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 Prowler  (41 ratings)by Margaret L. Carter Page 2 of 4 After an extended blank interval, the animal's whiskers twitched at a fresh, live scent. The tiny feet of a rodent rustled in the straw. The cat's tail-tip quivered. Her muscles tightened. Emily felt the tension rise to a crescendo. When the mouse made a dash across the stable floor, the cat pounced. A paw clamped down on the victim. Emily shuddered with combined thrill and revulsion at the sensation of fangs sinking into the mouse's neck. With a single shake, the bones snapped. Hot blood and raw meat -- She wrenched herself out of the animal's mind. Back in her own body, she found Bert shaking her by the shoulders. "Here, now, girl, don't you die on me! There, I knew you had to be shamming. You got to write a letter." She blinked up at him, cringing from his hard grip and foul breath. "What -- letter?" "So your kinfolk will believe we've really got you. Your father wants some lines in your own hand. So write." He thrust a pen and paper at her. For the first time, Emily's head cleared enough that she noticed the third kidnapper, a burly man with brown hair gone thin in front, standing next to Bert with an ink bottle. She sat up, dipped the pen in the ink, and gazed at the blank page. Did she dare write a clue to her whereabouts? Not that she had much information to offer, since they'd brought her here blindfolded. She glanced up at Bert's hard stare. No, he could read, at least a bit; she'd seen him poring over a penny dreadful serial. "Hurry up, we ain't got all night," he said, poking her in the arm. Flinching from his touch, she scribbled two sentences, signed the note, and handed it to her captor. He scanned the paper. "That should do the trick. You'll be back in your swanky mansion in no time, Missy." Both men promptly left the cellar. She couldn't suppress a sob when she heard the too-familiar click of the key in the lock. Must pull myself together. I'll be free soon. Yet somehow the nearness of release made captivity all the harder to bear. After a sip of water and a few halfhearted nibbles of the stale bread and cheese left for her, she gave up trying to eat. Again she willed herself to sink into trance, questing for her link with the cat. The animal stalked through the alley, ears pricking at every sound. Through a slightly open window, voices drifted. The voice of the brown-haired man: "Keeping the girl here gets riskier by the day. If we're gonna --" Emily didn't catch the rest of the words. Her heartbeat quickened, and she almost lost her grasp on the cat's mind. She had to hear more. For the first time, she attempted in earnest what she'd tried only as a game with birds and small creatures in the garden at home. She sank mental fingers deeper into the cat's brain and gripped hard. Imagining a horse's reins in her hands, she urged her hostess to turn back toward the window. The cat made only a brief resistance to Emily's guidance. The animal sprang onto the window sill and peered through the warped glass. Bert and the other man sat at a table drinking ale. Through the cat's keen ears, Emily had no trouble hearing the conversation. "Don't be a fool, George," said Bert. "We got to keep the chit until the money's in hand. Then we get rid of her." George, the brown-haired man, took a swig from his mug. "You sure about this, Bert? Kidnapping's one thing, but murder?" "Both of 'em mean hanging," Bert growled. "We can't take no chances. With the girl dead, there'll be nobody to put the finger on us." George shrugged. "Whatever you say. Just wanted to get things clear." Emily leaped out of the cat. With a strangled gasp, she fell back into her body. Murder! They never meant to return her to her family. By this time the next night, she could be dead. She struggled against panic, drawing long, shaky breaths until her heartbeat calmed. How could she save herself? Screaming for help would do no good. She'd tried that when the men had carried her down here. The outcry had gained her nothing but a slap from Ralph and the assurance that in this neighborhood nobody paid attention to feminine screams. She paced across the room and stared up at the dark rectangle of the window. Too small to admit a human body, even if fully open. But the cat could surely slip through the crack. Maybe she could tie a note to the animal's neck and send it to her parents that way. If she could maintain control of the creature long enough. And if she had paper, pen, or any idea of the route from here to her family's townhouse. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Margaret L. Carter, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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