Looking for hope (first two chapters of Carnelian Lace, an Anita Blake fic I won't finish)

[mhalachai]

I have had a very interesting few days, writing-wise. I had been noodling on an idea for a while when, maybe three days ago, I started wondering if I might be able to do use the premise of the Hour of the Wolf (my Teen Wolf/MCU timetravel long-lost family story feat. Allison Argent) on something related to Anita Blake.

Note: It took me a whole day to remember had already done that in 2005 with Switchback, a story I didn't import over to AO3 as it's incomplete. (You can find it here; cw: rape)

Sometimes people say they only tell one story… and I just re-read Switchback and realized that I didn't create something new with Hour of the Wolf; I'd taken my one story and applied it to Teen Wolf.

Anyway.

A few days ago, when the idea occurred to me to apply the HotW premise to Anita Blake, I went all in, I was writing, I was plotting, and I had over 6,000 words together by the time I managed to think my way through to the end of the story…. And then I stopped. I realized that I absolutely do not want to write this story as it's set because there's no chance of a hopeful ending. The story starts with irreparable loss, and there's no way to fix that.

So I stopped.

In the interests of transparency (and because I like throwing dark-haired girls and their preternatural sidekicks back in time), I've posted what I have written below the cut:

Working title: Carnelian Lace

Working summary: Yesterday, Anita Blake finally married Jean-Claude. Today, she's waking up in her childhood home, her dead dog Jenny climbing the stairs, and she's thirteen again. It's a good thing Jean-Claude came along for the ride.

Note: Spoilers for Slay, the latest Anita Blake book, which I read on a whim and can I just say, good for LKH Anita to have finally gone to therapy. if you're not caught up, Anita and Jean-Claude are getting married (this story is set just after that) and it's complicated.

Chapter 1:

I knew before I woke that something was wrong. This was, unfortunately, not an unfamiliar occurrence in my life, but damn it, I was supposed to be on my honeymoon, not dragging myself back to consciousness in a complete darkness that was emphatically not the hotel room in which Jean-Claude and I had chosen to spend our first night as husband and wife.

The smell was wrong. The sheets were wrong. Even the still quiet around me was wrong.

The still quiet.

Stillness.

Fear licked at my skin like flame as I fought to wake up. Jean-Claude wasn't at my side. Jean-Claude was supposed to be here, in bed, but the stillness around me was too complete that I reached out mentally even as I tried to blink myself awake. By long practice I reached out for Nathaniel, my lovely Nathaniel who was always there for me, but there was nothing. Not even the blank walls I'd encounter if he was shielding the marks between us – there was just emptiness.

I struggled until my hands were free of the clinging sheets, reaching frantically for Damian, the other part of my triumvirate with Nathaniel. I met with the same emptiness – no solid vampiric stolidity, no calm pool of cool power, no gentle sarcasm and understanding – nothing.

My breath caught as the emptiness crashed into me. This wasn't the absence I'd felt back a few months ago, when another vampire had blocked my marks and tried to claim me as his own. This was an emptiness, a void, a nothingness.

I sat up, my leg still tangled in the (wrong, wrong, so wrong) sheets, my hand reaching blindly for someone I knew wasn't there. Jean-Claude! I screamed along the marks, trying to find him somewhere, anywhere. Jean-Claude, where are you?

Ma petite? came the faintest of whispers in the darkness, barely more than breath. Ma petite, what…

What's going on? I demanded, trying to struggle out from whatever held be down in the pitch-black. I can't feel Nathaniel or Damian, what—

Ma petite, something is very wrong, came Jean-Claude's whisper. It was so faint I nearly lost him in the dark. Richard… can you feel Richard?

I pulled one leg out of the fabric and went still, reaching for Richard as I had the others. The previous day, and at Richard's request, the three of us had agreed to put up some pretty serious walls between ourselves so Richard didn't inadvertently metaphysically participate in our wedding night. But we should still have been able to feel the walls, been able to feel Richard's heartbeat just out of reach.

But there was nothing.

Nothing.

A keen of pain came from one of us. Richard, the third of our sometimes frustrating triumvirate, our distant and too-close love, wasn't there anymore.

It was like he'd never been there at all.

Where are they? I cried. Jean-Claude? Where are you?

