in one of her novels would do just that: find a hatpin or a dagger and stab him in the back during his ‘moment of greatest passion.’ But real life isn’t like that. In real life that moment comes and goes, and when he rolls off of you, you feel like your soul has been ripped out by its bloody roots, leaving only a husk of what you were before.
That was the state she’d been in when her true prince walked into her life. He wasn’t riding a white charger or wearing a doublet or a wizard’s robe; he was wearing a blackjack dealer’s uniform, and watching her with an empathy that cut right through her hardened defenses. His eyes were the opposite of those burning above her now: soft and kind and infinitely understanding. And somehow, she’d known, he had seen her torment before speaking to her. He didn’t know the nature of it; that would have killed him, literally, for he would have tried to stop what was going on, and he is no match for the shape-shifter. He’s too good for the job he has–too good for her, really–but he doesn’t think so. He loves her.
The problem is that he’s married. And to a good woman. Linda despises herself for wanting the husband of another woman. But what can you do if you truly love someone? How can you banish a feeling that is stronger than the darkness that’s eating you from the inside out?
‘You’re making a bloody bags of it,’ the demon growls in contempt. ‘Do ye want me to change at Baker Street?’
Linda shrinks in fear, moves her hips faster. She’s picked up enough slang to feel nausea at the innocuous-sounding euphemism. Her extra effort seems to allay his anger; at least there’s no more coded talk of turning her over.
She shuts her eyes and prays that the demon moving inside her won’t discover her secret prince, or what he’s doing at this very moment to put the world in balance again, like the heroes in her novels–not until it’s one delicious second too late. For if the demon or his henchmen discover that, Timothy will die–horribly. Worse, they will surely make him talk before the end.
That’s one of their specialties.
‘Penn?’ Tim says softly, touching my knee. ‘Are you okay?’
I’m bent over three blurry photographs in my lap, trying to absorb what’s printed on the rectangles of cheap typing paper, with only the wavering flame of a cigarette lighter to illuminate them. It takes a while to truly see images like these. As an assistant district attorney, I found that murder victims–no matter how brutally beaten or mutilated–did not affect me quite so deeply as images of those who had survived terrible crimes. The mind has a prewired mechanism for distancing itself from the dead, surely a survival advantage in our species. But we have no effective filter for blocking out the suffering of living humans–none besides turning away, either physically or through denial (not if we’re ‘raised right,’ as Ruby Flowers, one of the women who ‘raised’ me would have said).
The first picture shows the face of a dog that looks as though it was hit by a truck and dragged a hundred yards over broken glass. Yet despite its horrific wounds, the animal is somehow standing under its own power, and staring into the camera with its one remaining eye. Wincing with revulsion, I slide the photo to the bottom of the group and find myself looking at a blond girl–not a woman, but a girl–carrying a tray filled with mugs of beer. It takes a moment to register that the girl, who’s no older than fifteen, wears no top. A vacant smile animates her lips, but her eyes are eerily blank, the look of a psych patient on Thorazine.
When I slide this photo aside, my breath catches in my throat. What might be the same girl (I can’t be sure) lies on a wooden floor while a much older man has intercourse with her. The most disturbing thing about this photo is that it was shot from behind and between a group of men watching the act. They’re only visible from knee to shoulder–three wear slacks and polo shirts, while a fourth wears a business suit–but all have beer mugs in their hands.
‘Did you take these pictures?’ I ask, unable to hide my disgust.
‘No—Damn!’ Tim jerks the hand holding the cigarette lighter, and the guttering light goes out. ‘You seen enough?’
‘Too much. Who took these?’
‘A guy I know. Let’s leave it at that for now.’
‘Does he know you have them?’
‘No. And he’d be in serious shit if anybody knew he’d taken them.’
I lay the pictures beside Tim’s leg, then close my eyes and rub my temples to try to stop an incipient headache. ‘Who’s the girl?’
‘Don’t know. I really don’t. They bring in different ones.’
‘She didn’t look more than fifteen.’
‘If that.’
‘Those pictures were taken around here?’
‘At a hunting camp a few miles away. They run people to the dogfights on their VIP boat. Change the venues each time.’
Now that the lighter is out, my night vision is returning. Tim’s haggard face is wan in the moonlight. I expel a rush of air. ‘God, I wish I hadn’t seen those.’
He doesn’t respond.
‘And the dog?’
‘The loser of a fight. Just before his owner killed him.’
‘Christ. Is that the worst of it?’
Tim sighs like a man stripped of precious illusions. ‘Depends on your sensibilities, I guess.’
‘And you’re saying this is being–what, promoted?–by the Magnolia Queen?’
Tim nods but does not speak.
‘Why?’
‘To pull the whales down south.’
‘Whales?’
‘High rollers. Big-money players. Arab playboys, Asian trust-fund babies. Drug lords, pro athletes, rappers. It’s a circus, man. And what brings ’em from the farthest away is the dogfighting. Blood sport.’ Tim shakes his head. ‘It’s enough to make you puke.’
‘Is it working? To pull them in?’
‘Yeah, it’s working. And not just spectators. It’s the competition. Bring your killer dog and fight against the best. We had a jet fly in from Macao last week. A Chinese billionaire’s son brought his own dog in to fight. A Bully Kutta. Ever hear of those? Bastard weighed more than I do. The dog, I mean.’
I try to imagine a dog that outweighs Tim Jessup. ‘Through the Natchez airport?’
‘Hell, no. There’s other strips around here that can take a private jet.’
‘Not many.’
‘The point is, this is a major operation. They’d kill me without a second’s hesitation for talking to you. I’d be dog bait, and that’s a truly terrible way to die.’
