Every jump of muscle sent sharp little pains through my arm. "Getting clawed up will do that to you."
"I can make it feel better."
I rolled eyes at him. "I bet you say that to all the girls."
He didn't even look embarrassed. "I told you, I am a Nimir-Raj. I can call flesh."
I must have looked as blank as I felt, because he explained. "I can heal wounds with my touch."
I just looked at him.
"What would it take to convince you that I'm telling the truth?" he asked.
"How about someone I know to vouch for you?"
"Easily done," he said, and a second later the door opened.
It was another stranger. The man was around six feet, broad shouldered, muscled, well built, and since he was nude, I knew for a fact that every inch of him was well proportioned. At least he wasn't erect. That was refreshing. He was pale, the first of the new ones without a tan. White hair with generous streaks of gray fell around his shoulders. He had a gray mustache and one of those tiny Vandyke beards. The hair was a clue that he was over fifty, probably. But what I could see of him didn't look old, or weak. He looked more like a lifer mercenary that would cut your heart out and take it back to someone in a box, for the right amount of money. A ragged scar nearly bisected his chest and stomach, curving in a vicious half-moon around his belly button and sinking towards his groin. The scar was white and looked old. Either he'd gotten the injury before he became a shapeshifter or--or I didn't know. Shapeshifters could scar, but it was rare; you almost had to do something wrong to the wound to get a scar that bad.
"I don't know him," I said.
"Anita Blake, this is Merle."
It was only after the introductions that Merle's eyes flicked to me. His eyes looked human, some pale gray color. His gaze went back to his Nimir-Raj's face almost immediately, like an obedient dog that wants to watch its master's face.
"Hi, Merle."
He nodded his head.
"Let her people in the room."
Merle shifted, and I knew instantly that he didn't want to do it. "Some, but not all?" he made it a question.
Micah looked at me.
"Why not all?" I asked.
Merle turned those pale eyes to me, and the look in them made me want to squirm. He stared at me as if he could see through to the other side and read everything in between. I knew it wasn't true, but it was a good stare. I managed not to flinch.
"Tell her," Micah said.
"Too many people in too small a room. I can't guarantee Micah's safety in a crowd of strangers."
"You must be his Skoll," I said.
His lips curled back in disgust--I think. "We are not wolves. We do not use their words."
"Fine, to my knowledge there's no equivalent word among the leopards, but you're still Micah's chief bodyguard, right?"
He stared at me, then gave a small nod.
"Okay. Do you really see my people as a threat to Micah?"
"It is my job to see them as a threat."
He had a point. "Fine. How many are you comfortable letting into the room?"
He blinked, that harsh gaze, shielded for a moment, his eyes uncertain. "You're not going to argue about it?" Again he made the statement into a question with the lilt of his voice.