Anita Blake 8 - Blue Moon

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  I wasn't even going to debate the vampires and soul issue. My life was complicated enough without religious discussions. I know, I know, I was just delaying the inevitable. If I stayed with Jean-Claude, I was going to have to face the whole issue. No hiding. But not tonight.

  Raising Damian had forged some kind of link between us. I didn't understand it and didn't have anyone to ask advice of. I was the first necromancer in several hundred years that could raise vampires like zombies. It scared me. It scared Damian more. Frankly, I didn't blame him.

  Was Asher awake, too? I concentrated on him, sent that power, magic, whatever the hell it was, outward. It brushed him, and he felt me. He was awake and aware of me.

  Asher was a master vampire. Not as powerful as Jean-Claude, but a master, nonetheless. That gave him certain abilities that Damian, who was by far the elder of the two, would never have. Without the link between us, Damian wouldn't have sensed me searching for him.

  I wanted a few minutes to be alone and think, and I wasn't going to get it. I didn't make them call for me. I opened the door and stood framed in the light, blinking out into the thick darkness.

  The vampires stood like pale shadows in the gloom. I hit the overhead light. Asher threw his hand up to protect his eyes from the light, but Damian just blinked at me. I wanted them to cower back from the light. I wanted them to look monstrous, but they didn't.

  Damian was a green-eyed redhead, but that didn't really cover it. His hair fell like a red curtain around his upper body, the hair so red it looked like spilled blood against the green silk of his shirt. The shirt was a paler green than his eyes. They were like liquid fire, if fire could burn green. It wasn't vampire powers that made his eyes gleam. It was natural color, as if his mother had fooled around with a cat.

  Asher was a blue-eyed blond, but again, that description didn't do him justice. The waves of his shoulder-length hair were golden. I don't mean blond, I mean gold. His hair was almost metallic in its glittering brilliance. His eyes were a blue so pale, they were almost white, like the eyes of a husky.

  He was wearing a white dress shirt, untucked over chocolate brown dress pants. Leather loafers, no socks, completed his clothes. I'd spent too much time around Jean-Claude to call it an outfit.

  If you could stop staring at the eyes and hair long enough to see their faces, Asher was the handsomer of the two. Damian was handsome, but there was a length of jaw, a less perfect slope to the nose—small imperfections that might go unnoticed if you hadn't had Asher for comparison. Asher was beautifully handsome like a medieval cherub. Half of him, anyway.

  Half of Asher's face was the beauty that drew a master vampire to him centuries ago. The other half was covered in scars. Holy water scars. The scars started about an inch from the midline of his face so his eyes, nose, and those full, perfect lips remained untouched, but the rest was like melted wax. His neck was pale and perfect, but I knew that the scars continued at his shoulders. His upper body was worse than the face, the scars rough and pitted. But like the face, only half of his body was scarred. The other half was still lovely.

  I knew that the scars touched his upper thigh, but I had never seen him completely nude. I had to take his word that the scars covered the space between. It had been implied though never stated that he was still capable of sex but was scarred. I didn't know for sure, and I didn't want to know.

  "Where are your bodyguards?" Asher asked.

  "My bodyguards? You mean Jason and the Furballs?"

  Asher nodded. His golden hair fell forward over the scarred side of his face. It was an old habit. The hair hid the scars—or almost hid the scars. He could use the shadows the same way. He always seemed to know just where the light would hit him. Centuries of practice.

  "I don't know where they are," I said. "I just finished talking to Richard. I guess they thought we needed privacy."

  "Did you need the privacy?" Asher asked. He looked straight at me, using the scars and beauty for a double effect. He didn't look happy for some reason.

  "It's none of your damn business," I said.

  Damian sat at the foot of the carefully made bed. He smoothed pale, long-fingered hands across the blue coverlet. "Not in this bed, you didn't," he said.

  I came to stand beside the bed and stare down at him. "If one more vampire or were-anything tells me they can smell sex, I am going to scream."

