Laurell K. Hamilton   - Guilty Pleasures

1
   
Willie McCoy had been a jerk before he died. His being dead don't change that. He sat across from me, wearing a loud plaid sport jacket. The polyester pants were primary Crayola green. His short, black hair was slicked back from a thin, triangular face. He had always reminded me of a bit player in a gangster movie. The kind that sells information, runs errands, and is expendable.
   Of course now that Willie was a vampire, the expendable part didn't count anymore. But he was still selling information and running errands. No, death hadn't changed him much. But just in case I avoided looking directly into his eyes. It was standard policy for dealing with vampires. He was a slime bucket, but now he was an undead slime bucket. It was a new category for me.
   We sat in the quiet air-conditioned hush of my office. The powder blue walls, which Bert, my boss, thought would be soothing, made the room feel cold.
   "Mind if I smoke?" he asked.
   "Yes," I said, "I do."
   "Damn, you aren't gonna make this easy, are you?"
   I looked directly at him for a moment. His eyes were still brown. He caught me looking, and I looked down at my desk.
   Willie laughed, a wheezing snicker of a sound. The laugh hadn't changed. "Geez, I love it. You're afraid of me."
   "Not afraid, just cautious."
   "You don't have to admit it. I can smell the fear on you, almost like somethin' touching my face, my brain. You're afraid of me, 'cause I'm a vampire."
   I shrugged; what could I say? How do you lie to someone who can smell your fear? "Why are you here, Willie?"
   "Geez, I wish I had a smoke." The skin began to jump at the corner of his mouth.
   "I didn't think vampires had nervous twitches."
   His hand went up, almost touched it. He smiled, flashing fangs. "Some things don't change."
   I wanted to ask him, what does change? How does it feel to be dead? I knew other vampires, but Willie was the first I had known before and after death. It was a peculiar feeling. "What do you want?"
   "Hey, I'm here to give you money. To become a client."
   I glanced up at him, avoiding his eyes. His tie tack caught the overhead lights. Real gold. Willie had never had anything like that before. He was doing all right for a dead man. "I raise the dead for a living, no pun intended. Why would a vampire need a zombie raised?"
   He shook his head, two quick jerks to either side. "No, no voodoo stuff. I wanna hire you to investigate some murderers."
   "I am not a private investigator."
   "But you got one of 'em on retainer to your outfit."
   I nodded. "You could just hire Ms. Sims directly. You don't have to go through me for that."
   Again that jerky head shake. "But she don't know about vampires the way you do."
   I sighed. "Can we cut to the chase here, Willie? I have to leave"-I glanced at the wall clock-"in fifteen minutes. I don't like to leave a client waiting alone in a cemetery. They tend to get jumpy."
   He laughed. I found the snickery laugh comforting, even with the fangs. Surely vampires should have rich, melodious laughs. "I'll bet they do. I'll just bet they do." His face sobered suddenly, as if a hand had wiped his laughter away.
   I felt fear like a jerk in the pit of my stomach. Vampires could change movements like clicking a switch. If he could do that, what else could he do?
   "You know about the vampires that are getting wasted over in the District?"
   He made it a question, so I answered. "I'm familiar with them." Four vampires had been slaughtered in the new vampire club district. Their hearts had been torn out, their heads cut off.
   "You still working with the cops?"
   "I am still on retainer with the new task force."
   He laughed again. "Yeah, the spook squad. Underbudgeted and undermanned, right."
   "You've described most of the police work in this town."
   "Maybe, but the cops feel like you do, Anita. What's one more dead vampire? New laws don't change that."
   It had only been two years since Addison v. Clark. The court case gave us a revised version of what life was, and what death wasn't. Vampirism was legal in the good of U. S. of A. We were one of the few countries to acknowledge them. The immigration people were having fits trying to keep foreign vampires from immigrating in, well, flocks.
   All sorts of questions were being fought out in court. Did heirs have to give back their inheritance? Were you widowed if your spouse became undead? Was it murder to slay a vampire? There was even a movement to give them the vote. Times were a-changing.
   I stared at the vampire in front of me and shrugged. Did I really believe what was one more dead vampire? Maybe. "If you believe I feel that way, why come to me at all?"
   "Because you're the best at what you do. We need the best."
   It was the first time he had said "we."
   "Who are you working for, Willie?"
   He smiled then, a close secretive smile, like he knew some thing I should know. "Never you mind that. Money's real good. We want somebody who knows the night life to be looking into these murders."
   "I've seen the bodies, Willie. I gave my opinions to the police."
   "What'd you think?" He leaned forward in the chair, small hands flat on my desk. His fingernails were pale, almost white, bloodless.
   "I gave a full report to the police." I stared up at him, almost looking him in the eye.
   "Won't even give me that, will ya?"
   "I am not at liberty to discuss police business with you."
   "I told 'em you wouldn't go for this."
   "Go for what? You haven't told me a damn thing."
   "We want you to investigate the vampire killings, find out who's, or what's, doing it. We'll pay you three times your normal fee."
   I shook my head. That explained why Bert, the greedy son of a gun, had set up this meeting. He knew how I felt about vampires, but my contract forced me to at least meet with any client that had given Bert a retainer. My boss would do anything for money. Problem was he thought I should, too. Bert and I would be having a "talk" very soon.
   I stood. "The police are looking into it. I am already giving them all the help I can. In a way I am already working on the case. Save your money."
   He sat staring up at me, very still. It was not that lifeless immobility of the long dead, but it was a shadow of it fear ran up in my spine and into my throat. I fought an urge to draw my crucifix out of my shirt and drive him from my office. Somehow throwing a client out using a holy item seemed less than professional. So I just stood there, waiting for him to move.
   "Why won't you help us?"
   "I have clients to meet, Willie. I'm sorry that I can't help you."
   "Won't help, you mean."
   I nodded. "Have it your way." I walked around the desk to show him to the door.
   He moved with a liquid quickness that Willie had never had, but I saw him move and was one step back from his reaching hand. "I'm not just another pretty face to fall for mind tricks."
   "You saw me move."
   "I heard you move. You're the new dead, Willie. Vampire or not, you've got a lot to learn."
   He was frowning at me, hand still half-extended towards me. "Maybe, but no human could a stepped outta reach like that." He stepped up close to me, plaid jacket nearly brushing against me. Pressed together like that, we were nearly the same height, short. His eyes were on a perfect level with mine. I stared as hard as I could at his shoulder.
   It took everything I had not to step back from him. But dammit, undead or not, he was Willie McCoy. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.
   He said, "You ain't human, any more than I am."
   I moved to open the door. I hadn't stepped away from him. I had stepped away to open the door. I tried convincing the sweat along my spine that there was a difference. The cold feeling in my stomach wasn't fooled either.
   "I really have to be going now. Thank you for thinking of Animators, Inc." I gave him my best professional smile, empty of meaning as a light bulb, but dazzling.
   He paused in the open doorway. "Why won't you work for us? I gotta tell 'em something when I go back."
   I wasn't sure, but there was something like fear in his voice. Would he get in trouble for failing? I felt sorry for him and knew it was stupid. He was the undead, for heaven's sake, but he stood looking at me, and he was still Willie, with his funny coats and small nervous hands.
   "Tell them, whoever they are, that I don't work for vampires."
   "A firm rule?" Again he made it sound like a question.
   "Concrete."
   There was a flash of something on his face, the old Willie peeking through. It was almost pity. "I wish you hadn't said that, Anita. These people don't like anybody telling 'em no."
   "I think you've overstayed your welcome. I don't like to be threatened."
   "It ain't a threat, Anita. It's the truth." He straightened his tie, fondling the new gold tie tack, squared his thin shoulders and walked out.
   I closed the door behind him and leaned against it. My knees felt weak. But there wasn't time for me to sit here and shake. Mrs. Grundick was probably already at the cemetery. She would be standing there with her little black purse and her grown sons, waiting for me to raise her husband from the dead. There was a mystery of two very different wills. It was either years of court costs ad arguments, or raise Albert Grundick from the dead and ask.
   Everything I needed was in my car, even the chickens. I drew the silver crucifix free of my blouse and let it hang in full view. I have several guns, and I know how to use them. I keep a 9 mm Browning Hi-Power in my desk. The gun weighed a little over two pounds, silver-plated bullets and all. Silver won't kill a vampire, but it can discourage them. It forces them to have to heal the wounds, almost human slow. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and went out.
   Craig our night secretary, was typing furiously at the computer keyboard. His eyes widened as I walked over the thick carpeting. Maybe it was the cross swinging on its long chain. Maybe it was the shoulder rig tight across my back, and the gun out in plain sight. He didn't mention either. Smart man.
   I put my nice little corduroy jacket over it all. The jacket didn't lie flat over the gun, but that was okay. I doubted the Grundicks and their lawyers would notice.

2
   I had gotten to see the sun rise as I drove home that morning. I hate sunrises. They mean I've overscheduled myself and worked all bloody night. St. Louis has more trees edging its highways than any other city I have driven through. I could almost admit the trees looked nice in the first light of dawn, almost. My apartment always looks depressingly white and cheerful in morning sunlight. The walls are the same vanilla ice cream white as every apartment I've ever seen. The carpeting is a nice shade of grey, preferable to that dog poop brown that is more common.
   The apartment is a roomy one-bedroom. I am told it has a nice view of the park next door. You couldn't prove it by me. If I had my choice, there would be no windows. I get by with heavy drapes that turn the brightest day to cool twilight.
   I switched the radio on low to drown the small noises of my day-living neighbors. Sleep sucked me under to the soft music of Chopin. A minute later the phone rang.
   I lay there for a minute, cursing myself for forgetting to turn on the answering machine. Maybe if I ignored it? Five rings later I gave in. "Hello."
   "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
   It was a woman I didn't know. If it was a salesperson I was going to become violent. "Who is this?" I blinked at the bedside clock. It was eight. I'd had nearly two hours of sleep. Yippee.
   "I'm Monica Vespucci." She said it like it should explain everything. It didn't.
   "Yes." I tried to sound helpful, encouraging. I think it came out as a growl.
   "Oh, my, uh. I'm the Monica that works with Catherine Maison."
   I huddled around the receiver and tried to think. I don't think really well on two hours of sleep. Catherine was a good friend, a name I knew. She had probably mentioned this woman to me, but for the life of me, I couldn't place her. "Sure, Monica, yes. What Jo you want?" It sounded rude, even to me. "I'm sorry if I don't sound too good. I got off work at six."
   "My god, you mean you've only had two hours of sleep. Do you want to shoot me, or what?"
   I didn't answer the question. I'm not that rude. "Did you want something, Monica?"
   "Sure, yes. I'm throwing a surprise bachelorette party for Catherine. You know she gets married next month."
   I nodded, remembered she couldn't see me, and mumbled, "I'm in the wedding."
   "Oh, sure, I knew that. Pretty dresses for the bridesmaids, don't you think?"
   Actually, the last thing I wanted to spend a hundred and twenty dollars on was a long pink formal with puffy sleeves, but it was Catherine's wedding. "What about the bachelorette party?"
   'Oh. I'm rambling, aren't I? And you just desperate for sleep."
