Dead But Not Forgotten (39 page)

“A chimp isn't enough,” I say, biting my lip. “I need to bring the house down, literally. We need more impact, I need all eyes on me until the last moment. And enough cover for me and Eric to get away.” Inspiration strikes and I look up at Quinn. “I need a tiger.”

“No way.”

“Not even for Sookie?”

He pauses. I hold my breath, metaphorically speaking.

Quinn finally sighs. “Fuck it. Okay.”

I'm starting to like this idea; I've always had a certain flair for entertaining. “Do you have a leash?”

His shaved head flushes dark and he says through gritted teeth, “I'm not going to let
anyone
put a
leash
on me!”

I shrug. “Fine, but you're going to have to do something spectacular when I get out there. You
do
have a reputation to live up to.” Even though I think what he is doing is tacky, a higher-end version of serving sushi on a naked woman.
Honestly.
If I'm going to diddle my food, I want to do it in private.

He nods.

It isn't fair; he's only a man, after all. There are only so many routes you need to try: offer to protect what he desires or appeal to his ego.

Quinn starts stripping. When he gets down to his boxers, I pause to enjoy the rest of the show.

I'll give this to Sookie; the little sun-sucker and I have our differences, but I admire her taste in man-flesh.

I'm enjoying the view of Quinn naked when he says, “And now you. You can't go out there looking like that.”

I frown and look down. The weretiger had a point. The raincoat is filthy, my twinset is torn, and I am blood-soaked down to my capris. I didn't have time to change after checking the security, so at least my lovely dress was spared. But then I see the full extent of the ruin and curse: Fucking Morgan owes me a new pair of driving mocs! That's it: I'm officially going to kill him myself.

“Fine, give me anything. Just make it quick.”

“The only thing that will fit you is . . .” A sly look crosses his face.

He pulls the dress off the rack and hands me a bag of accessories to match. The bag is marked
Wonderland/Alice
.

“Oh,
hells
to the no.” The bane of my life Before . . . there was no way I'd sully my life After with
that
.

“Come on. I've seen the Morticia drag you wear at Fangtasia. You're not bothered by that.”

“Strictly a marketing device. Eric's orders. This—” I shake my head.

“It's either that”—he nods at the hateful costume—“or—”

“I'll go naked.”

“You said you need to make a big impression. This is bigger than naked.”

I snatch the garments from him, snarling. “Fuck you, tiger.”

He grins at me. “Fuck you, vampire.”

I saw Lily only twice after my catastrophic failure. The first was when I told her what had happened. She went as close to catatonic as I'd ever seen in a vampire. The grief came off her in waves, but I watched her go carefully about her duties as usual, managing the motel she ran for Morgan, checking the security, giving orders to his day man. I explained what happened, how I was late and the enforcers early. I didn't mention my suspicions about Morgan.

“But they paid, I assure you,” I said, putting a hand on hers. “I followed them home. I slaughtered their children while their wives watched, letting the women know their men were responsible. Then I killed them all, too. The one with no family, I followed to the construction site they used as a cover and knocked him unconscious. I nailed him to the studs of a new wall. When he woke up, I told him he had fifteen minutes. If he could pull his hands and feet and ears from the nails, I'd let him go. He failed, but that was only because I'd used an epoxy underneath him first. I had only a short time before I had to meet Eric, but I made them suffer as much as I could.”

She looked up with an unreadable expression in her eyes. I had never seen anything like it in a human, vampire, were, or animal. She opened her mouth to speak, but Morgan came in.

“Visiting hours are over. Back to work, Lily.”

“You're a real prick, you know?” I stood up, furious and foolish enough to take him on. I might not win, but he'd know he'd been in a battle.

“In fifty more years, Lily can call her time her own.”

“You have a lot to learn about your responsibilities as her master. It goes both ways, Morgan.”

“Time for you to run along now, Miss Ravenscroft. Your huffing and puffing and strutting do not impress me, and Northman wouldn't like it if you forced me to rebuke you in a permanent fashion. Take your cheap sentiment and be gone.”

“Not cheap. Not sentiment. I gave my word.”

Lily looked up. “Go now, Pam.” She stood suddenly, almost faster than I could see, and was holding the door open. “You're not making things better by being here.”

I sent purple hyacinths, white poppies, and crimson roses to her. In my Victorian world, it meant, “I am sorry. Be consoled in mourning.”

I hadn't seen her again until tonight, when she betrayed me.

There is torchlight everywhere as we enter the staging area, the better to set the air of fantasy Quinn has set up. Our hostess, Missy Van Pelt, was making a dramatic point about how hard she was, because fire is one of our few vulnerabilities. My eyes adjust quickly and I can see the layout: The small backstage area leads to an arena where the other meals are displayed. The rest were already out there. Just ahead of me I saw identical twins with an orangutan, all in matching harlequin; a pixieish fairy—not one of those big, evil fuckers, but fluttery, like Tinkerbell—with a poodle on a leash, and in
its
mouth was another leash, holding a submissive in full bondage gear, complete with a full mask and ball gag.

I admire a skillful
tableau vivant
and don't mind ostentation. I pride myself on setting a nice table. Anyone can serve blood in the skull of an enemy; it's been done to death. Yawn.
Much
more attractive to have the top of the skull carved into a proper cup, and then add a nice stem.

