I glanced at Jean-Claude, but his face was utterly blank, that polite nothingness that meant he was hiding his every reaction. "That is, of course, within her purview, but I would need some notice before Asher was called away. America is less settled than Europe, and fights for territory are much less civilized." His voice was still empty, emotionless, nothing mattered. "If my second were to simply vanish, others would see that as a weakness."
"Do not worry, our mistress is not going to call him home, but she admits to being puzzled."
We all waited for her to go on, but Musette seemed content to let the silence stand.
Even with Damian hanging on to me, I broke first. "Puzzled about what?"
"Why Asher left her side, of course."
Asher moved up closer, though still keeping a much greater distance between himself and Musette than the rest of us. "I did not leave her side," he said, "Belle Morte had not touched me in centuries. She would not even watch entertainments where I was . . . featured. She said I offended her eye."
"It is her prerogative to do with her people as she sees fit," Musette said.
"True," Asher said, "but she bid me come to America with Yvette as my overseer. Yvette died, and I had no more orders."
"And if our mistress ordered you home?"
Silence, ours this time.
Asher's face was as empty of emotion as Jean-Claude's. Whatever he felt was hidden, but the very blankness of both their faces said that it did matter, and it was important.
"Belle Morte encourages her people to strike out on their own," Jean-Claude said. "It is one of the reasons her bloodline rules more territories than any other, especially here in the United States."
Musette turned those beautiful pitiless eyes on him. "But Asher did not leave to become a Master of the City, he left to have revenge on you and your human servant. He wanted to extract payment for his beloved Julianna's death."
See, she had known the name all along.
"Yet, here your servant stands, strong, well, and unharmed. Where is your vengeance, Asher? Where is the price Jean-Claude was to pay for his murder of your servant?"
Asher seemed to close in upon himself, so very, very still. I thought if I blinked, he'd have vanished altogether. His voice came distant, empty. "I found that, perhaps, I had blamed Jean-Claude in error. That, perhaps, he too mourned her loss."
"So," she snapped her fingers, "like that, all your pain, your hatred is forgotten."
"Not just like that, non,but I have learned many things that I had forgotten."
"Such as the sweet touch of Jean-Claude's body?" she asked.
The silence this time was so thick I could hear my blood roaring in my ears. Damian felt like a ghost against my body. All the vampires, I was sure, were wishing themselves away.
Either Jean-Claude and Asher had been doing it behind my back. Which was not impossible. But if not, to answer the question truthfully would be bad.
Jason caught my eye, but neither of us dared even shrug. I don't think we were sure what was going on, but that it would end some place painful was almost certain.
Musette swayed around Jean-Claude, to stand closer to Asher. "Are you and Jean-Claude a happy couple, once more, or," here she looked at me, "is it a happy menage a trois? Is that why you did not come home?" She pushed past Asher and Jean-Claude, making them move back, so she could stand in front of me. "How can the touch of such as this compare to the magnificence of our mistress?"
I think she'd just implied that I wasn't as good in bed as Belle Morte, but I wasn't entirely sure that's what she meant, and I didn't care. She could insult me all she wanted. Insulting me was less painful than so many other things she could be doing.
"Belle Morte is sickened at the sight of me," Asher said, finally, "she avoids me in all things." He motioned at the painting that Angelito was still holding up. "This is how she sees me. How she will always see me."
Musette swayed her way back to stand in front of Asher. "To be least among her court is better than ruling anywhere else."
I couldn't help myself. "Are you saying it's better to serve in Heaven than rule in Hell?"
She nodded, smiling, seemingly oblivious to the literary allusion. "Oui, precisement.Our mistress is the sun, the moon, the all. To be parted from her, only that is true death."
Musette's face was rapturous, glowing with that inner certainty usually reserved for Holy Rollers and television evangelists. She was, indeed, a true believer.
I couldn't see Damian's face, but I was betting it was as carefully blank as the rest. Jason was staring at Musette as if she had sprouted a second head, an ugly, spiky second head. She was a zealot, and zealots are never quite sane.