What Curiosity Kills

by Helen Ellis

  Ling Ling perks up on the sofa behind him.

  He senses her movement. He doesn't have to say what he's thinking. I know he'll say anything to keep me from fully transforming a second time. Nick hates the turning. He'll hate me for not trusting him that it's the worst way to live. He'll hate me for refusing an antidote that he would take in an instant if our positions were switched. If he has to, he'll tell me that he will be Ling Ling's boyfriend for real. If I ignore him, he'll do it. I'll spend the rest of my turn-time turning without him and be forced to see him with Ling Ling in class, between classes in the hallways, at my sister's debates, idle at the bus stop below my parents' bathroom window. Nick can smell me, so he'll follow me everywhere and drag Ling Ling along. I know it's true. I remember what he told me: cats are spiteful and never forgive.

  I bolt.

  My feet slip down the stairs in my speed. I hang on to the banister and swing my legs out as I leap to each landing. I knock pictures off walls. Glass shatters from frames. Religious icons tumble and clunk. An avalanche is after me. So is everybody else. I'm in the mudroom. Octavia, Nick, and Ling Ling are in with me too. I shove my feet into my loafers and throw on my coat. I fling open the front door. From somewhere behind me, Yiayia is crying. Smoke rolls out of the kitchen. The pastitsio has burned.

  chapter twenty

  In the basement of Webster Library, Miss Ryan stands before The Cellar door, barring unforeseen customers. She fumbles with her dangly earring. She looks to Octavia and then to me: Octavia's anonymous friend to whom something weird is happening. Miss Ryan knows what's weird about me. She knows what's happening in her used bookstore. When she speaks, I know she is speaking of Mrs. Wrinkles.

  "My dears," she pleads, stepping aside to let the four of us stream in, "help her."

  Octavia and Nick stay on my heels as I tear through the main room to the Old English graveyard. Ling Ling lags behind, slowed by the weight of her designer bag. Miss Gibbs waits for her to catch up and then ducks out, I assume to stand vigil with Miss Ryan. They think we are here to rescue their cat.

  It hits me that after I get through with the sphynx, Octavia will never be able to show her face here again. The Cellar is everything to her. But she's forfeiting her secret haven to keep our family together. To keep my sister, I shouldn't hesitate to sacrifice the turning, something equally special to me. I shouldn't think twice about killing Mrs. Wrinkles if that's what Octavia wants.

  Through the Old English bookcase that overlaps the entrance to the book well, I spy Yoon's Nantucket Reds and yellow dishwashing gloves. He purrs, "Hello, Kitty. We've been waiting for you. I knew you'd show up. Come see. The kid here has out-moused you."

  Inside the well, Ben has Mrs. Wrinkles by the scruff of her neck. The sphynx is half in and half out of Mr. Charles's coat. She is stoic. Mr. Charles does not rise from his stool. He grips Ben's forearm. His long fingers are vines.

  He says, "Young man, you do not want to do this."

  Nick says, "Mary, get close. Be ready to drink her blood when Ben cuts her throat."

  "Cuts her throat?" cries Ben. "With what?"

  Yikes. I guess neither of us thought this through.

  Mrs. Wrinkles coils her tail around her body and taps the top of Ben's bare wrist. There is a sizzling. An eraser-size circle of bone sears through his skin. The bone disappears behind a dot of silvery blue.

  Yoon says, "Do it, kid. Kill her. Before it's too late."

  The silvery blue dot branches out, scorches, and rings Ben's wrist like a handcuff. His face contorts as he looks to me for help. He doesn't want to go through this alone, but I'm not sure what I should do. Bite Mrs. Wrinkles? Disable Mr. Charles, a blind retired librarian? Ben's brow and upper lip drench in flop sweat. The sphynx's tail taps three of his fingernails. They all flip back and fall off. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle. Tufts of silvery blue fur emerge.

  Yoon encourages him: "Like swallowing a mouse, kid. Put her head in your mouth, and suck like a straw."

  "Young man," Mr. Charles warns Ben, "if I feel your breath, I will kill you. I am not afraid of prison. I'm used to small cells and strange company. Don't try me."

