The c.o.o.n gave me a sidelong look. "Only way to what?"

"To survive, c.o.o.n. No more every cat for himself. We have to be more like humans." More like dogs, I was thinking, but knew better than to say so. You have to walk before you can spring. "Make what I'm about to do count for something."

"You'd-you're doing this for me?" The Persian goggled at me. She sounded awed. "You're so brave-! If only I could be brave!"

"There's brave cats, and there's live cats. Stick with the live ones," I said, and went.

Bullets was so surprised to see me burst out from under the garbage box that I was past him before he even got his tail-stub off the ground. But he was fast, incredibly fast for a big dog, and I could feel the asphalt shake in time with the clatter of his toenails as he galloped after me. I zigged and sprang sideways, spinning in the air for a quick reverse, but he was right on top of me, so close I could smell the rotten meat on his breath, and I broke left, rolled, and jigged right, searching desperately for a tree I could go up or a wheeler I could duck under, but that was just instinct- 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 funny, dead cat?"

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 b.i.t.c.h..."

"Of course I know, you stupid pooch."

"You knew...?"

"That's she's a neuter? h.e.l.l, 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 pa.s.sing parade of ghosts be just that, a pa.s.sing 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.

Those who looked at the place were either a far more discreet lot than usual, or these prospective buyers were all looking to install grow ops or operate escort services out of the place, because not one whiskery whisper of a ghostly cat had reached the papers.

Jethana Throneshuld had, however, sounded rich, haughty, and darned desperate on Steve's answering machine. That desperation was real, because she hadn't hesitated a second upon hearing his rates, and she wanted him on the job as soon as he could get from his end of the phone to hers.

Which is why we were now climbing the palatial stairs and ornate hallways of The Coachlight, heading for our client's door. There was an elevator, but we both hated elevators, and it was only two flights of stairs. Stairs, moreover, that weren't the usual filthy, chewing-gum and cigarette-littered, urine-reeking and otherwise spartan stairwell, but a soft-carpeted, gilt-trimmed pleasure to ascend.

I could shape human lips and throat to talk to Steve, but I made it a rule to do that only behind closed doors, on our premises. So I trotted along beside him looking like a feline domestic as he did the trenchcoat thing.

Hand in pocket as if resting on a gun, fedora pulled low. Right up to Ms. Jethana Throneshuld's door, whose bell awakened distant grandfather clock chiming noises and then opened by itself, gliding inward with the ponderous velvet silence of something no mere mortal could ever afford.

No wonder she was facing financial ruin. The floor was deep white fur wherever it wasn't glossy marble or set-into-the-floor bathing pools (kidney-shaped, of course, and she had three of them) and stretched away from us for what seemed the better part of a mile before being interrupted by a wall. A wall of glossy polished wood that wasn't just panelled; it was carved, in a huge and complicated relief scene of stags chasing each other over rail fences in a deep wood. Thankfully the usual human hunters on horses-and their torrent of hounds-were absent.

Steve came to a stop, peeled off his rubber overshoes (and don't ask what troubles he goes through to get such things, these days) and dropped them carefully into the zip-up pocket of his overcoat, to reveal spotless black dress shoes. Our client beamed at that, as she came gliding into view through an archway, festooned in some sort of designer negligee and what looked like a small waterfall of matching white diamonds.

"Ah, Mr. Abernathy!" Her face fell, as she added with considerably less enthusiasm, "Oh, and I see you've brought your pet."

"My partner," Steve said, firmly but pleasantly. "A live cat to sniff out a ghost cat. Should we set to work in here, or does your little problem appear only on the lower floors?"

"Ah, you do get to work immediately," Ms. Throneshuld said approvingly, patting his arm in a my-but-I'll-be-enjoying-this -soon rich Rosedale cougar sort of way as she pa.s.sed him, to see to the door. Evidently it didn't close by itself.

After the door clicked closed, she did things to a complicated alarm panel set behind a sliding miniature-an oval painting on porcelain, that is-beside it and came back to him.

I didn't much like the look of her or want to approach her, and the feeling seemed to be mutual, but professional necessities are professional necessities, so I contrived to wander close to those shapely and overly spa-treated legs as she pranced past.

And contrived not to recoil, too. I'd been expecting her to smell of expensive perfumes, with an underlying reek of exfoliants and exotic tree oils, ylang ylang and all the other drek they put in shampoos and lotions these days. Instead, she smelt of death. Not murder or kitchen butchery, but old, dry, dusty death.

When death won't go away, that means trouble. But then, the look in her eyes-not just the "I'll see to you" look she gave me, but the very different sort of look she was giving Steve, was stronger trouble, and more immediate, too. It was the look a hungry cat gives to a witless canary that perches obligingly right in front of it.

"It's probably best," she purred, stopping against his chest and posing so that one bare leg could peek through the thigh-high slits in her designer come-hither-and-tear-this-little-frippery-off-me silks and press against him, "if we start in the bedroom. It's been worst in there."

I'll just bet it has, dearie.

Yes, that was a catty thought, but then, I think everything catt-oh, never mind.

