44
   This is the only night of the year that Bert allows us to wear black to work. He thinks the color is too harsh for normal business hours. I had black jeans and a Halloween sweater with huge grinning jack o' lanterns in a stomach-high line. I topped it off with a black zipper sweatshirt and black Nikes. Even my shoulder holster and the Browning matched. I had my backup gun in an inner pants holster. I also had two extra clips in my sport bag. I had replaced the knife I'd had to leave in the cave. There was a derringer in my jacket pocket and two extra knives, one down the spine, the other in an ankle holster. Don't laugh. I left the shotgun home.
   If Jean-Claude found out I'd betrayed him, he'd kill me. Would I know when he died? Would I feel it? Something told me that I would.
   I took the card that Karl Inger had given me and called the number. If it had to be done, it best be done quickly.
   "Hello?"
   "Is this Karl Inger?"
   "Yes, it is. Who is this?"
   "It's Anita Blake. I need to speak with Oliver."
   "Have you decided to give us the Master of the City?"
   "Yes."
   "If you'll hold for a moment, I'll fetch Mr. Oliver." He laid the receiver down. I heard him walking away until there was nothing but silence on the phone. Better than Muzak.
   Footsteps coming back, then: "Hello, Ms. Blake, so good of you to call."
   I swallowed, and it hurt. "The Master of the City is Jean-Claude."
   "I had discounted him. He isn't very powerful."
   "He hides his powers. Trust me, he's a lot more than he seems."
   "Why the change of heart, Ms. Blake?"
   "He gave me the third mark. I want free of him."
   "Ms. Blake, to be bound thrice to a vampire, and then have that vampire die, can be quite a shock to the system. It could kill you."
   "I want free of him, Mr. Oliver."
   "Even if you die?" he said.
   "Even if I die."
   "I would have liked to have met you under different circumstances, Anita Blake. You are a remarkable person."
   "No, I've just seen too much. I won't let him have me."
   "I will not fail you, Ms. Blake. I will see him dead."
   "If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have told you."
   "I appreciate your confidence."
   "One other thing you should know. The lamia tried to betray you today. She's in league with another master named Alejandro."
   "Really?" His voice sounded amused. "What did he offer her?"
   "Her freedom."
   "Yes, that would tempt Melanie. I keep her on such a short rein."
   "She's been trying to breed. Did you know that?"
   "What do you mean?" I told him about the men, especially the last one that had been nearly changed. He was quiet for a moment. "I have been most inattentive. I will deal with Melanie and Alejandro."
   "Fine. I'd appreciate a call tomorrow to let me know how things went."
   "To be sure he's dead," Oliver said.
   "Yes," I said.
   "You'll get a call from Karl or myself. But first, where can we find Jean-Claude?"
   "The Circus of the Damned."
   "How appropriate."
   "That's all I can tell you."
   "Thank you, Ms. Blake, and Happy Halloween."
   I had to laugh. "It's going to be a hell of a night."
   He chuckled softly. "Indeed. Good-bye, Ms. Blake."
   The phone went dead in my hand. I stared at the phone. I'd had to do it. Had to. So why did my stomach feel tight? Why did I have the urge to call Jean-Claude and warn him? Was it the marks, or was Richard right? Did I love Jean-Claude in some strange, twisted way? God help me, I hoped not.
   

45
   It was full dark on All Hallows Eve. Larry and I had made two appointments. He'd raised one, and I'd raised the other. He had one more to go, and I had three. A nice normal night.
   What Larry was wearing was not normal. Bert had encouraged us to wear something fitting for the holiday. I'd chosen the sweater. Larry had chosen a costume. He was wearing blue denim overalls, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a straw hat, and work boots. When asked, he'd said, "I'm Huck Finn. Don't I fit the part?"
   With his red hair and freckles, he did fit the part. There was blood on the shirt now, but it was Halloween. There were a lot of people out with fake blood on them. We fit right in tonight.
   My beeper went off. I checked the number, and it was Dolph. Damn.
   "Who is it?" Larry asked.
   "The police. We've got to find a phone."
   He glanced at the dashboard clock. "We're ahead of schedule. How about the McDonald's just off the highway?"
   "Great." I prayed that it wasn't another murder. I needed a nice normal night. At the back of my head like a bit of remembered song, two sentences kept playing: "Jean-Claude is going to die tonight. You set him up."
   It seemed wrong to kill him from a safe distance. To not look him in the eyes and pull the trigger myself, to not give him a chance to kill me first. Fair play and all that. Fuck fair play; it was him or me. Wasn't it?
   Larry parked in the McDonald's lot. "I'm gonna get a Coke while you call in. You want something?"
   I shook my head.
   "You all right?"
   "Sure. I'm just hoping it's not another murder."
   "Jesus, I hadn't thought of that."
   We got out of the car. Larry went into the dining room. I stayed in the little entrance area with the pay phone.
   Dolph picked up on the third ring. "Sergeant Storr."
   "It's Anita. What's up?"
   "We finally broke the paralegal that was feeding information to the vampires."
   "Great; I thought it might be another murder."
   "Not tonight; the vamp's got more important business."
   "What's that supposed to mean?"
   "He's planning on getting every vampire in the city to slaughter humans for Halloween."
   "He can't. Only the Master of the City could do that, and then only if he was incredibly powerful."
   "That's what I thought. Could be the vampire's crazy."
   I had a thought, an awful thought. "You got a description of the vampire?"
   "Vampires," he said.
   "Read it to me."
   I heard paper rustling, then: "Short, dark, very polite. Saw one other vampire twice with the boss vamp. He was medium height, Indian or Mexican, longish black hair."
   I clutched the phone so tight my hand trembled. "Did the vampire say why he was going to slaughter humans?"
   "Wanted to discredit legalized vampirism. Now isn't that a weird motive for a vampire?"
   "Yeah," I said. "Dolph, this could happen."
   "What are you saying?"
   "If this master vampire could kill the Master of the City and take over before dawn, he might pull it off."
   "What can we do?"
   I hesitated, almost telling him to protect Jean-Claude, but it wasn't a matter for the police. They had to worry about laws and police brutality. There was no way to take something like Oliver alive. Whatever was going to happen tonight had to be permanent.
   "Talk to me, Anita."
   "I've gotta go, Dolph."
   "You know something; tell me."
   I hung up. I also turned off my beeper. I dialed Circus of the Damned. A pleasant-voiced woman answered, "Circus of the Damned, where all your nightmares come true."
   "I need to speak to Jean-Claude. It's an emergency."
   "He's busy right now. May I take a message?"
   I swallowed hard, tried not to yell. "This is Anita Blake, Jean-Claude's human servant. Tell him to get his ass to the phone now."
   "I . . ."
   "People are going to die if I don't talk to him."
   "Okay, okay." She put me on hold with a butchered version of "High Flying" by Tom Petty.
   Larry came out with his Coke. "What's up?"
   I shook my head. I fought the urge to jump up and down, but that wouldn't get Jean-Claude to the phone any sooner. I stood very still, hugging one arm across my stomach. What had I done? Please don't let it be too late.
   "Ma petite?"
   "Thank God."
   "What has happened?"
   "Just listen. There's a master vampire on his way to the Circus. I gave him your name and your resting place. His name is Mr. Oliver and he's older than anything. He's older than Alejandro. In fact, I think he's Alejandro's master. It's all been a plan to get me to betray the city to him, and I fell for it."
   He was quiet so long that I asked, "Did you hear me?"
   "You really meant to kill me."
   "I told you I would."
   "But now you warn me. Why?"
   "Oliver wants control of the city so he can send all the vampires out to slaughter humans. He wants it back to the old days when vampires were hunted. He said legalized vampirism was spreading too fast. I agree, but I didn't know what he meant to do."
   "So to save your precious humans you will betray Oliver now."
   "It isn't like that. Dammit, Jean-Claude, concentrate on the important thing here. They're on their way. They may be there already. You've got to protect yourself."
   "To keep the humans safe."
   "To keep your vampires safe, too. Do you really want them under Oliver's control?"
   "No. I will take steps, ma petite. We will at least give him a fight." He hung up.
   Larry was staring at me with wide eyes. "What the hell is happening, Anita?"
   "Not now, Larry." I fished Edward's card out of my bag. I didn't have another quarter. "Do you have a quarter?"
   "Sure." He handed it to me without any more questions. Good man.
   I dialed the number. "Please, be there. Please, be there."
   He answered on the seventh ring.
   "Edward, it's Anita."
   "What's happened?"
   "How would you like to take on two master vampires older than Nikolaos?"
   I heard him swallow. "I always have so much fun when you're around. Where should we meet?"
   "The Circus of the Damned. You got an extra shotgun?"
   "Not with me."
   "Shit. Meet me out front ASAP. The shit's going to really hit the fan tonight, Edward."
   "Sounds like a great way to spend Halloween."
   "See you there."
   "Bye, and thanks for inviting me." He meant it. Edward had started out as a normal assassin, but humans had been too easy, so he went for vamps and shapeshifters. He hadn't met anything he couldn't kill, and what was life without a little challenge?
   I looked at Larry. "I need to borrow your car."
   "You're not going anywhere without me. I've heard just your side of the conversations, and I'm not getting left out."
   I started to argue, but there wasn't time. "Okay, let's do it."
   He grinned. He was pleased. He didn't know what was going to happen tonight, what we were up against. I did. And I wasn't happy at all.
   