I reached for him, catching on the thinnest of filaments between us. As soon as my fingers touched that thread I held fast, pulled him towards me with every bit of power I possessed. Somehow, somehow, the thread held, and I found him in the abyss.

He was also in the impossible dark, flat on his back. Ma petite, I don't know—he started, then one of his wandering hands touched rough wood. He stilled. Non. Non, non, non, he breathed, panic overwhelming him. Non!

I could feel the panic stick in my throat, choking and vile. Jean-Claude, what is it? Where are you?

His hands flattened on the rough wood above him, and in that instant both he and I knew where he was. I know this coffin, he said bitterly. This was Nikolaos's favourite punishment, ma petite. He banged on the lid. It didn't budge. This coffin, wrapped in crosses and bound by silver chains, was my home for many a long month in Nikolaos's service.

I pushed power towards him out of instinct, gasping at how cold and weak he was. I don't understand, I told him, feeling him drink my power down like honeyed water after a long day. You fed on three wolves last night before we went to bed, and you fed the ardeur off me and now it feels like you haven't fed in months.

Jean-Claude laughed, high and bitter and more than a little frightened. I have not been this weak in decades, ma petite. He put his hand on his chest, pressing down on his frozen heart. I can barely feel you, and I should be able to hold you to me like a fire in the night.

I'm going to fix this, I reassured him. I'm going to find out what's going on and come get you.

Be careful, Anita, he whispered. As I tried to give him more energy, he turned his head, slowing the stream. Save the energy for yourself, in case you need it.

I growled out loud. I'm not the one trapped in a coffin! Take what you need.

Another bitter laugh. Ma petite, you are not thinking clearly.

Of course I'm not! I snapped. I can't feel anyone, I don't know where I am, and I'm terrified. I stopped to take a breath, then another. I just need to think.

Then think. I felt Jean-Claude squeeze my hand. I'm not going anywhere.

Funny. I felt around myself, trying to figure out where I was in this pitch darkness. My hands met fabric, what felt like cotton sheets and a blanket. I pressed down, feeling the surface below me give slightly. A mattress.

With increasing unease, I pulled myself free of the last bit of sheet and ran my hands along my arms. I was no longer in the expensive silk and lace lingerie I'd worn to bed with Jean-Claude last night—or rather, no longer in the remains of the lingerie after Jean-Claude tore it off me a few minutes into the night's festivities. Now I wore something that felt like thick pajamas, full-length arms and legs. Did someone fucking dress me while I was unconscious? I demanded, revulsion shaking me.

Jean-Claude went even stiller. Are you injured? he asked. Do you feel any pain?

I quickly took stock of my body. My joints ached, which was odd, but I didn't feel any discomfort or strain in any of the areas where they should be after last night's amorous activities. Carefully, I patted along my arms again, then my legs, but they felt strange, the wrong shape. I ran my hand over my stomach, unease growing. Then I slid my hand up and, instead of feeling the overly generous curves I was used to, encountered only the slightest lumps on my chest.

Am I in someone else's body? I demanded, horror sticking in my throat.

Ma petite. Jean-Claude's voice grounded me, kept me from jumping up in the darkness. You need to find a light.

A light. Okay. I could panic after I found a light. Breathing hard, I felt around until I reached the edge of what I assumed was the bed. Carefully, I lowered one bare foot, flinching when it touched the ground. But there was no pain, no trap, only the feel of carpet. Slowly, I lowered my weight onto the ground. When nothing came at me, I lifted one arm to shield my face, in case I walked into anything in the pitch-black, and then other reaching out in front of me to explore where I was.

I hate this, I told Jean-Claude as I shuffled forward at a snail's pace. We are supposed to be on our honeymoon.

Jean-Claude gave a feeble kick at the side of his coffin. Who could have done this thing? he wondered. And why can we not feel Richard?

I nearly shrieked as my outstretched hand touched something. Cold wood, smooth. Moving my hand sideways, I encountered a small knob. Was this a dresser? Was I in someone's bedroom? I don't know, I told him, but when I find out I am going to make them regret this.

I could feel Jean-Claude at my side now. The energy I'd given him was enough for him to be more present. It was one of the things I'd hated the most at first, that as Jean-Claude's human servant I could give him energy even across long distances, but now it was the only thing I could cling to. I had to keep hold of him, keep him with me when everyone else was gone.

