Septs

The beast trotted along the edge of the cliff. Fast, even steps. The cat watched, fascinated.

"What are you waiting for?" Asked the beast.

"Cats are a meditative species," answered the cat.

"Often they are. Except when they’re playful and reckless. The beast sat. The cat needed convincing again. Come, kitty-cat. The cat leisurely sauntered over. Not so close to the cliff," the best barked.

The cat narrowed its eyes. You’re close.

"I’m a beast."

"Do beasts have nine lives?"

"No."

"Well, then. But the cat was interested. What happens if you fall?"

"I’ll catch branches with my jaws, dug my paws into the ground and hit a lower ledge."

"What if you can’t?"

The beast licked the cat’s head to appease it. I’ll die.

"Are you afraid?"

"No."

"Will it be painful?"

"Probably." The beast seemed unconcerned.

The cat was unsettled, though. Why can’t I come closer?

"You might fall."

"I’m not afraid to die."

"You should be."

That intrigued the cat. Will it be painful?

"I’ll make sure it’s not," the beast assured soothingly.

The cat remained unruffled. Will it be soon?

"I hope not. How many lives left?"

The cat could not remember. I don’t know, the cat said for it had already died a thousand deaths on its journey. Will you be there?

"Yes."

The cat and the beast resumed their journey.

The cat purring, rubbing against the beast.

The cat sprinting, lingering and meditating.

The beast growling.

The beast hunting.

The beast roaming steadily along the edge, between the cliff and the cat.

Excerpt from Cat and Dogs, by V. P. Trick

Patricia

"Hi sweetie, Patricia saluted Alice. Good to see you."

Alice smiled back before returning her attention to the upper back she was working on. The girl was fun to watch. Since Alice and Mandy had moved to the city, Patricia had taken into the habit of stopping by Alice’s tattoo parlour every other week or so. Alice had good hands. Patricia too had good hands, for painting and drawing, but not for tattoos. The only time she had done tattooing, the outlines had turned out blurry, giving a poor guy a life-lasting souvenir of her messy work. Tattooing was truly an art.

Changed your mind about getting one? Alice teased. Alice asked the same question every time they saw each other.

Nope. Women my age don’t get tattoos.

You should. It would look hot. Patricia waited. It was a ritual of hers; Alice always proposed a new design on a new area. The calf, thigh, cheek butt, lower back, back, shoulder blade, neck, pubis, belly, shoulder, forearm, not a lot of places left. How about the top of your breast? I see a small cat there. Small as in two-three-size smaller than on yours, girl. Alice had big breasts. I bet the man would love it. Alice’s the man sounded as The. Man. For some reason, Christopher intimidated Alice even when he was not around.

Patricia covered her breasts. I’m not so sure the Big guy would like a tattoo up here. I have a feeling he likes my bosom fine just the way they are. More than a feeling actually, an absolute certainty. So again, no tattoo this week.

Eventually, you will say yes. Don’t count on it, girl, I’m pretty stubborn. Patricia?

"Oui, ma chérie?"

There’s something I have to tell you.

Shoot. Like she didn’t know already. Christopher had known first, of course, most infuriating.

Weeks ago, he had invited Mandy for a guys’ night out of male bonding. More like he wanted to check up on his newly eighteen-year-old adopted son. The adoption was not going so well. It was not going bad per se either, more like it was not going, period. Another one of her stupid ideas. Christopher being true to himself, he was seeing it to the finish. Funny how Mandy could annoy him so without making him jog or smoke. Annoyance and anger clearly didn’t have the same cure.

Christopher had gone jogging last night. A son against moving in together, that was their deal. He was keeping his half of the bargain while she was more into actively postponing the damn house without exactly knowing why she was stalling. Her love for him made things so complicated, did it not? If only she could convince him to have Mandy live with them too. An innocent bystander. A witness. A chaperone? She sighed.

