Captive Moon (9 page)

No! I need to ignore the food. She was being asked a question that was important to him. “Can I see it again?”

He nodded and stepped forward, offering the curled end of the paper to her while holding the top edges. She pulled the paper flat and looked at it carefully while he watched her with serious eyes.

Her eyes darted across the poster from side to side and top to bottom several times until she was satisfied. “The background color is good. It draws attention to your eyes and the eyes of the cats. The hair—” She shrugged and continued to talk to no one in particular. “Eh. It’s a little over the top with the wind machine blowing it, but it’s not offensive or anything. The smoke around the corners gives it that David Copperfield ‘magical’ look, which isn’t a bad thing. Play on those who came before.”

She released one corner and tapped the center of the poster. “Now, see… here’s your real problem. The jumpsuit has too much skin showing. It’s flashy and will play well in L.A., like Matty said. But you might have your printer run a second batch for distribution to smaller towns after airbrushing the white a little higher. Go to about mid-chest, rather than to the belly button.”

She caught him smiling out of the corner of her eye and looked up. “You don’t like my belly button?”

She managed not to blush, despite the intensity of his gaze and the thick French accent that slid along her skin like silk. He seemed to be able to turn it on and off like a switch. “It’s lovely, but Grandma Mabel in eastern Kansas might hold her hand over her eight-year-old granddaughter’s eyes and forget to tell Mom about the show, which won’t help your box office. First impressions are everything with advertising. I’ve lived in both places, and the attitudes are different. It’s not good or bad. They’re just different.”

He pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “You raise valuable points, and I’m grateful for the input. Thank you. We live with this every day, and sometimes we forget about the first impression. Since the promotion company suggested a road show, I haven’t had much time to stop and think about the image of it. It’s useful to have outside impressions from time to time. You seem to know a great deal about marketing. Have you had schooling?”

Tahira shook her head. “No, but how people think when they shop has just always made sense to me. Dad asked me to help him think up new ways to get repeat business a couple of years ago, and the things I suggested seemed to have worked. His receipts tripled last year.”

She couldn’t stand the scent any longer and released the poster to pick up her spoon. The stew had cooled to just the perfect temperature and the first mouthful was sheer heaven. When she finally swallowed she exclaimed, “Oh, my God! This is amazing! What kind of meat is this? I’ve got to get my mom to make this!”

The white-haired woman walked up to the table, wiping her hands on the bottom of a cotton half-apron that was far too big for her. She was beaming from ear to ear at the compliment. “This is old-fashioned rabbit stew. The recipe was my great-grandmother’s. Jackrabbits are a little lean this time of year, but they cook quickly. I always pan fry the meat before putting it into the broth with vegetables. That way it doesn’t soak up too much salt.”

With a movement almost too fast to follow, Giselle reached across the table and yanked a basket out of Matty’s hands, ignoring his startled expression. “I am so glad you are feeling better, young tiger. You had us quite worried. Please, try some of the bread with the stew before our bottomless pit eats it all. It’s black bread with sunflower seeds.”

She reached over and gave Antoine a light slap on the arm with the back of her hand. “Since my insensitive grandson didn’t bother to properly introduce us, I’m Giselle Bertrand. I’m the healer for the troupe.”

Antoine smelled a bit embarrassed, and gave a lopsided, apologetic smile before walking to the stove to fill a bowl with stew.

Tahira raised her eyebrows and spoke after swallowing a bite of bread. “I’m Tahira Kuric of the Hayalet Kabile. My brother, Rabi, hopes to be a healer some day. His skills aren’t strong, but he’s learning. We have very few healers, so any skill is welcome.”

She felt another flush rise at the surprised scent from Giselle. I’m being too free with information. Grandfather will be furious for what I’ve already said if he learns of it.

The older woman had opened her mouth to speak when a small sound caught Tahira’s attention. She turned her head toward the room where they’d been earlier with her head dropped defensively. “Do you hear that?”

Antoine turned and listened. “I hear nothing but the wind, but my nose is better than my ears. Grandmère?”

Giselle nodded slowly, and suspicion began to fill her face. “Yes, I hear it, too. It sounds like someone is trying to open the front door. I locked it when I returned from my run. Are you expecting guests, petite fils?”