   I wondered if screaming at her would make her go away any her. Naw, she'd probably cry. "What do you want, please, Monica?"
   "Well, I know it's short notice, but everything just sort of slipped up on me. I meant to call you a week ago, but I just never got around to it."
   This I believed "Go on."
   "The bachelorette party is tonight. Catherine says you don't drink so I was wondering if you could be designated driver."
   I just lay there for a minute, wondering how mad to get, and if it would do me any good. Maybe if I'd been more awake, I wouldn't have said what I was thinking. "Don't you think this is awfully short notice, since you want me to drive?"
   "I know. I'm so sorry. I'm just so scattered lately. Catherine told me you usually have either Friday or Saturday night off. Is Friday not your night off this week?"
   As a matter of fact it was, but I didn't really want to give up my only night off to this airhead on the other end of the phone. "I do have the night off."
   "Great! I'll give you directions, and you can pick us up after work. Is that okay?"
   It wasn't, but what else could I say. "That's fine."
   "Pencil and paper?"
   "You said you worked with Catherine, right?" I was actually beginning to remember Monica.
   "Why, yes."
   "I know where Catherine works. I don't need directions."
   "Oh, how silly of me, of course. Then we'll see you about five. Dress up, but no heels. We may be dancing tonight."
   I hate to dance. "Sure, see you then."
   "See you tonight."
   The phone went dead in my ear. I turned on the answering machine and cuddled back under the sheets. Monica worked with Catherine, that made her a lawyer. That was a frightening thought. Maybe she was one of those people who was only organized at work. Naw.
   It occurred to me then, when it was too late, that I could just have refused the invitation. Damn. I was quick today. Oh, well, how bad could it be? Watching strangers get blitzed out of their minds. If I was lucky, maybe someone would throw up in my car.
   I had the strangest dreams once I got back to sleep. All about this woman I didn't know, a coconut cream pie, and Willie McCoy's funeral.

3
   Monica Vespucci was wearing a button that said, "Vampires are People, too." It was not a promising beginning to the evening. Her white blouse was silk with a high, flared collar framing a dark, health-club tan. Her hair was short and expertly cut, her makeup perfect.
   The button should have tipped me off to what kind of bachelorette party she'd planned. Some days I'm just slow to catch on.
   I was wearing black jeans, knee-high boots, and a crimson blouse. My hair was made to order for the outfit, black curling just over the shoulders of the red blouse. The solid, nearly black-brown of my eyes matches the hair. Only the skin stands out, too pale, Germanic against the Latin darkness. A very exboyfriend once described me as a little china doll. He meant it as a compliment. I didn't take it that way. There are reasons why I don't date much.
   The blouse was long-sleeved to hide the knife sheath on my right wrist and the scars on my left arm. I had left my gun locked in the trunk of my car. I didn't think the bachelorette party would get that out of hand.
   "I'm so sorry that I put off planning this to the last minute, Catherine. That's why there's only three of us. Everybody else had plans," Monica said.
   "Imagine that, people having plans for Friday night," I said.
   Monica stared at me as if trying to decide whether I was joking or not.
   Catherine gave me a warning glare. I gave them both my best angelic smile. Monica smiled back. Catherine wasn't fooled.
   Monica began dancing down the sidewalk, happy as a drunken clam. She had had only two drinks with dinner. It was a bad sign.
   "Be nice," Catherine whispered.
   "What did I say?"
   "Anita." Her voice sounded like my father's used to sound when I'd stayed out too late.
   I sighed. "You're just no fun tonight."
   "I plan to be a lot of fun tonight." She stretched her arms skyward. She still wore the crumpled remains of her business suit. The wind blew her long, copper-colored hair. I've never been able to decide if Catherine would be prettier if she cut her hair, so you'd notice the face first, or if the hair was what made her pretty.
   "If I have to give up one of my few free nights, then I am going to enjoy myself-immensely," she said.
   There was a kind of fierceness to the last word. I stared up at her. "You are not planning to get falling-down drunk, are you?"
   "Maybe." She looked smug.
   Catherine knew I didn't approve of, or rather, didn't understand drinking. I didn't like having my inhibitions lowered. If I was going to cut loose, I wanted to be in control of just how loose I got.
   We had left my car in a parking lot two blocks back. The one with the wrought-iron fence around it. There wasn't much parking down by the river. The narrow brick roads and ancient sidewalks had been designed for horses, not automobiles. The streets had been fresh-washed by a summer thunderstorm that had come and gone while we ate dinner. The first stars glittered overhead, like diamonds trapped in velvet.
   Monica yelled, "Hurry up, slowpokes."
   Catherine looked at me and grinned. The next thing I knew, she was running towards Monica.
   "Oh, for heaven's sake," I muttered. Maybe if I'd had drinks with dinner, I'd have run, too, but I doubted it.
   "Don't be an old stick in the mud," Catherine called back.
   Stick in the mud? I caught up to them walking. Monica was giggling. Somehow I had known she would be. Catherine and she were leaning against each other laughing. I suspected they might be laughing at me.
   Monica calmed enough to fake an ominous stage whisper. "Do you know what lies around this corner?"
   As a matter of fact, I did. The last vampire killing had been only four blocks from here. We were in what the vampires called "the District." Humans called it the Riverfront, or Blood Square, depending on if they were being rude or not.
   "Guilty Pleasures," I said.
   "Oh, pooh, you spoiled the surprise."
   "What's Guilty Pleasures?" Catherine asked.
   Monica giggled. "Oh, goodie, the surprise isn't spoiled after all." She put her arm through Catherine's. "You are going to love this, I promise you."
   Maybe Catherine would; I knew I wouldn't, but I followed them around the corner anyway. The sign was a wonderful swirling neon the color of heart blood. The symbolism was not lost on me.
   We went up three broad steps, and there was a vampire standing in front of the propped-open door. He had a black crew cut and small, pale eyes. His massive shoulders threatened to rip the tight black t-shirt he wore. Wasn't pumping iron redundant after you died?
   Even standing on the threshold I could hear the busy hum of voices, laughter, music. That rich, murmurous sound of many people in a small space, determined to have a good time.
   The vampire stood beside the door, very still. There was still a movement to him, an aliveness, for lack of a better term. He couldn't have been dead more than twenty years, if that. In the dark he looked almost human, even to me. He had fed already tonight. His skin was flushed and healthy. He looked damn near rosy-cheeked. A meal of fresh blood will do that to you.
   Monica squeezed his arm. "Ooo, feel that muscle."
   He grinned, flashing fangs. Catherine gasped. He grinned wider.
   "Buzz here is an old friend, aren't you, Buzz?"
   Buzz the vampire? Surely not.
   But he nodded. "Go on in, Monica. Your table is waiting."
   Table? What kind of clout did Monica have? Guilty Pleasures was one of the hottest clubs in the District, and they did not take reservations.
   There was a large sign on the door. "No crosses, crucifixes, or other holy items allowed inside." I read the sign and walked past it I had no intention of getting rid of my cross.
   A rich, melodious voice floated around us. "Anita, how good of you to come."
   The voice belonged to Jean-Claude, club owner and master vampire. He looked like a vampire was supposed to look. Softly curling hair tangled with the high white lace of an antique shirt.
   Lace spilled over pale, long-fingered hands. The shirt hung open, giving a glimpse of lean bare chest framed by more frothy lace. Most men couldn't have worn a shirt like that. The vampire made it seem utterly masculine.
   "You two know each other?" Monica sounded surprised.
   "Oh, yes," Jean-Claude said. "Ms. Blake and I have met before."
   "I've been helping the police work cases on the Riverfront."
   "She is their vampire expert." He made the last word soft and warm and vaguely obscene.
   Monica giggled. Catherine was staring at Jean-Claude, eyes wide and innocent. I touched her arm, and she jerked as if waking from a dream. I didn't bother to whisper because I knew he would have heard me anyway. "Important safety tip-never look a vampire in the eye."
   She nodded. The first hint of fear showed in her face.
   "I would never harm such a lovely young woman." He took Catherine's hand and raised it to his mouth. A mere brush of lips. Catherine blushed.
   He kissed Monica's hand as well. He looked at me and laughed. "Do not worry, my little animator. I will not touch you. That would be cheating."
   He moved to stand next to me. I stared fixedly at his chest. There was a burn scar almost hidden in the lace. The burn was in the shape of a cross. How many decades ago had someone shoved a cross into his flesh?
   "Just as you having a cross would be an unfair advantage."
   What could I say? In a way he was right.
   It was a shame that it wasn't merely the shape of a cross that hurt a vampire. Jean-Claude would have been in deep shit. Unfortunately, the cross had to be blessed, and backed up by faith. An atheist waving a cross at a vampire was a truly pitiful sight.
   He breathed my name like a whisper against my skin. "Anita, what are you thinking?"
   The voice was so damn soothing. I wanted to look up and see what face went with such words. Jean-Claude had been intrigued by my partial immunity to him. That and the cross-shaped burn scar on my arm. He found the scar amusing. Every time we met, he did his best to bespell me, and I did my best to ignore him. I had won up until now.
   "You never objected to me carrying a cross before."
   "You were on police business then; now you are not."
   I stared at his chest and wondered if the lace was as soft as it looked; probably not.
   "Are you so insecure in your own powers, little animator? Do you believe that all your resistance to me resides in that piece of silver around your neck?"
   I didn't believe that, but I knew it helped. Jean-Claude was a self-admitted two hundred and five years old. A vampire gains a lot of power in two centuries. He was suggesting I was a coward. I was not.
   I reached up to unfasten the chain. He stepped away from me and turned his back. The cross spilled silver into my hands. A blonde human woman appeared beside me. She handed me a check stub and took the cross. Nice, a holy item check girl.
   I felt suddenly underdressed without my cross. I slept and showered in it.
   Jean-Claude stepped close again. "You will not resist the show tonight, Anita. Someone will enthrall you."
   "No," I said. But it's hard to be tough when you're staring at someone's chest. You really need eye contact to play tough, but that was a no-no.
   He laughed. The sound seemed to rub over my skin; like the brush of fur. Warm and feeling ever so slightly of death.
   Monica grabbed my arm. "You're going to love this, I promise you."
   "Yes," Jean-Claude said. "It will be a night you will never forget."
   "Is that a threat?"
   He laughed again, that warm awful sound. "This is a place of pleasure, Anita, not violence."
   Monica was pulling at my arm. "Hurry, the entertainment's about to begin."
   "Entertainment?" Catherine asked
   I had to smile. "Welcome to the world's only vampire strip club, Catherine."
   "You are joking."
   "Scout's honor. I glanced back at the door; I don't know why. Jean-Claude stood utterly still, no sense of anything, as if he were not there at all. Then he moved, one pale hand raised to his lips. He blew me a kiss across the room. The night's entertainment dad begun.

4
   Our table was nearly bumping up against the stage. The room was full of liquor and laughter, and a few faked screams as the vampire waiters moved around the tables. There was an undercurrent of fear. That peculiar terror that you get on roller coasters and at horror movies. Safe terror.
