She struggled to breathe in the tight bodice and loosened it. She was still pulling out the strings when she heard a noise behind her. She turned around and cursed her carelessness. The boy who’d lost in their game of dice stood in front of her with his arms folded. He was smiling, but his eyes looked hungry, greedy, and his handsome face now seemed crude and shifty.
“If you won’t give me back my money, I’ll take something else from you,” he growled. “You won’t get away this easily, you hussy.”
Greta took a step back. It was always the same. Men encountered her role as a cocky, playful juggler and confused her act with reality. They believed she truly was a loose woman.
The fellow came closer, reached for her breasts, and tried to drag her onto one of the chests. But Greta was prepared. She jerked up her knee and hit him hard right between the legs. It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to defend herself against a pushy man, and often a knee where it hurt the most was enough to put those men back in their place. Greta was a small woman, but she was athletic and strong from years of practice with the rope, skittles, and balls.
The young man groaned loudly but stayed put. Evidently, he was tougher than she’d thought.
“Just you wait, whore—I’ll take you even harder for that!” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and spread his strong, hairy arms.
He threw himself on her like a bear and managed to pull her to the ground. Greta wanted to scream, but he pressed his hand to her mouth. She smelled stables and muck. As he pushed up her skirts, she desperately felt for the small knife she always carried under her bodice. There it was! But the boy forced her hand to the side, and the blade slipped from her grasp. Meanwhile he had pulled down his trousers to his knees, and she could feel his erection between her legs like a cudgel. Greta turned and twisted until she managed to free one of her hands. Immediately she grabbed the knife.
“I promised you a kiss,” she hissed. “Here it is!”
With one quick movement she swiped the blade across her attacker’s cheek and nose. The boy howled with pain.
“You . . . you goddamn witch!”
He let go of her and held his nose with both hands, blood spurting from his face. The blood was everywhere—in his face, on his hands, on his jerkin. The tent looked like they’d just butchered a pig.
Greta watched with gratification.
“Looks like it isn’t your lucky day,” she said as she got to her feet. “Now get out of here and find yourself some peasant wench before—”
She paused as she heard a low, menacing growl. She looked to the entrance of the tent and saw the black dog that was almost the size of a calf. It was the doctor’s dog, a monster of an animal, with mighty wolf fangs and glowing red eyes. Some people really believed the dog was the devil, which was why the doctor called him Little Satan.
Little Satan’s effect wasn’t lost on the profusely bleeding lad.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped. “What in God’s name?”
Trembling hard, the young man took his hands from his face and hastily tied up his trousers. He tried to run but tripped and fell.
“What are you doing here?” said a voice as deep and dangerous as if it came straight from hell. “Speak up before my dog tears you apart like a hare.”
The doctor had entered the tent behind Little Satan, followed closely by Karl, who was carrying corked bottles of theriac.
“I . . . I . . . ,” stammered the fellow. Blood still dripped from the long cut on his nose and cheek.
Greta hoped he’d carry a scar as a memento.
“You are soiling my tent.” Faust pointed at the floor. “And blood drives the dog mad. Mad and hungry, as you can see.” On cue, Little Satan pulled up his jowls and bared his sharp yellow teeth, each one the size of a small knife.
One look at Greta told the doctor what had been going on. He turned as white as a sheet, and blind rage took over his cool composure.
“By the dark forces and the pale light of the moon,” whispered Faust, his eyes flashing like small, hot stars, his voice trembling with anger. “If you touched as much as a hair on her body, I—”
“It never came to that, Uncle,” Greta said, almost feeling sorry for the young fellow. “He’s been punished enough. Let him go.”
The doctor took a deep breath. For a brief moment it seemed he would set the dog on the boy, but then he gave a soft whistle, and Little Satan lay down.
“I give you precisely three blinks of an eye to leave this tent,” said Faust quietly, his voice as cold as the north wind. “And another three blinks to go hide in a very deep hole. Believe me—if I ever see you out there again, Little Satan is going to swallow you whole. But not before I’ve turned you into a rat. Because that is all you are: a rat on two legs. Now get out of here!”
The last words echoed like thunder. It never ceased to amaze Greta how the doctor could rock the entire world with his voice.
Whimpering and bleeding, the boy staggered past Faust, Karl, and the growling dog. They heard his hasty footsteps rushing off.
Then Faust turned to Greta, still trembling with fury.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop
