by Amy Sumida
“There was,” Jago said. “Two, in fact. They said the same thing that Jeanette, the waitress, said; the Kaplans were eating and drinking, completely calm, then the Báalam walked by and they went nutso. I had the guys pack up all the dirty glasses in the back and grabbed a pitcher of wine to test for drugs. No results yet.”
“Very well,” Slate grumbled. “Tell Aaro I want to—”
“Boss, we got more fighting!” A voice came through the intercom on Slate's desk.
“Where?” Slate demanded as he hit a button then stood and shrugged out of his jacket.
“Gypsum; near the end.”
“That's the Kar neighborhood,” Jago noted with a scowl.
Slate kicked off his shoes as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Who's fighting?”
“Kars and Dumas.”
“Fucking cats!” Slate snarled. “What the fuck?!”
“I don't know, Boss, but it's bad.”
“On my way.” Slate hit the intercom button again and finished getting undressed. He strode to the door buck-naked. “El, I may need your help before the day is done.”
“I got you, babe.” I headed downstairs behind him, perhaps appreciating the view just a bit. Slate has a phenomenal ass.
The corridor was too narrow for Slate to shift; he had to wait until he got outside to do that. He stepped into the courtyard confidently, as comfortable in his birthday suit as in any other. A few arena inmates were working out in the exercise yard nearby but no one hooted at him or made any commentary at all. They knew better than that.
“Get them inside!” Jago shouted at the Gargoyles guarding the prisoners.
“Yes, Sir!” One of the guards said then waved the inmates indoors. “You heard him; let's go!”
Meanwhile, Slate had shifted back to Gargoyle and grabbed my waist. He took us into the air while Jago was still getting out of his clothes. He'd undoubtedly follow; Jago may be the Arena Warden but he was also Slate's right-hand man. You'd think it would be one of Slate's brothers, but I had the impression that Binx and Aaro were partial “owners” of the Zone. They weren't its ruler, but they were founding fathers; Princes to Slate's King.
I clung to Slate's thick shoulders as we flew across the Zone once more, heading toward yet another section that I hadn't been to before. The Kar are Wereleopards and the Duma are Werecheetahs. It was odd enough that cat-shifters were fighting again but these particular cats shared no violence in their history, no past grievances between them at all, making this even more strange. Strange enough to eliminate the possibility of a coincidence.
“Someone is targeting cats,” I spoke into Slate's ear.
“It seems so,” his voice was lower and raspier in this form.
“How many races do you have here?”
“All of the Felinae are represented.”
All of them. Fuck.
How many types of cat people are there? RS asked.
Obviously a lot. Do you need an exact number? Kyanite asked derisively.
Yes, I do.
I don't fucking know the number! I shouted in my head. Now, help me come up with a song to soothe cats.
Do not worry, my love. I will think of one, Kyanite said soothingly.
Do not worry, my love. I will think of one, RS mocked, imitating Ky's voice like a six-year-old might.
You are a child.
Compared to you, yeah.
Song! I shouted.
Yes, of course, my love.
But Slate and I were already descending, coming down on the outskirts of a battle. There were no onlookers this time; the Zone residents had smarted up and ran for the safety of their homes. Probably because there weren't only Kars and Dumas rending each other to bloody strips but also Simbas. And all while a bunch of Gargoyles tried to smack them into unconsciousness. Oh, just to be clear, the word “simba” means “lion” in Swahili—a word adopted in honor of the Lion-Shifter race who had settled in Africa a very long time ago. It's not just the name of a Disney character. Although the Simbas—one of the more peaceful of the Felinae races (because they were so badass that they didn't have to fight)—thought the use of their name in a cartoon to be fantastically funny.
They weren't laughing now.
As Slate broke away from me to break some predator cat noses, I panicked and launched into the first song I could think of; one inspired by the Simba, no less.
A light drumming became a tapping then danced into a happy swaying with an iconic drone. Slate glanced back at me after knocking out his first opponent and a shocked grin flashed across his face. He loved it when I got corny. I shrugged and launched into one of the most famous lion songs ever recorded. Mainly, about them sleeping. Or at least one of them was sleeping. No biggie, I could work with it and twist it to affect all of the wild cats I targeted. I couldn't bring myself to wimoweh but I didn't need that part anyway. I sang about a jungle while I stood in an urban version and let my music spread across the fighting predators like a kitty lullaby.
“The Lion Sleeps Tonight” by The Tokens. It turned out to be the perfect choice despite its silliness. Cat-Shifters started to drop like flies, curling up into fetal feline balls to bat at their twitching whiskers and pant happily through their kitty dreams. It would have been adorable if they hadn't been savaging each other mere moments before and if the proof of that savagery hadn't been turning their pretty fur red. The Gargoyles went still as the Felinae fell asleep and when it became apparent that they'd keep sleeping, the Gargoyles breathed a collective sigh of relief.