"Sam," Steve said a little dreamily, "will you go in and ah, check things out, first?"

I turned my head and gave him an incredulous look. Had I just heard the lost-in-l.u.s.t tone I thought I'd heard?

He smiled at me. Set take the man! He was falling for her! A reeking walking corpse, and- "Well, isn't that something!" Oh, so sweetly. "It's as if she understands your every word! Just like a real person!"

And you'd know all about "real persons" HOW, sweetie?

She and Steve actually put their arms around each other's hips, like a comfortable couple, to stand and watch the cute trained cat obey her master's order.

So I obliged, of course. We're partners, after all.

And we're on the job, too. So...

The bedroom was every whit as horrible as I'd expected-zebra-skin throws over folding screens fashioned of beveled tall-as-a-person-in-killer-heels mirrors, only these mirrors had frames plated with gold, not bra.s.s, and the zebra skins weren't just a textile design but were real pelts. Those screens flanked an oval pink fourposter bed topped with gilded posts holding up a pink oval overhead ring-frame, and a huge oval mirror was affixed to the ceiling above that. Four upright oval archways pierced the soft orange sherbet walls, all of them curtained off in a clashing shade of pink: bathroom, shoe closet, dressing room, clothes closet.

I batted aside the bed's pink pleated skirting-of course it had pink pleated skirting, of a different shade than either the archway curtains or the rest of the bed-to peer under the bed and was gratified to see nothing but an unbroken field of white fur, free of the smallest speck of dust or cobweb. No ghost cat here.

Never leave unexplored territory between you and the known way out. I turned toward the closest archway to the bedroom door: the shoe closet, reeking with expensive leather and the very best dyes. Taking a deep breath while I was still far enough from those smells to keep myself from a fit of sneezing or choking, I prepared myself to come nose to nose with spooks.

Jethana Walkingcorpse probably kept her shoes in neat pairs on shelves-the ones she never used, that is. The others would be in untidy heaps on the floor, strewn all over the- They were. I padded forward cautiously, springing over a few pairs into a little bare area of fur rug before the real heap began.

Where I stopped, nose p.r.i.c.kling. Someone was happening behind me.

Just behind me.

I spun, silently. The Ghost Cat was fading into view and solidity right in front of me, between me and the archway out of this dead end. It-no, he-was smiling. A smile I knew all too well.

h.e.l.lo, Little Meat.

I had to touch Steve, or any human, to mindspeak. We all have to, unless we use a spell.

Or we're talking to immediate kin.

Only one of which had ever called me "Little Meat."

The Ghost Cat opened his jaws wide, very wide-long yellow fangs, sharp and deadly as ever-and then smiled at me. Oh, yes, I knew him.

Suddenly I was struggling to breathe, fear like ice around my heart.

It's been a long time, he observed pleasantly, looming up suddenly in the narrow closet as he gained full solidity and his true size.

Montuhotep. He Who Makes War and Is Pleased. Maralwshbekhtah, to use his later name.

He had another, more mundane t.i.tle, too: my father.

I hadn't seen him for centuries, but he hadn't forgotten me or what he'd been trying to do to me at our last meeting, and that smile told me he was picking up right where he left off.

Trying to kill me.

Swiftly, messily, and gloatingly. That could have been his motto, had Father ever bothered with such things. He probably would have put it in other words, however. "Maim, Torment or Rape, then Slay," perhaps.

Last daughter, he purred in my mind, come to me.

He had killed all my brothers and sisters, and probably my mother before that, by maiming them into immobility and then casting a spell on them that stole all of their nine lives and transferred them into him.

He had tried to kill me, too, but I had leaped in desperation, landed someplace I shouldn't have, and paid the price in a nasty backlash as the spell waiting in that place had shattered Father's life-stealing magic.

I had fled, and he had sought me, chasing me tirelessly for decades. Until there came a time when I saw him no more, padding smilingly along on my trail.

Centuries pa.s.sed. I'd concluded something fatal had finally happened to him.

No such luck, evidently. He was still very much alive.

My nose told me I was facing no ghost, but a living cat. My eyes told me my father was using magic to become incorporeal and pa.s.s through things and then solidify again until turning back into a wraith seemed more useful. Until the spell wore out, or he tried to pa.s.s through cold iron and got stunned by the shattering of his spell for his pains, he could probably turn back and forth at will, as often as he wanted.

All royalty had heard of that spell, but it had been far beyond Father's mastery when I'd fled from him. He had been busy then with his nine-lives-stealing; his own invention, that had left him bursting with pride, bereft of almost all his kin, and with more lives than any cat had any right to.

He'd probably used most of them by now, though-which was why he was here smiling at me. The stealing spell only worked on royalty who shared his bloodline, a breed of which I was now presumably the last.

Oh, I was terrified. And he knew it.

Tombs and bones, anyone who got a glimpse of me would know it! All over me, my hair was standing on end, thrusting out at the world in all directions like so many rigid little lances.

Father hadn't been the only one learning magic. I knew a few spells, none of them very impressive and only one of them useful in my present situation.