Cats and Dogs

Author's Note: the characters of Gargoyles are the property of Disney and are
used here without their creators' knowledge or consent. Special thanks to Dean
Koontz, whose "Twilight Eyes" and "The Funhouse" provided some inspiration
and research ; )

This story is for mature readers only due to sexual content, profanity, and violence.

(Cordelia St. John, voice over) Previously, on Gargoyles ...

From "Ice Queen" --
        "Didn't you hear me? Big Country Midway Attractions is the fourth
largest carnival in America. I own three grab-joints, the equestrian show, and
two kiddie rides. I'm also Madame Cassandra. Card readings, palm readings,
fifteen bucks a pop for five minutes' work. Caleb is only twenty-three, and he
owns the Amazing Oddities exhibit free and clear. We don't need your money, or
his, or anybody's. Got it?"
        "Fortune telling and a freak show," Cordelia sniffed. "I have to give you
credit, Cassandra; I would have thought you ran away to become a kootch
dancer."
        Vivid red burst into Cassandra's sunken cheeks, but she managed to say,
with strange dignity, "I gave that up after Corrinne was born."




        The woman in the long coat and hat drew plenty of looks as she walked
along the midway.
        It was late summer in southwestern Illinois and the fairgrounds were hot
and dusty. The afternoon crowds were only a fraction of the numbers of fair-
goers that would swell the midway as the evening cool set in and the lights on
the rides and attractions set the night afire.
        Most of those present, carny and mark alike, were dressed to beat the
heat in shorts, T-shirts, tank tops, sandals. Sunburned or farmer-tanned, freckled,
good wholesome Midwest stock, lots of sunbleached blond hair, lots of callused
hardworking hands.
        And among them, this one woman in her long coat, the collar turned up
to nearly meet the brim of her hat.
        The marks assumed she was one of the carnies on a late lunch break,
not wanting to be recognized. No free shows.
        The carnies eyed her with speculation. Not one of them, no, not now.
Once, maybe. There was something about her that set her apart from the typical
mark.
        She drew plenty of looks, yes, but not much more than that. It was a
carnival, after all. There was an abundance of things to look at, things to do.
There were rides to be ridden, exhibits to view, midway games to be suckered
into, junk food to be eaten, prizes to be won.
        None of them had any idea there was a killer in their midst.
        The woman smiled to herself, wondering what would happen if she
suddenly threw off her coat and went on a rampage. Slashing, cutting, leaving a
trail of bleeding bodies in her wake as she mowed her way through the throng.
The thought of the screams sent a pleasant tingle through her. It would be nearly
as good as a nice rough roll in the hay.
        When you were horny and couldn't get laid, she mused, violence was a
good way to let off some steam.
        She reminded herself that she wasn't here to get either laid or violent. At
least, not right away. First things first. She was on a scouting mission that could
turn into a rescue mission if what she'd heard was true. After that, well, anything
goes! Ya pays your money and ya takes your chances.
        "Hey! You the tattooed lady under there?" a brat of a kid, maybe eleven
years old, yelled at her. He was a porky little sonofabitch, face smeared with
what looked like a combination of mustard, ice cream, and pink flecks of cotton
candy. He had a cheap stuffed animal in one hand, an inflatable baseball bat in
the other, and a pair of grinning doofuses (or was that doofi?) watching him.
        She turned toward Porky.
        Bravado puffed him up like a toad. "Maybe it's Alli-Gertie, the alligator
girl from the freak show!"
        The woman moved closer. "Little boy, you just made a big mistake."
        He opened his sloppy mouth to unleash another pre-teen witticism, then
the sunlight slanted beneath the brim of her hat and gleamed on planes of golden
metal that extended down her cheeks. He froze, gaping.
        She withdrew a gloved hand from her pocket and pointed at him with
two fingers. Fast as a striking snake, two razor-sharp quills extended and
retracted.
        "I hear your momma calling," Hyena sneered.
        Porky slowly looked right and left. His inflatable baseball bat was
deflating like a giant drooping prick, and his stuffed animal had a gouged third
eye smack through its head.
        The kid's buddies stared, not sure what they'd seen. But when Porky
squealed like a piggy and took to his heels, they were right behind him.
        Laughing, Hyena continued on her way in higher spirits than before.
Every so often, she would see that baseball bat in her mind's eye and be
overcome with a fresh spurt of the snickers.
        Big Country was one of the few remaining traveling carnivals that had a
by-God girlie show, but in an age of lap dances, the hula-hula kootchie-kootchie
girls were more a quaint amusement than anything else. They all looked so damn
wholesome, waggling their grass skirts and coconut bras on the stage in front of
the tent. Apparently, or so the sign and the barker boasted, there was much more
to be seen inside.
        Hyena shook her head and continued on. The combination of the
ridiculous bobbing phallic baseball bat (going limp with a dismayed whistle) and
the idea of exotic dancers made her think of her brother.
        The continued humiliation and defeat by the gargoyles, now allied with
their one-time leader Fox and her rich husband, had been much tougher on
Jackal than herself. Something had snapped. A short circuit in his cybernetics,
maybe. Who knew? But he'd gone and given up after his last stint in prison.
Declared his crimefighting days at an end.
        "And just what do you think you're going to do?" Hyena had demanded
through the glass when he'd come to visit her after his release. "Most places
won't even hire someone with a nose ring, cyber-boy!"
        "I'll think of something," he'd growled.
        And lo and behold, he had. She had just about croaked when she read
his first letter detailing his new job at Club Victoria. My brother, the stripper.
Tacky. Just plain tacky.
        She'd known about his "upgrade;" hell, she had some downstairs
modifications of her own. But the idea of him putting it on display, bumping and
grinding for the benefit of lonely women ... she'd laughed so hard she blew a fuse
and had to have the prison maintenance people call in a specialist from
Cyberbiotics before all of her functions would work again.
        It hadn't lasted, of course. Poor Jackal! Gargoyles again. And Fox, too.
Pity he hadn't strangled the bitch when he had the chance. Left with a stub (well,
okay, it was a 12-incher of a stub, but compared to the segmented few yards he'd
had before ...). Cyberbiotics either couldn't or wouldn't tackle that project, and
Xanatos' people refused to have any further dealings with their one-time
masterpieces.
        He'd lost it. Of that, she was sure. The sadistic spark that had been just
one more similarity between twins had gone out. It had started in Egypt, after he
briefly had the power of a god and then had it stolen from him. He'd gotten lazy
and self-indulgent after that, and their subsequent trouncings had only made him
worse.
        It was sad, in a way. Except for prison time, they hadn't ever been apart
for long. But in another way, it had been kind of nice not having him around all
the time, making smartass remarks about any guy she happened to find
appealing. She still stung over how he'd zapped Coyote. Robot or not, she'd
really had a thing for the big gold war-machine. It was so hard to find guys who
shared her interests.
        She passed another tent, this one deep purple sewn with swirls and
spirals of silvery thread. The flaps were open but cordoned off by a velvet rope.
Within, she could see rows of folding chairs facing a small stage with a single
chair upon it. The stage was backdropped by a canvas painted to look like a
magical castle floating against a starry sky.
        The sign propped in front of the velvet rope read "La Petite Morgana --
Seer and Mystic. Witness her Clairvoyant Powers at Work! Unravel the Secrets
of the Ancients! Two shows nightly, 7:00 PM and 9:00 PM. Admission -- $4.00
adults, $2.50 children and seniors. Prepare to be Astonished!!!"
        Hyena snorted scoffingly, knowing that the suckers would file in, pony
up the bucks, just to watch some bimbo in a slinky dress "guess" what objects
her assistant borrowed from members of the audience.
        Up ahead, she caught a glimpse of her old pal Porky and his friends.
They were hanging back a ways from a very large structure. At first, she thought
it was the funhouse, but as she edged closer, she saw that it was the very place
she'd been seeking.
        "Amazing Oddities," the banner declared.
        The freak show.
        She knew there weren't many true freak shows left these days. Most had
gone into static displays of jars containing malformed animal fetuses and the
occasional live barnyard blooper such as a six-legged sheep or a pig with a
forked snout. The days of the old-fashioned "ten-in-one" were passing. This one,
Amazing Oddities, was one of the largest remaining. And, as the sign proudly
proclaimed, "The Most Shocking, Appalling Exhibit in America!!!"
        It seemed Porky and his pals were trying to work up the cojones to go
in. Boasting to each other about how scared they weren't, pretending that it was
insufficient funds making them pause to consider.
        The barker noticed the trio of boys just as Hyena noticed the barker. A
low revving hum came from her internal servomotors. Ooh, baby! Here was her
kind of guy!
        He was tall, not overly buff but well put-together. He was dressed like a
traditional carnival barker, which was something of a turn-off, but the snug black
pants did a good job of showing off his long legs and his tight, high butt. He had
dispensed with the top hat, at least, and his thick dark-blond hair was slicked
back into a widow's peak. His features were sharp but his mouth was full, that of
a born sensualist. Lips made to savor.
        Those lips were what really caught Hyena's attention. Those lips, and
his eyes. Jade-green, and even from here, she could see that they glinted with a
cruelty to rival her own.
        His sensuous mouth curled into a harsh sneer as he watched the boys
debating and daring each other. Was it just her, or did his teeth actually look
sharp, predatory? It was the first time in a long time that she'd seen a man who
wore such a palpable aura of danger.
        Yum.
        Just then, a fourth boy wandered past, alone. He was about Porky's age,
the sort of kid that would instantly be tagged as a "wuss" and possibly a
"queerboy" into the bargain by taunting peers. The sort of kid for whom recess
was a living hell. Teacher's pet in the classroom, everybody's punching bag in the
playyard.
        It was to this boy that the barker directed his spiel. Hyena watched with
growing admiration as the barker tried to lure the kid in, holding him spellbound
even though the kid began to look sincerely unhappy. He didn't want to go, he
was afraid to go, and the barker began to whittle at him, chip at him, cut him to
pieces with his vicious tongue.
        The kid didn't have enough money. The barker lowered the price.
        The kid had to meet his mom. The barker insisted it would only take a
few minutes.
        The kid began to tremble, to glance around for someone to bail him out,
but the only people around were Porky and company. Their response was to hoot
and jeer and call him a sissy, a chicken.
        Tears welled up in the sissy's eyes. The barker whapped the side of his
podium with a riding crop (Ooh, baby, Hyena's mind whispered, I could show
you some games to play with that!) and the kid jumped and squeaked and
damn near wet his pants.
        "I don't have all day, young man," the barker said. "Are you going to be
brave and see these grotesque mishaps of nature, or are you going to run crying
to your mommy?"
        Now the kid's lip was quivering like crazy, and the tears overspilled. He
broke into loud, braying bawls and fled. Porky stuck out a foot and the kid
tripped, not quite losing his balance but knocking over a white plastic garbage
can beside a grab-joint specializing in corn dogs and curly fries. He skidded
through a greasy scattering of half-eaten food and discarded wrappers, bumped
into the corner of the grab-joint, and was gone.
        Porky and his friends just about busted a gut. Funniest thing they'd ever
seen.
        "I guess he was chicken after all," the barker said to them. "Not like
you."
        Hyena's grin widened. She hadn't missed the hidden wink the little
blond kid had given to the barker, and knew a set-up when she saw one.
        "Step right up and prove me right," the barker invited. As he gestured
extravagantly, she noticed a heavy gold ring on his left hand, and her expression
soured until she realized it was on the middle, not the third finger. "Only three
dollars apiece. And what do you get for those three dollars, my friends? You'll
see with your own eyes some of the most monstrous creatures ever to draw
breath, but that's only the beginning. You'll be able to leave here knowing that
you were brave enough to face nature at her worst, and live to tell the tale!"
        No way were Porky and the others about to make themselves wusses
like the other kid. They shelled out their money and proceeded into the building.
Where, judging by the billowing canvas paintings along the front wall, they
would see a dozen shocking deformities. Including Alli-Gertie herself, the
alligator-girl to whom Porky had earlier referred. Along with such notables as
the World's Fattest Man, the Two-Headed Dwarf, the Tattooed Lady, Mr.
Starfish, the Bat out of Hell, and others.
        But not the one Hyena was looking for. She scowled. If she'd come
all this way for nothing, she was going to be seriously pissed.
        She knew she'd have to check out the interior, but decided to wait until
later when the crowds were thicker, the lighting was stranger, and the chances of
someone noticing that she didn't have all her original parts decreased.
        The barker glanced her way, and as much as she would have liked to
meet that jade gaze with her own smoldering reply, she turned and made for the
grab-joint. So named, she recalled, because there weren't any seats provided, so
you grabbed your chow and ate it on the go.
        Moments later, with a crisp, greasy corndog (and she successfully
resisted the urge to turn back to the barker and take a big old suggestive chomp
out of it), Hyena did her best to melt into the growing crowd.
        Pitchmen called to passing marks, exhorting them to try their luck, test
their skill, win a prize for the lady, step right up, three darts for two dollars, ten
rings for a dollar, ring the bell and win. The good prizes prominently displayed
and the signs telling how many wins were actually needed written in small
letters; one win usually netted the mark something junky.
        Nostalgia made Hyena smile. Or maybe it was the combination of thrills
and risk inherent in the carnival atmosphere. The marks poured in knowing they
were going to be suckered, knowing there was a chance that the Tilt-O-Whirl or
the Bungee Tower would be improperly maintained. The rodeo or the stock car
race might erupt into sudden terror and injury. That defiant risk-love ran as a
heady undercurrent beneath the jangling chaos of lights and noise.
        It almost made her a kid again. Even at a young age, she'd thrived on
danger. Been addicted to it. Realized the power that came from the ability to
inflict fear and pain.
        She lingered as the evening's long shadows trailed across the midway
and the lights outlining every ride blazed into brightness. A breeze sprang up and
whisked away the dust that had been hanging steady in the air. For one shared
moment, everyone in the fairgrounds seemed to pause and take a renewing
breath, and then the activity began at a more frenzied pace than before.
        It was ten till seven when she passed the purple-and-silver tent again,
where a stream of marks were hurrying in to catch the first act of La Petite
Morgana. Thinking it would be a way to pass a little time before going back to
Amazing Oddities, Hyena peeled off a few bucks and went in.
        She took a seat in the back row, and stretched out her legs. Built-in gold
icepick heels were what she'd always wanted, and while she could no longer
bitch about sore feet, they did leave her with aching ankles and calves after a
long day of walking.
        Some jerk in a tuxedo got up in front of the crowd, prattled on for a
while about the Mysteries of the Orient, did a few card tricks and produced a few
doves. Warm-up act. He lured a giggling redhead onto the stage and pulled a
knotted string of scarves from her blouse, with a lacy bra at the end, surprise,
surprise. All part of the show.
        Hyena grumbled and pulled her hat low. If the rest of the act was this
bad, she might as well catch a nap, recharge a little, and wave farewell to four
wasted bucks.
        She almost was dozing when the main attraction was announced.
        "Fifteen hundred years ago," the jerk in the tuxedo said, "in the time of
King Arthur, there was one name that struck awe and fear into the hearts of all.
That name was Morgan Le Fay, Morgan of the Fairies, the greatest sorceress the
world has ever known. Her fate remains a mystery, but this one thing I can tell
you -- wherever she went, she left behind her magical legacy! Mother to
daughter, this bloodline has stretched uninterrupted down through the centuries.
Some say that the soul of Morgan is reborn every few generations into the body
of one of her descendants. And so, my friends, I give you ... La Petite Morgana!"
        Oh, Christ, it's just a kid, Hyena thought sourly. Reincarnation and
fairies, my butt.
        La Petite Morgana couldn't have been more than seven years old. Soft
brown hair hung to her waist, her face was cherubic and serene, and her eyes
were wide and milky-green. Sightless eyes, an alert posture that spoke of keen
hearing.
        Blind or not, they still covered her eyes when she got to the part of her
act where she would supposedly use her clairvoyant powers to divine objects
possessed by members of the audience. But rather than have her assistant go
through the crowd, coaching with his words just what it was he was holding, La
Petite Morgana in her soft yet carrying voice started describing individuals.
        "There is a man in a blue shirt," she said. "A blue shirt and a belt with a
racecar on the buckle. In his wallet, behind a picture of his mother, is a piece of
paper with a phone number on it ..."
        And so on. By the reactions of the audience, she was eerily accurate.
And there were too many "volunteers" for them all to be shills.
        "There is a woman in a long coat," La Petite Morgana began, and
frowned. "She ... she ... is like a robot --"
        Those words gave Hyena a nasty little start, and she realized she better
make herself scarce. Quick. But she couldn't just get up and walk out, not
without getting the attention of every loser in the audience. They were already
looking around for this "robot-woman."
        The guy next to her, luckily, was a big halfwit farmboy who didn't seem
to know what was going on. She sidled sideways, worked her legs past him (at
this, he gave her a goofy grin like he thought she was coming on to him, but the
last thing on her mind was getting into his overalls), and eased behind her chair.
        Maestro Mysterioso was heading for the back of the room, squinting
into the dimness. Hyena moved fast, slipping under the wall of the tent and
letting it fall back into place behind her.
        "Shit," she muttered, hurrying down the alley between tents. "That was
weird."
        Unnerved, she decided the best thing to do would be forget about it and
come back later tonight. She was too jittery now to stage any sort of break-out
from a freak show, thanks to that spooky-ass little girl.

