Incubus Dreams (48 page)

I shook my head. “No, no.”

“I had to know,
ma petite
.”

“Don't call me that, not right now.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Anita, I am sorry. I would not cause you pain, not deliberately.”

“Then couldn't this conversation have waited until the afterglow faded?”

“No,” he said, “I had to know if you loved me more than your sense of justice.”

I swallowed hard. I would not cry, I would not fucking cry. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.”

He took my hands, and I almost jerked away, but I made myself stand there and let him touch me. I was so angry, so pissed, so . . .

“Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,” he said, “That from the nunnery, Of they chaste breast and quiet mind.”

I looked up at him, and said the next line, “To war and arms I fly.”

“True, a new mistress now I chase,” he said.

“The first foe in the field,” I said, and let him draw me closer.

“And with a stronger faith embrace,” he said.

“A sword, a horse, a shield.” And the last word was whispered against his chest, still looking up into those eyes, searching his face.

“Yet this inconstancy is such, As thou too shalt adore,” he whispered against my hair.

I finished the poem with my face pressed against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, that truly beat with my blood. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.”

“To Lucasta, on going to the Wars,” Jean-Claude said. His arms were around me, holding me close.

I eased my arms around him, slowly. “Richard Lovelace,” I said, “always liked his stuff in college.” I kept moving my arms until they were around his waist, and we just stood there holding each other. “I don't think I would have remembered the whole poem if you hadn't helped.”

“Together we are more than we are apart, Anita, that is what love is.”

I held him, and the tears started down my face, hard and hot, and choking. “Not Anita.”

I didn't have to see his face, to know the smile was there, I could hear in his voice,
“ma petite, ma petite, ma petite.”

There comes a point where you just love someone. Not because they're
good, or bad, or anything really. You just love them. It doesn't mean you'll be together forever. It doesn't mean you won't hurt each other. It just means you love them. Sometimes in spite of who they are, and sometimes because of who they are. And you know that they love you, sometimes because of who you are, and sometimes in spite of it.

T
HE
S
APPHIRE
C
LUB
is a low, wide building and doesn't look that nice from the outside. It doesn't look that different from many of the rest of the bars and clubs in the area, so why is it a gentlemen's club and the others are just titty bars? Security, decore, and a dress code for the dancers, for starters. Tonight the VIP parking area was so full of official and semiofficial vehicles that you could barely see the front of the club through the flashing lights and milling people. There was even a big fire truck and a rescue truck alongside the regular ambulance. I had no idea why we needed the big truck, but murder scenes always attract more people than you really need, more cops, and more civies, more everything.

There was a crowd pressed against the police tape and sawhorse barriers. Some of the women looked barely dressed for the October cold, so it had to be people from the nearby clubs. Most of the dancers arrived at work in street clothes then changed there. So at least some of the women shivering in the cold had left work elsewhere to join the gawkers.

I actually had to park in the lot of the nearest club, the Jazz Baby, live music, and live entertainment. What could be better? Sleep, maybe. It was nearly four in the morning. My shower had beaten the record for speed, but it was still quite a drive from the Riverfront. We'd managed to get blood on the front of my shirt, so I was wearing a T-shirt that Jean-Claude had found for me somewhere. It was white, so the black bra showed through, or would have if I hadn't been wearing Byron's leather jacket again. Maybe I could just keep the jacket on. No, it'd be warm inside. Oh, well. If the worst thing that happened tonight was that someone noticed I was wearing a black bra under a white shirt, we'd count ourselves lucky.

Jean-Claude had also found underwear, again it was thong, but it was actually comfortable, because it was made of soft T-shirt material, even the bit that went between your cheeks. Most of the girl thongs I'd looked at had had elastic or lace running up your ass, and that just didn't look comfy at all.

I had to flash the badge just to get through the crowd. When I got up to
the line, the officer closest to me didn't really look at me. He saw a woman in boots and a short skirt and a leather jacket and said, “Club's closed for the night, you won't be working.”

I shoved my badge into his face, and he had to back up to focus on it. “Actually, Officer,” and I read his name tag in the bright lights, “Douglas, I think I will be working tonight.”

He looked down at me, because he was taller than me. I watched his face try to wrap around the look of me and the badge in one package. He wasn't the first police officer to have a problem putting it all together, and he wouldn't be the last. I might think like a cop, but I don't really look like one. Especially not tonight.

“I'm Marshal Anita Blake, Sergeant Zerbrowski called me.” Always good to remind people that I hadn't invited myself into their party. I had the authority to do it, but I tried to do as little uninvited butting in as I could. No cop, no matter what the flavor, likes someone horning in on their case. Especially not a big one.

