by Simon Hawke
"Then I guess we'd better get busy," she said, bending over the map.
Wulfgar stood at the window, looking out at the city. The large luxury apartment had all the modern amenities anyone could ask for. However, Wulfgar had little use for them. To him, the electric lights seemed harsh and glaring, so he never bothered using them. He preferred the soft glow of candles and the fragrant illumination of oil lamps. And he had no use for the kitchen appliances, since he did not eat.
There was a time once, thousands of years ago, when he had enjoyed eating, but he had fallen out of the habit and besides, what often passed for food in this modern world did not appeal to him. He had tried some of it and found most of it unpalatable. Fresh vegetables were easily obtained, as was beefsteak from the butcher shops, but the so-called processed foods, in foil-wrapped and frozen packages, were yet more symbols of the decadence the human world had fallen to. So, Wulfgar's refrigerator and cupboards were bare. He ate nothing and drank only wine, one of the few things he had discovered in the modern world that the humans had actually improved upon. He did not require the sustenance of food when he could dine upon the life force of his victims. All other forms of nourishment paled by comparison.
In his human disguise, he was a "spiritual counselor," an adept who worked with people to "balance their auras" and nurture their "emotional growth." It was all nonsense, of course, but the humans had always been gullible, superstitious creatures, and it amused him to have his victims come to him and pay for the privilege of feeding him. It was how he carefully chose the ones whom he would kill. In "counseling" them, he found out about their lives and patterns of behavior, and those whom he found suitable, he would later stalk. From the others, he only drew off small amounts of life energy surreptitiously. They felt slightly weak when it was over, but they were convinced that it was merely part of the process of having their "psychic growth cycles" stimulated. Amazing how naive and foolish they all were.
The one thing the humans had done well, he thought, the only real sign of progress he had seen them make, was their modern plumbing. The most distasteful thing about the humans had always been their smell. They were rank beyond belief. Apparently, it had reached a point where not even they could stomach it themselves. They had found a clean and sanitary way to eliminate their noxious wastes and most of them washed regularly now, taking baths and showers and neutralizing their offensive smell with perfumes, powders, and deodorants. In all the years that they had lived upon the earth, it was the only real sign of progress they had made.
Unquestionably, they had grown more intelligent, but to Wulfgar's way of thinking, they had done very little with their evolved intellectual capabilities. They had used them to make life easier for themselves, but in so doing, they had only succeeded in nearly destroying their own world, would have destroyed it, in fact, if not for Merlin, or would have destroyed themselves eventually as they fought among each other amid the ruins of their so-called civilization. Even now, they hadn't learned. Merlin had given them the gift of magic and what had they done with it? Merely re-created their old world, using thaumaturgy as the energy base for their technology. They still had no understanding of the world they lived in. They sought to impose their own order upon it, continuing to ignore the natural forces of the world and order of the universe. Their arrogance would have been amusing if it were not for their stupidity.
The natural order of the world was based upon one immutable law—survival of the fittest. Yet, everything these humans did worked as a feeble attempt to contravene that law. They had eliminated most of their natural predators, creatures that had served a valuable function in culling the weak out of their society. They had eliminated most of their natural diseases, so that now even the weak could thrive. They had built their world upon mutual dependence instead of self-reliance and most of their achievements had been based upon making their lives easier and free from the sort of striving effort that improved the breed. Perhaps these humans were more sophisticated than their primitive ancestors, perhaps their life spans had increased, perhaps their smell was less offensive, but they had grown soft. He had less respect for them and all of their accomplishments than he had for the ugly brutes they were descended from, who at least knew what it was to struggle for survival.
