38

The club was dark except for a single soft spotlight in the middle of the stage. In that soft, white light Jean-Claude stood. The light hit only his shoulders and face, the rest of him was lost to darkness. It gave the illusion that his body formed from the darkness itself, to rise to the shining paleness of his face, the gleaming white of his cravat, the tiny colored spark of the sapphire winking only when he moved. His hair looked as if the darkness had been drawn out into some dark thread and formed into curls. The only color was the drowning blue of his eyes and the crimson smear of lipstick across his face. It wasn't my lipstick, or at least not most of it.

His voice floated through the darkened room. "Who will taste my kiss?" Taste, left a sweetness on my tongue, as if I'd licked a piece of candy. Kiss, gave a ghost of lips brushing my cheek. "Who will embrace me?" Embrace made me feel faintly warm, as if I'd been given a really good hug by someone I cared about.

Jean-Claude's voice had always been good, but not this good. Not this good. With my partial immunity, I probably wasn't getting all of it. I had no idea how much more the audience was getting. It took a force of will to look away from him in that shining circle of light. I made myself look out at the audience. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but when I could see, nearly every face was turned to him. They gazed up at him in the dark as if he were the rising sun and they had never seen anything so bright before. Only a handful of faces weren't turned toward the stage. A few women were shaking their heads and looking confused. A little psychic talent of the right kind or with the right practice helped. Marianne had proven to me that you didn't have to be a necromancer to have some immunity to vampire mind tricks.

One of the few men was standing up, and the woman with him was tugging on his arm, trying to get him to sit back down. He was shaking his head, adamantly. No, no, he wouldn't sit in the dark and let that voice wash over him. He didn't understand that it wasn't a matter of sexual orientation. It was Jean-Claude. His power was seduction, and it had nothing and everything to do with sex.

Two of the waiters were escorting a woman up on stage. She was tall and almost anorexically thin. She'd apparently been waving more money than anybody else, because Jean-Claude preferred more curves on his women. As he'd pointed out to me, the beauties of his day in the French courts were today's size twenty. Most of the old vamps liked short women with curves. Most of us were living in so the wrong century.

The lights around the stage had been growing brighter so gradually that if you'd been gazing at the stage the entire time, you might not have noticed. The light was just barely bright enough so the audience could see more of their bodies. From the waist up, you could see his pale hands sliding over her body. Nothing d¨¦class¨¦, but he got more out of simply touching a woman's back, shoulder, or waist, than some men got out of touching breasts and groin. Sometimes it's not what you touch but how you touch it.

He pressed her against the front of his body so there was no space between them, so that her thin frame seemed almost to mold itself to his body. He lifted her face up to meet his, using one pale hand to cradle her face so that he would control the kiss. His arm slid around her waist, and tightened. Tightened enough to bow her neck and make her mouth open in a surprised little O. One of the women before this one had groped him, so he'd made sure there wasn't enough space between the front of their bodies for anyone's hands to wander too far. The women seemed to take the closer frontal contact as a sign of favor. I knew it wasn't. It was a sign of control and damn near displeasure.

But when he bowed his head to her mouth and locked their lips together in a kiss, there was no displeasure. He kissed her as if he were trying to breathe her down through his mouth. He fed from her lips almost as if he were feeding from her neck. And in a way, he was, feeding at least.

He fed from their mouths in a way that the Dragon's presence in my head had told me about. Except she knew how to eat the essence of the dead and make the undead, really, truly dead. This was not that, but it was eerily similar. He was feeding the ardeur, from a kiss.

"Nikolaos would never let him feed like that," a quiet voice said from behind me.

I turned to find Buzz just behind me. I hadn't heard him, or sensed him, which meant that I'd been more caught up in the show than I'd realized.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Nikolaos knew that he was feeding off the audience without ever touching them, so she forbade him to touch any of the customers." His gaze went past me to the stage. "I think she had some clue what he could have been, and she did everything she could to make sure he didn't come into that power."

"She's been dead almost three years. You make it sound like tonight is the first time you've seen this show."

He looked at me. "It is."

I gave him wide eyes. "Nikolaos was dead, she couldn't stop him."

