4

The music was still playing, a pulsing beat, but the man on stage wasn't dancing, because he wasn't the show anymore. The show was a small ocean of college students surrounding a man that towered above them. He was like a pale tower caught in the middle of their jeans and letter jackets. The tallest of them only came to his shoulder, but there were a lot of them, and almost all of them were wearing a jacket that indicated they did some kind of sport. Some of them looked almost as muscle-bound as the club security. Primo had picked a good bunch if he wanted to start trouble, and he so wanted to start trouble.

The other black-shirted security guards didn't seem to know what to do. Their divided loyalties showed in the fact that they hadn't waded in to help Primo. They were on the fringe of the gang of college guys, keeping them contained as best they could, but they weren't pulling them off the big vampire. If I hadn't known anything about Primo and what had gone on before, I'd have learned something just by watching the other men refuse to help him.

It wasn't Primo's size that was the problem. It was the waves of power that radiated off of him. Most vamp power, and even lycanthrope power, filled a room like water rising, until you drowned in it. Primo's power literally pulsed and flowed. Every time he smacked someone with his big open hand, the power spiked and tightened along my skin. His power seemed to feed off his own violence. But he was keeping his big hands open, just slapping them around, which was, of course, insulting the college students' manhood.

One of the biggest of the group jumped onto Primo, hanging on to his shoulder and arm. Primo grabbed him by the shoulder and peeled him off like he was nothing. He tossed him into the coat check booth and earned a scream from the holy item-check girl that worked there.

Primo's power was thick enough to walk on, but only for a second, then down it went. He couldn't sustain it.

"Enough," Buzz said, and he sounded unhappy to have to say it. He motioned, and that one motion ended the security guards' hesitation. The other black-shirts moved in and started helping the college guys move toward the door. They made some progress, but the guys didn't want to leave their buddies ass-deep in giant vampire. I couldn't really blame them.

Again, this was outside my skill set. I could have drawn badge and gun and stopped it, if I was willing to arrest, or kill Primo, but I didn't know how to tone it down. As Buzz had said, their job was not to make it worse, but to make it better. I didn't know how to do that. Not really.

Buzz was yelling, "Primo, Primo, stop fighting back. We need to get this out of the club."

Primo's answer to that was to pick up two college students by the throat, one in each hand, as if he meant to bang their heads together. But while his hands were busy, another enterprising young man, with short brown hair and shoulders nearly as wide as Buzz's, hit him in the face. He knew how to throw a punch. It rocked the vampire's head back, and blood blossomed at his mouth, like a crimson flower on all that white skin.

The music from the stage died abruptly, and into that sudden silence Primo screamed. A huge rage-filled battle cry. He dropped the two men in his hands like they were nothing and went for the man who'd hit him. I expected him to throw him around like he had the others, but he didn't. He picked him up by the front of his jacket until his feet dangled off the ground, and he was probably choking on his own collar. But instead of those big pale shoulders bunching to throw the man, Primo's hand went back, and this time he closed his fist. From that close up, with that kind of strength, he was going to snap the man's neck.

I drew the Browning, but truthfully without a court order of execution, I was in the same boat as a police officer. I couldn't shoot him if I thought he was only going to hurt someone. How did I argue in court that I knew how strong a vampire was and how fragile the human body could be? And call it a hunch, but I figured once I shot Primo, I had to kill him. I did not want that level of muscle and magic touching me. I was harder to kill, not immortal.

I aimed down my arm, because court and explanations would come later, and that kid was about to die. I was about to take a shoulder shot, because it was my best bet with this many people around, when everyone else got brave, too.

Clay was closest, and he jumped him. Primo tossed the shapeshifter into the first row of tables. Women screamed and scattered. Clay was getting to his feet, but that big fist was pulling back again.

Buzz was screaming, "No, Primo, no!"

I had the gun pointed at the floor, because when you're tense, your fingers are tense, too. If I shot someone, I wanted it to be on purpose. I started to move closer and to one side for a better shot, when the black-shirts swarmed him, and I had no shot at all.

If I'd been ready to kill his ass, I'd have yelled for them to get away, but I was still hoping to avoid it. I moved closer, and to one side, farther away from the tables, where I thought I had a better chance at getting a clear shot. I'd never tried to shoot anyone in the middle of a bar fight. Just the tumble of bodies was intimidating. It was like trying to hit a target with civilians flying around it.