  Ben opens his mouth. His jaw quivers. He's in agony and he's scared and he's repulsed by what he's gotten himself into. He tilts his chin to his chest. Mr. Charles won't allow him to raise Mrs. Wrinkles to his mouth. Ben can't bring himself to bend over to her. He moans. His moan turns into yowl—a loud, long, mournful cat's cry.

  "Do it," Yoon hisses.

  "Why do you care, Yoon?" I demand. "What are you even doing here? I thought you wanted us to be like you. If Ben and I drink her blood, we go back to normal."

  "You're not going anywhere, Kitty. And I'm not letting you near this old bag of cat bones. Your life as a turn is too good to throw away. You're special—even more special than me."

  Nick says, "Shut up, dude."

  "You haven't told her? Why wouldn't you tell her? You hate us that much?"

  I say, "What are you talking about?"

  "Nothing," says Nick. "Help Ben. He's having a panic attack."

  Ben has stiffened. He still has hold of Mrs. Wrinkles, but his shirtsleeve is fattening as thick fur spreads from his wrist toward his shoulder.

  Yoon coaxes him: "Go on, kid, use your free hand to bash her brains in. Crack that walnut! Once she's dead, you'll be free from all this. And Mary and I will—"

  "Dude!" Nick interrupts.

  Yoon protests, "It's her destiny."

  I say, "What destiny? To be a turn-cat?"

  "No, Kitty, to be so much more."

  "Nick, tell me!"

  Yoon purrs, "I'll tell you."

  I say, "I want to hear it from Nick. I'm here because he convinced me to come. I'm about to kill a cat because Ben won't do it. I'm going to cut my own cat out of me because my sister won't live with me if I don't. And because…" Oh, hell, I'll just say it! "And because I want Nick and me to be together."

  "Mary, I want that too," Nick says. "But if you don't fix yourself, your life won't just be ruined. It will be over. Country Club wasn't just up here sniffing around for territory. He was looking for you. He smelled you like we all can.

  "Orange cats are genetically alphas. Orange females are genetically rare. Orange female turns are near-myth. There's never been one in the States. Not since the Turkish War has there been one in Greece."

  Yoon adds, "In Korea, forget about it—it's been so long."

  Nick says, "Mary, orange turns are rulers."

  "My queen!" Yoon exclaims.

  He actually drops to one knee. He places his gloved hands on either side of my feet and kisses my shoe. And then the other one! His lips are so strong, I feel their pressure through the patent leather. He looks up and blinks—his chestnuts turn to jewels. His emerald eyes tempt me. His incisors are long lumps behind his closed lips. I want him to open his mouth and let me touch their length and fine points. He smirks, but this smirk isn't smartass; it's knowing. Yoon knows there's a part of me that wants to find out if it's good to be the queen. There's so much I want to explore, but Nick and Octavia won't let me.

  Yoon lifts and lowers his shoulders as if reading my mind. Shrug it off, he seems to be saying. Don't let those scaredy-cats scare you. I'm drawn to him. Say what you will about Yoon, but he's always been honest with me.

  Nick, not so much. He lied to me about Ling Ling. He lied to me about Ben. He lied to me about me. True, he had an excuse for every lie—extortion, the right to privacy, my best interest—but he still lied. Saying nothing is the same as saying something untrue.

  What else is Nick keeping from me? If I rule the doms, will Nick have to answer all my questions and do as I say?

  Octavia and Ling Ling peer into the book well through the shelves of the Old English overlapping bookcase. Ling Ling's cheeks are wet, but she doesn't make a sound. She doesn't want to call attention to her tears because she knows no one will pay her any mind in light of what's just been revealed.

  Look at me! I want to cr
y. Orange! Royalty! Near-myth Mary Richards!

  Octavia says, "Nothing's changed, Sheba. You still have to take your medicine. Yoon's using you. He wants your power. With you by his side, he thinks he's invincible."

  "I am," Yoon hisses. "We are, Kitty! Ben, kill that cat!"

  "Over my dead body," says Mr. Charles.

