The Laughing Corpse (21 page)

I
STEPPED BACK
out into the noise of the club. Charles was standing beside the table, not sitting. He looked uncomfortable from a distance. What had gone wrong now?

His big hands were twisted together. Dark face scrunched up into near pain. A kind God had made Charles look big and bad, because inside he was all marshmallow. If I'd had Charles's natural size and strength, I'd have been a guaranteed bad ass. It was sort of sad and unfair.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I called Caroline,” he said.

“And?”

“The baby-sitter's sick. And Caroline's been called in to the hospital. Someone has to stay with Sam while she goes to work.”

“Mm-huh,” I said.

He didn't look the least bit tough when he said, “Can going down to the Tenderloin wait until tomorrow?”

I shook my head.

“You're not going to go down there alone,” Charles said. “Are you?”

I stared up at the great mountain of a man, and sighed. “I can't wait, Charles.”

“But the Tenderloin.” He lowered his voice as if just saying the word
too loud would bring a cloud of pimps and prostitutes to descend upon us. “You can't go down there alone at night.”

“I've gone worse places, Charles. I'll be all right.”

“No, I won't let you go alone. Caroline can just get a new sitter or tell the hospital no.” He smiled when he said it. Always happy to help a friend. Caroline would give him hell for it. Worst of all, now I didn't want to take Charles with me. You had to do more than look tough.

What if Gaynor got wind of me questioning Wanda? What if he found Charles and thought he was involved? No. It had been selfish to risk Charles. He had a four-year-old son. And a wife.

Harold Gaynor would eat Charles raw for dinner. I couldn't involve him. He was a big, friendly, eager-to-please bear. A lovable, cuddly bear. I didn't need a teddy bear for backup. I needed someone who would be able to take any heat that Gaynor might send our way.

I had an idea.

“Go home, Charles. I won't go alone. I promise.”

He looked uncertain. Like maybe he didn't trust me. Fancy that. “Anita, are you sure? I won't leave you hanging like this.”

“Go on, Charles. I'll take backup.”

“Who can you get at this hour?”

“No questions. Go home to your son.”

He looked uncertain, but relieved. He hadn't really wanted to go to the Tenderloin. Maybe Caroline's short leash was what Charles wanted, needed. An excuse for all the things he really didn't want to do. What a basis for a marriage.

But, hey, if it works, don't fix it.

Charles left with many apologies. But I knew he was glad to go. I would remember that he had been glad to go.

I knocked on the office door. There was a silence, then, “Come in, Anita.”

How had he known it was me? I wouldn't ask. I didn't want to know.

Jean-Claude seemed to be checking figures in a large ledger. It looked antique with yellowed pages and fading ink. The ledger looked like something Bob Crachit should have been scribbling in on a cold Christmas Eve.

“What have I done to merit two visits in one night?” he said.

Looking at him now, I felt silly. I spent all this time avoiding him. Now I was going to invite him to accompany me on a bit of sleuthing? But it would kill two bats with one stone. It would please Jean-Claude, and I really didn't want him angry with me, if I could avoid it. And if Gaynor did try to go up against Jean-Claude, I was betting on Jean-Claude.

It was what Jean-Claude had done to me a few weeks ago. He had chosen me as the vampire's champion. Put me up against a monster that had slain three master vampires. And he had bet that I would come out on top against Nikolaos. I had, but just barely.

What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. I smiled sweetly at him. Pleased to be able to return the favor so quickly.

“Would you care to accompany me to the Tenderloin?”

He blinked, surprise covering his face just like a real person. “To what purpose?”

“I need to question a prostitute about a case I'm working on. I need backup.”

“Backup?” he asked.

“I need backup that looks more threatening than I do. You fit the bill.”

He smiled beatifically. “I would be your bodyguard.”

“You've given me enough grief, do something nice for a change.”

The smile vanished. “Why this sudden change of heart,
ma petite
?”

“My backup had to go home and baby-sit his kid.”

“And if I do not go?”

“I'll go alone,” I said.

“Into the Tenderloin?”

“Yep.”

He was suddenly standing by the desk, walking towards me. I hadn't seen him rise.

“I wish you'd stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Clouding my mind so I can't see you move.”

