Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I have a surprise for you, little rill. Come to the water’s edge and I will show you.”

The melancholy human child narrowed her eyes in suspicion. As well she should, given our history. And while there would be pleasure in pitting her body against mine in a desperate struggle for the surface, it was not my purpose this day. 

She stood, knobbly human fists digging into her fulsome hips. Her curves became pronounced over the past year, heralding the woman she’d become someday. The rest of her remained so small and doll-like that the juxtaposition was almost comical. 

It was difficult to believe she’d lived fourteen winters, or that she had only had sixty more to go if fortune smiled upon her. Human lives were so brief. Colorful insects that alighted on the planet for a time and then flew away.

“Do you still expect me to fall for that bullshit after all these years?” she asked, injecting a note of scorn into her voice. “And I have a name, Lamar. It’s Anita. Use it.” 

“You are, and always shall be my little rill,” I purred. 

As I’d expected, the endearment was met with her immediate and petulant displeasure. Lines formed between her scrunched brows and her full lips pursed. They were a dusky rose and a pleasant contrast to her pallor. 

When she was but twelve winters old, I tasted them. Jasmine, sweet rot, and old blood. All telltale signs of a powerful corpse raiser. Better to pluck the budding flower before it blossomed into something poisonous. But she was absent of malice, and the bittersweet taste of her grief had finally stayed my hand. I’d held her under the water for a mere thirty seconds. 

From her reaction, you’d have thought I’d tried to drown her in earnest.

“I turned fourteen today,“ she said, crossing her arms beneath her generously proportioned chest. “I’m not a rill.” 

“An eddy, then? Or a whorl?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, fuck you.” 

“Perhaps when you are older, little rill. For now, I simply wish to give you the gift you are owed. You survived another winter, and I suppose that’s worth celebrating.”

She blew out a breath through her nose, and seemingly against her will, her lips tugged into a wispy smile.

“If you want to give me a gift, you’ll have to come to shore. I didn’t bring a sacrifice or snus, so you’ll probably kill me, birthday or no.” 

“So young to be so cynical,” I teased. 

“So old to still play games,” she countered. “This will be your... what? One hundred and sixtieth winter?” 

“One hundred and sixty-five. And I’ve told you your blood will suffice. I prefer it to the usual fare you offer.” 

“And I’d have to come to the water’s edge to give it to you so...” She tapped her chin, feigning deep thought. Impudent child. “No. I don’t think I will.”

There was no dignity walking duck-footed on land, but it seemed a price I’d have to pay.

Anita’s rosy lips parted in surprise when I levered myself onto the muddy bank, my tail already splitting to form a clumsy approximation of a human lower half. Balancing on the damn things was an exercise in frustration, siphoning some of my goodwill toward the child with every lurching step. I would have to practice, so I might catch her unawares and snare her some dark evening. It would only be fair after this humiliation. If my people could see me now...

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice quavering as she watched my unsteady advance. 

The near-black of her eyes darted to my groin every few seconds, staring in horrified fascination at the protuberance between my now-human legs. It was the knowing look of a woman, not the ignorant fear of a girl. How swiftly she’d grown.

I dropped to my knees on the concrete floor of the shanty she called a ‘shelter house’. It was only half-built, so I didn’t see what it could possibly shelter her from. 

She’d retreated a few steps so her thighs brushed the park bench. It was an unusually mild February, leaving her safe haven relatively unmolested by snow. She always found her way here with a stack of books when she clashed with her father’s new mate or the fingerlings she’d spawned. 

I offered her a long-fingered hand. “I am here to offer you a gift.”

She considered my upraised palm with a raised brow. “There’s nothing in your hand, Lamar.” 

“I am offering you old magic. Amongst the initiated, it is known as the Riverman’s Gift.”

The creases in her brow grew deeper, and she cast a disgruntled look at the tomes on the bench, as though the musty volumes had somehow failed her. 

“You’re making that up,” she said, though her voice betrayed her uncertainty. “I’ve read every one of Great-Grandpa’s journals and he never mentioned anything like that.”

“He wouldn’t have. It is a gift that can only be bestowed upon females, and I am offering it to you.” 

I slid my hand into hers, marveling at her warmth. Perhaps that was why human life was so ephemeral. They burned themselves out before they truly experienced anything. 

She tried to pry her small hand from mine, using the water still shedding off my skin to twist free. I caught her elbow instead, dragging her forward so she formed an arch over my head. Her springy curls swung forward like a curtain, obscuring an outsider’s view of our faces. 

“Let go,” she snapped. “I mean it. Get the fuck off me. This isn’t even close to funny.”

I raised myself up on oafish human legs just enough to trace the shell of her ear with my lips. Her flesh was tender there, and I was tempted to bite. But again, torment was not my purpose this day.

“My word I will not harm you,” I murmured. The skin of her arm pebbled beneath my touch. Cold and fear. “You are more entertaining alive than dead. Trust me, little rill. It is magic and nothing more. If you dislike it, you may return it.”

Her dark eyes scrutinized my face, trying to read a lie into the offer. She scowled at me. 

“I know you’re distantly related to the fae, which means you can’t lie to me. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t lure me to the water’s edge and let one of the others do the deed. I know Viessa hates me.” 

I sighed. She was right, of course. My third wife was the jealous sort. And Anita Blake was as beautiful as she was trying. 

“My word that Viessa and the others will not attempt to harm you until the moon has waned. You will be safe under my care. The magic I offer you will allow you to escape the interloper’s schemes for a time. Or would you rather face your father’s flaxen-haired mate?”

Anita’s eyes darted toward the road that led out of the reservoir. A car parked in the lot a half-mile away, and the shape of a slender human woman moved slowly toward us, calling her name. Dislike etched itself into the fine features of Anita’s face. 

“What does the magic do?” she asked, still trying to tug free of my grasp.

“The spell will make you like me, for a time. Further steps would be required to render you a nixe for good. Twelve hours from now, you will have legs again.” I lifted my face to hers. “Kiss me, Anita Blake, and you will taste freedom.”

The woman’s calls were growing louder. In the pale winter sun, her hair shone like golden flame.

 Anita darted another furtive glance in her direction and then whispered, “Twelve hours?”

I nodded. 

Sparing one scornful look for the interloper, she leaned forward and pressed her soft, warm mouth to mine.

And the change began.

Chapter Text

Anita

I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting. A small part of me had supposed a shift from one species to another would be hideously painful, like the videos of therian transformations Mr. Greer played in science class. I’d never dreamed I’d collapse, half-swooning into Lamar’s waiting arms. The power that sluiced down my spine was so cold that it tore a sound from my throat. If I had the breath, I’d have screamed “stop!” But the air was so thin that I could barely draw it in. It was the gasp reflex one had when falling through ice, unthinking and deadly. If I’d been in the water, I’d have choked. 

“Can’t breathe,” I gasped. My voice was so thin, so quiet, I was sure he wouldn’t hear. 

Lamar’s arms flexed around my waist, chin settling into the hollow of my throat. The gesture was so intimate I wanted to step away, put some distance between our bodies, but my legs refused to move. They felt thick and rubbery, pinpricks of sensation running along my skin like my legs had fallen asleep. Not painful, exactly, but strangely enough I wanted to take back the kiss. Had this really been worth avoiding the party Judith arranged for my birthday? 

“Don’t use your mouth, Anita.” 

I scrambled to remember what Great-Grandpa’s journals said about nixe. They were more amphibian than fish and thus had no gills. They primarily breathed through their skin. Screwing my eyes shut, I tried to focus on the disconcerting sensations wriggling through my body. It didn’t hurt, exactly, though I had the sense it should. It was like receiving a dose of nitrous oxide at the dentist. Everything was distant, as though it were happening to someone else. 

My skin was growing cool, my blood turning to ice in my veins. Somewhere in the analytical part of my mind, I wondered if the transformation might kill me after all. Mammals weren’t meant to spontaneously shift into amphibians. Was this really happening on a cellular level, or was Lamar’s magic forming some sort of ectoplasm-based shell around me, much like a therian’s beast form? The fact I couldn’t begin to guess was frightening. At least examining the fact allowed my reason to catch up with the rest of me, and I could finally focus enough to drag in a breath through my pores. The sensation was disconcerting and made me pause. 

“Better?” Lamar asked. 

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The power settled, wrapping me in a cool cocoon. It was vaguely womb-like, and for the first time since the shift began, a sense of... rightness settled over me. Lamar turned me so I could stare into the cloudy gray-green of his eyes. His hands framed my face, one cool finger tracing idle patterns onto my cheek. 

“Beautiful,” he breathed. “I’ve wanted to see you like this from the moment we met.” 

I wanted to protest, to call him a liar. If he thought I was beautiful, we weren’t looking in the same mirror. But when he scooped me up and carried me to the water’s edge, I paused, staring dumbfounded at my wavering reflection. The woman staring back at me was beautiful. Utterly alien, but beautiful. 

My face had thinned, so the bones stood out prominently. My skin shimmered opalescent in the weak winter sunlight. My eyes were enormous, near-black, and dominated most of my face. My nose was thin and slightly upturned, settled over pale bow lips. The wild curls that had always been the bane of my existence had relaxed into gentle ringlets the color of duckweed. I looked like some drowned beauty haunting the shore. 

Oh. And there was the tail. My legs had fused to form a muscular tail, complete with frills and caudal fins. I’d turned into something very like a mermaid, and the thought made me laugh. Andrea would be green with envy if she could see this. The Little Mermaid, Aquamarine, and Splash had been her favorite movies for years. 

Judith’s calls were growing louder, and soon she’d be near enough to spot us. 

“Into the water we go,” Lamar said with a conspiratorial chuckle. 

Lamar backed up a few steps, got a running start, and flung us into open air. We hit the water seconds later, submerging in a stream of silvery bubbles. The chilled February water should have been frigid, but all I felt was a jolt of excitement as the water closed around us. This was right. This was where I belonged. 

Fish darted away from us, zipping toward the shallows to hide in the bullrush in an attempt not to be seen. I raked my pale, bony hands through the water, trying to snag a yellow perch. I could almost taste its flesh, knew I would delight in tearing into the still squirming body, enjoy watching the blood plume in the ghostly green water like sanguine smoke. 

The thought brought me back to myself. I was Anita Blake, middle-school animator, not this thing. The magic rode me, but it wasn’t my master. I could control it. 

The brush of skin near my elbow made me jerk backward, tail pumping in one swift butterfly stroke. Instinctive. Easy. It took me a second to realize I’d done it. Lamar circled me like a shark, hemming me in. Lamar’s smirk was knowing and a touch cruel. His laugh was like an icy finger tracing an unfamiliar pattern along the inside of my skull. His voice came, though his mouth remained firmly shut. 

“Hungry, little rill?” 

I fought a scowl. “The instincts are...strong. Is it always like this?” 

His smile grew. “Better. Let me show you.” 

He offered me a long-fingered hand, and I took it with a touch of trepidation. Even a dip in the shallows was an eye-opening experience. Did I want to see more? 

Yes. Yes, I did. 

Lamar’s hand closed around mine, and with a powerful stroke of his tail, we were off. He dove down; the water slipping through a gradient. Pale, ghostly green, to a bottle green, a forest green, and finally a near-blackness where only the flash of silvery bodies betrayed the shoals of fish swimming near the bottom of the reservoir. I trailed one hand through the lake weeds that grew near the bottom, and pike, largemouth bass, and catfish scattered. The leaves were prone to tangle around my tail, and I had to thrash to loosen the stuff.

Everywhere there was something new. Lamar led me through the deep, occasionally pointing to capsized boats teeming with life. Fish and the occasional nixe sheltered beneath the rusting wrecks, nature’s way of recycling the foreign material. Sometimes we’d surface, and he’d point out mallards, green-winged teal, widgeons, and great blue herons. We stirred the algae with our tails, laughing when we flicked the stuff at each other’s faces. 

“Would you like to see the place where your mother toiled? It isn’t far, and we have time to visit one more landmark before you must return.” 

The sky had faded to a solid plum color. I hadn’t realized just how much time we’d spent in the depths until we surfaced a final time. Stars strained to be seen behind fat cumulus clouds. It was going to snow soon. 

My throat went dry at his suggestion. I’d never actually seen Stillwater Wood. The small, family-owned lumber company had closed not long after my mother’s death. She’d been a part-time employee, working nights to bring in a little extra cash. The now-defunct cabin was near the opposite shore, only accessible by boat these days. The trail that led to the place fell out of use, and the woods crowded in, reclaiming the land. I begged Dad to take me, but he’d refuse every time, eyes shiny with unshed tears. 

“I want to see,” I said quietly. 

Lamar inclined his head. “As you wish.” 

The next five minutes were some of the most gut-wrenching of my life. True to his word, Lamar guided me to the remains of the logging camp. I’d conjured some fevered fantasy that the place would remain unmolested, a monument to her. A tangible reminder that she’d lived. Instead, the cabin screamed its emptiness. Warped yellow windows glared out at the water, several panes cracked or gone completely. The door swung off its hinges, and only blackness waited inside. The roof and sides were draped with ivy. 

There was nothing here for me. No reminders of my mother, just an abandoned cabin. It was a painful reminder that everything ended. No matter how beautiful, things died and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. 

“I think I’m ready to go home now,” I whispered. 

Lamar swam closer and gently cupped my face. “You don’t have to leave us, you know. The change can be permanent.” 

“How?” I asked though the answer didn’t really matter. The leaden weight in my stomach was making me sick. 

“There are three steps, and you’ve taken the first. Bound by magic, bound by flesh, bound by blood.” 

“What does that mean?” I asked faintly, staring at the horizon. Pinpricks of light danced in the distance. Headlights or flashlights? Were people out looking for me?

“Flesh,” Lamar said, raising a hand to cup my breast. His fingers danced over one exposed nipple, and I felt my nakedness for the first time since we’d begun. “Mate with me this night, and share your blood with my clan. Then you are truly one of us. You could be my fourth.” 

“Your fourth wife?” I snapped. “Are you insane? I’m fourteen!” 

“In antiquity girls married the moment they bled. You are well beyond that now.” 

I shoved his chest. Hard. It pushed him several feet back. The water displacement slapped against my bare breasts, and an ache built somewhere between my legs. I could feel them slowly peeling apart. The water was getting colder by the minute. My breath plumed in front of my face.

