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Soot

Dave Freer

Dave Freer is a former Ichthyologist/Fisheries Scientist turned sf/fantasy writer. He now has ten books in print, a number of which are co-authored with Mercedes Lackey and/or Eric Flint. He is also the author of about twenty other short stories, and a teens novel. He lives in Zululand, South Africa, where he is permitted to serve four cats. They say he wastes entirely too much time on other things like the writing, cooking, cuddling his fellow cat-slave Barbara, and of course we will not even mention the dogs. Yes, they do talk.

 

My name is Sothbubastis. I am an almost black cat, with green eyes. I live in a little gingerbread house with a witch. It is on the corner of Apogee Crescent and Diana Avenue, and is quite unlike any of the other houses around here. Suburbia has sprawled out of London and engulfed us. We even have a shopping mall just down the road.

Cassandra, my witch, calls me Soot when we are alone. It is a little lacking in dignity, but for fish, warm milk and catnip mice I will put up with it, and with having my white paw dyed black. She has assured me that the dye is not toxic, unlike some of the jangling charms which she insists on wearing, and the incense that she keeps on burning. I sometimes think she tries too hard. Few if any of the clients will know the ancient meaning and purpose of frankincense.

Our house is proof that people will believe almost anything. It is, supposedly, a Queen Anne relic with Victorian additions. Ha ha. The house is actually much, much older, but little remains of the original building. Still, humans believe what they want to believe, and therefore it has a preservation order. It cannot be demolished, altered, or otherwise interfered with, without approval from the Historical Structures, Monuments and Buildings Commission, the Department of County and Urban planning, and the local authority, none of whom will co-operate with any of the others, on principle. Cassandra says it has been very awkward for plumbing. However, this a human problem and not one of mine.

I would like a preservation order too. It would be very useful in my aspect of our work, especially if dogs and motor vehicles were informed.

We watch the way. It sounds easy, doesn't it?

It is mostly done in darkness.

 

"I'm worried about Leanne. My daughter," said the client.

I would worry about her daughter too. But then, I am out at night. I can see very well in what you humans call darkness. I reclined on the mantel behind Cassandra, next to the stuffed owl. Curse Harry Potter. The taxidermy left something to be desired and the bouquet—uneasily mingling with the incense—made me want to sneeze. That would disturb the unblinking stare that was my task with clients. It unnerved them. An unnerved client was more likely to part with cash, and some of that was needed to pay the taxes, the electricity bill, the Internet connection, as well as for human food, and, more relevantly, catnip mice.

Cassandra fanned the cards onto the baize table. "What is troubling you, Mrs Syrus?" she said in her best mystical medium voice.

The plump client fondled the protective crystal around her neck. She was wearing an embroidered blouse of Egyptian cotton, complete with a hieroglyphic inscription. It was part of a funerary prayer to Osiris, unless I was much mistaken. She leaned forward, her generous breasts nearly sending Cassandra's planchette tumbling, and said, in a hushed whisper. "I think she's messing about with the Oh-cult."

Huh. Not unless young Ralph Rachen had changed his name to "Oh-cult." But no, the boy had kept a part of an old name, which was why we were watching him. So far the two kids hadn't done anything that involved more than lip and tongue gymnastics. Humans are strange like that. We cats have a far more sensible attitude to sex.

"Take a card, Mrs Syrus," said Cassandra, and, as the client's beringed hand reached out she asked: "So, what makes you think that she's toying with the forces of darkness?"

The woman turned over the card. The devil looked up at her. It was an original Dürer. The artist had captured the sardonic expression on the face perfectly, and of course the chained boy and girl at his feet. "Oh, it was Clint, I mean . . . Father Pillman, who told me," she said coyly.

I stood up and arched my back, but kept up the stare. I'd get a blink when she looked down at the next card. I'd have to forgo hissing and spitting.

"I see," said Cassandra, with remarkable control. Cassandra really was very, very good. "Take another card, Mrs Syrus. And what did Father Pillman say?" Mrs Syrus would remember exactly what he said. Our new, very modern and radical priest had all the suburban housewives clinging to his words . . . and anything else they could get their hands on.

"Oh it was something Leanne said to him during the counselling session. He likes to hold one-on-one counselling sessions with the younger members of his flock."

"I bet he does," I muttered.

Mrs Syrus stared at me. I stared back. "Your cat. It . . . it spoke."

