Fear Familiar Bundle

The dame is a real looker. She came out of the library with a stack of books that looked heavier than she did. Tall, slender, dark-haired, with that special sort of independent walk, she's just the one I've been watching for. Not a bad-looking woman, even if the horn-rimmed glasses do detract. Maybe a little too thin, from my perspective. You know the old adage: thin woman, empty pantry. But after all, it's a university campus, and what can I expect from an industry of pointy-heads? It's late, and she's leaving
sans
an escort. The odds are better than fifty-fifty that she lives alone. That means no cranky kids or irritable spouse, the things I've avoided in my single life. I've done my homework. Besides, I have to make something happen.

I've been on the run since the night before last, and my leg is killing me. Somehow I have to get the catheter out of it. The dame looks as though she can handle it. She looks as though she could handle a lot without freaking. Anyway, my time is running out. I know they're after me, and if I don't find a safe place quick, they'll have me.

Here goes! I limp toward her, partly because I'm in pain, and partly because I figure a sucker ploy like a limp won't hurt my chances. Not for the first time in my life, I'm perfectly accurate in reading a person. She's stopping, books ready to tumble and crush me. I hold her with my most appealing gaze, saying to myself the whole time, "Come on, baby, take a desperate fur ball home with you."

Uh-oh, she's starting to turn away. Time for the real dramatics. I make a sort of strangled noise and limp right up to her leg. The rub across her shin is calculated, but not half as bad as it could be. She smells great, and those legs of hers go straight to the sky. I mean if you have to give up newly won independence, even temporarily, this dame isn't a bad place to start. She's classy. One look into her dark eyes, and I knew she had a heart as big as Texas, as the old saying goes.

Well, I'll give her one more pitiful meow.

"You must be lost," she says.

Man, her voice is better than the sound of an electric can opener. I feel the old motor kick in my throat for the first time in months, and I purr.

She bends to touch me and carefully examines my leg. "What's this?" she asks, poking at the plastic catheter that's my Achilles heel. I have to get rid of that thing, and quick. There must be a million stray cats running around Washington, D.C., but none with plastic tubing hanging out of their limbs. It's a dead giveaway to my past.

"Meow," I answer, even more pitifully than before.

"Have you gotten away from a vet?" she asks. As she bends over me, a strand of her black hair brushes my whiskers. Before I can stop myself, I rub her chin with the back of my head. She is delicious. At this moment I realize how cruel fate has been. How did I wind up as a research animal when I could have been living with her?

For the first time in my short life I feel a pang of guilt. I'm a marked animal, and my life is in jeopardy. Now I've pushed my problems onto this dame, and there's no way I'll ever be able to make her understand, or even warn her.

T
HE CAT'S SLEEK FUR
brushed across her face as she bent to examine the animal. Despite herself, Eleanor Duncan stroked it, gently examining the injured leg it had so pitifully displayed. An indwelling catheter had been inserted into the limb.

"Poor old guy," she said softly. "Where'd you come from?" Her hand moved up and down the cat, both examining and giving comfort. Except for the right front leg, the cat appeared to be in good condition. The soot-black coat was glossy, the animal well fed.

"Meow," the cat said, turning huge green eyes to stare directly into hers. "Meow," he continued, clearly asking her to take him home.

"I haven't had a pet since I was a little girl," she answered. Memories of her parents and the large, two-story house with the big yard in Tennessee came back to her. That had been a house for dogs and cats and lots of love. Her Washington apartment was a far cry from such an environment. "I don't think you'd fit into my life-style very well, boy."

She gave him a final pat and regathered the stack of books she'd dropped. "Good luck," she murmured and started toward her car.

"Meow!" the cat cried.

She walked faster, moving across the cherry tree-lined perimeter of the library grounds toward the parking lot.

"Meow! Aiowee!"

She glanced over her shoulder. The black cat was hobbling after her, barely able to walk. "Good grief!" she sighed, exasperated both with the animal and herself. "Con men, sick dogs and stray cats always want to follow me home." She dumped the books onto the grass and went back. The cat lifted his paw to her, steadily holding her with his intense gaze.

"Aeeow," he cried softly.

Eleanor Duncan swept him up into the warmth of her overcoat. He immediately snuggled down, popping his head out of the opening at her chest. "Mrrrow," he said, purring so loudly that he sounded like a motor.

"This is only temporary," she warned him. "We'll get that leg fixed up, and then we'll find you a good home. I can't have pets. I don't have time and I don't want to…get involved. Pets are notorious for running away, or getting run over, or doing some other stupid thing that always results in heartache. So I'll get you patched up, and then you're moving on."