I felt along the wooden object until I found its edge, then kept going. In a moment, I touched a flat vertical surface. A wall. Almost by instinct, I reached up, up, over, until my fingers found a light switch. I paused.

Ma petite?

Give me a second. Reaching deep into myself, I let the cold power of my necromancy fill me. Then I breathed out, reaching, feeling metaphysically for anything that was alive in this room – or had been.

This room was nearly empty – a folded object in the corner that held the faintest imprint; probably leather. A brush of something else; a few feathers. But my metaphysical powers weren't the kind of thing to be stopped by something as pedantic as walls. As I went further, I touched the living. One person was in a space to my right, then another beyond that. To the left, I found two more people next to each other. None of them were moving.

Asleep? Jean-Claude suggested.

I held still, considering. The two bodies off to my right were small, one of them tiny. There are children here, I told him, finally starting to feel the fury and rage I'd been expecting. What the hell is going on?

Ma petite, please turn on the light, Jean-Claude said again. There was a thin line of tension in his words that sent a chill down my spine. You can handle anything, you know that, but I need you to turn on the light.

Girding myself, I reached up for the light switch and turned it on. The sudden glare forced my eyes shut but I managed to blink my way through the momentary blindness. When I managed a clear look at my surroundings, my knees nearly gave way.

I was in my childhood bedroom, not how it was now, but how it had been when I was a little girl.

What the fuck? I practically shouted at Jean-Claude. What kind of sick joke is this?

Ma petite, a mirror, Jean-Claude said urgently. You must find a mirror.

I did not want to do anything of the sort, but the taut horror in Jean-Claude's voice pushed me forward. Slowly, I stepped past the bookshelf that held my childhood treasures, past the desk on which I had practiced my spelling and later wrote in my diary, to the wall by my closet where the small mirror hung. There, I stopped.

Anita, you must, Jean-Claude whispered. If what I fear has come to pass, then we must know.

I balled my hands up into fists. What do you think happened? I whispered back.

This time, ma petite was a near silent plea.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped in front of the mirror. Much the same as the rest of the room belonged in the past, the person I saw looking back at me was young, oh so incredibly young.

I was looking at myself as a child.

~~

I think I greyed out for a little bit, for the next thing I could take in was Jean-Claude whispering ma petite, ma petite, over and over.

I'm fine, I lied, taking a deep breath. I had sunk to my knees and my hands were buried in the shag rug that covered most of my bedroom floor. I'd hated this thing from the day Judith bought it until my little brother Josh projectile-vomited over it when he was sick with the flu in first grade. You think someone has trapped us in our memories of whatever year this is?

Jean-Claude was so suddenly silent that I nearly panicked. That is one option, he said cautiously.

And the others? I snapped, getting back to my feet. The overhead light was too bright, so I tiptoed over to turn on the desk lamp before going back to the light switch on the wall. Much better.

Another silence. There are tales, ma petite, of individuals who claim they relive years of their lives that they have lived before—

Nope, I interrupted. Nope, no, not happening.

Ma petite—

No! That's not happening!

Anita! Jean-Claude's voice came in a sudden roar, hunching my shoulders under its weight. The air was quiet for a long moment, quiet like the air before the rains began. Ma petite, even if this was a dream, or a manipulation or a nightmare, I would be able to feel some trace of Richard, just as you should be able to find a trace of Nathaniel and Damian.

No, I said again feebly, but it was a plea, not an objection.

We must be cautious, and we must stay safe, he went on. You must stay safe.

Against my will, I felt myself tearing up. What about you? I asked as hot tears dripped down my cheeks. What are we going to do about you?

Another humourless laugh drifted across my mind like smoke. Ma petite, if I am right about this, I am to be trapped in this coffin for quite some time yet. I can come to no harm that is not visited upon me by Nikolaos.

And if you are wrong? What if this is a trick being played on us?

Then I am in my adult body, while you are a child. A sensation of discomfort and unease pressed gently in my head. Do you have an idea of how old you are?

I don't know, I said, looking around again. I remember shopping with Judith for this rug, so at least older than ten. I wanted to kick at it, but that would make too much noise in the sleeping house.

Ten. Mon Dieu.