“I do it as often as I can,
ma petite
, just to prove I still can.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I gave up much of my power over you when I gave you the marks.
I practice what little games are left me.” He was standing almost in front of me. “Lest you forget who and what I am.”

I stared up into his blue, blue eyes. “I never forget that you are the walking dead, Jean-Claude.”

An expression I could not read passed over his face. It might have been pain. “No, I see the knowledge in your eyes of what I am.” His voice dropped low, almost a whisper, but it wasn't seductive. It was human. “Your eyes are the clearest mirror I have ever seen,
ma petite
. Whenever I begin to pretend to myself. Whenever I have delusions of life. I have only to look into your face and see the truth.”

What did he expect me to say? Sorry, I'll try to ignore the fact that you're a vampire. “So why keep me around?” I asked.

“Perhaps if Nikolaos had had such a mirror, she would not have been such a monster.”

I stared at him. He might be right. It made his choice of me as human servant almost noble. Almost. Oh, hell. I would not start feeling sorry for the freaking Master of the City. Not now. Not ever.

We would go down to the Tenderloin. Pimps beware. I was bringing the Master as backup. It was like carrying a thermonuclear device to kill ants. Overkill has always been a specialty of mine.

T
HE
T
ENDERLOIN WAS
originally the red light district on the Riverfront in the 1800s. But the Tenderloin, like so much of St. Louis, moved uptown. Go down Washington past the Fox Theater, where you can see Broadway traveling companies sing bright musicals. Keep driving down Washington to the west edge of downtown St. Louis and you will come to the resurrected carcass of the Tenderloin.

The night streets are neon-coated, sparkling, flashing, pulsing—colors. It looks like some sort of pornographic carnival. All it needs is a Ferris wheel in one of the empty lots. They could sell cotton candy shaped like naked people. The kiddies could play while Daddy went to get his jollies. Mom would never have to know.

Jean-Claude sat beside me in the car. He had been utterly silent on the drive over. I had had to glance at him a time or two just to make sure he was still there. People make noise. I don't mean talking or belching or anything overt. But people, as a rule, can't just sit without making noise. They fidget, the sound of cloth rubbing against the seats; they breathe, the soft intake of air; they wet their lips, wet, quiet, but noise. Jean-Claude didn't do any of these things as we drove. I couldn't even swear he blinked. The living dead, yippee.

I can take silence as good as the next guy, better than most women
and a lot of men. Now, I needed to fill the silence. Talk just for the noise. A waste of energy, but I needed it.

“Are you in there, Jean-Claude?”

His neck turned, bringing his head with it. His eyes glittered, reflecting the neon signs like dark glass. Shit.

“You can play human, Jean-Claude, better than almost any vampire I've ever met. What's all this supernatural crap?”

“Crap?” he said, voice soft.

“Yeah, why are you going all spooky on me?”

“Spooky?” he asked, and the sound filled the car. As if the word meant something else entirely.

“Stop that,” I said.

“Stop what?”

“Answering every question with a question.”

He blinked once. “So sorry,
ma petite
, but I can feel the street.”

“Feel the street? What does that mean?”

He settled back against the upholstery, leaning his head and neck into the seat. His hand clasped over his stomach. “There is a great deal of life here.”

“Life?” He had me doing it now.

“Yes,” he said, “I can feel them running back and forth. Little creatures, desperately seeking love, pain, acceptance, greed. A lot of greed here, too, but mostly pain and love.”

“You don't come to a prostitute for love. You come for sex.”

He rolled his head so his dark eyes stared at me. “Many people confuse the two.”

I stared at the road. The hairs at the back of my neck were standing at attention. “You haven't fed yet tonight, have you?”

“You are the vampire expert. Can you not tell?” His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. Hoarse and thick.

“You know I can never tell with you.”

“A compliment to my powers, I'm sure.”

“I did not bring you down here to hunt,” I said. My voice sounded firm, a tad loud. My heart was loud inside my head.

“Would you forbid me to hunt tonight?” he asked.

I thought about that one for a minute or two. We were going to have to turn around and make another pass to find a parking space. Would I forbid him to hunt tonight? Yes. He knew the answer. This was a trick question. Trouble was I couldn't see the trick.

“I would ask that you not hunt here tonight,” I said.

“Give me a reason, Anita.”

He had called me Anita without me prompting him. He was definitely after something. “Because I brought you down here. You wouldn't have hunted here, if it hadn't been for me.”