"But you could," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you really think three years ago you would have dated him after you saw this?"

I glanced back at the stage. I watched him kissing a strange woman as if she were his deepest love, or at least deepest lust. Would I have tolerated it three years ago? No. Would I have used it as an excuse to dump his ass? Oh, yeah.

The woman swooned in his arms. Her mouth falling away from his as she seemed to half-faint, as if the kiss alone were so intense that she couldn't stay conscious. I would have thought she was play-acting, or exaggerating, but I had to believe it, when the waiters carried her off stage and gave her back to her friends at their table.

Jean-Claude gazed out at the audience with fresh crimson lipstick smeared across his entire lower jaw. It looked eerily like blood, and I knew him well enough to know that the resemblance was not accidental. His blue eyes had bled to solid blue light, as if a summer's dusk could burn in his eyes. "Who will be next?" And it was as if he whispered along my skin, as if he were standing just behind me. The illusion was so strong that I had to fight not to turn around and look. I was supposed to be immune to this crap, if this was how I was feeling, what must the women connected to all those eager faces be feeling?

I lowered my shields just enough to see Jean-Claude shining with power. This was what he was meant to be. This wasn't just feeding the ardeur. This wasn't a substitute for a blood feed. This was an end in itself. This was something I'd never seen, not in Jean-Claude, not in anyone. It was akin to all his other abilities, but more, somehow this was more.

I turned back to Buzz. "Him feeding like this is what saved me."

He looked puzzled, vampires under twenty years dead have so many more human facial expressions. "Saved you from what?"

"If he hadn't fed, then I'd have had to feed for him. That's one of the things a human servant is for. We feed when the vamps can't. I would still be trapped backstage fucking my metaphysical brains out." I shook my head. "No, thank you."

"So you're not disappointed that's he's doing strangers?"

I felt my face go sort of unfriendly. "You sound disappointed that I'm not upset about this, why?"

He raised his hands, making his big arms flex. I think by accident. He meant it to be a harmless gesture, but he was too muscle-bound for it to look anything but impressive, or scary, depending on how you looked at it.

"It just seems like a fast turnaround, that's all."

I sighed. "The last time Jean-Claude asked me if he could feed off the audience, I didn't really understand what he was asking." I smiled, but not like I was happy. "Besides, I wasn't fucking strangers to feed the vampiric powers then. Strangely, that's changed my mind about a lot of things."

He looked way too serious for my tastes.

I didn't know what was up with Buzz, so I decided to change topics. "Primo all tucked away in the spare coffin?"

"We put him in while you were cleaning up."

I nodded. I'd been told about it, but I'd also laid my hands on the coffin and felt Primo trapped inside, behind silver chains and a holy item. It wasn't that I didn't trust everybody, it was just good business to be cautious. Buzz's odd behavior hadn't changed my mind about that, not one little bit.

"Lisandro told me that you ordered him to baby-sit the coffin."

I nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Primo is in a cross-wrapped coffin, Anita. He's not getting out."

I shrugged. Lisandro was tall, dark, handsome, with the longest hair that any of the new security had. He was also the only one with a gun tucked into the small of his back under the black T-shirt. Once I spotted the gun, I pegged him for a wererat, and I'd been right. I told him if Primo started to tear out of the coffin, to kill him. Jean-Claude would probably have agreed with me, but he'd been busy on stage, so I'd made the call. I was happy with the call, and I didn't like that Buzz wasn't.

"Let's just say that I feel better going off to raise the dead, knowing that Lisandro is sitting by that coffin with silver ammo, and a willingness to shoot."

"I'm head of security here, Anita. You should have cleared it with me."

I sighed. "You're right. You're right, I should have. I'm sorry."

He just blinked at me like a deer caught in headlights. I think he'd expected an argument. But I was tired, and late, and feeling squidgie about having had sex with Byron and Requiem.

"I've got to go, Buzz."

"Your security detail is waiting at the door," he said, and nodded toward the door in question.

