"If Musette broke the law, can't we punish her, or kick her out of our territory?" I was at the edge of the cemetery now, watching for nonexistent traffic.
"If it were another master vampire come so rudely, then we would be within our rights to slay her, but it is Musette. As you are Bolverk for the werewolves, so Musette is Belle's..." He seemed to be searching for the word. "I do not know the word in English, but in French, Musette is the bourreau. She is our bogeyman, Anita, and she has been such for over six hundred years."
"Fine," I said, "she's scary, I accept that, but that doesn't change the fact that she's invaded our lands. If we let her get away with it, she'll try for more."
"Anita, it is more than that. She is the..." he seemed to grope for a word again. That he was forgetting this many English words spoke to how frightened he was. "The vaisseau-why can I not think of the English for it?"
"You're upset."
"I am frightened," he said, "but Belle Morte has made Musette her vessel. To harm Musette is to harm Belle."
"Literally?" I asked, as I turned onto Mackenzie.
"Non, it is more like a courtesy than magic. She has given Musette her seal, her ring of office, which means Musette in effect speaks for Belle, we are forced to treat her as we would treat Belle Morte herself. This was most unexpected."
"What difference does this vaisseau make?" I asked. We were stuck at the light on Watson, staring at the McDonald's and the union Planters Bank.
"If Musette were not Belle's vessel, then we could punish her for coming early and breaking off negotiations. But if we punish her now, then it would mean that we would do the same to Belle if she came here."
"So? Why wouldn't we punish Belle for entering our territory so rudely, as you put it?"
Asher looked at me then, but I couldn't hold eye contact because the light had finally changed. "You do not understand what you are saying, Anita."
"Explain it to me then."
"Belle is our sourdre de sang, our fountainhead. She is our bloodline. We cannot harm her."
"Why not?"
He looked at me full face, letting his hair fall back so that his whole face showed at last. I think he was too shocked at my question to worry about hiding himself.
"It is not done, that is all."
"What is not done? Defending your territory against all encroachers?"
"Attacking the head of your line, your sourdre de sang, your fountain of blood, it is just not done."
"And I say again, why not? Belle has insulted us. Not the other way around. Jean-Claude has negotiated in good faith. It's Musette that's been the bad little vampire. And if she comes with Belle's blessing, then Belle is abusing her status. She thinks we'll just take whatever she dishes out."
"Dishes out?" he made it a question.
"Whatever she does to us, she thinks we'll just take it, just suck it up and take it without complaining."
"She is right," Asher said.
I frowned at him, then turned, still frowning, back to the road. "Why? Why shouldn't we treat any threat or insult the same?"
He ran his hands through his thick hair, pulling it back from his face. The streetlights crisscrossed his face in light and shadow. We were stopped at another light with an SUV beside us so that their window was even with ours. The woman behind the wheel glanced at us, then did a double take. Her eyes went round, and Asher didn't notice. I looked at her and she looked away, embarrassed at being caught staring. Americans are taught not to stare at anything that isn't perfect. It's like to look at it is to make it more real. Ignore it, it'll go away.
Asher never noticed as the light changed and we drove off. He was exposing his face to strangers, and not noticing the effect it was having. No matter how angry, no matter how sad, no matter how anything, he never forgot the scars. They dominated his thoughts, his actions, his life. For him to forget like this said more than anything how serious the situation was, and I still didn't understand why.
"I don't understand, Asher. We defended ourselves when council members invaded our territory awhile back. We hurt them, did our best to kill them. Why is this different?"
He let go of his hair and swung it back into place like a curtain. I don't think he was any less upset, it was just habit. "Last time it was not Belle Morte."
"What difference does that make?"
"Mon Dieu, do you not understand what it means that Belle is the mother of our line?"
"Apparently I don't, explain it to me. We're going to the Circus of the Damned, right? It will take awhile to get there. You'll have time."
"Oui." He stared out the window of the Jeep, as if looking for inspiration in the electric lights, the strip malls, and fast food restaurants.