                *               *

        The twin peridot gemstones winked mellow green fire from the eyes of
the leopard-head ring on his left hand as Caleb St. John handed the cash box
over to Elliot Graves, the bookkeeper/lawyer he and his mother shared.
        "Not bad for a Thursday," he said.
        "The weekend will be a good 'un," Elliot replied, patting the cash box
affectionately. "They're forecasting sunny, but not too hot."
        Elliot was loyal, honest (at least to other carnies), and was hopelessly in
love with Cassandra St. John. He even believed that he was Morgana's father, a
belief that none of the St. Johns had either encouraged or shot down. Let him
think what he would.
        The same went for Devon Chase, otherwise known as Maestro
Mysterioso. Cassandra had been involved with them both at about the same time,
and less than a year later, Morgana had been born. Devon was particularly
fervent about his role in Morgana's parentage. She had, he swore, inherited not
only her mother's incredible psychic gifts but his own incomparable magic
powers.
        Caleb always had to struggle not to laugh when Devon went off on one
of those rolls. His mother, he knew, had all the psychic gifts of a schoolmarm.
Her expertise came solely from years of experience in conning and manipulating
the marks. Her kids were the gifted ones, each of them in their own strange ways,
but Cassandra herself wasn't.
        At least, that was what he'd thought before Cassandra got her crystal
ball. All of a sudden, she'd gone mystical on him, claiming the ball that she'd
gotten only as a prop to lend her act some verisimilitude, really was enchanted.
Gave her visions.
        His personal response to that was the same one he had for Elliot and
Devon. Let her think what she would. It had added a spark to her act, that much
was true. Madame Cassandra had never been hotter as a psychic advisor.
        Mother dear was currently off in New York, mending fences or burning
bridges with her estranged rich-snob relatives. Caleb himself didn't give a damn
one way or the other. His real family was here, the people he'd grown up with,
the mentors who had taught him and raised him in the carny life. Not that they
meant a whole lot to him either, but he felt more comfortable around them than
he would in the white-bread world of so-called society. Only here, only among
carnies, would the ... peculiarities ... of himself and his siblings be overlooked or
accepted.
        Elliot was right. Tomorrow would be even better. Payday, the weekend,
hoards of marks willing and eager to be parted from their hard-earned cash. And
the dirty truth was, although they might go on about how horrible and demeaning
and disgusting it was to have a freak show in this day and age, they would be
burning hot to gawk at his employees.
        The marks had gone home, jostling their cars in line to get out of the
wide field put into use as a parking lot. The carnies were tidying up, getting
ready for the next day. All Caleb had left to do was make sure everyone was
settled for the night, and check in on his newest acquisition. See if he was
adapting yet, ready to talk reason.
        As he approached the row of trailers, he mentally ticked through his
roster.
        Gordan Applebee would be home, maneuvering his massive bulk
around his specially-built, reinforced trailer with extreme care. He'd taken a bad
fall three years ago, just before Caleb bought the show, and it had taken six
roustabouts to get him on his feet again.
        Targo would be home too, of course. Dwarves were common enough
that they didn't make for much of a draw in a freak show, but Targo was blessed
or cursed with an additional twist -- God had meant for him to have a twin, but
they'd never separated properly. A bulbous eyeless knob of a second head
protruded from high on Targo's chest and a three-fingered extra arm grew from
his ribcage. Targo's wife Leila was a perfectly-proportioned midget, and of their
three sons, the two oldest were of normal stature and the youngest had taken
after his mother.
        Rainbow's trailer was dark. Unsurprising. She had been going with the
carnival boss' right-hand-man lately, who evidently enjoyed tracing her tattoos.
A man could lose himself for hours following the gaily colored ribbons of ink
that wound around firm flesh like a close cocoon.
        As he approached the next trailer, he saw a tall, spindly form appear out
of the shadows. Elasto started, then nodded at Caleb with pathetic eager greeting.
        "Good night, Mr. St. John," the old man fawned. He had a grocery bag
in one hand and a milkshake in the other.
        "Good night, Elasto," Caleb said indifferently.
        He turned away, not missing the despairing look that came over the old
man's face. Elasto knew his stint on the road was nearly over. It was well past
retirement time for the Rubber Man. He could barely manage his contortions
anymore. Maybe not this summer, but soon. Next year, perhaps. The carnival
would move on and Elasto would remain in Gibtown, an active performer no
longer.
        Caleb knew it too, but no sympathy warmed his heart. Carnies looked
after their own, but when someone got too old to keep drawing the marks, they
had to step aside and let the young take over. That was the lesson Balthazar had
ingrained in him from an early age.
        Balthazar, one-time owner of Amazing Oddities as well as star of the
show, was himself retired now. Caleb missed his dry cynical wit, missed his
guidance. Balthazar had been the closest he'd ever known to a father. Stepfather,
according to carny tradition. He and Cassandra had married by riding the
carousel together, about six months before Corrinne was born.
        From the time Caleb was four, he'd been fascinated by the misshapen
souls who worked for the ten-in-one. His mother, who had been struggling to get
by as a dancer at the time, hadn't minded that her young son spent all his spare
time hanging out at the freak show. Odd jobs when he got a little older,
eventually as an apprentice, then partner, then successor. They had retained their
close relationship even after Balthazar and Cassandra's divorce.
        He passed the trailer where Li and Tao were arguing with each other.
Their real names weren't Li and Tao, of course, but somehow nobody was going
to want to pay good money to see so-called "Siamese" twins named Herman and
Wilbur Potter. The topic of their argument was, as usual, women. Li fancied
himself a ladies' man; Tao preferred working on his model railroad. The railroad
took up most of another trailer and was damn near a wonder of the modern
world; Caleb sometimes thought they could bring in an extra few grand a night
charging admission to that miniature countryscape.
        The next trailer belonged to a demure young woman with the evocative
name of Katerina Wyrmischlass, better known as Drei Augen for the third eye
that peered just slightly off-center from her forehead. It was as blue and guileless
as its lower siblings, mostly concealed by Katerina's ink-black bangs until she
parted that glossy curtain of hair to give the marks what they paid for. Parted
them with her feet, for in addition to her ocular irregularity, Katerina had been
born without arms. She was more adept with her toes than many people were
with a full complement of hands and fingers.
        Mrs. Dandridge was still up, taking in the wash. She regarded Caleb
with a wary, weary expression that told him he was still, in her opinion, not
filling Balthazar's shoes. Mrs. D. was quite possibly the hardest-working carny
with Big Country, though she ran no concessions and starred in no shows. She
had her hands more than full looking after her middle-aged daughter Mary Ellen,
who, as Giganta the Giant Woman, was one of Caleb's star attractions.
        Giganta was nine feet tall, gormy and gawky as a giraffe. Thin as she
was, her long legs still could not support the weight of her body for more than a
few steps at a time. She got to and fro in a custom-built motorized wheelchair.
Her mother took care of her, serving as a combination housekeeper, cook, nurse,
and all-around attendant.
        Caleb nodded at Mrs. D. and continued on. There was only one trailer
left to check, the trailer with fake windows over reinforced steel, with thick and
soundproofed walls, with more locks and bars on the door than a paranoid's
apartment.
        This was where he kept the ones he thought of uncharitably as "the real
freaks," defined as the ones who didn't or weren't able to cooperate. Who didn't
appreciate the good money and fortune that could be theirs. Who would escape,
if they were able or allowed.
        "Hey! Big brother!"
        He paused at the bottom of the fold-down steps, his keys in hand.
"There you are, Chris. Good job tonight!"
        His brother came up, the grin he wore now completely different from
the terrified/tearful expression he used when shaming bigger kids into braving
Amazing Oddities. Chris was twelve but could have (and had on occasion)
passed for as young as eight.
        "Mr. Zwick says the inspectors are coming by tomorrow morning,"
Chris said. "Around seven."
        Caleb groaned and looked at his watch, which read 2:13. "Seven?
Bastards."
        "One of them's a social worker or something," Chris went on, his voice
hard-edged and disdainful. "Wants to make sure the 'differently abled' are being
treated with the dignity and compassion they deserve."
        "Ah, for the good old days when we could call a freak a freak," Caleb
sighed. "It's the politically-correct Pollyannas like that who make me ill, little
brother. They'd rather see people like my staff rotting away in a care home
someplace, getting forty bucks a month spending green and not bothering
anybody. Being 'taken care of' and safely out of sight. God forbid they should be
proud of their freakhood, making more money a year than the average mark will
see in ten."
        "Singing to the choir, big brother." Chris balled up a fist and thumped
on the trailer door. From within, a muffled and barely-audible enraged voice
answered him. "I'll be here at six-thirty, okay?"
        Caleb looked at his watch again. "Four hours of sleep. Joy. Well, I
guess my charges can wait that long. I'll check them in the morning."
        "Hey," Chris said, turning around. "Did you hear something?"
        "No."
        "Weird. Sounded like ... like a windup toy."
        Caleb pointed to a discarded pinwheel, cheap painted foil on a plastic
stick. It was stuck in the diamond-shapes of the chain link fence that separated
the trailer lot from a wild, brambly field. "There's your windup toy, little brother.
Some mark's kid is out two bucks."
        Chris went over and pulled the pinwheel out of the fence, giving it an
experimental spin. "No ... it wasn't this ... it was more like a vacuum cord being
retracted."
        "Since when do you know about vacuums?" Caleb chuckled.
        "Somebody's got to keep our place clean while Mom's away," Chris
protested defensively. "It's not like Morgana can do it."
        "It's not like Mom does it either. I thought Sonia was taking care of
that."
        "Sonia doesn't like us," Chris said sullenly. "Without Mom here, she
hasn't done shit."
        "Language, little brother."
        "Shit-shit-shit," Chris chanted viciously. "She hates Mom. How come
Mom doesn't see it? Morgana knows, and I do too."
        "Maybe Mom just doesn't care. What's Sonia going to do? So what if
Mom took over the fortune-telling gig from Sonia's aunt? It's not like _she_
could do it. She couldn't make a mark believe the sun was going to rise in the
east."
        Caleb knew there was more to the story, much more, but kept silent
about it. No need for Chris to know that there had been a time when Sonia and
Cassandra had been hot for Balthazar, back when they'd both been dancing in the
hootchie-kootchie show.
        That rivalry (which Cassandra had won) combined with Sonia's fury
that her aunt, crazy old Madame Zena, had snubbed her niece in favor of an
apprentice who hadn't even been a carny until she was almost sixteen, had ended
any and all chance at friendship between the two.
        Now untalented Sonia, too old and dowdy to dance, too peevish and
sour to marry, had to make her living as Big Country's all-purpose domestic.
Worst of all, she'd ended up working for the woman she'd always been in
competition with.
        "I'll talk to her," he promised Chris now. "Just because Mom's away
doesn't mean she can shirk her duties."
        "I'm old enough to take care of myself," Chris said.
        Caleb clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I know. But you shouldn't have
to be cleaning up if someone else is being paid to do it. That's all Sonia's good
for anyway. Now scoot, and get some sleep. Six-thirty's going to come awful
quick."