Primo tossed them around like they were dolls, while still holding the man straight-arm. The more they fought him, the stronger his power spiked and billowed, as if every blow, whether his or theirs, powered him up. He was lost behind a mound of black-shirts, then I felt his power draw in like an atom bomb breathing, and I had time to yell, "Everybody down!" I wasn't sure what was coming, but it was going to be bad.

I hit the floor like I'd told everybody else to do, though I put myself flat to the ground. I glanced at most of the women and waiters behind me and saw them crouching on the floor. Jesus, didn't anyone know how to take cover?

Primo didn't use his body to throw them off in a burst of black shirts, he used his magic. It blew them airborne in a spray of black shirts and falling bodies. If I'd been crouched like the people I'd complained about, I could have moved faster. But flat on the ground, I had a split-second to decide whether I was going to cover my head and hold my ground, try to roll farther away, or get to my knees and scramble for it. Flat to the ground doesn't help when things as heavy as bodies are falling. I got up to scramble away, and a body smashed into me. I had a moment to be quietly stunned, and then another one landed on top of me.

I'd been hit, I'd been thrown, I'd been a lot of things, but I'd never had two adult men land on me from the air. All the breath was crushed out of my body, and if I'd been as human as I looked, things would have broken. I laid there for a second, stunned, and the two men on top of me weren't moving at all.

The first thing I moved was my head, back to look over my shoulder to where Primo had been. He was still there. Still standing. He'd picked up a different college student and was dangling him in his hand. His big fist was cocked back again. Fuck.

I realized two things at once. One, I could move my hands, two, my gun wasn't in either of them. My body was pinned underneath several hundred pounds. I was strong, and I could get out, but it wouldn't be quick, and I had no idea where my gun was. No one that he'd thrown off was moving. Primo's fist started forward, and there was one of those moments where the world slows down. I had all the time in the world to watch him land that blow, all the time in the world to watch him snap that man's neck and know I couldn't stop him.

35

I reached out toward him and screamed, "No!" I didn't expect it to help, but I had to do something.

Blood spurted from Primo's arm, and he hesitated, staring around the room as if he didn't know where the scream had come from.

I wasn't sure either, but I'd spent months learning how to control what power I had, and I'd felt something. This was the second time I'd done something like this, both times when I was desperate. The question was, could I do it on purpose?

Primo raised the man upward again, as if he'd set his goal and nothing would turn him from it. I reached out with my hands, and I thought about it. I thought about what it had felt like. Like my thoughts hit something around him, formed it into glass to hurt him.

Primo raised the man higher and seemed to be saluting someone behind me, but I didn't glance back, there wasn't time.

I reached out not just with my hands but with that power I had over the dead, that link I had with two vampires, and I slashed at him. Blood flared along his arm again, more red to join the first. It wasn't as much blood, and I didn't know why, because I really didn't understand what I was doing. A few bloody cuts were not going to distract him for long.

"You are not doing this," he said. His voice was a deep rumbling growl that matched the big body and held an accent that I couldn't place.

Jean-Claude's voice floated up from behind us. "No, but I am doing this."

I wanted to look backward and see him, but I didn't dare take my eyes off the vampire in front of me to look at the vampire behind me. But I didn't need eyes to feel his power. It flowed through the room like a comforting hand. It caressed the bodies that pinned me to the floor. I got a whiff of musk and wolf fur and knew that both men were pack. That scent of fur and home filled me, too. I knew that it was partly his tie to Richard, but it was more than that. His magic was seeping down through them to me. He hadn't meant for it to, but I had my own ties to Richard and his wolves. It was hard for him to reach out to them and not touch me.

They both drew long shuddering breaths, as if they'd come back to life, though I knew that wasn't it. The blond, Clay, blinked at me from inches away. He looked surprised, and I couldn't blame him. The one on top had hair the color of mine, though it was straight as straight could be. He blinked dark eyes at me as if he didn't remember seeing me before, or know how he came to be lying on top of me.

He muttered, "Sorry, miss," even as he started moving slowly, stiffly off the top of the pile.

Clay made small protesting noises as the first man began to get off him.

"How do you think I feel? I'm on the bottom," I said.

Clay wasted a smile on me.

Buzz was getting stiffly to his knees from a few feet away. He caught my eye and gave me a look. I didn't know him that well, but it seemed to say, well that solves that.