If it weren’t for Mandy and the house thing, her life would be grand. If it wasn’t for her damn writer’s block − her PI and serial killer stories were over and done with; she was into an office romance type of novel for now and from the way it was going, she might be at it forever − all would be perfect. She didn’t feel the need to look over her shoulder for dirty cops anymore, had no more fear of the jerk lurking in the dark, waiting to extract revenge on Christopher. There hadn’t been another copycat killing from her book; Christopher said a one-time thing could be just a fluke. He had not used the word coincidence, though; he didn’t believe in such things. Could the lack of anything or anyone lying in wait explain her writing block?

Yes, Alice? She prompted softly. Mandy had not shown up for Christopher’s imposed guys’ beer night. Mandy had not called or apologised. What had the kid thought would occur? Christopher happened as in the big chief detective went knocking on their door. Alice was at work. Mandy was out. He searched the place. Alice’s stuff was out of the place. Since Patricia had walked Alice home the day before, the move had happened on the day of the Big guy’s search, hum, visit.

Mandy and I− Alice was finishing an eagle on the left shoulder blade of a delicate twenty-something blonde. Very nice work. We’re not together anymore.

I see. She looked Alice over as she had many times in the weeks since the break-up. Alice did not look noticeably sad. Do you still love him?

No. Good. Love complicates everything.

So you’re all good?

Yes. Alice didn’t look all right, though, as she fidgeted with her tattoo gun, tonguing the piercing on her lower lip.

We already knew, sweetie.

You did?

Of course. Christopher was worried about Mandy. Almost true. He had been worried about her worrying about Mandy (she had caught the infuriating man smoking on his terrace because of it). We were waiting for you guys to tell us.

I’m sorry we didn’t.

"It’s OK, ma chérie. Don’t worry about it. She smiled at Alice. Despite the tattoos, the piercings, the trashy clothes, the spiky hair, Alice had a kind soul. Can I ask what happened?" It couldn’t be because one had plans of them living together and the other was afraid of being overwhelmed. It couldn’t be because her writing and his job tended more and more to blur together. Nor could it be because she wanted to live with him and therefore wanted to run off. Alice wasn’t a screwed-up writer, and Mandy wasn’t an arrogant overprotective cop.

It didn’t work out, is all. Damn, she wished her life was that simple. He needs to grow up.

Ah. Everyone does, sweetie, but not too much. You’re sure you’re OK?

Yes.

She stopped herself from offering money. That would have insulted Alice.

Patricia?

"Yes, petite?"

You’ll still come by, though, won’t you?

You bet. Once I decide I like you, I like you for a long time. Maybe she could get a small tattoo to cheer up Alice, something very very teeny in a concealed spot.

She walked back to her hotel. The Big guy had his cigarettes, scotch, and jogs while she had walks and red wine to help sort things out.

Right Way

Frankly, she was annoyed at Mandy. Months after moving to the city, the kid was still testing their determination. Well, he had another thing coming. She was fond of Mandy, and so was Christopher. Hum. Christopher loved her and so, by ricochet, he cared about Mandy. Couldn’t Mandy get it into his teenage brain that they weren’t going anywhere? Literally, not going anywhere. Thinking about Mandy was easier than thinking about living with Christopher, wasn’t it?

She had agreed to live with the Big guy. And she would. Mercifully (or unfortunately?), the damn man was patient. In the last weeks, she had deliberately tried to pick a fight, break up, postpone her déménagement, anything. He had not budged. She knew he wouldn’t. Apparently, Mandy wasn’t the only one testing the Big guy’s determination, but at least, she was honest about it (if only with herself).

An hour walk in the dawning lights of the day. She liked the megalopolis at that time of the day when work ended and playing began for most people. Normal people. I need a new job, and I need it fast. Her writing was not work. It was the same as breathing, a way to stay alive. Sane. Working at Vitto’s coffee shop was not a career either, but a past time. Coffee shops were amongst the seven wonders of her life. Along with her hotel suite, Christopher’s apartment, his cabin, Ingrid’s condominium, their publishing business, the Tai Chi yoga resort in the desert. To make it a top ten, she added Mario’s place, her desk on Christopher’s precinct floor (just the desk, though, not the conference room or the toilets), and Italy. Of course.

