The Laughing Corpse (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter 2)

Her eyes had gotten bigger. I glanced where she was staring. The Windbreaker had fallen forward. My gun was showing, which seemed to upset her. Good.

"Talk to me, Wanda." My voice was soft. Mild. The mildest of voices is often the worst threat.

"Who the hell are you? You're not cops. You're not a reporter. Social workers don't carry guns. Who are you?" That last question had the lilt of fear in it.

Jean-Claude strolled into the room. He'd been in my bedroom. Great, just great. "Trouble, ma petite?"

I didn't correct him on the nickname. Wanda didn't need to know there was dissent in the ranks. "She's being stubborn," I said.

I stepped back from her chair. I took off the Windbreaker and laid it over the kitchen counter. Wanda stared at the gun like I knew she would.

I may not be intimidating, but the Browning is.

Jean-Claude walked up behind her. His slender hands touched her shoulders. She jumped like it had hurt. I knew it hadn't hurt. Might be better if it did.

"He'll kill me," Wanda said.

A lot of people seemed to say that about Mr. Gaynor. "He'll never know," I said.

Jean-Claude rubbed his cheek against her hair. His fingers kneading her shoulders, gently. "And, my sweet coquette, he is not here with you tonight." He spoke with his lips against her ear. "We are." He said something else so soft I could not hear. Only his lips moved, soundlessly for me.

Wanda heard him. Her eyes widened, and she started to tremble. Her entire body seemed in the grip of some kind of fit. Tears glittered in her eyes and fell down her cheeks in one graceful curve.

Jesus.

"Please, don't. Please don't let him." Her voice was squeezed small and thin with fear.

I hated Jean-Claude in that moment. And I hated me. I was one of the good guys. It was one of my last illusions. I wasn't willing to give it up, not even if it worked. Wanda would talk or she wouldn't. No torture. "Back off, Jean-Claude," I said.

He gazed up at me. "I can taste her terror like strong wine." His eyes were solid, drowning blue. He looked blind. His face was still lovely as he opened his mouth wide and fangs glistened.

Wanda was still crying and staring at me. If she could have seen the look on Jean-Claude's face, she would have been screaming.

"I thought your control was better than this, Jean-Claude?"

"My control is excellent, but it is not endless." He stood away from her and began to pace the room on the other side of the couch. Like a leopard pacing its cage. Contained violence, waiting for release. I could not see his face. Had the spook act been for Wanda's benefit? Or real?

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?"