Incubus Dreams (39 page)

He nodded. “Okay, but I'm okay with it.” He looked at me. “But you don't seem okay with it at all. What's wrong now?”

“What's wrong?” I asked. “I just had a flashback so strong that if I'd still been driving, we'd have wrecked. I fed it into you by accident. I didn't mean to do it. What else am I not going to mean to do?”

“She and Jean-Claude have hit a new power plateau,” Requiem said.

“Oh,” Graham said, as if that made perfect sense to him, “so you don't know what all the new power can do, yet.”

“No,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah, that can get scary. I'm sorry, I didn't know this was the first time you'd done something like this. I enjoyed it, you don't owe me an apology.”

“But what if I grab a client next time?” I said.

“You had warning,” Requiem said, “or you wouldn't have pulled off the road.”

“I don't think that had anything to do with new powers.”

“Then why did you nearly run us up the back of three different cars?” Graham asked.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and didn't know what to say. “I think I crossed my last few lines tonight.”

“What does that mean?” Graham asked.

“I broke some personal rules tonight, that's all.”

“Rules that you thought would never be broken,” Requiem said softly.

I looked at him, surprised. “You say that like you know.”

“A person likes to think of himself in a certain way, and when something happens that makes that no longer possible, you mourn the old self. The person you thought you were.”

I shook my head. “I am still the person I thought I was, damn it.”

He gave a shrug that reminded me of that graceful lift of shoulders that Jean-Claude always did. “As you like, m'lady.”

I turned around in my seat and put my forehead against the steering wheel. I just wanted this night over with. I didn't want to have to explain myself to anyone, let alone one of the men that I'd had sex with by accident tonight. The trouble was, I wasn't sure that I believed what I'd just said. It wasn't just the sex with Byron and Requiem, it was that tonight, for the first time, I'd let Jean-Claude into my head as far as he could go. For the first time we'd touched what might be possible if only I'd get out of our way. Until tonight, I hadn't realized how much I'd crippled us. As much in my own way as Richard. I'd thought that sleeping with Jean-Claude and doing small things with him was being his human servant. I'd learned differently less than an hour ago, and that knowledge was eating me up. It wasn't that I had crippled us as a triumverate of power. No, I'd guessed that before, just not the amount of crippling. I thought my limits and boundaries had hobbled us, not cut both our legs off at the knees.
What I hadn't expected, what I hadn't wanted to know, was how good it felt to let Jean-Claude roll me. It had been a-fucking-mazing. Peaceful and intoxicating all at the same time. I'd never really known what I was doing without, because I had been so careful not to let him show me. And he had respected my wishes.

I knew now that it had cost him dear. Cost him in power he might have had, safety he might have built for his vampires, and in the sheer pleasure he might have experienced. He'd cut himself off from so much, just because I couldn't handle it. That made me feel guilty, but part of the real problem was that after I'd let Jean-Claude in that deep, I'd then turned around and had sex with Byron, and let Requiem bite me. Two things I didn't do lightly. Yeah, it had been imporant, maybe urgent, maybe it had saved the lives of most of those women in that club. Maybe it had even saved Jean-Claude's life. I'd felt Primo's power and the whisper of the Dragon. But that wasn't what bothered me the most.

Jean-Claude had gained Nathaniel and Damian's neediness. What had I gained? I'd had sex with Byron and Requiem, and I didn't feel bad about it. Even now, I felt bad only because I didn't feel bad. It hadn't bothered me. That's what made me almost run into three cars, and pull into the parking lot so I could have my little moment of shock reaction.

I didn't feel guilty about Byron. I only felt guilty about not feeling guilty about it. And even now, I wanted to turn the car around and go back to Jean-Claude. I wanted him to hold me, to kiss me, to feed from me. I wanted the whole ride, now that I'd had a taste. I wanted it the way junkies want their fix. That's not love. That's control. I wouldn't let anyone control me like that. I couldn't, not and still be me.

I didn't explain any of this to Graham or Requiem. They weren't close enough to me for a heart-to-heart. I just said, “Whoever feels better to drive, drive.”

“I do not know how to drive,” Requiem said.

“I'll drive,” Graham said, “just don't touch me while I'm behind the wheel.”

“I'll do my best to resist,” I said, and made it plain by my tone that it wouldn't be hard.