  Damian didn't smile. He'd never been a real happy camper, but lately was even more serious than usual. He just sat there, looking up at me. Jean-Claude or even Asher would have smiled, teased. Damian just looked at me with eyes that held sorrow the way others' held laughter.

  I reached out to touch his shoulder and had to sweep back a lock of his hair to reach it. He jerked back from my touch as if it had hurt. He pushed to his feet and went to stand near the door.

  I was left with my hand out, puzzled. "What's wrong with you, Damian?"

  Asher came to stand beside me. He rested his hands lightly on my shoulders. "You are quite right, Anita. What you do with Monsieur Zeeman is none of my business."

  I slid my hands over his, sliding my fingers to intertwine with his. I remembered the feel of his cool skin against mine. I leaned my back against him, pulling his arms around me, and I wasn't tall enough. It wasn't my memory. It was Jean-Claude's. Asher and he had been companions for over twenty years, once upon a time.

  I sighed and started to pull away.

  Asher leaned his chin on the top of my head. "You need someone's arms that you don't feel threatened by."

  I leaned against him, eyes closed, and for just a moment let him hold me. "The only reason this feels so good is that I'm remembering someone else's pleasure."

  Asher gently kissed the top of my head. "Because you see me through the nostalgia of Jean-Claude's memories, you are the only woman in over two hundred years who doesn't treat me like a circus freak."

  I leaned my face against the bend of his arm. "You are devastatingly handsome, Asher."

  He smoothed the hair from my bruised cheek. "To you, perhaps." He leaned over me and laid the softest of kisses on my cheek.

  I pulled away from him, gently, almost reluctantly. What I remembered of Asher was simpler than anything I was trying to pull off in this lifetime.

  Asher didn't try to hold me. "If you were not already in love with two other men, the way you look at me might be enough."

  I sighed. "I'm sorry, Asher I shouldn't touch you like that. It's just…" I didn't know how to put it into words.

  "You treat me like an old lover," Asher said. "You forget and touch me as if you'd touched me before when it is always the first time. Do not apologize for that, Anita. I enjoy it. No one else will touch me so freely."

  "Jean-Claude will," I said. "These are his memories."

  Asher smiled and it was almost sorrowful. "He is loyal to you and to Monsieur Zeeman."

  "He's turned you down?" I asked and wished I hadn't.

  Asher smile brightened, then dimmed. "If you would not share him with another woman, would you truly share him with another man?"

  I thought about that for a second or two. "Well, no." I frowned up at him. "Why do I feel like apologizing for that?"

  "Because you share with Jean-Claude and myself the memories of Julianna and the two of us. We were a very happy ménage à trois for almost longer than you have been alive."

  Julianna had been Asher's human servant. She'd ended up burned as a witch by the same people that had scarred Asher. Jean-Claude couldn't save them both. I wasn't sure that either of them had truly forgiven Jean-Claude for this oversight.

  Damian said, "If I'm not interrupting, I need to feed." He was standing by the door, hugging himself as if he were cold.

  "You want me to open the door and yell dinner?" I asked.

  "I want permission to go feed," he said.

  I frowned at the phrasing but said, "Go find one of our walking donors and help yourself. Just our people, though. We can't hunt here."

  Damian nodded,
standing up straighter as if he'd been hunched in upon himself. I could feel that he was hungry, but it wasn't hunger that made him huddle. "I will not hunt."

  "Good," I said.

  He hesitated, with his hand on the doorknob. His back was to me, but his voice came low, "May I go and feed?"

  I glanced at Asher. "Is he talking to you?"

  Asher shook his head. "I think not."

  "Sure, help yourself."

  Damian opened the door and slipped outside. He left the door slightly ajar.

  "What is his problem lately?" I asked.

  "I think he must answer that question," Asher said.

  I turned and looked at him. "Does that mean you can't answer the question or won't answer it?"

  Asher smiled and his face moved freely, even the scarred skin. He was having consultations with a plastic surgeon in Saint Louis. No one had ever tried to repair holy water damage on vamps, so they didn't know if it would work, but the doctors were hopeful. Hopeful but cautious. The first operation was still months away.

  "It means, Anita, that some fears are very personal."

