Dogheads exchange confused glances. The fat white-and-tan breathes loudly, tongue hanging out. His collar is already tightened so much that there is precious little breathing room. Four more holes will rob him of it completely. They look at him ravenously and start advancing. He drops in a faint, with very little effort. They bark at him with disdain.
In the cramped burrow encrusted lovingly with shells, Saära sleeps blissfully, having had his fill of the visitor’s blood. The visitor gave it up voluntarily, so it cannot be said that Saära breached the code of hospitality. The guest sits next to him, drunk with the songs.
He touches sleeping Saära and says, “Hey, wake up . . .”
But the owner of the burrow sleeps. The guest gets on all fours and scrambles out. His frozen eyes reflect the light of the moon. He heads back through the swamp and through the Forest, he walks on and on until he’s tired. Then he finds a hole dug up by someone and lies down in it, hiding from the prying eyes under some branches and leaves. Once inside he starts remembering the songs he bought with his blood. He needs to repeat them before he forgets. His back is caked in drying mud. He sits up and puts his arms around his knees. The long white stems of his fingers intertwine. He recalls all the songs, from the first words to the very last ones, and falls asleep, satisfied. The Forest waves its dark branches over him.
Shielded by the darkness, the lovers kiss with wounded mouths. They have their own songs. The Forest, invisible, rustles over them too.
The short, squat creature reaches the locked door and scratches at it, whining pitifully.
The cat that is Smoker screams. Loudly and hopelessly. The dark glasses hanging in the air tremble slightly from his yells.
“Oh, come on,” a voice says testily. “Not another one. Is it ever going to end? I’m so tired of this!”
Smoker closes his mouth. At the edge of the trash bin he sees two large gray cats. They look dangerous, for some reason. He tries to say “Here, kitty, kitty,” but doesn’t seem to manage it. The cats look at him with obvious loathing. Smoker has never been able to discern cat emotions before, but now they are crystal clear to him. The trash smells more and more beguiling, but it appears that a good rummage in it is out of the question. Too many gawkers. He tries to put his thoughts into words once more.
“Help!”
“Quit shouting!” one of the cats snaps. “Pull yourself together. Get up here.”
The cat’s voice goes directly inside Smoker’s head. He jumps up obediently, only to flop back down into the trash. He jumps again. Same result. On the third try he manages to find purchase on the bin’s curving edge, pull himself up, and sit down uneasily, doing his best to prevent either his front paws or his bottom from slipping.
“Shameful,” the cat nearest to him hisses. The other one flows fluidly down the front side of the bin and darts into the bushes. There is some commotion there. Smoker leans over the edge, trying to see what’s going on, and nearly falls.
“Is he trying to catch something? Someone?”
“Of course he is, you stupid human,” the cat who remained with him replies. “Your shadow. You weren’t planning to die a cat, were you? Especially seeing as you make such a lousy one.”
The gray one snorts. Then suddenly shoots up, spreading his paws awkwardly, and plunges down.
Smoker glances down and sees the cats splayed on the ground, kneading it with their paws. They are tearing up a small patch of shadow, unaccountably darker than their own shadows.
“Jump!” they shout in unison, so loud that Smoker’s almost swept off the edge of the bin. “Jump into the shadow!”
He paces uneasily on the narrow strip of metal, not daring to make the jump that looks suicidal. The cats growl menacingly. It’s only the thought of what they would do to him if he doesn’t do as they say that makes Smoker jump. He yowls and tumbles down, aiming for the stretched dark spot of the shadow. The hard landing on all four paws knocks the breath out of him. Everything goes black.
Smoker opens his eyes. He is inside the stuffy tent. The blinking colorful lights are almost blinding. The flap is half-open, and his motionless legs stretch out through it. Smoker’s head is propped up by Tabaqui’s distended backpack. He feels sick. He moans, and Tabaqui and Noble, both holding the cards, turn their heads to look at him.
“I was a cat,” he whispers, his lips barely moving.
“That’s nice,” Tabaqui says. “Now get some sleep.”
