Free I Married the Third Horseman (Paranormal Romance and Divorce) by Michael Angel

more so because I knew it was real. His body
shifted, changed into something with a toothed snout and taloned
claws like a shambling grizzly bear the size of a bulked-up Chevy
Suburban. His tuxedo vanished, replaced by a coat of shimmering,
shiny white fur slashed through with black stripes.
    I stared for a moment. I’d rocked the bed
with that creature so damned hard that the creaky box springs under
the mattress had out counted the beats. Mitchel reared up and let
out a roar that put the tiger in Circe’s bedroom to shame.
    What did I do?
    Let’s just say that Mama Van Deene didn’t
raise her daughters to freeze up.
    I followed it up with a rather dainty (by
comparison) scream of my own and ran as fast as I could. Arms
outstretched, pure terror threatening to overwhelm me, I burst
through the theatre doors.
    I almost tripped over my own two feet as I
dashed down the crowded theatre’s main aisle. A few people in the
audience let out startled gasps or cries of amazement as I passed
by. Most turned to look at me, but without any special alarm. I’m
pretty sure that Mitchel’s roar, not to mention my entrance, was
assumed to be part of the act.
    The rows of plush red theatre seats, packed
almost solid with patrons, sloped down to a stage decorated around
the sides with carvings of olive trees. Circe, resplendent and
glittering like a multi-faceted diamond, stood in the center
spotlight. She paused in the midst of her act, which involved her
standing atop a huge white Siberian tiger. While surrounded by a
ring of tawny male lions. Who were themselves surrounded by a ring
of bright orange tigers.
    The doors I’d come through exploded in a rain
of wood and plaster as Mitchel’s shining white bear-tiger form tore
through the too-small entrance. Predictably, the audience dissolved
into a chaos of screaming, running people. I fought my way through
the crowd that seemed to instantly materialize in the aisle as
people jumped from their seats and ran for the side exits.
    Circe, to her credit, merely frowned, as if
she were annoyed that someone had stolen her Oscar-worthy moment of
glory. Her eyes gleamed as she raised one hand, pointed at the
Mitchel-creature, and spoke a single sentence to her big-cat
entourage.
    “Take care of that ruffian!”
    A chorus of snarls rose from the stage. I
shrieked as I fell to one knee. Felt the swish of air as Mitchel’s
forepaw grasped where I’d stood a moment ago. In unison, the lions
and tigers (no bears, oh my!) leapt from the stage and piled on
Mitchel, tearing and snarling!
    The mass of animals rolled to one side,
crushing theatre chairs and tearing up wide swathes of carpet. A
howl of pain from Mitchel. A lash of one mighty paw, and a pair of
lions went flying. The big cats hit one of the second-story viewing
boxes, splintering the olive-tree designs, and landed with a crunch . The animals shimmered into the still forms of two of
Circe’s men.
    I rolled, pushed my way through the last
people fleeing from the carnage. Circe came to the edge of the
stage, grasped my hand, and hauled me up. A whimper, followed by a
crash, and a tiger landed in an unconscious heap on the boards next
to us. Circe pulled me backstage as the tiger turned back into a
broken, bleeding man. Mitchel roared again, smashing yet another
lion to the floor with a bloody, oversized paw. Clearly, Circe’s
animal-men weren’t going to hold him back much longer.
    She didn’t hesitate as she took me around to
the private lipstick-red elevator that had brought me to her
backstage demesne in the first place. We got inside and she pressed
the button marked GARAGE . The doors closed with a ding , and as we began to move, she slid open a compartment
below the buttons. A tiny touchpad folded out; Circe placed a
fingertip to the sensor, which glowed green. I heard a click, and
the compartment hummed as it extended a case the size and thickness
of a Gideon hotel-room bible.
    “Take this,” she said, and I grabbed