SHADOW OF THE CAT
by
Rickey Mallory

PROLOGUE

Long, long ago:

As soon as he came to consciousness, he knew everything was different. He had wildness in his nostrils. Wildness and the acrid, sharp smell of blood.

Before he opened his eyes, he tested his body, stretching and flexing, feeling the soreness all the way down to his bones. What kind of dream had he had that would tie his muscles up in knots? What kind of awful nightmare that still haunted him with horrible images and nauseating smells like death surrounding him?

As he became more aware, he realized rocks and twigs stabbed his naked back and legs, and the early morning sun hurt his closed eyes.

He opened one eye to a slit and looked at his hand, his head filled with the gruesome dream and his joints and tendons aching as if he'd been tortured on the rack. But his hand was just a hand, with long blunt fingers, blue veins tracing its back, and broken, bloody nails.

Blood? Where had blood come from? The last thing he remembered was Mavra's face, contorted with hatred and fury as she screamed at him.

He closed his eyes again, oddly reluctant to face reality and the day, and instead let his mind drift back over the evening before. Mavra had come to his home, unwilling to give up her single-minded pursuit of him. She had threatened him -- threatened Irina. He'd thrown her out bodily, but her words, her curses, still rang in his ears.

He licked his lips and tasted blood. A sickening dread suffused his brain. Turning over, he pushed himself up to hands and knees, squinting in the sunlight, trying to orient himself to the world around him.

Blood. Everywhere. A scarlet haze obscured his vision. He wiped sweat from his eyes with his forearm and blinked. The haze cleared. The sight before him turned his soul to stone.

"No," he whispered through lips numb with shock and dreadful, fearful certainty. Irina. He crawled toward his wife, sickened and fascinated by the blood that matched the dark smears on his fingers and the metallic taste in his mouth. He prayed that his eyes deceived him, prayed the poor mangled body wasn't hers.

"Don't be," he begged, "please, no."

He touched the hem of her skirt, and bunched it in his fist, so consumed by terror he couldn't breathe as flashing horrifying images from his dream clouded his vision. The dream in which he was dark and sleek and powerful. The dream in which his massive jaws and thick, sharp teeth tore out a delicate human throat in less than a heartbeat. The dream in which everything familiar was alien, everything good was profane, and everything beloved was destroyed.

His fingers curled like claws and he dug them into his own flesh, trying to rip out his heart.

"So Dimitri, now you understand." The voice came from nowhere, from inside him, from all around him.

He raised his head and saw Mavra, her pale beauty darkening before his eyes as she took on her true form, the form of evil. He stared at her. If he could have slashed her throat with his fingers, his teeth, he would have, but he was too weak, too human now.

His sleek dark power was gone. His arms shook like a child's. His insides churned with impotent hatred.

"Now you know I am as good as my word. How does it feel to have murdered your true love?" Mavra stood over him, triumphant.

"I thought you loved me," he whispered. "Why have you done this?"

Mavra's form wavered before his blood-hazed vision. Her eyes shone red and black in the bright sun, dark windows into a soulless void.

"Oh, I wanted you Dimitri. I warned you that I would do anything to have you. What a sniveling coward you are, crying over such as her. I should have known you were no match for me. You deserve your fate, Dimitri. And your pathetic little sweetheart deserved hers."

"Irina was good. She was pure and true. It was her goodness I loved. You are evil, and a murderer."

"I did not kill her, my faithless one. You did. And hear me, Dimitri Korakov. I curse you from now until eternity. You will live again and again, but you will never be human. Each time you live, you will live but for one purpose -- to kill your true love all over again."

Mavra's humanity was totally gone now, and in its place was a black, writhing form, sinuous and awful to look upon. "Farewell, Korakov."

As Mavra's laughter faded into the mundane sounds of awakening day, Dimitri felt the last dregs of his humanity slipping away. He looked at his hand which bulged and stretched painfully as he changed. He felt his joints creaking, his skin thickening, and in his last sentient moments he screamed a vow to the heavens.