Cassandra looked reproachfully at me. "He does it all the time. Never knows when to hold his tongue."

What a foolish expression that is! If cats had the equipment for holding things, short of sticking a claw into them, we would not need to keep humans. As usual, Cassandra's magic worked perfectly. Mrs Syrus tittered. "Oh, you are a silly, Madame Cassandra." It was a good thing that one of the job requirements for godhood had not been intelligence, or Cassandra might have had a harder time of the curse placed on her.

Cassandra smiled. "Take another card, Mrs Syrus. You were saying, before my cat so rudely interrupted?"

"Well," said the woman, drawing the Sorceress, "He wouldn't tell me exactly what she said . . . but he said I would have to keep a strict watch on her. Lock her room door at night. And keep her away from Bad Influences. That boy." She sniffed. "She's not my child, you know. She's adopted."

"That would explain it," said Cassandra. "Take another card."

"Father Pillman has given me some blessed silver crosses to keep her safe from Oh-cult forces," confided Mrs Syrus happily.

The reading went on. Cassandra unsettled her client, and found out more than Mrs Syrus had meant to tell. She gave her a reading that impressed her . . . and that Mrs Syrus would naturally disbelieve.

 

"Did you have to talk?"

I licked my paw, ignoring her.

"You'll wash the black off. It could have been very awkward, you know."

I twitched my whiskers. "Oh yes. She might have called the Inquisition down on us. They might suspect that you are a witch. It's just as well that you don't have a sign above the door which reads 'Madame Cassandra, White Witch, Charms, Tarot Readings and Crystal Therapy', or they might possibly suspect you."

She sighed. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Sothbubastis. Pillman is planning something."

"Sarcasm is natural to a cat. The new emissary is up to something, I agree. We suspected that when he arrived. We now know that it will probably be soon. It will involve a young girl. What he plans seems self-evident," I said dryly.

She nodded. "It's how and where that are a little more obscure."

"I suppose a pre-emptive strike is out, as usual."

"You know the rules."

Cats believe rules are for other people, with the emphasis on the people part. But in this case she was right. These rules are not petty constructs put in place to soothe the ego of some panjandrum or hierophant. They are based on experience: if one crossed those lines, one died. Of course, any self-respecting cat will tell you, you have to keep testing the boundaries, and searching for ways around them. "I'll go and scout. There's a chance I'll see something."

"Better wait for nightfall."

"They'll expect me then."

I slipped out of my window, up onto the fence, down onto a wheelie-bin and off into the shadows towards the church. And then I took sharp left. Some force was repelling me. Now, cats are more resistant to compulsions than most creatures, but I did not want to alarm it. So I sheered away. I went to consult an associate of mine instead. Cassandra disapproves of him. The previous watcher and he clashed. But he gives me fish.

On the way I met a lanky teen in a hoodie slouching along the sidewalk. He even had the obligatory can of lager. "You're not fooling me, Wolfie," I said.

"Shut up, cat. It's not you I am trying to fool."

"Won't fool her mother either. The priest ratted you out, wolf-boy. She's got the girl protected."

"Curse him."

"If you'll tell me why you want her then I might help you."

"I'm in love with her."

I sniffed, disbelievingly. And then hastily slipped through the gap in the fence, dodging the hurled can and the spray of frothy horse-urine-substitute that splattered from it. There was a vague possibility that he spoke the truth. But cats are not trusting. Down Styx Street (humans and street names—I ask you) I wove and darted across hidden weedy backyards, slow-rotting Wendy houses and past sagging wash-lines on the secret side of suburbia.

The Peaceful Rest Funeral Parlour was tucked away at the back of a dead end. Very appropriate. "What took you so long, cat?" asked Cassandra, crossly.

I forget just how accurately she foresees things. It's patchy of course. She tends to see those she cares about. "I stopped to talk to Wolfie. He threw beer at me." I wound my way between her legs.

Cassandra bent down and stroked me. Gave me the benefit of her famous crooked smile. "Wasted your time. He'll be along later."

"You could have told me."

"You could have told me you weren't going to the church."

"It's warded. I didn't want to trigger any alarms. Shall we go in?"

"He gives me the creeps."

I stretched. "That's what he does, witch. His kind can't help it."

"Ugh," she said, as we skirted around the funeral parlour to his back-room.

