Then there was no time. They were at the door.
Without any preamble, they began pounding on it, trying to break it down. The sturdy old oak resisted their efforts for a long time, and Ninette resisted the temptation to either fire through the door, or burst into tears and throw the gun away. Finally, with a splintering sound, a great fist crashed through a door panel.
Ninette began firing, her back to the window.
It’s too high, Thomas said in despair behind her. It’s straight down to the street. I can’t make a drop like that—
If he couldn’t, neither could she.
She fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded. There seemed no end to the things, or else her bullets were having no effect other than to make them angry. Then her hand closed on the last two bullets.
She swore and loaded them, took careful aim, feeling a helpless despair that made her want to howl. This was it; this was—
There was a human shout from the hall, some incomprehensible tangle of syllables.
As Ninette was again knocked off her feet, something opened in front of her on the other side of what was left of the door.
It was a good thing that she was on the floor, because otherwise she would have been sucked into the yawning black vortex rimmed with fire that pulled in what was left of the door, pulled in the splintered fragments from the floor, tore the ragged curtains from the window, and created a hurricane in the room as it devoured the very air. Thomas yowled like a common cat, claws gouging the floor as the vortex sucked at him too. She grabbed him before he lost his grip, and rolled over with him tucked into the hollow of her stomach, curled around him, covered her head with her arms and waited for it all to end.
She thought it would never end, that she would go mad, or all the air would be sucked out of the world, or that they would both die.
And then . . . it ended.
There was . . . silence.
“Ninette! Ninette!” She rolled over in time to see Jonathon vaulting the iron bedstead, running for her.
“I’m—we’re—all right—” she said, dazed. She looked around for the gun, but it was gone, gone into the void. “I lost the gun.”
Jonathon said something unrepeatable about the gun, and scooped her up, and Thomas with her. “If you ever run off like that again,” he threatened, Nigel and Alan shoving the bedstead out of the way so he could get through the door, “I will—I will spank you! I swear it!”
She began to giggle, first weakly, then hysterically. She hid her head in the folds of his jacket to smother her giggles as he glared down at her.
“. . . and so Thomas leapt on the mouse and killed it,” she finished. “Only that let loose all of the things that pursued us, though I am not sure how.”
Once again, she was tucked up on the chaise longue in Nigel’s office, with a blanket around her feet, and a glass of brandy and water in her hand. Once again, they were all gathered around her, listening to her narrative. And once again, now that the terror was drained out of her, so was the energy. All she really wanted to do was to close her eyes.
This is all conjecture on my part—Thomas began, wearily.
“Conjecture away,” Nigel replied, as Ninette rubbed her aching head and wished her ears would stop popping.
That creature was an Earth Elemental. A Troll. Now I know for a fact it looked like Nina Tchereslavsky, and it was able to take on the shapes of at least a dozen other people as well. I think that it must have been summoned by—and destroyed—an incompetent Elemental Mage. Once it was loose in the world, it decided that it liked living here. It began killing and absorbing people, and with every new person it absorbed, it got a little smarter.
The others all nodded. “The rest follows from that,” Nigel agreed, and swore. “But why we never thought to connect all three ‘enemies’ and realize they were a single one—”
It had gotten very clever, Nigel, the cat said wearily. Clever enough that it almost outwitted me. You are hardly to be faulted.
The men continued to discuss and dissect what had happened, as Ninette leaned her head against the cushions, closed her eyes, and just wished they would leave. Finally they all stopped. She opened her eyes. They were looking at her.
“I just need some rest,” she said faintly. They took the hint, awkwardly apologizing, getting up, and scuttling out the door. Jonathon was the last to leave, with a single meaningful look deep into her eyes.
Finally, blessed silence—or as silent as it ever got in a theater—reigned.
She sighed and closed her eyes.
But she was not going to get any peace quite yet.
Why did you tell them that I was the one that killed the Troll? Thomas demanded.
She opened her eyes to see Thomas’s yellow ones staring at her with accusation.
She groaned. “Killing that—thing—demanded good aim, steady nerves, and a lot of courage. No?” she asked.
True, Thomas agreed. But—
“What knight in shining armor likes to turn up to discover the princess has rescued herself and slain the dragon?” she asked.
But we didn’t! We only—I mean, I only—I was nearly killed. If you hadn’t—”
“Nearly does not count,” she replied and closed her eyes again. “Besides, it was a good plan. It should have worked. It might just as well have. And I wish Monsieur Jonathon to continue to look at me as if I were La Augustine, and not as if I were Jeanne D’Arc. N’cest pas?” She yawned. “Therefore . . . I have . . . lost my sword.”
For now, she barely heard Thomas say. For now.
EPILOGUE
The production of Escape from the Harem was an enormous success. Tickets were sold out for the next two months, and it appeared very much as if they would continue to be sold out well into the next season. The little dancer around whom the production had been staged seemed to have a magical way with her audience; even grown men wept at her solo of despair, and were more than half in love with her as she entreated the wicked sorcerer to help her and melted his heart. No one left the theater without a smile.
Therefore it was with extreme disappointment that two of Blackpool’s leading lights, the very wealthy financier Bascombe Devons and his—well, she was not his wife, but no one was likely to tell his wife that she was with him—companion then, discovered that they were to be crowded into a box with three other couples, none of whom they knew, or particularly wanted to know.
“See here!” the man complained to the usher, “What about that box? I know for a fact no one is in it! We’ve been watching the door for a quarter hour now, and not one person has gone into or out of it!”
“Ah, I’m sorry, sir, but that box is taken,” the usher said apologetically.
“Nonsense! The nameplate says—”
“Sir!” The usher bent a look of reproach on him. “What would you put on it if the party that was taking it didn’t want to be known?”
The financier paused for a moment in his bluster, then grew thoughtful. “You don’t mean to say—royalty?”
“So to speak . . . I shouldn’t say any more.” The usher led them past the unopened door, both the man and his lovely “friend” much more content now, with the knowledge that they would be seated a mere partition away from a crown. As to which crown it might be—English? Some visiting prince? It hardly mattered.
Behind that closed door, Thomas the cat pushed the dish of sardines over to his lovely companion, whose white coat gleamed in the dim light from the theater beyond. Please help yourself, my dear.
The white cat purred and accepted the token. I am so glad you invited me here. I have never seen a performance from a proper seat before.
Thomas smirked. Strangely enough, the Troll had done him a very great favor. It had never occurred to him until that moment that there might be other shape-shifters out there. But once he knew—
A quiet word with the Brownie, a hint to Nigel’s Sylphs, a late-night talk with one of the Salamanders when Jonathon was engaged in trying to maste
r the art of flirtation with Ninette—the Elementals were, on the whole, favorably inclined, and a week after the premier of the production, this proud beauty had turned up. She was, she coyly informed him, the offspring of a were-cat and the Afrit who loved her. An injudicious move on her part had locked her into this form.
Or so she said. The Masters at least vouched for her intent, which was benign, and her magics, which were as white as her coat. That was enough for Thomas.
Then I am happy to share this box with you whenever you wish to grace it with your presence, O Orient Pearl, Thomas said, with supreme satisfaction. And you can rest assured that no one will disturb us here once we have settled in.
Oh—really? she replied archly, purring with promise.
Oh, yes. Really. Thomas settled himself more comfortably. Didn’t you see the plate on the door?
I cannot read the writing of your people, O Troll-slayer. What does it say?
Thomas smiled. Why, O Cloud of Whiteness, I believe you must approve. It says, “Reserved for the Cat.”
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