                *               *

        Crouched in the bramble-bushes, ignoring the thorns, Hyena tucked her
extendable ear-cup back into the socket. She winced at the loud, grating click it
always made when it was firmly set in place, a click that seemed to reverberate
through her skull and down her spine.
        So, inspectors were coming tomorrow morning, hmm? And there was
something the stud with the cruel jade-green eyes didn't want them to see in that
big ugly trailer.
        Hyena was no fool. She could tell just by a quick scan that the trailer
was a facade, made to look normal but really a tank on wheels. Probably strong
enough to hold a whole clan of gargoyles. If he couldn't break out, she might not
be able to break in.
        She might be able to cut her way in, or sear through the door with a
laser, but that sort of noisy lightshow would attract every carny in the lot.
        He had to be there. It was the only likely place.
        She'd followed Green Eyes on his rambling tour, getting a free peek at
some of his employees through the windows of their trailers. Poor saps.
        "Dingo should see this," she'd murmured at one point. He got all over
their asses about how she, Jackal, and Wolf had gotten themselves remade. At
least they had been able to choose and dictate exactly what they'd wanted.
Self-made freaks, rather than being at the whim of that all-time champeen bitch,
Mother Nature.
        Still, that didn't give Green Eyes the right to buy and sell them like
property. Giving up one's essential humanity didn't mean giving up one's human
rights.
        She nearly laughed out loud. What the hell kind of a thought was
that, coming out of her head? She could just see herself and her Pack-mates
marching, picketing, demonstrating. Cyborgs Are People Too. Mutates Against
Discrimination.
        Never mind.
        How was she going to get into the damn trailer?
        Disguise herself as an inspector? Never work.
        Apply for a job? Yeah, right.
        Steal a truck, hook the whole thing up, and tow it away? That had
possibilities ...
        But first, before she started making any plans, she knew she better pay
her admission, check out the freaks, and make sure the one she was looking for
actually was here.

                *               *

        She was making the noise again.
        A low, mournful, glottal cry.
        Fang crouched at the back of his cage, clenching his fists, telling
himself that he wasn't going to yell at her this time. It didn't do any good anyway.
She would just keep on, only louder and sadder.
        From the cage on his left, a low voice snarled. "What the fuck is
wrong with her?" That voice was nearly unintelligible, filtered as it was
through a mouth no longer approximating human shape, filled with overlarge
teeth that made speaking chancy at best.
        "She's miserable, okay, what's it to you?" Fang shot back, all the more
pissed because now he was suddenly in the position of defending her instead of
telling her to shut up, which he dearly wanted to do.
        On the other side of the trailer, in the opposite row of cages, the scaled
woman rustled in the straw and kept on with her terrible moaning wail. They
called her Alli-Gertie, Fang knew. A silly, cheery, almost chirpy name for one
pathetic wretch of a woman.
        He could see her just fine in the dimness. His pupils were fully dilated,
taking in every bit of light from the single bulb at the far end, next to the
partition leading to the storage area. She was sprawled on her belly, arms and
legs moving sluggishly as if she imagined herself creeping through the bayou.
        "What's it to me?" his neighbor growled. "She's keeping me awake,
that's what."
        "You got an appointment with your stockbroker in the morning or
something?" Fang sneered.
        "I'll give you an appointment with the undertaker, asswipe!"
        A rank, furry body slammed against the bars, but these cages were
designed so the unlucky inhabitants couldn't get at each other. There was
sufficient space between them to prevent even unnaturally long arms from
making contact. Still, the smell enough was almost enough to knock Fang
unconscious.
        "You and what army, dickhead?"
        He almost regretted his bravado as his neighbor raised his shaggy head,
eyes gleaming yellow-green in the gloom, fangs shining with frothy saliva.
        "Me and this army." He thrust a vaguely humanoid hand through the
bars and flashed his claws. They weren't hideously long, but they looked like
they could get the job done. He ended the gesture by saluting Fang with the
middle one.
        "Screw you, Wolfman," Fang said, tempted to zap the s.o.b. hard
enough to leave him looking like a cartoon character who just French-kissed an
electrical outlet. But he knew from painful experience that his cage was
constructed to shunt the energy back at him.
        "It's Wolf!" he insisted, spit flying from his jaws.
        A standard witticism from Fang's high-school days popped out. "Say it,
don't spray it; we want the news, not the weather."
        To this, Wolf only replied with an inarticulate bellow of rage, throwing
himself against the bars until he finally slumped, battered and exhausted. The
only effect it had was to make Alli-Gertie fall silent in frightened shock, and to
wake Mr. Starfish, who could normally sleep through anything.
        "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Fang said, unimpressed. "Another badass makes
the scene."
        Wolf only glared, his head hanging low between his hunched shoulders.
Fang wondered what the hell St. John had been thinking. Wolf belonged in a
zoo, not a freakshow. Or, better yet, Wolf belonged in a shallow grave after a
midnight execution.
        The marks were going to get the holy piss scared out of them if St. John
ever put his "Wolf Man of Madagascar" on display. That, combined with Wolf's
utter refusal to cooperate, had delayed his debut week after week. Now Fang was
beginning to think they never would add him to the roster.
        "Fifty thousand smackers down the tube," Fang murmured to himself,
having overheard the final price when Caleb was gloating to his sister.
        He said it not without some bitterness, aware that he himself had been
purchased for less than half that amount. It was a stupid thing to be insulted over,
but then outlaws used to get tweaked when the price on their heads was less than
they felt it oughtta be.
        It had been a long, strange road from his cell in the Labyrinth below
Manhattan to his mobile cell in the carnival. Imprisoned by damn-him-to-eternity
Talon, freed by a pair of gargoyles, given a brief taste of revenge, and then swept
away on a tidal flood of water, sewage, and the wretched refuse population of the
Labyrinth. He'd washed up on one of those lovely New York beaches that was
always picked when the news crews wanted to show medical wastes littering the
sand.
        From there, he'd made his wounded, half-drowned and miserable way to
the trainyards, seeking shelter. He'd found it with a bunch of stewbums so
plastered they would have offered the Devil a place at their trashcan fire and a
swig from a brown paper bag without twitching an eyelid.
        He'd hung out with them for a few weeks, entertaining thoughts of
becoming their leader and making a proper gang out of them. But then his luck
had taken another spectacular turn for the worse. Raiding a boxcar for food,
they'd been interrupted by a bunch of stick-wielding thugs. Fang's "gang" had
scattered in a display of self-serving cowardice, leaving him to face the music.
        Despite zapping half of them and pounding the others good, someone
got in a lucky crack with a stick and put him down for the count. When he'd
revived, he'd been wrapped in chains up to his neck, in a rattling swaying old
train car.
        Turns out that the bastard who'd conked him knew someone who knew
someone who knew this freak show operator who paid good hard cash for
"oddities."
        He'd tried to reason with them, bargain with them, but he'd never been
known for his people skills. Plus, the fact that he'd first tried to break out and
beat the crap out of them might have put a negative spin on his subsequent
negotiations.
        So, here he was. Months later and lots richer, because it turned out that
St. John believed in giving all his freaks a share of their earnings. Once he'd
begun putting Fang in the show, billing him as the "Bat out of Hell, yes, ladies
and gentlemen, a Genuine Demon conjured from the Fiery Pit," he'd been
bringing in the bucks.
        There was a catch, of course. In order to get the cash, he had to come
around. Had to sign on, join the team. He'd get a snazzy trailer like the others,
could hire somebody to shop for him and bring him the things he wanted.
        But it had to be sincere. Once he'd heard the deal, he'd instantly
pretended to go along with it, privately thinking that he would snap St. John's
slavetrading neck the minute he was out and be over the hills and far away.
        Why shouldn't they have believed him? He'd always been a convincing
liar. But all it took was that creepy little girl called Morgana turning her big
blind eyes toward him. Damn, had that given him a chill! Like she'd been
running her fingers over the surface of his brain, reading it with Braille telepathy.
        She'd known. Known as plainly as if he'd said it out loud. So she'd
turned to her brother and told him in that soft yet carrying voice that he was
lying, and Fang, so shaken by the naked and exposed feeling, hadn't even been
able to muster a token indignant objection.
        Months later, he was coming to realize that maybe they had the right
idea after all. He was making more, for doing less, than he'd ever done in his life.
He was in a place where he didn't have to hide in the sewers and put up with
Talon's self-righteous attitudes. In the Labyrinth, he'd been a nobody, a jailbird,
an outcast. Here, he could be a star.
        He wasn't like Alli-Gertie and Mr. Starfish. He could take care of
himself. Didn't need to be fed, bathed, cleaned up after. Wasn't about to take a
high dive if left to his own devices.
        Yeah, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. His anger had gotten him nowhere.
So he was in a cell. Big-goddam-whoopee. He'd been in a cell before Sevarius
came along with his offer -- early release if you'll consent to this experimental
treatment, just sign here -- and he'd been in a cell after, imprisoned and set apart
by his new mutate body even before getting locked up by King Talon. By now he
should be used to it.
        He roused himself from his musings to notice that Alli-Gertie had
finally fallen asleep. Which meant her hideous moaning was replaced by her
thick chuckly snore, almost as bad. Mr. Starfish rustled in his crib, turning his
head to peer up at the pictures tacked to his wall. Pictures gleaned from National
Geographic or something, vistas of exotic beaches and mountains, places he'd
never visit.
        Depressing. De-friggin-pressing.
        In the next cage over, Wolf sat slouched against the back wall. Just
looking at him was enough to give Fang a case of the jim-jams. He was no expert
on genetics, despite trying to read up on the subject back when he'd first agreed
to this happy lifestyle change (and most of what he'd tried to read was written by
Sevarius himself, his style so florid and self-congratulatory that Fang would have
just about liked to puke), but even he could tell that there was some weird stuff
going on with Wolf.
        Fang knew about unstable mutation. He'd experienced it himself along
with the rest of his so-called "clan" when their tails gradually receded or their
ears and facial features changed. But that had ended years ago, stabilized. Wolf
looked like a bad experiment run amok.
        His face had pushed out into a muzzle so crowded with curving teeth
that he couldn't close his mouth all the way. His eyes were sunken, cunning
sparks of yellow beneath a heavy brow. And his bod ... to Fang he looked like a
kids' drawing of the monster in the closet. Yet for all his misshapenness, he
looked damned fast. Strong, too.
        Fast and strong, whoopee-dink, didn't matter when the expensive Wolf
Man of Madagascar was locked up tighter than a virgin's box.
        Fang yawned and went to his cot, which was on the far side of his cage
from Wolf. Just how he liked it. He stretched out, wrapped his wings around
himself, and went to sleep.

