"Well, I do like the hero in the story," Marco began uneasily, and then suddenly, the words came spilling out of him. "His name is d'Artagnan and he lived in the time of the French King, Louis the Thirteenth. He was rather a reckless and bold sort of fellow and managed to get himself into all sorts of predicaments.” Marco smiled, remembering how much he loved the book. “As soon as he arrived in Paris, he was challenged to a duel by three musketeers, and then their duel is interrupted and all of them had to fight the Cardinal's guards, and..."
“Awesome!” Caffeina was gazing fondly at Marco. The others all had a glazed look in their eyes.
Marco washed his face, stalling for time, but he didn’t have to worry about facing the rude alley cats any longer. Something much bigger had invaded.
Chapter 21: Black masks and attitude
They had black masks and attitude—raccoons, they must have been, although none of the cats had ever encountered a live one. There were only three, but their presence was intimidating and the cats had their hackles up.
“Did I say you could eat outta my dumpsta’?” said the biggest varmint, a disreputable looking raccoon with a deep scar on one ear.
The Dead Cats growled and hissed, but no one responded to the senseless question.
Except Tweezer. “Who do you think you are?”
“Oh, excu-use me. I didn’t know we needed intra-ductions. This is my territory, so ya better get used to me, ya mangy felines. Name’s Sting. Don’t forget it!”
All three raccoons had banded eyes, but Sting’s were particularly narrow and his wide mouth flaunted no-nonsense fangs.
Before Tweezer could reply, Lily piped up. “I don’t think so! We eat here all the time, so it’s our dumpster, mister, not yours. Besides, you’re interrupting our meeting.”
Sting was dumbfounded, probably for the first time in his life
“Yeah, pip-squeak? A meetin’? What kinda meetin’ do a bunch ‘a cats have?”
“We are the Dead Cats Society, I’ll have you know,” Lily blurted out.
Jaws dropped and the crowd fell silent.
“Dead cats?” Sting suddenly looked worried. “You’s are dead?”
“No, but you might be if you don’t scram!” yelled Tweezer.
“Right, I’m scared now. How ‘bout you boys? You scared? Tank? Crimmany?” Sting asked his two cohorts.
“We’re shaking in our boots, boss.”
“Sooo’s what do a bunch ‘a dead cats do? Tell ghost stories?” laughed Sting.
“That’s a good one, boss!” said Tank.
Lily explained, “We read.”
“Huh?”
“Read. You know, books.”
“You read what?”
“You don’t know what a book is, mister?”
“I know what a book is!” said Crimmany, obviously the runt of the gang.
“Shut up! Course I know what a book is. You think I’m stupid or somethin’?”
“I think you’re brain dead, that’s what I think!” Caffeina chimed in.
Not wanting to be left out of the argument, Skitzo pushed forward through the cats and declared, “This is a top secret meeting. If you don’t leave now, I’m callin’ the cops.”
“A secret meetin’?” asked Sting. “Ri-ight. You must be undercover cats and this is your secret hiding place… by the trash cans. I’m so impressed.”
“You have no idea who we are,” said Cicero. “So take your buddies and go find another dumpster.”
“And who might you be, ol’ man?” Sting asked. “You somebody I should be takin’ orders from?”
“You leave him alone!” said Pudge.
Bait tried a diplomatic approach. “I’m sure you don’t want a fight. Please let us continue with our meeting. There are other trash bins down the road.”
Sting, undoubtedly the lead gangster raccoon, was never diplomatic. “Boys,” he said, without looking at his co-conspirators. “We gots ourselves a sit-u-a-shun.”
With more grace than one would expect, the jumbo-sized raccoon swooped up Lily, the petite kitten who had so boldly challenged him. He held her out at arm’s length, as if she were a smelly sock. “Hey, kitty. How ‘bout readin’ to Uncle Sting?”
Lily hung limply in his grasp.
“Not talkin’, huh?” Sting yelled, shaking her like a rag doll. “Then I’ll take you home with me. You can read to me there. Come on, Tank, Crimmany. Let’s go.”
The Dead Cats had not been idle—they had positioned themselves for an attack. Four of them leaped directly at Sting. Gypsy, Lily’s mother, bit him on the leg, and Bait tried to block him. Pudge, the only one who came close in size to Sting, succeeded in knocking him briefly on his back.
Marco had climbed up the dumpster to gain some height and used the vantage point to take a nosedive, striking Sting directly in his midsection. It would have been an effective move, if Marco had been bigger. As it was, he simply bounced off the fat-bellied raccoon and landed on the pavement. Marco, who’d never said anything mean, couldn’t help but mutter ‘Fatso’ under his breath. Sting took a swipe at him but missed.
“You morons. You think you can take me on?” growled Sting, still clutching Lily. “You're nuthin' more than pets. You should all be curled up on somebody’s lap.” He called out to his crew, “Boys, get a move on!”
“Whatcha gonna do with the kitten, Boss?”
“I’m takin’ it with me. Maybe it’s time ol’ Sting had his own pet," said Sting.
The raccoons scurried off towards the alley, and in a bold move, Tweezer plunged down from the back of a parked truck and sunk his teeth into Sting’s arm before he could get away.
Lily dropped, coming to consciousness, and landed on her feet. Before Sting could make a countermove, Marco grabbed Lily by the scruff of her neck—not a move that comes natural to a male cat—and awkwardly dashed off, putting enough distance between her and her kidnappers to keep her safe.
Sting left in a huff, hurling a warning. “You’ll be sorry, you scabby cats. Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me!”
Chapter 22: “We are such stuff as dreams are made on…”
Marco’s head hurt from thinking. Mostly he was thinking about the mystery that was Cicero. How could he imagine that time traveling was just ‘a little trip’? Why did he waste his time teaching illiterate strays? Who was he? Sometimes he seemed so old, lost in research that had no real-world implications. Then other times, Marco felt like Cicero was leading him down a dangerous path—one that was very real.
Then there was the annoying side of the old library cat. Cicero insisted he attend the Dead Cats meetings. What a joke. Those cats were more interested in eating and fighting than reading. He could not imagine them spending any time in a library and didn’t see how they could be guardians of anything. Well, maybe Bait. Bait was different from the others.
But then, ever since returning from Alexandria, nothing seemed the same and after his disastrous first meeting, all he wanted was a good book in a quiet corner of the library.
But that was the problem. Here he was in his favorite place, and even though it sounded quiet, it didn’t feel quiet. He blamed Cicero.
Marco quit trying to read and went upstairs. The old cat was busy pouring through the stack of books in his chambers and Alaniah was playing around, doing swoops and dives and generally amusing herself. Marco went in, hoping to get an answer to his biggest ‘why’ question, but Cicero kept on reading.
Marco tried to be patient, but the more Cicero ignored him, the more important the question became.
Alaniah swooped and hovered in a holding pattern above Marco. “You ask good questions, fledgling-ing,” she said.
“How do you know my question?”
“I can hear the thoughts of creatures… when I choose. Mostly they are not so interesting as yours.” She looked towards Cicero. “Impossible to get his attention when he’s researching, isn’t it?” She waved several of her wings in dismissal. “You want to know why he didn’t warn them, don’t you?”