   The lights went out. Screams echoed through the room, high and shrill. Real fear for an instant. Jean-Claude's voice came out of the darkness. "Welcome to Guilty Pleasures. We are here to serve you. To make your most evil thought come true."
   His voice was silken whispers in the small hours of night. Damn, he was good.
   "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to feel my breath upon your skin? My lips along your neck. The hard brush of teeth. The sweet, sharp pain of fangs. Your heart beating frantically against my chest. Your blood flowing into my veins. Sharing yourself. Giving me life. Knowing that I truly could not live without you, all of you."
   Perhaps it was the intimacy of darkness; whatever, I felt as if his voice was speaking just for me, to me. I was his chosen, his special one. No, that wasn't right. Every woman in the club felt the same. We were all his chosen. And perhaps there was more truth in that than in anything else.
   "Our first gentleman tonight shares your fantasy. He wanted to know how the sweetest of kisses would feel. He has gone before you to tell you that it is wondrous." He let silence fill the darkness, until my own heartbeat sounded loud. "Phillip is with us tonight."
   Monica whispered, "Phillip!" A collective gasp ran through the audience, then a soft chanting began. "Phillip, Phillip ... " The sound rose around us in the dark like a prayer.
   The lights began to come up like at the end of a movie. A figure stood in the center of the stage. A white t-shirt hugged his upper body; not a muscleman, but well built. Not too much of a good thing. A black leather jacket, tight jeans and boots completed the outfit. He could have walked off any street. His thick, brown hair was long enough to sweep his shoulders.
   Music drifted into the twilit silence. The man swayed to the sounds, hips rotating ever so slightly. He began to slip out of leather jacket, moving almost in slow motion. The soft music seemed to have a pulse. A pulse that his body moved with, swaying jacket slid to the stage. He stared out at the audience for a minute letting us see what there was to see. Scars hugged the bend of each arm, until the skin had formed white mounds of tissue.
   I swallowed hard. I wasn't sure what was about to happen, but was betting I wasn't going to like it.
   He swept back his long hair from his face with both hands. He swayed and strutted around the edge of the stage. He stood near table, looking down at us. His neck looked like a junkie's.
   I had to look away. All those neat little bite marks, neat little scars. I glanced up and found Catherine staring at her lap. Monica leaning forward in her chair, lips half-parted.
   He grabbed the t-shirt with strong hands and pulled. It peeled away from his chest, ripping. Screams from the audience. A few of them called his name. He smiled. The smile was dazzling, brilliant melt-in-your-mouth sexy.
   There was scar tissue on his smooth, bare chest: white scars, pinkish scars, new scars, old scars. I just sat staring with my mouth open.
   Catherine whispered, "Dear God!"
   "He's wonderful, isn't he?" Monica asked.
   I glanced at her. Her flared collar had slipped, exposing two neat puncture wounds, fairly old, almost scars. Sweet Jesus.
   The music burst into a pulsing violence. He danced, swaying, gyrating, throwing the strength of his body into every move. There a white mass of scars over his left collarbone, ragged and viscious. My stomach tightened. A vampire had torn through his collarbone ripped at him like a dog with a piece of meat. I knew, because I had a similar scar. I had a lot of similar scars.
   Dollar bills appeared in hands like mushrooms after a rain. Monica was waving her money like a flag. I didn't want Phillip at our table. I had to lean into Monica to be heard over the noise.
   "Monica, please, don't bring him over here."
   Even as she turned to look at me, I knew it was too late. Phillip of the many scars was standing on the stage, looking down at us. I stared up into his very human eyes.
   I could see the pulse in Monica's throat. She licked her lips; her eyes were enormous. She stuffed the money down the front of his pants.
   Her hands traced his scars like nervous butterflies. She leaned her face close to his stomach and began kissing his scars, leaving red lipstick prints behind. He knelt as she kissed him, forcing her mouth higher and higher up his chest.
   He knelt, and she pressed lips to his face. He brushed his hair back from his neck, as if he knew what she wanted. She licked the newest bite scar, tongue small and pink, like a cat. I heard her breath go out in a trembling sigh. She bit him, mouth locking over the wound. Phillip jerked with pain, or just surprise. Her jaws tightened, her throat worked. She was sucking the wound.
   I looked across the table at Catherine. She was staring at them, face blank with astonishment.
   The crowd was going wild, screaming and waving money. Phillip pulled away from Monica and moved on to another table. Monica slumped forward, head collapsing into her lap, arms limp at her side.
   Had she fainted? I reached out to touch her shoulder and realized I didn't want to touch her. I gripped her shoulder gently. She moved, turning her head to look at me. Her eyes held that lazy fullness that sex gives. Her mouth looked pale with most of the lipstick worn away. She hadn't fainted; she was basking in the afterglow.
   I drew back from her, rubbing my hand against my jeans. My palms were sweating.
   Phillip was back on the stage. He had stopped dancing. He was just standing there. Monica had left a small round mark on his neck.
   I felt the first stirrings of an old mind, flowing over the crowd. Catherine asked, "What's happening?"
   "It's all right," Monica said. She was sitting upright in her chair, eyes still half-closed. She licked her lips and stretched, hands over her head.
   Catherine turned to me. "Anna, what is it?"
   "Vampire." I said.
   Fear flashed on her face, but it didn't last. I watched the fear fade under the weight of the vampire's mind. She turned slowly to stare at Phillip as he waited on the stage. Catherine was in no danger. This mass hypnosis was not personal, and not permanent.
   The vampire wasn't as old as Jean-Claude., nor as good. I sat there feeling the press and flow of over a hundred years of power, and it wasn't enough. I felt him move up through the tables. He had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the poor humans wouldn't see him come. He would simply appear in their midst, like magic.
   You don't get to surprise vampires often. I turned to watch the vampire walk towards the stage. Every human face I saw was enraptured, turned blindly to the stage, waiting. The vampire was tall with high cheekbones, model-perfect, sculpted. He was too masculine to be beautiful, and too perfect to be real.
   He strode through the tables wearing a proverbial vampire outfit, black tux and white gloves. He stopped one table away from me, to stare. He held the audience in the palm of his mind, helpless and waiting. But there I sat staring at him, though not at his eyes.
   His body stiffened, surprised. There's nothing like ruining the calm of a hundred-year-old vampire to boost a girl's morale.
   I looked past him to see Jean-Claude. He was staring at me. I saluted him with my drink. He acknowledged it with a nod of his head.
   The tall vampire was standing beside Phillip. Phillip's eyes were as blank as any human's. The spell or whatever drifted away. With a thought he awoke the audience, and they gasped. Magic.
   Jean-Claude's voice filled the sudden silence. "This is Robert. Welcome him to our stage."
   The crowd went wild, applauding and screaming. Catherine was applauding along with everyone else. Apparently, she was impressed.
   The music changed again, pulsing and throbbing in the air, almost painfully loud. Robert the vampire began to dance. He moved with a careful violence, pumping to the music. He threw his white gloves into the audience. One landed at my feet. I left it there.
   Monica said, "Pick it up."
   I shook my head.
   Another woman leaned over from another table. Her breath smelled like whiskey. "You don't want it?"
   I shook my head.
   She got up, I suppose to get the glove. Monica beat her to it. The woman sat down, looking unhappy.
   The vampire had stripped, showing a smooth expanse of chest. He dropped to the stage and did fingertip push-ups. The audience went wild. I wasn't impressed. I knew he could bench press a car, if he wanted to. What's a few pushups compared to that?
   He began to dance around Phillip. Phillip turned to face him, arms outspread, slightly crouched, as if he were ready for an attack. They began circling each other. The music softened until it was only a soft underscoring to the movements on stage.
   The vampire began to move closer to Phillip. Phillip moved as if trying to run from the stage. The vampire was suddenly there, blocking his escape.
   I hadn't seen him move. The vampire had just appeared in front of the man. I hadn't seen him move. Fear drove all the air from my body in an icy rush. I hadn't felt the mind trick, but it had happened.
   Jean-Claude was standing only two tables away. He raised one pale hand in a salute to me. The bastard had been in my mind, and I hadn't known it. The audience gasped, and I looked back to the stage.
   They were both kneeling; the vampire had one of Phillip's arms pinned behind his back. One hand gripped Phillip's long hair, pulling his neck back at a painful angle.
   Phillip's eyes were wide and terrified. The vampire hadn't put him under. He wasn't under! He was aware and scared. Dear God. He was panting, his chest rising and falling in short gasps.
   The vampire looked out at the audience and hissed, fangs flashing in the lights. The hiss turned the beautiful face to something bestial. His hunger rode out over the crowd. His need so intense, it made my stomach cramp.
   No, I would not feel this with him. I dug fingernails into the palm of my hand and concentrated. The feeling faded. Pain helped. I opened my shaking fingers and found four half-moons that slowly filled with blood. The hunger beat around me, filling the crowd, but not me, not me.
   I pressed a napkin to my hand and tried to look inconspicuous.
   The vampire drew back his head.
   "No," I whispered.
   The vampire struck, teeth sinking into flesh. Phillip shrieked, and it echoed in the club. The music died abruptly. No one moved. You could have dropped a pin.
   Soft, moist sucking sounds filled the silence. Phillip began to moan, high in his throat. Over and over again, small helpless sounds.
   I looked out at the crowd. They were with the vampire, feeling his hunger, his need, feeling him feed. Maybe sharing Phillip's terror, I didn't know. I was apart from it, and glad.
   The vampire stood, letting Phillip fall to the stage, limp, unmoving. I stood without meaning to. The man's scarred back convulsed in a deep, shattering breath, as if he were fighting back from death. And maybe he was.
   He was alive. I sat back down. My knees felt weak. Sweat covered my palms and stung the cuts on my hand. He was alive, and he enjoyed it. I wouldn't have believed it if someone had told me. I would have called them a liar.
   A vampire junkie. Surely to God, I'd seen everything now.
   Jean-Claude whispered, "Who wants a kiss?"
   No one moved for a heartbeat; then hands, holding money, raised here and there. Not many, but a few. Most people looked confused, as if they had woken from a bad dream. Monica was holding money up.
   Phillip lay where he had been dropped, chest rising and falling.
   Robert the vampire came to Monica. She tucked money down his pants. He pressed his bloody, fanged mouth to her lips. The kiss was long and deep, full of probing tongues. They were tasting each other.
   The vampire drew away from Monica. Her hands at his neck tried to draw him back, but he pulled away. He turned to me. I shook my head and showed him empty hands. No money here, folks.
   He grabbed for me, snake-quick. No time to think. My chair crashed to the floor. I was standing, just out of reach. No ordinary human could have seen him coming. The jig, as they say, was up.
   A buzz of voices raised through the audience as they tried to figure out what had happened. Just your friendly neighborhood animator, folks, nothing to get excited about. The vampire was still staring at me.
   Jean-Claude was suddenly beside me, and I hadn't seen him come. "Are you all right, Anita?"
   His voice held things that the words didn't even hint at. Promises whispered in darkened rooms, under cool sheets. He sucked me under, rolled my mind like a wino after money, and it felt good. Crash-Shrill-Noise thundered through my mind, chased the vampire out, held him at bay.
