Anita Blake 24 - Dead Ice (9 page)

I smiled, and knew it was my unpleasant smile, the one that said I could do really awful things and never stop smiling. It wasn’t voluntary, and it always unnerved people for some reason. “Look into my eyes, Melchior.”

He gave a little chuckle. “That’s our line, surely.”

I felt my necromancy open like a fist too long closed. The power marched across my skin in a wave of goose bumps and hit Irene’s skin where we touched.

“What is that?” He looked again at Jean-Claude. “Is that you, my lord?”

Jean-Claude shook his head and smiled.

Those brown eyes turned back to me. I was still holding Irene’s body in my arms as if she weighed nothing, and she couldn’t have been much over a hundred pounds. Her body was fragile, as if too many of her bones were too close to the surface, and again I thought she’d spent too much of her human life near starvation. It left its mark on you, and that thought wasn’t mine, nor were the memories that went with it. Jean-Claude had been born poor, and he had memories of going to bed hungry, of listening to his sister’s cry from lack of food.

“It is you, my lord, I see your eyes in her face,” and the voice was happy again, satisfied.

I closed my eyes and called my power, chasing back Jean-Claude’s memories. When I opened my eyes again, Irene was afraid of whatever she saw there. “Your eyes . . . they are cognac diamonds in the sun, so bright . . .” I knew it was my eyes as if I’d been my own vampire. I’d seen it happen before by accident, but lately I’d been able to do it when I wanted to do it.

“Go away, Melchior; leave Irene free to answer a question for me.”

“What question?” He still sounded arrogant, even with fear in the edges of her eyes.

“I will ask her if she wishes to be free of you. Free to find a lover that you won’t kill if he interferes with her work. Free to have a life outside your workrooms.”

“She is my human servant; only death will free us of each other.”

“Irene has met our Black Jade; her master is still alive, but his tiger to call now answers to me.” I whispered it into her face from inches away, as if I meant to kiss her.

She swallowed hard, and I could see her pulse beating against the side of her thin neck like a trapped bird in a net. One of them was afraid of me.

“Only the Mother of All Darkness was able to break such bonds.” But his voice didn’t sound so sure of itself now.

“And who killed her, Melchior?”

“Jean-Claude did.”

I smiled a little wider, and it was still unpleasant. I held Irene a little closer to me, straightening up, so I wasn’t having to bend my back at quite the odd angle. “And what weapon did he use to kill the night herself?”

He stared at me, the fear spilling through more of those brown eyes. “You,” he whispered.

“If Irene wishes to be free of you, we can make that happen.”

“It is forbidden,” he said.

“I don’t like slavery. I think it’s so 1800. If I think that Irene is just a slave for you, then I’ll see that as breaking the law, Melchior.”

“Breaking what law?” he asked, and started trying to push Irene’s thin hands against my chest. He couldn’t use her hands right, as if even now he couldn’t really feel her body. When Jean-Claude and I shared like this we got every sensation, but then we never did the whole puppet thing; maybe that’s what made the difference. We shared emotions, and physical sensations, not this possession.

“Slavery has been illegal here since 1865,” I said.

“That is human law, not vampire law.”

“But we are now subject to human law, Melchior,” Jean-Claude said.

The vampire pushed at me clumsily with Irene’s hands. “This is not what the new laws mean. It is one of our greatest taboos to interfere with another master’s human servant.”

“I had not thought of servants as slaves before, but you see, that is one of Anita’s gifts, to see things from the point of an officer of the law. If she says that you are treating Irene as a slave, and it’s illegal, then I’m sure a case could be made for it.”

“You would not dare,” he said, pushing at me like some girl in a horror movie who’d been told to struggle, but not too much.

“Do you love Irene?” Jean-Claude asked.

“What?”

“You heard him; do you love her?”

“I . . . I love her art. I love her creations.”

“Do you love her?” Jean-Claude and I asked at the same time.

