Authors: Inara LaVey
Fixation
To the cats and staff at EFBC/FCC (Exotic Feline Breeding Compound/Feline Conservation Center) in Rosamond.
My experiences volunteering there changed my life in the best possible ways and gave me the inspiration for this book!
And to my readers, if you ever get the chance to visit this place (www.cathouse-fcc.org), I guarantee it will change your life too.
“Do you want me?”
The night brought some relief from the jungle’s sultry heat, but the air was still humid, thick with the sickly sweet scents of foliage, flowers, and rot. Drums accompanied by soft pipes sounded in the distance as Anani stared into Balam’s eyes. She swayed back and forth to the rhythm of the music with a sinuous grace that brought to mind some impossibly sensual hybrid of woman, snake, and feline. Her finely muscled body gleamed golden in the firelight cast by the five torches set into the ground in the jungle clearing. Ancient basalt statues depicting humans transforming into jaguars rested in back of each torch, blank eyes staring impassively across the clearing at the large obsidian cauldron sitting on a stone slab. The bas relief carvings of human figures seemed to writhe, as if possessed with unholy life.
“Do you want me?” she asked again. Her voice was smoke and velvet, unbearably erotic. She was the embodiment of every man’s desire. Below a proud straight nose, her lips were full and moist, the deep red of pomegranate seeds. Her pupils were the color of the midnight sky; starlight reflected in their depths. Those eyes and lips, coupled with a lush, gold-skinned body, promised unspeakable sensual delights to the man–or woman–brave enough to accept their invitation.
Of course he wanted her. What man didn’t fear the night, yet wanted to conquer it? It was only by sheer force of will that Balam didn’t throw Anani to the jungle floor and take her then and there.
Instead he kept his hands at his sides, open and relaxed, as he replied, “Is there a man alive who doesn’t?”
“Then why do you not touch me?” She continued to sway like a cobra with a snake charmer, only Balam knew he was the one in danger of being hypnotized.
What to say? That he no longer trusted her? That while his body wanted her desperately, his mind and gut screamed danger? His mistress had grown increasingly ambitious, her behavior more erratic in her quest for power. She made no secret of her goals—
or of the fact that she wanted Balam to share them with her. The things Anani had done to achieve her desires, however, could not help but twist her soul and send her down a darker path than Balam was willing to take.
No matter how he sugarcoated his refusals to participate in her schemes, Anani wasn’t stupid. She had to know Balam wouldn’t agree to anything that might anger Evaki.
But did she believe the lie that he wouldn’t interfere? Those who voiced opposition to her plans had vanished. And while Balam’s magic was strong, he didn’t want to test whose was stronger. If Anani continued on her current path, however, he knew that day would come.
Anani reached out a hand and ran a finger down his chest, tracing a path in the sweat that gleamed there. “Lie with me,” she purred. “Let our bodies become one...and let our spirits run together.”
Balam stood still, trying to ignore the surge of desire her words brought. “I will not help you, Anani.”
“I know that, my warrior.” Her finger dipped down below his navel, the tip of her nail running ever so gently down the length of his penis, which rose in instant response to her touch. “I want only your love.”
Balam groaned with desire as her fingers closed around him. “You are a witch.”
She drew him down with her to the ground. “And you are my sorcerer...and my love.”
Even though he knew her last words to be a lie, all resistance fled as she guided him into her warmth, her body surging beneath his, nails raking the muscled flesh of his back as he thrust deep inside her.
The drums pulsed in time to their passion, soft pipes rising in a frenzied discordant wail as muscles twisted, shifting under skin which suddenly sprouted fur. Features elongated and flattened. Nails raking down flesh in the throes of passion became claws scoring thin lines of blood. As the cries of their mutual climax filled the night air, birds burst into flight while other animals scurried for cover, all recognizing the call of the most feared predator in the forest.
Balam, now fully transformed into his jaguar spirit, sprang to all four feet, tail lashing as he prepared to hunt the night world of what was once the ancient Olmec Empire. He leapt up onto a felled tree, turning to see if Anani had finished her own transformation, anxious to roam the swampy lowlands for prey with her.
Expecting to see another jaguar, Balam was not prepared when a brown and tan snake with a triangular head swayed before him, coiled in an “S” shape. Before he could react, a sharp pain stabbed into one of his forelegs. Balam roared in equal parts pain and fury, lunging for the snake and falling short as the venom took effect more rapidly than should be possible, even for the dreaded fer-de-lance. He collapsed on the ground, limbs buckling underneath him as a numbing cold coursed through his body. The snake broadened in girth and extended in height, scales transmogrifying into flesh, features sharpening until snake became woman.
Anani.
She smiled down at him in triumph and perhaps with a tinge of regret in her eyes— which still had the slit pupils of a serpent. “I’m sorry, my love,” she said with a sibilance not normally present in her voice. “But you cannot be trusted.”