He laughed and got out his door to walk around. In the moments it took him to walk around the car, Requiem said, “You feel very serious tonight, Anita.”

“I'm always serious,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said, and he might have said more, but Graham opened the door and I got out. I walked around the car and got into the passenger seat, as Graham started the engine. “Where to?”

“Sunset Cemetery. It's less than five minutes from here.”

“Do you feel well enough to raise the dead tonight?” Requiem asked.

“Just get me there, and don't let me touch any of the clients. I'll do the rest. Just don't let me fuck anybody or tear anybody's throat out.”

“What if you order us to allow you to fuck someone?” Requiem asked.

“Or kill someone?” Graham said.

“I'm not planning on it tonight, okay?”

“You weren't planning on it earlier,” Requiem said quietly.

Graham pulled carefully into the traffic on Gravois, as if he were trying to make up for my bad driving earlier. “What do we do if some new vampire power kicks in?” he asked, as he eased us to the first stoplight.

“Just keep me from hurting anybody,” I said.

“And if the need arises for you to feed again, what then?” Requiem asked.

I turned in my seat as far as the seat belt would allow, so I could see his face in the streetlights. He was revealed in startling white light for an instant. It made his eyes glow, then shadow swept over the backseat, and his eyes faded to a dim blue glow. “What are you getting at?” I asked.

“Did you wonder why Jean-Claude chose us, and only us, to guard you tonight?”

“I had some ideas, but enlighten me.”

“He wanted people with you that were strong enough and dominant enough that if they had to, they could override you. That they would use their best judgment and not blindly follow.”

“Bully for you both,” I said.

“But it wasn't that alone.”

“Just spill it, Requiem, the foreplay is getting tiresome.”

“I heard that about you,” Graham said.

I turned and looked at him. “What?”

“That you don't like a lot of foreplay.”

I gave him a very cold look. “One, no one that would actually know would tell you shit, and two, don't let a little metaphysical sex go to your head. Remember, I watched you writhe all over the seat, and it didn't appeal to me. It wasn't foreplay, or a preview, it was just an accident.”

“Sorry.”

I turned back to Requiem. “Now, you, just tell me what you need to tell me. No preface, no long explanation, just say it.”

“You won't like it,” he said.

“I already don't like it. Just tell me, Requiem, just tell me.” I was getting a headache. I didn't know if it was loss of blood, or tension, but whatever, it was beginning to pound right behind my eye.

“He thought that if things went as badly as they could go . . .”

“Games, word games, just say it.”

He sighed, and the sigh seemed to fill the Jeep with echoes. “If you had to feed the
ardeur,
or if your beast rose, we were the two most likely to survive an attack without having to resort to hurting you.”

“You left something out,” I said.

“I've said enough,” he said.

“All of it, Requiem, I want to hear all of it.”

“No,” Graham said, “you don't. That tone in your voice, no you don't.”

“Just drive,” I said, and turned back to the vampire. “Tell me the rest.”

He sighed again, and it flittered through the interior of the Jeep like it had a life of its own.

“And can the voice tricks, or you're really going to piss me off.”

“My apologies, it is automatic for me, when faced with an angry woman, to try and pacify her, by whatever means.”

“Talk to me, Requiem, we're almost at the cemetery. I want that last bit before we get out of the car.”

He drew himself up even straighter in his seat, very formal. “We were also the two at the club most likely to be able to turn violence to seduction, if the need arose.”

“He must have a high opinion of you both, or a low opinion of me.”

“That last is not true, and you know it,” Requiem said.

I sighed. “Just the way I'm feeling tonight.”

Graham said it. “You're feeling slutty because you did Byron.”

I looked at him. “Well, that's one way of putting it.”

“It's exactly how you're feeling,” he said, sounding sure.

“And you're sure of that?”

“The way you're acting, yeah. Besides, I know your reputation. If anyone can resist temptation it's you.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that, but I don't seem to be resisting much anymore.”

“I have lived with others more powerful than I in Belle Morte's line for centuries, Anita. I, more than most, know just how much you must fight every night of your exisitence not to be consumed by their power.” He paused and then whispered so that it filled the darkened car, “If you are not careful, their beauty will become both heaven and hell, you will betray every oath, abandon every loyalty, give up your heart, your mind, your body, and your immortal soul to have them near you but one more night. Then one cold night, a hundred years after the passion is spent, and nothing but ashes remain, you look up and see someone gazing at you, and you know that look,
you've seen it before. A hundred years later and someone gazes upon you as if you were heaven itself, but you know in your heart of hearts that it's not heaven you're offering them, it's hell.”

