Page 64 of A Malicious Menagerie
His eyebrows shoot up, but a moment later, he gives me the first full smile I’ve seen from the man. “You’re in fighting form tonight, huh? That’s good.”
Once we’re in the car, I turn to Nathan, wanting to talk strategy, but he holds a finger to his lips as his eyes look meaningfully upward. Is the Cadillacbugged? My jaw drops, but I manage to rein in my questions, my gaze flicking nervously over the interior as if I might spot the hidden spy equipment.
Despite being here most nights, walking into the menagerie tonight feels like a hazy dream, due in no small part to the decorations that have transformed the space into a bewitching autumn wood. The tables are now covered with rough brown burlap woven with fine golden thread that twinkles where it catches the candlelight. The centerpieces are multi-tiered layers of corn ears, dried flowers, and gourds in autumn tones.
Before I can get caught up gawking, Nathan slips my shawl from my shoulders while leaning in to mumble, “Do you remember the mission?”
“Yes,” I breathe back, and then Nathan is depositing the fur and whisking me away back to the same seat I previously occupied next to Mathis. My boss greets me warmly, but it’s a struggle to reply cordially. I’d be hard-pressed to forget how he tortured Chase to make him shift for Radha Gupta’s entertainment and then threatened me. In my mind, I clamp a silver collar around Mathis’s neck and watch him squirm and writhe as I hold the remote in my hands. In real life, I smile benignly and thank him for inviting me back.
The lineup of Mathis’s prestigious table has changed, with his famous goddaughter Meredith Lowell being the only one to retain a seat twice in a row. It’s a relief not to see Radha Gupta or Chad Smarman, but when I scan the nearby tables, I see Smarman seated nearby, his flinty eyes focused unerringly on me. Suppressing a shiver, I force my gaze away to assess my tablemates. I’m soon introduced to an investment banker, a reality show star, another tech tycoon—who knew there were so many in Silicon Valley?—and a fashion designer.
I’m quiet through dinner, letting the conversation wash over me without commenting. Thankfully, no one requests my input. Once dessert is doneand coffees are half-drunk, Mathis again asks me to give a tour, and I agree, ready to mine the information Nathan is seeking out of the guests. This time, when the selected few gather around me, a single woman joins the tour, an older politician I vaguely recognize from the news. That fact would be a comfort if the woman wasn’t stealing peeks at my sweetheart neckline the same way most of the men are.
Sighing, I begin the tour, this time starting with the jackalopes so they won’t be such a letdown after the mermaids, sea serpent, and yeti. Sure enough, the guestsoohandahhat the sweet, crowned creatures, and I figure now is a good time to put out some feelers.
“Has anyone ever seen a jackalope before?” I ask, feigning innocent curiosity.
“Never a live one,” the congresswoman answers, “though I do have a lovely set of their antlers mounted above my mantel.”
I file this information away for Nathan and continue the tour, moving on to the Mongolian death worms next. I continue my string of questions and soon gather that one CEO keeps an ahool in his solarium, and one oil tycoon owns a pair of slide-rock bolter-hide cowboy boots. One particularly drunk older gentleman offers to dress me in alicanto feathers, yeti fur, and chupacabra leather if only I’ll agree to be his mistress.
One silver-spoon baby even admits to “indulging” in a mermaid (wink wink) in a brothel that specializes in that kind of thing. My mind reels at that admission, and I make a point of memorizing his face so I can figure out who he is later to tell Nathan.
Delia must not be on the docket for the silent auction this time because she’s trapped at the front of her enclosure like the other residents. As we pass, she bears her fangs at the group with a feral growl that raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. Still, when I glance back at her when we pass, she winks, and I know it’s all an act to keep suspicion away from our friendship.
Chase is similarly trapped by his chain-link divider, but he sits calmly though with a vigilance that hints that he could spring into action at any moment. I give a quick spiel on werewolves—on their supposed link to the full moon, not that Chase has ever seemed so bound, as well as the earlystories of men donning wolves’ skins to gain their strength, speed, and stamina. I try not to flush at the memory of Chase using that strength, speed, and stamina to hunt me through the trees and bring me to orgasm with his tongue. Still, Chase either senses my wayward thoughts or maybe smells my arousal because he gives me a lupine smirk that makes the other guests shrink back at the sight of his teeth but only makes me roll my eyes.
Soon, the tour is over, and to my delight, there are no murders or forced transformations scheduled. Feeling heartened by all of the juicy intel I’ve acquired, I make my way back to Chase’s enclosure, and he perks up when he sees me. “Meet me by the door when the divider opens,” I murmur, pointing toward the back of the cage. His tail gives a couple of enthusiastic waves in agreement. I pull off my shoes and leave them tucked behind a tree trunk before I step off the path so my stiletto heels don’t sink into the loose soil. Then, I carefully tiptoe around the back corner, trying to avoid any pinecones—nature’s Legos.
