Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, his mind breathed in long-accustomed prayer.

He faced Lucifer out of an operetta, poised for battle in shiny black satin cape and mask.

Matt itched to swipe his burning and throbbing wounded left hand down his outside pants leg, clear off the blood, but he knew he needed to keep the arm upraised to slow the flow. Up high. Like a dancer. Like a fencer.

He turned sideways to face the figure posed the same narrow way as a duelist to avoid exposing his vulnerable trunk full on. The scanty lights showed the straight, thin line of a rapier raised from its hidden position along the man’s leg high into the air above his right shoulder.

Matt recognized the clothing now. José Juarez’s Zorro getup, complete with mask and flat-brimmed hat, with gloves and sword, boots and spurs.

His thoughts were still shocked, sluggish. Zorro ready to cut him into mincemeat, and he in his knit shirt, khakis, and lace-up suede shoes.

Not a lot of stomping going on his way.

Going My Way. Major forties movie with Bing Crosby playing a priest. Crosby and Hope on the Road to Sliced Liver, or Bali or Mandalay, bungling and making comedy villains trip over their own feet.

Okay. Not a lot of role models out there in the collective unconscious for dueling demonic Zorros. He felt a cool, clammy sweat break out on his face. The blood was coming mostly from his wrist, below the hand slash. From the cut vein. It was already getting hard to organize his thoughts and he couldn’t tell whether the symptoms were of fear or blood loss.

Matt ran through his memorized impression of the set. Easy. Cut-rate Dancing With the Stars rip-off. Four steps up center stage with winding staircases at each side. Dance floor. Judges’ table and chairs at his right, backup singers and live octet setups at the left. Audience chairs on three sides of the dance floor.

And now this out-of-time addition, the heart of darkness poised on the dance floor with a blade that had already tasted innocent blood.

Shoot . Didn’t he wish he had a semiautomatic, or even a vintage dueling pistol? But all he had was a sense of self-preservation, some martial arts and dance moves, and a pure heart that had been a little bruised lately.

“José?” he asked, not really believing this costumed figure was the Olympic fencer, even though he flourished the blade as if he knew how. Or that he would admit it if he was.

The ersatz Zorro simply shouted, “Ha!” and advanced sideways toward Matt, each step magnified into a sharp, drumming dance.

Maybe this was Michael Flatley, the lord of the dance himself?

No. This was someone else who knew the steps. Matt himself had practiced them, and could produce this same sinister, stuttering advance if he wore the same heeled leather boots and cared more about prancing than survival right now.

He needed to hoard his energy, wear out his adversary. Playing this extravagant role would tire someone not accustomed to it.

Matt sprung up the four steps to the stage. “Zorro” leapt over them.

Impressive. Also wearing.

Matt ran up the curving staircase he’d glide down at the moment of introduction every night. Zorro stomped up behind him, then began slicing the sword back and forth in S-shaped swathes.

Grace took time and energy, and Matt was more interested in saving his hide from more bloody creases than looking good. His heart in his throat, he sat on the slick brass railing and slid down it, an unrehearsed move he’d only seen Wandawoman use.

His weight teetered left and right, but he slid off the end and hit with both feet flat-footed at the end. Ugh . The friction put his rear on fire. Wandawoman must have worn asbestos shorts during her seated railing run.

The thump of his rubber-soled shoes sounded like the battle cry of a rabbit rather than a steel-hooved steed.

Of course he had his cell phone in his pants pocket, and could use it to summon help.

Except . . . Zorro was swooshing down the railing with a lot more swashbuckle than he had and Matt needed twenty seconds in good light to punch in even an auto-dial number, probably Temple’s, wake her up, and remain still enough long enough to say where and what.

If he could manage all this while dodging the lethal tap dance spitting sound at him like Uzi bullets and sword thrusts as fast as heat lightning, he’d probably get Rafi Nadir to the rescue on the run, with Oasis security behind him.

By then he’d be a bled-out shish kebab. One dead bastard.

His mind wanted to stop and figure out who’d want to damage or kill him. Disable him for the stupid contest? His reflexes wanted to maintain a sword blade’s distance between him and the Zorro gone amok.

Matt stumble-ran across the dance floor to the judges’ skirted table and dove over and behind it, reversing Danny’s recent emergency moves in the other direction.

Nail-studded boot heels and toes clattered after, his enemy’s body knocking the table askew.

Matt was already dashing for the velvet curtains the dancing couples retreated behind after their numbers. His discreet Hush Puppy soles obscured his exact route.

Thank God! He’d said that vocally and mentally thousands of times in his life and had never meant it more.

Here, in the less open spaces, martial arts moves had a chance against the thirty inches of steel death in a darting rapier.

He crashed into the velvet curtains, making them sway and disguise his position.

The dark was almost total again behind the curtains, just a halo of light visible from the few illuminated spotlights on the dance floor. It would hide Zorro’s approach.

Matt danced with the dark, twirled himself into the velvet curtains’ embrace, felt them twitch and shake as the sword pierced them with quick, blind thrusts. He stepped away in one bound, then jerked them back against the way he’d come.

The boot soles stilled. He wrapped the curtains around and around the dark in his wake, hearing the rent of heavy fabric muffling, and then stopping.

He’d hoped to wrap up his attacker and his flashing rapier like a mummy in the heavy theatrical velvet. He finished his reverse spin with a killer kick, feeling the side of his foot impact a barrier of bone and muscle.

Zorro’s breath escaped on a belly-deep oooph !

Matt’s bleeding left fist still held a world of burning pain, but he punched it full strength into the slowly twisting bundle. He felt a body sag. His own energy flagged.

So.

The sword was wound and bound along with the mystery man who wielded it.

He could stay here on guard, letting his wrist bleed until he passed out—and a lot of blood had streamed out already—waiting until a technician came along in five hours just before rehearsals began, or. . . .

Now that he was still again, he felt dizzy. Was he getting woozy already from blood loss? He’d have to get to someplace with more light to use the cell phone. The lit number pad seemed to flare and blur.

Holding his left arm high, elbow doubled back to apply at least some pressure higher up the arm, he turned and stumbled farther into the backstage dark. The light board’s high-intensity bulb that illuminated the controls should overcome the fuzzy glare of his double vision.

Leaning against the console, he was dismayed by how slowly he moved now, by how close the attempted murderer still was, a sagging lump in the curtains. He saw enough to use the menu to auto-dial Temple’s cell phone, but what chance was there that she’d hear it at three in the morning? It was probably tucked away in a purse outside the bedroom suite. She’d said the place was palatial. He doubt he’d remain conscious long enough to tell 911 the complex details of where he was and what had happened.