Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 6-10 - Laurell K. Hamilton [399]
Raising Damian had forged some kind of link between us. I didn’t understand it and didn’t have anyone to ask advice of. I was the first necromancer in several hundred years that could raise vampires like zombies. It scared me. It scared Damian more. Frankly, I didn’t blame him.
Was Asher awake, too? I concentrated on him, sent that power, magic, whatever the hell it was, outward. It brushed him, and he felt me. He was awake and aware of me.
Asher was a master vampire. Not as powerful as Jean-Claude, but a master, nonetheless. That gave him certain abilities that Damian, who was by far the elder of the two, would never have. Without the link between us, Damian wouldn’t have sensed me searching for him.
I wanted a few minutes to be alone and think, and I wasn’t going to get it. I didn’t make them call for me. I opened the door and stood framed in the light, blinking out into the thick darkness.
The vampires stood like pale shadows in the gloom. I hit the overhead light. Asher threw his hand up to protect his eyes from the light, but Damian just blinked at me. I wanted them to cower back from the light. I wanted them to look monstrous, but they didn’t.
Damian was a green-eyed redhead, but that didn’t really cover it. His hair fell like a red curtain around his upper body, the hair so red it looked like spilled blood against the green silk of his shirt. The shirt was a paler green than his eyes. They were like liquid fire, if fire could burn green. It wasn’t vampire powers that made his eyes gleam. It was natural color, as if his mother had fooled around with a cat.
Asher was a blue-eyed blond, but again, that description didn’t do him justice. The waves of his shoulder-length hair were golden. I don’t mean blond, I mean gold. His hair was almost metallic in its glittering brilliance. His eyes were a blue so pale, they were almost white, like the eyes of a husky.
He was wearing a white dress shirt, untucked over chocolate brown dress pants. Leather loafers, no socks, completed his clothes. I’d spent too much time around Jean-Claude to call it an outfit.
If you could stop staring at the eyes and hair long enough to see their faces, Asher was the handsomer of the two. Damian was handsome, but there was a length of jaw, a less perfect slope to the nose—small imperfections that might go unnoticed if you hadn’t had Asher for comparison. Asher was beautifully handsome like a medieval cherub. Half of him, anyway.
Half of Asher’s face was the beauty that drew a master vampire to him centuries ago. The other half was covered in scars. Holy water scars. The scars started about an inch from the midline of his face so his eyes, nose, and those full, perfect lips remained untouched, but the rest was like melted wax. His neck was pale and perfect, but I knew that the scars continued at his shoulders. His upper body was worse than the face, the scars rough and pitted. But like the face, only half of his body was scarred. The other half was still lovely.
I knew that the scars touched his upper thigh, but I had never seen him completely nude. I had to take his word that the scars covered the space between. It had been implied though never stated that he was still capable of sex but was scarred. I didn’t know for sure, and I didn’t want to know.
“Where are your bodyguards?” Asher asked.
“My bodyguards? You mean Jason and the Furballs?”
Asher nodded. His golden hair fell forward over the scarred side of his face. It was an old habit. The hair hid the scars—or almost hid the scars. He could use shadows the same way. He always seemed to know just where the light would hit him. Centuries of practice.
“I don’t know where they are,” I said. “I just finished talking to Richard. I guess they thought we needed privacy.”
“Did you need the privacy?” Asher asked. He looked straight at me, using the scars and beauty for a double effect. He didn’t look happy