“Be careful what you say next, Zerbrowski, or I’ll tell Katie on you.”
“My darling wife knows I’m a letch.”
“Don’t we all. Thanks again, Zerbrowski.”
“I’ve got kids, don’t mention it,” he said, and he hung up.
I left Ms. Mackenzie in the capable hands of our nighttime secretary Craig, and I went out to see if I could save her daughter’s life, and the “life” of the vampire that was a close enough personal friend to have bitten Amy twice on the very upper thigh.
THE vampire district in St. Louis was one of the hottest tourist areas in the country. Some people credit the undead with the boom we’ve experienced in the last five years since vampires were declared living citizens with all the rights and privileges that entailed, except voting. There was a bill floating around Washington that would give them the vote, and another bill floating around that would take away their new status and make it legal to kill them on sight again, just because they were vampires. To say that the United States was not exactly united in its attitude toward the undead was an understatement.
Danse Macabre was one of the newest of the vampire-run clubs. It was the hottest dance spot in St. Louis. We’d had actors fly from the West Coast to grace the club with their presence. It had become chic to hob-knob with vampires, especially the beautiful ones, and St. Louis did have more than its fair share of gorgeous corpses.
The most gorgeous corpse of them all was dancing on the main floor of his newest club. The floor was so crowded there was barely room to dance, but somehow my gaze found Jean-Claude, picked him out of the crowd.
When I first spotted him, his long pale hands were above his head, the graceful movement of those hands brought my gaze down to the whirl of his black curls as they slid over his shoulders. From the back with all that long hair the shirt was just scarlet, eye-catching but nothing too special, then he turned and I caught a glimpse of the front.
The red satin scooped over his bare shoulders as if someone had cut out the shoulders with scissors; the sleeves were long, tight to his wrists. The high red collar framed his face, made his skin, his hair, his dark eyes look brighter, more alive.
The music turned him away from me, and I got to watch him dance. He was always graceful, but the pounding beat of the music demanded movements that were not graceful but powerful, provocative.
I finally realized, as he took the woman into his arms, as she plastered herself against the front of him, that he had a partner. I was instantly jealous and hated it.
I’d worn the clothes I’d had on at the office, and I was glad that it was a fashionably short black skirt with a royal blue button-up shirt. A long black leather coat that was way too hot for the inside of the club and sensible black pumps completed the outfit, oh, and the shoulder holster with the Browning Hi-Power 9mm, which was why I was still wearing the coat. People tended to get nervous if you flashed a gun, and it would show up very nicely against the deep blue of the blouse.
To other people it must have seemed like I was trying to look cool, wearing all that leather. Nope, just trying not to scare the tourists. But nothing I was wearing compared to the sparkling, skintight dress and spike heels the woman had on; nope, I was woefully under-dressed.
It had been my choice to stay away from Jean-Claude for these last few months. I’d let him mark me as his human servant to save his life and the life of the other boyfriend I wasn’t seeing, Richard Zeeman, Ulfric, wolf-king of the local pack. I’d done it to save them both, but it had bound me closer to them, and every sexual act made that mystical tie tighter. We could think each other’s thoughts, visit each other’s dreams. I’d fallen into Richard’s dreams where he was in wolf form chasing human prey. I’d tasted blood underneath a woman’s skin because Jean-Claude had been sitting beside me when he thought of it. It had been too much for me so I’d fled to a friendly psychic who was teaching me how to shield myself metaphysically from the boys. I did okay, as long as I stayed the hell away from both of them.
Watching Jean-Claude move like he was wed to the music, to the room, to the energy, anticipating not just the music but the movements of the woman who was in his arms made me want to run screaming, because what I really wanted to do was march over there and grab her by her long hair and punch her out. I didn’t have that right, besides they were only dancing. Sure.
But if anyone would be able to tell me who was about to bring Amy Mackenzie over to be the undead, it would be Jean-Claude. I needed to be here. I needed the information, but it was dangerous, dangerous in so many ways.
