Lion Dance

By Tristan MacAvery

For those who like a little
intrigue and mystery with their romance novels...not to mention more intelligence
and sensitivity...come and join the Lion
Dance.

Elayne
Hawkins, advertising director for a cosmetics firm, finds her comfortable life
shattered when she is falsely accused of corporate sabotage. Fleeing into the Colorado
mountains to rethink her life, she never expected that
her departure from the trail would find her face to face with a full-grown
African lion! Much less did she think to find herself enthralled by the beasts
handsome guardian, the reclusive and secretive artist Anthony class=SpellE>Kivella.
Trust doesnt come easy between them, especially when Elayne hears the rumors
concerning Anthony and a very dead body found near the artists mountain cabin.
Despite the fear, Elayne finds herself falling under the spell of the leonine
man who becomes the eye of the storm around her. Yet even as they discover
their passion for each other, Elayne and Anthony find themselves drawn into a
twisted plot of subterfuge, revenge, and murder so dangerous that even the king
of beasts might not be enough protection to keep them alive--

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 3, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410784537

Tristan MacAvery

TRISTAN MacAVERY was the editor and publisher of the literary magazine Chronoscope (1986-88).  The magazine received manuscripts from the U.S., Canada, Australia, Spain, Germany, the U.K., Japan, Korea, France, and the Philippines.  It was featured in the Novel and Short Story Writers Market, Writer’s Digest, and a variety of literary magazines including Scavenger’s Newsletter and The Horror Show.  Chronoscope’s contributors include a Nebula award nominee, the editor of a major city weekly newspaper, and several authors who have published major works.  MacAvery is now hosting an annual fiction and poetry contest for future anthologies, produced through his company Intangible Plastics.  He has published four books of his own.

Book preview

© 1986, 2002, 2003 by Tristan MacAvery. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4107-8453-7 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4107-8453-3 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4140-0286-6 (Paperback)

Cover photo of DandyLion ©2002 by Tiger Haven, used by permission, all rights reserved.

1stBooks - rev. 09/02/03

Contents

Also By Tristan Macavery

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue:Here We Go Round the Prickly Pear

1:   On the Scent

2:   Placed on the Back Burner

3:   Faint Whispers from the Gallery

4:   Mistaken Identities

5:   Footsteps to a Tin Drum

6:   Leaving the Safe Trail

7:   Tea and Conversation

8:   Remembering Nicky

9:   Tears and Whispers

10: Morning Choices

11: Supplies and Information

12: Tale of a Young Ghost

13: Invitation to the Dance

14: The Naming

15: Descent from the Clouds

16: Driving Thoughts

17: Corporate Limbo

18: Pushing the Needle Too Far

19: Deadly Cotillion

20: Final Presentation

21: Corporate Dissolution

22: The Eternal Dance

Afterword

About the Author

Also By Tristan Macavery

Divine Intervention

(a demoniacal horror novel)

Tea for Twenty:

From the Files of the Tayan Research Network

(a paranormal murder mystery)

Remnant Stew

(a collection of short works)

Dedication

There are two dedications for this book. First, to the wonderful people at Tiger Haven, which is a no-kill sanctuary for all big cats. They have saved many dozens of lions, tigers, and other felines, giving them an open, safe place to live out their lives after being abandoned or abused. For every book sold, in hard copy or electronic edition, I will donate one dollar to Tiger Haven. If you would like more information, visit www.tigerhaven.org, or write Tiger Haven, 237 Harvey Rd., Kingston TN 37763.

For a more traditional dedication: This one’s for Robyn Gorman, who came back after 26 years to give me a reminder of what romance is all about.

Acknowledgements

I owe a lot to people who never identified themselves. For example, a splendid lady at the main offices of a certain perfume company introduced me to the concept of the fragrance sphere—the mention of which adds an air (pardon the pun) of verisimilitude to Elayne’s haggling with the new cologne that she has to build a campaign around.

I’m also indebted to a long-ago, unattributed quote that, when it came to romance novels, women today are as interested in the boardroom as the bedroom. This quote helped me decide that I wanted my heroine and my hero to be equally strong, rather than a peculiar variation of the dominant-submissive attitude expressed in more quotidian romance novels.

