Eye of Heaven

by Marjorie M. Liu

  A man appeared. He wore a brown suit that complemented his brown hair and brown eyes, creating an effect that was pleasant and professional and wholly unremarkable. Iris left the holding pen; Blue followed, moving just enough to put himself between the man and Iris. He heard the gate lock behind them.

  “Agent Fred,” she said, stepping sideways, out of Blue’s shadow. “I didn’t expect to see you here again so soon.”

  FBI. Blue tried not to react. Dirk & Steele was well-known within law enforcement circles; the agency had an international reputation for solving crimes deemed too cold or politically sensitive to handle. A fact that did not always rub the police, the feds, or certain other government agencies the right way.

  Blue did not recognize this particular agent—this Fred—but that was no guarantee of safety. Because if the man recognized him …

  Fred stuck out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  “That’s right,” Blue said, shaking his hand. He did not offer his name.

  Fred’s smiled thinned. “You fit the description of the man who spotted the shooter last night. I wanted to talk to you about that.”

  “There’s not much to say. I saw the gun and I acted.”

  “And did you see the shooter?”

  “It was dark.”

  “Not too dark to see a gun, though.”

  “I believe there was a mask.”

  Fred studied Blue’s face. “Those do come in handy, don’t they?”

  Iris brushed up against Blue. “I need to finish preparing the cats for their transport to the hotel. Was there something you wanted, or can this wait?”

  Fred looked at the two of them standing so close, and even Blue wished he could see the picture they made. Iris did not strike him as the touchy-feely type at all, so even her touching his sleeve felt startling. And good.

  “I just wanted to let you know about Kevin Cray.” Fred held up his hand. “I know. I saw Mr. Reilly on my way in, and he said he already informed you about the release. Don’t worry, Ms. McGillis. We’re keeping an eye on him. He won’t be coming here again.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not reassured,” Iris drawled, swaying even closer. Blue took the opportunity offered—knowing full well he would probably pay for it later—and put his arm around her waist. Tension rattled up her spine, but he did not let go and she did not move. Her body was warm and soft, slender without being skinny. All woman.

  “I thought the two of you were strangers,” Fred said mildly.

  “Oh, there’s no bond like danger.” Iris smiled. “But if that’s all you wanted to tell me, I think you should go. I’m very busy.” No apologies, no hesitation. Just balls and brass and catch-me-if-you-can. Blue bit back a smirk.

  Fred’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. McGillis. And with you as well.”

  “Of course,” Blue said easily. But not in this lifetime.

  Fred walked away. Iris remained inside the circle of Blue’s arm until the slender FBI agent was out of sight, and then she stepped forward, turning to face him with her hands on her hips. Blue smiled. “Sorry.”

  Iris’s mouth twitched. “Liar.”

  “Yes,” he said, watching her expression shift from amusement to sadness, all in the blink of an eye. He wondered, briefly, if he really had done something wrong by touching her, but Iris surprised him by reaching out and lightly brushing some imaginary dust off his shirt. Blue captured her hand, rubbing his thumb over her palm. The sadness in her eyes only grew deeper.

  “Iris,” he murmured. “What is it?”

  “Nothing I want to talk about,” she whispered, tugging back her hand. “Come on, Blue. We have work to do.”

  He did not press her, nor complain. He followed her lead in silence, lending muscle and an extra set of hands. But as they worked to brush down the cats and play with them—a relaxation technique, Iris told him—he could not stop thinking about that look in her eyes, which was so unbearably sad. His fault, perhaps. Touching her like that had brought back old memories, most certainly painful. It made him feel like crap.

  You thought lying to your brother was bad. You stick around and things are going to get worse.

  Because spinning lies to this woman was no way to start something, not anything that could last; and it was stupid to even consider the possibility of a relationship, terrible to dream, the worst thing he could do….

  But you want her. You want her badly.