   My beeper had gone off. I blinked and staggered against our table. He reached out to steady me. "Don't touch me," I said.
   He smiled. "Of course."
   I pushed the button on my beeper to silence it. Thank you God, that I hung the beeper on my waistband instead of stuffing it in a purse. I might never have heard it otherwise. I called from the phone at the bar. The police wanted my expertise at the Hillcrest Cemetery. I had to work on my night off. Yippee, and I meant it.
   I offered to take Catherine with me, but she wanted to stay. Whatever else you can say about vampires, they are fascinating. It went with the job description, like drinking blood and working nights. It was her choice.
   I promised to come back in time to drive them home. Then I picked up my cross from the holy item check girl and slipped it inside my shirt.
   Jean-Claude was standing by the door. He said, "I almost had you, my little animator."
   I glanced at his face and quickly down. "Almost doesn't count, you blood-sucking bastard."
   Jean-Claude threw back his head and laughed. His laughter followed me out into the night, like velvet rubbing along my spine.

5
   The coffin lay on its side. A white scar of claw marks ran down the dark varnish. The pale blue lining, imitation silk, was sliced and gouged. One bloody handprint showed plainly; it could almost have been human. All that was left of the older corpse was a shredded brown suit, a finger bone gnawed clean and a scrap of scalp. The man had been blond.
   A second body lay perhaps five feet away. The man's clothes were shredded. His chest had been ripped open, ribs cracked like eggshells. Most of his internal organs were gone, leaving his body cavity like a hollowed-out log. Only his face was untouched. Pale eyes stared impossibly wide up into the summer stars.
   I was glad it was dark. My night vision is good, but darkness steals color. All the blood was black. The man's body was lost in the shadows of the trees. I didn't have to see him, unless I walked up to him. I had done that. I had measured the bite marks with my trusty tape measure. With my little plastic gloves I had searched the corpse over, looking for clues. There weren't any.
   I could do anything I wanted to the scene of the crime. It had already been videotaped and snapped from every possible angle. I was always the last "expert" called in. The ambulance was waiting to take the bodies away, once I was finished.
   I was about finished. I knew what had killed the man. Ghouls. I had narrowed the search down to a particular kind of undead. Bully for me. The coroner could have told them that.
   I was beginning to sweat inside the coverall I had put on to protect my clothes. The coverall was originally for vampire stakings, but I had started using it at crime scenes. There were black stains at the knees and down the legs. There had been so much blood in the grass. Thank you, dear God, that I didn't have to see this in broad daylight.
   I don't know why seeing something like this in daylight makes it worse, but I'm more likely to dream about a daylight scene. The blood is always so red and brown and thick.
   Night softens it, makes it less real. I appreciated that.
   I unzipped the front of my coverall, letting it gape open around my clothes. The wind blew against me, amazingly cool. The air smelled of rain. Another thunderstorm was moving this way.
   The yellow police tape was wrapped around tree trunks, strung through bushes. One yellow loop went around the stone feet of an angel. The tape flapped and cracked in the growing wind. Sergeant Rudolf Storr lifted the tape and walked towards me.
   He was six-eight and built like a wrestler. He had a brisk, striding walk. His close-cropped black hair left his ears bare. Dolph was the head of the newest task force, the spook squad. Officially, it was the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team, R-P-I-T, pronounced rip it. It handled all supernatural-related crime. It wasn't exactly a step up for his career. Willie McCoy had been right; the task force was a half-hearted effort to placate the press and the liberals.
   Dolph had pissed somebody off, or he wouldn't have been here. But Dolph, being Dolph, was determined to do the best job he could. He was like a force of nature. He didn't yell, he was just there, and things got done because of it.
   "Well," he said.
   That's Dolph, a man of many words. "It was a ghoul attack."
   "And."
   I shrugged. "And there are no ghouls in this cemetery."
   He stared down at me, face carefully neutral. He was good at that, didn't like to influence his people. "You just said it was a ghoul attack."
   "Yes, but they came from somewhere outside the cemetery."
   "So?"
   "I have never known of any ghouls to travel this far outside their own cemetery." I stared at him, trying to see if he understood what I was saying.
   "Tell me about ghouls, Anita." He had his trusty little notebook out, pen poised and ready.
   "This cemetery is still holy ground. Cemeteries that have ghoul infestations are usually very old or have satanic or certain voodoo rites performed in them. The evil sort of uses up the blessing, until the ground becomes unholy. Once that happens, ghouls either move in or rise from the graves. No one's sure exactly which."
   "Wait, what do you mean, that no one knows?"
   "Basically."
   He shook his head, staring at the notes he'd made, frowning. "Explain."
   "Vampires are made by other vampires. Zombies are raised from the grave by an animator or voodoo priest. Ghouls, as far as we know, just crawl out of their graves on their own. There are theories that very evil people become ghouls. I don't buy that. There was a theory for a while that people bitten by a supernatural being, wereanimal, vampire, whatever, would become a ghoul. But I've seen whole cemeteries emptied, every corpse a ghoul. No way they were all attacked by supernatural forces while alive."
   "All right, we don't know where ghouls come from. What do we know?"
   "Ghouls don't rot like zombies. They retain their form more like vampires. They are more than animal intelligent, but not by much. They are cowards and won't attack a person unless she is hurt or unconscious."
   "They sure as hell attacked the groundskeeper."
   "He could have been knocked unconscious somehow."
   "How?"
   "Someone would have had to knock him out."
   "Is that likely?"
   "No, ghouls don't work with humans, or any other undead. A zombie will obey orders, vampires have their own thoughts. Ghouls are like pack animals, wolves maybe, but a lot more dangerous. They wouldn't be able to understand working with someone. If you're not a ghoul, you're either meat or something to hide from."
   "Then what happened here?"
   "Dolph, these ghouls traveled quite a distance to reach this cemetery. There isn't another one for miles. Ghouls don't travel like that. So maybe, just maybe, they attacked the caretaker when he came to scare them off. They should have run from him; maybe they didn't."
   "Could it be something, or someone, pretending to be ghouls?"
   "Maybe, but I doubt it. Whoever it was, they ate that man. A human might do that, but a human couldn't tear the body apart like that. They just don't have the strength."
   "Vampire?"
   "Vampires don't eat meat."
   "Zombies?"
   "Maybe. There are rare cases where zombies go a little crazy and start attacking people. They seem to crave flesh. If they don't get it, they'll start to decay."
   "I thought zombies always decayed."
   "Flesh-eating zombies last a lot longer than normal. There's one case of a woman who is still human-looking after three years."
   "They let her go around eating people?"
   I smiled. "They feed her raw meat. I believe the article said lamb was preferred."
   "Article?"
   "Every career has its professional journal, Dolph."
   "What's it called?"
   I shrugged. "The Animator, what else?"
   He actually smiled. "Okay. How likely is it that it's zombies?"
   "Not very. Zombies don't run in packs unless they're ordered to."
   "Even" -he checked his notes– "flesh-eating zombies?"
   "There have only been three documented cases. All of them were solitary hunters."
   "So, flesh-eating zombies, or a new kind of ghoul. That sum it up?"
   I nodded. "Yeah."
   "Okay, thanks. Sorry to interrupt your night off." He closed his notebook and looked at me. He was almost grinning. "The secretary said you were at a bachelorette party." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Hoochie coochie."
   "Don't give me a hard time; Dolph."
   "Wouldn't dream of it."
   "Riiight," I said. "If you don't need me anymore, I'll be getting back."
   "We're finished, for now. Call me if you think of anything else."
   "Will do." I walked back to my car. The bloody plastic gloves were shoved into a garbage sack in the trunk. I debated on the coveralls and finally folded them on top of the garbage sack. I might be able to wear them one more time.
   Dolph called out, "You be careful tonight, Anita. Wouldn't want you picking up anything."
   I glared back at him. The rest of the men waved at me and called in unison, "We loove you."
   "Gimme a break."
   One called, "If I'd known you liked to see naked men, we could have worked something out."
   "The stuff you got, Zerbrowski, I don't want to see."
   Laughter, and someone grabbed him around the neck. "She got you, man ... Give it up, she gets you every time."
   I got into my car to the sound of masculine laughter, and one offer to be my "luv" slave. It was probably Zerbrowski.

6
   I arrived back at Guilty Pleasures a little after midnight. Jean Claude was standing at the bottom of the steps. He was leaning against the wall, utterly still. If he was breathing, I couldn't see it. The wind blew the lace on his shirt. A lock of black hair trailed across the smooth paleness of his cheek.
   "You smell of other people's blood, ma petite."
   I smiled at him, sweetly. "It was no one you knew."
   His voice when it came was low and dark, full of a quiet rage. It slithered across my skin, like a cold wind. "Have you been killing vampires, my little animator?"
   "No." I whispered it, my voice suddenly hoarse. I had never heard his voice like that.
   "They call you The Executioner, did you know that?"
   "Yes." He had done nothing to threaten me, yet nothing at that moment would have forced me to pass him. They might as well have barred the door.
   "How many kills do you have to your credit?"
   I didn't like this conversation. It wasn't going to end anywhere I wanted to be. I knew one master vampire who could smell lies. I didn't understand Jean-Claude's mood, but I wasn't about to lie to him. "Fourteen."
   "And you call us murderers."
   I just stared at him, not sure what he wanted me to say.
   Buzz the vampire came down the steps. He stared from Jean Claude to me, then took up his post by the door, huge arms crossed over his chest.
   Jean-Claude asked, "Did you have a nice break?"
   "Yes, thank you, master."
   The master vampire smiled. "I've told you before, Buzz, don't call me master."
   "Yes, M-M ... Jean-Claude."
   The vampire gave his wondrous, nearly touchable laugh. "Come, Anita, let us go inside where it is warmer."
   It was over eighty degrees on the sidewalk. I didn't know what in the world he was talking about. I didn't know what we'd been talking about for the last few minutes.
   Jean-Claude walked up the steps. I watched him disappear inside. I stood staring at the door, not wanting to go inside. Something was wrong, and I didn't know what.
   "You going inside?" Buzz asked.
   "I don't suppose you'd go inside, and ask Monica and the redhaired woman she's with to come outside?"
   He smiled, flashing fang. It's the mark of the new dead that they flash their fangs around. They like the shock effect. "Can't leave my post. I just had a break."
   "Thought you'd say something like that."
   He grinned at me.
   I went into the twilit dark of the club. The holy item check girl was waiting for me at the door. I gave her my cross. She gave me a check stub. It wasn't a fair trade. Jean-Claude was nowhere in sight.
   Catherine was on the stage. She was standing motionless, eyes wide. Her face had that open, fragile look that faces get when they sleep, like a child's face. Her long, copper-colored hair glistened in the lights. I knew a deep trance when I saw it.
   "Catherine." I breathed her name and ran towards her. Monica was sitting at our table, watching me come. There was an awful, knowing smile on her face.
   I was almost to the stage when a vampire appeared behind Catherine. He didn't walk out from behind the curtain, he just bloody appeared behind her. For the first time I understood what humans must see. Magic.
