Circus of the Damned by Laurell K. Hamilton

embarrassment, just interest, as if he didn’t know quite what I was. It wasn’t an unfriendly look.
    â€œFootsie,” Jean-Claude said. I didn’t need to see his face to hear the smile in his voice.
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    â€œI’ve never heard it called ‘footsie’ before.”
    â€œStop doing that.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I glared at him, but his eyes were sparkling with laughter. A slow smile touched his lips. He looked very human just then.
    â€œWhat did you want to discuss, ma petite ? It must be something very important to make you come near me voluntarily.”
    I searched his face for mockery, or anger, or anything, but his face was as smooth and pleasant as carved marble. The smile, the sparkling humor in his eyes, was like a mask. I had no way of telling what lay underneath. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know.
    I took a deep breath and let it out slowly through my mouth. “Alright. Where were you last night?” I looked at his face, trying to catch any change of expression.
    â€œHere,” he said.
    â€œAll night?”
    He smiled. “Yes.”
    â€œCan you prove it?”
    The smile widened. “Do I need to?”
    â€œMaybe,” I said.
    He shook his head. “Coyness, from you, ma petite . It does not become you.”
    So much for being slick and trying to pull information from the Master. “Are you sure you want this discussed in public?”
    â€œYou mean Richard?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œRichard and I have no secrets from one another, ma petite . He is my human hands and eyes, since you refuse to be.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean? I thought you could only have one human servant at a time.”
    â€œSo you admit it.” His voice held a slow curl of triumph.
    â€œThis isn’t a game, Jean-Claude. People died tonight.”
    â€œBelieve me, ma petite , whether you take the last marks and become my servant in more than name is no game to me.”
    â€œThere was a murder last night,” I said. Maybe if I concentrated just on the crime, on my job, I could avoid the verbal pitfalls.
    â€œAnd?” he prompted.
    â€œIt was a vampire victim.”
    â€œAh,” he said, “my part in this becomes clear.”
    â€œI’m glad you find it funny,” I said.
    â€œDying from vampire bites is only temporarily fatal, ma petite . Wait until the third night when the victim rises, then question him.” The humor died from his eyes. “What is it that you are not telling me?”
    â€œI found at least five different bite radiuses on the victim.”
    Something flickered behind his eyes. I wasn’t sure what, but it was real emotion. Surprise, fear, guilt? Something.
    â€œSo you are looking for a rogue master vampire.”
    â€œYep. Know any?”
    He laughed. His whole face lit up from the inside, as if someone had lit a candle behind his skin. In one wild moment he was so beautiful, it made my chest ache. But it wasn’t beauty that made me want to touch it. I remembered a Bengal tiger that I’d seen once in a zoo. It was big enough to ride on like a pony. Its fur was orange, black, cream,oyster-shell white. Its eyes were gold. The heavy paws wider than my outspread hand paced, paced, back and forth, back and forth, until it had worn a path in the dirt. Some genius had put one barred wall so close to the fence that held back the crowd, I could have reached through and touched the tiger easily. I had to ball my hands into fists and shove them in my pockets to keep from reaching through those bars and petting that tiger. It was so close, so beautiful, so wild, so . . . tempting.
    I hugged my knees to my chest, hands clasped tightly together. The tiger would have taken my hand off, and yet there was that small part of me that regretted not reaching through the bars. I watched Jean-Claude’s face, felt his laughter like velvet running down my spine. Would