Bloody Bones (3 page)

He touched my cheek, just his fingertips. I turned my face into his hand, brushing lips against his fingers. So much for
being cool in front of the kiddies. There were a few oohs and nervous laughs.

“I'll be right back, guys.” More oohs, louder laughter, one “Way to go, Mr. Zeeman.” Richard motioned me out the door and I went, hands still in my pockets. Normally, I'd have said I wasn't going to embarrass myself in front of a bunch of eighth-graders, but lately I wasn't entirely trustworthy.

Richard led me a little ways from his classroom into the deserted hallway. He leaned up against the wall of lockers and looked down at me. The little-boy smile was gone. The look in his dark eyes made me shiver. I ran my hand down his tie, smoothing it against his chest.

“Am I allowed to kiss you, or would that scandalize the kiddies?” I didn't look up at him as I asked. I didn't want him to see the raw need in my eyes. It was embarrassing enough that I knew he sensed it. You can't hide lust from a werewolf. They can smell it.

“I'll risk it.” His voice was soft, low, with a warm edge that made my stomach clench.

I felt him bend over me. I raised my face to his. His lips were so soft. I leaned against his body, palms flat against his chest. I could feel his nipples harden under my skin. My hands slid to his waist, smoothing along the cloth of his shirt. I wanted to pull his shirt out of his pants and run my hands over bare skin. I stepped back from him feeling just a little breathless.

It was my idea that we wouldn't have sex before marriage. My idea. But damn, it was hard. The more we dated, the harder it got.

“Jesus, Richard.” I shook my head. “It gets harder, doesn't it?”

Richard's smile didn't look innocent or Boy Scoutish in the least. “Yes, it does.”

Heat rushed up my face. “I didn't mean that.”

“I know what you meant.” His voice was gentle, taking the sting out of the teasing.

My face was still hot with embarrassment, but my voice
was steady. Point for me. “I've got to go out of town on business.”

“Zombie, vampire, or police?”

“Zombie.”

“Good.”

I looked up at him. “Why good?”

“I worry more when you go away on police business, or vampire stakings. You know that.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know that.” We stood there in the hallway, staring at each other. If things had been different, we'd be engaged, maybe planning a wedding. All this sexual tension would have been coming to some kind of conclusion. As it was . . .

“I'm going to be late as it is. I've got to go.”

“Are you going to tell Jean-Claude bye in person?” His face was neutral when he asked, but his eyes weren't.

“It's daylight. He's in his coffin.”

“Ah,” Richard said.

“I didn't have a date planned with him this weekend, so I don't owe him an explanation. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Close enough,” he said. He took a step away from the lockers, bringing our bodies very close together. He bent to kiss me good-bye. Giggles erupted down the hall.

We turned to see most of his class huddled in the doorway gazing at us. Great.

Richard smiled. He raised his voice enough so they'd hear him. “Back inside, you monsters.”

There were catcalls, and one small brunette girl gave me a very dirty look. I think there must have been a lot of girls that had a crush on Mr. Zeeman.

“The natives are restless. I've got to get back.”

I nodded. “I'm hoping to be back by Monday.”

“We'll go hiking next weekend, then.”

“I put Jean-Claude off this weekend. I can't not see him two weeks in a row.”

Richard's face clouded up with the beginnings of anger. “Hike during the day, see the vampire at night. Only fair.”

“I don't like this any better than you do,” I said.

“I wish I believed that.”

“Richard.”

He gave a long sigh. The anger sort of leaked out of him. I never understood how he did that. He could be furious one minute and calm the next. Both emotions seemed genuine. Once I was angry, I was angry. Maybe it's a character flaw?

“I'm sorry, Anita. It's not like you're dating him behind my back.”

“I would never do anything behind your back; you know that.”

He nodded. “I know that.” He glanced back at his classroom. “I've got to go before they set the room on fire.” He walked down the hallway without looking back.

