Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 6-10 - Laurell K. Hamilton [1086]
I fell back from the coffin, fell to my knees. Jason grabbed my arm, drew me to my feet. I shook his hand off and went for Jean-Claude. He stood there, face patient, empty. I hit him without ever breaking stride. Maybe he expected me to stop, take a stance, but I hit him in the face, closed fist, like it was a continuation of the movement of my body. I twisted my fist—my whole body—into it, and he was suddenly on the floor, looking up at me, with blood on his face.
55
“YOU BASTARD, YOU fed off her energy while she was in there.” I had to stalk away from him to keep from kicking him. Some things you did not do; some lines you did not cross.
He touched the back of his hand to his mouth. “What if I had nothing to do with it?”
“What if?” I came to stand over him. “What if ? Are you really going to try and tell me that you didn’t feed off of her?” I pointed back towards the coffin and must have glanced back, because the next thing I knew he had my legs, and I was suddenly falling towards the ground. I slapped the hard stones with my arms like I’d been taught in Judo. That took some of the impact, kept my head from hitting the stone floor, but it took concentration. By the time my body hit the ground, Jean-Claude was on top of me, pinning my arms to the floor with his forearms, the rest of his body trapping the rest of mine.
“Get off of me.”
“Non, ma petite, not until you hear me out.”
I tried to raise my arms, not because I thought I could outmuscle him, but because I had to try. I’ve never been able not to struggle even when I know it’s a lost cause.
I was able to raise my arms a little—not enough to get away, but enough to make him bear down, enough to widen his eyes, enough to make him tense. Good to know the marks were helping me gain useful things like strength and not just crap.
Blood was a bright surprise against that pale skin. The blood dripped from an open cut on his mouth. “How do you know that this is not what all vampires would be reduced to after years?”
I glared up at him because I couldn’t do much else. “Liar.”
“How are you so certain?” He pressed himself harder against me for emphasis I think because he wasn’t happy to be there; his body was all about anger not sex. “How do you know, Anita?”
He’d used my real name. “I’m a necromancer, remember?”
His face clearly said he didn’t believe the answer was that simple, and he was right. I was remembering my visit to New Mexico and what I’d learned there. A monster rising above the bar in a club in Albuquerque. It rose above the bar in a thin line of pale flesh, like the rising of a crescent moon, then a face came into view. It was a woman’s face with one eye gone stiff and dry like some kind of mummy. Face after face rose brown and withered, like a string of monstrous beads strung together with pieces of body, arms, legs, and thick black thread like gigantic stitches holding it all together, holding the magic inside. It rose up and up until it towered against the ceiling, curving like a giant snake to stare down at me. I estimated forty heads, more, before I lost count, or lost the heart to count anymore.
There had been another club in that town, and it had been worse in some ways, because the torture was part of the entertainment . . . Lines had appeared on the man’s skin. The muscles under his skin began to shrink, as though he had a wasting disease, but what should have taken months was happening in seconds. No matter how willing the sacrifice, it can still hurt. The man started screaming as fast as he could draw breath. His lungs were working better than the first man’s, and he drew breath so fast, it was like one continuous shriek. His skin darkened as it drew in and in, like something was sucking him dry. It was like watching a balloon shrivel. Except there was muscle, and when the muscle vanished, there was bone, and finally there was nothing but dried skin over bones.