man nor cat was entirely certain of it.
“As you wish, princess.”
Chapter Seven
Roseatre said little as they crossed the parquet of the Arcana Royale’s lobby. Overhead, the statue of the Great Sphinx gazed dispassionately at the ebb and flow of normal and paranormal alike. The lobby was a crossroads, populated by arrivals, departures and those unlucky few who had nowhere else to go.
The fashion changed, the hairstyles adjusted and the shoes were always evolving, but the lobby appeared much as it had upon her arrival with Cerveau all those years ago. It was startling to realize she had no idea when she’d arrived. After Pandora, sure, but the exact year seemed to bleed into so many other memories that she couldn’t pinpoint it.
Winter. Of that, she was certain. They’d been on a quest, one Cerveau, the librarian, had been determined to complete and for which Roseatre cheerfully volunteered. Cerveau’s hunger for knowledge was a constant source of amusement for Roseatre. They enjoyed the debate, the hunt and the dig.
Unfortunately, the lust for knowledge led them in the front doors of this very casino, colliding with an obstacle that Roseatre couldn’t simply slay. Beyond the front door lay an entire city, an ever-changing, ever- evolving city where humans thrived on vice. But inside the Royale…life stayed the same. Her heels clicked decisively against the tiles. Behind her, Anthony was a warm shield at her back.
It was a strange term to apply to the descendent of a blood-sworn enemy, but it fit. Like the tiger he became, he prowled on silent feet, shadowing her steps. If she stopped too suddenly, she imagined he would brush right up against her back.
Tempting as the thought might be, she forced her legs to keep moving. Cool air brushed her legs and slid under his shirt to tease her overheated skin. The lack of clothing didn’t bother her, nor did the wolf whistles and the catcalls. She was used to being noticed and she managed her walk the way she managed her stage performances—as though they were merely battles to be overcome.
At the bank of elevators, she paused. She had no idea what floor Anthony was housed on or if he was even staying within the casino. She suspected he must be, but it didn’t matter. Unlike Cerveau and the other dancers, Roseatre wouldn’t turn to dust at sunrise if she were outside. They didn’t hold her soul, only her body and her will.
But the consequences would be less than ideal.
A long, golden arm came around her to punch the up button, but instead of retreating, the hand firmed on her hip and drew her against him. The heat of his skin burned through the cotton of the shirt. The rasp of his jeans brushed against her bottom.
It would be so easy to lean back against him. But the spoils of war went to the victor.
She wasn’t ready to surrender yet. The dampness between her thighs decried this pledge, but she ignored it. The doors opened and she tugged free of the contact, but he was right behind her, crowding her into a corner and planting himself between her and the other guests who filtered on.
Roseatre’s eyes skimmed over his bare back, the muscles taut and tense as though prepared for battle. Would he be smooth? Would the skin be hot? Would the muscles ripple as the cat’s had?
Folding her arms, Roseatre tucked her hands under her biceps. She focused her gaze on the pips of the elevator detailing their passage up to the eighth floor, then the ninth, pausing again on the twelfth and thirteenth, but even though many passengers exited, Anthony remained still, watchful.
Awareness flared along the back of her neck. Glancing to the left, she saw a man leaning against the wall, his dark eyes hot and openly staring. He smelled of limes, salt and the barest hint of tequila. Tipping her head to the side, she lifted her eyebrows.
In front of her, Anthony growled, a full-force, rumbling, chest-thumping, growl. She didn’t laugh. But she wanted to.
Because Mr. Lime and the Coconut paled and pressed back against the wall of the elevator as though he wanted to fall right through the steel carriage. When the elevator paused on twenty-one, the man bolted, leaving behind a waft of bad cologne to mingle with the tropical scents.
The doors hadn’t even closed when Roseatre started laughing.
Alone finally, Anthony twisted to look at her. His dark scowl was completely undone by the amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Enjoy that, did you?”
“I thought he was going to piss his pants.” The mirth bubbling in her chest flexed rusty muscles as she laughed. The sound barked through her, but rose in pitch as his lips twitched.
“He did. A little.”
“Poor man.” Still, her laughter doubled at Anthony’s derisive snort.
She had her amusement firmly in hand, other than the occasional snicker, when they arrived at the fortieth floor and the doors opened. She nearly swallowed her tongue as the call of a bird and the rich, loamy scent of earth swished into the elevator. Anthony stepped into the doorway, bracing his back against the sliding door so it couldn’t close as Roseatre gaped.
She exited slowly, heels sinking into damp soil. The sound of falling water echoed through the underbrush. Overhead, trees seemed to stretch higher than the visible canopy. The air was moist and rain drifted on the wind.
“Wow.” She stopped, her gaze skating over the impossible. Despite her initial jungle impression, it was more like a rainforest, with thick-bodied trees, exotic plants, birds flying overhead and in the distance, the echoing rumble of cats yowling a welcome.
“It smells weird because it’s magic, but it’ll do.” Anthony nudged her forward. Roseatre turned in enough time to see the elevator doors wink closed behind the bark of the largest tree she’d ever seen.
“They did all this with magic?” Apprehension shivered over her skin. The thump of the doors left her alone, in a mystical forest, seemingly so far from the stage of the Midnight Mystery Lounge that she might as well be on the far side of the planet.
“When you’re as insanely wealthy as the Royale, I suppose you can create whatever playground you like.”
The brush rustled and a familiar white tail flickered into view before vanishing again. The cats were pacing closer to their location.
“And your cats stay here?”
“Yes, they do.”
Her stomach clenched. Did tigers climb? Weren’t they one of the few species that preferred the ground to the trees? Or was that lions?
A broad forehead pushed aside fat leaves to rub her silver-and-black head against Anthony’s leg. He dropped his hand to rub her ears. The female brushed past Anthony to stroke her furry head to Roseatre’s bare thigh.
Her mouth went dry.
“Nalini likes you and she’s just saying hello.” Despite Anthony’s assurances, Roseatre’s palms were damp when she tried to mimic his comforting stroke to the cat’s ears. The female seemed to like it though, butting her head back under her hand and demanding more attention.
“She’s the cat I’ve been practicing with all week.” They did look all the same, but Roseatre noticed the numerous differences between Nalini and Anthony’s cat. “Are you all weres?”
“No.”
Unlike his normal droll response, the answer was short, clipped and warned against further inquiry. He snapped his fingers and Nalini
