Danse Macabre ab-14 Page 14

  Jean-Claude came to sit beside me on the edge of the marble tub. He was careful not to touch me, only the faintest edge of our hips touching through the towels. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me, but he was probably right. Richard didn't always like to see us cuddle.

  "You wanted privacy for this talk, so talk," he said. One of the side effects of the vampire marks was that we seemed to be sharing bits of our person­alities. He seemed to have inherited some of my impatience and lack of anger management. A bad combination for a werewolf. But we didn't get to pick and choose what we got.

  "Ma petite, if you will tell him, and me, what happened before I arrived." I told the shortest complete version I could of all that had happened before Jean-Claude showed up. Somewhere during the talk, I leaned in against Jean-Claude's body. It just seemed wrong to be this close and not touch. He put his arm along my shoulder.

  Richard didn't seem to notice. "I thought this Samuel and Augustine were your friends?" he said.

  "They are."

  Then Richard said what I'd thought earlier. "If these are your friends, Jean-Claude, what are the other masters going to be like?"

  "I'd thought of that, too," I said. "I mean, if tliese are your friends, your enemies are going to kill us."

  "One of the reasons for tonight's little meeting was to see how ma petite reacted to other Masters of the City."

  "Badly," Richard said.

  "Not necessarily,"Jean-Claude said. He leaned forward, curving me more into his arm to keep from knocking me off the edge. Jean-Claude started to tell his part in tonight's little drama, but Richard stopped him.

  "I felt most of what happened after you touched Anita. I don't need a re­minder."

  "As you like," Jean-Claude said, "but the point is we may have rolled Au­gustine as thoroughly as Belle Morte could have done."

  "I wouldn't brag about that," Richard said. He'd moved to lean his shoul­der against the marble around the tub, so that he was close enough to have reached out and touched us, but he didn't try to close the distance. And be­cause he didn't, we didn't.

  "If Augustine is truly ours in the way that Belle made allies, than none of the other masters will try us. They will fear us, Richard. Fear even the touch of our hands."

  Richard frowned at us. I wanted to touch the thick waves of his hair, but kept my hand around Jean-Claude's waist, and the other hand in my lap. "But you told us, before we agreed to this gathering of masters, that every­one would behave. Especially if they thought one of their people would be

  Anita's new pomme de sang. Now, the first two masters who touch her are breaking all the rules."

  "I believe there is a reason for that."

  He gave us a skeptical look that was like a mirror of my own. "What reason?"

  Jean-Claude told him about his theory that the ardeur was hunting pow­erful prey.

  "But that means that any Master of the City who comes into contact with her will be, what, compelled to try to mind-roll her?"

  "Not just Masters of the City," he said, and he told about Meng Die and Requiem. "It may have been only that these two are of our bloodline, and both had tasted the ardeur more than once."

  "So has Asher, and he's not crazed."

  "Asher was drawn to ma petite from the moment he came to us."

  "He saw her as a way of duplicating what you and he and Julianna had," Richard said. He had moved almost as close as he could without actually touching us. I wondered if he was even aware of it.

  "That, and the only way back into my bed was through Anita. But what if it was more than that, Richard?"

  I had to add now, "Requiem isn't the only one of the new London vamps that had tasted the ardeur, and they're all of Belle's line. They don't seem particularly drawn to me."

  "Perhaps they must get at least a small taste of the ardeur from you before it is triggered?"

  "Or maybe you're wrong," Richard said, "maybe you just don't have any friends. How long has it been since you saw these guys?"

  Jean-Claude gave that graceful shrug. "Almost a century for Augustine, and not since I entered this country for Samuel."

  I looked at him. "Jean-Claude, just because someone was your friend a century ago doesn't mean he hasn't changed."

  He nodded, as if I'd made a point. "Perhaps, but I felt something when we were with Augustine. It was such power. I believe that the ardeur is reach­ing some new power, evolving into something new, or at the very least new to us."

  "What if Auggie isn't rolled completely?" I asked.

  "Then what we did tonight will not be as large a deterrent."

