Circus of Blood by James R. Tuck Page B

into him.
    “That’s him.” His finger pointed to one of the few men in the room. He was by the door, standing beside a fake plant. He shuffled from side to side on flat feet. He wasn’t very tall. He looked longer because he was so lean. Small hands fidgeted, moving from the pockets of his jeans to the buttons on his bowling shirt to the brim of the porkpie hat that sat slanted on a narrow head.
    He saw Larson pointing at him and his hands began moving faster.
    My hand fell on Larson’s shoulder. It was hard with muscle made from pushing his chair. “I’ve got it from here. You go back to work. Let me know when she wakes up so I can ask her some questions.”
    “I don’t know if she will . . .”
    My voice got hard. “When.”
    “Will do, boss.” He said boss like another man would say asshole . A j erk of his hands spun his chair away and back down the hallway.
    Larson and I have a complicated relationship.
    As I crossed the room, I tried to ignore the reactions of the people there. Whispers behind hands, eyes turning away, some mothers pulling their children closer. The room was electric with fear. Not the stampede panic of terror, just a low-level buzz of anxiety.
    It might have been the Colt .45s that hung in my shoulder rig; it could have been the tattoos that painted my arms from knuckles to way under my shirt sleeves; it could have been my sheer size and appearance. The shaved head and goatee make me look like a big scary thug. Hell, I am a big scary thug.
    But it wasn’t any of that.
    It was my reputation.
    Everyone in that room knew that if they ever crossed the line and turned on humans, then I would be the one who came for them in the night. I was the hand of justice for them. Judge, jury, and executioner in a court without appeals.
    I had killed some of their kind, probably some of their relatives. I understood their fear.
    That didn’t make it any easier to see.
    As I walked, one woman stood up. She moved with that faster-than-human speed that lycanthropes had. My hand jerked. I stopped it from going to my gun, but it wanted to. I didn’t recognize her. She was someone’s grandmother, her shoulders stooped under a paisley shawl. She still walked straight. The look on her face was unreadable, milky brown eyes pinned on me.
    I stopped, letting her come to me. The room was so silent the air pulled at my eardrums.
    She stepped up to me. The skin on the back of her arms hung down loosely, swaying as she reached up to my face. I bent down slightly. Those hands clamped on each side of my head, pressing with lycanthrope strength.
    Adrenaline painted my nerves as I realized how easy this old lady could snap my neck.
    She pulled me down.
    And planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.
    She let go, squinting up at me. Her voice was deep, gruff, and riding breath that smelled like butterscotch. “Thank you.” She turned and began shuffling back to her seat.
    Everyone in the room found something else to look at.
    Well, I’ll be damned.
    The guy in the porkpie hat pushed away from the wall as I stepped near. I motioned outside with a jerk of my head and pushed open the door. It shushed on oiled hinges. Heat pounced on me, driving away the air-conditioned comfort I had enjoyed inside the clinic. The South, man; I’m from here and I do love it, but where the hell else are you going to find the temperature at damn near eighty degrees hours after the sun had gone down?
    Sweat popped out on the back of my head, sliding down my neck and into my shirt collar. The straps of my shoulder holster immediately felt like they had been roasting in an oven. They pulled tight and hot, sweat pooling under them. I kept walking to the end of the ramp that led up to the door. The guy in the hat followed.
    His legs weren’t as long as mine so I reached the end first, turning to lean against the handrail. A little bowlegged, it gave him a swinging step. He was lighting a cigarette as he stepped up. Now that he was nearer, I could see