  That scared him to death.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Miracle Hotel and Casino was less than a year old—a brand-new gleaming white lily of a baby that was banking its success less on spectacle than on the promise of a luxurious oasis within the hard-boiled heat and grit of the strip. Class and dignity, a center of refinement for those with tastes that ran more to spa treatments than showgirls. Even the casino was smaller, tucked off to the side, almost an afterthought.

  Which was why, at first, Iris thought that Reilly’s Circus seemed like an odd fit. Popcorn, clowns, and tightrope walkers did not normally move in the same circles as afternoon tea or concerts starring Yo-Yo Ma and James Galway. Then again, Vegas was a city of surprises, and the Miracle was no different. Hotel management wanted entertainment friendly to children, something better than regular big-top fare, but nothing quite so artsy as Cirque du Soleil—which, Iris had to confess, she absolutely loved.

  So, Reilly. No one, not even Pete, was quite certain how or why his circus had come to the attention of the Miracle management—especially given the small crowds they gathered on the road. Regardless, the call had come during a summer spot in Oregon, and the entire troupe had rolled on down to Nevada for a brief session of tryouts.

  Leading to now. A lucky break. Private dressing rooms. Air-conditioned practice space and a permanent parking spot in a city that never slept. Some of the trapeze artists were talking about looking for apartments. Buying minivans. Going cold turkey into the settled life.

  Not me, Iris thought, walking down the narrow backstage hall at the Miracle, straight from where she had left her cats—all safe inside the holding pen in the hotel loading bay. The Miracle had begun to discuss building alternative arrangements—a prelude to an offer of something more permanent, Iris suspected—but both she and on-site inspectors from the USDA had checked the temporary holding site and found it acceptable for performance times, especially given that all the employees had, with some small exceptions, honored Iris’s request that no one visit the cats but her prior to a performance. The hotel had erected a breezy silken pavilion around the cage, which completely hid it from prying eyes inside the loading bay. They had also given her cats a nice little sound system that continually played Kitaro and Ravi Shankar and—at Iris’s request—the Rolling Stones. It was an attempt at the Siegfried and Roy treatment, for sure.

  Natalya, one of the Russian contortionists, passed Iris in the hall and waved a sinewy hand. “You have many flowers in dressing room, Iris. Again.”

  Iris sighed. “You want some of them?”

  Natalya snorted, mouth curving. “What I do with other woman’s flowers? Like borrowing paper with love letter written on it, yes?”

  “Da,” Iris said, which got a full smile out of the smaller woman, who paused in the hall to look her up and down, lips pursed, eyes critical.

  “You must take lover,” Natalya concluded, with the same sensibility that would have accompanied an order of caviar or wine. “With good man in your bed, you can laugh at flowers. Turn them into nice joke. Otherwise, now? They make you feel lonely.”

  “I don’t feel lonely,” Iris said.

  Natayla smiled slyly. “Then you are stronger than me. But maybe not too strong to refuse Danny, yes? Or new man with beard? The one you came to hotel with?”

  Iris’s cheeks reddened. Natalya laughed and walked away. “Silly girl! Take them both! Or I will!”

  Iris glared at the Russian woman’s back, wishing she could come up with an appropriately scathing response. Instead, al
l she felt inside her head was dead air and simmering resentment. Why was it that most if not all of the women in the circus felt the urge to give advice on her love life? Did they really think she didn’t know how to get a man? Did they think she spent her evenings depressed and pathetic, just because there wasn’t someone tall and broad and male snuggled up beside her?

  Well, yes. Apparently they did. And, frankly, there was some truth to it. It had been a long time since she had even tried to be with someone, and that had ended in disaster.

  And now? You think you can keep going down this road with Blue without ending up in that same deep shit?

  Iris swallowed hard, trying not to think about his warm hard body pressed against her side, the weight of his strong arm around her waist. His touch had been a shock, but only because it felt so good. Made her feel safe and protected in ways she had never imagined. Like a drug she wanted more—more than was safe to have in her life. More than was safe for him.

