Skin Trade

Another uniform held the tape up, and we were suddenly blinded by camera flashes and the lights from handheld shoulder cams. They’d moved all the bigger equipment back, but the mobile stuff had crept forward.

We ignored all questions. It wasn’t our town, and one of the fastest ways to piss off the locals was to talk to reporters. Some of the uniforms had to actually wade into the crowd and make a hole.

The questions were about the murders at first, and then someone in the crowd recognized me. You’d think that a serial killer vampire would be more interesting than my love life with a different vampire, or maybe they just thought I might actually answer those questions.

“Anita, Anita, what does Jean-Claude think about you hunting and killing other vampires?”

I ignored it, like I had all the rest. Because I’d learned that no matter what I said, it would go worse than if I said nothing. No matter what questions I answered, the locals would see it and think I was talking about the case. They were already pissed at me; I didn’t need to help them hate me.

Olaf moved to one side of me, blocking the microphones and the reaching hands. Edward moved in front of me, and Bernardo took the back. They were protecting me from the press, the crowd. That wasn’t right. I was either a real U.S. Marshal and an equal of the team, or I was just some stupid girl who needed protecting. Fuck.

The uniforms had to escort us to the cars. The press trailed us. Jean-Claude had recently appeared in some of the major celebrity magazines. Not on the cover or anything, but inside in the little tidbits. Pictures of what you’re doing, profiled in one of the hottest vampire clubs in the country. I’d been caught twice by his side in pictures. Worse yet, he’d admitted that I was his girlfriend in an interview. The press seemed fascinated that a vampire hunter was dating a vampire. I’d turned down more interviews for that little factoid than most murders.

Why hadn’t I warned Edward? Honestly, I thought a serial killer case would make the press ignore the stupid shit. Some were still yelling questions about the murder, but in among it, like raisins in a piece of toast, were questions about dating and vampires. That would really make the Vegas PD take me seriously. Oh, yeah.

We got in the car and started easing out through the snarl of official cars. Beyond that were news vans with huge science-fiction ante

“If Randy Sherman’s high priestess is home, let’s go see her,” Edward said.

“Yeah, but first food,” I said.

“Food would be good,” Olaf said.

“Fast or sit-down?” Edward asked.

“Fast will do,” I said, “as long as there’s meat involved.” I’d learned that protein helped keep the beast at bay, more than veggies.

“Am I the only one who doesn’t want to eat after what we just saw?” Bernardo asked from the backseat.

“Yes,” Olaf said.

“I told you, Bernardo, I have to eat.”

“When did you eat last?” Edward asked, as he moved into the bright and shiny of the Strip.

“About eight, for breakfast and the ardeur.”

“More than thirteen hours,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I need some protein,” I said.

He handed me his cell phone with the screen already lit up. “Call the number, see if she’ll see us, while I find someplace.”

I hit the button and waited for the dialing to go through.

Edward didn’t ask preference, just pulled into the first fast-food place he found. Burger King was fine with me; I like Whoppers.

I thought I was going to get a machine, but after seven rings a woman answered. “Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded cautious.

“This is U.S. Marshal Anita Blake. I’m investigating the murder of one of your coven members, Randall Sherman.”

“And all the others who died with him,” she said, voice still soft.

“Yes,” I said, “but I thought you might be able to help us with some questions.”

“I know little about vampires and shapeshifters.”

“It’s more a question of magic, and what Randall Sherman would have done in a given situation.”

“That is a different question from the ones the other police have asked me.”

“Let me guess: they thought you might be involved just because you’re Wiccan.”

“Some of them are fine men, but some do not trust a witch.”

“I’m getting a lot of that myself,” I said, “and I’ve got a badge.”

That made her laugh, just a little.

Edward got my attention, and motioned that I needed to know what I was ordering. I held up a finger.

“Do you know how to get here?”

“We’ve got the address.”

“Then come, and we will talk about magic and Randall Sherman.”

“Thank you, Phoebe Billings.”

“You are welcome, Anita Blake.” There was something to the way she said it that had a ring to it, almost of power.

I hung up before I could worry about it. One problem at a time. Edward handed the food around. Bernardo had gotten over his issues enough to get French fries and a fish sandwich, no sauce. I guess he didn’t want the whole dripping thing after the murder scene.

I ate my sandwich, with its drippy sauce, and wasn’t fazed. Once upon a time, I couldn’t have eaten a messy sandwich after a scene like that. But that had been a while ago. Either you get over it, or you don’t. I guess I’d gotten over it.

“You remember the address for the priestess?” I asked.

Edward just glanced at me, and the look was enough. Of course he remembered the address. And he’d been to the city before, and he was Edward, which meant he remembered his way around. He ate his very messy sandwich, one-handed, while he drove. He made it look neat, easy, while I fought not to dribble sauce down my vest with two hands and a bunch of napkins. The Coke was good, though, and it didn’t drip on me.

My cell phone rang. I actually jumped, spilling just a little Coke. So much for being calm. I fumbled the drink into the cup holder, and the phone out of my pocket.

“Yeah.”

“Anita, this is Wicked; we’re on the ground in Vegas. Where are you?”

I tried picturing him on the other end of the phone. He’d be dressed in something designer and well fitted and very modern. His blond hair cut long, but neat. He was one of those utterly masculine men who also managed to be pretty, though handsome would probably have made him happier.

“Other than Truth, who else is with you?” I didn’t ask if Truth was with Wicked. They had been the Wicked Truth for centuries. Two brothers, two mercenaries, two vampires, who were some of the best warriors I’d ever seen; but more impressive, they were some of the best warriors that Jean-Claude knew of in all of vampire land. Now they were our muscle, but they weren’t food. I had crossed that line only once to save Truth’s life, but other than that, I didn’t touch them.

“Requiem, London, Graham, Haven, a few other werelions, and some werehyenas.”

“Are the lions and hyenas muscle or food?” I asked.

“Muscle.”

“Good,” I said.

“Fill me in.”

“Are you point man on this?”

“Jean-Claude put me in charge of the muscle.”

“How did Haven take that?”

“Eventually the lion’s Rex and I are going to have to have a talk, but not tonight.” Translation: Haven had wanted to be in charge, but he’d bowed to Jean-Claude’s authority, reluctantly.

“Wait, you said you’re in charge of the muscle. What else is there to be in charge of?”

“Well,” he said, “technically, I’m chief bodyguard on this operation, but Requiem is third in the power structure in St. Louis, so he’s the boss.”

“That makes sense, I guess.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about Requiem being in charge, or even in Vegas. He was a master vamp, but he was also moody as hell, and he and I weren’t getting along exceptionally well lately. I’d tried to take him off the feeding list, and now here he was in Vegas when I was far from home and my usual men.