Iris McGillis, despite all advice to the contrary, was in the habit of sleeping in the same bed as her lions, which meant that—besides having the remarkable ability to suffer through terrible clouds of bad breath and flatulence—she was an impossible person to wake or speak to, especially when she wanted to be left alone. Something her friends respected almost too well.
She blamed the new environment for her current insomnia—easier than confronting old nightmares. Too many unfamiliar noises, too much city in the desert air that should have been clear and clean, full of nothing heavier than starlight. Except here, buried in concrete, the Las Vegas smog clung like smoke in her nose, as did the remnants of tar and stale sweat and the burn of hot earth, scorched grass. It did not matter that a quiet wilderness lay only minutes away by fast car. Here in the city the crush was inescapable; scents crept through her rattling air conditioner, through the crack under the old thin door of her RV that required masking tape and the clever use of paper clips to keep closed.
It was night. Past dinnertime. The scents of barbecue and microwave dinners had folded, drifted, faded. Now, dessert. Guitars strumming. Iris could hear her friends and coworkers moving through the semipermanent camp, their voices a lyric of jumbled languages: Russian, Chinese, English, and Spanish. She picked up a word here and there, but nothing solid. She did not try very hard. It was enough to piggyback on other lives while she lay in darkness, buried in sleek fur and bone and thick mane. Petro and Lila were finally quiet, and Iris—though she was having trouble drifting to sleep—found herself enjoying the warm solitude, the protective cocoon.
Not so alone, she thought, and flinched as the wiry thatch of Petro’s tail slapped hard against her face. Iris spit out thick hairs, which was enough to wake Lila, whose paws flexed. Iris watched, wary. The bed was too small, and the lioness had a thing for kneading Iris’s body—or pummeling it. In her teens Iris had gone head to head with a visiting sumo wrestler; the sensation was very much the same.
Not that she was ready to change her sleeping arrangements. Petro and Lila needed her. Unlike the small towns and cities where Reilly’s Circus had once made camp, Las Vegas was big, booming, a constant rush of sound and movement. Wild times for wild cats, and it was making them nervous, anxious. The regulations—those hard-nosed son of a bitch regulations—did not help, either. According to the inspectors who had come crawling out of the woodwork, wild animals were not allowed near human living areas, including RVs. Big cats had to live apart. Safer for the people.
Iris did not agree, but then, she cared less about people and more about her cats. And her cats—her family—did not like being separated from her. Lions were such babies.
So her RV was now a dorm for two emotionally needy four-hundred-pound cats. Her mattress would never be the same—not to mention she was breaking the law—but hell, a girl had to be a rebel sometimes. And besides, it was just Petro and Lila. The others were doing just fine in their pen, though Iris missed being able to look out her window and see them sleeping. Not like the good old days, just three months past. Poor as a church mouse, but footloose and fancy-free.
Iris held up her hand, watching as golden light shimmered from the tips of her fingers. Claws glinted, fur riding soft and speckled down her slender wrists.
Fancy-free, she thought. What a joke.
Iris heard movement outside the RV; her stomach turned sour and her hand dropped to her side. She held her breath, listening, and recognized the tread, the soft-soled shoes shuffling on gravel.
Keep on walking. Just keep on, please.
But the feet stopped and a fist knocked hard on her door, a jackhammer bam bam bam that made her grit her teeth in panic, frustration. Petro and Lila lurched, ears flat against their massive heads, and she felt the entire RV rock on its wheels with that one fast movement. Any desire to play dumb, pretend she was not home, flew up in smoke. After a brief pause the racket began again.
The lions growled. Iris grabbed the ruffs of their necks, pushing her thoughts into their heads, pleading with them. After a moment their bodies relaxed. Iris forced herself to do the same, but it was difficult; her mouth felt full of teeth, and her skin … there was still too much fur—
Swearing, she rolled forward off the bed, landing lightly on her feet. The door rattled; the paper-clip lock was coming loose. A few more good hits and the man standing outside would get an eyeful.
You and your shitty control, Iris thought, running to the kitchenette. She grabbed a bottle of water and upended it over her head, drenching herself. The cold splash did the trick; humanity returned in an instant. Iris stuck her fingers in her mouth to test her teeth, also checking herself in the mirror on the wall. Red hair streaked with blond, pale skin, no spots …
“Hello?” called a familiar male voice. “Iris? Please, wake up!”
Fully human, she did not bother being careful; she yanked open the door and paper clips flew, duct tape ripping like large Band-Aids. Some of the cheap wood paneling came off the wall and almost hit her head.
