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“No, I’m not.”

I eased my own gun down until it wasn’t pointing at him, but I didn’t put it up. “I promise that if you end up like the people in the hospital I’ll take your head.”

He looked at me then, and even with the sunglasses on I knew he was surprised. “Not just shoot me or kill me, but take my head.”

“If it happens, Edward, I won’t leave you alive, and taking your head we’ll both be sure that the job’s done.”

Something flowed across his face, down his shoulders, his arms, and I realized it was relief. “I knew I could count on you for this, Anita, you and no one else.”

“Should I be flattered or insulted that you’ve never met anyone else cold-blooded enough for this?”

“Olaf’s blood is plenty cold enough, but he’d just shoot me and bury me in a hole somewhere. He’d have never thought about taking my head. And what if shooting didn’t kill me?” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’d be in some stinking hole somewhere alive because Olaf would never think to take my head.” He shook his head as if chasing the image away. He slid the glasses back on, and when he turned to look at me, his face was blank, unreadable, his usual. But I’d seen beneath the mask, further than I’d ever been allowed before. The one thing I’d never expected to find was fear, and beneath that, trust. Edward trusted me with more than his life. He trusted me to make sure he died well. For a man like Edward there was no greater trust.

We would never go shopping together or eat an entire cake while we complained about men. He’d never invite me over to his house for dinner or a barbecue. We’d never be lovers. But there was a very good chance that one of us would be the last person the other saw before we died. It wasn’t friendship the way most people understood it, but it was friendship. There were several people I’d trust with my life, but there is no one else I’d trust with my death. Jean-Claude and even Richard would try to hold me alive out of love or something that passed for it. Even my family and other friends would fight to keep me alive. If I wanted death, Edward would give it to me. Because we both understand that it isn’t death that we fear. It’s living.

10

THE HOUSE WAS a two-story split-level ranch that could have been anywhere in the Midwest, in any upper-middle-class neighborhood. But the large yard was done in rock paths running high to cacti and a circle of those small flowered lilacs that were so plentiful. Other people had tried to keep their lawns green as if they didn’t live on the edge of a desert, but not this house. This house, these people had landscaped for their environment and tried not to waste water. And now they were dead and didn’t give a damn about environmental awareness or rainfall.

Of course, one of them could be a survivor. I didn’t want to see pictures of the survivors before they’d been . . . injured. I was having enough trouble keeping my professional distance without color photos of smiling faces that had been turned into so much naked meat. I got out of the car, praying that everyone had died in this house, not my usual prayer at a crime scene. But nothing about this case so far was usual.

There was a marked police car sitting out in front of the house. A uniformed officer got out of the marked car as Edward and I walked towards the yard. He was medium build but carrying enough weight for someone taller, a lot taller. His weight was mostly in the stomach and made his utility belt ride low. His pale face was sweating by the time he’d walked the five feet to us. He put his hat on as he walked towards us, unsmiling, thumb hooked in his utility belt.

“Can I help you?”

Edward went into his Ted Forrester act, putting his hand out, smiling. “I’m Ted Forrester, Officer . . .” he took the time to read the man’s name tag, “Norton. This is Anita Blake. Chief Appleton has cleared us both to see the crime scene.”

Norton looked us both up and down, pale eyes not the least bit friendly. He didn’t shake hands. “Can I see some ID?”

Edward opened his wallet to