Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, Book 14. Danse Macabre(151)
«Don't thank me, Asher, you're part of Anita's life. If we're going to make this work, then we have to talk to each other.»
«Always perfect, aren't you?» Richard said, and his own anger raised the heat in the room.
«No,» I said, «no, no more fights. Until after I've seen the doctor this afternoon, I want every one of you to behave like a fucking adult, okay?»
Richard had the grace to look embarrassed. He nodded. «I'll try. Inheriting your temper makes it so hard not to be pissed all the time.» He gave a small laugh. «If this is just a shadow of how angry you feel all the time, I'm amazed you don't just start killing things. God, such rage.» He looked at me, his brown eyes full of so many emotions. «You told me once that your rage was like my beast, and I belittled you. I told you that your anger couldn't compare to my beast, that you didn't know what you were talking about. I was wrong. God, Anita, God, you are so full of rage.»
«Everyone needs a hobby,» I said.
He smiled and shook his head. «You have to learn to control the rage, Anita. If you're really going to shift, you have to get a handle on the rage first.» His face sobered, and he stepped close enough that he could touch my face. The moment he did, our energy jumped to him, both offering energy, and asking for it. Richard and I jerked back at the same time, because it had almost hurt, a slap of electricity.
He rubbed his hand. «Jesus, Anita.»
I used my free hand to touch my face. The skin tingled where he'd touched. «I've got the shields wide open between the three of us here.»
«Could you piggyback the energy of Anita's two triumvirates?» Micah asked.
«Piggyback?» Jean-Claude made it a question.
«Double the energy,» I said.
«Since no one has ever before forged two triumvirates at the same time, I have no answer. The energy did respond to Richard's touch.»
I rubbed my cheek. «You could say that again.»
«Are you hurt?» Richard asked.
I shook my head. «Just tingling.»
He nodded. «Yeah.» He rubbed his hand along the side of his jeans, as if he were trying to rub off the lingering sensation.
The bathroom door opened. London walked out, fully clothed now, adjusting his black-on-black tie. Except that his eyes were still drowning black with power, he looked like he always did. He stopped and looked at us all, because we were looking at him. His face was arrogant, his version of blank. I stared at him, and it didn't seem quite real that we'd had sex. He'd never really been on my guy radar, and now he was food. Funny damn world.
«Where is everyone?» His voice was coldly arrogant, and didn't match the words at all.
«The guards asked to leave,» I said, «and truthfully, I don't remember when everyone else left.»
London walked along the edge of the bed without looking at me. He was back to his cold, isolated self, as if the sex had never happened. He almost made it around the bed, but his foot tangled in the covers on the floor, and down he went. His arm caught at the bed, and he brought himself up to his knees. He peered at us over the bed, like a cat that's just fallen off something, and is trying to pretend it meant to do that.
He got to his feet, leaning on the bed. He jerked the fallen coverlet to one side, then kicked at it repeatedly, hands on the bed to steady himself. He kicked at the coverlet as if it were some kind of enemy that he had to vanquish. When the floor was clear enough for him, he smoothed his clothes again, then started walking carefully around the bed. His shoulder clipped the bedpost, and he fell into the bed again. This time he managed to sit on it, and not end up on the floor, but he didn't try to get up again either. He sat there on the bed, his black-suited back very straight. He kept looking at the far wall.
«You're drunk,» I said.
He nodded without turning around. «Not precisely, but drunk will do as a description.»
Jean-Claude walked around the bed until he was standing in front of the other man. He stared down at him, and I couldn't tell if London met his gaze, or not. «How do you feel?» he asked him at last.
Someone giggled, a high, almost hysterical sound. It was a moment before I realized it was London. He fell back on the bed with his arms wide, and his legs hanging off the edge. He lay there all black and stark against the pale sheets, giggling. The giggling turned into laughter. He gave himself to the laughter, as he'd given himself to the ardeur. The laughter was a good clean laugh, a good sound, but none of us joined him, because London did not laugh. This was not the Dark Knight with his love of shadows and dislike of everything else. This laughing, pleasant man on the bed was someone we'd never seen before.