“You took her money.”
“If we did, little queen, that’s none of your affair.” His purr was a ragged rumble; he towered over her, slow and insinuating; his amber eyes caressed her, devoured her-but when he reached out his nose to sniff her tail, she whirled, screaming feline curses, and Joe exploded, biting and slashing him, sinking his claws into the tom’s back and neck. The two toms spun in a clawing, yowling whirlwind across the roofs, raking fur and swearing until Dulcie again thrust herself between them, fighting them both.
They spun apart and backed off, circling and snarling, crouching to leap again for the tender parts.
Joe attacked first-blood spattered Dulcie’s face. But the torn sent him flying against a chimney. Joe shook his head and bolted into Azrael, cursing a string of human insults until Dulcie again drove them apart, battling like a wildcat; neither torn would hurt a queen.
“You want to bring the cops?” she hissed at them. “There are apartments above these shops. You make enough noise, someone will call the station.”
The black torn smiled and turned away. He began to wash, as casual and easy as if there had never been a battle. But soon he paused, and drew himself up tall and erect like an Egyptian statue carved from ebony.“You two little cats,” he said, looking them over as if they amused him. “You two little cats-I see death around you.”
He studied them haughtily.“Do you not sense death?” He licked his paw. “There will be death in this village. Human death. I sense death-three human corpses. Death before the moon is again full.
“I see you two little cats standing over the bodies. I see your foolish pain-because humans are dead.” He laughed coldly. “Humans. How very silly. Why would you care that a human dies? The world is overrun with humans.”
“What do?” Dulcie began.
But a whistle from the street jerked the tomcat up, a call as soft as the cry of a night bird. He turned, leaped down into the awning, and was gone. They heard a muffledoofof breath as he hit the street. Heard his human partner speak to him, then footsteps.
Looking over the roof’s edge, they watched the two drift away, up the street into darkness. Joe crouched to follow, but Dulcie pressed against him, urging him away from the edge.
“Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t-he frightens me.” She was demure and quiet. If she had ranted and snarled at him, he would have been off at once, after the pair.
“He scares me,” she repeated, sitting down on the shingles. Joe looked back at her crossly, knowing he’d be sorry he hadn’t followed. But he was puzzled, too. Dulcie was seldom afraid. Not this shivering, shrinking, huge-eyed kind of fear.
“Please,” she said, “leave him alone. He might be like us. There might be a wonderful mystery about him. But he terrifies me.”
Later, in the small hours when Joe and Dulcie had parted, as she snuggled down in the quilt beside Wilma, she dreamed of Azrael, and in sleep she shivered. Caught by the tom’s amber eyes, she followed him along medieval lanes, was both frightened of him and fascinated. Winding across ancient rooftops they slipped among gargoyles and mythic creatures twisted and grotesque, beasts that mirrored the black tom’s dark nature. Azrael before her, drawing her on, charmingher, leading her in dream until she began to lose all judgment.
She’d always had vivid dreams. Sometimes, prophetic dreams. But this drama woke her, clawing the blankets, hissing with fear and unwanted emotions. Her thrashing woke Wilma, who sat up in bed and gathered Dulcie close, her long gray hair falling around them, her flannel nightgown warm against Dulcie. “Nightmare? A bad nightmare?”
Dulcie said nothing. She lay shivering against Wilma, trying to purr, feeling very ashamed of the way the black torn had made her feel.
She was Joe Grey’s lady; her preoccupation with the stranger, even in dream, deeply upset her.
Wilma didn’t press her for answers. She stroked Dulcie until she slept again, and this time as Dulcie dropped into the deep well of sleep she held her thoughts on Joe Grey and on home and on Wilma, pressing into her mind everyone dear to her, shutting out dark Azrael.
It was not until the next morning that Joe, brushing past Clyde’s bare feet, leaping to the kitchen table and pawing open the morningGazette,learned more about the burglary at Medder’s Antiques. He read the article as Clyde stood at the stove frying eggs. Two over-easy for Clyde, one sunny-side up for Joe. Around Clyde’s feet the three household cats andthe elderly black Labrador crouched on the kitchen floor eating kibble, each at his or her own bowl. Only Joe was served breakfast on the table, and he certainly wasn’t having kibble.
Clyde said kibble was good for his teeth, but so were whole wheat kitty treats laced with fish oil and added vitamins from Molena Point’s Pet Gourmet. Choosing between P.G.‘s delightful confections and store-bought kibble was no contest. Two of P.G.‘s fish-shaped delicacies, at this moment, lay on his breakfast plate, which Clyde had placed just beside the newspaper. Clyde had arranged four sardines as well, and a thin sliceof Brie, a nicely planned repast awaiting only the friedegg.
It had taken a bit of doing to get Clyde trained, but the effort had been worth it.
Standing on the morning paper sniffing the delicate aroma of good, imported sardines, he read theGazette’saccount of the burglary. The police did not know how the burglar had gotten into the store. There had been no sign of forced entry. No item of merchandise seemed to be missing. Fifteen hundred dollars had been taken, three hundred from the cash register, the balance from the locked safe. The safe had been drilled, a very professional job. Joe didn’t know he was growling until Clyde turned from the stove.
“What? What are you reading?” Clyde brought the skillet to the table, dished up the eggs, then picked Joe up as if he were a bag of flour so he could see the paper.
Joe dangled impatiently as Clyde read.
Clyde set Joe down again, making no comment, and turned away, his face closed and remote.
They had been through this too many times. Clyde didn’t like him messing around with burglaries and murders and police business. And Joe was going to do as he pleased. There was no way Clyde could stop him short of locking him in a cage. And Clyde Damen, even at his worst, would never consider such a deed-never be fool enough to attempt it.
Clyde sat down at the table and dumped pepper on his eggs.“So this is why you’ve been scowling and snarling all morning, this burglary.”
“I haven’t been scowling and snarling.” Joe slurped up a sardine, dipping it ineggyolk. “Why would I bother with a simple break-and-enter? Max Harper can handle that stuff.”
“Oh? Those small crimes are beneath you? So, then, what’s with the worried scowl?”
Joe looked at him blankly and nipped off a bite of Brie.
Clyde reached across the table and nudged him.“What’s going on? What’s with you?”
“Nothing,” Joe said coldly. “Is there some law that I have to tell you all my business?”
Clyde raised an eyebrow.
“So there’s a new cat in the village. It’s nothing to worry you, nothing for you to fret over.”
Clyde was silent a moment, watching him.“I take it this is a tomcat. What did he do, come onto Dulcie?”
Joe glared.
Clyde grinned.“What else would make you so surly?” He mopped upeggwith his toast. “I imagine you can handle the beast. I don’t suppose this cat has anything to do with last night’s burglary?”
Joe widened his eyes and laughed.“In what way? What would a cat have to do with a burglary? It’s too early in the morning for dumb questions.”
Clyde looked at him deeply, then rose and fetched the coffeepot, poured a fresh cup.
“You get the Sheetrock all torn out?”
“We did, and hauled it to the dump. No more Sheetrock dust, you and Dulcie can hunt mice to your little hearts’ content without sneezing-until we start hanging new Sheetrock, of course.”