Of course, I usually don’t walk around looking like bait. My skirt was so short that even with boots that came up to mid-thigh there was a good inch between the hem and the top of the boots. I’d put a jacket on for the drive, but had left it in the car because I didn’t want to be carrying it around all night. I’d been in just enough clubs, whatever flavor they were, to know that inside it would be hot. So the goosebumps that traveled over my bare back and arms weren’t from fear, but from the damp, chill air. I forced myself not to rub my arms as I walked and to at least look like I wasn’t cold or uncomfortable. Actually the boots only had two-inch heels, and they were comfortable to walk in. Not as comfortable as my Nikes, but then, what is? But for dress shoes, the boots weren’t bad. If I could have left the knives home, they’d have been peachy.
There was one other bit of protection that I’d added. Metaphysical shields come in different varieties. You can shield yourself with almost anything: metal, rock, plants, fire, water, wind, earth, etc. . . . Everyone has different shields because it’s a very individual choice. It has to work for your own personal mind-set. You can have two psychics both using stone, but the shields won’t be the same. Some people simply visualize rock, the thought of it, its essence, and that’s sufficient. If something tries to attack them, they are safe behind the thought of rock. Another psychic might see a stone wall, like a garden wall around an old house, and that would do the same thing. For me, the shield had to be a tower. All shields are like bubbles that surround you completely, just like circles of power. I’d always understood this when I raised the dead, but for shielding I needed to see it in my head. So I imagined a stone tower, completely enclosed, no windows, no chinks, smooth and dark inside with only what I allowed in or out. Talking about shielding always made me feel like I was having a psychotic break and sharing my delusions. But it worked, and when I didn’t shield, things tried to hurt me. It had only been in the last two weeks that Marianne had discovered that I hadn’t really understood shielding at all. I’d thought it was just a matter of how powerful your aura was and how you could reinforce it. She said the only reason I’d been able to get by with that for as long as I had was that I was simply that powerful. But the shielding goes outside the aura like a wall around a castle, an extra defense. The innermost defense is a healthy aura. Hopefully by the end of the night I’d have one of those.
I turned the corner and found a line of people that stretched down the block. Great, just what I needed. I didn’t stop at the end of the line, I kept walking towards the door, hoping I’d think of something to tell the doorperson when I got there. I didn’t have time to wait through all this. I was about halfway up the line when a figure pushed out of the crowd and called my name.
It took me a second to recognize Jason. First, he’d cut his baby-fine blond hair short, businessman short. Second, he was wearing a sheer silver mesh shirt and a pair of pants that seemed mostly made of the same stuff. Only a thin line of solid silver ran over his groin. The outfit was so eye-catching that it took me a moment to realize just how sheer the cloth was. What I was really seeing wasn’t the silver, but Jason’s skin through a veil of glitter. The outfit, which left precious little to the imagination, ended in calf-high gray boots.
I had to make myself look at his face, because I was still shaking my head over the outfit. The outfit didn’t look comfortable, but of course, Jason rarely complained about his clothes. He was like Jean-Claude’s little dress-up werewolf, as well as morning snack. Sometimes bodyguard and sometimes a fetch-and-carry boy. Who else could Jean-Claude get to stand out in the cold, nearly naked?
Jason’s eyes looked bigger, bluer somehow, without all the hair to distract your eye. His face looked older with the shorter hair, the bone structure cleaner, and I realized that Jason was perilously close to that line between cute and handsome. He’d been nineteen when we met. Twenty-two looked better on him. But the outfit—there was nothing to do but grin at the outfit.
He was grinning at me, too. I think we were both happy to see each other. In leaving Richard and Jean-Claude I’d left their people behind, too. Jason was Richard’s pack member, and Jean-Claude’s lap wolf.
“You look like a pornographic space man. If you were wearing street clothes, you might have gotten a hug,” I said.
His smile flashed even wider. “I guess I’m dressed for punishment. Jean-Claude told me to wait for you and take you in. My hand’s already got a stamp on it so we can just go straight inside.”
“A little cold for the clothes, isn’t it?”