  "Are you saying Damian's afraid of me?" I didn't try to keep the astonishment out of my voice.

  "I am saying that you must speak to him directly if you want answers."

  I sighed. "Great, just what I need. Another complicated male in my life."

  Asher laughed, and it slid along my bare arms like a touch, raising gooseflesh. The only other vampire that could do that to me was Jean-Claude.

  "Stop that," I said.

  He gave a low, sweeping bow. "My most sincere apologies."

  "Bullshit," I said. "Go get dinner. I think the werewolves are planning some sort of party or ceremony."

  "You need one of us with you at all times, Anita."

  "I heard Jean-Claude's ultimatum." I looked at him and couldn't keep the surprise off my face. "You think he'd really kill you if something happened to me?"

  Asher just looked at me with his pale, pale eyes. "Your life means more to him than mine does, Anita. If it did not, he would be in my bed and not yours."

  He had a point, but… "It would kill something inside of him to kill you personally."

  "But he would do it," Asher said.

  "Why? Because he said he'd do it?"

  "No, because he would always wonder if I allowed you to die as revenge for his failure to protect Julianna."

  Oh. I opened my mouth to say more, and the phone rang. Daniel's voice came low and panicked, backed by country music.

  "Anita, we're out at the Happy Cowboy on the main highway. Can you come down?"

  "What's wrong, Daniel?"

  "Mom's tracked down the woman who accused Richard. She's determined to make her stop lying."

  "Are they fighting yet?" I asked.

  "Yelling."

  "You outweigh her by over a hundred pounds, Daniel. Just toss her over your shoulder and get her out of there. She'll only make things worse."

  "She's my mother. I can't do that."

  "Shit," I said.

  Asher asked, "What has happened?"

  I shook my head. "I'll be there, Daniel, but you're being a wimp."

  "I'd rather take on every guy in the bar than my mother," he said.

  "If she makes a big enough scene, you may get your chance." I hung up. "I cannot believe this."

  "What?" Asher asked again.

  I explained as quickly as I could. Daniel and Mrs. Zeeman were staying at a nearby motel. Richard hadn't wanted them at the cabins with so many shapeshifters running around. Now I wished we'd kept them closer to home.

  It would have been nice to have changed out of the blood-splattered blouse, but we were out of time. No rest for the wicked.

  The real trick was what to do with Richard. He'd want to come along, and I didn't want him anywhere near Miss Betty Schaffer.

  Legally, he could enter the bar and sit down beside her. There was no court order to stay away. But if the sheriff realized we weren't getting out of town, he'd look for any excuse to get Richard back behind bars. I didn't think Richard would have nearly as pleasant a second visit as he had a first. Their ambush today had backfired. They'd be frustrated and scared. They'd hurt Richard this time. Hell, they might hurt his mother. Charlotte Zeeman and I were going to have to have a little talk. Come to think of it, I was with Daniel. I'd have rather faced a full-blown bar fight than have a talk with his mother. At least she'd never be my mother-in-law. If I was going to have to punch her out tonight, that was almost comforting.

  Chapter 11

  Richard and I compromised. He came along and swore to stay in the car. I brought along Shang-Da, Jamil, and Jason to make sure he stayed in the car, though if push came to shove, I wasn't sure they'd listen to me over Richard, not even if it was for his own good. It was the best I could do. Some nights that has to be enough, because that's all you've got.

  The Happy Cowboy, which was one of the worst names for a bar I'd ever heard, was on the main highway. It was a two-story building that was supposed to look like a log cabin and managed not to. Maybe it was the neon horse with its cowboy rider on the sign. The lights gave the illusion that the horse was going up and down, along with the cowboy's arm and hat. He didn't look particularly happy riding the neon horse, but then maybe that was just me. I certainly wasn't happy to be here.

  Richard had driven his four-by-four. He'd finally gotten around to blow-drying his hair. It was a thick, wavy foam around his face and shoulders. It looked so soft, you wanted to plunge your hands into it. Or again, maybe that was just me. He'd added a plain green T-shirt, tucked into his jeans, and white jogging shoes.

