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The press let the woman who seemed to know who we were come to the forefront; she had better questions. “Anita, you are Jean-Claude’s girlfriend, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, again, not really happy that all my own accomplishments had been boiled down to being someone’s—anyone’s—girlfriend.

“Then what are you doing here with Ripley, I mean Jason?”

“Jason told you that his father is gravely ill, that’s true. He’s coming home to say good-bye, and I’m with him for moral support.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, “you’ve come home to meet his family. You’ve left Jean-Claude for one of his strippers.”

Holy shit. “No,” I said, “I mean, it’s not what you think, it’s…”

But it was too late. Another kind of feeding frenzy had begun. It was simply out of our control, like some force of nature.

The reporters started yelling answers to each other’s questions, as if they were questions for us, but the answers they were giving were actually drowning out ours. It was one of the most bizarre experiences. It was a hurricane of rumors, and there was no stopping it.

Chuck appeared with the plainclothes guards, and I was happy to see all of them, even Chuck. They got us out of the press, down the driveway, and inside the hotel. I couldn’t even argue. The taxi wasn’t going anywhere.

14

WE ENDED UP in a spacious room just off the main lobby that was filled with chairs and had a podium. I think this was the place where the tamer press events happened.

There was a woman in one of the chairs. She wasn’t that tall, but she managed to be leggy in spike heels and a killer designer suit. Her auburn hair was in a tight bun that left her perfect makeup and overly dramatic eyes suitably noticeable.

“No more talking to the press unless you clear it through me,” she said.

“I am not one of the Summerlands,” Jason said, and he sounded tired. I didn’t blame him.

“He fell on his sword out there for us, Dubois,” one of the other suits said. This one was older, his gray suit only a little darker than his hair. His face was lined, but it was a good face. If he’d dyed the hair he wouldn’t have looked his age. A different suit would have helped, too. Gray wasn’t his color.

She gave one abrupt nod. “He did give them something else to chew on, I’ll grant that. But the little kiss in the alley was childish.”

“I know that,” Jason said, “but Chuck here had bossed me around, and I’m not Keith. I don’t need the babysitting.”

“After that kiss and the impromptu press conference, the hell you don’t,” she said.

“Are all press agents this pleasant?” I asked.

She gave me an angry look. “And you”—pointing a long painted nail at me—“are not helping.”

“I’m a federal marshal and a vampire executioner. I also raise the dead for a living. But all the press cared about was my boyfriends. But I didn’t argue with the reporters. I let them ask sex questions and didn’t get mad on camera. I think I behaved myself admirably.”

Jason hugged me one-armed. “You really did control your temper. I’m very proud of you.”

I gave him a look that made Ms. Dubois’s look seem tame. He winced, but he didn’t mean it.

“Frankly,” I said, “I was too surprised to know what to do. I’ve done some press with Jean-Claude, but nothing like this.”

Dubois seemed to have gotten over her snit, because she offered me her hand. Me, not Jason. It earned her a brownie point or two. “I’m Phyllis Dubois, press secretary on site for the wedding week.”

I took her hand. She had a good firm shake for a woman, but then so did I. “I’m Anita Blake, and I guess all I am today is Jason’s girlfriend.”

“Jean-Claude is that sexy master vampire of St. Louis, right?” she said.

I nodded.

“Did you leave him for Jason?”

I gave her an unfriendly look. “Don’t you start.”

She smiled and it made her face younger, more in tune with the nearly club makeup. “Sorry, but if it were true it might help us deflect some of the heat from our boys.”

“You’d blow the story up even more so they’d feed on us,” I said.

She shrugged narrow but elegant shoulders. “My job.”