“Why do you think I was standing deep in the crowd?” He offered me his arm. “May I escort you inside, my lady?”
I took his arm with my left hand. Jason put his free hand on top of mine, doing a double hold. If that was the worst teasing he did tonight, then he’d grown up some. The silver cloth was rougher than it looked, scratchy where it rubbed against my arm.
As Jason led me up the steps, I had to look behind him. The cloth that covered his groin was only a thin thong at the back, leaving nothing but a fine glitter over his butt. The shirt was not attached to the pants, so as he moved I got glimpses of his stomach. In fact the shirt was loose enough through the shoulders that when he took my arm the shirt pulled to one side, revealing his smooth, pale shoulder.
The music hit me at the door like a giant’s slap. It was almost a wall we had to move through. I hadn’t expected Narcissus in Chains to be a dance club. But except for the patrons’ clothing being more exotic and running high to leather, it looked like a lot of other clubs. The place was large, dimly lit, dark in the corners, with too many people pushed into too small a space, moving their bodies frantically to music that was way too loud.
My hand tightened just a touch on Jason’s arm, because truthfully I always feel a little overwhelmed by places like this. At least for the first few minutes. It’s like I need a depth chamber between the outside world and the inside world, a moment to breath deep and adjust. But these clubs are not designed to give you time. They just bombard you with sensory overload and figure you’ll survive.
Speaking of sensory overload, Jean-Claude was standing near the wall just to one side of the dance floor. His long black hair fell in soft curls around his shoulders, nearly to his waist. I didn’t remember his hair being that long. He had his head turned away from me, watching the dancers, so I couldn’t really see his face, but it gave me time to look at the rest of him. He was dressed in a black vinyl shirt that looked poured on. It left his arms bare, and I realized I’d never seen him in anything that bared his arms before. His skin looked unbelievably white against the shiny black vinyl, almost as if it glowed with some inner light. I knew it didn’t, though it could. Jean-Claude would never be so déclassé as to show such power in a public place. His pants were made of the same shiny vinyl, making the long lines of his body look like they had been dipped into liquid patent leather. Vinyl boots came up just over his knees, gleaming as if they’d been spit polished. Everything about him gleamed, the dark glow of his clothes, the shining whiteness of his skin. Then abruptly he turned as if he felt me gazing at him.
Staring full into his face, even from across a room, made me catch my breath. He was beautiful. That heartrending beauty that was masculine but treaded the line between what was male and what was female. Not exactly androgynous, but close to it.
But as he moved towards me, the movement was utterly male, graceful as if he heard music in his head that he quietly danced to. But the walk, the movement of his shoulders—women did not move like that.
Jason patted my hand.
I jumped, staring at him.
He put his mouth close enough to my ear to whisper-shout above the music, “Breathe, Anita, remember to breathe.”
I blushed, because that was how Jean-Claude affected me—like I was fourteen and was having the crush of my life. Jason tightened his grip on me, as if he thought I might make a run for it. Not a bad idea. I looked back, and saw that Jean-Claude was very near. The f
irst time I saw the blue-green roil of the Caribbean, I cried, because it was so beautiful. Jean-Claude made me feel like that, like I should weep at his beauty. It was like being offered an original da Vinci, not just to hang on your wall and admire, but to roll around on top of. It seemed wrong. Yet I stood there, clutching Jason’s arm, my heart hammering so hard I almost couldn’t hear the music. I was scared, but it wasn’t knife-in-the-dark scared, it was rabbit-in-the-headlights scared. I was caught, as I usually was with Jean-Claude, between two disparate instincts. Part of me wanted to run to him, to close the distance and climb his body and pull it around me. The other part wanted to run screaming into the night and pray he didn’t follow.
He stood in front of me, but made no move to touch me, to close that last small space. He seemed as unwilling to touch me as I was to touch him. Was he afraid of me? Or did he sense my own fear and fear he might scare me off? We stood there simply staring at each other. His eyes were still the same dark, dark blue, with a wealth of black lashes lacing them.
