Cat Moon, Chapter One
Emma laid a wind-chapped cheek against the rough slats of the banister and looked down into the pit of darkness that was the street below. The Warren was empty in the early morning chill. She was so tired. It was ever that way after a night like this. The morning was in the wee hours yet, but the faint approach of a mist-cloaked dawn lent a suffuse light to the horizon. It had rained all night, a heavy, drenching rain, and Emma was soaked through. A lock of sodden hair stuck to her cheek, and she pushed it back and turned her gaze upward. A gray mist moved back and forth across the fading, but relentless, lunar eye as though the moon were deliberately taunting her. She closed her eyes to shut out the hateful orb and to shut out the pain.
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She grimaced against the stiffness and the interminable ache in her bones. The movement in her face was tight, and she could feel the caked blood around her mouth crack. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and saw more blood crusted under her nails. She had fed last night, and the thought made her shudder. It was cold and a patchy fog clung to her. The shift would leave her in pain for days if she didn’t get warm. Gratefully, she hugged the worn coat to her to ward off the damp. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. In fact, it was far better than what she’d had before the moon had risen, which had been nothing but her own thin dress. When she had awoken this time, though, there the coat was, covering her naked body like a blanket, with the clothes she had hidden in the alleyway the night before in a bundle under her head, like a pillow. Who had put them there, she had no way of knowing, but she held on to it like a blessing. Just another unexplainable, unanswerable mystery, and one of many in her short life.
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Forcing herself to stir, Emma pushed against the banister to get up. The splintered wood protested the pressure with a dangerous groan. She squinted down into the street far below. There was nothing between her and the pavement, and if the banister were to collapse, she would surely plummet to her death. It would be the simplest way to solve a lot of problems. She rolled away from the rail with apprehension. Then, with a morbid fascination, she pressed her hand against it and felt it sway under her touch. She jerked her hand away and stared at it in horror. Such a thought had never entered her mind before, and yet, it brought her a strange comfort.
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Despite her internal confusion, one thing was perfectly clear to her. Emma had to find James. That meant making herself get up and walk down what felt like miles and miles of stairs, and that seemed all but impossible to her right now. Still, James could be in danger, or hurt, or . . . worse. No, she thought with a firm shake of her head, I won’t even think about that. It was just that they had seen James, and try as she might, Emma couldn’t convince him to be careful. He was certain that he was uncatchable, and no amount of talking-to on her part could change his mind. James wasn’t exactly family, but he was all she had.
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He had even tried to talk Emma into hiding somewhere else, somewhere away from him when the shift came. James was as aware as Emma that her being seen with him before or after a shift put her in grave danger. Someone had seen him shift, and now they were looking for him. Emma, however, had convinced him that it was still safer for them to stay together. There was no way she would leave him alone during a full moon. The banister would hold for now.
Emma stood up on wobbly legs, clutching the rail. It seemed as if each month it got worse, and the recovery harder. She hoped it was just the foul weather. Forcing her stiff legs to move, she began the slow path down the steep steps, compelled beyond her pain by her need to find her friend. He depended on her, she told herself. She was largely unaware, of course, of her own desperate need for companionship and for the solace of safety she and James had created between them. If she thought of herself at all, she considered herself a solitary creature. About halfway down to the street, she paused to ease the catch in her side. She took a deep breath, and the grit and soot in the air choked her. She started coughing and covered her mouth with her hand.
As she let go of the banister, she stumbled, losing her already unsure footing, and pitched forward over several steps to the next landing. She tumbled into a bruised and dismal heap. She bit her lip, determined not to cry. Even so, her pain and helplessness overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t hold back the tears. She wasn’t sure how she knew it, but Emma was dead sure things hadn’t always been this way. She drew her knees up into her arms and began to sob.
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Somewhere in the farthest reaches of her memory, which was always a little muddled after a shift, Emma had a notion of warmth, of smiles, of having been loved. She thought it might have been a memory of her mother. She wasn’t sure if it was a real memory, but if not, it was a persistent one. A sitting room, a cozy hearth, a threadbare red sofa, stacks and stacks of books. A mother, who was associated with warm hugs, soft kisses, and gentle tuck-ins in a real bed. If any of it were real, of course. She had no proof of those things now and certainly no recollection of what had happened to all of that warmth and affection. Or to the mother, for that matter. They were just . . . gone.