"I swear, Irina, I will find you. If it takes until forever, I will find you. We will defeat Mavra. Then we will be together, ever after.

* * * * *

Now:

It awoke slowly, murkily, like a noxious bubble rising in a methane swamp. What had dared disturb its dreamless slumber? Even as awareness swelled, it knew the answer.

Another champion had taken up the sword. Another dared question destiny, dared rail against the curse. The champion likely did not even know yet who he was. That was the way with champions. As awareness coalesced and self began to emerge, she remembered.

There had only been two who had dared to challenge the destiny she had wrought. The first dear one, whose faithless love had provoked her with lying words and fickle heart. He had brought the curse down upon his line. Then later, one other foolish knight, with more brawn than brains, who had tried in his puny human way to banish the curse with might. That one, with noble goodness flaring, had been a tastier morsel than the first, faithless one.

And now, a third had been born. She writhed in famished agony. So long. So long since she had fed. So long since one had been born with a will strong enough to challenge the curse.

Aye. This one was strong, stronger even than the first two. Consuming this champion's innate honor and goodness could provide sustenance for aeons. She throbbed and squirmed, anxious to devour the champion and return to her dreamless sleep. But no. The longer the suffering, the tastier the morsel. And this champion would suffer long--longer than the other two. She savored the anticipation.

Yes. She was ready to feed. But there was something else. Something that worried at her long dead consciousness. Something familiar, something good.

She sent tendrils of awareness out, now ignoring the foolish, brave champion's delicious aura, seeking the other. The source of the disturbing familiarity. Her essence darkened, thickened.

Mavra's hunger grew as she tasted the bitter tang of purity. She had returned. And as with the champion, this object of his misguided desire was unworthy.

Mavra stretched and writhed, gathering power. This would be a double feast. The faithless lover and his trollop.

Slowly, she became aware of the physical world around her. Time, for her, was a flowing river, unending, unstoppable. The champion was growing older before her eyes. The girl had just been born and now, already, she was a toddler.

Mavra sucked energy from the earth, from the air. She'd prefer to spend lazy aeons torturing the two. But these humans were so frail, their time on earth so short. Hunger seethed like black smoke, longing and anticipation turned corporeal as she focused on the new champion.

He was beginning to learn his true calling. It was time.

CHAPTER ONE

Alexei Korakov lay totally still, eyes closed, heart pounding, waiting for the odor of evil to dissipate from his nostrils.

As his heart resumed its normal rhythm, he assessed his surroundings. The hot tangle of sheets, the blanket of darkness, the chill that whispered over his sweat-dampened skin.

He was in his bed, safe. It had been a dream. Dragging himself up, he went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face and neck, then cupped his hands and rinsed his mouth, sluicing away the musty smell and metallic taste that clung to him.

Where did they come from, these dreams that seemed more real than reality? He'd thought he'd conquered them after his grandmother had died. Without her to constantly remind him of his evil heritage, he'd managed to mold his life into a semblance of normalcy. Normalcy.

He looked up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a corner of his mouth curving into a mocking smile. So why, after all this time, did he once again feel evil's hot breath on the back of his neck, hear his babushka's voice in his ear?

Never forget who you are. Never. You are the Korakov. You can never let anyone close. If you do, it will begin, all over again.

Twenty years later, the memory of her cold voice still made him shudder. He hunched his shoulders against the feelings, against the memories, but his heart ached with loneliness.

There had been a time when his grandmother's voice hadn't been cold, when her arms had comforted him in the night, and her lullabies had chased away shades that lurked in the darkness.

But then one night, curled against her, he'd dared to tell her of his dreams. She'd recoiled as if he was the monster he'd run to her to escape. The horror on her face haunted him to this day. And she'd never touched him again.

Now the dreams were back. They'd returned when he'd come here, to this remote area in north Mississippi. The move had seemed like the perfect solution. He hated cities--their crush of humanity only served to remind him of his grandmother's words.

