Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [113]
He was tall, at least six feet, dark brown skin, with thick, shortcut black hair, brown eyes. His face was thin, arrogant, lips almost too soft for the haughty expression he gave me. He was darkly handsome, strongly Mexican, and his suspicion rode the air like lightning.
I eased into the booth. I took a deep, steadying breath and looked across the counter at him.
“I got your message. What do you want?” His voice was soft but deep, without a trace of accent.
“I want you to lead myself and at least one man into the tunnels beneath the Circus of the Damned.”
His frown deepened, forming faint wrinkles between his eyes. “Why should I do this for you?”
“Do you want your people free of the master’s influence?”
He nodded. Still frowning.
I was really winning him over. “Guide us in through the dungeon entrance, and I’ll take care of it.”
He clasped his hands together on the table. “How can I trust you?”
“I am not a bounty hunter. I have never harmed a lycanthrope.”
“We cannot fight beside you if you go against her. Even I cannot fight her. She calls to me. I don’t answer, but I feel it. I can keep the small rats and my people from helping her against you, but that is all.”
“Just get us inside. We’ll do the rest.”
“Are you so confident?”
“I’m willing to bet my life on it,” I said.
He steepled his fingers against his lips, elbows on the table. The burn scar in his forearm was still there even in human form, a rough, four-pointed crown. “I’ll get you inside,” he said.
I smiled. “Thank you.”
He stared at me. “When you come back out alive, then you can thank me.”
“It’s a deal.” I held my hand out. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it. We shook on it.
“You wish to wait a few days?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I want to go in tomorrow.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Are you sure?”
“Why? Is that a problem?”
“You are hurt. I thought you might wish to heal.”
I was a little bruised, and my throat hurt, but . . . “How did you know?”
“You smell like death has brushed you close tonight.”
I stared at him. Irving never does this to me, the supernatural powers bit. I’m not saying he can’t, but he works hard at being human. This man did not.
I took a deep breath. “That is my business.”
He nodded. “We will call you and give you the place and time.”
I stood up. He remained sitting. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so I left.
About ten minutes later Edward got into the car with me. “What now?” he asked.
“You mentioned your hotel room. I’m going to sleep while I can.”
“And tomorrow?”
“You take me out and show me how the shotgun works.”
“Then?” he asked.
“Then we go after Nikolaos,” I said.
He gave a shaky breath, almost a laugh. “Oh, boy.”
Oh, boy? “Glad to see someone is enjoying all this.”
He grinned at me. “I love my work,” he said.
I had to smile. Truth was, I loved my work, too.
45
DURING THE DAY I learned how to use a shotgun. That night I went caving with wererats.
The cave was dark. I stood in absolute blackness, gripping my flashlight. I touched my hand to my forehead and couldn’t see a damn thing but the funny white images your eyes make when there is no light. I was wearing a hard hat with a light on it, turned off at present. The wererats had insisted on it. All around me were sounds. Cries, moans, the popping of bone, a curious sliding sound like a knife drawing out of flesh. The wererats were changing from human to animal. It sounded like it hurt—a lot. They had made me swear not to turn on a light until they told me to.
I had never wanted to see so badly in my life. It couldn’t be so horrible. Could it? But a promise is a promise. I sounded like Horton the Elephant. “A person is a person no matter how small.” What the hell was I doing standing in the middle of a cave, in the dark, surrounded by wererats, quoting Dr. Seuss, and trying to kill a one-thousand-year-old vampire?
It had been one of my stranger weeks.
Rafael, the Rat King, said, “You may turn on your