“What?” Iris snapped, trying to maintain her dignity, her ire, in front of the very handsome man who stood on her stoop dressed in nothing more than a tight tank and loose sweatpants.
Danny Perry, with his all-American good looks and broad shoulders, his clear gaze and those sexy glasses that fueled the hot-professor fantasy of every woman in his immediate vicinity, was another up-and-coming performer, six months new and Pete’s lucky find—and he was, officially, the hottest thing Riley’s Circus currently had to offer.
And he liked her. Iris could smell it on him every time he got close. Even now. Unfortunately, she had no idea what to do about it.
But Danny had stopped talking, simply stood staring. And Iris suddenly realized that she was wearing nothing but a thin camisole and teeny-tiny hip-huggers, and that the front of her body was completely soaked with water.
Shit. Iris tried to cover up, turning to look for a robe. Danny said, “Wait.”
“Right.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I bet you want me to wait.”
Danny did not smile. “Please, Iris. It’s about Con and Boudicca.”
Iris froze. “What?”
He said nothing else. Merely pointed in the direction of the holding pens. Iris stared, focusing her hearing …
… and heard shouts. A wild throaty scream that was animal and angry, and that made her blood run so cold she gasped.
Iris leapt from her trailer. She heard a roar behind her, Danny’s startled shout, but she did not look, did not tell Petro and Lila to hold back. No time—no time—and God, all this crap was supposed to have stopped, gotten better, gotten gone.
She did not care that people called her name. She did not care that she was half-naked, running through the unlit obstacle course of the circus camp, which was filled with RVs, cozy fires, parked motorcycles, cars, trampolines. Her eyes snapped into focus and her muscles pumped power into legs that looked too human for what she was doing. Too much speed, too much agility—she vaulted over a stack of unpacked crates, landing lightly on her feet—and then again, dancing weightless through a spilled collection of poles that were rusty and broken and sharp. Petro and Lila closed ranks around her, large and strong, and for a moment it was the old times again, and Iris imagined her mother’s cool presence, racing and racing like a shadow in the sun.
But it was dark, hot, a Las Vegas night with the city lights a close rainbow on her left, and Iris bent her will on the sounds ahead, on the cries and shouts, fighting for control, fighting with all her might not to slip into her secret second body.
On the other side of the cargo trucks the holding pens appeared: large circular cages made of a strong, stable mesh, covered by a wire roof. The structure was stable, but easily flexible due to a series of interlocking pins and hinges. It was her mother’s design, a way to create variation while on the road.
But one of the walls was down—as was the jaguar crumpled on the dry grass. The tiger standing nearby was not doing much better. Iris saw a splash of blue in his shoulder. A tranquilizer dart.
She tasted blood in her mouth—her teeth growing, sharpening—but she slammed her fist against her stomach, swallowed hard, and pulled it together. There were people all around—friends, strangers—all of them fighting. The crowd just outside the broken pen surged and rolled, bodies moving against one another in something that looked like a very angry orgy.
“Iris!” Pete Reilly broke from the fray. The old man was short and round, like a pink, sweaty egg draped in a nightshirt. The fight got quiet when he said her name—fast, in the span of just one breath. Iris felt the collective sigh as bodies stopped moving, pounding, ducking. Everyone stared, and for once Iris did not care. Petro and Lila pushed close against her sides, and she draped her hands in the ruffs of their enormous necks.
Quiet now, she told them. No blood.
“Iris,” Pete said again, hushed. She found him looking at the lions, indecision painted on his face. Iris let him hang. She loved the old man, but she was not going to play this one safe. Family was hurt. Family was down. And he, better than anyone, should realize what that meant to her.
The crowd moved apart. She recognized her friends and coworkers, but kept her gaze locked on the four individuals being held beside the pen. Tranquilizer guns lay on the ground in front of them; just beyond, the tiger staggered.
“Con,” Iris murmured, and patted Petro’s shoulder. Go to him.
He did, without hesitation, and she did not miss the glint in the eyes of the people around her, the silent approval and admiration. The circus always appreciated a good trick.
If only they knew the truth.
Lila stayed pressed against her hip; Iris felt the hunt enter her body as she moved with the lioness, turning her muscles liquid, warm. She glided over the ground with her head tucked down, staring and staring at the three men and the woman who peered at her with a mixture of surprise and righteousness. They wore black militia-type uniforms, with ski masks askew on their heads. One of the old riggers waved at Iris and held up a digital video camera. Pete moved close.