  Entering her small dressing room was like stepping into a celebrity greenhouse filled with a cornucopia of flowers: extravagant displays of roses, lilies, orchids, the occasional daisy or curling twig. But mostly, overwhelmingly, the small space was kept supplied with a daily arrangement of large, fat, verdant … irises. Purple irises, to be exact. Giant baskets and bouquets of them, pressed against the wall, blooms jutting out like spikes or spears or swords.

  Oh, the collective imagination of my admirers, Iris thought. There were some cards on her makeup table. One in particular caught her eye. She recognized the handwriting, the richness of the paper, which looked almost as soft as skin.

  My love, she read. I will make you mine.

  The end. No signature. No method of replying. Just seven words that were blunt and to the point. Iris could almost imagine the writer thumping his chest and preparing his big wooden club.

  Yeah. Good luck, pervert. Try to take me anywhere and you’ll get the surprise of your life.

  Iris tossed the note into her garbage can. Third time was always the charm. Maybe her admirer would stop after this. Either way, all the attention was embarrassing—and disquieting. Iris did not like being singled out. Onstage it was inevitable, part of the job. But in her private time the intrusion was more than a nuisance. It felt like a threat. Because if anyone got too close …

  Old lessons die hard. Mom made you paranoid.

  “But the paranoid are the ones who survive,” Iris murmured, echoing her mother’s voice. Although if her mother had really followed her own advice …

  You wouldn’t have been born. Which was not, when Iris thought about it, such great evidence of her mother’s hypocrisy. After all, Iris had no idea who her father was. Probably a one-night-stand John Doe. A safe bet, too, that he was human, someone her mother had not been in love with. According to her, a shape-shifter who gave her heart gave it forever. No going back, not ever.

  Which frightened the hell out of Iris. This was the twenty-first century, after all. People got divorced left and right. Cheating on spouses (if one watched Oprah) was practically a national pastime.

  You were a romantic, once upon a time. Once, long ago, in another life. Before reality had stripped away all her notions of happily-ever-after and the old cliché of one love to last a lifetime.

  More like one love to kill.

  Yeah. She had issues. And even if she didn’t, the rest of her life did not allow for any more mistakes. Finding a good man was not the problem—finding a man who could keep and handle her secrets, on the other hand …

  I am a shape-shifter, Iris thought, gazing into the mirror. Her eyes flashed golden, and for the first time outside her RV she let the leopard rise within her, rolling and rolling to curl against her heart. She watched herself shift, forced herself to swallow down the reflection of light and fur, and it was difficult, so difficult, like observing a live sex act, intimate and strange.

  Her face transformed. Her jaw grew more pointed, her forehead receding as fur poured through her skin, swallowing up the human hair that disappeared quickly into her scalp. There was no pain. No prick or break of bone. Just warmth, a hot rush that wiggled through her body like the flush after an orgasm.

  You are beautiful, she remembered her mother saying. You are so lovely in your skin.

  And there was a part of Iris that agreed. Though she had been forced to alienate herself from the world because of her difference, she loved it all the same. Give up the leopard, her ability to transform into another being? Never.

  But regret the losses it caused? Fear herself, even? Maybe, just a little.

  Iris studied her reflection, trying to imagine someone sharing this moment with her, someone who would love her for it, who would not be afraid. She tried to imagine a man who would see the woman before the magic, the woman beneath the fur—who would be everything for her and more.

  She found herself imagining Blue. His face rose unbidden in her mind, and she thought of him behind her, hands loose and open at his sides, the collar of his dusty black shirt unbuttoned at his throat, his body lean and tall and strong, face hidden behind that mask of beard while his eyes—those eyes—watched her from beneath a sweeping edge of shining black hair, hot and hungry and unafraid.

  Breathless. She felt breathless thinking of him.

  And he doesn’t make you nervous. He doesn’t scare you.