A new job. Her painting was also a hobby. She painted naked men, naked women, clothed men, dressed women. She did her book covers in her spare time. If she kept up her current drawing rate, she would soon have enough for an exhibit. Again. If she made it a top twenty, she would add the small painting studio she was now renting. And she’d add the café owned by her French friend near Main Street, or was it already included in the Vitto’s bistro and other coffee shops of the seven wonders? No matter, the French café was in. As were Armando’s art gallery where she might or might not have an exhibit, Johnny’s lounge, and the Wine place. And the bar at her hotel. Why couldn’t the list stay the same? No new item to add, no old place to cross out. His and hers. And here she was, thinking about her infuriating boyfriend again. She truly needed a new occupation.

No way was she going back to the station. Yes, she missed observing the team at work. Admiring him at work. But the job was crap. For some reason, cold case files weren’t all that cold. She was fed up of dead people for the rest of her life. She no longer felt sporadic urges to shoot someone. She had succeeded in not going to the shooting range with him. She was not carrying a gun. She didn’t want a gun but a new job, damn it!

Christopher was waiting for her at the hotel bar when she arrived. A suit and tie, the everyday outfit of her plainclothes detective boyfriend. He was damn sexy in his cop disguise.

Hi, Big guy.

Hey, Princess. He flashed that crooked grin of his. Sexy. Dangerous. Windy walk? He teased, playing with a curl.

The weather had been perfect when she’d left the tattoo place, but the breeze had picked up along the way. She had a feeling her hair was going to get even more out of control before long. She sighed at the thought.

He growled, Don’t, Princess.

Don’t what?

He shook his head. You know what. You’re about to drop something on me.

I am not. The man was infuriating. Really. I’ve just been thinking−

He cut her short. Exactly. Don’t think.

We’re not yet his and hers, Big guy. That’s a very misogynist thing to say! Ready to pick a fight.

No, it’s not, not in your case. I’m crazy about that brain of yours. Sexy as hell. Like the rest of you. But don’t.

Don’t what?

He pulled her to him and kissed her cheek softly. Just fucking don’t. No overthinking. No ideas.

She leaned into him. Fine by her. What was it he didn’t want her to overthink? What ideas wasn’t she supposed to have? She put her hands flat on his back and plastered herself to him. She kissed his neck, the slowly throbbing vein, licking it until she felt the pace of his heartbeat pick up. Top twenty. The smell of his cologne. Top ten. The strength of his arms around her. Seven wonders. The warmth of him. Right there, her lips on his skin. She closed her eyes and let out a moan of content.

Talk to me, Angel, he whispered. So hard against her.

Hum.

You want to eat out?

Hum.

She felt the waves under her tongue as he chuckled, a deep laugh that turned into a husky growl. Talk to me, Darling of mine.

How about we stayed in? Like we often do, your place or mine. Perfect. She wouldn’t change a thing. His and hers.

The King

Questions had been answered. Battle plans had been laid. Let the game begin. Let the games begin. Winner takes all.

The King remembered the small king’s mistakes. Joshua had guards. Knights. Fools. The King had none. No one was to stand in his way for the small king was no more.

Months of perfect preparation. Obedience. Training. Staying out of sight. He remembered the small king’s blunders. The foolish monarch’s old court had known, but his wouldn’t. He had won. Stubbornness. Smartness. Craziness.

"Let the games begin," he declared to the empty space.

A new tattoo adorned the kid. The artist, as she called herself, had been a whimsy distraction. Amusement for the King.

Months of absolute distance and abstinence for he remembered the small king’s errors and had stopped tracking them. For if he could, then they might too. But now he returned to let the games begin.

The King, in his magnificence, knew the position of his pawns, his bishops, his towers. The King did not play chess. In truth, he did not play for wasn’t he the King? He was the King, and kings conquered.

