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Reaching the White Orchid Inn required walking all the way back to the business district, then three more blocks north into one of the oldest sections of Norinton. Professional offices, high-priced restaurants and beautiful old hotels and inns lined the streets. Most buildings had wood exteriors, usually white or pale yellow, although the color of the street lamps made it hard to tell the two shades apart at night. Roulette had changed into the second best of her two remaining outfits; it would be easier to shed in the kind of dance she suspected she'd be performing. But now she regretted not choosing the first--she'd feel less derelict wearing it here. Given that she hadn't seen a single non-human in these three blocks, though, she suspected her clothes weren't what drew the occasional haughty glance. As much as she thought of herself as a citizen of the world--or at least of the Empire--she never felt farther from home than when she visited this neighborhood.

As she expected, the White Orchid was antique, stately and splendid. Not a soul with fur could be seen in either the sitting room or dining room, other than a Rilima maid. Neither the doorman nor the woman behind the registration desk so much as arched an eyebrow at Roulette as she walked in, though, and the doorman even smiled; there was hope for the country yet.

A longer look into the dining room showed the service had ended. A few couples lingered at tables over coffee and half-finished desserts. She deliberated a moment, then headed into the handsome sitting room, bare paws silent against the hardwood floor. Perching on a cushioned wicker settee near the fireplace, she crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, breathing in the scents of wood and ash, of bouquets of lavender on the end tables, of the perfumes worn by other guests. The boarding house's space was comfortable, but the White Orchid was not only pleasant but beautiful. This was the kind of place she'd stay in if she ever came back to Achoren.

She heard slow footsteps approaching from behind, so expected the soft murmur over her shoulder when it came. "It's good to see you again...Roulette? Yes?"

"Yes," she said, keeping her voice warm as she tilted back her head. He looked just as she'd seen him earlier, down to the jacket. She rarely found humans all that attractive, and this gentleman wasn't among the select few. For his apparent age, though, she'd seen far worse; she suspected human women of the same age would find him handsome enough. And everything from his attire to his bearing--not to mention his choice of rendezvous point--bespoke wealth. "I don't believe I've learned your name yet, Mister...?"

"Blue," he said after a moment.

She smiled and nodded slightly. After all, Roulette wasn't her given name, either. "Well, then, Mr. Blue. I believe you were offering a donation for my dancing earlier? That's much appreciated."

"So was your dance." He walked around the couch and sat down beside her, maintaining a more respectful distance than she'd expected. "I truly didn't have the money on me then that I though it deserved, but..." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a billfold, then handed her a fifty-var note. "Here."

She suppressed her gasp, but her whiskers twitched visibly. "Thank you very much, sir. That's most generous." She considered tucking the bill into her cleavage rather than her purse, but settled for merely leaning over farther than she needed to as she put the money away.

"You deserve it," he said after a few seconds had passed. "Your dancing is most extraordinary. I've seen human dancers before, but there's something...special about the dancing of your kind."

"Of Procya?"

"Of all the...furred races? I've gathered 'furry' is considered disrespectful."

She inclined her head with a wry smile. "It would be like calling you a 'fleshy,' sir. I'm not sure if you'd find that disrespectful, but I imagine you'd find it a little--a little reductive."

He lifted his brows and laughed. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but yes. I see." Then he tilted his head, smiling curiously. "'Reductive.' You're very well-spoken."

"I did well in school."

Mr. Blue nodded and fidgeted. She waited for him to make the offer she knew was coming.

"Would you consider a more...private dance for me?"

Roulette smiled softly, meeting his eyes. "Understand that I'm only a dancer."

"Of course."

"No touching any more intimate than shaking your hand."

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Yes. But I'd like to see...more of you. I'll pay you quite well."

She nodded slowly, then gave him a small--but suggestive--smile. "Then lead me to your room, Mr. Blue."

"I'm in room six. I'll head up now, taking the main set of stairs. You wait five minutes, then follow me, using the far set of stairs. All right?"

For heaven's sake. "All right, sir."

Mr. Blue smiled and rose. "I'll see you soon," he whispered. With another glance around as if to make sure no one had seen the conversation, he made his way up the wide main staircase near the registration counter.