“Billy got it from the woman,” he told her quietly. “They documented everything. Brought a trailer, too. They were just waiting for Con to go down before they started moving them. Don’t know what they were thinking, trying to sneak into the middle of this crowd, but I guess they got arrogant. Or desperate.”
“Same old routine.” Iris cracked her knuckles. “Which cell are they from?”
“No identifying markers, but it’s either the Animal Liberation Front or that Earth First group.”
“Fucking eco-terrorists. Self-righteous sons of bitches. I hate this, Pete. I hate them.”
“I’ve called the police. Same with that FBI contact. We’re supposed to sit tight until they arrive.”
Iris didn’t care if the entire army drove out. All she could think about was Boudicca and Con—how she had failed to protect them. She missed her mother at times like this. Talk about sweet revenge; Serena McGillis was a master of retribution.
“So you’re Iris,” drawled one of the men. Young, tall, blond; frat boy cover model. Cocky enough to hide his unease, though his scent did not lie. All four of them smelled angry, scared. Yuppies out to save the world and ready to shit themselves because of it.
The young man, however, still had guts enough to rake his gaze over her body, lingering openly on her poorly concealed breasts. Iris wanted to bash in his head, do a tap dance on his crotch.
He licked his lips and sneered. “I get it now. You think you’re a regular little Sheena of the jungle with your big cat show. Standing there so pretty, so tit-happy, with a lion at your side. Makes me sick. You’re nothing but a lie. If people really knew what you did to these cats, what you’ve done to make them so pliant and obedient—”
She tuned him out. Same old bullshit, though she had to struggle like hell not to go for his throat. Control, control—good God, she needed to work on her control. Fear alone was not the trick, and neither was guilt. It was going on seven years since she had drawn a man’s blood, and despite all the heartache that had caused, she still had trouble fighting herself when emotions ran high.
Danny reached for her and she stepped away from his hand, a move that brought her closer to the eco-asshole, who was still running on at the mouth like some verbal laxative had been shoved down his throat. He leaned so close some of the riggers grabbed him around the shoulders, but the young man ignored them, his fear-scent fading into something darker. His breath hissed. “You treat these cats like whores, you little cocktease. You profit from their misery and exploitation, and until they’re liberated from your fucking abuse—”
Iris punched him. She did not mean to—his rhetoric was old hat, familiar as a lullaby—but her arm started moving faster than her brain and wow, there was a fist attached, and bam—he went down hard, blood spurting from his nose. He screamed, his companions screamed, and suddenly the fight began all over again, except this time Iris was in the middle of it, feeling stupid.
“Iris!” Danny shouted, but three of the tumblers—brothers from Mexico—knocked him aside with giant grins as they flung themselves with terrible accuracy upon the squirming pile of bodies heaving in front of Iris.
Lila slipped away. Iris followed, grabbing the lioness’s thick tail, allowing herself to be led from the fight—which was rapidly becoming a wild experiment in how long four people could keep breathing with an entire circus performing gymnastics on top of them.
The skirmish, thankfully, stopped just at the entrance of the holding pen. Iris bent down on her hands and knees, crawling through the brittle yellow grass to Boudicca and Con. Petro hunkered over them both, panting in great huffs that sent a wash of hot meaty breath over Iris’s face.
The tranquilizers were still in their shoulders. Iris yanked out the darts, tossing them aside. She pressed her ear to both their chests, one after the other, listening to their hearts beat. Behind her, the free-for-all began to quiet, grunts and shouts dissolving into strained laughter.
Iris stood, swayed. Too much stress, too much heartache, too much struggle to hold herself in check. Any more, and—The hairs on the back of her neck shivered. Instinct crawled. Somewhere near, above, Iris heard an odd click.
Something large suddenly collided with her body. The air cracked, popped—a sound she recognized from the firing range—and she hit the ground hard enough to have the wind knocked out of her. Iris fought the weight on her chest, tried to breathe, but then her vision cleared and she forgot everything—air, lungs, movement—because all she could do was stare into a pair of the warmest brown eyes she had ever seen in her entire life.
She was dimly aware of a very heavy body pressed atop hers, tight between her thighs, and though a tiny voice was screaming that he was a stranger, a danger, it was those eyes, those wonderful hot eyes, that made her forget that she should be frightened. Her aversion to human touch, gone. She tried to say something to those eyes, tried to give them a word, but all she could do was squeak.
And then that warmth—that remarkable far-seeing gaze—disappeared into a very large cat’s mouth filled with very long white teeth. Petro. Iris, horrified, heard a muffled voice from within, deep and masculine and wry.