Excerpt from Kingdom Come, by Trica C. Line

Chris’s Way

Chris stepped out for a smoke. Beer night with the guys was pleasant even if he had dragged Mandy along. Not that Mandy made trouble; the kid just fucking watched. He wished the kid would do something, anything except sell drugs and drool over Patricia. Just fucking do something! Stop pretending and go to school for real. Quit playacting and go home, wherever that was. But it’s my job now to see to that, isn’t it? I’m a father, damn her! Parenting wasn’t such a big job, though; he’d do anything for her.

His pupil’s presence wasn’t making him smoke; the kid was an annoyance at the most, nowhere near a real concern. The cigarette was because of her. Knot slowly tightened in the pit of his stomach, but Chris didn’t clearly understand why. He just felt it sitting there. Something in the air, something in her eyes.

I shouldn’t have cut her short the other night; shouldn’t have allowed her to distract me. She’s too skilled at that. Her edginess wasn’t about Mandy and Alice. She was OK with it. He even suspected she liked the girl more than the kid. He did too. It wasn’t about Mario or the lot of them either; everything was quiet on that front. Too quiet? She had stayed away from his office and police work for months. And murder cases had stayed the fuck away from her too; he’d seen to that. All mine.

Their relationship might be perfect except for her holding back on her half of the bargain. Them living together against him adopting Mandy. I’m still waiting, Angel. You have no idea how fucking patient I can be when it comes to you. He knew she would eventually move in with him. In the end, she always kept her word.

Knot was already with him a few days ago when Patricia’s publicist-slash-mother hawk, Ingrid, had called to talk or, more accurately, yell.

You’ve got her distracted. She’s all over the place these days, the old broad had blamed him.

Not my fault. Not that he did not distract her, every fucking chance he got, but Ingrid needed to vent. But you’re right. Patricia is preoccupied, has been for weeks. Any idea what’s it about?

Ingrid was as clueless as he was.

Then it had been girls’ night out. Patricia and Reid had gone to the wine bar to pick up guys. As per their usual, Reid had done the drinking and propositioning part while Patricia did her share of the drinking but stuck to a strictly demure observation role from the sidelines. How the damn woman got his stiff-ass female homicide detective to act like a college girl was beyond him. He had to bring both of them home. Well, he had driven Reid back and kept Patricia.

Days later, Reid summed up enough courage to ask him if everything was going OK between them two. Patricia seemed a little tense the other night.

And you thought I needed marital advice from my junior officer? That was what one got when one’s team adopted one’s girlfriend. Best fucking time of his life. Thanks, Reid. I notice too. I’m on it.

It got even better when Bridget, his secretary, enquired the same after an evening with her. Patricia was tense during supper. Is something amiss between the two of you?

Fucking great.

I should have brought my drink to go with that cigarette. Hamilton came to join him. How fitting.

The Cake’s edgy, Ham commented. The guy would know; he had trouble taking his eyes off her.

Chris had a deal with his officer. She was his if ever Chris died. That she is.

She’s getting worse. I caught her daydreaming earlier. Middle of a fucking bar! Anything I can do?

Depends. She said what she was worried about? At this point, he didn’t give a shit if she’d told Ham instead of him. He just wanted to know.

That’s a negative.

Yah. Me neither.

They watched the bar from the outside. Patricia was talking to Charles and holding Reid’s arm. So much for the old team’s night out.

Do you miss it? He asked Ham. Chris sure didn’t; he liked having her around. Immensely. He kind of liked having Charles on the team too. Sure, the new officer was a by-the-book rookie but not as much as Reid. Patricia’s crash course had paid out. Only the old team out for a beer?

Frankke and DesForges were talking to some women further back. LeRoy was trying to teach pool to his new girlfriend whom he had started living with three weeks after they had met. Quite a long courting period by Le’s standards. Shapiro had left already. He’d be home with Nadia and their girl by this time. Bridget never came. The quartet was no more since Chris had had them permanently transferred, one back to Central, the other in Charles’s old neighbourhood. They weren’t part of the old team to start with anyway. That left Fred. But Fred wasn’t really on the team even if he was one of Chris’s guy in his own peculiar way.

