[Anita Blake Collection] - Strange Candy (25 page)

His hand moved from my collar to my neck, fingers gliding underneath my hair until he cupped the back of my neck, his thumb resting on top of the big pulse in my neck. The weight of his hand on my skin was almost more than I could take, as if I could sink into him through that one hand.

“I have missed you,
ma petite
.” His voice was low and caressing this time, gliding over my skin, bringing my breath in a shaking line.

I'd missed him, but I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud. What I could do was raise up on tiptoe, steadying myself with a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat against the palm of my hand. He'd fed on someone, or he wouldn't have had a heartbeat, some willing donor, and even that thought wasn't enough to stop me from leaning my face back, offering my lips to him.

His lips brushed mine, the softest of caresses. I drew back from the kiss, my hands sliding over the satin of his shirt, feeling the firmness of him underneath. I did what I'd wanted to do since I saw him tonight. I passed my fingers over the bare skin of his shoulders, so smooth, so soft, so firm. I rolled my hands behind his shoulders, and the movement let our bodies fall together, lightly.

His hands found my waist, slid behind my back, pressed me against him, not lightly, hard, hard enough that I could feel him even through the satin of his pants, the cloth of my skirt, the lace of my panties. I could feel him pressed so tight and ready that I had to close my eyes, hide my face against his chest. I tried to keep my feet flat to the floor, to move away from him, just a little, just enough to think again, but his hands kept me pinned to his body. I opened my eyes then, ready to tell him to let me the hell go, but I looked up and his face was so close, his lips half parted, that no words came.

I kissed those half-parted lips almost as gently as he'd kissed me. His hands tightened at my back, my waist, pressing us tighter against each other, so tight, so close. My breath came out in a long sigh, and he kissed me. His mouth closing over mine, my body sinking against his, my mouth opening for his lips, his tongue, everything. I ran my tongue between the delicate tips of his fangs. There was an art to French-kissing a vampire, and I hadn't lost it; I didn't pierce myself on those dainty points.

Without breaking the kiss, he bent and wrapped his arms around my upper thighs, lifted me, carried me effortlessly to the desk. He didn't lay me on it, which is what I half-expected. He turned and sat down on the desk, sliding my legs to either side, so that he was suddenly pressed between my
legs with only two pieces of cloth between us. He lay back on the desk, and I rode him, rubbing our bodies together through the satin of his pants and my panties.

His hands rubbed up my leg, tracing my thigh, until his fingers found the top lace of the thigh-high hose. I pressed myself into him hard enough for his body to arch, spasming our bodies together. And there was a knock on the door. We both froze, then Jean-Claude said, “We are not to be disturbed!”

A voice I didn't recognize said, “I am sorry, master, but Malcolm is here. He insists that it is urgent.”

Evidently Jean-Claude did know the voice, because he closed his eyes and cursed softly under his breath in French. “What does he want?”

I slid off Jean-Claude, leaving him lying on his desk, with his legs dangling over the end.

Malcolm's smooth voice came next. “I have a present for Ms. Blake.”

I checked my clothing to make sure it was presentable; strangely it was. Jean-Claude sat up, but stayed on the edge of his desk. “Enter.”

The door opened and the tall, blond, dark-suited figure of Malcolm walked through. He always dressed like he was a television preacher, conservative, immaculate, expensive. Compared to Jean-Claude he always looked ordinary, but then so did most everyone. Still, there was a presence to Malcolm, a calm, soothing power that filled every room around him. He was a master vampire and his power was a thrumming weight against my skin. He tried to pass for human, and I'd always wondered if the level of power he gave off was his version of toned down, and if this was the toned-down version, then what must his power truly be like?

“Ms. Blake, Jean-Claude.” He gave a small bow of his head, then moved from the door and two vampires in the dark suits and white shirts of his deacons came through carrying a chained vampire between them. He had short blond hair and blood drying on his mouth, as if they'd chained him before he'd had time to clean himself.

“This is Bill Stucker; the girl, I am sorry to say, passed over.”

“She's one of you, then,” I said.

Malcolm nodded. “This one tried to run, but I gave you my word that he would be punished by your law if she died.”

“You could have just dropped him off at the police station,” I said.

His eyes flicked to Jean-Claude, to me, to my leather coat forgotten on the floor. “I am sorry to interrupt your evening, but I thought it would come better if the Executioner delivered the vampire to the police rather than us. I think the reporters will listen to you when you say we did not condone this, and you are honorable enough to tell the truth.”

“Are you saying the rest of the police aren't?”

“I am saying that many of our law enforcement are distrustful of us and would be only too happy to see us lose our status as citizens.”

I'd have liked to argue, but I couldn't. “I'll drop him off for you and I'll make sure the press knows you delivered him.”

“Thank you, Ms. Blake.” He looked at Jean-Claude. “Again, my apologies. I was told that the two of you were no longer dating.”

“We aren't dating,” I said, a little too quickly.

He shrugged. “Of course.” He looked back at Jean-Claude and gave a smile that said more than anything that they didn't quite like each other. He liked interrupting Jean-Claude's evening. They were two very different kinds of vampire, and neither really approved completely of the other.

Malcolm stepped over the struggling, gagged form of the other vampire and went out the door with his deacons. None of them even looked back at the vampire chained on the floor.

There were a flock of waiters and waitresses in their skimpy uniforms huddled in the doorway. “Take this vampire and load him in
ma petite
's car.”

He looked at me, and I got my keys out of the leather coat and tossed it to one of the vampires. One of the women picked the chained vamp off the floor and tossed him over her shoulder like he weighed nothing. They closed the door behind them without being told.

I picked my coat off the floor. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do.” His voice held just a little bit of anger. “You have
let your desire for me out and now you must cage it again, hide it away, be ashamed of it.”

