[Anita Blake 17] - Skin Trade (13 page)

“I was being entertained by the Vegas PD.”

“They interrogated you, too?”

He nodded.

“You weren't in on the hunt for Vittorio. What could you tell them?”

“They didn't ask me about him.” He looked at Shaw when he said the last. It was not a friendly look, and Edward did a better not-friendly look than anyone I knew.

Shaw didn't blanch under the gaze, but he didn't look comfortable either. “We're doing our job, Forrester.”

“No, you're trying to scapegoat Anita.”

“What did they ask you about me?” I asked.

“They wanted to know how long we'd been fucking.”

I gave wide eyes to that. “What!”

He kept looking at Shaw. “Yeah, according to the rumor mill, you're sleeping with me, Otto Jeffries, and a cop in New Mexico, oh, and a few others. Apparently, you've been a very busy U.S. Marshal.”

“How're Donna and the kids?” I asked. One, I did want to know; two, I didn't want to talk about the rumors any more in front of Shaw.

“Donna sends her love, and so do Becca and Peter.”

“When does Peter take his black belt test?”

“Two weeks.”

“He'll get it,” I said.

“I know.”

“How'd Becca's dance recital go?”

He gave that real smile again. “She's really good. Her teacher says she has real talent.”

“Are you trying to shame me by doing the whole domestic thing?” Shaw asked.

“No,” I said, “we're ignoring you.”

“I guess I deserved that. But look at it from our side . . .”

I held up a hand. “I'm tired of being treated like one of the bad guys by you, just because I'm better at my job than the rest of the men.”

Edward cleared his throat sharply.

“Present company excepted,” I said.

He nodded.

“But that's part of the problem. I
am
better than the rest of the executioners. I've got more kills, and I'm a girl. They can't stand it, Shaw. They can't believe that I'm just that good at my job. It has to be because I'm fucking my way to the top. Or that I'm some sort of freak myself.”

“You can't be that good,” he said.

“Why, because I'm a girl?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “You have to have training to be that good.”

“She
is
that good,” Edward said, in that empty voice he could do—the one that made the hairs at the back of your neck stand up if you knew what you were listening to.

“You're ex-special forces. She doesn't have that kind of training.”

“I didn't say she was a good soldier.”

“What then, a good cop?”

“No.”

Shaw frowned at him. “What then? What is she that good at? And if you say
fucking
, I'm going to be pissed.”

“Killing,” Edward said.

“What?” Shaw said.

“You asked what she's good at. I answered the question.”

Shaw looked at me up and down, not in a sexual way but like he was trying to see what Edward was talking about. “You really that good at killing?”

“I try to be a good cop. I try to be a good little soldier and follow orders up to a point. But in the end I'm not really a cop, or a soldier. I am a legally sanctioned murderer. I am
the
Executioner.”

“I've never heard another marshal admit that they were a murderer.”

“Technically, it's legal, but I hunt citizens of these United States with the intent of killing them. I have decapitated and torn the hearts out of more people than most serial killers. You want to pretty it up, give me a warrant, great, but I know what I do for a living, Sheriff. I know what I am, and I'm really, really good at it.”

“Anyone better?” he asked.

I glanced at Edward. “Only one.”

Shaw glanced at Edward and back to me. “I guess I'm lucky to have you both, then,” though his voice made sure he was thick on the sarcasm.

“You
are
lucky to have us,” I said, and I went for the door. Edward trailed me and held keys out. “I got us a car, so we'll have some privacy.”

“Good,” I said.

“Oh, and I didn't mention Olaf just for kicks.”

I stopped in the hallway and looked at him. “You don't mean . . .”

“Marshal Otto Jeffries is one of the western state marshals. He was on the ground when I got here.”

Olaf was a real serial killer. But he, like the BTK killer, could control his urges to a point. He'd never done his worst in this country, to my or Edward's knowledge. We couldn't prove anything, but I knew what he was, and he knew I knew it, and he liked that I knew it.

It was hunting vampires with me that had given Olaf the idea that he could become a marshal and do his little serial killer routine legally. There's no set way to take the heart and head of a vampire. You're just supposed to do it. Once the killing starts, there are no rules to protect the vampire. None. They are at the mercy of their executioner. One of my goals in life was never, ever, to be at Olaf's mercy.

 

 

EDWARD HAD MANAGED to get us a big SUV. It was black and looked vaguely menacing. I knew he hadn't asked for the color, but it was perfectly appropriate. I approved of the car, because if we had to go out into the desert or even off road, it would still do.

“When did you have time to rent a car?” I asked.

“I was the first one they interrogated. I knew it would take them a while to interrogate three other U.S. Marshals. I knew I had time.”

I stopped in midstep. “Did you say three other U.S. Marshals?”

He turned and nodded at me. “I did.” He almost smiled, which meant he was hiding something from me. Edward loved being mysterious. My having seen his family and knowing most of his secret identity hadn't cured him of the habit. It just made it harder for him to find opportunities to surprise me.

“Who's number four?” I asked.

He raised his hand. It was a gesture I'd seen him use in the field when he was dealing with people with enough training to know the hand signals. It was the come-ahead gesture.

There was a small cluster of police near the back of the pinkish-tan building. I'd noticed them, in that cursory way you begin to notice everything in our business: people, palm trees, heat, sunshine. Olaf stood up, and he was just suddenly there. He was half a head taller than all but one of them. Had he been slumping? But it was more than that; he was also wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans tucked into black boots. He had a black leather jacket thrown over one arm, revealing bare muscular arms. He had more color to his skin than the last time I'd seen him, as if he'd been out in the sun more, but Olaf, like me, just didn't tan. Most people with a lot of German in their background have trouble tanning.

