A Night in the Lonesome October (4 page)

    
"I'll tell you as we walk along, away from here."

    
"Does this place make you nervous?"

    
"It's not a month for taking chances," I said.

    
He laughed.

    
"That's very funny," he said.
 

    
"It is, isn't it?" I replied.

    
The dying moon came up above the trees, lighting our way.

    
With midnight's chimes speech comes to me.
 
I rose and stretched, waiting for them to cease.
 
Jack, having roused himself especially for the occasion, watched me with a mixture of amusement and interest.

    
"Busy day, Snuff?" he asked.

    
"We'd a visitor while you napped.
 
The rat Bubo," I said, "companion of the Good Doctor."

    
"And?"

    
"We traded.
 
A list of the players for the location of the Count's grave.
 
He said it was in the cemetery to a ruined church to the southeast.
 
Showed me the place."

    
"Good work," Jack replied.
 
"How does this affect your calculations?"

    
"Hard to say.
 
I'm going to think about it, and then I'll need to do some walking."

    
"Still early in the Game," he said.
 
"You know how the picture can change."

    
"True," I replied.
 
"But at least we're somewhat better-informed than we were.
 
Of course, we must check the content of the crypt by day, to be certain.
 
I think I can persuade Graymalk to do that."

    
"Not Quicklime?"

    
"I trust the cat more.
 
I'd rather share information with her, if it must be shared."

    
"You know her persuasion, then?"

    
I shook my head.

    
"No, I'm just going by my feelings."

    
"Has she spoken of her mistress, Jill?"

    
"Not in any detail."

    
"I believe the lady is younger than she causes herself to appear."

    
"That may be.
 
I just don't know.
 
I haven't met her."

    
"I have.
 
Let me know if the cat talks party politics."

    
"I will, but she won't, not unless I do, and I'm not about to."

    
"You're the best judge of that situation."

    
"Yes.
 
Neither of us has anything to gain by volunteering information at this time.
 
But we might stand to lose something in the way of cooperation.
 
Unless you've some overriding need for the information that I don't know about.
 
In that case, though. . . ."

    
"I understand.
 
No.
 
Let it be.
 
Have you learned it for any of the others?"

    
"No.
 
Are we going out tonight?"

    
"No.
 
We're set, for now.
 
Have you any plans?"

    
"A little calculation and a lot of rest."

    
"Sounds like a good idea."

    
"Do you remember that time in Dijon, when that lady from the other side managed to distract you?"

    
"It's hard to forget.
 
Why do you ask?"

    
"No special reason.
 
Just reminiscing.
 
Good night, Jack."

    
I moved to my favorite corner and settled with my head upon my paws.

    
"'Night, Snuff."

    
I listened to his retreating footsteps.
 
It was time to visit Growler, for a workshop in advanced stalking.
 
Soon the world went away.

    
I drew more lines in my head last night and this morning, but before I'd created a satisfactory picture we had a caller.

    
I barked twice when the door chimes sounded, because it was expected of me.
 
The master went to the door and I followed.

    
A tall, solidly built man, dark-haired, was on the stoop, and he smiled.

    
"Hello," he said, "my name's Larry Talbot.
 
I'm your new neighbor, and I thought I'd come by and pay my respects."

    
"Won't you come in and have a cup of tea with me?" Jack said.

    
"Thank you."

    
Jack led him into the parlor and seated him, excused himself, and went to the kitchen.
 
I stayed in the parlor and watched.
 
Talbot glanced several times at the palm of his hand.
 
Then he studied me.

    
"Good boy," he said.

    
I opened my mouth, let my tongue hang out, and panted a few times.
 
But I did not approach him.
 
There was something about the way he smelled, an underlying suggestion of wildness, that puzzled me.

    
Jack returned with a tray of tea and biscuits and they chatted for a time, about the neighborhood, the weather, the recent rash of grave robbings, the killings.
 
I watched them, two big men, the air of the predator about each, sipping their tea now and discussing the exotic flowers Talbot cultivated and how they might fare, even indoors, in this climate.

    
Then came a terrible crash from the attic.

    
I departed the room immediately, bounding up the stair, swinging around corners.
 
Up another stair. . . .

    
The wardrobe doors were open.
 
The Thing stood before it.