Their life force was sufficient to sustain him, but it was a pale thing compared to the energy their ancestors had possessed. Even in the grip of fear and overwhelming power, those primitive humans had fought like cornered beasts right to the end and their life force was a heady elixir compared to the tepid brew of these "evolved" humans. He still relished in the drinking of it, but it was not the same. With each victim he had claimed since his escape from that damnable pit in the Euphrates, it had been no different. The sudden rush of terror, perhaps a momentary struggle, but then . . . submission. Meek submission. Even in the face of oblivion, they all had reached a point—and how quickly they had reached it!—where they had simply given up. And each time, he had felt sated, but with an aftertaste of disappointment.
Their lives had been too easy for them. They had forgotten how to fight. They had lost their primitive instinct for survival. Only a shadow of it remained. They were like sheep, bleating pitifully as they were slaughtered. There was no thrill in the hunt.
What they needed, Wulfgar thought, was to be reminded of their true place in the scheme of things. To be reminded that they were not the dominant form of life on earth, as they so arrogantly and stupidly supposed. They were like a herd of deer that had grown too numerous and needed to be thinned, so that they could not upset the natural order of the world and so that only the strongest among them could survive, to make for better game.
There were, among them, at least four who would provide a challenge. The three avatars who bore the runestones and that half-breed, Merlin. That one had fought, Wulfgar remembered. He had been strong. His spirit had resisted to the very end and it had not accepted death. His body had perished, but his spirit had fled and Wulfgar knew that Merlin's life force would return to fight again. Perhaps Merlin had been there to aid the avatars when his fellow necromancers were destroyed. Now there was a life force that would course through him like a lightning bolt when it was finally consumed! He had more respect for the halfbreed mage than for any of the others. Without the spirits of the Council working through them, the others would be nothing. But Merlin, without the aid of the runestones, had possessed the courage to confront them, even knowing that his strength alone would never be enough against them all. And at the cost of his physical mortality, he had bought the others time, thought Wulfgar. Time in which to unite the powers of the runestones in the spell of the Living Triangle and destroy many of his fellow captives before they could make good their escape. He was a misbegotten half-breed, but he was worthy of respect.
Soon, thought Wulfgar. Soon they will be here. The bodies of his victims would serve as bait to bring them. It was growing dark and it was time to begin his preparations. The darkness cloaks the predator, he thought, and contributes to the terror. And it was past time that these humans remembered what real terror was, what it meant to be the prey.
As Gomez made his rounds, he kept thinking about Paul and his involvement with the murder investigation. He was worried about his human friend. His highly sophisticated, thaumagenetically engineered cat brain was capable of complex thought patterns, far superior to the brains of ordinary cats, yet unlike many magically enhanced creatures, Gomez did not hold himself above his ordinary cousins, even the more simpleminded ones.
There, but for the grace of God, go I, he thought, as he finished conferring with a short-haired tabby named Ginjer, who lived two blocks away. Ginjer was an ordinary cat, whose owner had picked her out of a litter offered by a neighbor's kids. Unlike Gomez, Ginjer had always led a pampered life as a domestic cat. She ate well, slept in a warm, pillowed cat basket in the bedroom of her mistress, and spent her days lounging in the window wells and playing with balls of yarn.
A simple, kind, gen
tle, and uncomplicated creature, Gomez thought. A kitty that's never known the cold and homeless night or the indignity of rummaging through trash cans, searching for a chicken bone or the remnants of some tuna in an oily can. To some cats, Gomez knew, that wasn't an indignity. Their owners could feed them till they blew up to thirty pounds or more and still they rummaged through the garbage after everyone had gone to bed, dragging out discarded bones and leaving them strewn all over the carpets. But to Gomez, there had been a time when it was a matter of survival and he had loathed it. It had wounded his pride deeply, but it was either that or starve.
The bottom line was, Gomez had been thaumagenetically bred and, in his youth, he had been too proud and too smart for his own good. He couldn't bear the thought of being sold to someone, like some piece of property, and so he'd figured out how to open his cage and he had run away. And until Paul had found him and they had adopted each other, Gomez had lived out on the streets, scratching and clawing for survival, tearing any cat who gave him any shit to shreds, and often getting shredded pretty good himself in the process. At least, in the early days. As time went on, he had learned the ways of the fences and back alleys and become a fearsome and accomplished scrapper.
