been able to get this close without me knowing, especially not Damian.
Damian was my vampire servant, as I was Jean-Claude’s human servant. The ardeur was Jean-Claude and Belle Morte’s fault, something about their line had contaminated me. But Damian as my servant, that was my fault. I was a necromancer, and apparently mixing necromancy with being a human servant had some unforseen side effects. One of them was standing across the kitchen staring at me with eyes the color of green grass. Humans didn’t have eyes like that, but apparently Damian had, because becoming a vamp doesn’t change your original physical description. It may pale you out, lengthen some of the teeth, but your hair and eye and skin color remain the same. The only thing that was probably more vibrant was his hair. Red hair that hadn’t seen the sun for hundreds of years, so that it was almost the color of fresh blood, a bright, fresh scarlet, so that he moved in a swirl of crimson hair. All vamps are pale, but Damian started life with that milk and honey complexion that some redheads have, so he was even paler. Or maybe it was the quality of his paleness, like his skin had been formed of white marble, and some demon or god had breathed life into that paleness. Oh, wait, I was that demon.
Technically, my power, my necromancy, made Damian’s heart beat. He was over a thousand years old, and he would never be a master vampire. If you aren’t a master, then you need a master to give you enough power to rise from the grave, not just the first night, but every night.
Damian must have come straight from work, because though he, like most of the vamps fresh over from Europe, almost never wore jeans and tennis shoes, he also didn’t like dressing up as much as Jean-Claude insisted on.
He was wearing a coat I’d seen before. It was a deep pine green, a frock coat like something out of the 1700s, but it was new, designed to gape open to expose the pale gleam of his chest and stomach. Embroidery nearly covered the sleeves and lapels, putting a little glitter of color near all that white skin. His pants were black satin, poofy, like there was way more cloth there than was needed for Damian’s slender legs. He wore a wide green sash for a belt, and a pair of black leather boots that folded over just above the knee. The outfit was very pirate-y.
“How was work?” I asked.
“Danse Macabre is the hottest dance club in St. Louis.” He kept walking towards me, gliding rather. There was something about the way he looked at me that I didn’t care for.
“It’s the only place where people can go and dance with vampires. Of course it’s hot.” I looked at him, and I knew he had fed ton
ight, on some willing woman. Willing blood feeding was considered the same as willing sex. Just be of age, and you could feed the undead, and have bite marks to show your friends. I’d ordered Damian to only feed from willing victims, and because of our bond together, he could not disobey me. Necromancers of legend could boss around all types of undead, and they had to do your bidding. The only undead I could boss around was Damian, and frankly, I found even that unsettling. I didn’t like to have that kind of control over anyone.
But then, Damian had a kind of control over me. I wanted to touch him. When he entered a room, I had an almost overwhelming urge to touch his skin. It was part of what it meant to be master and servant. This attraction to your servants, this need to touch and tend them was one of the reasons that most servants were treasured possessions. I think it also kept even the craziest, most evil of vamps from killing their servants out of hand. For often a vamp didn’t survive the death of his servant, the bond was that close.
He walked around the table, fingers trailing on the backs of the chairs. “And I am one of the vampires that they have been pressing their bodies up against all night.”
“Hannah is still managing the club, right?”
“Oh, yes, I am merely a cold body to send into the crowd.” He was around the table now, to the island that separated the working area of the kitchen from the rest of the room. “I am merely color, like a statue, or a drape.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve seen you work the crowd, Damian. You enjoy the flirting.”
He nodded, as he came around the end of the island. Nothing separated us now but the fact that I was still leaning against the far cabinets, and he had stopped at the end of the island. The urge to close that distance, to wrap my hands around his body, was almost overwhelming. It made my hands ache with the need, and I ended with them pressed behind me, pinned by my body the way Nathaniel had leaned against the Jeep earlier.
“I enjoy the flirting very much.” He traced pale fingers along the edge of the island, slowly, tenderly, as if he were touching something else. “But we are not allowed to have sex while we work, though some of them beg for it.” The emerald of his eyes spread and swallowed his pupils, so that he looked at me with eyes like green fire. His power danced along my skin, caught my breath in my throat.
My voice started out a little shaky, but I gained firmness as I talked, until the last was said in an almost normal voice. “You’ve got my permission to date, or fuck, or whatever. You can have lovers, Damian.”
“And where would I take them?” He leaned against the island, arms crossing over that expanse of pale chest.
“What do you mean?”
“I have a coffin in your basement. It is adequate but hardly romantic.”
He could have said a lot of things that I’d expected, but that wasn’t one of them. “I’m sorry, Damian, it never ocurred to me. You need a room, don’t you?”
He gave a small smile. “A room to use for my lovers, yes.”
Then I realized something. “You mean like bring strangers here. People you’ve just picked up, and have them like sleep over, be at the breakfast table in the morning?”
“Yes,” he said, and I understood the look on his face now; it was a challenge. He knew I wouldn’t like the thought of strangers coming into the house, much less facing a strange woman that he’d simply brought home to fuck, first thing in the morning.
