Read Online [Anita Blake 17] - Skin Trade by Laurell K. Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A

“Spider.”
    I fought the urge to ask, Why Spider , and let Rocco move me down the line. Next up was Sanchez, who matched the name, but still managed to look so much like all the other men that it was like looking at Army Man, now in new Hispanic. It wasn’t just that they were all tall and athletic, but there was a sameness to them, as if whoever hired for the unit had a type he liked and stuck to it.
    Sanchez’s name was Arrio, and I wasn’t sure if it was his real first name or another nickname. I didn’t ask because, frankly, it didn’t matter. They were giving me their names, and I took them.
    Sanchez’s hand in mine gave a little spark, like a small jolt of electricity as we touched. We both fought not to jump, but the others noticed, or maybe they felt it. I was standing in a room full of trained psychics.
    â€œYou spiked her, Arrio; bad practitioner, no cookie,” Spider said. The other men gave that masculine chuckle that women, even butch women, can never quite imitate.
    â€œSorry, Marshal,” Sanchez said.
    â€œNo harm, no foul,” I said.
    He smiled and nodded, but he was embarrassed. I realized that the handshake had been a test not just for me but for all of us. Just as the men would test their bodies in weight training, the gun range, drills, this was a test, too. Could you hide what you were, hand to hand with another psychic? I’d met a lot who couldn’t have done it.
    â€œYou need to work at your contact shielding, Arrio,” Rocco said.
    â€œSorry, Sarge, I will.”
    Rocco nodded and moved to the next man. He was Theodoros, very Greek sounding and looking, but he was Santa, though Santa never looked like that when I was a little girl. His hair was straight and as black as Sanchez’s and my own. He was the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome, if you were into jocks. I wondered how in hell he’d earned the nickname “Santa.” It was Spanish for saint , but somehow I didn’t think that’s what they were going for.
    Santa didn’t have any trouble shaking my hand and not letting me feel anything but a firm handshake. It would be a point of pride for him and the last man. Sanchez had blown it; they’d work harder because of it.
    The last man was also ethnic, but I wasn’t entirely sure what flavor. His short hair was curly enough to be African American, but the skin tone and facial features were not quite that. He, too, was tall, dark, and handsome, but in a different way. His eyes couldn’t decide if they were dark brown or black. They were somewhere in between my dark brown and Rocco’s almost black. But either color, they were framed by strangely short but very, very thick lashes, so that his eyes looked bigger and more delicate than they were, like something edged in black lace.
    â€œMoonus, Moon,” Rocco said.
    We smiled; we shook. Rocco motioned me to follow him to the front of the room. We stood in front of the whiteboard. “I’m Cannibal.” Like Spider, Cannibal made me wonder why that name.
    â€œIf we’re doing first names and nicknames, then I’m Anita.”
    â€œWe heard you had a nickname,” Cannibal said.
    I just looked at him, waited for him to say it.
    â€œThe Executioner.”
    I nodded. “The vampires call me that, yeah.”
    Davey called out, “You look a little short to be the Executioner.”
    â€œEveryone looks short to you, Davis,” I said. “What are you, six-four?”
    â€œSix-five,” he said.
    â€œJesus, most of the human population must look short to you, unless you’re at work.”
    They laughed at him, and with me, which was good. The sergeant quieted the laughter with a gesture and said, “We do use nicknames, Marshal; do you want us to use yours?”
    I looked at him. “You mean have you guys call me the Executioner, instead of Anita or Blake?”
    He nodded.
    â€œNo, hell no. First,