“Ouch,” said the man.
“Oh, God.” Iris grabbed Petro’s thick mane. Let him go. Now.
The lion did not want to. His protective instincts were a scream inside her mind, but she screamed back, pushing her thoughts hard against his, begging him to release the man. Lila watched, tail lashing.
No blood, she told Petro, envisioning him opening his jaw. Please, no blood.
The lion hesitated. Iris, staring into his golden eyes, felt a slight tremor run through the man above. Her left hand dropped from mane to the rough edge of a beard. His neck was warm; his pulse beat wildly.
“Petro,” she whispered. He is not hurting me.
A low growl rumbled from the lion’s chest, but a moment later his jaw loosened. The man, showing a remarkable amount of control, did not move a muscle until Petro gently disengaged and took a step back. Iris closed her eyes, wondering what kind of mess it would make if her heart exploded from her chest; the pounding rattled her ribs.
The man stirred. “Hey. You okay?”
Iris bit back a startled laugh and opened her eyes. Her breath caught again—that damn gaze of his—but she sewed up her control and leaned into his body, pressing so close she could see herself reflected in his dark eyes. She studied his face, pretending cold clinical scrutiny.
“No broken skin,” she said, and then shocked herself by touching him, her fingers grazing his high cheekbone. Her nose was full of his scent, which was like the air before a summer thunderstorm—as though he carried a charge, something electric and hot. Teasing, exhilarating; like a high wind sweeping through her brain. She wanted to put her nose to his skin and drink him in, soak up that heady scent.
The man cleared his throat. Iris’s hand flew away, tingling. “Your lion was gentle with me, all things considering.”
“He’s not my lion,” Iris said, berating herself for being so stupid and flustered. Her face felt red as sun-burned metal, and just as stiff. She pushed on the man’s chest and he made a low sound, almost embarrassed. He scrambled off her body, color rising in his own cheeks. Iris had never seen a man blush like that—it made her heart feel funny. Worse, when he held out his hand, his fingers were long and strong, his skin as deeply golden as the rest of him.
Iris stood on her own. “Petro is my friend. I don’t own him.”
“Friends are worse than a leash,” said the man, smiling crookedly. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “Not that it’s anything to complain about.”
Her mental cylinders refused to cooperate with a snappy response, so she settled for silence. The fight had died down outside the holding pen; she felt Pete watching her, but did not see Daniel. No sign, either, of the people who had attacked her cats, but Jose and his two brothers were sitting at the top of a colorful human pile. They grinned at her, thumbs up.
“Are you all right?” asked the man again. He was dressed all in black like Johnny Cash, and his face had the same angular intensity. Handsome, striking, with a wave of black hair brushing over his eyebrows.
“I’m not the one who got chewed on by a lion,” Iris reminded him. “Besides, all you did was knock me down. Hard.”
His expression darkened. “Someone shot a gun at you.”
“Impossible,” Iris said, but her memory echoed—the air, cracking. Her heart, which had just begun to slow, resumed its thunder.
The man crouched in the dry grass. She leaned over his shoulder and saw a funnel of dirt like a comet trail; at the heart of it metal, glinting. A sick ache spread through her stomach; her head hurt.
“A bullet,” he said. “Just one. It hit about a foot from where you were standing.”
Too much to take in; more insanity she did not need. Before Iris could say anything, though, she heard the high wail of sirens. Pete jogged toward her, stomach jiggling beneath his nightshirt.
“Iris,” he called. “Police.”
“Okay,” she replied, and turned back to the stranger. He had moved in those few seconds of distraction, put some distance between them, almost to the point of escape. She had never seen anyone move quite that fast—no one except her mother—and it startled her.
“We need to talk,” she protested.
“Yes,” he replied, but before she could say another word he closed the space between them and touched her cheek. The contact was unexpected, as was the spark—a shock of electricity from his fingers. They both flinched, and it was a toss-up as to what startled Iris more: his touch or her reaction, which left her breathless, stunned. Iris did not touch people. She did not like to be touched. But with him she could not help herself … and his hand …
He stared, and in a ragged voice whispered, “Be careful.”
Careful of what? Iris wondered, because right then, the only thing that felt dangerous was him. So dangerous, so distracting, she could barely remember the violence behind her.
The man dragged his gaze from her face, turned on his heel, and walked away. Iris began to go after him, but Pete caught her arm and dragged her back.
She saw uniforms swarming through the circus folk, bathed in the flicker of red and blue. Unease filled her. It didn’t matter that the cops had been called to help—her mother’s paranoia still lingered. Men and women in positions of power were never to be trusted; anything could make them turn against you, and then … disaster.