“This is the twenty-first century and I will not be your fucking child bride!” I hissed. “Take me home. Now.” 

Lamar’s stare was flat and unfriendly. “I am offering you freedom. Is your body such a high price to pay to escape your fickle family?” 

“Some birthday present. I guess I’m fucked either way. Maybe I should have stayed on the water’s edge. At least Judith wouldn’t have extorted me.”

“You will only have fleeting memories of this if you refuse me. This will haunt your dreams. You will yearn for the water for the rest of your days.” 

“Fine by me,” I snapped. “Now take me home.”

Lamar cocked his head to one side and gave me that cruel smile. Then he dove beneath the water, stranding me in the frigid water of the Stillwater Reservoir with no clothing, no life raft, and no guide as the night descended. 

Fuck.  

Chapter Text

Sheriff Gunner Cole found me unconscious, floating face-up in the middle of the Stillwater Reservoir. No one could explain how I’d drifted so far. Even me. 

At least Doctor Cook could explain why I’d been naked. The final, and often fatal, stage of hypothermia was called paradoxical undressing. Cold felt hot, and you stripped. We were still waiting to see if I’d suffer permanent nerve damage. I was just thankful to be alive. And embarrassed as hell that half the Benton police department had seen me naked. It would be all over school by Monday morning. 

The best anyone could figure, I’d broken through a patch of ice and swam desperately to find open water. I’d gotten hopelessly lost and, exhausted and sore, I’d been unable to tread water. Something about the explanation didn’t sit right, but I couldn’t contest it either. 

Late at night, when the monitors near my hospital bed lulled me into sleep, I dreamed. Dreamed of ghostly green light and bullrushes, rusted ships, and empty cabins. I dreamed of a hand in mine, guiding me through dark water. 

I dreamed of home. 

Chapter Text

“Call Gretchen,” Robert urged, dabbing a cloth gently across my brow. “The world will keep turning, even if you miss a performance.” 

The cloth came away red. The deep gouges were healing, but not quickly enough. I was already inexcusably late for my Friday night performance at Paramour, and I had yet to dress. Black would do for tonight. The impenetrable color hid all manner of ills. I’d have to apply a layer of thick face paint as well, to hide the cuts. 

 I leaned my face against the metal of a changing rack. The cuts stung, but the blessed cool of the metal was a balm to my aching body. 

“And risk the displeasure of the heir to one of St. Louis’ richest families? Curtis Davis didn’t pay to see Gretchen. Every negative review is gouged out of my back. Often literally. I won’t risk it.”

“I don’t understand why you let them...” he trailed off, swallowed with difficulty, and shook his head. “Let is the wrong word. There’s no choice in this, is there? I just can’t understand why she... she’d allow anyone to do it. They tried to peel off your face.“

I cupped Robert’s cheeks with a fond smile. His concern warmed me, even if it was a touch self-serving. If I fell to Nikolaos’ many schemes, those beneath me would be hers to torment. It would be a shame for his fine, chiseled face to be so thoroughly ravaged. His human lover would probably spit on my corpse. Monica Vespucci never struck me as the forgiving sort.

“And she killed them for it,” I said, keeping my voice very neutral. There were ears for hire even in the changing rooms of an establishment I owned. If Nikolaos caught a whiff of scorn, she’d be the one peeling my face away, inch by bloody inch. 

I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. A scarlet imprint of my lips dripped slowly down his cheek and would have pooled in the starched collar of his shirt if he hadn’t caught it. He swiped two fingers through the precious ruby droplets and brought them to his lips, flicking a tongue idly over his bloodied digits. His eyes grew darker with that edge of want. 

The ardeur rose, rattling against the iron bars of my will. Robert was handsome. He was here. He was...

Not mine to take. 

“You need to feed,” Robert said. There was a hint of growl in his tone that he rarely used offstage. “Now, before it spirals out of control.” 

“I have better control than that, mon ami. It is like skimming the cream from the top of the pail. By the end of the night, all will be well. There’s always someone whose lust will satisfy the hunger.”

Robert stepped closer, broad, calloused hands dropping to my hips, using his grip on me to back me toward one of the dressing room tables. Warm desire pooled between my legs as he wedged his knee between my thighs and nudged them apart. The heat of him seared through the thin slip I wore. He’d fed tonight, likely from his lady love. His manhood strained the front of his trousers, and I felt an echo of our long-ago lovemaking. I knew the feel of his shaft inside me, could almost taste the succulent head of him as it guided between my lips and rolled over my tongue. The ardeur never forgot a meal. 

Difficult to believe he’d been an overworked bookie when we’d met. Shy and unassuming, he’d never been the sexual aggressor. A century could certainly change a man. 

Robert’s hands skimmed over my waist, moving ever upward. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before tracing the underside of one breast. His hair fell forward to shield his face, and for a moment I could pretend he was another golden-haired beauty. His voice ruined the illusion. 

His breath was hot against the shell of my ear when he leaned in to speak in a low whisper. “Can you be absolutely sure of that? Turning a five-star restaurant into an orgy would do more damage to your reputation than arriving late. Let me help you. Feed the ardeur on me and then make your excuses across town. Go out there now and you look like a battered woman. Imagine how that would look to the tabloids.” 

I shuddered. Nikolaos would trap me for an eternity in a box if she was feeling gracious. 

“Monica...” 

“Understands what you do for us,” he said. “She knows you’re the only one powerful enough to face her on our behalf. We’ve all agreed to keep you fed if that’s what you need. Willie, Gretchen, Hannah, me, Mo, and all the others you’ve interceded for. We’re yours for the taking. It’s a small price to pay. Let me help you.” 

My eyes burned, but I blinked back the tears. I didn’t have time for them. My throat closed, and I choked on the overwhelming gratitude. 

“I have to get ready,” I finally managed. 

His lips curled into a rather lascivious smirk. He turned me so that we faced the mirror. The fluorescent border bathed us both in pale orange light.

“You prep while I work.” 

Then Robert sank out of sight. Hands traveling from my waist, over my hips once more, and to the backs of my thighs, nudging them further apart. His fingers skimmed over me, trailing through my wetness. Then his mouth was on me, his fingers inside me. 

I never completed my makeup. 

Chapter Text

"Some nights they're so saccharine I think I'll choke," I muttered, pulling the Caramel Blue from my lips. I blew a smoke ring without much thought, realizing what I'd done a second too late. My chest ached, and I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to block out thoughts of him, but his name broke through all the barriers I'd put in place.

Asher. He'd taught me this. Did he still smoke, regardless of the shift in popular opinion? Or was he still the dandy, chasing whatever trend was fashionable? If so, he was probably using e-cigarettes. The nuance of flavor would be lost on him unless he'd acquired a new human servant, a prospect I found unlikely. Asher held every slight close to his heart, and I doubted he'd find another paramour until he'd taken his pound of flesh.

The tip smoldered, a beacon in the dark. Willie and I leaned against the red brick near Paramour's employee entrance. The scarlet stain around the base dulled to something like mauve this far from the street lamps. The matte lipstick was supposed to be strawberry-flavored but without a human servant the nuances were lost on me too. I'd have to trust whatever young beau Nikolaos threw me at next when he claimed it was delicious.

The cigarette was just a column of ash between my fingers before I let it tumble to the pavement. I held my hand out silently for another. Willie eyed my face, then scanned the employee parking lot. Most of the vehicles belonged to waitstaff, though the black Subaru belonged to Yasmeen. When Curtis Davis and his fiancé deigned to arrive, I'd perform my set and then hand the reins to Yasmeen. Cowardly? Perhaps, but I didn't think I could stand to croon another love song, let alone a dozen.

Love is dead, I thought, and couldn't help a cynical smile when Willie relented and offered me another cigarette. Love is dead, love remains dead, and I have killed it.

My fault. The whole damnedable thing had been my doing. If I'd been there, perhaps we could have escaped unscathed. Perhaps I would have found myself a ruin of burn scars, a matched set with Asher. Or perhaps I would have met my end alongside Julian. I'd never decided which I'd prefer. Which was justice? Mortification of the flesh, my punishment etched into my skin? Or was it more fitting that I meet that final end and face the eternal damnation that followed?

I could no longer afford the luxury of sentiment, let alone love. For a brief, shining moment I'd found it in Meng Die, and I'd almost made that last leap, had almost given her my marks. But at the time she wasn't an accomplished fighter, nor did she possess any psychic abilities that could aid her if Asher made good on his threats. My servant had to be an equal, not a dependent or our partnership would come to a swift and sticky end.

Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury, like a woman scorned. Meng Die left, heartsick, and almost met her end in a sticky, smoke-fugged opium den. She laid on her back, glassy-eyed and barely breathing. Turning her had been cruel, but I hadn't had the will to live without her. Over the years her rage had turned to apathy, and that was almost harder to bear. At least anger indicated a depth of feeling. Cool complacency was its own torment. She didn't care. Few people did.

"You sure you want to be smoking?" Willie asked. "If someone sees...well it'll probably cause a stir after all the health PSAs you did a few years back."

"It's been a hard night," I sighed. "I'll climb back on the wagon tomorrow evening."

He shrugged. "Any reason you're back here, instead of performing?"

"Yasmeen is fielding the next few songs. When Mr. Davis and his fiancé turn up I'll perform. Then I am retiring for the evening."

Willie raised an eyebrow. "You mean Curtis Davis?"

"Oui. Do you know him?"

Willie nodded, producing his lighter from the inner pocket of his sports jacket. It was cut badly, and the floral pattern looked to be a distant cousin of couch upholstery. The sickly green slacks ended an inch above his cheetah print socks and his red converse sneakers. Honestly, I didn't know where he found some of his atrocities.

He flicked the lighter a few times until a flame sputtered into being. He drew it to his mouth, lighting his third cigarette in as many minutes. He took a drag and let it out slowly.

"Oh yeah. Curtis went to a fancy prep school just a few blocks up from my neighborhood. He stopped a few jocks from blacking my eyes one afternoon and took to walking me home to make sure it never happened again. Good guy. He never invited me over to his fancy digs in Wydown Skinker and I never asked. I hear his mother's a piece of work. I don't envy Anita. Talk about your monster-in-law."

An uneasy sense of guilt settled on my shoulders. Monsieur Davis had requested me specifically after Paramour's grand opening. I'd confess, if only to myself, that I'd thought him another pampered socialite who threw his money at doors and expected them to open on command. It wasn't usually in my character to make snap judgments.

"And what of his paramour? This...Anita? Does she care for him?"

Willie snorted out a laugh. "Is she a gold digger, you mean? Hell no. I only met her a year or two back when they started dating, but as far as I can tell, Anita's the sort of girl who will pinch a penny until it cries. She comes from this little backwater town near Branson and helped her grandmother and her werewolf farmhand manage cattle and horses most of her life. That's why I'm worried for her. The first Stepford socialite who talks shit about her family is going to have the piss scared out of them when she draws a six-shooter. And besides, I don't think that anyone who's ever mucked a stable will be welcome under Eden's roof."

I took one more drag off the Camel Blue before flicking it to the side. Rain had gathered in a pothole near the dumpsters, and the glowing cigarette butt sizzled on contact and died away.

"Will you...I mean...are you...okay?" he asked, voice hitching with every false start. Willie was rarely this forward, and it seemed his courage was failing him. Truly, I couldn't blame him. He knew my ambitions, knew that someday I might be his Master. After a moment he seemed to rally his courage enough to finish. "You aren't acting like yourself. Should I...do something? Call someone?"

I gave him an appraising look. Willie was our newest convert and a bit player in St. Louis' crime circles. He wasn't what one would call conventionally attractive, though the sharp wit and humor behind the thin, pointy face did lend him a sort of charm. He was comically short for a man, reaching shoulder height when we stood side by side. I looked at him, and for a moment it didn't matter that he wasn't a beauty. The careful concern in his eyes was enough to make tears burn my eyes. I turned away before they could fall.

Truthfully, I wanted to drag him to my bed, wrap him around me like a warm cloak and pretend for just a moment I was loved. To pretend that I wouldn't face fresh torment the following night. And if I could not have love, I wanted a lie. A whispered promise that sometime soon I would find an opportunity to command my own destiny, and the strength to seize it.

But Willie was not mine to take, and I'd scent the deceit like smoke on his breath.

"Non, Willie. I will be fine, but I appreciate the sentiment. Merci."

He looked as if he wanted to speak but ultimately dropped his gaze. "Yes, Master."

I almost corrected him but thought better of it. It was at least pleasant to entertain the idea that, if I was not the master of my own fate, I was at least master of something.

At last, a lie I could stomach.

Chapter Text

I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Anita Blake for long. Oh, I tried. It was déclassé to focus all one’s attention on a single patron unless your goal was to discomfit said patron. And it was made infinitely worse that the song selection. Savage Garden’s Truly, Madly, Deeply was painfully earnest in its declaration of love. It might have carved a fresh groove in my already aching heart, if not for my sudden, inexplicable interest in the woman swaying gently to the beat. 

There was a certain je ne sais quoi, something in her bearing or aspect that I couldn’t immediately articulate but found captivating nonetheless. Her beauty, perhaps? She was fair. Small, like Meng-Die, with tight, springy curls trailing to mid-back. Supple muscle gliding beneath creamy flesh, and a generous bustline that her simple black sheath dress could barely contain. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were soft as she stared up at her partner. 

No. It wasn’t just the comely exterior. I’d seen prettier. On a purely aesthetic level, she couldn’t compete with any of Belle’s favorites. Her hands were rough, and her arms were dotted here and there with tiny scars, accumulated over many years of intensive labor. Her body had a visible history, one a discerning observer could read at a glance. 

She was not slender, as was the fashion this century. She was an oak, not a willow tree. Planted firmly, unmoved by those around her, constantly radiating quiet strength. Perhaps that was the amorphous quality that drew me. Her confidence and surety of purpose. 

Anita’s pale fingers were laced behind her partner’s neck as they wound around the dance floor. She’d kicked off her heels at the edge of the dance floor, and moved delicately on stockinged feet. Ordinarily, that might have irked me, but at the moment I could only stare. 

“You should have brought flats,” Curtis said, and couldn’t disguise the note of amusement in his voice. 

