The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [91]
I shook my head. No way to ask in front of Wanda. Maybe later. Maybe.
I knelt in front of Wanda. She was gripping the soda can so hard, she was denting it. I didn’t touch her, just knelt close by. “I won’t let him hurt you. Honest. Harold Gaynor is threatening me. That’s why I need information.”
Wanda was looking at me, but her attention was on the vampire in back of her. There was a watchful tension in her shoulders. She would never relax while Jean-Claude was in the room. The lady had taste.
“Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude.”
His face looked as ordinary as it ever did when he turned to face me. A smile crooked his full lips. It was an act. Pretense. Damn him. Was there something in becoming a vampire that made you sadistic?
“Go into the bedroom for a while. Wanda and I need to talk in private.”
“Your bedroom.” His smile widened. “My pleasure, ma petite.”
I scowled at him. He was undaunted. As always. But he left the room as I’d asked.
Wanda’s shoulders slumped. She drew a shaky breath. “You really aren’t going to let him hurt me, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
She started to cry then, soft, shaky tears. I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never known what to do when someone cries. Did I hug her? Pat her hand comfortingly. What?
I finally sat back on the ground in front of her, leaning back on my heels, and did nothing. It took a few moments, but finally the crying stopped. She blinked up at me. The makeup around her eyes had faded, just vanished. It made her look vulnerable, more rather than less attractive. I had the urge to take her in my arms and rock her like a child. Whisper lies, about how everything would be alright.
When she left here tonight, she was still going to be a whore. A crippled whore. How could that be alright? I shook my head more at me than at her.
“You want some Kleenex?”
She nodded.
I got her the box from the kitchen counter. She wiped at her face and blew her nose softly, very ladylike.
“Can we talk now?”
She blinked at me and nodded. She took a shaky sip of pop.
“You know Harold Gaynor, right?”
She just stared at me, dully. Had we broken her? “If he finds out, he will kill me. Maybe I don’t want to be coffin-bait, but I sure as hell don’t want to die either.”
“No one does. Talk to me, Wanda, please.”
She let out a shaky sigh. “Okay, I know Harold.”
Harold? “Tell me about him.”
Wanda stared at me. Her eyes narrowed. There were fine lines around her eyes. It made her older than I had thought. “Has he sent Bruno or Tommy after you yet?”
“Tommy came for a personal meeting.”
“What happened?”
“I drew a gun on him.”
“That gun?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes.”
“What did you do to make Harold mad?”
Truth or lie? Neither. “I refused to do something for him.”
“What?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It can’t have been sex. You aren’t crippled.” She said the last word like it was hard. “He doesn’t touch anyone who’s whole.” The bitterness in her voice was thick enough to taste.
“How did you meet him?” I asked.
“I was in college at Wash U. Gaynor was donating money for something.”
“And he asked you out?”
“Yeah.” Her voice was so soft, I had to lean forward to hear it.
“What happened?”
“We were both in wheelchairs. He was rich. It was great.” She rolled her lips under, like she was smoothing lipstick, then out, and swallowed.
“When did it stop being great?” I asked.
“I moved in with him. Dropped out of college. It was . . . easier than college. Easier than anything. He couldn’t get enough of me.” She stared down at her lap again. “He started wanting variety in the bedroom. See, his legs are crippled, but he can feel. I can’t feel.” Wanda’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper. I had to lean against her knees to hear. “He liked to do things to my legs, but I couldn’t feel it. So at first I thought that was okay, but . . . but he got really sick.” She looked at me suddenly, her face only inches