Burnt Offerings (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter 7)

48

1 was given a clean bill of health. The doctors were amazed at my recuperative powers. If only they knew. Pete McKinnon called late in the day. He'd found that there were fires similar to those set by our firebug in New Orleans and San Francisco. It took a moment for me to remember why those particular cities were important. When I remembered, I asked, "How about Boston?"

"No, no fires in Boston. Why?"

I don't think he believed me when I said, "nothing," but unlike Dolph, he let it go. I wasn't ready to point the finger at the Vampire Council. Just because the mysterious fires happened in cities they'd been visiting didn't mean it had to be them. There'd been no fires in Boston. Just because there were now mysterious fires in St. Louis, and the council was here, didn't prove anything. Yeah, and the Easter Bunny brings me goodies every year.

I told Jean-Claude about my suspicions. "But why would the council wish to burn empty buildings, ma petite? If one of them could call fire to their hands, they would not waste it on empty real estate. Not unless the real estate being burned gained them something."

"You mean a financial motive?" I said.

He shrugged. "Perhaps, though a personal motive would suit them better."

"I can't find out much more information without giving the council up to the authorities as suspects," I said.

He seemed to think about that for a second or two. "Perhaps you could wait upon committing absolute suicide for us until after we have survived this evening."

"Sure," I said.

True darkness found me in a short form-fitting black velvet dress with a V-neck and no sleeves. The waist of the dress was open lace. My skin showed pale and enticing through it. Black thigh-high hose that actually came up a bit higher than mid-thigh, like all the way up until the black lace stretch top brushed against the black satin panties with their lace edgings. The hose were a size too large. Jean-Claude had purchased them, and done it deliberately. I'd tried thigh-highs before and had to agree that the longer length was more flattering for my shorter legs. It sort of framed the right area. If we'd been planning extracurricular activities, I'd have loved to see his face when I was standing in nothing but the stockings. As it was, it was just frustrating, and a little scary.

I'd vetoed the high velvet heels he'd picked out. Instead I used my own black pumps. Not as spiffy. Maybe not even more comfortable, but the heels were low enough that I could run in them, or carry fainting wereleopards if the need arose.

"You are perfection, ma petite, except for the shoes."

"Forget it," I said. "You're lucky to have gotten me in the hose. The thought that I'm dressing just in case the rest of the party sees my underwear is just creepy."

"You talked to the Traveler of price and responsibility. Well, tonight we pay the price for your wereleopards. Are you regretting it now?"

Gregory was still trussed up in my bedroom, pale and fragile looking. Vivian was tucked in a guest room speaking in monosyllables.

"No, no I don't regret it."

"Then let us gather the rest of our party and be on our way." But he didn't move. He stayed lying on his stomach on the white couch, head resting on his folded hands. If it had been anyone else, I'd have said they were sprawled on the couch, but Jean-Claude did not sprawl. He posed, he lounged, but he did not sprawl. He lay full length, his long body stretched out, only the tips of his black boots over the edge of the couch.

He was wearing an outfit I'd seen before, but repetition didn't make it less lovely. I loved his clothes; loved watching him dress, and undress.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

"I wish we were staying home tonight. I want to undress you one piece of clothing at a time, enjoying your body between every unveiling."

Just the suggestion made my body tight. "Me, too," I said, and knelt on the floor in front of him. I folded the short skirt under so it wouldn't wrinkle or ride up. He didn't teach me that, my Grandma Blake did, over a lifetime of Sunday church services where what I looked like seemed more important than the sermon.

I laid my chin on the couch near his face. My hair spilling around me, brushing the sides of his folded hands, curling against his face.

"Do your undies look as nice as mine?" I asked.

"Brushed silk," he said softly.

I had a sensory memory so strong it made me shiver. The feel of him through the thick silk, the almost living texture that the brushed fabric had over the hardness of his body. I had to close my eyes to keep from letting him see it in my face. The image was so vivid it made me clench my hands.