I let the song and my magic fade away as soon as the last cat went beddy-bye.
“Thanks for the assist, Diva,” Slate used Jago's nickname for me and chased it with a deep chuckle. “I think you bypassed a big part of that song, though.”
“My pride can only take so much,” I shot back.
“Well, you saved this pride from a lot worse than embarrassment.” He waved at the sleeping cats. To his men, he shouted, “Restrain them, all of them, and get them into cells. We'll sort this out when they wake up.”
“Yes, Sir!” The Gargoyles shouted together then started zip-tying the shapeshifters' wrists together.
Personally, I would have gone with chains.
“Jago?” Slate called out.
“Boss?” Jago hurried over.
“I want men posted around every Felinae neighborhood in the Zone and throughout the central areas. If a single whisker twitches the wrong way, I want to know about it.”
“You got it!” Jago launched himself into the air.
In case you haven't figured it out on your own, “Felinae” is the collective term for all shapeshifters who turn into any type of feline; from the little domestic cats—like my friends, the Terrencal brothers—to the large predator cats like the Simba. Although the races are distinctly different, every feline shapeshifter comes from the Felinae Realm, some even hail from the same planet. And it looked as if that association was strong enough to either provide them with a common enemy or make them vulnerable to a common threat.
“We need a cat expert,” I said to Slate.
“I'm a step ahead of you, sweetheart.” Slate swung me into his arms like a bridegroom and jumped into the air.
“You starting to feel like Superman?” I asked him with a wry smile.
“Why? Are you diggin' it, Lois?” He grinned back at me but on his Gargoyle face, it looked more menacing than mischievous.
“We should get you a red cape and paint an S on your chest.”
Slate laughed. “Only if you'll wimoweh while we fly.”
I started wailing the nonsense words.
Slate cringed. “I take it back. No deal.”
Chapter Five
As Slate's men investigated the catfights, we had a conference call with the Aslan of the Simba. Go ahead and chuckle but, as was the case with simba, aslan is yet another word for lion; in this case, a Turkish word. As I mentioned before, the Simba are, generally, peaceful Felinae. Mainly because—also previously ment
ioned—they are the most powerful. Power, if used properly, can bring peace and the Simba are a great example of that. They aren't called the King of Beasts for nothing; they earned the title.
In the Felinae Realm, the Simba are known as the Bringers of Peace. Peacekeepers. They stop wars; they've done so even before they left their planet. They were also the first Felinae to venture to Earth and they brought a wealth of knowledge with them. Because the Simba aren't merely the mediators of the Felinae Races, they're also the holders of their history.
And the Aslan is their king.
It's a title, not a name, and there are two Aslans; one on Earth and one on planet Roshar, the Simba's home planet in the Felinae Realm. Both Aslans have many kings who serve beneath them but somehow, unlike the regular lions of Earth—I speak of the actual beasts—they coexist calmly with other males. Although to be fair, I've heard of male lions in the wild forming prides. But I digress. We had the Earth Aslan on the phone in the hopes that he might shed some light on our Felinae predicament.
“I can think of nothing that would cause Felinae to fight each other in such ways,” the cultured accent of the Aslan came through the speaker on Slate's desk with a tinge of the Middle East in it.
Aaro, Slate's older brother, who stood to our left with Binx and Jago, scowled at the other men before asking, “Aslan, do you know of any enemies the Felinae, as a whole, may have? The possibility of the men being drugged has not yet been ruled out.”
A long sigh preceded the Aslan's answer, “Only the Loup would dare something as brazen this. They are brash enough and mean enough to disregard even Gargoyle authority. That being said, I do not accuse them. There is no reason for it. We have a shaky truce between our people that I can't see them breaking; it was their Alpha who fought for it, in the first place. We outnumber them, you see? It's in their best interests to leave us be.”
“Then tell us, if you please, what kind of drugs your people might be sensitive to,” Slate urged. “Perhaps the drug wasn't intended for the Felinae, they just happened to be the most affected.”
“Interesting conjecture,” the Aslan murmured. “Yes, that's possible, Zone Lord. Felinae are indeed overly sensitive people. As far as poison goes, we deal with it expediently, usually by expelling it. We have evolved to survive all manner of things and our evolution heightened all of our senses. So much so that some of us can even hear beyond life itself.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Binx muttered to Jago.
“It means, Lord Binx, that some Felinae can hear the dead speak and see them walking among us,” the Aslan said sternly; proving that Felinae did indeed have incredible hearing.
“Sorry, Your Majesty,” Binx offered lamely.
“I understand your unease,” the Aslan said generously. “But the point I'm trying to make is that this could be more than poison. If it had been a drug, the men would likely have vomited it before it was able to do any damage.”
“More than a drug,” I murmured and shared a heavy look with Slate.