                *               *

        Hyena waited patiently as the sun rose. Dawn of a midwest day. How
poetic.
        The fairgrounds looked magical and strange as the light grew and a
hanging mist that wasn't quite fog softened the angular spokes of the Ferris
Wheel. All was silent except for the twittering of birds. Somewhere, faint and
distant, a rooster crowed.
        As if that was some cue, a ripple of stirring life went through the
sleeping lot. Here a door opened and closed, there a child cried. Someone's clock
radio buzzed its alarm. A tall, husky man emerged from the roustabouts' tent,
shirtless, and Hyena watched appreciatively as he stretched, then looked away as
he scratched his armpit with one hand and his crotch with the other.
        Then there was a new noise, an engine. A chocolate-brown sedan
appeared, the only moving thing on a road that would later be crammed with
cars. The inspectors. And right on time.
        She stayed in her hiding place, concealed but with a perfect view of the
fortress-on-wheels where she believed Wolf was being kept.
        Wolf. What a laugh! Of all the places she'd expected to find him ...
        A plump man in a canary-yellow suit and cowboy boots went out to
meet the official-looking types getting out of the sedan. Probably Zwick, she
thought. The carnival boss. Time to give them the tour, reassure them that the
rides were safe and the girlie show was clean, that no E. coli was breeding in the
grab joints. Time, also, to slip them a bribe of free passes. Just a friendly gesture
of goodwill. Yeah, she knew how the game was played.
        Closer, she saw Green Eyes emerge from his trailer. He moved like a
cat as he crossed the lot, now wearing tan pants and a cream-colored shirt. The
kid, Chris, she remembered, came to meet him. They were too far away for her
to hear without extending her ear cable, but she could guess.
        The brothers disappeared inside the big blocky trailer for a few minutes,
then came back out. The kid sat on the steps, looking very small and neat in
jeans and a T-shirt, while his big brother went to wait for the inspectors. Neither
of them seemed horribly happy at being awake so early.
        Although she had only slept three hours, Hyena wasn't the least bit
tired. Her microspheres were efficient at refreshing and recharging her body. Her
metabolism ran at a different speed now. She didn't need much sleep. Probably
could have gotten by without any at all, but old habits died hard.
        She was hungry, though. Still needed fuel, lots of it. She could now
digest things that would have killed her before, but she preferred a nice big plate
of ham and eggs to scrounging a breakfast of dew-damp grass and brambles from
the field.
        That could wait. Time enough later to go into town.
        She waited and watched as the inspectors made their rounds and asked
their questions. Eventually, they came to the section where the freaks lived.
Hyena noticed that Chris sat up straighter, and screwed his face into an
expression of concentration like a kid trying to solve a complicated math
problem.
        Green Eyes made a big show of introducing the uptight-looking social
worker guy to the pathetic female giant as she sat in her wheelchair outside with
her long homely horsy face hanging out. Then on to Munchkinland, meeting the
dwarf and his tiny wife.
        Hyena started to glance toward Chris, then changed her mind. There
was nothing to see over there. No reason to look that way.
        What the hell?
        She turned her head that way again, then changed her mind again.
Nothing to see. Better things to see anyplace but there.
        Her neck began to ache and she realized she was trying to force herself
to look at the trailer, but at the same time was trying just as hard to force herself
not to.
        The inspectors weren't looking that way either. She focused on them
instead, and saw right away that there was something truly bizarre going on.
Every time one of them swept his or her gaze in a natural way that would and
should have encompassed the trailer, that person would look away. As if
distracted, as if bothered by grit in the eye, something. Or their gazes would do a
funny little skip.
        Apparently satisfied, the inspectors shook hands all around and headed
back for their car. The carnies lingered a while longer talking among themselves.
        As the sedan started up and drove away, Hyena tried again to look at
the trailer.
        There it was. No neck ache, no weird feeling of aversion, nothing. Just
the trailer, with the kid sitting on the steps. Now instead of that concentrating
frown, he was pale and weary and breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile.
        The kid ...

                *               *

        Caleb St. John put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You okay, Chris?"
        "Yeah, just tired."
        "You did great, as always."
        "Thanks." He offered a wan smile.
        "Go on and get some sleep," Caleb ordered, helping him up.
        Chris staggered, righted himself. "How come Morgana makes it look so
easy?"
        "She's different," Caleb explained. "Just as we all are. She only _sees_.
She can't broadcast like you do."
        "I guess." Too worn out to argue, Chris let himself be led back to the
trailer that he and Morgana shared with their mother.
        The youngest of the St. Johns was still curled in her bed. Nothing eerie
or mystic about Morgana now, Caleb thought. Not while she slept. Not while
those other-seeing eyes were closed and she walked in dreams like any other
little girl.
        Chris was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Caleb
removed the boy's shoes and drew a blanket over him.
        Rather than return to his own place, he settled down on the couch for a
nap. His mother's trailer was one of the largest and most comfortable in the
carnival. Only Mr. Zwick's was fancier. Cassandra's had a small bedroom at each
end, one for herself and one for Chris and Morgana, with a spacious living area
in the middle.
        Of course, tired as he was, he couldn't sleep. The energy from the
inspectors was still running through him, giving him a mild morning buzz. It was
nothing compared to the steady flow he got during the evening shows, but the
restless thrill prevented him from nodding off.
        Instead, he just leaned back and closed his eyes to savor the energy the
way someone else might savor his first cup of coffee.
        The inspectors had tried to mask their emotions with polite efficient
concern. Not at all like the marks, who might hide their true feelings behind
jeering and mockery. Either way, it didn't matter. He could sense it, could draw
on it, no matter what outward face they presented. Their fear and horror fed the
restless beast that was his soul.
        At some point, the energy must have worn off and let him descend into
sleep, because the next thing he knew, Morgana was gently shaking him,
reminding him that the fairgrounds would open for business soon.