I almost called after him, but I let him go. The mood was sort of spoiled. Nothing like knowing your girlfriend is dating someone else to take the wind out of your sails. I wouldn't have put up with it if it was the other way around. A double standard that, but one we could all three live with. If living was the term for Jean-Claude.

Oh, hell, my personal life was too confusing for words. I walked off down the hall, having to pass by his open classroom door. My high heels made loud, rackety echoes. I didn't try to catch a last glimpse of him. It would make me feel worse about leaving.

It hadn't been my idea to date the Master of the City. Jean-Claude had given me two choices; either he could kill Richard, or I could date both of them. It had seemed a good idea at the time. Five weeks later I wasn't so sure.

It had been my morals that had kept Richard and me from consummating our relationship. Consummating, nice euphemism. But Jean-Claude had made it clear that if I did something with Richard, I had to do it with him too. Jean-Claude was trying to woo me. If Richard could touch me but he couldn't, it wasn't fair. He had a point, I guess. But the thought of having to have sex with the vampire was more likely to keep me chaste than any high ideals.

I couldn't date both of them indefinitely. The sexual tension alone was killing me. I could move. Richard might even let me do that. He wouldn't like it, but if I wanted free
of him, he'd let me go. Jean-Claude, on the other hand . . . He'd never let me go. The question was, did I want him to let me go? Answer: hell, yes. The real trick was how to break free without anybody dying.

Yeah, that was the $64,000 question. Trouble was, I didn't have an answer. We were going to need one sooner or later. And later was getting closer all the time.

3

I
HUDDLED AGAINST
the side of the helicopter, one hand in a death grip on the strap that was bolted to the wall. I wanted to use both hands to hold on, as if by holding very tightly to the stupid strap it would save me when the helicopter plummeted to earth. I used one hand because two hands looked cowardly. I was wearing a headset, sort of like ear protection for the shooting range, but with a microphone so you could talk above the teeth-rattling noise. I hadn't realized that most of a helicopter was clear, like being suspended in a great buzzing, vibrating bubble. I kept my eyes closed as much as possible.

“Are you all right, Ms. Blake?” Lionel Bayard asked.

The voice startled me. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You don't look well.”

“I don't like to fly,” I said.

He gave a weak smile. I don't think I was inspiring confidence in Lionel Bayard, lawyer and flunkie of Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein. Lionel Bayard was a small, neat man with a tiny blond mustache that looked like it was as much facial hair as he would ever get. His triangular jaw was as smooth as my own. Maybe the mustache was glued on. His brown suit with a thin yellow tweed fit his body like a well-tailored glove. His thin tie was brown-and-yellow striped with a gold tie tack. The tie tack was monogrammed. His slender leather briefcase was monogrammed
as well. Everything matched, down to his gold-tasseled loafers.

Larry twisted in his seat. He was sitting beside the pilot. “You're really afraid of flying?” I could see his lips move, but all the sound came out of my headset; without them we'd never have been able to talk over the noise. He sounded amused.

“Yes, Larry, I'm really afraid of flying.” I hoped sarcasm traveled the headsets as clearly as amusement did.

Larry laughed. Evidently, sarcasm traveled. Larry looked freshly scrubbed. He was dressed in his other blue suit, his white shirt—which was one of three he owned—and his second-best tie. His best tie had blood all over it. He was still in college, working weekends for us until he graduated. His short hair was the color of a surprised carrot. He was freckled and about my height, short, with pale blue eyes. He looked like a grown-up Opie.

Bayard was working hard at not frowning at me. The effort showed enough that he shouldn't have bothered. “Are you sure you're up to this assignment?”

I met his brown eyes. “You better hope I am, Mr. Bayard, because I'm all you got.”

“I am aware of your specialized skills, Ms. Blake. I spent the last twelve hours contacting every animating firm in the United States. Phillipa Freestone of the Resurrection Company told me she couldn't do what we wanted, that the only person in the country who might be able to do it was Anita Blake. Élan Vital in New Orleans told us the same thing. They mentioned John Burke but weren't confident that he could do all we wanted. We must have all the dead raised or it's useless to us.”

