Catopolis

And if you can only follow your instincts, you might as well be a dog.

Because ahead, only a couple dozen strides away, was a Calico, big as life, and he had one of the long slim guns of theirs already in his hands and all I needed in this life or any of my next was to reach the Calico’s legs-but jaws closed on my tail and I let out a screech and I was yanked off the ground and flying through the air and I tried to spin my crippled tail but of course it only made it worse and I crashed into a corner of the Bleach & Ammonia House flank first so hard that I hit the ground on my back and could only lay there, gasping, while Bullets pounced on me, both his huge paws coming down on my ribs, which made a crackling sound like the fake skins humans put food in, and I tasted blood.

And I looked up at him and smiled.

Bullets’ jaws opened wider than the whole rest of my life. “What’s so fu

Which was when the Calico’s gun made that brdddow! noise, and an invisible boot slammed Bullets in the chest and knocked him past me and down.

“Told you…” I gasped. “… you’d be surprised.”

“How did you…” Bullets tried to rise, but blood burst from his mouth and he sagged back down on his side, panting. “How…?”

“Calicoes hate dogs,” I said. “Don’t you know anything?”

I managed to get to my feet. It hurt. “Their long-time-ago breed sire belonged to cats. The humans still tell the story of how he cut off part of his cloth-skin so he could go pray without waking up his master, who was asleep on his sleeve.”

“So smart…” Bullets’ panting was going ragged now. “So smart… but you don’t know… don’t know about your fluffy bitch…”

“Of course I know, you stupid pooch.”

“You knew…?”

“That’s she’s a neuter? Hell, so am I. I was a house cat, idiot. You think full toms would cooperate? But they will now. They’ll stick together, waiting for her to go into heat. I wouldn’t give a marking squirt for the chances of your pack ever taking another one of those cats. Not that it’s your problem any more.”

“You wait,” Bullets panted. “I’ll live through this. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t think so.”

The Calico walked over, angling his gun down toward Bullets’ head.

“Don’t-don’t do it-” Bullets panted up at him. “Don’t-can’t you see I love you-?”

The Calico answered him with a burst of gun shots.

Bullets, as it turned out, wasn’t as gun-proof as his reputation suggested.

The Calico reached down with an empty hand, and I let him pet me. I even purred and rubbed along his legs a little. Sure, the Calicoes had killed my people, but I’m no bigot. They’re only humans, after all. It’s not like they can help themselves.

When the Calico wandered off, I went and sampled some of Bullets’ blood.

It tasted like victory.

FATHER MAIMS BEST by Ed Greenwood

The ghost was a pale blue, which meant that it was angry about something. Or someone. Quite possibly whoever had cut its head off, leaving the wraith floating along after its severed part, forever reaching vainly for that grisly, spectral-gore-dripping ball with both hands. It drifted past us almost blindly, heading for a blank wall that it would no doubt vanish through.

Interesting, but I hadn’t time to find out more, just now; it wasn’t our ghost. That is, one we were being paid to get rid of.

Myself, I’m not sure why living humans so fervently want dead humans-restless humans, or ghosts, in particular-to be somewhere else. After all, they gobble down dead things on their plates all the time, silently gibbering little phantoms and all, and think nothing of it. Unless the beef is tough or the turkey overdone.

But I digress. Not surprising, that; it’s what I do. “Sam & Abernathy/Paranormal Investigations and Digressions,” say the sign and all the business cards Steve is forever handing out. People always handle them gingerly, for some reason, or even with open, nostril-flaring distaste.

Almost as often as they examine me with pained expressions and start to explain some sort of “no pets” policy. Steve doesn’t bother interrupting anymore. He just lets them finish and then explains that we’re partners, a team. He’s the “Abernathy” part, and I’m “Sam.” Samiris-Sekhmet, in full, though that was a long time ago. Royal blood, of course, though that meant nothing back then. I picked up “Samratharella” several owners ago, and I prefer it.

Yes, I’m a girl, and yes, I’m a cat. The big black one with the white “skunk” stripe down my flank, courtesy of a swordcane that wasn’t quite swift enough to rob me of more than one of my nine lives. Of which I’ve used up seven, thanks for asking.

Oh, and I’m the brains of this outfit, too. Most humans have figured out by now that cats and dogs can see ghosts, but what they don’t know is that all cats can see all ghosts, most of the time; most dogs and most humans can’t see them at all or, like Steve, can see them only too late, when they’re showing themselves off to lure him into danger-or materializing enough to do him real harm. Dogs and humans can smell ghosts, but if you don’t know what you’re smelling, it doesn’t do you much good.

That’s one of the reasons that a big city like this one has so many “accidental” deaths. Humans run afoul of ghosts, and big cities have lots of both. When they meet, it’s seldom pretty.

Not all ghosts set out to murder, and those who do generally have one particular victim-or sort of victim, like rapists or cooks or men on bicycles-in mind. But in heavy traffic or in places where a fall can be fatal, being startled by a ghost can kill just as effectively as a murderous ghost’s dark deeds, and dogs and humans can easily be startled by ghosts. They tend to be able to smell a spook only when it shows itself, whereas cats know a ghost is around long before it becomes visible. So we can track ghosts and deal with them.

Cats born these days are pretty little creatures, most of them, and kin-but that’s all they are. We royalty (that is, cats old enough to have known pharaohs and who have managed to keep at least a few of their lives since then) can shapechange and speak in the minds of anyone we touch, not just long-time friendly humans, dogs, and other cats.

Yet if I ever let the wrong human see me shapechanging, I’ll probably be throwing away the last few of my lives, right there. Which is why I need Steve. He requires clothes and watches and cash to live in the world of humans: that’s why we do this work instead of just letting the passing parade of ghosts be just that, a passing parade. Oh, and he sees to my wants, too. A bit of fish, often, and chocolates every once in a long while.

Steve always sees to my wants. Which is why I’m no longer the lapcat of a certain lady known to much of the city (the seamier side) as “Cinammon Nipples,” for reasons that are probably obvious but are another digression and so best left undiscussed for now.

Back to the case at hand. The headless human was the only ghost we’d seen so far in this building, but that wasn’t surprising. Old buildings tend to host a lot of murders, violent deaths, and strong emotions-and therefore a lot of hauntings-and new buildings, unless they stand on the site of a thoroughly haunted older building, tend to have fewer.

We were here to investigate a “cat haunting.” Or rather, to get rid of a “ghost cat” that had taken to appearing and clawing anyone who so much as sat on a couch or chair, or lounged or lay down on a bed, anywhere in the place. “Here” was an incredibly valuable downtown house (on a trendy corner; “location, location, location”) that had just been remodelled into three luxury condominiums. The lady owner was living in the uppermost and was facing ruin if she couldn’t soon sell the lower two-and the ghost cat had already scared off a dwindling stream of possible buyers.