Kitty and the Dead Man's Hand
Page 35
The tigers came to the rescue.
One leaped to the top of the ziggurat and roared, calling the other three to flank him. The warriors attempted to face them down, but the tigers chased them, sprang at them, rolled offstage with them—nobody’s skin got punctured, no one bled, it was all very well choreographed. With the warriors dispatched, the tigers returned to corner the sadistic cabana boys. They cowered in fear, slowly backing away, until the tigers forced them into a smoking trapdoor at the base of the ziggurat. They disappeared with a recorded roar and blast of fog.
All four tigers approached the woman, who looked around, fierce, angry—denied. She threw her head back, screamed to the rafters—and vanished. Another bout of fog, another trapdoor had taken her.
Two tigers reared up and seemed to bite through the chains. Balthasar yanked himself free from the manacles and, wearing a triumphant grin, faced the audience, victorious, flanked by his animal companions. The music swelled, the applause deafened, Balthasar gave a bow, and the curtain raced down. Show over.
The music kept droning as the audience filed out. The departing crowd was filled with giggling women. That and the cheesy rock beat were starting to give me a headache.
When the place was clear, an usher found me, showed me through a backstage door, and directed me to wait for Balthasar near the stage.
Here, the smell almost overpowered me. Ripe, full of fur and the breath of creatures that ate meat and little else. I caught my breath, startled by the heat of it, the pressure, and something else—it wasn’t purely animal. I might have expected something like a zoo. But this had skin and human sweat with it, the distinctive smell of lycanthropes, and not just one or two, but a whole pack. A territory. Backstage at Grant’s show had smelled like sweat and effort, years of performances and people working piled up on each other, creating an atmosphere rich with history. But this was a whole other world, right on the edge of wild. Tamed, but not very. Wolf wanted to growl—this felt like entering the lair of an enemy.
I didn’t see any of the lycanthropes. No cages in sight. Would they even have cages? Or dressing rooms with stars on them? I wondered when I could talk to the performers. When they weren’t being animals.
I was concentrating on taking slow breaths, steadying my nerves, when Balthasar found me. I sensed him before I saw him and collected myself before he could startle me. He was glowing from his performance. That after-show rush. I knew all about that. He didn’t seem to have a bit of sweat on him and didn’t seem tired. Then again, he did this every day.
I managed to smile. His own smile glittered. He wore boots, black leather pants, and a white silk shirt, open to show off his chest. His wavy dark hair must have had a ton of mousse in it to keep it in place, but it looked natural. He looked like the model from the cover of a romance novel. A romance novel with pirates .
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
“I have to admit, it was interesting.”
“Interesting. That’s all?”
“Okay... it was kind of hot. Totally hot.” I blushed. It was just the heat. The torches—gas-lit—were just now being turned off.
“Good. It’s supposed to be.”
“Sex sells, I guess,” I said.
“The question is, are you buying?”
Oh, I didn’t want to have to handle this. Did he ever turn it off? Because I didn’t want to let him know he was getting to me—not that I could possibly hide it. I met his gaze, determined not to show any sign of canine submission. We were equals here.
“You mind if I ask a question?” I said. Time for some of my hard-hitting journalism.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“You’re the alpha of this little pack, I take it?”
He spread his arms, a gesture of assent. “Inasmuch as we ever work like that, yes.”
I couldn’t hide my astonishment at this whole setup. “How do you do it? How do you keep them all together, listening, and under control?”
“You assume that I control them. They’re professionals. They’re performers who know their job.”
“Then they want to be here. They’re here voluntarily.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“I don’t trust the whole pack mentality. I’ve seen some pretty coercive packs in my time.” I used to be in one, in fact, and it hadn’t been pretty. “I’m a lycanthrope; I know what it’s like. I can’t imagine someone wanting to shift every day like that.” Once a month was bad enough, in my opinion.
He looked contemptuous. “You think it’s dangerous. You’ve heard stories, that a lycanthrope who shifts too often will forget how to be human. You believe that? Have you ever seen it happen?”
“Not personally.”
He arched a brow as if his point had been proven. “Nobody changes two days in a row. My actors work in shifts, trading out the human roles, and the show is dark two days a week. We know what we’re doing. We’ve been at it for a while.”
In other words, trust him, he’s a professional. I couldn’t get past the feeling that this was all... weird. Exploitative, maybe. Like a freakshow. Which begged the question, “What gave you the idea to get your were-tiger buddies together and stage a show in Vegas?”
His smile turned sly, back to his romance-cover-model look. “We had inspiration. You don’t think we’re the first to do this, do you? This sort of thing’s been going on for thousands of years.”
“Some of those dancing bears at the carnival might not have been bears, is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying some of those bears absolutely weren’t bears. Ah, here’s someone who wants to meet you.” He turned back to look.
The tiger stalked toward me from behind the curtain. Gaze focused, it moved with purpose, striding without a sound.
I’d seen tigers in the zoo. Maybe not up close, but close enough, and they were big animals. Intellectually, I knew this wasn’t as big as a real tiger. It seemed maybe two hundred pounds. But even a small tiger was plenty big enough for me. He still came up to my waist, and his paws looked like they could bat me to the floor in a heartbeat, without effort.
I stood my ground. Kept my shoulders back and let him know I wasn’t afraid of him. He didn’t show any aggression. No bared teeth or raised hackles, nothing that indicated he wanted a fight or thought I was here looking for a fight. He had to sense what I was. He had to smell the lycanthropy on me. Heck, he had to smell the anxiety.
