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Chapter 8
I was sitting in a small hallway that served as the performers' entrance to the big tent. The lighting was permanently dim, as if some of the things rolling through wouldn't like a lot of light. Big surprise there. There were no chairs, and I was getting a little tired of sitting on the floor. I'd given a statement first to a uniform, then to a detective. Then RPIT had arrived and the questioning started all over again. Dolph nodded to me, and Zerbrowski shot at me with his thumb and forefinger. That had been an hour and fifteen minutes ago. I was getting a wee bit tired of being ignored.
Richard Zeeman and Stephen the Werewolf were sitting across from me. Richard's hands were clasped loosely around one knee. He was wearing white Nikes with a blue swoosh, and no socks. Even his ankles were tan. His thick hair brushed the tops of his naked shoulders. His eyes were closed. I could gaze at his muscular upper body as long as I wanted to. His stomach was flat with a triangle of dark hair peeking above the sweat pants. His upper chest was smooth, perfect, no hair at all. I approved.
Stephen was cuddled on the floor, asleep. Bruises blossomed up the left side of his face, black-purple and that raw red color a really bad bruise gets. His left arm was in a sling, but he'd refused to go to the hospital. He was wrapped in a grey blanket that the paramedics had given him. As far as I could tell, it was all he was wearing. I guess he'd lost his clothes when he shapeshifted. The wolfman had been bigger than he was, and the legs had been a very different shape. So the skin-tight jeans and the beautiful cowboy boots were history. Maybe that was why the black shapeshifter had been naked. Had that been why Richard Zeeman was naked, as well? Was he a shapeshifter?
I didn't think so. If he was, he hid it better than anybody I'd ever been around. Besides, if he had been a shapeshifter, why didn't he join the fight against the cobra? He'd done a sensible thing for an unarmed human being; he'd stayed out of the way.
Stephen, who had started out the night looking scrumptious, looked like shit. The long, blond curls clung to his face, wet with sweat. There were dark smudges under his closed eyes. His breathing was rapid and shallow. His eyes were struggling underneath his closed lids. Dream? Nightmare? Do werewolves dream of shapeshifted sheep?
Richard still looked scrumptious, but then a giant cobra hadn't been slamming him into a concrete floor. He opened his eyes, as if he had felt me staring at him. He stared back, brown eyes neutral. We stared at each other without saying anything.
His face was all angles, high-sculpted cheekbones, and firm jaw. A dimple softened the lines of his face and made him a little too perfect for my taste. I've never been comfortable around men that are beautiful. Low self-esteem, maybe. Or maybe Jean-Claude's lovely face had made me appreciate the very human quality of imperfection.
"Is he all right?" I asked.
"Who?"
"Stephen."
He glanced down at the sleeping man. Stephen made a small noise in his sleep, helpless, frightened. Definitely a nightmare.
"Should you wake him?"
"You mean from the dream?" he asked.
I nodded.
He smiled. "Nice thought, but he won't wake up for hours. We could burn the place down around him and he wouldn't move."
"Why not?"
"You really want to know?"
"Sure, I've got nothing better to do right now."
He glanced up the silent hallway. "Good point." He settled back against the wall, bare back searching for a more comfortable piece of wall. He frowned; so much for a comfortable wall.
"Stephen changed back from wolfman to human in less than a two-hour time span." He said it like it explained everything. It didn't.
"So?" I asked.
"Usually a shapeshifter stays in animal form for eight to ten hours, then collapses and changes back to human form. It takes a lot of energy to shapeshift early."
I glanced down at the dreaming shapeshifter. "So this collapse is normal?"
Richard nodded. "He'll be out for the rest of the night."
"Not a great survival method," I said.
"A lot of werewolves bite the dust after collapsing. The human hunters come upon them after they've passed out."
"How do you know so much about lycanthropes?"
"It's my job," he said, "I teach science at a local junior high."
I just stared at him. "You're a junior high science teacher?"
"Yes." He was smiling. "You looked shocked."
I shook my head. "What's a school teacher doing messed up with vampires and werewolves?"
"Just lucky, I guess."
I had to smile. "That doesn't explain how you know about lycanthropes."
"I had a class in college."
I shook my head. "So did I, but I didn't know about shapeshifters collapsing."
"You've got a degree in preternatural biology?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Me, too."
"So how do you know more about lycanthropes than I do?" I said.
Stephen moved in his sleep, flinging his good arm outward. The blanket slid off his shoulder, exposing his stomach and part of a thigh.
Richard drew the blanket back over the sleeping man, covering him, like tucking in a child. "Stephen and I have been friends a long time. I bet you know things about zombies that I never learned in college."
"Probably," I said.
"Stephen's not a teacher, is he?"
"No." He smiled, but it wasn't pleasant. "School boards frown on lycanthropes being teachers."
"Legally, they can't stop you."
"Yeah, right," he said. "They fire-bombed the last teacher who dared to teach their precious children. Lycanthropy isn't contagious while in human form."
"I know that," I said.
He shook his head. "Sorry, it's just a sore topic with me."
My pet project was rights for zombies; why shouldn't Richard have a pet project? Fair hiring practices for the furry. It worked for me.
"You are being tactful, ma petite. I would not have thought it of you." Jean-Claude was in the hallway. I hadn't heard him walk up. But I'd been distracted, talking with Richard. Yeah, that was it.
"Could you stamp your feet next time? I'm getting sick of you sneaking up on me."
"I wasn't sneaking, ma petite. You were distracted talking to our handsome Mr. Zeeman." His voice was pleasant, mild as honey, and yet there was a threat to it. You could feel it like a cold wind down your spine.
"What's wrong, Jean-Claude?" I asked.
"Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?" Anger and some bitter amusement flowed through his voice.
"Cut it out, Jean-Claude."
"Whatever could be the matter, ma petite?"
"You're angry; why?"
"My human servant does not know my every mood. Shameful." He knelt beside me. The blood on his white shirt had dried to a brownish stain that took up most of the shirt front. The lace at his sleeves looked like crumpled brown flowers. "Do you lust after Richard because he's handsome, or because he's human?" His voice was almost a whisper, intimate as if he'd said something entirely different. Jean-Claude whispered better than anyone else I knew.