Jason kissed my cheek, lightly, like you’d kiss your sister. It still made me jump. “I’m feeling like a third wheel. You two play nice.” And he pulled away from me, leaving Jean-Claude and me staring at each other.
I don’t know what we would have said, because three men joined us before we could decide. The shortest of the three was only about five feet seven, and he was wearing more makeup on his pale triangular face than I was. The makeup was well done, but he wasn’t trying to look like a woman. His black hair was cut very short, though you could tell that it would be curly if it was long. He was wearing a black lace dress, long-sleeved, fitted at the waist, showing a slender but muscular chest. The skirt spilled out around him, almost June Cleaverish, and his stockings were black, with a very delicate spiderweb pattern. He wore open-toed sandals with spike heels, and both his toenails and his fingernails were painted black. He looked . . . lovely. But what made the outfit was the sense of power in him. It hung around him like an expensive perfume, and I knew he was an alpha something.
Jean-Claude spoke first. “This is Narcissus, owner of this establishment.”
Narcissus held out his hand. I was momentarily confused about whether I was supposed to shake the hand or kiss it. If he’d been trying to pass for a woman, I’d have known the kiss would have been appropriate, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t so much cross-dressing as just dressing the way he wanted. I shook his hand. The grip was strong, but not too strong. He didn’t try and test my strength, which some lycanthropes will do. He was secure, was Narcissus.
The two men behind him loomed over all of us, each well over six feet. One had a wide, muscular chest that was left mostly bare through a complicated crisscross of black leather straps. He had blond hair, cut very short on the sides and gelled into short spikes on top. His eyes were pale, and the look in them was not friendly. The second man was slimmer, built more like a professional basketball player than a weightlifter. But the arms that showed from the leather vest were corded with muscle all the same. His skin was almost as dark as the leather he was wearing. All these two needed were a couple of tattoos apiece, and they would have screamed badass.
Narcissus said, “This is Ulysses and Ajax.” Ajax was the blond, and Ulysses was the oh-so brunette.
“Greek myths, nice naming convention,” I said.
Narcissus blinked large dark eyes at me. Either he didn’t think I was funny, or he simply didn’t care. The music stopped abruptly. We were suddenly standing in a great roaring silence, and it was shocking. Narcissus spoke at a level where I could hear him, but people nearby couldn’t. He’d known the music would stop. “I know your reputation, Ms. Blake. I must have the gun.”
I glanced at Jean-Claude.
“I did not tell him.”
“Come, Ms. Blake, I can smell the gun, even over . . .” He sniffed the air, head tilted back just a little, “your Oscar de la Renta.”
“I went to a different oil for cleaning, one with less odor,” I said.
“It’s not the oil. The gun is new, I can smell the . . . metal, like you would smell a new car.”
Oh. “Did Jean-Claude explain the situation to you?”
Narcissus nodded. “Yes, but we do not play favorites in dominance struggles between different groups. We are neutral territory, and if we are to remain so, then no guns. If it is any comfort, we didn’t let the ones who have your cats bring guns into the club either.”
I widened my eyes at that. “Most shapeshifters don’t carry guns.”
“No, they do not.” Narcissus’s handsome face told me nothing. He was neither upset nor concerned. It was all just business to him—like Marco’s voice on the phone.
I turned back to Jean-Claude. “I’m not getting into the club with my gun, am I?”
“I fear not, ma petite.”
I sighed and turned back to the waiting—what had Jean-Claude called them—werehyenas. They were the first I’d met, as far as I knew. There was no clue from looking at them what they became when the moon was full. “I’ll give it up, but I’m not happy about this.”
“That is not my problem,” Narcissus said.
I met his eyes and felt my face slip into that look that could make a good cop flinch—my monster peeking out. Ulysses and Ajax started to move in front of Narcissus, but he waved them back. “Ms. Blake will behave herself. Won’t you, Ms. Blake?”
I nodded, but said, “If my people get hurt because I don’t have a gun, I can make it your problem.”
“Ma petite,” Jean-Claude said, his voice warning me.