Roulette didn't watch him go. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap again and began to watch the wall clock.

#

While the White Orchid's lobby and hallways positively shimmered with gleaming wood and brass trim, the room Roulette was let into was lit only by a single small oil lamp; even her eyes needed a moment to adjust. She wondered how long it had taken Mr. Blue, with his poor human eyesight, to see anything at all.

"Come on in, Roulette," he murmured, closing the door behind her and heading over toward the bed. "I believe there's enough space for you to dance, isn't there?"

She nodded. "Yes." He'd pushed some furniture to the room's sides, creating an open area for her. Almost ten feet of space lay between the bed and the long, wide dresser against the far wall. Curiously, six large decorative glass bottles with sprayer tops, each with a dark blue liquid inside, lined the dresser's surface.

"Perfumes? Are you a salesman, Mr. Blue?"

"You're quite observant, aren't you? Not a salesman, but I'm in the compounding business. I'll give you some perfume after we're finished."

"That's kind of you, but I don't--"

"I insist," he said, looking strangely serious as he sat down on the bed, eyes locked on her. "But now, dance. Please."

Roulette reached into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out her belled anklets, fastening each one by lifting her legs up and balancing on one foot, first right, then left.

Then she began to dance.

The dance was similar to her street dance, but slowed to half speed, sways more exaggerated, dips and bends lower. As she spun, her hands slid over her body, loosening ties, undoing buttons. None of her clothes fell to the floor--yet--but now they billowed with her movements.

Mr. Blue's breathing wobbled. "Very nice," he whispered.

A minute passed, the tempo of her whirling faster now, her blouse falling gracefully to the floor beside her. She wore a sleeveless top under it, gossamer thin, showing the sleek fur and lacy bra beneath.

Roulette moved close enough to the bed that her tail just missed brushing against his body as she spun. As her hands moved into position to pull off her top in a smooth, well-practiced motion, though, Mr. Blue leaned forward and grabbed her arm. The motion nearly caused her to stumble against him.

She took a deep breath, letting herself stay close to him, but making sure she was balanced. He made no attempt to hide the stare into her cleavage now. "No touching, sir," she whispered. "We agreed."

"Unfasten my belt," he said hoarsely.

She leaned forward, tugging on her hand to encourage him to let go. "You can unfasten your belt if you want, Mr. Blue," she murmured. "What I do is dance."

He grimaced, but nodded, more throwing her arm away rather than letting it go. He immediately brought both of his hands to his belt and fumbled to undo it.

She danced away a couple feet in another twirl, and completed the pull on her top, letting it flutter down beside her blouse. When she looked back at Mr. Blue, she kept her eyes on his, doing her best to ignore what he was doing with his hands. She shouldn't have been bothered--she knew what she was dancing for--but the expression on his face made her skin crawl under her fur. Even so, she was being paid for a show. Her fingers combed through the fur over her belly, across her thighs, back under her tail. Maintaining the same slow pace and rhythm of the dance, she dipped lower, swayed more, swiveled her hips in widening circles.

"Closer," he wheezed, leaning forward.

Roulette let herself pirouette closer.

As she spun back to face him, Mr. Blue sprang at her.

She shrieked, falling backward, but he stayed with her, arms wrapping around her back and head, crushing her face to his chest. His erection pressed hot against her belly. Panicking, she curled her fingers and stabbed her claws into his sides. It was enough to make him grunt in pain and loosen his grip. She scrambled back.

"Come on, beast." His tone dripped lust and hate. "I need to fuck you."

She darted toward the door, but he lurched in front of her to cut her off, then drove her back against the dresser. This time he grabbed her arms, keeping her from using her claws again.

"Let go of me!"

He twisted her around, forcing her to face the dresser, and slammed her down against it so she was bent over, hands on her shoulders now.

Roulette tried desperately to twist away, her flailing hands knocking over one of the perfume bottles. If only these were mace. Yet maybe it would at least loosen his grip before--

Holding her down with his weight, he slid a hand in front of her, fumbling at her skirt.

Grabbing the closest bottle, she thrust it back behind her at his face and sprayed repeatedly.