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Her most vivid memory, of course, was of being bitten. She couldn’t be as precise as she liked, but she thought she had been about nine or ten when it happened--a couple of years ago, anyway. She’d been wandering the street late that night, alone as always, and the cat had seemed like good company, a possible friend. At her young age, she’d had no notion of there being much difference, especially during a full moon, between domesticated cats that were pets and feral cats that carried the risk of Were contagion. How pretty the moon had seemed that night, she remembered with a shudder. Emma hated the very sight of it now.
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The cat had been a long-haired gray with yellow eyes. Emma had taken out a rasher of bacon she had been hoarding and offered to share it with the cat. The gray had gobbled it up greedily, but when Emma reached down to stroke its dusty fur, it had turned on her and sunk its fangs into the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger, drawing blood. Emma remembered feeling betrayed. She had given the cat her supper, after all, and that wasn’t fair. On the street, she’d had no way to wash or bind up the wound properly, and there was no one to turn to for help. That part, as it had turned out, was truer than she knew. She knew no one who could help her from that point on. Exactly twenty-eight days later, her world changed forever.
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She’d had no idea what was happening to her when the first shift came. She remembered screaming, and she remembered watching in terror as the bones in her arms and legs began to change shape under her stretched skin, as chocolate-brown fur itched its way out of her very pores. She remembered the burning in her eyes as her irises opened and her pupils became vertical slits. She remembered how her vision had sharpened in the moonlight. She even remembered the prickling on her face as the sensitive whiskers sprouted and the intense pain in her lower back where the tailbones had started growing. She had never in her whole life experienced such excruciating pain before, but she certainly would again — again and again and again.
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She remembered something else, too. As she’d started screaming, someone had grabbed her, covered her mouth with a rough, hairy hand, and dragged her down into an alley and deep into the Warren. A voice had growled in her ear, “Shut up, you stupid girl, or they’ll find you!” The growling intensified, then there was an injured whimper, and Emma had been thrown aside. She’d landed on soft paws with a hiss that was a shock to her new fur-lined ears. Then the animal mind took over. The next thing she knew, it was morning, she hurt all over, and she had a suspicious taste coating her tongue that she desperately hoped wasn’t rat.
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“That’s enough!” she scolded herself. Right now, she had to find James. There was no telling where he had gotten himself to this time. Every month, they promised each other they would stay together during the shift, but it nearly always proved impossible. Emma pulled herself up to standing and continued the painful journey down the rain-slicked, rickety staircases to the street. It was a tedious walk, and when she reached the bottom, she had no choice but to sit again for a while to rest. She had no idea where she’d been during the night, but her shoes and socks had gotten soaked, and the chill made the very bones in her feet feel as though they might shatter. She sat on the bottom stair, panting, craning her neck to look up and down the grimy street. The fog obscured the lane both directions, but from here, there was no sight of James, and she worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
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Emma squinted down the street, but gave up with a sigh. She reluctantly opened up the coat, letting in the chill, and began rummaging in the pockets of her dress. Finding what she was looking for, she pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and perched them on her freckled nose. They were a nuisance, but if she couldn’t see, she wouldn’t ever be able to find James. The glasses were another unsolved mystery that had never been explained. One evening, just before the rise of a full moon, she had almost run into one of the Were-Guard because she couldn’t see where she was going. The next morning, when she woke up, the glasses were on her nose. They were too big and slid down all the time, but like so much that she could claim as her own, they were better than nothing.
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“James, where are you?” she muttered. She was starting to get peeved, and she knew it was unfair. It wasn’t James’ fault they had become separated in the chaos anymore than it was hers.
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Truth was, James and Emma were Were. Outcasts. Pariahs. Rejects. It wasn’t at all fair, but it was the way things were. They were lucky to have each other. The few Were who survived the hunts lived in isolation and secrecy, rejected by their families, shunned by society, and pursued relentlessly by the zealous Were-Guard. All for something they had no control over, something that had happened to them. Like all the Were, Emma and James had those problems to cope with, too, but at least they coped with them together. That was something to be grateful for. Now she just had to find him.
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The Warren was a haphazard collection of badly constructed buildings, dilapidated shops, and tightly twisting walkways and staircases — a dirty, fetid place where no respectable person would want to be found without good reason. This run-down section of the city was inhabited by petty thieves, vagrants, drunks, good-for-nothings, and people too poor to live anywhere else. It also happened to be one of the only places in the city the Were could hide and survive.
