Page 80 of Beasts of Mine

“If I wanted decent light on that clearing before sunset, where would you put me?” I asked Gentleman, deciding to see exactly how far his understanding went. Gentleman studied the canopy, actually following the angle of the light between the branches before turning toward a spot several yards farther along the rise.

There. Light comes through between those trees, Gentleman told me, tipping his head toward a narrow opening overhead. I followed his gaze and found exactly what he'd indicated.

“You understand light direction, wind, and how to position me where the animals won't catch my scent,” I told Gentleman, folding my arms as I studied him.

Yes, Gentleman replied calmly, meeting my eyes without any sign that he considered any of that unusual.

“Are you secretly a wildlife photographer?” I asked Gentleman, narrowing my eyes when he appeared to consider the question.

No, Gentleman eventually told me, but the hesitation before his answer made it considerably less reassuring.

“That pause was concerning,” I informed Gentleman, and the faint movement of his whiskers told me he enjoyed my suspicion.

I stayed on the rise until the light disappeared. A small group of agoutis eventually came through the clearing, and Gentleman had been right about the position. They never reacted to my scent, and the last of the daylight reached them almost exactly where he'd predicted.

By the time we returned to camp, the forest had begun settling into its evening rhythm. The sounds changed as daylight faded, daytime birds disappearing beneath frogs, insects, and the occasional distant call of something moving through the trees. Moisture already clung to my arms from the hike back, and my shoulders protested when I finally slipped the camera bag onto the worktable.

I had stopped trying to decide whether the three of them were simply unusually intelligent leopards. That explanation had become ridiculous somewhere between Menace identifying a telephoto lens and Gentleman choosing my shooting position better than I had.

The stranger part was how quickly I'd adjusted to it.

I made dinner while Cat stretched beside the steps, Gentleman settled near the rear support, and Menace occupied enough of the platform to be inconvenient without technically blocking anything. My meal was less ambitious than the previous night's—rice, vegetables, and the last of one packet of dried chicken—and all three watched the preparation with varying degrees of interest.

“You are not getting any,” I told Menace when his nose drifted suspiciously close to the edge of my bowl, tapping one finger against the side before he could investigate further.

I did not ask, Menace replied, withdrawing his head with an expression so innocent that I didn't believe him for a second.

“You were about to,” I told Menace, shifting the bowl farther into my lap while his tail moved lazily behind him.

You assume bad things about me, Menace complained, resting his chin against the edge of the platform as though I'd wounded him deeply.

“You make it very easy,” I told Menace, taking another bite while he continued watching the bowl with absolutely no subtlety.

I brought you a flower, Menace reminded me, turning his head toward the metal mug where the purple bloom he'd delivered that morning now sat among the others. I followed his gaze before looking back at him.

“That was a gift. It wasn't a down payment on my dinner,” I told Menace, pointing my spoon toward him when his ears tipped forward.

It was a good flower, Menace argued, sounding remarkably confident in the value of his contribution.

“It was a very nice flower. You're still not getting my chicken,” I admitted to Menace, glancing toward the mug before guarding my bowl again.

She kept the flower, Cat observed from beside the steps, lifting his head long enough to look between Menace and me.

“That doesn't mean I'm entering some kind of flower-for-food exchange program,” I told Cat, narrowing my eyes when his whiskers shifted.

You have many rules, Gentleman remarked from the rear support, his green-gold eyes half closed as he rested his chin across his paws.

I turned toward him.

“I regret giving you a respectable name,” I told Gentleman, staring at him while Menace made an amused sound beside me.

Too late, Gentleman replied, opening one eye with such perfect calm that I couldn't even argue with him. I took another bite of dinner and looked around at the three of them. Somehow, in less than a week, I'd gone from photographing wildlife to negotiating dinner boundaries with three leopards who understood the concept of bartering.

My life had taken a strange turn.

Dinner continued that way, ridiculous and comfortable in equal measure. Every so often, one of them answered something with a response that was too thoughtful, too specific, or simply too human. Instead of stopping the conversation to question it every time, I found myself answering them back. At some point, talking to three leopards about my day had stopped feeling like the strangest thing I'd ever done.

That probably should have concerned me more.