Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

Suddenly he tensed. His tail stilled. He listened intently, tracking the faint hush of fur against brick, then the crackle of paper as an approaching cat disturbed a fallen poster.

Then he scented her and relaxed, letting his tail swing again; he knew her.

The old buff female climbed rheumatically into the tom’s tree. He watched her, first lazily then intently, his yellow eyes suddenly widening. He saw that she was wild with news, her movements were jerky, he could smell her excitement.

He waited with growing impatience as she settled herself on a branch below him. When at last she spoke, her voice was harsh with agitation. “Three humans have come up.”

He stared at her. “From below? Through a door?”

“Yes.”

“Which door?”

“The warehouse on Telegraph. A man, a little girl, and a woman. The woman is like us.”

The tom’s body slid into a crouch. “Like us? Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. Her hair is piebald, her eyes are a cat’s eyes.”

“Who is she? Did you listen to them? Why have they come here?”

“I followed them last night. I have watched them all day.” She looked to him for praise. He broadened his whiskers at her and raised his tail.

“There was war in the world below,” she said. “These three have escaped a massacre. He is Prince Ithilel of Xendenton, the child is his sister. Xendenton has fallen, and these two seem all that is left of the royal family.”

“And the Catswold woman? Why is she with them?”

“I don’t know. But it was the Catswold who defeated Xendenton, fighting beside peasant rebels. The man and little girl discussed it last night after the Catswold woman slept; I listened from the roof next door through their open window. They think the woman is a traitor to them, that she is loyal only to the Catswold.”

“Then is she their captive?”

“No, she is the wife of the prince.”

The tom froze, his body going hard. He looked back at the female gently; she was old, and dear to him. “You did well, Loua.” He didn’t expect her to feel his distress. She had been born on the streets of the upperworld, her mother had no Catswold memories. Loua was as ignorant of her heritage as any common cat. “Why,” he said softly, more to himself than to Loua, “why would a Catswold woman be married to a prince of Xendenton?”

Loua mewled her confusion. “The small princess hates her. She says the Catswold woman betrayed them. How could the woman turn against her husband? Why would they marry if they are enemies?” Loua was always miserable when life did not add up. She hunched down, staring at McCabe.

McCabe said, “Tell me, this Catswold woman…What does she look like?”

“She is beautiful,” Loua said with envy. “Tall, sleek as silk. Her hair is gold striped with platinum and with red. Hair,” Loua said jealously, “bright as hearthfire, and her eyes are like emeralds. She must be gorgeous as a cat. Her name is Timorell.”

“Timorell…” McCabe tasted the name. “And where are they now?” His tail twitched with impatience.

“In an apartment on Russian Hill. From the roof next door you can see into the living room and into the couple’s bedroom. It is the street of the Great Dane, third house north of him on the same side.” She preened, expecting McCabe to praise her for bravery at circumventing the Dane. But McCabe was lost in speculation. Loua purred his name, moving closer; but then she turned away. She was too old to appeal to McCabe, too long past her prime. This Timorell would appeal. She hunched miserably, bereft of defense against beauty and youth.

As McCabe quit the tree he turned, his face filling the mirror. Melissa stared into his huge eyes, startled. He dug his claws into the branch, then leaped to the alley. In the shadows, before stepping into the street, he took another form.

McCabe stood tall under the fuzzy streetlight, adjusting his tie, then strode across Powell. His shoes made a soft echo in the fog. He was a tall man, powerfully made, broad shouldered, his dark gray hair streaked with pale gray. His hands were broad, capable, stained from work, the nails trimmed short and clean. His yellow eyes were light against his tanned skin. He was a man to whom most women were drawn, though some women avoided him with a strange fear.

He passed the house of the Great Dane without disturbing the beast. In the shadows he changed to cat again, his broad stripes sharply defined by the street light. He leaped, and flowed up the thick vine onto the apartment house roof.

He stared across six feet of space to the next apartment building, to the three dormers with their open windows. Inside, the rooms were dark. He leaped the six-foot span to the center dormer, and clung there on the ledge and pressed against a dusty-smelling screen, looking in.

The couple slept in an iron-footed, rumpled bed. The Catswold girl’s pale hair spilled across the prince’s shoulder. She was long, supple. The sheet clung to her, thrown back so McCabe could see that she slept raw. He admired the curves of her arm and shoulder and, beneath the sheet, the curve of her breast. He wanted to touch her, wanted to slash the screen and go in. She slept deeply, innocent of him. He wanted to wake her, touch her; he wanted to say the changing spell for her and slip away with her across the rooftops, to be with her in the secret night.

Melissa, watching McCabe in the mirror, knew his feelings as if they were her own. Gripped by the desire he felt, her own passions awoke in a way that shocked her.

McCabe watched Timorell a long time. He would have stayed near her all night, but suddenly in the silence he heard the brush of a hand across a window screen. He leaped from the dormer across the chasm onto the neighboring roof, then turned to look back.

The screen of the next window was pushed out. A child looked out. For one chilling moment McCabe saw her eyes. For one moment he stared into deep, complete evil.

The child drew back and closed the screen. McCabe sped across the roof and down the vine. He hit the sidewalk as the little girl came out the front door carrying a heavy lamp. Heart pounding, he pressed into the shadows. He changed to man as young Siddonie reached him, holding the lamp like a club.

He grabbed her arm, and threw the lamp to the street. It shattered. He held her wrists as she kicked and bit him, and he shook her until she became still.

“You were going to injure the cat—kill it.”

“Catswold,” she hissed. “Get away from me! Leave the girl alone!”

“What do you fear?” McCabe looked her over, laughing. “That I will despoil your brother’s wife?” He saw the child blanch. “Why have you come up from the Netherworld?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Tell me.” He twisted her arm, enjoying her pain, caring nothing that she was a child; she was evil, coldly evil. “Tell me what happened in Xendenton. Tell me, or I will kill you.”

“You dare not kill me.”

“The laws say only that I would endanger my immortal soul; that is my choice. Gladly would I do so to see you die, Princess!”

“If you know so much, why do you ask questions?”

He twisted her arm harder. “Who is the Catswold woman?”

“A traitor,” she hissed. “A bitch—a traitor. And she will pay for her deeds—you all will.”

“You are curiously indignant, for one whose kin has murdered thousands of Catswold.” McCabe looked closely at her. “You are like a hard, sinewy little bat, Princess. Brittle and blood-hungry.”

The child stared at McCabe, expressionless as glass, then touched her tongue to her lips with a dark, twisted laugh.

“Go back in the house, little girl. But know this: if you harm the Catswold woman in any way, you will know pain by my claws as you have never imagined pain.” McCabe grasped her hair for a moment, hard. “Have you ever seen the guts torn out of a mouse so the creature, still alive, stares at its own offal, frozen with terror?”