Smolder (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, #29)(48)
Jean-Claude hovered over the stage, bringing his body from horizontal to vertical, one foot downward, one half bent at the knee, his arms upraised. He was pinned like a butterfly by the blue spotlight and then he slowly began to descend the few feet to the stage. One foot touched down first and then the bent leg came down behind him as if to help balance the wings on his back. The crowd went wild, standing up, applauding, and so much money appeared in the women’s hands that it looked like a forest had sprung up.
The blue spotlight began to change gradually to a more natural color, and Jean-Claude’s voice filled the room. I wasn’t sure if he was using a small microphone or vampire powers, but did it really matter? “Welcome to Guilty Pleasures.”
More screaming and shouts of “Jean-Claude! Jean-Claude!” and just high-pitched squeals, like the grown-up version of a child’s delight, wordless and unselfconscious. Strip clubs are one of the few places where women are encouraged to be as uninhibited as they want to be. I knew dancers who worked both male and female crowds and they all agreed that the women got out of hand more often than the men. I’d been shocked when I’d first found out, but where else could women let down all the socialization to be nice, to be quiet, to be nurturing, and finally not have to be any of those things, sometimes for the first time in their lives. It had taken me a long time to understand why women go so wild here, because though I tried to be kind I was too blunt to be considered nice by girl standards; I always spoke my mind, and I hated being expected to nurture just because I was female, so I was controlled here because I didn’t need an excuse to let go. I had had to date other women to understand my own sex better, because I was too much an outlier.
As the light changed I could finally see that his vest and pants were shiny vinyl in a rich blue, or maybe it was teal. The shininess of the fabric under the lights kept changing the color slightly as he moved. The wings were white, edged in shades of blue. “You have all tempted me down from heaven with your beauty.” When he said tempted, the women cried out as if they were thinking of all the temptations they’d passed up or given in to, and beauty made them beam at him as if him merely saying the word made them feel beautiful. I sat there enjoying the audience’s reaction to his voice without getting caught up in it. I was his human servant, which meant I had immunity to the kind of power that he’d spread over a crowd. His own vampire marks kept me safe, but when I’d first
stepped inside Guilty Pleasures nearly ten years ago I’d used my own fingernails to draw blood so the pain would keep me free of his voice. He was a lot more powerful now than he had been then; I was happy to be free to watch but not be bespelled. There were signs at the door and all over: Warning: Vampires, shapeshifters, and other supernatural beings are inside. By crossing this threshold you give consent for them to interact with you, and for any preternatural abilities that they may possess to be used on you. I was still glad to be too powerful to be rolled by his voice.
Music started building again, harder music with a beat to it. “To know you better, I will give up my wings and ask you, glorious creatures, to help me earn my horns instead,” he said, grabbing the front of his vest and ripping it open; the wings came with it, and two of the security people caught them carefully and were handing them back to others near the stage curtain, but the audience didn’t notice they were watching Jean-Claude suddenly dance shirtless. You’d think that him with wings would have been more eye-catching, but you’d be wrong. I was in love with him, so I’d have believed I was prejudiced, but the crowd’s reaction told me it wasn’t just me.
The only darkness on the pale perfection of his chest was a cross-shaped burn scar. It was very similar to the cross-shaped scar I had on my left forearm. Jean-Claude’s was from centuries ago when someone shoved a cross into him trying to save their life. Mine had been a vampire’s daytime guardians branding me to amuse themselves until the vampires rose for the night. Jean-Claude and I had both killed the people that marked us. He’d been hunting humans and I’d been hunting vampires.
He’d needed food, I’d been executing criminals—let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
Jean-Claude strutted and stalked the stage while the crowd screamed his name, and some tried to rush the stage. Security caught them, keeping them from climbing onto it. Jean-Claude teased, dancing in front of them as security fought to hold them back. Wicked and Truth stood on either side of the stage, only interceding if the shapeshifters and Buzz couldn’t manage it. I was too short to see all of the dancing unless I stood up, which most of the rest of the crowd was doing at their tables. Some of the women at the stage threw money even though they were being held back by security. A pair of pink lacy panties sailed past the security to land on the stage. I hadn’t seen anyone taking off their panties; did people bring clean underwear to throw at the stage? I hoped so.
The music changed and Jean-Claude grabbed the front of the pants and pulled. They came off in one piece like magic. He tossed them behind him where someone caught them and took them back behind the curtain. I had a glimpse of the thong he was wearing. He never stripped down that far, or at least not as long as I’d seen him onstage. He usually stopped with just his shirt off. I now knew why the pants had been looser than his normal for onstage: to give room for the pair of skintight leather boots that came up to at least the middle of his thighs. The boots were blue; I’d never seen him in boots that color before. From where I was sitting it looked like he was nude except for the boots, because I just wasn’t tall enough and sitting in my view was mostly women from the audience holding up money, or throwing money, or a thong, or . . . were those condoms still in their wrappers?