41
   I sat with my back pressed against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. The front and side of my shirt was clinging to me, water-soaked. Edward knelt beside me, a half-empty bottle of Holy Water in one hand. We were on the third bottle. I had thrown up only once. Bully for me.
   We had started with me sitting on the edge of the sink. I had not stayed there long. I had jumped, yelled, and whimpered. I had also called Edward a son of a bitch. He didn't hold it against me.
   "How do you feel?" he asked. His face was utterly blank. I couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself or hating it.
   I glared up at him. "Like someone's been shoving a red-hot knife against my throat."
   "I mean, do you want to stop and rest awhile?"
   I took a deep breath. "No. I want it clean, Edward. All the way.'
   He shook his head, almost smiled. "It is customary to do this over a matter of days, you know."
   "Yes," I said.
   "But you want it all in one marathon session?" His gaze was very steady, as if the question were more important than it seemed.
   I looked away from the intensity of his eyes. I didn't want to be stared at right now. "I don't have a few days. I need this wound clean before nightfall."
   "Because Nikolaos will come visit you again," he said.
   "Yes," I said.
   "And unless this first wound is purified, she'll have a hold on you."
   I took a deep breath and it trembled. "Yes."
   "Even if we clean the bite, she may still be able to call you. If she's as powerful as you say she is."
   "She's that powerful and more." I rubbed my hands along my jeans. "You think Nikolaos can turn me against you, even if we clean the bite?" I looked up at him then, hoping to be able to read his face.
   He stared down at me. "We vampire slayers take our chances."
   "That wasn't a no," I said.
   He gave a flash of smile. "It wasn't a yes, either."
   Oh, goody, Edward didn't know either. "Pour some more on, before I lose my nerve."
   He did smile then, eyes gleaming. "You will never lose your nerve. Your life, probably, but never your nerve."
   It was a compliment and meant as one. "Thank you."
   He put a hand on my shoulder, and I turned my face away. My heart was thudding in my throat until all I could hear was my blood pulsing inside my head. I wanted to run, to lash out, to scream, but I had to sit there and let him hurt me. I hate that. It had always taken at least two people to give me injections when I was a child. One person to man the needle and one to hold me down.
   Now I held myself down. If Nikolaos bit me twice, I would probably do anything she wanted me to. Even kill. I had seen it happen before, and that vampire had been child's play compared to the master.
   The water trickled down my skin and hit the bite mark like molten gold, scalding through my body. It was eating through my skin and bone. Destroying me. Killing me.
   I shrieked. I couldn't hold it. Too much pain. Couldn't run away. Had to scream.
   I was lying on the floor, my cheek pressed against the coolness of it, breathing in short, hungry gasps.
   "Slow your breathing, Anita. You're hyperventilating. Breathe, slow and easy, or you're going to pass out."
   I opened my mouth and took in a deep breath; it wheezed and screamed down my throat. I was choking on air. I coughed and fought to breathe. I was light-headed and a little sick by the time I could take a deep breath, but I hadn't passed out. A zillion brownie points for me.
   Edward almost had to lie on the floor to put his face near mine. "Can you hear me?"
   I managed, "Yes."
   "Good. I want to try to put the cross against the bite. Do you agree or do you think it's too soon?"
   If we hadn't cleansed the wound with enough Holy Water, the cross would burn me, and I'd have a fresh scar. I had been brave above and beyond the call of duty. I didn't want to play anymore. I opened my mouth to say, "No," but it wasn't what came out. "Do it," I said. Shit. I was going to be brave.
   He brushed my hair away from my neck. I lay on the floor and pressed my hands into fists, trying to prepare myself. There is no real way to prepare yourself for somebody shoving a branding iron into your neck.
   The chain rustled and slithered through Edward's hands. "Are you ready?"
   No. "Just do it, dammit."
   He did. The cross pressed against my skin, cool metal, no burning, no smoke, no seared flesh, no pain. I was pure, or as pure as I started out.
   He dangled the crucifix in front of my face. I grabbed it with one hand and squeezed until my hand shook. It didn't take long. Tears seeped from the corners of my eyes. I wasn't crying, not really. I was exhausted.
   "Can you sit up?" he asked.
   I nodded and forced myself to sit, leaning against the bathtub.
   "Can you stand up?" he asked.
   I thought about it, and decided no, I didn't think I could. My whole body was weak, shaky, nauseous. "Not without help."
   Edward knelt beside me, put an arm behind my shoulders and one under my knees, and lifted me in his arms. He stood in one smooth motion, no strain.
   "Put me down," I said.
   He looked at me. "What?"
   "I am not a child. I don't want to be carried."
   He drew a loud breath, then said, "All right." He lowered me to my feet and let go. I staggered against the wall and slid to the floor. The tears were back, dammit. I sat in the floor, crying, too weak to walk from my bathroom to my bed. God!
   Edward just stood there, looking down at me, face neutral and unreadable as a cat.
   My voice came out almost normal, no hint of crying. "I hate being helpless. I hate it!"
   "You are one of the least helpless people I know," Edward said. He knelt beside me again, draped my right arm over his shoulders, grabbed my right wrist with his hand. His other arm encircled my waist. The height difference made it a little awkward, but he managed to give me the illusion that I walked to the bed.
   The stuffed penguins sat against the wall. Edward hadn't said anything about them. If he wouldn't mention it, I wouldn't. Who knows, maybe Death slept with a teddy bear? Naw.
   The heavy drapes were still closed, leaving the room in permanent twilight. "Rest. I'll stand guard and see that none of the bogeys sneak up on you."
   I believed him.
   Edward brought the white chair from the living room and sat it against the bedroom wall, near the door. He slipped his shoulder holster back on, gun ready at hand. He had brought a gym bag up from the car with us. He unzipped it and drew out what looked like a miniature machine gun. I didn't know much about machine guns, and all I could think of was an Uzi.
   "What kind of gun is that?" I asked.
   "A Mini-Uzi."
   What do you know? I had been right. He popped the clip and showed me how to load it, where the safety was, all the finer points, like it was a new car. He sat down in the chair with the machine gun on his knees.
   My eyes kept fluttering shut, but I said, "Don't shoot any of my neighbors, okay?"
   I think he smiled. "I'll try not to."
   I nodded. "Are you the vampire murderer?"
   He smiled then, bright, charming. "Go to sleep, Anita."
   I was on the edge of sleep when his voice called me back, soft and faraway. "Where is Nikolaos's daytime retreat?"
   I opened my eyes and tried to focus on him. He was still sitting in the chair, motionless. "I'm tired, Edward, not stupid." His laughter bubbled up around me as I fell asleep.

42
   Jean-Claude sat in the carved throne. He smiled at me and extended one long-fingered hand. "Come," he said.
   I was wearing a long, white dress that had lace of its own. I had never dreamed of myself in anything like it. I glanced up at Jean-Claude. It was his choice, not mine. Fear tightened my throat. "It's my dream," I said.
   He held out both hands and said, "Come."
   And I went to him. The dress whispered and scraped on the stones, a continuous rustling noise. It grated on my nerves. I was suddenly standing in front of him. I raised my hands towards his slowly. I shouldn't do it. Bad idea, but I couldn't seem to stop myself.
   His hands wrapped around mine, and I knelt before him. He drew my hands to the lace that spilled down the front of his shirt, forced my fingers to take two handfuls of it.
   He cupped his hands over mine, holding them tight; then he ripped his shirt open using my hands.
   His chest was smooth and pale with black hair curling in a line down the middle. The hair thickened over the flatness of his stomach, incredibly black against the white of his belly. The burn scar was firm and shiny and out of place against the perfection of his body.
   He gripped my chin in one hand, raising my face towards him. His other hand touched his chest, just below his right nipple. He drew blood on his pale skin. It trickled down his chest in a bright, crimson line.
   I tried to pull away, but his fingers dug into my jaw like a vise. I shouted, "No!"
   I hit at him with my left hand. He caught my wrist and held it. I used my right hand to grip the floor and shoved with my knees. He held me at jaw and wrist like a butterfly on a pin. You can move, but you can't get away. I dropped to a sitting position, forcing him to strangle me or lower me to the ground. He lowered me.
   I kicked out with everything I had. Both feet connected with his knee. Vampires can feel pain. He dropped my jaw so suddenly, I fell backwards. He grabbed both my wrists and jerked me to my knees, body pinned on either side by his legs. He sat in the chair, knees controlling my lower body, hands like chains on my wrists.
   A high, tinkling laughter filled the room. Nikolaos stood to one side, watching us. Her laughter echoed through the room, growing louder and louder, like music gone mad.
   Jean-Claude transferred both my wrists to one hand, and I could not stop him. His free hand stroked my cheek, smoothing down the line of my neck. His fingers tightened at the base of my skull and began to push.
   "Jean-Claude, please, don't do this!"
   He pressed my face closer and closer to the wound on his chest. I struggled, but his fingers were welded to my skull, a part of me. "NO!"
   Nikolaos's laughter changed to words. "Scratch the surface, and we are all much alike, animator."
   I screamed, "Jean-Claude!"
   His voice came like velvet, warm and dark, sliding through my mind. "Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, two minds with but one body, two souls wedded as one." For one bright, shining moment, I saw it, felt it. Eternity with JeanClaude. His touch ... forever. His lips. His blood.
   I blinked and found my lips almost touching the wound in his chest. I could have reached out and licked it. "JeanClaude, no! Jean-Claude!" I screamed it. "God help me!" I screamed that, too.
   Darkness and someone gripping my shoulder. I didn't even think about it. Instinct took over. The gun from the headboard was in my hand and turning to point.
   A hand trapped my arm under the pillow, pointing the gun at the wall, a body pressing against mine. "Anita, Anita, it's Edward. Look at me!"
   I blinked up at Edward, who was pinning my arms. His breathing was coming a little fast.
   I stared at the gun in my hand and back at Edward. He was still holding my arms. I guess I didn't blame him.
   "Are you all right?" he asked.
   I nodded.
   "Say something, Anita."
   "I had a nightmare," I said.
   He shook his head. "No shit." He released me slowly.
   I slid the gun back in its holster.
   "Who's Jean-Claude?" he asked.
   "Why?"
   "You were calling his name."
   I brushed a hand over my forehead, and it came away slick with sweat. The clothes I'd slept in and the sheet were drenched with it. These nightmares were beginning to get on my nerves.
   "What time is it?" The room looked too dark, as if the sun had gone down. My stomach tightened. If it was near dark, Catherine wouldn't have a chance.
   "Don't panic; it's just clouds. You've got about four hours until dusk."
   I took a deep breath and staggered into the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and neck. I looked ghost-pale in the mirror. Had the dream been Jean-Claude's doing or Nikolaos's? If it had been Nikolaos, did she already control me? No answers. No answers to anything.
   Edward was sitting in the white chair when I came back out. He watched me like I was an interesting species of insect that he had never seen before.
   I ignored him and called Catherine's office. "Hi, Betty, this is Anita Blake. Is Catherine in?"
   "Hello, Ms. Blake. I thought you knew that Ms. Maison is going to be out of town from the thirteenth until the twentieth on a deposition."
   Catherine had told me, but I forgot. I finally lucked out. It was about time. "I forgot, Betty. Thanks a lot. Thanks more than you'll ever know."
   "Glad to be of help. Ms. Maison has scheduled the first fitting for the bridesmaid dresses on the twenty-third." She said it like it should make me feel better. It didn't.
   "I won't forget. Bye."
   "Have a nice day."
   I hung up and phoned Irving Griswold. He was a reporter for the Saint Louis Post-Dispatch. He was also a werewolf. Irving the werewolf. It didn't quite work, but then what did? Charles the werewolf, naw. Justin, Oliver, Wilbur, Brent? Nope.
   Irving answered on the third ring.
   "It's Anita Blake."
   "Well, hi, what's up?" He sounded suspicious, as if I never called him unless I wanted something.
   "Do you know any wererats?"
   He was quiet for almost too long; then, "Why do you want to know?"
   "I can't tell you."
   "You mean you want my help, but I don't get a story out of it."
   I sighed. "That's about it."
   "Then why should I help you?"
   "Don't give me a hard time, Irving. I've given you plenty of exclusives. My information is what got you your first front page byline. So don't give me grief."
   "A little grouchy today, aren't you?"
   "Do you know a wererat or don't you?"
   "I do."
   "I need to get a message to the Rat King."
   He gave a low whistle that was piercing over the phone. "You don't ask for much, do you? I might be able to get you a meeting with the wererat I know, but not their king."
   "Give the Rat King this message; got a pencil?"
   "Always," he said.
   "The vampires didn't get me, and I didn't do what they wanted."
   Irving read it back to me. When I confirmed it, he said, "You're involved with vampires and wererats, and I don't get an exclusive."
   "No one's going to get this one, Irving. It's going to be too messy for that."
   He was silent a moment. "Okay. I'll try to set up a meeting. I should know sometime tonight."
   "Thanks, Irving."
   "You be careful, Blake. I'd hate to lose my best source of front page bylines."