Balam reached deep inside for the spark of his humanity so he could transform back into his human form and defend himself from the poison now coursing through his veins. But it slithered away from his mental grip, as if he tried to grasp an object slick with oil. The more he reached for it, the further away it slid, vanishing down the rapidly narrowing tunnel of his consciousness.
“Don’t worry,” Anani whispered in his ear. “I’ve not killed you. You will sleep for a long while ... and wake up far away, where you can do no harm to my plans.”
Balam growled weakly, desperate to stay awake and fight. But the growl was no more threatening than that of a young cub and, even as he raged against the soporific effects of her venom, his muzzle opened in a jaw-cracking yawn as unconsciousness claimed him.
“Quick, agile, and powerful enough to take down the largest prey in the jungle, the jaguar is the largest of the big cats in the Americas, and one of the most efficient and aggressive predators.”
My fellow docent Beth held forth to the group of first-graders crowded in front of Dandy’s enclosure. Tall and gangly in a droopy Olive Oyl way, Beth wore her frizzy red curls clipped in a poof that bubbled out of the back of her baseball cap. While she droned on in front, I covered the rear to ensure none of the kids wandered off where they shouldn’t.
Dandy, a melanistic jaguar sometimes referred to (incorrectly) as a black panther, sprawled at the edge of his cage and watched the kids. They were all small enough to count as prospective prey to a jaguar, although toddlers would be even better. At the Feline Preservation Center, the docents and keepers refer to babies in strollers as “meals on wheels.” Dandy, although raised by hand instead of mother-raised, had all the instincts of his wild brethren and was no doubt sizing up which rug rat to cull from the pack, should the opportunity arise.
“Endowed with a spotted coat and well adapted for the jungle, hunting either in the trees or water—as one of the few felines tolerant of water—the jaguar was, and remains, revered among the indigenous Americans who reside closely with the jaguar.”
The kids weren’t quite slack-jawed with boredom, but Beth’s auto-spiel, delivered in her nasal drone, was so far over their heads, she might as well be flying above in a jet plane. Beth was very knowledgeable when it came to all things exotic feline, but she wasn’t exactly a people person, especially when said people are under eighteen.
Mind you, I wasn’t a huge fan of school tours. If I wanted kids, I’d have found a guy and spawned a few. I loved animals, especially cats large and small, and would have preferred to spend my time doing cat rescue and volunteering FPC than dealing with either children or men. Unfortunately, working with the exotic felines wasn’t all picking up leopard shit, chopping up frozen horsemeat, and scouring sinks free of congealed chicken fat. It also meant patrolling the “zoo” portion of the compound during the hours we were open to the public, making sure none of the visitors ran, screamed, tossed things into the cage, tried to pet the animals, or otherwise harassed our feline residents.
And
it also included docent duties, i.e. answering questions and giving tours to groups ranging from geriatric motorcycle clubs to Scout troops to classroom tours of all ages. Usually one docent was enough to handle any one tour, but when there were twenty-plus hyperactive first-graders on the loose, we worked in pairs.
Speaking of tours, the little natives were getting restless. Beth was focused on Dandy and spouting off dry statistics about the jaguar populations in South and Central America, while the teacher was too busy talking on her iPhone to notice one curly-haired blond, blue-eyed tot in the rear trying to climb the iron safety fence so she could “pet the kitty.” I scooped her up just as she reached the top of the fence and plunked her back down on the sidewalk. Her face began that inevitable just-bit-into-a-lemon collapse that all kids got when they were about to let loose the mother of all tantrums. And me without my earplugs.
I squatted down in front of Miss Curly Locks just as her mouth opened to begin squalling. “Can I show you something really neat?” Without waiting for an answer-- which would have been an ear-piercing screech anyway—I pulled a battered, chipped, and scarred blue sphere from what was originally a cement ashtray.“Do you know what this is?” I held the ball up in front of her.
Shirley Temple circa 2012 shook her head, so I rolled the ball over in my hand to expose three holes in the other side.
“Well, it
was
a bowling ball. Then it became a toy for baby jaguars. Feel how hard this is.” The other kids in the back crowded around, anxious to not be left out of the fun. I held the ball out so they could touch it, feel the cracks and gouges in the hard resin with their little pudgy fingers. “Baby jaguars did this with their claws and teeth. So if a baby jaguar can do this to something as hard as a
bowling
ball, imagine what a grown up jaguar could do to your skin.” I looked Miss Curly Locks straight in the eye. “This is why you don’t pet the kitties here, okay?”
She nodded, eyes round.
“Well, I could ... I could beat up the jaguar before it bit me!” This came from a pugnacious little ginger-haired boy who’d been reprimanded more than once for running, yelling at the cats, and wandering off. I also happened to know he had a rock in his back jeans pocket and had been waiting for the chance to throw it at one of the cats without getting caught.
