Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 11-15 - Laurell K. Hamilton [624]
I’d cut other people before, used their blood to help me or combine with mine, but I’d never held their hand while I did it. I stood on Micah’s left side and interlaced the fingers of our left hands together so that our palms touched. I stretched his arm out and laid the blade’s edge against the smooth, untouched skin of his arm.
The underside of my left arm looked like Dr. Frankenstein had been at me. Micah’s was smooth and perfect, untouched. I didn’t want to change that.
“I’ll heal,” he said softly. “It’s not silver.”
He was right, but . . . I simply did not want to hurt him.
“Is there a problem, Marshal?” the judge asked.
“No,” I said, “no problem.”
“Then can we move things along? It’s not getting any warmer out here.”
I turned to look at him. He was huddled in his long coat. I glanced down at my own bare arms, not even a goose bump in sight. I gazed up at Micah, in his shirtsleeves. Being a shapeshifter, he wasn’t really a good judge of how cold it was, or how warm. I took a moment to glance at everybody. Most of them were buttoned up, some with hands in pockets like the judge. There were only three people who had their coats open, and, even as I watched, Fox began to shrug out of his own trench coat. The other two people were Salvia and Franklin. Franklin I’d expected, but not Salvia. If he was that sensitive, it could explain his fear. Nothing like a little psychic ability to make you not want to be around a major ritual. I might raise the dead on a regular basis, but magically it’s a big deal to breathe life into the dead. Even temporarily.
“Marshal Blake,” the judge said, “I’ll ask one more time. Is there a problem?”
I settled my gaze back on him. “You want to open a vein for me, Judge?”
He looked startled. “No, no, I do not.”
“Then don’t rush me when I’ve got someone else’s arm under my blade.”
Fox and Franklin both made noises. Fox seemed to be turning a laugh into a cough. Franklin was shaking his head, but not like he was unhappy with me.
The court reporter’s fingers never faltered. She recorded his impatience and my angry answer. She, apparently, was going to record everything. I wondered if she’d tried to record the cough and the inarticulate noise from the agents. I should probably watch what I said, but I doubted I would. I mean, I could try, but watching what I said was usually a losing battle. Maybe I’d feel more polite after the power circle went up. Maybe.
Micah touched my face with his free hand, made me look at him. He gave me that peaceful smile. “Just do it, Anita.”
I laid the blade edge against that smooth skin and whispered, “If it were done when ’tis done, ’twere well it were done quickly . . .”
He said, “Are you quoting Macbeth?”
“Yes.” And I cut him.
CHAPTER
11
The blood looked black in the moonlight. Micah was utterly silent as his blood eased from the cut, and I moved the blade so that it could catch the heavy drip of his blood. So calm. Calm about this as he was calm about nearly everything, as if nothing could move him from the the center of himself. As I learned more of what his life had been like, I knew that this still-water calm had been hard won. My calmness was the calmness of metal, but he was water. He was the still forest pool. Throw a stone in, and once the ripples fade, it’s as it was. Throw a stone at metal and it leaves a dent. There were nights when I felt like I was covered in dings and dents. Holding Micah’s hand, with his blood welling onto the cool gleam of my blade, I could feel the echo of that watery calm.
The autumn night was suddenly scented with the sweet, metallic perfume of fresh blood. Once that smell had meant work: raising the dead or a crime scene. But thanks to my ties to Jean-Claude and Richard and the wereleopards, the scent of blood meant oh-so-much more.
Then I looked up from the blood and met Micah’s eyes, those pale leopard eyes, and realized that I didn’t need to look all the way to