Cat in the Dark Read Free

wooed her. Evil beckoned to her. She blundered into stories of witches in cat-form and of cat familiars. Medieval humans stalked her, folk terrified by the sight of a cat and wanting only to kill it. Trapped by that era of cruelty, she was sucked down into darkness, unable to shake the bloody and horror-ridden images. These stories were nothing like the gentler, Celtic dramas that she liked to browse through when ancient peoples, taking cat-form, wandered down to a nether-world beneath the soft green hills, when the magical race that was kin to both man and cat could take the shape of either. When that ancient tribe of speaking cats to which she and Joe belonged—and of which they might be nearly the last survivors—had been understood and loved by the Celts. Unable to rid herself of the darker visions, she backed away from the open book, slashing at the offending volume, almost bereft of her reason.
    Then she whirled away to crouch at the edge of the table, shocked at her own loss of control.
    What am I doing? There is nothing here, only stories. Words on a page, nothing more. That evil time is gone, ages gone. Why am I crouching here trembling like a terrified hunk of cat fur? What set me off like that, to nearly lose myself? Shivering, she felt almost as if someone had fixed dark thoughts on her. Lashing her tail, disgusted by her pointless fear, by her sudden failure of spirit, she leaped to the floor and fled through Wilma’s office and out her cat door into the night, into the soft and welcoming night, into Molena Point’s safe and moonlit night.

2
    I N THE BEDROOM of the white Cape Cod cottage, moonlight shone through the open windows and a fitful breeze fingered across the bed, teasing the ears of the tomcat who slept curled in the blankets, his muscular body gleaming as sleek as gray velvet. Beside him on the double bed, his human housemate snored softly, clutching the pillow for warmth, unaware that Joe Grey had clawed away the covers into a comfortable and exclusive nest. Clyde, naked and chilled, was too deep in sleep to wake and retrieve the blankets, but Joe Grey stirred as the breeze quickened, his white paws flexed and his nose lifted, catching an elusive scent.
    He woke fully, staring toward the open window, drawing his lips back in a grimace at the stink he detected on the cool night air.
    Tomcat.
    The smell that came to him on the ocean breeze was the rank odor of an unknown tom—a stranger in the village.
    Joe might not encounter a village tom for months,but he knew each one, knew what routes he favored and which pals he hung out with, by the scent marks left on storefronts and tree trunks, aromas as individual as hand-lettered placards stating name and residence. He knew the smell of every cat in Molena Point, but this one was exotic and foreign.
    Joe tolerated the regular village toms, because how could he not? Without some degree of civility, life would degenerate into a succession of endless and meaningless battles. One restrained oneself until the prize was greatest, until a queen in heat ruled the night—then it was war, bloody and decisive.
    But no amount of civilized restraint among the village toms left room for strangers on their turf.
    This could be a stray from the wharf who had decided to prowl among the shops, or maybe some tourist’s cat; whatever the case, he didn’t like the intruder’s belligerent, testosterone-heavy message. The beast’s odor reeked of insolence and of a bold and dark malaise—a hotly aggressive, sour aroma. The cat smelled like trouble.
    In the moon’s glow, the cottage bedroom was lent a charm not apparent in the daytime. A plain room, it was suited to a simple bachelor’s spartan tastes, comfortable but shabby, the pine dresser and pine nightstand sturdily made and ugly, the ladder-back chair old and scarred. But now, in the moonlight, the unadorned white walls were enlivened by the shifting shadows of the oak trees