The reaction was sharp and immediate. He let go of her almost before the spray hit him, bringing his arms up. "No!"

The scent released smelled nothing like perfume. Roulette quickly slid away along the dresser, turning around.

Mr. Blue rubbed frantically where the spray had hit him, smoke rising in thin, acrid wisps. "Oh living god. You fucking animal bitch. Get me--water--" Blisters were appearing on his cheeks, his arms, his fingers. Drops of blood had formed under his eyes. He fell to his knees, grabbing at the bed and pulling up the sheet to wipe at his face. His skin stuck to the cloth. He started to scream, a noise of pure terror--for only a second. The noise ended in a soft gargling sound.

Feeling bile rise in her throat faster than her own scream, Roulette grabbed her clothes and ran from the room, slamming the door behind. She pulled both layers back on as she ran down the hall, took a deep steadying breath, and walked down to the lobby and to the exit as fast as she thought she could without drawing attention. She kept her expression studiously neutral; no one gave her curious, accusing looks, so she was sure she was--

Was that the vixen from the dance this afternoon?

Don't look, she told herself fiercely. It isn't, and if it is, that's just a coincidence.

She stepped outside. No guests had looked up in alarm, no staff had hurried upstairs. As awful as Mr. Blue was, she couldn't just leave him like that. Could she?

I'll give you some perfume after we're finished. I insist.

Roulette managed to get into a side alley and over a trash can before she started to vomit.

#

Roulette tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, the images returned. She didn't want to put a name to it, but she couldn't stop herself. Melting. She'd left Mr. Blue with his face melting.

When the sun rose the next morning, she splashed water on her face, dressed simply, and headed downstairs. A coffee shop, open only for breakfast and lunch, sat across the street from the boarding house. She'd made visiting it part of her morning ritual most days.

Today the shop's opener was a Melifen named Rissi. He didn't know Roulette's name but he knew her usual order; as she sat at the counter, the cat was already pouring a cup of coffee for her, and set it down in front of her with a little ceramic creamer, a plate with a warm raspberry turnover following a few seconds later. "You don't look dressed for capturing hearts today. No dancing?"

"I didn't get much sleep," she said, forcing a smile as she poured cream into the coffee.

"You look really tired," he agreed. "Let me know if there's anything else I can get you, okay?"

She gave him a nod and a more sincere smile as she cupped her hands around the mug, lifting it for a sip.

Dancing. She couldn't dance here now, could she? She'd have to get out of Achoren. If Mr. Blue had survived, he'd finger her for the attack, and it would be her word against his. While she'd grown up trusting the Ranean Guard in Orinthe, her impression of Achoren had taken a sharp turn for the worse in the last twelve hours.

And if Mr. Blue hadn't survived...then what? She might be in the clear. But even if there weren't any witnesses, she'd been the only non-human at the White Orchid last night. Despite Mr. Blue's little charade of not going up the stairs together, she might be remembered speaking with him.

She'd been the first customer through the door this morning. As she nibbled on the turnover, other customers began to trickle in. A wolf she'd seen before sat down a couple stools down and tipped his cap to her; she nodded back, absently noting other regulars in the small crowd.

Maybe she should go to the Ranean Guard herself. She'd rarely felt truly unwelcome here, after all. Her paranoia about Achoren prejudices was likely unjustified. And as part of the Empire, Ranean law--in which all citizens were held as equal regardless of race--took precedence.

She'd reached for her coffee mug again when someone slipped onto the stool immediately to her right, a tall woman in dark gray slacks and a light blue blouse. The vixen.

Roulette kept her hand on her mug but let it drop back onto the counter. It clinked loudly, coffee sloshing over its edge.

Rissi walked over and took her order. "I'll have what she's having," the vixen murmured, her voice soft and pitched low as she turned to look directly at Roulette. The raccoon tightened her grip on her coffee mug.

"Coming right up," Rissi said, ears flicking. He glanced between the two women and headed off.

"Roulette," the vixen said, keeping her storm green eyes fixed on the shorter raccoon.

She looked down at her turnover, ears flat.

"After breakfast, we're going to chat about last night."