One leaped to the top of the ziggurat and roared, calling the other three to flank him. The warriors attempted to face them down, but the tigers chased them, sprang at them, rolled offstage with them—nobody’s skin got punctured, no one bled, it was all very well choreographed. With the warriors dispatched, the tigers returned to corner the sadistic cabana boys. They cowered in fear, slowly backing away, until the tigers forced them into a smoking trapdoor at the base of the ziggurat. They disappeared with a recorded roar and blast of fog.
All four tigers approached the woman, who looked around, fierce, angry—denied. She threw her head back, screamed to the rafters—and vanished. Another bout of fog, another trapdoor had taken her.
Two tigers reared up and seemed to bite through the chains. Balthasar yanked himself free from the manacles and, wearing a triumphant grin, faced the audience, victorious, flanked by his animal companions. The music swelled, the applause deafened, Balthasar gave a bow, and the curtain raced down. Show over.
The music kept droning as the audience filed out. The departing crowd was filled with giggling women. That and the cheesy rock beat were starting to give me a headache.
When the place was clear, an usher found me, showed me through a backstage door, and directed me to wait for Balthasar near the stage.
Here, the smell almost overpowered me. Ripe, full of fur and the breath of creatures that ate meat and little else. I caught my breath, startled by the heat of it, the pressure, and something else—it wasn’t purely animal. I might have expected something like a zoo. But this had skin and human sweat with it, the distinctive smell of lycanthropes, and not just one or two, but a whole pack. A territory. Backstage at Grant’s show had smelled like sweat and effort, years of performances and people working piled up on each other, creating an atmosphere rich with history. But this was a whole other world, right on the edge of wild. Tamed, but not very. Wolf wanted to growl—this felt like entering the lair of an enemy.
I didn’t see any of the lycanthropes. No cages in sight. Would they even have cages? Or dressing rooms with stars on them? I wondered when I could talk to the performers. When they weren’t being animals.
I was concentrating on taking slow breaths, steadying my nerves, when Balthasar found me. I sensed him before I saw him and collected myself before he could startle me. He was glowing from his performance. That after-show rush. I knew all about that. He didn’t seem to have a bit of sweat on him and didn’t seem tired. Then again, he did this every day.
I managed to smile. His own smile glittered. He wore boots, black leather pants, and a white silk shirt, open to show off his chest. His wavy dark hair must have had a ton of mousse in it to keep it in place, but it looked natural. He looked like the model from the cover of a romance novel. A romance novel with pirates .
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
“I have to admit, it was interesting.”
“Interesting. That’s all?”
“Okay... it was kind of hot. Totally hot.” I blushed. It was just the heat. The torches—gas-lit—were just now being turned off.
“Good. It’s supposed to be.”
“Sex sells, I guess,” I said.
“The question is, are you buying?”
Oh, I didn’t want to have to handle this. Did he ever turn it off? Because I didn’t want to let him know he was getting to me—not that I could possibly hide it. I met his gaze, determined not to show any sign of canine submission. We were equals here.
“You mind if I ask a question?” I said. Time for some of my hard-hitting journalism.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“You’re the alpha of this little pack, I take it?”
He spread his arms, a gesture of assent. “Inasmuch as we ever work like that, yes.”
I couldn’t hide my astonishment at this whole setup. “How do you do it? How do you keep them all together, listening, and under control?”
“You assume that I control them. They’re professionals. They’re performers who know their job.”
“Then they want to be here. They’re here voluntarily.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“I don’t trust the whole pack mentality. I’ve seen some pretty coercive packs in my time.” I used to be in one, in fact, and it hadn’t been pretty. “I’m a lycanthrope; I know what it’s like. I can’t imagine someone wanting to shift every day like that.” Once a month was bad enough, in my opinion.
He looked contemptuous. “You think it’s dangerous. You’ve heard stories, that a lycanthrope who shifts too often will forget how to be human. You believe that? Have you ever seen it happen?”
“Not personally.”
He arched a brow as if his point had been proven. “Nobody changes two days in a row. My actors work in shifts, trading out the human roles, and the show is dark two days a week. We know what we’re doing. We’ve been at it for a while.”
In other words, trust him, he’s a professional. I couldn’t get past the feeling that this was all... weird. Exploitative, maybe. Like a freakshow. Which begged the question, “What gave you the idea to get your were-tiger buddies together and stage a show in Vegas?”
His smile turned sly, back to his romance-cover-model look. “We had inspiration. You don’t think we’re the first to do this, do you? This sort of thing’s been going on for thousands of years.”
“Some of those dancing bears at the carnival might not have been bears, is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying some of those bears absolutely weren’t bears. Ah, here’s someone who wants to meet you.” He turned back to look.
The tiger stalked toward me from behind the curtain. Gaze focused, it moved with purpose, striding without a sound.
I’d seen tigers in the zoo. Maybe not up close, but close enough, and they were big animals. Intellectually, I knew this wasn’t as big as a real tiger. It seemed maybe two hundred pounds. But even a small tiger was plenty big enough for me. He still came up to my waist, and his paws looked like they could bat me to the floor in a heartbeat, without effort.
I stood my ground. Kept my shoulders back and let him know I wasn’t afraid of him. He didn’t show any aggression. No bared teeth or raised hackles, nothing that indicated he wanted a fight or thought I was here looking for a fight. He had to sense what I was. He had to smell the lycanthropy on me. Heck, he had to smell the anxiety.