Gratitude goes also to the Hobby Horse Motor Lodge on Highway 34, Estes Park, Colorado, for being a favorite memory of my 10th summer in this world, and for sticking around long enough for me to return the favor by mentioning them in this novel.

My thanks must also go to the many people who read the various drafts of this novel and added their comments. Susan Seaweed Walker read the first version as I produced the original draft, one or two chapters per day across several weeks, back in 1986. Carrillee Collins, herself a published author of at least one romantic intrigue, seemed to like that draft as well. And more recently, Harlan Howe-Bennett and her wife Martina Bennett (yes, they’re both women, and they are legally married in the state of Texas, and that’s a story for another novel!) gave it a good kick in the tuchis to get it going again in 2001. Finally, M. Bradley Davis (author of Tunnel of Dreams and Hand in the Mirror, both available through First Books Library) and my dear Robyn Gorman painstakingly went through every single word to ensure that it was finally ready to go to market.

And finally, I must offer my most enthusiastic thanks and gratitude to Harlequin Romances, who rejected this book not once but twice, for two reasons: They said my hero was a wimp (yeah, okay, a guy who lives with a pair of African lions is a wimp…right, got it) and that the novel had too much plot. I thank them profusely for helping me to realize that my writing simply wasn’t stupid enough for them to accept into their pantheon of panting, pandering pretension. Whether this book sells one or one million copies, I shall be forever grateful that Harlequin taught me never to sell out.

Prologue:Here We Go Round

the Prickly Pear

The beginning of any path

Is the same point as its ending.

It is what you remember from the journey

That makes the place you come home to

Seem less familiar.

April, 1986

A piercing blue sky, the kind rarely seen at sea level, graced the mountain in a great panoramic arc. This particular mountain had worn this veil for many long years, and perhaps was grateful for the gift from above. The mountain had existed peacefully for millennia before some bunch of humans decided to call the area Colorado. Some time later, those humans dubbed a section of it Estes Park, declared a portion of it to be a national park, and cut a few trails through the woods and crags to make it easier for those unnatural creatures known as tourists to walk around, but the mountain didn’t seem to mind all that much. There was satisfaction in being appreciated by some few, if not all, of the tiny creatures.

From this vantage point, this singular section of grass and rock and bark and snow-patched ground, the township that called itself Estes was invisible, and the trail was too far away to make any distraction. Free from the ravages of Coors beer bottles and other human souvenirs, this particular spot was as untouched and natural as at the moment of its creation, a few thousand millennia notwithstanding.

It would be impossible to call any section of a mountain grassland, but it was as close a description as the bureaucrats of the Department of the Interior could give it. It did, after all, have grass on it, and some pronghorn sheep, elk, and certain other creatures could graze on it, just like the pastures of flatter regions, so the James Watt-remaindered mentality of the office slapped the label of grassland on it and called it good. In some ways, it really did turn out to be good, because that bizarre classification made the mountain acceptable as a certain type of game preserve within the national park (despite the best efforts of the James Watt-remaindered mentality). The bureaucracy, as so often happens, ended up outwitting itself by applying artificial labels and then becoming stuck with the artificial reality that those labels implied.

The mountain didn’t mind these labels, was probably blissfully unaware of them. Nothing was changed, not even the addition of a sign or a string of fencing (unusual for the bureaucracy, but lucky for the mountain). Wind blew cold and delicately over the large, rolling grassy area, whispered through tall pine trees, made invisible arabesques over the cliff ridges and off to the sister peaks just beyond. The wind, the grass, the trees, the mountain, all felt that nothing was wrong, nothing had changed, and they certainly didn’t mind the occasional footsteps of the man who walked slowly among them. After all this time, he was considered to be a neighbor.