I didn't know what to say to that, but Graham did.

“Now I know why they call you Requiem. You're poetic, but fucking depressing.”

Tonight, I just thought he was accurate.

S
UNSET
C
EMETERY WAS
a nice combination of old and new. Big monuments of angels and weeping virgins combined with flat, modern stones—so much less interesting. It was still a place for the rich and famous to be interred, like our local famous brewery family, the Busches.

In his day, Edwin Alonzo Herman had been a very important man, and his monument showed that he thought so, too. It loomed up into the darkness like some winged giant. There was enough light to see that the huge angel had a sword and shield, and it gave you sense that it was waiting to pass judgment, and you wouldn't like what it decided. Of course, maybe that was just the way I was feeling tonight.

There were more than a dozen people waiting at the paved road, most of them lawyers, though with enough family members to have nearly caused a fistfight when I introduced myself and briefly explained what I'd be doing. I'd started telling people up front that I'd be using a machete and beheading chickens, for two different reasons. I'd had an overzealous bodyguard of a very wealthy man nearly shoot me when I drew the big blade. At a different graveside for a historical society, the secretary of said society had jumped me and tried to save the chicken. She'd turned out to be a vegan. That's like a rabid fundamentalist vegetarian. I'd been glad later that it hadn't been cold enough to wear a coat, because leather is the only kind of coat I own.

Tonight was cold enough for coats. October isn't usually that chilly in St. Louis, but tonight had decided to be cold. Or maybe it just felt colder because I was wearing a thong. I'd been surprised by two things about the skimpy underwear: One, once I got over the sensation of having something in the crack of my butt, the thong wasn't uncomfortable; two, a thong under a short skirt on a cold night was damn cold. I'd never fully appreciated how much warmth a little extra bit of satin or silk could hold in against my ass. I certainly appreciated it as I walked over the grass in my little boots and skirt. I huddled in the borrowed leather jacket, but kept my face away from the collar. I did not want a repeat of what had happened in the car. I willed the
warmth in my upper body to travel downward. I was suddenly wishing I'd taken one of the taller men's jackets. It wouldn't have looked as good, but it would have covered my ass.

I stood in front of the grave, though, since it had been nearly two hundred years in a cemetery that was as well-maintained as Sunset, there was no way for me to truly be sure of where the grave had been, not really. A lot of the graves had been moved here from smaller cemeteries over the years, as increased population had needed the land. But I had dropped just enough of my shields to know exactly where Edwin Alonzo Herman's grave lay. His bones were under there, I could feel them.

To the watchers from the road who had paid for this show, it must have looked like I was standing a little far away from the impressive angel. But it had been my experience that once the zombie crawls out of the grave, the crowd always thinks they've had a good show. They'll forgive almost any lack of showmanship on my part, once they've seen me raise the dead. Funny, that.

The crate with softly clucking chickens was near my feet. Graham had carried it and put it where I said to put it. No arguments. Once we left the Jeep, he went back into serious security guard mode. He was the unsmiling, business only person he'd been when I first saw him at the club. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt with his black jeans, jogging shoes, and his own short, leather jacket. He'd changed out of the Guilty Pleasures shirt without being asked. The joking, half-flirting man of a few minutes ago had vanished behind a very serious face and a pair of dark eyes that kept searching the cemetery, the people near us, and farther away, so he was very obviously aware of the perimeter. He seemed to vibrate bodyguard. I'd let the lawyers think he was and showed them the many bandages on my face, wrist, and fingers, to prove the necessity. No one had argued that this was private business and they didn't like anyone but me here with them, once Graham put his dark gaze on their faces. He had a really good stare, a hardness to his face and eyes that did not match what he'd been like in the car. Interesting.

Requiem had carried my gym bag with all the rest of the zombie-raising equipment, except the chickens. I could have carried the bag, but it would have taken me two trips to get the chickens. They tended to squawk if you didn't carry them upright and carefully. Since I was planning on killing them tonight, I tried not to scare them. I had to kill them to raise the dead, but I could make it as painless as possible. And fear definitely goes under the heading of pain in the wrong situation. Being a blood sacrifice probably qualifies as a wrong situation, even if you're a chicken.