  "Tell Richard the other part, that if we really did roll another Master of the City, you're wondering if the council in Europe will use this as an excuse to kill us. Or maybe our American neighbors will decide to kill us before we try to take them all over."

  Richard looked at us with that flat I-don't-believe-it look. "Well, this is a lose-lose situation. Why did you bring them all here, Jean-Claude?"

  "Because their presence makes an important event of my evening of dance. It is unfair that just because an artist becomes a vampire he is no longer allowed on the stage. I want my kind to be able to pursue passions that have nothing to do with blood and power. I hope, as you for your wolves, that we can be more than just monsters."

  I'd been thinking about what he said about the taste of the ardeur too much to be sidetracked into talking about ballet. "You know I fed the ardeur off Byron, too. He's not besotted with me."

  "But he is not a master vampire, ma petite, nor will he ever be a master. He accepts that."

  "If Anita has this effect only on your bloodline, we're safe for tomorrow, because there are no other Masters of the City from that line."

  "But there are master vampires of Belle's line scattered throughout this country. Some will be there tomorrow. Some are part of the ballet troupe itself."

  "So I stay home," I said.

  "Cinderella must come to the ball, ma petite."

  "Nathaniel says I'm not Cinderella, I'm Prince Charming."

  He smiled, and gave me a little hug. "Of course, ma petite, whatever you say." Yeah, he was humoring me, but I let him. "But the point remains, you must go to the party tomorrow night."

  Richard's knee touched my leg, his hands still clasped around his legs. His hands were mottled with the tightness of his own hold. "She can't go, not if she's going to get jumped by all of them." His hand started to reach for my leg, then he stopped himself, and went back to holding his own hand. He was fighting so hard not to touch me, to touch us. The vampire marks, at least for Belle's line, made you want to touch each other. It didn't have to be about sex, just about feeling more complete when you touched. I know Richard felt almost compelled to touch me, but I'd never had the courage to ask if he felt the same way around Jean-Claude. If he did, it might explain some of why he was so enraged about Augustine.

  "We have in our camp other masters of similar power to Requiem, who have tasted the ardeur. One is even of Belle's line."

  I shook my head. "If you're talking about London, forget it. He seriously creeps me."

  Richard was shaking his head, too. "No."

  "Frankly, Jean-Claude, I don't know why you agreed to take him. I mean, his own kiss nicknamed him 'the Dark Knight.' I think that says something."

  He sighed and leaned his back against the wall. "You know that Belle Morte tried to demand all her bloodline back, when their master was exe­cuted. How could I refuse to save them from her?"

  "Yeah, but I'd think Belle's court would be right up London's alley. A nice dark alley."

  "He did not wish to go back to her. He spoke to me over the phone, he begged me not to let him go back to her court. You see, ma petite, Richard, London was traded to Belle for several years, then she exiled him. She tried to recall him, but he got his new master to intercede."

  "Why?" Richard asked. "Auggie would give anything to go back. I felt how much he misses her." Richard shuddered. "It's like some sort o
f addiction."

  "Oui, mon ami, exactement, that is precisely why London does not wish to go back. He is like an alcoholic that has become a teetotaler. He knows he has another drunken binge in him, but he does not know whether he has the strength to stop again. How could I leave him to her?"

  "That's awfully sentimental for you, isn't it?" Richard said.

  Jean-Claude gave him an unfriendly look. "I try for kindness when I can, Richard."

  Richard sighed, and leaned his forehead on his knees. "God, this is a mess."

  "You said we had other master vamps who had tasted the ardeur but who weren't of Belle's line—who are they?" Our list of non-Belle masters was pretty damn slim.

  "Wicked and Truth," he said.

  It was Richard who raised his face and said, "No, absolutely no." Then he seemed to think about it. "Not Wicked."

  "Truth would be acceptable?" Jean-Claude asked.

  Richard's shoulders hunched, and I thought he might break his own hands holding on so tight. "You're asking me to share her with another man. How can you ask me to help pick who it's going to be?"

  "How many women have you lain with in the last month, Richard?"

  Richard's power flared like a burst of fire through an innocent-looking wall. We were suddenly bathed in the biting heat of his power.

