The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [86]
“Jesus,” I whispered.
“What is wrong, ma petite?”
I shook my head. If I asked how he did it, he’d just smile. “Why all the questions, Jean-Claude? Why the worry about my view of life?”
“You are my human servant.” He raised a hand to stop the automatic objection. “I have begun the process of making you my human servant, and I would like to understand you better.”
“Can’t you just . . . scent my emotions like you can the people on the street?”
“No, ma petite. I can feel your desire but little else. I gave that up when I made you my marked servant.”
“You can’t read me?”
“No.”
That was really nice to know. Jean-Claude didn’t have to tell me. So why did he? He never gave anything away for free. There were strings attached that I couldn’t even see. I shook my head. “You are just to back me up tonight. Don’t do anything to anybody unless I say so, okay?”
“Do anything?”
“Don’t hurt anyone unless they try to hurt us.”
He nodded, face very solemn. Why did I suspect that he was laughing at me in some dark corner of his mind? Giving orders to the Master of the City. I guess it was funny.
The noise level on the sidewalk was intense. Music blared out of every other building. Never the same song, but always loud. The flashing signs proclaimed, “Girls, Girls, Girls. Topless.” A pink-edged sign read, “Talk to the Naked Woman of Your Dreams.” Eeek.
A tall, thin black woman came up to us. She was wearing purple shorts so short that they looked like a thong bikini. Black fishnet panty hose covered her legs and buttocks. Provocative.
She stopped somewhere between the two of us. Her eyes flicked from one to the other. “Which one of ya does it, and which one of ya watches?”
Jean-Claude and I exchanged glances. He was smiling ever so slightly. “Sorry, we were looking for Wanda,” I said.
“A lot of names down here,” she said. “I can do anything this Wanda can do and do it better.” She stepped very close to Jean-Claude, almost touching. He took her hand in his and lifted it gently to his lips. His eyes watched me as he did it.
“You’re the doer,” she said. Her voice had gone throaty, sexy. Or maybe that was just the effect Jean-Claude had on women. Maybe.
The woman cuddled in against him. Her skin looked very dark against the white lace of his shirt. Her fingernails were painted a bright pink, like Easter basket grass.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but we don’t have all night.”
“This is not the one you seek then,” he said.
“No,” I said.
He gripped her arms just above the elbows and pushed her away. She struggled just a bit to reach him again. Her hands grabbed at his arms, trying to pull herself closer to him. He held her straight-armed, effortlessly. He could have held a semitruck effortlessly.
“I’ll do you for free,” she said.
“What did you do to her?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I didn’t believe him. “Nothing, and she offers to do you for free?” Sarcasm is one of my natural talents. I made sure that Jean-Claude heard it.
“Be still,” he said.
“Don’t tell me to shut up.”
The woman was standing perfectly still. Her hands dropped to her sides, limp. He hadn’t been talking to me at all.
Jean-Claude took his hands away from her. She never moved. He stepped around her like she was a crack in the pavement. He took my arm, and I let him. I watched the prostitute, waiting for her to move.
Her straight, nearly naked back shuddered. Her shoulders slumped. She threw back her head and drew a deep trembling breath.
Jean-Claude pulled me gently down the street, his hand on my elbow. The prostitute turned around, saw us. Her eyes never even hesitated. She didn’t know us.
I swallowed hard enough for it to hurt. I pulled free of Jean-Claude’s hand. He didn’t fight me. Good for him.
I backed up against a storefront window. Jean-Claude stood in front of me, looking down. “What did you do to her?”
“I told you, ma petite, nothing.”
“Don’t call me that. I saw her, Jean-Claude. Don’t lie to me.”
A pair of men stopped beside us to look in the