Laurell Hamilton - Affliction

Jean-Claude’s eyes widened just a bit. ‘ Ma petite , you have had a busy night, I see.’ His French accent was as thick as I’d heard it in a while, which meant he was feeling strong emotions that he couldn’t quite hide, but he was trying. I appreciated the effort, because the accent alone meant that what he wanted to say was his version of, You are covered in blood and worse, which means you were in horrible danger and probably nearly died … again! How can you keep risking yourself like that when I love you so much? Instead of picking a fight he just glided toward me and held his hands out to me, as graceful as if he meant to dance when he got to me.

It was one of those moments when I felt very ordinary, or maybe clunky. I had good hand-eye coordination, and speed, and skill at using my body, but I would never rival his grace and beauty of movement. He had too many centuries of practice on me, and nearly all of it showed as he walked toward me. It was that, that finally clued me in on the fact that maybe fear of my being in danger wasn’t the only strong emotion he was fighting not to show.

He’d been talking to Asher. The conversation had gone either really well or really badly. Even as he took me into his arms, I couldn’t tell which. I went up on tiptoe to meet him bending down over me, and the moment his lips touched mine I felt the excitement in him. The kiss grew from our normal tender, but fairly chaste kiss in front of the newer guards to one so passionate that I had to work to make sure we didn’t cut my lips on the dainty fangs just inside his mouth.

I drew back from the kiss breathless and smiling almost stupidly up at him. I was energized, befuddled, and entirely too happy. It wasn’t vampire powers; it was just the effect Jean-Claude had on me.

He smiled down at me so broadly that he flashed fangs, which he almost never did with just a smile. He was so obviously pleased with himself that I knew the talk with Asher had gone well, better than well.

‘It is almost dawn, my lord; there is no time for sex,’ Mischa said in a voice that dripped with disdain.

Jean-Claude looked at him, and the look was enough. Mischa bowed, sweeping his arm down and close so that you could almost see the hat with its feathered plume that should have been in the hand to go with that gesture. All the Harlequin had great bows and gestures of obedience, but a lot of them also had Mischa’s gift for making the gesture only after they’d insulted us or turning the gesture into a snide remark of its own. The only thing that made them worth putting up with was that they were almost as good as they thought they were, and good enough that when Claudia wanted to bring the best with her she’d picked some of them.

Jean-Claude’s voice came smooth and nearly devoid of accent, centuries of control sliding back into place within seconds. ‘Tell me, Mischa, how did you stay alive being so snide with the Mother of All Darkness?’

There was the faintest stiffening of his shoulders, but Mischa’s voice was rich and almost empty of emotion as he said, ‘She valued my skills as an assassin and spy above petty concerns of flesh and hurt feelings.’

It was another insult, and perhaps even a threat. I wasn’t the only one who thought both, because Wicked and Truth moved up on either side of us, a little ahead, not blocking our view of the other men, so not technically between us, but they were in place if needed.

‘Do you delude yourselves that you could win in a real fight outside the practice arena?’ Mischa asked.

‘Yes,’ Wicked and Truth said together. Their hands were already near weapons. I stepped away from Jean-Claude’s embrace so I could have my hands free for weapons, too. Logically, Mischa was just being shitty, which was very him, but logic is seldom what starts a fight.

‘I value your skills, Mischa, Goran’ – Jean-Claude nodded at the second man – ‘or I would have left you both back in St Louis, but I do not value your skills enough to be insulted, and if I will ask plainly, did you mean to threaten me?’

‘No, my lord, I did not,’ but his voice was tight when he said it, as if the words and the emotion behind them didn’t match.

‘Then you are admitting that your language is that imprecise,’ Jean-Claude said in a voice that was mild, even pleasant.

‘No,’ Mischa said, as we’d all known he would.

‘Then you did threaten me.’

Mischa looked confused. ‘No, my lord, not …’ He seemed to think about what he’d said and finally added very lamely, ‘not on purpose.’

‘Goran, is your master this much a disaster as a spy?’

‘No, my lord Jean-Claude,’ Goran said, but there was the quirk of a smile on his lips as he bowed. He was so much bigger than Mischa that you expected the movement to be less elegant, but it wasn’t. The werebear’s bow was as graceful as the vampire’s had been. I guess he’d had nearly as many centuries to practice.

Mischa’s hands were in fists at his side. He was obviously fighting to control his temper, and that was just weird in a vampire this old. They were the ultimate in control. He’d been like that from the moment I met him, whereas most of the other Harlequin were smooth and controlled, even empty, as if they waited for the next emotion to be given to them, rather than already owning it themselves. I found that a little disturbing, but that was just vampire creepy; Mischa had a temper.

‘It must gall you and many of the other Harlequin that I am your new lord and master. I know that the Dark Mother sent out her guard to spy on the vampires she felt were powerful enough to be on her council, or powerful enough to be a threat. I am betting I wasn’t on the watch list, that I never entered her mind as a threat or rival to anyone, let alone her, am I right?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Mischa said.

‘It was a game of patience and subterfuge worthy of one of us,’ Goran said, and he smiled as he said it.

‘A lovely compliment,’ Jean-Claude said.

Mischa scowled at them both.

‘What bothers you more, Mischa: that Belle Morte’s concubine is your ruler, or that none of the all-knowing Harlequin saw me as a power to be reckoned with until it was too late?’

‘You make them wonder what else they might have missed,’ Goran said. ‘It undermines their sense of superiority.’ He smiled when he said it.

Mischa whirled in a movement faster than the eye could follow, or faster than mine could. I actually didn’t see him hit Goran in the face, just the blur and the big man staggering backward, blood scarlet on his mouth.

Wicked and Truth were just there, one second beside us, the next on either side of Mischa. Truth was there to block Mischa’s arm as he tried to strike Goran backhanded as his fist returned its arc from the first blow. Mischa’s other hand came at Truth, and he blocked that, too, which led to a knee coming up, and the fight was on.

I had trouble following the moves, but it looked like neither of them was landing a blow on the other, so it was like a full-speed, full-contact practice bout, except they meant to harm each other, if they could get through the other’s guard. Then Goran moved at Truth’s back, but Wicked was there to back the bigger man up, and suddenly we had two impressive fights in a space barely big enough for one.

Why didn’t the guards from the hallway come rushing into the room? Because they were all nearly silent; only the impact of flesh against flesh and sharp exhales of breath, cloth, shoes on the carpet, noises I never heard when I was fighting were suddenly loud in the silence of the room. Jean-Claude watched, and I debated on what to do. They were all four our bodyguards, his bodyguards, and here they were fighting one another. They could end up wounded themselves, until we’d be down some more guards. If it had just been me I might have tried to stop it, but Jean-Claude was right there, and he was the king, the prez, the head of all the vampires. If he didn’t stop it, was it my place to step in, or did I wait? Question was, what was I waiting for, and if I did decide to try to stop the fight, how would I do it?