I reached out again to see if any of the others in the house were moving. The four living persons all lay motionless. One of the small bodies must be Andria – my stepsister's room was next to mine, slightly larger than the bedroom I'd been in since infancy. The other small figure must have been in Josh's room at the end of the house, the old guest room having been converted when he'd been born.

The other two people were in the direction of the master bedroom. My father and Judith, my stepmother. I let out a breath. I hadn't enjoyed having a stepmother the first time around, and even thought we had mended fences in the last few months, ever since my family came to visit before the wedding and—

Holy shit, I breathed out as the memory came back to me. Jean-Claude, my grandmother tried to kill you!

I remember, ma petite, he said, voice dry as a desert.

My rage was back, pushing my power out in a pulse along with my heartbeat. She literally pulled you into the sunlight! I wanted to kick something; preferably my Grandmother Blake.

For which we were in the process of pressing criminal charges, Jean-Claude reminded me. Luckily for us, me most of all, our shared power meant that I had become a day walker, much like your Damian. Please focus.

Oh god, if I have to deal with her again—my tirade stopped abruptly as something new brushed my consciousness. Movement. A being, moving slowly somewhere in the house.

And unlike the others sleeping on this floor, this being was one-hundred-percent stone cold dead.

Chapter 2

I snapped around, icy calm filling my body. What did it say about my life that I'd rather be dealing with an unfamiliar zombie or vampire than worrying about my family's dynamics?

What is it? Jean-Claude asked.

I sent another pulse of power outwards. Zombie, I replied instantly, then I paused. It feels like—

Ma petite? Jean-Claude pressed when I didn't go on.

I reached out again, the cold dark power I'd always held within me slipping through the silent house like smoke. The second touch on the zombie told me that my first instinct had been right. I took a bracing breath. It feels like one of mine.

Jean-Claude fell silent, letting me concentrate. This shouldn't be happening. I hadn't accidentally raised a zombie in my sleep in years. And if I had called one to me here, my power lashing out after I opened my eyes in the darkened room, no zombie should have been here so fast; the house I grew up in was miles from the nearest cemetery.

But.

But there had been a time when I'd called the dead to me as a child; the dearly missed dead.

I might know how old I am, I told Jean-Claude as I slowly walked towards my closed bedroom door. Outside that door, the presence of the zombie was growing closer.

How old?

I paused in reaching for the door-handle. The answer to that is behind door number two, I said, and carefully opened the door.

There, sitting in the hallway in front of my door, just like she had for years in life, sat Jenny, my very beloved, very dead dog.

Thirteen, I told Jean-Claude slowly. I first raised Jenny when I was thirteen.

Ah.

I sank down to one knee. Jenny sat still, looking at me with empty eyes.

Of all the events of my childhood, this was one of the strongest memories. I'd woken in my bedroom, Jenny lying on the covers next to me, watching me. At the time, I hadn't understood what was going on, how the dog we'd buried in the backyard the previous week was walking around again. I also hadn't understood why my father blamed me, why his revulsion and disgust at Jenny was focused on me.

My father never looked at me the same way again.

“Oh, Jenny,” I whispered out loud, reaching out a hand. Jenny wagged her tail, once, then nosed at my fingers.

I was nearly thirty-five; had been raising zombies for a living since I was twenty-one. They no longer held any repulsion for me, so when Jenny licked my hand with a half-rotten tongue, I only smiled.

Ma petite, Jean-Claude said, while I admire your sang-froid in the current situation, may I suggest that this little reunion may be better suited to a place where one of your family will not intrude?

Stop using logic on me, I'm having a difficult night. Still, he was right. Carefully, I scooped Jenny up in my arms. I lifted her easily and, on careful feet, tiptoed towards the stairs.

Thankfully, this house had a nightlight midway down the staircase, so I was able to make it down the stairs without tripping. On the main level, I carried Jenny through the hallway to the kitchen, where I set her down. Once there, she sat back on her haunches and stared at me with a stillness she'd never had in life.

I looked around the kitchen. Even in the faint light from the microwave clock, I could see the too-familiar breakfast table, papers stuck to the fridge, the old coffee maker. The room smelled faintly of cooking and coffee and, just a little bit, of graveyard dirt.

“Jenny,” I scolded gently as I went to get the dustpan. “You tracked mud in again.”

