“Jean-Claude, please, don't do this!”
He pressed my face closer and closer to the wound on his chest. I struggled, but his fingers were welded to my skull, a part of me. “NO!”
Nikolaos's laughter changed to words. “Scratch the surface, and we are all much alike, animator.”
I screamed, “Jean-Claude!”
His voice came like velvet, warm and dark, sliding through my mind. “Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, two minds with but one body, two souls wedded as one.” For one bright, shining moment, I saw it, felt it. Eternity with JeanClaude. His touch … forever. His lips. His blood.
I blinked and found my lips almost touching the wound in his chest. I could have reached out and licked it. “JeanClaude, no! Jean-Claude!” I screamed it. “God help me!” I screamed that, too.
Darkness and someone gripping my shoulder. I didn't even think about it. Instinct took over. The gun from the headboard was in my hand and turning to point.
A hand trapped my arm under the pillow, pointing the gun at the wall, a body pressing against mine. “Anita, Anita, it's Edward. Look at me!”
I blinked up at Edward, who was pinning my arms. His breathing was coming a little fast.
I stared at the gun in my hand and back at Edward. He was still holding my arms. I guess I didn't blame him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Say something, Anita.”
“I had a nightmare,” I said.
He shook his head. “No shit.” He released me slowly.
I slid the gun back in its holster.
“Who's Jean-Claude?” he asked.
“Why?”
“You were calling his name.”
I brushed a hand over my forehead, and it came away slick with sweat. The clothes I'd slept in and the sheet were drenched with it. These nightmares were beginning to get on my nerves.
“What time is it?” The room looked too dark, as if the sun had gone down. My stomach tightened. If it was near dark, Catherine wouldn't have a chance.
“Don't panic; it's just clouds. You've got about four hours until dusk.”
I took a deep breath and staggered into the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and neck. I looked ghost-pale in the mirror. Had the dream been Jean-Claude's doing or Nikolaos's? If it had been Nikolaos, did she already control me? No answers. No answers to anything.
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.”