“But you like the heels,” she said. “It seems a shame not to wear them, especially with your mother...being herself. I just wanted to show you I appreciate this. Even if...things go badly.” 

Curtis guided her to a stop, sliding one hand from her waist to cup her cheek. He rubbed a thumb across her cheek in a motion so tender it made my chest ache. 

“It’s not going to go badly.” 

“She screamed at you last night. I know damn well what she thinks of me. I think it’s safe to say I’ve lost any chance of getting the parental stamp of approval.”

Curtis’ mouth pulled up in a half-smile. “Oh yeah, Anita. I know you’re just dating me because you love my massive... convertible. Seriously, though, you need to relax. I’m not going anywhere, no matter what mom says.” 

Her brows drew together, and her full lips turned down in a frown. “You heard her. She’s going to cut you off if you go through with it. You’ll be persona non grata. No more birthdays and Christmases with your family. I know that wouldn’t be a total loss if it were my family, but your mom loves you. You know, in a Norma Bates kind of way.” 

She smiled to soften the insult, tiny lines fanning out around her eyes. It was a lovely smile, and Curtis smiled in kind. He used his grip on the side of her face to angle her face for a kiss. Desire flared hot and eager, an almost tangible weight between them. The ardeur stirred, a lazy cat who’d sensed an easy meal. Robert’s ministrations had left it sated for the time being, but it was never completely satisfied. There was always room for more. 

“The money doesn’t matter,” he murmured and dropped his hand to her waist once more. “We’ll get a little rat-trap apartment and live on Top Ramen and Kraft macaroni and cheese if we have to. We’ll graduate next spring and then we’ll start living it up. I’ll start on the force and you’ll be making the big bucks at Animators Inc.”

Ah. That explained a great deal. Animators, especially powerful ones, appealed to all dead, though only necromancers could exert any influence over the undead. This Anita Blake must possess significant power to earn a place at St. Louis’ prestigious animating firm. Most employees could raise zombies capable of speech. The very powerful could even make their corpses so lifelike they passed for human at first glance. 

Grief tugged at something deep in my gut and I felt abruptly sick. Julian, my childhood love, could make carrion stir from the age of twelve on. His power was a curiosity at best, no threat to any but the weakest vampire. Even when leaning on Asher’s power, he could only call shambling dead. '

Why tonight, of all nights, was I thinking of my lost loves? Why couldn’t I escape reminders?

Curtis grinned as if a thought had just occurred to him. “You know I’m only going to be making fifty thousand a year. You’ll make easily twice that. People will think I’m the gold-digger.” 

Anita’s smile turned a touch sultry. “Oh yeah, everyone will know you’re only in it for my huge...assets.“

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Exactly. Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy tonight. We’ll make plans in the morning.”

Anita leaned her face into his chest in what I suspected was an uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability. She tugged him down so that his chin rested on top of her curls. She sighed. 

“Are you set on inviting Willie?” 

Curtis’ posture changed. He stood a little straighter, muscles in his back tensing. His voice was utterly neutral when he spoke. 

“I’d like to, yes. Why? Is it because he’s a vampire?” 

Her shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. “No, not really. It’s just...it’s going to be really distracting, is all. He’s newly dead and my power will recognize that. Even if he’s on his best behavior, it’ll be like...like having a fly buzzing around. It doesn’t hurt anything, but it’s annoying background noise. If we’re doing this ceremony—which I still think is unnecessary—I’d rather not be distracted. If we go to the Justice of the Peace, we only need two witnesses. You bring Mike, and I’ll bring Ronnie. Then we can meet our friends someplace for a party. I won’t mind Willie attending a reception, honest.” 

The last was said in the tones of a familiar but amicable argument. Lightly teasing, with an undertone of something I couldn’t name. 

“I just want to see you walking down the aisle wearing a white dress. Is that so bad?” Curtis asked. 

“Take me home. I’ll grab a white sundress, and then we can find the classiest aisle in Walmart,” she teased. 

He gave her arm a light shove. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” 

“Nope.” 

His smile slipped, and he tipped her head up to gauge her expression. “Would it really bother you?” 

“Yeah, it would, but I could ignore it for you. He’s dead, but he’s not powerful enough to really coax my ability out of its cage. Like I said, it’s a sort of background noise. I can ignore it. If he’d been over a century, that would be a different story.” 

He raised a brow. “You’ve never told me that.” 

“Because the zombie stuff freaks your mom out. Can you imagine how much worse it would be if she knew I can pin everyone’s age down, living or dead? She’s so not forty-six and she’ll hate that I know that.” 

Curtis let out an incredulous laugh. “Seriously? That’s so cool! You should have told me. I’d have rigged a game with our friends. We could have made a killing.” 

Her lip curled into an adorable pout. “Stop laughing. And don’t even think about defrauding our friends. They’re as broke as I am.” 

“Fine, fine. But you can sense everyone in this room? Even the vampires?” 

“Especially the vampires.” 

I finished the love ballad with a flourish, only half paying attention to what I was doing. Raising human corpses with a semblance of humanity was already a feat, and the ability to glean age was incredibly rare. Just how powerful was this Anita Blake? How much would her power peak if it were tied to mine? 

Anita dragged her fiancé to their table to continue their conversation. The pair didn’t seem to notice when I passed the mic to Yasmeen and traipsed off stage. Both jumped when I appeared, seemly out of thin air, near their table. A dirty trick, perhaps, but amusing. Curtis’ eyes were unfocused, but after only a moment or two, Anita’s eyes snapped up to meet mine. Able to resist thrall. Powerful indeed, but could she thwart Asher’s ability to fascinate? 

“Bonsoir,” I purred, offering a hand to her. “You must be the soon-to-be Mrs. Davis. I understand congratulations are in order.” 

Our eyes met for just a split second before she gathered her wits about her and slid her eyes just to the side of my face. This close, I could make out the delicate fringe of lashes that fluttered around truly incredible eyes. What first appeared a near-black was actually a rich jewel-tone, brown tourmaline or a cognac diamond. Her heartbeat faltered for a beat, then pulsed harder, as if to make up for the slip. Her lips parted invitingly, and she couldn’t help a small, sheepish second glance. 

Just a smoldering ember, but heat lay buried beneath layers of denial. Anita Blake was curious, though she’d hardly admit it to herself, let alone to her partner. I had a brief, gratifying moment to contemplate sating that curiosity on the floor of one of our private rooms. Or perhaps on a table. I wouldn’t even mind the audience if Mr. Davis accompanied us. I only knew that I wanted her in any way I could have her. 

“Thanks,” Anita said, some of her quiet confidence cracking. 

She took the proffered hand, and the contact tore a gasp from us both. Her skin was warm, so warm and inviting, but beneath that simmered something much colder that still burned. Our power met in an instant almost chemical combustion. She released me, eyes wide, and rubbed her hand on her dress unconsciously. Gooseflesh marched up her arm.

“Apologies,” I murmured. “Leftovers from the performance, I suppose. The best of wishes to you both. I’ll have the cook send out complimentary dessert.” 

I turned on my heel and all but sprinted away from the table. I had to be away from Anita Blake and the temptation she posed. This wasn’t the time, nor the place, to seduce her but seduce her I would. At last, a power worth the gamble. But no game worth the name was won with injudicious action. I’d waited this long. I could be patient. 

She was cold flame. And like Prometheus, I would find a way to steal her.

Chapter Text

“So...” I began, going for noncommittal, and failing spectacularly. 

Anita’s gaze flicked up to meet mine, near-black eyes narrowing suspiciously. I sipped my coffee, trying to hide a smile. For a big bad vampire hunter, she was pathetically easy to read. Or maybe that was years of experience talking. Someone who didn’t know her would cringe in their seat, shielding the family jewels in fear of reprisal. I knew her better than that. Anita Blake was more bark than bite once you got to know her. But when she did bite, you’d better have ice handy because you were going to lose a limb. 

“So?” she asked, biting off the word in barely disguised irritation. She set her own mug down on a coaster with more delicacy than I’d been able to manage while pissed. Maybe it was just respect for the new kitchen furniture. This thing looked like it cost more than my last paycheck.

“So I heard something interesting on the radio last night. ‘Master of St. Louis officially dating her human servant. More at eight.’” 

Anita fiddled with the croissant on her plate, refusing to meet my eyes. She’d only taken a few nibbles off the end, leaving the rest of the pastry intact. I’d known her for years, and I’d never seen her get through a sit-down breakfast in under two hours. It was water, a cup of black coffee, and, if you were spectacularly lucky, a piece of toast. The fact she’d plowed through the ham and scrambled eggs was nothing short of a miracle. 

When we’d first met, I thought she had an eating disorder. With terrible self-image paired with chronic depression, a comorbid eating disorder wouldn’t have been shocking. After watching my teenage step-sister struggle with bulimia, I’d been tempted to ask her to get help. But as we got to know each other better, the disordered eating habits made more sense to me. An eighteen credit semester and a full-time job weren’t conducive to orderly eating habits, and she was one of those women whose appetites vanished under stress. Which meant she was almost never hungry these days. I was actually damn proud she was attempting to eat more, even if I didn’t care for the reason why. 

“What about it?” 

She gave me a very pointed stare. I imagined that look melted vampires in interrogation rooms, but I knew better. Her narrow shoulders were tensed, her back very straight. Her fingernails were flaking bits off the pastry, and she didn’t seem to notice. Other people saw a predator about to pounce. I saw a scared woman backed into a corner. The look was a shield, something to cover the words she’d never say aloud. 

Please don’t hurt me. 

“I’m your best friend, Anita. I’m a little hurt you came out to the public before you came out to me. I mean, I already knew, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate you depriving me of the chance to say ‘duh’ to the fact you’re bisexual.” 

Anita threw her hands into the air. “For the love of...you too? Zerbrowski knew, Andria knew, my coworkers knew, and now you say that you knew too. Was I the only one who missed that corporate memo?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I doubt your parents know, but I don’t think Judith and Leon would know an alternative lifestyle if it came up and hit them in the ass with a flogger. Your parents are going to freak, you know that, right?” 

Her shoulders sagged, and she finally pushed the plate away with a scowl. “Yeah, I know. Still, it’s been a few weeks and I haven’t heard anything. So here’s hoping I can coast on a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy at home.”

Doubtful, but I didn’t say it aloud. Anita had enough to deal with as it was. I sipped my coffee, silently observing the absurdly pretty man doing Anita’s dishes. She’d introduced the nineteen-year-old as Nathaniel and pointedly told me he was off-limits. Which, of course, made me stare all the more. It was like hanging a ‘do not touch’ sign on an otherwise ordinary wall. Now I just wanted to touch it, to see what all the fuss was about. I wouldn’t, because he was a teenager, for Christ’s sake, and I respected Anita. But I was still so damn curious. Maybe when Anita was in a better mood, she’d explain the no-touch rule.

“Does this mean you’ve broken up with Richard?” I asked. 

“No.” She kept her eyes down, deliberately picking apart the croissant now. “Richard and I are still dating.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’re cheating on both of them? I won’t judge, because you know how my divorce went. We were so unhappy that we were both cheating on each other by the time it ended. But this seems like a ‘me’ thing and not a ‘you’ thing.”

“I’m not cheating on anyone,” she snapped. “We’re in a poly relationship. Everyone knows who and what everyone else is doing. Richard is dating Jeanette too, but we’re keeping it on the down-low. He teaches middle school. All it takes is one PTA mom to go stick her rhinoplastied nose into his business after learning he’s dating a vampire. From there, it’s not a huge leap to learn he’s a werewolf. It would be a shit show, and none of us wants that.”

“You’re....poly? You? If either of us was going to settle down into monogamous marital bliss, I thought it would be you.” 

She sighed. “I know. And I’m sorry that you’re breaking up with Louie. I wish you’d told me sooner, so I could have offered a shoulder to cry on.” 

I took a searing swallow of dark roast to keep myself from snapping at her. We both knew the reason she’d missed my brief love affair with Dr. Louis Fane. Our almost daily calls had dwindled to a monthly treat if I was lucky. She was still protecting that murdering son of a bitch she called a mentor. I’d given her an out, told her that if she couldn’t handle the idea I was building a case against him, I’d hit the bricks and she never had to deal with me again. This tense, silent purgatory was almost worse than if she’d screamed and told me to get the hell out of her life for good. I’d scalded half my tongue before I felt safe enough to reply. 

“Louis and I want different things out of life. Good sex doesn’t make up for the fact we don’t mesh, and he’s insane if he thinks that getting married, even two years from now, is going to change it. Putting a ring on my finger is just a way of trying to put a collar on me. I’m messy, and I don’t want to be tied down. If he doesn’t get that, then he didn’t know me at all.” 

Anita shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and I couldn’t help a smile. 

“I know that look. Which one of your...God, it sounds so weird, but which one of your lovers wants to tie you to the white picket fence?”

“Richard,” she said, and the name came out on a sigh. “We had sex during the case in Branson, and the condom broke. He immediately started planning for a baby in case Plan B didn’t work.” 

“He didn’t know about the IUD?” 

“Not at that point no. I told him I didn’t want kids, and he got pissed.” 

“And you’re still dating him...why? I mean, you can’t exactly reconcile that point. Your body, your choice.” 

“I know, but...” She scowled at the remains of her croissant. She’d reduced it to flaky brown confetti. “Richard proposed it. We’re dating Jeanette, and he’s going to find a girl we can all stand who won’t mind getting pregnant. It’s worked for Mike, Susan, Carrie, and Jordan.”

“I’ve only heard of your friend’s poly group through your stories, but there’s a huge difference between what they are doing and what you’re doing.” 

Something dangerous sparkled in her dark eyes. “And how’s that?” 

“They already loved each other and were on the same page before they brought a baby into their lives. Babies are like freaking relationship grenades, Anita. You need to have a stable foundation before you can think about bringing something like that into your general vicinity. What you’re doing now? It doesn’t sound like a poly relationship. It sounds like a crutch. You don’t want to let go, because it’s painful and scary. After what happened with Curtis, I one hundred percent understand that. Maybe he’s even a good guy, but that doesn’t mean he’s a good guy for you.” 