  "You all right in there?" Claudia called through the door.

  I looked at Richard. He gave the tiniest nod.

  "We're fine," I said.

  "You sure?" she asked. "Yes."

  Silence from the other side of the door.

  Richard said, "Thank you," then got back to the fight. I didn't have to see

  his face to know he was angry. "We all agreed that I'd keep dating. Anita will be my lupa and my Bolverk, but she doesn't want to marry, or have kids, or any of that. I do. We all agreed to this, don't throw it up in my face now."

  "You're going to hurt yourself, Richard," I said, softly, staring at his hands, and all the not-so-pretty colors they were turning.

  He let go of his hands with a breath that held pain in it. He finally let himself wrap his hand around my calf. His power ran over my skin like a thousand tiny insects biting.

  "Ow," I said.

  He leaned his face on my towel-covered knee, and said, "Sorry, I'm sorry." The energy calmed, still warm, raising sweat along my spine, but it stopped hurting. He spoke with his face still on my knee. "Your feeding on Auggie raised my power level—oh God, it did. The power rush felt so good, so incredibly good, even after I knew what you'd done to get it. It still felt wonderful." His shoulders started to shake, and I realized he was crying.

  I touched his hair, letting my fingers comb through those thick waves. "Richard, oh, Richard."

  He wrapped his arms around my legs, holding on, putting his face in my lap, letting me touch him. Jean-Claude laid a tentative hand on his back, and when Richard didn't say no, he stroked his back. That useless stroking that you'll do for good friends and loved ones. Those endless, useless circles, where you try to say with your hands that it will be all right. I stroked his hair and brushed the tears from his face. We comforted him as his friends, his very good friends. Whatever else we were to each other, we were at least that.

  12

  WE ENDED UP on the floor with Richard cradled in my lap, while I sat against Jean-Claude's bare upper body as if he were a warm, silken chair. Richard's shirt was gone, so the warm muscled smoothness of his chest and shoulders lay across the pooled towel in my lap. My upper body was as bare as his; the towel just couldn't hold on during that much cuddling. Richard lay on his back, eyes peaceful, his hair like a brown and gold halo around his face.

  My hands stroked his bare chest, not for sex, but for comfort. All the ly­canthropes were like that; touch was good, touch was even necessary to stay sane. It was as if they had the normal human skin hunger except more, or­ders of magnitude more. His arm was raised along the line of my body, his hand playing with my hair, which had begun to dry in tight, frizzy curls. Jean-Claude's hand played along Richard's raised arm, stroking up and down the muscled length of it.

  There were no words, just the comfort of the touching. Jean-Claude's other hand was stroking my shoulder and arm, almost mirroring what he was doing to Richard. I think we'd all been surprised that Richard let Jean-Claude touch so much as a fingertip to him, after the way he'd entered the room. I'd seen plenty of lycanthropes pet each other regardless of sexual orientation—a cuddle was a cuddle to most of them—but Richard had issues with Jean-Claude that he didn't have with the people I'd seen him be so ca­sual with.

  Richard's eyes shifted and I knew he was looking past me to the other man. "Your hair is almost as curly as Anita's."

  The comment made me turn so I could see his face more clearly, too. Richard was right, Jean-Claude's hair was a mass of black curls. Not the re­laxed, almost wavy curls that he always had, but something closer to mine. But his hair drying naturally was about where mine was with hair care prod­ucts, not the black foam mine had turned into. "Have I never seen your nat­ural hair texture?" I asked, staring at all those curls.

  He smiled, and if it had been almost anyone else I'd have said he was em­barrassed, but it just didn't quite fly for Jean-Claude. "I suppose not."

  Richard moved his hand from my hair to Jean-Claude's. He rubbed the curls between his fingers, then went back to mine, comparing. "Your hair is still softer textured than Anita's, or mine, for that matter." He knelt, and took a handful of both of our hair, as if he were testing how much it weighed. "Normally your hair just looks silkier, but now, you have to touch it to feel how much difference in texture there is between you and Anita."