  Or rather, he did—but in a different way from other men. He scared her because she was actually comfortable with him. He scared her because she could actually see herself doing something with him. Because she wanted to do something, and to hell with the risks.

  Iris heard movement outside her door. She sucked in her breath, fighting for control, watching the mirror as fur bled into pale hairless skin, her face reforming, sliding into its humanity.

  Get thee gone, cat.

  Someone knocked. Iris swallowed hard. “Come in.”

  Danny pushed open the door. He was already in costume: an elaborately decorated bodysuit that showed off every hard line of his perfect body. Scales and feathers had been painted on the fabric—a shining chimera in spandex—and he wore a hood that covered most of his head except for his face, which was covered by an elaborately painted mask that was an extension of his outfit. He looked wild, fantastic—and every time she saw him she wanted to laugh, because it was so different from the man he seemed to be.

  “There’s a camera crew down the hall,” Danny said, slipping into the dressing room. “Someone from channel five. They want to know about the attack on you and the cats.”

  Iris briefly closed her eyes. “I won’t talk to them. I just won’t, Danny.”

  “I know.” He crouched beside her, fingering one of the roses. “Pete is taking care of it.”

  “Good,” she said, uneasy. Danny smelled nervous. More nervous than he usually did before a show, and more nervous than having a camera crew down the hall should warrant. She watched him fuss with the flower, and his silence was yet another punctuation point.

  “Is there something wrong?” Iris asked.

  Danny shook his head. “Just have a lot on my mind.”

  “You want to talk?”

  “Not really.” He gave her a grim smile. “But thank you, Iris. You’ve been good to me since the first time we met. A real friend when I didn’t have anyone at all. I won’t ever forget that.”

  “Sounds ominous. You going somewhere, Danny?”

  He looked away from her. “No.”

  “Danny.”

  “This is my home,” he said, almost to himself. “My real home, Iris. The one I left behind … it was a bad place. Bad people.”

  Wow. Danny was actually talking about himself. Really talking, and not just about art or television or books. That never happened—or if it did, not with her. But here, now—bad people—and she did not know how to respond, how to handle the scent that hit her: tension, fear. It bewildered her, made her want to reach out and touch him. She did not, though. That much, she could not bring herself to do, even if she had
already broken her own rules with Blue.

  “Has your family contacted you?” Iris asked him. “Do they want you to leave us?”

  He laughed, sharp. “Something like that.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous. No one can force you to go home, Danny. You’re a grown man.”

  “It’s not that easy. My family isn’t the kind you run from.”

  “You make them sound like the mob.” Iris shook her head. “Whatever. You’ve made a life for yourself. No one helped you. No one gave you anything. You did this on your own, and unless you really do want to leave, I suggest you stop acting all gloom and doom and just tell your family to back the hell off.”

  “Never give up, never surrender?” His mouth settled into something gentler, more like the man she knew. “You really believe that, Iris?”

  “I think you believe it,” she said. “I don’t think you would have found the circus if you didn’t. And I sure as hell don’t think you get up on that stage each night for any reason other than pure love. If that’s not something worth fighting for, then I don’t know what is.”

  He closed his eyes. The paint on his face glimmered metallic; glitter danced across his cheeks, fading like stars into the sheen of his suit. He was very large and very near, and Iris thought again about touching him, just to see if it felt different from Blue, if that rush of warmth and protection was something any man could give her, or just one.

  You want perfection, but there’s no such thing. You want trust, but that’s impossible to find. You want love, true love, but all that brings is blood. Just give it up. Run, cat, run.

  Iris heard voices outside her dressing room: Pete, sounding angry. He was coming here, would walk through that door at any moment—and that would be fine, great, a wonderful interruption to something that had suddenly become too heavy.

  Danny opened his eyes. The look he gave her was creepy, almost as though he had heard her thoughts, and he said, “Will you go out with me, Iris? Tonight?”

  She stared, unable to find her voice. This was her fantasy and her worst nightmare all rolled into one.