Pixie the Lion Tamer

by Georgette St. Clair

“What happened?” she cried out.

  Dominick let out a roar of rage and rushed forward, with Pixie hot on his heels. He shoved the man backwards, and the man fell back against the reception desk, laughing.

  “Who are you? What the hell have you done?” Dominick growled, his hand closing on the man’s throat. “Answer me, or I’ll rip your god damned throat out.”

  “Oh, but that would be such a terrible mistake.” The man showed no sign of fear. “Because I only bought enough antidote to revive one of your friends. I have the rest stored…elsewhere. They’ve got days to live, if that. And if you want to save the rest of them, you will do exactly as I say, when I say.”

  Pixie ran over to Hillary, who’d found her glasses and was staring around her with a bewildered look on her face. Her face was flushed, her face covered with a sheen of perspiration, her hair plastered to her forehead, but overall she looked all right. Pixie reached out and grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  Then Pixie knelt down next to Bobbi. Bobbi lay sprawled on her back on the carpeted floor. Her face was flushed, and her forehead beaded with sweat; Pixie could feel the heat radiating off her. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, and Pixie quickly found her pulse, which was slow but steady. Her eyes were closed, and when Pixie pinched her wrist hard, she didn’t respond or show a flicker of consciousness.

  A wave of panic swept over Pixie, threatening to choke her.

  Bobbi was the one who’d befriended Pixie when Pixie was still a thief and a hustler, living in empty tenement buildings and making her living in ways she didn’t like to remember. Bobbi had gotten her the job at Shifters Inc., and had always believed in her. She’d never patronized her, or smothered her, or tried to change her. She’d just believed that Pixie could be a better person and lead a better life.

  Now she lay there like a barely breathing corpse.

  “Answer me, motherfucker!” Dominick grabbed the front of the man’s collar and slammed him into the reception desk, knocking his sunglasses loose. The man threw back his head and laughed

  The sirens were growing closer. Pixie looked up at the tall silver-haired man, looked right into his eyes. They were dark pools, dark like black holes which absorbed and trapped all that was light and good.

  She felt an icy shiver run through her. She’d been in some pretty bad spots over the years, and she’d felt afraid before, but she’d never felt anything like this. There was a sickness in the man. Normally only witches could sense the presence of magic in other people. Pixie wasn’t a witch, but she could sense the presence of something dark and foul clinging to him.

  He was also the man who’d somehow caused all of her friends to be sickened with a mysterious plague, however, and she’d find out what he’d done, or die trying.

  She shot to her feet as Dominick slammed the man against the desk. The man turned and shoved Dominick so hard that Dominick flew halfway across the room, crashing into a wooden table by the reception area. He shouldn’t have been able to do that; even in human form, shifters were much stronger than non- shifters.

  If Dominick couldn’t take this guy, there was no chance that she could, but she never was one to let common sense stand in her way. She pulled her switchblade from her pocket and ran towards him, screaming with fury.

  At the same time, Dominick charged forward, launched himself at the man, and in a moment Pixie, Dominick and the man were on the floor, punching and clawing.

  Then the man somehow pulled free, and leaped gracefully to his feet.

  The sirens were much closer now.

  The man reached into his suit pocket and tossed Pixie a cell phone.

  “Pixie Montana,” the man said, and when he looked at Pixie his pupils were so big that she couldn’t even see what color his eyes were. He shoved the sunglasses back in place.

  “All of this rests with you,” he said. “You have what I need. Keep that phone with you. I’ll be in touch.”

  The silver haired man turned and dashed out, and Pixie ran after him. He climbed into the back of the limousine and the limo quickly pulled away.

  Ambulances and fire trucks and police cars pulled up a block away, and stopped.

  Dominick ran up behind Pixie, breathing hard. “Why the hell did you get in my way?” he demanded, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “I had him.”

  “You so did not have him,” Pixie said. She held up an empty hypodermic needle, which had been capped; it was the needle he’d used to jab Hillary. “But I got this, from his pocket. Score one for Pixie.”