I started to be angry, but I looked at him sitting there, head down, hands limp in his lap, as dejected as I'd seen him in a while, and I wasn't angry. He was right, that was exactly how I treated him. I stayed where I was, the coat over one arm.

“I have to take him down to the police station and make sure the press gets the truth, not something that will make the vampires look worse than they already do in all this.”

He nodded without looking up.

If he'd been his usual arrogant self, I could have left him like that, but he was letting his pain show, and that I couldn't just walk away from. “Let's try an olive branch,” I said.

He looked up at that, frowning. “Olive branch?”

“White flag?” I said.

He smiled then. “A truce.” He laughed, and it danced over my skin. “I did not know we were at war.”

That hit a little too close to home. “Are you going to let me say something nice, or not?”

“By all means,
ma petite
, far be it from me to interrupt your gentler urges.”

“I am trying to ask you out on a date.”

The smile widened, his eyes filling with such instant pleasure that it made me look away, because it made me want to smile back at him. “It must have been a very long time since you asked a man out; you seem to be out of practice.”

I put on my coat. “Fine, be a smart alec. See where it gets you.”

I was almost to the door when he said, “Not a war,
ma petite
, but a siege, and this poor soldier is feeling very left out in the cold.”

I stopped and turned around. He was still sitting on the desk trying to look harmless, I think. He was many things: handsome, seductive, intelligent, cruel, but not harmless, not to body, mind, or soul.

“Tomorrow night, pick a restaurant.” One of the side effects of being his human servant was that he could taste food through me. It was the first time he'd been able to taste food in centuries. It was a minor power to share, but he adored it, and I adored watching him enjoying his first bite of steak in four hundred years.

“I will make reservations,” he said, voice careful again, as if he were afraid I'd change my mind.

Looking at him, sitting on his desk all in red and black and satin and leather, I didn't want to change my mind. I wanted to sit across the table from him. I wanted to drive him home and go inside and see what color of sheets he had on that big bed of his.

It wasn't just the sex; I wanted someone to hold me. I wanted someplace safe, someplace to be myself. And like it or hate it, in Jean-Claude's arms I could be perfectly who and what I was. I could have called Richard up and he'd have been just as glad to hear from me, and there would have been as much heat, but Richard and I had some philosophical differences that went beyond his being a werewolf. Richard tried to be a good person, and he thought I killed too easily to be a good person. Jean-Claude had helped teach me the ultimate practicality that had kept me alive, helped me keep others alive. But the thought that Jean-Claude's arms were the closest thing I had to a refuge in this world was a sobering thought. Almost a depressing one.

He slid off the desk in one graceful movement as if his body were pulled by strings. He started to glide toward me, moving like some great cat. Just watching him walk toward me made my chest tight. He grabbed each side of the leather coat and drew me into the circle of his arms. “Would it be pushing the bounds of our truce too far to say that it is hours until dawn?”

My voice came out breathy. “I have to take him to the police and deal with reporters; that will take hours.”

“This time of year dawn comes very late.” He whispered it as he bent to lay his lips against mine.

We kissed, and I drew back enough to whisper, “I'll try to be back before dawn.”

 

IT
was four days before Christmas, an hour before dawn, when I knocked on Jean-Claude's bedroom door underneath the Circus of the Damned, one of his other clubs. His voice called, “Come in,
ma petite.
”

An hour. It wasn't much time, but time is what you make it. I had stopped by the grocery store on the way and picked up some ready-made chocolate icing in one of those flip-top canisters. He could taste the chocolate while I ate it, and if it just happened to be on him while I was eating it, well…The silk sheets on his bed were white, and we laughed while we covered him in chocolate and stained the sheets. But when every inch of him that I wanted was covered in thick, sweet chocolate, the laughter stopped, and other noises began, noises even more precious to me than his laughter. Dawn caught us before he could take a bath and clean himself of the sticky sweetness. I left him in a pile of chocolate-smeared white silk sheets, his body still warm to the touch, but his heart no longer beating. Dawn had found him and stolen his life away, and lifeless he would remain for hours; then he would wake, and he would be “alive” again. He truly was a corpse. I knew that. But he had the sweetest skin I'd ever tasted, candy-covered or plain. He had no pulse, no breath, no movement, dead. It should have made a difference, and it did. I think the siege, as he called it, would have been over long ago if he'd been alive, or maybe not. Being a vampire was too large a part of who Jean-Claude was for me to separate them out. It did make a difference, but I laid one last icing-coated kiss on his forehead, and went home. We had a date tonight, and with the feel of his body still clinging to mine, I could hardly wait.

“A Token for Celandine” copyright © 1989 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Memories and Visions
, ed. Susanna J. Sturgis. Freedom, CA: Crossing Press, 1989.

“A Clean Sweep” copyright © 1995 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Superheroes
, ed. John Varley and Ricia Mainhardt. New York: Ace, 1995.

“The Curse-Maker” copyright © 1991 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Dragon Magazine
#165, January 1991.

“Geese” copyright © 1995 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Sword and Sorceress
#8, ed. Marion Zimmer Bradley. New York: DAW, 1991.

“House of Wizards” copyright © 1989 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Marion Zimmer Bradley Fantasy Magazine
, Spring 1989.

“Winterkill” copyright © 1990 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Sword and Sorceress
#7, ed. Marion Zimmer Bradley. New York: DAW, 1990.

“Stealing Souls” copyright © 1989 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Spells of Wonder
, ed. Marion Zimmer Bradley. New York: DAW, 1989.

“The Girl Who Was Infatuated with Death” copyright © 2005 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Originally published in
Bite.
New York: Jove, 2005.