Are You Loathsome Tonight? (7 page)

Neither of them gave a thought to Nick. He was too quiet to be clever. Tall for his seventeen years, with fine features and eyes like violet moons, he never exhibited any signs of wit and had no connections at all. He spent most of his wages on ink and drawing paper, upon which he sketched endless cats: grinning greymalkins before their hearths, leopards rippling vivid along branches, lions on the hot veldt.

But when Simon and Oliver mounted an expedition with a train of coaches and servants, Nick packed his rucksack and accompanied them; better that than stay and be fired by the miller. Oliver drugged his wine the first night, and Nick awoke to find that the camp had packed and gone on without him. Also, he had an appalling hangover.

Nick wandered until he found himself at the edge of a city. He followed a road that looked promising, but soon narrowed to lure him down a series of small twisting alleys to a stinking dead end. He turned to retrace his steps—and beheld a splendid black cat sitting in the path.

It showed no sign of fear at his presence, so he bent to stroke its head. The thick fur glittered like a puddle of oil, so black it seemed to absorb light. “Hello, handsome,” said Nick, for it was clearly a male. “What's a fine one like you doing in this nasty place?"

“Hello, Nick,” said the cat. “I came to meet you, for I knew you would lose your way. Stroke my back.” He offered his sleek, muscular spine to Nick's hand.

Nick had never heard a cat speak before, but perhaps in other towns it was common. The thought excited him as the creatures themselves had always done. He stroked the cat, who threaded his tail around Nick's wrist and purred.

“I know what you're after,” said the cat. “You want a horse, don't you? I can help you get a horse."

“How's that?” Nick asked, reaching up to scratch the velvety tufted ears, more interested in cat than horse.

“Oh, that's lovely,” said the cat, arching his neck against Nick's knuckles. “You see, I am King of the Cats. All you have to do is come and be my faithful servant for seven years. At the end of that time I will give you your pick of my fine stable."

“That's it, is it?” Nick was amused: surely every feline on earth believed itself King or Queen of the Cats. But he had nothing better to do than follow this exquisite creature, and so he did.

He followed the cat through labyrinthine passageways and dripping, twisting corridors. At times it seemed they had left the city and now walked through a forest, though Nick could never quite make out the trees; at times he smelled city scents, the perfume of spices or the reek of a slaughterhouse. At last they came into an open area something like a plaza or a clearing, and Nick gasped at the sight before him.

A great onyx castle with a golden door, and waiting at the door a pair of slender Siamese, their cream-colored fur tinged at the legs, tail, face, and ears with a deep silver-blue. Their eyes were the clear blue of sapphires, slightly crossed but alight with fervid intelligence.

At once the pair began to talk, their loud, hoarse voices interrupting one another.

“O King, O King!"

“How we missed you—what have you brought us?"

“Who's that boy?"

“What's his name?"

“What's his breed?"

“Tell us, naaaaow!"

“In time you shall know all,” murmured the king, rubbing past them, briefly entwining his bushy black tail with their long whiplike ones. Nick followed, and the pair parted to let him through.

“Nao and Rao, my watchmen,” explained the king. “Busybodies, but they are loyal and good-hearted, and they can frighten off any intruder with their racket."

That evening a great feast was set before Nick: tender meat, oily fish, saucers of sweet cream, tiny fried birds whose bones crunched bewitchingly between the teeth. There were no people in the castle, only cats and kittens everywhere, all sleek and proud. After the feast, they performed in the king's great dining room, juggling and doing acrobatic leaps, singing, racing nimbly across a series of tightropes strung near the gilded ceiling. Together with the quantities of food and wine, it all made Nick dizzy.

At last the revelers began to leave in straggling groups and pairs. The black king fixed Nick with his luminous golden eyes and gestured at the near-empty hall, dim now that the torches had burned down.

“Dance with me, boy,” he said.

“I can't dance with a cat,” said Nick heavily, for his belly was full of meat and wine. “I've never done anything like that."

“Very well, then,” said the king. “Take him off to bed."