He was a big man, well used to the jokes about the traditional Mountain Man, for he fit the part a little too well at first glimpse. He was clad in jeans that were designed for rugged use rather than merely to show off some fashion designer’s logo. His woolen shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbow, had seen its share of hard winters; it was supplemented by a new hunting vest of superlatively tanned chocolate brown leather. Well-worn leather moccasin-boots covered his legs up to the knees, laced with strong dark leather straps crisscrossing up each side, and to complete the image, a shotgun rested broken over one arm. Long molten copper hair fell lavishly about his shoulders, stopping several inches below them; his full bronze beard was trimmed close to his strong chin. Deep golden eyes pondered the clarity of sky, the brightness of sun; he inhaled the thin, sweet air deeply, his bare arms and forehead feeling both the warm sun and the cool breezes that danced gently around him. All across his firm, lightly muscled body, a subtle tension itched, as if he were standing too close to an electrical generator, or a storm were brewing. He was disquieted, a feeling he used to get in the city from time to time, the feeling of something bad about to happen. But the day lay beautiful around him, casting no ill shadows or omens.

He strode calmly, confidently across the open space, keeping one eye out for game, not really expecting to find any, not really in need of any. The larder of his cabin was well stocked. The gun was more for defense than attack. There was simply no telling what a fellow could run into up in these mountains. Not all enemies were polite enough to give fair warning, and not all ran on four legs.

That Something Bad continued nagging for the man’s attention like a petulant child tugging at his father’s coattails. The mountain, firm and everlasting under his feet, did its best to reassure him. Perhaps something else—

Are the lads all right?

Shandaar? he called out. The name caromed off a distant slope and echoed twice before fading. It took several seconds before he could see the huge African lion at the ridge of the slope just beyond. He stood for a moment, looking over his shoulder, a proud beast by heritage and temperament, unused to the coolness of this high ground but adapted by his several years here. His mane and coat had grown more shaggy and full than his African cousins, and in some ways, he was a different creature altogether. After a few moments, the great cat trotted easily up to the man’s side and rumbled a greeting at him, craning his neck to be rubbed vigorously behind the ears.

There’s my lad, the man said softly, his firm velvety voice making no conflict with the natural surroundings. Have you or Aslan found anything interesting out here today?

The lion belched a comment that brought a frown to the big man’s face.

Where?

With a shrug of his mane, Shandaar turned and set off at a slow trot. The man with the copper mane, his gun still broken but carried in both hands and ready, kept pace behind. The sound that the lion had made wasn’t part of the cat’s usual vocabulary, and it set the man’s teeth on edge. He hoped that nothing had happened to Aslan—no, surely he would have sensed that. Something was wrong, but nothing as catastrophic as Aslan’s being hurt or killed. It was something else, something apart from himself or the lads, something that the lion hadn’t encountered before. Something, in other words, that didn’t belong.

They’d traveled less than a hundred yards before the lion stopped at a low patch of scrubby bushes dotted with red berries. The great cat stood and stared at them, belching the same comment that he had made moments before. The man relaxed his stance slightly and sighed a soft laugh. Holly bush, he said. Funny to find one just here, but nothing odd in it, I promise you.

Shandaar grumbled again.

The frown returned to the man’s bearded face. He sniffed the air, trying to catch the scent of something that might have disturbed the cat. Nothing he could detect. He knelt before the bush and examined it more closely. Signs of recent demolition; leaves and branches broken on one side, a number of berries dislodged and lying on the ground, but only on that side. None appeared to have been disturbed or pecked by rabbits or birds; no other animal had come close to this bush since the berries had fallen. Perhaps an animal had done it, frightened by a predator, or even a hiker, although the trail was some way off. But why wouldn’t animals come back when it was still again?

A spot of tan and red caught the man’s attention. Reaching toward the inner branches on the damaged side, he pulled out a small section of fabric, a torn piece of khaki, stained with splotches of dark red.

He dropped the fabric to the ground. Swiftly, he straightened up, snapped the shotgun together. He made no other move for several seconds. Without looking down, he said softly, Where?

The lion sniffed at the cloth, the bush, paused—looked toward another section of low scrub a dozen yards away.

Danger? he whispered.

A short grunt indicated they were probably safe at the moment; Shandaar had sniffed out no threats.

The man relaxed his stance slightly, but only slightly. He could feel his muscles still bunched, waiting, ready. Someone could still be here, waiting in the bushes, perhaps wounded and frightened, or perhaps wounded and waiting for a chance to attack an attacker. The latter felt wrong; no active threats at the moment. But frightened people can react as viciously as malicious people. Announcing intentions from a distance seemed the best course.

He walked slowly toward the low scrub and spoke evenly. "Are you hurt?

