Colt Harper: Esteemed Vampire Cat

by Tyrolin Puxty

  Right. There goes our final bonding session.

  The shed is rusted and structurally unsound. It fascinates me it’s still standing after the procession of storms. Standing being a relative term. It only has three walls and a crooked roof, the Ute’s nose poking through.

  The Ute used to be red, but it’s faded to dark brown. St. Damian unlocks the door—why he bothers locking it, I’ll never know—and points at the seat next to him.

  Reluctantly, I hop in, overwhelmed by the stale smell. I guess some things never change. The seatbelt hasn’t worked for years, so I settle in, the springs digging into my lower back.

  “What are we going to do about the bus driver?”

  “I already took care of it last night.” He turns on the engine, the sound weak and sickly. He shifts into gear, and we lunge forward through the mud.

  “That’s ambiguous.”

  “All right, I buried his body and hid the evidence. Still too vague?”

  “No, sir.” I pick at the skin peeling by my fingernail. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m serious. This doesn’t leave the Ute. Nor do any other bromance moments that follow. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Crystal, sir. So, where is my community service?”

  St. Damian turns onto the road and rolls down the window. “A small town in Ohio. You’ll meet Jax on your flight.”

  “Who is Jack?”

  “Jax,” he corrects.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  “No, you said Jack. It’s Jax. With an ‘x.’ Sheesh, is your form’s hearing going?”

  I stick my finger in my ear and wiggle it. My hearing seems fine. “I think it’s just my listening skills. Anyway. Jax. Who and what is he?”

  “A dweeby, nervous little werewolf. He’ll be hard to miss.”

  A werewolf? Oh, great. Just great. They detest vampire cats, and they’re always hungry. Honestly, they’re a pointless species—and a little cliché, if you ask me. As if the world needs more stories about a stupid werewolf.

  “Don’t be racist.”

  Sometimes I swear St. Damian can read my mind. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “It’s your expression. Scrunched up nose, twisted mouth. Learn to handle your form’s reactions better.”

  “Noted.” I click my tongue. “It’s going to be a painful flight. A werewolf and a vampire cat in close proximity? I can’t see that ending well.”

  “It rarely ends well when monsters and humans are involved. Although understandably, one might confuse the two for the same thing.”

  St. Damian turns on the radio, but as always, there’s nothing but white noise.

  We spend the remainder of the trip in comfortable silence. There’s no reason to fill it with meaningless words—the hum of the engine and the view of the valley are strangely consoling.

  “Will you stick with this form, Colt?”

  “The meat suit?” I motion toward my body. “Yeah, I like him. I think I’m better suited for the male humans. The women’s hormones tend to overpower me and I kill more frequently. If a person even stroked a cat’s fur the wrong way, I’d leap at them and scratch their eyes out.”

  “Do you ever feel guilty for taking over someone’s life? Possession.” He navigates a flawless turn. Well, not so much flawless, as the sort that doesn’t land us in the overflowing ditch, and what else can a hard-pressed vampire cat ask for?

  Well, perhaps that his questions made more sense. “Why would I care about a lousy human?”

  St. Damian sighs, his eyes heavy. “Until you learn the value of a life, you’ll never find your place in this world. I’m afraid the valley is inevitable for monsters like you, Colt.”

  “Sir, I value your life. I actually really like you.”

  “Not unconditionally, though, do you? You like me because I help. You enjoy my company from time to time. But would you ever risk your own life to save mine?”

  It takes me a while to contemplate. I feel bad for St. Damian. I respect him and want the best for him. Sacrificing myself to help him, though? Hell, I don’t even think about him once he’s out of sight. “Probably not.”

  “That’s what I thought.” St. Damian turns the Ute onto the road that leads to the airport. “Humanity may be monstrous, but we all have one weakness that makes us humane. That’s something you’ll never understand, Colt.”

  “It’s not in me to understand, sir. I was born this way.” I dance in my seat, a popular melody blaring in my mind. “You are what you are, and I am what I am. Can we change? To a degree. But change is like holding your breath; you can only do it for so long.”

