The Elf and the Ice Princess (15 page)

“Under
the highway. Head for downtown.”

“We’re
not leading them home.” But Hauk took the turn anyway. They’d have a better
shot at losing them in the streets of downtown Austin—as well as a better
chance of wrecking his new bike or driving amok through unsuspecting
pedestrians. Like the Hands of Atropos and their bosses at the Order of Ananke,
Hauk and the other Citizens of the Underlight didn’t like drawing attention to
themselves. It might be the only thing the warring groups agreed on.

“Catrina’s
got her holiday show tonight at the abandoned electric station by the lake.
She’ll hide us until it’s clear.”

Fear,
irrational and more gut-deep than what any armed enemy could inspire, clenched
Hauk’s stomach. Reflexively his hand released the accelerator and the bike
stalled out beneath the overpass. He bit out, “I’m not going to Catrina’s.”

“You’ll
be fine. Just keep moving.”

“Come
up with a new plan.”

“Fine.
Keep your helmet on when you walk inside. That’s the new plan.”

Hauk
glared at his friend through the face shield. “Yeah, ’cause
that
won’t
get us noticed.”

Brayden
huffed. “Then take it off. It’s a flippin’ maze in there. No one will see you.
And she doesn’t care about your face anyway. Now, for the love of the gods,
let’s get our asses and our ill-gotten goods somewhere safe.” He slapped the
backpack of evidence they’d risked their necks tonight to acquire. “What’s in
here is more important than your pride.”

Hauk
clenched his jaw. “Did you forget the part where I’m a wanted man and can’t
just go gallivanting around in public?”

A
bullet slammed against the pilings.

Brayden
screeched, “Get us out of here!”

Hauk
slammed the accelerator and the bike zipped forward in a cloud of steam. Maybe
he would head to Catrina’s. He knew her; she wouldn’t turn him in. And he and
Brayden had worked too hard tonight to get caught now.

But
it wasn’t Catrina who set his mind on edge. Her “show” was Pussy Will-Oh!
Burlesque, an always-crowded affair full of jazz music, neon cocktails and
amazingly talented, scantily clad women. Hauk didn’t like crowds, and crowds
didn’t like him. His face and body, or what was left of it from his time in
Afghanistan, was a mess of burn scars and tattoos. He could kill the joy in a
room simply by stepping from the shadows. And women? He’d take any amount of
physical pain over the horrified looks his disfigured form invariably put on
their faces.

Add
to that, he was wanted for seven other soldiers on his squad who also went up
in flames—but wound up in coffins. He didn’t remember a thing about that night
to explain how he was the lone survivor. Maybe he
had
gone nuts and
torched a barracks full of his fellow Rangers. But that didn’t feel right. He’d
fought beside those men, relied on them. More importantly, they’d relied on
him. He’d know if he’d violently betrayed his men and his country.

Wouldn’t
he?

Hauk
gritted his teeth as he turned his steambike toward the narrow lake that wound
through downtown, reflecting neon-illuminated skyscrapers like a demented disco
ball. He didn’t do public appearances. And he
really
didn’t do Catrina’s
shows. Except, apparently, tonight.

* * *

Jolie
Benoit’s heart beat an excited patter. She gripped tight to the silver lyra, a
hoop suspended from the ceiling, as it lowered between the cement walkways of
the abandoned electric company and into the spotlight below. She’d draped
herself into the curve, one knee propped up in sensual invitation and one thigh
hooking the metal for support. Her very first audience—at least, for this kind
of dancing—came into view surrounding Pussy Will-Oh!’s little platform stage as
they lounged at their cafe tables and drank exotic cocktails. Her obscenely
long fake lashes batted furiously as she not-so-innocently licked a candy cane.

Jolie
had been dancing her whole life, but while the pointe shoes were familiar, the
rest of her costume was a far cry from the tights and leotards she’d worn as a
student at the prim and proper Houston Ballet. Tonight a “Mrs. Claus” dress hid
a red and white corset and a feathered bustle skirt. The white thigh-highs and
garter belt was a combo she’d never worn outside the bedroom, but she’d proudly
show them off in public tonight.

At
seventeen she’d given up her dream of dancing professionally because of her
parents’ insistence that “Benoits may study ballet. They attend and financially
support the ballet. They don’t dance in it.” Such exposure would be beneath
them.

Giddily
she grinned and gave the candy cane one more long lick as the audience laughed.
Speaking of exposure…if her parents only knew where she was dancing now. “I’ve
been thinking about everyone’s favorite part of the holidays.” She pursed her
lips and widened her eyes dramatically. “Everyone does have the same favorite
part, right?”

The
audience yelled back: “Presents!”

She
blew out a breath of mock relief. “Oh, good. For a moment there I thought
‘hope’ or ‘good will’ was going to come up. But you’re my kind of audience.
Presents! Yes!” She gave the candy another thoughtful lick. “But I got to
thinking about it, and presents aren’t my favorite part anymore.” As the
audience “aww”ed their reaction, she looked up at the twisting shadows from
whence she’d descended. “Cassie, darling, could you let me down a little more?
I know I look like I can handle this thing, but really, I just like riding it.
Put me closer to the floor.”

The
audience laughed as the lyra lowered until she could delicately step off.

“Much
better. As I was saying, presents are no longer my favorite part of the
holidays. Do you know why?”

“Why?”
The echoed response reverberated around the cavernous space, filling even the
darkest corners with joyous energy.

She
loved burlesque audiences. They participated. The vibe was so real. So human.

