Blood Noir - Laurell K. Hamilton [45]
“Now is that any way to greet me? I came to tell you to turn on the television, channel thirteen.”
“Why?”
“It’s a media shitstorm, but not the one we thought we’d have. You’ll want to see it.” He looked sort of tired around the edges.
“Wait here,” I said.
“I’d like to come in,” he said.
“I’d like to be taller, but that ain’t happening either.” I closed the door, gently.
“He says to turn on channel thirteen.”
Jason found the remote and turned on the TV. The woman we’d seen earlier, who had been a fan of Jason’s alter ego, Ripley, was on-screen. She was in midsentence: “…When asked earlier today if she had left Jean-Claude for one of his own strippers, zombie raiser and vampire hunter Anita Blake had no comment.” They showed bits of the press conference and us leaving with the questions still being shouted at us. Jean-Claude’s glossy was on-screen now with her voice-over: “The Master Vampire of St. Louis has refused to comment on rumors that the love of his life has left him for Jason Schuyler.” The picture from the website for Guilty Pleasures flashed on the screen. Jason looked pretty, well, strippery, in the picture. Cute, but the picture was not going to help squash any rumors.
I said, “Shit,” soft, but with feeling.
Jason went to the door and let Chuck in, then came to stand by me. Chuck stayed near the door, but he was watching the TV, too. It was like a car wreck; you couldn’t look away, even though you knew you didn’t want to see it.
“Rumor has it that they’ve come back to Schuyler’s hometown for a quick marriage so his father, who is dying of cancer, can see his only son married before he passes. It looks like Anita Blake, pinup for the supernatural set, has finally picked one of her men to settle down with, and it is a surprise to everyone, except those closest to the situation. We have a live interview from St. Louis.”
A man appeared; he was standing in front of Jean-Claude’s dance club, Danse Macabre. “We have one of Jean-Claude’s master-level vampires here in an exclusive.” The camera pulled back to show Gretchen.
“Shit!” I said.
She was still the blond, blue-eyed baker’s daughter whom Jean-Claude had seduced centuries ago. Her name had been Greta then. She was pretty, but not breathtaking in that way of most of the vamps of Belle Morte’s line. But I guess Gretchen would say the same of me, if not worse. She had an almost pathological jealousy about Jean-Claude, and a hatred of me. She saw me as the only thing preventing him from being her lover once more. Even if I vanished tomorrow, he wouldn’t go to Gretchen. But it was easier for her to blame the other woman than accept that the man for whom she’d given up her mortality and her family inheritance didn’t love her, and probably never had.
Jean-Claude had landed in this country pretty much penniless. His first few “seductions” had all been about financial or physical security.
She was dressed in modest club wear, because she was one of the vampires who roamed the dance floor at Danse Macabre. One of the selling points of the club was that you could dance with a real “live” vampire. Gretchen was the vampy equivalent of an old-time taxi dancer. You could even get tips, depending on how good a dancer you were, or how friendly you were. Gretchen wasn’t making many tips. There was only one man she wanted to dance with, and he was the boss.
The reporter held the mic near her pretty face and asked, “Are you surprised that Anita Blake has run off with one of Jean-Claude’s strippers?”
“No,” she said in an oh-so-reasonable voice. She could sound so sane if you didn’t let her talk long enough. “She’s been sleeping with Jason for months.”
“Isn’t he Jean-Claude’s pomme de sang, his blood donor?”
“Yes. He donates blood to Jean-Claude and sex to Anita.”
“Did Jean-Claude know that they were lovers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar,” I said, softly.
“What do you think Jean-Claude will do when he learns that Anita and Jason have eloped?”
“What would any man do if his honor and his heart were so betrayed?” she asked.
“None of