Chapter One
This text is directly from Laurell's file. The final version of the printed edition may vary slightly.
It was October, seven days before Halloween. A busy time of year for raising the dead. You can raise zombies any day of the year. There's nothing special about All Hallows Eve in connection to raising the physical dead. Yet, every year October is our big month. People want to believe that zombies crawl from their graves on Halloween. They don't, not without help. My kind of help.
Mr. Leo Harlan didn't have the look of a superstitious man. Of course, he didn't have the look of anything. Harlan was medium. Medium height, dark hair, but not too dark. Skin neither too pale nor too tan. Eyes brown, but an indistinguishable shade of brown. In fact the most remarkable thing about Mr. Harlan was that there was nothing remarkable about him. Even his suit was dark, conservative. A businessman's outfit that had been in style for the last twenty years and probably would still be in style twenty years down the road. His shirt was white, his tie neatly knotted, his not too big, not too small hands were well groomed but not manicured. His appearance told me so little that that it in itself was interesting, and vaguely disturbing.
I took a sip from my coffee mug with its motto, 'If you slip me decaf, I'll rip your head off.' I'd brought it to work when our boss, Bert had put decaf in the coffee maker without telling anyone, thinking we wouldn't notice. Half the office thought they had mono for a week until we discovered Bert's dastardly plot.
The coffee that our secretary Mary had gotten for Mr. Harlan sat on the edge of my desk. His mug was the one with Animators Inc. on it and the logo. He'd taken a minute sip out of the mug when Mary had first handed it to him. He'd taken it black, but he sipped it like he hadn't tasted it, or it didn't really matter what it tasted like. He'd taken the coffee out of politeness, not out of desire.
I sipped my own coffee heavy on the sugar and cream, trying to make up for the late night work the night before. Caffeine and sugar, the two basic food groups.
His voice was like the rest of him, so ordinary it was extraordinary. He spoke with absolutely no accent, no hint of region, or country. "I want you to raise my ancestor, Ms. Blake."
"So you said."
"You seem to doubt me, Ms. Blake."
"Call it skepticism."
"Why would I come in here and lie to you?"
I shrugged. "People have done it before."
"I assure you, Ms. Blake, I am telling the truth."
Trouble was, I just didn't believe him. Maybe I was being paranoid, but my left arm under the nice navy suit jacket was criss-crossed with scars; from the crooked cross-shaped burn scar where a vampire's servant had branded me, to the slashing claw marks of a shape-sifted witch, and knife scars, thin and clean compared to the rest. My right arm had one knife scar, compared to the left, it was nothing. There were other scars hidden under the navy skirt and royal blue shell. Silk didn't care if it slid over scars or smooth, untouched skin. I'd earned my right to be paranoid.
"What ancestor do you want raised, and why?" I smiled when I said it, pleasant, but it didn't reach my eyes. I'd begun to have to work at my smiles reaching my eyes.
He smiled then, and it left his eyes as unaffected as my own. Smile because you were smiled at, not because it really meant anything. He reached out to pick up the coffee mug again, and this time I noticed a heaviness in the left front of his jacket. He wasn't wearing a shoulder holster I'd have noticed that, but there was something heavier than a wallet in his left breast pocket. It could have been a lot of things, but my first thought was, gun. I'd learned to listen to my first thoughts. You're not paranoid if people really are out to get you.
I had my own gun tucked under my left arm in a shoulder holster. It evened things up, but I did not want my office to turn into the O. K. Corral. He had a gun. Maybe. Probably. For all I knew it could have been a really heavy cigar case. But I'd have bet almost anything that that heaviness was a weapon. I could either sit here and try to talk myself out of it, or I could act as if I were right. If I was wrong, I'd apologize later; if I were right, well, I'd be alive. Better alive and rude, then dead and polite.
I interrupted his talk about his family tree. I hadn't really heard any of it. I was fixated on that heaviness in his pocket. Until I found out whether it was a gun, or not, nothing else much mattered to me. I smiled and pushed it up into my eyes. "What is it exactly that you do for a living, Mr. Harlan?"
He drew a slightly deeper breath, settling into his chair, just a bit. It was the closest thing I'd seen to tension in the man. The first real, human movement. People fidget. Harlan didn't.
People don't like dealing with people who raise the dead. Don't ask me why, but we make people nervous. Harlan wasn't nervous, he wasn't anything. He was just sitting across the desk from me, chilling, nondescript eyes pleasant and empty. I was betting he'd lied about his reason for coming here and he'd brought a gun hidden on his person in a place that wasn't easy to spot. I was liking Leo Harlan less and less.
