From Author: It took me seven years to understand how terrible Anitaverse is. Every single character in this series is a rapist, coldblooded murderer or simply an unlikable jerk. And MAN, it becomes worse! So I did what, probably, the early Anita would do. To Dottie Smith, for her heroic efforts.
The morning was surprisingly doleful even for purgatory. Sparse rays of parallel Sun pierced heavy storm-clouds not letting melancholic place to drown in the darkness completely, but they could not warm any one. And today the chief expert of "Twilight zone's Population Movement Department" John Doe needed some kind of warmth.
This place was not the best to live. Darkness, coldness and dampness were rampant here, and bloodcurdling howls of newly-arrived souls, who were roaming around the ruins of the ancient temples, didn't make it more pleasant. Parallel flowers did not blossom here, and parallel birds did not sing. No scents, no sounds, no tangency in purgatory – bland reflection of the World of Living. Usually reapers don't complain, but the last week was exhausting, even for John. He was almost literally buried under the stack of registration forms. The crime rate in his zone had been raised in the past month. John felt very old and incredibly tired of all this bureaucratic crap. He was dreaming about a golden beach somewhere… in the Hawaiian Islands. Yeah, why the hell not? Damn, give him a hammock, he would settle himself on a simple grass-plot! If only he was able to get away from this red tape! From office paper, telephone calls and those young trainee reapers with their unfulfilled ambitions!..
In other words the ancient reaper was mad as hell. And even if his delusive young face expressed no emotions, small clouds of smoke, which were puffing from his nose from time to time, caused his younger colleagues to keep their distance from their boss.
The phone call caught John in that sad condition. The reaper answered automatically, before the thought of ignoring it crawled in his head. As a true professional he was.
"Twilight zone's Population Movement Department, chief expert John Doe."
"Johny-y-y! Long time no see! How you've been, man?!" exclaimed the phone joyfully. It really seemed the person on the other side of a wire was really glad to hear him. Pity that only madmen shared this feeling with reapers.
Mona Grayson, your friendly neighborhood serial killer. This vampiress was also known in six American states as "Tooth Fairy" for her unexplained love to her victim's teeth. Although if she "liked" them a lot Mona could take their nails, ears or even arms, but teeth were her specialty. Vampiress was absolutely crazy, and did what she wanted to do, but even she had her rules. Mona fed exclusively on dangerous criminals – for example rapists were her favorite snack – and sincerely believed she offers invaluable service to society. Unfortunately police treated her actions otherwise.
John met her only once, when he tried to liquidate her, but the old reaper recognized her voice. More than that – he wasn't even surprised. There was only one thing that bothered him:
"Where did you get this phone number?" he asked coldly, because it was not in his power to understand how an ordinary vampire can possibly phone to the goddamn purgatory from sublunar sphere. Mona successfully ignored the question and kept babbling:
"Johny, I'm in St. Louis! Ahaha, the weather here is just awesome! Have you ever thought about vacation here? No? Well anyway! I'm in "Circus of the Damned", residence of local Master Vampire!.. Jean-Claude, if I'm not mistaken."
"He's dead, I suppose?" The reaper took a die with tag "LIQIDATED" and put a stamp on Jean-Claude's file. Knowing Mona the question can be easily counted as rhetorical.
That's right, vampires trilled with laughter, confirming his theory. He took a look at her with his inner vision. Covered with blood from boots to her dark elf-locks, carrying a massive blood stained chainsaw, she was standing at the center of the most distasteful bedroom ever created by mortals. But he had to admit, rivers of blood on the floor and the big pile of dead bodies he saw in the corner made this black&white mess at least look interesting. Not as interesting as the tank projecting from the wall though.
"Deader than a doornail!" Mona kicked something lying on the floor, and it appeared to be decapitated body of Jean-Claude; without thinking twice she sat right on-top of it and grabbed the missing head, which she found nearby. "If you could say so about vampires! That's why I'm calling! Did you hear rumors about him being from Belle Morte's line? You know, the chick with sexy powers? Could you please clear something to me? 'Cause I drank so much blood from this bastard it would probably fill a good milk tank, and still feel nothing."
He kept the pause for about 5 seconds.
"Is that the reason you're calling?"
"You're so perspicacious! I adore that in men!" she smiled as if she knew John can see her."Usually I absorb vampire's powers when I drink from him, but here… Zero, nothing, nada. "
"You want to know why you don't feel sexual hunger."