   "Me, too," I said.
   I had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang again. I picked it up without thinking. A phone rings, you pick it up, years of training. I haven't had my answering machine long enough to shake it completely.
   "Anita, this is Bert."
   "Hi, Bert." I sighed, quietly.
   "I know you are working on the vampire case, but I have something you might be interested in."
   "Bert, I am way over my head already. Anything else and I may never see daylight." You'd think Bert would ask if I was all right. How I was doing. But no, not my boss.
   "Thomas Jensen called today."
   My spine straightened. "Jensen called?"
   "That's right."
   "He's going to let us do it?"
   "Not us, you. He specifically asked for you. I tried to get him to take someone else, but he wouldn't do it. And it has to be tonight. He's afraid he'll chicken out."
   "Damn," I said softly.
   "Do I call him back and cancel, or can you give me a time to have him meet you?"
   Why did everything have to come at once? One of life's rhetorical questions. "Have him meet me at full dark tonight."
   "That's my girl. I knew you wouldn't let me down."
   "I'm not your girl, Bert. How much is he paying you?"
   "Thirty thousand dollars. The five-thousand-dollar down payment has already arrived by special messenger."
   "You are an evil man, Bert."
   "Yes," he said, "and it pays very well, thank you." He hung up without saying good-bye. Mr. Charm.
   Edward was staring at me. "Did you just take a job raising the dead, for tonight?"
   "Laying the dead to rest actually, but yes."
   "Does raising the dead take it out of you?"
   "It?" I asked.
   He shrugged. "Energy, stamina, strength."
   "Sometimes."
   "How about this job? Is it an energy drain?"
   I smiled. "Yes."
   He shook his head. "You can't afford to be used up, Anita."
   "I won't be used up," I said. I took a deep breath and tried to think how to explain things to Edward. "Thomas Jensen lost his daughter twenty years ago. Seven years ago he had her raised as a zombie."
   "So?"
   "She committed suicide. No one knew why at the time. It was later learned that Mr. Jensen had sexually abused his daughter and that was why she had killed herself."
   "And he raised her from the dead." Edward grimaced. "You don't mean ... "
   I waved my hands as if I could erase the sudden vivid image. "No, no, not that. He felt remorseful and raised her to say he was sorry."
   "And?"
   "She wouldn't forgive him."
   He shook his head. "I don't understand."
   "He raised her to make amends, but she had died hating him, fearing him. The zombie wouldn't forgive him, so he wouldn't put her back. As her mind deteriorated and her body, too, he kept her with him as a sort of punishment."
   "Jesus."
   "Yeah," I said. I walked to the closet and got out my gym bag. Edward carried guns in his; I carried my animator paraphernalia in it. Sometimes, I carried my vampire-slaying kit in it. The matchbook Zachary gave me was in the bottom of the bag. I stuffed it in my pants pocket. I don't think Edward saw me. He does catch on if a clue sits up and barks. "Jensen finally agreed to put her in the ground if I'll do it. I can't say no. He's sort of a legend among animators. The closest we come to a ghost story."
   "Why tonight? If it's waited seven years, why not a few more nights?"
   I kept putting things in the gym bag. "He insisted. He's afraid he'll lose his nerve if he has to wait. Besides, I may not be alive a few nights from now. He might not let anybody else do it."
   "That is not your problem. You didn't raise his zombie."
   "No, but I am an animator first. Vampire slaying is ... a sideline. I am an animator. It isn't just a job."
   He was still staring at me. "I don't understand why, but I understand you have to do it."
   "Thanks."
   He smiled. "Your show. Mind if I come along to make sure no one offs you while you're gone?"
   I glanced at him. "Ever see a zombie raising?"
   "No."
   "You're not squeamish, are you?" I smiled when I said it.
   He stared at me, blue eyes gone suddenly cold. His whole face became different. There was nothing there, no expression, except that awful coldness. Emptiness. I'd had a leopard look at me like that once, through the cage bars, no emotion I understood, thoughts so alien it might as well have inhabited a different planet. Something that could kill me, skillfully, efficiently, because that was what it was meant to do, if it was hungry, or if I annoyed it.
   I didn't faint from fear or run screaming from the room, but it was something of an effort. "You've proved your point, Edward. Can the perfect-killer routine, and let's go."
   His eyes didn't revert to normal instantly but had to warm up, like dawn easing through the sky.
   I hoped Edward never turned that look on me for real. If he did, one of us would die. Odds are it would be me.

43
   The night was almost perfectly black. Thick clouds hid the sky. A wind rushed along the ground and smelled of rain.
   Iris Jensen's grave marker was smooth, white marble. It was a nearly life-size angel, wings outspread, arms open, welcoming. You could still read the lettering by flashlight: "Beloved daughter. Sadly missed." The same man who had had the angel carved, who sadly missed her, had been molesting her. She had killed herself to escape him, and he had brought her back. That was why I was out here in the dark, waiting for the Jensens, not him, but her. Even though I knew her mind was gone by now, I wanted Iris Jensen in the ground and at peace.
   I couldn't explain that to Edward, so I hadn't tried. A huge oak stood sentinel over the empty grave. The wind rushed through the leaves and sent them skittering and whispering overhead. It sounded too dry, like autumn leaves instead of summer. The air felt cool and damp, rain almost upon us. It wasn't unbearably hot for once.
   I had picked up a pair of chickens. They clucked softly from inside their crate where they sat near the grave. Edward leaned against my car, ankles crossed, arms loose at his sides. The gym bag was open by me on the ground. The machete I used gleamed from inside.
   "Where is he?" Edward asked.
   I shook my head. "I don't know." It had been almost an hour since full dark. The cemetery grounds were mostly bare; only a few trees dotted the soft roll of hills. We should have been seeing car lights on the gravel road. Where was Jensen? Had he chickened out?
   Edward stepped away from the car and walked to stand beside me. "I don't like it, Anita."
   I wasn't too thrilled either, but ... "We'll give it another fifteen minutes. If he's not here by then, we'll leave."
   Edward glanced around the open ground. "Not much cover around here."
   "I don't think we have to worry about snipers."
   "You said someone shot at you, right?"
   I nodded. He had a point. Goosebumps marched up my arms. The wind blew a hole in the clouds and moonlight streamed down. Off in the distance a small building gleamed silver-grey in the light.
   "What's that?" Edward asked.
   "The maintenance shed," I said. "You think the grass cuts itself?"
   "Never thought about it," he said.
   The clouds rolled in again and plunged the cemetery into blackness. Everything became soft shapes; the white marble seemed to glow with its own light.
   There was the sound of scrabbling claws on metal. I whirled. A ghoul sat on top of my car. It was naked and looked as if a human being had been stripped and dipped into silver-grey paint, almost metallic. But the teeth and claws on its hands and feet were long and black, curved talons. The eyes glowed crimson.
   Edward moved up beside me, gun in his hand.
   I had my gun out, too. Practice, practice, and you don't have to think about it.
   "What's it doing up there?" he asked.
   "Don't know." I waved my free hand at it and said, "Scat!"
   It crouched, staring at me. Ghouls are cowards; they don't attack healthy human beings. I took two steps, waving my gun at it. "Go away, shoo!" Any show of force sends them scuttling away. This one just sat there. I backed away.
   "Edward," I said, softly.
   "Yes."
   "I didn't sense any ghouls in this cemetery."
   "So? You missed one."
   "There's no such thing as just one ghoul. They travel in packs. And you don't miss them. They leave a sort of psychic stench behind. Evil."
   "Anita." His voice was soft, normal, but not normal. I glanced where he was looking and saw two more ghouls creeping up behind us.
   We stood almost back to back, guns pointing out. "I saw a ghoul attack earlier this week. Healthy man killed, a cemetery where there were no ghouls."
   "Sounds familiar," he said.
   "Yeah. Bullets won't kill them."
   "I know. What are they waiting for?" he asked.
   "Courage, I think."
   "They're waiting for me," a voice said. Zachary stepped around the trunk of the tree. He was smiling.
   I think my mouth dropped to the ground. Maybe that was what he was smiling at. I knew then. He wasn't killing human beings to feed his gris-gris. He was killing vampires. Theresa had tormented him, so she had been the next victim. There were still some questions though, big ones.
   Edward glanced at me, then back at Zachary. "Who is this?" he asked.
   "The vampire murderer, I presume," I said.
   Zachary gave a little bow. A ghoul leaned against his leg, and he stroked its nearly bald head. "When did you guess?"
   "Just now. I'm a little slow this year."
   He frowned then. "I thought you'd figure it out eventually."
   "That's why you destroyed the zombie witness's mind. To save yourself."
   "It was fortunate that Nikolaos left me in charge of questioning the man." He smiled when he said it.
   "I'll bet," I said. "How did you get the two-biter to shoot me at the church?"
   "That was easy. I told him the orders came from Nikolaos."
   Of course. "How are you getting the ghouls out of their cemetery? How come they obey your orders?"
   "You know the theory that if you bury an animator in a cemetery, you get ghouls."
   "Yeah."
   "When I came out of the grave, they came with me, and they were mine. Mine."
   I glanced at the creatures and found that there were more of them. At least twenty, a big pack. "So you're saying that's where ghouls come from." I shook my head. "There aren't enough animators in the world to account for all the ghouls."
   "I've been thinking about that," he said. "I think that the more zombies you raise in a cemetery, the greater your chances for ghouls."
   "You mean like a cumulative effect?"
   "Exactly. I've been wanting to talk this over with another animator, but you see the problem."
   "Yes," I said, "I do. Can't talk shop without admitting what you are and what you've done."
   Edward fired without warning. The bullet took Zachary in the chest and twisted him around. He lay face down, the ghouls frozen; then Zachary raised himself up on his elbows. He stood with a little help from an anxious ghoul. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but bullets will never hurt me."
   "Great, a comedian," I said.
   Edward fired again, but Zachary darted behind the tree trunk.
   He called, hidden from sight. "Now, now, no hitting the head. I'm not sure what would happen if you put a bullet in my brain."
   "Let's find out," Edward said.
   "Good-bye, Anita. I won't stay around to watch." He walked away with a troop of ghouls surrounding him. He was crouched in the middle of them, hiding I supposed from a bullet in the brain, but for a minute I couldn't pick him out.
   Two more ghouls appeared around the car, crouched low on the gravel drive. One was female with the tatters of a dress still clinging to her.
   "Let's give them something to be afraid of," Edward said. I felt him move, and his gun fired twice. A high-pitched squealing filled the night. The ghoul on my car leaped to the ground and hid. But there were more of them moving in from all sides. At least fifteen of them had been left behind for us to play with.
   I fired and hit one of them. It fell to its side and rolled in the gravel, making that same high-pitched noise, like a wounded rabbit. Piteous and animal.
   "Is there anyplace we can run to?" Edward asked.
   "The maintenance shed," I said.
   "Is it wood?"
   "Yes."
   "It won't stop them."
   "No," I said, "but it will get us out of the open."
   "Okay, any advice before we start to move?"
   "Don't run until we are very close to the shed. If you run, they'll chase you. They'll think you're scared."
   "Anything else?" he asked.
   "You don't smoke, do you?"
   "No, why?"
   "They're afraid of fire."
   "Great; we're going to be eaten alive because neither one of us smokes."
   I almost laughed. He sounded so thoroughly disgusted, but a ghoul was crouching to leap at me, and I had to shoot it between the eyes. No time for laughter.
   "Let's go, slow and easy," I said.
   "I wish the machine gun wasn't in the car."
   "Me, too."
   Edward fired three shots, and the night filled with squeals and animal screams. We started walking towards the distant shed. I'd say maybe a quarter of a mile away. It was going to be a long walk.
   A ghoul charged us. I dropped it, and it spilled to the grass, but it was like shooting targets, no blood, just empty holes. It hurt, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
   I was walking nearly backwards, one hand back feeling Edward's forward movement. There were too many of them. We were not going to make it to the shed. No way. One of the chickens made a soft, questioning cluck. I had an idea.
   I shot one of the chickens. It flopped, and the other bird panicked, beating its wings against the wooden crate. The ghouls froze, then one put its face into the air and sniffed.
   Fresh blood, boys, come and get it. Fresh meat. Two ghouls were suddenly racing for the chickens. The rest followed, scrambling over each other to crack the wood and get to the juicy morsels inside.
   "Keep walking, Edward, don't run, but walk a little faster. The chickens won't hold them long."
   We walked a little faster. The sounds of scrambling claws, cracking bone, the splatter of blood, the squabbling howls of the ghouls-it was an unwelcome preview.
   Halfway to the shed, a howl went up through the night, long and hostile. No dog ever sounded like that. I glanced back, and the ghouls were rushing over the ground on all fours.
   "Run!" I said.
   We ran.
   We crashed against the shed door and found the damn thing padlocked. Edward shot the lock off; no time to pick it. The ghouls were close, howling as they came.
   We scrambled inside, closing the door, for what good it would do us. There was one small window high up near the ceiling; moonlight suddenly spilled through it. There was a herd of lawnmowers against one wall, some of them hanging from hooks. Gardening shears, hedge trimmers, trowels, a curl of garden hose. The whole shed smelled of gasoline and oily rags.