   

46
   I stood just inside the door of the Circus, staring at the wave of costumes and glittering humanity. I'd never seen the place so crowded. Edward stood beside me in a long black cloak with a death's-head mask. Death dressed up as death; funny, huh? He also had a flamethrower strapped to his back, an Uzi pistol, and heaven knew how many other weapons secreted about his person. Larry looked pale but determined. He had my derringer in his pocket. He knew nothing about guns. The derringer was an emergency measure only, but he wouldn't stay in the car. Next week, if we were still alive, I'd take him out to the shooting range.
   A woman in a bird costume passed us in a scent of feathers and perfume. I had to look twice to make sure that it was just a costume. Tonight was the night when all shapeshifters could be out and people would just say, "Neat costume."
   It was Halloween night at the Circus of the Damned. Anything was possible.
   A slender black woman stepped up to us wearing nothing but a bikini and an elaborate mask. She had to step close to me to be heard over the murmur of the crowd. "Jean-Claude sent me to bring you."
   "Who are you?"
   "Rashida."
   I shook my head. "Rashida had her arm torn off two days ago." I stared at the perfect flesh of her arm. "You can't be her."
   She raised her mask so I could see her face, then smiled. "We heal fast."
   I had known lycanthropes healed fast, but not that fast, not that much damage. Live and learn.
   We followed her swaying hips into the crowd. I grabbed hold of Larry's hand with my left hand. "Stay right with me tonight."
   He nodded. I threaded through the crowd holding his hand like a child or a lover. I couldn't stand the thought of him getting hurt. No, that wasn't true. I couldn't stand the thought of him getting killed. Death was the big boogeyman tonight.
   Edward followed at our heels. Silent as his namesake, trusting that he'd get to kill something soon.
   Rashida led us towards the big, striped circus tent. Back to Jean-Claude's office, I supposed. A man in a straw hat and striped coat said, "Sorry, the show's sold out."
   "It's me, Perry. These are the ones the Master's been waiting for." She hiked her thumb in our direction.
   The man drew aside the tent flap and motioned us through. There was a line of sweat on his upper lip. It was warm, but I had the feeling it wasn't that kind of sweat. What was happening inside the tent? It couldn't be too bad if they were letting the crowd in to watch. Could it?
   The lights were bright and hot. I started to sweat under the sweatshirt, but if I took it off, people would stare at my gun. I hated that.
   Circular curtains had been rigged to the ceiling, creating two curtained-off areas in the large circus ring. Spotlights surrounded the two hidden areas. The curtains were like prisms. With every step we took, the colors changed and flowed over the cloth. I wasn't sure if it was the cloth or some trick of the lights. Whatever, it was a nifty effect.
   Rashida stopped just short of the rail that kept the crowd back. "Jean-Claude wanted everybody to be in costume, but we're out of time." She pulled at my sweater. "Lose the jacket and it'll have to do."
   I pulled my sweater out of her hand. "What are you talking about, costumes?"
   "You're holding up the show. Drop the jacket and come on." She did a long, lazy leap over the railing and strode barefoot and beautiful across the white floor. She looked back at us, motioning for us to follow.
   I stayed where I was. I wasn't going anywhere until somebody explained things. Larry and Edward waited with me. The audience near us was staring intently, waiting for us to do something interesting.
   We stood there.
   Rashida disappeared into one of the curtained circles. "Anita."
   I turned, but Larry was staring at the ring. "Did you say something?"
   He shook his head.
   "Anita?"
   I glanced at Edward, but it hadn't been his voice. I whispered, "Jean-Claude?"
   "Yes, ma petite, it is I."
   "Where are you?"
   "Behind the curtain where Rashida went."
   I shook my head. His voice had resonance, a slight echo, but otherwise it was as normal as his voice ever got. I could probably talk to him without moving my lips, but if so, I didn't want to know. I whispered, "What's going on?"
   "Mr. Oliver and I have a gentleman's agreement."
   "I don't understand."
   "Who are you talking to?" Edward asked.
   I shook my head. "I'll explain later."
   "Come into my circle, Anita, and I will explain everything to you at the same time I explain it to our audience."
   "What have you done?"
   "I have done the best I could to spare lives, ma petite, but some will die tonight. But it will be in the circle with only the soldiers called to task. No innocents will die tonight, whoever wins. We have given our words."
   "You're going to fight it out in the ring like a show?"
   "It was the best I could do on such short notice. If you had warned me days ago, perhaps something else could have been arranged."
   I ignored that. Besides, I was feeling guilty.
   I took off the sweatshirt and laid it across the railing. There were gasps from the people near enough to see my gun.
   "The fight's going to take place out in the ring."
   "In front of the audience?" Edward said.
   "Yep."
   "I don't get it," Larry said.
   "I want you to stay here, Larry."
   "No way."
   I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Larry, you don't have any weapons. You don't know how to use a gun. You're just cannon fodder until you get some training. Stay here."
   He shook his head.
   I touched his arm. "Please, Larry."
   Maybe it was the please, or the look in my eyes—whatever, he nodded. I could breathe a little easier. Whatever happened tonight, Larry wouldn't die because I'd brought him into it. It wouldn't be my fault.
   I climbed over the railing and dropped to the ring. Edward followed me with a swish of black cape. I glanced back once. Larry stood gripping the rail. There was something forlorn about him standing there alone, but he was safe; that was what counted.
   I touched the shimmering curtain, and it was the lights. The cloth was white up close. I lifted it to one side, and entered, Edward at my back.
   There was a multilayered dais complete with throne in the center of the circle. Rashida stood with Stephen near the foot of the dais. I recognized Richard's hair and his naked chest before he lifted the mask off his face. It was a white mask with a blue star on one cheek. He was wearing glittering blue harem pants with a matching vest and shoes. Everyone was in costume but me.
   "I was hoping you wouldn't make it in time," Richard said.
   "What, and miss the Halloween blowout of all time?"
   "Who's that with you?" Stephen asked.
   "Death," I said.
   Edward bowed.
   "Trust you to bring death to the ball, ma petite."
   I looked up the dais, to the very top. Jean-Claude stood in front of the throne. He was finally wearing what his shirts hinted at, but this was the real thing. The real French courtier. I didn't know what to call half of the costume. The coat was black with tasteful silver here and there. A short half-cloak was worn over one shoulder only. The pants were billowy and tucked into calf-high boots. Lace edged the foldover tops of the boots. A wide white collar lay at his throat. Lace spilled out of the coat sleeves. It was topped off by a wide, almost floppy hat with a curving arch of black and white feathers.
   The costumed throng moved to either side, clearing the stairs up to the throne for me. I somehow didn't want to go. There were sounds outside the curtains. Heavy things being moved around. More scenery and props being moved up.
   I glanced at Edward. He was staring at the crowd, eyes taking in everything. Hunting for victims, or for familiar faces?
   Everyone was in costume, but very few people were actually wearing masks. Yasmeen and Marguerite stood about halfway up the stairs. Yasmeen was in a scarlet sari, all veils and sequins. Her dark face looked very natural in the red silk. Marguerite was in a long dress with puffed sleeves and a wide lace collar. The dress was of some dark blue cloth. It was simple, unadorned. Her blond hair was in complicated curls with one large mass over each ear and a small bun atop her head. Hers, like Jean-Claude's, looked less like a costume and more like antique clothing.
   I walked up the stairs towards them. Yasmeen dropped her veils enough to expose the cross-shaped scar I'd given her. "Someone will pay you back for this tonight."
   "Not you personally?" I asked.
   "Not yet."
   "You don't care who wins, do you?"
   She smiled. "I am loyal to Jean-Claude, of course."
   "Like hell."
   "As loyal as you were, ma petite." She drew out each syllable, biting each sound off.
   I left her to laugh at my back. I guess I wasn't the one to complain about loyalties.
   There were a pair of wolves sitting at Jean-Claude's feet. They stared at me with strange pale eyes. There was nothing human in the gaze. Real wolves. Where had he gotten real wolves?
   I stood two steps down from him and his pet wolves. His face was unreadable, empty and perfect.
   "You look like something out of The Three Musketeers," I said.
   "Accurate, ma petite."
   "Is it your original century?"
   He smiled a smile that could have meant anything, or nothing.
   "What's going to happen tonight, Jean-Claude?"
   "Come, stand beside me, where my human servant belongs." He extended a pale hand.
   I ignored the hand and stepped up. He'd talked inside my head. It was getting silly to argue. Arguing didn't make it not true.
   One of the wolves growled low in its chest. I hesitated.
   "They will not harm you. They are my creatures."
   Like me, I thought.
   Jean-Claude put his hand down towards the wolf. It cringed and licked his hand. I stepped carefully around the wolf. But it ignored me, all its attention on Jean-Claude. It was sorry it had growled at me. It would do anything to make up for it. It groveled like a dog.
   I stood at his right side, a little behind the wolf.
   "I had picked out a lovely costume for you."
   "If it was anything that would have matched yours, I wouldn't have worn it."
   He laughed, soft and low. The sound tugged at something low in my gut. "Stay here by the throne with the wolves while I make my speech."
   "We really are going to fight in front of the crowd."
   He stood. "Of course. This is the Circus of the Damned, and tonight is Halloween. We will show them a spectacle the likes of which they have never seen."
   "This is crazy."
