Sleek Comes the Night

by S E Holmes

Nic sprinted for his father’s office, working hard to come up with a way to get a rifle passed hawk-eyed Barney, without alarming civilians and especially Martha. He groped beneath the bottom drawer for the spare gun-locker key taped there.

  Jonathon appeared in the frame. “What are you doing?”

  He took a chance. “Katya’s loose. The wild one.”

  Without hesitation, his father strode to a wall of book-shelves. Nic was relieved not to waste time convincing the elder Lawson, who swung a section wide to reveal a thick, metal cabinet, extracting keys on a chain and inserting one in the lock. “How do you know?”

  “Sam.”

  “This complicates matters. I’ve spoken to Anatoly numerous times about putting that feral animal on a reserve or something. Man won’t listen to reason.” He shook his head, punching numbers on his mobile. “Barney! Bring the bird down, we’ve a cat on the loose. I’m going up with a rifle.” There was a pause, during which Barney yelled down the line. Jonathon held the receiver out from his ear until the tirade ebbed, collecting his Armalite from the rack single-handed.

  “Yes, I realise you were right. We’ll argue about it later. You can tell me ‘I told you so’ as much as you want when Harry’s back, safe and sound.... No, I’ll call the Arkadys.” He clicked off. “Go join the search, Nicholas. But stick close to the house in case Henri wakes. Or that blasted feline materialises. And take your phone.”

  “But --”

  “Nic! There are already enough searchers spreading the fields, making for a tasty snack. I need someone I can rely on here, in case Harry shows. He’ll be disoriented and upset. You have a way with him. Help Martha.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nic grumbled.

  Never for a second did he think to request a firearm for himself. Instead, he ambled into the garden via the front door and completed a once around the house for good measure, even though it seemed pointless. Barney had left to direct the chopper’s landing, deserting a spot-lit jam of chaotically parked cars.

  The searchers made bouncing pin-pricks of light in the distance, growing farther apart as they worked the grid. Around the back, he noticed the dining room in darkness: they’d finally coaxed Martha to bed, although he knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink until the return of her son. Everything possible was being done, yet he loitered by the barbeque in a pall of worry, contributing nothing useful. He stopped fidgeting and listened.

  Had there been a crunch of undergrowth? Nic strode beyond the barn, squinting to infiltrate densely towering eucalypts that abutted their land. The night was oddly silent, not a cricket or falling branch to disrupt the peace. He jumped the gate and followed a slim dirt track that angled from the main lane, negotiating a field littered with rolls of drying Lucerne. The path eventually dwindled deeper into the forest between increasingly packed boughs. No-one believed Harry could get through here, tangled brush and rocky outcrops blocking easy progress. Besides, why on earth would he want to?

  “Harry!”

  Nic cursed forgetting a torch. He climbed a fallen log, its centre rotted by writhing grubs, and cursed some more when his boot got stuck. Wrenching free, he almost toppled, skidding a decline of snarled lantana, managing an undignified halt-by-sapling. Fumbling around in a pitch black forest proved the peak of stupidity, but he was certain he’d heard snapped twigs. Damn shame about the expensive, white Arkady shirt dirtier with every step.

  “Harry?” he murmured.

  No howl of recognition or figure thrashing through scrub spoke of a Harry reunion. Rather, stealthy footfalls announced the truth. Ice shot up his spine: Nic was being stalked. Of course, it almost seemed inevitable. Anxiety for Harry mushroomed. With as much calm as he could muster, Nic quickly retraced his course. He winced on every cracked stick and rustled leaf, finally heaving over the fence-line and back into the hay paddock. The puny wire-and-post fence didn’t make him feel any safer. Murky alleys through huge cylindrical hay bales were more sinister now, and he jumped at every shadow. What ever possessed him to come out here? As if in confirmation, he heard a low groan.

  He knew it! “Harry?” Another moan guided him to a slim gap between bales. Nic peered inside. The gratifying sight of two large Converse-sneakered feet rested a short way within the triangle of alfalfa. “Haroldo? What are you doing in there?”

  “I was hiding and I got stuck,” came the sniffled reply.

  “I’ll grab your feet and see if we can pull you out, okay?”

  Harry kicked away Nic’s hand and screeched, “No! I’m not coming out! There’s a mean cat. I just wanted to scratch its ears, but I made it angry.”

  “Scar?” Nic asked without much hope.