Those brown eyes stared up into my brown eyes, but mine burned brighter. Her face went a little slack. “I love the way her eyes glitter as she looks at the jewels and metal, and begins to create in her head. I love her long, thin fingers, so delicate when she sets the jewels in my metal. I love that I can begin engraving a line and she can finish it with a flourish or two that I didn’t see. I love that she adds to my vision, and she still loves watching me work in metal, even as she aids me.”

“You love her,” I said, softly.

He looked puzzled, and then slowly, as if each word were drawn against his will, he said, “I think I . . . I think . . . I do. I don’t know what I would do without her at my side. I would be lost without her quick fingers and her bright eyes. Her smile is the first to greet me at night and the last I see as dawn comes. I did not realize that she was so important to me.”

“You love Irene,” Jean-Claude said.

Irene’s face didn’t turn toward him this time, but continued to stare up into mine. “I love her, don’t I?”

“Yes,” I said, “you love Irene.”

“I love Irene,” he said.

“You love Irene.”

“I love Irene,” he repeated.

“Put her back on her feet,
ma petite
.”

I put Irene’s body solidly upright, hands still steadying her. The face turned to Jean-Claude. “You have bewitched me, Jean-Claude.”

“
Non, mon ami
, we have shown you the truth.”

“Are you saying I loved Irene before this?”

“I suspect it was love that made you want to make her your human servant in the first place,
mon ami
.”

He shook Irene’s head as if a fly were buzzing in his ear. “I am not certain that is true.”

“We felt her need, and we looked into your heart, Melchior, and found an answering need.”

“I didn’t need to love her.”

“No, you already did,” I said.

“I am not certain . . . I mean . . .” He turned and looked at me with Irene’s face. He looked confused.

“You love Irene, and you can’t wait to tell her that,” I said.

He frowned at me. “I . . . tell her that.”

“Some of the most glorious art in the world has been created because of love, Melchior; think what you and Irene may create with your love and art intertwined,” Jean-Claude said.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, we will craft you such rings, and a crown worthy of our first queen in centuries.”

I wanted to argue that whole queen part, but we were winning, so I kept my mouth shut. “Let Irene be present, Melchior, and we will talk of your creations,” Jean-Claude said.

“No, no, we must begin again. I did not understand love before; my designs are too cold. You need something warmer, hotter, more . . . loved.”

“As you think best, Melchior.”

“My king.” He bowed to Jean-Claude, and then he turned to me. “My queen.” He had never addressed me like that, let alone included me in the bowing.

“Go now, let Irene back,” Jean-Claude said.

“As you wish, my king.” And from one blink to the next Irene was there. It was the weirdest thing, because it was the same body, but you just knew it was her again. The expression, the body language, all of it went back to just Irene.

She smiled at us. “Now, where were we?”

I studied her face, and so did Jean-Claude, and then we looked at each other. I raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember anything from the last few minutes, Irene?”

She smiled at both of us, raising her eyebrows, and gave a little shrug. “I’m assuming my master has been present. I am but his vessel to fill as he sees fit.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

“He has allowed me to live for centuries beyond my mortal span, and to learn more of metal and jewels than I ever dreamt possible. He is my master not just as servant and vampire, but master jeweler. We have traveled the world and the centuries in search of art and beauty, and raw stuff of our craft drawn from the earth itself, or sometimes wicked people.”

“It sounds very adventurous,” Jean-Claude said.

She nodded, happily. “It is, my lord.”

“If he loved you as much as he loves your art, would that not be a glorious thing?”

She lowered her eyes and blushed. “Oh, my lord, you tease me.”

“I think you underestimate your worth to your master, Irene.”

She shook her head.

“Should we tell her?” I asked.

“Tell me what?” she asked, looking up.

“Your master has some new ideas to discuss with you,” Jean-Claude said.

“But I thought we were almost done with the design.”

“He said that he has some new ideas,” I said.

“Something about wanting to capture love in the rings, or something like that,” Jean-Claude said, waving a hand vaguely in the air. He looked harmless and almost foppish, the way he’d hidden his power for centuries among the other vampires. He was just handsome and seductive, nothing else to see, move along, move along.

