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Malcolm stumbled back, and only my grip on his hand kept him on his feet. His eyes were wide, his mouth open in a little O of surprise. If he had just been some powerful vamp that tried to mind-fuck me, then I'd have taught him his lesson, and we'd have gone on about our investigation, but he was their master. I learned something in those few seconds, something I hadn't guessed. Every human in the church had a mentor, and I'd assumed their vampire mentors were the ones that would bring them over when the time came. I knew the mentors took blood from their human trainees, but when push came to shove, Malcolm did those last three bites. Malcolm had brought over most of those hundreds, personally. Which meant when I shoved my power into him, it went through him like some huge sword. Through him and into the rest.
It was as if I could suddenly touch them, as if my hand shot through Malcolm's palm, through him, and into their bodies. I felt their pulses, some hearts, some wrists, some necks. I felt the pulse of all those vampires, felt it sluggish and oh, so slow. So long, so long since some of them had fed as they were meant to feed. He didn't let them hunt. He didn't even let them go to the clubs and take willing food there. I saw an endless stream of church members garbed in white, like virgin sacrifices, offering their necks. Only taking a little blood, just enough blood, never enough to be satisfied, just enough not to die.
I saw the thick viscous punch in the parish hall, and I knew that it contained just a little blood from at least three different vamps. Malcolm made sure of that. He didn't want to accidentally blood oath them to someone else. But he never used his own blood, for fear of what it would mean.
Malcolm jerked away from me, but it was too late. I didn't need him anymore.
I looked past him at a girl with long dark hair and glasses. It was the first vampire I'd ever seen with glasses. She grabbed her chest, and I knew why. Her heart was beating. But I saw other things. I saw that once she'd been human here, and she'd knelt and given herself over, but it was a thing of chaste hands on her covered shoulders. No one had ever held her close, gripped her against their bodies, fed so powerfully that her body bucked against them, and sex was a pale thing compared to it.
"Stop it," Malcolm said, "stop it, let them go!"
I turned slowly to look at him, and whatever he saw in my face made him take a step back. "You gave them to me," I said, and my voice had a slow, honeyed feel to it. Power, such power. I'd learned only last night that vampires could act as a sort of witch's familiar to me, I'd thought it needed to be a vampire that I had some connection with, but I was wrong. I could feed on them all, use them like some kind of giant undead battery.
Zerbrowski came up close to me, though even he shivered when he was close enough to whisper, "Anita, what's happening?"
"He tried to use vampire powers to find out what I knew," I said in that same slow, luxurious voice. It was as if my voice was something you could hold in your mouth and suck, like candy. Jean-Claude's trick, and the thought was enough. He was suddenly aware of me, and what was happening. But most of what was happening, he needed to know. He was the Master of the City, not Malcolm. He had tolerated the treaty that the old master had made before her death, but now... well, we'd see. But that was for another night. This night was about murder.
"Are you hurt?" Zerbrowski asked. He sounded like he didn't think so, but knew something was wrong.
"No," I said, "no, I'm not hurt." I thought, if I can feel some of their emotions, if I can look into their faces and see memories, what else can I do?
I thought, Avery, Avery, where are you? I felt an answer, like a small play of wind against my face. I turned toward that wind, and the left-hand side of pews. "Avery, Avery, Avery." I spoke his name, each time a little louder, not yelling, but with force in it.
A vampire stood up in the middle of a row. He was average height, with short brown hair, and a face that was handsome in a soft, unfinished way, as if he'd been barely legal when they killed him.
I held out my hand to him. "Avery, come to me, come to me, Avery, come to me."
He started to push his way through the crowd of other people. A hand grabbed his wrist, a human woman shaking her head, saying, "Don't go."
He jerked away from her, and I heard his voice as if he'd been standing next to me. "I have to go, she's calling me." And he turned eyes to me that were lost in vampire light, burning like brown glass in the sun, but the look on his face was one I'd only seen on humans. Humans that were bespelled by vampires. Humans that couldn't say, no.