   "Probably, but it keeps Oliver from bringing the building down around us."
   "Could he do that?"
   "That and much more, ma petite, if we had not agreed to limit our use of such powers."
   "Could you bring the building down?"
   He smiled, and for once gave me a straight answer. "No, but Oliver does not know that."
   I had to smile.
   He draped himself over the throne, one leg thrown over a chair arm. He tucked his hat low until all I could see was his mouth. "I still cannot believe that you betrayed me, Anita."
   "You gave me no choice."
   "You would really see me dead rather than have the fourth mark."
   "Yep."
   He whispered, "Showtime, Anita."
   The lights suddenly went off. There were screams from the audience as it sat in the sudden dark. The curtain pulled back on either side. I was suddenly on the edge of the spotlight. The light shone like a star in the dark. Jean-Claude and his wolves were bathed in a soft light. I had to agree that my pumpkin sweater didn't exactly fit the motif.
   Jean-Claude stood in one boneless movement. He swept his hat off and gave a low, sweeping bow. "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you will witness a great battle." He began to move slowly down the steps. The spotlight moved with him. He kept the hat off, using it for emphasis in his hand. "The battle for the soul of this city."
   He stopped, and the light spread wider to include two blond vampires. The two women were dressed as 1920s flappers, one in blue, the other in red. The women flashed fangs, and there were gasps from the audience. "Tonight you will see vampires, werewolves, gods, devils." He filled each word with something. When he said "vampires," there was a ruffling at your neck. "Werewolves" slashed from the dark, and there were screams. "Gods" breathed along the skin. "Devils" were a hot wind that scalded your face.
   Gasps and stifled screams filled the dark.
   "Some of what you see tonight will be real, some illusion; which is which will be for you to decide." "Illusion" echoed in the mind like a vision through glass, repeating over and over. The last sound died away with a whisper that sounded like a different word altogether. "Real," the voice whispered.
   "The monsters of this city fight for control of it this Halloween. If we win, then all goes peaceful as before. If our enemies win . . ." A second spotlight picked out the top of a second dais. There was no throne. Oliver stood at the top with the lamia in full serpent glory. Oliver was dressed in a baggy white jump suit with large polka dots on it. His face was white with a sad smile drawn on it. One heavily lined eye dropped a sparkling tear. A tiny pointed hat with a bright blue pom-pom topped his head.
   A clown? He had chosen to be a clown? It wasn't what I had pictured him in. But the lamia was impressive with her striped coils curled around him, her naked breasts caressed by his gloved hand.
   "If our enemies win, then tomorrow night will see a bloodbath such as no city in the world has ever seen. They will feed upon the flesh and blood of this city until it is drained dry and lifeless." He had stopped about halfway down. Now he began to come back up the stairs. "We fight for your lives, your very souls. Pray that we win, dear humans; pray very, very hard."
   He sat in the throne. One of the wolves put a paw on his leg. He stroked its head absently.
   "Death comes to all humans," Oliver said.
   The spotlight died on Jean-Claude, leaving Oliver as the only light in the darkness. Symbolism at its best.
   "You will all die someday. In some small accident, or long disease. Pain and agony await you." The audience rustled uneasily in their seats.
   "Are you protecting me from his voice?" I asked.
   "The marks are," Jean-Claude said.
   "What is the audience feeling?"
   "A sharp pain over the heart. Age slowing their bodies. The quick horror of some remembered accident."
   Gasps, screams, cries filled the dark as Oliver's words sought out each person and made them feel their mortality.
   It was obscene. Something that had seen a million years was reminding mere humans how very fragile life was.
   "If you must die, would it not be better to die in our glorious embrace?" The lamia crawled around the dais to show herself to all the audience. "She could take you, oh, so sweetly, soft, gentle into that dark night. We make death a celebration, a joyful passing. No lingering doubts. You will want her hands upon you in the end. She will show you joys that few mortals ever dream of. Is death such a high price to pay, when you will die anyway? Wouldn't it be better to die with our lips upon your skin than by time's slowly ticking clock?"
   There were a few cries of "Yes . . . Please . . ."
   "Stop him," I said.
   "This is his moment, ma petite. I cannot stop him."
   "I offer you all your darkest dreams come true in our arms, my friends. Come to us now."
   The darkness rustled with movement. The lights came up, and there were people coming out of the seats. People climbing over the railing. People coming to embrace death.
   They all froze in the light. They stared around like sleepers waking from a dream. Some looked embarrassed, but one man close to the rail looked near tears, as if some bright vision had been ripped away. He collapsed to his knees, shoulders shaking. He was sobbing. What had he seen in Oliver's words? What had he felt in the air? God, save us from it.
   With the lights I could see what they had moved in while we waited behind the curtains. It looked like a marble altar with steps leading up to it. It sat between the two daises, waiting. For what? I turned to ask Jean-Claude, but something was happening.
   Rashida walked away from the dais, putting herself close to the railing, and the people. Stephen, wearing what looked like a thong bathing suit, stalked to the other side of the ring. His nearly naked body was just as smooth and flawless as Rashida's "We heal fast," she'd said.
   "Ladies and gentlemen, we will give you a few moments to recover yourselves from the first magic of the evening. Then we will show you some of our secrets."
   The crowd settled back into their seats. An usher helped the crying man back to his seat. A hush fell over the people. I had never heard so large a crowd be so silent. You could have dropped a pin.
   "Vampires are able to call animals to their aid. My animal is the wolf." He walked around the top of the dais displaying the wolves. I stood there in the spotlight and wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't on display. I was just visible.
   "But I can also call the wolf's human cousin. The werewolf." He made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm. Music began. Soft and low at first, then rising in a shimmering crescendo.
   Stephen fell to his knees. I turned, and Rashida was on the ground as well. They were going to change right here in front of the crowd. I'd never seen a shapeshifter shift before. I had to admit a certain . . . curiosity.
   Stephen was on all fours. His bare back was bowed with pain. His long yellow hair trailed on the ground. The skin on his back rippled like water, his spine standing like a ridge in the middle. He stretched out his hands as if he were bowing, face pressed to the ground. Bones broke through his hands. He groaned. Things moved under his skin like crawling animals. His spine bowed upward as if rising like a tent all on its own. Fur started to flow out of the skin on his back, spreading impossibly fast like a timelapse photo. Bones and some heavy, clear liquid poured out of his skin. Shapes strained and ripped through his skin. Muscles writhed like snakes. Heavy, wet sounds came as bone shifted in and out of flesh. It was as if the wolf's shape was punching its way out of the man's body. Fur flowed fast and faster, the color of dark honey. The fur hid some of the changes, and I was glad.
   Something between a howl and a scream tore from his throat. Finally, there was that same manwolf form as the night we fought the giant cobra. The wolfman threw his muzzle skyward and howled. The sound raised the hairs on my body.
   A second howl echoed from the other side. I whirled, and there was a second wolfman form, but this one was as black as pitch. Rashida?
   The audience applauded wildly, stamping and shouting.
   The werewolves crept back to the dais. They crouched at the bottom, one on each side.
   "I have nothing so showy to offer you." The lights were back on Oliver. "The snake is my creature." The lamia twined around him, hissing loud enough to carry to the audience. She flicked a forked tongue to lick his white-coated ear.
   He motioned to the foot of the dais. Two black-cloaked figures stood on either side, hoods hiding their faces. "These are my creatures, but let us keep them for a surprise." He looked across at us. "Let it begin."
   The lights went out again. I fought the urge to reach for Jean-Claude in the thick dark. "What's happening?"
   "The battle begins," he said.
   "How?"
   "We have not planned the rest of the evening, Anita. It will be like every battle, chaotic, violent, bloody."
   The lights came up gradually until the tent was bathed in a dim glow, like dusk or twilight. "It begins," Jean-Claude whispered.
   The lamia flowed down the steps, and each side ran for the other. It wasn't a battle. It was a free-for-all, more like a bar brawl than a war.
   The cloaked things ran forward. I had a glimpse of something vaguely snakelike but not. A spatter of machine-gun fire and the thing staggered back. Edward.
   I started down the steps, gun in hand. Jean-Claude never moved. "Aren't you coming down?"
   "The real battle will happen up here, ma petite. Do what you can, but in the end it will come down to Oliver's power and mine."
   "He's a million years old. You can't beat him."
   "I know."
   We stared at each other for a moment. "I'm sorry," I said.
   "So am I, ma petite, Anita, so am I."
   I ran down the steps to join the fight. The snake-thing had collapsed, bisected by the machine-gun fire. Edward was standing back to back with Richard, who had a revolver in his hands. He was shooting it into one of the cloaked things and wasn't even slowing it down. I sighted down my arm and fired at the cloaked head. The thing stumbled and turned towards me. The hood fell backwards, revealing a cobra's head the size of a horse's. From the neck down it was a woman, but from the neck up . . . Neither my shot nor Richard's had made a dent. The thing came up the steps towards me. I didn't know what it was, or how to stop it. Happy Halloween.
   