"I prefer Oogh," said the squat, shaggy headed fellow, peering out at us from under his low, heavy brow. He whiffled his big stick-out wobbly nose at us. Trolls are more scent-orientated than humans. This doesn't mean they smell any nicer, because trolls don't. They stink nearly as much as humans, but differently. It's at the root of the ancient distrust between the species. "What can I do for you, woman-who-foresees-the-future?"

"I am not too sure. I foresaw that the cat and the wolf-boy were coming here, and that it would be important."

He nodded. "Well, you'd better come in. I am having tea, which is also important."

"How come you believe me?" asked Cassandra, accepting a chipped mug of tea from him (and thereby proving she was not infallible. Her foretelling skills are typical Greek God shoddy, not a patch on decent Egyptian workmanship), and finding a rickety chair to sit on.

He rubbed his too-broad, too-low forehead. "Your curse only affects humans, I suppose," said Oogh. His speech is a little odd. He told me he battles with consonants. There was a tentative knock on the door. "That'll be Wolfie. You'd better let him in. They tend to run away from me," said the troll.

Sure enough, it was. He looked doubtfully at Cassandra. "I thought you lived in that cutesy house up on Apogee?"

"You're lucky my house isn't here to hear you," said Cassandra. "Come in. We've been waiting for you."

"How did you know I was coming?" he said warily. "I just decided to follow the cat." I should have thought of that. Wolves track well by scent. He sniffed. "Something smells very odd about this."

"It's the troll," said Cassandra. "He stinks, but he is mostly harmless."

"It is you modern humans that stink," said Oogh. "You want tea, wolf-boy?"

Wolfie's eyes narrowed. "There is something very weird going on here. And," he said, looking hard at Oogh, "something that looks human, but isn't."

"And you, wolf-boy. What are you doing here?" said Oogh. "I've been here since prehistory. But we get very suspicious when one of your kind turns up suddenly."

"I . . . I am not too sure," he said, walking in to Oogh's pseudo-cave. "What are you doing here?"

"I clean the crematorium. And I do odd jobs around the place."

"Very odd jobs, sometimes," I said, my tail weaving an S. "He's in pest control. Good with mandragoras and vampires."

The wolf-boy blinked. "I meant . . . magical creatures. Here in suburbia?"

Oogh shrugged. "We were here before suburbia. What did you expect us to do? Go off and look for a rickety-rackety bridge? Operating a troll booth, when you're not allowed to eat anyone without the right change, is so yesterday."

"And we want to know why a werewolf has come to town," said Cassandra, sternly. I knew that tone of voice. I tensed my muscles and readied myself to spring.

"There is something special about this place, isn't there?" said Wolfie. "It . . . attracted me."

I relaxed slightly. He sounded genuinely puzzled.

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. "Von Rachen. You would have us believe your parents didn't tell you?"

"I never met my parents. Well, not that I remember. I'm an orphan. And it's Rachen. Not Von Rachen."

Cassandra stared hard at him. I knew that stare. The reading trance. "I think," she said, "that it is time that you told us about yourself. Sit down."

He did, warily. "This is something to do with my being able to turn into a wolf, isn't it?"

"You might say so. Tell us about this orphaning?"

He shrugged. "My parents were killed in a car crash. I wasn't hurt, apparently. The cops found their ID, but failed to find any next of kin. So I ended up in an orphanage. I got adopted twice . . . but it never worked out. Odd things happened and I got sent back. And when I was eighteen I had to leave."

I didn't say anything. But weres didn't die that easily.

"Ah," said Cassandra silkily. "And then you did what? You've been hanging around here with no visible means of support for nearly a month now. Yet you have clean clothes, and you only chase rabbits in the park at night occasionally, and very ineffectually. You don't appear to work."

He shrugged. "I was a Ward of the Crown. They looked after things . . . I get an allowance every month. See, when I left St Stephens . . . I found out that I actually had inherited quite a lot of money. I was eighteen. The trustees pay me an allowance until I'm twenty-one. I didn't have a family or any real friends. I didn't know what to do with myself. I kept turning into a wolf at awkward moments. It . . . unsettles you a bit. So I thought I'd travel. I was just passing through this place . . ."

"And you stayed here?"

"Well, there was the girl. She just . . ."

"Attracted you," said Cassandra, sardonically.

"Smelled different, if you must know," said wolf-boy, looking sulky. "I've always seemed to be able smell so much more than other people."

"Leanne Syrus. She does," said the troll. "She's a half-breed. Fey. What you would call a fairy. Damn colonists."