                *               *

        Wolf prowled his cage, a low snarl rumbling at the back of his throat.
        He hated it when they left him alone like this. Alone, locked up in this
dungeon. Without even that bigmouthed bastard Fang for company.
        He hadn't been out of the trailer since getting turned over to this
traveling zoo. Barely had enough room to pace, let alone exercise. He was
getting flabby and out of shape. He wanted to run wild and free through the
night, the pale moon riding the sky overhead. Wanted to hunt, God, how he
wanted to hunt! The alluring scent of terrified prey. Flesh tearing. Hot blood
spurting.
        His memories had gotten patchy. The last thing he remembered clearly
was the island. There had been prey then, damn straight! That had been the last,
best hunt. All the men, so secure in their store-bought gear until they ran into real
danger. Even the ones who were supposedly trained soldiers, not wanna-be's like
the rest, had gone down under his jaws.
        Then there had been the woman. Dark hair, tawny skin, an exciting
body. Feisty. Fighting him. But just when he thought he'd won, that he'd
overpowered her, the old gargoyle had gotten in the way. After that, his
memories came apart into a confusion of falling, flames, and turbulent water.
        One clear instance stood out, of being hauled in a net aboard a fishing
trawler. The crew had all been Oriental, jabbering excitedly in a way that made
him think of Godzilla movies.
        Had he gotten loose? He recalled a stormy rainswept night, slick decks
beneath his feet, screams and blood.
        Somehow, he'd gotten from there to here. And apparently more than a
year had passed. Time was so tricky now, tricky and slippery. He could never
keep track of what day it was anymore. It seemed to be too much trouble to
bother. Now was all that mattered.
        But now was stuck in this goddam cage. Being fed instead of hunting
down his own fresh meat. Soon they meant to put him on display. People staring
at him. Pointing.
        Let them try. First thing he was going to do was rip out a few throats.
They'd see it was useless to keep him. They'd let him go.
        Or kill him.
        He growled at the thought. If he was going to die, he was not going
to do it in a cage. He would take some of them with him. Especially the man who
thought he could cage and own Wolf. Death would be worth it if the last sight he
saw was that asshole staggering around screaming while his guts spilled in loops
and coils down his legs.
        The image made him hungry, so he nosed around in his dish and found
a scrap of meat he'd overlooked. Down it went.
        The door opened. Not the door in the side of the trailer where the norms
came and went, but the sliding garage-style door at the end. Showtime was done,
now the freaks went beddie-bye.
        Two roustabouts led Fang in. The winged mutate joshed and joked with
them. Tame. Weak. Loser. He let them uncuff him without even a hint of fighting
back, went along with it as they ushered him into his cage and locked the door.
Wolf saw at least six openings where Fang could have taken them down and
escaped.
        "Man, what a night!" Fang said. "Must've been four hundred marks
come through. You'll see, Wolfman."
        "Shut up," Wolf said. He barely recognized his own voice these days,
and it was getting harder and harder to make his mouth form regular speech.
        The roustabouts brought in Alli-Gertie next, and she went obediently
into her cage just like Fang had. Not that she could have gotten away even if
she'd tried; she was a scrawny thing and she didn't have any useful claws or
teeth. Just those scales, plated over every visible inch of skin. Wolf figured she
wouldn't feel a cigarette stubbed out on her, though he doubted she was
bulletproof.
        "Hey, maybe next week," Fang went on jovially. "Mellow out and it
could be your big debut! You should see the poster they've got for you. Wolf
Man of Madagascar. Cracks me up. Full moon in the background, and you get to
carry a babe in a torn dress. Just like something off of a monster movie ad!"
        "I said shut up. Shut the fuck up. Got it?"
        "Your conversation tonight lacks a certain je ne sais quoi." Fang
laughed. "As my brother used to say. Or, to put it my way, up yours."
        Mr. Starfish was brought in next, in a contraption that looked like an
oversized baby buggy made out of an orange crate. He crept over the side and
into his crib, reaching and pulling with the flat tapering paddle-like appendages
that replaced his arms and legs.
        Now they were all locked in, the jolly foursome of them. Alone with
just each other for company. Alli-Gertie crawled into a corner of her cage, her
scales rasping against the floorboards. Mr. Starfish slithered around until he was
as comfortable as he could be.
        Fang had brought a snack, a giant drippy hamburger and a paper dish of
half-raw, all-grease curly fries. He kicked back on his bunk and started scarfing
it down.
        Wolf nearly gagged, partly from the stench of the charred meat and
onions, partly from his neighbor's table manners. And they said he was a
sloppy eater. He aired his opinion on the subject. to which Fang responded by
turning toward him and gaping his mouth wide to show a mass of chewed food.
        The side door inched open and a shadow slipped inside.
        Wolf was about to unleash another obscene remark to Fang, but Fang
abruptly lost all interest in their exchange and his dinner. His voice dropped to a
conspiratorial hiss.
        "Hey, Wolfman, can it and watch this action!"
        He caught the scent then, and forgot whatever he'd been going to say.
        Female.
        Young, healthy female.
        She lit a single candle and placed it on the floor at the end of the trailer
where a litter of cardboard boxes, crates, and other assorted junk was piled.
        The woman revealed in the candlelight couldn't have been more than
twenty. Face of a pouting child angel, body of a slut. Wavy blond hair fell just
past her shoulders. As she turned to regard the cages, Wolf saw unsettling eyes,
as dark and shadowed as a secret forest glen.
        She removed a mini boom box from one of the crates and turned it on.
Wolf's keen ears detected slow, jazzy music. If he'd been more into weird
intellectual television, he might have recognized it as the soundtrack to a show
from the 80's called Twin Peaks.
        "Who is she?" he hissed out of the corner of his mouth like a con in a
prison movie.
        "Corrinne St. John," Fang replied in kind, wiping his mouth with one
furry forearm. "The boss's sister. Ain't she a piece?"
        "What the hell's she doing?"
        "Watch and see." Fang grinned.
        Corrinne began to undress, swaying to the music. She unbuttoned her
top, exposing perfect milky breasts lifted by a plum-colored satin bra.
        "What is this, some kind of joke?" Wolf demanded.
        Fang waved irritably at him to be quiet. Corrinne ignored him and
started peeling off her faded jeans. Matching satin undies. Too sleazy to be
anything but Frederick's.
        "She gets off on giving us a show," Fang whispered. "Shut up and enjoy
it; it gets better!"
        There was a folded canvas director's chair leaning against the wall.
Corrinne set it up, then sprawled gracefully in it. Her fingertips traced circles
over her breasts and moved lower, skimming the waistband of her panties. The
tip of her tongue flicked out and wet her full lips. Wolf could smell her arousal,
her heat.
        "Talk about cruel and unusual punishment, huh?" Fang's greedy gaze
was fixed firmly on the woman, bopping his head along with the music. He
wasn't quite drooling, but it was close. "One more reason why I haven't signed on
and got my own trailer. I'd miss this!"
        "You're sick," Wolf opined, but he, too, couldn't look away.
        If Corrinne was listening, she gave no sign. She was wrapped up in
herself and her performance. She slung one leg over the wooden arm of the
chair, a move which drew the fabric of her panties tight against her crotch. Her
hips rolled as she rubbed herself in lazy motions.
        "I'd love to get a bite of that," Wolf heard himself say.
        "Oh, yeah!" Fang agreed enthusiastically.
        She sucked her fingers and then held them out to show the glisten of her
saliva before sliding them under the waistband. Her face was flushed, her chest
rising and falling, bulging against the confining bra cups.
        Wolf grabbed the bars and shook them. No good. If they hadn't given
way when he was at his most enraged, he knew they weren't going to give now
just because he was horny enough to take a jab at the crack of dawn.
        Corrinne smiled smugly. Wolf knew Fang was right; she was getting off
on it. Tormenting the freaks. She was one disturbed bitch, all right, and he
wanted to flip her over and do her until she begged for mercy.
        She took off her panties without getting out of the chair, somehow
making it look easy. The bush between her legs was dark gold and neatly
trimmed.
        "Let's see some pink!" Fang called ribaldly.
        "Got a dollar bill to wave at her?" Wolf snapped sarcastically.
        She obliged, hooking both legs over the arms of the chair this time and
opening herself wide, her fingers working busily. She reached down and brought
up something he hadn't noticed before, a length of wood sanded smooth and
polished to a dark walnut sheen.
        Wolf felt dampness on his chest and only then realized that a pendulum
of drool was dripping from his jaws.
        Corrinne moaned as she slowly pushed the length of wood into herself
and began pumping it in and out. Within moments, the unmistakable shudders of
a climax seized her.
        Fang had quit his remarks, just staring so intently that his eyes nearly
blazed. His fists were clenched around the bars as tight as Wolf's own were.
        Barely pausing, Corrinne moved around so she was kneeling with her
head to the floor and her ass in the air, giving them a different view as she
continued to masturbate herself with the wood. She brought herself off again and
then withdrew it, leaving it indifferently on the seat of the chair as she rose and
moved closer to the cages.
        Wolf's fingers twitched. If she came close enough ...
        But no, she knew just where the limit was, and stayed an inch beyond
his longest reach as she passed. He noticed Alli-Gertie huddled in a ball, hands
over her ears, wracked with those strange glottal sobs, but Corrinne didn't even
glance that way. Instead, she proceeded, naked except for her bra, to the straw-
filled crib that housed Mr. Starfish.
        "This chick could teach Hyena a few things about kinky," Wolf
muttered.
        Mr. Starfish whimpered feebly. He was cataclysmically retarded as well
as horribly deformed, so he had no idea what was happening to him as Corrinne
started pleasuring herself with the appendages that passed for his limbs.
        "Hey!" Fang called good-naturedly. "Hey, you want some of this?"
        Wolf grimaced. "Put your peanut-dick away, dumbshit! Nobody wants
to see it!"
        "Over here!" He waggled it at Corrinne. "Come and get it while it's hot,
baby!"
        Wolf snatched up his water dish and chucked it at Fang. It rebounded
off the bars just in front of his nose with a sound like a dinner bell.
        Corrinne, startled, jumped away from Mr. Starfish. Her foot caught on
the leg of his crib, upending it. Mr. Starfish pitched headlong into the straw.
Corrinne didn't fall but stumbled toward Wolf's cage.
        His gnarled claws shot out and seized her by the hair. "Gotcha, bitch!"
        No scream, just an indrawn rasp of breath, and he realized she hadn't
said word one. Mute, maybe. A shame. Screaming and begging had turned him
on even before his upgrade.
        Goddamn bars!
        He pulled Corrinne's lush body tight against them, the smell of her
maddening in his nostrils, his spit raining on her upthrust tits. Their faces were
only inches apart, her dark green eyes staring up into his feral yellow ones.
        The terror and pleading he wanted to see weren't there. She snapped her
teeth at him playfully, and stuck her hand between the bars to unerringly find the
furry sheath between his legs, and the slick column of red flesh poking out of it.
        Her touch took Wolf so by surprise that he let go. Even as he realized
the mistake, she whirled away from him with a mocking smirk.
        She stood a few feet away and bent over, facing away from him,
thrusting her butt toward the cage. Mooning him, squirming her hips, reaching
back to spread her cheeks. Her taunting eyes told him that all she had to do was
back up, jut a couple of steps, and she could be pressing that firm ass against the
bars, letting him get into her from behind. Just the way he liked it.
        Wolf howled in fury and threw himself against the cage.
        His hard-on slammed straight into one of the bars.
        His howl turned into a strangled yelp as he recoiled, crumpling to the
floor with his hands clamped firmly over his crotch. He hurled his supper and
writhed painfully in the mess.
        "I've seen people stub their toes before," Fang observed with malicious
good humor, "but I've never seen anybody stub his dick. Smooth move,
Wolfman!"
        Corrinne's laughter was a breathy silent chuffing that made her breasts
dance. She waved one finger at Wolf -- naughty, naughty. Even Alli-Gertie had
raised her head enough to see what was going on, her pebbled lips stretched into
a wide grin.
        "That's it," Wolf said when the pain subsided enough to make speech
possible. "There's gonna be blood. If it's the last thing I do, asswipe, I'm going to
garrotte you with your own intestine."
        "Me?" Fang feigned innocence, badly. "What'd I do?"
        "And you." Wolf pointed at Corrinne with one wavering claw. "You ...
you ..." he couldn't come up with a vile enough threat.
        She pursed her lips and blew a big Marilyn-Monroe-type kiss at him
while she dressed, still laughing silently, and left Wolf to stew in his rage and
humiliation.

                *               *
        
        Hyena was getting mighty damn tired of sleeping in the field.
        She'd braved the freak show earlier tonight, doing her best to remain
inconspicuous. Which was a joke; even as a kid, she'd thrived on attention be it
good or bad, so trying not to be noticed was a new, unpleasant experience.
        The hat and the coat were just too out of the ordinary, so she'd made do
with jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt -- tres hick -- and a mask from one of
the concessions booths. Cheap ripoffs and Disney imitations. She was now the
proud owner of a rubber full-head mask made to look like a cartoon hyena with a
lolling warty tongue. It had done the trick, though, concealing the metal sheen on
her face and neck. All she'd had to do was keep her hands in her pockets as much
as possible.
        Since she'd gotten something of a peek at the freaks last night, she
hadn't been all that surprised by what she found inside. Fat dude, tall chick, short
dude, tattooed chick ... the alligator woman and the gross thing billed as Mr.
Starfish were by far the worst of the lot.
        And the furry winged demon, that had been a shock. On closer
inspection, she'd understood that it wasn't one of those pesky gargoyles, but if he
was a natural freak, she would eat her mask, warts and all. She remembered
some of the video clips and brochures Coyote had shown them and figured this
was another creation of the "hard-working men and women of Xanatos
Enterprises."
        Thinking of Coyote bummed her out. He'd seemed like the perfect guy.
Except for his distressing tendency to keep getting blown up, dismantled, or
turned to rust.
        She put it out of her mind and concentrated on the freak show. No
Wolf. Her source had seemed reliable, not likely to mistake a cat-mutate for a
wolf-mutate, but if so, where was he?
        Wolf was her last shot. Jackal had wimped out on her, Dingo had gone
legit, and Fox had thrown everything away in favor of the wife-and-mommy gig.
She hated working alone, and her experiences trying to sign on with someone
else had so far been unsuccessful. She still owed Tony Dracon a kick in the
groin; nobody but nobody called her "sugarbuns."
        A string of failed attempts to get in good with other criminal gangs had
left her nearly broke. Holding up liquor stores and quickie-marts was getting old.
Wolf would be company as well as brawn. So she'd endured a gruellingly long
bus ride (commercial airlines were out of the question; the idea of trying to pass
through a metal detector ...). She wasn't going back without making absolutely
sure it was a dead end.
        She supposed she could have gone into town and found a motel room,
but she'd planned to try and sneak into that trailer after everyone went to bed.
Just when she'd been about to make her move, some blonde babe had sauntered
inside, and Hyena didn't want to risk getting caught.
        It was Saturday morning. The gates opened at noon today, so there was
already activity on the fairgrounds. Hyena was just about to go scrounge up
some breakfast when she saw Green Eyes with the babe from last night.
        A little dagger of hateful envy sank into her when she saw how close
and companionable they walked. It dulled a little as she noted the resemblance
and realized they were brother and sister, then sharpened as she thought of
Jackal. That, she knew, was the real reason he never had anything good to say
about the men she dated. Jealousy.
        Some stiff in a suit, a mark or townie by the look of him, came to meet
them. Their location, hidden from all but her prying eyes, and the furtive way the
suit-clad man glanced around, piqued Hyena's larcenous interests. Something
dicey was going on here.
        A fat envelope changed hands. Cash, lots of it. The suit was nervous but
eager, probably sweaty-handed with anticipation. Buying drugs? Renting the
blonde slut for a night?
        Nothing else was exchanged except a handshake. Green Eyes tucked the
envelope into his pocket and they parted ways, Suit heading for the exit, the
other two going into the trailer.
        She took a chance and crept closer, until she was crouched behind the
thick metal wall. Even with her ear pressed right up against it, she could only
barely make out the murmur of voices. A normal trailer, she would have been
able to hear a flea fart.
        "Hey! You! What are you doing there, girl?"
        Hyena whirled. A beer-bellied but tough-looking roustabout stood
there, hands at his belt as if he'd been about to tap a kidney when he noticed her.
The sight of her exposed face froze him with shock.
        No time to screw around. She pronged her fingers at him and the index
and middle ones extended, just as she'd done at Porky. Instead of going one to
either side of his head, she nailed him in the face. She'd been going for the eyes,
but he jerked his head and her quills wound up punching through his brow and
into his brain.
        "Frontal lobotomy," she said, and hissed a malicious chuckle. "Betcha
needed that like you needed a hole in the head!"
        He fell, not dead yet but quaking all over, blood bubbling up and
streaming down the sides of his skull. One of his flailing hands whumped the
side of the trailer.
        Hyena curled her pinkie like she was making an ASL letter "j", the
razor-sharp quill carving a paper-thin and backbone-deep line across his throat
just below the adams' apple. An amazing flow of scarlet poured out that thin
gash. His heels drummed one last time, and then he went limp all over.
        She pressed her ear to the side again. That flailing hand hadn't made
barely a sound, but she couldn't take chances. Not now that the killing had
begun.
        No signs of anyone being disturbed.
        "Hmm." She regarded the roustabout. Broad daylight, the fairgrounds
due to open in less than an hour, and here she was with a warm corpse. She
shoved him under the trailer, then scuffed dirt and dead grass over the stain.
        Under the trailer.
        She slithered under and was just about to insert her ear cup through a
narrow opening when something roared overhead. A heavy impact whammed the
floor. Dirt and dried flakes of oil showered down on her.
        She knew that roar, muffled though it had been. Wolf was here, and
he wasn't happy. She hastily worked her ear cup through.
        Above, Green Eyes laughed. "Have a fit if you like. It won't do any
good. My sister tells me you're uncooperative, so I doubt you'd make a good
employee. Still, I have to make my money back somehow."
        Another male began to chant merrily. "Thun-der-dome! Thun-der-
dome!"
        "How the fuck does she know?" Wolf snarled. His voice had gotten
more gravelly than ever, barely understandable.
        "Corrinne has a ... way with animals," Green Eyes said. "She can tell
whether one is tameable or not just by looking. Some, like Fang here, can be
domesticated. Others can't."
        "Hey!" the Thunderdome-chanter interrupted himself, insulted.
        "I'd rather fight for my life than live in a cage!" Wolf said.
        "Glad to hear it. The Brock Association will be, too. They look forward
to their entertainment. And they always tip very well, not that it will matter to
you."
        The Brock Association. Hyena knew about that bunch. Chicago
businessmen, wealthy and jaded, for whom normal thrills didn't do the trick
anymore. They got their jollies watching weird spectacles, exercising their power
over others by making them perform degrading or deadly things for money.
Their leader, Danforth Brock, wore a public face of benevolence and charity, but
behind the scenes he would have been right at home belly up to the rail at some
Roman gladiatorial bout.
        Hyena could understand the attraction. Her own tastes tended to run
that way. Her favorite TV programs these days were the ones focusing on actual
video footage of gory events. When Housepets Attack, or World's Messiest
Disasters.
        "Two freaks enter, one freak leaves!" the chanter resumed. "Hey, who's
the lucky opponent?"
        "How about you, Fang?" Green Eyes said.
        "Whoa! Hey! Hold on a minute, Caleb!"
        "All right!!!" Hyena heard Wolf's powerful fist smack into his palm.
"Now you're talking!"
        "The carnival moves on tomorrow," Green Eyes -- Caleb -- said. "We'll
make a little side trip, just the three of us."
        "Why me?!" Fang demanded. "I don't want to fight this bozo!"
        "Where else am I going to find a suitable challenge? The Brock
Association want a real show, not an instant kill. Besides, Fang, I'm sorry to have
to tell you this, but we might not be able to keep you on as a member of the
Amazing Oddities family."
        Hyena smothered a snort of mirth. Family!
        "What? Why not? Hey, I've been good!"
        "I know, I know," Caleb soothed. "There's a ... legal complication."
        "What are you talking about?"
        "According to my lawyer, a landmark decision has just been made in
New York. You've been patented."
        "Huh?"
        "You're the legal property of some outfit called Gen-U-Tech. Just our
luck, someone related to a high muckety-muck in that firm saw you at a show a
couple weeks ago and reported it. They want you back."
        "Hey, screw that!" Fang protested, anger and fear jostling for place.
"They can't do that! Can they?"
        "They can and they have, and they're not willing to sell. Something
about you being the only subject left, and more tests."
        A cougar's hissing snarl filled Hyena's ear cup with static. By the
sounds of it, Fang was having a conniption. He spat curses and slammed his fists
against the wall hard enough to sift more dirt and oil flecks on her.
        "So here's the deal," Caleb continued. "Double or nothing. You and the
Wolf Man --"
        "Wolf!"
        "-- face off for the Brock people. You win, and you're out of here. On
your own. With everything I've been holding in trust for you and an extra
hundred grand to sweeten the pot."
        "Yeah, but I lose and --"
        "You're mine," Wolf said with great satisfaction.