I felt him move a second before he kissed my forehead. He spoke with his lips still touching my skin. "Your thoughts betray you, ma petite."

I raised my face upward, sliding his lips down my face. He was utterly passive as I moved against him, until our lips met. Then his mouth pressed against mine, lips and tongue working. Neither of us used our hands, only our mouths touching. Our faces pressed together.

"Can I cut in?" The familiar voice was so heavy with anger that it made me draw back from Jean-Claude.

Richard stood at the end of the couch staring down at us. I hadn't heard him come up. Had Jean-Claude? I was betting he had. Somehow I never thought that even in the throes of passion Jean-Claude would ever let anyone sneak up on him. Or maybe I just didn't think I was that distracting. Poor self-esteem, who me?

I sat back on my heels and looked up at Richard. He was dressed in a black tux, complete with tails. His long hair slicked back into a ponytail so tight it gave the illusion of short hair. You always knew Richard was handsome but it was only when you got rid of the hair that you realized how perfect his face was. The high-sculpted cheekbones, the full mouth, the dimple. He stared down at me with that handsome, familiar face, and he looked arrogant. He knew the effect he had on me, and wanted to turn the knife a little more.

Jean-Claude sat up on the couch, his mouth smeared with my lipstick. The red so vivid against his pale skin it looked like the surprised scarlet of blood. He ran his tongue around the outside of his mouth, then ran his finger across his upper lip, slowly, until it came away red. He put the finger in his mouth and sucked the lipstick off of it, very slowly, very deliberately. His eyes were on me, but the show was for Richard.

I was both grateful for it, and angry about it. He knew Richard was trying to hurt me, so he was hurting Richard. But he was also baiting him, rubbing the proverbial salt in the wound.

The look on Richard's face was so raw I had to look away. "That's enough, Jean-Claude," I said, "that's enough."

Jean-Claude looked amused. "As you like, ma petite."

Richard looked down at me again. I met his eyes. Maybe there was something in my face that was too raw to look at, too. He turned abruptly and left the room.

"Go freshen your tasty lipstick, then we must leave." Jean-Claude's voice held regret, the way it sometimes held joy, or sex.

I took his hand, raising it gently to my mouth. "Are you still frightened of them, even after all the good publicity? Surely if they were planning to kill us, they wouldn't have appeared on camera with you." I touched his leg, running my fingers over the cloth, feeling his thigh underneath. "The Traveler shook hands with the mayor of St. Louis, for heaven's sake."

He touched my face, cradling my cheek in his hand. "The council has never before tried to be, what you would call, mainstream. It is their first foray into a very new arena. But they have been the stuff of nightmares for thousands of years, ma petite. One day of human politics does not make them into something else."

"But..."

He touched fingers to my lips. "It is a good sign, ma petite. That I will agree to, but you do not know them as I do. You have not seen them at their worst."

My mind flashed on Rafael's raw, bloody body; Sylvie sagging in the chains, voice small and broken; the sight of Fernando using Vivian. "I've seen them do some pretty awful things since they hit town," I said. "You set up the rules, Jean-Claude. They can't maim us, or rape us, or kill us. What's left?"

He kissed me lightly on the lips, and stood, offering me his hand. I took it, let him pull me to my feet. He was wearing his amused mask, the one that once upon a time I'd thought was his normal face. Now I knew it meant he was hiding things. He looked like that a lot when he was scared and didn't want people to know.

"You're scaring me," I said softly.

He smiled. "No, ma petite, they will do that for me, for us all." With that comforting shot, he went off to round up the others. I went for my purse and the tasty lipstick. The council had laid down some conditions of their own. No weapons tonight. Which was why I was dressed like I was; one glance was enough to know I wasn't carrying anything. Jean-Claude thought this would keep them from having an excuse to pat me down. When I asked what the big deal was, all he would say was, "You don't want to give them a reason to touch you, ma petite. Trust me on this."

I did trust him. I didn't want any of the council touching me, ever. It was going to be a long night.