   The vampire stared at me. His hair was golden silk, his skin ivory, eyes like drowning pools. I closed my eyes and shook my head. This couldn't be happening. No one was that beautiful.
   His voice was almost ordinary after the face, but it was a command. "Call her."
   I opened my eyes to find the audience staring at me. I glanced at Catherine's blank face and knew what would happen, but like any ignorant client I had to try. "Catherine, Catherine, can you hear me?"
   She never moved; only the faintest of movements showed her breathing. She was alive, but for how long? The vampire had gotten to her, deep trance. That meant he could call her anytime, anywhere, and she would come. From this moment on, her life belonged to him. Whenever he wanted it.
   "Catherine, please!" There was nothing I could do, the damage was done. Dammit, I should never have left her here, never!
   The vampire touched her shoulder. She blinked and stared around, surprised, scared. She gave a nervous laugh. "What happened?"
   The vampire raised her hand to his lips. "You are now under my power, my lovely one."
   She laughed again, not understanding that he had told her the absolute truth. He led her to the edge of the stage, and two waiters helped her back to her seat. "I feel fuzzy," she said.
   Monica patted her hand. "You were great."
   "What did I do?"
   "I'll tell you later. The show's not over yet." She stared at me when she said the last.
   I already knew I was in trouble. The vampire on the stage was staring at me. It was like weight against my skin. His will, force, personality, whatever it was, beat against me. I could feel it like a pulsing wind. The skin on my arms crawled with it.
   "I am Aubrey," the vampire said. "Give me your name."
   My mouth was suddenly dry, but my name was not important. He could have that. "Anita."
   "Anita. How pretty."
   My knees sort of buckled and spilled me into a chair. Monica was staring at me, eyes enormous and eager.
   "Come, Anita, join me on the stage." His voice wasn't as good as Jean-Claude's, it just wasn't. There was no texture to it, but the mind behind the voice was like nothing I had ever felt. It was ancient, terribly ancient. The force of his mind made my bones ache.
   "Come."
   I kept shaking my head, over and over. It was all I could do. No words, no real thoughts, but I knew I could not get out of this chair. If I came to him now, he would have power over me just as he did Catherine. Sweat soaked through the back of my blouse.
   "Come to me, now!"
   I was standing, and I didn't remember doing it. Dear God, help me! "No!" I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I tore my own skin and welcomed the pain. I could breathe again.
   His mind receded like the ocean pulling back. I felt lightheaded, empty. I slumped against the table. One of the vampire waiters was at my side. "Don't fight him. He gets angry if you fight him."
   I pushed him away. "If I don't fight him, he'll own me!"
   The waiter looked almost human, one of the new dead. There was a look on his face. It was fear.
   I called to the thing on the stage, "I'll come to the stage if you don't force me."
   Monica gasped. I ignored her. Nothing mattered but getting through the next few moments.
   "Then by all means, come," the vampire said.
   I stood away from the table and found I could stand without falling. Point for me. I could even walk. Two points for me. I stared at the hard, polished floor. If I concentrated just on walking I would be all right. The first step of the stage came into view. I glanced up.
   Aubrey was standing in the center of the stage. He wasn't trying to call me. He stood perfectly still. It was like he wasn't there at all; he was a terrible nothingness. I could feel his stillness like a pulse in my head. I think he could have stood in plain sight, and unless he wanted me to, I would never have seen him.
   "Come." Not a voice, but a sound inside my head. "Come to me. "
   I tried to move back and couldn't. My pulse thundered into my throat. I couldn't breathe. I was choking! I stood with the force of his mind twisting against me.
   "Don't fight me!" He screamed in my head.
   Someone was screaming, wordlessly, and it was me. If I stopped fighting, it would be so easy, like drowning after you stop struggling. A peaceful way to die. No, no. "No." My voice sounded strange, even to me.
   "What?" he asked. His voice held surprise.
   "No," I said, and I looked up at him. I met his eyes with the weight of all those centuries pulsing down. Whatever it was that made me an animator, that helped me raise the dead, it was there now. I met his eyes and stood still.
   He smiled then, a slow spreading of lips. "Then I will come to you."
   "Please, please, don't." I could not step back. His mind held me like velvet steel. It was everything I could do not to move forward. Not to run to meet him.
   He stopped, with our bodies almost touching. His eyes were a solid, perfect brown, bottomless, endless. I looked away from his face. Sweat trickled down my forehead.
   "You smell of fear, Anita."
   His cool hand traced the edge of my cheek. I started to shake and couldn't stop. His fingers pulled gently through the waves of my hair. "How can you face me this way?"
   He breathed along my face, warm as silk. His breath slid to my neck, warm and close. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. His hunger pulsed against my skin. My stomach cramped with his need. He hissed at the audience, and they squealed in terror. He was going to do it.
   Terror came in a blinding rush of adrenaline. I pushed away from him. I fell to the stage and scrambled away on hands and knees.
   An arm grabbed me around the waist, lifting. I screamed, striking backwards with my elbow. It thudded home, and I heard him gasp, but the arm tightened. Tightened until it was crushing me.
   I tore at my sleeve. Cloth ripped. He threw me onto my back. He was crouched over me, face twisted with hunger. His lips curled back from his teeth, fangs glistening.
   Someone moved onto the stage, one of the waiters. The vampire hissed at him, spittle running down his chin. There was nothing human left.
   It came for me in a blinding rush of speed and hunger. I pressed the silver knife over his heart. A trickle of blood glistened down his chest. He snarled at me, fangs gnashing like a dog on the end of a chain. I screamed.
   Terror had washed his power away. There was nothing left but fear. He lunged for me and drove the point of the knife into his skin. Blood began to drip over my hand and onto my blouse. His blood.
   Jean-Claude was suddenly there. "Aubrey, let her go."
   The vampire growled deep and low in his throat. It was an animal sound.
   My voice was high and thin with fear; I sounded like a little girl. "Get him off me, or I'll kill him!"
   The vampire reared back, fangs slashing his own lips. "Get him off me!"
   Jean-Claude began to speak softly in French. Even when I couldn't understand the language his voice was like velvet, soothing. Jean-Claude knelt by us, speaking softly. The vampire growled and lashed out, grabbing Jean-Claude's wrist.
   He gasped, and it sounded like pain.
   Should I kill him? Could I plunge the knife home before he tore out my throat? How fast was he? My mind seemed to be working incredibly fast. There was an illusion that I had all the time in the world to decide and act.
   I felt the vampire's weight heavier against my legs. His voice sounded hoarse, but calm. "May I get up now?"
   His face was human again, pleasant, handsome, but the illusion didn't work anymore. I had seen him unmasked, and that image would always stay with me. "Get off me, slowly."
   He smiled then, a slow confident spread of lips. He moved off me, human-slow. Jean-Claude waved him back until he stood near the curtain.
   "Are you all right, ma petite?"
   I stared at the bloody silver knife and shook my head. "I don't know."
   "I did not mean for this to happen." He helped me sit up, and I let him. The room had fallen silent. The audience knew something had gone wrong. They had seen the truth behind the charming mask. There were a lot of pale, frightened faces out there.
   My right sleeve hung torn where I ripped it to get the knife.
   "Please, put away the knife," Jean-Claude said.
   I stared at him, and for the first time I looked him in the eyes and felt nothing. Nothing but emptiness.
   "My word of honor that you will leave this place in safety. Put the knife away."
   It took me three tries to slide the knife into its sheath, my hands were trembling so badly. Jean-Claude smiled at me, tight-lipped. "Now, we will get off this stage." He helped me stand. I would have fallen if his arm hadn't caught me. He kept a tight grip on my left hand; the lace on his sleeve brushed my skin. The lace wasn't soft at all.
   Jean-Claude held his other hand out to Aubrey. I tried to pull away, and he whispered, "No fear, I will protect you, I swear it."
   I believed him, I don't know why, maybe because I had no one else to believe. He led Aubrey and me to the front of the stage. His rich voice caressed the crowd. "We hope you enjoyed our little melodrama. It was very realistic, wasn't it?"
   The audience shifted uncomfortably, fear plain in their faces.
   He smiled out at them and dropped Aubrey's hand. He unbuttoned my sleeve and pushed it back, exposing the burn scar. The cross was dark against my skin. The audience was silent, still not understanding. Jean-Claude pulled the lace away from his chest, exposing his own cross-shaped burn.
   There was a moment of stunned silence, then applause thundered around the room. Screams and shouts, and whistles roared around us.
   They thought I was a vampire, and it had all been an act. I stared at Jean-Claude's smiling face and the matching scars: his chest, my arm.
   Jean-Claude's hand pulled me down into a bow. As the applause finally began to fade, Jean-Claude whispered, "We need to talk, Anita. Your friend Catherine's life depends on your actions."
   I met his eyes and said, "I killed the things that gave me this scar."
   He smiled broadly, showing just a hint of fang. "What a lovely coincidence. So did I"

7
   Jean-Claude led us through the curtains at the back of the stage. Another vampire stripper was waiting to go on. He was dressed like a gladiator, complete with metal breastplate and short sword. "Talk about an act that's hard to follow. Shit." He jerked the curtain open and stalked through.
   Catherine came through, her face so pale her freckles stood out like brown ink spots. I wondered if I looked as pale? Naw. I didn't have the skin tone for it.
   "My God, are you all right?" she asked.
   I stepped carefully over a line of cables that snaked across the backstage floor and leaned against the wall. I began to relearn how to breathe. "I'm fine," I lied.
   "Anita, what is going on? What was that stuff on stage? You aren't a vampire any more than I am."
   Aubrey made a silent hiss behind her back, fangs straining, making his lips bleed. His shoulders shook with silent laughter.
   Catherine gripped my arm. "Anita?"
   I hugged her, and she hugged me back. I would not let her die like this. I would not let it happen. She pulled away from me and stared into my face. "Talk to me."
   "Shall we talk in my office?" Jean-Claude asked.
   "Catherine doesn't need to come."
   Aubrey strolled closer. He seemed to glimmer in the twilight dark, like a jewel. "I think she should come. It does concern her intimately." He licked his bloody lips, tongue pink and quick as a cat's.
   "No, I want her out of this, any way I can get her out of it."
   "Out of what? What are you talking about?"
   Jean-Claude asked, "Is she likely to go to the police?"
   "Go to the police about what?" Catherine asked, her voice getting louder with each question.
   "If she did?"
   "She would die," Jean-Claude said.
   "Wait just a minute," Catherine said. "Are you threatening me?"
   Catherine's face was gaining a lot of color. Anger did that to her. "She'll go to the police," I said.
   "It is your choice."
   "I'm sorry, Catherine, but it would be better for us all if you didn't remember any of this."
   "That's it! We are leaving, now." She grabbed my hand, and I didn't stop her.
   Aubrey moved up behind her. "Look at me, Catherine."
   She stiffened. Her fingers dug into my hand; incredible tension vibrated down her muscles. She was fighting it. God, help her. But she didn't have any magic, or crucifixes. Strength of will was not enough, not against something like Aubrey.
   Her hand fell away from my arm, fingers going limp all at once. Breath went out of her in a long, shuddering sigh. She stared at something just a little over my head, something I couldn't see.