I had a tiny spurt of anger, and that helped me think. Helped push back that need to touch him, that had nothing to do with the ardeur, and everything to do with power. “I know you had a room at the Circus. Maybe we could arrange something with Jean-Claude, so you could take lovers back there.”
“My home is here, with you. You are my master now.”
I cringed a little at the master part. “I know that, Damian.”
“Do you?” He pushed away from the island, and came to stand just in front of me. This close the power shivered between us. It made him close his eyes, and when he opened them they were still drowning emerald pools. “If you are my master, then touch me.”
My pulse was jumping in my throat like a trapped thing. I didn’t want to touch him, because I wanted to touch him so badly. In a way, this was part of the attraction between Jean-Claude and me, as well. What I’d taken for lust and new love was also partly vampire trickery. A trick to bind the servant to the master, and the master to the servant, so that both served the other willingly, joyfully. It had bothered me when I first realized that part of what I felt for Jean-Claude was somehow tainted with vampire mind games, though it wasn’t on purpose from Jean-Claude’s point of view. He couldn’t help how it worked on me any more than I could help how it worked on Damian.
He was standing so close I had to crane my neck backward to see his face clearly. “I want to touch you, Damian, but you’re acting awfully funny tonight.”
“Funny,” he said. He moved in so close that the edges of his coat, the poofy satin of his pants brushed the thick cloth of my tuxedo pants. “Funny, I don’t feel funny, Anita.” He leaned his face close to mine, and whispered his next words, “I feel half-crazed. All those women touching me, rubbing themselves against me, pressing their warm,” he leaned in so that his hair brushed my cheek, “soft,” his breath felt hot against my skin, “wet,” his lips touched my cheek, and I shuddered, “bodies, against me.”
My breath shook on its way out, and my pulse was suddenly loud in my ears. It was hard to concentrate on anything but the feel of his lips against my cheek, though all his lips were doing were resting lightly against my skin. I swallowed hard enough that it hurt, and said, “You could have gone with any one of them.”
He laid his cheek against mine, but it meant he had to bend over more, which moved his body farther from mine. Compromise. “And could I trust that their windows were proof against sunlight?” He stood up, and put a hand on either side of the cabinet behind me, so that I was trapped between his arms. “Could I trust that they would not harm me, once the sun rose and I lay helpless?”
I tried to think of something to say, something helpful, something that would help me to think about something other than how much I wanted to touch him. When in doubt be bitchy. “I’m getting a crick in my neck with you standing this close.” My voice was only a little breathy when I said it. Good.
Damian put his hands around my waist, and just the solid feel of his hands around me stopped whatever else I meant to say. It stopped him for a moment, too. Made him bend his head down, eyes closed, as if he were trying to concentrate, or clear his mind. Then he lifted me, suddenly, and sat me on the edge of the counter. It caught me off guard, and he had put his hips between my knees before I could react. We weren’t pressed together, except for his hands on my waist, but we were one step away from it.
“There,” he said, voice hoarse, “now you can see me better.”
He was right, but it hadn’t been what I meant him to do. I wanted breathing space, and instead my hands were free, and he was a hard thought away. My hands came to rest on his arms, and even through the heavy material of his coat I could feel the solidness of him. It was as if my hands had a mind of their own. I traced up the line of his arms, found his shoulders, and ended with my hands on the broadness of those shoulders, with his hair tickling along the back of my hands. There was something about my hands on his shoulders, or the silk of his hair on my skin that made me bend towards him. I wanted a kiss. Simple as that. It seemed wrong to be this near and not touch him.
He bowed his head towards mine. His eyes were like deep green pools, deep enough to drown in. He whispered, “You have but to tell me stop, and I will stop.”
I didn’t say stop. I slid my hands to the smooth pale line of his neck, and the moment I touched his bare skin with mine, I was calmer. I could think again. That was his gift to me, as my servant. He helped me be calmer, more in control. When I was touching him, it was almost impossible for me to lose my temper. He lowered my blood pressure, helped me think.
I cuppe
d his face between my hands, because I wanted to touch him, but what I gained from his centuries of controlling his own emotions was that when he put his lips against mine, I was not lost. Not overwhelmed unless I wanted to be overwhelmed. It wasn’t that I felt nothing, because it wasn’t possible to be enfolded in Damian’s arms, pressed against his chest, have his lips caressing mine, and be unmoved. You’d have had to be made of stone not to melt into that embrace, just a little. But, as I’d gained calmness from him, he had begun to gain back the passion that he’d lost over the centuries. A passion not just for sex, but any strong emotion, because the master that made him tolerated no strong emotion, save fear. She’d beat everything else out of him over more centuries than most vampires ever survived.
He drew back enough to see my face. “You’re calm. Why are you calm? I feel crazed, and you give me peaceful eyes!” He grabbed my upper arms, and dug his fingers in until it hurt, and I still felt calm. “It is cruel fate that makes you calmer and calmer the more we touch, and drives me more and more wild.” He gave me a small shake, his face was raw with emotion. “I am being punished and I have done nothing wrong.”
Cravings Page 5