"You guessed it!"
"And why men still don't bend their knees to your beauty."
"I know, right?! I mean that was strange from the very beginning, but now when my sexy body is supposed to turn into "Love potion №9" it really disturbs me. The first men I saw after that tried to shoot me! Come on, what the fuck!"
Old reaper was speechless. He didn't know if he should laugh or yell or both, but to tell the truth he was too shocked to react at all. This woman just brutally killed one of the most guarded vampire Masters of United States, and all that bothered her was her nonexistent sex life. If he wasn't reading her files he'd thought that was a really dumb joke. But he did, he knew what broke her. So now he just had to deal with it. And maybe change the phone number.
"Do you really think Jean-Claude could feed on sexual energy?" he asked finally.
"I thought that was kinda thing in Belle Morte's line."
"…Mona, that's a myth."
"…You mean… like chupakabra or Santa Claus?!"
"No, those are real," he coughed."As far as I know vampires with such kind of powers do not exist. Vampire is still a vampire, and incubus is still an incubus. They can mate but one gene must dominate over the other one."
"…What?"
"Try to imaging a couple with Nordic father and, say, Hispanic mother. Their child's genes contain information of both of them, so he can receive the same hair color as they have, but not in the same time. There is no such thing as half-blonds or half-brunettes, is that clear?"
"Mix but don't shake?"
"Sort of," he nodded. "According to my information, our deceased Prince was definitely a vampire, so I suppose this makes him no more an incubus than you are. He was a nice telepathist though! He brainwashed so many people around him I could only applause. Poor unfortunate souls were addicted to his presence. I'm not surprised they acted insane: in that condition they would do anything to please their Master."
"Seriously?!"
"Think about it. Does someone out of St. Louis know anything about his abilities?"
"…No." Mona said, and the reaper noticed how unsure she sounds."Wait, what about Belle Morte, his creator and Master?"
"She doesn't exist," he answered patiently, "None of the Council does. You see, no one invaded St. Louis. Obviously Jean-Claude used his servants to get rid of those who was standing on his way to power."
"You're sure?"
John shrugged as if he was apologizing to himself.
"If you can't force someone to do what you want, make him believe it is his own desire."
The vampiress kept silence. John could still see her, confused, sitting on Jean-Claude's corpse.
"…So Jean-Claude is not an incubus," she summed up.
"Exactly."
"And I don't have that ardeur-thingy?"
John grinned.
"You're so perspicacious."
"And you're telling me I'll never get my own supernatural harem?! That was all I fucking needed from that asshole! Jean-Claude, you're a fucking waste!"
Something fell on the floor, and the reaper guessed that was a ripped off head she was still holding. What could he say? Jean-Claude really was a waste.
"Is his human servant with him?"
"Where else could she be?!" Mona turned her head to take a look at Anita's lifeless body, but John could not see it in that gigantic pile of corpses, "That dumbass was standing there, watching me ripping off Jean-Claud's head! She had a chance to stop me any second with her necromancer powers, but I think she was too busy determining the size of my breasts. It's "B", and it's fucking perfect!"
John nodded approval and stamped a file of Anita Blake.
"What about Mr. Zeeman?
"Errrm… He's dead too, but that's kinda not my fault. He was so happy his head was finally clear of BDSM gay-orgies that I think he died of heart attack. "
Stamp, and Richard Zeeman's file was sent to the other two.
"It appears that consequences of connection between vampires and their servants are a bit exaggerated too, doesn't it? How many people are you planning to kill before you leave St. Louis?"
"I dunno. It depends of how many of them prefer human beings for breakfast, I guess."
"Good point. Now if we're done please, be so kind, hung up and don't call here."
"Ever-ever?"
"Never-ever."
"Party pooper," vampiress sighed; she sounded displeased, but actually was ready to follow reaper's advice, when he suddenly stopped her:
"Hold it. Tell me, have you ever thought about vacation in Santa Fe?"
Mona grinned and put the chainsaw on her shoulder.
"I was just thinking about it."
"Best regards to Mr. Forrester," John nodded and rang off. Yes, Mona's little escapades don't make his job easier, but he'd be lying if he said he will miss those people. So the reaper just stamped Edward's file, turned on a coffee machine and relaxed, probably for a first time in this month.