Лорел Гамильтон - Guilty Pleasures

Edward was sitting in the white chair when I came back out. He watched me like I was an interesting species of insect that he had never seen before.

I ignored him and called Catherine's office. “Hi, Betty, this is Anita Blake. Is Catherine in?”

“Hello, Ms. Blake. I thought you knew that Ms. Maison is going to be out of town from the thirteenth until the twentieth on a deposition.”

Catherine had told me, but I forgot. I finally lucked out. It was about time. “I forgot, Betty. Thanks a lot. Thanks more than you'll ever know.”

“Glad to be of help. Ms. Maison has scheduled the first fitting for the bridesmaid dresses on the twenty-third.” She said it like it should make me feel better. It didn't.

“I won't forget. Bye.”

“Have a nice day.”

I hung up and phoned Irving Griswold. He was a reporter for the Saint Louis Post-Dispatch. He was also a werewolf. Irving the werewolf. It didn't quite work, but then what did? Charles the werewolf, naw. Justin, Oliver, Wilbur, Brent? Nope.

Irving answered on the third ring.

“It's Anita Blake.”

“Well, hi, what's up?” He sounded suspicious, as if I never called him unless I wanted something.

“Do you know any wererats?”

He was quiet for almost too long; then, “Why do you want to know?”

“I can't tell you.”

“You mean you want my help, but I don't get a story out of it.”

I sighed. “That's about it.”

“Then why should I help you?”

“Don't give me a hard time, Irving. I've given you plenty of exclusives. My information is what got you your first front page byline. So don't give me grief.”

“A little grouchy today, aren't you?”

“Do you know a wererat or don't you?”

“I do.”

“I need to get a message to the Rat King.”

He gave a low whistle that was piercing over the phone. “You don't ask for much, do you? I might be able to get you a meeting with the wererat I know, but not their king.”

“Give the Rat King this message; got a pencil?”

“Always,” he said.

“The vampires didn't get me, and I didn't do what they wanted.”

Irving read it back to me. When I confirmed it, he said, “You're involved with vampires and wererats, and I don't get an exclusive.”

“No one's going to get this one, Irving. It's going to be too messy for that.”

He was silent a moment. “Okay. I'll try to set up a meeting. I should know sometime tonight.”

“Thanks, Irving.”

“You be careful, Blake. I'd hate to lose my best source of front page bylines.”

“Me, too,” I said.

I had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang again. I picked it up without thinking. A phone rings, you pick it up, years of training. I haven't had my answering machine long enough to shake it completely.

“Anita, this is Bert.”

“Hi, Bert.” I sighed, quietly.

“I know you are working on the vampire case, but I have something you might be interested in.”

“Bert, I am way over my head already. Anything else and I may never see daylight.” You'd think Bert would ask if I was all right. How I was doing. But no, not my boss.

“Thomas Jensen called today.”

My spine straightened. “Jensen called?”

“That's right.”

“He's going to let us do it?”

“Not us, you. He specifically asked for you. I tried to get him to take someone else, but he wouldn't do it. And it has to be tonight. He's afraid he'll chicken out.”

“Damn,” I said softly.

“Do I call him back and cancel, or can you give me a time to have him meet you?”

Why did everything have to come at once? One of life's rhetorical questions. “Have him meet me at full dark tonight.”

“That's my girl. I knew you wouldn't let me down.”

“I'm not your girl, Bert. How much is he paying you?”

“Thirty thousand dollars. The five-thousand-dollar down payment has already arrived by special messenger.”

“You are an evil man, Bert.”

“Yes,” he said, “and it pays very well, thank you.” He hung up without saying good-bye. Mr. Charm.

Edward was staring at me. “Did you just take a job raising the dead, for tonight?”

“Laying the dead to rest actually, but yes.”

“Does raising the dead take it out of you?”

“It?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Energy, stamina, strength.”

“Sometimes.”

“How about this job? Is it an energy drain?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

He shook his head. “You can't afford to be used up, Anita.”

“I won't be used up,” I said. I took a deep breath and tried to think how to explain things to Edward. “Thomas Jensen lost his daughter twenty years ago. Seven years ago he had her raised as a zombie.”

“So?”

“She committed suicide. No one knew why at the time. It was later learned that Mr. Jensen had sexually abused his daughter and that was why she had killed herself.”

“And he raised her from the dead.” Edward grimaced. “You don't mean …”

I waved my hands as if I could erase the sudden vivid image. “No, no, not that. He felt remorseful and raised her to say he was sorry.”

“And?”

“She wouldn't forgive him.”

He shook his head. “I don't understand.”

“He raised her to make amends, but she had died hating him, fearing him. The zombie wouldn't forgive him, so he wouldn't put her back. As her mind deteriorated and her body, too, he kept her with him as a sort of punishment.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah,” I said. I walked to the closet and got out my gym bag. Edward carried guns in his; I carried my animator paraphernalia in it. Sometimes, I carried my vampire-slaying kit in it. The matchbook Zachary gave me was in the bottom of the bag. I stuffed it in my pants pocket. I don't think Edward saw me. He does catch on if a clue sits up and barks. “Jensen finally agreed to put her in the ground if I'll do it. I can't say no. He's sort of a legend among animators. The closest we come to a ghost story.”

“Why tonight? If it's waited seven years, why not a few more nights?”

I kept putting things in the gym bag. “He insisted. He's afraid he'll lose his nerve if he has to wait. Besides, I may not be alive a few nights from now. He might not let anybody else do it.”

“That is not your problem. You didn't raise his zombie.”

“No, but I am an animator first. Vampire slaying is … a sideline. I am an animator. It isn't just a job.”

He was still staring at me. “I don't understand why, but I understand you have to do it.”

“Thanks.”

He smiled. “Your show. Mind if I come along to make sure no one offs you while you're gone?”

I glanced at him. “Ever see a zombie raising?”

“No.”

“You're not squeamish, are you?” I smiled when I said it.

He stared at me, blue eyes gone suddenly cold. His whole face became different. There was nothing there, no expression, except that awful coldness. Emptiness. I'd had a leopard look at me like that once, through the cage bars, no emotion I understood, thoughts so alien it might as well have inhabited a different planet. Something that could kill me, skillfully, efficiently, because that was what it was meant to do, if it was hungry, or if I annoyed it.

I didn't faint from fear or run screaming from the room, but it was something of an effort. “You've proved your point, Edward. Can the perfect-killer routine, and let's go.”

His eyes didn't revert to normal instantly but had to warm up, like dawn easing through the sky.

I hoped Edward never turned that look on me for real. If he did, one of us would die. Odds are it would be me.

The night was almost perfectly black. Thick clouds hid the sky. A wind rushed along the ground and smelled of rain.