I'd persuaded Requiem to leave his long, black cloak in the Jeep, because
in it, he looked like a cute version of the Grim Reaper. Out of it, he looked like he should have been going clubbing. Maybe it was the leather pants? Or the boots? Or the long-sleeved silk shirt in a deep green jewel tone that made his white skin almost shine in contrast. The shirt had made his eyes turquoise in the light, as if there was green in that bright blue somewhere. He'd been harder to explain than Graham, because even without the cloak, he didn't really look like a bodyguard. He looked like what he was, and that was nothing that any of Herman's descendants thought should be here tonight. The only walking dead they wanted to see tonight was Herman himself. I'd told them the vampire stayed, they could like it, or lump it. I also reminded them that I was not obligated to return their down payment if they changed their minds about raising Edwin Herman from the grave. I was here, ready to fulfill my part of the bargain.

When you start needing more than a hundred years worth of zombie raised, it's sort of a seller's market, and I was the seller. There were two other animators in the United States that could do it. One in California, and one in New Orleans, but they weren't here, and I was. Besides, they were nearly as expensive as I was, and they also came with the cost of plane fare and hotels. More money.

So the lawyers got them to shut up. Though there was an elderly woman on the side of the family that had inherited the money that wanted to leave if the “demon” stayed. Demon? If she thought Requiem was a demon, she'd never seen one for real. I had, and I knew the difference.

But the lawyers had settled them down, and one of the granddaughters had settled the grandmother down, and now they were waiting in the dark for me to do my job.

I had the chickens in their crate, and my gym bag with the machete and other paraphernalia. But before anything else, I had to drop my shields enough to do this. I'd learned how to shield, really shield, so that I could fight off the urge to use my gift. I'd learned long ago to control it enough so I didn't raise the dead by accident. There'd been a professor in college that committed suicide. He'd come to my dorm room one night. He wanted to tell his wife he was sorry. That was back when I wasn't raising anything, just shut it down, ignored it. I'm too damn gifted to ignore it. Psychic ability will come out one way or another, if the power is big enough, it'll find a way. And you probably won't like what it will find.

I dropped my shields, not all of them, but enough. Enough so I could open that part of me that raised the dead. It was like a fist that stayed clenched and tight, and only when I relaxed, spread wide those metaphysical fingers, could I be free. I knew people that had studied with animators or
voodoo practitioners to aquire the skills needed to raise the dead. I'd studied to learn how
not
to raise the dead. But it took a little effort, all the time, to keep that fist closed, that power shut down. It was like a piece of me never completely relaxed, not even when I slept, unless I was here, with the true dead. Here to call one of them from the grave. It was the only moment that all of me could be free.

I stood there for a minute with my power spilling, cool and seeking, like a wind, except that this wind didn't move your hair, it only crept along your skin. It was like I'd been holding my breath, tight, so tight, and finally I could let it out, let it all out, and relax. Once I'd stopped being afraid of it, it felt so good to be with the dead. Peaceful, so peaceful, because whatever was left in the grave had nothing to do with souls or pain.
Quiet as the grave
wasn't just a saying. But I'd forgotten that there were dead near at hand that weren't underground.

My power touched Requiem. It should have ignored him, but it didn't. That cool not-wind curled around him like the arms of some long-lost lover. I'd never felt anything quite like it. For the first time I truly understood that my power was over the dead, all the dead, and that undead is still dead. I'd always thought, and been told, that vampires killed necromancers for fear that they would be controlled by them, but in that second, I knew that wasn't the whole truth. It was as if a door opened inside me, to a room that I hadn't known existed. Inside that metaphysical room stood something. It had no shape that my eye could see, no weight, nothing to touch, nothing to hold, but it was there, and it was real, and it was me, mine, sort of. A “power plateau” Byron and Requiem had called it, but that wasn't it. Plateau is static, not growing, not changing. This wasn't static.

It blew out toward me, and if it had been a real room in a real house, the house would have exploded outward with the force of its coming. It would have roared outward in a blizzard of wood and glass and metal, and there would have been nothing standing in that metaphysical yard, except ground zero of some mysterious blast.

