Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [84]
The man leaned over me and I could smell the fur and . . . him. Not sweat, just his scent, and that made my stomach contract, made me have to concentrate on holding my shields, because the part of me that was tied to Richard and his beast wanted to respond, wanted to spill outward and wallow in that scent. The animal impulses, true animal impulses, always threw me.
The man’s voice was thickly accented, and sounded unsuited to whispering. It was a voice for shouting orders. “Do nothing that you do not wish to do, but please come to our temple.”
Maybe it was the please or the accent or the absolute seriousness in his face but I believed. I still might not have gone with him, but Edward leaned into me, and said, “Tourist, think tourist.” He didn’t say, “Play along, Anita. Remember, we’re undercover,” because with a shapeshifter this close he’d hear anything that was said at the table. But Edward had said enough. I was a tourist. A tourist would go.
I gave the man my left hand and let him pull me to my feet. His hand was very warm. Some lycanthropes seem to adopt their alter ego’s body temperature. Even Richard’s skin grew warmer near the full moon, but that couldn’t be it tonight. We were only days away from the dark of the moon, as far from the shining fullness that called the beasts as we could get. The man was just warm. Too hot for fur.
The priest in his feathers encouraged the audience to applaud as the last reluctant bride, me, joined the grouping around the nearly naked man. The werejaguar stood me on the side with the giggling blond. The smell of beer was strong enough that I knew the giggling wasn’t just nervousness. Perfect.
I looked past the man, doing my best to ignore him, to the two women on the other side. The tall one with all the hair was swaying slightly on her spike heels. Her skirt was leather, and the blouse looked like a red camisole. The other woman was that solid that some people call fat, but it isn’t. She was square and wore a loose black shirt over black pants. She caught my eye, and we shared a moment of discomfort. Audience participation was great as long as the audience wants to participate.
“These are your brides,” the priest said, “your reward. Enjoy them.”
The solid woman and I both took a step back as if it were choreographed. The blonde and the tall one with all the hair melted into his arms, cuddling and laughing. The man played to them, but it was their hands that wandered over his body. He was very careful where he touched them. I thought at first it was just fear of being sued, but there was a stiffness, a tightening of his body when their hands wandered over his bare buttocks that said he wasn’t having as good a time as it looked. From the audience you’d have never noticed. He came away from them with orange-red lipstick like a wound on his pale skin and pale pink like a patch of glitter down his face.
He reached out to us, and both of us shook our heads. We took another step back, and a step closer together. Solidarity. She offered me her hand, not to shake, but to hold, and I realized she was scared, not just nervous. I was neither, just not happy. She whispered, “I’m Ramona.” I gave her my name, and what seemed to matter more, held her hand. I felt like Mommy on the first day of school when the bullies are waiting.
The priest’s voice came. “You are his last meal, his last caress. Do not deny him.”
Ramona’s face changed, grew soft. Her hand fell away from mine. The fear was gone. I called, softly, “Ramona.” But she moved forward as if she never heard me. She moved into the man’s arms. He kissed her with more tenderness than he’d shown the other two. She kissed him back, with a passion and a strength that