Requiem was by the door in his black cloak, wearing a fresh pair of pants that he'd borrowed from someone. The new pants were leather, so he'd probably borrowed them from another dancer. But we had a new addition, and that was the dark-haired werewolf that had fallen on top of Clay and me when Primo was fighting everyone. His name was Graham, and his body had that width of shoulder and impressive swell of arm that only semiserious weight lifting can get you. His black hair was cut in a longish layer on top so that it fell like a silken fringe over his ears, but underneath the hair was shaved close to his head and upper neck. It seemed an odd haircut to me, but it wasn't my hair.

His face was exotic, in the way that people can be when some ancestor didn't come from Northern or Southern Europe. The straight black hair, the ever-so-slight uptilt to the edge of his eyes made me bet he'd come from somewhere much farther east.

I'd argued that I didn't need or want guards, but just as I'd made the call about Primo and Lisandro, so Jean-Claude had given his orders about this before he got carried away on stage. I was to go nowhere without someone with me. He wasn't sure the Dragon was done with us for the night, and it would be a shame if something went horribly wrong. What he hadn't told the security detail, vampire or otherwise, was about what had happened earlier in my office. That had had nothing to do with the Dragon and everything to do with my own metaphysical shit. Well, mine, and Jean-Claude's.

Jean-Claude had even left a list of people he thought were appropriate to the job. Byron had not been on the list, nor had Clay. It had been a damn short list, actually, basically Requiem and Graham. The last thing I wanted to do was be trapped in a car with Requiem, but I didn't have time to argue. I'd gone from having plenty of time, to having to call my clients and tell them to hold fast in the cemetery, I really was on my way.

I was wearing Byron's leather jacket to take the place of my bloodied suit jacket. His was the only one that came close to fitting me and not making me look like I was wearing the upper half of a gorilla. It smelled faintly of his cologne.

Buzz's eyes left me and went to the audience. The man who had been arguing with his date was still standing, but now so was the woman, and she was starting to make a scene. "Sorry, gotta catch that."

"Be my guest," I said.

Nathaniel seemed to appear from nowhere. He escorted me toward the outer door. He was smiling and seemed terribly at ease, more so than I'd seen him in a long time, maybe ever. It seemed an odd night for him to be happy. "You promised to get back in time to see some of my act," he said, smiling.

"I've got two clients stuck in cemeteries," I said.

He gave me the look that was half-pout and half-he-knew-he'd-already-won-the-argument. "You promised."

"Can't we just fuck at home later?" I asked.

He gave me a frown. "I'll be furry, you don't do furry."

I had an idea, an awful idea. "I promised to mark your neck tonight. Oh, no, you so are not planning on me doing it in front of an audience?"

He smiled, and there was something in that smile that I hadn't seen before. Some hint of confidence, of security that hadn't been there before. He'd watched me have sex with two near strangers, and suddenly he felt more secure. Go figure.

"You little exhibitionist, you," I said, "you like the idea of me marking you for the first time in front of all these people."

He gave an aw-gee-shucks shrug, which was all act, because his eyes were bright with the answer. "I like a lot of things, Anita."

I tried to frown at him, but couldn't keep it up. "You got me to promise I'd mark you, and now you're taking advantage of it."

"You're running late," he said, "clients waiting in the cemetery." He looked solemn except for the glint of humor in his eyes, which spoiled the effect.

I shook my head, smiling. "I've got to go."

"I know," he said.

"Would it ruin the illusion if I kissed you good-bye?"

"I'll risk it," he said.

I kissed him. It was chaste, a touch of lips, a little pressure, barely any body language. I drew back with a suspicious look on my face. It made him laugh and push me toward the door. "You're late, remember."

I went, but I went out into the October dark even more certain that I knew absolutely nothing about men. Alright, to be fair, that I knew absolutely nothing about the men in my life. I glanced back to see Jean-Claude on stage with another woman, kissing her as if he were trying to find her tonsils without his hands. Most people looked disturbing or awkward when they kissed that deep. He didn't. He made it all seem suave, erotic, and perfect. I realized I'd kissed Nathaniel good-bye, but not Jean-Claude. Didn't want to interrupt, but didn't want him to feel left out, either. I blew him a kiss as his arms emptied of the woman. He returned the gesture with one pale hand. The lower half of his face was smeared bright crimson with lipstick. It didn't really look like blood, not if you'd seen enough of the real deal, but it was still a less than comforting image to take away into the night. One of the other men in my life was smiling at the door, looking forward to having me do foreplay on him in front of an audience. Sometimes the parts of my life that are weirdest to me aren't the parts dealing with vampires and werewolves and zombies. Even vampire politics didn't confuse me as much as my own love life.

