Лорел Гамильтон - Obsidian Butterfly

"Who'd you kill?" Bernardo asked.

"Harley," Edward said.

"Shit, really?"

I walked up to Edward, invading his space, trying to read past the blank blue of his eyes. "I want permission to kill Olaf if he gets out of hand, without owing you another favor."

"And if I don't give it?" he asked, voice low.

"Drive me to a hotel because I'm not staying in a house with a bragging rapist if I can't kill him."

Edward looked at me for a long slow moment, then gave a small nod. "Done, as long as he's in this house. Outside the house, play nice."

I would have argued, but it was probably the best I was going to get. Edward was very protective of his backups, and since I was one of them, I could appreciate the attitude. I picked up my bag from the floor, and said, "Thank you. Now where's my room?"

"Oh, she's going to fit in just fine," Bernardo said, and there was something in his voice that made me look at his face. His handsome face had thinned to a blankness, an emptiness that left his dark brown eyes like two burned holes in his face. It was as if he'd dropped his mask and let me sec inside because I'd proven myself monster enough to handle it. Maybe I had. But I knew one thing: Olaf or Bernardo, either one, better not walk in their sleep.

THERE WAS A FIREPLACE against the far wall, but it was narrow and white, formed of the same smooth whiteness as the walls. There was an animal skull mounted over the fireplace. I would have said deer, but the skull was heavier than that and the horns long and curving. Not a deer, but something close kin, and not from this country. The narrow mantlepiece held two tusks, as in elephant tusks, and smaller animal skulls. A low white couch faced the fireplace. A large block of unpolished marble sat to one side of it with a small white china lamp on it. A small alcove above the lamp held a huge chunk of white crystal. There was a black lacquered table against the far wall between two doorways. A second larger lamp sat on the table. Two chairs sat facing each other in front of the fireplace. They had carved arms with winged lions on the arms and legs. They were black leather and looked vaguely Egyptian.

"Your room is this way," Edward said.

"No," I said, "I've waited a long time to see your home. Don't rush me."

"Mind if I take your luggage through to your room while you explore?"

"Help yourself," I said.

"Gracious of you," he said, and put an extra touch of sarcasm into his voice.

"Don't mention it," I said.

Edward picked up both my bags, and said, "Come on, Bernardo. You can get dressed."

"You didn't let us look around on our own," Bernardo said.

"You didn't ask."

"It's one of the joys of being a girl and not a guy," I said. "If I'm curious, I just ask."

They went through a far door, though the room was small enough that «far» was relative. There was wood to one side of the fireplace in a woven basket of pale, almost white reeds. I ran my hand down the smooth coolness of the black marble coffee table that sat nearest the fireplace. There was a black vase on the table full of what looked like either small wild flowers or large black-eyed-Susans. The deep yellow gold and the brown center didn't really match anything in the room. Even the Navajo rug that took up most of the floor was in shades of black, white, and gray. There were more flowers in an alcove between the far doorways. The alcove was large enough to be a window except it didn't look out on anything. The flowers spilled from the opening like a mass of gold and brown water, a huge riotous bouquet.

When Edward came back into the room, without Bernardo, I was sitting on the white couch with my feet stretched out underneath the coffee table. I had my hands clasped over my stomach and was trying to picture a roaring fire and a cold winter evening. But somehow the fireplace looked too clean, too sterile.

He sat down beside me, shaking his head. "Happy?"

I nodded.

"What do you think?"

"It's not a restful room," I said, "and for Heaven's sake look at all the wall space. Get some paintings."

"I like it this way." He had settled down on the couch beside me, feet stretched out, hands on his stomach. He was mimicking me, but even that couldn't ruin my mood. I was going to see every room in detail before I left. I could have tried to be cool about it, but I didn't sweat being cool with Edward. We'd moved beyond that in our strange friendship. I really wasn't trying to play king of the hill with Edward. The fact that he was still playing the game with me just made him look silly. Though I hoped the game-playing was over for this trip.

"Maybe I'll get you a painting for Christmas," I said.

"We don't buy Christmas presents for each other," Edward said.

We were both staring at the fireplace as if visualizing that make-believe Inc. "Maybe I'll start. One of those big-eyed children or a clown on velvet."

"I won't hang it if I don't like it."

I glanced at him. "Unless it's from Donna."

He was very still suddenly. "Yes."

"Donna added the flowers, didn't she," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"White lilies, or an orchid maybe, but not wild flowers, not in this room."

"She thinks they brighten up the place."

"Oh, they do," I said.

He sighed.

"Maybe I'll tell her how much you love those pictures of dogs playing poker and she can buy you some prints."

"She wouldn't believe it," he said.

"No, but I bet I could come up with something that she would believe that you'd hate just as much."

He stared at me. "You wouldn't."

"I might."

"This sounds like the opening to blackmail. What do you want?"

I stared at him, studying that blank face. "So you're admitting that Donna and her crew are important enough for you so that blackmail would work."

He just looked at me with those pitiless eyes, but the blank face wasn't enough now. There was a chink in his armor big enough to drive a truck through. "They're hostages, Edward, if anyone ever thinks of it."

He looked away from me, closing his eyes. "Do you really think you're telling me something I haven't thought about?"

"My apologies, you're right. Like teaching your grandmother to suck eggs."

"What?" He turned and was half-laughing.

I shrugged. "Just an old saying. It means that I'm lecturing someone who taught me what I'm lecturing about."

"And what have I taught you?" he asked, humor dying, face turning serious.

"You can't take all the credit. My mother's death started the lesson early, but I learned that if you care for people, they can die. If other people know you care for someone, they can use that person against you. You ask why I don't date humans. Hostages, Edward. My life is just too damn violent for cannon fodder to be near and dear to my heart. You taught me that."

"And now I've broken the rule," he said, voice soft.

"Yep," I said.

"And where does that leave Richard and Jean-Claude?" he asked.

"Oh, I make you uncomfortable and now it's my turn."

"Just answer the question."

I thought about it for a second, or two, then answered truthfully, because I'd spent a lot of the last six months thinking about it, about them. "Jean-Claude is so not cannon fodder. If anyone I've ever met knows how to take care of himself, it's Jean-Claude. I guess you can't be a four-hundred-year-old anything without being a survivor."

"And Richard?" Edward was watching my face as he asked, studying me as I so often studied him, and I wondered for the first time if my face was empty more often than it was full, if I hid my emotions, my thoughts, even when I wasn't meaning to. How can you really tell what your own face shows?

"Richard can survive a shotgun blast to the chest with non-silver shot. Can you say the same about Donna?" It was blunt, maybe too blunt, but it was truthful.