Jean-Claude was here, and his power filled the room like a warm blanket. It felt so good, and so unlike his power in some ways. I knew what was wrong, it felt too alive. But he was the Master of the City, and none of his vampires would defy him to his face. I believed that was the only excuse I have for letting my guard down and looking away from Primo. You'd think I'd learn that crazy is crazy, dead or alive.

"All of them could not stop me before, Jean-Claude. Three will not do."

The way he said it, made me look back at Primo. He didn't sound like he was giving up. That wasn't right. Challenging Buzz was one thing. Challenging Jean-Claude was another thing entirely.

"They are not here to stop you, Primo, for you are stopped. I am the Master of this City, and I say you are stopped."

"These humans bloodied me!" There was such rage in his words that they scalded along my skin. He fed on his own anger, as well as violence. I realized in that moment that he was a master vampire of sorts. At least some of his powers were master-level powers. That was bad.

Clay was on all fours, which meant I was finally able to get out from under him. I'd been looking around for my gun, but I couldn't see it. It had to be here somewhere. Fuck, the shit was about to hit the fan, and I didn't have a gun.

"How did a vampire of your power allow a mere human to bloody you?" Jean-Claude's voice was easy, conversational, but in my head, his voice whispered something else, "I fear I have underestimated him."

"No, shit," I said.

Clay asked, "What did you say?"

I shook my head, my eyes still scanning the floor for my gun, but I couldn't find it. Then I thought, Fuck it, I'd cut him twice without a gun. I could do it again. Part of me didn't believe it. I told that part to shut the fuck up, too. I had enough problems without self-doubt creeping in.

Primo still had the man he'd picked as his scapegoat, but he was holding him sort of nonchalantly down at his side like a forgotten bag of laundry. I realized that the man had passed out, and got to my feet, trying to see if he was breathing. I didn't like the way Primo had the man's jacket collar twisted around his neck. Had I been so worried about the fist that I'd let Primo choke the man to death?

Jean-Claude's voice breathed through my head. "He is not breathing, but his heart still beats."

I said out loud, "We're out of time."

"Yes," he said, and I think that was out loud. He reached out to me, not with his hand but with his power, and this wasn't the warm living power of the lycanthrope. The cool grace of the grave touched me, and it flared that part of me that raised the dead. I suddenly knew how I'd cut him. I suddenly knew how it worked. It was like a puzzle box in my head, and suddenly I knew just where to press and just what it meant. Slashing from a distance used the beings' own magical aura against them. It turned their magical shielding into a slender invisible blade that could be turned against them. Jean-Claude had known what it was and how it worked for centuries, but he'd never been able to do it himself. He knew the how, but could not do it. I could do it, but didn't know the how. Together we suddenly had it covered.

My goal was not to kill Primo, but to make him let go of the man. I held my hand out toward him, and he still didn't look scared.

"Do you think your little cuts will stop me?" he demanded.

"No," I said, and I threw power at him, almost like throwing a ball, and that ball caught against his aura, his shielding, like a burr on a piece of cloth. But the ball didn't stay a ball, and it didn't exactly pierce Primo's shielding. It was as if the ball melted onto it, and where it melted, it invaded the shielding, became one with it, and turned that protective coating into something long and slender and sharp. I visualized that sharpness cutting across his belly, and his shirt split like a skin to show white flesh and blood.

It was a bigger wound than the other two, and his hand went to it, as if it hurt, or as if he wasn't sure how hurt he was.

"How do you like that one?" I asked. "Big enough for you?"

He snarled at me, flashing fangs that looked too big for his mouth.

It had done exactly what I wanted it to. Thanks to Jean-Claude's centuries of frustrated study, I had a new weapon. I'd been afraid before to hit too close to the victim. All it would have taken was the vic to have a little psychic gift, and I could have done more damage to him than to Primo. But now I had it, I knew it, I felt it.

I flicked a hand at the arm that held the man, and that arm split open from elbow to wrist. Blood spilled down his arm in a crimson wash, if his heart had been beating enough, the blood would have jumped out of his open arteries, but he didn't have the blood pressure for it. Not anymore.

"Do you seek to save this?" he lifted the man by his twisted collar. "It is dead and only meat for the animals now."

"His heart still beats," Jean-Claude said.