47
   The thing rushed towards me. I dropped the Browning and had one of the knives halfway out when it hit me. I was on the steps with the thing on top of me. It reared back to strike. I got the knife free. It plunged its fangs into my shoulder. I screamed and shoved the knife into its body. The knife went in, but no blood, no pain. It gnawed on my shoulder, pumping poison in, and the knife did nothing.
   I screamed again. Jean-Claude's voice sounded in my head, "Poison cannot harm you now."
   It hurt like hell, but I wasn't going to die from it. I plunged the knife into its throat, screaming, not knowing what else to do. It gagged. Blood ran down my hand. I hit it again, and it reared back, blood on its fangs. It gave a frantic hiss and pushed itself off me. But I understood now. The weak spot was where the snake part met human flesh.
   I groped for the Browning left-handed; my right shoulder was torn up. I squeezed and watched blood spurt from the thing's neck. It turned and ran, and I let it go.
   I lay on the steps holding my right arm against my body. I didn't think anything was broken, but it hurt like hell. It wasn't even bleeding as badly as it should have been. I glanced up at Jean-Claude. He was standing motionless, but something moved, like a shimmer of heat. Oliver was just as motionless on his dais. That was the real battle; the dying down here didn't mean much except to the people who were going to die.
   I cradled my arm against my stomach and walked down the steps towards Edward and Richard. By the time I was at the bottom of the steps, the arm felt better. Good enough to change the gun to my right hand. I stared at the bite wound, and damned if it wasn't healing. The third mark. I was healing like a shapeshifter.
   "Are you all right?" Richard asked.
   "I seem to be."
   Edward was staring at me. "You should be dying."
   "Explanations later," I said.
   The cobra thing lay at the foot of the dais, its head bisected by machine-gun fire. Edward caught on quick.
   There was a scream, high and piercing. Alejandro had Yasmeen twisted around in his arms, one arm behind her back, his other arm pinning her shoulders to his chest. It was Marguerite who had screamed. She was struggling in Karl Inger's arms. She was outmatched. Apparently, so was Yasmeen.
   Alejandro tore into her throat. She screamed. He snapped her spine with his teeth, blood splattering his face. She sagged in his arms. Movement, and his hand came out through the other side of her chest, the heart crushed to a bloody pulp.
   Marguerite shrieked over and over again. Karl let her go, but she didn't seem to notice. She scratched fingernails down her cheeks until blood ran. She collapsed to her knees, still clawing at her face.
   "Jesus," I said, "stop her."
   Karl stared across at me. I raised the Browning, but he ducked behind Oliver's dais. I went towards Marguerite. Alejandro stepped between us.
   "Do you want to help her?"
   "Yes."
   "Let me lay the last two marks upon you, and I will get out of your way."
   I shook my head. "The city for one crazy human servant? I don't think so."
   "Anita, down!" I dropped flat to the floor, and Edward shot a jet of flame over my head. I could feel the wash of heat bubbling overhead.
   Alejandro shrieked. I raised my eyes only enough to see him burning. He motioned outward with one burning hand, and I felt something wash over me back towards . . . Edward.
   I rolled over, and Edward was on his back, struggling to his feet. The nozzle of the flamethrower was pointed this way again. I dropped without being told.
   Alejandro motioned, and the flame peeled backwards, flowing towards Edward.
   He rolled frantically to put out the flames on his cloak. He threw the burning death's-head mask onto the ground. The flamethrower's tank was on fire. Richard helped him struggle out of it, and they ran. I hugged the ground, hands over my head. The explosion shook the ground. When I looked up, tiny burning pieces were raining down, but that was all. Richard and Edward were peering around the other side of the dais.
   Alejandro stood there with his clothes charred, his skin blistered. He began walking towards me.
   I scrambled to my feet, pointing my gun at him. Of course, the gun hadn't done a whole lot of good before. I backed up until I bumped the steps.
   I started shooting. The bullets went in. He even bled, but he didn't stop. The gun clicked on empty. I turned and ran.
   Something hit me in the back, slamming me to the ground. Alejandro was suddenly on my back, one hand in my hair, bending my neck backwards.
   "Put down the machine gun or I'll break her neck."
   "Shoot him!" I screamed.
   But Edward threw the machine gun on the floor. Dammit. He got out a pistol and took careful aim. Alejandro's body jerked, then he laughed. "You can't kill me with silver bullets."
   He put a knee in my back to hold me down; then a knife flashed in his hand.
   "No," Richard said, "he won't kill her."
   "I'll slit her throat if you interfere, but if you leave us alone, I won't harm her."
   "Edward, kill him!"
   A vampire jumped Edward, riding him to the ground. Richard tried to pull her off him, but a tiny vampire leaped on his back. It was the woman and the little boy from that first night.
   "Now that your friends are busy, we will finish our business."
   "NO!"
   The knife just nicked the surface, sharp, painful, but such a little cut. He leaned over me. "It won't hurt, I promise."
   I screamed.
   His lips touched the cut, locked on it, sucking. He was wrong. It did hurt. Then the smell of flowers surrounded me. I was drowning in perfume. I couldn't see. The world was warm and sweet-scented.
   When I could see again, think again, I was lying on my back, staring up at the tent roof. Arms drew me upward, cradled me. Alejandro held me close. He'd cut a line of blood on his chest, just above the nipple. "Drink."
   I put my hands flat against him, fighting him. His hand squeezed the back of my neck, forcing me closer to the wound.
   "NO!"
   I drew the other knife and plunged it into his chest, searching for the heart. He grunted and grabbed my hand, squeezed until I dropped the knife. "Silver is not the way. I am past silver."
   He pushed my face towards the wound, and I couldn't fight him. I just wasn't strong enough. He could have crushed my skull in one hand, but all he did was press my face to the cut on his chest.
   I struggled, but he kept my mouth pressed to the wound. The blood was salty sweet, vaguely metallic. It was only blood.
   "Anita!" Jean-Claude screamed my name. I wasn't sure if it was aloud or in my head.
   "Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, the two shall be as one. One flesh, one blood, one soul." Somewhere deep inside me, something broke. I could feel it. A wave of liquid warmth rushed up and over me. My skin danced with it. My fingertips tingled. My spine spasmed, and I jerked upright. Strong arms caught me, held me, rocked me.
   A hand smoothed my hair from my face. I opened my eyes to see Alejandro. I wasn't afraid of him anymore. I was calm and floating.
   "Anita?" It was Edward. I turned towards the sound, slowly.
   "Edward."
   "What did he do to you?"
   I tried to think how to explain it, but my mind wouldn't bring up the words. I sat up, pushing gently away from Alejandro.
   There was a pile of dead vampires around Edward's feet. Maybe silver didn't hurt Alejandro, but it had hurt his people.
   "We will make more," Alejandro said. "Can you not read this in my mind?"
   And I could, now that I thought about it, but it wasn't like telepathy. Not words. I—knew he was thinking about the power I'd just given him. He felt no regret about the vampires that had died.
   The crowd screamed.
   Alejandro looked up. I followed his gaze. Jean-Claude was on his knees, blood pouring down his side. Alejandro envied Oliver the ability to draw blood from a distance. When I became Alejandro's servant, Jean-Claude had been weakened. Oliver had him.
   That had been the plan all along.
   Alejandro held me close, and I didn't try to stop him. He whispered against my cheek, "You are a necromancer, Anita. You have power over the dead. That is why Jean-Claude wanted you as his servant. Oliver thinks to control you through controlling me, but I know that you are a necromancer. Even as a servant, you have free will. You do not have to obey as the others do. As a human servant, you are yourself a weapon. You can strike one of us and draw blood."
   "What are you saying?"
   "They have arranged that the loser be stretched over the altar and staked by you."
   "What . . ."
   "Jean-Claude, as affirmation of his power. Oliver, as a gesture to show how well he controlled what once belonged to Jean-Claude."
   There was a gasp from the crowd. Oliver was levitating ever so slowly. He floated to the ground. Then he raised his arms, and Jean-Claude floated upward.
   "Shit," I said.
   Jean-Claude hung nearly unconscious in empty, shining air. Oliver laid him gently on the ground, and fresh blood splattered the white floor.
   Karl Inger came into sight. He picked Jean-Claude up under the arms.
   Where was everybody? I looked around for some help. The black werewolf was torn apart, parts still twitching. I didn't think even a lycanthrope could heal the mess. The blond werewolf wasn't much better, but Stephen was dragging himself towards the altar. With one leg completely ripped away, he was trying.
   Karl laid Jean-Claude on the marble altar. Blood began to seep down the side. He held him lightly at the shoulder. Jean-Claude could bench press a car. How could Karl hold him down?
   "He shares Oliver's strength."
   "Quit doing that," I said.
   "What?"
   "Answering questions I haven't asked yet."
   He smiled. "It saves so much time."
   Oliver picked up a white, polished stake and a padded hammer. He held them out towards me. "It's time."
   Alejandro tried to help me stand, but I pushed him away. Fourth mark or no fourth mark, I could stand on my own.
   Richard screamed, "No!" He ran past us towards the altar. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. He jumped at Oliver, and the little man grabbed him by the throat and tore his windpipe out.
   "Richard!" I was running, but it was too late. He lay bleeding on the ground, still trying to breathe when he didn't have anything to breathe with.
   I knelt by him, tried to stop the flow of blood. His eyes were wide and panic-filled. Edward was with me. "There's nothing you can do. Nothing any of us can do."
   "No."
   "Anita." He pulled me away from Richard. "It's too late."
   I was crying and hadn't known it.
   "Come, Anita; destroy your old master, as you wanted me to." Oliver was holding the hammer and stake out towards me.
   I shook my head.
   Alejandro helped me stand. I reached for Edward, but it was too late. Edward couldn't help. No one could help me. There was no way to take back the fourth mark, or heal Richard, or save Jean-Claude. But at least I wouldn't put the stake through Jean-Claude. That I could stop. That I would not do.
   Alejandro was leading me towards the altar.
   Marguerite had crawled to one side of the dais. She was kneeling, rocking gently back and fourth. Her face was a bloody mask. She'd clawed her eyes out.
   Oliver held the stake and mallet out to me with his white-gloved hands, still wet with Richard's blood. I shook my head.
   "You will take it. You will do as I say." His little clown face was frowning at me.
   "Fuck you," I said.
   "Alejandro, you control her now."
   "She is my servant, master, yes."
   Oliver held the stake out towards me. "Then have her finish him."
   "I cannot force her, master." Alejandro smiled as he said it.
   "Why not?"
   "She is a necromancer. I told you she would have free will."
   "I will not have my grand gesture spoiled by one stubborn woman."
   He tried to roll my mind. I felt him rush over me like a wind inside my head, but it rolled off and away. I was a full human servant; vampire tricks didn't work on me, not even Oliver's.
   I laughed, and he slapped me. I tasted fresh blood in my mouth. He stood beside me, and I could feel him tremble. He was so angry. I was ruining his moment.
   Alejandro was pleased. I could feel his pleasure like a warm hand in my stomach.
   "Finish him, or I promise you I'll beat you to a bloody pulp. You don't die easily now. I can hurt you worse than you can imagine, and you'll heal. But it will still hurt just as badly. Do you understand me?"
   I stared down at Jean-Claude. He was staring at me. His dark blue eyes were as lovely as ever.
   "I won't do it," I said.
   "You still care about him? After all he has done to you?"
   I nodded.
   "Do him, now, or I will kill him slowly. I will pick pieces of flesh from his bones but never kill him. As long as his heart and head are intact, he won't die, no matter what I do to him."
   I looked at Jean-Claude. I couldn't stand by and let Oliver torture him, not if I could help it. Wasn't a clean death better? Wasn't it?
   I took the stake from Oliver. "I'll do it."
   Oliver smiled. "You've made a wise decision. Jean-Claude would thank you if he could."
   I stared down at Jean-Claude, stake in one hand. I touched his chest just over the burn scar. My hand came away smeared with blood.
   "Do it, now!" Oliver said.
   I turned to Oliver, reaching my left hand out for the hammer. As he handed it to me, I shoved the ash stake through his chest.
   Karl screamed. Blood poured out of Oliver's mouth. He seemed frozen, as if he couldn't move with the stake in his heart, but he wasn't dead, not yet. My fingers tore into the meat of his throat and pulled, pulled great gobbets of flesh, until I saw spine, glistening and wet. I wrapped my hand around his spine and jerked it free. His head lolled to one side, held by a few strips of meat. I jerked his head clear and tossed it across the ring.
   Karl Inger was lying beside the altar. I knelt by him and tried to find a pulse, but there wasn't one. Oliver's death had killed him too.
   Alejandro came to stand by me. "You've done it, Anita. I knew you could kill him. I knew you could."
   I stared up at him. "Now you kill Jean-Claude, and we rule the city together."
   "Yes."
   I shoved upward before I could think about it, before he could read my mind. I shoved my hands into his chest. Ribs cracked and scraped my skin. I grabbed his beating heart and crushed it.
   I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight, and it hurt. I pulled his heart out of the hole. He fell, eyes wide and surprised. I fell with him.
   I was gasping for air. Couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe. I lay on top of my master and felt my heart beating for both of us. He wouldn't die. I laid my fingers against his throat and started to dig. I put my hands around his throat and squeezed. I felt my hands dig into flesh, but the pain was overwhelming. I was choking on blood, our blood.
   My hands went numb. I couldn't tell if I was still squeezing or not. I couldn't feel anything except the pain. Then even that slipped away, and I was falling, falling into a darkness that had never known light, and never would.
   
