Lion in Wait

He sat impassive, huffed a breath through the mask's airholes. The real-like whiskers fluttered and he observed the effect. Not particularly threatening, but he didn't need the whiskers to be threatening when he himself was doing such a good job. Obviously. Nary a straggler had been by yet today, and normally this place was crawling with unsuspecting folks just out for a drink of cool, refreshing water. He thought about going for a sip himself, but that would invite unwanted attention. Give away his position, like. No, he didn't want to do that until it was absolutely necessary. When would that be? He didn't know, but he was willing to bet he'd know it when it happened.

He drew in another breath, flattened himself against the wall. And he spotted her. Clad in a smart business suit the color of peacock feathers, heels clicking against the wood-laminate flooring, hair blowing behind her in defiance of hairspray—yes, he thought, yes.

Swiftly he checked the room for observers. No one, at least not this minute. Everyone was at his or her desk, ostensibly working, probably on the internet. He smirked. His jumpsuit was the nondescript blue-gray of the building's janitorial staff, whose rounds were not until later in the day. He'd checked. He'd checked everything about this place before even thinking of installing himself behind this water fountain, and waiting for his first victim.

Here she was, moving toward him with bored purposefulness. He doubted she even realized what a figure she cut, unaware that her last moments in this world were at hand.

He tensed, ready to spring. She was getting closer, closer—soon she'd be standing on the big X he'd marked in front of the water fountain, and that's when he'd spring from his hiding place, neatly decapitate her, and let out his feral roar. Then they'd know who was king of the jungle, oh yes, then they'd know. They'd all know. No one would doubt how amazing was his prowess, how full of raw power was his masculinity, how keen was his blade, how powerful his ability to ensnare any victim he chose.

She was walking, licking her lips. The world seemed to slow. All he could think was not even coherent—just a low thrumming beat, a kind of soon soon soon through his mind as he crouched, knife at the ready. Her eyes were glued to the water fountain, its gleaming nozzle facing her, offering sweet release from the torment of thirst. She came nearer, nearer to him. He watched, barely daring to breathe, knife held in a hand both tense and loose, leaning forward just the tiniest fraction of a degree, every muscle attuned to the moment he'd--

Wait--

Wait, what was she doing?

She was stopping …

Standing …

Oh, she was standing, all right.

But not on the X.

She was leaning over the back of the nozzle, coming in for the water stream from behind. Very like a predator herself, he thought with a red buzz of rage. She wasn't on the X. He couldn't strike. He would be seen. He sank back against the wall, listened to the quiet hiss of water abruptly quit, heard her small purr of relief, listened as her heels clicked back off in the direction she'd entered from.

He glared after her. Well, he thought, so much for today—we'll try again in the morning.

He slid the mask from his face, tucked it into his back pocket, and left the building.