  “I’m going to counter that absurd statement with another. Change is like building muscle; it hurts at first, but it makes you stronger.” St. Damian turns left onto another road.

  “That’s not nearly as poetic as mine, sir.”

  “How is breathing more poetic than building muscle?” He sounds annoyed, but I can tell he’s joking around. “We’re almost there.”

  “Great. I can’t wait to buy black tights and get all emotional onstage. Maybe we can hold hands and skip afterward.”

  “If that’s what floats your boat.” St. Damian pulls up at the airport, leaving the Ute running. He rummages around in his coat and hands me my passport and ticket. “Last stop.”

  I stare blankly. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “You’re big enough to get on your own damn plane. Besides, the breakfast menu finishes in less than an hour.”

  I heave myself out, holding the door open and peering at St. Damian for the last time.

  “This is it, then?”

  St. Damian laughs. “I’m an optimist, Colt, not an idiot. I’ll see you again. That I can guarantee.” He frowns. “Close the damn door.”

  I comply, shooting a casual salute. He reciprocates, shifts gear, then accelerates down the road.

  As the Ute disappears around the bend, any memories and fondness of St. Damian leave with it.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  “Recurring dreams are just my imagination being lazy.”

  – Colt Harper: Esteemed Vampire Cat

  ll righty. The Himalayan airport. An airport so dangerous that only eight pilots are qualified to land there.

  Look, I won’t deny the place is beautiful. The grass is green, the surrounding houses are quirky, and the mountainous view is… for want of a better word: mountainous. If my form could purr, I’d do it right now.

  But come on. The runway is only 6,500 feet long. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. Every time we plummet towards the landing strip, I feel like my form might die of a heart attack—which means I’m a goner too.

  The sucky thing? I’m trapped in this form until I find another strong enough to contain me. This form—Sean Hull, I believe his name was—has lasted longer than anticipated. He put up a really tough fight when I took over, but I was desperate. I’d gone without a form for days and was slowly dying, so I commend Sean for staying intact, especially considering he is at core a good sort. But me, I don’t knock any favors. In fact, it was our two-year anniversary together just last month. I bought myself a tuna cake.

  I join the long line outside to board the plane. It’s going to take a while to board; it always does. At least I can enjoy the chilled breeze and the clouds rolling through the mountains.

  Maybe spending an eternity here wouldn’t be so bad. It’s actually rather peaceful—especially now that wretched bus driver is out of the picture.

  I stand behind a weedy man, who wears woodchopper clothes and has sandy, ruffled hair. He looks at me over his shoulder, avoiding eye contact, kinda like St. Damian. Man, why won’t people look me straight in the eye?

  “Cat.” The man points at me, his brown eyes wide and his nostrils flared. “Vampire cat.”

  “Hey!” I slap his finger away. “Don’t finger-waggle at me or I’ll bite it! You Jack?”

  He bobbles his head almost uncontrollably, like a wei
rd tick, his eyelids fluttering. “J-Jax.”

  “Right, right. Jax. Weird name. I’m Colt.” I offer my hand. “Your partner in this splendiferous community service nonsense.”

  Jax stares down at my hand like it’s a bowl of decapitated mice. “Nice to meet you,” he says quickly, his voice tight. He can’t bring himself to touch me.

  “Say that with more conviction, eh?” I withdraw my hand and wipe it on my jeans.

  “Wh-where is the, ah… the… you know…” Jax closes his eyes, and cups his hands together. “The Bahktak?”

  “The what?”

  Jax’s eyes fling open, like he can’t believe what he just said. “St. Damian told me a Bakhtak is joining us!”

  I shrug as the line edges forward. “Beats me. You know what Bakhtak are like. They weasel out of community service.”

  Jax leans in, strangling the instruction manual St. Damian gave him—a mandatory item for all first-time offenders. “C-Colt? What’s it like?”

  I look him up and down. “To kiss a woman?”

  “To do community service! I’ve never been in trouble before.” He inhales shakily, then wheezes, like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “I don’t wanna go to the valley, Colt!” Someone drops their purse on the ground, the loud clatter causing Jax to yelp and hide behind me. “WHAT’S THAT?!”