A single tail wag.

Ma petite, how did ce petit chien get inside?

I looked at the mudroom that was next to the kitchen. The back door has a doggie door that no one's closed up yet, I told him as I knee-walked across the kitchen, sweeping up dirt from the linoleum. Last time, Judith was almost had more freaked out about the dirt that Jenny tracked into the house than the dog itself. Or maybe that was just her trauma response.

A moment of placid stillness from Jean-Claude. Did you at one time tell me about a rampaging zombie getting into a house through a pet door?

Oh yeah, that one was fun. I bounced up a little too fast, nearly tripping over my own feet. The occupants had to climb out a window on the second floor. We nearly lost a few uniforms before I could get there to lay it to rest. I almost tipped the dirt into the dustbin, then paused. But RPIT hasn't been formed yet.

Non.

Vampires aren't legal yet.

Non again.

Damn it. I put the dustpan on the counter, looking for a paper towel. There they were, far out of reach of my thirteen-year-old reach. Fuck, I'm short.

Ma petite, you have always been a diminutive delight.

I looked to the side, where I could sense more than see Jean-Claude in his coffin. You're being charming. We're in the middle of a disaster, you're stuck in a cross-bound box, and you're being charming.

Jean-Claude let out a sigh. Ma petite, there is nothing I can do. But you must do many things, and I find that you sometimes do better if you have someone to take you out of your own head.

I wanted to protest on principle, but he was probably right. That's usually Micah's job, I thought, then stopped. The fear that had been with me ever since I saw myself in the mirror was pushing its way forward, but I couldn't handle that right now. I couldn't think of the possibility that I might never see any of them again; that this was, in fact, real.

You're right, I said to Jean-Claude. Go on, then. Distract me.

As you wish, ma petite. Across the distance, I felt him reach out to squeeze my hand. What will you do next with your Jenny?

Lay her to rest, I replied, refusing to let any more tears escape me tonight. And get this dirt outside; Judith will flip her lid if she sees this. Quickly, I dumped the dirt on the counter, then swept it into my hands. From there, it went into the little side pocket on my pajamas. Why do kids' pajamas have more pockets than ladies' clothes, anyway?

A good idea, Jean-Claude agreed. When you told me of this situation, you also said that more animals would have joined her in the coming days?

You mean my little Pied Piper of Roadkill routine? I gestured to Jenny, who followed me obediently. That only happened because I had no way of containing my power. I can prevent that this time. In the mudroom, I unlocked the back door and stepped out into the crisp Wisconsin night, Jenny at my heels, like she had been for so many years after my mother died.

The first time I'd lived this, I hadn't been able to put Jenny to rest. It had taken far too long to find an animator who was willing to travel to where we lived and lay the animals to rest; I didn't know what my dad had to pay, but I do know that we hadn't had any vacation trips for a few years after that.

Now, though, I could at least give Jenny the rest she deserved.

Jenny trotted after me as I wove through the trees in the backyard, to the base of the old oak where we'd buried her. There, I knelt on the edge of the grass and let her nose at my hands for a little while.

“At least I get to say good-bye for real this time,” I said softly. Jenny gnawed gently at my thumb. “You were a good dog. Thanks for spending time with me as a kid. You made the first few years with everyone bearable.”

I ran my hand over her head, then gently urged her onto the dirt patch where we'd buried her. She sat and looked at me expectantly.

Here goes nothing, I said to Jean-Claude, then rested my hand on Jenny's head again as I pushed my powers out. When I'd first started raising zombies, I'd had to do it the traditional way – blood to raise them, salt to put them to rest. In recent years, as my power grew, I'd been able to do raise them without blood. As I'd taken in power from others, mostly Marmee Noir, the Mother of All Darkness, the first vampire and a real pain in my ass, I'd been able to do more and more.

Now, we'd see if I could use that power to lay my dead dog to rest without having to go back to the kitchen for the salt shaker.

Gently, ma petite, Jean-Claude said. You do not know what your powers will do, in this situation we find ourselves.

Gentle. I could do gentle. With the smallest brush of power, I willed Jenny to return to the earth. I took back the energy that animated her form, that had called her from her grave, and I pulled that energy into myself, bringing with it just the tiniest hint of her essence to keep with me forever.