I’m so busy digging through my clutch for my access card that I don’t hear the muffled footsteps behind me until it’s too late. I try to turn toward the sound, but I’m halted by a bruising grip on my upper arm. A heartbeat later, a firm body comes up against my back and drives me forward into the unyielding steel bars. My forehead bounces off the metal, and I gasp as my teeth clack together and black spots bloom in front of my eyes.
Before I can rally, rough hands capture my wrists and pin them behind my back, the movement wrenching my shoulders at an unnatural angle. The scent of expensive cologne and whiskey floods my lungs on my next shaky inhale before my attacker presses his weight into my back and squeezes the breath right back out again. “Got you,” a deep voice murmurs, hot breath gusting against my ear. I freeze when I realize who’s trapping me, ice-cold fear slamming through my veins.
I open my mouth to scream, but Smarman clasps my wrists in one hand so he can slap his free palm over my lips, the movement pressing my cheek painfully into the cold metal in front of me. “Now, now, no screaming,” the lecherous lawyer purrs against my hair. “What do you think Mars would have to say about you causing a scene at his gala? Besides…” At this, he removes his hand from my face to grab a handful of my ass through the voluminous chiffon skirt. “This is what you’re here for, after all.”
Fuck Mars Mathis, and fuck not screaming. Dredging up what little air I have left in my lungs with him pressing me so tightly to the wall of the cage, I call out a warbly but reasonably loud “help!”
Cursing, Smarman relinquishes his hold on my rear to scrabble at his neck. A moment later, he shoves a wad of thick fabric between my teeth. Gagging, I try to work it out with my tongue, but it’s hard to concentrate when he’s dragging my skirt up, the cool air brushing my calves and then the backs of my thighs. Once he’s hitched the skirt up at my hips and pinned it with the hand still holding my wrists, I feel him tugging at his fly, and no amount of wriggling or bucking seems to make a difference. If anything, the more I fight, the closer he presses until I can barely breathe and can’t move without grinding my face against unforgiving metal.
With a sudden cold horror, I realize that this is about to happen. I’m about to be raped by Chad fucking Smarman, and I’m powerless to do anything about it.
Suddenly, there’s a vicious snarl followed by a resoundingbangas something heavy slams into the bars in front of me. In an instant, Smarman’s oppressive weight is gone, and there’s a startled shout followed by a grunt as I hear him tumble to the ground. Moving more on instinct than with any conscious thought, I yank the black bow tie gag from my mouth and lunge for my half-open clutch bag where it fell to the ground when Smarman grabbed me. My trembling fingers close on the smooth, familiar shape of my key card, and I fling my arm up to slap it against the electronic reader.
Less than a heartbeat later, the door flies open and bounces off the wall with a metallic, reverberatingclangas a dark blur shoots out of the enclosure. Before I can blink, Chase is on top of Smarman. The man has just enough time to emit half a scream before the wolf silences him by ripping out his throat.
I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a shout of shock and horror, but I can’t look away from the macabre scene in front of me. As Smarman wheezes his last breaths through the ruin of his throat, his glassy eyes stare up intothe snarling face of Death. The werewolf’s teeth flash silver from under a corrugated muzzle, their edges limned in his victim’s blood. For a moment, Chase is the embodiment of the black dog, the portent of death, right down to the ominous yellow glint of his pupils in the dim light.
Then, with one last gurgle, Charles Smarman, the second Smarman of Smarman & Smarman, dies.
For a moment, neither Chase nor I move, both staring down at the body held beneath Chase’s paws. Then, unable to stand the silence a moment longer, I blurt, “Holy shit.”
Chase snorts, spraying a fine mist of blood over the carpet of leaves and ferns underfoot, before backing away from the body and starting the shift back. The snap-crackle-pop of his bones and tendons sounds more morbid than usual in light of the events of the past several minutes, and I wince with each new sound. Then, it’s Chase the man in front of me. He’s slow to approach, his hands raised as if he wants to touch me but isn’t sure how he’ll be received. “Anna?” he asks carefully, his voice raw.
His cheeks and chin are smeared with blood, and flecks are dotted across his chest and collarbones. That doesn’t stop me from throwing myself against him and letting out a gasping sob into his warm skin. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around me and holding me so tight that it might hurt if I weren’t still numb from the shock. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt you ever again.”
“You killed him,” I say blankly, still trying to process the fact.
“Yes,” Chase agrees with relish.
