Chapter 21
Willie led me through a door and a short hallway. As soon as the door closed behind us, the noise was muted, distant as a dream. The lights were bright after the dimness of the club. I blinked against it. Willie looked rosy-cheeked in the bright light, not quite alive, but healthy for a deadman. He'd fed tonight on something, or someone. Maybe a willing human, maybe animal. Maybe.
The first door on the left said "Manager's Office." Willie's office? Naw.
Willie opened the door and ushered me in. He didn't come in the office. His eyes flicked towards the desk, then he backed out, shutting the door behind him.
The carpeting was pale beige; the walls eggshell-white. A large black-lacquered desk sat against the far wall. A shiny black lamp seemed to grow out of the desk. There was a blotter perfectly placed in the center of the desk. There were no papers, no paper clips, just Jean-Claude sitting behind the desk.
His long pale hands were folded on the blotter. Soft curling black hair, midnight-blue eyes, white shirt with its strange button-down cuffs. He was perfect sitting there, perfectly still like a painting. Beautiful as a wet dream, but not real. He only looked perfect. I knew better.
There were two brown metal filing cabinets against the left wall. A black leather couch took up the rest of the wall. There was a large oil painting above the couch. It was a scene of St. Louis in the 1700s. Settlers coming downriver in flatboats. The sunlight was autumn thick. Children ran and played. It didn't match anything in the room.
"The picture yours?" I asked.
He gave a slight nod.
"Did you know the painter?"
He smiled then, no hint of fangs, just the beautiful spread of lips. If there had been a vampire GQ, Jean-Claude would have been their cover boy.
"The desk and couch don't match the rest of the decor," I said.
"I am in the midst of remodeling," he said.
He just sat there looking at me. "You asked for this meeting, Jean-Claude. Let's get on with it."
"Are you in a hurry?" His voice had dropped lower, the brush of fur on naked skin.
"Yes, I am. So cut to the chase. What do you want?"
The smile widened, slightly. He actually lowered his eyes for a moment. It was almost coy. "You are my human servant, Anita."
He used my name. Bad sign that. "No," I said, "I'm not."
"You bear two marks, only two more remain." His face still looked pleasant, lovely. The expression didn't match what he was saying.
"So what?"
He sighed. "Anita. . ." He stopped in midsentence and stood. He came around the desk. "Do you know what it means to be Master of the City?" He leaned on the desk, half sitting. His shirt gaped open showing an expanse of pale chest. One nipple showed small and pale and hard. The cross-shaped scar was an insult to such pale perfection.
I had been staring at his bare chest. How embarrassing. I met his gaze and managed not to blush. Bully for me.
"There are other benefits to being my human servant, ma petite." His eyes were all pupil, black and drowning deep.
I shook my head. "No."
"No lies, ma petite, I can feel your desire." His tongue flicked across his lips. "I can taste it."
Great, just great. How do you argue with someone who can feel what you're feeling? Answer: don't argue, agree. "Alright, I lust after you. Does that make you happy?"
He smiled. "Yes." One word, but it flowed through my mind, whispering things that he had not said. Whispers in the dark.
"I lust after a lot of men, but that doesn't mean I have to sleep with them."
His face was almost slack, eyes like drowning pools. "Casual lust is easily defeated," he said. He stood in one smooth motion. "What we have is not casual, ma petite. Not lust, but desire." He moved towards me, one pale hand outstretched.
My heart was thudding in my throat. It wasn't fear. I didn't think it was a mind trick. It felt real. Desire, he called it, maybe it was. "Don't," my voice was hoarse, a whisper.
He, of course, did not stop. His fingers traced the edge of my cheek, barely touching. The brush of skin on skin. I stepped away from him, forced to draw a deep shaking breath. I could be as uncool as I wanted, he could feel my discomfort. No sense pretending.
I could feel where he had touched me, a lingering sensation. I looked at the ground while I spoke. "I appreciate the possible fringe benefits, Jean-Claude, really. But I can't. I won't." I met his eyes. His face was a terrible blankness. Nothing. It was the same face of a moment ago, but some spark of humanity, of life, was gone.