Reserved for the Cat

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—”