  Dominick patted his neck and looked around uneasily. “Have you seen my necklace?”

  “What? No, I haven’t seen your damned necklace, you jackass. It’s a freaking strip of leather. I’ll make you another one in arts and craft class. Can we focus on the problem here?”

  The firefighters down the street were pulling on haz-mat suits. Nobody was approaching the building yet.

  Dominick grabbed Pixie’s arm, and dragged her back inside.

  “When I called 911, I told them that everyone in the building was unconscious, and they all had high fevers.” Dominick said. “The authorities have no idea what they’re dealing with here. For public safety reasons, they’re going to want to quarantine us. We’ll be locked up in a hospital room, probably for days. We won’t be able to do anything to help our friends in time. You heard that guy, he said that they won’t survive like this for more than a few days.”

  “Do you think we’re contagious?” Pixie asked. “I don’t want to risk infecting anyone.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dominick said. “Whatever hit these people knocked them out immediately. We went inside and it didn’t affect us.”

  “What should we do?” Hillary asked, her voice weak. She stood leaning on the desk, clutching her stomach and looking queasy.

  Pixie couldn’t imagine Hillary being any good in the field. “You should just go home. Maybe go to the hospital, get checked out.”

  “No, I have to help. These are my friends too,” Hillary insisted. “I can’t just sit back and let everyone die. Unless…unless you don’t want me to help. If you don’t think I’d be useful…” her voice quavered.

  Pixie didn’t have the time or energy to deal with Hillary’s histrionics.

  “Fine. You can come with us if you do exactly what I say, when I say.” She could keep Hillary busy with internet research, where she wouldn’t be a danger to herself and others.

  Dominick glanced at their friends and co-workers who lay sprawled out on the floor.

  “He’s got the cure to whatever this is. We need to be able to investigate, to hunt this motherfucker down, and we can’t do that if we stay here,” he said. “None of us can go to our homes; the authorities might be able to track us down there, and they’d drag us off to the hospital.”

  Pixie took a deep breath. “So we need a place we can lay low while we work on finding this psycho. All right, come with me. I know a guy.”

  Chapter Three

  Pixie and Dominick sat on empty crates in what had once been the office of a warehouse building and now served as the headquarters to a local gang leader. Most of the original furniture had been removed long ago, and light filtered in weakly through cracked, grime-encrusted windows. Hillary refused to sit on, or touch, anything. An expression of utter horror wrinkled her face, and Pixie had no doubt that if she could have, she’d have levitated so she wouldn’t have to touch the floor.

  They were in what had once been the warehouse district of Playa Linda. In the 1970s all the manufacturing jobs had moved overseas, so the factory employees who’d lived in the post-war housing tracts had drifted away, and now the entire district was largely abandoned to gangs, drug dealers, and thieves. The police avoided the neighborhood, refusing to patrol after dark.

  Pixie had grown up there, in one of the former post-war housing tracts, which were now low-income housing projects. The city shoveled all of the welfare cases there so they could kill each other out of the view of th
e decent folk in the better neighborhoods. She’d largely raised herself, fending off the attentions of her mother’s tricks and hustling and stealing to survive.

  The district was filthy and dangerous and unpredictable, but Pixie knew the streets and back alleys and the denizens as intimately as she knew her own flesh.

  They were in a neighborhood controlled by Fraser Maxwell, leopard shifter and the leader of a low-level criminal gang who made most of their money by trafficking in stolen merchandise. The filthy room served as his office. He leaned back in old office chair behind a desk made of a wooden pallet laid across wooden crates.

  There was electricity in the office, which he’d obtained by illegally tapping into city power, as well as internet service. He had a shiny new laptop on his desk, and Pixie would have been willing to bet her right kidney that he’d stolen it. He could have afforded to buy a laptop; he just hated paying for things, on general principle. The grimy surroundings were an affectation, as well, because he could have paid for a real office. Pixie knew him well enough to know that he kept that location not just to stay out of sight of authorities, but because it enhanced his reputation as a tough guy who’d clawed his way, literally, to the top of the heap.