“He is a good guy, Ronnie. He’s good with all the weirdness that comes with my job. It doesn’t freak him out that I sometimes come home covered in blood, and he barely seems to notice my scars. He’s smart, funny, handsome, and the sex...” She trailed off, licking her lips as a full-body shiver seized her. “It’s good. Fantastic. But...” 

“But. Where there’s a but there’s a problem.”

Her smile was impish. “I thought it was ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way?’”

“Don’t be cute. You know what I mean. This isn’t a ‘he’s really cute, but he snores’ kind of but, Anita. That’s a little but. A but you could work around. This is an enormous but. The kind of but that Sir Mix-A-Lot would stand up and salute.”

She slumped into her chair and reached for her coffee again, taking a single sullen sip before she’d look at me. It wasn’t a good sign. Anita only got pouty when she was wrong and didn’t want to admit it. Other side effects of knowing she was wrong could include cutting remarks if she was feeling defensive, steely looks if she wasn’t, and a stretch of uncomfortable silence if she couldn’t find a way to quickly divert the conversation. 

“We can make it work,” she said finally. “He’ll have what he wants, and he’s already compromising to give me what I want. Compromise is what relationships are made of.” 

“Do you think that maybe, just maybe, you’re doing this because you want to let him down easy? You like him but you know you can’t give him what he needs.”

“What do you mean?” 

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This next part was tricky. Despite seeing several therapists over the years, Anita was still prickly when someone tried to peek inside her head. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t want rank amateurs like me trying to do it. I spoke slowly, trying to keep my tone bland.

“Louis is friends with Richard, and he’s told me some of what’s going on. Part of you knows this needs to end, but you don’t want to leave him in a difficult position with the pack. He needs a show of strength, now more than ever. If you break things off now, he looks weak. You’re not going to abandon this poly thing until he’s got a lupa worth the name. I understand that believe me, I do, but you do not have to sacrifice your happiness on the altar of pragmatism. You don’t have to be his girlfriend to support his claim.” 

“So what, you just want me to date Jeanette exclusively?” 

“No, I don’t want you to date her either and don’t give me that look. It’s not homophobia. I have no problem if you want to get down with girls. I have a problem with this girl. She stalked you, she blackmailed you, she lied to you, and because of what she did, you have disfiguring burn scars on your left side. And now, not even a year later, I go online and find pictures of you playing tonsil hockey with the same vampire. If our positions were reversed, wouldn’t you be a little concerned?”

A plate clinked in the silence, drawing my eye to the sink. Nathaniel was stripping off a pair of lavender gloves and beating a hasty retreat toward the living room. Either he was done, or he sensed an impending explosion and wanted to be out of the general area when Anita went off. 

When I glanced back, Anita was watching Nathaniel scurry away. Something in her face softened, and when she spoke, her voice came out more level than I’d ever dreamed. 

“You and I haven’t talked much, so you only know what I knew at the last time we were having talks like this. Things have changed. Jeanette is...I understand her now. There were things going on behind the scenes that I didn’t know. Awful things. I’m not going to give you the gory details, because only she deserves to share them. But Nikolaos sold Jeanette to the highest bidder for a long time. After decades of rape and torture...I understand why she grabbed onto me the way she did. It wasn’t right, but I understand it.” 

“Yeah, and someone sideswiping you while they rush their pregnant wife to the hospital doesn’t change the fact you still got hit by a car. Just because she had a reason doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. Does she even give a shit about that?”

Her eyes flashed. “Yes, she does. I live in her head, Ronnie.” 

“And I think that’s a problem. You’re way too close to all this. Maybe if you took a holiday and stayed away from St. Louis after this pack business is over, you’ll be able to have some perspective. Hell, you haven’t even dabbled with your sexuality before committing to a woman you’re metaphysically tied to. You’ve had what? Three lovers in your life? Don’t commit to anyone until you know what you want.” 

“I know what I want,” Anita snapped. “I want her. Now butt out, Ronnie. You want to bitch about Louis, fine. But this conversation is over.”

You want her, but not a word about him, I noted. Interesting slip. 

I shrugged, hiding a smile behind the rim of my mug. “Alright. Did I ever tell you about the time Louis…” 

Chapter Text

"Julian is crying again, sir."

Cardinal's voice was gentle, though a note of exasperation had begun to creep into her tone at the start of the evening. It was the third time she'd called for me this evening, and the fifty-third time since Julian had risen from his grave. I could understand her frustration, even though it vexed me.

She'd proven herself during the siege and had earned her new position as my second. As such, she had the unenviable task of overseeing the day-to-day drudgery that came with running the Kiss. Managing the feelings of her Master's lover was not among her prescribed duties. She'd exercised a great deal of patience and tact thus far, drawing upon years of managing Damian's many nightmares and breakdowns, but it seemed even she had reached her limit.

I sighed and pushed away from the dining room table. Remorse welled, hot and choking, immediately after the exhalation. Julian hadn't asked to be reborn, and I didn't have the right to punish him for his reaction, even tacitly. Mea Culpa. My fault. I'd gotten what I'd asked for. I had to adjust my expectations accordingly.

"Where is he?"

"The graveyard, sir."

Of course. Every time I lost track of Julian, I'd inevitably found him hunched over his grave. I'd never met a zombie with higher brain function before, so I wasn't certain how common this compulsion might be. Did the grave hold some appeal, even now? Did it feel like home? Would he have felt similarly had he been raised in Reims, where he'd first been laid to rest in a pauper's grave? Or was there something irresistible about a plot that bore his name? This was my first true home outside of Belle's Court, and my first opportunity to bury his bones properly.

"Thank you, Cardinal. Would you be willing to look over these reports? I may be unavailable the rest of the evening."

Her lips turned down for a fraction of a second, a momentary flash of displeasure, but she recovered quickly. All of us who'd lived for any time in Belle's court learned to school our features and mirror whatever she wished to see. It was encouraging that she felt safe enough to show even an ounce of independence. I'd terrorize the newly dead if only to keep them in line, but for those in my inner circle, I encouraged candor. A leader who refuses to take counsel or listen to dissent won't remain a leader for long.

Under more favorable conditions I would have returned to France, purchased a lovely villa, and settled in with Julian. It might take months, years, or even decades until he acclimatized but it could have been done in a controlled environment. Becoming a Master of my own territory was a mark of status, but one I'd happily relinquish in exchange for Julian's peace of mind. But conditions weren't favorable. Belle's wrath had been kindled, and only the lack of public censure had given us a reprieve.

I didn't delude myself into thinking the matter was settled. Retribution would come, and I would need as many tools in my arsenal as I could find. If I was not a Master of a territory, Belle could recall me at any time, and her vengeance would be such that I would think fondly of my days with the Church.

I needed my Kiss, I needed a new human servant, and I needed Jeanette. Centuries of pursuing her in a misguided attempt to right a wrong she had not dealt me, and now I'd have to throw myself upon her tender mercies to survive. Irony was a spiteful bitch.

Julian—or perhaps Damian, he was adept at anticipating his Masters' needs—had left the front door ajar. Damian didn't blink when I strode past. He had more fine control of his face than any vampire I'd met, courtesy of his time with Moroven. When any emotion was dangerous, you stayed still and silent, praying to every absent god you could think of that the madwoman would choose someone else to torment.

Moonlight traced the tops of headstones and bathed the faces of upturned angels in silver. Only one angel lay prostrate, hunching over the grave of the only corpse I'd truly cared about. Every other moldering body in this little boneyard had only been a pawn in a scheme to handicap Jeanette's pet necromancer.

No...Anita Blake. I'd denied her personhood in my thoughts for long enough. She'd given me Julian, as mixed as that blessing was. I'd planned to turn her in for malfeasance when she foolishly accepted my terms, only to have my wildest fantasy spun into reality. She deserved a name. That, and more.

Julian sat cross-legged in the dirt, fingers tracing the vèvè that Anita's friend and fellow necromancer had traced onto the statue's base. The mixture of blood and palm oil had dried to a muddy brown and was flaking off in places. A faint hum of power still rose from the dirt, prickling along the skin like the promise of pleasure. I could still feel the mark of what they'd done on the grave.

Even thinking of that night made the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. For the first time in my existence, I thought I understood why moths were drawn to flame, despite the surety of their demise. The power contained in that circle could have bound my entire Kiss, and we would have gone to our eternal servitude with smiles on our faces, happy to serve. Being near the bright, cold light of a true necromancer was almost worth your own destruction.

"I feel them," he whispered. "The ones under the ground. They're restless. Angry. They want to rise. I couldn't have felt that before. I don't like it."

I sat across from him,my back to the weeping angel. His face was as lovely as I remembered, even streaked with tears. I wanted to push the hair away from his face, smooth the lines on his brow, and lay a kiss on the edge of his mouth. At the moment I didn't dare touch him. It had been a long time, but I could dimly recall how overwhelming those first days had been. Every sense was more acute, every sensation a little richer than it had been before waking. The feel of silk sheets on sensitized skin made Jeanette cry the first night after the change. And that was a pleasant sensation. How rough would he find my burned flesh?

"Is that what upset you?" I asked. "Because you could come inside. I'll start a fire in the grate and read to you. It's not quite the same as before, since you can't sleep any longer but..."

Fresh tears dewed on his lashes. "I don't want to go inside. It burns."

I frowned. The cleaning staff set the thermostat a little higher to offset the cooler weather, but no one had complained that the house was stuffy. It certainly wasn't hot enough to cause this reaction. Anita Blake had paced away from the grave shortly after the raising, but Dr. Hale had helpfully informed me what to expect. Julian was undead and bespelled to replenish himself through small blood sacrifices, which meant he was closer to vampire than human. If I could stand the temperature, surely he could too?

"I don't understand."

He gestured broadly at his face, nose wrinkling. "My nose burns. I stepped inside and the smell was so sharp. Everything is so bright and loud and..."

Julian's mouth screwed into a tight line, chin setting stubbornly as he tried to hold back more tears. He'd cried more in the past seven days than in all the years we'd lived together. Of the three of us, he'd always been the most stolid, the cool head that prevailed when Jeanette and I quarreled. We were too alike to ever manage by ourselves. Our passions ran high, for good or ill. Finding myself in the position of soothing my overwrought lover was strange for us both.

It took me a moment to work out what the problem and when I had, I wanted to hit myself for not considering it sooner.

"The cleaner was in today," I said and bit back another sigh. "It was the bleach, I suppose."

The scent was still sharp if I wasn't braced for it, but over the years I'd largely learned to tune out chemical smells. But Julian didn't have the benefit of experience. He hadn't had centuries of watching the humans slowly sanitize their lives. Julian had grown up in a reeking mélange of unwashed people and animals. He'd been living before pail closets, outhouses, and cesspits came into vogue. Had been familiar with a time when piss was used to soften leather, clean homes, and bleach clothes and teeth. It simply hadn't registered that a lack of certain things would be strange, or that the products used could actually hurt.

"I'm a fool," I said. I reached for his hand and then thought better of it. "Bringing you into this century was thoughtless and cruel. I hadn't realized just how...how difficult it would be for you. You could have escaped, could have lived if you hadn't come for me. You suffered before you died and now I've brought you back to do it again."

He let out a watery chuckle. "I don't regret coming back, mon chardonneret, and I will never regret trying to free you. It's just...I feel like such a child. I don't understand, and some of these things you find so simple are frightening. If we were still bound, I know you'd explain things, and I wouldn't find this new age so daunting. You have to sink so much time into educating me. Time we don't have. I've heard you talking to Cardinal. Belle is coming for us. I'm not your servant anymore, so I'm next to useless to you."

I couldn't contain myself any longer. I tugged him from his kneeling position and onto my lap. He fell into me as he had of old, arms winding around my neck, my hands bracing the small of his back as our lips met. I meant to keep things chaste, afraid to hurt him further, but Julian didn't seem to share my compunctions. He tugged at my lip with his teeth, smirking into the kiss when I gasped. His clever, skillful tongue slipped into my mouth, exploring, and I bit back a moan. I'd missed this. Missed him. My chest felt like it would burst. I'd never dreamed of having this again. If Anita Blake had been at hand, I'd have kissed her, and happily accepted the sucker punch that came after.

"You're not useless," I said when he finally gave me enough air to breathe.

"I can't lend you power. You'll need another servant, which makes me somewhat superfluous, don't you think?"

"You may not be my servant, but you'll still be lending power to someone. Anita Blake raised you from the grave, which means you're tied to her. Once you've adjusted somewhat, we'll find Jeanette and her new servant. We'll be ready when the time comes."

Julian's face softened at the mention of Anita's name, and a tiny, petty part of me hated her for that. She was the first person he'd touched, and he'd always feel a pull toward her. She wanted him, and he'd feel an instinctive lust for her. Selfish creature that I was, I wanted him to myself. I already shared his heart with Jeanette. Must I truly share it with her servant too?

Julian spied the look and kissed me again, soft and chaste.

"Make love to me," he whispered.

"I shouldn't. It might overwhelm you."

He laughed. "That's the point, mon amour."

"We'd need to go into the house."

He nuzzled my throat, mouth tracing the roughened skin. I wanted to pull back, not sure how he could stand to touch the ruin that was my right side.

"No, we don't."

I raised a brow. "You want to make love on your grave?"

"The woods. More cover. You can lay me down in the leaves."

"Perhaps I should build a mausoleum where your grave stands. More privacy."

He made a speculative sound as he slid his hands down to cup my ass. Then, with another laugh, he lifted me off the ground so that I had to wrap my legs around his waist to avoid being spilled onto the hard earth.

"No more talking," he murmured, carrying me away from the grave.

There was no more talking for several hours.

It was glorious.

Chapter Text

Asher's fingers traced abstract patterns into my skin. Well, abstract to me. I'd missed a great deal in the centuries between my death and resurrection. Almost five and a half centuries of art, history, culture, and...life. He'd weathered those years, had learned from them. To me, it was as if I'd woken from a dream to find myself in a world I no longer recognized.

It would have been less jarring to find myself trapped in a faerie circle or spirited away to one of their mounds to serve eternally. It would at least explain why the world around me was so alien. Instead, I began lessons with a tutor before dawn, going over a curriculum that seemed rote to most of the people around me. My polite smiles, thick accent, and barely intelligible French (mon Dieu, even my native tongue had changed drastically in five hundred years) seemed to give her the impression I was slow, which I didn't discourage. Better she think me a simpleton than guess the truth.

