"If you can truly control all manner of undead, then it might explain how you can slay vampires and still date them."
Jean-Claude, one of the vampires in question, was a little iffy on who wore the pants in our relationship sometimes because of my powers; just as I was iffy on how much of our relationship was my idea because of his vampire powers over me. We had a sort of metaphysical detente. "Jean-Claude and I were in the papers recently, so that didn’t take much research."
"One of St. Louis’s hottest couples, I believe was mentioned in the article."
I tried not to squirm with embarrassment, and managed it. "Jean-Claude is pretty enough that anyone on his arm looks hot."
"That much modesty doesn’t become a woman," Bennington said.
I blinked at him, frowning. "Sorry, I don’t know what you mean by that."
He studied my face, then said, "You really don’t, do you?"
"I just said that." I felt like I had missed something, and didn’t like it. "I am sorry for your pain, but you’re not winning me over."
"I need to know if your reputation is real, or just talk, like so many of the tall tales about you."
"I’ve earned my reputation, but if you really did your research on me then you also know that I don’t raise zombies for kicks, or thrill seekers, or tormented relatives unless they have a plan."
"A plan. What kind of plan?"
"You tell me. Why—do—you—want—your—wife—raised—as—a—zombie?"
"I understood the question, Ms. Blake; you don’t have to say it slowly."
"Then answer the question, or this interview is over."
He glared at me, that anger darkening his eyes to a nice storm-cloud gray. His hands made fists on the chair arms, and a muscle in his jaw flexed as he ground his teeth in frustration. Iron self-control it was.