“So it’s not a complete breach.”
“That’s not what the shape-shifters would say.”
“And there’s no reasoning with him?”
“There’s no fixing crazy, Roland. You run or take a shotgun to it. That’s all.”
“Jesus.” Roland blew out his breath. “I know there’s no love lost between you and your old man, Blue, but this is ridiculous.”
Right. What was really ridiculous was that Blue had never been able to count on his father for anything, had never had a father, had never in his life been able to say the word father and have it mean anything except deceit, danger, anger.
“Roland,” Blue said slowly. “When you first hired me on, I told you my real name. I told you who my father is. And I made you promise to never share that information, not with anyone. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
“Hell, Blue. Your father was—is—one of the richest men in the world. He’s a legendary philanthropist and inventor. In some circles, his word is God. That’s a shitload of baggage, especially if you don’t want people to treat you differently.”
“Yeah,” Blue agreed. “But that’s not the reason I don’t use his name.”
Roland sighed. “What’s he blackmailing you for?”
“I have a brother who ran away. I’m supposed to find him. No reason given, but it can’t be good.”
“And you’re going to do it? Turn your brother over to the old man?”
“It’s my brother or the agency and my mother, Roland. How do the scales weigh in your head?”
“Like shit. But even if you play along, Perrineau might still burn us to the ground—or try to use us. And that won’t stand, Blue. Not at all.”
“So we have a plan B. I go find Daniel, and you guys … “What? What was he asking of his friends? This was his fight, his father, his responsibility. If anyone should fix this it was him, and him alone. No one else needed to get hurt.
“Oh,” Roland said, ugly laughter running low beneath his voice. “Oh, Blue. I know that look on your face. You can’t fool the eyes inside this old head of mine.”
“Your clairvoyance is real bitch sometimes, Roland. You know that, right?”
“Sticks and stones. But you’re not going solo on this one, Blue. Never you mind what we’ll do to your father. You just worry about finding your brother. Get to him first. And when you do, you find out why the hell he’s so important to Perrineau. Because, kid, after hearing what you just said, it ain’t love. Your brother has something. And if it’s so important that your father is willing to fake his own death for it, then goddamn, you need to keep it out of his hands.”
Which did not answer the question of what to do if push came to shove. If Blue was forced to choose one life over another.
Easy. You choose the agency. You choose your mother. You don’t know Daniel. You don’t owe him anything.
Maybe not. But he did know what it was like to be his father’s son, and the idea of returning anyone to that …
“Are you coming by the office?” Roland asked.
“Yes. Is Dean in? I want to see if he can do a locate on Daniel. At least give me a start.” Because if the elder Perrineau, with all his resources, could not find his son, then extraordinary measures would have to be taken. And no one got much more extraordinary than the agents of Dirk & Steele.
Even if it was a secret. Even if most of the world simply thought the detectives at the agency were nothing more mundane than human, and just very good at their jobs. And if it was up to Blue, the truth about their gifts would stay a secret, a mystery. It had to be that way, for all their sakes.
It took him several more hours to reach San Francisco, and after that, yet more time to check in at the downtown office and report on the situation. He made inquiries into Santoso—tried to call Artur and Elena, but only reached his friend’s voice mail—and when Roland was done with him and he was tired and hungry and hurting, he passed off Daniel’s letter to Dean, who—in a highly unusual show of solemnity—made no wisecracks as he held the paper in his hands, eyes closed, searching for a trail.
He discovered one.
Two hours later, Blue left the office. He ditched the men following him and drove to the airport, paid cash for a ticket. Then he boarded a plane and flew to Las Vegas.
CHAPTER THREE
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. M
akes 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.
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