   Edward said, "There's nothing to put against the door, Anita."
   He was right. We'd blown the lock off. Where was a heavy object when you needed it? "Roll a lawnmower against it."
   "That won't hold them long."
   "It's better than nothing," I said. He didn't move, so I rolled a lawnmower against the door.
   "I won't die, eaten alive," he said. He put a fresh clip in his gun. "I'll do you first if you want, or you can do it yourself."
   I remembered then that I had shoved the matchbook Zachary had given me in my pocket. Matches, we had matches!
   "Anita, they're almost here. Do you want to do it yourself?"
   I pulled the matchbook out of my pocket. Thank you, God. "Save your bullets, Edward." I lifted a can of gasoline in one hand.
   "What are you planning?" he asked.
   The howls were crashing around us; they were almost here.
   "I'm going to set the shed on fire." I splashed gasoline on the door. The smell was sharp and tugged at the back of my throat.
   "With us inside?" he asked.
   "Yes."
   "I'd rather shoot myself, if it's all the same to you."
   "I don't plan to die tonight, Edward."
   A claw smashed through the door, talons raking the wood, tearing it apart. I lit a match and threw it on the gasoline-soaked door. It went up with a blue-white whoosh of flame. The ghoul screamed, covered in fire, stumbling back from the ruined door.
   The stench of burning flesh mingled with gasoline. Burnt hair. I coughed, putting a hand over my mouth. The fire was eating up the wood of the shed, spreading to the roof. We didn't need more gasoline; the damn thing was a fire trap. With us inside. I hadn't thought it would spread this fast.
   Edward was standing near the back wall, hand over his mouth. His voice came muffled. "You did have a plan to get us out, right?"
   A hand crashed through the wood, clawing at him. He backed away from it. The ghoul began to tear through the wood, leering at us. Edward shot it between the eyes, and it disappeared from sight.
   I grabbed a rake from the far wall. Cinders were beginning to float down on us. If the smoke didn't get us first, the shed was going to collapse on top of us. "Take off your shirt," I said.
   He didn't even ask why. Practical to the end. He stripped the shoulder rig off and pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it to me, and slipped the gun over his bare chest.
   I wrapped the shirt over the tines of the rake and soaked it with gasoline. I set it on fire from the walls; no need for matches. The front of the shed was raining fire on us. Tiny burning stings like wasps on my skin.
   Edward had caught on. He found an axe and started chopping at the hole the ghoul had made. I carried the improvised torch and a can of gasoline in my hands. The thought occurred to me that the heat was going to set the gasoline off. We weren't going to suffocate from smoke; we were going to blow up.
   "Hurry!" I said.
   Edward squeezed through the opening, and I followed, nearly burning him with the torch. There wasn't a ghoul for a hundred yards. They were smarter than they looked. We ran, and the explosion slammed into my back like a huge wind. I tumbled over into the grass, all the air knocked out of me. Bits of burning wood clattered to the ground on either side of me. I covered my head and prayed. My luck, I'd get caught by a flying nail.
   Silence, or no more explosions. I raised my head cautiously. The shed was gone, nothing left. Bits of wood burned in the grass around me. Edward was lying on the ground, nearly touching distance from me. He stared at me. Did my face look as surprised as his did? Probably.
   Our improvised torch was slowly setting the grass on fire. He knelt and raised it up.
   I found the gasoline can unharmed and got to my feet. Edward followed, carrying the torch. The ghouls seemed to have fled, smart ghouls, but just in case ... We didn't even have to discuss it. Paranoia, we had that in common.
   We walked towards the car. The adrenaline was gone, and I was tireder than before. A person only has so much adrenaline; then you start running on numb.
   The chicken crate was history; nameless bits and pieces were scattered around the grave. I didn't look any closer. I stopped to pick up my gym bag. It was untouched, just lying there. Edward moved ahead of me and tossed the torch on the gravel driveway. The wind rustled through the trees; then Edward yelled, "Anita!"
   I rolled. Edward's gun fired, and something fell squealing on the grass. I stared at the ghoul while Edward pumped bullets into it. When I swallowed my heart back down into my chest, I crawled to the gasoline can and unscrewed it.
   The ghoul screamed. Edward was driving the ghoul with the burning torch. I splashed gasoline on the cringing thing, dropped to my knees, and said, "Light it."
   Edward shoved the torch home. Fire whooshed over the ghoul, and it started screaming. The night stank of burning meat and hair. And gasoline.
   It rolled over and over on the ground trying to put out the fire, but it wouldn't go out.
   I whispered, "You're next, Zachary baby. You are next."
   The shirt had burned away, and Edward tossed the rake to the ground. "Let's get out of here," he said.
   I agreed wholeheartedly. I unlocked the car, tossed my gym bag in the back seat, and started the car. The ghoul was lying on the grass, not moving, burning.
   Edward was in the passenger seat with the machine gun in his lap. For the first time since I'd met him, Edward looked shaken. Scared, even.
   "You going to sleep with that machine gun?" I asked.
   He glanced at me. "You going to sleep with your gun?" he asked.
   Point for Edward. I took the narrow gravel turns as quick as I dared. My Nova wasn't built for speed maneuvering. Having a wreck here in the cemetery didn't seem like a real good idea tonight. The headlights bounced over the tombstones, but nothing moved. No ghouls in sight.
   I took a deep breath and let it out. This was the second attempt on my life in as many days. Frankly, I'd rather be shot at.

44
   We drove in silence for a long time. It was Edward who finally spoke into the wheel-rushing quiet. "I don't think we should go back to your apartment," he said.
   "Agreed."
   "I'll take you to my hotel. Unless you have someplace else you'd rather go?"
   Where could I go? Ronnie's? I didn't want her endangered anymore. Who else could I endanger? No one. No one but Edward, and he could handle it. Maybe better than I could.
   My beeper trembled against my waist, sending shock waves all along my rib cage. I hated putting the beeper on silent mode. The damn thing always scared me when it went off.
   Edward said, "What the hell happened? You jumped like something bit you."
   I hit the button on the beeper, to shut it off and see who had called. The number lit up briefly. "My beeper went off on silent mode. No noise, just vibration."
   He glanced at me. "You are not going to call work." He made it sound like a statement or an order.
   "Look, Edward, I'm not feeling so hot, so don't argue with me."
   I heard his breath ease out, but what could he say? I was driving. Short of drawing his gun and hijacking me, he was along for the ride. I took the next exit and located a pay phone at a convenience store. The store lot was fully lit and made me a wonderful target, but after the ghouls I wanted light.
   Edward watched me get out of the car with my billfold gripped in my hand. He did not get out to watch my back. Fine, I had my gun. If he wanted to pout, let him.
   I called work. Craig, our night secretary, answered. "Animators, Inc. May I help you?"
   "Hi, Craig, this is Anita. What's up?"
   "Irving Griswold called, says to call him back ASAP or the meeting's off. He said you'd know what that meant. Do you?"
   "Yes. Thanks, Craig."
   "You sound awful."
   "Good night, Craig." I hung up on him. I felt tired and sluggish, and my throat hurt. I wanted to curl up somewhere dark and quiet for about a week. Instead, I called Irving. "It's me," I said.
   "Well, it's about time. Do you know the trouble I've gone through to set this up? You almost missed it."
   "If you don't quit talking, I may still miss it. Tell me where and when."
   He did. If we hurried, we'd make it. "Why is everyone so hot to do everything tonight?" I said.
   "Hey, if you don't want to meet, that's fine."
   "Irving, I've had a very, very long night, so stop bitching at me."
   "Are you all right?"
   What a stupid question. "Not really, but I'll live."
   "If you're hurt, I'll try to get the meeting postponed, but I can't promise anything, Anita. It was your message that got him this far."
   I leaned my forehead against the metal of the booth. "I'll be there, Irving."
   "I won't be." He sounded thoroughly disgusted. "One of the conditions was no reporters and no police."
   I had to smile. Poor Irving; he was getting left out of everything. He hadn't been attacked by ghouls and almost blown up, though. Maybe I should save my pity for myself.
   "Thanks, Irving, I owe you one."
   "You owe me several," he said. "Be careful. I don't know what you're into this time, but it sounds bad."
   He was fishing, and I knew it. "Good night, Irving." I hung up before he could ask any more questions.
   I called Dolph's home phone number. I don't know why it couldn't wait until morning, but I had almost died tonight. If I did die, I wanted someone to hunt Zachary down.
   Dolph answered on the sixth ring. His voice sounded gruff with sleep. "Yes."
   "This is Anita Blake, Dolph."
   "What's wrong?" His voice sounded almost alert.
   "I know who the murderer is."
   "Tell me."
   I told him. He took notes and asked questions. The biggest question came at the end. "Can you prove any of this?"
   "I can prove he wears a gris-gris. I can testify that he confessed to me. He tried to kill me; that I witnessed personally."
   "It's going to be a tough sell to a jury or a judge."
   "I know."
   "I'll see what I can find out."
   "We've almost got a solid case on him, Dolph."
   "True, but it all hinges on you being alive to testify."
   "Yeah, I'll be careful."
   "You come down tomorrow and get all this information recorded officially."
   "I will."
   "Good work."
   "Thanks," I said.
   "Good night, Anita."
   "Good night, Dolph."
   I eased back into the car. "We have a meeting with the wererats in forty-five minutes."
   "Why is it so important?" he asked.
   "Because I think they can show us a back way into Nikolaos's lair. If we come in the front door, we'll never make it." I started the car and pulled out into the road.
   "Who else did you call?" he asked.
   So he had been paying attention. "The police."
   "What?"
   Edward never likes dealing with the police. Fancy that. "If Zachary manages to kill me, I want someone else to be looking into it."
   He was silent for a little while. Then he asked, "Tell me about Nikolaos."
   I shrugged. "She's a sadistic monster, and she's over a thousand years old."
   "I look forward to meeting her."
   "Don't," I said.
   "We've killed master vampires before, Anita. She's just one more."
   "No. Nikolaos is at least a thousand years old. I don't think I've ever been so frightened of anything in my life."
   He was silent, face unreadable.
   "What are you thinking?" I asked.
   "That I love a challenge." Then he smiled, a beautiful, spreading smile. Shit. Death had seen his ultimate goal. The biggest catch of all. He wasn't afraid of her, and he should have been.
   There aren't that many places open at one-thirty A.M., but Denny's is. There was something wrong with meeting wererats in Denny's over coffee and donuts. Shouldn't we have been meeting in some dark alley? I wasn't complaining, mind you. It just struck me as ... funny.
   Edward went in first to make sure it wasn't another setup. If he took a table, it was safe. If he came back out, it wasn't safe. Simple. No one knew what he looked like yet. As long as he wasn't with me, he could go anywhere and no one would try to kill him. Amazing. I was beginning to feel like Typhoid Mary.
   Edward took a table. Safe. I walked into the bright lights and artificial comfort of the restaurant. The waitress had dark circles under her eyes, cleverly disguised by thick base, which made the circles look sort of pinkish. I looked past her. A man was motioning to me. Hand straight up, finger crooked like he was calling the waitress, or some other subservient.
   "I see my party, now. Thanks anyway," I said.
   The restaurant was mostly empty in the wee hours of Monday, or rather Tuesday morning. Two men sat at a table in front of the first man. They looked normal enough, but there was a sense of contained energy that seemed to spark in the air around them. Lycanthropes. I would have bet my life on it, and maybe I was.
   There was a couple, male and female, sitting catty-corner from the first two. I would have bet money they were lycanthropes, too.
   Edward had taken a table near them, but not too near. He had hunted lycanthropes before; he knew what to look for as well.
   As I passed the table, one of the men looked up. Pure brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, stared into mine. His face was square, body slender, small build, muscles worked in his arms as he folded his hands under his chin and looked at me. I stared back; then I was past him and to the booth where the Rat King sat.
   He was tall, at least six feet, dark brown skin, with thick, shortcut black hair, brown eyes. His face was thin, arrogant, lips almost too soft for the haughty expression he gave me. He was darkly handsome, strongly Mexican, and his suspicion rode the air like lightning.
   I eased into the booth. I took a deep, steadying breath and looked across the counter at him.
   "I got your message. What do you want?" His voice was soft but deep, without a trace of accent.
   "I want you to lead myself and at least one man into the tunnels beneath the Circus of the Damned."
   His frown deepened, forming faint wrinkles between his eyes. "Why should I do this for you?"
   "Do you want your people free of the master's influence?"
   He nodded. Still frowning.
   I was really winning him over. "Guide us in through the dungeon entrance, and I'll take care of it"
   He clasped his hands together on the table. "How can I trust you?"
   "I am not a bounty hunter. I have never harmed a lycanthrope."
   "We cannot fight beside you if you go against her. Even I cannot fight her. She calls to me. I don't answer, but I feel it. I can keep the small rats and my people from helping her against you, but that is all."
   "Just get us inside. We'll do the rest."
