Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [1061]
40
“HEY, PETER,” I said.
He turned his head so he was looking up at the ceiling. Apparently he didn’t trust himself not to stare at my chest and wasn’t sure how I’d react. I wasn’t sure either. “I thought you were hurt,” he said.
“I was.”
He turned to look at me, frowning. “But you’re up. I feel awful.”
I nodded. “I’m a little surprised myself, truthfully.”
His gaze had drifted down again. Olaf was crazy and mean, but he was right about one thing. Men would stare, some on purpose to be rude, but not all. Some like Peter, well, it was as if my chest were a magnet and their gaze iron; it just attracted it. I was sooo going to have to talk to Nathaniel about what clothes to pack next time. Next time I got so hurt I ended up unconscious in the hospital. I simply assumed there’d be a next time. Unless I changed jobs, there would be. The thought startled me. Was I thinking about giving up the vampire hunting? Was I really, truly considering it? Maybe, maybe I was. I shook my head and pushed the thought into that cage with all the other thoughts. The cage was getting awfully damn full.
“Anita?” Peter made it a question.
“Sorry, thinking too hard.”
“What about?” He was managing eye contact. I felt like I should pet his head and give him a cookie, good boy. God, I was in a strange mood tonight.
“Truthfully, wondering if I want to keep hunting vampires.”
His eyes went wide. “What are you talking about? This is what you do.”
“No, I raise zombies; the vampire hunting is supposed to be a sideline. Sometimes the zombie thing gets me hurt, but the vampire and rogue lycanthrope hunting are more likely to put me in the hospital. Maybe I’m just tired of waking up with new scars.”
“Waking up is good, though,” he said, and his voice sounded fragile. He wasn’t staring at my face or my chest now. He was looking into the distance, with that look on the face that says you’re seeing something unpleasant, reliving it, just a little.
“You didn’t think you were going to wake up,” I said, and kept my voice gentle.
He looked at me, eyes wide, looking lost, frightened. “No, I thought this was it. I thought…” He stopped and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“You thought you were going to die,” I finished for him.
He nodded, then winced as if the movement hurt.
“I knew I wouldn’t die, or you. Stomach wounds hurt like hell and they can take a lot of healing, but they’re rarely fatal with modern antibiotics and prompt medical attention.”
He looked at me, uncomprehending. “Were you really thinking all that as they put you under?”
I thought about it. “Not exactly, but I’ve been hurt a lot, Peter. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve lost consciousness and woken up in a hospital, or somewhere worse.”
I thought his eyes were on my chest again, but he said, “The scar on your collarbone, what did that?”
Another interesting sideline of wearing this much of my chest in full view was that some of my scars were on display. I’d been more worried about my modesty than about the scars. “Vampire.”
“I thought it was a shapeshifter bite.”
“Nope, vampire.” I showed him my arms with all their scars. “Most of these are from vampires.” I touched one on my left arm: claw marks. “This one was a shapeshifted witch, which means her shapeshifting was a spell and not a disease.”
“I didn’t know there was a difference.”
“Well, the spell isn’t contagious, and it’s not tied to the full moon at all. In fact, strong emotions don’t cause you to shift, or any of that. You don’t shift until you put on the item, usually a fur belt or something.”
“Do you have any scars from shapeshifters?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see?”
Truthfully, the most permanent scars were claw marks on my ass. They were almost delicate marks. Gabriel, the wereleopard who had done it, had considered it foreplay