                *               *

        As they left the trailer, Corrinne paused and scented the air.
        "Something wrong?" Caleb asked.
        She ignored him, closing her eyes and opening her mouth to catch more
of the scent on her tongue.
        Blood.
        Recently spilled blood. So much that it could only mean death.
        Had she ... done something?
        She couldn't remember.
        If she investigated now and found something, Caleb would see. He
would know. She'd promised him that she wouldn't do it any more. No more
deaths. Not on site. Not among carnies and friends.
        He would be disappointed in her.
        If she'd done something, wouldn't she remember? All of the other times
were clear in her memory. Townie roadhouses, truck stops. Letting herself get
picked up by men looking for a little quick action, men who got much more than
they bargained for.
        But then, how would she know if she remembered them all?
        She tried to keep her urges under control by having her fun, like last
night. Toying with them, tormenting them, was almost as satisfying as her other
favorite pastime.
        It couldn't have been her.
        She didn't want to chance Caleb finding out, so she forced it out of her
mind though the alluring scent tickled in her nose. She shook her head at him,
smiled, gave him a teasing look to let him know how much she'd appreciated his
lies.
        "Made him mad, didn't it?" he said smugly. "Scared, too. He didn't want
to show it, but I could feel it coming off him like sparks. When those two fight
..." he trailed off, contemplating it.
        She plucked at his sleeve and put on her poutiest pouty-angel
expression.
        "You want to come along and watch?" His grin was hard and savage.
"I'm sure Brock wouldn't mind. You put on a hell of a show for them last year.
They'd be glad to see you again, I bet."
        Corrinne smiled, and relaxed as an eddy of breeze carried the odor of
blood away from her.

                *               *

        "Well, hell," Hyena muttered to herself (or to the corpse she still shared
her hideaway with, but she doubted he was listening). "Now what?"
        On the one hand, it would be kind of cool to tag along, sneak in, and
watch Wolf and Fang duke it out. Wolf would win, she was sure. Fang, who had
to be the winged fuzzball from the freak show, might look fierce but he sure
came across as a sniveling chickenshit.
        On the other hand, though, she didn't know if she could risk it. Wolf
might get himself killed, and all her trouble would have been for nothing.
Besides, even if Wolf won, he hadn't been offered the same deal. He'd be back in
his cage, back in the trailer.
        Be easier, she mused, to wait until the rest of the carnies moved on. But
if Green Eyes was confident enough to handle both mutates by himself, he must
have a trick or two up his sleeve. And the more she was around him and his
creepy family, the less she wanted to tangle with them without knowing all the
particulars.
        There was some weird stuff going on here. Magic or something. She
hated having to deal with magic.
        Take the gargoyles, for instance. Bad enough on their own. Okay. Fine.
She'd gotten used to the fact that they existed. Turned to stone during the day.
No good explanation for that, but okay. Then, along come those Incas or Mayans
or whatever they were, with their magic amulet.
        Or Anubis -- talk about weird! She still shivered when she thought of
how her impulsive idiot brother had siphoned up the spirit of a death-god and
turned her into a baby. She was lucky her cybernetics had shrunk too, or else she
would have been sliced and diced from the inside out.
        No, she was in no hurry to go up against unspecified magic or psychic
powers. Just thinking about it made her skin creep like someone was watching
her.
        That meant busting Wolf out before his side-trip to Chicago. And
_that_ meant doing it tonight while the carnival was going on, because she knew
that once the last mark was out the gates with his kewpie dolls, the carnies would
start tearing the place down. Slough night. Tomorrow, they'd hit the road.
        In the meantime, she had to get rid of the corpse. Would not do to have
things complicated by an ongoing murder investigation. Missing was fine, no big
deal. Having someone stumble over a stiff was bad news indeed.
        
                *               *

        "What do you know?" Caleb said softly. "Morgana was right."
        "Isn't she always?" Chris murmured.
        "That's the thing about oracles and seers. No one ever believes
beforehand. Ah, well, chalk it up to hindsight being 20/20."
        Neither of them had paid much attention Thursday night when Morgana
was talking about what her other-seeing eyes had found during her show, but
when she told Caleb that she'd "seen" the same woman hiding under the trailer,
next to Andy Wilcox's dead body, they had been inclined to check it out.
        And sure enough, there she was. The brothers watched from
concealment as the "robot lady" slunk along the side of the trailer.
        Caleb recognized her right away. She'd been hanging around the
carnival, had even visited his tent. Her mask might have hidden her face, but he
was sure to remember anyone who walked around in a cloud of that much
directionless anger.
        Tasty.
        He'd gotten Elliot to play barker for the night, which would mean a dip
in admissions since despite being a lawyer, Elliot didn't have the sharklike
instincts and loathing of humanity that Caleb did. He couldn't shame marks into
buying a ticket. But it freed him up to investigate this little matter, and with what
he would make tomorrow from Brock, he could afford a slow night of ticket
sales.
        "What are we going to do?" Chris asked. "What if she's got ... weapons
and stuff?"
        "I'm sure she does." Caleb savored the nervousness coming off of Chris.
"But we can't let her mess with our exhibits, now, can we? And if we can
capture her ..."
        "Could we even hold her?"
        "That's why we're going to wait and see, little brother. If she can bust in,
we'll know. We'll know what she wants, we'll know what she can do. We'll be
ready." He patted the modified rifle lying beside his leg. "We'll be ready."

