Anita’s out of the police station and saunters out with Richard, internally high-fiving herself. Richard, however, is really really totes angry about something.
“You’re mad about something,” I said.
He eased out into the street. He always drove carefully when he was angry. “What could I possibly be mad about?” The sarcasm was thick enough to eat with a spoon.
I have no idea what he might be mad about. Shouldn’t he be happy that she’s not dead and not arrested?
“You think I knew there was a hit man in my apartment?”
He flashed me a look that was pure rage. “You knew, and you let me go inside and set that damned TV up. You got me out of harm’s way.”
well that is truly the most despicable of actions.
Anita is actually rather logical for once; she had a gun on her, and that if Richard had been injured he would have been outed as a werewolf. This is the sort of thing that she does for a job. She might have died, but after she worked out the guy was in there, there was no way to prevent the hit man from shooting someone. This does make good sense. She was the only person that could have dealt with it sensibly.
Richard is angry with her because ‘I don’t need you to protect me, Anita’. Oh, get over yourself you dingbat.
“It wasn’t that you risked your life,” Richard said, “it was that you got rid of me before you did it. You didn’t even give me a chance. I have never interfered with you doing your job.”
Are you saying that as a man it is your job to walk into a situation that could get you killed for the sake of protecting the weak wimmins? No, I’m actually with Anita on this one. You were an unarmed civilian. You would have gotten shot, letting the hit man jump over your corpse and kill Anita and Mrs Pringle.
Anita thinks about Richard’s BS and admits that she is wrong, and that she is sorry for arguing with him.
OK, all you people who dislike the later Anita Blake books, this is where the rot really started. Instead of the Anita Blake that I hate and you all like, we have this strange character who decides that men are allowed to make decisions for her and that their role in society is to protect women.
Richard decides that Anita should come stay at his house, to best prevent any further outbreaks of assassins, and Anita thinks about ‘blood, death, and sex’. Namely that she killed someone and there will be more hit men about, and that she really wants to have sex with Richard. They drive back to Anita’s, which is now magically not a crime scene, and pick up a whole bunch of stuff that is described in loving detail. Oh, and criticising Ronnie for not being willing to kill people.
There’s a silly bit when Anita is packing her weapons. We hear all about her weapons, because these books fetishise weapons to an insane degree, and then there’s this –
I put on wrist sheaths and both knives. These were the last two of a foursome that I’d had custom made for my hands, with the highest silver content possible for the steel.
I know silver knives are real, but there is an inherent problem with them. Silver is a very malleable metal, and I don’t think having knives made of a blend of silver and steel would produce a blade that was strong enough to last. (Feel free to correct me) Why not just have a silver plated normal knife?
When I was having the lost knives replaced, I’d ordered a new one. It was nearly a foot long, more a sword than a knife. I’d had a leather harness made that let me carry it down my spine, with the hilt under my hair.
Anita Blake: American Ninja. And while yes, the media says this is cool, it sounds impractical to me.
Anita packs up all her weapons and ammo and there a lot of suitcases. We are treated to this exchange.
“Can you carry both suitcases?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I’m shocked you asked. The last time I tried to carry something unasked, you nearly handed me my head in a basket.”
What in the name of fuck is that?
It’s not feminist to bite the head off a guy who picks up a bag for you. It’s just rude.
As they leave, Mrs Pringle comes up to reaffirm to the world how wonderful Anita is. Mrs Pringle wishes her a teary goodbye and asks how bad is this mess?
A man is dead Mrs Pringle. That’s hardly good.