"She's a fairy princess?" said Wolfie-boy, impressed . . . but rather doubtful.

"Nah. Probably just a common-or-garden fairy," said the Troll. "They're quite indiscriminate. Shag anything. Have the morals of a cat."

I like that! Cats are exceptionally moral. We just have a different set of values. Most of them concern ourselves.

"So . . . why does she attract me? And why is she here? Why are you all here?"

"Is this a real question or a philosophical one?" asked Cassandra, dryly. "And just how do you know who we're talking about, troll?"

"Couldn't be anyone else, could it?" said the troll.

But wolf-boy was persistent. "So why are you all here, in this town?"

I arched my back and stretched. "To stop the likes of you coming here. And her. Or rather, her real Daddy," I said, staring at him.

"The cat talks too much," said Cassandra, coldly.

Because wolf-boy was not human either, he had no trouble believing her. I could see his neck muscles tense. Next thing there'd be fur sprouting. "What are you going to do about it? Is this why you lured me in here? To . . ."

"Don't be any more foolish than you have to be. It's not you we're interested in, unless you try to open the way."

"It's millions more of your kind that we don't want."

"Millions?"

"Are you a half-wolf or a half-parrot? There is a way from here to otherwhere. It's closed. We keep it that way. There are other portals, but few as easy as this one. Periodically they attempt to open it again. It can only be opened from this side, so they send emissaries to try. If you're one, I'll kill you," said Cassandra, raising her power, her bound hair flying loose and forming a nimbus around her head.

"Personally I'm in favor of letting them in again. They're good eating," said the troll. "What do you think, cat?"

"No. Even transformed into a mouse, the last one had a fey taint to it."

Wolfie-boy was nothing if not determined. "But you are also magical creatures. Why do you want to keep magic out?"

"Oh Boy! Fantasy writers have something to answer for. Listen, Wolf-boy: For starters they're not all sweetness-and-light and just misunderstood. Back when the way was open, humans found out that the fey regard them as lower lifeforms. A few of them are nice to the lower lifeforms. And some of them are like the troll. They think of us as sport or dinner. Anyway, none of us are fey."

"I'm the indigenous inhabitant," said Oogh. "You and this witch's kind—modern humans—calling them Homo sapiens is undue flattery, invaded later. Her kind from Africa, you lot from the ways." I stared unblinkingly at him. "Cats have also been around for a while," he admitted.

I jumped up onto Cassandra's lap. "And we find Homo sapiens make better staff than Neanderthals like him did. The fey and us reached a misunderstanding quite quickly."

"So, Wolf-boy, back off and find another place to be. The troll and I have some business to discuss," said Cassandra, stroking me.

He went. Looking appropriately chastened. She can be scary at times.

"It didn't work," said Cassandra. "I feel that he is still going to be involved."

The Neander-troll grunted. "You could have told him that he was a half-thing too. Or what they plan to use her for."

"I could have," said Cassandra, evenly. When she speaks in that tone I go and find shelter behind her fragile, precious glassware. She doesn't like to be told her business, even by those who know better, like me. "But I wanted to keep him away from the priest. We don't need any were-killings, if we can help it. So what are you going to do about it, troll?"

"Nothing," said Oogh. He was lying, but there was no point in arguing with him.

So we too went on our way.

Mine was not the same as Cassandra's. Cats do not walk with people. We just sometimes happen to be going the same way. My way this time happened to be to where Wolfie-boy was hanging out behind the oleanders. I had an idea Cassandra wouldn't approve of. "You might try skulking up to Leanne's window tonight," I said quietly, as I walked past.

 

Days and nights of watching had paid off. We knew who Pillman's assistants were and a little eavesdropping had given us the night it was planned for.

The Neander-troll was watching too, although he pretended that he wasn't. I had spotted him popping out of a manhole in the church parking lot. He was better at the subterranean stuff than me. He knew the Victorian era sewers well . . . and therein lay our clue. We should have spotted it earlier. He wasn't only using them to spy. He was following the conspirators. I'd seen the thirteen of them arrive in dribs and drabs. Saw the girl dropped off, protesting that she didn't want to be there. Heard Mrs Syrus's assurance that it would do her good. Saw her walk sulkily to the door, and turn to sneak off the moment that her mother's Volvo had pulled away . . . but a hand came out and dragged her inside.

