Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [122]
Blood dripped down my elbow and hung, thick and trembling over his arm. He sort of shook his head, no, no. The blood dripped down and splatted on his arm, but it didn’t touch the gris-gris.
His whole body relaxed.
“I’ve got no patience today, Zachary.” I rubbed blood along the woven band.
His eyes flared, showing white. He made a strangling noise in his throat. His hands scrabbled at the floor. His chest jerked as if he couldn’t breathe. A sigh ran out of his body, a long whoosh of breath, and he was quiet.
I checked for a pulse; nothing. I cut the gris-gris off with my knife, balled it in my hand, and shoved it in my pocket. Evil piece of work.
Lillian came to bind my arm up. “This is just temporary. You’ll need stitches.”
I nodded and got to my feet.
Edward called, “Where are you going?”
“To get the rest of our guns.” To find Jean-Claude. I didn’t say that part out loud. I didn’t think Edward would understand.
Two of the ratmen went with me. That was fine. They could come as long as they didn’t interfere. Phillip was still huddled in the corner. I left him there.
I did get the guns. I strung the machine gun over my shoulders and kept the shotgun in my hands. Loaded for bear. I had killed a one-thousand-year-old vampire. Naw, not me. Surely not.
The ratmen and I found the punishment room. There were six coffins in it. Each had a blessed cross on its lid and silver chains to hold the lid down. The third coffin held Willie, so deeply asleep that he seemed like he would never wake. I left him like that, to wake with the night. To go on about his business. Willie wasn’t a bad person. And for a vampire he was excellent.
All the other coffins were empty, only the last one still unopened. I undid the chains and laid the cross on the ground. Jean-Claude stared up at me. His eyes were midnight fire, his smile gentle. I flashed on the first dream and the coffin filled with blood, him reaching for me. I stepped back, and he rose from the coffin.
The ratmen stepped back, hissing.
“It’s all right,” I said. “He’s sort of on our side.”
He stepped from the coffin like he’d had a good nap. He smiled and extended a hand. “I knew you would do it, ma petite.”
“You arrogant son of a bitch.” I smashed the shotgun butt into his stomach. He doubled over just enough. I hit him in the jaw. He rocked back. “Get out of my mind!”
He rubbed his face and came away with blood. “The marks are permanent, Anita. I cannot take them back.”
I gripped the shotgun until my hands ached. Blood began to trickle down my arm from the wound. I thought about it. For one moment, I considered blowing his perfect face away. I didn’t do it. I would probably regret it later.
“Can you stay out of my dreams, at least?” I asked.
“That, I can do. I am sorry, ma petite.”
“Stop calling me that.”
He shrugged. His black hair had nearly crimson highlights in the torchlight. Breathtaking. “Stop playing with my mind, Jean-Claude.”
“Whatever do you mean?” he asked.
“I know that the otherworldly beauty is a trick. So stop it.”
“I am not doing it,” he said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“When you have the answer, Anita, come back to me, and we will talk.”
I was too tired for riddles. “Who do you think you are? Using people like this.”
“I am the new master of the city,” he said. He was suddenly next to me, fingers touching my cheek. “And you put me upon the throne.”
I jerked away from him. “You stay away from me for a while, Jean-Claude, or I swear . . .”
“You’ll kill me?” he said. He was smiling, laughing at me.
I didn’t shoot him. And some people say I have no sense of humor.
I found a room with a dirt floor and several shallow graves. Phillip let me lead him to the room. It was only when we stood staring down at the fresh-turned earth that he turned to me. “Anita?”
“Hush,” I said.
“Anita, what’s happening?”
He was beginning to remember. He would become more alive in a few hours, up to a point. It would almost be the real Phillip for a day, or two.
“Anita?” His voice was high and uncertain. A little boy afraid of the dark. He grabbed my