Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Colletion_ Books 6-10 - Laurell K. Hamilton [652]
He raised a hand covered in blood above his head, and the audience cheered.
They cheered. They fucking cheered.
The jaguar men lifted César from the altar and tossed him down the steps. He tumbled bonelessly, coming to rest on the floor directly in front of the steps. He lay on his back, gasping, fighting to breathe and I wondered if the priest had damaged a lung or two when he went fishing for the heart.
I just sat there, staring at him. He did this twice a month. It was part of his job. Shit. Not only didn’t I understand it, I didn’t want to. If he was into pain and death, I didn’t need to know anything else about him. I was eyeball deep in sadomasochistic wereleopards back home. I didn’t need another one.
The priest was talking, but I didn’t hear him. I didn’t hear anything but a great roaring like white noise in my ears. I watched the wereleopard twitch, body jerking, blood pouring down his sides, across the floor, but even as I stared, the blood was slowing. It was hard to tell through all the blood and torn flesh, but I knew he was healing.
Two of the human bouncers came and picked him up, one taking his ankles, the other lifting under his arms. They carried him through the tables, past us. I stood, stopping them. Dallas stood with me, as if afraid of what I’d do. I stared into César’s eyes. There was real pain there. He wasn’t having a good time or didn’t seem to be. But you don’t do shit like this on a regular basis unless you enjoy it on some level. His hands were lying on his chest, as if he were trying to hold himself together. I pried one hand up. The skin was slick with blood. I pressed the jade earrings into his hand, closed his fingers around them.
He whispered something, but I didn’t bend down to hear. “Don’t ever come near me again.”
I sat back down, and they carried him away. I started to reach for a napkin to wipe my hands, but Dallas grabbed my arm. “She’s ready to see you now.”
I hadn’t seen anyone talk to her, but I wasn’t questioning it. If she said it was time, fine. We could meet the Master of the City and get the hell out of here.
I started to reach for the napkin again, but she moved it out of reach. “It is fitting that you meet her with the blood of sacrifice on your hands.”
I looked at her and grabbed the napkin out of her hands. She actually struggled to keep it, and we had a little tug of war before I jerked it away from her. But a woman appeared at my elbow. She wore a red-hooded cloak and came up only to my shoulder, but even before she turned her head so I could see the face that lay inside that cloak, I knew what she was. Itzpapalotl, Obsidian Butterfly, Master of the City, and self-proclaimed goddess. I hadn’t felt her coming. I hadn’t heard her or sensed her. She just appeared beside me like magic. It had been a long time since a vampire had been able to do that. I think I stopped breathing for a second or two as I met her eyes.
Her face was as delicate as the rest of her, her skin a milk-pale brown. Her eyes were black, not just brown, but truly black like the obsidian blade she was named for. Most master vamp’s eyes are like drowning pools, things to fall into and be trapped, but her eyes were like solid black mirrors reflecting back, not something to fall into, but something to show you the truth. I saw myself in those eyes, a miniature reflection perfect in every detail like a black cameo. Then the image split, doubling, tripling. My face stayed in the center with a wolf’s head on one side, and a skull on the other. As I watched, the three images grew closer until the wolf and skull were superimposed over my face, and for a split second I couldn’t tell where one image left off and the others began.
One image floated above the rest. The skull rose above the first two, spilling upward through the blackness, filling her eyes until the skull filled my vision, and I was able to stumble back, nearly falling.