“Did my boss explain to you that I am not a hundred percent sure that I can do it?”

Bayard blinked at me. “Mr. Vaughn seemed very confident that you could do what we asked.”

“Bert can be as confident as he wants. He doesn't have to raise this mess.”

“I realize the earthmoving equipment has complicated your task, Ms. Blake, but we did not do it deliberately.”

I let that go. I'd seen the pictures. They'd tried to cover it up. If the construction crew hadn't been local with some Bouvier sympathizers, they'd have plowed up the boneyard, poured some concrete, and voilá, no evidence.

“Whatever. I'll do what I can with what you've left me.”

“Would it have been that much easier if you had been brought in before the graves were disturbed?”

“Yeah.”

He sighed. It vibrated through the headphones. “Then my apologies.”

I shrugged. “Unless you did it personally, you're not the one who owes me an apology.”

He shifted a little in his seat. “I did not order the digging. Mr. Stirling is on site.”

“
The
Mr. Stirling?” I asked.

Bayard didn't seem to get the humor. “Yes, that Mr. Stirling.” Or maybe he really expected me to know the name.

“You always have a senior partner looking over your shoulder?”

He used one finger to adjust his gold-framed glasses. It looked like an old gesture from a time before new glasses and designer suits. “With this much money at stake, Mr. Stirling thought he should be in the area in case there were more problems.”

“More problems?” I asked.

He blinked at me rapidly, like a well-groomed rabbit. “The Bouvier matter.”

He was lying. “What else is going wrong with your little project?”

“Whatever do you mean, Ms. Blake?” His manicured fingers smoothed down his tie.

“You've had more problems than just the Bouviers.” I made it a statement.

“Any problems we may or may not be having, Ms. Blake, are not your concern. We hired you to raise the dead and establish the identity of said deceased persons. Beyond that, you have no duties here.”

“Have you ever raised a zombie, Mr. Bayard?”

He blinked again. “Of course not.” He sounded offended.

“Then how do you know the other problems won't affect my job?”

Small frown lines formed between his eyebrows. He was a lawyer and was earning a good living, but thinking seemed to be hard for him. Made you wonder where he'd graduated from.

“I don't see how our little difficulties could affect your job.”

“You've just admitted you don't know anything about my job,” I said. “How do you know what will affect it and what won't?” Alright, I was fishing. Bayard was probably right. The other problems probably wouldn't affect me, but you never know. I don't like being kept in the dark. And I don't like being lied to, not even by omission.

“I think Mr. Stirling would have to make the call about whether you are enlightened or not.”

“Not senior enough to make the decision,” I said.

“No,” Bayard said, “I am not.”

Geez, some people you can't even needle. I glanced at Larry. He shrugged. “Looks like we're going to land.”

I glanced out at the rapidly growing land. We were in the middle of the Ozark Mountains, hovering over a blasted scar of reddish naked earth. The construction site, I presume.

The ground swelled up to meet us. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. The ride was almost over. I would not throw up this close to the ground. The ride was almost over. Almost over. Almost over. There was a bump that made me gasp.

“We've landed,” Larry said. “You can open your eyes now.”

I did. “You are enjoying the hell out of this, aren't you?”

He grinned. “I don't get to see you out of your element often.”

The helicopter was surrounded by a fog of reddish dirt. The blades began to slow with a thick
whump, whump
sound. As the blades stopped, the dirt settled down and we could see where we were.

We were in a small, flat area between a cluster of mountains. It looked like it had once been a narrow valley, but
bulldozers had widened it, flattened it, made it a landing pad. The earth was so red it looked like a river of rust. The mountain in front of the helicopter was one red mound. Heavy equipment and cars were clustered to the far side of the valley. Men were clustered around the equipment, shielding their eyes from the dust.

When the blades came to a sliding stop, Bayard unbuckled his seat belt. I did, too. We lifted off the headsets and Bayard opened his door. I opened mine and found that the ground was farther away than you'd think. I had to expose a long line of thigh to touch the ground.