   "Are you so confident?"
   "I'm willing to bet my life on it," I said.
   He steepled his fingers against his lips, elbows on the table. 3 The burn scar in his forearm was still there even in human form, a rough, four-pointed crown. "I'll get you inside," he said.
   I smiled. "Thank you."
   He stared at me. "When you come back out alive, then you can thank me."
   "It's a deal." I held my hand out. After a moment's hesitation, he took it. We shook on it.
   "You wish to wait a few days?" he asked.
   "No," I said. "I want to go in tomorrow."
   He cocked his head to one side. "Are you sure?"
   "Why? Is that a problem?"
   "You are hurt. I thought you might wish to heal."
   I was a little bruised, and my throat hurt, but ... "How did you know?"
   "You smell like death has brushed you close tonight"
   I stared at him. Irving never does this to me, the supernatural powers bit. I'm not saying he can't, but he works hard at being human. This man did not.
   I took a deep breath. "That is my business."
   He nodded. "We will call you and give you the place and time."
   I stood up. He remained sitting. There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so I left.
   About ten minutes later Edward got into the car with me. "What now?" he asked.
   "You mentioned your hotel room. I'm going to sleep while I can."
   "And tomorrow?"
   "You take me out and show me how the shotgun works."
   "Then?" he asked.
   "Then we go after Nikolaos," I said.
   He gave a shaky breath, almost a laugh. "Oh, boy."
   Oh, boy? "Glad to see someone is enjoying all this."
   He grinned at me. "I love my work," he said.
   I had to smile. Truth was, I loved my work, too.

45
   During the day I learned how to use a shotgun. That night I went caving with wererats.
   The cave was dark. I stood in absolute blackness, gripping my flashlight. I touched my hand to my forehead and couldn't see a damn thing but the funny white images your eyes make when there is no light. I was wearing a hard hat with a light on it, turned off at present. The wererats had insisted on it. All around me were sounds. Cries, moans, the popping of bone, a curious sliding sound like a knife drawing out of flesh. The wererats were changing from human to animal. It sounded like it hurt-a lot. They had made me swear not to turn on a light until they told me to.
   I had never wanted to see so badly in my life. It couldn't be so horrible. Could it? But a promise is a promise. I sounded like Horton the Elephant. "A person is a person no matter how small." What the hell was I doing standing in the middle of a cave, in the dark, surrounded by wererats, quoting Dr. Seuss, and trying to kill a one-thousand-year-old vampire?
   It had been one of my stranger weeks.
   Rafael, the Rat King, said, "You may turn on your lights."
   I did, instantly. My eyes seemed to leech on the light, eager to see. The ratmen stood in small groups in the wide, flat-roofed tunnel. There were ten of them. I had counted them in human form. Now the seven males were fur-covered and wearing jean cutoffs. Two wore loose t-shirts. The three women wore loose dresses, like maternity clothes. Their black button eyes glittered in the light. Everybody was furry.
   Edward came to stand near me. He was staring at the weres, face distant, unreadable. I touched his arm. I had told Rafael that I was not a bounty hunter, but Edward was, sometimes. I hoped I had not endangered these people.
   "Are you ready?" Rafael asked. He was the same sleek black ratman I remembered.
   "Yes," I said.
   Edward nodded.
   The wererats scattered to either side of us, scrambling over low, weathered flowstone. I said to no one in particular, "I thought caves were damp."
   A smaller ratman in a t-shirt said, "Cherokee Caverns is dead cave."
   "I don't understand."
   "Live cave has water and growing formations. A dry cave where none of the formations are growing is called dead cave."
   "Oh," I said.
   He drew lips back from huge teeth, a smile, I think. "More than you wanted to know, huh?"
   Rafael hissed back, "We are not here to give guided tours, Louie. Now be quiet, both of you."
   Louie shrugged and scrambled ahead of me. He was the same human that had been with Rafael in the restaurant, the one with the dark eyes.
   One of the females was nearly grey-furred. Her name was Lillian, and she was a doctor. She carried a backpack full of medical supplies. They seemed to be planning on us getting hurt. At least that meant they thought we would come out alive. I was beginning to wonder about that part myself.
   Two hours later the ceiling dropped to a point where I couldn't stand upright. And I learned what the hard hats they had given Edward and me were for. I scraped my head on the rock at least a thousand times. I'd have knocked myself unconscious long before we saw Nikolaos.
   The rats seemed designed for the tunnel, sliding along, flattening their bodies in a strange, scrambling grace. Edward and I could not match it. Not even close.
   He cursed softly behind me. His five inches of extra height were causing him pain. My lower back was an aching burn. He had to be in worse shape. There were pockets where the ceiling opened up and we could stand. I started looking very forward to them, like air pockets to a diver.
   The quality of darkness changed. Light-there was light up ahead, not much, but it was there. It flickered at the far end of the tunnel like a mirage.
   Rafael crouched beside us. Edward sat flat on the dry rock. I joined him. "There is your dungeon. We will wait here until near dark. If you have not come out, we will leave. After Nikolaos is dead, if we can, we will help you."
   I nodded; the light on my hard hat nodded with me. "Thank you for helping us."
   He shook his narrow, ratty face. "I have delivered you to the devil's door. Do not thank me for that."
   I glanced at Edward. His face was still distant, unreadable. If he was interested in what the ratman had just said, I couldn't tell it. We might as well have been talking about a grocery list.
   Edward and I knelt before the opening into the dungeon. Torchlight flickered, incredibly bright after the darkness. Edward was cradling his Uzi that hung on a strap across his chest. I had the shotgun. I was also carrying my two pistols, two knives, and a derringer stuffed in the pocket of my jacket. It was a present from Edward. He had handed it to me with this advice: "It kicks like a sonofabitch, but press it under someone's chin, and it will blow their fucking head off." Nice to know.
   It was daylight outside. There shouldn't be a vampire stirring, but Burchard would be there. And if he saw us, Nikolaos would know. Somehow, she'd know. Goosebumps marched up my arms.
   We scrambled inside, ready to kill and maim. The room was empty. All that adrenaline sort of sat in my body, making my breathing too quick and my heart pound for no reason. The spot where Phillip had been chained was clean. Someone had scrubbed it down real good.
   I fought an urge to touch the wall where he'd been.
   Edward called softly, "Anita." He was at the door.
   I hurried up to him.
   "What's wrong?" he asked.
   "She killed Phillip in here."
   "Keep your mind on business. I don't want to die because you're daydreaming."
   I started to get angry and swallowed it. He was right.
   Edward tried the door, and it opened. No prisoners, no need to lock it. I took the left side of the door, and he took the right. The corridor was empty.
   My hands were sweating on the shotgun. Edward led off down the right hand side of the corridor. I followed him into the dragon's lair. I didn't feel much like a knight. I was fresh out of shiny steeds, or was that shiny armor?
   Whatever. We were here. This was it. I could taste my heart in my throat.

46
   The dragon didn't come out and eat us right away. In fact, the place was quiet. As the cliche goes, too quiet.
   I stepped close to Edward and whispered, "I don't mean to complain, but where is everybody?"
   He leaned his back against the wall and said, "Maybe you killed Winter. That just leaves Burchard. Maybe he's on an errand."
   I shook my head. "This is too easy."
   "Don't worry. Something will go wrong soon." He continued down the corridor, and I followed. It took me three steps to realize Edward had made a joke.
   The corridor opened into a huge room like Nikolaos's throne room, but there was no chair here. There were coffins. Five of them spaced around the room on raised platforms, so they didn't have to sit on the floor in the draft. Tall, iron candelabra burned in the room, one at the foot and head of each coffin.
   Most vampires made some effort to hide their coffins, but not Nikolaos.
   "Arrogant," Edward whispered.
   "Yes," I whispered back. You always whispered around the coffins, at first, as if it were a funeral and they could hear you.
   There was a neck-ruffling smell to the room, stale. It caught at the back of my throat and was almost a taste, faintly metallic. It was like the smell of snakes kept in cages. You knew there was nothing warm and furry in this room just by smell. And that really doesn't do it justice. It was the smell of vampires.
   The first coffin was dark, well-varnished wood, with golden handles. It was wider at the shoulder area and then narrowed, following the contour of the human body. Older coffins did that sometimes.
   "We start here," I said.
   Edward didn't argue. He let the machine gun hang by its strap and drew his pistol. "You're covered," he said.
   I laid the shotgun on the floor in front of the coffin, gripped the edge of the lid, said a quick prayer, and lifted. Valentine lay in the coffin. His scarred face was bare. He was still dressed as a riverboat gambler but this time in black. His frilly shirt was crimson. The colors didn't look good against his auburn hair. One hand was half-curled over his thigh, a careless sleeper's gesture. A very human gesture.
   Edward peered into the coffin, gun pointed ceilingward. "This the one you threw Holy Water on?"
   I nodded.
   "Did a bang-up job," Edward said.
   Valentine never moved. I couldn't even see him breathe. I wiped my sweating palms on my jeans and felt for a pulse in his wrist. Nothing. His skin was cool to the touch. He was dead. It wasn't murder, no matter what the new laws said. You can't kill a corpse.
   The wrist pulsed. I jerked back like he'd burned me.
   "What's wrong?" Edward asked.
   "I got a pulse."
   "It happens sometimes."
   I nodded. Yeah, it happened sometimes. If you waited long enough, the heart did beat, blood did flow, but so slow that it was painful to watch. Dead. I was beginning to think I didn't know what that meant.
   I knew one thing. If night fell with us here, we would die, or wish we had. Valentine had helped kill over twenty people. He had nearly killed me. When Nikolaos withdrew her protection, he'd finish the job if he could. We had come to kill Nikolaos. I think she would withdraw her protection ASAP. As the old saying goes, it was him or me. I preferred him.
   I shook off the shoulder straps of the backpack.
   "What are you looking for?" Edward asked.
   "Stake and hammer," I said without looking up.
   "Not going to use the shotgun?"
   I glanced up at him. "Oh, right. Why not rent a marching band while we're at it?"
   "If you just want to be quiet, there is another way." He had a slight smile on his face.
   I had the sharpened stake in my hand, but I was willing to listen. I've staked most of the vampires that I've killed, but it never gets easier. It is hard, messy work, though I don't throw up anymore. I am a professional, after all.
   He took a small case out of his own backpack. It held syringes. He drew out an ampule of some greyish liquid. "Silver nitrate," he said.
   Silver. Bane of the undead. Scourge of the supernatural. And all nicely modernized. "Does it work?" I asked.
   "It works." He filled one syringe and asked, "How old is this one?"
   "A little over a hundred," I said.
   "Two ought to do it." He shoved the needle into the big vein in Valentine's neck. Before he had filled the syringe a second time, the body shivered. He shoved the second dose into the neck. Valentine's body arched against the walls of the coffin. His mouth opened and closed. He gasped for air as if he were drowning.
   Edward filled up another syringe and handed it towards me. I stared at it.
   "It isn't going to bite," he said.
   I took it gingerly between my thumb and the first two fingers on my right hand.
   "What's the matter with you?" he asked.
   "I'm not a big fan of needles."
   He grinned. "You're afraid of needles?"
   I scowled at him. "Not exactly."
   Valentine's body shook and bucked, hands thumping against the wooden walls. It made a small, helpless noise. His eyes never opened. He was going to sleep through his own death.
   He gave one last shuddering jump, then collapsed against the side of the coffin like a broken rag doll.
   "He doesn't look very dead," I said.
   "They never do."
   "Stake their heart and chop off their heads, and you know they're dead."
   "This isn't staking," he said.
   I didn't like it. Valentine lay there looking very whole and nearly human. I wanted to see some rotting flesh and bones turning to dust. I wanted to know he was dead.
   "No one has ever gotten up out of their coffin after a syringe full of silver nitrate, Anita."
   I nodded but remained unconvinced.
   "You check the other side. Go on."
   I went, but I kept glancing back at Valentine. He had haunted my nightmares for years, nearly killed me. He just didn't look dead enough for me.
   I opened the first coffin on my side, one-handed, holding the syringe carefully. An injection of silver nitrate probably wouldn't do me much good either. The coffin was empty. The white imitation silk lining had conformed to the body like a mattress, but the body wasn't there.
   I flinched and stared around the room, but there was nothing there. I stared slowly upward, hoping that there was nothing floating above me. There wasn't. Thank you, God.
   I remembered to breathe finally. It was probably Theresa's coffin. Yeah, that was it. I left it open and went to the next one. It was a newer model, probably fake wood, but nice and polished. The black male was in it. I had never gotten his name. Now I never would. I knew what it meant, coming in here. Not just defending yourself but taking out the vampires while they lay helpless. As far as I knew, this vampire had never hurt anyone. I laughed then; he was Nikolaos's protege. Did I really think he'd never tasted human blood? No. I pressed the needle against his neck and swallowed hard. I hated needles. No particular reason.
   I shoved it in and closed my eyes while I depressed the plunger. I could have pounded a stake through his heart, but sticking a needle in him put cold chills down my spine.