  Laughing, I pat his shoulder. “Stand up straight, buddy. Relax, okay? All monsters do a little time.”

  “P-please don’t touch me too much.” Jax goes pale, his whole body quivering. “I… it’s hard to get your scent off once it’s on.”

  “Righto, tell me, Jax. What do I smell like? You can be honest, dude; I won’t get offended.”

  He sniffs once, his eyes watering. “Like the plague. Sickness. Sulphur. Lies.” He shudders. “That’s not offensive, is it?”

  “Eh, a little, but I’ll deal. If I get really upset, I’ll make a meme on social media.”

  “I didn’t think there were any vampire cats left.”

  “I got nine lives.” I clear my throat. “I’m the last of my kind, actually. The others got wiped out by chasers. Luckily most chasers got wiped out by other monsters, so it’s a funny old world. Still plenty of them around, though.”

  Jax tilts his head to the side, a flea leaping from his thick head of hair. “You’re not… remorseful?”

  “‘Bout what?”

  “About being the last of your kind?”

  “You kidding? Cats are independent survivors. You bloody dogs, though…sheesh, you’re a wimpy lot. Ever killed?” Jax shakes his head. “No way! You can barely call yourself a monster! Why’ve you got stuck with community service if you haven’t even killed?”

  “Werewolves run in a pack… when our pack decreases in number, we have the irresistible desire to turn humans. I turned my brother… he’s my first… and he’ll be my last. I refuse to force this burden onto anybody else.”

  I roll my eyes. What a drama queen. “You did him a favor, if you ask me. Who in their right mind would want to be human?”

  There’s a family in front of us, who turn and gaze at us like we’re absolute nutters.

  “Oh, we’re cosplayers.” I allow my fangs to drop. “Check it. We really get into our character’s backstories.”

  They shake their heads and face the front of the line, too rude to even acknowledge my awesome teeth. A hardcore cosplayer would kill to have fake teeth as rocking as my real ones. It’s so much easier hiding in plain sight these days. The human’s love of pop culture was the best thing to ever happen to monsters.

  “Where is that Bakhtak?” Jax grinds his teeth. “He’s going to get into trouble!”

  “His problem, not ours,” I sniff. So excitable, this one.

  The line moves forward, and an attractive flight attendant checks my passport and smiles like the Cheshire cat. That’s nice. Anything cattish is swell. “Good morning, Sean. We hope you enjoy your flight.”

  “Do you enjoy root canals?” I ask.

  She blinks, unsure how to respond. “Uh…no?”

  “See, miss, telling me to enjoy my flight is like telling a patient to enjoy their surgery.” I’ve never seen anyone look so mortified. “Uh, forget it, miss. My sense of humor takes months to understand. Carry on.” I tip an imaginary hat and slink away until I’ve boarded the cramped prison… I mean, airplane.

  It’s always a million times worse than I remember. People are always grumpy on planes. They resent the very notion of anyone sitting next to them and there’s always a brat kicking the back of my seat. Always. Or a baby wailing. Or a group of sickies coughing and spreading disease. I live for the day humans evolve wings so I can possess them and fly.

  Jax follows me to our aisle, and I naturally choose the window seat.

  Ah, great. There’s no screen and very little leg room. My form is annoyingly lanky, so this is going to be a memorable flight for all the wrong reasons.

  As soon as I sit, I’m greeted with an oh-so-delightful toddler thumping into my seat, laughing about it, and getting away with blue murder because the mother is too busy living in fairyland.

  See? Just like I said. Every damn time.

  “I hate flying,” Jax whispers, tightening his seatbelt so that it gets lost in his baggy clothes. He claws into the cheery blue armrests and hums. “You like music, Colt? I like music. Old western music, yeah. Western films never had planes, they stayed firmly on the ground!”

  “The only music I like is the sound of a child screaming,” I hiss, fighting the urge to scratch at the people behind me as the brat kicks into my seat like a drum.

  “Are you a good flyer?” Jax blows on his face that’s already a shiny, sweaty mess.

