«Non, ma petite, the female masters seem convinced they would become bespelled by males of our bloodline. The male masters seem convinced they could master the women of our line.»
«Well, isn't that just typical,» I said. I looked back at London. «If this gets to be too much for you, promise me you'll leave.»
«Why do you care?»
I raised a hand before Elinore could chastise him again. «Because I'm going to have enough trouble freeing Requiem's mind; I don't want to have to do it twice today.»
He nodded. «I swear to you that I will leave, if I feel it is too much.» The look on his face was very solemn, with none of that dark defiance, or anger.
I took a deep breath and turned back to the man on the bed. He gave me peaceful, eager eyes. It was as if the lamb wanted you to slit its throat.
I moved up beside him, so I could touch the unbruised side of his face. I cupped his face and he leaned into that touch, eyes closing for a moment as if that one innocent touch was almost too much to bear.
I called to him. «Requiem, Requiem, come back to me.»
He laid his hand against mine, pressing me tighter against his face. «I am right here, Anita, right here.»
I shook my head, because this wasn't him. It was his body, but whatever made Requiem who he was, that wasn't in his eyes. It was a stranger's face. What makes people people is not just bone structure and eye color, but the force of their personalities. The years of experience painted on their faces. Them, for lack of a better word. Them.
«Oh, Requiem, come back to us.»
He gazed up at me, so puzzled. He didn't understand that he was lost.
I closed my own eyes, so I could concentrate and not have to see his eyes, so trusting and empty. My necromancy was unlike any other power I had. Maybe because it was mine. Whatever the reason, I didn't have to decide to use my necromancy, I just had to stop fighting it. Stop blocking the power. Blocking my necromancy was like making a fist, tight-clenched, squeezing, squeezing, so hard, so the power didn't get away from me. I spread that metaphorical fist wide, let go all that effort and the necromancy just was. Before, with Auggie, there had been so much happening, so many different powers, that it had distracted me, but now there was nothing but the necromancy. It felt so good to finally let go. So amazingly good.
I opened my eyes and stared down at Requiem. «Come to me,» I said, «come to me.» He rose up, off the bed, arms reaching for me. I put a finger on his chest, and said, «Requiem, stop.» He stopped instantly. As if he were Some sort of toy; hit one switch and he goes, another and he turns off. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, this was so wrong.
«Ma petite, ma petite, have a care.»
I turned and glanced at Jean-Claude. «I'm a little busy here,» I said, and couldn't keep the impatience out of my voice.
«I would be more specific with your calls, if I were you. You told only Requiem to stop. The others are still compelled.» He motioned at the other vampires. London had a death grip on the bedpost. He looked panicked. Wicked and Truth were fighting at the edge of the bed. Truth wanted to get on, and Wicked was holding his brother back. Truth looked scared, and Wicked looked angry.
I found Elinore standing by her chair, holding on to it, as if only the chair's weight kept her from coming to me.
I felt myself go pale. «I didn't mean…»
«Your necromancy has gained in power, ma petite, as have your beasts. Be more specific on your orders; use his name.»
I looked at Elinore. «If I called you, would you have to come to me?»
She swallowed hard enough for me to hear it. «I would fight, but the compulsion would be strong. I am not yet a Master of the City. As you must be of a certain level of power to rule a city, so the ruling of it, and the oaths that are taken, the magic that binds, gains a vampire more power. I do not have those ties, yet, so I… I am not Augustine, or Samuel. I think if you forced the issue it would be difficult.»
It was my turn to swallow.
«We are all blood-oathed to Jean-Claude,» London said, through gritted teeth. «I think her call is stronger for her ties to him.»
Truth broke from his brother, and went to the chair by the fireplace. He strode to it, and hid his face in his hands. Wicked turned back to me. «He wanted to go to you. We are both blood-oathed to Jean-Claude. Why was my brother more drawn to your call?»
«He fed on ma petite, when he oathed to us,» Jean-Claude said. «You took my blood.»
«I told you when you brought him over that I had to be brought over in exactly the same way. You assured me that it wouldn't matter.» He gestured angrily toward his brother. «This matters.»