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The hall was empty. All of the doors were shut; an empty room-service tray with two drained glasses of red wine waited on the carpet outside room 910.
Aria slumped against the jamb and rubbed her temples, wondering if Hallbjorn was right. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Maybe she was hearing things that didn’t really exist.
Chapter 8
Panther Porn
“Another glass of champagne?” a cocktail waitress in a slinky beaded gown and a feathered cap asked Aria as she and Hallbjorn sat in the lobby lounge later that evening.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Aria extended her flute. The waitress dropped a few strawberries into the liquid, and it fizzed dramatically.
Aria took a sip and shut her eyes, suddenly feeling deeply relaxed. The day had been absolutely lovely. They’d lounged around in bed for hours, then had a delicious, romantic, and free dinner at the Wolfgang Puck restaurant. When they’d finished, Aria had poked into a little vintage shop down the block that was still open. She’d found an adorable red polka-dotted frock, which she was wearing tonight, and a gorgeous white tea-length dress with lacy accents at the neck and tiny pearl-shaped buttons running down the back for the wedding tomorrow. It had a tiny rip at the neckline, but it wasn’t anything a needle and thread couldn’t fix. With any luck, she could also dye it lime-green and wear it to the prom.
And now, she and Hallbjorn were waiting in front of the theater to see the Biedermeister and Bitschi silver panther show—it was, indeed, the free show comped with their stay. A swarm of other guests, many of them elderly, waited in front of the theater as well. Suddenly, the doors to the theater burst open, and the ticketholders rushed inside.
Aria stood, careful not to spill her champagne. “Shall we?”
Hallbjorn glanced at the poster for the show, which stood on an easel just outside the double doors. The magicians, whose stretched, catlike faces looked like they’d undergone tons of plastic surgery, had twin mullet hairdos and stared intensely into the camera lens. The silver panthers sat next to them like obedient dogs—except that they were baring their enormous, pointy teeth.
“This doesn’t seem like my kind of thing,” Hallbjorn murmured uneasily. “Those guys look like ass**les. And did I ever tell you that I was traumatized by a magician when I was younger? It was a clown who’d come to my friend Krisjan’s eighth birthday party. He had the most terrifying laugh.”
“Of course you were scared of him—he was a clown.” Aria hit him playfully. “Magic shows aren’t my thing, either, but hey—it’s free. We should take advantage of all the perks, don’t you think?” She grabbed his hand. “Besides, we’ll have a funny story about what we did the day before our wedding to tell people ten years from now.”
Hallbjorn shrugged and drained the rest of his champagne. Together they entered the theater, which had psychedelic-print carpet, velour seats that were almost filled to capacity, and portraits of other stars who’d visited—a lot of country music names Aria only vaguely recognized, comedians like Jerry Seinfeld, and about a dozen different Cirque du Soleils—over the stage. The lights lowered just as they plopped down in two seats next to the aisle.
“That Sven Biedermeister is just so handsome!” a blond, pudgy woman who looked a lot like the Rosewood Day school librarian crowed from the row in front of them.
“I’m a Josef Bitschi girl myself,” her companion, a gray-haired woman with lipstick on her teeth, swooned. “I just want to tackle him and smother him with kisses!”
Aria and Hallbjorn nudged each other and tried not to laugh. A beat later, the silvery curtain parted. A line of showgirls in feathered headdresses, tiny tanks, and high, glittering heels marched across the stage with enormous smiles on their faces. They did a kicky dance to the same sort of snarling eighties music that had been on the commercial that afternoon, and everyone cheered. Aria looked at Hallbjorn, shrugged, and started clapping, too.
Mist began to swirl. A kettledrum rumbled. Then two silver panthers strutted onto the stage. Biedermeister and Bitschi sat atop them, waving their arms like cowboys. They’d even put little saddles on the panthers, as though they were ponies.
The audience went wild. The ladies in front of Aria and Hallbjorn looked like they were about to faint. The magicians dismounted their panthers and took a bow. “Hallo!” the dark-haired magician boomed in an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent. “Are you ready to be wowed?”
“Yes!” the audience answered.
Aria tried to exchange looks with Hallbjorn, but his eyes were fixed on the magicians.
The showgirls started kicking again, and then the show began. Biedermeister and Bitschi swirled their capes and made the panthers disappear. With a wave of their hands, one of the showgirls began to levitate. They stuck their heads in the panthers’ mouths and coaxed the panthers to let out a few deep roars. After that, the lights went up and the magicians plopped down on stools and whistled for the cats. Two handlers walked them out on long metal leashes. The cats dutifully sat down next to the magicians as though they were sweet kittens from the ASPCA.
“We rescued Arabelle and Thor from poachers in Africa,” Biedermeister—or was it Bitschi? Aria couldn’t tell them apart—said in a now-it’s-story-time voice. “It was a dramatic mission, but we knew it was right to save them from their brutal fate.”
A screen lowered behind the magicians and showed a picture of a helicopter landing on the Serengeti. The next photo in the slideshow depicted a bunch of people running commando-style through the jungle, presumably to capture the cats. There were more pictures of the silver panthers in the wild, the dens where they lived, and a silver panther pelt hanging in an African market. The crowd booed.