Petro rumbled, tail lashing. Iris struggled to control herself; it was no good letting her fear-scent infect her cats. She had to be stronger than that, tougher. Again, Iris looked at where the man had disappeared, but it was all shadows and light now, and he was gone, nothing but a memory of warm brown eyes.
“Iris,” Pete said.
“Help me put up the wall,” she muttered, disgusted with herself. The two of them quickly hefted the wire, swinging it into place. It was an imperfect fix, but Petro and Lila made no effort to escape, simply hunched down in front of Con and Boudicca, watching the commotion with careful hooded eyes. Observant. Protective.
Not normal, Iris remembered others saying. Not normal that big cats act that way, even out of the wild. Different species behaving like pride, a family.
Yeah, well. Like she was the poster child for normal.
Iris felt heat against her back, the crush of bodies drawing near. Voices cut through her hearing. She swallowed down a deep breath, steeled herself for a mess, and glanced at Pete.
His mouth quirked. “Just like the old days.”
“Don’t remind me,” she replied, and set her jaw into a grim smile. Time to meet the cavalry, a time-honored tradition in her life, which seemed to attract enough crazies to fill its own little Arkham Asylum. Men and women who refused to believe that Iris was anything but a whip-cracking animal abuser who got her jollies by torturing cats into performing menial tricks.
The Las Vegas police, however, were far more genial than she expected. All the cops were men. And she was wet and half-naked—a match made in Heaven.
Still, she lost track of time. Too many people wanted a piece of her, with too many questions that she could not answer. Miracle’s hotel management was no help, either: pale narrow men in suits who were more concerned about press control and Iris’s ability to perform than the fact that she was scared as shit. Another wake-up call about the new world she had entered—one where the bottom line mattered more than flesh and blood.
But she managed. As always. And between the talk—and the very satisfying moment when the police loaded the four sullen interlopers into the back of a van—her friends lingered, offering the kind of silent support that was all the sweeter because it respected her distance. Present, accounted for, and ready to help—that was the unspoken message. Circus family was a strong family, right up until the bitter end.
God, she was happy for it. Especially as her last interviewer drew near and flashed a badge from the FBI.
“This is the first incident of ecoterrorism we’ve had here in almost six months,” said the agent after a brief introduction. He called himself Fred. No last name, which seemed at odds with typical FBI professionalism. Iris could not recall seeing a last name during her brief glance at his badge. Not that she particularly cared. One fed was like any other, after a while.
“It isn’t my first incident,” she remarked sourly, more than a little irritated that she had heard something similar all night long. Six months without incident. Violence was a rarity. Not much in this town bothered the environmental extremists anymore.
Until you, they implied. Fine, dandy. How wonderful.
Iris, wrapped in a threadbare blanket Pete had brought her, scanned the crowd and found the old man talking to some of the riggers. Danny was gone, and had been for quite some time. Poof, like smoke. Just like that stranger.
Mr. Nice Eyes, she called him, and then Fred said something and she answered, “My mom and I have always been targets. Animal rights activists—the extremists, anyway—never seem able to reconcile the idea that our cats are well cared for and part of a circus environment. We’ve been dodging their interference for years now.” Years of other cops in other cities, other federal agents, all of them nodding their heads and writing reports and doing jack-shit to help.
“Your mom,” Fred said. “Is she here?”
“No,” Iris told him firmly, and before he could ask where or why, she said, “What about the gun? The person who shot at me?”
“We’ve recovered the bullet, but not the weapon or the shooter. We assume, though, that he was working with Kevin Cray—the man you punched—and the rest of his crew.”
“Which extremist group are they with?”
“Hard to tell at this point. We need to talk to them some more. But don’t worry.” Fred clapped his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll take good care of you.”
Iris decided it would be unwise to roll her eyes. “Are we done here, Agent … Fred? I need to check on my cats.”
“Sure. Before you go, though, can you tell me what happened to the gentleman who saved you from the gunman? I’d like to talk to him, too.”
“He disappeared,” Iris said. Then she turned and did the same.
The police left. So did Fred. The only people who stuck around were circus folk, and after a brief impromptu display of fire-eating and tumbling and yodeling—all meant to cheer her spirits—most everyone drifted away. Tomorrow was a performance day, with both a matinee and an evening show scheduled at the Miracle. People needed their rest.