With one last look, Jenny lay down, and the earth took her.

I let out a breath that sounded loud in the night air. “Goodbye.”

Jean-Claude was quiet as I climbed to my feet and made my way over to the sideways pine, which had a low branch about three feet off the ground that had been perfect for a small, awkward child who wanted to spend as much time away from her father's new family as possible. I'd parked myself in this tree for hours at a time, sometimes with a book, sometimes just my thoughts, able to keep one eye on the house just in case someone remembered to look for me.

They seldom did.

Ma petite, Jean-Claude's voice was soft as he once again reached for my hand. I let him take it, felt the metaphysical pressure of his presence, and held on. Ma petite, do you not mourn for your lost pet?

Jenny? I shook my head. No. I let her go years ago. I leaned against the tree trunk, not minding the prickle of the bark through my thin pajamas. I think it was around the time that Zane got that kitten.

That, and many years of intense therapy. After a year of living with me, Micah had subtly, then strongly, suggested that I talk to a therapist to deal with ‘some of the issues I found challenging'. I finally caved, and made my way through five counsellors before I found someone who wasn't completely impossible to talk to.

Since so much of my life was mired in preternatural bullshit, we'd focused on my childhood. Having a relative stranger tell me that the way my grandmother had treated me was abusive, undeserved and flat-out wrong, was the day I'd broken down crying so hard that Micah had to drive the long way home so I could get myself together and not scare Nathaniel and the rest of the pard.

I breathed in, deep and slow, then breathed out, pushing more of my cold power to Jean-Claude through the marks. This time, he didn't try to deny me. I fed him drop by drop, the way he sometimes fed me blackberries in bed, slowly, savouring the flavour.

Jean-Claude, what are we going to do? I finally asked.

He took his hand from mine to press against the coffin lid. I have been thinking while you were handling ton petit chien, he said. There are many possibilities, all of which are terrible.

You can say that again. I blinked slowly at the dark house. I'd left my desk lamp on, but the curtains in my room were thick and I could only see a faint glow at the edge of the window.

Possibility one – we are dead, and for some reason are sharing a space in the afterlife.

I ran the idea around in my head. That doesn't feel right, I said at last. Not that I know anything about heaven, but this doesn't really fit.

I could taste Jean-Claude's brief amusement. You believe me worthy of heaven, ma petite?

I shrugged one shoulder. We've both done terrible things, but we've also done some good. I considered. This would be some weird kind of purgatory, and I have to assume that Hell is worse than… whatever is happening here.

Jean-Claude reached for my hand once more. Secondly, this could be a dream.

I shook my head. Too logical and linear for a dream.

Oui, and I find that I cannot influence it in any way, which makes me doubt that solution. He twined his fingers with mine, and it felt strange, as my hand was (currently) quite small. Thirdly, this is a shared hallucination.

Again, it's weirdly linear, I said. For something to be this real, it would have to be guided. Maybe magic? I hazarded.

That may be the case, Jean-Claude mused. We have many enemies.

I thought back to the year that we'd had. The word ‘many' was an understatement. Do you know of anyone who could do this, though? You've been reading all the security briefings.

I do know of many beings that could created such illusion and trap a person inside, Jean-Claude said. But to this extent, and to come from one who is a known threat to us?

A breeze whispered over the grass. I shivered. What else could it possibly be? I asked, even though there was one thing Jean-Claude had not mentioned, and it was the one I was dreading the most.

Ma petite. He paused. Ma petite, what if this is real?

How could this possibly be real? I demanded. For us to be here, both of us? I kicked my feet, hoping it would warm me up. Thirteen-year-old me with the powers I had at thirty-four, and you— I stopped, suddenly horrified. Wait, you said you hadn't been this weak in years, I breathed. How can I still be holding Mommy Dearest's dark powers while you're back where you were? She's still alive… or whatever she is, I amended.

I do not know, Jean-Claude admitted. Maybe it is the loss of Richard and your triumvirate of Nathaniel and Damian. He let out an annoyed breath. You know that much of my power was built on the base you had provided me, ma petite. He moved his head to the other side. Too much of my power, perhaps.

It'll be okay, I said, not knowing what else to do. We'll figure it out.