Malcolm's rich voice filled the room. "Children, stop him, stop him from answering her call. She's is the Master of the City's whore. She will corrupt our Avery."
I have to say the whore comment pissed me off. I turned to Malcolm, and I let my anger fill my voice. "I'll corrupt them? My God, you've ruined them all. You stole their mortal lives, for what, Malcolm? For what?" I yelled the last, and the words held heat like the wind from some great fire.
All those little vampires that were still held on the lines of my power cried out. I'd hurt them, and I hadn't meant to. I tried to make it up to them, and the problem was that the anger was mine, but I wasn't very good at comforting people. But Jean-Claude was, in a way. It was that old, old problem of his and his line of vampires. If the only tool you have is a hammer, all your problems begin to look like nails. If the only tools you have are seduction and terror, and you're trying to be nice... well, there you go.
65
I could taste their pulses on my tongue. Not just one, but hundreds, as if I'd suddenly had a truckload of candy shoved in my mouth. Candy that was hard and sweet and melted slow across my tongue, but it wasn't just cherry, or grape, or root beer. It was like a thousand different flavors filled my mouth, so that instead of being delicious, it was overwhelming.
I couldn't pick one flavor, one pulse to follow. I literally couldn't pick just one, because I couldn't sort them out. I was choking on too many choices. Until I could choose one thread to follow, I couldn't swallow any of them. I collapsed to my knees, drowning in a thousand different scents, different skins. I could smell their skin, that wonderful smell at the side of the neck where the skin smells sweetest when you're in love. But it was a different scent for each neck: aftershave, perfume, cologne, soap, sweat. It was as if I'd walked up to each of them and put my face just above their skin--close enough to kiss--and breathed in the scent of them.
Zerbrowski was beside me, his gun out, but not pointed at anyone, sort of ceilingward. "Anita, what's wrong? Did he hurt you?"
Who, I thought? Who was he? There were so many "hes." Which one did he mean?
I tried to swallow past all those pulses in my mouth, but I couldn't. I couldn't get this bite down. It was too much.
Jean-Claude's voice was in my head. "Ma petite, you must choose."
I managed to think, "Can't."
"Who did you go there to find?" he asked.
Who did I go there to find? That was a good question. Who? It all went back to who.
Zerbrowski grabbed my arm, hard. "Anita! I need you here. What's happening?"
He needed me. I saw Smith and Marconi both with weapons drawn. They needed me, because they couldn't feel it. I had to function, to think, to speak, or things were going to get out of hand. I was a federal marshal tonight, I had to remember that. I remembered something else, something that had been washed away in all that scent.
Avery, I needed Avery. I thought the name, and just like that, it was his pulse on my tongue. His skin smelled like cologne, something expensive so that it was powdery and sweet, almost like good perfume, but underneath that was sweat. He hadn't showered tonight. The thought made me wonder what else besides sweat he hadn't washed away. It was as if I was close to him again, as if my face passed down his body just above his skin. My breath was warm against his skin and helped blow the scents back from his skin to my nose, my mouth. I didn't simply smell the scents down his body, I tasted them. A faint taste, as if smell was the more important, but smell and taste were aligned differently than ever before. More intimately, somehow. That part wasn't Jean-Claude's power, but Richard's and I fought not to think of him, not to open the links between us farther than they were already. I did not want Richard in my head right now.
Jean-Claude let me know without words, or if with words, it was too quick to register, like a kind of telepathic shorthand, that he would guard me from Richard. He would not let me drown in still more sensation. But it was thanks to closer ties with Richard that I could smell and taste my way down Avery's body and enjoy it, or rather not be disgusted by it. Wolves, like dogs, do not think of scent and taste as a human does. They like it when we smell like live things. Avery had had sex and hadn't cleaned up afterward. I wasn't disturbed by that, more curious, because, thanks to Jean-Claude's marks and my own power, I knew Avery was as neat and meticulous in his person as he was in his housekeeping.