39

We were on Gravois, trapped between an endless line of storefronts that had seen better days. The entire area was doing that slow slide into not being a good area to be in after dark. It wasn't quite a danger zone, but if nothing saved it, in a couple of years it would be. The Bevo Mill restaurant, an honest-to-God windmill, loomed like a ship in a sea of lesser buildings and harder times. The Bevo Mill still served great German food. The slowly turning windmill was just ahead, and suddenly we were driving under the stone overpass blocks past the mill. I didn't remember passing any of it. That wasn't good. I was missing things, like my attention was going in and out. Not good at all, since I was driving. Graham squeaked a second time, you know, that sharp intake of breath that comes out when you're trying to swallow the sound.

I glanced at him. "What? What is your problem?"

"You've almost hit two cars," he said in a strangled voice.

"No I haven't."

"Yes," Requiem said from the back, "yes you have."

There was a white car in front of me, like magic, it just appeared. I slammed on the brakes, and Graham squeaked again. My pulse was thudding in my throat. I hadn't seen that car. I signaled that I was turning right. Right meant I didn't have to cross any lanes of traffic. The suddenly appearing white car had scared me.

I eased us into Grasso Plaza, which held the Affton Post Office, a Save-A-Lot, and a lot of empty storefronts. This whole area along Gravois seemed tired, as if it had given its best and its best hadn't been good enough. Or maybe it was projecting. I cut the engine, and we sat in silence for a minute.

"Are you well?" Requiem asked, his voice was very quiet and deep like he was talking from inside a well.

I actually turned around and looked at him, and even turning around seemed to be slower, as if I wasn't moving at the same speed as the rest of the world.

Requiem was just sitting in the backseat, with his hands clasped in his lap. He wasn't far away, or doing anything odd. He was sitting, very still, as if he didn't want to attract attention to himself.

"What did you say?" My voice seemed hollow, too, as if I had an echo in my head.

"Are you well?" he said, slowly, distinctly, and as I stared at his lips, watching them move; the sound and the movement seemed just a little out of sync.

I had to think about it as if it were a much harder question than it should have been. "No," I said, finally. "No, I don't think I am."

"What's wrong?" Graham asked.

What was wrong? Good question. Trouble is, I wasn't sure I had a good answer. What was wrong? I was having something close to a shock reaction, why? Had I lost more blood than I knew? Maybe. Maybe not.

I was cold, and I huddled in the borrowed jacket, burying my face in the collar. Byron's cologne, the scent of him, was there, and I jerked back from it, because the smell of his skin in the leather brought it all back. Scent brings memory stronger than any other sense, and I was suddenly drowning in the feel of Byron's body, the look of his face as he gazed down at me, the weight of him, the sight of him going in and out of my body.

I fell back against the seat, my head thrown back, and it was as if all the pleasure of it was suddenly there again, rolling over me, through me. It wasn't the exact experience, but like a strong, strong, echo. Strong enough to shake my body against the seat and leave my hands clawing at the air, as if I needed something to hold on to, anything to hold on to.

I heard Requiem's voice: "No, don't touch..." And I found something to hold on to.

Graham had tried to grab me, hold me down, keep me from hurting myself. I think he'd thought I was having a fit. His hand touched mine, and my hand convulsed around his, and it was as if from the moment our palms locked together that all that memory, all that pleasure, poured down my hand and into him.

Graham shuddered against me. I felt the shiver of it go down his arm, and it threw him against the seat so hard the Jeep shook from the impact. I let him have the memory, the pleasure, the sights and smells of it, I let it all pour away from me and into him. It wasn't a conscious thought, because I hadn't known until I did it that I could put it into someone else and not have to be pulled along for the ride. I didn't mean to do it, but I wasn't unhappy about it. I was glad, for once, to be the calm one on the other side of the seat, while I watched Graham writhing in just the echo of what we'd done. I was glad it wasn't me. Because I knew now why I'd had the shocky reaction earlier, before the metaphysics had gotten out of hand.