   Edward called, "Anita!"
   I whirled and found Aubrey sitting up in his coffin. He had Edward by the throat and was slowly lifting him off his feet.
   The shotgun was still by Valentine's coffin. Damn! I drew the 9mm and fired at Aubrey's forehead. The bullet tossed his head back, but he just smiled and raised Edward straight-armed, legs dangling.
   I ran for the shotgun.
   Edward was having to use both hands to keep himself from being strangled by his own weight. He dropped one hand, fumbling for the machine gun.
   Aubrey caught his wrist.
   I picked up the shotgun, took two steps towards them and fired from three feet away. Aubrey's head exploded; blood and brains spattered over the wall. The hands lowered Edward to the floor but didn't let go. Edward drew a ragged breath. The right hand convulsed around his throat, fingers digging for his windpipe.
   I had to step around Edward to fire at the chest. The blast took out the heart and most of the left side of the chest. The left arm sort of hung there by strands of tissue and bone. The corpse flopped back into its coffin.
   Edward dropped to his knees, breath wheezing and choking through his throat.
   "Nod if you can breathe, Edward," I said. Though if Aubrey had crushed his windpipe I don't know what I could have done. Run back and gotten Lillian the doctor rat, maybe.
   Edward nodded. His face was a mottled reddish purple, but he was breathing.
   My ears were ringing with the sound of the shotgun inside the stone walls. So much for surprise. So much for silver nitrate. I pumped another round into the gun and went to Valentine's coffin. I blew him apart. Now, he was dead.
   Edward staggered to his feet. He croaked, "How old was that thing?"
   "Over five hundred," I said.
   He swallowed, and it looked like it hurt. "Shit."
   "I wouldn't try sticking any needles into Nikolaos."
   He managed to glare at me, still half-leaning against Aubrey's coffin.
   I turned to the fifth coffin. The one we had saved until last without any talk between us. It was set against the far wall. A dainty white coffin, too small for an adult. Candlelight gleamed on the carvings in the lid.
   I was tempted to just blow a hole in the coffin, but I had to see her. I had to see what I was shooting at. My heart started thudding in my throat; my chest was tight. She was a master vampire. Killing them, even in daylight, is a chancy thing. Their gaze can trap you until nightfall. Their minds. Their voices. So much power. And Nikolaos was the most powerful I'd ever seen. I had my blessed cross. I would be all right. I had had too many crosses taken from me to feel completely safe. Oh, well. I tried to raise the lid one-handed, but it was heavy and not balanced for easy opening like modem coffins. "Can you back me on this, Edward? Or are you still relearning how to breathe?"
   Edward came to stand beside me. His face looked almost its normal color. He took hold of the lid and I readied the shotgun.
   He lifted and the whole lid slid off. It wasn't hinged on.
   I said, "Shiiit!"
   The coffin was empty.
   "Are you looking for me?" A high, musical voice called from the doorway. "Freeze; I believe that is the word. We have the drop on you."
   "I wouldn't advise going for your gun," Burchard said.
   I glanced at Edward and found his hands close to the machine gun but not close enough. His face was unreadable, calm, normal. Just a Sunday drive. I was so scared I could taste bile at the back of my throat. We looked at each other and raised our hands.
   "Turn around slowly," Burchard said.
   We did.
   He was holding a semiautomatic rifle of some kind. I'm not the gun freak Edward is, so I didn't know the make and model, but I knew it'd make a big hole. There was also a sword hilt sticking over his back. A sword, an honest-to-god sword.
   Zachary was standing beside him, holding a pistol. He held it two-handed, arms stiff. He didn't seem happy.
   Burchard held the rifle like he was born with it. "Drop your weapons, please, and lace your fingers on top of your heads."
   We did what he asked. Edward dropped the machine gun, and I lost the shotgun. We had plenty more guns.
   Nikolaos stood to one side. Her face was cold, angry. Her voice, when it came, echoed through the room. "I am older then anything you have ever imagined. Did you think daylight holds me prisoner? After a thousand years?" She walked out into the room, careful not to cross in front of Burchard and Zachary. She glanced at the remains in the coffins. "You will pay for this, animator." She smiled then, and I had never seen anything more evil. "Strip them of the rest of their weaponry, Burchard; then we will give the animator a treat."
   They stood in front of us but not too close. "Up against the wall, animator," Burchard said. "If the man moves, Zachary, shoot him."
   Burchard shoved me into the wall and frisked me very thoroughly. He didn't check my teeth or have me drop my pants, but that was about it. He found everything I was carrying. Even the derringer. He shoved my cross into his pocket. Maybe I could tattoo one on my arm? Probably wouldn't work.
   I went out to stand with Zachary, and Edward got his turn. I stared at Zachary. "Does she know?" I asked.
   "Shut up."
   I smiled. "She doesn't, does she?"
   "Shut up!"
   Edward came back, and we stood there with our hands on top of our heads, weapons gone. It was not a pretty sight.
   Adrenaline was bubbling like champagne, and my pulse was threatening to jump out of my throat. I wasn't afraid of the guns, not really. I was afraid of Nikolaos. What would she do to us? To me? If I had a choice, I'd force them to shoot me. It had to be better than anything Nikolaos had in her evil little mind.
   "They are unarmed, Mistress," Burchard said.
   "Good," she said. "Do you know what we were doing while you destroyed my people?"
   I didn't think she wanted an answer, so I didn't give her one.
   "We were preparing a friend of yours, animator."
   My stomach jerked. I had a wild image of Catherine, but she was out of town. My god, Ronnie. Did they have Ronnie?
   It must have showed on my face because Nikolaos laughed, high and wild, an excited tittering.
   "I really hate that laugh," I said.
   "Silence," Burchard said.
   "Oh, Anita, you are so amusing. I will enjoy making you one of my people." Her voice started high and childlike and ended low enough to crawl down my spine.
   She called out in a clear voice, "Enter this room now."
   I heard shuffling footsteps; then Phillip walked into the room. The horrible wound at his throat was thick, white scar tissue. He stared around the room as if he didn't really see it.
   I whispered, "Dear God."
   They had raised him from the dead.

47
   Nikolaos danced around him. The skirt of her pastel pink dress swirled around her. The large, pink bow in her hair bobbed as she twirled, arms outstretched. Her slender legs were covered in white leotards. The shoes were white with pink bows.
   She stopped, laughing and breathless. A healthy pink flush on her cheeks, eyes sparkling. How did she do that?
   "He looks very alive, doesn't he?" She stalked around him, hand brushing his arm. He drew away from her, eyes following her every move, afraid. He remembered her. God help us. He remembered her.
   "Do you want to see him put through his paces?" she asked.
   I hoped I didn't understand her. I fought to keep my face blank. I must have succeeded because she stomped over to me, hands on hips.
   "Well," she said, "do you want to watch your lover perform?"
   I swallowed bile, hard. Maybe I should just throw up on her. That would teach her. "With you?" I asked.
   She sidled up to me, hands clasped behind her back. "It could be you. Your choice."
   Her face was almost touching mine. Eyes so damned wide and innocent that it seemed sacrilegious. "Neither sounds very appealing," I said.
   "Pity." She half-skipped back to Phillip. He was naked, and his tanned body was still handsome. What were a few more scars?
   "You didn't know I was going to be here, so why raise Phillip from the dead?" I asked.
   She turned on the heels of her little shoes. "We raised him so he could try to kill Aubrey. Murdered zombies can be so much fun, while they try to kill their murderers. We thought we'd give him a chance while Aubrey was asleep. Aubrey can move if you disturb him." She glanced at Edward. "But then you know that."
   "You were going to let Aubrey kill him again," I said.
   She nodded, head bobbing. "Mmm-uh."
   "You bitch," I said.
   Burchard shoved the rifle butt into my stomach, and I dropped to my knees. I panted, trying to breathe. It didn't help much.
   Edward was staring very fixedly at Zachary, who was holding the pistol square on his chest. You didn't have to be good at that range or even lucky. Just squeeze the trigger and kill someone. Poof.
   "I can make you do whatever I please," Nikolaos said.
   A fresh spurt of adrenaline rushed through me. It was too much. I threw up in the corner. Nerves and being hit very hard in the stomach with a rifle. Nerves I'd had before; the rifle butt was a new experience.
   "Tsk, tsk," Nikolaos said. "Do I frighten you that much?"
   I managed to stand up at last. "Yes," I said. Why deny it?
   She clapped her hands together. "Oh, goody." Her face shifted gears, instant switch. The little girl was gone, and no amount of pink, frilly dresses would bring her back. Nikolaos's face was thinner, alien. The eyes were great drowning pools. "Hear me, Anita. Feel my power in your veins."
   I stood there, staring at the floor, fear like a cold rush on my skin. I waited for something to tug at my soul. Her power to roll me under and away. Nothing happened.
   Nikolaos frowned. The little girl was back. "I bit you, animator. You should crawl if I ask it. What did you do?"
   I breathed a small, heartfelt prayer, and answered her. "Holy Water."
   She snarled. "This time we will keep you with us until after the third bite. You will take Theresa's place. Perhaps then you will be more eager to find out who is murdering vampires."
   I fought with everything in me not to glance at Zachary. Not because I didn't want to give him away, I would do that, but I was waiting for the moment when it would help us. It might get Zachary killed, but it wouldn't take out Burchard or Nikolaos. Zachary was the least dangerous person in this whole room.
   "I don't think so," I said.
   "Oh, but I do, animator."
   "I would rather die."
   She spread her arms wide. "But I want you to die, Anita, I want you to die."
   "That makes us even," I said.
   She giggled. The sound made my teeth hurt. If she really wanted to torture me, all she had to do was lock me in a room and laugh at me. Now that would be hell.
   "Come on, boys and girls, let's go play in the dungeon." Nikolaos led the way. Burchard motioned for us to follow. We did. Zachary and he brought up the rear, guns in hand. Phillip stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, watching us go.
   Nikolaos called back, "Have him follow us, Zachary."
   Zachary called, "Come, Phillip, follow me."
   He turned and walked after us, his eyes still uncertain and not really focused.
   "Go on," Burchard said. He half-raised the rifle, and I went.
   Nikolaos called back, "Gazing at your lover; how nice."
   It wasn't a long enough walk to the dungeon door. If they tried to chain me to the wall, I'd rush them. I'd force them to kill me. Which meant I'd better rush Zachary. Burchard might wound me or knock me unconscious, and that would be very, very bad.
   Nikolaos led us down the steps and out into the floor. What a day for a parade. Phillip followed, but he was looking around now, really seeing things. He froze, staring at the place where Aubrey had killed him. His hand reached out to touch the wall. He flexed his hand, rubbing fingers into his palm as if he was feeling something. A hand went to his neck and found the scar. He screamed. It echoed against the walls.
   "Phillip," I said.
   Burchard held me back with the rifle. Phillip crouched in the corner, face hidden, arms locked around his knees. He was making a high, keening noise.
   Nikolaos laughed.
   "Stop it, stop it!" I walked towards Phillip, and Burchard shoved the gun against my chest. I yelled into his face, "Shoot me, shoot me, dammit! It's got to be better than this."
   "Enough," Nikolaos said. She stalked over to me, and I gave ground. She kept walking, forcing me to back up until I bumped against the wall. "I don't want you shot, Anita, but I want you hurt. You killed Winter with your little knife. Let's see how good you really are." She strode away from me. "Burchard, give her back her knives."
   He never even hesitated or asked why. He just walked over to me and handed them to me, hilt first. I didn't question it either. I took them.
   Nikolaos was suddenly beside Edward. He started to move away. "Kill him if he moves again, Zachary."
   Zachary came to stand close, gun out.
   "Kneel, mortal," she said.
   Edward didn't do it. He glanced at me. Nikolaos kicked him in the bend of the knee hard enough to make him grunt. He dropped to one knee, and she grabbed his right arm and tugged it behind his back. One slender hand grabbed his throat.
   "I'll tear out your throat if you move, human. I can feel your pulse like a butterfly beating against my hand." She laughed and filled the room with warm, jostling horror. "Now, Burchard, show her what it means to use a knife."
   Burchard went to the far wall, with the door above him at the top of the steps. He laid the rifle on the floor, and unbuckled his sword harness, and laid that beside the rifle. Then he drew a long knife with a nearly triangular blade.
   He did some quick stretches to limber his muscles, and I stood staring at him.
   I know how to use a knife. I can throw well; I practice that. Most people are afraid of knives. If you show yourself willing to carve someone up, they tend to be afraid of you. Burchard was not most people. He went down into a slight crouch, knife held loose but firm in his right hand.
   "Fight Burchard, animator, or this one dies." She pulled his arm, sharp, but he didn't cry out. She could dislocate his shoulder, and Edward wouldn't cry out.
   I put the knife back in its right wrist sheath. Fighting with a knife in each hand may look nifty, but I've never really mastered it. A lot of people don't. Hey, Burchard didn't have two knives either. "Is this to the death?" I asked.