Antoine’s face darkened ominously. He lowered the bowl and placed it carefully on the counter. Power began to roil from him in a wave that made Tahira shiver. “None have been invited. Let us go see who is calling on us in such a storm.”

CHAPTER Four

Whoever was attempting to get in wasn’t trying very hard to hide their presence. The knob was rattling furiously and someone was throwing their weight against the wood.

Antoine held up a hand to stop the rest of the group from advancing farther and sniffed carefully next to the door. Recognition of the people on the other side was immediate despite the draft guards that prevented cold wind from seeping into the house.

But what in the blazes are they doing here?

He quickly unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door to find two shivering men bundled to the point that they could barely see through the wrappings. A burst of icy wind sent swirling snow through into the entry way.

“Come in, come in! You’ll catch your death out there.” The pair was happy to comply and nearly dove through the door into the warmth of the house.

Antoine started to close the door when one of his animal keepers, Bruce Carmichael, managed to stutter out through blue lips. “S-see if y-y-you can get the key out. I-it’s frozen in the lock,”

His quick inspection proved Bruce right, but only a bit of Sazi strength was necessary to extract it in one piece. “It must have gotten warm in your pocket and then froze when you inserted it in the lock. Why didn’t you just knock?”

Another round of stuttering followed without making any sense. Finally, Bruce’s companion, Larry Medina, explained, “W-we did. But we were both too c-c-cold from walking from where our car stalled to knock loud enough.”

Antoine noticed that Grand-mère and Tahira both furrowed their brows, but they let the comment go. There was no scent of either of the two lying. But it did seem odd that they would hear the rattling knob before knocking. Still, it didn’t matter. They were here—for whatever reason.

“You must get out of those wet things immediately.” Grand-mère took control of the situation. She stepped behind the men and pushed them toward the great room and the fireplace. She barked orders over her shoulder. “Matty, please go fetch clothing for them. Antoine, gather some blankets. Margo, be a dear and boil some water for tea, please.”

“And I’ll get some of the stew,” Tahira added. “They must be hungry.”

It was only a few minutes before the men were in dry clothes in front of the roaring fireplace. The group gratefully ate spoonfuls of the stew and sipped hot tea with honey.

“I can almost feel my fingers again,” said Bruce. “Man, that storm is brutal.”

Antoine squatted down next to the fire so the others could have the second couch. “Why on earth are you still in Germany, and how did you find us here?”

Bruce released the blanket long enough to motion with his thumb to the other man. “Larry thought of checking Charles’s house. We decided to stay over an extra day in Stuttgart because Larry had an aunt on his mother’s side who had invited us if we ever visited. But when we got there, she’d gone out of town. She left a note with a neighbor with a key, telling us we could stay over and perhaps she’d be home today. But that was before this storm. Everything is closed down—airports, buses, restaurants. When we drove out to where we’d staged the camp, everybody was gone, but a tow-truck driver was just returning from bringing the van here and asked if we were in trouble.”

Larry interrupted. “And we knew that if someone was hurt, you would come to Charles—well, actually to Amber before getting on a plane. It wasn’t too hard to find out where he lived, even with my rotten German.”

“But your car broke down? You’ve walked all this way in the snow? What about the tow truck?”

Bruce laughed. “It didn’t break down. We didn’t need the tow-truck driver when he first showed up, but we sure could have used him later.” He waved his hand toward the window. “It’s out there somewhere, buried in the snow. We came around a curve on the private entrance and wham! Right into a snowbank that had blown over the road. The engine stalled and we couldn’t get it started again. It took half an hour just to walk the quarter mile here to the house, but at least the car isn’t out on the main road.”

Tahira had been sitting quietly on the couch and was watching Larry with carefully observant eyes.

“You’re a snake.” Her voice had deepened an octave, nearly to her cat voice.

Antoine could tell that she was struggling to keep the distaste from her voice. All of the Sazi cats had a difficult time with the snake shifters, but it spoke well that she didn’t attack him on sight. It was still close to the moon, and he knew just how difficult it was to fight the instinct of the animal inside.