Iris stood against the wire, savoring the quiet—the stillness—and felt a relief so strong she wanted to cry. Instead she went to Pete. He did not try to hug her, though part of her wished he would—that his big, thick arms would work themselves up into a protest against her usual standoffishness and just haul her in for a bone-crunching hug. She needed to be held. So very badly.
But Iris did not move and neither did Pete, though his eyes were kind.
“There, there,” he murmured, still in his nightshirt, but now with a pipe in hand. He smelled like coffee and cherry tobacco. “You’re okay, and the cats are fine. Just sleeping. Nothing to be upset about.”
“Except for the part where you got shot at,” rumbled a familiar accented voice. Samuel, coming up behind them, sleepily rubbed his massive arms and ribs. The tall German looked like he belonged in a maximum-security prison—all hard lines and hard muscle—but oh, what a sweetheart, a circus strongman who doubled as a clown.
Pete gave him a dirty look. “We don’t need to talk about that right now, Sammy. Iris has been through enough tonight.”
“That’s okay, Pete. I can handle this.” Whatever this was. An attempt on her life? A warning? But what could she do? There was no way she could stop working with the cats, not unless Petro and the others told her it was time. And so far they seemed to be enjoying the high life of stage and spotlight and applause.
“Iris,” Pete said. “I want you to sleep in my office tonight. Tomorrow we’ll move you to the hotel. Management is offering you a penthouse suite, with round-the-clock security.”
“Not interested.”
“Iris—”
“So not interested, Pete. What, and they’ll let me take the cats, too?” Iris shook her head. “I’m right where I should be. Safe, too. We might be open territory, but strangers stand out.” She glanced around. “Speaking of which, did you see what became of that guy who knocked me down? You know, the one with the beard?”
“Ah,” Samuel said. “The wunderschön one.”
“Um, yes,” Iris said. “Him.”
Samuel scratched his ribs. “I do not think he wanted to talk to the police.”
“Join the club,” Iris said. “But I wanted to … thank him.”
Pete tried to smile, but it looked more like a nervous tick. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance. In the meantime, you’re coming with me.”
“No way. I’m staying with the cats tonight. Petro and Lila are already upset, and if I’m not here when Con and Boudicca wake up, I can’t imagine how they’ll react. You know how high-strung they are, Pete. And after tonight? If I can’t calm them down there might not be a show tomorrow. Really.”
Calculated words. Above all else, the show had to go on. No matter what. Pete narrowed his eyes. “You’re spinning, Iris. Don’t do that to me.”
“It’s the truth,” she insisted, though inside her head she was crossing her fingers. “Besides, I doubt our ecoterrorist gunslinger will be back tonight. Too much heat.”
Pete closed his eyes. “If your mother was here—”
“She’s not,” Iris said in a sharp voice. “And don’t you use her against me. You might have been close, but I knew her better than anyone. And she wouldn’t leave the cats right now, either.”
“I know,” Pete said quietly. “And it breaks my heart.”
It broke Iris’s heart, too. Because she knew how much her mother had treasured her life and her daughter, and if she hadn’t come back after all this time …
She swallowed hard and looked away at Samuel, whose hooded gaze flicked between her and Pete. She patted his thick arm.
“G’night, bad boy.”
“Gute Nacht,” he replied solemnly. “But if you like—”
Iris shook her head. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”
Pete did not say anything. He turned on his heel and walked off. The tails of his nightshirt flapped. Samuel hesitated, then shocked Iris by reaching over to wrap her in a quick, fierce hug that felt like a cocoon of rock and steel. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she was thankful that Samuel did not look at her—just ducked his head, mumbling something in German before shoving his hands deep into his pockets and rushing off after the elderly circus owner.
Iris sighed, watching them go. Finally alone. Stupid, maybe, but alone.
She pulled aside the wire gate and entered the pen. Petro greeted her with a loud moan, rolling on his back. Lila lay nearby, sprawled on top of Boudicca, who still lay very still. Con slept. Iris curled close, right into the center of their warm pile, pushing gentle thoughts of love and bonding into all their minds. She closed her eyes, reminding herself that this—here—was home. A home she had to protect no matter what. Even if sitting out, exposed, creeped the hell out of her.
Slowly, though, she relaxed into a doze, drifting into a sleep deep enough to dream, to float on spotted clouds, to run and run on endless roads that brought her into a wood and a boy and his screams and blood …
Iris opened her eyes. Her heart pounded, but she swallowed down the old memories, focusing on the here and now, the sounds of a large camp shifting restless in sleep. Her instincts tickled; she felt a change in the air. A presence.