The cat didn't bother to answer; he simply rubbed her chin with his head and purred.

With the cat tucked in her coat, Eleanor had both hands free to recover her books. When she was so heavily loaded that she almost couldn't see over the stack, she started to her car.

The parking lot was empty on the cold, mid-December night. Most of the elite University of Arts and Literature students were home for the holidays, tucked in among family and friends. Eleanor's life was the campus, her research, her work. With the students gone, the library was quieter, more suited to her linguistic pursuits. She loved teaching, but was more comfortable in the solitude of her research.

When she reached her small car, she balanced the books on the hood and searched her purse for the keys. Through all of the maneuverings, the stray cat lay cradled against her as if he'd been born to ride like a papoose. She scratched his ears as she slid the key into the lock. "You're pretty relaxed for a stray," she observed.

Iron fingers dug into her shoulder, throwing her around and slamming her into the side of the car.

"Hey!" she cried.

A hard slap cut the side of her nose and sent her glasses flying.

"You're going to pay for what you've done!" The threat was ground out in a tough, nasty voice. Even worse, the hideously ugly face seemed made of dough. "You can't provoke me like this!"

Eleanor stifled a scream; blearily she saw the stocking-distorted features of a large, angry man. Without her glasses she couldn't make out much else. She tried to duck, but his palm caught her again, striking so hard that her knees buckled, and she fell back against the fender of the car, scattering books everywhere.

"Who are you with?" the man asked, grabbing the lapel of her coat and roughly pulling her to her feet. He shook her so hard that her head snapped back and forth, the dark curls foaming over her face and shoulders. "Answer me!" he demanded as he pushed her backward. "Get in the car. We're going for a ride."

Eleanor felt the cat coil itself inside her coat. Just as the man drew back to slap her again, the animal launched itself from her chest and sprang, all claws extended, at the man's face.

Horrified and relieved, Eleanor saw the full weight of the cat drag down the man's face, ripping ribbons of blood into the stocking mask and the flesh beneath.

The man screamed, turning and striking at the cat with both arms. But the animal spit, snarled and clung, digging all four claws deeper and deeper. Then it suddenly sprang away and ran into the darkness.

Adrenaline pumping, Eleanor drew back one leg and kicked with all her might, catching the man first in one shin, then the other. Screaming, he fell to the ground and she opened the car door.

"Kitty, kitty!" she cried. A flying ball of fur propelled itself through the open door, across her lap and into the passenger seat. The car was skidding out of the parking lot before Eleanor even attempted to close her door. Unable to see clearly without her glasses, she hit a curb and lurched into the busy Washington traffic. As horns blared on all sides, she pumped the gas pedal and merged.

The shaking didn't get bad until she was in her cozy, ninth-floor apartment. The stray cat was happily slurping a bowl of warm milk and a can of tuna. She'd come in, locked the door, cared for the kitty, and finally gone into the bathroom to wash her face.

Her nose was cut where her glasses had been slammed into her face. Her right cheek was red and swollen from the slap, and she thought she looked as if she'd never recover from the shock of it all. Her skin, normally a milky white, was almost blue. Even her hair was standing out from her head like a woman from Bedlam.

That was when her body gave in to the delayed reaction and started shaking. Sinking onto the cold tile floor, she rested her forehead on her knees. She had to get up and call the police, but what in the world was she going to tell them? That she'd been attacked and beaten in a parking lot? So what! That happened every five minutes in a big city.

She could tell them that she was afraid! Big deal; she could at least afford to live in a pricey apartment with security and a doorman. The cops wouldn't have a lot of sympathy, and besides, she wasn't really hurt.

She sensed another presence and looked up. The black cat was standing in the doorway, watching her intently. He came over and sat down beside her.

"I almost got you killed," she said, remembering how she'd fallen against the car. She could have crushed him. "You know, big guy, you saved my life." She scratched behind his ears and under his chin. To her delight, he flopped onto his back and exposed his stomach. There wasn't a single white hair on his entire body.

"Back in old Salem, you'd have been burned as a witch's familiar," she said, stroking the cat's belly to his wriggling delight. "Familiar," she said. "I know I shouldn't name a pet I'm not going to keep, but until you go, how about that for a moniker?"

The cat flipped himself onto his feet and eyed her.

"Familiar," she said firmly.

"Meow," he answered, sitting down again. He gave her a full blast from his green eyes, then deliberately lifted one paw and began to lick it. He stopped, studied her again, then cleaned his face.