But we had only moments before mouth-to-mouth wasn't going to save him from brain damage. I threw both hands up, and I cut him. I tried slicing his arm like you'd bone a fish, but I could not break the deeper tissue. I could cut his skin and meat away but the ligaments held, and that was all Primo needed to hold the vic until he died. Stubborn bastard.

"If you do not drop the man now, Primo, I will see this as a direct challenge to my authority."

"See it any way you like, but I will not be a whipping boy for this," and he pointed not at me, but at the men that lay unconscious around him, at Buzz who stood near, but not too near. We were out of his league, and he knew it.

"So be it," Jean-Claude said. In my head he said, "Ma petite, it is not a knife, it is not a single blade, it is magic. If you can turn one small piece of his power against him, then why not all of it?"

I started to ask, what did he mean, then he showed me. It was like my mind was a wall, and he'd just plugged that bit of answer directly into my brain. I understood, and I didn't hesitate. It wasn't in me to hesitate when lives were at stake.

I didn't point or throw up a hand. It wasn't a game of ball. I could affect his shielding, and that shielding covered his entire body. I thought at that skin of magic, I threw power into all of it, and when I felt all of his shielding, as if I was caressing that invisible skin with my hands, I turned it all against him. I turned it all into inward-pointing blades. It was as if Primo were suddenly standing in the center of a reverse porcupine, a porcupine with spines the size of daggers.

Every inch of his skin I could see was just suddenly covered in blood. He screamed, screamed with a mouth that poured blood, screamed with a throat that was pierced in a half-dozen places. He screamed, and he let go of the man.

Clay and the dark-haired werewolf grabbed the man and dragged him over the bodies of his friends, and away, just away. I wanted to watch, to make sure they got him breathing, but I had other problems.

Primo started to charge us, but he stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. I realized in that moment that I'd blinded him. It wasn't permanent, but it was permanent enough. For tonight he was blind.

He roared at us and yelled in a voice that sounded like he was trying to swallow broken glass. "Damn you, Jean-Claude, damn you. You are not vampire enough to do this. You were never vampire enough for this."

"Did you come to St. Louis to destroy me and take my place?"

Primo raised his bloodied face toward the sound of Jean-Claude's voice. "Why not? Why not be Master of the City?"

"You cannot even be master of your own self, Primo, that is why. Power alone is not enough to rule this city."

I wanted to look behind me and watch him speak, but I didn't need to. In that moment I felt closer to him than if I'd stood holding his hand. I knew then what I'd known before, but only in the back of my mind. He'd used the vampire marks between us more openly, more intimately than ever before. I should have been angry, but I wasn't.

One of the waiters was bending over the man Primo had tried to kill. The waiter had bent back the man's head and was breathing into his mouth. The man gave a sudden jolt, and his first gasp of breath was loud.

The dark-haired werewolf that I could give no name to raised a thumbs-up. The man would live. He would be alright. No amount of muscle that we had here would have freed him in time. Nothing else would have freed him without killing Primo, though I wasn't sure that was a good thing. I thought we should kill Primo, and do it now, before he recovered.

Jean-Claude's voice whispered in my ear, "If someone dies, I will have much more difficulty convincing them all that nothing bad happened here."

I shook my head and thought, there aren't enough vampire mind tricks in the world to blank the mind of an audience this big. Not about something this traumatic.

"Do you doubt me, ma petite?" He was suddenly standing just behind me. His slender white hand appeared on my shoulder, a spill of white lace around it, and a flare of black velvet sleeve framing that lace.

I raised my hand up to touch his and found his skin cold, as if he had not fed or had used a great deal of energy up. There was more warmth to the velvet as it brushed my fingers than to his skin. He was drained. How much energy had it taken for him to talk mind to mind with me, or had things been happening that I didn't know about yet?

The rest of the black-shirted security began to move, slowly, stiffly, as if things hurt. Primo seemed to sense their movement, because he said, "Even blind, I am their match."

He moved into a crouch on the balls of his feet. The movement must have hurt like hell, but he never winced. He put one big bloody hand on the floor and the other in the air, as if he were sensing movement. It was too close to a martial arts move for comfort. He was huge, a vampire, nearly impervious to pain, crazy, and trained in the martial arts. It didn't seem fair.

Nathaniel came to my side, and he had my gun. He held it out to me wordlessly, exactly the way I'd taught him, butt first, fingers well away from the trigger.