I killed without thinking much about it. Not in cold blood, but if it came time to kill, I had no real problem with it. I'd mourned the fact that killing had stopped bothering me. Then on my first trip to Tennessee to help Richard back when we were still a couple, I'd tortured someone. The bad guys had sent us Richard's mother's finger in a little box, along with a lock of his brother Daniel's hair. We had a time limit to find them, and we already knew that they'd been tortured. The man who'd delivered the box had bragged that they'd both been raped. I'd tortured him, made him tell us where they were, and when we were done with him, I'd shot him in the head, and made the screaming stop. I'd done it to save Richard's family, and because I couldn't see another way to do it. I'd done it because I never ask anyone to do anything that I'm not willing to do myself. It's a rule. Of course, before that, my rule had been I did not do torture. That was a line I did not cross, and I'd crossed it. The terrible part was that I hadn't regretted doing it, only having to do it. He'd raped Richard's mother, if I could have I'd have killed him slower, but that wasn't in me, not even for what he'd done. We'd saved them, but before all of it, the Zeeman's had been like the Waltons, and now they weren't. They weren't broken completely, but they weren't as fixed as when they started, either. I'd killed the men that did it, or helped them get killed, but all the revenge in the world wouldn't really fix what was broken.

How do you give someone back their innocence? That wonderful sense of perfect safety that only exists for people that have never really had anything bad happen to them. How do you give that back? I wish I knew.

I'd crossed a lot of lines over the years, but one line I'd never crossed until tonight had been I didn't have sex just to feed. I didn't have sex with strangers. Byron and Requiem were strangers. I'd known them for two weeks, give or take. I had fucked them because Jean-Claude needed me to feed.

Requiem had moved to one side of the backseat, so he was close enough to see my face and to watch Graham still twitching on the front seat, but not close enough so I could touch him easily. "You had a flashback, didn't you?"

I nodded, still staring at the werewolf in my front seat.

"Has that ever happened before?"

"Only after Asher rolled me completely with his mind, and we all had sex." I didn't look at him as I spoke, I watched Graham's body begin to grow quiet.

"But Asher was not involved tonight."

"No," I said, "he wasn't." My voice sounded very even, very neutral, empty. Empty, just like I felt.

"Did you know that you could send that memory into someone else?"

"No," I said.

Graham's eyes were fluttering, like butterflies trying to open, but not able to do it. He looked boneless, as if he could have slid into the floorboard, if his body had been a little less solid.

"You spilled it into him, then watched him writhe. How did it make you feel?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, just glad for once that it wasn't me twisting in the seat."

He moved to lean against the back of Graham's seat, a little closer to me. "Is that true? Is that really how you feel about it?"

I moved my whole head to meet his eyes, as if a glance wasn't enough. I let him see how dead my eyes felt, how empty I was inside. "You're a master vamp, can't you smell it if I'm lying?"

He licked his lips like he was nervous. "The last vampire I knew that could do what you just did, did it on purpose. She would recall a memory of pleasure, and she would pick someone to give it to. It could be a reward, and it was, but it could also be punishment. Sometimes she would choose someone who did not wish to feel such pleasures, and she would force them to experience it."

"A kind of rape," I said.

He nodded.

"You're talking about Belle Morte, aren't you?"

He nodded, again.

"She enjoyed watching them writhe, especially if they didn't want to do it," I said.

"You say that as a statement, not a question."

"I've met her, remember?"

"You are exactly right. She loved watching prim, proper women and men, forced to spill themselves upon the floor and flop about, experiencing a pleasure greater than any they had ever felt before. It pleased her to watch the righteous brought low."

"Yeah, that sounds like her."

"But you truly felt nothing. It did not excite you to watch Graham writhe."

"Why should it?"

He smiled then, and there was relief in his eyes. "That you would ask the question makes me worry less about you."

"Worry how?" I asked.

"It has been speculation for centuries whether Belle was formed into the type of," he seemed to search for a word, "creature she was by the ardeur and her powers running to flesh and pleasure, or whether she was always as she is, and the power simply made her more."

