Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 6-10 - Laurell K. Hamilton [620]
I glanced at Bernardo, but kept my gaze on the big man across the table. “What gives, Bernardo? He does talk, right?”
Bernardo nodded. “He talks.”
I turned my full attention back to Olaf. “You’re just not going to talk to me, is that it?”
He just glared at me.
“You think not hearing the dulcet sounds of your voice is some kind of punishment? Most men are such jabber mouths. Silence is nice for a change. Thanks for being so considerate, Olaf, baby.” I made the last word into two very separate syllables.
“I am not your baby.” The voice was deep and matched that vast chest. There was also a guttural accent underneath all that clear English, German maybe.
“It speaks. Be still my heart.”
Olaf frowned. “I did not agree with your being included on this hunt. We do not need help from a woman, any woman.”
“Well, Olaf, honey, you need help from someone because the three of you haven’t come up with shit on the mutilations.”
A flush of color crept up his neck into his face. “Do not call me that.”
“What? Honey?”
He nodded.
“You prefer sweetheart, honeybun, pumpkin?”
The color spread from pink to red, and was getting darker. “Do not use terms of endearment to me. I am no one’s sweetheart.”
I’d been all set to make another scathing remark, but that stopped me, and I thought of something better. “How sad for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How sad that you are no one’s sweetheart.”
The color that had been fading from his face flushed dark now, almost as if he were blushing. “Are you feeling sorry for me?” His voice rose a notch, not yelling but like the low growl of a dog just before it bites. As he got more emotional, the accent got thicker. Very German, very lowland. Grandmother Blake was from Baden-Baden, on the border between Germany and France, but great-uncle Otto had been from Hapsburg. I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, but it sounded like the same accent.
“Everyone should be someone’s sweetheart,” I said, but my voice was mild. I wasn’t angry. I was baiting him, and I shouldn’t have. My only excuse was that all the talk of rape had made me scared of him, and I didn’t like that. So I was doing something that was actually very masculine. I was pulling the tail of the beast to make myself feel braver. Stupid. The moment I realized why I was doing it, I tried to stop.
“I am no one’s fool, and that means I am no one’s sweetheart.” He spoke carefully, enunciating each word but his accent was thick enough to walk on. He had started to move slowly around the table, muscles tense like some big predatory cat.
I flashed my jacket on the left side, showing the gun. He stopped moving forward, but his face was furious. “Let’s start over, Olaf,” I said. “Edward and Bernardo here told me what a big bad guy you were and that made me nervous, which made me defensive. When I’m defensive, I’m usually a pain in the ass. Sorry about that. Let’s pretend that I wasn’t being a smart ass, and you weren’t being all big and bad, and start over.”
He stilled. That was the only word I had for it. The quivering tension in his muscles eased like water running downhill. But it wasn’t gone, just shoved away somewhere. I had a glimpse into Olaf. He operated from a great dark pit of rage. That it was directed mostly at women was accidental. The rage needed some target or he’d turn into one of those people that drive their cars through restaurant windows and start shooting strangers.
“Edward has been most insistent that you are to be here, but nothing you will say can make me like it.” His words were pulling free of the accent as he regained control of his temper.
I nodded. “Are you from Hapsburg?”
He blinked, and for an instant puzzlement replaced the sullenness. “What?”
“Are you from Hapsburg?”
He seemed to think about it for a second or two, then gave a small nod.
“I thought I recognized the accent.”
The scowl was back full force. “You are an expert on accents?” He managed