I gave him half the smile he deserved, because I was still keeping an eye on the bloody giant on the floor. I clicked the safety off before I holstered it. Call it a hunch, but when Primo rushed us, I wouldn't want to waste that second. I'd need it.

But he didn't rush us. No, Primo had a much more interesting idea in mind. There was something about being this hooked up to Jean-Claude that made me feel safer, and that sense of safety was a type of arrogance. Arrogance made me forget that a really old vampire can do more than just hurt you physically. Jean-Claude's arrogance made me forget.

Primo didn't move a muscle, but he thrust power at us, poured his rage like flinging a red hot bucket of boiling anger on us. There was no time to shield against it. No time to do anything but take it. Jean-Claude tried to let it wash over him, but I felt that awful rage trying to find a place to grow inside him. The Master of the City consumed by rage would be a very bad thing. But I understood anger, and I wasn't Master of the City.

I took that anger, not to wash over me, but to drink, to swallow, to bathe in it. I drew his rage around me like a coat of fire, and I opened up a part of me that I kept hidden from everyone. I let Primo's rage meet the great seething mass of my own rage. The rage I'd carried inside me since my mother's death. The deep endless seas of my anger welcomed his anger--embraced it, fed on it. I ate his rage and let him feel me do it.

I laughed, laughed while I stood there and burned with our twin furies. Laughed while I felt his anger falter and begin to pull back. Laughed while I let his anger mingle with mine. I already carried a bottomless pit of it, what was a few more buckets?

He stared up at me with sightless eyes, and then he did half of what I'd expected. He moved forward, but not in a mindless rush. He moved forward with a speed that was breathtaking, and I'd seen speed. He was blind, so he grabbed in the dark, and it was Nathaniel he grabbed. Nathaniel who was standing near us. I don't know if that was who Primo was aiming at, or if he missed. He grabbed Nathaniel's wrist and tried to yank him in against his body, but Nathaniel braced and would not go.

We were suddenly all moving. I was aware that the security guards were moving, but they'd be too late. My gun was almost free of its holster, but Primo had started forward as soon as he felt Nathaniel's resistance. I was closest, and I moved faster than I planned. I wasn't used to being more than human quick. I was reaching out for Nathaniel's arm, but I got too close to the vampire's face.

Primo sank fangs into my wrist, and I knew better than to try and jerk free. It would have torn my wrist open. I had my gun out as I screamed. Screamed as his mouth fed on me. Screamed as I put the gun to his head.

My finger had started that pull on the trigger, when Primo's mind slammed into mine. It wasn't his rage. It was his memories. Roman army, the murder that got him condemned, the arena where he could murder to his heart's content, where he could slake that rage, or feed it. Death after death after death. And each one fed him in a way that nothing else did.

Then one dark night a noblewoman requested he come to her bed with the blood and sweat of his victory painted on his body. He went, and found so much more than he'd ever dreamt of. She offered him freedom and a new way to feed his rage. A new way to kill. He did not know her real name. She had simply said, "I am the Dragon, and you will serve me," and he had.

Abruptly, the memories stopped. It staggered me, and I had a moment to fight not squeezing the trigger. A moment to point the gun skyward and try to relearn how to breathe and use my body at the same time.

Primo still had his mouth pressed to my wrist, but now there was healed flesh, and sight in his eyes. I knew with Jean-Claude's knowledge that Primo could heal almost anything with a little special blood. He'd been aiming for a lycanthrope. But my blood had done the trick. I understood why Jean-Claude had wanted him. Such a powerful soldier, if you could control him. The calmness in my head wasn't me.

Primo released my wrist, and his eyes rolled white with terror. "What are you?" he whispered.

"Not what, Primo, who," I said, and I reached the hand he'd wounded out to him. I meant to touch his face, but he cringed back from me as if I'd offered him harm. "Who am I, Primo?"

That great body cowered before me. He abased himself before me, and I remembered him doing it long ago for the one who had made him. "Master," he whispered, and the word seemed to be forced from his lips. He hated it, that he would never be his own master. When he took that bloody kiss, he had always assumed that someday he would rule, and now he knew different. "You are my master."

The moment he'd tasted my blood he had been bound in a way that had nothing to do with sex, or love, or friendship. It was a belonging that was possessive in a way that none of the others were. Primo simply was mine, no, ours.