"It's been my experience, Requiem, that people become more of who they are in extremes, both good and bad. Give a truly good person power, and they're still a good person. Give a bad person power, and they're still a bad person. The question is always about the person in between. The one that isn't evil, or good, but just ordinary. You don't always know what an ordinary person is like on the inside."

He looked at me, with an odd expression on his face. "That was a very wise thing to say."

I had to smile. "You sound surprised."

He gave an almost bow from the neck, as much as he could sitting in the seat. "My apologies, but in truth I've always thought of you as more muscle than brain. Not stupid," he added hastily, "but not wise. Intelligent perhaps, but no, not wise."

"I guess I'll just take the compliment, and leave the insult alone."

"It was not meant as an insult, Anita, far from it." There was a look on his face, a feel to him, that was anxious.

"Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. A lot of people underestimate me."

"They see the delicate beauty, but not the killer," he said.

"I'm not a delicate beauty," I said.

He gave a small frown. "You are most assuredly delicate in appearance, and you are beautiful."

I shook my head. "No, I'm not. Not beautiful, pretty, maybe, but not beautiful."

His eyes widened a little. "If you do not think yourself beautiful, then you are using a different mirror from the one in front of my eyes."

"Pretty words, but I'm surrounded by some of the most beautiful men living or dead. I may clean up well, but when comparing beauty, I don't rank that high, not in this company."

"It is true, perhaps, that your beauty is not a flashy beauty, as is Asher's, or Jean-Claude's, or even your Nathaniel's, but it is beauty nonetheless. Perhaps the more precious, for it grows not at the first sight of the eye, but a little more each time one speaks with you or watches you move so commandingly into a situation, or watches the truth in your eyes when you say that you are not beautiful, and I realize that you mean it. That you are not being humble, or playing silly games, you simply do not see yourself."

"See, that's not beauty, that's pretty with a personality that you like."

"But do you not see, Anita, that there is beauty that hits the eye like a bolt of lighting, that burns and sears and blinds. It is more disaster than pleasure. But yours, yours is a beauty that lulls one into comfort, into not protecting one's eyes from the light, then one night you realize that the moon, too, has its beauty."

I shook my head. "I have no idea who you're talking about, but it's not me."

He sighed. "You are a very hard woman to compliment."

"You know, you're not the first person to say that."

He smiled. "That does not surprise me at all."

Graham let out a long, long sigh, and sort of spilled himself back up onto the seat. It was like watching liquid fall upward. He had that same liquid grace that all the wereanimals seemed to have. He leaned his head against the headrest, but at least he was upright again. He gave me a slow, lazy blink, and his eyes were a dark, wolf amber, almost brown, but I knew the difference. I'd seen it often enough.

He smiled, and even that was lazy. "That was amazing."

"I didn't do it on purpose," I said.

"I don't care."

I frowned at him.

"Can you do it again, is all I want to know."

I frowned harder.

Some of the laziness began to seep away from his face. "Look, you give me one of the most amazing orgasmic experiences of my life, and now you're acting like the injured party. You're the one that spilled all over me."

"Not on purpose," I said.

"You keep saying that, like you're apologizing, why? Why are you apologizing?"

I looked at Requiem for help, though I didn't hold much hope. But he did help. "I believe that Anita sees it as unasked-for sexual contact. A sort of rape, if you will."

"Can't rape the willing," Graham said, and he stretched himself taller in the seat, settling more into it, and his eyes were bleeding back to human.

"I didn't know you were willing, when it happened."

He nodded. "Okay, but I'm okay with it." He looked at me. "But you don't seem okay with it at all. What's wrong now?"

"What's wrong?" I asked. "I just had a flashback so strong that if I'd still been driving, we'd have wrecked. I fed it into you by accident. I didn't mean to do it. What else am I not going to mean to do?"

"She and Jean-Claude have hit a new power plateau," Requiem said.

"Oh," Graham said, as if that made perfect sense to him, "so you don't know what all the new power can do, yet."

"No," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah, that can get scary. I'm sorry, I didn't know this was the first time you'd done something like this. I enjoyed it, you don't owe me an apology."

