Reserved for the Cat

Keep shooting! Thomas shrieked, terror filling him, filling her—as if she wasn’t panicked enough on her own! But her hands knew what to do, even if her mind was gibbering in inchoate fear. She got the bullets into the chamber, dropping two. She raised the gun. She took aim and squeezed the trigger, and six more explosions shattered the gurgling screams. Blessed Lead. Cold Iron. Silver.

“Where’s the head?” she screamed herself, as her hands fumbled more bullets into the hot chambers. “Where’s the heart?”

There—there! Thomas exclaimed, somehow forcing her to see where he was looking. The spot was between two of the mouths, where the dirt-colored skin seemed thicker and smoother. She took aim. Fired.

Five of the six hit; the sixth went wild as the thing convulsed, and the room somehow rocked without moving at all. A thick wave of fetid air hit her in the chest, and knocked her backwards through the door and into the wall of the hallway, Thomas with her. The thing somehow—

The mind couldn’t grasp what it became—it was simultaneously twenty, thirty, maybe fifty different people and animals, and at the same time, it was a towering mud-doll that was all malice, all malignance, all hatred. She cried out and brought up her arm to shield her face, then flung herself sideways, somehow scooping up Thomas and taking him with her.

The wall where she had been was caved in by the force of the silent explosion, channeled through the doorway.

For one moment, it became very, very quiet.

Then—the howling, the mindless, wordless baying began.

She rolled over, dazed. “What . . .”

Get up! Get up! Thomas shrieked in her mind, his words like ice-picks jabbed into her brain. It’s not over yet! Its servants are loose, and without the Troll to control them, all they want is prey!

Prey—and we’re the prey! She struggled to her feet and lurched down the hall after Thomas.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs as he scrambled upwards. But—

They have us cut off from going down! Up! he urged. She followed after him, revolver still clutched in her hand, the other feeling in her pocket for more cartridges. “Will bullets do any good?” she shouted after him, as from below, she heard the howling come nearer and felt the staircase shake under the pounding of feet.

They’d better, came the grim reply.

They reached the top floor, where the servants would have slept—if the servants had been human and needed sleep. Dust was half an inch thick here, and rose in clouds as they ran for the farthest room. They darted inside the door. The howling continued from the stairwell.

The bedstead! Thomas shouted. Make a barricade across the door!

Fear gave her strength she hadn’t realized that she had. She slammed the door shut, then dragged the iron bedframe across the tiny room. jamming it in place across the door.

The howling was on their floor now, and the floor itself shook with the pounding of feet.

She reloaded the gun. Please tell me you sent for help, Thomas begged.

“I sent for help. I just hope the young man Ailse is seeing is not very fascinating.”

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.