The Laughing Corpse

“What was your fault?”

“My...powers are greater when my human servant is with me.” He stared at me then. His gaze solid on my face. “With you beside me, my powers are enhanced.”

“Wait, you mean like a witch’s familiar?”

He cocked his head to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Yes, very close to that. I did not know you knew anything about witchcraft.”

“A deprived childhood,” I said. I was not going to be diverted from the important topic. “So your ability to bespell people with your eyes is stronger when I’m with you. Strong enough that without trying, you bespelled that prostitute.”

He nodded.

I shook my head. “No, I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged, a graceful gesture on him. “Believe what you like, ma petite. It is the truth.”

I didn’t want to believe it. Because if it were true, then I was in fact his human servant. Not in my actions but by my very presence. With sweat trickling down my spine from the heat, I was cold. “Shit,” I said.

“You could say that,” he said.

“No, I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t.” I stared up at him. “You keep whatever powers we have between us in check, okay?”

“I will try,” he said.

“Don’t try, dammit, do it.”

He smiled wide enough to flash the tips of his fangs. “Of course, ma petite.”

Panic was starting in the pit of my stomach. I gripped my hands into fists at my sides. “If you call me that one more time, I’m going to hit you.”

His eyes widened just a bit, his lips flexed. I realized he was trying not to laugh. I hate it when people find my threats amusing.

He was an invasive son of a bitch; and I wanted to hurt him. To hurt him because he scared me. I understand the urge, I’ve had it before with other people. It’s an urge that can lead to violence. I stared up at his softly amused face. He was a condescending bastard, but if it ever came to real violence between us, one of us would die. Chances were good it would be me.

The humor leaked out of his face, leaving it smooth and lovely, and arrogant. “What is it, Anita?” His voice was soft and intimate. Even in the heat and movement of this place, his voice could roll me up and under. It was a gift.

“Don’t push me into a corner, Jean-Claude. You don’t want to take away all my options.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“If it comes down to you or me, I’m going to pick me. You remember that.”

He looked at me for a space of heartbeats. Then he blinked and nodded. “I believe you would. But remember, ma...Anita, if you hurt me, it hurts you. I could survive the strain of your death. The question, amante de moi, is could you survive mine?”

Amante de moi? What the hell did that mean? I decided not to ask. “Damn you, Jean-Claude, damn you.”

“That, dear Anita, was done long before you met me.”

“What does that mean?”

His eyes were as i

I shook my head. “I’m Episcopalian, now, but that isn’t what you meant.”

He laughed then. The sound was like silk brushed across the nape of the neck. It felt smooth and good, but it made you shudder.

I walked away from him. I just left him there in front of the obscene window display. I walked into the crowd of whores, hustlers, customers. There was nobody on this street as dangerous as Jean-Claude. I had brought him down here to protect me. That was laughable. Ridiculous. Obscene.

A young man who couldn’t have been more than fifteen stopped me. He was wearing a vest with no shirt and a pair of torn jeans. “You interested?”

He was taller than me by a little. His eyes were blue. Two other boys just behind him were staring at us.

“We don’t get many women down here,” he said.

“I believe you.” He looked incredibly young. “Where can I find Wheelchair Wanda?”

One of the boys behind him said, “A crip lover, Jesus.”

I agreed with him. “Where?” I held up a twenty. It was too much to pay for the information, but maybe if I gave it to him, he could go home sooner. Maybe if he had twenty dollars, he could turn down one of the cars cruising the street. Twenty dollars, it would change his life. Like sticking your finger in a nuclear meltdown.

“She’s just outside of The Grey Cat. At the end of the block.”

“Thanks.” I gave him the twenty. His fingernails had grime embedded in them.

“You sure you don’t want some action?” His voice was small and uncertain, like his eyes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jean-Claude moving through the crowd. He was coming for me. To protect me. I turned back to the boy. “I’ve got more action than I know what to do with,” I said.

He frowned, looking puzzled. That was all right. I was puzzled, too. What do you do with a master vampire that won’t leave you alone? Good question. Unfortunately, what I needed was a good answer.

Chapter 24

Wheelchair Wanda was a small woman sitting in one of those sport wheelchairs that are used for racing. She wore workout gloves, and the muscles in her arms moved under her ta

She was moving towards us at a goodly pace. Most of the prostitutes, male and female, looked ordinary. They weren’t dressed outrageously, shorts, midriffs. In this heat who could blame them? I guess if you wear fishnet jumpsuits, the police just naturally get suspicious.

Jean-Claude stood beside me. He glanced up at the sign that proclaimed “The Grey Cat” in a near blinding shade of fuchsia neon. Tasteful.

How does one approach a prostitute, even just to talk? I didn’t know. Learn something new every day. I stood in her path and waited for her to come to me. She glanced up and caught me watching her. When I didn’t look away, she got eye contact and smiled.

Jean-Claude moved up beside me. Wanda’s smile broadened or deepened. It was a definite “come along smile” as my Grandmother Blake used to say.

Jean-Claude whispered, “Is that a prostitute?”

“Yes,” I said.

“In a wheelchair?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“My,” was all he said. I think Jean-Claude was shocked. Nice to know he could be.

She stopped her chair with an expert movement of hands.

She smiled, craning to look up at us. The angle looked painful.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said.

She continued to smile. I continued to stare. Why did I suddenly feel awkward? “A friend told me about you,” I said.

Wanda nodded.

“You are the one they refer to as Wheelchair Wanda?”

She gri

“Could we talk?”

“Sure,” she said. “You got a room?”

Did I have a room? Wasn’t she supposed to do that? “No.”

She waited.

Oh, hell. “We just want to talk to you for an hour, or two. We’ll pay whatever the going rate is.”

She told me the going rate.

“Jesus, that’s a little steep,” I said.

She smiled beatifically at me. “Supply and demand,” she said. “You can’t get a taste of what I have anywhere else.” She smoothed her hands down her legs as she said it. My eyes followed her hands like they were supposed to. This was too weird.

I nodded. “Okay, you got a deal.” It was a business expense. Computer paper, ink pens medium point, one prostitute, manila file folders. See, it fit right in.

Bert was going to love this one.