What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, Gomez thought. But a cat like Ginjer, hell, she'd never understand about anything like that. Since the day she'd jumped one fence too many and encountered a stray tom who lived by different rules than she did, she'd never had to deal with any of life's often harsh realities.
He'd been out for a stroll around his turf when he heard the commotion and decided to take a paw in the matter. Now, Ginjer worshipped him. Occasionally, whenever she was lucky enough to get her claws into some poor bird, she'd bring it over to him and deposit it at his feet, her eyes shining with pride and admiration. He'd always accept the gift graciously, even though he hated birds. He'd eaten more than his fair share of them during the lean years and if he never saw another bird again as long as he lived, that would be just fine with him. But, he thought, you gotta accept a gift in the spirit in which it is given. He'd told Ginjer he liked to eat in private, he was fastidious that way, and when she'd gone, he would bury the damn thing beneath the bushes. He knew that Ginjer wouldn't be much use on something like this, but she'd help to spread the word and right now that was all that counted.
As he made his rounds, Gomez carried on a running interior monologue with himself, in the style of his heroes, Mike Hammer and Philip Marlowe. He had first discovered Spillane when one of Paul's students, who was taking a course in twentieth-century pre-Collapse literature, had left behind a copy of I, the Jury. He had never been taught to read, the ability had been magically bred into him, but it had been the first time he'd ever read anything except street signs, labels on old cans, and greasy newspapers tossed out in the trash. But when he began to read that book, it was like coming home.
It was as if this guy Spillane knew about the kind of life he had lived, because Mike Hammer, in his human way, had lived it too and his thoughts about the world were so much like his own. When Paul discovered how much Gomez had enjoyed the book, he had started searching through rare bookstores to find others that were similar, guided by one of the literature professors at the college, who thought that he was helping Paul with a new hobby. Whenever Gomez ran into something that he didn't understand, he would wait till Paul came home and then they would discuss it. On winter nights, Paul would light the fire and they'd sit together on the rug, discussing Chandler, Hammett, and Spillane. Sometimes, especially on Fridays, when Paul didn't have to go to work the next day, they'd be up till dawn.
Paulie gave me a life, Gomez thought to himself. He had found a tough and wasted little scrapper and took him in, gave him a home. Held out the hand of friendship. And he's always been there, with a saucer of cold milk and a sympathetic ear. Never made any judgments, never asked a thing in return. Now, Paulie needed help. And when a friend needs help, you don't wait for him to ask. You give it to him.
As Gomez headed for his next contact, his cat mind provided the narration, Spillane style:
The house was an unpretentious, small, two-floor adobe on Apache Avenue. Not much to look at, small adobe wall around the property, needed a brand-new coat of stucco about ten years ago, only no one ever got around to it. Gate set in the arched entry made of well-worn, weathered planks. Squeaked when you opened it. Only I don't open gates.
The muscles don't respond as well as they used to when I was just a lean and hungry kitty on the prowl, but I managed to make it to the top of the adobe wall in one good bound. Not bad for an old trooper.
I was there to see a foxy little feline known as Snowball. Time was, we used to run together, me and Snowball, but it's been a while and I didn't know how she'd react to seeing me again. Snowball liked to play the field in her younger days, but last I heard, she'd taken up with a young tom named Blaize, a calico with an orange lightning stripe running down his face.
I'd gotten the word on Blaize. Young and lean, hair-trigger temper. A young cat who still felt he had a lot to prove. And with a gal like Snowball, you gotta prove yourself every time you step out of the house. Not that I could blame him. Snowball was a stunner, even at her age. At one time or another, every tom in town had tried to take a crack at her, but Snowball was the choosy type. If she didn't like your style, it was aloha and the steel guitar. If you came on too strong and didn't get the signal, Snowball knew just where to sink her claws.