   "You will not be able to kill Burchard, Anita. So silly. Burchard is only going to cut you. Let you taste the blade, nothing too serious. I don't want you to lose too much blood." There was an undercurrent of laughter in her voice, then it was gone. Her voice crawled through the room like a fire-wind. "I want to see you bleed."
   Great.
   Burchard began to circle me, and I kept the wall at my back. He rushed me, knife flashing. I held my ground, dodging his blade, and slashing at him as he darted in. My knife hit empty air. He was standing out of reach, staring at me. He had had six hundred years of practice, give or take. I couldn't top that. I couldn't even come close.
   He smiled. I gave him a slight nod. He nodded back. A sign of respect between two warriors, maybe. Either that, or he was playing with me. Guess which way I voted?
   His knife was suddenly there, slicing my arm open. I slashed outward and caught him across the stomach. He darted into me, not away. I dodged the knife and stumbled away from the wall. He smiled. Dammit, he'd wanted to get me out in the open. His reach was twice mine.
   The pain in my arm was sharp and immediate. But there was a thin line of crimson on his flat stomach. I smiled at him. His eyes flinched, just a little. Was the mighty warrior uneasy? I hoped so.
   I backed away from him. This was ridiculous. We were going to die, piece by piece, both of us. What the hell. I charged Burchard, slashing. It caught him by surprise, and he backpedaled. I mirrored his crouch, and we began to circle the floor.
   And I said, "I know who the murderer is."
   Burchard's eyebrows raised.
   Nikolaos said, "What did you say?"
   "I know who is killing vampires."
   Burchard was suddenly inside my arm, slicing my shirt. It didn't hurt. He was playing with me.
   "Who?" Nikolaos said. "Tell me, or I will kill this human."
   "Sure," I said.
   Zachary screamed, "No!" He turned to fire at me. The bullet whined overhead. Burchard and I both sank to the floor.
   Edward screamed. I half-rose to run to him. His arm was twisted at a funny angle, but he was alive.
   Zachary's gun went off twice, and Nikolaos took it away from him, tossing it to the floor. She grabbed him and forced him against her body, bending him at the waist, cradling him. Her head darted downward. Zachary shrieked.
   Burchard was on his knees, watching the show. I stabbed my knife into his back. It thunked solid and hilt-deep. His spine stiffened, one hand trying to tear out the blade. I didn't wait to see if he could do it. I drew my other knife and plunged it into the side of his throat. Blood poured down my hand when I took the knife out. I stabbed him again, and he fell slowly forward, face down on the floor.
   Nikolaos let Zachary drop to the floor and turned, face bloodstained, the front of her pink dress crimson. Blood spattered on her white leotards. Zachary's throat was torn out. He lay gasping on the floor but still moving, alive.
   She stared at Burchard's body, then screamed, a wild banshee sound that wailed and echoed. She rushed me, hands outstretched. I threw the knife, and she batted it away. She hit me, the force of her body slamming me into the floor, her scrambling on top of me. She was still screaming, over and over. She held my head to one side. No mind tricks, brute strength.
   I screamed, "Nooo!"
   A gun fired, and Nikolaos jerked, once, twice. She rose off me, and I felt the wind. It was creeping through the room like the beginnings of a storm.
   Edward leaned against the wall, holding Zachary's dropped gun.
   Nikolaos went for him, and he emptied the gun into her frail body. She didn't even hesitate.
   I sat up and watched her stalk towards Edward. He threw the empty gun at her. She was suddenly on him, forcing him back into the floor.
   The sword lay on the floor, nearly as tall as I was. I drew it out of its sheath. Heavy, awkward, drawing my arm down. I raised it over my head, flat of the blade half resting on my shoulder, and ran for Nikolaos.
   She was talking again in a high, sing-song voice. "I will make you mine, mortal. Mine!"
   Edward screamed. I couldn't see why. I raised the sword, and its weight carried it down and across, like it was meant to. It bit into her neck with a great wet thunk. The sword grated on bone, and I drew it out. The tip fell to scrape on the floor.
   Nikolaos turned to me and started to stand. I raised the sword, and it cut outward, swinging my body with it. Bone cracked, and I fell to the floor as Nikolaos tumbled to her knees. Her head still hung by strips of meat and skin. She blinked at me and tried to stand up.
   I screamed and drove the blade upward with everything I had. It took her between the breasts, and I stood running with it, shoving it in. Blood poured. I pinned her against the wall. The blade shoved out her back, scraping along the wall as she slid downward.
   I dropped to my knees beside the body. Yes, the body. She was dead!
   I looked back at Edward. There was blood on his neck. "She bit me," he said.
   I was gasping for air, having trouble breathing, but it was wonderful. I was alive and she wasn't. She fucking wasn't. "Don't worry, Edward, I'll help you. Plenty of Holy Water left." I smiled.
   He stared at me a minute, then laughed, and I laughed with him. We were still laughing when the wererats crept in from the tunnel. Rafael, the Rat King, stared at the carnage with black-button eyes. "She is dead."
   "Ding dong, the witch is dead," I said.
   Edward picked it up, half-singing, "The wicked old witch."
   We collapsed into laughter again, and Lillian the doctor, all covered with fur, tended our hurts, Edward first.
   Zachary was still lying on the ground. The wound at his throat was beginning to close up, skin knitting together. He would live, if that was the right word.
   I picked my knife up off the floor and staggered to him. The rats watched me. No one interfered. I dropped to my knees beside him and ripped the sleeve of his shirt. I laid the gris-gris bare. He still couldn't talk but his eyes widened.
   "Remember when I tried to touch this with my own blood? You stopped me. You seemed afraid, and I didn't understand why." I sat beside him and watched him heal. "Every gris-gris has a thing you must do for it, vampire blood for this one, and one thing you must never do, or the magic stops. Poof." I held up my arm, dripping blood quite nicely. "Human blood, Zachary; is that bad?"
   He managed a noise like, "Don't."
   Blood dripped down my elbow and hung, thick and trembling over his arm. He sort of shook his head, no, no. The blood dripped down and splatted on his arm, but it didn't touch the gris-gris.
   His whole body relaxed.
   "I've got no patience today, Zachary." I rubbed blood along the woven band.
   His eyes flared, showing white. He made a strangling noise in his throat. His hands scrabbled at the floor. His chest jerked as if he couldn't breathe. A sigh ran out of his body, a long whoosh of breath, and he was quiet.
   I checked for a pulse; nothing. I cut the gris-gris off with my knife, balled it in my hand, and shoved it in my pocket. Evil piece of work.
   Lillian came to bind my arm up. "This is just temporary. You'll, need stitches."
   I nodded and got to my feet.
   Edward called, "Where are you going?"
   "To get the rest of our guns." To find Jean-Claude. I didn't say that part out loud. I didn't think Edward would understand.
   Two of the ratmen went with me. That was fine. They could come as long as they didn't interfere. Phillip was still huddled in, the corner. I left him there.
   I did get the guns. I strung the machine gun over my shoulders and kept the shotgun in my hands. Loaded for bear. I had killed a one-thousand-year-old vampire. Naw, not me. Surely not.
   The ratmen and I found the punishment room. There were six coffins in it. Each had a blessed cross on its lid and silver chains to hold the lid down. The third coffin held Willie, so deeply asleep that he seemed like he would never wake. I left him like that, to wake with the night. To go on about his business. Willie wasn't a bad person. And for a vampire he was excellent.
   All the other coffins were empty, only the last one still unopened ... I undid the chains and laid the cross on the ground. Jean-Claude stared up at me. His eyes were midnight fire, his smile gentle. I flashed on the first dream and the coffin filled with blood, him reaching for me. I stepped back, and he rose from the coffin.
   The ratmen stepped back, hissing.
   "It's all right," I said. "He's sort of on our side."
   He stepped from the coffin like he'd had a good nap. He smiled and extended a hand. "I knew you would do it, ma petite."
   "You arrogant son of a bitch." I smashed the shotgun butt into his stomach. He doubled over just enough. I hit him in the jaw. He rocked back. "Get out of my mind!"
   He rubbed his face and came away with blood. "The marks are permanent, Anita. I cannot take them back."
   I gripped the shotgun until my hands ached. Blood began to trickle down my arm from the wound. I thought about it. For one moment, I considered blowing his perfect face away. I didn't do it. I would probably regret it later.
   "Can you stay out of my dreams, at least?" I asked.
   "That, I can do. I am sorry, ma petite."
   "Stop calling me that."
   He shrugged. His black hair had nearly crimson highlights in the torchlight. Breathtaking. "Stop playing with my mind, Jean-Claude."
   "Whatever do you mean?" he asked.
   "I know that the otherworldly beauty is a trick. So stop it."
   "I am not doing it," he said.
   "What is that supposed to mean?"
   "When you have the answer, Anita, come back to me, and we will talk."
   I was too tired for riddles. "Who do you think you are? Using people like this."
   "I am the new master of the city," he said. He was suddenly next to me, fingers touching my cheek. "And you put me upon the throne."
   I jerked away from him. "You stay away from me for a while, Jean-Claude, or I swear ... "
   "You'll kill me?" he said. He was smiling, laughing at me.
   I didn't shoot him. And some people say I have no sense of humor.
   I found a room with a dirt floor and several shallow graves. Phillip let me lead him to the room. It was only when we stood staring down at the fresh-turned earth that he turned to me. "Anita?"
   "Hush," I said.
   "Anita, what's happening?"
   He was beginning to remember. He would become more alive in a few hours, up to a point. It would almost be the real Phillip for a day, or two.
   "Anita?" His voice was high and uncertain. A little boy afraid of the dark. He grabbed my arm, and his hand felt very real. His eyes were still that perfect brown. "What's going on?"
   I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. His skin was warm. "You need to rest, Phillip. You're tired."
   He nodded. "Tired," he said.
   I led him to the soft dirt. He lay down on it, then sat up, eyes wild, grabbing for me. "Aubrey! He ... "
   "Aubrey's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."
   "Dead?" He stared down the length of his body as if just seeing it. "Aubrey killed me."
   I nodded. "Yes, Phillip."
   "I'm scared."
   I held him, rubbing his back in smooth, useless circles. His arms hugged me like he would never let go.
   "Anita!"
   "Hush, hush. It's all right. It's all right."
   "You're going to put me back, aren't you?" He drew back so he could see my face.
   "Yes," I said.
   "I don't want to die."
   "You're already dead."
   He stared down at his hands, flexing them. "Dead?" he whispered. "Dead?" He lay down on the fresh-turned earth. "Put me back," he said.
   And I did.
   At the end his eyes closed and his face went slack, dead. He sank into the grave and was gone.
   I dropped to my knees beside Phillip's grave, and wept.

48
   Edward had a dislocated shoulder and two broken bones in his arm, plus one vampire bite. I had fourteen stitches. We both healed. Phillip's body was moved to a local cemetery. Every time I work in it, I have to go by and say hello. Even though I know Phillip is dead and doesn't care. Graves are for the living, not the dead. It gives us something to concentrate on instead of the fact that our loved one is rotting under the ground. The dead don't care about pretty flowers and carved marble statues.
   Jean-Claude sent me a dozen pure white, long-stemmed roses. The card read, "If you have answered the question truthfully, come dancing with me."
   I wrote "No" on the back of the card and slipped it under the door at Guilty Pleasures, during daylight hours. I had been attracted to Jean-Claude. Maybe I still was. So what? He thought it changed things. It didn't. All I had to do was visit Phillip's grave to know that. Oh, hell, I didn't even have to go that far. I know who and what I am. I am The Executioner, and I don't date vampires. I kill them.

   Laurell K. Hamilton   - The Laughing Corpse

1
 
 Harold Gaynor's house sat in the middle of intense green lawn and the graceful sweep of trees. The house gleamed in the hot August sunshine. Bert Vaughn, my boss, parked the car on the crushed gravel of the driveway. The gravel was so white, it looked like handpicked rock salt. Somewhere out of sight the soft whir of sprinklers pattered. The grass was absolutely perfect in the middle of one of the worst droughts Missouri has had in over twenty years. Oh, well. I wasn't here to talk with Mr. Gaynor about water management. I was here to talk about raising the dead.
   Not resurrection. I'm not that good. I mean zombies. The shambling dead. Rotting corpses. Night of the living dead. That kind of zombie. Though certainly less dramatic than Hollywood would ever put up on the screen. I am an animator. It's a job, that's all, like selling.
   Animating had only been a licensed business for about five years. Before that it had just been an embarrassing curse, a religious experience, or a tourist attraction. It still is in parts of New Orleans, but here in St. Louis it's a business. A profitable one, thanks in large part to my boss. He's a rascal, a scalawag, a rogue, but damn if he doesn't know how to make money. It's a good trait for a business manager.
   Bert was six-three, a broad-shouldered, ex-college football player with the beginnings of a beer gut. The dark blue suit he wore was tailored so that the gut didn't show. For eight hundred dollars the suit should have hidden a herd of elephants. His white-blond hair was trimmed in a crew cut, back in style after all these years. A boater's tan made his pale hair and eyes dramatic with contrast.