   

48
   I woke up staring into an off-white ceiling. I blinked at the ceiling for a minute. Sunlight lay in warm squares across the blanket. There were metal rails on the bed. An IV dripped to my arm.
   A hospital—then I wasn't dead. Surprise, surprise.
   There were flowers and a bunch of shiny balloons on a small bedside table. I lay there a moment, enjoying the fact that I wasn't dead.
   The door opened, and all I could see was a huge bunch of flowers. Then the flowers lowered, and it was Richard.
   I think I stopped breathing. I could feel all the blood rushing through my skin. There was a soft roaring in my head. No. I wasn't going to faint. I never fainted. I finally managed to say, "You're dead."
   His smile faded. "I'm not dead."
   "I saw Oliver tear out your throat." I could see it in front of me like an overlay in my mind. I saw him gasping, dying. I found I could sit up. I braced myself, and the IV needle moved under my skin, the tape pulling. It was real. Nothing else seemed real.
   He raised a hand towards his throat, then stopped himself. He swallowed hard enough for me to hear it. "You saw Oliver tear out my throat, but it didn't kill me."
   I stared at him. There was no bandage on his cheek. The circle cut had healed. "No human being could survive that," I said softly.
   "I know." He looked incredibly sad as he said it.
   Panic filled my throat until I could barely breathe. "What are you?"
   "I'm a lycanthrope."
   I shook my head. "I know what a lycanthrope feels like, moves like. You aren't one."
   "Yes, I am."
   I kept shaking my head. "No."
   He came to stand beside the bed. He held the flowers awkwardly, as if he didn't know what to do with them. "I'm next in line to be pack leader. I can pass for human, Anita. I'm good at it."
   "You lied to me."
   He shook his head. "I didn't want to."
   "Then why did you?"
   "Jean-Claude ordered me not to tell you."
   "Why?"
   He shrugged. "I think because he knew you'd hate it. You don't forgive deceit. He knows that."
   Would Jean-Claude deliberately try to ruin a potential relationship between Richard and me? Yep.
   "You asked what hold Jean-Claude had on me. That was it. My pack leader loaned me to Jean-Claude on the condition that no one find out what I was."
   "Why are you a special case?"
   "They won't let lycanthropes teach kids, or anybody else for that matter."
   "You're a werewolf."
   "Isn't that better than being dead?"
   I stared up at him. His eyes were still the same perfect brown. His hair fell forward around his face. I wanted to ask him to sit down, to let me run my fingers through his hair, to keep it from that wonderful face.
   "Yeah, it's better than being dead."
   He let out a breath, as if he'd been holding it. He smiled and held the flowers out to me.
   I took them because I didn't know what else to do. They were red carnations with enough baby's breath to form a white mist over the red. The carnations smelled like sweet cloves. Richard was a werewolf. Next in line for pack leader. He could pass for human. I stared up at him. I held out my hand to him. He took it, and his hand was warm and solid, and alive.
   "Now that we've established why you're not dead, why aren't I dead?"
   "Edward did CPR on you until the ambulances came. The doctors don't know what caused your heart to stop, but there's no permanent damage."
   "What did you tell the police about all the bodies?"
   "What bodies?"
   "Come off it, Richard."
   "By the time the ambulance got there, there were no extra bodies."
   "The audience saw it all."
   "But what was real and what was illusion? The police got a hundred different versions from the audience. They're suspicious, but they can't prove anything. The Circus has been shut down until the authorities can be sure it's safe."
   "Safe?" I laughed.
   He shrugged. "As safe as it ever was."
   I slipped my hand out of Richard's grasp, using both hands to smell the flowers again. "Is Jean-Claude . . . alive?"
   "Yes."
   A great sense of relief washed over me. I didn't want him dead. I didn't want Jean-Claude dead. Shit. "He's still Master of the City, then. And I'm still bound to him."
   "No," Richard said, "Jean-Claude told me to tell you. You're free. Alejandro's marks sort of canceled his out. You can't serve two masters, he said."
   Free? I was free? I stared at Richard. "It can't be that easy."
   Richard laughed. "You call this easy?"
   I looked up. I had to smile. "All right, it wasn't easy, but I didn't think anything short of death would get Jean-Claude off my back."
   "Are you happy the marks are gone?"
   I started to say, "Of course," then stopped myself. There was something very serious in Richard's face. He knew what it was to be offered power. To be one with the monsters. It could be horrible, and wonderful.
   Finally I said "Yes."
   "Really?"
   I nodded.
   "You don't seem too enthused," he said.
   "I know I should be jumping for joy, or something, but I just feel empty."
   "You've been through a lot the last few days. You're entitled to be a little numb."
   Why wasn't I happier to be rid of Jean-Claude? Why wasn't I relieved to be no one's human servant? Because I'd miss him? Stupid. Ridiculous. True.
   When something gets too hard to think about, think about something else. "So now everyone knows you're a werewolf."
   "No."
   "You were hospitalized, and you've already healed. I think they'll guess."
   "Jean-Claude had me hidden away until I healed. This is my first day up and around."
   "How long have I been out?"
   "A week."
   "You're joking."
   "You were in a coma for three days. The doctors still don't know what made you start breathing on your own."
   I had come that close to the great beyond. I couldn't remember any tunnel of light, or soothing voices. I felt cheated. "I don't remember."
   "You were unconscious; you're not supposed to remember."
   "Sit down, before I get a crick looking up at you."
   He pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed, smiling at me. It was a nice smile.
   "So you're a werewolf."
   He nodded.
   "How did it happen?"
   He stared down at the floor, then up. His face looked so solemn, I was sorry I'd asked. I was expecting some great tale of a savage attack survived. "I got a bad batch of lycanthropy serum."
   "You what?"
   "You heard me." He seemed embarrassed.
   "You got a bad shot?"
   "Yes."
   My smile got wider and wider.
   "It's not funny," he said.
   I shook my head. "Not at all." I knew my eyes were shiny, and it was all I could do not to laugh out loud. "You've got to admit it's nicely ironic."
   He sighed. "You're going to hurt yourself. Go ahead and laugh."
   I did. I laughed until it hurt, and Richard joined in. Laughter is contagious, too.
   
   

49
   A dozen white roses came later that day with a note from Jean-Claude. The note read, "You are free of me, if you choose. But I hope you want to see me as much as I want to see you. It is your choice. Jean-Claude."
   I stared at the flowers for a long time. I finally had a nurse give them to someone else, or throw them away, or whatever the hell she wanted to do with them. I just wanted them out of my sight. So I was still attracted to Jean-Claude. I might even, in some dark corner, love him a little. It didn't matter. Loving the monsters always ends badly for the human. It's a rule.
   That brought me to Richard. He was one of the monsters, but he was alive. That was an improvement over Jean-Claude. And was he any less human than I was: zombie queen, vampire slayer, necromancer? Who was I to complain?
   I don't know where they put all the body parts, but no police ever came asking. Whether I'd saved the city or not, it was still murder. Legally, Oliver had done nothing to deserve death.
   I got out of the hospital and went back to work. Larry stayed on. He's learning how to hunt vampires, God save him.
   The lamia was truly immortal. Which I guess means lamias can't have been extinct. They just must always have been rare. Jean-Claude got the lamia a green card and gave her a job at the Circus of the Damned. I don't know if he's letting her breed, or not. I haven't been near the Circus since I got out of the hospital.
   Richard and I finally had that first date. We went for something fairly traditional: dinner and a movie. We're going caving next week. He promised no underwater tunnels. His lips are the softest I've ever kissed. So he gets furry once a month. No one's perfect.
   Jean-Claude hasn't given up. He keeps sending me gifts. I keep refusing them. I have to keep saying no until he gives up, or until hell freezes over, whichever comes first.
   Most women complain that there are no single, straight men left. I'd just like to meet one who's human.