The music stopped for a few seconds, then a new song came on, just as fast, just as demanding. Jean-Claude kissed the woman’s hand and tried to leave the dance floor.
She took his arm, obviously trying to persuade him to have another dance. He shook his head, kissed her cheek and managed to extract himself, leaving her smiling. But as she watched him walk toward me, the look was not friendly. There was something familiar about her, as if I should have known her, but I was almost certain I didn’t know her. It took me a second or two to realize she was an actress, and if I ever went to movies I would have known her name. A photographer knelt in front of her, and she instantly went from unpleasant to a perfect smile, posing, choosing another partner. A second photographer followed after Jean-Claude, not taking pictures, but alert for a photo opportunity. Shit.
I had two choices. I could either stand there and let him take pictures of Jean-Claude and myself, or I could flee to the back office and privacy. I wasn’t news, but Jean-Claude was the vampire cover boy. The press had been amused that the woman the other vamps called the Executioner, because she had more vamp kills than any other vampire hunter in the country, had been dating the Master of the City. Even I could admit it was nicely ironic, but being followed around by paparazzi had gotten old very fast. Especially when they tried to take pictures of me while I was working on preternatural murders for the police. For the American media if you stood next to the gruesome remains they wouldn’t air the pictures, or print them, but European papers would. Some of the European media makes American media look downright polite.
When I stopped dating Jean-Claude, they drifted away. I was not nearly as photogenic, or as friendly. I didn’t have to worry about winning the press over; there wasn’t a bill in Washington that was trying to get me killed. The vamps needed the good press, and Jean-Claude was tagged as the one to get it for them.
I decided not to watch Jean-Claude walk toward me because I’d seen what my face looked like when I did—in color on the front of the tabloids. I’d looked like some small prey animal, watching the tiger stalk toward it; that explained the fear, but the fearful fascination, the open…lust, that had been harder to see in print. So I kept my eyes on the circling photographer and tried not to watch Jean-Claude glide toward me, as I leaned against the far wall, right next to the door that would lead into the hallway that led to his office.
I could have fled and avoided the press, but it would have meant I would be alone with Jean-Claude, and I didn’t want that. All right, truth, I did want that, and that was the problem. It wasn’t Jean-Claude I didn’t trust, it was me.
I’d been concentrating so hard on not watching him come toward me that it was almost a surprise when I realized I was staring into the red satin of his shirt. I looked up to meet his eyes. Most people couldn’t meet the gaze of a vampire, let alone a master one, but I could. I was a necromancer and that gave me partial immunity to vampire powers, and I was Jean-Claude’s human servant whether I wanted to be, or whether I didn’t, and that gave me even more immunity. I wasn’t vampire-proof by any means, but I was shut up pretty tight to most of their tricks.
It wasn’t vampire powers that made it hard to meet those midnight blue eyes. No, nothing that…simple.
He said something, and I couldn’t hear him over the beat of the music. I shook my head, and he stepped closer, close enough that the red of his shirt filled my vision, but it was better than meeting that swimming blue gaze. He leaned over me, and I felt him like a line of heat, close enough to kiss, close enough for so many things. I was already flat against the wall; there was nowhere else to go.
He had to lean his mouth next to my face, a fall of his long hair moving against my mouth, as he said, “Ma petite, it has been too long.” His voice, even over the noise, caressed down my skin as if he’d touched me. He could do things with his voice that most men couldn’t do with their hands.
I could smell his cologne, spicy, exotic, a hint of musk. I could almost taste his skin on my tongue. It took me two tries to say, “Not nearly long enough.”
He laid his cheek against my hair, very lightly, “You are happy to see me, ma petite, I can feel your heart trembling.”
“I’m here on business,” I said, but my voice was breathy. I was usually better than this around him, but three months of celibacy, three months of nothing, and being around him was worse. Damn it, why did it have to be worse?