The large open areas in the west were not to his taste, either. Their barrenness fed his melancholy.

He preferred the semi-tropical jungle of the deep south. The lush foliage made a better hiding place than sparse grass and stubby trees. Its temperate climate was safer than the mountains, where he risked death from exposure.

Death. That was the irony. He should welcome death, not avoid it.

He looked at his hands, dripping with water. Those hands could force a cold, shapeless slab of marble to yield up its deepest secrets. They could hold a mallet and chisel like another pair of hands might hold a lover.

His phone rang, startling him. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, then glanced at the phone's caller ID. It was Joe.

"Hello, Doctor Field," he said. "You're up early."

"I'm on my way out the door. Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

Alexei passed the towel across his neck and chest then down to his belly, blotting the droplets that had splashed there. "I'm well."

His friend sounded concerned, but there was another note in his voice. A note of excitement. "And you?"

"I thought I'd let you know that Melanie is spending Christmas with her family."

Melanie. Alexei grimaced as the familiar weight of guilt pressed heavily on his chest. "That's--that's good news."

"Yeah, it is. I'm very proud of her." Joe paused. "I thought you'd want to know."

Alexei rubbed his bare chest, where a dull ache had begun, and blinked to rid himself of the image that still haunted him after fifteen years.

"Alexei?"

"Right. Thanks Joe." He was never good at small talk, not even with the friend who'd saved his life more than once. Sometimes he thought that for Joe, he was just another lost cause, like Melanie.

"What are you doing for the holidays?"

Joe cleared his throat. "Actually, I'm going with Melanie. Her parents invited me."

"So she's not doing quite as well as you'd hoped. My guess is very few patients take their psychiatrists home with them for family visits."

"She's not my patient. Somehow you keep forgetting that. I've never actually treated her."

A technicality, Alexei thought, hearing the irritation in Joe's voice. Joe had taken Melanie under his wing on that unforgettable night and had barely left her side since.

"Anyhow, her parents are spending the holidays in Aspen. They thought I'd like to go skiing."

"Why do you do this to yourself, Joe? She is not your responsibility. She's mine."

"You know why I do it." Guilt gnawed at him.

"Yes. I haven't forgotten. You do it for me."

For a brief instant there was silence on the other end of the phone. "Not entirely. How many times have I explained to you that she was already unstable before that night."

"Let's don't--" "No. Let's do." Joe's voice rose in anger. "You're an arrogant prick, Alexei. There's no denying that what she saw was horrifying. Hell, I didn't see it and I thought I was going insane. But even you can't cause psychosis by your mere presence. Melanie is schizophrenic. She was destined for a life of medication and therapy."

Alexei listened to Joe's tirade, suffering his anger as he had dozens of time before. Joe was the psychiatrist, but Alexei had no trouble making this diagnosis. His friend was in love with Melanie. Alexei would never say that to him. That was for Joe to tell, if he ever admitted it to himself.

Joe sighed. "I'm in the car, so I should concentrate on driving."

"I'm truly glad that Melanie is doing well. Is there anything she needs?"

"Besides all the money she and the clinic could possibly ever use? No. You're doing more than enough."

"All right then--"

"Alexei, how are you?"

He pushed his fingers through his hair and gazed toward the front window. The early morning sun was blocked by a huge chunk of black marble that sat in his front yard. His fingers twitched and a deep, visceral thrill echoed through him as he stared at the black stone.

He curled his empty hand into a fist and looked down at himself. His sex stirred. His fist tightened.

"I can't work on this piece with gloves on." He heard the strain in his voice.

Joe grunted. "Have you tried working on it without them?"

"You know I can't do that."

"I thought that was why you bought that isolated place. So it wouldn't matter if you--"

"It matters to me."

"What's different about this piece? Wearing gloves certainly hasn't stopped you from becoming the country's most mysterious and celebrated sculptor so far."

"I touch this rock through the gloves and there's nothing there--. You wouldn't understand. I can't shape this--this beast without touching it."