Laurell K. Hamilton - The Lunatic Cafe

1
   
It was two weeks before Christmas. A slow time of year for raising the dead. My last client of the night sat across from me. There had been no notation by his name. No note saying zombie raising or vampire slaying. Nothing. Which probably meant whatever he wanted me to do was something I wouldn't, or couldn't, do. Pre-Christmas was a dead time of year, no pun intended. My boss, Bert, took any job that would have us.
   George Smitz was a tall man, well over six feet. He was broad shouldered, and muscular. Not the muscles you get from lifting weights and running around indoor tracks. The muscles you get from hard physical labor. I would have bet money that Mr. Smitz was a construction worker, farmer, or something similar. He was shaped large and square with grime embedded under his fingernails that soap would not touch.
   He sat in front of me, crushing his toboggan hat, kneading it in his big hands. The coffee that he'd accepted sat cooling on the edge of my desk. He hadn't taken so much as a sip.
   I was drinking my coffee out of the Christmas mug that Bert, my boss, had insisted everyone bring in. A personalized holiday mug to add a personal touch to the office. My mug had a reindeer in a bathrobe and slippers with Christmas lights laced in its antlers, toasting the merry season with champagne and saying, "Bingle Jells."
   Bert didn't really like my mug, but he let it go, probably afraid of what else I might bring in. He'd been very pleased with my outfit for the evening. A high-collared blouse so perfectly red I'd had to wear makeup to keep from looking pale. The skirt and matching jacket were a deep forest green. I hadn't dressed for Bert. I had dressed for my date.
   The silver outline of an angel gleamed in my lapel. I looked very Christmasy. The Browning Hi-Power 9mm didn't look Christmasy at all, but since it was hidden under the jacket, that didn't seem to matter. It might have bothered Mr. Smitz, but he looked worried enough to not care. As long as I didn't shoot him personally.
   "Now, Mr. Smitz, how may I help you today?" I asked.
   He was staring at his hands and only his eyes rose to look at me. It was a little-boy gesture, an uncertain gesture. It sat oddly on the big man's face. "I need help, and I don't know who else to go to."
   "Exactly what kind of help do you need, Mr. Smitz?"
   "It's my wife."
   I waited for him to continue, but he stared at his hands. His hat was wadded into a tight ball.
   "You want your wife raised from the dead?" I asked.
   He looked up at that, eyes wide with alarm. "She's not dead. I know that."
   "Then what can I possibly do for you, Mr. Smitz? I raise the dead, and am a legal vampire executioner. What in that job description could help your wife?"
   "Mr. Vaughn said you knew all about lycanthropy." He said that as if it explained everything. It didn't.
   "My boss makes a lot of claims, Mr. Smitz. But what does lycanthropy have to do with your wife?" This was the second time I'd asked about his wife. I seemed to be speaking English, but perhaps my questions were really Swahili and I just didn't realize it. Or maybe whatever had happened was too awful for words. That happened a lot in my business.
   He leaned forward, eyes intense on my face. I leaned forward, too, I couldn't help myself. "Peggy, that's my wife, she's a lycanthrope."
   I blinked at him. "And?"
   "If it came out, she'd lose her job."
   I didn't argue with him. Legally, you couldn't discriminate against lycanthropes, but it happened a lot. "What sort of work is Peggy in?"
   "She's a butcher."
   A lycanthrope that was a butcher. It was too perfect. But I could see why she'd lose her job. Food preparation with a potentially fatal disease. I don't think so. I knew, and the health department knew, that lycanthropy can only be transferred by an attack in the animal form. Most people don't believe that. Can't say I blame them entirely. I don't want to be fuzzy, either.
   "She runs a specialty meat store. It's a good business. She inherited it from her father."
   "Was he a lycanthrope, too?" I asked.
   He shook his head. "No, Peggy was attacked a few years back. She survived . . ." He shrugged. "But, you know."
   I did know. "So your wife is a lycanthrope and would lose her business if it came out. I understand that. But how can I help you?" I fought the urge to glance at my watch. I had the tickets. Richard couldn't go in without me.
   "Peggy's missing."
   Ah. "I am not a private detective, Mr. Smitz. I don't do missing persons."
   "But I can't go to the police. They might find out."
   "How long has she been missing?"
   "Two days."
   "My advice is to go to the police."
   He shook his head stubbornly. "No."
   I sighed. "I don't know anything about finding a missing person. I raise the dead, slay vampires, that's it."
   "Mr. Vaughn said you could help me."
   "Did you tell him your problem?"
   He nodded.
   Shit. Bert and I were going to have a long talk. "The police are good at their job, Mr. Smitz. Just tell them your wife is missing. Don't mention the lycanthropy. See what they turn up." I didn't like telling a client to withhold information from the police, but it beat the heck out of not going at all.
   "Ms. Blake, please, I'm worried. We've got two kids."
   I started to say all the reasons I couldn't help him, then stopped. I had an idea. "Animators, Inc., has a private investigator on retainer. Veronica Sims has been involved in a lot of preternatural cases. She might be able to help you."
   "Can I trust her?"
   "I do."
   He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. "All right, how do I get in touch with her?"
   "Let me give her a call, see if she can see you."
   "That would be great, thank you."
   "I want to help you, Mr. Smitz. Hunting missing spouses just isn't my specialty." I dialed the phone as I talked. I knew Ronnie's number by heart. We exercised at least twice a week together, not to mention an occasional movie, dinner, whatever. Best friends, a concept that most women never outgrow. Ask a man who his best friend is and he'll have to think about it. He won't know right off the top of his head. A woman would. A man might not even be able to think of a name, not for his best friend. Women keep track of these things. Men don't. Don't ask me why.
   Ronnie's answering machine clicked in. "Ronnie, if you're there, it's Anita, pick up."
   The phone clicked, and a second later I was talking to the genuine article. "Hi, Anita. I thought you had a date with Richard tonight. Something wrong?"
   See, best friends. "Not with the date. I've got a client here who I think is more up your alley than mine."
   "Tell me," she said.
   I did.
   "Did you recommend he go to the police?"
   "Yep."
   "He won't go?"
   "Nope."
   She sighed. "Well, I've done missing persons before but usually after the police have done everything they can. They have resources I can't touch."
   "I'm aware of that," I said.
   "He won't budge?"
   "I don't think so."
   "So it's me or . . ."
   "Bert took the job knowing it was a missing person. He might try giving it to Jamison."
   "Jamison doesn't know his butt from a hole in the ground on anything but raising the dead."
   "Yeah, but he's always eager to expand his repertoire."
   "Ask him if he can be at my office . . ." She paused while she leafed through her appointment book. Business must be good. "At nine tomorrow morning."
   "Jesus, you always were an early riser."
   "One of my few faults," she said.
   I asked George Smitz if nine o'clock tomorrow was all right.
   "Couldn't she see me tonight?"
   "He wants to see you tonight."
   She thought about that for a minute. "Why not? It's not like I have a hot date, unlike some people I could mention. Sure, send him over. I'll wait. Friday with a client is better than Friday night alone, I guess."
   "You've just hit a dry spell," I said.
   "And you've hit a wet spell."
   "Very funny."
   She laughed. "I'll look forward to Mr. Smitz's arrival. Enjoy Guys and Dolls."
   "I will. See you tomorrow morning for our run."
   "You sure you want me over there that early in case dream boat wants to stay over?"
   "You know me better than that," I said.
   "Yeah, I do. Just kidding. See you tomorrow."
   We hung up. I gave Mr. Smitz Ronnie's business card, directions to her office, and sent him on his way. Ronnie was the best I could do for him. It still bothered me that he wouldn't go to the police, but hey, it wasn't my wife.
   I've got two kids, he'd said. Not my problem. Really. Craig, our nighttime secretary, was at the desk, which meant it was after six. I was running late. There really wasn't time to argue with Bert about Mr. Smitz, but . . .
   I glanced at Bert's office. It was dark. "Boss man gone home?"
   Craig glanced up from his computer keyboard. He has short, baby-fine brown hair. Round glasses to match a round face. He's slender and taller than I am, but then who isn't? He's in his twenties with a wife and two babies.
   "Mr. Vaughn left about thirty minutes ago."
   "It figures," I said.
   "Something wrong?"
   I shook my head. "Schedule me some time to talk to the boss tomorrow."
   "I don't know, Anita. He's booked pretty solid."
   "Find some time, Craig. Or I'll barge in on one of the other appointments."
   "You're mad," he said.
   "You bet. Find the time. If he yells about it, tell him I pulled a gun on you."
   "Anita," he said with a grin, as if I were teasing.
   I left him riffling through the appointment book trying to squeeze me somewhere. I meant it. Bert would talk to me tomorrow. December was our slowest season for raising zombies. People seemed to think you couldn't do it close to Christmas, as if it were black magic or something. So Bert scheduled other things to take up the slack. I was getting tired of clients with problems I could do nothing about. Smitz wasn't the first this month, but he was going to be the last.
   With that cheerful thought I bundled into my coat and left. Richard was waiting. If traffic cooperated, I might just make it before the opening number. Traffic on a Friday night, surely not.
   
   
   

