“Ah! You, sir, are about to be a very lucky man! Not only do I have one, I’ve got the best one in the whole universe.”
Valerian let Jolly lead him inside, watched beadily by the two bouncers on either side of the door.
He really, really hoped he was doing the right thing— and that Laureline was staying alive long enough for him to rescue her.
Laureline hoped that Valerian was all right.
The last she had seen of him, she’d been pulled upward and at a high speed and he had performed a literal leap of faith, trying to grab onto a decoy and follow her up. But they had gotten separated, and she had been plopped into a basket and brought into what looked like a magnificent palace—albeit one inhabited by frogs.
The palace was built by Boulan-Bathors for Boulan-Bathors, and consequently everything was oversized from a human female’s perspective. The fisherman, immune to her pleas, rants, and threats, brought Laureline to an enormous room off the side of the enormous stone hallway. The basket that contained her was opened and then upended, depositing her unceremoniously on a thick, soft carpet. Laureline got to her feet, but by then the door was closing and she was left in the room.
It was comfortable enough, she supposed. The high ceilings were painted with geometrical designs that were only faintly glimpsed in the dim light, and the walls were covered with hangings. In the center of the room, fragrant smoke wisped out of a huge amphora.
She had company. Several female Boulan-Bathors also occupied the large room, busy cutting fabric and stitching it together. Laureline looked around at them nervously, but the Boulan-Bathor seamstresses chatted amongst themselves and appeared to be fairly relaxed. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and another female, this one carrying a large basket, trundled inside. Laureline thought she must be the supervisor or someone important, because her appearance sent off a flurry of nods and bows and increased activity.
She had the same build as the males—large and rotund, with a long spindly neck and small head—and like them, she wore a loincloth. But she also had two sets of metal cups modestly covering four large breasts, and a hat of bright red plumes that jutted upward from her head in creative disarray. She wore jewelry as well, in the form of huge circlets around her scrawny throat and rings on two fingers. She came over to Laureline and twisted her lips in what appeared to be a smile, which didn’t necessarily improve her looks.
Laureline straightened to her full height of five foot nine, craning her neck to look up at the towering female. Valerian, curse him, had taken her gun, but she still had her ID, and she held up her credentials now.
“Hey, I’m Agent Laureline and I’m working for the government,” she said briskly. “If you want to avoid a diplomatic incident, I suggest you release me immediately.”
The female Boulan-Bathor gazed at her, blinked her bulging eyes, nodded, and proceeded to empty the bin she had been carrying at Laureline’s feet.
The spatio-temporal agent looked at the heap of fabric and realized the female had just put a pile of human-sized clothing on the floor.
“No, thanks,” she said, “I don’t plan on getting a makeover. I have to go. Do you understand?”
The female gave her another ghastly smile and nodded again, the feathers atop her head fluttering with the movement. She stooped, grabbed one of the dresses with a thick-fingered hand, and presented it to Laureline.
Laureline pressed her lips together. “I’m not going to wear your stupid dress! Call your chief, or translator, so we can at least communicate.”
The female smiled a third time, and Laureline tried not to grimace at that mouthful of ugly, odd-sized teeth. The female selected another dress and presented it, cocking her head in a position of inquiry. Perhaps Laureline would like this one?
Laureline had had enough. She took a deep breath, stood on her tiptoes, and she screamed as loud as she possibly could in the Boulan-Bathor’s amphibian face.
The female recoiled, startled, her arms flailing. Now maybe you’ll go get someone I can talk to, Laureline thought. But the female only blinked and seemed to be considering something. Then she stooped so that she was face to face with Laureline, opened that enormous mouth, and emitted an inhuman bellow that made the agent’s shriek sound like a kitten’s mew.
Her ears ringing, soaked in Boulan-Bathor spittle from head to foot, Laureline blinked.
“Okay, I… I’ll put your dress on.”
The inside of the club was a lot nicer than Valerian had expected. Then again, he’d really had no idea what to expect.
There were large, overstuffed pieces of furniture covered in warm, dark shades of velvet. Paintings hung on the wall depicting—well, certain activities Valerian really didn’t want to see right now. Several doors lined the long central room. Some of them were open, some of them were closed.
There was a small counter just inside the main door and Jolly stepped beside it, smiling his wide, cheerful, artificial smile. “This is where you leave your hardware, cowboy,” he told Valerian.
“I’d rather hold onto it. I’m on duty,” Valerian explained.
Jolly’s smile became fixed and markedly less cheerful. “Rules are rules, soldier! We make love here, not war.”
Valerian debated in his mind, then made a show of placing the gun he’d acquired from the police officer on the counter with great reluctance.
“There, that’s better! One less thing to worry about removing, if you catch my meaning.”
“Um,” said Valerian.
Jolly took him by the elbow and Valerian had to deliberately resist yanking his arm away. The pimp steered him through one of the doorways and into a small, cozy, old-fashioned theater with only a handful of seats. Thick black velvet curtains were drawn over the stage, which was lit up by small running lights. An antiquated piano was situated on another platform, off to the side. Jolly escorted Valerian to a seat and pressed him down into it.
“Listen,” Valerian began, instantly hopping back to his feet, “let’s make a deal—”
“Now, now, we’ll talk money later, soldier. For now, let’s talk pleasure.” He pushed Valerian back down and waggled his eyebrows. “What kind of music do you like? Techno? Macro? Bio? Nano?”
“Uh,” Valerian said, “I’m more retro.”
Jolly looked delighted. “You’re so right, my friend! Oldies but goodies! Now relax… and enjoy the show!”
He went to the piano and seated himself in front of it, cracked knuckles, and began to play. Valerian was surprised and impressed. Usually, pimps didn’t have any useful skills or talents other than knowing how to bully people, but Jolly appeared to be an exception.
The lights dimmed, and the curtain parted to reveal the silhouette of a stunningly shapely female. She stood, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand on a cane, the other on the brim of a small round-topped hat perched on her head. From perfect stillness, she began to dance, her feet flying in rapid taps, the cane tossed from one hand to the other, a gorgeous form in beautiful, flowing motion.
And then the spotlight came up, and Valerian gasped.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The dancer had smooth, dark skin and wore a black sparkling vest over a see-through body stocking. Her legs were long and sleekly muscled, and her face had wide, mesmerizing brown eyes that looked as though they knew the darkest secrets of his soul.
The cane vanished, dissolving into her hand, and that hand reached up to remove the small hat. Her black hair melted into a pale yellow, cascading down her shoulders and the black vest morphed into a form-fitting white sequined dress as she strode downstage toward Valerian, licking her lips.