Nao and Rao materialized out of nowhere, their sinuous forms steadying Nick. They led him to a small quiet chamber deep in the castle. A set of deft paws removed his shoes, another his shirt and trousers. Rough tongues washed him from head to foot. A velvety tail caressed his face. Then they slipped away, and Nick was fast asleep.

In his dream, something had him by the back of the neck. A great coal-black cat-man had Nick in its jaws and was ripping at him with razor claws. Nick tried to cry out, but he could not. Calmness washed over him. There was no pain, only a brilliant, tearing ecstasy as he broke and bled.

Then the man-cat was thrusting against his ass, tunneling into him with something that felt like a handful of greased knives. The creature's muscles were bands of iron beneath the rippling black coat. Nick was pierced, impaled. He would die bleeding and struggling in the grip of something inhuman. Why did it feel so good?

He awoke with streaks of his own semen cooling on his belly and thighs. He must have scratched and bitten himself in his sleep, for he was covered with lurid marks, even in places it didn't seem he could reach. Nick shuddered, half in horror, half in a shuddering pleasure that curled deep in his gut, and fell asleep again.

Life in the castle of the cats was a jolly affair. The days were spent in mutual bathing, languorous stretching, exploration of high shelves, and the staking out of windowsills. The nights were reserved for the more serious business of hunting and eating. Every so often, all the cats and kittens would drop what they were doing to run from the end of the castle gardens all the way to the highest bell tower and back again. The king was always first.

Nick performed the few useful chores that the cats found difficult or tedious. There was no evidence of horses or a stable, but he had no intention of holding the king to his promise; this was far more interesting than running a mill. The dream came again and again, sometimes more violently, sometimes less. Nick never mentioned it to the king, but he began to look forward to going to bed in hopes that the dream-cat would visit him.

One winter night when the snow lay in milky moonlit drifts outside, Nick dreamed that the great man-cat was curled asleep around him, its purr a soul-deep rumble. The next morning, the king said to him, “It has been seven years since you came here."

Nick could scarcely believe it, for the time had passed as quickly as four seasons. But he could not question the king's word.

“Do you still wish to return to your mill with one of my fine horses?"

Nick knew that he did not. He had never cared anything for the mill. But if he had already enjoyed the cats' charity for seven years, he ought to do so no longer. “I will do as you wish,” he said.

“Good. Then there is one more thing you must do for me before you go. Build me a cottage beside the castle. I have provided you with wood and tools. This is your last duty to me."

Nick set about building the cottage, though he could not imagine why the king wanted it done.
Perhaps to house his next guest
? he thought, and felt a twinge of jealousy. Nevertheless, he fell into the sheer enjoyment of the work, hammering and carving as if he had been born to woodcraft. Soon he had built a cunning little house with feline gargoyles in the eaves, arching cat-shapes cut into the scrollwork, and a hundred windows with wide sills for sunbathing.

“You have done a splendid job,” said the king. “Now we will go to my stables and you may choose your horse."

Nick followed the big black cat to a part of the castle he had never seen before. A stocky Himalayan stood guard at the stable doors, long thick coat impeccably groomed, round ice-blue eyes stern at their approach. The cat did not speak, but bowed to the king as he swept by, then suffered Nick to enter.

The royal stables housed the finest horses Nick had ever seen, shining steeds fit for any king. After much thought, he selected a massive chestnut stallion, in whose mane and tail scarlet highlights seemed to ripple.

“An excellent choice,” said the king. “I call him Hell. Now return on foot to the miller's house and wait there. Tell no one of how you spent your time away. The horse will come to you in three days."

Nick thanked the king and stroked his glossy fur one last time, from neck to tail. The king arched against Nick's hand, and Nick felt a lump in his throat. How could he live again with mere humans when he had spent seven years in the company of cats?

Nao escorted him as far as the road that led to his town. The king had sent him away in the same shirt and trousers he had arrived in seven years before. Now they were much too small for his work-broadened body, and the cloth was worn to threads.

Simon and Oliver were lazing outside the millhouse when Nick came trudging up the path. Their horses grazed nearby. Dressed like dandies, Simon and Oliver laughed and laughed at Nick's dirty rags. “Ho, Nicky,” they taunted, “where's your horse?"

