Circus of the Damned by Laurell K. Hamilton Page B

coherent thing I’d heard her utter.
    â€œI will break your arm.”
    â€œBreak it, break it! I don’t care.” Her face was wild, enraged. God. There was no way to reason with her. Great.
    Using the joint lock as a lever, I turned her over on her stomach, increasing the pressure to almost breaking, but not quite. Breaking her arm might not stop the fight. I wanted it over with.
    I used my leg and one arm to keep the joint lock on but knelt over her upper body, until my weight would keep her pinned. I took a handful of yellow hair and pulled her neck back. I released her arm and brought my right arm across her neck, with my elbow in front of her Adam’s apple and the arm squeezing the arteries on both sides of her neck. I put my right hand on my left wrist and squeezed.
    She scratched at my face, but I buried my eyes in her back and she couldn’t reach me. She was making small, helpless sounds because she didn’t have enough air to make big ones.
    Her hands scratched at my right arm, but the sweater was thick. She pushed the sleeve up, exposing my bare arm, and began to shred the skin with her nails. I buried my face deeper into her back and squeezed until my arms shook and I was gritting my teeth. Everything I had was in that one arm, pressing into her slender throat.
    Her hands stopped scratching me. They beat against my arm like dying butterflies.
    It takes a long time to choke someone into unconsciousness. The movies make it look easy, quick, clean. It isn’t easy, it isn’t quick, and it sure as hell isn’t clean. You can feel the pulse on either side of the neck pounding against your arm while you squeeze the life out of it. The person struggles a lot more than in the movies. And as far as choking someone to death, you better hold on for a long time after they stop moving.
    Marguerite went slowly limp, a body part at a time. When she was just dead weight in my arms, I let her go, slowly. She lay on the floor unmoving. I couldn’t even see her breathe. Had I squeezed too long?
    I touched her neck and found the carotid pulse strong and even. Just out of it, not dead. Good.
    I stood and walked back towards the bed.
    Yasmeen went to her knees beside Marguerite’s still form. “My love, my only one, has she hurt you?”
    â€œShe’s just unconscious,” I said. “She’ll come to in a few minutes.”
    â€œIf you had killed her, I would have torn your throat out.”
    I shook my head. “Let’s not start this shit again. I’ve had about all the grandstanding I can take for one night.”
    The man in bed said, “You’re bleeding.”
    Blood was dripping down my right forearm. Marguerite may not have been able to do any real damage, but the scratches were deep enough that some of them might leave scars. Great; I already had a long, thin scar on the underside of my right arm from a knife. Even with the scratches, my right arm had fewer scars than my left. Work-related injuries.
    Blood was dripping down my arm rather steadily. The blood didn’t show on the black carpeting. A good color if you planned to bleed much in a room.
    Yasmeen was helping Marguerite to her feet. The woman had recovered very quickly. Why? Because she was a human servant, of course. Sure.
    Yasmeen walked towards the bed, towards me. Her lovely face had thinned until the bones showed through. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. “Fresh blood, and I haven’t fed tonight.”
    â€œControl yourself, Yasmeen.”
    â€œYou have not taught your servant good manners, Jean-Claude,” Yasmeen said. She was looking very unkindly at me.
    â€œLeave her alone, Yasmeen.” Jean-Claude was standing now.
    â€œEvery servant must be tamed, Jean-Claude. You have let it go far too long.”
    I looked over Yasmeen’s shoulder at him. “Tamed?”
    â€œIt is an unfortunate stage in the process,” he said. His voice was neutral, as