Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [164]
All three of us visibly relaxed when the drapes swung shut, and we shared a glance. “Why do I think I’m not the only one too tense to pull this off tonight?” I said.
Asher kept Jean-Claude’s hand, but moved around so he was facing both of us. “Musette smells a lie, and she will not let it rest.”
“Valentina and I just finished talking about the mother of all bad vampires, and you’re already back to harping on Musette.”
Jean-Claude squeezed my hand, and sighed.
“The Sweet Dark will not take me tonight, Anita. It will not pin me to a table and unfasten my clothes and force itself upon me. Musette will.”
“You’re in our bed now, rules say she can’t have you.”
“But she smells that it is a lie.”
“I can’t help that the fact that we haven’t had intercourse comes up on vampire radar as lying about fucking you.”
“Musette wishes it to be untrue, ma petite. She is searching for anything that will allow her more room to play. Your doubts, Asher’s doubts, give her that room.”
I closed my eyes and counted slowly to ten. When I opened them, they were both giving me their best blank faces. It was like looking at two superb paintings, suddenly made three-dimensional, very lifelike, but not alive.
I squeezed Jean-Claude’s hand, and he squeezed back. “Don’t go all strange on me, guys. I’m having enough trouble tonight.”
They both blinked, one long graceful blink, and they were “alive” again. I shivered and took my hand back from Jean-Claude. “That is so disturbing,” I said.
“Pourquoi, ma petite?”
“Why. He has to ask, why.” I shook my head, and crossed my arms. I had to cradle my breasts, because, thanks to the bra and the neckline, there was no way to cross my arms over my chest.
Damian came through the black drapes. His scarlet hair glowed against the cream and gold of his old-fashioned clothes. He could have stepped out of a seventeenth-century painting, complete with white hose below knee-length pants and those odd high-heeled buckle shoes the noblemen wore. Only his hair, loose and blazing, was untamed, and recognizably him. He had not volunteered to be one of Jean-Claude’s pretty men. Damian was a touch homophobic. Boy, had he fallen in with the wrong bunch of vampires.
He strode across the carpet and went to one knee in front of me. For tonight we were being formal, so I didn’t argue, and offered him my left hand. He took it, laying a kiss on my fingers. “The Ulfric and his party are almost here.”
“Where have they been?” Jean-Claude asked.
Damian looked up, giving us the full force of his grass green eyes. He almost looked underdressed without eye makeup. I think almost every other person at this little party was wearing makeup. The corner of his mouth gave the smallest twitch, and I realized he was trying not to laugh. “They had to find someone to repair the Ulfric’s hair. No one in their pack was a hairdresser.”
“What does this mean, ‘repair his hair’?” Jean-Claude asked.
I sighed. “You know how you forgot to tell me about the plates on the floor?”
“Oui.”
“I forgot to mention that Richard cut his hair off. I don’t mean like go-to-the-beauty-parlor-and-get-it-styled. I mean hacked it off with scissors, himself.”
Jean-Claude looked almost as horrified as I had. “His beautiful hair.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I know.” I’d done my best not to think about it. I mean, Richard had said it, we weren’t dating. It wasn’t any of my business what length his hair was. My major concern was that sane happy people don’t hack their hair off at home with scissors. Cutting your hair like that is usually a substitute for hurting yourself in other more permanent ways. Any counselor will tell you that.
Damian spoke, still on one knee, still holding my hand lightly. “They found someone to salvage what they could, but he is all but shorn.”
Jean-Claude looked ill, which for a vampire is a neat trick. “Is he well enough for all this tonight?” I wasn’t sure