  “How often do you see a vampire cat skydiving? Or bungee jumping?”

  “Never. Well, only because you’re the f-first one I’ve met, see.”

  “Then the answer is a blatant, no. Flying is horrific. I’ve been around a long while and I can see what can go wrong.”

  Jax’s pupils shrink and his face whitens. “What? What can go wrong? What’ve you seen?”

  “News stories of planes crashing. Landing in the water. Bursting into flames. Or worse; seeing a group of people land on a tropical island inexplicably inhabited by polar bears where you’re strung along for six long years, guessing that the survivors are dead, but no, they can’t be, because the producers promised they’re not. Lazy writing, if you ask me. Six freakin’ years, wasted!”

  “Was… was that a TV show?”

  “Yeah. I’m still dark on it. Never felt more played in my life. Not even Sawyer could help that train wreck. How tangled stories like that make it to the air, while shows about traveling back in time to live with the dinosaurs get canceled, I’ll never understand. I could talk all day on the subject. I ought to make a podcast…”

  Jax turns in his seat, to scan the area. “That Bakhtak still isn’t here. He’ll miss the community service!” He bites into his nails and sits down. “What even are Bakhtak? I’ve never actually met one.”

  “Ha. You don’t want to. Bakhtak originated in Persia, and sit on us to give us nightmares. Their skin is deep purple, split with big, perpetual grins and small horns sprouting from their tuft of black hair. They’re tiny, about the size of a lapdog, and wear a torn loincloth. Yes, always torn, it’s a tradition. I wish they’d wear a shirt. They haven’t got the most attractive physique, is all I’m going to say on that topic.”

  Something dings as the final passengers settle into their seats, the Bakhtak nowhere in sight. The flight attendants check underneath our feet for any stray baggage—I once got into trouble for smuggling three kittens onboard—and begin their ridiculous safety presentation. It looks like they’re about to burst into dance, what with all the arm signals and synchronized seatbelt-buckling. I chuckle-snort, but no one hears over the rumble of the engine as it starts up.

  “What’s funny?” Jax asks through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white as he grips onto the armrests.
>
  “Jax, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Around this part of the trip, I’m inundated with hysteria. Everything suddenly becomes indescribably hilarious, to balance out the terror. This,” I point at the demonstration, “is not funny. But nothing is gonna stop me from laughing.”

  “A plane ride with a mad cat…” Jax lifts his chin and stares at the ceiling. “Please don’t claw my face.”

  “Aren’t you wolves immortal, anyway?”

  “Noooo. No, no, no, my goodness, we’re not. We live for longer than average, but we still have a lifespan. We’re strong… we can go without oxygen for a long time… but we’re certainly not indestructible. Nothing is. I mean, it’s actually scarier being immortal. It means the likelihood of an afterlife is less probable, right? Who needs an afterlife if you’ve lived for eternity?”

  “Fair enough.” I reach for a pack of gum in my pocket and tap my fingers on the armrest. I need to keep talking or I’ll have a mental breakdown. “Tell me how this all works. You know. The dog thing.”

  “It’s ah… it’s awful. I was turned about ten years ago. I transform into this… monster once a month—”

  “—like all women, right?” I raise my hand, waiting for the high-five, but Jax stares at me like I’ve barged in on a thank-you speech at the MTV awards. “Continue.”

  “Like I was saying, I transform once a month but… I’m constantly sensitive. I hear everything… I smell everything… even when I sleep. There’s no rest.”

  The flight attendants take their seats and the engine roars. I do my best to get comfortable, but my chair won’t even lean back. It’s like it’s stuck or something. Classic Colt luck.

  “Ah, jeez. It’s starting. Yep, it’s starting.” Jax’s skin looks way too tight on his skull. I swear he’s going to implode or something, which kinda makes me feel braver.

  Like a rollercoaster, we speed down the upsettingly short runway, the ascent quick and unpleasant. The pressure forces the back of our heads into the seats, even when we tilt to the side. I always close my eyes during this part. Not just because I hate heights, but because I genuinely think my form will throw up. It gets so dizzy whenever the plane turns.