  “Scar’s my friend. He purrs when I pat him. He showed me where to hide.”

  Excellent, Nic though wryly. “Come on out, Harry. Your mum’s very worried. Henrietta cried herself to sleep. You need to go home.” He decided not to lie about the presence of cats, friendly or otherwise.

  “Henri did? I don’t want to make her cry,” Harry muffled, and commenced backing up with a little help. Moments later, the two reached the main thoroughfare, only the gate proper and the straight road by the barn to span. Still, Nic didn’t entertain optimism or let his vigilance wander.

  “Do you think Henri will forgive me, Nic?” Harry’s face was grimy with dirt and tears, eyes swollen red. “Is mamma very angry?”

  “No, no,” he rushed to reassure.

  “But how do you know?” Harry whined stubbornly, refusing to climb the gate.

  Oh, God! This was not the time for an exercise in patient persuasion. “Please, Harry! Just get over the gate.” He tried to keep his voice level. Were they soft footfalls or falling leaves at the rear? Nic fought paranoia and the urge to frantically scan behind. He sucked a quelling breath. “Martha was really upset when she couldn’t find you. She just wants you back, Harry, safe and unharmed. Everyone’s out searching and we need to let them know you’re fine. So, can we please just get back to the house?” Harry’s doggedness wavered. “If you hurry up, we can ask the man in the helicopter to give you a ride sometime.”

  His eyes lit up. “There’s a helicopter?”

  Nic nodded. “But we’d better make it quick, or he’ll be gone.”

  Harry finally scrambled over and trotted towards home, Nic in close pursuit. The new Arabian, Raj, galloped next to them along his border, neighing and tossing his long mane. He sure was fractious tonight, and Nic guessed the reason. He stopped and turned, knowing what he’d see. Katya oozed from the gloom, sauntering a bee-line for him. Oblivious, Harry forged on, the relief profound when he eventually banged into the kitchen.

  Nic sprinted for the barn, heart crashing fit to burst through ribs. Glancing over a shoulder, she maintained her leisurely pace, taking her time to build suspense and spook the prey in the eternal strategy of a practiced predator.

  It seemed fitting events should climax where this madness began. Nic burst into the barn, swatting light-switches. Sudden illumination blotched vision, but there was no time to adjust or drag the heavy door closed. Thankfully, the stalls were shut on the mares, who shifted and snorted their agitation within. Nic pivoted and reversed the middle section, frantic for a weapon, focus glued to the opening. He’d made it half way when the cat appeared. She hissed and bared long incisors, claws unsheathed.

  What could he fight her with? The pitchforks were beyond his reach at the end, a coiled hose inadequate. Where were the shovels? Suddenly, his salvation shone in the periphery: the knife he’d wedged there the first night. With a snarl, Katya launched and he lunged. Nic gripped the handle a pulled, choreographing a split-second fall onto his back with the blade extended. In time-lapse increments, her talons appeared, then the rest of her gliding above him with her jaw wide. He had the chance to smell her carrion breath, the tickle of her warm, silken fur along his forearms, before he thrust upwards with all his might...

  And then the yelped crunch. The knife penetrated her lower jaw, sliding up into her skul
l to jut from her forehead. Her yellow eyes glazed in an instant and musky heaviness smothered him. The smell of fresh blood stained the night, the horses bucking madly at the walls. Nic lay for a moment with his eyes tightly shut, pulling ragged breaths. He needed to calm the frantic animals lest they hurt themselves or their foals, both ready to drop any day. But he just couldn’t do more than yank the knife and roll the leopard off.

  He gathered the courage to peel lids and check it had all been real and that Katya was truly dead. Her pink tongue lolled, and she appeared much smaller in death. He suppressed the urge to nudge her tongue back inside her mouth. She really was very beautiful with a shiny mottled pelt, downy soft and white on her belly, and sunflower irises. Nic blinked, she shimmered oddly. Was he seeing things? The cat lost form.

  Scrabbling backwards on elbows, Nic slammed hard against a pillar. The red-smeared knife clattered from his fist to concrete. A roar of fury and pain issued from the door through which she’d hunted him scant minutes previous. Sasha.

  But Nic couldn’t tear from the vision of Katya morphing into a stunning, dark-haired woman lying naked on her side, an ugly jagged gash in the centre of her forehead leaking blood onto straw.

  ***

  Chapter Thirty-One