His head was still completely shaved, so that his black eyebrows stood out on his face in stark contrast. He had a shadow of a beard along his jawline, because he was one of those men who needed to shave twice a day to be truly clean shaven. Made me wonder if he shaved his head or was bald. It had never occurred to me before.

The head, the clothes, the height; it all made him stand out in the group of cops like a wolf among sheep, or a Goth among uniforms. But I'd missed him completely.

Edward could do that, too. That invisible-in-plain-sight shit. I watched Olaf walk toward us, and admitted that for such a large man he moved gracefully, but it was the grace of muscle and violence contained.

The violence was helped along with the shoulder holster, with its H&K P2000 and extra magazines on the other side of the straps. Last time he'd carried his backup gun at the small of his back; I'd check later. There was a knife bigger than my forearm at his side, tied down to his thigh. Most vampire hunters carried blades.

He walked toward me all dark and menacing, then he smiled. It wasn't a friend smile. It was a boyfriend smile. No, more than that. It was the smile a man gives to a woman he's had sex with, good sex, and he's hoping to have it again. Olaf had not earned that smile.

“Anita,” he said, and again there was too much emotion when he said my name.

I had to pause and say his fake name: “Otto.”

He kept coming until he loomed over both Edward and me. Of course, Olaf was enough over six feet that seven was his next stop, so he loomed over damn near anyone.

He offered me his hand. In the two times I'd met him, had he ever offered to shake hands with me? I had to think, but no, he didn't shake hands with women. But there he was offering his hand, with that too-familiar smile fading a little around the edges, but still there.

The smile made me not want to touch him. But Olaf's pathological hatred toward women made the offer of a handshake a big deal. It meant he thought I was worth it. Besides, we were going to have to work together where police could see us. I did not want to start the hunt with him mad at me.

I took his hand.

He wrapped his big hand around mine, then put his other hand higher up my arm. Some men do that, I've never been sure why, but this time I knew why.

I pulled to move away. I couldn't help it. He tightened his grip, let me know he had me, or that it would be a fight to get away. Just an instant of it, a moment, but it was enough to remind me of the last time we'd met.

Olaf and I had been the ones to take the hearts out of the vampires last time we hunted. They were old and powerful, so you don't just stake the heart. You cut it out of the chest cavity and destroy it with fire later.

I'd gotten the heart tangled somehow on some bit of viscera in the body. He'd offered to help, and I'd accepted. I'd forgotten what he was.

He slid his hand inside the hole I'd made, so that his arm slid up alongside mine in the chest cavity. It wasn't until his hand cupped mine, pressing both our hands into the still-warm heart, that I looked at him. We were both leaning over the body, our faces inches apart, with our arms up the much longer torso of the male. He looked at me over the body, our hands around the heart, blood everywhere. He looked at me as if it were a candlelit dinner and I was wearing nice lingerie.

He'd kept his free hand on my arm, controlling how slowly we eased out of the chest cavity. He made it last, and he stared at my face while we did it. For the last few inches of arm he looked down at the wound and not at my face. He watched our arms emerge from the bloody hole just under the sternum. He kept his hand on my arm and forced our hands upward, so that for a moment we held the heart together, and he looked at me over the bleeding muscle.

He'd stolen a kiss like that, our first and, if I could help it, our last.

“Let go of me,” I said, softly, each word very clear.

His lips parted, and his breath came out in a long sigh. It was worse than the smile. I realized in that moment that I had become a trophy of that kill. A trophy for a serial killer is something they take from the victim or the murder scene, so that when they see it, or touch it, or hear it, or smell it, or taste it, it brings back the memory of the slaughter.

I did my best not to show fear, but I probably failed. Edward actually stepped up beside us and said, “You heard her.”

He turned his eyes behind the sunglasses toward Edward. The last time we'd all been together, Edward had done what he could to protect me, but protecting me from Olaf now wasn't just a matter of guns and violence. Edward had taken my arm that last time, as if I were a girl and needed to be led. It was the first time, ever, that Edward had touched me as if I were a girl, because I was never just a girl to him. He'd put the idea into Olaf's head that he, Edward, thought of me as a girl, maybe his girl. Maybe a girl he'd be willing to protect. I wouldn't have let anyone else endanger themselves for a lie, but if anyone I knew could handle Olaf, it was Edward. Besides, he was Edward's friend before he was mine, so it was sort of Edward's fault that Olaf had a crush on me.

Now, Edward did it again. He put his arm around my shoulders. It was a first. It also wouldn't help my reputation with the other cops, but I wasn't worried about the cops. All I was worried about in that moment was the man with his hands on my arm and hand. It was such an innocent touch, but the effect it had on him, and on me, was about as far from innocent as you could get.

Edward put his arm across my shoulders, less than a hug but very much about marking territory. It's something that high school athletes are fond of doing with their cheerleading girlfriends. Again, a fairly innocent gesture, but it was a sign of possession.
This is mine, not yours.

I was so not Edward's, but in that moment I might have volunteered to be anyone's if it would just get Olaf off me. I was fighting off the memory of our last kill together, and it was making my skin run cold even in the Vegas heat.

Olaf gave Edward the full weight of that sunglass-covered gaze, and then, slowly, he let go of me. He stepped back from us.

Edward kept his arm across my shoulders and looked up at the bigger man. I just stood there and fought the urge to shiver, and finally lost. In a heat so hot it made it hard to breathe, I shivered.

It made Olaf smile again, and for just a moment I had the very clear thought that someday I would kill him. Maybe not this day, or even this time, but eventually he'd cross a line and I would kill him. The thought helped steady me. Helped me feel more myself. It helped me smile back at him, but it wasn't the same smile. His was damn near sexual; mine was the smile, most unpleasant, that has frightened bad guys across the country.