“Coming in three days,” Nick answered, “and he will be finer than either of these sorry nags."

Simon and Oliver's horses were handsome enough in truth, but both were a full hand shorter than the king's stallion. One had rheumy eyes, the other favored a tender hoof. Still Simon and Oliver laughed. They were certain no horse would arrive; where would stupid Nicky ever get a horse?

That night Nick was not admitted to the house, but was fed at the back door and told to sleep in the barn. Curled on a rough pallet of hay, he fell into the deepest sleep he had ever known. For unfathomable hours he dreamed of the man-cat gripping his neck fast in its jaws, entering him, possessing him.

He awoke to the sound of trumpets and horses in the yard. As he stumbled forth into the blinding sun, he understood that he had slept two days and three nights; this was the third day. A six-horse coach stood before the millhouse, the lacquer like wet ebony, the steeds' coats like mirrors. Simon, Oliver, and the old miller tumbled out onto the porch, startled from their breakfast by the racket.

The coach door opened and from it emerged the most beautiful man Nick had ever seen, the most beautiful man he could imagine. Dressed in black and gold, he was himself black and gold: hair and skin like glittering coal, impassive burnished eyes. When Nick looked into those eyes and saw the slitted pupils, he knew that this man was a king, his king.

The king strode forward flanked by two tall, slender attendants dressed in silver garments, with sapphire eyes: Nao and Rao. The king raised a huge sharp-nailed hand. Around the coach, led by a stocky attendant with a great fluff of white hair, came the chestnut stallion.

The king bowed ever so slightly toward the miller. “We have a delivery for Nick"

“Why, that's the finest horse I've ever seen in all the world,” said the miller, coming down the steps. Simon and Oliver stayed where they were. The miller pried the horse's mouth open, lifted each of its hooves, then patted its silken flank. “The mill goes to Nick!"

The king shook his massive head. “No, my good sir. You may keep your mill. And you may keep the horse. But Nick belongs to me.” He smiled, and Nick saw that his teeth were white as cream and sharp as knives. “Nick, my men have clothes for you. Bathe and dress. You're coming away with me."

Nick found the sinuous forms of Nao and Rao flanking him, one with a parcel of fine clothes, the other with a pair of soft black leather boots. The swept up the front steps, past the astonished faces of the miller and his two apprentices, into a chamber of the millhouse where Nick was bathed and scented and dressed. The king waited below in the yard, cleaning his already immaculate nails, refusing to acknowledge the frantic attempts of Simon and Oliver to slip him their calling cards.

Soon Nick emerged, looking as regal as any member of the king's court. A long cape trailed behind him, his shirt was of scarlet silk, and his trousers were perfectly fitted to his muscular legs. He descended the stairs to his king, who met him with a smile of possessive pride and satisfaction.

In this great coach, the black castle was only a few heartbeats away. As the swept through the gates, the courtyard erupted with cheers. All the cats and kittens of the castle were men and women now, dressed in splendid clothes, holding banners and streamers aloft. As their smiling faces filled the coach windows, Nick had the fleeting impression that he could see the feline features just behind the human ones.

As they stepped out of the coach, Nick turned to look at the castle and gasped in shock. The tiny cottage he'd built had become a second castle, a soaring white wedding cake of a castle with elaborate carvings and colored fountains. The grand front doors swept wide and the king led Nick into a hallway dripping with pearls and diamonds.

“This is to be our home,” said the king. “Now will you dance with me, Nick?"

Nick nodded, speechless. The king folded him into muscular arms, nipped at his throat with sharp teeth, kissed him again and again, gently raked his back with those razor nails. Nick shuddered and surrendered as he was swept across the floor in the first of many dances of the night.

When they reached their wedding bed, the king buried himself deep in Nick, biting the back of his neck just as the man-cat had done in his dreams. Nick moaned and felt his insides tighten around the king's great cock, felt the skin of his back sunder and his blood spill beneath the king's nails.

“You are mine,” purred the king as he turned his nails to his own chest, ripped a bloody X in his own ebony flesh. “You are mine. You are mine.” As he leaned down to murmur it in Nick's ear, their blood mingled into a hot coppery slick. “You are mine. You are mine."