“Thank you, Aslan,” Slate said abruptly. “You've been very generous and patient with us; we appreciate your help.”
“And I'd appreciate it if you would show the same generosity to the Felinae you currently imprison.”
“Of course,” Slate said. “No one is being mistreated, I assure you. I don't hurt innocents.”
“That's good to hear, Zone Lord. Please, keep me apprised.”
“I will. Good day to you, Aslan.”
“And to you.”
The line went dead.
“Care to share with the rest of the class?” Aaro asked, his stare going from Slate to me.
“Elaria and I were just speaking about Gargo this morning,” Slate confessed.
“Yeah, and?” Binx asked, his deep, thug voice grating on my nerves.
“And we released Gargo's soul from my great-grandfather but we didn't kill it or trap it,” I said in irritation. “When I conquered the Goddess in me, we trapped that part of my soul in magic. We didn't do that with Gargo. Or with Lucifer's Devil, for that matter.”
“Fuck.” Jago whistled. “Are you saying that Gargo could be floating around the Zone, fucking with Felinae for the fun of it?”
“That's a lot of F-words.” Binx chuckled then repeated, “Fucking with Felinae for the fun of it. Fucking with—oomph.”
Aaro—bless his heart—cut off the Binx banter by hitting his brother in the belly.
“What the fuck, Aaro?” Binx growled.
“Oh, sorry.” Aaro grinned. “I thought I heard you ask me to punch you in the belly.”
“What?” Binx gaped at his brother. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
It was almost too easy to confuse Binx.
“Enough,” Slate said wearily. “To answer your question, Jago, yes; it's a possibility but I'd like to rule out other options first. As Elaria said, she didn't trap Lucifer's Devil either and nothing like this has happened in Heaven. We may be overreacting.”
“Plus, this isn't Gargo's style,” I added. “If he was able to take control of people, he'd come for us directly; me especially. He wouldn't waste his time on the cats.”
“Unless the cats are the only ones he can mess with,” Aaro mused.
“Because of their sensitivity to the dead,” Slate murmured then made pensive sounds. “That's a possibility. For now, we keep an eye on the Felinae and investigate the events leading up to their aggression. We're jumping to conclusions, and I don't care for jumping. If you're not careful, you land somewhere dangerous. Like a pit of pikes.”
“We'll take care of it,” Binx said brashly. “Whether it's a God spirit or a Loup plot, we can handle it.”
Slate sighed. “I don't like tempting fate either, Brother. Just get me the information we need and get it fast.”
“We will,” Aaro promised and ushered Binx and Jago out of the office ahead of him.
“I knew a Simban seer in the Bazaar,” I mused softly. “She was a medium as well.”
“What are you getting at?” Slate lifted a brow at me.
“You probably have a few of them here.”
“Felinae seers?” Slate thought about it. “Actually, I think we do have one; an Inlonka. She reads fortunes down on Marble Street.”
“I don't normally like to hear about the future but I'm willing to make an exception today.”
Chapter Six
As mentioned, I'm not a fan of prophecies. They make me feel like a pawn in some kind of supernatural game. Now that I know I used to be a Goddess, I understand better why such a feeling would sting. However, a prophecy was responsible for bringing Torin and me together so I had to admit that they weren't entirely useless. That is if you could find someone to give you one.
Slate and I stood outside the darkened display window of a store without a name. The drapes were open but very little could be seen inside and it wasn't due to a lack of light. Someone had packed up and left, leaving only a bare table and a couple of sad chairs behind. Gold paint adorned the corners of the window but no words had been painted there to even hint at what went on beyond the glass. The proprietress must have been good enough at her job that she didn't need to advertise, not even in the most basic way.
And good enough to know when something bad was coming.
“Damn it!” Slate smacked the locked door then pulled out his radio. “Jago!”
“Yeah, Boss?” Jago's voice came through the receiver.
“Check with the gate guards. I want to know if any Inlonka have left the Zone recently.”
“On it!”
Inlonka are Cougar-Shifters. As a whole, Felinae make good spies; they can sneak around like no one's business. But the Inlonka are the most adept at subterfuge. Unlike their cousins, the Inlonka are more solitary. Not to say that they're loners—they do have communities—but those groups are more like a collection of allies than family. Their immediate families—parents and children—don't last beyond the age of maturity, inasmuch that the
children leave the family unit as soon as possible to acquire homes of their own. Inlonka like their space.
They also have an impressive communication network but, again, it's in the way of allies; they share information for the good of their race. They feel no affiliation or loyalty to any other Beneather, not even other Felinae. They're what I'd call skittish; the jumpy kitty that stares at you with obvious distrust merely for existing near their personal space. Inlonka are suspicious of everyone. So, I wasn't surprised when, minutes later, as we drove back to our palace, Jago radioed in with the news that every Inlonka in the Zone had left.