She was one heavy-duty lady with a reputation as a pussy that was real hard to get, but that didn't stop the toms. They came from miles away to sniff around. But Snowball had given Blaize the nod and Blaize knew how to protect the turf.
I hopped down off the wall and trotted up the flagstoned path to the porch, supported by heavy, vertical log columns. Snowball was curled up on the porch swing. The moment I saw her, the years seemed to melt away.
She still had it all. In spades. A regal Persian, white as alabaster from her sexy little ears to the tip of her thick and bushy tail. Every lush curve was a symphony of feline pulchritude. God, it took me back. For a moment, it crossed my mind that maybe we could pick up where we'd left off, but only for a moment. Snowball and I had already been that route. It was a good thing while it lasted, but it was never meant to be. I've always been the independent type, never one to settle down, and Snowball was the type of cat who required full-time attention. What she wanted, I didn't have to give. We both understood that and the white-hot flame of animal attraction that we'd felt for each other had eventually faded to a warm and gentle glow of friendship. Besides, she had a tom now and, by all accounts, Blaize was a real stand-up puss. I was happy for her.
She saw me and her ears perked up, then she stood up, arched her back, and stretched, a display purely for my benefit, and I could see that she hadn't lost a thing.
"Well, if it isn't a blast from the past," she said. "Hello, Catseye."
"Hi, doll."
The moniker was one that she'd come up with back when Paulie took me in to get my fancy eyeball. The fine matrix in the sky-blue Chinese turquoise in my left eye socket ran in an uneven line down the middle of the stone, lending the effect of a jagged, vertical pupil. She had dubbed me "Catseye" first time she saw it and the handle stuck. Paulie and his human friends always called me by my given name, but to the felines in the neighborhood, I was "Catseye Gomez," hardcase and all-around troubleshooter. I had to admit I liked the name. It had a lot of style, like the lady who had tagged me with it.
"Long time, no see," she purred.
"Yeah," I said. "It's been a while. You're looking good, doll."
Like most cats in town, she was a thaumagene, bred to perfection. Ginjer was an ordinary house cat, but there weren't too many like her anymore. Generally, the ordinary cats were strays. You could talk to them, cat style, but not being thaumagenes, they couldn't speak the human lingo and they really weren't too smart. Intelligence, of course, being a relative term. Cats have always had a lot of stre
et smarts. Throughout history, they've been survivors, always landing on their feet. But it was a dumb beast sort of smartness. Their brains simply weren't complex enough to think like thaumagenes. A lot of thaumagenes looked down on them, but me, I never held that sort of thing against them. I mean, we're all basically felines, aren't we? Some of us were just born luckier than others.
"So, Catseye, how've you been?" she said.
"I've been okay, doll. Yourself?"
"I've got no complaints. Put on a little weight, though."
"On you, it looks good."
"Flatterer," she purred. "So. Is this purely a social call or have you got something on your mind?"
Before I could reply, I heard a low-pitched growl behind me, the unmistakable warning of a tom getting ready to get serious. I slowly turned around.
"Hello, Blaize," I said. It couldn't have been anybody else. That telltale marking on his face was like a name tag. We stood looking each other over. He saw I wasn't scaring easy and was trying to decide if fur was going to fly.
"Take it easy, lover," Snowball said. "It isn't what you think. Gomez is an old friend."
Blaize had his ears back, but he softened his aggressive posture slightly. Only slightly, though. "Catseye Gomez, eh?" he said warily. "I've heard of you."
"I've heard of you, too, Blaize."
"They say you're pretty tough."
"They say you're no slouch yourself, kid. And now that we're done complimenting each other, what do you say you bristle down and take it easy? I'm not here to poach on your turf. I came to visit an old friend and ask a favor. Matter of fact, I was hoping I could count on you to help."