  But it's Ben's own body that Ben is concerned with. Silvery blue fur creeps out of his shirt collar and covers one side of his face. His head looks like a half-molded peach. His eyes go gray. He shrinks by a foot. He crouches in pain. Mrs. Wrinkles hangs from his grip like a lantern.

  Mr. Charles says, "Young man, give her here."

  Ben does. Mrs. Wrinkles slips back inside her chaperone's lapel, and the pair easily make their escape because Ben is not a young man anymore. Poking his head out of his shirt sleeve, which now lies in a lump on the floor, Ben is a solid-blue powder puff. His gaping mouth is the size of a dime with tiny teeth like dime ridges.

  He squeaks: "Mraw!"

  Nick says, "See there, Ben lost his chance just like that!" Snap! "You could turn just like that! " Snap! "We have to go after Mrs. Wrinkles."

  Ling Ling glances over her shoulder toward the door through which Mr. Charles and Mrs. Wrinkles just vanished. She says, "Good luck."

  Octavia says, "Mary, look at your arms!"

  Orange fur pushes off Yiayia's bandaging. Bloody gauze dangles from slick strips of Scotch tape. I peel the clotted covering off both arms, slow and tortuously, the real way you peel off band-aids. Because, hello, here is this eerie calmness again. I'm not panicked. I am fascinated. I caress the fur, which feels like short strands of silk. I offer my arms to everyone. How can something so luxurious be bad?

  Octavia won't come too near, but she and Ling Ling round the Old English bookcase and enter the well. I can see by Ling Ling's face that she wishes she were me. It is a new sensation to be envied. Exhilarating! Ling Ling pats my fur with two fingers, like I'm the baby book Pat the Bunny.

  "Quit wasting time!" shouts Nick.

  Yoon counters: "Let her do what she wants. You don't have to help her. Let me. Maybe, for once, somebody else knows what's best."

  "Dude, you don't know jack!" Nick grabs hold of Yoon's yellow dishwashing cuffs. He jerks the gloves off. The gloves hit the floor with two sickening smacks.

  Yoon stands stunned, as if he's been pantsed.

  His hands (paws?) are as rubbery as the insides of his gloves and pasty black. There is no fur. No human hair. No cat claws. No nails. No fingernail beds. His digits (not fingers because there aren't enough joints) are bulbous, like charred marshmallows on broken campfire sticks. They're not threatening, unless you find deformity threatening.

  Ling Ling makes a sound like she's going to throw up.

  Yoon crosses his arms and tucks his hands between his biceps and ribs. They stick out behind him like runt wings.

  Nick clutches my hands. He asks me, "This is who you trust to tell you what's best? Do you want what happened to Yoon to happen to you? Mary, the turning is not what you think it is. Please, believe me. We have to find you a pure-cat."

  Octavia backs into a bookshelf and says, "A pure has found us."

  "Mraw!" Ben squeaks. His blue kitten ears flatten as he and the rest of us bear witness to Country Club's gigantic, shadowy head crossing over the skylight.

  Nick shouts, "Run!"

  None of us do.

  Nick and Yoon have to defend their turf. This is the domestic royal lair. They haven't been marred, so they're not officially strays. Despite Yoon's intention to take over the doms, I guess he'll have worse hell to pay if he flees. Ben too. Even if he runs, where can he go? He's teeny-tiny. If a book falls on him, he's a goner. Ling Ling scoops him up with one hand and slips him into the side pocket of her purse. She hikes it over her shoulder and stays put, just in case the Greek book, upon further inspection, lists a way for a girl like her to catch the turning.

  The book well is darkened and chilled by Octavia's greatest fear, but she loves me. She won't leave me behind.

  I won't leave my sister behind either. As Yoon predicted, I'm not going anywhere. I have family and friends and turf to protect.

  Octavia was right: I am a hunter. The instinct is in me. X-ray me, the x-ray will be orange. This is MY choice: I want to kill Country Club.

  He is a menace. He should be put down for what he did to the previous king. It wasn't a fair fight. And now he is here to fight me just as unfairly. As soon as I turn, I'll be no match for him. I'll be too small, nothing more than a mouthful. He'll kill me easily. Then I'll have no life, normal or not.