I let my eyes flutter shut, focusing on the gentle strokes across my back and shoulder. When I'd been human he'd take great pains to turn me into a panting, sweaty mess so he could run his fingers across the sheen on my back and arms, tracing love poems—the most popular at the time, though some were of his own making—into my flesh. As a zombie, I didn't sweat as easily as I used to, but Asher seemed to enjoy the challenge.

Now his fascination was art, his fluttering fingers mimicking the strokes of master painters born long after me, and as dead as I'd been months ago. They'd been French artists thus far. It was another, more covert lesson. A pleasant one, at least. It was hard to feel like a child when I was curled against him under the bed linens.

"Bathing At Asnieres, 1884. Georges Seurat."

I felt him smile against my hair. "Good. Did you catch the one before that?"

"Edgar Degas, but I'm not certain which. He was fond of his dancers, wasn't he? And it had to have been painted sometime between 1859 and 1907."

Asher chuckled, and I was braced for the slap on the ass the remark deserved. It sent delicious tingles up my back, stirred my sated body back to a state of semi-readiness. My recovery time was quicker as a dead man, and I didn't technically have to sleep. We could stay here until dawn. Probably would stay here until dawn.

"That was almost the entirety of his artistic career."

"I said I'm not familiar," I reminded him. "It's remarkable I'm catching any of them. Do another Monet. I like his style. And I swear if you do another Picasso to throw me off..."

Asher laughed again, wicked and unrepentant. For a moment I was sure he'd do another just to spite me. Instead, his hands stilled, and even the unnecessary rise and fall of his chest ceased.

I propped myself up on one elbow so I could look at him. He was staring at me, a slight frown creasing his breathtaking face. And it was still breathtaking, despite what the Church had done to him. I was grateful the burns had healed so well. When I'd watched the priests 'purify' him, I imagined there would be nothing left but exposed muscle and gleaming white bones. Fate had been kinder than that. He could still move, which meant that the muscle beneath the skin on his right side hadn't been affected. Now, with modern medicine, there was a chance a plastic surgeon could reverse most of the damage.

"What is it?"

He shook his head, letting thick, golden hair tumble over the right side of his face. I wanted to push it aside, to make him meet my eyes, to tell him that he didn't need to hide. Not from me.

"It's foolish."

"Ask."

He hesitated for a moment then licked his lips, before whispering, "Where were you?"

"In the study, before you hefted me over your shoulder and locked me into your room."

He let out a dry snort, but the expression on his face remained wary. "That's not what I meant, and you damn well know it. I wanted to know...what was the other side like? Were you in heaven? Or...?"

"Hell?"

He nodded. "Or somewhere else entirely. I suppose I'm curious. I've never met anyone who's been to the other side and returned. It's the big question. Who's right?"

I lay back down, flinging one leg against his. The brief tingle of excitement was gone, and I felt acutely weary.

I felt his eyes on me, but this time I was the one to look away.

"I don't know."

"You don't know? But you were...you were gone. Anita had to fish your soul from somewhere, which meant you existed in the ether. I was just wondering where."

"I don't know," I repeated. "I remember dying, and then I remember passing through a crossroads, and waking here. When I tried to look back at the path I'd left, it was shrouded in mist. That man...Papa Legba, I think, scolded me. He said there are things the living can't be allowed to know. So I know I was somewhere but I'm not sure where. I'm not sure I want to know."

Asher kissed the top of my head, and I could almost taste his disappointment. He wanted answers. I wished I had something more to offer.

"Ignorance is bliss?"

I smiled. "Being with you is bliss. If ignorance is the price, I'll pay it."

He tipped my face up so he could look into my eyes. I had a moment to drown in the intense blue before his lips were on mine, and he was pressing me into the mattress.

It looked like I was going to get sweatier after all.

Chapter Text

Death is simple. Life is relentlessly, heartlessly messy.

A fluorescent light in one corner of the greenhouse flickered, strobe-like, on its last leg. I hated it. The bleating of goats and the scratching of chicken feet on the dirt floor of the greenhouse was bad enough, a pounding pressure against my thoughts. I'd only come here a handful of times, and only out of necessity. One of the other animators (Manny or Matteo usually) would select the evening's sacrifices, sparing me the ordeal.

Of course, this was necessary. Ari had to learn how to master her growing abilities. Her propensity for raising swaths of undead was a weak spot we couldn't afford. I'd have liked to ease her into things gently, the way my teacher had. Animation was an art form, and it took years to truly become a master of the craft. Longer, if you committed to a faith-based path. She should have had the freedom to choose a style that suited her, but we didn't have the luxury of time. This was the equivalent of putting her through Drawing 101 and then demanding she recreate the Vitruvian Man.

"Are you alright, Dr. Hale?" Ari asked from just behind me.

Her nearness startled me. I hadn't been keeping track of where she was, trying to blot out sight and sound. I truly detested this place, with its sounds and smells. I liked the confines of my office, the regularity of my appointments, and the proximity of my friends, though I felt the absence of one acutely. Rituals kept me grounded. Nights like these set my teeth on edge. Messy. So messy.

I caught myself before I could dig the nails of one hand into the wrist of the other. Blood would be shed tonight, but it didn't have to be mine. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing in on a five count and releasing it on the same until my heart resumed a less frenzied pace.

"I'll be fine. Do you have the chicken?"

Ari raised a cage to shoulder height and, sure enough, there was a red hen trying to escape its confines. The teenager looked a little paler than she had when we arrived, but her lips had thinned into a stubborn line. Or maybe she was trying not to be sick. I couldn't always tell. The line between determination and nausea seemed very fine indeed.

"The sacrifices are always sedated," I reminded her. "She won't feel it."

Ari shrugged, stuffing her remaining hand into a pocket of her jean jacket. She tried not to look at me, clearly uncomfortable.

"There's no way I can just...you know...use my own? That's what Mr. Kirkland had me do."

"Because there wasn't much choice at the time. Now you have resources. To raise something larger, you're going to need a sacrifice. Your own blood may suffice when you're fully trained, but for now you need the stability of blood sacrifice."

Her swallow was audible and her dark eyes flicked around the room, landing on each animal in turn. I could empathize. The first hen I'd killed had been awake during the sacrifice. Regulations hadn't quite caught up with the practice when I'd undergone training. She'd flopped around for a while without her head until the spinal cord finally got the message and it collapsed unmoving on top of the grave. It had haunted my nightmares for weeks, a trivial juxtaposition to the usual fare.

"Would you like me to do it when the time comes?" I asked gently. "It isn't strictly necessary that you kill it, just that you walk the circle in blood."

Ari's expression hardened. "No, I'll do it. I have to learn sometime, and Mr. Vaughn isn't paying me to sit on my hands. What's the point of the internship if I don't get this under control?"

The stakes were much higher than this job, but I couldn't tell her that. I could commit heartfelt speeches to memory, but I never seemed to have the right words on my own. My best intentions twisted on my tongue, and I usually ended up offending someone, only learning of it well after the fact.

Ari knew a little, but if I revealed the truth about Marmee Noir, she'd withdraw and we'd lose every ounce of progress she'd made thus far. I wasn't equipped to deal with this. How could I give her assurance when I was so desperately afraid of sleeping in the dark? I felt it like a weight around my ankles, trying to drag me down. At times I feared even Warrick wouldn't be enough to keep me from her.

I needed Anita. She'd somehow put existential terror in a stranglehold and step over its corpse when she was done. It was hard not to frame her as some hero from myth. Heracles or Perseus, come to slay the monsters again and again, emerging from the other side injured but still alive. It had taken her near-death in May to drive home how terrifyingly mortal she really was.

But Anita wasn't here, I was, and Ari couldn't train herself. I took the cage from her hand gingerly and offered her a weak smile.

"That's the spirit. Let's get going. The raising starts at nine."

Chapter Text

There was a reason I'd shied away from animating firms my entire adult life. It wasn't just that I found the commodification of death distasteful (though that was a large part of it.) It was the inevitable result of said commodification. Namely, that an animator must be both artisan and salesperson. And as my incredibly brief stint in retail had taught me, I wasn't suited to that kind of work.

I'd felt like less of a huckster when I'd been animating on behalf of the World History Institute. Raising bodies after disaster relief or for historical inquiry had a price tag, certainly, but it had been funneled into further research and aid. It had been humanitarian, something done for the greater good rather than personal gain. Even giving away a large portion of my paycheck to charity didn't provide the sort of relief I hoped for. I felt sullied by the contact with rank commercialism.

But at this point, I didn't see that I had much of a choice. St. Louis was where I was safest, and that left me with only two outlets for my dubious gift. Devote further time and study to a religion I didn't ascribe to and become Mambo Hale, or sign on at the nearest animating firm. And because Anita worked there, I'd chosen the latter.

Clients like Tessa Barnes made me long for my days with the series of gashadokuro that had ravaged Sakai. After the spirits that animated the enormous monsters were banished, it was a matter of feeling out what bones belonged to what body. The process reminded me of the five thousand piece jigsaws puzzled I'd completed as a child, and there was a comforting routine in reassembling them. I liked the solemn, almost ritualistic task. The families had been grateful.

Tessa Barnes was...not.

The white, middle-aged woman was red in the face, gesticulating wildly at Ari. It didn't pair well with the unnatural shade of her hair. She'd bleached it almost white and twisted the strands into a tight bun that drew the lines of her face too tight. The result was unattractive, though I'd been warned not to say as much by Mr. Vaughn. Critique was for research papers, not for human beings, apparently.

"She can't be here! She's...what...twelve?"

"I just turned sixteen," Ari mumbled kneeling over the hen's cage. She'd named it Mary, under the impression that dying with a name gave the animal more dignity.

"She's a child," Tessa hissed. "I refuse to allow my husband to be raised by a little girl."

I fixed her with a flat stare. "You were informed that the discount on your raising was conditional. I went over the particulars with you in my office. You agreed."

The discount had been Mr. Vaughn's idea, and frankly baffled Anita when I'd emailed her about the development. She'd been sure to point out that our boss was unscrupulous in the extreme. Alright, she'd said he was a 'greedy son of a bitch who couldn't find his conscience with a microscope.' Taken as a whole, though, the decision made sense. Training new talent cost money in the short term but triggered the sunk cost fallacy by the time they'd learned the necessary control. They'd spent years of their lives with this company, so why take chances elsewhere?

"I was not! You said there would be a student here, but I never imagined she'd raise Nelson! I thought it was like what they do at the hospital. You know. The 'can a med student observe?' song and dance."

"I did explain what would happen, Mrs. Barnes. It is not our fault if you weren't listening to the finer points. If you would like to cancel tonight's raising and make arrangements with another animator at a later date, you are free to do so."

Tessa shifted from foot to foot, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought it over. The discount had taken the charge from obscene to merely outrageous. She was a wealthy woman who could afford the best, but even the one percent don't like spending more than they had to.

"I came to you because everyone says you can make him look lifelike," she said, crossing her arms over her ample chest. "You can't just treat my husband like a cadaver in a medical lab. If this is her first, she'll botch it."

She wasn't exactly wrong. While Nelson Barnes wasn't the first zombie Ari had ever raised, he would be the first that she'd approached with ritual and oversight. It would have been simpler to take her to a body farm in Illinois or a morgue much closer to home, but it wouldn't produce exactly the same results. Rituals provided the scaffolding on which to build her knowledge, and every ritual I'd learned as a teenager had required the dead to have a name and their own grave. With a narrow focus, she could pour her energy into one body, instead of spilling the power over every dead thing she came into contact with.

"That's why I'm here, ma'am," I said and didn't bother to hide my impatience. Honestly, anyone who failed to read the materials or pay attention during the consultation should be penalized somehow. "If your late husband comes back in less than optimum condition or behaves strangely, I'm here to take over the raising. You'll get what you paid for. If you don't want to watch, I understand. Return to the parking lot and I'll text you when he's ready."

Tessa Barnes gave us one last disparaging look before turning on her heel and striding for the parking lot. She wasn't raising her cell phone to her ear, so I took it as a sign we had her stamp of approval and motioned for Ari to open the cage. Mary the hen was slumped against one wall, blissfully ignorant of what was to come. Ari winced when she guided the chicken out, cradling the limp form in one hand.

"It just seems wrong," she whispered. "I know that's hypocritical. I like chicken as much as the next person but seeing her like this..."

"It's the price we pay. All of us, really, not just animals. We're born to die. No one cheats it forever. Not even vampires. We're just privileged enough to ignore and pretty up death in this day and age. It used to be standard practice to care for the bodies of the dead inside the home. Our ancestors co-existed with death, watching it take its natural course. Now we hide it. Sanitize it. Pretend it doesn't exist. That's why she's angry. If you can't make him look entirely lifelike, she has to face the stark reality that he's dead."

Ari couldn't look away from the chicken. "Does it scare you? Dying, I mean?"

The answer two years ago would have been an unequivocal yes. Dying horribly like my parents was one of my greatest fears. There was some comfort in knowing that it was natural to fear death and the possibility of oblivion. For the average person, it was impossible to conceptualize what non-existence would feel like. But I'd gotten a taste, and I knew that death was not the worst thing that could happen to me. Oblivion with the knowledge that my body would live on, destroying the lives of billions was worse. I'd lash myself to Warrick and beg him to be my pyre before I handed myself over to Mother Dark.

But I couldn't tell Ari that. Not yet. She had to learn first.

"A little," I said, producing the short silver-alloy knife I used for raisings. "Are you ready? Remember the diagrams I showed you."

She nodded grimly and took the knife. It took a second or two to maneuver the neck so she wouldn't jab the knife through the other side of the neck and into her own hand, but she managed it. The knife slid in easily enough, but cutting through the skin and feathers took longer than it ought to. Mary actually stirred and made a gurgling sound as she struggled to breathe. Tears slid down Ari's face, but she turned the weakly flopping bird down so that its blood would drip onto the ground. She walked the circle twice until the line was thick enough, and the power snapped taut, sealing us in with only one corpse.

I took Mary's limp body from her hand when the deed was done. "Now smear the blood from the knife onto the stone and repeat after me. 'Nelson Barnes. With blood, I call you from your grave. With power, I call you from your grave. Hear me and obey. Rise from your grave and speak with the living.'"