                *               *

        Hyena examined the locks. These guys were taking no chances.
        She'd been given the upgrade option of having a "Lock Gun" installed
in her left thumb, similar to what the cops used. But, regarding it as too subtle
and a waste of her time, she'd opted instead for something a little flashier.
        A blue-white laser erupted from a raised barrel in the back of her hand.
She used it to cut effortlessly through the locks. So what if they'd notice the
damage. They'd tip to the fact that something was up the minute they noticed
their Wolf Man gone anyway.
        All she had to do was hope nobody saw the beam and resulting shower
of sparks and smoke. As an extra precaution, she unfolded the short glider-type
wings built into her back, hoping they would shield some of the glow.
        In a matter of seconds, the locks were so much molten slag. She opened
the door, did a fast infrared scan to make sure Wolf was the only warm body
around, and darted inside.
        "What the -- Hyena!?!"
        "Surprise," she said dryly, popping twin hooded bulbs out of her
shoulders and training their light on his cage.
        He shrank back, squinting.
        She stared. "When did you grow a tail?"
        Wolf's hunched shoulders shrugged unevenly. The white ponytail she
remembered was gone; in its place was a manelike straggle of ivory hair from
which triangular ears poked up alertly. His face had changed so much that even
his former Pack-mate could hardly see the man he'd been. The way he was
shaped now made him look like he would be more comfortable on all fours, like
a bear that could rise to its hind legs on occasion.
        "Never mind," she said. "Come on. I'm busting you out of here."
        "Where's Jackal?"
        It was her turn to shrug. "Working at Jiffy-Lube, how should I know?
Back off, I've got to cut through the bars."
        "Hurry up! These crazy fuckers want to --"
        "I know. Like a cockfight, only uglier." She powered up to an intense
red-violet laser and melted a huge hole in the bars.
        Wolf squeezed through. "I owe you one."
        "Later," she said. "Let's get out of here; these people are nuts."
        Wolf stopped just outside to take a deep chest-expanding breath of the
cool air of freedom. Hyena nudged him sharply.
        "Move it, wouldja?"
        "That's far enough," Caleb St. John said, moving into view. He was
holding a souped-up rifle like he knew how to use it, aiming right at them.
        Hyena laughed. "I knew I liked you, Green Eyes. Too bad it had to turn
out like this."
        "You!" Wolf's fur bristled. "I've been waiting for this!"
        "Oh, knock it off!" Hyena thumped him in the head. "We're leaving!"
        "Not without a little ... action," Wolf said, crouching to spring.
        "I don't have the time," Caleb said as if bored.
        Wolf leaped. Caleb fired.
        fwhut!
        A long skinny cylinder struck Wolf in the meaty part of the thigh.
Hyena reacted a fraction of a second too late, slicing at it and only succeeding in
shearing through glass. The tuft of feathers that had been on the end of the dart
fell at her feet like a dead parakeet. Thick yellowish fluid dripped from her
razor-claws.
        Wolf roared and plucked the needle from his leg.
        Hyena karate-chopped her left hand at Green Eyes and quills flew in a
widening spray. One caromed off the barrel of the rifle with a metallic squeal,
one pierced his sleeve, one hit him in the ribs, and the last etched a shallow cut
along the side of his neck.
        He fell back a step and she sprang down the stairs, half-dragging and
half-shoving Wolf with her. The stuff in the dart had been fast-acting, but most
of it had ended up on the ground instead of in Wolf, so he was only logy and not
flat on his ass.
        St. John fired again, a clean miss this time. Their little spat hadn't gone
unnoticed; already a bunch of roustabouts were headed this way. Unlike most
folks, carnies tended to hurry toward the source of the disturbance instead of
away. They were chummy, had to look after their own because society as a
whole saw them as outcasts.
        One had the bad luck to round a corner and come face to face with
Wolf and Hyena. She swung at him reflexively. The angle was awkward and her
claws only grazed him, but they were still wet with the sedative, and the dose
meant for Wolf dropped the man instantly.
        So much for any chance at doing this quietly. Her forearm laser cannon
popped up and she sent a series of short pulses gunning at the carnies. They
scattered, yelling in alarm.
        Wolf reeled dazedly.
        "Run, dammit!" Hyena extended a prong like a tuning fork from the
base of her palm and goosed Wolf. There was a snap and sizzle, the reek of
singed hair. Wolf jumped and yelped, that dopey look left his eyes.
        Where was the fence? Over the fence and into the field, and they would
be home free.
        Where was the fence? It should be ...
        No, don't go that way.
        Bad idea.
        Nothing to see over there.
        "Son of a whore!" she shouted, realizing what was going on. "You little
bastard, quit it! It's there and I will find it!"
        fwhut!
        The needle went through Wolf's ear, sticking clean through so the
sedative squirted down his muzzle. He yanked at it, ripping his ear into notched
flaps.
        "This way!" Hyena cornered and raced between two trailers, pulling
Wolf. He was too heavy for her to lift, or else she would have triggered her jets
and blown this popcorn stand.
        His legs went noodly on him and he stumbled. Even as Hyena turned,
he was back up and charging after her.
        A ghost flapped at her out of the shadows, and she blurted a brief
scream before seeing that it was just a sheet, belling outward in the breeze.
Someone had hung out their wash on a few rows of ropes stretched between a
trailer and the fence.
        She hacked one down, hinged her back to speed-limbo under the next,
and heard Wolf cry, "Glurk!" as he was quite literally clotheslined. His feet flew
up, his head jerked back, and he landed with a big enough thud to jar her to her
knees. The line snapped and laundry heaped atop the struggling Wolf.
        Spitting curses, Hyena crouched and started flinging clothes, trying to
unbury him.
        "I've got her!" an old man's voice called excitedly, and skinny, wiry
arms grabbed her from behind.
        She whirled in his grasp and before he knew what happened, had him in
a headlock. But to her surprise, he only laughed and wiggled free with amazing
dexterity. He yanked her arms behind her back.
        "Careful, Elasto!" St. John called from the other side of the trailer.
        "Elasto," Hyena echoed, smirking. "Of course, the rubber man! Hey,
rubber man, can you do this?"
        She swiveled her hip joint until she could tap him on the shoulder with
her spiked heel. When he gasped, she bent her elbows backward, locked her
hands behind his back, and flipped completely over. They made a pretzel-shape
to the tune of cracking bones and then Hyena was standing with one foot braced
on either side of Elasto as the old fool crawdaddied and whined in the dirt.
        Wolf had struggled to a more or less upright position, but he was all
wrapped up in a colossal floral-print dress. By the size of the garments strewn
about, Hyena knew they had blundered into the Giant Woman's laundry.
        "Over here!" More voices, converging.
        Wolf swore and snarled and flailed about until his muzzle poked out the
collar. One arm was caught in a sleeve, the other bound to his side.
        The absurdity made Hyena scream with laughter. "Why, Gramma!
What a big --"
        fwhut!
        Sudden sharp pain. She looked down and saw the feathery end of a dart
jutting out of her middle, just below the bottom tip of the breastbone.
        "Oh, shi ..."
        Blotto.

                *               *

        "We're very much looking forward to tonight's entertainment, Mr. St.
John."
        "I'm sure you'll enjoy it, Mr. Brock."
        "What do you have for us tonight?" Brock's gaze flicked quickly but
lasciviously to Corrinne, who was standing beside Caleb in a clinging leopard-
print catsuit and a rhinestone cat's-eye mask.
        "A battle to the death," Caleb replied.
        "Oh, not this enchanting creature, I hope!" Brock clasped Corrinne's
hand in both of his own. "To lose you, my dear, would be a genuine shame."
        She smiled up at him but, of course, said nothing.
        "Corrinne won't be performing tonight," Caleb said.
        "In that case, I would be delighted if you would sit with me." He tucked
her arm through his and, beaming, led them from the ornate marble foyer.
        Caleb grinned. Last year, Brock had seen with his own eyes just what
sort of "creature" Corrinne really was. He'd watched her take on two hulking
Neanderthal bikers busted on trumped-up drug charges and seen her lick the
blood from her hands when it was all over. Yet he still wanted her. Caleb
supposed that in many ways, to a man like Brock, his sister was the perfect
woman. One-third his age, jump-back gorgeous, uninhibited, and mute so she
couldn't talk back or complain. Never mind that she was in her own way just as
much a freak as the rest of Caleb's staff.
        Freaks, all of them. Her, Chris, Morgana, even Caleb himself. Which
just goes to show you, sometimes it's what's inside that counts.
        But, speaking of freaks ...
        "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Brock, I should go check on the stars of
tonight's show."
        Brock glanced around as if he'd forgotten Caleb was there. His desire
was rolling off of him like sweat. Caleb could sense it, cloying and nauseating,
the empathic equivalent of eating Crisco with a spoon. It would have been
different if Brock just wanted to nail Corrinne, use her hard and fast and
selfishly. But the older man had romantic notions all mixed in, making his
passion something useless to Caleb.
        "Of course," Brock said. He patted Corrinne's arm possessively. "We'll
be fine, won't we, dear?"
        Beyond them, Caleb could see the plush interior of the Brock
Association Coliseum. A grand name for a round room the size of a miniplex
movie theater, with rows of cushy leather seats rising in tiered ranks around a
clear sand-filled space. This space was shielded by a thick, clear, glasslike
substance to make sure none of the members got splattered or attacked or in any
other way interfered with by the evenings' lineup of thrills.
        Many of the seats were already occupied. The dark side of Chicago's
elite was here. Men who by day were wealthy, respected, touted for their great
generosity and humanitarianism. By night, they gathered here with brandy and
cigars to wallow in vicarious sex, death, and depravity.
        There were a few women also present, perhaps one in ten, and it had
been Caleb's experience that these society matrons and businesswomen made up
for their minority status by being even more inventfully bloodthirsty than the
men.
        He passed others who lingered in the library or hall, all of them finely-
dressed and chatting as if they were waiting for an opera to begin. The Brock
Association was housed in one of those fine old homes that looked so stately and
reserved behind ivy-covered wrought-iron gates. He couldn't help but wonder
how many of them housed similar or even worse practices.
        His stars were waiting below, in a chamber beneath the Coliseum. Like
gladiators of old, they would enter through arched doorways that would bring
them to their place in the sand.
        The Wolf Man and the Bat Demon were sullen and silent, each of them
having exhausted their supply of profanity and threats on the way up. The "robot
lady" was still out, a necessity because every time they'd let her come around,
she'd demonstrated yet another mechanical marvel and damn near escaped.
        "Fantastic," he said, shaking his head admiringly. And he'd thought
Rainbow, with her reproductions of many great works of art permanently tinting
her flesh, was the ultimate devotee of self-made freakism. Rainbow's living
museum, though, couldn't hold a candle to this.
        She groaned and opened her eyes. Puzzlement swiftly turned to fury,
and that turned to incensed rage as she realized she was clamped to a metal
device reminiscent of the one that had once imprisoned Anthony Hopkins in his
role as murderer extraordinaire, Hannibal Lecter.
        Caleb welcomed her anger, so fresh and vivid. It revived him, erasing
the weariness that had settled into his bones during the long drive.
        She opened her mouth and said something so vehement and disgusting
that he was struck speechless. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw both the caged
mutates gape in shock.
        "Nice!" Caleb finally said. He felt like a teetotaller who'd just been
given a shot of 180-proof. It hit him like a meteor, rocking him from head to
heels. "You are going to give us one hell of a show! What's your name?"
        "Hyena," she said, following it up with an insult that blistered the
wallpaper.
        "Why," he said, regaining his mental footing, "I got the impression
earlier that you liked me."
        "I don't like men who chain me up!" she snarled. "I prefer it the other
way around!"
        "Maybe the problem, then, is that we're too much alike." Caleb smiled.
"You'd hate it if I took you like this, wouldn't you? Chained, helpless. I could do
anything I wanted, and you couldn't stop me."
        She said something about his mother that would have aged Cassandra
St. John twenty years, had she been here to hear it.
        "I could bring anybody in, let them have you. Too bad my sister killed
those bikers from last year; they'd be perfect."
        "Go on and try it, then!" She thrust her hips challengingly at him, as far
as she could move. From somewhere in her pelvis came a muffled noise --
kshuunk! "But tell me, Green Eyes, you familiar with the phrase 'do not back up,
severe tire damage'?"
        His grin widened even as he winced. "What a hellion! Oh, but there's
fear in you now. Can't hide it from me. You've been victimized before, haven't
you?"
        "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"
        "Interesting choice of words."
        She tore at her prison, tried to use her lasers, and went berserk in horror
when she found out they didn't work.
        "One of the Association knows a thing or two about cybernetics," Caleb
informed her. "Just enough to disable your weapons."
        "I don't need lasers to fry your ass!"
        "I could offer you as prize to those two," he said thoughtfully. "Winner
take all?"
        "No thanks!" his Bat Demon cut in hastily.
        "Hyena? Are you kidding?" The Wolf Man snorted. "Not if you paid
me."
        Hyena told them, at length and in great detail, what they could do to
each other.
        "As fun as this is," Caleb said when she'd finished her tirade, "we have
a show to put on."