It was inside me, so it couldn't slam into me, that was silly, but that's still what it did. It slammed into me, and for a second I was blind, deaf, weightless, nothingness. There was nothing but the rawness of that power.

I came to, with Graham's voice. “Anita, Anita, can you hear me? Anita!” I felt him holding me, knew we were on top of the grave. I could feel the grave, could feel Edwin Alonzo Herman lying underneath me. All I had to do was call his name.

“Something's wrong, Requiem.”

“No,” he said, and that one word was enough. I opened my eyes and saw the vampire standing over me.

“She's awake,” Graham said, and he tried to cradle me into a sitting position, but I lifted my hand up toward Requiem.

The vampire reached down for me, and I reached for him. Graham helped, by pushing me upright, but he wasn't there for me in that moment. My business was with the dead, and Graham was too warm for me. The blood I wanted was slow and thick, and holding its hand out to me.

Requiem's fingers brushed mine, and the power inside me steadied, as if the world had been trembling, and now it was still. I touched his hand in that sudden stillness, and there was no pulse in his palm. No beat of blood to distract the senses. He blinked at me, his lips moved, but he did not breathe. He was still. He was dead. He was mine.

He pulled me to my feet, and we stood on the foot of the grave, hand in hand. I looked up into that face, met the turquoise flame of his eyes, but it wasn't me that was pulled into his gaze. It was he that fell into mine, and I knew, because I had a glimpse from his mind to mine, that my eyes were solid pools of black with stars glittering in them. It was the way my eyes had looked when Obsidian Butterfly, a vampire that thought she was an Aztec goddess, had shown me some of her power. She was powerful enough that no one argued with her about whether or not she was diety. Some things aren't worth the fight. I'd used the power I'd learned from her only twice, and both times my eyes had filled with stars.

The night was suddenly less dark. I could see details, colors, things that my own eyes could never have seen. Requiem's shirt was so green it seemed to burn like his eyes. It was a kind of hyperfocus, and it wasn't just sight. His hand in mine felt heavier than it should have, more imporant than it should have, as if I could feel each whorl of his fingertip like tiny silken lines against my hand. To make love like this would either be the most wondrous experience of your life, or drive you mad.

I remembered this power, but it wasn't what I needed. I had another flash from Requiem's mind, a tiny flash of fear, quieted almost immediately, because I was touching him and I didn't want him to be afraid. The stars in my eyes drowned in a rush of flame, black flame with a center of brown, as if wood were the flame, and fire what it ate.

My eyes were, for a moment, what they'd be if I'd been a vampire. They filled with dark, dark brown light, so dark it was almost black. I turned those glowing eyes toward the grave, and Graham saw them.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

“Get off the grave, Graham,” I said, and my voice was mine, almost.

He just knelt on the ground and stared up at me.

“Move, Graham,” I said, “you won't want to be there when I'm finished.”

He scrambled to his feet and moved, until I told him, “Good enough.” He stayed close, eyes wide, fear like a scent off of his skin, but he didn't run, and he didn't try to distance himself. Brave boy.

I knelt on the hard ground and drew Requiem down with me, so that he knelt behind me with his hands on my shoulders. He was like some huge solid wall of quiet strength behind me. I'd known that I amplified Jean-Claude's powers when I was near him, but I'd never felt anything like what was happening now. It wasn't a triumverate of power between Requiem and me, it was that he was one of Jean-Claude's vampires, and that made him mine in a way. Mine to call on, mine to use, mine to reward.

I bent until my hands touched the ground, until I could feel the dead just below me. It was as if the ground were water, and I knew there was someone drowning just below me, and all I had to do was reach down and save them.

I whispered, “Edwin Alonzo Herman, hear me.” I felt him stir, like a sleeper disturbed by a dream. “Edwin Alonzo Herman, I call you from your grave.” I felt his bones grow long and straight, felt his flesh coalesce around him. It was like restuffing a broken doll. He remade himself, and it was so easy, too easy. The power began to spread outward, began to seek another grave, but some small part of me that was still me, knew better. It wouldn't be just one more grave. I knew in that instant that I could raise this cemetery. That I could raise them all. No blood sacrifice. No chickens. No goats. Nothing, but the power blowing through me, and the vampire at my back. Because the power wanted to be used. It wanted to help me, help me caress them all from their graves, pull them to the light of stars, and fill them with . . . life. It would feel so good to lift them all up, so good.