The marks between Jean-Claude and I were wide open and had been when Primo attacked me. When he bit me, he wasn't just tasting me. Blood of my blood, wasn't just a pretty phrase. It was real. I understood in that moment that with the marks cranked open, to take blood oath to one was blood oath to both. I could control the dead, and Jean-Claude had power over any vampire that took blood oath, or that he'd made. Primo had been overwhelmed with a double whammy. Because in that instant, my blood had been Jean-Claude's, and his mine. I had a moment to wonder what all this might be doing to our reluctant Richard, but the thought didn't last. I had enough problems of my own without borrowing his.

I looked down at the big man at our feet and knew that Jean-Claude was utterly sure of him. Utterly certain that Primo's oath to us would hold him. It wasn't like reading minds. I just knew that Jean-Claude was no longer worried about Primo. He was confident of him. I wasn't.

I turned to look at Jean-Claude, to try to persuade him of just how dangerous Primo could still be, but of course, my being willing to turn away from Primo said that in my way I was certain of him, too. And that was wrong. He was like walking rage with a big muscular body to back it up. That wasn't safe. That could never be safe.

I think I would have turned back to Primo, but I was suddenly looking at Jean-Claude, and the world vanished. There was nothing but Jean-Claude. Black velvet had been made into a waist-length military jacket with silver buttons down the front and a high stiff collar to frame a white mound of cravat. A silver tie tack with a sapphire in its head pierced the white at his throat. The jacket fit the spread of his shoulders, emphasized his slender waist, and took the eye to the black leather pants that looked as if they'd been braided together on the sides, as if he hadn't so much slipped them on as been bound into them. The boots were only knee high, made of the same rich dark velvet as the coat. I was bespelled and I knew it, and I couldn't help but stare, but I left his face for last, because I knew in what was left of my self-control that if I looked into his face, I would truly be lost.

One slender hand came up to my lowered face. That hand surrounded by a spill of white lace. He touched my chin, the barest of touches, and began to raise my face upward. It was a delicate touch, I could have fought or stopped him, but I didn't want to. It had taken all of my willpower simply to avoid his face at first glance.

His black curls mingled with the velvet until it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. His eyes were huge and beautiful, a color darker than the sapphire at his throat. His eyes were as dark as blue could be and did not hold a single shade of black. His face was a pale perfection like a painting almost finished. He was pale, and the fingers against my face were like ice. He was like some pale sculpture waiting for someone to breathe it to life, except for the dark glitter of those eyes. Those eyes held all the life in the world.

His voice was low and soft, like fur sliding across my skull. "Ma petite, let me in. Let me in. Do not leave me to the cold."

I actually opened my mouth to say, of course, but closed it. Once before when we'd been less bound than this, he'd taken energy from me without drawing blood. That had been because big bad vamps were in town and he needed to not look weak in front of them. And if they were to find out that his human servant didn't allow him to take blood, he would have looked weak indeed.

He needed to feed, desperately so. "Why?" I found my voice, hoarse and not at all like the smooth pull of his. "Why is your energy so low?"

"I have done what I could from a distance to make your day easier."

I reached up and laid my fingers against his cheek. "You've drained yourself for me."

"For your peace of mind," he whispered, and his voice trailed down my spine like a tiny drop of water trickling low and lower.

"You want to feed," I said.

He gave a small nod, moving his cold skin against the warmth of my fingers. In my head, he whispered, "If I am to maintain our control of Primo, I need to feed."

"You don't mean blood," I said.

"No," he raised his other hand to my bandaged cheek. "Are you hurt?"

"Not much," I said, and my voice was sounding almost like my own. I realized that he'd pulled back. He was letting me think. He didn't have to, but he knew me too well. If he didn't let me think now, I'd be mad later.

"You don't mean like you did when the council was in town, do you? You're asking something else."

His voice in my mind, "Something has happened with your binding of Damian and Nathaniel. More power is everywhere, but also more need. I have denied myself for a very long time, ma petite." His hands slid along the edge of my jawline, until they cradled my face, and his fingers were buried in the warmth of my hair. I heard him think that he was warming his hands against my hair. So cold, so empty, so needy. I'd never seen him like this, never.

This wasn't his need. I turned enough so that I could see Nathaniel, who had gone to lean against the wall. He wasn't close enough to project like this. He gave me innocent lavender eyes. I couldn't feel him in my head. It was just Jean-Claude and me, but even with only two of us connected, it still felt like Nathaniel's need, or Damian's skin hunger.