She
wrapped the candy cane and stuck it in her voluminous skirt. “Because! I won’t
get presents this year. Or ever again. I had an epiphany. Want to hear my
epiphany?”

The
audience shouted an approval. The piano started playing the intro for the song
she’d written—her songwriting debut, as well as her debut with Pussy Will-Oh!.

“We
get one day—
one
day—of presents for three hundred and sixty-four days of
being good. Boxes of useless crap for a year’s worth of no fun? What kind of
rip-off deal is that? This year, I decided…” She slowly peeled down a glove to
cheering applause. “I’m going to be naughty those three hundred and sixty-four
days.” The glove snapped off. She let it fall and moved to the other one. “And
when the holidays come around…” She sang with her best whiskey voice, “
I’ll
get nothing, get nothing…and like it!
”

She
launched onto her toes for the striptease, using her classical training in ways
she’d never been allowed as she sang and smiled and played with her audience.
With the removal of two hairpins, her red-gold curls tumbled around her
shoulders. The Santa dress unsnapped from the front to reveal her corset and
bustle. Her toes carried her into the air again, and she spun and leaped to the
howling appreciation of the audience. Then the bustle was gone, leaving her in
a corset and ruffled hot pants. She stepped back onto the lyra.

She’d
been lying when she said she couldn’t use it.

The
circle rose back into the air with her once more on it. She crooned about all
the naughty things she planned to do as she unhooked the corset. Amidst
escalating cheers the fabric fluttered to the ground, leaving her in a red lace
bra as revealing as she could find while supporting her enough to dance.

Now
for her favorite part of the routine. She took hold of the metal, flipped and
swung, piked and did the splits, flashing the audience in a way that would’ve
made her parents pass out—all from ten feet in the air and to resounding applause.

She
backflipped off the lyra and sucked in air to sing the last chorus of her
number: “
There may be coal in my stocking, my old friends may be mocking,
but baby, I lived every day. I got nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing! Ow! And
I like it this way.
”

The
crowd hopped to its feet as she bowed, flushed with her success and ready for
more.

In
the shadows at the back of the party, Hauk tried unsuccessfully to close his
jaw. He was supposed to join Brayden in a backroom, somewhere safe from all the
eyes. But his feet were rooted to the floor, his own eyes locked on a goddess
of beauty incarnate. And not just beauty. The way she sang. The way she
moved.
Every straight man in the room was praying for a chance to be on her naughty
list, and damn his scars, he was still a man.

Albeit
a foolish one.

The
dancer’s bright eyes flashed across her audience, soaking in their adulation,
but they didn’t penetrate back to his dark corner. Not that he’d want them to.
Not in real life, anyway, when they would look at him with disgust or fear or
pity. No, he needed to take his hard-on back to the office and ask politely for
a cold drink.

But
she was sauntering his way. He sank into the shadows as the dancer—Jolie, she’d
been called—exited through the audience and back into the bowels of the
building. Exactly where he needed to go.

He
waited a beat and then another, hoping to give her enough time to reach her
destination so he could remain unseen. He debated donning his motorcycle
helmet, just in case, but that made him ridiculous. He’d stick with ugly. He
pulled up his hoodie to hide the phoenix tattoo on his skull and shadow the
rippling pink and white welts dappling his face.

His
boots pounded like a machine press against the concrete as he followed Jolie’s
path. A few steps in he found a threadbare white sheet slung up across a wire
to make a changing room out of an alcove off the main path. Light from behind
the fabric outlined Jolie’s curves as she shimmied out of her shorts. Once
again he was stuck in place, frozen this time by a shadow.

The
shadow laughed a rich sound of warm honey and forbidden things. “You know,” she
said, “the audience is supposed to stay in the other room. Following me back
here is against the rules.”

“I
didn’t, er, follow you. I’m looking for…” Gods, why could he think of words?
“Catrina. I didn’t mean to, uh, run into you.” Changing, possibly naked. Behind
a thin sheet.

“Aw…”
He could hear her pout and it was damn cute. “And here I thought I’d inspired
anarchy. Oh, well.”

He
took a step toward the sheet. “Oh, I’m an anarchist, all right.” Most people
would call him and the rest of the Citizens of the Underlight a pack of
dangerous anarchists. Hauk didn’t see it that way. He loved America, the heart
and soul of her. But the reality of today was a crumbling façade of the freedom
she espoused, and politicians and CEOs with an agenda most people knew nothing
about—all members of Ananke—were holding the wrecking ball. America had become
a valiant soul in a ravaged body.

A
lot like him. His own body may be beyond repair, but he’d be damned if he let
his country rot when he could do something about it.

A
sultry “Hmm,” brought his thoughts screeching back to the woman in front of
him. “So
I
was uninspiring, then.” She bent over to push her feet into
boots, and her backside pressed against the sheet like a perfect heart. “How
disappointing.”

“Oh…”
The word came out like a moan as he curled his fingers into fists. It took all
the control he had to keep his hands off her perfect ass. “You’re inspiring,
all right.”

She
froze for just a moment before she stood, suddenly hesitant. “You have a
delicious voice.” She turned until her body pressed into the sheet again, this
time from the front. “So, anarchist, what rules are you going to break
tonight?”

* * *

Copyright 2012 by Jennifer Hinson. Permission to reproduce granted by Harlequin Books S.A.

How Beauty Met the Beast
, and its sequels
How Beauty Saved the Beast
and
How Beauty Loved the Beast
are available now from all major electronic retailers.

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