Officer Douglas stared at my badge like he didn't believe it was real. “No one told me that the feds were coming.”

“Ya know, it's four in the morning. I asked your permission to cross this line as a courtesy, but this badge is a federal badge and it gives me the right to cross this line, enter this crime scene, and do my fucking job. If you stop me, Officer Douglas, I will charge you with obstructing a federal officer in the performance of her duty.”

He looked like he'd swallowed something sour, but he waved another officer over. He had him take his place at the barrier and held the tape for me. “I'll walk you through, ma'am.”

I guess I couldn't blame him. I mean what if the badge wasn't real, or wasn't mine? Of course, if I'd been a big, strapping guy, he wouldn't have-had a problem with it. You can always tell a new cop from a veteran. New ones still judge a lot on appearance, once you've been on the cop for a few years, you stop doing that. Because by then you've learned that what's on the outside doesn't tell you that much about what's on the inside. A cute little old lady can pull a trigger just as well as a big scary looking guy. Rookies don't know that yet. They haven't learned the lesson that you can't tell by looking.

Officer Douglas didn't shorten his stride for me, and he didn't need to. I was used to walking scenes with Dolph, who made Douglas look petite. I kept up with him even in the high-heeled boots. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't. Probably just as well.

Some of the police on this side of the river don't know me on sight. They
thought what Douglas had thought, that I worked here, because they catcalled after us, “Hey, Dougie, going to get a piece. No lap dances on company time, Douglas.” And worse. I ignored it all. It was four in the morning, and I hadn't been to bed yet, I didn't care. Besides, I'd learned the hard way that the more attention you pay to shit like that, the more you have to shovel. Ignore it, and it usually goes away, because it just isn't any fun if they don't get a rise out of you. Besides, they were teasing Douglas more than me. I was just the nameless girl who gave them an excuse.

He ignored it, but his face was blazing by the time we got to the main doors. He actually held the door for me, and I let him. There'd been a point in my life when I would have not let him hold the door. But with his face already burning with embarrassment, I wasn't going to arm wrestle him for the door. I might have to work with him again, so screw it, he could hold the door. Besides, if I put him on the spot about the door, it would have given his coworkers more to tease him about, and I didn't want that.

We went through the glass doors into a little entry area that reminded me of the front of a nice resturant, complete with a little desk and a maître d'. Though that probably wasn't the tall guy's official title. But hey, he was wearing a white suit jacket with a tie, he did look like a maître d'. When I'd seen him last, he was tall and self-assured and had taken my name and Asher's and called on a phone to have a “hostess” escort us in. Now he leaned on his counter, head in his hands, looking ill.

There were bathrooms off to the left, and a short hallway that led into the club. From the door you really couldn't see into the club. It gave them a last chance to keep out the undesirables, or the underagers, before someone saw breasts. The color scheme was muted blues and purples, and if they hadn't had silhouettes of naked women on the walls, it would have looked like a restaurant, oh, and the poster advertising that Wednesday was amatuer night.

I couldn't remember the big guy's name, just couldn't remember it. But it didn't matter, because Douglas took me past him without a word. Up the little ramp, and the club spilled out around us. There was a good solid bar area to the left that would have done any club proud, but the rest of the room was all strip club. I mean, what else do you use little round stages for? The room was mostly blues and purples, and maybe other colors. I couldn't tell for sure, because most of the big room was lit by black light, or other odd lighting, so that the room was lit, but it was still terribly dark. I'd been surprised the first time I was here, it was as if light could be dark, so that though there was no actual shadowed area, the whole room seemed like it was in a shadow.

It was a weekend night, the place was packed, but quiet. They'd had to
turn off the music, and the DJ's endless prattle was mercifully absent. In fact, the room seemed wrong this quiet, as if the noise was part of the decor. There were men, and more women than you'd think in the audience, huddled now all together like mourners at an unexpected funeral. The dancers were all in one corner with a plainclothes detective that I didn't recognize. A big man in a uniform that matched Officer Douglas's strode toward us, with a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. He still had his hat on, as if his round face would have been incomplete without it.

“Douglas, what the fuck are you bringing me another stripper for? We got all the girls that were in the club tonight over there.” He motioned with his thumb over his shoulder. He had small, beady eyes, or maybe I was just tired of being called a stripper, and discounted like I didn't matter, just because I happened to be a girl and not in uniform. “Unless, you saw some-thin' outside. Did you, girlie, see anything?”

I raised my badge so he could see it, and stepped around Douglas so I was facing what had to be his boss. “Federal Marshal Anita Blake, and you are?”

I could see his face darken even in the odd lighting. “Sheriff Christopher, Melvin Christopher.” He looked me up and down, not the way a man will if he thinks a woman is pretty, but like he was sizing me up, and wasn't impressed. “You know, if you don't want people thinking you're a stripper, you should dress better, miss.”

“That's Marshal Blake to you, Sheriff, and in the big city, this is called date clothes. Dresses down to your knees went out of style a few decades back.”

His face got a little darker, his eyes went from unfriendly to hostile. “You think you're funny?”

“No,” I said, and I took a deep breath in and let it out slow. “Look, you stop calling me a stripper, and I'll stop making cute remarks at you. Let's both pretend we're here to solve a crime, and just do our jobs.”

“We don't need federal help here.”

I sighed. I looked around the room and didn't see anyone I knew. “Fine, you want to do it this way, we can do it this way. If you prevent me from questioning all the vampires before dawn comes, I will charge you with obstructing a federal officer in the performance of her duties.”

“Some of them your friends, that it? I heard you were coffin bait.”

I shook my head and walked wide around Douglas, which put me out of reach for the sheriff.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“To question the witnesses,” I said, and I kept a little bit of an eye on the sheriff, because I wasn't sure what he would do.

“How do you know where they are?”

“They aren't out here, or out in the parking lot, so they've got to be in the Sapphire Room.” I was almost to the little raised platform in front of a pair of nice wooden doors. There was another uniformed officer in front of the doors. I had been in there before, so I knew the sound was muffled inside the room. That's why I hadn't yelled for Zerbrowski already.

I unzipped the leather jacket as I went up the steps. I had my badge in my left hand, held where the uniform on the door could see it clearly. I wasn't really sure what I was going to do if the sheriff told his man not to let me in. I'd learned that just because I had the legal right to be somewhere, didn't mean the local police would make it easy. They wouldn't actually lay hands on me, or boot my ass out, but if they wanted to be uncooperative, they could be.

“Please move aside, Officer.”

He actually started to step to the side, but the sheriff said, “You don't work for her. You move when I say you move.”

I sighed and thought,
Well, shit.
Then I had an idea. I reached into the pocket of the leather coat.

“Be careful what you reach for,” the sheriff said from far too close behind me.

I turned so I could see him and the other officer. I held up my cell phone. “No need to get excited, Sheriff. Just going to make a phone call.”

He had his hands on his hips above his Sam Brown belt. He hadn't unsnapped his gun, so he wasn't serious. He was just trying to see if I'd spook. If he thought this kind of shit could intimidate me, he'd been playing in the shallow end of the pool for too fucking long.

I hit the buttons, keeping an eye on the officers in the room. A lot of them had stopped questioning or guarding or whatever they were doing, to watch our little show. Zerbrowski answered on the second ring. “I'm in the club, just outside the doors.”

“And why aren't you inside the doors?” he asked, sounding puzzled.

“The sheriff has ordered his man not to move away from the doors.”

“Not true,” the sheriff yelled, “but you sure as hell can't order my man to do shit.”

I sighed loud enough so Zerbrowski could hear it. “A little help here.”

Zerbrowski opened the door with the phone still in his hand. “Thanks, Sheriff Christopher, I think Marshal Blake and I have it from here.” He clicked the phone shut, smiled at everybody, and moved aside enough for me to pass through, but not enough for the sheriff, who stood at the bottom of the steps glaring at him. I finally realized that the pissing contest had started before I got there, and I'd just gotten caught in it.

Zerbrowski shut the door behind us, and leaned against it shaking his head. He's 5' 9", with short black hair going more and more gray every year. When his wife makes him get it cut, the hair is short and neat. When he forgets, or she's busy, it's curly and wavy, and as untidy as the rest of him. His suit was brown, his tie was pale yellow, and so was his shirt. I think it was the first time I'd seen all his clothes match in all the years I'd known him. Okay, match and not have food stains on them.

His glasses were silver and helped hide that his eyes were tired, but not that he was pissed. He took me off to one side by the fountain with a once-real-live stuffed lion crouching beside it. The Sapphire Room is a cross between a hunting lodge, a safari room, and other things people think men think is masculine. Most of the room was carpeted in leopard print, so that my first thought was, always,
Oh, no, a leopard blew up and plastered itself all over everything, but hey, animal prints are in this year.
People pay hundreds of dollars a night to be back here, so they must like it.