“Hard to say. I’m going to think about it, and then I’ll need to do some walking.”
“Still early in the Game,” he said. “You know how the picture can change.”
“True,” I replied. “But at least we’re somewhat better-informed than we were. Of course, we must check the content of the crypt by day, to be certain. I think I can persuade Graymalk to do that.”
“Not Quicklime?”
“I trust the cat more. I’d rather share information with her, if it must be shared.”
“You know her persuasion, then?”
I shook my head.
“No, I’m just going by my feelings.”
“Has she spoken of her mistress, Jill?”
“Not in any detail.”
“I believe the lady is younger than she causes herself to appear.”
“That may be. I just don’t know. I haven’t met her.”
“I have. Let me know if the cat talks party politics.”
“I will, but she won’t, not unless I do, and I’m not about to.”
“You’re the best judge of that situation.”
“Yes. Neither of us has anything to gain by volunteering information at this time. But we might stand to lose something in the way of cooperation. Unless you’ve some overriding need for the information that I don’t know about. In that case, though. . . .”
“I understand. No. Let it be. Have you learned it for any of the others?”
“No. Are we going out tonight?”
“No. We’re set, for now. Have you any plans?”
“A little calculation and a lot of rest.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Do you remember that time in Dijon, when that lady from the other side managed to distract you?”
“It’s hard to forget. Why do you ask?”
“No special reason. Just reminiscing. Good night, Jack.”
I moved to my favorite corner and settled with my head upon my paws.
“‘Night, Snuff.”
I listened to his retreating footsteps. It was time to visit Growler, for a workshop in advanced stalking. Soon the world went away.
October 8
I drew more lines in my head last night and this morning, but before I’d created a satisfactory picture we had a caller.
I barked twice when the door chimes sounded, because it was expected of me. The master went to the door and I followed.
A tall, solidly built man, dark-haired, was on the stoop, and he smiled.
“Hello,” he said, “my name’s Larry Talbot. I’m your new neighbor, and I thought I’d come by and pay my respects.”
“Won’t you come in and have a cup of tea with me?” Jack said.
“Thank you.”
Jack led him into the parlor and seated him, excused himself, and went to the kitchen. I stayed in the parlor and watched. Talbot glanced several times at the palm of his hand. Then he studied me.
“Good boy,” he said.
I opened my mouth, let my tongue hang out, and panted a few times. But I did not approach him. There was something about the way he smelled, an underlying suggestion of wildness, that puzzled me.
Jack returned with a tray of tea and biscuits and they chatted for a time, about the neighborhood, the weather, the recent rash of grave robbings, the killings. I watched them, two big men, the air of the predator about each, sipping their tea now and discussing the exotic flowers Talbot cultivated and how they might fare, even indoors, in this climate.
Then came a terrible crash from the attic.
I departed the room immediately, bounding up the stair, swinging around corners. Up another stair. . . .
The wardrobe doors were open. The Thing stood before it.
“Free!” it announced, flexing its limbs, furling and unfurling its dark, scaly wings. “Free!”
“Like hell!” I said, curling back my lips and leaping.
I caught it directly in the midsection, knocking it back into the wardrobe again. I slashed twice, left and right, as it sought to seize me. I dropped down and bit one of its legs. I roared and threw myself on it again, slashing faceward.
It drew back, retreating to the rear of its prison, leaving a heavy scent of musk in the air. I shouldered the doors shut, reared up, and tried to close the latch with my paw. Jack entered just then and did it for me. He held his knife loosely in his right hand.