   Bert adjusted his blue and red striped tie, mopping a bead of sweat off his tanned forehead. "I heard on the news there's a movement there to use zombies in pesticide-contaminated fields. It would save lives."
   "Zombies rot, Bert, there's no way to prevent that, and they don't stay smart enough long enough to be used as field labor."
   "It was just a thought. The dead have no rights under law, Anita."
   "Not yet."
   It was wrong to raise the dead so they could slave for us. It was just wrong, but no one listens to me. The government finally had to get into the act. There was a nationwide committee being formed of animators and other experts. We were supposed to look into the working conditions of local zombies.
   Working conditions. They didn't understand. You can't give a corpse nice working conditions. They don't appreciate it anyway. Zombies may walk, even talk, but they are very, very dead.
   Bert smiled indulgently at me. I fought an urge to pop him one right in his smug face, "I know you and Charles are working on that committee," Bert said. "Going around to all the businesses and checking up on the zombies. It makes great press for Animators, Inc." .
   "I don't do it for good press," I said.
   "I know. You believe in your little cause."
   "You're a condescending bastard," I said, smiling sweetly up at him.
   He grinned at me. "I know."
   I just shook my head; with Bert you can't really win an insult match. He doesn't give a damn what I think of him, as long as I work for him.
   My navy blue suit jacket was supposed to be summer weight but it was a lie. Sweat trickled down my spine as soon as I stepped out of the car.
   Bert turned to me, small eyes narrowing. His eyes lend themselves to suspicious squints. "You're still wearing your gun," he said.
   "The jacket hides it, Bert. Mr. Gaynor will never know." Sweat started collecting under the straps of my shoulder holster. I could feel the silk blouse beginning to melt. I try not to wear silk and a shoulder rig at the same time. The silk starts to look indented, wrinkling where the straps cross. The gun was a Browning Hi-Power 9mm, and I liked having it near at hand.
   "Come on, Anita. I don't think you'll need a gun in the middle of the afternoon, while visiting a client." Bert's voice held that patronizing tone that people use on children. Now, little girl, you know this is for your own good.
   Bert didn't care about my well-being. He just didn't want to spook Gaynor. The man had already given us a check for five thousand dollars. And that was just to drive out and talk to him. The implication was that there was more money if we agreed to take his case. A lot of money. Bert was all excited about that part. I was skeptical. After all, Bert didn't have to raise the corpse. I did.
   The trouble was, Bert was probably right. I wouldn't need the gun in broad daylight. Probably. "All right, open the trunk."
   Bert opened the trunk of his nearly brand-new Volvo. I was already taking off the jacket. He stood in front of me, hiding me from the house. God forbid that they should see me hiding a gun in the trunk. What would they do, lock the doors and scream for help?
   I folded the holster straps around the gun and laid it in the clean trunk. It smelled like new car, plastic and faintly unreal. Bert shut the trunk, and I stared at it as if I could still see the gun.
   "Are you coming?" he asked.
   "Yeah," I said. I didn't like leaving my gun behind, for any reason. Was that a bad sign? Bert motioned for me to come on.
   I did, walking carefully over the gravel in my high-heeled black pumps. Women may get to wear lots of pretty colors, but men get the comfortable shoes.
   Bert was staring at the door, smile already set on his face. It was his best professional smile, dripping with sincerity. His pale grey eyes sparkled with good cheer. It was a mask. He could put it on and off like a light switch. He'd wear the same smile if you confessed to killing your own mother. As long as you wanted to pay to have her raised from the dead.
   The door opened, and I knew Bert had been wrong about me not needing a gun. The man was maybe five-eight, but the orange polo shirt he wore strained over his chest. The black sport jacket seemed too small, as if when he moved the seams would split, like an insect's skin that had been outgrown. Black acid-washed jeans showed off a small waist, so he looked like someone had pinched him in the middle while the clay was still wet. His hair was very blond. He looked at us silently. His eyes were empty, dead as a doll's. I caught a glimpse of shoulder holster under the sport jacket and resisted an urge to kick Bert in the shins.
   Either my boss didn't notice the gun or he ignored it. "Hello, I'm Bert Vaughn and this is my associate, Anita Blake. I believe Mr. Gaynor is expecting us." Bert smiled at him charmingly.
   The bodyguard-what else could he be-moved away from the door. Bert took that for an invitation and walked inside. I followed, not at all sure I wanted to. Harold Gaynor was a very rich man. Maybe he needed a bodyguard. Maybe people had threatened him. Or maybe he was one of those men who have enough money to keep hired muscle around whether they need it or not.
   Or maybe something else was going on. Something that needed guns and muscle, and men with dead, emotionless eyes. Not a cheery thought.
   The air-conditioning was on too high and the sweat gelled instantly. We followed the bodyguard down a long central hall that was paneled in dark, expensive-looking wood. The hall runner looked oriental and was probably handmade.
   Heavy wooden doors were set in the right-hand wall. The bodyguard opened the doors and again stood to one side while we walked through. The room was a library, but I was betting no one ever read any of the books. The place was ceiling to floor in dark wood bookcases. There was even a second level of books and shelves reached by an elegant sweep of narrow staircase. All the books were hardcover, all the same size, colors muted and collected together like a collage. The furniture was, of course, red leather with brass buttons worked into it.
   A man sat near the far wall. He smiled when we came in. He was a large man with a pleasant round face, doublechinned. He was sitting in an electric wheelchair, with a small plaid blanket over his lap, hiding his legs.
   "Mr. Vaughn and Ms. Blake, how nice of you to drive out." His voice went with his face, pleasant, damn near amiable.
   A slender black man sat in one of the leather chairs. He was over six feet tall, exactly how much over was hard to tell. He was slumped down, long legs stretched out in front of him with the ankles crossed. His legs were taller than I was. His brown eyes watched me as if he were trying to memorize me and would be graded later.
   The blond bodyguard went to lean against the bookcases. He couldn't quite cross his arms, jacket too tight, muscles too big. You really shouldn't lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross your arms. Ruins the effect.
   Mr. Gaynor said, "You've met Tommy." He motioned towards the sitting bodyguard. "That's Bruno."
   "Is that your real name or just a nickname?" I asked, looking straight into Bruno's eyes.
   He shifted just a little in his chair. "Real name."
   I smiled.
   "Why?" he asked.
   "I've just never met a bodyguard who was really named Bruno."
   "Is that supposed to be funny?" he asked.
   I shook my head. Bruno. He never had a chance. It was like naming a girl Venus. All Brunos had to be bodyguards. It was a rule. Maybe a cop? Naw, it was a bad guy's name. I smiled.
   Bruno sat up in his chair, one smooth, muscular motion. He wasn't wearing a gun that I could see, but there was a presence to him. Dangerous, it said, watch out.
   Guess I shouldn't have smiled.
   Bert interrupted, "Anita, please. I do apologize, Mr. Gaynor ... Mr. Bruno. Ms. Blake has a rather peculiar sense of humor."
   "Don't apologize for me, Bert. I don't like it." I don't know what he was so sore about anyway. I hadn't said the really insulting stuff out loud.
   "Now, now," Mr. Gaynor said. "No hard feelings. Right, Bruno?"
   Bruno shook his head and frowned at me, not angry, sort of perplexed.
   Bert flashed me an angry look, then turned smiling to the man in the wheelchair. "Now, Mr. Gaynor, I know you must be a busy man. So, exactly how old is the zombie you want raised?"
   "A man who gets right down to business. I like that." Gaynor hesitated, staring at the door. A woman entered.
   She was tall, leggy, blond, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it was a dress, was rose-colored and silky. It clung to her body the way it was supposed to, hiding what decency demanded, but leaving very little to the imagination. Long pale legs were stuffed into pink spike heels, no hose. She stalked across the carpet, and every man in the room watched her. And she knew it.
   She threw back her head and laughed, but no sound came out. Her face brightened, her lips moved, eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence, like someone had turned the sound off. She leaned one hip against Harold Gaynor, one hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the movement raised the already short dress another inch.
   Could she sit down in the dress without flashing the room? Naw.
   "This is Cicely," he said. She smiled brilliantly at Bert, that little soundless laugh making her eyes sparkle. She looked at me and her eyes faltered, the smile slipped. For a second uncertainty filled her eyes. Gaynor patted her hip. The smile flamed back into place. She nodded graciously to both of us.
   "I want you to raise a two-hundred-and-eighty-three-year old corpse."
   I just stared at him and wondered if he understood what he was asking.
   "Well," Bert said, "that is nearly three hundred years old. Very old to raise as a zombie. Most animators couldn't do it at all."
   "I am aware of that," Gaynor said. "That is why I asked for Ms. Blake. She can do it."
   Bert glanced at me. I had never raised anything that old. "Anita?"
   "I could do it," I said.
   He smiled back at Gaynor, pleased.
   "But I won't do it."
   Bert turned slowly back to me, smile gone.
   Gaynor was still smiling. The bodyguards were immobile. Cicely looked pleasantly at me, eyes blank of any meaning.
   "A million dollars, Ms. Blake," Gaynor said in his soft pleasant voice.
   I saw Bert swallow. His hands convulsed on the chair arms. Bert's idea of sex was money. He probably had the biggest hard-on of his life.
   "Do you understand what you're asking, Mr. Gaynor?" I asked.
   He nodded. "I will supply the white goat." His voice was still pleasant as he said it, still smiling. Only his eyes had gone dark; eager, anticipatory.
   I stood up. "Come on, Bert, it's time to leave."
   Bert grabbed my arm. "Anita, sit down, please."
   I stared at his hand until he let go of me. His charming mask slipped, showing me the anger underneath, then he was all pleasant business again. "Anita. It is a generous payment."
   "The white goat is a euphemism, Bert. It means a human sacrifice."
   My boss glanced at Gaynor, then back to me. He knew me well enough to believe me, but he didn't want to. "I don't understand," he said.
   "The older the zombie the bigger the death needed to raise it. After a few centuries the only death 'big enough' is a human sacrifice," I said.
   Gaynor wasn't smiling anymore. He was watching me out of dark eyes. Cicely was still looking pleasant, almost smiling. Was there anyone home behind those so blue eyes? "Do you really want to talk about murder in front of Cicely?" I asked.
   Gaynor beamed at me, always a bad sign. "She can't understand a word we say. Cicely's deaf."
   I stared at him, and he nodded. She looked at me with pleasant eyes. We were talking of human sacrifice and she didn't even know it. If she could read lips, she was hiding it very well. I guess even the handicapped, um, physically challenged, can fall into bad company, but it seemed wrong.
   "I hate a woman who talks constantly," Gaynor said.
   I shook my head. "All the money in the world wouldn't be enough to get me to work for you."
   "Couldn't you just kill lots of animals, instead of just one?" Bert asked. Bert is a very good business manager. He knows shit about raising the dead.
   I stared down at him. "No."
   Bert sat very still in his chair. The prospect of losing a million dollars must have been real physical pain for him, but he hid it. Mr. Corporate Negotiator. "There has to be a way to work this out," he said. His voice was calm. A professional smile curled his lips. He was still trying to do business. My boss did not understand what was happening.
   "Do you know of another animator that could raise a zombie this old?" Gaynor asked.
   Bert glanced up at me, then down at the floor, then at Gaynor. The professional smile had faded. He understood now that it was murder we were talking about. Would that make a difference?
   I had always wondered where Bert drew the line. I was about to find out. The fact that I didn't know whether he would refuse the contract told you a lot about my boss. "No," Bert said softly, "no, I guess I can't help you either, Mr. Gaynor."
   "If it's the money, Ms. Blake, I can raise the offer."
   A tremor ran through Bert's shoulders. Poor Bert, but he hid it well. Brownie point for him.
   "I'm not an assassin, Gaynor," I said.
   "That ain't what I heard," Tommy of the blond hair said.
   I glanced at him. His eyes were still as empty as a doll's. "I don't kill people for money."
   "You kill vampires for money," he said.
   "Legal execution, and I don't do it for the money," I said.
   Tommy shook his head and moved away from the wall. "I hear you like staking vampires. And you aren't too careful about who you have to kill to get to 'em."
   "My informants tell me you have killed humans before, Ms. Blake," Gaynor said.
   "Only in self-defense, Gaynor. I don't do murder."
   Bert was standing now. "I think it is time to leave."
   Bruno stood in one fluid movement, big dark hands loose and half-cupped at his sides. I was betting on some kind of martial arts.
   Tommy was standing away from the wall. His sport jacket was pushed back to expose his gun, like an old-time gunfighter. It was a .357 Magnum. It would make a very big hole.
   I just stood there, staring at them. What else could I do? I might be able to do something with Bruno, but Tommy had a gun. I didn't. It sort of ended the argument.
   They were treating me like I was a very dangerous person. At five-three I am not imposing. Raise the dead, kill a few vampires, and people start considering you one of the monsters. Sometimes it hurt. But now ... it had possibilities. "Do you really think I came in here unarmed?" I asked. My voice sounded very matter-of-fact.
   Bruno looked at Tommy. He sort of shrugged. "I didn't pat her down."