I sat my coffee mug gently on my desk blotter, still smiling. I'd freed up my hands, which was step one. Drawing my gun would be step two; I was hoping to avoid that.
"I want you to raise one of my ancestors, Ms. Blake. I don't see where my work has any relevance here."
"Humor me," I said, still smiling, but feeling it slide out of my eyes like ice melting.
"Why should I?" he said.
"Because if you don't I'll refuse to take your case."
"Mr. Vaughn, your boss, has already taken my money. He accepted on your behalf. "
I smiled and this time it held real humor. "Actually, Bert is only the business manager at Animators Inc., now. Most of us are full partners in the firm, like a law firm. Bert still handles the business end of things, but he's not exactly my boss anymore."
His face, if possible, went quieter, more closed, more secretive. It was like looking at a bad painting, one that had all the technicalities down, but no feel of life. The only humans I'd ever seen that could be this closed down were scary ones.
"I wasn't aware of your change in status, Ms. Blake." His voice had gone a tone deeper, but as empty as his face.
He was ringing every alarm bell I had, my shoulders were tight with the need to pull my gun first. My hands slid downward without me thinking about it. It wasn't until his hands raised to the arms of his chair, that I realized what I'd done. We were both maneuvering to a better position to draw down.
The tension in my shoulders spilled into my stomach, tight and hard. Suddenly there was tension, thick and heavy like invisible lightning in the room. There was no more doubt. I saw it in his empty eyes, and the small smile on his face. This was a real smile, no fake, no pretence. We were seconds away from doing one of the most real things you can do one human being to another. We were about to try and kill one another. I watched, not his eyes, but his upper body, waiting for that betraying movement. There was no more doubt, we both knew. Into that heavy, heavy tension his voice fell like a stone thrown down a deep well. His voice alone almost made me go for my gun. "I am a contract killer, but I'm not here for you, Anita Blake."
I didn't take my eyes from his body, the tension didn't slacken. "Why tell me then?" My voice was softer than his, almost breathy.
"Because I haven't come to St. Louis to kill anyone. I really am interested in getting my ancestor raised from the dead."
"Why?" I asked, still watching his body, still treading the tension.
"Even hitmen have hobbies, Ms. Blake." His voice was matter of fact, but his body stayed very, very still. I realized, suddenly, that he was trying not to spook me.
I let my gaze flick to his face. His face was still bland, still unnaturally empty, but it also held something else . . . a trace of humor.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"I didn't know that coming to see you was tempting fate."
"What do you mean?" I was trying to hold onto that edge of tension, but it was slipping away. He sounded too ordinary, too suddenly real, to keep thinking about drawing a gun and shooting up my office. It suddenly seemed a little silly, and yet . . . looking into his dead eyes that no humor ever completely filled now, it didn't seem all that silly.
"There are people all over the world who would love to see me dead, Ms. Blake. There are people who have spent considerable money and effort to see that such a thing would happen, but no one has come close, until today."
I shook my head. "This wasn't close."
"Normally, I'd agree with you, but I knew something of your reputation so I didn't wear a gun in my usual manner. You noticed the weight of it when I bent forward that last time, didn't you?"
I nodded.
"If we'd had to draw down on each other, your holster is a few seconds faster than this inner jacket shit that I'm wearing."
"Then why wear it?" I asked.
"I didn't want to make you nervous by coming in here armed, but I don't go anywhere unarmed, so I thought I'd be slick, and you wouldn't notice."
"I almost didn't."
"Thanks for that, but we both know better."
I wasn't sure about that, but I let it go, no need to argue when I seemed to be winning.
"What do you want, Mr. Harlan, if that is your real name?"
He smiled at that. "I really do want my ancestor raised from the dead, I didn't lie about that." He seemed to think for a second. "Strange, but I haven't lied about anything." He looked puzzled. "It's been a long time since that was true."
"My condolences," I said.
He frowned at me. "What?"
"It must be difficult never being able to tell the truth. I know I'd find it exhausting."
He smiled, and again it was that slight flexing of lips that seemed to be his genuine smile. "I haven't really thought about it in a long time." He shrugged. "I guess you get use to it."
It was my turn to shrug. "Maybe. What ancestor do you want raised and why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want to raise this particular ancestor?"
"Does it matter?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I don't believe the dead should be disturbed without a good reason."
That small smile flexed again. "You've got animators in this town that raise zombies every night for entertainment."
I nodded. "Then by all means go to one of them. They'll do anything you want, pretty much, if the price is right."
"Can they raise a corpse that's almost four hundred years old?"