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The Were were shape-shifters, lycanthropes. Many people, of course, believed that all lycanthropes were werewolves, but that wasn’t really true. Emma, of course, was a werecat, and James shifted into an owl. Others thought that lycanthropes were mad and only imagined that they shape-shifted into animals. That, as Emma well knew, was also not true. Still others believed that the Were had made a pact with the devil, exchanging their mortal souls for magical animal powers. The religious zealots were the most dangerous of all because they were the most afraid, and therefore, the most vicious.
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Emma knew there was no real magic involved in the shift, no magic of intention anyway. The Were were victims as much as anything else. They shape-shifted at each full moon, and they were overpowered by the wild animal minds of the creatures they became. The shift itself was painful and exhausting, and one could never be sure what one might do while in animal form. Emma, being a werecat, had few worries of wreaking the same sort of havoc an actual wolf might, but she did live in constant dread of biting an unsuspecting cat lover and infecting some kind person with the disease that had made her own life hell.
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This still isn’t getting James found, she chided herself, and once again, she grabbed the splintered banister and pulled herself up. Her brain was always fuddled after a shift, and it was hard to focus. Emma took in deep breaths of cool air to help her concentrate. In front of a cheap rooming house, a rain barrel was overflowing onto the street. She plunged her already stiff fingers into the icy water and scrubbed her face and hands before someone saw the blood.
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The poor drainage in the Warren meant the streets were flooded in places, but Emma’s feet were already so numb from the wet and cold that it hardly mattered. She slogged up the sewage-filled street, past shops emitting the tantalizing aromas of bread and sausages she had no money to buy. The shops, which had all closed early before the full moon curfew, wouldn’t open again until the sun rose, but inside, the merchants were busy getting ready for their working day. Emma passed a young boy selling newspapers, his dark skin chapped gray in patches from the cold, but they didn’t speak, didn’t even glance at one another. Most mornings, people gave each other a cheery hello or a comment about the weather, but not on mornings after a full moon. It was best not to know who was about or what they might be doing. Emma headed in the direction of the place she and James had been hiding when the moon had gone full last night. If she were lucky, he had gone back there.
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They had hidden this month in a short alleyway that wound behind several small shops on a side street. They didn’t make the shift the same place every time. It was far too dangerous to do that since the Were-Guard made its rounds whenever the moon was full. Some of them were armed with silver-tipped daggers, others with guns and pouches filled with special bullets, and a few with bows and quivers full of silver-tipped bows, ready to kill on sight. They had hidden in the alleyway, sheltered by a large rubbish bin that no one had emptied for months. The stench alone would keep most people away.
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As Emma approached the alley, she looked furtively this way and that before crossing the street. As she passed a sordid little tobacco shop, she saw him. Devlin! Emma’s heart lurched up into her throat, and she wrenched herself around and began walking in the opposite direction. Please don’t let him find James! Emma begged silently. She walked a little way farther, towards a run-down, but respectable, butcher shop and ducked into the entryway.
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“Out, girl. You’ll not be buying anything, I’ll warrant.” Ned the Butcher raised a beefy hand and gestured with a bloody knife. Emma, however, stood her ground. Ned tended to keep others at arm’s length, but he was a good man at heart. Besides, he would understand.
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She jerked her head towards the door and hissed, “Devlin is out there!”
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Ned scowled darkly through black, overgrown eyebrows and muttered, “Son of a—!” he started. “What’s he still doing about this late in the blessed morning?”
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Emma’s looked back at Ned’s round, red face, imploring, “Ned, have you seen James anywhere? It’s important.”
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The butcher studied her face for a moment before shaking his head. “Haven’t seen a blessed soul all morning. ‘Course I was busy last night and only got in a bit ago, you know. What’s the matter, you lose ‘im again?”
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Disappointed, Emma shook her head. “I’m worried about him,” she added with a grim set to her mouth. Then she returned her gaze to the shop window.
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They both watched as a handsome young man strolled nonchalantly down the street, a silver-tipped walking stick in one hand. He looked around him with an arrogant sneer and ran a hand over the cuff of his elegant coat with a flick, as if brushing away a bit of offensive ash. He stopped for a moment and leaned his golden head down to peer into the window. Ned suddenly became busy under the counter, and Emma ducked away against the wall out of sight. Devlin raised an eyebrow and smirked, but went on down the street.