That’s a negative, Ham answered with a grin. This is fucking great.

Chris’s sentiment exactly. Yah, it is. And he was pretty sure the seven cops on his team all felt the same. A good team.

They stayed out, enjoying the night air and each other’s company. Desultory talks of fishing, work, office gossips, Central, current events. Two guys at ease with each other. They stayed out until Patricia knocked on the window and came out to join them. Subconsciously, they might have stayed out to lure her out.

What are you guys talking about? She queried, taking them both by the waist. Chris felt her shiver. She hadn’t bothered with a coat or jacket.

Fishing.

Ah. She rolled her eyes and smiled at the same time. You’re lucky I’m tired.

And a bit drunk, Chris added silently. He liked her drunk. So delicate. Amenable. Almost.

I’ll pretend I believe you guys.

And with that little comment, it dawned on him. That was it; she was pretending, more so than her usual. And it was steadily getting worse. All set to go, Princess? Let’s get your coat.

Yes, Sir. Very drunk indeed. Sexy as hell.

So what do we do, boss? Ham prompted as they were leaving.

We do what we always do. Be ready. Wait and see. Then act accordingly. Serve and protect.

Roger wait and see.

House Arrest

She drew for four straight hours. It was her third session with that model, and what a great model she was! All voluptuous curves as only pregnant women can have. The woman had worked as a front desk clerk at the hotel for as long as Patricia had been living there. Laurie was a sweetheart, short, round and smiley, even more so now that she was expecting.

"Want another cookie? A pastry perhaps? You have to taste those mini croissants."

Laurie didn’t want to be paid, so she was feeding mother and child-to-be with decaffeinated coffee from the nearby coffee shop, and pastries and chocolate from the nearby bakery. They talked while she drew. Well, frankly, Laurie did most of the talking.

During their first session, she had done simple charcoal sketches to learn Laurie’s body and give her time to get comfortable with being naked in front of her. She had done pastel and watercolour their second time together and was doing pastel and acrylic today. Patricia intended to give Laurie drawings for the baby room as a thank-you present. The woman truly was a great model.

After their session, she sent her model home in a cab with three boxes of sweets, then went for a stroll. She walked until she summoned enough courage to call the number Christopher had given her five weeks ago.

"Here, he’d said. That’s the name of my real estate agent. I’ve put a list of places to visit. He had done the first sorting out and had narrowed it down to five. You should visit them, the infuriating man had added. Unless you want to let me take care of it?"

Like heck she did. His offer was a trick for sure, but she wasn’t willing to chance it.

You are calling somewhat short notice, the realtor said when Patricia got hold of her. I’m currently with a client. Let me put you on hold for a minute and see what I can do. Thirty seconds later, the agent came back on the line. It took some convincing but anything for Mister MacLaren.

That’s great, thanks. Excellent service. Or maybe the agent wasn’t busy? Or the place indecently pricey? Or Gemma was one of Christopher’s too numerous exes? I’ll meet you there in an hour.

She stopped by Ingrid’s office to borrow her car and drove straight to the address the agent had given her, arriving ten minutes early.

High on a hill, the house was fenced by an iron gate and set in a jungle, a bushy, overgrown, suburban wilderness. The only visible parts of the house were a dark brown, lacquered corner of walls with a door made of the same material. No windows interrupted that single visible corner or the door.

She climbed over the fence (some might say she was not good at waiting). She tried threading her way between the side wall and the jungle. The shrubs tore at her bare legs and arms, her painter outfit of worn-out shorts and oversized tee offering little protection. She tried the back wall. The vegetation was so dense she couldn’t push it out of the way.