  Jamil and Shang-Da were riding shotgun in the middle seat. Jamil was still wearing his cut-off smiley T-shirt, but Shang-Da had changed. He was all in black from his soft leather loafers to his belted dress slacks, to the silk T-shirt and tailor cut jacket. His short back hair was gelled into a crop of spikes on top of his head. He looked relaxed and at home in the clothes and the hair. He would also look utterly out of place at the Happy Cowboy. Of course, being over six feet tall and Chinese put him behind the game when it came to blending in here. Maybe he, like Jamil, was tired of trying to pass.

  That was why Jason, still in his grown-up blue suit, was with us. Nathaniel had wanted to come, but he wasn't old enough to go into a bar. I didn't know how good Zane was in a stress situation yet, and Cherry always made me feel vaguely protective, so Jason it was.

  "If you're not out in fifteen minutes, we're coming in," Richard said.

  "Thirty minutes," I said. I did not want Richard near Ms. Betty Schaffer.

  "Fifteen," he said, voice very quiet, very low, very serious. I knew that tone of voice. I'd gotten all the compromise I was going to get.

  "Fine, but remember that if you go to jail tonight, your mom may go with you."

  His eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"

  "What would Charlotte do if she saw her little boy being dragged away to jail?"

  He thought about that for a second, then bowed his head. He laid his forehead on the steering wheel. "She'd put up a fight for me."

  "Exactly," I said.

  He raised his face and looked at me. "I'll behave for her sake."

  I smiled. "I knew it wasn't for mine." I got out of the car before he could answer that one.

  Jason settled into step beside me. He'd straightened his tie and buttoned the first button on the jacket. He'd also tried to slick back his baby-fine hair, but it escaped all efforts in tiny wisps. His hair was very straight and very fine, and it would have looked better either much shorter or much longer. But hey, it wasn't my hair.

  We were both carded at the door by a muscular guy in a dark blue T-shirt. The crowd was divided almost down the middle. There was the tight jeans, cowboy boots crowd, and the short skirts, business jackets crowd. There was some intermingling. Some of the women in cowboy boots had short skirts. Some of the business jackets were wearing jeans. It was the only alcohol for a twe
nty-mile radius, and it served food. Where else were you going to go on a Friday night? I'd have rather gone for a moonlit walk, but I didn't drink. Come to think of it, I didn't dance, either, though Jean-Claude was working on both. Corruption at every turn.

  There was a live band playing country music so loudly it might as well have been hard rock. A haze of cigarette smoke floated over everything like a late-night fog. The entrance was on a little raised platform so you could look around before plunging into the sea of bodies. Charlotte is actually an inch or two shorter than I am, so I didn't bother scanning for her. I looked for Daniel. How many six-foot-tall, tanned guys with wavy, shoulder-length hair could there be? More than you'd think.

  I finally spotted him near the bar because he was waving to me. He'd also tied his long hair back in a very tight ponytail, which was why scanning for the hair hadn't worked. His hair was nearly identical to Richard's except it was a more solid brown, a rich chestnut. His skin was the same tanned shade as his brother's. The same high, sculpted cheekbones, solid brown eyes, even the dimple in the chin. Richard was a little broader through the shoulders and chest, just physically more imposing, but other than that, the family resemblance was almost scary. All the brothers looked like that. The two oldest had cut their hair, one of them was almost a blond, and the father was going a little grey, but the five Zeeman men in one room was a testosterone treat.

  And the matriarch of this pile of masculine pulchritude was standing about six feet from her son. Charlotte Zeeman had short blond hair that framed a face that looked at least ten years younger than I knew she was. She was wearing a butter yellow suit jacket over dress slacks. She was also poking her finger into the chest of a tall blond woman.

  The second woman had a mane of curled blond hair, but I was betting that neither the color nor the curl were real. It had to be Betty Schaffer, and the name didn't suit her. She looked like someone named Farrah or Tiffany.

  I waded into the crowd with Jason behind me. The crowd was thick enough that I stopped saying excuse me about halfway across the room and just started pushing.