2
   The 1978 Nova that I'd been driving had died a sad and tragic death. I was now driving a Jeep Cherokee Country. It was a deep, deep green that looked black at night. But it had four-wheel drive for winter and enough room to carry goats in the back. Chickens were what I used for zombie raising most of the time, but occasionally you needed something bigger. Carrying goats in the Nova had been a bitch.
   I pulled the Cherokee into the last parking space in the lot on Grant. My long, black winter coat billowed around me because I had only buttoned the bottom two buttons. If I buttoned all the buttons I couldn't get to my gun.
   My hands were shoved into the coat pockets, arms huddling the cloth around me. I didn't wear gloves. I've never been comfortable shooting with gloves on. The gun is a part of my hand. Cloth shouldn't interfere.
   I ran across the street in my high-heeled pumps, careful on the frosty pavement. The sidewalk was cracked, with huge sections broken out of it, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The boarded-up buildings were as dilapidated as the sidewalk. I'd missed the crowd, being nearly late, so I had the shattered street to myself. It was a short but lonely walk on a December night. Broken glass littered the ground and in heels I had to be very careful where I stepped. An alley cut the buildings. It looked like the natural habitat of Muggerus americanus. I watched the darkness carefully. Nothing moved. With the Browning I wasn't too worried, but still . . . You didn't have to be a genius to shoot someone in the back.
   The wind gusted cold enough to take my breath away as I neared the corner and relative safety. I wore a lot of sweaters in the winter, but tonight I'd wanted something dressier, and I was freezing my patooties off, but I was hoping that Richard would like the red blouse.
   At the corner there were lights, cars, and a policeman directing traffic in the middle of the street. You never saw this many police in this section of St. Louis unless the Fox was on. A lot of wealthy people came down here in their furs, diamonds, Rolex watches. Wouldn't do for a friend of the city council to get mugged. When Topol came to reprise his role in Fiddler on the Roof, the audience was very creme de la creme and the place crawled with cops. Tonight there was just the usual. Mostly in front of the theater, mostly doing traffic, but also taking peeks at the seedy backs of buildings in case someone with money wondered away from the light.
   I went through the glass doors into the long, narrow entryway. It was brightly lit, shiny somehow. There's a little room to the right where you can pick up your tickets. People streamed out of it, hurrying to the inner glass doors. I wasn't as late as I thought if there were this many people still getting tickets. Or maybe everyone else was as late as I was.
   I caught a glimpse of Richard standing in the far right corner. At six foot one he is easier to spot across a crowded room than I am, at my own five foot three. He stood quietly, eyes following the crowd's movement. He didn't seem bored or impatient. He seemed to be having a good time watching the people. His eyes followed an elderly couple as they walked through the glass doors. The woman used a cane. Their progress was painfully slow. His head turned slowly with them. I scanned the crowd. Everyone else was younger, moving with confident or hurried stride. Was Richard looking for victims? Prey? He was, after all, a werewolf. He'd gotten a bad batch of lycanthropy vaccine. One of the reasons I never get the shots. If my flu shot accidentally backfires, that's one thing, but being furry once a month . . . No, thanks.
   Did he realize he was standing there searching the crowd like a lion staring at a bunch of gazelles? Or maybe the elderly couple had reminded him of his grandparents. Hell, maybe I was giving him motives that were only in my suspicious little brain. I hoped so.
   His hair was brown. In sunlight it gleamed with strands of gold, hints of copper. I knew the hair was shoulder length, nearly my length, but he'd done something to it, pulled it back somehow so it gave the illusion of being very short and close to his head. Not easy with hair as wavy as his.
   His suit was some rich shade of green. Most men would have looked like Peter Pan in a green suit, but on him it looked just right. As I walked closer, I could see his shirt was a pale almost gold, tie a darker green than the suit, with tiny Christmas trees done in red. I would have made a smart remark about the tie, but dressed in red and green with a Christmas angel on my lapel, who was I to complain?
   He saw me and smiled. The smile was very bright against his permanently tanned skin. His last name, Zeeman, is Dutch, but somewhere back in his ancestry was something not European. Not blond, not fair, not cold. His eyes were a perfect, chocolate brown.
   He reached out and took my hands, gently, drawing me to him. His lips were soft against my mouth, a brief, nearly chaste kiss.
   I stepped back, taking a breath. He kept hold of my hand, and I let him. His skin was very warm against my cold hand. I thought about asking him if he'd been thinking about eating that elderly couple, but didn't. Accusing him of murderous intent might spoil the evening. Besides, most lycanthropes weren't aware of doing nonhuman things. When you pointed it out, it always seemed to hurt their feelings. I didn't want to hurt Richard's feelings.
   As we went through the inner doors into the crowded lobby, I asked, "Where's your coat?"
   "In the car. Didn't want to carry it, so I made a dash for it."
   I nodded. It was typical Richard. Or maybe lycanthropes didn't get cold. From the back I could see he'd braided his hair tight to his scalp. The tip of the braid trailed over his collar. I couldn't even figure out how he'd done it. My idea of fixing my hair is to wash, smear a little hair goop through it, then let it dry. I was not into high-tech hair design. Though it might be fun to figure out the knots in a leisurely fashion after the show. I was always willing to learn a new skill.
   The main lobby of the Fox is a cross between a really nice Chinese restaurant and a Hindu temple, with a little Art Deco thrown in for flavor. The colors are so dazzling, it looks like the painter ground up stained glass with bits of light trapped in them. Pit bull-size Chinese lions with glowing red eyes guard a sweep of stairs that lead up to the Fox Club balcony, where for fifteen thousand dollars a year you can eat wonderful meals and have a private box. The rest of us peons mingled nearly shoulder to shoulder in the carpeted lobby, with offerings of popcorn, pretzels, Pepsi, and on some nights, hot dogs. A far cry from chicken cordon bleu or whatever they were serving up above.
   The Fox treads that wonderfully thin line between gaudiness and the fantastic. I've loved the building since I first saw it. Every time I come, there is some new wonder. Some color, or carving, or statue that I didn't notice before. When you realize that it was originally built to be a movie theater, you realize how much things have changed. Movie theaters now have the souls of unwashed socks. The Fox is alive as only the best buildings are alive.
   I had to let go of Richard's hand to unbutton my coat the rest of the way, but hey, we weren't attached at the hip. I stood close to him in the crowd without touching, but I could feel him, like a line of warmth against my body.
   "We're going to look like the Bobsey twins when I take my coat off," I said.
   He raised his eyebrows.
   I spread the coat like a flasher, and he laughed. It was a good laugh, warm and thick like Christmas pudding.
   " 'Tis the season," he said. He gave me a one-armed hug, quick like you'd give a friend, but his arm stayed over my shoulders. It was still early enough in our dating that touching each other was new, unexpected, exhilarating. We kept looking for excuses to touch each other. Trying to be nonchalant about it. Not fooling each other. Not sure we cared. I slipped my arm around his waist and leaned just a bit. It was my right arm. If we were attacked now, I'd never draw my gun in time. I stayed there for a minute thinking it just might be worth it. I moved around him, offering my left hand to him.
   I don't know if he caught a glimpse of the gun or just figured it out, but his eyes widened. He leaned close to me, whispering against my hair. "A gun here, at the Fox? You think the ushers will let you in?"
   "They did last time."
   He got a strange look on his face. "You always go armed?"
   I shrugged. "After dark, yes."
   His eyes were puzzled, but he let it go. Before this year I'd sometimes gone out after dark unarmed but it had been a rough year. A lot of different people had tried to kill me. I was small even for a woman. I jogged, lifted weights, had a black belt in judo, but I was still outclassed by most professional bad guys. They tended to also lift weights, know martial arts, and outweigh me by a hundred pounds or more. I couldn't arm-wrestle them, but I could shoot them.
   Also a lot of this year I'd been up against vampires, and other preternatural creepie-crawlies. They could lift large trucks with a single hand or worse. Silver bullets might not kill a vampire, but it certainly slowed them down. Enough for me to run like hell. To get away. To survive.
   Richard knew what I did for a living. He'd even seen some of the messy parts. But I still expected him to blow it. To start playing the male protector and bitch about the gun or something. It was almost a permanent tightness in my gut, waiting for this man to say something awful. Something that would ruin it, destroy it, hurt.
   So far, so good.
   The crowd started flowing towards the stairs, parting on either side to the corridors leading into the main theater. We shuffle-stepped with the crowd, holding hands to keep from being separated. Sure.
   Once free of the lobby, the crowd flowed towards the different aisles like water searching for the quickest route downstream. The quickest route was still pretty slow. I dug the tickets out of the pocket of my suit jacket. I didn't have a purse. There was a small brush, a lipstick, lipliner, eye shadow, ID, and my car keys stuffed in my coat pockets. My beeper was tucked in the front of my skirt, discreetly to one side. When not dressed up, I wore a fanny pack.
   The usher, an older woman with glasses, shone a tiny flashlight on our tickets. She took us to our seats, motioned us in, and went back up to assist the next group of helpless people. The seats were good, near the middle, sort of close to the stage. Close enough.
   Richard had scooted in to sit on my left without being asked. He's a quick study. It's one of the reasons we're still going out. That and the fact that I lust after his body something terrible.
   I spread my coat over the seat, spreading it out so it wouldn't be bulky. His arm snaked across my chair, fingers touching my shoulder. I fought the urge to lay my head on his shoulder. Too hokey, then thought, what the hell. I snuggled into the bend of his neck, just breathing in the scent of his skin. His aftershave was clean and sweet, but underneath was the smell of his skin, his flesh. It made it so the aftershave would never smell the same on anyone else. Frankly, without a drop of aftershave I loved the smell of Richard's neck.
   I straightened up, pulling just a little away from him. He looked at me questioningly. "Something wrong?"
   "Nice aftershave," I said. No need to confess that I'd had an almost irresistible urge to nibble his neck. It was too embarrassing.
   The lights dimmed and the music began. I'd never actually seen Guys and Dollsexcept in the movies. The one with Marlon Brando and Jean Simmons. Richard's idea of a date was caving, hiking, things that required your oldest clothes and a pair of good walking shoes. Nothing wrong with that. I like the outdoors, but I wanted to try a dress-up date. I wanted to see Richard in a suit and let him see me in something frillier than jeans. I was after all a girl, whether I liked to admit it or not.
   But having proposed the date, I didn't want to do the usual dipsy-duo of dinner and a movie. So I'd called up the Fox to see what was playing and asked Richard if he liked musicals. He did. Another point in his favor. Since it was my idea, I bought the tickets. Richard had not argued, not even to pay half. After all, I hadn't offered to pay for our last dinner. It hadn't occurred to me. I was betting paying for the tickets occurred to Richard, but he'd let it go. Good man.
   The curtain came up and the opening street scene paraded before us, bright colors, stylized, perfect and cheerful, and just what I needed. "The Fugue for Tinhorns" filled the bright stage and flowed out into the happy dark. Good music, humor, soon to be dancers, Richard's body next to mine, a gun under my arm. What more could a girl ask for?
   
   

3
   A trickle of people had slipped out before the end of the musical, to beat the crowd. I always stayed until the very end. It seemed unfair to slink away before you could applaud. Besides, I hated missing the end of anything. I was always convinced that the bit I'd miss would be the best part.
   We joined in enthusiastically with a standing ovation. I've never lived in any city that gives so many standing Os. Admittedly sometimes, like tonight, the show was wonderful, but I've seen people stand on productions that didn't deserve it. I don't stand unless I mean it.
   Richard sat back down after the lights came up. "I'd rather wait until the crowd thins out. If you don't mind." There was a look in his brown eyes that said he didn't think I would.
   I didn't. We'd driven separate cars. When we left the Fox, the evening was over. Apparently, neither of us wanted to leave. I knew I didn't.
   I leaned on the seats in front of us, gazing down at him. He smiled up at me, eyes gleaming with lust, if not love. I was smiling, too. Couldn't seem to help myself.
   "You know this is a very sexist musical," he said.
   I thought about that a moment, then nodded. "Yep."
   "But you like it?"
   I nodded.
   His eyes narrowed a bit, "I thought you might be offended."
   "I have better things to worry about than whether Guys and Dollsreflects a balanced worldview."
   He laughed—a short, happy sound. "Good. For a minute there I thought I'd have to get rid of my Rodgers and Hammerstein collection."
   I studied his face, trying to decide if he was teasing me. I didn't think so. "You really collect Rodgers and Hammerstein sound tracks?"
   He nodded, eyes bright with laughter.
   "Just Rodgers and Hammerstein, or all musicals?"
   "I don't have them all, but all."
   I shook my head.
   "What's wrong?"
   "You're a romantic."
   "You make it sound like a bad thing."
   "That happy-ever-after shit is fine on stage, but it doesn't have a lot to do with life."
   It was his turn to study my face. Evidently, he didn't like what he saw, because he frowned. "This date was your idea. If you don't approve of all this happy stuff, why'd you bring me?"
   I shrugged. "After I asked you on a dress-up date, I didn't know where to take you. I didn't want to do the usual. Besides, I like musicals. I just don't think they reflect reality."
   "You're not as tough as you pretend to be."
   "Yes," I said, "I am."
   "I don't believe that. I think you like that happy-ever-after shit as much as I do. You're just afraid to believe in it anymore."
   "Not afraid, just cautious."
   "Been disappointed too many times?" He made it a question.
   "Maybe." I crossed my arms on my stomach. A psychologist would have said I was closed off, uncommunicative. Fuck them.
   "What are you thinking?"
   I shrugged.
   "Tell me, please."
   I stared into his sincere brown eyes and wanted to go home alone. Instead. "Happy ever after is just a lie, Richard, and has been since I was eight."
   "Your mother's death," he said.
   I just looked at him. I was twenty-four years old and the pain of that first loss was still raw. You could deal with it, endure it, but never escape it. Never truly believe in the great, good place. Never truly believe that the bad thing wasn't going to come swooping down and take it all away. I'd rather fight a dozen vampires than one senseless accident.
   He pried my hand from its grip on my arm. "I won't die on you, Anita. I promise."
   Someone laughed, a low chuckle that brushed the skin like fingertips. Only one person had that nearly touchable laugh—Jean-Claude. I turned, and there he was, standing in the middle of the aisle. I hadn't heard him come. Hadn't sensed any movement. He was just there like magic.
   "Don't make promises you can't keep, Richard."
   