The construction workers were appreciative. Whistles, catcalls, and one offer to check under my skirt. No, those weren't the exact words used.

A tall man in a white hard hat strode towards us. He was wearing a pair of tan coveralls, but his dirt-covered shoes were Gucci and his tan was health-club perfect. A man and a woman followed at his back.

The man looked like the real foreman. He was dressed in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled over muscular forearms. Not from racquetball or a little tennis, but from plain hard work.

The woman wore the traditional skirt suit complete with little blousy tie at her throat. The suit was expensive, but was an unfortunate shade of puce that did nothing for the woman's auburn hair but did match the blush that she'd smeared on her cheeks. I checked her neckline, and yes, she did have a pale line just above her collar where the base had not been blended in. She looked like she'd been made up at clown school.

She didn't look that young. You'd think someone somewhere would have clued her into how bad she looked. Of course, I wasn't going to tell her either. Who was I to criticize?

Stirling had the palest grey eyes I'd ever seen. The irises were only a few shades darker than the whites of his eyes. He stood there with his entourage behind him. He looked me up and down. He didn't seem to like what he saw. His
strange eyes flicked to Larry in his cheap, wrinkled suit. Mr. Stirling frowned.

Bayard came around, smoothing his jacket into place. “Mr. Stirling, this is Anita Blake. Ms. Blake, this is Raymond Stirling.”

He just stood there, looking at me like he was disappointed. The woman had a clipboard notebook, pen poised. Had to be his secretary. She looked worried, as if it was very important that Mr. Raymond Stirling like us.

I was beginning not to care if he liked us or not. What I wanted to say was, “You got a problem?” What I said was, “Is there a problem, Mr. Stirling?” Bert would have been pleased.

“You're not what I expected, Ms. Blake.”

“How so?”

“Pretty, for one thing.” It wasn't a compliment.

“And?”

He motioned at my outfit. “You're not dressed appropriately for the job.”

“Your secretary's wearing heels.”

“Ms. Harrison's attire is not your concern.”

“And my attire is none of yours.”

“Fair enough, but you're going to have a hell of time getting up that mountain in those shoes.”

“I've got a coverall and Nikes in my suitcase.”

“I don't think I like your attitude, Ms. Blake.”

“I know I don't like yours,” I said.

The foreman behind him was having trouble not smiling. His eyes were getting shiny with the effort. Ms. Harrison looked a little scared. Bayard had moved to one side, closer to Stirling. Making clear whose side he was on. Coward.

Larry moved closer to me.

“Do you want this job, Ms. Blake?”

“Not enough to take grief about it, no.”

Ms. Harrison looked like she'd swallowed a bug. A big, nasty, squirming bug. I think I'd missed my cue to fall down and worship at her boss's feet.

The foreman coughed behind his hand. Stirling glanced at
him, then back to me. “Are you always this arrogant?” he asked.

I sighed. “I prefer the word ‘confident' to ‘arrogant,' but I'll tell you what. I'll tone it down if you will.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Stirling,” Bayard said. “I apologize. I had no idea . . .”

“Shut up, Lionel,” Stirling said.

Lionel shut up.

Stirling was looking at me with his strange pale eyes. He nodded. “Agreed, Ms. Blake.” He smiled. “I'll tone it down.”

“Great,” I said.

“All right, Ms. Blake, let's go up to the top and see if you're really as good as you think you are.”

“I can look at the graveyard, but until full dark I can't do anything else.”

He frowned and glanced at Bayard. “Lionel.” That one word had a lot of heat in it. Anger looking for a target. He'd stop picking on me, but Lionel was fair game.

“I did fax you a memo, sir, as soon as I realized that Ms. Blake would be unable to help us until after dark.”

Good man. When in doubt, cover your ass with paper.

Stirling glared at him. Bayard looked apologetic but he stood his ground, safe behind his memo.