Iris sat up. The world felt darker than she remembered, but her eyes snapped into focus, and the rest of her senses compensated with sharp immediacy. She inhaled, testing the air, and caught a familiar scent.
“You always like to spy on girls while they sleep?” Iris asked the darkness, studying an area of deep shadow near one of the cargo trucks. The shadow moved and walked toward the pen, becoming a man.
Iris joined him. The chain link did not feel like much of a barrier; his eyes made her feel exposed, naked. She clutched Pete’s blanket even tighter around her body as he watched her, and she did the same to him, pretending to be unabashed, bold, when in truth she simply did not have the strength to look away.
The man was lean, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, his body garbed in clothes with dark, clean lines and that looked highly tailored and expensive. Good taste, if nothing else. A man primed and ready for a night in a high-end yuppie club, a martini—shaken, not stirred—in his large, elegant hand.
Money, Iris thought when she looked at him. Born to it, bred to it, or married to it. Of course, that was an image completely at odds with his presence and his behavior. Men like him did not wander into the private domain of itinerant circus folk—even a circus parked on some dusty abandoned lot behind a glittering hotel on the Las Vegas Strip. They did not save women from snipers.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Iris said to him. He folded his arms over his chest, expression darkening.
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
Iris frowned. “My camp, my territory.”
“Doesn’t mean this place is safe. You were shot at, and what? You decide to stay out in the open where you’ll make another target? Bad idea.”
“Of course it’s a bad idea,” Iris snapped, irritated that a stranger was giving her this lecture. “That’s not the point. I can’t move the cats while they’re passed out, and I refuse to leave them while they’re vulnerable. Especially if someone is running around with a gun in hand.”
“So instead you gamble with your life.”
“Cut the melodrama. I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m betting whoever shot at me missed on purpose. Probably a friend of those assholes who went after the cats. Those types like to scare, but they’re too chicken for murder.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes,” Iris lied. “Anyway, what does it matter to you? You’re not my protector.”
He said nothing. Iris moved closer to the fence. His eyes were lost in shadow, but she imagined they looked the same: rich and brown and full of something … warm.
“Why didn’t you want to talk to the police?” Iris asked him, proud her voice did not shake, that she sounded so strong and calm and easy.
His jaw tightened. “I wanted to see if I could find the shooter. I thought that would be more useful than standing around trying to explain the happy coincidence of how I happened to be there just when a gun went off.”
“Right. I could use that explanation.”
“You could use a bulletproof vest or a roof over your head.”
“Or some straight answers. Give me your name.”
He hesitated. “My friends call me Blue.”
“And your enemies?”
“They don’t worry about names.”
“I don’t find that particularly comforting.”
His mouth crooked into a smile. “What’s your name?”
“Iris,” she said slowly, not quite certain why she was being so forthcoming, why she was unable to help herself. She did not like strangers—not usually, anyway—but there was something about this man that was utterly compelling. It frightened her, just how compelling.
He stepped closer, reaching out to lace his fingers through the chain link. “Iris, maybe you should think about spending the night somewhere else. I’ll walk you home. Or not, if it makes you uncomfortable. But this isn’t safe.”
Iris clutched her blanket closer. Behind, Lila yawned, teeth flashing long and white beneath the sparse campground lights. The air felt very still, though she could hear the wind-up music and distant chime of the Strip. No escaping the concrete jungle; no peace, anywhere.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked him, studying his eyes, drinking in his clean scent. “Why are you here?”
“Why not?” he replied, voice rumbling low and soft. “Why wouldn’t I help you?”
“Because people don’t. Not like this.”
His fingers tightened around the chain link. A big man, broad and tall, he made Iris feel small, almost delicate. She did not lean away, but stepped closer, inhaling him, drinking in his gaze. Dangerous—this was so dangerous; her mother would be ashamed—but she could not help herself. Even the leopard called to him; she could feel her other half rolling through her chest, stirring to life.
“You need to meet better people,” he said, glancing at her mouth. Her pulse quickened, heart jumping with a tiny ache that made her remember older days, older pain; why this was bad, dangerous. Iris forced herself to lean away, but as she did, she caught a new scent in the air and stopped moving, tilting her head and glancing left into the dark shadows. The man—Blue—followed her gaze.
“What is it?” he asked.
Iris could not answer him. No way to explain how she knew someone was coming.
Careful now. You have to be careful. Though of what, she could not say. Good hearing in itself was not enough, in this day and age, to declare a person inhuman. Even if that was the case.
