“Now you sound like Pete.”
“I do. I just—ever since Miami, I have been haunted by the vision of you lying limp within the Tor-al-Degan’s jaws. It has forcefully reminded me how vulnerable you are.”
Wow, how often do you really get to step outside your own selfish view? And here I thought I was the only one who still had nightmares starring that monster’s putrid scent and her bright red tentacles.
“Jaz!” Bergman yelled out the RV door. “Half an hour till show time.”
“Gotta get into my costume,” I told Vayl. I smiled brightly, pretending my stomach hadn’t just tied itself into a noose.
“Are you nervous?” asked Vayl.
“No, who me? Of course not! Why would I be? Ha, ha, ha!” I skipped off to the RV, ignoring the undeniable sound of Vayl’s low chuckle behind me.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Bergman had estimated our fifteen double rows of benches could comfortably hold about one hundred fifty people. Since nobody looked that relaxed, I guessed our crowd tipped the scale around two hundred.
Vayl had forced me into this, the lout. I began to plot my revenge. The next time he slept I would sneak into his tent and draw a mustache on his face in red marker. I’d insist he go shopping with me and then make him stand next to a bin of panties while I tried on clothes. I’d take him to Evie’s first PTA meeting and volunteer him to serve cookies and punch.
Bergman switched from general lighting to a single spot and pumped up the music. I swishy swished onto the stage. The crowd greeted me with loud, prolonged applause. Now that I could no longer hide behind the curtain and obsess, I felt better. After all, I wore three tons of makeup, most of Cassandra’s traveling jewelry, and six layers of skirting, under which I’d strapped my leg holster and a sweet little .38 I usually reserved for pants-free occasions. My gold sequined top erred on the skimpy side, but rows of flat golden discs had been sewn to it so it looked less like a sports bra and more like a lets-play-banker costume. Long, sheer black sleeves covered my arms, and black lace fingerless gloves disguised the bandages on my hands.
And those posed the real challenge. The hands are an integral part of the belly dance and do a lot to make you look graceful. Despite being under the influence of painkillers, they hurt like hell to hold correctly. But concentrating on that really helped me ignore the fact that Chien-Lung had indeed shown up and sat front and center, where he smiled and bobbed his head in time with the music. He wore another traditional Chinese robe, this one black embroidered with red dragons. I caught his eye once, and immediately felt grateful he had to keep his hands stuffed in those oversized sleeves. Otherwise he probably would’ve been waving dollar bills around like the best man at a bachelor party.
Lung’s lady sidekick, who sat to his right, didn’t seem too thrilled with his interest in the belly dancer either. She kept nudging him with her elbow, until finally he leaned over and said something to the vamp to his left and they both shared a quiet laugh. I thought I recognized the new vamp as one who’d waited out the fight the night before to see who’d win.
On the other side of the aisle, the Xia clan seemed to be enjoying their night out together. Mom sat straight and proper, hands in her lap, but her eyes had shone extra bright when Cole took the stage. Xia Lai stood on his dad’s muscular legs, bouncing in time with the music.
Before I knew it the first song had ended. The next one was much faster. Harder, yes, but more fun too. About halfway through the crowd started to clap in time, which inspired me to try moves I hadn’t attempted in years despite the very real possibility that I might be too sore to move in the morning. I must’ve pulled it off, because they cheered at the end.
Now I remembered why I’d always been the first one to arrive at my dance lessons and the last to leave. Forget tattoos. Done correctly and received with an open heart, belly dancing is true body art. And my audience was ideal. Besides Lung and his pal, who I pointedly ignored, it was mostly families. No wolf whistles. No whooping and hollering. Just lots of clapping in time as I moved them through the music, telling them a story they understood at the gut, where rhythm speaks its universal language.
The last song had barely begun before Vayl began to sing along from the back of the tent. I didn’t even know the thing had words, and I sure hadn’t expected him to turn it into a group performance. But there he was, walking toward me down the center of the aisle, singing Romanian in his husky baritone.
I strutted off the stage, waving and blowing kisses to my new fans. Which was undoubtedly why, as soon as I made it past the backstage curtain, I ran straight into a support pole. I damn near brought the whole house down. Literally. I held the pole very still and tried not to think of what would happen if we couldn’t lure Lung into a one- on-one because the Assistant Assassin ran her head into a steel rod.
A sound to my right caught my attention. It was very subtle, landing somewhere between a quiet snort and a faint gurgle. I took a short hike outside the tent and found Cole rolling on the ground.
“Are you all right?” I rushed to him, trying to hold him still so I could see the site of his injury. Then I got a look at his face. “Are you
“Oh my God, you should’ve seen your face!” He was trying to hold it in so the audience wouldn’t be distracted from Vayl’s singing. But the laughter kept slipping out the edges of his mouth.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I demanded.