“Really?” I turned my attention his way and locked gazes with him. I had a great hypno-stare.
“Jaguars fixate,” I said. “Do you know what fixate means?”
I looked at the kids gathered around me and got mostly silence punctuated by a few shy giggles. One little boy picked his nose with a single-mindedness that rivaled a jaguar’s.
“When a jaguar fixates, it means if it decides it wants something—anything—it will go through whatever is in its way to get what it wants. If it wants your shoe, you’d better take it off, ‘cause a jaguar will take your foot off so it can play with the shoelaces. The jaguar is the only cat in the world known to fight to its own death before admitting defeat. Its jaws are strong enough to crush your head in one bite—” I gripped the little brat across his skull with my free hand to emphasize my point. “Trying to beat up a jaguar would be a
very
bad thing.”
He gave me a sullen stare. “You’re stupid.”
I dropped my voice so no one else but the kid could hear me. “I’m sure your parents would miss you when the jaguar ate you up, starting with your head.
Crunch!
Just like a piece of popcorn. Except with blood sauce instead of butter.”
Just for added effect, I sent an image into his head of just that.
His eyes went wide and he took two staggering steps backwards before falling on his butt on the grass next to the walkway. He was quiet the rest of the tour.
I thought about this a few hours later in the staff trailer as I gathered my things for the drive home, and couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the little snot monster’s expression when I’d zapped him.
See, once I hit puberty I discovered I had this weird ability to project my thoughts to other people in the form of imagery. I could also read their thoughts and emotions if they were strong enough.
Okay, yes, I realized that when one possessed certain abilities they should use them for good and not for evil, but this kid had needed a lesson and I didn’t even
pretend
to be a nice person when I’m cranky. Besides, FPC was all about the cats and if scaring the kid stopped him from doing something potentially harmful, I was technically using my psychic ability for good,
not
evil.
Shut up. I know I’m rationalizing.
Walking across the hard-packed dirt towards the employee parking lot, I was almost to the gate when someone shouted my name across the open space between assorted office, staff, and supply trailers. “Hey, Maya!”
I turned to see Jeri Callahan, the founder of FPC, waving at me from her office door. Jeri possessed a slightly weathered beauty, with the sun-streaked blond hair and tanned skin of someone who’d spent most of her life outdoors. I liked Jeri. She was tough but fair when it came to training the largely volunteer staff. There was no room for ego when you were working with potentially lethal animals and Jeri didn’t put up with any shit or stupidity from her crew.
For example, one idiot gal, Kiki, was caught texting when she was supposed to be holding the pulley bar to a leopard’s den box while another docent pulled dirty dishes from the enclosure. The leopard had managed to paw the den box door open three inches before someone noticed. Jeri threw Kiki’s iPhone in a Dumpster filled with bags of cat shit and told Kiki she could dig for it if she wanted. I’m not sure if Kiki retrieved her phone, but she never came back to FPC.
I retraced my steps and met Jeri at the foot of the office trailer steps. “What’s up?”
“Any chance you can stick around a little longer tonight? We just got word this afternoon the jaguar’s coming in a week early. Patrick’s gone to pick up him up from LAX that day.”
Patrick, an ex-movie exec turned conservationist (I know, it’s crazy, but true), was Jeri’s right-hand man. If a movie were made about his life, he’d be played by Fred Ward. He still had the personality and drive that earned him the nickname “The Tiger” back in his Industry days, but I understood he’d mellowed a bit. I got along fine with Patrick ‘cause I could always tell a mile off if he was in a temper and I knew how to stay out of his way. Those without hereditary empathetic psychic ability, however, were shit out of luck on Patrick’s bad days.
“Is this the one from Belize?”
Jeri nodded. “Yup, the mate for Sandy.” Sandy was Dandy’s littermate. Yes, they had a brother named Randy. Thank goodness there hadn’t been another girl ‘cause she would have been stuck with the name Candy.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to help.” My kind-of sort-of boyfriend Jesse, director at one of the many venture capital firms in the Financial District, was out of town on an unexpected business trip, so no hot date for me tonight.
Jeri looked relieved. Even though she’d never admit it, Jeri knew I had a calming influence on the cats. She didn’t know why and I didn’t try to tell her. She wouldn’t believe the truth. And honestly, who would?
“Good,” she said. “We’ll be putting him in the empty cage in quarantine for the night. Kyle’s coming out tomorrow to check him out before we put him next to Sandy.” Kyle was our vet, a rugged-looking Aussie with an accent to die for. I’d had a total crush on him until I realized he wasn’t interested in my type. As in, female.
“What’s the new jag’s name?”
“Nagual.”
“Cool name.”
Jeri nodded. “Yup. I have no idea what the fuck it means.”