Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 6-10 - Laurell K. Hamilton [394]
Trolls were the first protected species in America. The Greater Smokey Mountain Troll was not protected. It was hunted to extinction; but then, it pulled up large trees and beat the tourists to death and sucked the marrow from their bones. Hard to get good press that way.
There was still a troll society called Peter’s Friends. Even though it was illegal to kill trolls, any trolls, for any reason, it still happened. Hunters poached them. Though staring into those too-human faces, I don’t know how they did it. Not just for a trophy.
Richard stepped out of the bathroom in a rush of warm air. He was still wearing the jeans, but now there was a towel on his head and a blow-dryer in one hand. He had rewet his hair, though he seemed to have gotten all of him in the shower to do it. Mercifully, he’d dried his chest and arms off. His arms looked amazingly strong. I knew he could have tossed around small elephants, regardless of how muscular he looked, but the muscles helped remind me. Physically, he was a pleasure to gaze upon. But it made me wonder why he’d been spending the extra time on his body. Richard didn’t usually sweat that kind of thing.
I pointed at the pictures. “These are great.” I smiled and meant it. Once upon a time, I’d envisioned spending my life in the field doing this kind of work. A sort of preternatural Jane Goodall. Though truthfully, primates hadn’t been my main area of interest. Dragons, maybe, or lake monsters. Nothing that wouldn’t eat me if it got the chance. But that had been long ago before Bert, my boss, recruited me to raise the dead and slay vampires. Sometimes, even though Richard was older than I was by three years, he made me feel old. He was still trying to have a life amid all the strange shit. I’d given up on anything but the strange shit. You couldn’t do both equally well—or I couldn’t.
“I’ll take you up to see them, if you’d like,” he said.
“I’d love to, if it wouldn’t upset the trolls.”
“They’re pretty accustomed to visitors. Carrie—Dr. Onslow—has started allowing small groups of tourists to come and take pictures.”
He’d mentioned a Carrie in the same breath with Lucy. Was this the same woman? “Are you guys that hard up for money?” I asked.
He sat down on the side of the bed and plugged in the blow-dryer. “You’re always short of money on a project like this, but it’s not money we need. It’s good press.”
I frowned at him. “Why do you need good press?”
“Have you been reading the newspaper lately?” he asked. He removed the towel from his head. His hair was dark and brown with moisture, heavy, as if there was still water to be squeezed from it.
“You know I don’t read the newspaper.”
“You didn’t own a television, either, but you do now.”
I leaned my butt against the edge of his desk, as far away from him as I could get and not leave the room. I’d bought the television so that he and I could watch old movies and videos.
“I don’t watch much televison anymore.”
“Jean-Claude not a fan of muscials?” Richard asked, and there was that edge to his voice that I’d heard in the last few weeks: angry, jealous, hurt, cruel.
It was almost a relief to hear it. His anger made everything easier. “Jean-Claude’s not much of a watcher. He’s more a doer.”
Richard’s face thinned out, anger making his high, sculpted cheekbones stand out underneath his skin. “Lucy isn’t much of a watcher, either,” he said, voice low and careful.
I laughed, and it wasn’t a happy sound. “Thanks for making this easier, Richard.”
He stared down at the floor, his wet hair tucked to one side so his face was in full profile. “I don’t want to fight, Anita. I really don’t.”
“Could have fooled