Her swallow sounded painful, but her voice was steady when she repeated, "Nelson Barnes. With blood, I call you from your grave. With power, I call you from your grave. Hear me and obey. Rise from your grave and speak with the living."

Ari pressed the palm of one hand against the granite headstone, eyes fluttering closed as she reached for her power. It crackled in the air around her, concentrated as it was. I'd only felt it a handful of times spreading from dead carcass to dead carcass like a flood sweeping over flat ground. It was easier to gauge her ability when it was confined to one area.

She wasn't as powerful as Anita or I but that was likely due to age and inexperience. Anita had grown into her abilities in only the last few years. I wasn't sure if Jeanette had boosted her abilities or simply provided the focus and motivation to express what was already there. I hadn't noticed a significant jump in my own abilities upon joining with Warrick, so I was increasingly sure it was the latter. Jeanette had shaped Anita more than she'd ever admit.

Moments later a man's head burst from the ground, sending clods of dirt flying in every direction. Ariana yelped and backed away, and I had to catch her before she could break the circle. Nelson's shoulders cleared the grave next, followed by the rest of him shortly thereafter. In under a minute he was sitting placidly on top of his grave, glassy-eyed and waiting on instruction.

Her face fell. "He still looks dead. He's all gray and stuff."

True, he was in the grip of pallor mortis, but he showed no active signs of decay. No lividity, sagging skin, bloat, or missing pieces. Nelson Barnes looked like an hours-old corpse without the rigor. That alone had exceeded my expectations. With the proper focus, the difference between her zombies and Anita or I's was cosmetic, not structural. With the right makeup and lighting, Mrs. Barnes wouldn't know the difference. It was hardly the ghoulish spectacle she'd feared.

"It's still good for your first try. Do you remember the corpses you raised your first time?"

She shuddered. "It was like one of those old b-movies. They didn't look human."

"So this is an improvement, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess. I just thought..."

"That you'd be perfect?" I suggested with a wry smile. "I'm afraid not. But if you really need some affirmation, watch Jamison raise a zombie. They're barely mobile and completely incapable of thought. After we get some blood into Mr. Barnes he'll be able to have a conversation with his wife. That's already an achievement. You've done well."

She seemed a little flustered by the praise and tried to wave it away. "What now?"

I handed her my phone. "Now you text the lovely Mrs. Barnes while I make him a little more presentable. And when we're through here, I'll take you to Hotel Serpentine if you like. The gorgons are throwing a party, and we've been invited."

She brightened. "What do gorgons eat exactly?"

"Tonight? Pizza. Would you like to go?"

"Of course! Where else am I going to meet a gorgon? That's so cool!" she beamed at me, her disappointment forgotten. "You're pretty awesome, Ms. Hale."

I ducked my head, cheeks warming as she texted our bad-tempered client. Nelson's skin flushed pink and his skin plumped under my hands, though without blood his eyes remained distant.

Maybe I'd enjoy being a teacher after all.

Chapter Text

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

I slammed the phone back into its cradle and scrubbed at my face in frustration. My hands were shaking. If Simon or Jessica had been in the office, I'd have smiled and chalked it up to too much caffeine. I was on my sixth cup of the day, and I wasn't slowing. I'd have two more before I curled up on my trusty cot for a six-hour stretch of restless sleep. It was probably better that they weren't in the office. They'd both smell the lie.

A tear squeezed past my careful control and I let out a shuddering breath. "Damn it, Anita..."

Alright, she had a right to be pissed with me. The timing had been awful, and I knew better. But...But her mentor was a murderer goddamnit! Didn't that matter to her anymore? We'd both gotten into this business to save lives. Granted, I mostly saved people from their cheating spouses and tracked down missing persons, but still. Jessica, Anita, and I had all gone into this with the well-being of others in mind, and now she'd lost track of that.

I blamed the vampire, honestly. Everything had changed after the marks. Anita had grown colder. More distant. I could understand that too, up to a point. The supernatural set were a paranoid bunch, and a lot of shady shit went on behind closed doors, a necessity after everything they'd gone through. Even Jessica and Simon didn't share everything. There was that and then there was...this. She was changing my friend for the worse, and Anita refused to see it.

I glanced down at the open file on my desk, scrubbing at my eyes before tears could fall and stain the paper. A black and white photo dominated the page. The woman was a young twenty-something with long, dark hair. It was hard to tell because of the grainy quality of the picture, but I thought she was smiling. She had a toddler balanced on one hip and a basket full of flowers in the other. The annotation beside the picture identified her as Lucia Chepe, a Nahua woman from Chicueyaco. The photo was taken only hours before her disappearance. The case had gone cold after a year and dropped completely after two.

I wasn't a hundred percent sure she was one of Dominga's victims, but it fit the profile I had thus far. Fernanda Rodriguez had also gone missing, but no body had been found. Investigators had reported the lingering odor of blood with no source. All of them reported feeling a sense of unease, despite being veteran officers.

I was no metaphysical expert, but that probably indicated a psychic hotspot created by a violent death and an accompanying black magic ritual. It was bad if complete nulls could pick up on it. Lucia's home was almost identical. Her baby hadn't been found either. I prayed to God it had been given to another family. It was the only thing that helped me sleep at night. That and Jack Daniels.

I shuffled the folders and peered blearily at the next potential victim. Naomi Estrada, a thirty-year-old Santera from San Marcos, Guatemala. She'd been something of a tutor for young psychics, with a sizable talent for raising the spirits of the dead. She'd gone missing on her way to work and hadn't been seen since. And now, even twenty years later, there was an alleyway where people and animals refused to go. If I had to guess, they'd dragged her off the street and strangled her behind a dumpster. It would be easy to hide the body until a govi could be made.

I slurped at my coffee, trying to loosen the knot in my throat. Three. I only had three of the eight women he'd killed, and I couldn't even be sure I was on the right track. I needed Anita on this. Metaphysics was her wheelhouse, not mine. The only way I'd been able to get anywhere at all was Jessica's indexing skills. I was heading in a direction, at least. I could only hope it was the right one.

If I could just get these pictures to her, to put names and faces to all the people whose lives he'd ruined...That would change things for her, right? It had to. Anita was often bitchy, but she wasn't callous. I refused to believe she could stare into the faces of his victims and feel nothing. Yes, Manny had kids. So did the BTK Killer.

I picked up the phone again, letting the dial tone drone on. I knew that punching in the numbers would be pointless. She'd probably changed her number the second I left Stillwater, but I could still pretend.

"Hey, Anita, it's Ronnie. I was just calling to say..." I paused, throat tight. I had to swallow a few times before I could speak. "You were right. I was a terrible friend. I should have put you first. I'm sorry. If you tell me where you are, I'll say it to your face. Just call me, please. I miss you. And I..."

Tears spilled over, and I pushed my files away before I could stain the pages. I set the phone gingerly on the table before I could sob into the receiver and my non-existent friend on the imaginary line. I couldn't say it aloud, even in the privacy of my own office.

I love you. Anita was family, and more of a sister to me than the one I shared genetic material with. We'd never said it aloud, but I knew she felt the same. And despite everything we'd been through, I'd hurt her. I'd slapped her across the face when all she needed was a hand to hold. I'd lost her because I couldn't keep my damn mouth shut.

"Come home," I whispered. "Please, Anita. Let me make it right."

The dull drone of the dial tone was the only reply.

Chapter Text

"Does it bother you?"

The question was barely audible, but I knew he'd hear. Vampire hearing was thirty percent above human normal, and he was sitting on the opposite end of the couch. Hotel Serpentine's lobby was spacious and well-appointed. Though it held onto some of its old trappings, the space had lost most of its clinical atmosphere. What was once a hub for businessmen and overpaid city officials had relaxed into a lived-in home.

A hundred and twenty-four gorgons and ladonites occupied the rooms above us. At this hour most were asleep but during the day the youngest would crowd around the electric fire or television, enraptured by what they considered the height of technological advancement. When Ari wasn't in school or training with me she could usually be found here, molding the minds of young shapeshifters. For good or ill, I wasn't sure. I hadn't been a social teen and I hadn't improved much with age.

Warrick glanced up from Ari's Algebra textbook. His education had been sorely lacking, due to Yvette's micromanaging. In many ways, he was learning alongside my protegee. This was the first we'd spoken in hours, each of us absorbed in our own task. He was learning linear equations. I was hoarding any information I could find on our shared enemies. Knowledge was power and I often felt like it was the only weapon in my arsenal. Animating ability or not, I wasn't a fighter. Not like Warrick or Anita.

"Does what bother me?"

My cheeks warmed. It was embarrassing to admit how long I'd been agonizing over this subject. I hadn't been able to articulate it in the earliest days of our bond and worked tirelessly to shield so that he wouldn't pluck errant thoughts from my mind. Even when I'd composed my thoughts, it seemed nigh impossible to share them. No matter how composed or logical it sounded in my head, it came out as complete gibberish.

"Sex," I blurted, then winced. Yes, that had been quite articulate.

His mouth turned up at one corner. It made him seem boyish, despite his age. The mop of blonde hair added to the impression. "It depends on the context. As a concept, no. Its existence isn't offensive, though I doubt that's what you meant."

The prickling blush spread down my neck and my pulse sped. His gaze flicked to it for only a moment, which only made my heart beat harder. He'd bitten me only once, a necessity to forge the third mark. He'd offered to ensnare my mind and make the process less painful, but I'd refused. Case studies during vampire thrall suggested extreme dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin release during the act, which could easily lead to addiction and, more embarrassingly, orgasm. It would be mortifying to have my first handed to me by a virtual stranger.

"No," I murmured, unable to meet his eyes. It was difficult on the best of days, but nigh impossible now. "That isn't what I meant."

Warrick scooted closer, leaving half a foot between us. His hand rested lightly on the cushion, an invitation. My touch sensitivity wasn't as severe as some, but with emotions high, sometimes even the lightest touch was simply too much. Warrick had learned it the hard way weeks into our partnership. Ever since he'd kept space between us, and I bizarrely resented it. I thought I understood now. Platonic or not, my feelings for Warrick were...strong. Confusing but potent, a fact that seemed completely ludicrous.

Four months ago I'd only had a parasocial relationship with Sir William Mannering. Now we were bound for eternity. I'd expected the childish hero worship to wear away when we'd been together for some time but his allure only seemed to increase. A product of our bond or something else? I just couldn't tell. I only knew that I wanted to be near him. But getting closer without establishing boundaries was a recipe for heartbreak.

"Why are you asking, angel?"

My eyes pricked and I turned my face away. Angel. He used the endearment almost as often as my name, and I couldn't understand it. He'd witnessed daily panic attacks and meltdowns, had coached me through nightmares, and healed me when my stimming got out of hand. It felt like his presence was the only thing that kept me from buckling under the terror of Marmee Noir. I was the weak link, and I knew it. I wanted to run. Coward. I was such a coward. How could he look at me and call me an angel?

"I...I need to know," I had to swallow thickly before the rest of the words would come. "I have to know what you're expecting, Will...Warrick. You're a straight man and I can feel that you want..."

Words failed me. Thankfully, Warrick's eyes lit with understanding. To my surprise, he laughed. "Sex? Is that really what you've been angsting about?"

"It's not angst," I said defensively. "It's concern."

His lips pressed into an amused line, probably in an attempt to hold back more laughter. Courtly Warrick, always trying to spare my feelings. "Fine, is that what you've been concerned about this whole time? I was worried you were truly unhappy with me. With your shielding, I couldn't parse out why and it seemed rude to press."

I frowned. "You make it sound inconsequential when it's not. We have to have an understanding. This bond is eternal and I don't want you to feel like I've led you on. I'm not sure it's something I can give you. If you need someone else to fill that need, I understand."

I'd resent it, but I'd understand. I wasn't repulsed by the idea of being with him, nor did it excite me. Apathy. Not a sexy emotion, or so I've been told.

Warrick's fingers twitched and let out a breath when I slid my hand closer. He clasped it with both of his, bringing my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to each of my fingertips. A jolt ran up my arm on contact. It wasn't unpleasant per se, just bewildering.

"I'm not of Belle's line. Sex is not a need for me. It is just a desire and I do not have to act on it."

"But it's there," I argued. "I'm not disgusted by the thought, but I think it would offend you to think I was only offering out of obligation."

Warrick sighed. I could have sworn he sounded...exasperated. "You raised me from perdition and you expect me to complain that I'm not allowed access to your body? What kind of ungrateful louse would do such a thing?"

Asher. Most Belle Morte vampires. A handful of others that I'd interviewed. Until Warrick, I hadn't been confident I'd find one who wouldn't force me into it when they grew tired of waiting.

Warrick kissed the tips of my fingers again, a ripple of sensation. I actually squirmed when he spoke.

"It is inconsequential, Georgia. You are a lady and I am your knight. I will never dishonor you. Keep your virtue or don't. Love me or don't. You are mine and I am yours. A partner, a friend, or a lover, it makes no difference to me. I will be by your side regardless. I will be your sword and shield until the very end."

The first tear escaped when I pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. My brave knight. I didn't deserve him, but I was grateful he was here. I barely stiffened when he brought one hand up to wipe the tear away.

"Promise?" I whispered.

"On my honor as a knight. I will carry your banner into battle and we will emerge victorious. I have faith in you."

Well, that made one of us. His breath caught when I brushed a kiss over his full lips. It felt nice. I could muddle through my feelings about that later.

"I'm glad we found each other," I said thickly when I pulled away. "You're perfect."

His answering smile was breathtaking. "Don't steal my lines, dearest angel."

Chapter Text

The last time Jeanette and I had been this close to each other, she was walking hand-in-hand with Anita, the Circus of the Damned smoldering in the background, painting their profiles amber. There'd been a line of police tape between our bodies then. Tonight it was a lacquered desk. She'd folded herself into a chair, and settled the darkly-stained hunk of wood like a shield between us. If she'd been human, her posture might have relaxed as I spoke. Those of us with a pulse curled out of our defensive postures at some point, when it became clear the person we were facing wasn't actively going for our throats.

But Jeanette wasn't human and didn't bother with the pretense when I was around. Maybe that was a compliment. We both knew that Anita, paradoxically, didn't do well with reminders that some of her lovers were walking, talking corpses, and Jeanette did everything she could to put her at ease. I didn't require the same amount of pandering. Or maybe she just didn't give a shit if she unnerved me. It could honestly go either way.