I might use those damn plants if I ever write another science fiction story. The real estate agent arrived as she was untangling herself from the swallowing shrubs. They met by the front door. Just by the look on the agent’s face, Patricia knew she was not up to the woman’s expectations. Great, another one of those.

But Gemma was a professional. From the tip of her high heels to the dark-grey pants and its matching jacket to the deep décolleté to the impeccable hair and makeup, Gemma was the quintessential high society snob real estate agent. Definitely expensive.

The woman extended her perfectly manicured hand. Good afternoon… Miss Patricia? Long pause before the miss. Chris told me you might call.

Calling clients by their first name, are we, Gemma? Patricia sighed. An expensive ex? Let’s get this over with.

Gemma was indeed a practised real estate agent and recovered quickly from the Miss mishap. She proceeded to give her a full tour. Of course, it helped that she flattered Gemma by complimenting her outfit, Love the shoes! Where did you get them? And her style, With the suit, you look so perfectly put together. And her professionalism, I’ve rarely encountered realtors as dedicated as you. She made up the compliments as supposedly coming from the Big guy himself. I’m not surprised. Mister MacLaren has sung your praises. The woman did not blush at the Big guy’s name. Maybe Gemma was not an ex?

Gemma’s relationship with the Big guy was irrelevant, though, as flattery worked well on men and women alike (including ex-lovers). Snobs were easy targets, and snobs looking to sell a very expensive house were almost too easy. Lying was pretty effective also. Patricia often found a combination of both proved the best.

I’m Mister MacLaren’s secretary, she told Gemma. I do apologise for my most unconventional outfit. She did not give details except to say, It was unavoidable. Work, you know.

Gemma nodded her understanding.

Patricia added conspiratorially, "I do hope you’ll not mention my visit to Chris, I suppose he has requested you informed him the minute I set foot in the house? Gemma’s indulgent smile was answer enough. The infuriating man! The Big guy would have come too, I’m sure, you know how he is, but the Brass called a big important meeting at the last minute, terrible timing, isn’t it? He’s now wasting his time at the police headquarters, commonly referred to as Central."

Central impressed the hell out of Gemma. Flattery, lies and babbles. Central might not have approved of her interrogation techniques, but they worked great on Gemma.

I’m a friend of Chris’s cousin Elizabeth, Gemma explained. No problem there. Eli introduced us when Chris was looking to invest in real estate a few years back. Have you been to his place? I sold him the industrial building he renovated. And a splendid job he did there. I’m also looking at some condos for Eli; she wants a place in the city. Not good. I think with the two of them nearing their fifties, Eli and Chris want to be closer to each other.

Gemma might not be as close to Christopher as she thought herself to be if she didn’t know the Big guy still had a good few years to go before reaching the big five-O.

Family, you know, Gemma continued. Neither has confided in me, but I feel I know them enough to guess Chris is looking for a house for his retirement.

Christopher, retired? No way, never. Really? How shrewd of you, she hissed with noticeably faked interest.

Somehow (was it Gemma’s professionalism or greed?) the woman went on, oblivious to Patricia’s sarcastic tone. From the list of houses I’m to show you, I chose this place first because I know it’s the one Chris likes the most.

Really? And how you know? Patricia was getting tired of the woman knowing more about her boyfriend than she did.

Well, Miss Patricia, it was Gemma’s turn to whisper conspiratorially, quite simply because Chris has already bought this house. The man does have impeccable tastes, doesn’t he?

The House

Had Patricia not been so stunned by Gemma’s words, she would have been furious. Why on earth would he buy this place? Granted the house was spectacular and the view breath-taking. There was no land to speak of. The jungle took up three sides of the building, and a cliff, barely three steps from the building’s back wall, the fourth with the city at its feet way down below. It all looked oh so very expensive.

The house was a U-shaped mix of wood and glass. Inside, the walls making the outer sides of the U were of the same dark-brown lacquer as the exterior, as were the floors. The U’s inner walls and tips consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows. The front door was in one corner at the bottom of the U, and the kitchen in the opposite corner. Each leg formed a single wide room, with separating walls also made of glass. Two bathrooms sat, one on each side of the U, along the outer wall. The same dark wood as the exterior walls lined those rooms.