   I whispered, "Catherine, I'm sorry."
   "Aubrey can wipe her memory of this night. She will think she drank too much, but that will not undo the damage."
   "I know. The only thing that can break Aubrey's hold on her is his death."
   "She will be dust in her grave before that happens."
   I stared at him, at the blood stain on his shirt. I smiled a very careful smile.
   "This little wound was luck and nothing more. Do not let it make you overconfident," Aubrey said.
   Overconfident; now that was funny. I barely managed not to laugh. "I understand the threat, Jean-Claude. Either I do what you want or Aubrey finishes what he started with Catherine."
   "You have grasped the situation, ma petite."
   "Stop calling me that. What is it exactly that you want from me?"
   "I believe Willie McCoy told you what we wanted."
   "You want to hire me to check into the vampire murders?"
   "Exactly."
   "This," I motioned to Catherine's blank face, "was hardly necessary. You could have beaten me up, threatened my life, offered me more money. You could have done a lot of things before you did this."
   He smiled, lips tight. "All that would have taken time. And let us be truthful. In the end you would still have refused us."
   "Maybe."
   "This way, you have no choice."
   He had a point. "Okay, I'm on the case. Satisfied?"
   "Very," Jean-Claude said, his voice very soft. "What of your friend?"
   "I want her to go home in a cab. And I want some guarantees that old long-fang isn't going to kill her anyway."
   Aubrey laughed, a rich sound that ended in a hysterical hissing. He was bent over, shaking with laughter. "Long-fang, I like that."
   Jean-Claude glanced at the laughing vampire and said, "I will give you my word that she will not be harmed if you help us."
   "No offense, but that's not enough."
   "You doubt my word." His voice growled low and warm, angry.
   "No, but you don't hold Aubrey's leash. Unless he answers to you you can't guarantee his behavior."
   Aubrey's laughter had softened to a few faint giggles. I had never heard a vampire giggle before. It wasn't a pleasant sound. The laughter died completely, and he straightened. "No one holds my leash, girl. I am my own master."
   "Oh, get real. If you were over five hundred years old, and a master vampire, you'd have cleaned up the stage with me. As it was"-I flattened my hands palms up-"you didn't, which means you're very old but not your own master."
   He growled low in his throat, face darkening with anger. "How dare you?"
   "Think, Aubrey, she judged your age within fifty years. You are not a master vampire, and she knew that. We need her."
   "She needs to learn some humility." He stalked towards me, body rigid with anger, hands clenching and unclenching in the air.
   Jean-Claude stepped between us. "Nikolaos is expecting us to bring her, unharmed."
   Aubrey hesitated. He snarled; his jaws snapped on empty air. The smack of his teeth biting together was a dull, angry sound.
   They stared at each other. I could feel their wills straining through the air, like a distant wind. It made the skin at the back of my neck crawl. It was Aubrey who looked away, with an angry graceful blink. "I will not anger, my master." He emphasized "my," making it clear that Jean-Claude was not "his" master.
   I swallowed hard twice, and it sounded loud. If they wanted me scared, they were doing a hell of a job. "Who is Nikolaos?"
   Jean-Claude turned to look at me, his face calm and beautiful. "That question is not ours to answer."
   "What is that supposed to mean?"
   He smiled, lips curling carefully so no fang showed. "Let us put your friend in a cab, out of harm's way."
   "What of Monica"
   He grinned then, fangs showing; he looked genuinely amused. "Are you worried for her safety?"
   It hit me then-the impromptu bachelorette party, there only being the three of us. "She was the lure to get Catherine and me down here."
   He nodded, once down, once up.
   I wanted to go back out and smash Monica's face in. The more I thought about the idea, the better it sounded. As if by magic, she parted the curtains and came back. I smiled at her, and it felt good.
   She hesitated, glancing from me to Jean-Claude and back. "Is everything going according to plan?"
   I walked towards her. Jean-Claude grabbed my arm. "Do not harm her, Anita. She is under our protection."
   "I swear to you that I will not lay a finger on her tonight. I just want to tell her something."
   He released my arm, slowly, like he wasn't sure it was a good idea. I stepped next to Monica, until our bodies almost touched. I whispered into her face, "If anything happens to Catherine, I will see you dead."
   She smirked at me, confident in her protectors. "They will bring me back as one of them."
   I felt my head shake, a little to the right, a little to the left, a slow precise movement. "I will cut out your heart." I was still smiling, I couldn't seem to stop. "Then I will burn it and scatter the ashes in the river. Do you understand me?"
   She swallowed audibly. Her health-club tan looked a little green. She nodded, staring at me like I was the bogey man.
   I think she believed I'd do it. Peachy keen. I hate to waste a really good threat.

8
   I watched Catherine's cab vanish around the corner. She never turned, or waved, or spoke. She would wake tomorrow with vague memories. Just a night out with the girls.
   I would like to have thought she was out of it, safe, but I knew better. The air smelled thickly of rain. The street lights glistened off the sidewalk. The air was almost too thick to breathe. St. Louis in the summer. Peachy.
   "Shall we go?" Jean-Claude asked.
   He stood, white shirt gleaming in the dark. If the humidity bothered him, it didn't show. Aubrey stood in the shadows near the door. The only light on him was the crimson neon of the club sign. He grinned at me, face painted red, body lost in shadows.
   "It's a little too contrived, Aubrey," I said.
   His grin wavered. "What do you mean?"
   "You look like a B-movie Dracula."
   He flowed down the steps, with that easy perfection that only the really old ones have. The street light showed his face tight, hands balled into fists.
   Jean-Claude stepped in front of him and spoke low, voice a soothing whisper. Aubrey turned away with a jerky shrug and began to glide up the street.
   Jean-Claude turned to me. "If you continue to taunt him, there will come a point from which I cannot bring him back. And you will die."
   "I thought your job was to keep me alive for this Nikolaos."
   He frowned. "It is, but I will not die to defend you. Do you understand that?"
   "I do now."
   "Good. Shall we go?" He gestured down the sidewalk, in the direction Aubrey had gone.
   "We're going to walk?"
   "It is not far." He held his hand out to me.
   I stared at it and shook my head.
   "It is necessary, Anita. I would not ask it otherwise."
   "How is it necessary?"
   "This night must remain secret from the police, Anita. Hold my hand, play the besotted human with her vampire lover. It will explain the blood on your blouse. It will explain where we are going, and why."
   His hand hung there, pale and slender. There was no tremor to the fingers, no movement, as if he could stand there offering me his hand forever. And maybe he could.
   I took his hand. His long fingers curved over the back of my hand. We began walking, his hand very still in mine. I could feel the pulse in my hand against his skin. His pulse began to speed up to match mine. I could feel his blood flow like a second heart.
   "Have you fed tonight?" my voice sounded soft.
   "Can you not tell?"
   "I can never tell with you."
   I saw him smile out of the corner of my eye. "I am flattered."
   "You never answered my question."
   "No," he said.
   "No, you haven't answered me, or no, you haven't fed?"
   He turned his head to me, as we walked. Sweat gleamed on his upper lip. "What do you think, ma petite?" His voice was the softest of whispers.
   I jerked my hand, tried to get away, even though I knew it was silly, and wouldn't work. His hand convulsed around mine, squeezed until I gasped. He wasn't even trying hard.
   "Do not struggle against me, Anita." His tongue slid across his upper lip. "Struggling is-exciting."
   "Why didn't you feed earlier?"
   "I was ordered not to."
   "Why?"
   He didn't answer me. Rain began to patter down. Light and cool.
   "Why?" I repeated.
   "I don't know." His voice was nearly lost in the soft fall of rain. If it had been anyone else I would have said he was afraid.

   The hotel was tall and thin, and made of real brick. The sign out front glowed blue and said, "Vacancy." There was no other sign. Nothing to tell you what the place was called, or even what it was. Just vacancy.
   Rain glistened in Jean-Claude's hair, like black diamonds. My top was sticking to my body. The blood had begun to wash away. Cold water was just the thing for a fresh blood stain.
   A police car eased around the corner. I tensed. Jean-Claude jerked me against him. I put my palm against his chest to keep our bodies from touching. His heart thudded under my hand.
   The police car was going very slowly. A spotlight began to search the shadows. They swept the District regularly. It was bad for tourism if the tourists got wasted by our biggest attractions.
   Jean-Claude grabbed my chin and turned me to look at him. I tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my chin. "Don't fight me!"
   "I won't look in your eyes!"
   "My word that I will not try to bespell you. For this night you may look into my eyes with safety. I swear it." He glanced at the police car, still moving towards us. "If the police are brought into this, I cannot promise what will happen to your friend."
   I forced myself to relax in his arms, letting my body ease against his. My heartbeat sounded loud, as if I had been running. Then I realized it wasn't my heart I was hearing. Jean-Claude's pulse was throbbing through my body. I could hear it, feel it, almost squeeze it in my hand. I stared up at his face. His eyes were the darkest blue I had ever seen, perfect as a midnight sky. They were dark and alive, but there was no sense of drowning, no pull. They were just eyes.
   His face leaned towards me. He whispered, "I swear."
   He was going to kiss me. I didn't want him to. But I didn't want the police to stop and question us. I didn't want to explain the blood stains, the torn blouse. His lips hesitated over my mouth. His heartbeat was loud in my head, his pulse was racing, and my breathing was ragged with his need.
   His lips were silk, his tongue a quick wetness. I tried to pull back and found his hand at the back of my neck, pressing my mouth against his.
   The police spotlight swept over us. I relaxed against Jean-Claude, letting him kiss me. Our mouths pressed together. My tongue found the smooth hardness of fangs. I pulled away, and he let me. He pressed my face against his chest, one arm like steel against my back, pressing me against him. He was trembling, and it wasn't from the rain.
   His breathing was ragged, his heart jumping under his skin against my cheek. The slick roughness of his burn scar touched my face.
   His hunger poured over me in a violent wave, like heat. He had been sheltering me from it, until now. "Jean-Claude!" I didn't try to keep the fear out of my voice.
   "Hush." A shudder ran through his body. His breath escaped in a loud sigh. He released me so abruptly. I stumbled.
   He walked away from me to lean against a parked car. He raised his face up into the rain. I could still feel his heartbeat. I had never been so aware of my own pulse, the blood flowing through my veins. I hugged myself, shivering in the hot rain.
   The police car had vanished into the streetlight darkness. After perhaps five minutes Jean-Claude stood. I could no longer feel his heartbeat. My own pulse was slow and regular. Whatever had happened was over.
   He walked past me and called over his shoulder. "Come, Nikolaos awaits us inside."
   I followed him through the door. He did not try to take my hand. In fact he stayed out of reach, and I trailed after him through a small square lobby. A human man sat behind the front desk. He glanced up from the magazine he was reading. His eyes flicked to Jean-Claude and back to me. He leered at me.
   I glared back. He shrugged and turned back to his magazine. Jean-Claude moved swiftly up the stairs, not waiting for me. He didn't even look back. Maybe he could hear me walking behind him, or maybe he didn't care if I followed.
   I guess we weren't pretending to be lovers anymore. Fancy that. I would almost have said the master vampire didn't trust himself around me.