I shook my head. “I know, I know, they’re like Switzerland, neutral. Personally, I think neutral is just another way of saving your own ass at the expense of someone else’s.”
Narcissus took a step closer, until only a few inches separated us. His otherworldly energy danced along my skin, and as had happened in New Mexico with a very different wereanimal, it called that piece of Richard’s beast that seemed to live inside me. It brought that power in a rush down my skin, to jump the distance between us, and mingle with Narcissus’s power. It startled me. I hadn’t thought it could happen with shields in place. Marianne had said that my abilities lay with the dead, and that was why I couldn’t control Richard’s power as easily as I could Jean-Claude’s. But I should have been able to shield against a stranger. It scared me a little that I couldn’t.
It had been wereleopards and werejaguars in New Mexico. They had mistaken me for another lycanthrope. Narcissus made the same mistake. I saw his eyes widen, then narrow. He glanced at Jean-Claude, and he laughed. “Everyone says you’re human, Anita.” He raised a hand and caressed the air just above my face, touching the swirl of energy. “I think you should come out of the closet before someone gets hurt.”
“I never said I was human, Narcissus. But I’m not a shapeshifter either.”
He rubbed his hand along the front of his dress, as if trying to get the feeling of my power off his skin. “Then what are you?”
“If things go badly tonight, you’ll find out.”
His eyes narrowed again. “If you cannot protect your people without guns, then you should step down as their Nimir-Ra and let someone else have the job.”
“I’ve got an interview set up day after tomorrow with a potential Nimir-Raj.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “You know that you don’t have the power to rule them?”
I nodded. “Oh, yeah, I’m only temporary until I can find someone else. If the rest of you weren’t so damn species conscious, I’d have farmed them out to another group. But no one wants to play with an animal that isn’t the same as them.”
“It is our way, it has always been our way.”
And I knew the “our” didn’t mean just werehyenas but all the shifters. “Yeah, well it sucks.”
He smiled then. “I don’t know whether I like you, Anita, but you are different, and I always appreciate that. Now give up the gun like a good little girl, and you can enter my territory.” He
held his hand out.
I stared at the hand. I didn’t want to give up my gun. What I’d told Ronnie was true. I couldn’t arm wrestle them, and I would lose a fair fight. The gun was my equalizer. I had the two knives, but frankly, they were for emergencies.
“It is your choice, ma petite.”
“If it will help you make the choice,” Narcissus said, “I have put two of my own personal guards in the room with your leopards. I have forbidden the others from causing further harm to your people until you arrive. Until you enter the upper room where they’re waiting, nothing more will happen that they don’t want to happen.” Knowing Nathaniel, that wasn’t as comforting as it could have been.
If anyone would understand the problem, it would be someone who ran a club like this. “Nathaniel is one of those bottoms that will ask for more punishment than he can survive. He has no stopping point, no ability to keep himself safe. Do you understand?”
Narcissus’s eyes widened just a touch. “Then what was he doing here without a top of his own?”
“I sent him out with one that was supposed to watch over him tonight. But Gregory said that Elizabeth deserted Nathaniel early in the evening.”
“Is she one of your leopards, too?”
I nodded.
“She’s defying you.”
“I know. The fact that Nathaniel suffers for it doesn’t seem to bother her.”
He studied my face. “I don’t see anger in you about this.”
“If I was angry at everything Elizabeth did to piss me off, I’d never be anything else.” Truthfully, I was just tired. Tired of having to rescue the pack from one emergency after another. Tired of Elizabeth being up in my face and not taking care of the others, even though she was supposedly dominant to them. I’d avoided punishing her, because I couldn’t beat her up, which was what she needed. The only thing I could do was shoot her. I’d been trying to avoid that, but she just may have pushed me far enough that I was out of options. I’d see what actual damage had been done. If anyone died because of her, then she would follow. I hated the fact that I didn’t care whether I killed her. I’d known her off and on for over a year. I should have cared, but I didn’t. I didn’t like her, and she’d been asking for it for as long as I’d known her. My life would be simpler if she were dead. But there had to be a better reason to kill someone than that. Didn’t there?
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