Mercedes Lackey - Reserved for the Cat

For a moment, she looked puzzled. Then her lips curved in a cruel smile. “Wasting air. I like that. You seem very calm for someone who has just discovered that what he walked into, he cannot again walk out of.”

But what if I don’t want to walk out? Thomas asked, calmly. What if I intended to meet and speak with you?

The Troll’s mouth gaped. “Speak with me? Why?”

Thomas sniffed. I should think that would be obvious. You are clearly more clever than the theater people. You are obviously stronger. You know who they are, but they still do not know where you are, much less what.

“So you—”

I came intending to negotiate with you, yes. It is prudent.

“But you would be deserting your mistress, her friends—”

I am a cat, Thomas replied, hoping against hope that the creature would not look past his words. Cats are by nature selfish.

Because if the troll had any inkling that he was something more than he seemed. . . .

“A good point,” the troll replied, thoughtfully. “So, you think to join the winning side?”

I know the winning side when I see it, Thomas replied.

Fortunately, walking around Blackpool so much had given Ninette a good sense of the city, so she didn’t walk blindly into trouble-spots. Those were not just places where hooligans and thieves lurked, hoping for some drunken toff that could stagger by, be coshed on the head and robbed. And what would happen to a lone girl would be worse still.

She took cabs where she could, ran where she couldn’t, until her sense of danger/fear/danger brought her to a rather posh neighborhood indeed. No flats here, these were all fine townhouses, all built of identical stone, all with identical front façades. From the street, in fact, it could look like one long building, exactly like the front of a government building, for instance. Only when one looked closely could one see the narrow passages dividing building from building.

Her sense of trouble took her to the third from the corner. After a quick look up and down the street, she slipped around to the back, and tried her hand at the door.

It opened at her touch.

Saying a silent prayer that Ailse had returned home at last, that the Brownie had told her that Ninette had gone after Thomas, that Ailse had in turn gone for the men, Ninette slipped inside.

She waited while her eyes adjusted to the light. This should be a kitchen area—and at this time of night, there should be no one in it.

After a moment, she saw that she was right on both counts. That was a relief.

She fumbled the revolver out of her pocket. She had not dared to take it out in public or in the street; she was fairly certain she would have gotten into immense amounts of trouble if anyone had seen it.

She crept across the floor, revolver in hand, and peered through the doorway, while allowing the emotions to come to her. Thomas was definitely here—upstairs somewhere, and afraid for his life. But there were other things too, things that had the same sense to them that the little homunculus had had—not quite living, in fact, with less actual life in them than a house-sparrow, and nothing in the way of emotions—and one thing that actually did have thoughts, feelings, emotions. Very strong ones too, and all . . .nasty. Just brushing against them made her want to throw up.

Thomas was in the same room with the thing.

I must say, Thomas said, looking up at the thing that was calling itself Nina Tchereslavsky, I have heard about you Earth Elementals, but I never heard of one as powerful or as clever as you.

He considered that he was very lucky that cats had no expressions to read. And that the Troll could not actually read thoughts either. “Nor will you,” the Troll said, puffing up a little. “I am unique!”

I can see that. Is it true that you can change shape? I mean, change it to something other than your native form and this one? I had heard that some of the most powerful of Elementals can do that, but I have never seen it. He paused. Truly, I was thinking it must be some kind of myth.

“I can take any form I care to, as long as I have absorbed the original,” the Troll boasted, straightening, the pride evident in its voice. “Watch.”

In truth, Thomas would rather not have watched, but he didn’t have much choice. Watching the Troll shift forms was a very uncomfortable experience. Its body rippled in a stomach-churning manner, and the way the skin and hair seemed to crawl—it was entirely unnerving, and Thomas would have sworn until now that he had unshakeable nerves.

The Troll went through the forms of a dozen different people, all of whom must have been its victims, before Thomas shook his head in mock-admiration. He wasn’t admiring her, of course. What he was doing, after he got a grip on his own discomfort and mastered it, was studying her. When she changed shapes, she changed the clothing as well. So the clothing was a part of her. If you ripped it, would she bleed? Feel pain? He could see how she could counterfeit the living flesh, but how had she managed to learn to duplicate the clothing? Did she always wear this sort of “clothing,” or did she make use of an ordinary person’s wardrobe as well?

Then he realized that she must, because she was a real dancer. She would have changed costumes, changed into practice clothing.

How had she counterfeited being a real human all this time? Elementals generally did not understand humans. If she hadn’t been so evil, he would have been lost in real, not counterfeit, admiration.

That is amazing, he said. Can you take on the form of anything other than a human?

“If I choose,” the Troll replied smugly.

Thomas blinked, and the Troll’s form writhed, thickened, and instead of a human looming over him, there was a bear. It was a black bear, of the sort that often was taken from town to town by traveling entertainers and made to “dance” for thrown coins. In England they were usually not seen outside circuses, but on the Continent, such creatures were sometimes kept by gypsies. It balanced adroitly on its hind legs, looming over him, staring down at him from its tiny, shiny eyes, and growled.

Then it went to all fours, and writhed again, this time taking on the shape of a tiger easily the size of the sofa behind it.

Thomas got up and prowled around the beast, as if he was astonished by it. Amazing, he repeated. And you are, for all intents and purposes, the beast. Correct?

The tiger nodded.

I can see where these forms would be useful, the cat said thoughtfully. If you wanted to hunt someone, but did not want to chance the blame falling on you, all you would need to do would be to get him alone, take on the animal, and—

The tiger made a snickering sound, nodded, and the shape writhed again, and Thomas found himself staring up into the long tusks and whiskered cheeks of a walrus. I cannot imagine how that shape would be useful, he said doubtfully.

The troll returned to the shape of Nina. “Then you have never fallen off a ship in winter,” she said, with an air of superiority. He wondered about that statement. Had she fallen—or had she been pushed? He’d have bet on the latter.

I will take your word for it. Can you become a bird?

“Of course. But—” She frowned more deeply. “I do not care to do so for long. There is only so much thinking so little a head can do.” She made gesture of impatience. “So, why is it you have come to me, cat? Have you no loyalty to your mistress?”