Jack whirled, spinning the pike around him. “Right,” he said. “Who’s next?”

He hoped it was a convincing show. He didn’t know what else to do. He’d taken some training in the martial use of the bamboo pole and nunchuks and the like; he wasn’t Bruce Lee with them, but he could do some damage with this pike. Trouble was, he had little room to maneuver and less every second: the circle was tightening, slowly closing in on him like a noose.

Jack searched for a weak spot, a point to break through and make a run for it. As a last resort, he always had the .45-caliber Semmerling strapped to his ankle.

Then a deep voice rose above the angry noise of the crowd.

“Here, here! What’s this? What’s going on?”

The carny folk quieted, but not before Jack heard a few voices whisper “the boss” and “Oz.” They parted to make way for a tall man, six-three at least, lank dark hair, sallow-complexioned, his pear-shaped body swathed in a huge silk robe embroidered with Oriental designs. Although he looked doughy about the middle, the large hands that protruded from his sleeves were thin and bony at the wrist.

The boss—Jack assumed he was the Ozymandias Prather who ran the show—stopped at the inner edge of the circle and took in the scene. His expression was oddly slack but his eyes were bright, dark, cold, more alive than the rest of him. Those eyes finally settled on Jack.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Protecting your property,” Jack said, gambling.

“Oh, really?” The smile was sour. “How magnanimous of you.” Abruptly his expression darkened. “Answer the question! I can call the police or we can deal with this in our own way.”

“Fine,” Jack said. He upped his ante by throwing the pike at the boss’s feet. “Maybe I had it wrong. Maybe you pay baldy here to poke holes in your attractions.”

The big man froze for an instant, then slowly wheeled toward the ticket seller who was rubbing the welt on the side of his head.

“Hey, boss—” Bondy began, but the tall man silenced him with a flick of his hand.

The boss looked down at the pike where sawdust clung to the dark fluid coating its point, then up at the crouching rakosh with its dozens of oozing wounds. Color darkened his cheeks as his head rotated back toward Bondy.

“You harmed this creature, Mr. Bond?”

The boss’s eyes and tone were so full of menace that Jack couldn’t blame the bald man for quailing.

“We was only trying to get it to put on more of a show for the customers.”

Jack glanced around and noticed that Hank had faded away. He saw the performers inching toward the rakosh cage, making sympathetic sounds as they took in its condition. When they turned back, their cold stares were focused on Bondy instead of Jack.

“You hurt him,” said the green man.

“He is our brother,” the Snake Man said in a soft sibilant voice, “and you hurt him many times.”