I shook my head. "Out of their league."
"I heard an animator could raise almost anything if they were willing to do a human sacrifice." His voice was quiet.
I shook my head, again. "Don't believe everything you hear, Mr. Harlan. Some animators could raise a few hundred years worth of corpse with the help of a human sacrifice. Of course, that would be murder and thus illegal."
"Rumor has it that you've done it."
"Rumor can say anything it damn well pleases, I don't do human sacrifice."
"So you can't raise my ancestor." He made it a flat statement.
"I didn't say that."
He raised eyebrows, the closest to surprise that he'd shown. "You can raise a nearly four-hundred-year-old corpse without a human sacrifice?"
I nodded.
"Rumor said you could, but I didn't believe it."
"You believed that I did human sacrifice, but not that I could raise a few hundred years worth of dead people on my own."
He shrugged. "I'm use to people killing other people, I've never seen anyone raised from the dead."
"Lucky you."
He smiled, and his eyes thawed just a little. "So you'll raise my ancestor."
"If you tell me a good enough reason for doing it."
"You don't get distracted much, do you, Ms. Blake."
"Tenacious, that's me," I said, and smiled. Maybe I'd spent too much time around really bad people, but now that I knew that Leo Harlan wasn't here to kill me, or anyone else in town, I had no problem with him. Why did I believe him? For the same reason I hadn't believed him the first time. Instinct, maybe.
"I've followed the official records of my family in this country back as far as I can, but my original ancestor is on no official documents. I believe he gave a false name from the beginning. Until I get his true name I can't track my family through Europe. I very much wish to do that."
"Raise him, ask his real name, his real reason for coming to this country, and put him back?" I made it a question.
Harlan nodded. "Exactly."
"It sounds reasonable enough."
"So you'll do it," he said.
"Yes, but it ain't cheap. I'm probably the only animator in this country that can raise someone this old without using a human sacrifice. It's sort of a seller's market, if you catch my drift."
"In my own way, Ms. Blake, I am as good at my job as you are at yours." He tried to look humble and failed. He looked pleased with himself, all the way to those ordinary, and frightening, brown eyes. "I can pay, Ms. Blake, never fear."
I mentioned an outrageous figure. He never flinched. He started to reach into the inside of his jacket. I said, "Don't."
"My credit card, Ms. Blake, nothing more." Though he took his hands out of his jacket and held them, fingers spread, so I could see them clearly.
"You can finish the paperwork and pay in the outer office. I've got other appointments to keep."
He almost smiled. "Of course." He stood. I stood. Neither of us offered to shake hands. He hesitated at the door; I stopped a ways back, not following as closely as I normally do. Room to maneuver, you know.
"When can you do the job?"
"I'm booked solid tonight. I might be able to squeeze you in on Wednesday. Maybe Thursday."
"What happened to Tuesday?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Booked up."
"You said, and I quote, I'm booked solid tonight. Then you mentioned Wednesday."
I shrugged again. There was a time when I wasn't good at lying, even now I'm not great at it, but not for the same reasons. I felt my eyes going flat and empty, as I said, "I meant to say I was booked up for the next two nights, not just tonight."
He stared at me, hard enough to make me want to squirm. I fought off the urge, and just gave him blank, vaguely friendly eyes.
"Tuesday is the night of the full moon," he said in a quiet voice.
I blinked at him, fighting to keep the surprise off my face, and I succeeded, but I failed on my body language. My shoulders tensed, my hands flexed. Most people noticed your face not the rest of you, but Harlan was a man who would notice. Damnit.
"So it's the full moon, yippee-skippy, what of it?" My voice was matter of fact, no tension, or very little.
He gave that small smile of his. "You're not very good at being coy, Ms. Blake."
"No, I'm not, but since I'm not being coy, that's not a problem."
"Ms. Blake," he said, voice almost cajoling, "please, do not insult my intelligence."
I thought about saying, but it's so easy, but didn't. First, it wasn't easy at all; second, I was a little nervous about where this line of questioning was going. But I was not going to help him get where he was going by volunteering information. Say less, it irritates people.
"I haven't insulted your intelligence."
He did a frown, that I think was as true as that small smile. The real Harlan peeking through. "Rumor says, that you haven't worked on the night of the full moon for a few months now." He seemed very serious all of a sudden, not in a menacing way, but almost as if I'd been impolite, forgotten my table manners, or something.
"Maybe I'm Wiccan, it is a religious holy day, or rather night."
"Are you Wiccan, Ms. Blake?"
It never took me long to grow tired of word games. "No, Mr. Harlan, I am not."