He watched her closely, looking for any danger signs. Larry had been around the cat show long enough that most of the animals knew and trusted him. But he was understandably cautious around strangers. Fortunately, he was also very fast when he needed to dodge attacks. Larry’s voice was carefully neutral when he responded, but his knuckles were white from clutching the spoon in his hand, and his scent held the light tang of fear. His smile didn’t match the look in his eyes. “Yes. I’m a rat snake. My family emigrated from the UAE to America when I was an infant. Does it help any that I’m harmless? Or are you going to eat me in my sleep?”

His voice had a lighthearted tone, but the question was serious. Antoine noticed that he and Bruce were waiting tensely for a reply. It had been hard on Bruce all these years, having his partner constantly under suspicion. But Larry was a good soul and people eventually saw past their initial instincts. As with several of the Wolven members who were snakes, it was just a matter of education.

“I can vouch for him, if that will help, Tahira,” Antoine offered. She didn’t take her eyes off Larry, and was breathing with flared nostrils, but she wasn’t being openly aggressive. He turned to the two men.

“Tahira isn’t Sazi, gentlemen. She’s part of a splinter group of shifters called the Hayalet Kabile. Her tribe doesn’t often encounter our people other than their own kind.”

She shook her head a few times as though clearing her mind. A deep breath seemed to calm her. “But I’m from America, land of the weird, and home of the strange. Heck, I’ve spent most of my life outside of San Francisco. There’s not much that can surprise me. No, I don’t plan to eat you in your sleep. Although—” she admitted ruefully, “You might keep your door locked tonight. It’s the third night of the moon. I don’t have to change, but my senses go wacko.”

Around the room, everyone relaxed. Larry nodded. “I usually do anyway. Even Antoine gets a bit—

snappish.”

“Moi?” He held up a hand to his chest in innocent surprise. “Is it my fault that you smell like dinner a few days a month? I think it speaks well that you’ve been with us for nearly a dozen years.”

Larry snorted lightly. “Yeah, it says that I’m fast on my feet and can slither into small places.”

“Speaking of dinner,” Matty said with a sour expression from the kitchen doorway. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance anyone has sweets? I just fossicked about and there’s nothing even resembling bikkies in the place. I’d even settle for some fairy floss right now.”

Bruce lifted a hand and cut short a sip of tea. “Actually, you have some sweets, Matty. The postman stopped by the vacant field while we were talking to the city driver, not realizing the show had left. You got a package from your friend Paul in Sydney, and I’ll bet I know what’s in it.”

Antoine nearly laughed at Matty’s expression. Everyone has their drug of choice, and Matty’s was chocolate. But not just any chocolate. No, it had to be Tim Tams biscuits—for which he would spend every last dime he earned, and often did.

With a move that would do any Sazi proud, Matty blazed a path to the soaking wet backpacks and dug through both in a frenzy. Finally he pulled a slightly rumpled box covered with stamps and stickers into view with a triumphant cry.

“You’re a prince, Bruce! A bloody angel!” Matty pulled at the sturdy tape that completely covered the brown-paper covering while everybody watched in amusement. When he finally resorted to tearing at the tape with his teeth, Antoine removed a small folding knife from his pocket and tossed it to him.

Giselle stared at him significantly. “You plan to share? Yes?”

Matty’s face grew panicked and he clutched the package to his chest as he looked from Giselle’s stern expression to the five other people around the fireplace. It was obvious to Antoine that he hadn’t even considered the possibility before Grand-mère spoke.

He didn’t answer until the package was fully open. The Australian’s sigh of relief moved his entire chest, because there were two packages of the biscuits under the wrapper, rather than just one. Kicking the wrapping to the side, he walked across the room and handed one package to Giselle with a flourish. “For you, my dear lady, and the rest of the crew.”

Tahira picked one of the biscuits from the tray when it was passed by her. “I’ve never heard of Tim Tams. Are they cookies?”

“Fuck me dead! Bite your tongue, woman!” Matty exclaimed after finishing his third biscuit. “Tim Tams aren’t cookies. They’re manna from heaven. You Yanks have no concept of what a true joy you’re missing, thank the good lord.”