Truth had obviously slept in his clothes. The clothes were made up of bits of leather, but not fashionable club wear, no, more like boiled leather worn smooth and soft with use and wear. His pants were tucked into boots so bat­tered that Jean-Claude had offered to replace them, but Truth wouldn't give them up. He could have been dressed for any century from thirteenth to fif­teenth. His straight brown hair was shoulder length, but stringy, as if it needed a good brushing. He didn't exactly have a beard, just stubble, as if he hadn't shaved for a while. But under all that disarray was die same bone structure, the same cleft chin, and the same blue eyes. Wicked's eyes always seemed to hold a cynical joy, but Truth's looked tired and wary, as if he was just waiting for us to disappoint him.

"What do you want from us?" Truth asked, and his voice was already de­ fensive, as if he was ready for an argument.

Elinore uncurled from her chair and moved to stand on the otfrer side of Jean-Claude, not quite to where London was standing, but so she could see the brothers more clearly. "You have been masterless for longer than any other master vampire. Surely, in all those centuries, some powerful vampire tried to capture the great warriors Wicked and Trudi. Have you been be­spelled as Requiem is?"

Wicked laughed. "Save the flattery, Elinore; we'll help if we can, if Anita tells us plainly what she wants from us." He turned those laughing eyes to me. Truth's somber eyes followed his brother's gaze.

I met their eyes. Wicked looked like it was all a big joke, which I'd finally realized was his blank face. Truth looked calmer, blanker, but he was ready to be disappointed in me. Certainty that I would not live up to his expecta­tions was clear on his face.

"Isn't it Jean-Claude's order you need?" Elinore asked.

Truth shook his head. Wicked said, "No."

"No," Jean-Claude said.

"No," Wicked repeated, and he allowed himself a small, tasteful smirk of satisfaction.

"Who is your master?" Elinore asked.

"They are," and Truth motioned at both Jean-Claude and me.

"Then why is Jean-Claude's order not good enough?" she asked.

"He hasn't bespelled Requiem; she has," Truth said.

"You do not agree with London that it is Jean-Claude's ardeur flowing through Anita."

They both shook their heads, and the movement was so well-timed that you could suddenly see how identical they almost were.

Wicked spoke for them. "Anita's will, her intent, is what we need." He stared at me. "What is your will, Anita?"

"To have him free of me."

"Would you undo the blood oath and cast him back to Belle Morte?" Wicked asked.

Requiem clutched at my hand. "Please, mistress, not that."

I patted his shoulder. "No, Requiem, you're not going back to Belle. We would never let that happen." He calmed almost instantly, and he shouldn't have. That much panic shouldn't have just vanished. It was just another sign of how far gone he was.

"Be careful with your words," said Truth, "for they are dangerous things."

I thought before I spoke the next time. "I want him to have choices. I don't want all his free will sucked away like this."

"Why?" Wicked asked. "Why is bespelling him so terrible to you?"

I looked into Requiem's face where he sat beside me. He gave me a look of absolute adoration. My stomach clenched tight. The thought of anyone being bound to anyone else like that was wrong; that I'd done it by accident made me vaguely nauseous.

"I like Requiem. He's a good guy, especially for a vampire. I don't want him like this, some sort of slave, it's just creepy."

"Is he better off dead?" Wicked asked.

"No," I said, quickly, "no."

"Then what would you have us do?" Truth asked.

Requiem said, "Do I not please you?"

I grabbed his good shoulder and said, "I know you're in there, Requiem. Come back to us. Hear me, Requiem, hear my voice, and break free of this."

"I don't wish to be free," he said, simply.

I pulled away from him, and he tried to hold on. I actually slapped his hands away from me. He looked so hurt.

"Please, Anita, how have I displeased you so? I will do anything. Anything that you ask, if you will only feed the ardeur from me."

"Anything," I said.

"Anything, you have but to speak it, and I will do it."

"Break free of this," I said.

"I do not understand," he said, and he looked as puzzled as his words.

"That's what I want, Requiem. I want you to break free of what I've done to you." The moment I said it, I knew it was true, that was what I wanted. "You're a master vampire. You could be a Master of the City, if you were a little more ambitious. You can fight this." I searched his face, to see if he un­derstood what I was saying. "Come back to yourself, or I won't feed the ardeur on you."

"Anita, I... I don't..."

"You said you'd do anything I asked. This is an anything, and it's what I want you to do."

"You may be asking something he cannot do," Wicked said.

"I've felt his own version of the ardeur. Or whatever you call the other gifts of Belle's line that aren't exactly ardeur. He is powerful." I looked into his face and tried to show him how much I knew he could do this. "I want to see Requiem staring at me out of these eyes, not some besotted fool. Be the strong man I know you can be. Fight free of this, enough to talk to me. I won't touch you, ever again, unless you can give consent." He looked so stricken, so wounded, that I went up on my knees and cradled his face be­tween my hands. "You told me once that you considered your power rape, because it affected only the body and not the mind. Do you remember say­ing that, Requiem?"

He frowned, but finally whispered, "Yes."

"If I take you like this, it's rape, and I won't do it."

I watched the emotions struggle across his face. "Anita ... I do not know how to break these soft chains. Once love was strong enough to break them, but without love, let me be covered in your silken chains. Tie me down, and

let me drown in your sweet flesh." He moved in for a kiss as he said the last, and I had to pull back. I slid off the bed, away from him. I wanted to run screaming with frustration. I had not meant to do this. Fuck.

"If another master had bespelled Requiem, what would you do, ma pe­tite}" Jean-Claude said.

I thought about it, frowning. "I would try to break the spell. I would use my necromancy and try to break the spell."

"Exactement. "

"But, I did it. I can't break my own spell, can I?"

"Why can you not?"

I thought about it again. "Because... well."

"It is not your necromancy that has bespelled him, ma petite, but your power through the vampire marks, through me. Use your necromancy to free him, as you used your ties to the wolf to free you from Marmee Noir."

It made sense, but... "I don't know."

He spoke softly in my head. "You broke Willie McCoy free of the Trav­eller when he had possessed Willie's body. You used your necromancy to drive him out."

Willie was one of our least powerful vampires. He was manager at the Laughing Corpse, our comedy club. The Traveller was one of the vampire council. He had come to town in "person," except that he traveled by jumping from body to body. He could use any vampire body that wasn't strong enough to keep him out. He had possessed Willie, and tried to use him to hurt me. I had used my blood and my tie to Willie to find him in the dark where the Traveller had hidden him. Find him and bring him back to himself.

I thought carefully, because I was still not that good at the mind-to-mind thing, "I'd accidentally raised Willie from his coffin during the day once. I already had a tie to him that I don't have to Requiem."