The Killing Dance - Laurell K. Hamilton [99]
“Slapping people around won’t keep him alive,” I said.
“It would help. Torture works well, but I doubt that Richard would have the stomach for it.”
“I couldn’t stomach it.”
“But you litter the ground with bodies, ma petite. Killing is the best deterrent of all.”
I was too tired to be having this conversation. “It’s 4:30 in the morning. I want to go to bed.”
Jean-Claude smiled. “Why, ma petite, you are not usually so eager.”
“You know what I mean,” I said.
Jean-Claude took a gliding step towards me. He didn’t touch me, but he stood very close and looked at me. “I know exactly what you mean, ma petite.”
That brought heat in a rush up my neck. The words were innocent. He made them sound intimate, obscene.
Jason righted the chair and stood, licking the blood off the corner of his mouth. He said nothing, merely watched us like a well-trained dog, seen and not heard.
Jean-Claude took a step back. I felt him move, but couldn’t follow it with my eyes. There had been a time only months ago that it would have looked like magic, like he’d just appeared a few feet away.
He held his hand out towards me. “Come, ma petite. Let us retire for the day.”
I’d held his hand before, so why was I left standing, staring, like he was offering me the forbidden fruit that once tasted would change everything? He was nearly four hundred years old. Jean-Claude’s face from all those long years ago was smiling down at me, and there he stood with almost the same smile. If I’d ever needed proof, I had it. He’d struck Jason down like a dog he didn’t much like. And still he was so beautiful, it made my chest ache.
I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to run my hands over the red shirt, explore that open oval of flesh. I folded my hands over my stomach and shook my head.
His smile widened until a hint of fang showed. “You have held my hand before, ma petite. Why is tonight any different?” His voice held an edge of mockery.
“Just show me the room, Jean-Claude.”
He let his hand drop to his side, but he didn’t seem offended. If anything, he seemed pleased, which irritated me.
“Bring Richard through when he arrives, Jason, but announce him before he comes. I don’t want to be interrupted.”
“Anything you say,” Jason said. He smirked at us, at me, a knowing look on his face. Did everyone and their wolf believe I was sleeping with Jean-Claude? Of course, maybe it was a case of the lady protesting too much. Maybe.
“Just bring Richard to the room when he comes,” I said. “You won’t be interrupting anything.” I glanced at Jean-Claude while I said the last.
He laughed, that warm touchable sound of his that wove over my skin like silk. “Even your resistance to temptation grows thin, ma petite.”
I shrugged. I would have liked to argue, but he’d smell a lie. Even a run-of-the-mill werewolf can smell desire. Jason wasn’t run-of-the-mill. So everyone in the room knew I was hot for Jean-Claude. So what?
“No is one of my favorite words, Jean-Claude. You should know that by now.”
The laughter faded from his face, leaving his blue, blue eyes gleaming, but not with humor. Something darker and more sure of itself looked out his eyes. “I survive on hope alone, ma petite.”
Jean-Claude parted the black and white drapes to reveal the bare, grey stones that the room was made of. A large hallway stretched deeper into the labyrinth. Torchlight gleamed beyond the electricity of the living room. He stood there, backlit against the flame and the soft modern lights. Some trick of light and shadow plunged half his face into darkness and brought a pinprick glow to his eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t a trick of the light. Maybe it was just him.
“Shall we go, ma petite?”
I walked into that outer darkness. He didn’t try to touch me as I moved past him. I’d have given him a brownie point for resisting the urge, except I knew him too well. He was just biding his time. Touching me now might piss me off. Later, it might not. Even I couldn’t guarantee