She heard her mother’s voice, chiding her, that old faint whisper of: Better to be safe than sorry, Iris. Be ever vigilant, because the moment you are not, an accident will occur. You will be caught off guard. Your true nature will emerge, and you cannot let that happen. You cannot. The world is too dangerous for those like us, and we are alone. We are alone, and all we have is each other….
And now all Iris had was herself. She glanced at the man—Blue—and found him studying her. The attention, the intensity, made her nervous.
“What do you want?” she asked him, ignoring for a moment the scent on the wind, the steady approach of footsteps. None of that mattered compared to what was going on inside this man’s head.
Blue’s gaze faltered. He touched the wire separating them and opened his mouth. Iris leaned forward.
Before he could speak, though, a wavering light cut through the darkness on their left. She turned. It was Danny, walking with a flashlight. Blue moved—she half expected him to run—but when she glanced at him she found that he had only shifted position, standing so that it would be easy for Danny to see him.
And Danny saw, and stopped walking. Stumbled, actually, though he caught himself so easily Iris almost missed it. She was used to his grace, though, his abilities as a dancer, and the misstep was glaring. His scent changed, too. It became acrid, bitter, his unease incomprehensible. Blue, too, smelled nervous.
“Iris,” he said in a low voice. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said slowly, looking between the two men. “This is the person who saved me from being shot. His name is Blue.”
Danny said nothing. He studied Blue, shining the flashlight directly into Blue’s face. It must have been uncomfortable, but Blue did not protest. Just stood there, letting Danny get his fill. Neither of them spoke or moved. Iris found it all rather creepy. And confusing.
“Do you know each other?” she asked.
“No,” said both men, in unison. Iris rubbed her forehead.
“Right. Okay, then. Danny, get that flashlight off his face. You’re blinding him.”
“Good.” His voice was unfriendly, eyes hard as flint behind his glasses. “I want to know why he’s here.”
“Just passing through,” Blue told him, and if Iris thought his gaze was intense before, it was nothing compared to what passed through his face when he looked at Danny. The intimacy of it made her uncomfortable, but only because Danny’s eyes shared the same raw focus. Iris thought of lions, males meeting on pride land, ready to fight for the right to hunt, to mate.
“Hey,” she said, and then again, louder. Both men looked at her, cheeks flushed, scents so prickly she wanted to shake them both and then run like hell. Danny’s throat worked; the flashlight wavered from Blue’s face.
“Iris,” he said. “I went by your trailer to make sure you were okay. You weren’t there. I got worried.”
“I’m fine.” She glanced at Blue. “Really.”
“It’s not safe for you here.”
“So everyone keeps reminding me. The frost in her voice was nothing but a mask for a sudden case of bone-deep weariness. She might not be alone, but she wanted to be—alone except for the company of her cats. Humans, be gone. Her heart ached.
“I’m not leaving this holding pen,” she told the men, and it was a surreal sensation, feeling like she had to defend herself for doing the right thing. “Not until Con and Boudicca are awake and I know they’re calm. So both of you can go away now. Go beat each other up. Work out whatever it is that has you both so riled.”
Iris turned her back and lay down between Con and Petro. Lila threw herself on the grass at her feet and began licking Iris’s calves. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.
The men did not move for a very long time. Iris felt ridiculous ignoring them, but the alternative was involvement and she did not have the energy. She was confused enough, and exhausted. She simply lay on her side, curled into a ball, listening to the men size each other up. Their scents continued to bother her. Not because they were entirely unpleasant, but because it was suddenly difficult to tell them apart. Danny’s scent did not carry the same electricity as Blue’s—his was more rain than thunder—but there was an underlying quality that was undeniably similar.
Almost like they’re family, she thought, chewing on that possibility for only a moment before discarding it. Too unlikely. Besides, both men had said they did not know each other, and she chose to take that as the truth.
Iris closed her eyes. She heard cloth rustle and joints pop. A very quiet grunt of pain. She thought it was Blue and wanted to roll over, but she made herself lie still, and every sound and scent felt clear and new and sharp. She listened to him lie down in the grass outside the holding pen and could not fathom why this man, a stranger, would go to so much trouble for her. She wanted to feel suspicious, wanted to chalk up his astonishing behavior to ulterior motives, but his scent was beginning to clear and calm, and she could not argue with that. Nor did she want to.
“You can’t stay here,” Danny murmured.
“Then call the cops,” Blue said.
Silence. A moment later Iris heard more movement, another body settling on the ground.
“Don’t try anything,” Danny said.
“Okay,” Blue replied, and that was the last thing Iris heard him say for the rest of the night.
She went to sleep.