  “So now what?” Dominick asked.

  Pixie turned to Hillary.

  “Tell us everything you remember,” she said.

  Hillary took a deep, quavery, breath. “Well, after you left, and Dominick took off after you, we got his brother some clothes and called him and his fiancee a cab. Good heavens, the language she used. Anyway, I was in the lobby when that man with the glasses walked in. Kory was there talking to the receptionist. The man didn’t say a word, he just grabbed Kory by the collar, and threw him against the wall for no reason. The receptionist hit the panic button, people came rushing in to the room, he was throwing them around everywhere as if they were feather pillows, and then…everything went blank.”

  Dominick frowned. “Attacking Kory like that…it was like he was trying to attract attention. He wanted as many people in there as possible so they could be exposed to whatever it was he did to them. And I don’t know where the hell his strength came from. He’s human, but I smelled something else on him too. Something rotten.”

  Frances cleared his throat impatiently.

  “So tell me again why I should help you?” Frances asked.

  “We practically grew up together. I’ve saved your life more than once,” Pixie said indignantly.

  “I’ve saved your life more than once, too,” he pointed out. “And I shanked my half-brother last month for ratting me out to the cops. He’s still in the hospital pissing into a bag. Sentimentality doesn’t count for shit with me. You know that.”

  Dominick stifled a growl, and Pixie kicked him in the leg. She couldn’t risk having his bad temper alienate Fraser; they needed his good will if they were going to survive here.

  “I work for a security firm. There are a lot of favors we could do for you,” Pixie said, tension twisting in her gut. She could feel the seconds ticking away, along with her friends’ chance of survival.

  “Not if they all die.” He leaned back in the chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say!” Hillary burst out, blinking back tears.

  Pixie resisted the urge to smack her. Hillary was just being Hillary. She didn’t understand the basic rules of negotiating; don’t reveal your emotional investment. Pretend you’re willing to walk away at any time.

  Fraser winked at her, and leered. “Fraser Maxwell, professional asswipe, at your service.” Hillary glowered at him and sniffed indignantly.

  “My boss is very rich. If you help us, and we’re able to save his life, he can reward you handsomely,” Pixie said. “Half a million dollars, in cash.” Kenneth was good for it, easily.

  “And if I do my best to help you, and he dies of whatever ails him, I won’t get jack shit,” Fraser pointed out.

  “What do you want?”

  “A million dollars if he lives. If not…how about your professional services for one month? For thirty days, you work exclusively for me. You do anything I say.” He leered again, and waggled his eyebrows.

  At that, Dominick leapt to his feet, letting out a rumbling growl. Fur rippled over his face, and his ears turned round and tufted. His fangs shot down, and his face lengthened. Pixie couldn’t believe it. He was acting every bit as if he were her jealous mate. Dominick. Acting jealous of her.

  Pixie jumped to her feet as well. “Dominick! Cut it out!” she hissed. What the hell? Between him and Hillary, she was amazed that Fraser hadn’t tossed them out on their asses yet. How was she supposed to negotiate with these two morons undermining her every move?

  “Fine, lover boy. She’s yours. I mostly wanted her services as a thief, anyway. Mostly. How about I take this one instead?” He turned to Hillary, raking her with a long, slow, appraising look.

  Hillary gasped and went pale. She pressed her hand to her chest, and took a step back, shrinking into herself.

  “I believe I’m experiencing a myocardial infarction,” she announced in a quavering voice. “If I die right now, please move my body to a better neighborhood and come up with a suitable cover story for my mother.”

  Pixie whipped her switchblade out of her pocket, lunged forward, and slammed her knife in the desk an inch from Fraser’s hand. He started, sitting up straight and glaring at her.

  “Leave my friends the fuck alone,” she snarled. “If we can’t revive Kenneth, then I work for you for two full months, and I’ll steal anything that you want, but Hillary is off the table. You do not even look at her. She doesn’t exist. And I’m not having sex with you, you pig.”