She'd slammed her mental shields shut with an ominous clang the moment she understood what I'd come to discuss with her. Her face remained impassive and lovely, but the strain of holding herself together showed in her voice.

"You're sure?"

"No," I said, running my hands through my hair for the umpteenth time. "I'm not. I wasn't even aware there was a problem until Marianne voiced her concerns last week. She insists there's a problem, and she's the vargamor of the Oak Tree Clan. Or at least, she was the vargamor until Anita's mom stuffed her in the ground. Verne insists that she's still sane enough to do her job, but we should take her readings with a grain of salt. It doesn't even present like yours or Anita's if that's even what this is."

I was rambling, trying to prolong the moment when I'd have to say the word aloud. It felt like giving up or somehow admitting that I had a problem. And even if there was a problem, it wasn't my problem. For once, I wasn't the source of the metaphysical fuck-up.

"Let me rephrase," Jeanette said, words clipped. I couldn't tell if she was annoyed with me or trying to suppress a scream at the implications. She wouldn't let me in far enough to get a handle on her feelings on the matter. "This woman...Marianne... believes you possess the ardeur?"

There it was. The word I'd been trying to dance around for the better part of a half hour. It was a deceptively simple name to describe the metaphysical disaster that had torn the house around all our ears.

"Not necessarily. It's not active in the same way your hunger and hers are. I don't have to feed in order to sate it. The power is just sort of there, pushing me, but nothing disastrous happens if I don't act on it. She thinks it's more...ardeur adjacent. Something I have to actively call on."

Jeanette eased down a fraction. It was hard to say how exactly I knew that since her posture didn't change, but I could still sense it. She flickered to life for the briefest of moments, crossing her long, shapely legs before resuming her immobility. I didn't think she meant the move to be sensual, but it was. Everything about her was distractingly feminine and meant to tantalize. It was a state of being for her. If I weren't currently trying to date the mother of my child, I'd have been tempted to stare.

"I see. And what is this power, exactly?"

I ducked my head, letting my hair fall forward to shield my face. The theory was a little...well...embarrassing. Of all the ways for a sex demon's backwash to manifest, this had to be one of the strangest.

"Marianne calls it the Stepford Effect. It's a kind of...enforced monogamy. Not love, but a sort of possession binding two people together. She sensed it building around Andria. I thought we were just getting along, bonding over the baby but..."

But that hadn't been it at all. I'd been unknowingly projecting the desire outward, willing her to see things my way. I should have known something was off when she softened toward my proposal. Any woman who'd grown up alongside Anita would have to be as stubborn and argumentative as she was, just to survive sisterly scraps with her. We'd known each other less than a year. Why had I expected her to change her mind after a few shaky dates?

Because I wanted it to be true. I wanted it all. The wife, the baby, the white picket fence, and a dog. A little corner of normalcy in the unending storm of crap my life had become.

"You imposed your will on her," Jeanette said quietly. "It's not organic. Some part of her must have known it wasn't right, and fought against it, causing enough of a wound in her aura that a psychic could sense it."

"I didn't mean to," I whispered. "I didn't know. It's hard for her to resist because she wants the same things I want. She just isn't sure she wants them with me."

Which stung like hell. First Anita, now Andria. I just couldn't win with Blake women. Andria was willing to co-parent and consider more down the road. But this revelation was likely to fuck that up. Every interaction was now suspect. How could we build something on a foundation warped by the ardeur? I wasn't sure where we stood now. She'd asked for a break and some space to think. I'd left town, just to make damn sure I wasn't muddling her thoughts.

Jeanette flashed into sudden mobility, sagging in her seat. She cradled her head in her hands, averting her suddenly shining eyes toward her desk blotter, rather than meet my gaze. I couldn't see the tears but I could smell them when they fell. I could taste her sorrow and the bitter edge of her regret.

"I am so sorry, mon loup," she whispered. "This is my doing. Our binding has cost you both dearly. If I'd known..."

Her grief made my chest tighten. It was hard to breathe around the lump in my throat. Her walls were crumbling, exposing the ragged hole Anita's absence had carved in her middle. Self-loathing had turned it into something gangrenous, a necrosis that ate at her thoughts. My little revelation threatened to bend her double. A month or two ago, the scope of her pain would have made me feel a twinge of sick satisfaction. Anything to make her experience a fraction of the agony they'd both put me through.

I'd have rubbed her face in it. Look at what you did. I told you that you were bad for her, and here's the proof. Now all I felt was...pity.

"We did what we had to. Raina would have killed us both and pranced around in Anita's skin after flaying her alive. Don't go taking all the blame. Anita and I are both adults and we made a choice. We knew forging the triumvirate came with risks. It saved a lot of lives. I'd make the trade again if I had to."

Because a world with Anita in it was better than one without. I cared about her enough to want her to have a full and happy life. It was the only thing Jeanette and I had ever been able to agree on. Anita had to be protected at all costs. And we'd both failed her.

"Forgive me," she whispered, voice squeezed tight, choking down a sob.

She sounded like a penitent kneeling at an altar, begging an absent God for absolution she'd never receive. It was painful to listen to. I wasn't sure if she was addressing me, but I responded regardless.

"I do," I said quietly.

That succeeded in drawing her eyes up to meet mine. Pinkish tear tracks marred the perfection of her face. She was the portrait of a woman in mourning. Her despair threatened to drag me under. She was so empty. So alone. I was beginning to see that the love I'd felt for Anita was a pale echo of hers. The scope of it was humbling. I didn't realize I'd teared up until the first tear dripped from my chin. I could only hope to love someone as deeply as Jeanette loved Anita. I'd rounded the desk before I could stop myself, kneeling on the ground before her, in lieu of anywhere else to sit.

"Let me help you."

"How?"

"The ardeur." I extended a hand, stopping shy of touching the bare flesh of her calves. "This is killing you. She wouldn't want that. Let me tell you a lie, just for tonight."

She nodded after a moment, breath coming out on a shuddering exhale when I laid my head on her knees, skimming the cool skin of her calf, trailing my fingers down until they rested on the graceful curve of her ankle. She shivered when I pressed a kiss to her inner thigh.

I reached past her shields, gently sponging away the image of Anita's anguished face. I fed her a lie. A pleasant dream where she'd chosen me instead. A world where we hadn't both fallen in love with a tempestuous necromancer, where Jeanette wasn't wary of Asher's change of heart or constantly worried for Julian. Just us. It would have been easy to fall for her if not for Anita. If jealousy hadn't twisted me up on the inside. I could have been Jeanette's protector, her wolf to call. It would have been a hell of a lot simpler.

I didn't push her away when she kissed me, couldn't summon the will to stop her when she took me to the office floor, stripping me bare. Then I was inside her. She set a frantic pace, riding me in a confident, familiar rhythm, raking her nails down my chest, bleeding me. She let out a choked sob when she came. She drank me down, trying to fill the void with her ardeur. I held her to my chest when she cried.

The sex was wrong. We both knew it, and we indulged anyway. Life went on, even after things went to pieces. Our jagged edges would never fit together. But when your heart broke, you clung to anything you could.

Even if it was a lie.

Chapter Text

Little games of protocol are how we exist in the world.

Amir's voice, his face, and the forbidding expressions on it came back to haunt me at odd moments. It had been months, but some part of me refused to believe that he was truly gone, his essence scattered to the four winds, and his body nothing but brittle bones in the smoking remains of Los Duendos. I expected him to appear suddenly around a corner or forcefully shove his way into my dreams. The still silence was ominous, not welcome.

I had a new Master, an elusive, unknown quantity that I couldn't measure. She held herself in reserve, and that was part of the problem. How could I accept that Amir was gone until I knew what she expected of me? She cut my ties to Amir and then let me go in every metaphysical sense possible. I couldn't lurk near her, for fear of alerting my former allies of my continuing existence, and secondhand reports from paid informants could only tell me so much about her. I didn't know her in minute detail. I didn't know how she moved, or the way she thought. I couldn't anticipate her moods, or when punishment was coming. I was a boat left to drift on uncertain seas, and whether I liked it or not, I needed direction.

What I was about to attempt went against every tactic I'd ever been taught. The best way to win a battle is to avoid it altogether. Stealth, observation, surgical strikes, or long-range attacks were my bread and butter. Allowing her at arm's length, even if it was only in a psychic sense, opened up so many possible avenues of attack. I could live to regret this. But the maddening silence was more dangerous to me in the long run.

So I set the stage and hunkered down on the lowest seat in the stands and waited.

She appeared a few minutes later, strolling down the carnival midway with an unconscious sort of grace. The Circus of the Damned was only set dressing, and it seemed cavernous without any bustling crowds to fill the space. I'd visited a few times undercover, just to get the lay of the land. I could have gone to the trouble of adding them to the mental landscape but saved myself the effort. If it came to a fight, I needed every ounce of willpower I could bring to bear against her. I wouldn't waste it on a construct of a child eating cotton candy.

I watched her out of the corner of one eye. I knew her appearance from days of study, knew every statistic that the world had ever bothered to compile about her in their laughably abbreviated time of knowing her. Jeanette Davenay was objectively beautiful. Dark, glossy hair that fell in curls down her back. A slender, waifish appearance brought on by starvation shortly before she'd been turned. Deep blue eyes that reminded me of a sea at night.

But the real Jeanette couldn't be confined to two dimensions. A picture couldn't capture the drowning depths of the eyes, the subtle, almost amused slant of the mouth. It couldn't hope to convey the lazy sensuality she exuded, even at rest. It was an unconscious thing, groomed into her by Belle over centuries, and it both intrigued and repelled me.

Jeanette came to a stop a few feet away from me, her pale skirts swishing around her slender calves as she did. I slid from my seat, head bowed, hands on my thighs, kneeling at her feet. Depending on his mood, Amir might have made me crawl the remaining space between us on my belly and then chastised me for the layer of dirt on my front. She didn't comment on my posture or the distance. She just...sighed.

"You can stand, Yiyú. I have never demanded high protocol, even at formal events, let alone in my home or the privacy of my own head."

I didn't move. It could be a trick. Nothing I'd heard or observed about her indicated she was cruel, but she was a vampire. More than that, she had been a player in Belle's court for centuries. You didn't survive an environment like that without having a certain willingness to trample others. I had the nasty feeling that if I moved from my crouch, one of her dainty heels would find my ribs or snap up to leave a stripe across my jaw.

"Do you prefer Yiyú or Jade?" she asked after a moment. "There wasn't time to ask when we met last."

At least it wasn't 'bitch.' Amir had a slew of names he liked to call me, almost none of them my real name. He didn't care for it. He'd changed my title over the years and languages shifted and new civilizations rose. My cover names were always some kind of jewel or precious metal. Something valuable to be stolen and hidden away from others. Jade was the most recent, and the closest I'd come to having my true name back. Anita used it almost exclusively, and it rarely bothered me to hear it fall from her lips. She was young, a product of this stubborn, idealistic society that so rarely thought before it leaped into conflict. I didn't hold the thoughtlessness against her.

"Yiyú," I said. My voice sounded very loud in the stillness of the Circus.

"Please stand, Yiyú," she said gently.

I tried, but couldn't force my legs to move. Something would happen if I unfolded from my position. It might not be a blow, but it would earn me punishment at some point, I just knew it. Vampires were capricious. Even Magda had to fear Giacomo at times, though theirs was perhaps the least tempestuous partnership I'd ever seen.

Another sigh. Jeanette's skirts swished in my periphery and then settled on the ground, bunching around her knees when she knelt in the dirt. A soft, cool hand cupped my chin and drew my face up. Her fingers didn't curl around my chin with bruising force, and her nails didn't draw bloody crescents into my skin. That was usually my only warning before Amir would take me to his bed. He'd bloody my face, licking the stuff away as foreplay before he'd violate me yet again. I cringed at the memory, and she let the hand fall away.

"You're supposed to stand," I whispered.

"If we were adhering to high protocol, perhaps," she agreed. "But it's just a dream. There's no audience to play to, ma chaton. Don't stand on ceremony on my account."

Ma chaton. It meant kitten. That, more than anything, let me ease out of my stiff posture. Anita called me that in private moments. We'd only gone on one official date. Every other encounter was a stolen moment of thought or a snippet of dreams eked out underneath Amir's nose. I'd have preferred to be her tiger to call, rather than be leashed by another vampire, but anything was an improvement from my former circumstances.

"Why?" I asked, unable to stand the taut silence that stretched between us.

She tilted her head to one side, her curls cascading over one shoulder in a way that seemed too artful to be an accident. It drew the eye to the slender curve of her neck and the prominent line of her collarbone that showed through the gauzy material of the blouse. It wasn't sheer enough to be considered indecent, but it gave the imagination a lot to play with, even so.

"Why what?"

"Why haven't you come until now? Why stay away?"

She blinked slowly, her full lips twisting down in bemusement. "I assumed you'd prefer it that way. I know I craved solitude when I was finally allowed enough freedom to seek it. It wasn't instantaneous, even after Nikolaos was deposed. There were many factions to appease, and only one currency they'd accept. I've been trying to give you and Anita what I lacked."

I weighed the words and examined them from every angle, trying to sift a lie from her expression, her inflection, her posture. I couldn't find it. Either she was a consummate actor, capable of hoodwinking someone raised in the art of deception, or she was being honest. I wasn't sure which possibility scared me more.

"I'm not used to silence. It makes me think you're plotting something."

Jeanette laughed, a pealing sound that made me jump. Amir was a humorless son of a bitch, too self-important to have much to do with other people, let alone to enjoy someone's company enough to laugh with them. The laughter was warm and reassuring, as if I'd had a bracing drink moments before.

"Always," she said with an impish smile. "But not against my allies. I know you're not in a mental state to hear it and won't believe my words, but you truly have nothing to fear from me."

She was right. I didn't believe her. A wry smile twisted her mouth when she spied the incredulity on my face. I didn't bother to hide it here. I'd already dared to question her, so what good would hiding it do me now?