The bathrooms were the only secluded areas. From any point in the house but the bathroom, she had an open view on the rest of the space. And thus, from any position in the place, anyone could see any other occupant.

Outside, cradled between the legs of the U lay an infinity pool

Stunning, isn’t it?

Yes. It truly was magnificent. She felt numb. How many places did you show him?

Twenty-eight. Damn, he must have been at it for months. Of course, he had. Adoption versus living together. She was the one relegating the deal, pretending it wasn’t. It served her right.

Did he tell you why he chose this place?

Well, as you must know, Chris is a very discreet man.

Didn’t tell you squat, did he? That makes two of us. He must have said something. How did you choose the places you showed him?

He asked for a house with plenty of sunlight, open space, at least two rooms, secluded, accessible by car only, in a safe neighbourhood, safe enough for a single woman to venture out. He wanted a view and a pool.

The Big guy sure had got what he had asked for. How much did he pay? Their place, she owed him half.

I don’t know. She stared at the woman. How could she not know? Weren’t real estate agents paid on commissions? Chris and I agreed on my fee beforehand.

Before you showed him houses?

Yes.

Christopher must have offered Gemma a generous package for her to forgo her percentage. Damn infuriating. How was she supposed to reimburse him now?

Thank you so much for your time, Gemma. I will let Mister MacLaren know how helpful you’ve been.

I must confess I was intrigued when Chris instructed that you had to review the house. He did not explain your relationship, and I assumed− It’s unusual for a secretary− For as long as I have known him, he has always done his things alone.

He still does apparently. You know how men are. He wants decoration tips.

Gemma understood. Very professional.

She let Gemma lock the house by herself and drove away. Down the hill, through the outskirt of the city, to the speedway. She rode around for two hours, singing, speeding. Childish. She headed back to her place, showered, changed, called Christopher, talked to his home answering machine, Something came up. I have to go out of town for a few days, and packed a small bag.

Then she took the car back to Ingrid, grabbed a cab to the airport, got drunk, boarded a plane, kept on drinking and arrived at the yoga place in time for supper. A very late supper.

How could he have! So she had delayed the deal. Her fault. But the house? Tai Chi and the old yogi helped clear her head.

The itch was growing. It had been for weeks, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Something in the air. Everything was perfect. Perhaps she missed the adrenaline rush? No. She had not had the urge to throw up in months. Perfect. Her writing was stimulating. Her painting was exciting. Vitto’s coffee shop was amusing. The Big guy was perfect. He had called, of course.

"Call me," his message said.

I wouldn’t know what to say, Big guy. The house, the pool and the view were outstanding. He had bought it. She loved the house. She would have loved to visit the house, but no way could she live in the damn place.

The Cat and the Wolf

The cat wandered off.

The trail north was alluring.

The weather turned cold.

The cat came to a clearing.

The field was green and fresh. The sun broke through the clouds. The cat rolled in the grass and purred. After a time, it fell asleep.

The cat woke to a circle of wolves. So many different species roamed the jungle-forest, why did it have to be wolves? One wolf broke from the pack and prowled closer. The cat recognised its beast.

"You are a wolf," the cat said accusingly.

"Yes."

"This is your pack."

"Yes. And now it’s yours."

"Cats are a solitary species."

"Perhaps they are. Except when they’re sociable and affectionate."

The wolf growled. The pack howled in echo. The cat needed convincing again.

"Do wolves eat cats?"

"Yes. But they won’t eat you. Come, pussycat."

The cat timidly trotted over. The pack tightened around them, two of them keeping watch on the outskirt.

"What are they?"

"They’re half-wolves half-coyotes. Come. The cat heard the roar of a bear in the circle. The cat, intrigued, approached the beast. It saw a wolf’s head under the bear fur. It’s a disguise. Come."

The cat returned to the wolf.