   There was a long hallway with doors on either side. Jean-Claude was halfway through one of those doors. I walked towards it. I refused to hurry. They could damn well wait.
   The room held a bed, a nightstand with a lamp, and three vampires: Aubrey, Jean-Claude, and a strange female vampire. Aubrey was standing in the far corner, near the window. He was smiling at me. Jean-Claude stood near the door. The female vampire reclined on the bed. She looked like a vampire should. Long, straight, black hair fell around her shoulders. Her dress was full-skirted and black. She wore high black boots with three-inch heels.
   "Look into my eyes," she said.
   I glanced at her, before I could stop myself, then stared down at the floor.
   She laughed, and it had the same quality of touch that Jean-Claude's did. A sound that you could feel with your hands.
   "Close the door, Aubrey," she said. Her r's were thick with some accent that I couldn't place.
   Aubrey brushed past me as he closed the door. He stayed in back of me, where I couldn't see him. I moved to stand with my back to the only empty wall, so I could see all of them, for what good it would do me.
   "Afraid?" Aubrey asked.
   "Still bleeding?" I asked.
   He crossed his arms over the blood stain on his shirt. "We shall see who is bleeding come dawn."
   "Aubrey, do not be childish." The vampire on the bed stood. Her heels clicked against the bare floor. She stalked around me, and I fought an urge to turn and keep her in sight. She laughed again, as if she knew it.
   "You wish me to guarantee your friend's safety?" she asked. She had gone back to sink gracefully onto the bed. The bare, dingy room seemed somehow worse with her sitting there in her two-hundred-dollar leather boots.
   "No," I said.
   "That is what you asked, Anita," Jean-Claude said.
   "I said that I wanted guarantees from Aubrey's master."
   "You are speaking with my master, girl."
   "No, I am not." The room was suddenly very still. I could hear something scrambling inside the wall. I had to look up to make sure the vampires were still in the room. They were all utterly still, like statues, no sense of movement or breathing, or life. They were all so damn old, but none of them were old enough to be Nikolaos.
   "I am Nikolaos," the female said, her voice coaxing and breathing through the-room. I wanted to believe her, but I didn't.
   "No," I said. "You are not Aubrey's master." I risked a glance into her eyes. They were black and widened in surprise when I looked at them. "You are very old, and very good, but you are not old enough or strong enough to be Aubrey's master."
   Jean-Claude said, "I told you she would see through it."
   "Silence!"
   "The game is over, Theresa. She knows."
   "Only because you have told her."
   "Tell them how you knew, Anita."
   I shrugged. "She feels wrong. She just isn't old enough. There is more of a sense of power from Aubrey than from her. That isn't right."
   "Do you still insist on speaking with our master?" the woman asked.
   "I still want guarantees on my friend's safety." I glanced through the room, at each of them. "And I am getting tired of stupid little games."
   Aubrey was suddenly moving towards me. The world slowed. There was no time for fear. I tried to back away, knowing there was nowhere to go.
   Jean-Claude rushed him, hands reaching. He wouldn't make it in time.
   Aubrey's hand came out of nowhere and caught me in the shoulder. The blow knocked all the air from my body and sent me flying backwards. My back slammed into the wall. My head hit a moment later, hard. The world went grey. I slid down the wall. I couldn't breathe. Tiny white shapes danced over the greyness. The world began to go black. I slid to the floor. It didn't hurt; nothing hurt. I struggled to breathe until my chest burned, and darkness took everything away.

9
   Voices floated through the darkness. Dreams. "We shouldn't have moved her."
   "Did you want to disobey Nikolaos?"
   "I helped bring her here, did I not?" It was a man's voice.
   "Yes," a woman said.
   I lay there with my eyes closed. I wasn't dreaming. I remembered Aubrey's hand coming from nowhere. It had been an open backhand slap. If he had closed his fist ... but he hadn't. I was alive.
   "Anita, are you awake?"
   I opened my eyes. Light speared into my head. I closed my eyes against the light and the pain, but the pain stayed. I turned my head, and that was a mistake. The pain was a nauseating ache. It felt like the bones in my head were trying to slide off. I raised hands to cover my eyes and groaned.
   "Anita, are you all right?"
   Why do people always ask you that when the answer is obviously no? I spoke in a whisper, not sure how it would feel to talk. It didn't feel too bad. "Just peachy keen."
   "What?" This from the woman.
   "I think she is being sarcastic," Jean-Claude said. He sounded relieved. "She can't be hurt too badly if she is making jokes."
   I wasn't sure about the hurt too badly part. Nausea flowed in waves, from head to stomach, instead of the other way around. I was betting I had a concussion. The question was, how bad?
   "Can you move, Anita?"
   "No," I whispered.
   "Let me rephrase. If I help you, can you sit up?"
   I swallowed, trying to breathe through the pain and nausea. "Maybe."
   Hands curved under my shoulders. The bones in my head started sliding forward as he lifted. I gasped and swallowed. "I'm going to be sick."
   I rolled over on all fours. The movement was too rapid. The pan was a whirl of light and darkness. My stomach heaved. Vomit burned up my throat. My head was exploding.
   Jean-Claude held me around the waist, one cool hand on my forehead, holding the bones of my head in place. His voice held me, a soothing sheet against my skin. He was speaking French, very softly. I didn't understand a word of it, and didn't need to. His voice held me, rocked me, took some of the pain.
   He cradled me against his chest, and I was too weak to protest. The pain had been screaming through my head; now it was distant, a throbbing ache. It still felt obscene to turn my head, as if my head were sliding apart, but the pain was different, bearable.
   He wiped my face and mouth with a damp cloth. "Do you feel better now?" he asked.
   "Yes." I didn't understand where the pain had gone.
   Theresa said, "Jean-Claude, what have you done?"
   "Nikolaos wishes her to be aware and well for this visit. You saw her. She needs a hospital, not more tormenting."
   "So you helped her." The vampire's voice sounded amused. "Nikolaos will not be pleased."
   I felt him shrug. "I did what was necessary."
   I could open my eyes without squinting or increasing the pain. We were in a dungeon; there was no other word for it. Thick stone walls enclosed a square room, perhaps twenty by twenty feet. Steps led up to a barred, wooden door. There were even chains set in the walls. Torches guttered along the walls. The only thing missing was a rack and a black-hooded torturer, one with big, beefy arms, and a tattoo that said "I love Mom." Yeah, that would have made it perfect.
   I was feeling better, much better. I shouldn't have been recovering this quickly. I had been hurt before, badly. It didn't just fade, not like this.
   "Can you sit unaided?" Jean-Claude asked.
   Surprisingly, the answer was yes. I sat with my back to the wall. The pain was still there, but it just didn't hurt as much. Jean-Claude got a bucket from near the stairs and washed it over the floor. There was a very modern drain in the middle of the floor.
   Theresa stood staring at me, hands on hips. "You certainly are recovering quickly." Her voice held amusement, and something else I couldn't define.
   "The pain, the nausea, it's almost gone. How?"
   She smirked, lips curling. "You'll have to ask Jean-Claude that. It's his doing, not mine."
   "Because you could not have done it." There was a warm edge of anger to his voice.
   Her face paled. "I would not have, regardless."
   "What are you talking about?" I asked.
   Jean-Claude looked at me, beautiful face unreadable. His dark eyes stared into mine. They were still just eyes.
   "Go on, master vampire, tell her. See how grateful she is."
   Jean-Claude stared at me, watching my face. "You are badly hurt, a concussion. But Nikolaos will not let us take you to a hospital until this ... interview is over with. I feared you would die or be unable to ... function." I had never heard his voice so uncertain. "So I shared my life-force with you."
   I started to shake my head. Big mistake. I pressed hands to my forehead. "I don't understand."
   He spread his hands wide. "I do not have the words."
   "Oh, allow me," Theresa said. "He has taken the first step to making you a human servant."
   "No." I was still having trouble thinking clearly, but I knew that wasn't right. "He didn't try to trick me with his mind, or eyes. He didn't bite me."
   "I don't mean one of those pathetic half-creatures that have a few bites and do our bidding. I mean a permanent human servant, one that will never be bitten, never be hurt. One that will age almost as slowly as we do."
   I still didn't understand. Perhaps it showed in my face because Jean-Claude said, "I took your pain and gave you some of my ... stamina."
   "Are you experiencing my pain, then?"
   "No, the pain is gone. I have made you a little harder to hurt."
   I still wasn't taking it all in, or maybe it was just beyond me. "I don't understand."
   "Listen, woman, he has shared with you what we consider a great gift to be given only to people who have proven themselves invaluable."
   I stared at Jean-Claude. "Does this mean I am in your power somehow?"
   "Just the opposite," Theresa said, "you are now immune to his glance, his voice, his mind. You will serve him out of willingness, nothing more. You see what he has done."
   I stared into her black eyes. They were just eyes.
   She nodded. "Now you begin to understand. As an animator you had partial immunity to our gaze. Now you have almost complete immunity." She gave an abrupt barking laugh. "Nikolaos is going to destroy you both." With that she stalked up the stairs, the heels of her boots smacking against the stone. She left the door open behind her.
   Jean-Claude had come to stand over me. His face was unreadable.
   "Why?" I asked.
   He just stared down at me. His hair had dried in unruly curls around his face. He was still beautiful, but the hair made him seem more real.
   "Why?"
   He smiled then, and there were tired lines near his eyes. "If you died, our master would have punished us. Aubrey is already suffering for his ... indiscretion."
   He turned and walked up the stairs. He moved up the steps like a cat, all boneless, liquid grace.
   He paused at the door and glanced back at me. "Someone will come for you when Nikolaos decides it is time." He closed the door, and I heard it latch and lock. His voice floated through the bars, rich, almost bubbling with laughter, "And perhaps, because I liked you." His laughter was bitter, like broken glass.

10
   I had to check the locked door. Rattle it, poke at the lock, as if I knew how to pick locks. See if any bars were loose, though I could never have squeezed through the small window anyway.
   I checked the door because I could not resist it. It was the same urge that made you rattle your trunk after you locked your keys inside.
   I have been on the wrong side of a lot of locked doors. Not a one of them had just opened for me, but there was always a first time. Yeah, I should live so long. Scratch that; bad phrase.
   A sound brought me back to the cell and its seeping, damp walls. A rat scurried against the far wall. Another peered around the edge of the steps, whiskers twitching. I guess you can't have a dungeon without rats, but I would have been willing to give it a try.
   Something else pattered around the edge of the steps; in the torchlight I thought it was a dog. It wasn't. A rat the size of a German shepherd sat up on its sleek black haunches. It stared at me, huge paws tucked close to its furry chest. It cocked one large, black button eye at me. Lips drew back from yellowed teeth. The incisors were five inches long, blunt-edged daggers.
   I yelled, "Jean-Claude!"
   The air filled with high-pitched squeals, echoing, as if they were running up a tunnel. I stepped to the far edge of the stairs. And I saw it. A tunnel cut into the wall, almost man-high. Rats poured out of the tunnel in a thick, furry wave, squealing and biting. They flowed out and began to cover the floor.