   

4
   I pushed away from the seats, taking a step forward to give Richard room to stand. I felt him at my back, a comforting presence if I hadn't been more worried about his safety than my own.
   Jean-Claude was dressed in a shiny black tux, complete with tails. A white vest with minute black dots bordered the gleaming whiteness of his shirt. The collar was high and stiff, with a cravat of soft black cloth tied around it and tucked into the vest as if ties had never been invented. The stickpin in his vest was made of silver-and-black onyx. His shoes had spats on them, like the ones Fred Astaire used to wear, though I suspected the entire outfit was of a much older style.
   His hair was fashionably long, the nearly black curls edging the white collar. I knew what color his eyes were, but I didn't look at them now. They were midnight blue, the color of a really good sapphire. Never look a vampire in the eyes. It's a rule.
   With the master vampire of the city standing there, waiting, I realized how empty the theater was. We'd waited out the crowd, all right. We were alone in the echoing silence. The distant murmur of the departing crowd was like white noise. It meant nothing to us. I stared at the shiny mother-of-pearl buttons on Jean-Claude's vest. It was hard to be tough when you couldn't meet someone's eyes. But I'd manage.
   "God, Jean-Claude, don't you ever wear anything but black and white?"
   "Don't you like it, ma petite?" He gave a little spin so I could get the whole effect. The outfit suited him beautifully. Of course, everything he wore seemed made to order, perfect, lovely, just like him.
   "Somehow I didn't think Guys and Dollswould be your cup of tea, Jean-Claude."
   "Or yours, ma petite." The voice was rich like cream, with a warmth that only two things could give it: anger or lust. I was betting it wasn't lust.
   I had the gun, and silver bullets would slow him down, but it wouldn't kill him. Of course, Jean-Claude wouldn't jump us in public. He was much too civilized for that. He was a business vampire, an entrepreneur. Entrepreneurs, dead or alive, didn't go around tearing people's throats out. Normally.
   "Richard, you're unusually quiet." He stared past me. I didn't glance back to see what Richard was doing. Never take your eyes off the vampire in front of you to glance at the werewolf in back of you. One problem at a time.
   "Anita can speak for herself," Richard said.
   Jean-Claude's attention flicked back to me. "That is certainly true. But I came to see how the two of you enjoyed the play."
   "And pigs fly," I said.
   "You don't believe me?"
   "Not hardly," I said.
   "Come, Richard, how did you enjoy your evening?" There was an edge of laughter to his voice but under that was still the anger. Master vampires are not good to be around when they're angry.
   "It was wonderful until you showed up." There was a note of warmth to Richard's voice, the beginnings of anger. I'd never seen him angry.
   "How could my mere presence spoil your . . . date?" The last was spit out, scalding hot.
   "Why are you so pissed tonight, Jean-Claude?" I asked.
   "Why, ma petite, I never get . . . pissed."
   "Bullshit."
   "He's jealous of you and me," Richard said.
   "I am not jealous."
   "You're always telling Anita how you can smell her desire for you. Well, I can smell yours. You want her so bad you can"—Richard gave an almost bitter sound—"taste it."
   "And you, Monsieur Zeeman, you don't lust after her?"
   "Stop talking like I'm not here," I said.
   "Anita asked me out on a date. I said yes."
   "Is this true, ma petite?" His voice had gone very quiet. Scarier than anger, that quietness.
   I wanted to say no, but he'd smell a lie. "It's true. What of it?"
   Silence. He just stood there utterly still. If I hadn't been looking right at him, I wouldn't have known he was there. The dead make no noise.
   My beeper went off. Richard and I jumped as if we'd been shot. Jean-Claude was motionless as if he hadn't heard it.
   I hit the button, and the number that flashed made me groan.
   "What is it?" Richard asked. He laid his hand on my shoulder.
   "The police. I've got to find a phone." I leaned back against Richard's chest. His hand squeezed my shoulder. I stared at the vampire in front of me. Would Jean-Claude hurt him after I'd gone? I wasn't sure.
   "You got a cross on you?" I didn't bother to whisper. Jean-Claude would have heard me anyway.
   "No."
   I half turned. "No! You're out after dark without a cross?"
   He shrugged. "I'm a shapeshifter. I can take care of myself."
   I shook my head. "Getting your throat ripped out once wasn't enough?"
   "I'm still alive," he said.
   "I know you heal from almost anything, but for God's sake, Richard, you don't heal from everything." I started pulling the silver chain of my crucifix out of my blouse. "You can borrow mine."
   "Is that real silver?" Richard asked.
   "Yes."
   "I can't. I'm allergic to silver, remember."
   Ah. Stupid me. Some preternatural expert offering silver to a lycanthrope. I tucked the chain back in my blouse.
   "He's no more human than I am, ma petite."
   "At least I'm not dead."
   "That can be remedied."
   "Stop it, both of you."
   "Have you seen her bedroom, Richard? Her collection of toy penguins?"
   I took a deep breath and let it out. I was not going to stand here and explain how Jean-Claude had managed to see my bedroom. Did I really have to say, out loud, that I didn't sleep with the walking dead?
   "You're trying to make me jealous, and it won't work," Richard said.
   "But there is that worm of doubt in you, Richard. I know it. You are my creature to call, my wolf, and I know you doubt her."
   "I don't doubt Anita." But there was a defensiveness in his voice that I didn't like at all.
   "I don't belong to you, Jean-Claude," Richard said. "I'm second in line to lead the pack. I come and go where I please. The alpha rescinded his orders about obeying you, after you nearly got me killed."
   "Your pack leader was most upset that you survived," Jean-Claude said sweetly.
   "Why would the pack leader want Richard dead?" I asked.
   Jean-Claude looked past me at Richard. "You haven't told her that you're in a battle of succession?"
   "I will not fight Marcus."
   "Then you will die." Jean-Claude made it sound very simple.
   My beeper sounded again. Same number. "I'm coming, Dolph," I muttered.
   I glanced at Richard. Anger glittered in his eyes. His hands were balled into fists. I was standing close enough to feel the tension coming off him like waves.
   "What's going on, Richard?"
   He gave a quick shake of his head. "My business, not yours."
   "If someone's threatening you, it is my business."
   He stared down at me. "No, you aren't one of us. I won't involve you."
   "I can handle myself, Richard."
   He just shook his head.
   "Marcus wants to involve you, ma petite. Richard refuses. It is a . . . bone of contention between them. One of many."
   "How do you know so much about it?" I asked.
   "We leaders of the preternatural community must deal with each other. For everyone's safety."
   Richard just stood staring at him. It occurred to me for the first time that he seemed to look Jean-Claude in the eyes, with no ill effects. "Richard, can you meet his eyes?"
   Richard's eyes flicked down to me, then back to Jean-Claude. "Yes. I'm a monster, too. I can took him in the eyes."
   I shook my head. "Irving can't look him in the eyes. It's not just being a werewolf."
   "As I am a master vampire, so our handsome friend here is a master werewolf. Though they do not call them that. Alpha males, is it not? Pack leaders."
   "I prefer pack leader."
   "I'll just bet you do," I said.
   Richard looked hurt, his face crumbling like a child's. "You're angry with me, why?"
   "You've got all this heavy shit going on with your pack leader, and you don't tell me. Jean-Claude keeps hinting your leader wants you dead. That true?"
   "Marcus won't kill me," Richard said.
   Jean-Claude laughed. The sound had a bitter undertaste to it, as if it hadn't been laughter at all. "You are a fool, Richard."
   My beeper went off again. I checked the number, and turned it off. It wasn't like Dolph to call this many times, this close together. Something bad was happening. I needed to go. But . . .
   "I don't have time to get the full story right this second." I poked a finger into the middle of Richard's chest. I gave Jean-Claude my back. He'd already done the damage he'd intended. "You are going to tell me every last bit of what's going on."
   "I don't . . ."
   "Save it. You either share this problem, or we don't date anymore."
   He looked shocked. "Why?"
   "Either you kept me out to protect me, which I'm going to hate. Or you have some other reason. It better be a damn good reason and not just some male ego shit."
   Jean-Claude laughed again. This time the sound wrapped me around like flannel, warm and comforting, thick and soft next to naked skin. I shook my head. Just Jean-Claude's laughter was an invasion of privacy.
   I turned to him, and there must have been something in my face because the laughter died as if it had never been. "As for you, you can get the hell out of here. You've had your fun for the night."
   "Whatever do you mean, ma petite?" His beautiful face was as pure and blank as a mask.
   I shook my head and stepped forward. I was leaving. I had work to do. Richard's hand gripped my shoulder.
   "Let me go, Richard. I'm mad at you right now." I didn't look at him. I didn't want to see his face. I was afraid if he looked hurt, I'd forgive him anything.
   "You heard her, Richard. She doesn't want you touching her." Jean-Claude had taken a gliding step closer.
   "Leave it alone, Jean-Claude."
   Richard's hand squeezed gently. "She doesn't want you, Jean-Claude." There was anger in his voice, more anger than should have been there. As if he were trying to convince himself more than Jean-Claude.
   I stepped forward, shaking his hand off. I wanted to reach for it, but didn't. He'd been keeping major shit from me. Dangerous shit. It wasn't allowed. Worse yet, he thought in some dark corner of his soul that I might have given in to Jean-Claude. What a mess.
   "Fuck you both," I said.
   "So you have not had that pleasure?" Jean-Claude said.
   "That's Anita's question to answer, not mine," Richard said.
   "I would know it if you had."
   "Liar," I said.
   "No, ma petite. I would smell him on your skin."
   I wanted to slug him. The desire to smash that beautiful face was physical. It tightened my shoulders, made my arms ache. But I knew better. You don't volunteer for slugfests with vampires. It shortens your life expectancy.
   I walked up very close to Jean-Claude, bodies nearly touching. I stared him in the nose, which ruined some of the effect, but his eyes were drowning pools and I knew better.
   "I hate you." My voice was flat with the effort not to scream. In that moment I meant it. And I knew Jean-Claude would sense it. I wanted him to know.
   "Ma petite. . ."
   "No, you've done enough talking. It's my turn. If you harm Richard Zeeman, I'll kill you."
   "He means that much to you?" There was surprise in his voice. Great.
   "No, you mean that little." I stepped away from him, around him. Gave him my back and walked away. Let him sink his fangs into that bit of truth. Tonight, I meant every word.