"But what if I grab a client next time?" I said.

"You had warning," Requiem said, "or you wouldn't have pulled off the road."

"I don't think that had anything to do with new powers."

"Then why did you nearly run us up the back of three different cars?" Graham asked.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and didn't know what to say. "I think I crossed my last few lines tonight."

"What does that mean?" Graham asked.

"I broke some personal rules tonight, that's all."

"Rules that you thought would never be broken," Requiem said softly.

I looked at him, surprised. "You say that like you know."

"A person likes to think of himself in a certain way, and when something happens that makes that no longer possible, you mourn the old self. The person you thought you were."

I shook my head. "I am still the person I thought I was, damn it."

He gave a shrug that reminded me of that graceful lift of shoulders that Jean-Claude always did. "As you like, m'lady."

I turned around in my seat and put my forehead against the steering wheel. I just wanted this night over with. I didn't want to have to explain myself to anyone, let alone one of the men that I'd had sex with by accident tonight. The trouble was, I wasn't sure that I believed what I'd just said. It wasn't just the sex with Byron and Requiem, it was that tonight, for the first time, I'd let Jean-Claude into my head as far as he could go. For the first time we'd touched what might be possible if only I'd get out of our way. Until tonight, I hadn't realized how much I'd crippled us. As much in my own way as Richard. I'd thought that sleeping with Jean-Claude and doing small things with him was being his human servant. I'd learned differently less than an hour ago, and that knowledge was eating me up. It wasn't that I had crippled us as a triumvirate of power. No, I'd guessed that before, just not the amount of crippling. I thought my limits and boundaries had hobbled us, not cut both our legs off at the knees. What I hadn't expected, what I hadn't wanted to know, was how good it felt to let Jean-Claude roll me. It had been a-fucking-mazing. Peaceful and intoxicating all at the same time. I'd never really known what I was doing without, because I had been so careful not to let him show me. And he had respected my wishes.

I knew now that it had cost him dear. Cost him in power he might have had, safety he might have built for his vampires, and in the sheer pleasure he might have experienced. He'd cut himself off from so much, just because I couldn't handle it. That made me feel guilty, but part of the real problem was that after I'd let Jean-Claude in that deep, I'd then turned around and had sex with Byron, and let Requiem bite me. Two things I didn't do lightly. Yeah, it had been important, maybe urgent, maybe it had saved the lives of most of those women in that club. Maybe it had even saved Jean-Claude's life. I'd felt Primo's power and the whisper of the Dragon. But that wasn't what bothered me the most.

Jean-Claude had gained Nathaniel and Damian's neediness. What had I gained? I'd had sex with Byron and Requiem, and I didn't feel bad about it. Even now, I felt bad only because I didn't feel bad. It hadn't bothered me. That's what made me almost run into three cars, and pull into the parking lot so I could have my little moment of shock reaction.

I didn't feel guilty about Byron. I only felt guilty about not feeling guilty about it. And even now, I wanted to turn the car around and go back to Jean-Claude. I wanted him to hold me, to kiss me, to feed from me. I wanted the whole ride, now that I'd had a taste. I wanted it the way junkies want their fix. That's not love. That's control. I wouldn't let anyone control me like that. I couldn't, not and still be me.

I didn't explain any of this to Graham or Requiem. They weren't close enough to me for a heart-to-heart. I just said, "Whoever feels better to drive, drive."

"I do not know how to drive," Requiem said.

"I'll drive," Graham said, "just don't touch me while I'm behind the wheel."

"I'll do my best to resist," I said, and made it plain by my tone that it wouldn't be hard.

He laughed and got out his door to walk around. In the moments it took him to walk around the car, Requiem said, "You feel very serious tonight, Anita."

"I'm always serious," I said.

"Perhaps," he said, and he might have said more, but Graham opened the door and I got out. I walked around the car and got into the passenger seat, as Graham started the engine. "Where to?"

"Sunset Cemetery. It's less than five minutes from here."

"Do you feel well enough to raise the dead tonight?" Requiem asked.

"Just get me there, and don't let me touch any of the clients. I'll do the rest. Just don't let me fuck anybody or tear anybody's throat out."