                *               *

        "Ladies and gentlemen!" For the occasion, he'd worn an old-fashioned
ringmaster's getup -- shiny black knee-boots, breeches, red coat, top hat, whip,
pistol. The spotlight shone down harshly upon him, kicking up sparkles from the
sand that covered the floor. "Tonight we bring you a Battle to the Death!!!"
        They ate it up, not cheering yet but sitting eagerly forward with
glittering eyes. Their bloodlust baked at him like heat.
        "Not just one, not just two, but _three_ of the world's most Amazing
Oddities!" Caleb went on. "Here for your viewing pleasure in an apocalyptic
fight to the finish! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these three will be pitted against
each other in a contest for the ultimate prize -- Life! Only one of these
combatants will leave the ring alive!"
        Hotter now, the fevered urge. Sex was good, but Sex could be bought or
downloaded just about anyplace. Death, though, and Her handmaidens Pain,
Mutilation and Terror, those were the whores these people couldn't easily
purchase.
        "With no further ado, I give you ..." a drum roll swelled from the
hidden speakers and Caleb swept his arms in a flourish. "The Wolf Man of
Madagascar! The Bat out of Hell! And seen here for the first ... and possibly last!
... time ever, the Robot Woman from Mars!"
        Applause thundered. Six men, all wearing black bodysuits and cowls
wheeled in the cages on wooden ramps laid over the sand. Brock and his cohorts
murmured in greedy approval at the sight of the creatures contained within.
        Wolf in his fury was spitting and frothing and throwing himself against
the bars. Fang, a true ham, made a few mock-fierce lunges, then clasped his
hands and shook them above his head before flashing the crowd Nixon's double-
V-for-Victory. Hyena thrashed in her device, shouting vile threats at the top of
her lungs.
        Caleb turned up the volume on his microphone to drown her out. "I'll
have you know, ladies and gentlemen, that there was a time when the Wolf Man
and the Robot Woman were partners! They might be thinking they could team up
against the Bat out of Hell --" here Fang gnashed his teeth in legitimate
annoyance, because he knew they would. "But let me assure you, even partners
will become relentless killing machines in this Arena of Doom! How, you
wonder? Let me show you."
        He gestured, and the unseen controller in the booth threw a switch.
Sand shifted and ran as a metal grid rose from beneath it.
        "This grid carries an electrical charge. At the moment, the charge is
nil." He tapped it with his foot to prove it. "But it can be dialed up to anything
ranging from a painful shock to a lethal volt. Our combatants, should they refuse
to fight, will all suffer the consequences! So they'll have a choice -- do their
best to kill one another, or die together in shared agony!"
        Now there were cheers, vicious and hungry. Caleb strode from the
arena, his boots hardly seeming to touch the floor, so abuzz was he with the
focused emotions.
        "Seal the Pit!" Caleb took his seat beside Brock. Corrinne, on Brock's
other side, leaned forward to smile at him.
        Overhead in the control room, more switches were thrown. Thick steel
doors slid closed and magnetically locked. A clear dome came down and fitted
along the top of the shielding wall. The barrier looked flimsy, but Caleb had seen
it withstand terrible punishment without cracking.
        "The Pit is sealed!" the controller replied, his magnified voice like that
of God.
        "Release them!" Caleb ordered.
        The cages fell open. Hyena's bonds snapped loose. All three were free.
The tension among them was palpable.
        Caleb sat back and lowered his mental defenses. His job was done. It
was feeding time. With his defenses down, the negative energies now exploded
into him, flowed through him. Better than any drug. Better than orgasm. He
feasted on the cruel delight from those around him, on the hatred and fear from
the combatants.
        The usual run of horror and revulsion he got each night from the marks
in the freak show tent was satisfying in a meat-and-potatoes manner. This was a
banquet, a Roman orgy to go along with the gladiatorial contest. There was more
here than he could ever use, but he gorged anyway.
        Fang made the first move, knowing that his life was the cheapest one in
the ring. He unleashed twin sizzling bolts of blue-white, sending the others
catapulting back. Hyena jerked like someone having an epileptic seizure as the
current raced through her circuits, but she retaliated with a flick of her wrist that
turned her fingers into bladed nightmares. Fang dodged, saving his skin but
forfeiting several clumps of hair that had been shaved off close as a Gillette
commercial.
        Wolf recovered from the burst and charged, coming in low on all fours.
His powerful hind legs propelled him upward. His hunched shoulders slammed
into Fang's gut and drove him wings-first against the shield hard enough to shake
the room.
        Hyena slashed again. Fang saw it coming and tried to put Wolf's body
between himself and her claws, and was only partly successful. Both males
bellowed in pain and their blood rained to the sand from long, deep cuts.
        Wolf's jaws stretched wide, going for the throat. Fang got an arm up
just in time. Wolf shook his head roughly side to side like a dog with a rag.
        Fang pistoned a foot into Wolf's midsection, losing more hunks of meat
from his arm as Wolf flew backward. Wolf's head bonged briskly into Hyena and
they both went down. Cradling his mangled limb to his chest, Fang used his
other hand to launch another zap. His laughter sounded more like an insane
scream.
        Hyena sprang up and the bolt fused sand into brown smeary glass. It
also struck part of the metal grid. A *pow* like a backfire echoed through the
room. All three of them jumped as they got a strong shock. The lights flickered.
The grid went dead.
        Wolf bounded partway up the wall and from there onto Fang's back,
driving him face-first into the sand. His teeth sank into Fang's wing with a
hideous gristle-popping noise. They rolled in a gnashing, pummeling tangle.
        In an almost-dainty motion, Hyena extended first one foot and then the
other, like a woman donning nylons. But the purpose was made clear as long
barbed blades clicked out of her toes. She took two big strides, her hip dislocated
out on its axle, and she wheeled her whole leg in a spinning windmill than ended
in a solid kick to Fang's ribs. The blade tore a gaping hole along his side and
under his arm.
        The blood drenching his face made Wolf crazy. He shoved his muzzle
into that hole, biting in a frenzy. Fang's shriek was high as a young girl's. He
struck Wolf in the head and shrieked again as Wolf reeled back with shreds of
inner organs hanging from his jaws.
        Fang's grasping hands found Hyena almost by accident. He lifted,
sparks dancing down his arms and along her body. She kicked again, one-two, a
short sharp blow to each leg. His femoral arteries laid wide open, Fang hurled
her against the Hannibal-Lecter device that had bound her. A protruding spur of
metal punched into her skull, pinning her.
        "Kill him! Kill him!" the wild crowd, on their feet now, demanded as
Wolf approached the weakened, terribly wounded Fang.
        They got something even better as Wolf instead fell upon Fang and
began devouring him alive, ripping off pieces of flesh while Fang struggled
feebly.
        Hyena levered herself off of the device, tottered, almost fell. Her left
arm flopped uselessly, her left leg seemed stiff and locked. There was an ugly
bulge of gouged flesh on the right side of her head where the spur had gone in.
Oily red-black fluid leaked from the wound.
        She looked at Wolf, an easy target as he concentrated on his meal. Then
she turned to look at the audience.
        "Kill! Kill!" they chanted.
        Her eyes found those of Caleb. Her dark and twisted lusts had
interesting flavor. No mushy-gushy romantic ideations. Raw lust, lust and hate,
intermingled.
        Rather than attack Wolf, she moved with a speed that took them all by
surprise. Her hand folded down off her wrist, revealing a dark hollow stump
from which emerged something that looked like a chisel-tipped jackhammer. She
threw herself at the shielding wall and that jackhammer became a blur.
        The supposedly-indestructible wall gave way like a sheet of spun sugar.
        Hyena was in the audience, right in front of Caleb and Brock.
        "I still have a few tricks up my sleeve!" she screeched. Her shoulder
extended, a slit opened in her forearm, and a whirling circular saw blade
emerged. She swept it at Brock, who happened to be closest, and before anyone
had fully come to grips with what was happening, the leader of the Association's
severed head landed in Corrinne's lap.
        The flaring nova of sadistic glee in the room was instantly engulfed by a
Big Bang of panic. For Caleb, who still had his defenses down, it was like a
shotgun blast to the head. He actually flipped backward in his chair from the
spasming influx of negative emotion. That saved his life, for Hyena's next swipe
sheared off the legs of his upended chair rather than decapitating him.
        Wolf leapt through the broken shield wall, drawn by the screaming,
stampeding prey. They were bottlenecked at the door, beating and clawing at
each other in their frenzy.
        Hyena tossed Caleb's chair aside and stood over him, gloating as well as
she could with half her face paralyzed. He, still numbed and dazed by the assault
on his empathic senses, remembered his gun but couldn't make his body work in
concert with his mind.
        She gloated just a second too long. A sleek, furry form hurtled into
Hyena and they crashed through ranks of chairs.
        "Corrinne!" Caleb shouted, his voice lost in the din. He rolled onto his
side and groped for the pistol.
        His sister had transformed. Her leopard-print catsuit had torn away as
her body changed, but leopard-print fur sprouted from her skin to replace it.
        Hyena twisted and saw her attacker, saw the gleaming green eyes with
their vertically-slit pupils, the mouthful of sharp teeth. She yelled and tried to use
her sawblade on Corrinne, but the leopard-woman braced her now-tripled weight
on Hyena's arm.
        A ringing roar of challenge heralded Wolf's leap. He tackled Corrinne,
knocking her off of Hyena. But Wolf's intent wasn't fighting. He bore Corrinne
to the floor and attempted to mount her.
        Caleb found the pistol and drew it.
        "I don't think so!" Hyena threw herself on him. A six-inch spike sprang
from her kneecap and as she landed, she brought it up in a hard thrust.
        Caleb was able to move just enough to prevent the spike from impaling
his scrotum. It skidded along his thigh. Hyena was on top of him now. He caught
her arm with both of his, losing the pistol in the process, and sweat broke out on
his brow as he fought to keep the whirring, spinning sawblade away from his
face.
        Corrinne's caterwaul announced Wolf's triumph. He battered into her,
his furry body humping frantically. Corrinne crouched low, her ears flat against
her head, her haunches driving back to meet him.
        Hyena slammed that knee-spike into Caleb's thigh again. Her rage
hammered his senses. The breeze from the blade made his eyes water as she
forced it down.
        He pushed with all his strength, then let go and dodged to the side.
Hyena's sawblade dug into the floor, momentarily holding her in place. Caleb
grabbed the pistol and shot her in the head. As she fell, twitching like a
marionette with tangled strings, he scrambled away from her and took aim at
Wolf.
        The gun and Wolf went off at the same time. His climactic howl was cut
short as the bullet plunged into his heart. The death throes added to his
convulsive thrusting and made Corrinne shriek in savage pleasure.
        Caleb collapsed, aware now of the gored and bleeding agony that was
his leg. He dropped the gun. His sister crawled out from under Wolf's slumped,
lifeless body. She crept to him, nuzzling him worriedly.
        He patted her to reassure her, and then slid down a frictionless inclined
plane into darkness.

                *               *

        "I'm getting damn tired of visiting hospitals," Cassandra St. John said,
her tough whiskey-and-cigarettes voice not quite able to conceal the relief she
felt at the sight of her oldest son.
        Caleb grinned. "Hi, Mom. How was your visit?"
        One pale, thin, be-ringed hand fluttered dismissively. "I'm more
concerned about what you've been up to while I was off putting up with my
prissy sissy."
        "It's okay."
        "Okay? Danforth Brock and seven of his associates dead, you in the
hospital, the papers screaming about werewolves and monsters attacking a
gentlemen's club, and you tell me it's okay?"
        "Lucky for all of us, the rest of the Association were just as eager as I
was to keep the real story out of the news."
        "Lucky you got paid in advance," she added. "You did, didn't you?"
        He nodded. "More than enough to cover our losses and my hospital
bills. Kind of a shame about Fang --"
        "The Bat Demon?"
        "Yeah. But I never could have trusted him, and it only would have been
a matter of time before he escaped. The trailer just wasn't built to hold anybody
with that kind of power."
        "When do they let you out?"
        "The stitches come out tomorrow, and then I'm free. And about time,
too. Devon's been going nuts trying to look after Chris and Morgana. Not to
mention the havoc Elliot's playing with my profits. He may be a good lawyer, but
he's a rotten barker."
        "How's Corrinne?" Cassandra asked, frowning. "Is she ...?"
        "The test results haven't come back yet. But don't worry, Mom. We'll
take care of it."
        She sighed. "Yes, I know. We're carnies. We look after our own."

                *               *

        *click*
        *whirrr*
        "Did you hear something?" the coroner asked his assistant.
        "Sorry, what?"
        "Never mind."
        His arm was still in a sling, his face still partly covered with a bandage,
but he was the only one who could handle this.
        Something had to be done with the bodies, though he hated even
touching them. The memories were too vivid. The wolf-thing had gone over him
while chasing someone else, and he counted himself fortunate to have suffered
only minor injuries.
        He zipped up the thick plastic, closing the wolf-thing's ghastly frozen
snarl from the light forever. "Okay, he's bagged. Is the other one done yet?"
        His assistant peered into the hellfire blaze of the incinerator's window.
"Looks like."
        "Help me load this one in. Then we'll start on --"
        *click-click-click*
        " ... what was that?" he finished.
        "What was what?"
        "You are deaf as a post, Billy," the coroner complained. They wheeled
the gurney over and dumped the plastic-wrapped corpse down the chute.
        "One more. Wow, that must have really been a show," Billy, the
assistant, said wistfully. He knew about the Association, because these weren't
the first bodies he'd helped dispose of, but they were by far the weirdest. In time,
he knew he might even be allowed to attend.
        The coroner shuddered. "I --"
        *whirrrrrrrrrrrrr*
        "I do hear something!" Billy leaned over the robot-woman, just as
her eyes snapped open.
        "Pretty sucky last words," she said, her words slow and draggy like a
record played on the wrong speed. Her gold-tinted hand shot up and clenched
tight around his throat.
        "Nuh-nuh-nuh ..." the coroner babbled, backing away.
        "Glahh!" Billy said urgently.
        Hyena sat up jerkily. Caleb's bullet had struck her upgraded skull,
skimmed around under the scalp, and exited on the other side near the spongy
mess where she'd run into the metal spur. Self-repairing or not, it had taken a
while for her systems to overcome that damage.
        She squeezed.
        "Glik!" Billy got out before his windpipe collapsed. She let go, and he
strutted around the room like a headless chicken, scratching at his neck, his face
going plum-colored.
        Hyena swung her legs over the side. They both worked now, though the
left was still sluggish and her knee didn't want to bend.
        The coroner yammered with fear as she got up from the stark metal
table. She extended her hands as if inviting him to admire her nail polish.
        *tssszzziiiiiiiip!*
        A spreading stain soaked the front of his pants, and at first he thought
he'd pissed himself. Then he felt something heavy and sodden splat onto his
shoe, and looked down. Down at the surgically-neat incision that opened him
from sternum to groin.
        "Please --" he said, and died.
        "As last words go," Hyena said, her voice approaching normal, "that
one's a little better."

                *               *

The End

Page copyright 1998 Christine Morgan (vecna@eskimo.com)