“You feel guilt for whomever I might feed on tonight?”

“It is illegal to take unwilling human victims,” I said.

“So it is.”

“The penalty for doing so is death,” I said.

“By your hand.”

“If you do it in this state, yes.”

“They are just whores, pimps, cheating men. What do they matter to you, Anita?”

I don't think he had ever called me Anita twice in a row. It was a bad sign. A car pulled away not a block from The Grey Cat Club. What luck. I slid my Nova into the slot. Parallel parking is not my best thing, but luckily the car that pulled away was twice the size of my car. There was plenty of room to maneuver, back and forth from the curb.

When the car was lurched nearly onto the curb but safely out of traffic, I cut the engine. Jean-Claude lay back in his seat, staring at me. “I asked you a question,
ma petite
, what do these people mean to you?”

I undid my seat belt and turned to look at him. Some trick of light and shadow had put most of his body in darkness. A band of nearly gold light lay across his face. His high cheekbones were very prominent against his pale skin. The tips of his fangs showed between his lips. His eyes gleamed like blue neon. I looked away and stared at the steering wheel while I talked.

“I have no personal stake in these people, Jean-Claude, but they are people. Good, bad, or indifferent, they are alive, and no one has the right to just arbitrarily snuff them out.”

“So it is the sanctity of life you cling to?”

I nodded. “That and the fact that every human being is special. Every death is a loss of something precious and irreplaceable.” I looked at him as I finished the last.

“You have killed before, Anita. You have destroyed that which is irreplaceable.”

“I'm irreplaceable, too,” I said. “No one has the right to kill me, either.”

He sat up in one liquid motion, and reality seemed to collect around him. I could almost feel the movement of time in the car, like a sonic boom for the inside of my head, instead of my ear.

Jean-Claude sat there looking entirely human. His pale skin had a certain flush to it. His curling black hair, carefully combed and styled, was rich and touchable. His eyes were just midnight-blue, nothing exceptional but the color. He was human again, in the blink of an eye.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

“What is wrong,
ma petite
?”

I shook my head. If I asked how he did it, he'd just smile. “Why all the questions, Jean-Claude? Why the worry about my view of life?”

“You are my human servant.” He raised a hand to stop the automatic objection. “I have begun the process of making you my human servant, and I would like to understand you better.”

“Can't you just . . . scent my emotions like you can the people on the street?”

“No,
ma petite
. I can feel your desire but little else. I gave that up when I made you my marked servant.”

“You can't read me?”

“No.”

That was really nice to know. Jean-Claude didn't have to tell me. So why did he? He never gave anything away for free. There were strings attached that I couldn't even see. I shook my head. “You are just to back me up tonight. Don't do anything to anybody unless I say so, okay?”

“Do anything?”

“Don't hurt anyone unless they try to hurt us.”

He nodded, face very solemn. Why did I suspect that he was laughing
at me in some dark corner of his mind? Giving orders to the Master of the City. I guess it was funny.

The noise level on the sidewalk was intense. Music blared out of every other building. Never the same song, but always loud. The flashing signs proclaimed, “Girls, Girls, Girls. Topless.” A pink-edged sign read, “Talk to the Naked Woman of Your Dreams.” Eeek.

A tall, thin black woman came up to us. She was wearing purple shorts so short that they looked like a thong bikini. Black fishnet panty hose covered her legs and buttocks. Provocative.

She stopped somewhere between the two of us. Her eyes flicked from one to the other. “Which one of ya does it, and which one of ya watches?”

Jean-Claude and I exchanged glances. He was smiling ever so slightly. “Sorry, we were looking for Wanda,” I said.

“A lot of names down here,” she said. “I can do anything this Wanda can do and do it better.” She stepped very close to Jean-Claude, almost touching. He took her hand in his and lifted it gently to his lips. His eyes watched me as he did it.

“You're the doer,” she said. Her voice had gone throaty, sexy. Or maybe that was just the effect Jean-Claude had on women. Maybe.

The woman cuddled in against him. Her skin looked very dark against the white lace of his shirt. Her fingernails were painted a bright pink, like Easter basket grass.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but we don't have all night.”

“This is not the one you seek then,” he said.

“No,” I said.