I looked back into those dark, dark blue eyes and whispered, "You've inherited their neediness."

Aloud, he said, "I fear so."

"What can we do?" I asked.

"Let me in, ma petite, let me through those wonderful shields. Let me in," and his voice spilled over my skin as if he'd covered me naked in satin and drawn it along my body.

I shivered, and only the cool touch of his hands kept my knees from buckling. I stared into those eyes, that face, and I whispered, "Yes."

His face filled my vision, then his lips brushed mine. I expected him to take me in his arms and kiss me with the desperation I felt in his need, but he didn't. He touched me only with his mouth, and even that was the barest pressure of his lips against mine. I actually pushed against him, raised a hand to touch him, and he put a hand on my shoulder and held us apart. A second after he'd done it, I understood why, because it was as if my soul spilled up into my lips, as if the very essence of me was a taste upon my lips. My power, my magic, my heart, my soul, everything was there for the taking in one soft brush of lips. I'd thought we'd fed the ardeur upon each other before, but I'd been wrong. He sipped from my lips, delicate, so much more he wanted. I could feel it. Feel his need. But he held me back with his hands on my shoulders, while I struggled to close that distance. But I knew with his knowledge that bare skin was bare skin, and all of it could drink me down.

It was the most careful kiss I'd ever been given, and one of the most frustrating. I was making small noises deep in my throat, because I wanted more. I wanted so much more.

When he drew back, he held a spot of my lipstick like a crimson stain in the center of his lips. There was the tiniest bit of color to his cheeks. He was like the cold of winter touched by the barest breath of spring, so that warmth was only a promise, not real, not now, but a distant hope. But hope is better than the alternative.

He swallowed convulsively, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, before he straightened and his hands on my shoulders were firm. "That is but a taste of what I need, ma petite."

"Don't stop," I said.

He smiled, but it was sad. "Let the effects wear awhile, then give me an answer about more."

I shook my head. What was he talking about? Of course, of course he could have more.

"It is my fault, ma petite. I asked you to let me in your shields. I did not mean for you to drop all the defenses in your considerable repertoire. It was nearly overwhelming for both of us." He looked at me as if he saw something new there, or someone new. "I must attend to our fair audience." He almost came to me again for a good-bye kiss, but he pushed away, and he called to someone, "Attend her until she recovers. No, not you, not until she is herself again. I fear what she would do if you touched her now."

His voice when it came again, filled the club, echoed into the shadows of it, and yet, seemed intimate, as if he whispered it against your skin, and only your skin. "Primo has walked through fire and blood to be reborn for you tonight. Transformed before your eyes from the warrior of nightmares to the lover of dreams."

"They're too scared, they won't believe it." It was Nathaniel's voice.

I turned toward that voice, but met a different face. Nathaniel was standing just beyond, out of reach, but Byron was standing so close that it startled me. He wasn't quite three hundred years old, and I normally heard him move as if he were human. He wasn't powerful, and never would be, but tonight, I hadn't even known he was standing nearly touching me. That helped sober me up more than anything else. I hadn't heard one of the weakest of the new vamps that Jean-Claude had welcomed to town. Bad necromancer, no cookie.

"You've never seen him after he's fed like this," Byron said in that nicely accented British voice, "watch."

I fought not to look at Jean-Claude. I looked at the audience instead. Their eyes were wide, their faces pale, or flushed. Some of them were still hiding under the tables. If the fight hadn't taken place between them and the most obvious door, they'd have probably fled. All they needed was a sign above them that said "scared shitless." It was probably the most spilled blood that any of them had ever seen. Scary stuff.

As long as I looked at the audience I agreed with Nathaniel, but when my eyes drifted to Jean-Claude's back as he spoke with them, well... I had to look away. I had to not look, because the craving was still there. I'd been told that my desire to touch him had been part of the same craving that any servant felt for their master, but I hadn't really believed it. This, this was craving.

I found myself staring at Primo, who was still on his knees, looking confused, a half-circle of black-shirted security guards standing around him. He looked up at me, and his eyes held something like pain. He spoke, and no one at the tables heard him, just me and security, and the vampire and wereleopard at my back. "You have trapped me."

I opened my mouth to say, "I didn't mean to," but someone touched my left wrist, and it hurt. A sharp immediate pain. I whirled and found Byron touching me. "Let go of me."