Then I waited. They would surely leave soon for wherever they planned to hold the rite. It couldn't be here: it was too far from the way. I waited. Cats wait well, which is odd because we're also very impatient. We also hear small sounds, sounds that humans, dogs—and even mice—don't realise that they are making. That's how we can do that patient-appearing wait by a rat-hole.

And right now the human rats weren't making any sounds. I decided to risk triggering the alarms. I swayed down the catwalk-branch of an old oak, under the spotlight of a full moon, and leapt onto the scabby old roof-tiles next to the steeple. Then I balanced along the rotting stonework gable, and up through a narrow window. I slipped, silently as a shadow, into the darkness of the belfry, and then along cobwebbed, dusty beams to where I could look down into the church hall.

It was empty.

The long bar of moonlight from the tall leaded windows spilled across the pews and onto the aisle. There it was broken by a square of blackness.

A hole.

I growled to myself. Damned troll might have told me, even if he didn't trust Cassandra. I'd better get back to her, fast. It must be the house itself they planned to attack, from underneath.

Their timing was just perfect. I had to cross the High street. The snarl of traffic as the tired and impatient commuters heading back from the city on a winter evening was in full cry. Not easy for a cat, and I'd swear they had been bespelled to be extra vicious. Oh, for that preservation order. But with a Jaguar spearing me on its headlights and missing my tail by a whisker, I made the security of the gutter. Only to almost jump back into the road again, because of the hell-hound. Well. Doberman. I dived under an illegally parked Lancia, too low for a Doberman. But there was no chain of cars. I was trapped. Time was running out. The dog snarled and barked. And a little yipping noise said the Doberman had called in the Daschhund sappers. Hiss!

"Get lost, dog." There was a yelp.

I emerged. Cassandra's prescient powers may be spotty, but when they work they're great. She scooped me up. Very undignified, but under the circumstances I was glad of it. "I was coming to fetch you, Soot. They're coming at us from underneath."

"Why do I bother spending cold nights spying when you can see all this?" I asked grumpily. "You'd better hurry. They're on their way already. I was coming to tell you."

"I didn't foresee it. I got a note. Addressed to you."

"Oh. Who from?" Maybe I had misjudged Oogh.

"It didn't say. Just 'watch out for moles'."

"They must be in the old Victorian sewer-system. They have an entry in the church. I spotted Oogh popping out of a manhole."

"He must be right at home," she said sardonically. "And love the bouquet. Well. I have my Wellies on. We'd better get down there." She opened a manhole. Don't be fooled. Cassandra might be slight, but she's able to call on exceptional strength. We climbed down the iron staples. It was dark. Even for me.

I really don't like sewers. Besides the dark and the smell, there are few places to climb, and running is quite limited.

"Can you see, Soot?"

"No. You'll have to make us a light."

She made a ball of Hekate's glow in her left hand. The sewer was red-brick lined and, lucky us, had a channel and a walkway above it. It was obviously a main line, intended for storm-water too. I sniffed . . . not something that a cat wanted to do down here, but needs must when the Unseelie court drives. Cats too have keen noses. Oogh . . . and something more worrying were down that passage. "Left," I said.

We followed the main line for a distance, and then a branch, and then there was . . . new construction. A roughly hewed tunnel, with some inadequate pit-props. We could hear the chanting, and there was no other way to approach it. The moles must have got very close to the house. The watchtower.

Most people don't know that inverse square law affects magic as much as it does radiation or magnetism. Whoever had raised this little pack of nasties had positioned them carefully. I could feel the force of the ley-lines from here. They'd break a window right into that power and open the way, if they could channel enough magic out of their ritual. Cassandra dowsed the glow in her hand. Put me down. We walked forward into the baleful, flickering red light. Cassandra began to raise her will. She didn't look like a funny fake witch any more. There is a time for disguise. This was not that time.

It was also not the time for two slatted garage roller doors—one before and one behind us—to suddenly clatter down. The slats were wooden. I didn't need second sight to know that they'd be rowan, toxic to magic users and impervious to their spells. The walls were panelled with it too. The doors were clever carpentry, with a gap of an inch or so between planks, and no way out. Yet we could see the priest, complete with his strap-on horns, his hooded hench-idiots, and the victim tied to the altar. Well, to a slab of slate on a mound of earth.

"Ah. We have the witch. If the first plan does not work we'll use her," said Father Clint.

"Why not use her first?" asked one of the acolytes. Humans might be fooled by a mask. But I recognised the voice. I thought I'd smelled wolf-boy.

