Circus of the Damned   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

Everyone turned to me. I was the center of attention. Great. "I don't want Larry to meet the Master, or even know who he is."

"Anita. ." Larry started.

"No, Larry, I've been attacked twice for the information. It is definitely on a need-to-know basis. You don't need to know."

"I don't need you to protect me," he said.

"Listen to her," Irving said. "She told me to stay away from the Master. I said I could handle myself. I was wrong, real wrong."

Larry crossed his arms over his chest, a stubborn set to his bloodstained cheeks. "I can take care of myself."

"Irving, Richard, I want a promise on this. The less he knows, the safer he'll be."

They both nodded.

"Doesn't anyone care what I think?" Larry asked.

"No," I said.

"Dammit, I'm not a child."

"You two can fight later," Irving said. "The Master's waiting."

Larry started to say something; I raised my hand. "Lesson number one; never keep a nervous master vampire waiting."

Larry opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. "Okay, we'll argue later."

I wasn't looking forward to later, but arguing with Larry over whether I was being overprotective beat the hell out of what lay beyond the door. I knew that. Larry didn't, but he was about to learn, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it.



35

The ceiling stretched upward into the darkness. Huge drapes of silky material fell in white and black, forming cloth walls. Minimalist chairs in black and silver formed a small conversation group. A glass and dark wood coffee table took up the center of the room. A black vase with a bouquet of white lilies was the only decoration. The room looked half-finished, as if it needed paintings hung on the walls. But how do you hang paintings on cloth walls? I was sure Jean-Claude would figure it out eventually.

I knew the rest of the room was a huge cavernous warehouse made of stone, but the only thing left of that was the high ceiling. There was even black carpeting on the floor, soft and cushioned.

Jean-Claude sat in one of the black chairs. He was slumped in the chair, ankles crossed, hands clasped across his stomach. His white shirt was plain, just a simple dress shirt except for the fact that the front sides were sheer. The line of buttons, cuffs, and collar was solid, but the chest was laid bare through a film of gauze. His cross-shaped burn was brown and clear against the pale skin.

Marguerite sat at his feet, head laid on his knee like an obedient dog.