"What if you order us to allow you to fuck someone?" Requiem asked.

"Or kill someone?" Graham said.

"I'm not planning on it tonight, okay?"

"You weren't planning on it earlier," Requiem said quietly.

Graham pulled carefully into the traffic on Gravois, as if he were trying to make up for my bad driving earlier. "What do we do if some new vampire power kicks in?" he asked, as he eased us to the first stoplight.

"Just keep me from hurting anybody," I said.

"And if the need arises for you to feed again, what then?" Requiem asked.

I turned in my seat as far as the seat belt would allow, so I could see his face in the streetlights. He was revealed in startling white light for an instant. It made his eyes glow, then shadow swept over the backseat, and his eyes faded to a dim blue glow. "What are you getting at?" I asked.

"Did you wonder why Jean-Claude chose us, and only us, to guard you tonight?"

"I had some ideas, but enlighten me."

"He wanted people with you that were strong enough and dominant enough that if they had to, they could override you. That they would use their best judgment and not blindly follow."

"Bully for you both," I said.

"But it wasn't that alone."

"Just spill it, Requiem, the foreplay is getting tiresome."

"I heard that about you," Graham said.

I turned and looked at him. "What?"

"That you don't like a lot of foreplay."

I gave him a very cold look. "One, no one that would actually know would tell you shit, and two, don't let a little metaphysical sex go to your head. Remember, I watched you writhe all over the seat, and it didn't appeal to me. It wasn't foreplay, or a preview, it was just an accident."

"Sorry."

I turned back to Requiem. "Now, you, just tell me what you need to tell me. No preface, no long explanation, just say it."

"You won't like it," he said.

"I already don't like it. Just tell me, Requiem, just tell me." I was getting a headache. I didn't know if it was loss of blood, or tension, but whatever, it was beginning to pound right behind my eye.

"He thought that if things went as badly as they could go..."

"Games, word games, just say it."

He sighed, and the sigh seemed to fill the Jeep with echoes. "If you had to feed the ardeur, or if your beast rose, we were the two most likely to survive an attack without having to resort to hurting you."

"You left something out," I said.

"I've said enough," he said.

"All of it, Requiem, I want to hear all of it."

"No," Graham said, "you don't. That tone in your voice, no you don't."

"Just drive," I said, and turned back to the vampire. "Tell me the rest."

He sighed again, and it flittered through the interior of the Jeep like it had a life of its own.

"And can the voice tricks, or you're really going to piss me off."

"My apologies, it is automatic for me, when faced with an angry woman, to try and pacify her, by whatever means."

"Talk to me, Requiem, we're almost at the cemetery. I want that last bit before we get out of the car."

He drew himself up even straighter in his seat, very formal. "We were also the two at the club most likely to be able to turn violence to seduction, if the need arose."

"He must have a high opinion of you both, or a low opinion of me."

"That last is not true, and you know it," Requiem said.

I sighed. "Just the way I'm feeling tonight."

Graham said it. "You're feeling slutty because you did Byron."

I looked at him. "Well, that's one way of putting it."

"It's exactly how you're feeling," he said, sounding sure.

"And you're sure of that?"

"The way you're acting, yeah. Besides, I know your reputation. If anyone can resist temptation it's you."

"Everyone keeps telling me that, but I don't seem to be resisting much anymore."

"I have lived with others more powerful than I in Belle Morte's line for centuries, Anita. I, more than most, know just how much you must fight every night of your existence not to be consumed by their power." He paused and then whispered so that it filled the darkened car, "If you are not careful, their beauty will become both heaven and hell, you will betray every oath, abandon every loyalty, give up your heart, your mind, your body, and your immortal soul to have them near you but one more night. Then one cold night, a hundred years after the passion is spent, and nothing but ashes remain, you look up and see someone gazing at you, and you know that look, you've seen it before. A hundred years later and someone gazes upon you as if you were heaven itself, but you know in your heart of hearts that it's not heaven you're offering them, it's hell."

I didn't know what to say to that, but Graham did.

"Now I know why they call you Requiem. You're poetic, but fucking depressing."

Tonight, I just thought he was accurate.