“Well, I’m sure my master knows best; he is the greatest metal-smith in the world.” She smiled happily and simply began to repack all the jewelry. She never questioned our word, or that her master might simply use her like a puppet and change all their plans. It probably happened often enough, because Melchior had been an “artist” for a few thousand years. It gave you an attitude. I wondered how Irene would feel about his new inspiration.

We waited while she packed and the guards let her out. They’d make sure that her personal guards who had been made to wait in the back were at her side before she took that much bright and shiny outside the Circus. It would suck to have her mugged on the way back to her master now that he loved her.

When we were alone in the room, I turned to Jean-Claude. “Did he really love her all along?”

“I believe so.”

“But you don’t know so.”

“No.”

“Did you make him fall in love with her?”

He gave that Gallic gesture that was almost a shrug, but not quite. “We lifted the veil and allowed him to see the brightest jewel in his collection, that is all.”

“You mean Irene.”

“Oui.”

“And we’re both tired of people discounting me because I’m your human servant.”

“And that,” he said.

“Are you really going to make me wear a tiara for the wedding?”

He smiled like some fallen angel trying to sell you ice cubes in hell. “Well,
ma petite
, it would be churlish of us to strip him bare enough to fall in love and then insult his art.”

I looked at the ceiling, took in a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Fuck, you didn’t tell me we had to wear crowns.”

“You will look lovely,
ma petite
.”

I gave him a narrow look. “If I have to wear one, you have to wear one.”

He gave that almost-shrug again. “Very well.”

I frowned at him, and then a thought made me try to fight not to smile at him, but I finally gave up. “Why do I think the thought of wearing a crown has been a goal of yours for a few centuries?”

He smiled, and then finally grinned wide enough to flash the edge of dainty fangs. “It has been my experience that if you have the responsibility of leadership, you might as well have the jewelry to go with it.”

I laughed and went to him. “I love you, you know that?”

“I do.”

“Are we actually going to say
I do
as part of the vows?”

“Come sit in my lap again and we will discuss it.”

“I think if I sit in your lap again without witnesses, we’ll get distracted.” But I smiled when I said it.

“This meeting has run surprisingly short, and we are left with a hole in our schedule; whatever shall we do with the extra time?” he said, holding his hand out to me.

“Hmm . . . let me think,” I said, walking closer.

He pulled me onto his lap, and my arms were just suddenly around him, as if they were made to fit that way.
“Je t’aime, ma petite.”

“I love you, too, Jean-Claude,” I said, just before I kissed him.

W
E LOVED OURSELVES
out of some of our clothes, but not all. Our jackets had gone first, and then my belt had to go so we could put my gun carefully in a drawer. It was the only thing that couldn’t just be thrown off to land wherever. I’d had a few moments where my gun had gone missing in a pile of clothes, and I had to dig for it when I needed it to protect us—so the gun was carefully placed. Our shirts were in a pile on the floor with the jackets. We only had about an hour until I had to be at a cemetery raising the dead for clients, and Jean-Claude would need to be at Guilty Pleasures lending his voice to the acts onstage. Besides, the leather pants he was wearing were one of those pairs that you had to peel down his body with lots of straps in the way. I’d learned that some clothing was better admired than stripped out of, just as some clothes that looked just as complex had a trick that made them fall off onstage at the appropriate moment. I unfastened the front of those pettable pants, and was fighting to slide my hands inside them, but Jean-Claude caught my hands in his and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“
Ma petite
, I have not fed tonight.”

“I know.”

He smiled. “I know your penchant for going down on men when they are small, and I would stay small for you until you allow me to take blood, but I do not have the patience for it tonight. Our time is too short for that much foreplay.”

I sighed, and looked down at our hands sort of bunched at the top of his pants. “Okay, but I need some foreplay. I’m not really in the mood for a quick-quickie.”

“I would not dream of it,” he said, lifting my hands up, so that I wasn’t trying to fish inside his pants. He laid a light kiss on each of my hands and then a firmer kiss on my mouth. His lips were already scarlet with my lipstick. It was a great color on him, actually.