  She glanced over at Dominick, who’d gone back to human form but was glaring at Fraser with murder in his eyes. “And he is not my lover boy.”

  “Sure he isn’t.” Fraser looked amused, which made Pixie want to punch him really hard.

  “No, you jackhole, he really isn’t. Do we have a deal?”

  “We have a deal. What do you need from me?”

  “For starters, I’d like to consult with Anastasia. Today.”

  Fraser looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You suspect black magic.”

  “Wait, we’re dealing with black magic here? Is Anastasia a witch who deals in black magic?” Hillary piped up, eyes big as saucers.

  “She’s more gray magic,” Pixie shrugged, and turned back to Fraser, but Hillary wasn’t done.

  “There is no such thing as grey magic in the eyes of the law.” Hillary’s voice rose to a shrill keen. “Magic is either black, or white. All practitioners of magic must be licensed by the Council of Magic and must keep a log of each use of magic, and submit the log weekly to their local-”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Pixie barked. “Do you want to save our friends, or not? Because if we do this by the book they’ll all die.”

  “But everyone at Shifters, Inc. will be taken to the hospital. When they evaluate them, they’ll scan them for the effects of black magic. They’ll do it legally.” Hillary’s tone was pleading.

  “They’ll be scanned by a White Magic Practitioner. They’re not going to be up on the latest street hoodoo. Nobody knows black magic like someone who deals in it,” Pixie said firmly. “Let the hospital do whatever they can. I hope it works. In the meantime, I’m going to do things my way.”

  “I’ll contact Anastasia,” Fraser said. “What else do you need?”

  Before Pixie could answer, Dominick’s cell phone rang. He grabbed it and answered quickly.

  “Tyler? You’re all right? Thank God. Yeah, don’t go anywhere near the building, and don’t talk to the police. We’re at 39th and Green, at the old Bromwell warehouse. Get here as fast as you can, and don’t talk to anyone else until you get here.”

  “What did he say?” Pixie asked anxiously.

  “He was out picking up a new laptop, when the attack happened. He was heading back in when he saw the
commotion around the building and turned on his police scanner. Apparently there were a total of 15 people who were affected, and they’ve all been transported to Playa Linda General. No news yet on their condition. Police are calling it a terrorist attack.”

  Tyler ran their computer security department, and could hack into any database in the world, which would prove mighty useful.

  Of course, it would be awkward working side by side with him. He and Pixie had briefly dated, until Pixie put her foot down and demanded to know if she was his fated mate. He had to admit that she wasn’t. When a shifter met his or her fated mate, they had a strong and immediate reaction, both physical and emotional; they pretty much knew right away that they’d met The One. Tyler had to confess that although he found her attractive, and liked her, she wasn’t the one.

  So she’d broken it off with him. Ever since then, he’d been secretly giving her gifts. She’d even caught him leaving some of the gifts on her desk when he thought she wasn’t looking. Perfume, extremely expensive jewelry, gift cards to stores that she shopped at…

  Oh well. At the moment, she didn’t have the luxury of being picky about who she’d work with. If she did, she’d have picked Bobbi first, but Bobbi was…she swallowed hard and tried not to think about Bobbi.

  Pixie turned to Fraser. “How’s your internet connection here?”

  “Excellent. And we operate behind a firewall which completely hides our trail from the authorities.”

  “Of course you do. All right, now we just need a place to hang out while we wait for Anastasia and our friend Tyler to get here,” Pixie said. “Big wolf shifter with curly brown hair and glasses. Please don’t kill him, we need his help.”

  Fraser had lookouts posted all over, and a gang of punks watching over the warehouse. Pixie, Dominick and Hillary had only gained entrance because Pixie knew him.

  Fraser nodded. “Okay. If you head down the hall, three doors to your right, you can wait for your friend. It’s one of the rooms that my guys crash in sometimes. There’s a couple couches there, internet, a bathroom. I’ll have some pizza sent in.”