"Then why don't you work on the night of the full moon?" He was studying my face, searching it, as if for some reason the answer were more important than it should have been.
I knew what he wanted me to say. He wanted me to confess to being a shapeshifter of some kind. Trouble was I couldn't confess, because it wasn't true. I was the first human Nimir-Ra, leopard queen, of a wereleopard pard in their history.
I'd inherited the leopards when I was forced to kill their old leader, to keep him from killing me. I was also Bolverk of the local werewolf pack. Bolverk was more than a bodyguard, less than an executioner. It was basically someone who did the things that the Ulfric either couldn't, or wouldn't do. Richard Zeeman was our local Ulfric. He'd been my off again, on again honey-bun for a couple of years. Right now it was off, very off. His parting shot to me had been, "I don't want to love someone who is more at home with the monsters than I am." What do you say to that? What can you say? Damned if I know. They say love conquerors everything, they lie.
As Nimir-Ra and Bolverk I had people depending on me, so I took the full moon off, so I'd be available. It was simple really, and nothing I was willing to share with Leo Harlan.
"I sometimes take personal days, Mr. Harlan, if they've coincided with the full moon I assure you it was accidental."
"Rumor says you got cut up by a shifter a few months back, and now you're one of them." His voice was still quiet, but I was ready for this one. My face, my body, everything was calm, because he was wrong.
"I am not a shapeshifter, Mr. Harlan."
His eyes narrowed, like he didn't believe me. "I don't believe you, Ms. Blake."
I sighed. "I don't really care if you believe me, or not, Mr. Harlan. My being a lycanthrope, or not, has no bearing on how good I am at raising the dead." "Rumor says you're the best, but you keep telling me the rumors are wrong. Are you really as good as they say you are?"
"Better."
"You're rumored to have raised entire graveyards."
I shrugged. "You'll turn a girl's head with talk like that."
"Are you saying it's true?"
"Does it really matter? I can raise your ancestor, Mr. Harlan. I'm one of the few, if not the only, animator in this country that could do it without resorting to a human sacrifice." I smiled at him, my professional smile, the one that was all bright and shiny and empty of meaning as a light bulb. "Will Wednesday or Thursday be alright?"
He nodded. "I'll leave my cell phone number, you can reach me twenty-four hours a day."
"Are you in a hurry for this?"
"Let's just say that I never know when an offer may come my way that I would find hard to resist."
"Not just money," I said.
He gave that smile again. "No, not just money, Ms. Blake. I have enough money, but a job that holds new interests . . . new challenges. I'm always searching for that."
"Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Harlan. There's always someone out there bigger and badder than you are."
"I have not found it so."
I smiled then. "Either you're even scarier than you seem, or you haven't been meeting the right people."
He looked at me for a long moment, until I felt the smile slide from my eyes. I met his dead eyes with my own. In that moment that well of quietness filled me. It was a peaceful place, the place I went when I killed. A great white static empty place, where nothing hurt, where nothing felt. Looking into Harlan's empty eyes I wondered if his head was white and empty and staticy. I almost asked, but I didn't, because for just a second I thought he'd lied, lied about it all, and he was going to try and draw his gun from his jacket. It would explain why he wanted to know if I was a shapeshifter. For a heartbeat, or two, I thought I'd have to kill Mr. Leo Harlan. I wasn't scared now, or nervous, I just readied myself for it. It was his choice, live or die. There was nothing but that slow eternal second where choices are made and lives are lost.
Then he shook himself, almost like a bird settling it's feathers back in place. "I was about to remind you that I am a very scary person all by myself, but I won't now. It would be stupid to keep playing with you like this, like poking a rattle snake with a stick."
I just looked at him with empty eyes, still held in that quiet place. My voice came out slow, careful, like my body felt. "I hope you haven't lied to me today, Mr. Harlan."
He gave that unsettling smile. "So do I, Ms. Blake, so do I." With that odd comment he opened the door, carefully, never taking his eyes from me, shut it firmly behind him, and left me alone with the adrenaline rush draining like a puddle to my feet.
It wasn't fear that left me weak, just the adrenaline building with nowhere to go. I raised the dead for a living and was a legal vampire executioner, wasn't that unique enough? Did I have to attract scary clients too?
I knew I should have told Harlan no dice, but I had told him the truth. I could raise this zombie, and no one else in the country could do it without a human sacrifice. Call me funny, but I was pretty sure that if I turned it down Harlan would find someone else to do it. Someone else that didn't have either my abilities or my morals. Sometimes you deal with the devil not because you want to, but because if you don't, someone else will.
End of Chapter One.