"So what will you do? You've already denied yourself everything else. Are you going to stop sculpting too?"

"No!" he growled. "But I can't lose control. You know that."

"I've told you before, I could prescribe something." Alexei's chest burned with anger and frustration.

"Forgive me if I'm not interested in chemical castration."

"I know. I think you're right about that. Your nature is where your talent comes from. So chain yourself to the marble. I doubt even you could pull over three tons of rock."

"Believe it or not, I have considered that."

"Don't do it alone, though. Why don't I take some time and come down there? We could experiment with different drugs. I could watch you, to be sure you didn't harm yourself."

"Or you?" he spat. "No. I came here for the isolation. I'll manage. I've ordered a pair of sealskin gloves. They're thin, more flexible. I'll try them."

"Alexei, call me. Day or night."

"Thank you. I will." Alexei pulled his gaze away from the seductive sheen of the marble. "Enjoy your holiday."

Alexei disconnected and tossed the phone down on the bedside table, his attention on the marble. He stalked over to the door and flung it open, breathing deeply of early morning freshness and feeling the contrasting sensations of warm sunlight and cold air on his naked body.

In front of him, its sleek surface absorbing the light, refusing to give it back, stood the obelisk that haunted him. From the first moment he'd laid eyes on the chunk of marble, he'd seen the beast inside it. He saw it now, even though he'd not yet laid chisel to stone.

His fingers twitched as the craving to touch it became almost unbearable. It was as strong as desire, as compelling as a beautiful woman.

His gaze roamed hungrily over its gleaming surface. There were its muscled haunches. There the massive head, the delicate ears, the powerful jaw. He had to free the beast from its cold, black prison.

But the thought sent a shuddering chill through him. He swallowed against bitter nausea as his nostrils caught another repulsive whiff of evil on the morning breeze.

It was beginning again. Was it the marble? He'd always known he hadn't conquered the beast that raged inside him, but through incredible willpower and self-denial he'd managed to keep it asleep.

Now, because of the black marble, his fragile peace was shattered. Sleep had ceased to be a haven, solitude was no longer a sanctuary. If he wanted to sculpt this piece, he had to stop running. He could no longer ignore the monster that possessed him, no longer deny his heritage.

Naked, he approached the slab of stone, and lay his bare hands on its icy surface for the first time. Fear and desire arced through him like a bolt of lightning. He threw his head back and gasped audibly. His penis hardened immediately and painfully, sucking strength from his limbs. His skin grew cold with sweat.

His back arched, his thighs tightened, his hips ground forward. His body screamed for release. Revulsion scalded his throat like bile. Struggling to maintain control over his muscles, he bowed his head and flattened his hands against the unyielding stone until they burned with the cold.

Panting, exerting all his strength, he pulled back. His fingers cramped with cold. His knuckles and joints began to bulge. He arched his neck and felt the familiar tensing of his jaw. The urge to flex his fingers and stretch his straining muscles became unbearable.

"No," he grated through clenched teeth. "I will not give in this time."

His voice to his own ears sounded changed, deep and rough, like a growl. He was beginning to lose himself in the painful stretching and growing of his joints and muscles.

Fighting the inevitable, he struggled to think coherently. He had to stop the haze of desire that was wrapping itself around him. But how? His fingers stretched and curved. His haunches throbbed with strain.

Stop the lust. Stop it!

He clenched his jaw, then wrapped his hand around his penis, crying out with the shock of cold on the sensitive, engorged organ. Then he cupped his testicles in his other hand, a scream torn from his throat as his blood turned to ice, as lust was burned away by shocking agonizing cold.

Concentrating all his will on his hands, he let go of himself and turned toward the house. He stumbled. A shudder wracked him, nearly knocked him to the ground. His penis began to deflate. He looked at the pinched whiteness of his fingers and felt a tortured triumph.

He'd touched the marble with his bare hands and not been transformed by it. He'd stopped the seductive power of his lust. Perhaps now he could begin to shape the beast.

If he dared touch it again.

* * * * *