   "Jean-Claude!" I beat on the door, jerked at the bars, everything I had done before. It was useless. I wasn't getting out. I kicked the door and screamed, "Dammit!" The sound echoed against the stone walls and almost drowned out the sound of thousands of scrambling claws.
   "They will not come for you until we are finished."
   I froze, hands still on the door. I turned, slowly. The voice had come from inside the cell. The floor writhed and twisted with furry little bodies. High-pitched squeals, the thick brush of fur, the clatter of thousands of tiny claws filled the room. Thousands of them, thousands.
   Four giant rats sat like mountains in the writhing furry tide. One of them stared at me with black button eyes. There was nothing ratlike in the stare. I had never seen wererats before, but I was betting that I was seeing them now.
   One figure stood, legs half-bent. It was man-size, with a narrow, ratlike face. A huge naked tail curved around its bent legs like thick fleshy rope. It-no, he, definitely he-extended a clawed hand. "Come down and join us, human." The voice sounded thick, almost furry, with an edge of whine to it. Each word precise and a little wrong. Rats' lips are not made for talking.
   I was not coming down the steps. No way. I could taste my heart in my throat. I knew a man who survived a werewolf attack, nearly died, and didn't become a werewolf. I know another man who was barely scratched and became a weretiger. Odds were, if I was so much as scratched, in a month's time I would be playing fur-face, complete with black button eyes and yellowish fangs. Dear God.
   "Come down, human. Come down and play."
   I swallowed hard. It felt like I was trying to swallow my heart. "I don't think so."
   It gave a hissing laugh. "We could come up and fetch you." He strode through the lesser rats, and they parted for him frantically, leaping on top of each other to avoid his touch. He stood at the edge of the steps, looking up at me. His fur was almost a honey-brown color, streaked with blond. "If we force you off the steps, you won't like it much."
   I swallowed hard. I believed him. I went for my knife and found the sheath empty. Of course, the vampires had taken it. Dammit.
   "Come down, human, come down and play."
   "If you want me, you're going to have to come get me."
   He curled his tail through his hands, stroking it. One clawed hand ran through the fur of his belly, and stroked lower. I stared very hard at his face, and he laughed at me.
   "Fetch her."
   Two of the dog-size rats moved towards the stairs. A small rat squealed and rolled under their feet. It gave a high, piteous shriek, then nothing. It twitched until the other rats covered it. Tiny bones snapped. Nothing would go to waste.
   I pressed against the door, as if I could sink through it. The two rats crept up the steps, sleek well-fed animals. But there was no animal in the eyes. Whatever was there was human, intelligent.
   "Wait, wait."
   The rats hesitated.
   The ratman said, "Yes?"
   I swallowed audibly. "What do you want?"
   "Nikolaos asked that we entertain you while you wait."
   "That doesn't answer my question. What do you want me to do? What do you want?"
   Lips curled back from yellowed teeth. It looked like a snarl, but I think it was a smile. "Come down to us, human. Touch us, let us touch you. Let us teach you the joys of fur and teeth." He rubbed claws through the fur of his thighs. It drew my attention to him, between his legs. I looked away, and heat rushed up my skin. I was blushing. Dammit!
   My voice came out almost steady. "Is that supposed to be impressive?" I asked.
   He froze for an instant, then snarled, "Get her down here!"
   Great, Anita, antagonize him. Imply that his equipment is a little undersized.
   His hissing laugh ran up my skin in cold waves. "We are going to have fun tonight. I can tell."
   The giant rats came up the steps, muscles working under fur, whiskers thick as wire, wriggling furiously. I pressed my back against the door and began to slide down the wood. "Please, please don't." My voice sounded high and frightened, and I hated it.
   "We've broken you so soon; how very sad," the ratman said.
   The two giant rats were almost on me. I braced my back against the door, knees tucked up, heels planted, the rest of the foot slightly raised. A claw touched my leg, I flinched, but I waited. It had to be right. Please, God, don't let them draw blood. Whiskers scraped along my face, the weight of fur on top of me.
   I kicked out, both feet hitting solidly in the rat. It raised onto its hind legs and toppled backwards. It tittered, tail lashing. I threw myself forward and smashed it in the chest. The rat tumbled over the edge.
   The second rat crouched, making a sound low in its throat. I watched its muscles bunch, and I went down to one knee and braced. If it leaped on me standing, I'd go over the edge. I was only inches from the drop.
   It leaped. I dropped flat to the floor and rolled. I shoved feet and one hand into the warmth of its body and helped it along. The rat plummeted over me and out of sight. I heard the frightened shrieks as it fell. The sound was a thick "thumpth." Satisfying. I doubted either of them were dead. But it was the best I could do.
   I stood, putting my back to the door again. The ratman wasn't smiling anymore. I smiled at him sweetly, my best angelic smile. He didn't seem impressed.
   He made a motion like parting air, smooth. The lesser rats flowed forward with his hand. A creeping brown tide of furry little bodies began to boil up the steps.
   I might be able to get a few of them, but not all of them. If he wanted them to, they'd eat me alive, one tiny crimson bite at a time.
   Rats flowed around my feet, scrambling and arguing. Tiny bodies bumped against my boots. One stretched itself thin, reaching up to grab the edge of my boot. I kicked it off. It fell squealing over the edge.
   The giant rats had dragged one of their injured friends off to one side. The rat wasn't moving. The other I had thrown off was limping.
   A rat leaped upward, claws hooked in my blouse. It hung there, claws trapped in the cloth. I could feel its weight over my breast. I grabbed it around its middle. Teeth sank into my hand until they met, grinding skin, missing bone. I screamed, jerking the rat away from me. It dangled from my hand like an obscene earring. Blood ran down its fur. Another rat leaped on my blouse.
   The ratman was smiling.
   A rat was climbing for my face. I grabbed it by the tail and pulled it away. I yelled, "Are you afraid to come yourself? Are you afraid of me?" My voice was thin with panic, but I said it. "Your friends are injured doing something you're afraid to do. Is that it? Is it?"
   The giant rats were staring from me to the ratman. He glanced at them. "I am not afraid of a human."
   "Then come up, take me yourself, if you can." The rat on my hand dropped away in a spout of blood. The skin between thumb and forefinger was ripped apart.
   The lesser rats hesitated, staring wildly around. One was halfway up my jeans. It dropped to the floor.
   "I am not afraid."
   "Prove it." My voice sounded a little steadier, maybe about nine years old instead of five.
   The giant rats were staring at him, intent, judging, waiting. He made that same cutting-air motion in reverse. The rats squeaked and stood on hind legs staring around, as if they couldn't believe it, but they began to pour down the stairs the way they had come.
   I leaned into the door, knees weak, cradling the bitten hand against my chest. The ratman began to creep up the stairs. He moved easily on the balls of his elongated feet, strong clawed toes digging into the stone.
   Lycanthropes are stronger and faster than humans. No mind tricks, no sleight of hand, they are just better. I would not be able to surprise the wererat, as I had the first. I doubted he would grow angry enough to be stupid, but one could always hope. I was hurt, unarmed, and outmatched. If I couldn't get him to make a mistake, I was in deep shit.
   A long, pink tongue curved over his teeth. "Fresh blood," he said. He drew in a loud breath of air. "You stink of fear, human. Blood and fear, smells like dinner to me." The tongue flicked out and he laughed at me.
   I slid my uninjured hand behind my back, as if reaching for something. "Come closer, ratman, and we'll see how you like silver."
   The ratman hesitated, frozen, half-crouched on the top step. "You have no silver."
   "Want to bet your life on it?"
   His clawed hands clutched each other. One of the large rats squeaked something. He snarled down at it. "I am not afraid!"
   If they egged him on, my bluff wasn't going to work. "You saw what I did to your friends. That was without a weapon." My voice sounded low and sure of itself. Good for me.
   He eyed me out of one large patent-leather eye. His fur glistened in the torchlight as if freshly washed. He gave a small jump and was on the landing, just out of reach.
   "I've never seen a blond rat before," I said. Anything to fill the silence, anything to keep him from taking that one last step. Surely Jean-Claude would come back for me soon. I laughed then, abrupt and half-choked.
   The ratman froze, staring at me. "Why are you laughing?" His voice held just a hint of unease. Good.
   "I was hoping that the vampires would come for me soon and save me. You've got to admit that's funny."
   He didn't seem to think it was funny. A lot of people don't get my jokes. If I was less secure, I'd think my jokes weren't funny. Naw.
   I moved my hand behind my back, still pretending that there was a knife in it. One of the giant rats squealed, and even to me it sounded derisive. He would never live it down if I bluffed him. I might not live it down if I didn't.
   Most people, when confronted with a wererat, freeze or panic. I'd had time to get used to the idea. I wasn't going to fade away if he touched me. There was one possible solution where I could save myself. If I was wrong, he was going to kill me. My stomach turned a sharp flip-flop, and I had to swallow hard. Better dead than furry. If he attacked me, I'd just as soon he killed me. Rats were not my top choice for being a lycanthrope. If your luck was bad, the smallest scratch could infect you.
   If I was quick and lucky, I could go to a hospital and be treated. Sort of like rabies. Of course sometimes the inoculations worked, and sometimes they gave you lycanthropy.
   He wrapped his long, naked tail through his clawed hands. "You ever been had by a were?"
   I wasn't sure if he was talking sex or as a meal. Neither sounded pleasant. He was going to work up to it, get himself brave, then he'd come for me, when he was ready. I wanted him to come when I was ready.
   I chose sex and said, "You haven't got what it takes, ratman."
   He stiffened, hand sliding down his body, claws combing fur. "We'll see who has what, human."
   "Is this the only way you get any sex, forcing yourself on someone? Are you as ugly in human form as you are right now?"
   He hissed at me, mouth wide, teeth bared. A sound rose out of his body, deep and high, a whining growl. I'd never heard a sound like it before. It rose up and down and filled the room with violent, hissing echoes. His shoulders crouched.
   I held my breath. I had pissed him off. Now we would see if my plan worked, or if he killed me. He leaped forward. I dropped to the floor, but he was ready for it. Incredible speed and he was on me, snarling, claws reaching, screaming in my face.
   I bunched my legs against my chest, of he would have been on top of me. He put one claw-hand on my knees and began to push. I tucked arms over my knees, fighting him. It was like fighting steel that moved. He screamed again, high and hissing, spittle raining on me. He went up on his knees to get a better angle at forcing my legs down. I kicked outward, everything I had. He saw it coming and tried to move back, but both feet hit him square between the legs. The impact lifted him off his knees, and he collapsed to the landing, claws scrambling on the stone. He was making a high, whining, breathy sound. He couldn't seem to get enough air.
   A second ratman came scrambling through the tunnel, and rats ran everywhere, squeaking and squealing. I just sat there on the landing as far away from the writhing blond ratman as I could get. I stared at the new ratman, feeling tired and angry.
   Dammit, it should have worked. The bad guys weren't allowed reinforcements when I was already outnumbered. This one's fur was black, jet absolute black. He wore a pair of jean cutoffs over his slightly bent legs. He motioned, smooth and out from his body.
   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 duty."
   "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, throattightening 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.