Jeanette tugged her lower lip between her teeth, considering something. A brief spark of desire fizzled in my belly before going out. Yes, she was beautiful, but I still didn't want her to touch me. Her aura was too cold, too reminiscent of his to keep the revulsion at bay. It would be a long time before I could stand to lie with the dead again. Anita's dreams were the closest I'd come, barring the use of force.

"If you don't believe my sincerity, then ask yourself a question. Do you believe that I love Anita?"

"In so much as a vampire can love anyone, yes," I said, bracing for the blow that the answer deserved.

Jeanette didn't lunge across the space between us to deliver the stinging slap. I backed up, regardless, putting the metal stands at my back. She tracked the moment, the lines around her eyes tightening a fraction before she settled herself.

"If you accept that I love her, then you should know that I would never intentionally hurt her. She cares for you, Yiyú. I believe she may even love you. Do you think she'd ever forgive me if I hurt you? If I could even manage it. You set an impressive precedent with your last master. You arranged for his execution while still held under his thrall. I doubt I'd fare better if you believed I'd outlived my usefulness."

No. Anita wouldn't allow it. She was still slower and less skilled than she needed to be to defeat my brothers and sisters in the Harlequin, but she made up for it in resourcefulness and sheer, suicidal stubbornness. Something would have to be done about it before she faced Magda again. I knew her well enough to know she wouldn't settle for an incendiary device or a well-placed bullet. Magda's fury would be delivered personally. I had time to train Anita to handle her before the inevitable confrontation.

"As if another Master would have the skill to take me from you. If you die, I die."

She quirked a brow. "And I think I know you well enough to know that's a sacrifice you'd be willing to make if you were certain Anita would outlive us both."

Right again. It was eerie how well she could read me, even with shields in place to guard my innermost thoughts. Amir ripped them from my head if he cared to know my thoughts on a matter. Often, he didn't even consult me.

"I don't know how you're doing that, but I'm warning you to stay out of my thoughts," I said.

"I don't have to read your thoughts. I know them. I've been you. Nothing feels safe until you know the rules that govern the game, and even so, it's a shaky sense of safety, at best. They always change the rules. It was a favorite trick of Belle's. I lost count of the times I was made entertainment for the court."

"What are your rules, then?"

"Do what I can't. Keep her safe. Make her happy. That's all I need from you, Yiyú."

She stood, brushing herself off. Illusionary dirt slid from her skirt as she turned her back to me. It would be easy to leap on her, take her to the ground, and rake at her metaphysically. I couldn't kill her, but I could hurt her, frighten her enough that she wouldn't raise a hand to me in the future. I was older. Better trained.

I didn't. I watched her walk away, hips swaying in a mesmerizing rhythm. She cast one last look over her shoulder at me.

"Anita," she began in a firm, warning tone. "Is all that matters. Hurt her and I will have a problem with you."

"Likewise."

Her lips curled into the ghostly possibility of a smile. She inclined her head just a fraction in acknowledgment.

"At least we understand each other. Until next time, Yiyú."

Chapter Text

"How old were you when it happened?" I asked, watching Anita's face carefully. I was asking a personal question, I knew. Perhaps something almost as sacred as virginity in the cultural sense. "The first time you saw one?"

Anita was silent for a few seconds, watching a white-haired septuagenarian shuffle past, holding the hand of a cherub-cheeked grandchild. She shot us a reproving look, probably reading a sexual overtone to the question. With the furtive tone to the question, it was a fair inference. Her full mouth quirked into an amused grin as she watched the grandmother stalk past, chest puffed in indignation. Such things shouldn't be discussed over pancakes in an IHOP.

Anita had dragged me to breakfast. She'd been too busy to interact with me much beyond work. The preparations for the visit to Belle Morte were occupying everyone's time and attention. She just wanted a calm morning before she turned in to sleep. The chaos could wait just a few hours longer. I was the one making things awkward with heavy questions about death.

"A dead human body, you mean?" she said in an undertone, still tracking the grandmother's progress. She didn't take her eyes off the woman until she'd rounded a corner and disappeared out of sight.

She did that often, scanning the room every few minutes out of habit. She also chose vantage points that would give her the widest view of the room. She reminded me of a lioness, muscles always poised, even when she appeared at rest. She was ready for violence at a moment's notice. She even slept defensively, from what I'd observed.

"Yes," I said, regretting the transgressive question almost as soon as it had left my lips. People in polite society didn't discuss the dead. Even the so-called Death Industry we participated in shied away from the reality of what it had commercialized. Death was something private, something clinical and detached. You didn't drag it out to be dissected in public.

Anita chewed her lip in thought. For a moment I thought she'd refuse to answer. Death touched us all, but it had groped Anita a few too many times on the bus.

"It was a great-aunt on my dad's side. She died in her sleep. I was seven, I think. I remember it happened before my mother's death."

She paused, face blanching white with the intensity of what she was trying to hide.

"We don't have to-"

"No. I said I wanted to hang out. Friends talk."

A small warmth blossomed in my chest. Friends. Until recently, I didn't have many of those. Life before Saint Louis had been rich with experiences, but I hadn't felt truly alive until I'd settled here.

Anita took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about going back to school. I'd really like to do some research into the childhood indicators for psychic ability. We know it has a neural connection somewhere. If we could screen for it, kids wouldn't end up traumatized when they raised their first zombie or read their first mind as a teenager."

I raised an eyebrow. "A diagnostic manual, like the DSM5?"

She waved a hand in a so-so motion. "Maybe at some point. Right now I think guidelines would help make the whole thing less opaque. You'd have a checklist of normal behaviors versus abnormal behaviors that could indicate your child is likely to have abilities. We could figure out the co-morbidities that are most likely to happen. Do you know how much less shitty my childhood would have been if my dad had known to get me on anti-depressants earlier?"

"A percentile less shitty?" I guessed.

She tipped an imaginary hat to me. "Yes. I'd have taken an even a ten percent decrease."

"That sounds like an amazing idea," I said. "Now that you've abdicated your position with law enforcement, are you planning to find work teaching or...?"

She shook her head. "Oh, hell no. I want to spend summers with Richard studying lake monsters. Travel to France with Jeanette and scale the Alps in search of Barbegazi. Pursue the graduate degree in cryptozoology that I put off after-"

Anita winced and half-turned away. After her fiance had died. Death was a relentless, omnipresent force.

"And your great-aunt's funeral somehow relates to the research you want to pursue?" I prompted her gently.

Anita relaxed back into her near-vigilant state and let her gaze flick calmly around the room again, dismissing the hurt as though it had never been. I marveled at her ability to compartmentalize. Every strong emotion I had ballooned like a mushroom cloud until I could no longer contain it, becoming everyone else's problem until my brain could reboot.

"There's a universal compulsion to be near the dead in animators. We can't help it. But just because the behavior is compulsory, it doesn't make it socially acceptable. My dad was embarrassed that I couldn't stop fiddling with Great-Aunt Sheryln's body. I think he thought I was trying to take the ring off her finger. I just wanted to feel what the hands were like. She looked like a wax figure, not a person."

Embalmed, then. My first hadn't been. I'd been five and I'd been Christmas shopping with mom and Rory. No one smelled the unnamed homeless man under the layer of garbage and snow. No one but me. I didn't remember consciously turning into an alley and pacing halfway toward a dumpster. I just remembered pawing through the snow, certain that I had to get to whatever was at the bottom of the pile of trash. It was vitally important that I do so. It would be another few years before I began raising animals, and almost another decade before I raised my first true corpse, but the signs had been there from the very beginning.

"I didn't know the first one," I admitted quietly. "I think he died of exposure. I couldn't even tell if he was young or old. The cold helped preserve him, somewhat, but parts were missing. I think he'd been down there for a while."

I still remembered the look on my mother's face when she found out that I'd kept the blackened, frostbitten hand I'd found near the dumpster. I felt the irresistible impulse to pocket it and take it home. It had thawed after a day or so, and putrefaction could finally claim its long-denied satisfaction. Even then, my parents hadn't immediately suspected that I was the one responsible for the stench that pervaded the house. They'd put it down to a dead rat in the walls, or my brother misplacing his lunchbox with leftovers inside. By the time they discovered what the gelatinous substance leaking from my drawer was, the house was awash with blowflies. Don't ask me how they'd gotten in. Death always finds a way.

A project like Anita's might have made my childhood a percentile less shitty as well.

"How did it affect you? Seeing her like that?"

I'd met many animators, but no two had exactly the same view of death. Some were surprisingly squeamish, despite being able to call shambling dead from the ground with a thought. Mortality was scary. It wasn't a wonder we spent over a quarter of our lives thoroughly convincing ourselves it was a lie.

Anita sipped her coffee thoughtfully, watching a toddler leaning over his mother to grab the menu and his crayons. I was a necromancer in a situationship with a centuries-old Crusader turned Master Vampire. I rarely saw sunlight, let alone had breakfast. Were there always this many children at restaurants like this in the early A.M.?

"I think you know. You did it too."

"I did?"

She sighed and set the mug down, motioning for me to follow the train of thought. The circles beneath her eyes looked to be a more vibrant purple than usual. Not all villains stayed neatly in their graves when the nightmares came. I wondered what monster had been lunging out of the darkened corners of her subconscious to steal away her precious few hours of sleep.

"We work in different fields, but we both practice the scientific method, in a way. We naively thought we could put our own mortality under the scope and figure out a way to escape what was coming. We're as arrogant as any philosopher. There has to be a unifying theory of death, and surely I'll be the one to crack the age-old question."

I ducked my head, unsure of whether to nod guiltily or try to defend myself. I settled for nibbling on the chocolate chip pancake on the end of my fork.

"I mean, technically we did find the answer."

Anita snorted. "No, we didn't. Immortality doesn't keep you from dying a horrible death. It's about the possible duration of unlife, not a guarantee of invulnerability. Just because we can live for millennia, doesn't mean that we will."

I smiled grimly. Who knew that the cloak of a being so powerful could be so thin? Warrick was probably one of the most gifted psychics I'd ever met. It wouldn't shock me if he could spawn his own line of pyrokinetic rotters if he felt so led. He wouldn't. He already viewed himself as something unworthy. He wouldn't pass what he viewed as a curse onto others.

"I learned as much as I could. Tried to apply logic or reason to it. Knowing what the body does when it dies made it worse, for a while. I couldn't stop picturing my mother's skin molding and clinging like shrink wrap. The purges, the smells, the vermin and water that would find their way into the casket, no matter how tightly it was sealed. Learning about dying isn't the real test. It's what you do with that knowledge that matters. My family swept it under the rug, so I did too. Asking only made people angry with me, and I was a lonely kid. It didn't really help me socialize, but it did cut down on people's complaints to the cops."

I swallowed a bite of pancake thickly. It tasted like glue going down. Anita didn't talk about her childhood often, and when she did, I understood why. The window into the past was dusted with pain and neglect. My childhood had been colorful but never shaded with constant trauma or fear. I'd grown up in a relatively progressive East Coast family and attended a private school. I'd been teased more for my autism than my ability to raise the dead. Growing up someplace where cows outnumbered people must have been a truly isolating experience.

"I kept a hand," I admitted.

She raised an eyebrow, and the severity of her unhappy frown eased. "What?"

"The homeless man. I kept his hand. I ended up in therapy because I left it in a locked desk drawer so I could observe what it did. I'm not sure what my childish line of thinking was, but I stole it. I was technically a criminal at age five. Disturbance of a corpse is punishable by a fine. I had court-ordered therapy instead. I think my more Dhamer-like qualities weren't as threatening on a five-year-old."

The confession brought stinging heat to my cheeks, but it did what I'd been hoping for. She stared at me for a moment, bug-eyed, and then burst out laughing. The sound was loud in the early morning atmosphere of the IHOP, but she didn't seem to care. She laughed. And laughed. And laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. I was feeling a little put out when she finally wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

"Oh, that's beautiful. It's like a palate-swapped Addams Family sketch. A hand in a drawer." She sobered a moment later and reached for her mug before seeming to think better of it. "You're better at it than you think you are."

"Hiding body parts?" I asked.

"Being brave. We're all in a fistfight with our mortality, but you actually came to terms with yours early. You ran after it. Learned everything you could about it. How many countries did you visit while you were going to college? How many of their culture's death rituals did you investigate for your doctorate thesis?"

"Twenty-five. I wanted to do more, but my commitment to the World History Institute kept me chained to a schedule. I wanted to write books as I traveled. That didn't happen either."

"But it could," she said, leaning forward on her elbows. There was a keen light in her eyes that made me instantly suspicious. I knew her well enough now to read her more obvious moods. This had been the real reason for the breakfast invitation.

"I don't follow."

"You could travel. I have a...friend who is gallivanting across Asia right now looking for historical clues about Marmee Noir. She's good at what she does, but I think she could benefit from someone who's more informed about the pantheons she's trying to free. It's necessary work. Marmee will find them if we don't. Teyacapan and my..." She pulled a face. "My grandmother control the Obsidian Foundation now. I'm sure they'd be a big help in bankrolling the expedition."

It took me a second to understand what she meant, and then to try to figure out how seriously to take it. "Are you asking me to become a tomb raider?"

"Well, I personally rather call you Indie. A whip sounds a lot less dangerous in your hands than a pair of pistols. And who knows? Warrick might be into it. Catholics can be into some really kinky shit. I'm firmly convinced that religion is the reason I have a spanking kink."

The comment stoked the heat in my cheeks back to life. She laughed at the ineffectual glower I aimed her way.

"It's like an erotica: Dr. Hale will see you now."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Are you done?"

She smiled impishly and mimed locking her lips. It was an improvement over her dour mood, I supposed. I squinted suspiciously.

"This isn't your way of trying to stuff me in a box, right?"

"As if you couldn't find your way out of it if I did. You went behind my back to become Warrick's servant. And I know that big softie can't deny you anything you want. No, I am not trying to handle you with kids' gloves. Honestly, it might be even more dangerous and scary than the part I have to play. I'm asking you to go because it's the best division of labor. Are you down?"

"Yes. But Bert won't be happy when I buy out my contract early."

She rolled her eyes. "When is he ever happy?"

"When he's reviewing his bank statements," I said.

"Want me to be there when you hit him in his special place?"

"So you can enjoy the schadenfreude?"

"I mean if anyone deserves it, it's Bert."

I sighed and took another bite of pancake. "Unfortunately, I think you have a point."