No response.

I’m armed, but only as protection against predators. If you are hurt, I can help you.

No response.

Half a dozen paces closer, he spotted a shoe, and from there, the foot and leg it was attached to. The man stopped. He touched nothing—too many years of television as a child had taught him that much. Shifting to a slightly different angle provided him with a glimpse of the face. He noted the general profile, looked carefully to see if anything else might identify the murdered man. Nothing. A stranger to him. The cause of death was simple enough to determine: The huge hole in the center of the chest indicated that he’d probably been shot in the back. Blood was caked and had been drying for some time. Apart from the demolition to the holly bush, there was no indication that the body had been dragged for any long distance. Someone had killed this man on or near this very spot.

Have you seen him before?

The lion hissed a snorting bellow.

The man frowned. Are you sure? That’s not him.

Again, the lion issued the same unique sound. The body that lay before them was not the subject of that feline descriptive noun, but the person who fit that description had something to do with it. Perhaps the smell, or the action, or both described the filthy bastard more clearly than any physical evidence the authorities might find.

So—he was back. After so many long months, after so many years, after so much silence, he was back. Why would he risk it? There was no score to settle, not on his side. The man with the shotgun remembered clearly that the tally had been too much in that other man’s favor, but he had forbidden himself any retaliation against the man who had almost destroyed him, and his lions, so long ago. What reason would his persecutor have to come back up here?

Shandaar, the man said softly, it looks like we’ll have to keep an eye out for visitors.

The lion snorted a question.

Yes. Him.

An angry snarl curled the cat’s lip upward.

No. We know he’s not here; you said so yourself. Don’t use up your strength against an enemy by hating him as well. We’ll simply have to wait for his next move.

With a shaking of mane which indicated a surly reluctance, the lion began a calm walk next to the man who took long, slow strides back toward his cabin. Yes, the man thought with strange softness. And when he arrives…well, we’ll have to wait and see.

We’ll just have to wait.

1: On the Scent

If you must look back upon

The path that led you here,

Do not wonder why curving trees

Obscure distance with dark leaves;

The forest did not pick your way,

But it may protect your back.

Monday, April 7, 1986

Elayne Hawkins tossed the pencil down onto her desk with something like a disgusted grunt. It wasn’t so much that the creation of this new ad campaign was going badly as it was that she just didn’t believe in it. She frowned at the thought: Who in the world believed in commercials? They were an idiotic annoyance, designed specifically to capture attention by whatever means feasible, with the abstract desire to sell a product somehow woven into the mix. Generally speaking, it was better to sell the desire rather than the product itself; the more useless the product, the more the need to create a desire for it. It was supposed to create and entertain a fantasy, and the trick was not so much that the fantasy had to be believed as it was that the desire had to be created.

To that end, Elayne realized, she should be grateful that she didn’t have to deal with talking toilet bowls, contradictory margarine tubs, or people who had to push their heads back into place after taking sinus medicine. With any luck, she could also avoid attempting to add non-words which ended in -ize to the English language. But she still had to create some sort of fantasy, and this one just wasn’t quite cutting it.

She looked over her notes: "Close up, beautiful model; background music Jamaican/exotic. No voice over for establishing shots. As scene cuts, voice over—’Shades Of...excitement.’ Flashes of handsome surfers, intercut with close-up of model. She takes out liner and blush packets; read label on camera w/close-up. As scene cuts, voice over—’Shades Of. adventure.’ Flashes of Romancing the Stone stuff against jungle background. Beautiful model touches up makeup as good guy turns an elephant stampede with a warning shot. Close up on product again. As scene cuts, voice over—’Shades Of. romance.’ Cuts of Sonny Crockett type peering over his sunglasses at model going down the street; he follows, pulls her over, identifies himself with badge reading ‘Shades Of; close two-shot as they smile at each other. Close-up on product, voice over—’Shades Of. From Jean Calloway.’"

Ridiculous.

She smiled at herself and leaned back in her ergonomically designed chair, stretching her long legs across the corner of the desk in the classic executive pose. (Bless this department’s casual dress code; slacks made this pose much easier than a dress would have done.) This wasn’t the sort of material that would credit the would-be author with the illusion that she was only doing this to pay the bills while