  I have to kill him before I fully transform.

  Country Club rears up and comes down full throttle. His front legs break the skylight. He plummets through shards of glass to land on my neck. His hind claws sink in to my shoulder blades, and his front claws dig into my scalp. I don't feel pain. I feel pressure. In an instant, I am flattened. My face is on the floor. Think of a five-pound bag of flour. Now, think of ten bags glued together; now, glue rusty nails to them and drop them on yourself from three stories up. This is what Country Club feels like: huge and solid and sharp and unforgiving.

  Blood pours down my cheeks and pools beneath my nose. The blood bubbles as I breathe into it. It is a combination of mine and Country Club's from where the skylight tore his legs, belly, and face. What's not absorbed by his pristine white coat clots my hair.

  My orange slingshot widens to fur my entire neck. Orange sprouts beneath my cardigan as Country Club shreds my back. He knows how to turn me, and he wants me to turn before I can defend myself.

  The others hurl books at him. Country Club teeters on my spine. He hisses and chomps at the air to ward off helping hands. Fur burns through lines on my forehead where his claws connect with my skull.

  I reach back and snare his mite-eaten ear. I twist it. A bit of that ear comes away in my hand.

  Country Club scrambles off.

  I spring to my feet.

  But he's up, up, up, soaring from shelf to shelf. He spirals the book well, staining coverless books with blood. He leaves the rest of us in his wake, necks craned, spinning in place as we stare up after him.

  Country Club settles on a shelf beneath the jagged skylight and studies me. He narrows his eyes, which are so bloodsoaked that they look more olive than yellow. He licks blood from his nose, but his nose keeps on bleeding. Thick red drops fall and splatter our faces, shoulders, and arms. The tomcat is nonplussed. His chopped face is part of being the king. It is a punching bag daring me to hit it. He rocks, anxious for another aerial assault.

  Fine, I think. I am ready to fight.

  My cardigan is heavy with blood. I unbutton it, slip off one soaked sleeve and then the other.

  Country Club bellows.

  I bellow right back. My chest fills with fury, and I let that rage out. I don't sound like a girl. I don't sound like any cat I've ever heard. I like the way I sound. I am pure attitude.

  Country Club plunges down the well like a white bowling ball.

  I bag him with my sweater.

  I don't know how I manage it. I wanted him; the King of the Strays is in my sweater.

  I swing him against a hard oak shelf with all my might. Thwack! The sound is wet and bone-crunching. I've stunned him. Bagged, he barely fights. All his senses are cut off. His claws are pinned against his body. His weight is his only defense. My arms burn as I swing him over and over, rotating my hits against all four surrounding bookcases. The others duck. Blood sprays out of the sack over their heads and splatters my face.

  "Enough!" Nick shouts.

  When I drop Country Club, he doesn't fight to get out of his swaddling. Standing over him, the lump that is his body looks surprisingly smaller than he looked on the library roof; smaller than he felt on my neck. Nick peels away the cardigan to expose his front legs and belly. Country Club's back is broken in several places. Don't ask me how I know. I can tell just by looking at him.

  Nick s
ays, "He'll be dead in a minute, Mary. Drink."

  Octavia says, "He's already dead."

  Nick falls on the cat's unmoving chest and listens. He flicks a limp paw. He shakes him. "No!" Country Club's head lolls. "No! She has to drink before he dies!"

  "Nick, stop!" Octavia says, "Let that dead cat alone. Look at her—she swallowed plenty!"

  It's true. My school shirt is pasted to my body. I'm painted in Country Club's blood. My chin and lips are slick. I taste that coppery liquid on my tongue. It is in between my teeth, soaking into my gums. I can't believe my carelessness. I was so caught up in killing him, I forgot not to swallow what—as a result of killing him—wound up in my mouth. Any second now, the orange on my arms, back, throat, and forehead will petrify like pins and sink into my flesh. It's going to hurt so much. My eyes well up in anticipation. I tell myself I'll be fine. But I won't be fine.