Eye of Heaven

by Marjorie M. Liu

  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 t
o 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—jus
t 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.