  Jean-Claude had gone very still against my body. I think he stopped breathing, and the heartbeat that had been chugging along like any human's heart slowed. I knew he'd gone still because Richard was touching him vol­untarily, and he didn't want to spook him. But I also think that in that mo­ment he didn't know what to do. A man who had been a great lover for over four hundred years did not know what to do because someone was playing with his hair.

  He didn't want to be too bold and raise that anger again, or frighten him with a homophobic possibility. If Richard had been a woman, he'd have taken it as foreplay. If Richard hadn't been a shapeshifter, he might still have taken it as an invitation of sorts. But shapeshifters were tactile junkies; touching didn't mean sex to them, any more than it did when a dog started licking the sweat off your skin. You tasted good, and they liked you, nothing sexual. But it is personal. If they didn't like you, they wouldn't touch you.

  He sat pressed against my body, and I knew by his very stillness how much it meant to him that Richard was touching him. The stillness also told me he had no idea what to do about it. What does it say when a vampire who has been a great lover and seducer for centuries chooses, as his metaphysical sweeties, maybe the only two people in his territory who are going to puz­zle him?

  There was a knock at the door. Those of us with a heartbeat jumped. Richard's hands fell away from both of us as he turned to face the door, still on his knees.

  Movement came back to Jean-Claude's body the way a human would take a breath. "Yes," he said, and his voice held just a touch of impatience.

  Claudia's voice came, "It's the Master of Cape Cod and his oldest son."

  Jean-Claude and I exchanged glances. Richard just frowned. "Why is he back?" Richard asked.

  "We can but ask," Jean-Claude said, his voice back to almost its normal silky emptiness. The voice he used when he was hiding things, but trying not to seem like it. Samuel would know what a totally empty voice meant. Hid­ing, or fear, weakness. So Jean-Claude compromised with his voice, hiding

  from Richard and maybe from me, and not seeming to hide from Samuel. We were so not going to make it through this weekend without another dis­aster. The combination of metaphysics and politics was just too hard.

  "We'll be right out," I yelled at the door. We all got up off the floor. Richard reached for his
shirt and slipped it over his head. Jean-Claude and I had robes hanging on the back of the door. Jean-Claude's was one I'd seen and enjoyed before: heavy black brocade with black fur at the collar and lapel so that it framed a triangle of his pale chest. There was more fur at the wide cuffs, and I'd felt that fur rub down my body before. Just seeing him in the robe made me shiver.

  He gave me a smile that said he'd noticed. Richard either didn't under­stand or ignored it.

  My robe was black silk, no embroidery, no fur, just plain unrelieved black.

  We had to walk in front of the mirror to get to the door, and Richard stopped us with a hand on either of our shoulders. He turned us toward our reflections, so that he stood between us. We were all black cloth and white skin, sharp contrasts. Then there he stood, in his bright red shirt, blue jeans, his hair all brown and gold. His tan, darker in contrast with how pale we were. "Which of these things does not belong?" he asked in a low voice. There was that shadow in his eyes again.

  I slid my arm around his waist, hugged him, but even to me it looked like something carved of bone and darkness clinging to all that life.

  "Jean-Claude, Anita, you coming?" Claudia asked, voice a little hesitant, which you didn't hear much from her.

  "We're coming," I called.

  "If I could set you free, mon ami, I would."

  Richard hugged me so tight it almost hurt, then he relaxed against me, and looked at Jean-Claude. "If you had that kind of magic wand I'd let you use it, but you don't." He turned, keeping one arm around my shoulders, and reaching the other until he touched Jean-Claude's shoulder. He did that guy grip on the shoulder that some macho guys do instead of hugging an­other guy. "Some nights I hate you, Jean-Claude, but if I'd been with Anita tonight, touching her, Augustine wouldn't have been able to roll her. If I'd been where I should have been, none of the crap that I hated tonight would have happened. I know that. I felt it, while it was happening. I was miles | away, and I felt the fight, but I didn't reach out and help. It was vampire pol­itics, and that's not my problem." He shook his head hard enough to send his hair flying around his face. "No more lying to myself. I am your animal to call, and I hate it, and sometimes I hate you, and sometimes I hate Anita, and most of the time I hate myself. No more lies, and no more crippling us."