All this is pretty enough, but lacks a certain
je ne sais quoi
, and I tell the tiger so. I begin to describe the ball I attended in—

He responds with a growl only I can hear. I can feel it as well, and it is a memorable moment. I admire animal pelts—one could hardly live for decades with Eric and not develop a taste for furs, a little touch of the barbaric. But I have never ridden a tiger in what could only be described as a too-short skirt and petticoat, a garter belt, and not much more in the way of underthings. Those big back muscles between my thighs, the pacing gait, is inspiring. The rumble of his protest adds an unexpected extra vibration. It's been years since I've been surprised by anything so carnal.

“Ooh, you great, nasty pussy. Do that again!” I whisper, wriggling around. “Growl again!”

Any life is too short, I say. Take your pleasures while you can.

Quinn turns and snaps at me, which inspires another frisson. The look in his eyes is sobering, and I get the impression that if he could, he'd say,
I will dump your skinny blond ass right now if you don't shut up.

“My apologies, Quinn.” I lean down and whisper to him. “We're here for work, and you're doing me a favor. It's just that going into battle makes me a little—” I dig my fingers into the soft fur behind the tufted ears on his massive head and growl back at him.

Another snap of those giant teeth, and I collect my capricious thoughts. “Right. It's showtime.”

We are preceded by a half dozen doxies in eighteenth-century dress; there are gory bandages across their white faces, as if they've been blinded. They carry matching white Persian cats. And suddenly I am the main event. Main course. Vampires like shiny and tawdry, and we get bored quickly; hence the display. The only thing left on Quinn's rack that would fit me was a short pink dress and a blue pinafore, meant for a living “doll” who hadn't shown up. I'd been told over and over, in three different centuries, that I resemble the Tenniel drawings of Lewis Carroll's Alice. Through the looking glass, indeed—an hour ago, I was bashing out the brains of two flunkies. Now my hair, pulled back with a headband, is brushed to a gleaming gold that cascades down my shoulders. The abbreviated petticoat flares prettily out at my knees, giving tantalizing glimpses of striped stockings and boots. And as I ride in on the back of the tiger, I have to admit, it's a nicely aesthetic moment. I would have chosen to have it rendered by Burne-Jones, or perhaps Maxfield Parrish, but—

But they are dead and I have killing to do.

“Go quickly and smoothly, please, Quinn. Two circuits of the arena, and on the second, I'll strike.”

Quinn chuffs quietly, and I sense his big golden eyes picking out Missy and her progeny; he'll want to know what they knew about using his event as an ambush.

I stand on the tiger's back, finding my balance easily enough. A slight “ooh” from the crowd tells me I am making the picture I wanted. I keep my face pretty and blank, all the while projecting my worry and excitement to Eric.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him carefully set down his blood and lean back as if enjoying the spectacle.

Good. He understands something isn't right and will watch for a cue.

As we pass the halfway mark in our circuits, I throw my head and arms back, the picture of rapturous abandon. The audience tenses, waiting for what I'll bring next.

Quinn picks up the pace, but I have the trick of it now. As we pass the last torch, I grab it. Before anyone has the chance to gasp, I spring from the tiger's back, screaming.

“Eric! Beware Morgan!”

I'm quite certain that the poor human Happy Meals are terribly confused. It must be a bit of a blur to everyone but us vampires.

It's a shame they should miss any of it. I am wonderful.

As I swing the torch at Morgan, who is outraged to see me free, Lily is instantly there.

Lily is what I most fear. Most crave.

Time stops while I drink her in.

She is tricked out in black leather slashed with scarlet. Her dark hair is streaked with cobalt blue, razor-cut, asymmetrical. She's a blur of midnight colors and I approve.

I don't much approve of the fucking katana she's flashing, though. I'm sure it's an ancient masterpiece and probably was given a name—Lily still likes nice things—and that some believe it would be a privilege to die by its blade.

Only one of us can walk away alive. She won't break her word to Morgan and I must protect Eric. As much as I don't want to kill Lily, I don't want to die, either. A good, honorable death someday, defending Eric, perhaps, but right now I'm not done living. Not by a long shot.

I'm more than spoiling for a fight now and thankful that I might save Eric. There's a growing sadness that I will have to kill my darling to do it.

The choice is made. No time for regret. If I must kill Lily, I shall make it a masterpiece.

Time starts up again.

I can't change my trajectory, but I can change my target. I adjust my swing so that I catch Lily in the gut with the torch.

The leather keeps her from burning but it doesn't protect her from the blow, which is so great it tears the torch from my hands. She screams and sprawls on the floor of the arena; her sword sings as it flies from her grasp. She leaps back up at me, hissing, her face contorted.

I dive into a roll, snatch up the katana. She grabs my shoulders. Even as I swing around to slam my elbow into her face, I hear her whisper, “Pam, my darling.”

I know how fierce Lily is, how loyal and passionate. I don't expect tenderness, so I won't fall for it. She punches me, hard, in the neck. I stagger back, but her face is a mask of blood.

It would take only one swing—

My eyes might be blurred with bloody tears, but my hearing is as acute as ever. She shrieks, and it carries over the mayhem and confusion in the audience. “You can try, Pam Ravenscroft, but I'll kill you as quickly as I snuffed out that little bitch in Scotland!”