We will have to, Jean-Claude agreed. He let the silence lay between us for a time. In the distance, an owl sounded, and the wind rattled the leaves on the trees. The house was close enough to the edge of town that wilderness, or as much could exist in the Midwest in the eighties, lay close by.

I wondered what I would find, if I walked out there in the night. Then I shook my head. I'd probably step on a rock and slice my feet up before being eaten by a wandering werewolf or something equally ignominious.  

I started to shiver again, a gently tremor so slight I almost didn't catch it. It wasn't the cold, I realized after a long moment. It was dread, and it wasn't mine.

Jean-Claude?

Jean-Claude opened his mouth, ran his tongue over dry lips. Ma petite, he whispered, the ardeur.

What about it? I started to say, then froze as the dread became all my own.

Par le sang Dieu, Jean-Claude cursed. Ma petite, you are in the body of a child. Please, please tell me that you have not brought the ardeur with you to this place.

I don't know, I said, panicking. I had learned to live with the ardeur, a metaphysical ability to draw power from the sexual energy of others, but that was as an adult, with an adult body with a lycanthropic healing factor and a large group of willing partners. The idea of such a fate being inflicted on a barely pubescent child was unimaginable.

Not unimaginable, Jean-Claude whispered, so softly I barely heard him.

But I did hear him. Do… do I want to know?

The strength of his refusal was a physical sensation. Absolutely not, ma petite. Absolutely not.

I closed my eyes. Was it Belle? Did Belle Mort do that to someone?

Ma petite, please do not ask me questions that you do not want answered. His voice was almost begging.

The person I was ten years ago would have pushed, would have demanded answers, then gotten mad at Jean-Claude for telling me. The person I was now, thirty-four or thirteen or whatever, knew that when Jean-Claude used that tone, I was better off letting the sleeping demons lie.

Besides, I might have a bigger problem. If I was still carrying the ardeur within me, I'd have to find some way to feed it, to keep Jean-Claude alive and sane for as long as he was locked in the box. But first, I needed to know.

Okay, I said. Okay. “Okay. Here we go.”

Squeezing Jean-Claude's hand, I reached deep in my body. My power of the dead, so recently given the freedom in the world, flowed around me like running water. And there, just on the other side of that water, I could feel my beast. Somnolent and cranky, she stretched like a leopard waking after a nap at my prodding, and there she was; there I was.

I let my beast fill me, not taking any form, just warm and alive and hungry. I exhaled, and my breath misted in the cold air. I hadn't lost her. She was here with me; she was me.

But I couldn't stop. With my beast and with the cool flowing stream of death, I went deeper, looking for the ardeur, the hot fire of love, of lust, of sex and attraction and connection.

It wasn't there.

For the first time in nearly five years, I could not raise the ardeur.

Merci, merci, Jean-Claude whispered, nearly weeping. I would rather have died than force such a fate upon a child, ma petite.

I'm not a child, I said, almost reflexively.

You walk in a child's body, Jean-Claude pointed out, shaking our joined hands for emphasis. You are nearly a foot shorter than you are as an adult, and you still have the straight lines of a child. He paused. May I ask a delicate question?

I turned my head to the right, making metaphysical eye contact with him. After all this, and now you're asking for permission?

Right, right. He turned his shoulders towards me. At this age, ma petite, have you bled yet?

There it was. Thirty-four years old, necromancer and Executioner, polyandrous succubus and just-married woman, and this was the question that made me blush. Ugh, yes, I said. I remember because it happened just before Jenny died and I was so glad that she was there to keep me company, before I lost her.

Ah, Jean-Claude said, satisfied for some reason. That explains it.

I went still. Explains what? I demanded.

Why your powers emerged when they did, Jean-Claude said. You know quite well, ma petite, that there are many inborn powers that only express themselves once the person reaches puberty.

Wait, no, hang on, I protested. I've been able to see souls and ghosts practically my whole life.

You have always been sensitive, oui, but your outward manifestation of your necromancy only started now, here. With Jenny. Jean-Claude tried to stretch his shoulders in the tiny coffin. I wonder…

Whatever Jean-Claude was thinking about would have to remain a mystery for the time being, for out of the corner of my eye, I saw a light come on in the upstairs hallway of the house.

Someone was awake in my family's house.

Shit.

~what i'd written before the plot froze~