   Bruno snorted.
   "She ain't wearing a gun, though," Tommy said.
   "Want to bet your life on it?" I said. I smiled when I said it, and slid my hand, very slowly, towards my back. Make them think I had a hip holster at the small of my back. Tommy shifted, flexing his hand near his gun. If he went for it, we were going to die. I was going to come back and haunt Bert.
   Gaynor said, "No. No need for anyone to die here today, Ms. Blake."
   "No," I said, "no need at all." I swallowed my pulse back into my throat and eased my hand away from my imaginary gun. Tommy eased away from his real one. Goody for us.
   Gaynor smiled again, like a pleasant beardless Santa. "You of course understand that telling the police would be useless."
   I nodded. "We have no proof. You didn't even tell us who you wanted raised from the dead, or why."
   "It would be your word against mine," he said.
   "And I'm sure you have friends in high places." I smiled when I said it.
   His smile widened, dimpling his fat little cheeks. "Of course."
   I turned my back on Tommy and his gun. Bert followed. We walked outside into the blistering summer heat. Bert looked a little shaken. I felt almost friendly towards him. It was nice to know that Bert had limits, something he wouldn't do, even for a million dollars.
   "Would they really have shot us?" he asked. His voice sounded matter-of-fact, firmer than the slightly glassy look in his eyes. Tough Bert. He unlocked the trunk without being asked.
   "With Harold Gaynor's name in our appointment book and in the computer?" I got my gun out and slipped on the holster rig. "Not knowing who we'd mentioned this trip to?" I shook my head. "Too risky."
   "Then why did you pretend to have a gun?" He looked me straight in the eyes as he asked, and for the first time I saw uncertainty in his face. Old money bags needed a comforting word, but I was fresh out.
   "Because, Bert, I could have been wrong."

2
   The bridal shop was just off 70 West in St. Peters. It was called The Maiden Voyage. Cute. There was a pizza place on one side of it and a beauty salon on the other. It was called Full Dark Beauty Salon. The windows were blacked out, outlined in bloodred neon. You could get your hair and nails done by a vampire, if you wanted to.
   Vampirism had only been legal for two years in the United States of America. We were still the only country in the world where it was legal. Don't ask me; I didn't vote for it. There was even a movement to give the vamps the vote. Taxation without representation and all that.
   Two years ago if a vampire bothered someone I just went out and staked the son of a bitch. Now I had to get a court order of execution. Without it, I was up on murder charges, if I was caught. I longed for the good of days.
   There was a blond mannequin in the wedding shop window wearing enough white lace to drown in. I am not a big fan of lace, or seed pearls, or sequins. Especially not sequins. I had gone out with Catherine twice to help her look for a wedding gown. It didn't take long to realize I was no help. I didn't like any of them.
   Catherine was a very good friend or I wouldn't have been here at all. She told me if I ever got married I'd change my mind. Surely being in love doesn't cause you to lose your sense of good taste. If I ever buy a gown with sequins on it, someone just shoot me.
   I also wouldn't have chosen the bridal dresses Catherine picked out, but it was my own fault that I hadn't been around when the vote was taken. I worked too much and I hated to shop. So, I ended up plunking down $120 plus tax on a pink taffeta evening gown. It looked like it had run away from a junior high prom.
   I walked into the air-conditioned hush of the bridal shop, high heels sinking into a carpet so pale grey it was nearly white. Mrs. Cassidy, the manager, saw me come in. Her smile faltered for just a moment before she got it under control. She smiled at me, brave Mrs. Cassidy.
   I smiled back, not looking forward to the next hour.
   Mrs. Cassidy was somewhere between forty and fifty, trim figure, red hair so dark it was almost brown. The hair was tied in a French knot like Grace Kelly used to wear. She pushed her gold wire-framed glasses more securely on her nose and said, "Ms. Blake, here for the final fitting, I see."
   "I hope it's the final fitting," I said.
   "Well, we have been working on the ... problem. I think we've come up with something." There was a small room in back of the desk. It was filled with racks of plastic-covered dresses. Mrs. Cassidy pulled mine out from between two identical pink dresses.
   She led the way to the dressing rooms with the dress draped over her arms. Her spine was very straight. She was gearing for another battle. I didn't have to gear up, I was always ready for battle. But arguing with Mrs. Cassidy about alterations to a formal beat the heck out of arguing with Tommy and Bruno. It could have gone very badly, but it hadn't. Gaynor had called them off, for today, he had said.
   What did that mean exactly? It was probably self-explanatory. I had left Bert at the office still shaken from his close encounter. He didn't deal with the messy end of the business. The violent end. No, I did that, or Manny, or Jamison, or Charles. We, the animators of Animators, Inc, we did the dirty work. Bert stayed in his nice safe office and sent clients and trouble our way. Until today.
   Mrs. Cassidy hung the dress on a hook inside one of the dressing stalls and went away. Before I could go inside, another stall opened, and Kasey, Catherine's flower girl, stepped out. She was eight, and she was glowering. Her mother followed behind her, still in her business suit. Elizabeth (call me Elsie) Markowitz was tall, slender, blackhaired, olive skinned, and a lawyer. She worked with Catherine and was also in the wedding.
   Kasey looked like a smaller, softer version of her mother.
   The child spotted me first and said, "Hi, Anita. Isn't this dress dumb-looking?"
   "Now, Kasey," Elsie said, "it's a beautiful dress. All those nice pink ruffles."
   The dress looked like a petunia on steroids to me. I stripped off my jacket and started moving into my own dressing room before I had to give my opinion out loud.
   "Is that a real gun?" Kasey asked.
   I had forgotten I was still wearing it. "Yes," I said.
   "Are you a policewoman?"
   "No."
   "Kasey Markowitz, you ask too many questions." Her mother herded her past me with a harried smile. "Sorry about that, Anita."
   "I don't mind," I said. Sometime later I was standing on a little raised platform in front of a nearly perfect circle of mirrors. With the matching pink high heels the dress was the right length at least. It also had little puff sleeves and was an off-the-shoulder look. The dress showed almost every scar I had.
   The newest scar was still pink and healing on my right forearm. But it was just a knife wound. They're neat, clean things compared to my other scars. My collarbone and left arm have both been broken. A vampire bit through them, tore at me like a dog with a piece of meat. There's also the cross-shaped burn mark on my left forearm. Some inventive human vampire slaves thought it was amusing. I didn't.
   I looked like Frankenstein's bride goes to the prom. Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but Mrs. Cassidy thought it was. She thought the scars would distract people from the dress, the wedding party, the bride. But Catherine, the bride herself, didn't agree. She thought I deserved to be in the wedding, because we were such good friends. I was paying good money to be publicly humiliated. We must be good friends.
   Mrs. Cassidy handed me a pair of long pink satin gloves. I pulled them on, wiggling my fingers deep into the tiny holes. I've never liked gloves. They make me feel like I'm touching the world through a curtain. But the bright pink things did hide my arms. Scars all gone. What a good girl. Right.
   The woman fluffed out the satiny skirt, glancing into the mirror. "It will do, I think." She stood, tapping one long, painted fingernail against her lipsticked mouth. "I believe I have come up with something to hide that, uh ... well ... " She made vague hand motions towards me.
   "My collarbone scar?" I said.
   "Yes." She sounded relieved.
   It occurred to me for the first time that Mrs. Cassidy had never once said the word "scar." As if it were dirty, or rude. I smiled at myself in the ring of mirrors. Laughter caught at the back of my throat.
   Mrs. Cassidy held up something made of pink ribbon and fake orange blossoms. The laughter died. "What is that?" I asked.
   "This," she said, stepping towards me, "is the solution to our problem."
   "All right, but what is it?"
   "Well, it is a collar, a decoration."
   "It goes around my neck?"
   "Yes."
   I shook my head. "I don't think so."
   "Ms. Blake, I have tried everything to hide that, that ... mark. Hats, hairdos, simple ribbons, corsages ... " She literally threw up her hands. "I am at my wit's end."
   This I could believe. I took a deep breath. "I sympathize with you, Mrs. Cassidy, really I do. I've been a royal pain in the ass."
   "I would never say such a thing."
   "I know, so I said it for you. But that is the ugliest piece of fru-fru I've ever laid eyes on."
   "If you, Ms. Blake, have any better suggestions, then I am all ears." She half crossed her arms over her chest. The offending piece of "decoration" trailed nearly to her waist.
   "It's huge," I protested.
   "It will hide your"-she set her mouth tight-"scar."
   I felt like applauding. She'd said the dirty word. Did I have any better suggestions? No. I did not. I sighed. "Put it on me. The least I can do is look at it."
   She smiled. "Please lift your hair."
   I did as I was told. She fastened it around my neck. The lace itched, the ribbons tickled, and I didn't even want to look in the mirror. I raised my eyes, slowly, and just stared.
   "Thank goodness you have long hair. I'll style it myself the day of the wedding so it helps the camouflage."
   The thing around my neck looked like a cross between a dog collar and the world's biggest wrist corsage. My neck had sprouted pink ribbons like mushrooms after a rain. It was hideous, and no amount of hairstyling was going to change that. But it hid the scar completely, perfectly. Ta-da.
   I just shook my head. What could I say? Mrs. Cassidy took my silence for assent. She should have known better. The phone rang and saved us both. "I'll be just a minute, Ms. Blake." She stalked off, high-heels silent on the thick carpet.
   I just stared at myself in the mirrors. My hair and eyes match, black hair, eyes so dark brown they look black. They are my mother's Latin darkness. But my skin is pale, my father's Germanic blood. Put some makeup on me and I look not unlike a china doll. Put me in a puffy pink dress and I look delicate, dainty, petite. Dammit.
   The rest of the women in the wedding party were all five-five or above. Maybe some of them would actually look good in the dress. I doubted it.
   Insult to injury, we all had to wear hoop skirts underneath. I looked like a reject from Gone With the Wind.
   "There, don't you look lovely." Mrs. Cassidy had returned. She was beaming at me.
   "I look like I've been dipped in Pepto-Bismol," I said.
   Her smile faded around the edges. She swallowed. "You don't like this last idea." Her voice was very stiff.
   Elsie Markowitz came out of the dressing rooms. Kasey was trailing behind, scowling. I knew how she felt. "Oh, Anita," Elsie said, "you look adorable."
   Great. Adorable, just what I wanted to hear. "Thanks."
   "I especially like the ribbons at your throat. We'll all be wearing them, you know."
   "Sorry about that," I said.
   She frowned at me. "I think they just set off the dress."
   It was my turn to frown. "You're serious, aren't you?"
   Elsie looked puzzled. "Well, of course I am. Don't you like the dresses?"
   I decided not to answer on the grounds that it might piss someone off. I guess, what can you expect from a woman who has a perfectly good name like Elizabeth, but prefers to be named after a cow?
   "Is this the absolutely last thing we can use for camouflage, Mrs. Cassidy?" I asked.
   She nodded, once, very firmly.
   I sighed, and she smiled. Victory was hers, and she knew it. I knew I was beaten the moment I saw the dress, but if I'm going to lose, I'm going to make someone pay for it. "All right. It's done. This is it. I'll wear it."
   Mrs. Cassidy beamed at me. Elsie smiled. Kasey smirked. I hiked the hoop skirt up to my knees and stepped off the platform. The hoop swung like a bell with, me as the clapper.
   The phone rang. Mrs. Cassidy went to answer it, a lift in her step, a song in her heart, and me out of her shop. Joy in the afternoon.
   I was struggling to get the wide skirt through the narrow little door that led to the changing rooms when she called, "Ms. Blake, it's for you. A Detective Sergeant Storr."
   "See, Mommy, I told you she was a policewoman," Kasey said.
   I didn't explain because Elsie had asked me not to, weeks ago. She thought Kasey was too young to know about animators and zombies and vampire slayings. Not that any child of eight could not know what a vampire was. They were pretty much the media event of the decade.
   I tried to put the phone to my left ear, but the damned flowers got in the way. Pressing the receiver in the bend of my neck and shoulder, I reached back to undo the collar. "Hi, Dolph, what's up?"
   "Murder scene." His voice was pleasant, like he should sing tenor.
   "What kind of murder scene?"
   "Messy."
   I finally pulled the collar free and dropped the phone.
   "Anita, you there?"
   "Yeah, having some wardrobe trouble."
   "What?"
   "It's not important. Why do you want me to come down to the scene?"
   "Whatever did this wasn't human."
   "Vampire?"
   "You're the undead expert. That's why I want you to come take a look."
   "Okay, give me the address, and I'll be right there." There was a notepad of pale pink paper with little hearts on it. The pen had a plastic cupid on the end of it. "St. Charles, I'm not more than fifteen minutes from you."
   "Good." He hung up.
   "Good-bye to you, too, Dolph." I said it to empty air just to feel superior. I went back into the little room to change.
   I had been offered a million dollars today, just to kill someone and raise a zombie. Then off to the bridal shop for a final fitting. Now a murder scene. Messy, Dolph had said. It was turning out to be a very busy afternoon.