He gripped her arms just above the elbows and pushed her away. She struggled just a bit to reach him again. Her hands grabbed at his arms, trying to pull herself closer to him. He held her straight-armed, effortlessly. He could have held a semitruck effortlessly.

“I'll do you for free,” she said.

“What did you do to her?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

I didn't believe him. “Nothing, and she offers to do you for free?” Sarcasm is one of my natural talents. I made sure that Jean-Claude heard it.

“Be still,” he said.

“Don't tell me to shut up.”

The woman was standing perfectly still. Her hands dropped to her sides, limp. He hadn't been talking to me at all.

Jean-Claude took his hands away from her. She never moved. He stepped around her like she was a crack in the pavement. He took my arm, and I let him. I watched the prostitute, waiting for her to move.

Her straight, nearly naked back shuddered. Her shoulders slumped. She threw back her head and drew a deep trembling breath.

Jean-Claude pulled me gently down the street, his hand on my elbow. The prostitute turned around, saw us. Her eyes never even hesitated. She didn't know us.

I swallowed hard enough for it to hurt. I pulled free of Jean-Claude's hand. He didn't fight me. Good for him.

I backed up against a storefront window. Jean-Claude stood in front of me, looking down. “What did you do to her?”

“I told you,
ma petite
, nothing.”

“Don't call me that. I saw her, Jean-Claude. Don't lie to me.”

A pair of men stopped beside us to look in the window. They were holding hands. I glanced in the window and felt color creep up my cheeks. There were whips, leather masks, padded handcuffs, and things I didn't even have a name for. One of the men leaned into the other and whispered. The other man laughed. One of them caught me looking. Our eyes met, and I looked away, fast. Eye contact down here was a dangerous thing.

I was blushing and hating it. The two men walked away, hand in hand.

Jean-Claude was staring in the window like he was out for a Saturday afternoon of window-shopping. Casual.

“What did you do to that woman?”

He stared in the storefront. I couldn't tell exactly what had caught his attention. “It was careless of me,
ma
 . . . Anita. My fault entirely.”

“What was your fault?”

“My . . . powers are greater when my human servant is with me.” He stared at me then. His gaze solid on my face. “With you beside me, my powers are enhanced.”

“Wait, you mean like a witch's familiar?”

He cocked his head to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Yes, very close to that. I did not know you knew anything about witchcraft.”

“A deprived childhood,” I said. I was not going to be diverted from the important topic. “So your ability to bespell people with your eyes is stronger when I'm with you. Strong enough that without trying, you bespelled that prostitute.”

He nodded.

I shook my head. “No, I don't believe you.”

He shrugged, a graceful gesture on him. “Believe what you like,
ma petite
. It is the truth.”

I didn't want to believe it. Because if it were true, then I was in fact his human servant. Not in my actions but by my very presence. With sweat trickling down my spine from the heat, I was cold. “Shit,” I said.

“You could say that,” he said.

“No, I can't deal with this right now. I can't.” I stared up at him. “You keep whatever powers we have between us in check, okay?”

“I will try,” he said.

“Don't try, dammit, do it.”

He smiled wide enough to flash the tips of his fangs. “Of course,
ma petite
.”

Panic was starting in the pit of my stomach. I gripped my hands into fists at my sides. “If you call me that one more time, I'm going to hit you.”

His eyes widened just a bit, his lips flexed. I realized he was trying not to laugh. I hate it when people find my threats amusing.

He was an invasive son of a bitch; and I wanted to hurt him. To hurt him because he scared me. I understand the urge, I've had it before with other people. It's an urge that can lead to violence. I stared up at his softly amused face. He was a condescending bastard, but if it ever came to real violence between us, one of us would die. Chances were good it would be me.

The humor leaked out of his face, leaving it smooth and lovely, and arrogant. “What is it, Anita?” His voice was soft and intimate. Even in the heat and movement of this place, his voice could roll me up and under. It was a gift.

“Don't push me into a corner, Jean-Claude. You don't want to take away all my options.”

“I don't know what you mean,” he said.

“If it comes down to you or me, I'm going to pick me. You remember that.”

He looked at me for a space of heartbeats. Then he blinked and nodded. “I believe you would. But remember,
ma
 . . . Anita, if you hurt me, it hurts you. I could survive the strain of your death. The question,
amante de moi,
is could you survive mine?”