Cerulean Sins

She ran her hand down Micah's chest, and I felt his body tighten, but it wasn't the effect she was used to. She touched Jean-Claude's face, and he let her.

"Marvelous, as always, Belle."

"No, not as always," she said. She turned to me, then.

I didn't want her to touch me, but I knew that I could let her do it now. She wasn't here in the flesh, not really, and it limited her power. Intellectually I knew that, the cold hard feeling in my stomach wasn't so certain. I made myself stand still while she put that glowing hand against my face. Her hand didn't exactly burn where it touched, but it was hot, and the power spread from it, marching down my body like hot water poured from my face down my skin. It made me shiver and want to pull way, but I could tolerate it. I didn't have to pull away. I didn't have to run.

She drew her hand back, and there was a lingering sense of power between her hand and my skin. She brushed it against her skirt, Musette's skirt. I wondered, was Musette still in there? Did she know what was happening? Or did she go away, only to come back when Belle was finished?

She turned last to Damian. He tucked himself in tight against me, like a dog that was afraid of being hurt, but he didn't run. Belle touched his face. He flinched, not wanting to meet her eyes, but as he knelt at my legs, and nothing worse happened to him than the feel of power over his skin, he looked up, slowly. There was something like wonderment in his eyes, and behind that, triumph.

Belle jerked her hand back as if it had been she who was burned. "Damian is of my line, but not of yours, Jean-Claude. It is not your power that he tastes of." She looked at me, and there was something on that beautiful, alien face that I couldn't understand. "Why does he taste of your power, Anita? Not you of his, but he of yours."

I wasn't sure truth would help here, but I knew a lie wouldn't. "Would you believe me if I said I'm not quite sure."

"Oui, and non. You speak truth, but there is some evasion to it."

I swallowed and took a deep breath. I really didn't want Belle to know this part. I really didn't want it getting back to the council at large.

She looked at me, and her eyes went wide, and some of that glowing power began to seep away, sliding back into Musette's body, so that it was Musette with honey-brown eyes that met my gaze. "Somehow he is your servant. Our legends speak of this possibility. It is one of the reasons we once slew all necromancers on sight."

"Glad we've moved on from the good ol' days," I said.

"We have not, but when we thought you were Jean-Claude's human servant, then there was no harm, because your power was his." She shook her head and there was an afterimage of black hair over the blond, a dark ghost over all that bloodstained white. "Now I am not so certain. You taste of Jean-Claude's power, oui, but Damian tastes only of yours. And the leopards taste only of your power, also. No necromancer has ever had an animal to call."

She shook her head. "Jean-Claude with his new human servant and her servants, has been able to keep me at bay. If I were here in flesh instead of spirit, this would not save you, I think."

"Of course, it would not," Jean-Claude said, "your beauty would overwhelm us."

"No false flattery, Jean-Claude, you know how much I hate it."

"I did not know it was false."

"I am not so certain that my beauty would overwhelm any of you. Somehow this one," and she motioned at me, "has cut me off from the leopards, and somehow, you have cut me off from the vampires that descend directly from you."

My pulse sped up a bit at that, because I hadn't even felt her trying to take over Meng Dei or Faust. They were standing as far from the show as they could, dressed in the bodyguard black leather. Though both were so small compared to the rest that they looked out of place. Meng Die looked scared, Faust didn't. Which could have meant anything and nothing.

"But not every vampire in this room is a direct descendant of yours, Jean-Claude. Because I am not here in flesh you may keep me from the flock that is yours, but not what was first mine."

I was afraid I knew what she meant, and hoped I didn't.

Belle Morte brushed past us, with a flare of power lost like a breeze against our skin. She was walking towards Asher. Because she had made him herself, and he was older than Jean-Claude, Asher owed nothing to Jean-Claude except the vows any vampire makes to his Master of the City, and love, perhaps love. I wasn't sure love was enough to save him from Belle Morte. I believed in love, but I believed in evil, too. Neither love nor evil conquers all, but evil cheats more.

47

The wolves chose that moment to come in through the far curtain. Their entrance stopped everything briefly because they doubled our bodyguards. I didn't need to see Belle's-or Musette's-face to know she didn't like it. It showed in the sudden stiffening of her shoulders, the slight clenching of her fists. I realized suddenly that I was seeing Musette begin to rise up through Belle like a fly caught in melting ice.

It was when I saw Jason in an outfit that was mostly dark blue straps, which covered about as much of his body as Nathaniel's outfit covered of his, that I realized that there had been no wolves present until now, except Stephen who had ridden with Micah from my house. I'd known that Richard was delayed, but I hadn't noticed that none of the wolves had been here. Usually, there were always some wolves here for Jean-Claude. Jason walked in smiling in his black over-the-knee boots, but there was something in his eyes, some small warning that I couldn't decipher. I'd expected to see him wearing makeup like Micah and Nathaniel, but he wasn't. None of the male wolves were.

Richard came into sight, easy to spot above the sea of black leather that was his pack. I knew that he had butchered his hair, but I hadn't really grasped how much until I saw him. I'm sure the hairstylist had done his or her best, but there was only so much they could do. They'd had to buzz his hair back to less than an inch of medium brown. It seemed darker this short, missing the gold and red highlights. He also looked remarkably like his older brother Aaron, and his father. The resemblance had always been strong, but now it was like they were clones.

He was wearing a black tux with a shirt of deep, rich blue and a matching bow tie. With the new haircut, and the more conservative clothes, he looked-out of place.

His eyes met mine, and the shock of how handsome he was still sent a thrill through me from head to toes. Without the hair to distract, you couldn't pretend that the cheekbones weren't knife-edge perfect, the dimple in his chin didn't soften the strong masculinity of his face. His shoulders were broad, his waist not slender, but small. Nothing about Richard was slender. He was built more like a football player than a dancer.

Jamil and Shang-Da, his Hati and Skoll, the Ulfric's personal bodyguards, flanked him. Jamil was wearing black leather straps for a shirt to complement almost ordinary leather pants and short boots. The bright red beads, worked into his cornrow braids, looked like drops of crimson blood against the darkness of his skin and the black of the leather. He met my eyes, and there was again that sense of warning that I'd gotten from Jason. Something was wrong, something beyond what was already happening, but what?

Shang-Da looked uncomfortable out of his usual suit, but black leather suited his tall frame the same way any kind of armor would have. Shang-Da was the tallest Chinese person I'd ever met. He was physically imposing by any standards. He was also a warrior, and protecting his Ulfric was all he did. He pretty much hated me, because so much of the pain I caused Richard was something he couldn't protect him against. Bodyguards can't do shit about emotional stress. He avoided my gaze.