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Emma scrunched up her face behind her hands as she fought back her fear. Of all the members of the Were-Guard, Devlin was the most hated and feared. His handsome features were perpetually marred by the sneer that never seemed to leave his face, and he was known to be ruthless in his crusade to hunt down and eliminate the Were. Emma peeked between her parted fingers at Ned, who looked back at her, expressionless.
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“He’s gone, girl. Be on your way.” Ned gave away his own fear when his trembling hands dropped a sausage onto the floor. Emma’s hunger overcame her fear, and her eyes immediately darted to the floor where it lay. She looked up at Ned and tried not to lick her lips too desperately.
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“Bah, go on, then. It’s no good to me now. Take it and get out.” Emma pounced on the sausage before Ned thought to change his mind. He handed her a scrap of white paper, and she wrapped the sausage up and put it in her pocket.
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“Thanks, Ned. Thanks a lot. I’ll share it with James when I find him,” she said, but Ned had already limped back to his counter and resumed his work. The rhythmic sound of his cleaver thwacking against the cutting board resonated against the walls. Over and over, he kept up the beat, as sure and steady as the man himself.
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Emma patted her pocket one last time, opened the shop door, and peered out. The fog still clung about in patchy wisps, but pale sunlight was just beginning to break through the gray skies. There was no sign of Devlin. She darted out, crossed the street, and made her way to the alley.
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“James,” she whispered, “are you there?” There was no answer, so she walked towards the rubbish bin.
“Don’t play games, James! Come out right now!” she called out impatiently. Still, there was no answer. Emma searched the refuse on the ground, looking in all the scattered crates in case he might have crawled in one to rest and recuperate. It was no use. He just wasn’t there.
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“Oh, James!” she moaned. “Where are you?” She stood there with her hands on her hips, looking back towards the street. As an owl, James could easily have wound up in one the higher levels of the Warren by the time the moon set, but surely he’d have the good sense to come down to the street to look for Emma. If he got distracted or sidetracked, they might walk around for hours before they crossed paths.
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She stood on the pavement near the street and looked around. The clopping of horses’ hooves and their drivers’ chivvying them along drowned out the murmurs of voices on the street, signaling the start of another workday, full moon or no. Giles was sweeping the mud from sidewalk in front of his uncle’s bookshop with a sodden broom, and he paused from his work to give her a friendly wave. She gave him a tight smile and waved back. The last person she wanted to run into right now was Giles’ old uncle, but maybe they had seen James. She saw no choice but to go ask, so she headed that direction.
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On her way across the street, she saw a small throng gathered in the next street. Mr. Coyle, the vicar, was always there on the mornings after a full moon, exhorting the people to stay faithful and to report anything amiss to the Were-Guard. A small man with a complexion the color of whey, Mr. Coyle was easy to overlook and disregard. That was, until he started preaching. The man was a zealot, and whenever he opened his mouth, people mobbed to listen, entranced. As Emma passed, she could hear his voice echoing up the street. “— the wages of sin is death — do not harbor demons to your breast, lest you yourselves fall into sin — any one of you – Repent and Report —” he shouted, and many in the crowd around him nodded their heads. Some looked sidelong at their neighbors with suspicion and fear. Emma folded her arms across her chest and trudged past with her head down.
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The bookshop was just on the edge of the Warren, marked by a sign that swung above the door and read Wm. McKinley and Son: Purveyors of New and Old Books. Emma had never heard of a son, but Mr. McKinley had a reputation for being able to locate even the rarest books, so he did a great deal of trade with respectable people from other parts of the city. He also had a reputation for being hard to get along with. Giles never seemed to mind the grouchy old man, but Emma and James thought he was mean.
“Good morning, Emma!” Giles said with a smile. “Did you sleep well last night?”
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Emma paused warily, not sure what to say. “Um, fine thanks. Yes, I did.” He wasn’t a particularly handsome young man, but he had a pleasant, open face and a ready smile that made him seem more attractive than he really was. He was smiling today, as always, and the rising sun glinted on his dark hair, which was pulled back with a length of leather. He was just about to speak again, when two things happened at once.
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First, a voice cried out across the street. “Emma! Emma! Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere!” Emma turned and saw a small, red-haired boy with pale, freckled skin waving wildly at her from down the street. It was James, running towards her with a big grin. Second, old Mr. McKinley came out of the shop and barked, “Get to work, boy. Don’t pay you to stand around and gab.” Giles just smiled and resumed sweeping. McKinley then squinted down his long nose at the two children with disdain and growled, “What do you two brats want now?”
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