Danse Macabre(149)

"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.

Tears trailed from his eyes, faintly pink with blood like all vampire tears. He rolled his head back so he could see me. "I wanted to hide it from you, but I never could hide it."

"Hide what?" I asked, and my voice sounded almost afraid.

"How good the ardeur feels. Belle said once that she'd never known anyone who fed the ardeur as well as I did, or addicted to it as quickly." The laughter faded from his eyes, leaving them desolate. From such joy, to such loss, in a blink of his eyes.

"Are you addicted once more, mon ami?" Jean-Claude asked.

He turned his head to look at Jean-Claude. "I do not know for certain, but most likely, oui, I am." He sounded neither happy nor sad about it. He was almost matter-of-fact.

"God, London, I'm sorry," I said.

Damian tried to sit up, but Nathaniel and I had to help him, so that he was propped up between us. "I'm sorry, as well."

London curled himself on the bed so he was lying on his side, and could see us. "Don't be sorry, I feel better than I've felt in centuries." He closed his eyes, and drew a shivering breath. "I feel so warm, so… alive."