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He set her feet on the carpet on the far side of the desk. He relaxed his grip on her throat but didn't let her go.
"Jean-Claude, please. Who is she that the Master of the City should beg for her attention?"
He kept his hand resting on her throat, not squeezing now. He pushed the screen back with his free hand. It folded back to reveal a coffin. It sat up off the ground on a cloth-draped pedestal. The wood was nearly black and polished to a mirrorlike shine.
Gretchen's eyes widened. "Jean-Claude, Jean-Claude, I'm sorry. I didn't kill her. I could have. Ask her. I could have killed her, but I didn't. Ask her. Ask her!" Her voice was pure panic.
"Anita." That one word slithered across my skin, thick and full of forboding. I was very glad that that voice was not angry with me.
"She could have killed me with the first rush," I said.
"Why do you think she did not do it?"
"I think she got distracted trying to draw it out. To enjoy it more."
"No, no, I was just threatening her. Trying to frighten her away. I knew you wouldn't want me to kill her. I knew that, or she'd be dead."
"You were always a bad liar, Gretel."
Gretel?
He raised the lid on the coffin with one hand, drawing her nearer to it.
She jerked away from him. His fingernails drew bloody furrows on her throat. She stood behind the office chair, putting it between her and him, as if it would help. Blood trickled down her throat.
"Do not make me force you, Gretel."
"My name is Gretchen and has been for over a hundred years." It was the first real spirit I'd seen in her against Jean-Claude anyway. I fought the urge to applaud. It wasn't hard.
"You were Gretel when I found you, and you are Gretel still. Do not force me to remind you of what you are, Gretel."
"I will not go into that cursed box willingly. I won't do it."
"Do you really want Anita to see you at your worst?"
I thought I already had.
"I will not go." Her voice was firm, not confident, but stubborn. She meant it.
Jean-Claude stood very still. He raised one hand in a languid gesture. There was no other word for it. The movement was almost dancelike.
Gretchen staggered, grabbing at the chair for support. Her face seemed to have shrunk. It wasn't the drawing down of power that I had seen on her earlier. Not the ethereal corpse that would tear your throat out and dance in the blood. The flesh squeezed down, wrapping tight on the bones. She was withering. Not aging, dying.
She opened her mouth and screamed.
"My God, what's happening to her?"
Gretchen stood clutching bird-thin hands on the chair back. She looked like a mummified corpse. Her bright lipstick was a gruesome slash across her face. Even her yellow hair had thinned, dry and brittle as straw.
Jean-Claude walked towards her, still graceful, still lovely, still monstrous. "I gave you eternal life and I can take it back, never forget that."
She made a low mewling sound in her throat. She held out one feeble hand to him, beseeching.
"Into the box," he said. His voice made that last word dark and terrible, as if he'd said "hell" and meant it.
He had beaten the fight out of her, or maybe stolen was the word. I'd never seen anything like this. A new vampire power that I'd never even heard whispered in folklore. Shit.
Gretchen took a trembling step towards the coffin. Two painful, dragging steps and she lost her grip on the chair. She fell, bone-thin arms catching her full weight, the way you're not supposed to. A good way to get your arm broken. Gretchen didn't seem to be worried about broken bones. Couldn't blame her.
She knelt on the floor, head hanging as if she didn't have the strength to rise. Jean-Claude just stood there, staring at her. He made no move to help her. If it had been anyone but Gretchen, I might have helped her myself.
I must have made some movement towards her because Jean-Claude made a back-away gesture to me. "If she fed on a human at this moment, all her strength would return. She is very frightened. I would not tempt her right now, ma petite."
I stayed where I was. I hadn't planned on helping her, but I didn't like watching it.
"Crawl," he said.
She started to crawl.
I'd had enough. "You've made your point, Jean-Claude. If you want her in the coffin, just pick her up and put her there."
He looked at me. There was something almost amused in his face. "You feel pity for her, ma petite. She meant to kill you. You know that."
"I'd have no problem shooting her, but this..." I didn't have a word for it. He wasn't just humiliating her. He was stripping her of herself. I shook my head. "You're tormenting her. If it's for my benefit, I've seen enough. If it's for your benefit, then stop it."
"It is for her benefit, ma petite. She has forgotten who her master is. A month or two in a coffin will remind her of that."
Gretchen had reached the foot of the pedestal. She had grabbed handfuls of the cloth but couldn't drag herself to her feet.
"I think she's been reminded enough."
"You are so harsh, ma petite, so pragmatic, yet suddenly something will move you to pity. And your pity is as strong as your hate."
"But not nearly as fun," I said.
He smiled and lifted the lid of the coffin. The inside was white silk, of course. He knelt and lifted Gretchen. Her limbs lay awkwardly in his arms as if they didn't quite work. As he lifted her over the lip of the coffin, her long coat dragged against the wood. Something in her pocket clunked, solid and heavy.
I almost hated to ask--almost. "If that's my gun in her pocket, I need it back."
He laid her almost gently in the silk lining, then rifled her pockets. He held the Browning in one hand and began to lower the lid. Her skeletal hands raised, trying to stop its descent.
Watching those thin hands beat at the air, I almost let it go. "There should be another gun and a knife."
He widened his eyes at me, but nodded. He held the Browning out to me. I walked forward and took it. I was standing close enough to see her eyes. They were pale and cloudy, like the eyes of the very old, but there was enough expression left for terror.
Her eyes rolled wildly, staring at me. There was a mute appeal in that look. Desperation was too mild a word for it. She looked at me, not Jean-Claude, as if she knew that I was the only person in the room that gave a damn. If it bothered Jean-Claude, you couldn't tell it by his face.
I tucked the Browning under my arm. It felt good to have it back. He held the Firestar out to me. "I cannot find the knife. If you want to search her yourself, feel free."
I stared down at the dry, wrinkled skin, the lipless face. Her neck was as skinny as a chicken's. I shook my head. "I don't want it that bad."
He laughed, and even now the sound curled along my skin like velvet. A joyous sociopath.
He closed the lid, and she made horrible sounds, as though she were trying to scream and had no voice to do it with. Her thin hands beat against the lid.
Jean-Claude snapped the locks in place and leaned over the closed coffin. He whispered, "Sleep." Almost immediately the sounds slowed. He repeated the word once more, and the sounds ceased.
"How did you do that?"
"Quiet her?"
I shook my head. "All of it."
"I am her master."
"No, Nikolaos was your master, but she couldn't do that. She'd have done it to you if she could have."
"Perceptive of you, and very true. I made Gretchen. Nikolaos did not make me. Being the master vampire that brings someone over gives you certain powers over them. As you saw."
"Nikolaos had made most of the vampires in her little entourage, right?"
He nodded.
"If she could have done what you just did, I'd have seen it. She'd have shown it off."
He gave a small smile. "Again perceptive. There are a variety of powers that a master vampire can possess. Calling an animal, levitation, resistance to silver."
"Is that why my knife didn't seem to hurt Gretchen?"
"Yes."
"But each master has a different arsenal of gifts."
"Arsenal, it is an appropriate word. Now, where were we, ma petite? Ah, yes, I could kill Richard."
Here we go again.
25
"Did you hear me, ma petite? I could kill your Richard." He pulled the screen back into place. The coffin and its terrible contents gone just like that.
"You don't want to do that."