"She may resist. The spilling of virgin fey blood is still the best method."

If I had not been so angry I would have sniggered. I had removed some of the guardian silver from Leanne's window. Cats are not worried by silver and are far less affected by curses and cantrips than werewolves, half-fey or even humans. Wolfie-boy had paid his girlfriend a visit and, with her eager co-operation had made sure that she was no longer their ideal sacrifice. I wondered—seeing as the were-wolf was, after all, one of the renegade priest's followers, how he was going to explain that. But right now I was too busy yowling. Besides letting them know that the first one to try and touch my witch was going to need stitches, I was telling the troll that I was here. He just might help. I was also scratching a few hieroglyphs on the floor. I'm a temple cat from Bubastis in Lower Egypt. I've been around a long time, and learned a few things. I wasn't affected by rowan like Cassandra was. To me, it was just a cage. Bast still owed me some favors. Her original aspect had been the sweet warmth of the sun. She could strip the heat out of their brands. And in her hand was the sistrum—the rattle . . . I asked her for some shake, rattle and roll.

I have to reluctantly admit that cats, especially angry ones, can be rather stupid. The flames shrank, and we all fell down. So did a few pieces of the roof. Causing an earthquake while you are underground is not clever. Everything rattled. Us too. Screaming and chaos reigned. But Father Clint was not going to be stopped. It was almost dark, but I saw him raise the long knife to plunge into Leanne . . . and Wolfie-boy was frantically wrestling with him over the white body of the fey-girl. He was still a young wolf—and his opponent was fighting with manic strength.

Then, as the flames flared briefly, the altar stone lifted, and the drugged girl, the wolf and Father Clint rolled off . . . as a dark shape with long reaching fingers lurched free of the earth mound, to more screams of horror from Father Clint's coven. The wolf wasn't as strong as he would be, but Oogh, hidden under that sheet of stone, disguised with earth, was ancient and very strong indeed. Even the hysterical strength of the priest was no match for those throttling hands.

In the meantime I had wriggled my way through a broken slat, into their makeshift temple, and had at last managed to scratch someone. Wolfie-boy was struggling under the weight of his girlfriend, when someone started shooting.

Ricochets could kill all of us except Wolfie-boy, unless they were using silver bullets.

There is a time for courage. And a time to yowl: "Oogh. Get us out of here."

Oogh flung the stone slab at the rowan trap. Some of the wood had broken anyway. He half dragged wolf-boy and his burden along and through. And then attacked the other side, breaking rowan slats . . . Cassandra was weak, but we got her out too, as one of the coven behind us found a flashlight. Another shot. Wolfie grunted, but we staggered on.

They came behind us, frantic and eager to shoot. They had flashlights and guns. We dared not show any light.

But Cassandra was rapidly recovering. She turned, made a glow.

"Enough," she said to the advancing minions. "Stop or you will die!"

They were close, armed and ready to kill. Because they were human, and she was Cassandra, they did not believe her foretelling.

People are stupid like that.

But never twice.

 

The troll gave the wounded wolf-boy a hand with the girl. It was only lead, so he'd live. "It may cause some ructions, twelve of the respected local citizens disappearing," said Cassandra regretfully, holding up the Hekate glow.

"Thirteen," said Wolf-boy. "They came down here in single file. I killed the last one in the line and stole his mask."

"I was unsure about you, Von Rachen."

He hung his head. "You were right. I had come to open the way. There was a letter about it with the will . . . But I changed my mind when I found out what was involved. See, I went back to the troll. He explained and recruited me. I think he really is a Neanderthal, you know."

Oogh grinned, big blunt meat-eating teeth gleaming. "Of course. That's what trolls were. We stopped the first Fey invasion. But it left us too weak to deal with Cro-Magnon man."

Cassandra's no better than a cat at admitting she was wrong. But she swallowed her pride this time. "I owe you," she said to Oogh.

He shrugged. "The cat and I get on. And humans are still better than Fey, for what is left of my kind. Although some of them are not too bad." He gestured at Leanne, who was beginning to stir in the Were's arms. "You'd better see she's not a suitable sacrifice, soon-ish."

The wolf-boy blushed. Looked at me. "Too late," he said.

Cassandra and Oogh looked at each other. Shook their heads in unison.

"Cats," they said together.

 

We immortals still watch the way. And still no-one believes Cassandra's foretelling. Oogh visits sometimes. Cassandra's coffee is nearly as bad as his tea.

 

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