A/N: I own none of these characters. Laurell K. Hamilton owns a couple of them and Joss Whedon owns a couple of them, and alas, there are none left over for me.
A/N: this is just a little snippet that wouldn’t quit bugging me until I finally wrote it down and got it done with.
Dressing for the Occasion
Anita Blake had found herself in enough mass orgies over the last few years that she had thought she had lost all ability to be embarressed. Or to blush.
Maybe the heat in her face wasn’t too obvious, but she didn’t hold out much hope.
Jean Claude had been doing a lot of tricky maneuvering in order to set up a meeting with Cleveland’s new Master. The new Master of that city wasn’t even a vampire but some sort of extremely rare vampire predator that Anita hadn’t even heard of before.
The only thing convincing her that the stories she heard were more than urban legend was Jean Claude’s tightly controlled fear. So she had agreed to help him negotiate some sort of formal relationship between St. Louis and Cleveland.
Cleveland’s master had refrained from killing the messenger and had even agreed to send her witch and the witch’s lover as her delegate to negotiate.
Before this very moment, Anita had prepared for whatever would happen, whatever demands the witch might make. She had felt powerful. Stress on the past-tense. From the chagrin she felt through the links, Jean Claude probably felt similar.
Jean Claude had wanted them to make an impression and they certainly had if the looks on the delegates faces were anything to go by.
Jean Claude looked much like he always did, just more so. He was wearing leather and lace, all of his masculine beauty covered and absolutely none of it hidden.
Anita was wearing another of Jean Claude’s specially designed outfits. The leather straps revealed more than they concealed, but she had to admit that it did make her feel powerful.
When she had approached the meeting place, Anita had really began to feel nervous. She was also beginning to feel raw power radiating from the room, and odd anti-death, mirror-image of death, that felt impossible to her own necromancy.
She had stalked into the room refusing to show any fear.
Apparently she had nothing to worry about because even if they did have weapons that she couldn’t see, they were too busy staring to attack.
The witch’s eyes were wide and her face was probably as red as Anita’s. The other one was laughing.
The witch was wearing a long skirt and blouse. The other one was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a denim jacket.
‘I will never,’ Anita swore to herself, ‘let Jean-Claude dress me again.’
“So,” the witch finally spoke with forced cheer, obviously struggling to keep eye contact. “Are you guys going clubbing after this?”