He opened his hand and just let my arm fall back. He whispered, "You're bleeding. Jean-Claude told me to attend to you. Let me tend your wound." Here was a face younger and more innocent seeming than Nathaniel's. He'd been in his late teens when his master had brought him over. His hair was a soft brown that fell in loose curls just past his ears, leaving his slender neck bare and showing the V of white skin at the neck of the robe he wore. I remembered that someone had said the college students were heckling Byron. He must have been the one on stage.

He was shorter than I was, and slender, not preadolescent, but young, unfinished, and he'd be unfinished forever. Whether his shoulders would have broadened, or he'd have gotten taller, we'd never know. He could lift weights and add definition, in fact, he had, at Jean-Claude's insistence, but he'd never have the body he might have had if the vampire that killed him had waited a year or two.

His eyes were gray and seemed to take up most of his face, huge, soft gray. The color that fog can have when it's at its thickest, that close suffocating wall of mist.

I had to shake my head and draw back. Shit. Byron had almost rolled me with his eyes. That shouldn't have been possible. Jean-Claude had said that I'd let down all my defenses. I hadn't meant to. It was more as if Jean-Claude had taken down all my defenses. But Byron was no Jean-Claude. Him I could keep out.

I actually closed my eyes and did the deep-breathing exercises that I'd learned. Draw yourself to the center of your body. Draw yourself in and center yourself down a line that goes into the earth itself. Marianne called it grounding, and it was. Grounding, as in being grounded, solid on your feet, secure.

But it was hard to stay focused, because Jean-Claude's voice was still there, and closing my eyes didn't get rid of it. "Who among you has not wished to tame a savage heart, to take a man and change him beyond reckoning? To make him into what you wish him to be? Primo kneels before your beauty, and he is what you will make of him. He will rise and fall to your desires."

I felt Jean-Claude walk between me and Primo. Even with my eyes closed, even with me trying to anchor myself, I felt him like a hand sweeping all my concentration away. I looked up and saw him touch Primo's face, the lightest of touches. "Show them that magnificent body."

Primo shook his head. He did not want to play.

I felt Jean-Claude's will flex, like a muscle squeezing around Primo. I felt that flare of warmth spill out from him to the bigger man. I had actually stepped closer to them, when Byron pulled me back.

"I wouldn't advise that," he said, and again I felt the pull of those soft gray eyes, like being wrapped in the warmest of blankets.

Primo stood, and that turned me back to them. The big man balled his hands into his black, blood-soaked shirt, and tore it like it was paper. Naked from the waist up, he was magnificent, if you were into giants. It wasn't the hugeness that came from weight lifting. It was just how big he was.

"Who will be his first kiss?" Jean-Claude asked.

I felt the movement before I turned and saw the audience. There was no fear now, Jean-Claude's voice had taken their fear. All I saw now was eagerness, at worst, uncertainty, as if they just weren't sure. The first few hands went up with money in them, and once that happened, more followed. No one wants to be first, but no one wants to be left out, either.

Byron pulled gently on my shoulder. "We need to bind that wound, Anita. Let's go backstage."

"He's right," Nathaniel said, and he was closer now. Close enough that I could see that there was some blood spattered on his lavender shirt. He must have been closer to Primo than I remembered. But I wasn't thinking well. It was as if I hadn't been quite myself since I got out here. What was wrong with me?

I nodded. "Okay, okay, yeah."

I let Byron and Nathaniel lead me away, but my glance stayed turned to the room. The brunette from the alleyway was running her hand up Primo's skin, and that skin was clean and smooth, no blood, no signs of the struggle. She ran her hands over his skin, but his glance was for me. His eyes held a mute appeal for help, and I didn't understand why.

Jean-Claude touched the big man's bare back, and Primo's face turned back to the woman. There was no confusion on his face now. There was nothing but lust, and in that moment I understood. Jean-Claude was controlling Primo. He was manipulating the vampire more than he had ever manipulated the audience. They'd come for a little bit of lascivious fun. Primo had come to be Master of the City, but instead, he was just another act at Guilty Pleasures. He kissed the brunette like he'd breathe her in, as if to kiss her were life itself. When he let her go and one of the security guards eased her shaking body into her seat, money sprang up in hands throughout the room. Welcome to show business, Primo, I thought.