    
"Free!" it announced, flexing its limbs, furling and unfurling its dark, scaly wings.
 
"Free!"

    
"Like hell!" I said, curling back my lips and leaping.

  
  
I caught it directly in the midsection, knocking it back into the wardrobe again.
 
I slashed twice, left and right, as it sought to seize me.
 
I dropped down and bit one of its legs.
 
I roared and threw myself on it again, slashing faceward.

    
It drew back, retreating to the rear of its prison, leaving a heavy scent of musk in the air.
 
I shouldered the doors shut, reared up, and tried to close the latch with my paw.
 
Jack entered just then and did it for me.
 
He held his knife loosely in his right hand.

    
"You are an exemplary watchdog, Snuff," he stated.

    
A moment later Larry Talbot came in.

    
"Problems?" he said.
 
"Anything I can help with?"

    
The blade vanished before Jack turned.

    
"No, thank you," he said.
 
"It was less serious than it sounded.
 
Shall we return to our tea?"

    
They departed.

    
I followed them down the stairs, Talbot moving as silently as the master.
 
I'd a feeling, somehow, that he was in the Game, and that this incident had persuaded him that we were, too.
 
For as he was leaving he said, "I see some busy days ahead, before this month is out.
 
If you ever need help, of any sort, you can count on me."

    
Jack studied him for several long moments, then replied, "Without even knowing my persuasion?"

    
"I think I know it," Talbot answered.

    
"How?"

    
"Good dog you've got there," Talbot said.
 
"Knows how to close a door."

    
Then he was gone.
 
I followed him home, of course, to see whether he really lived where he said he did.
 
When I saw that he did I had even more lines to draw.
 
Interesting ones now, though.

    
He never turned and looked back, yet I knew that he could tell I was behind him all the way.

    
Later, I lay in the yard, drawing my lines.
 
It had become a much more complicated enterprise.
 
Footsteps approached along the road, halted.

    
"Good dog," croaked an ancient voice.
 
It was the Druid.
 
There followed a _plop_ on the ground nearby, as something he'd tossed over the garden wall landed.
 
"Good dog."

    
I rose and inspected it as he passed on along his way.
 
It was a piece of meat.
 
Only the most wretched of alley hounds might not have been wary.
 
The thing reeked of exotic additives.

    
I picked it up carefully, bore it to a soft spot beneath a tree, dug a hole there, dropped it in, covered it.

    
"Bravo!" came a sibilant voice from above.
 
"I didn't think you'd fall for that one."

    
I glanced up.
 
Quicklime was coiled about a branch overhead.

    
"How long have you been there?" I asked.

    
"Since your first visitor came by, the big one.
 
I'd been watching him.
 
Is he in the Game?"

    
"I don't know.
 
I think he may be, but it's hard to tell.
 
He's a strange one.
 
Doesn't seem to have a companion."

    
"Maybe he's his own best friend.
 
Speaking of which...”

    
"Yes?"

  
  
"The crazy witch's companion may be running out of steam about now."

    
"What do you mean?"

    
"'Ding, dong, dell.'"

    
"I don't follow you."

    
"Literally.
 
Pussy's in the well."

    
"Who threw her in?"

    
"MacCab, full of sin."

    
"Where is it?"

    
"By the outhouse, full of shit.
 
Back of Crazy Jill's place.
 
Keeps it from going dry, I guess."

    
"Why tell me? You're the antisocial one."

    
"I've played before," he hissed.
 
"I know it's too early in the Game to begin eliminating players.
 
One should wait till after the death of the moon.
 
MacCab and Morris are new at it, though."

    
I was on my feet and moving.

    
"Pussyfoot, pussyfoot.
 
Wet, wet, wet," I heard him chanting as I ran off toward the hill.

    
I mounted the hill and raced down it toward Crazy Jill's, the landscape flowing to a blur about me.
 
I pushed my way through a hedge when I reached her place, sought quickly, located the roofed and rock-girt structure, bucket on its rim.
 
I ran to its side, rested my forepaws upon the ledge, and peered down into it.
 
There was a faint splashing sound below.

    
"Gray!" I called.

    
A very faint "Here!" came to me.

    
"Get off to the side! I'm going to drop the bucket!" I called.

    
The splashing grew louder and faster.

  
  
I pushed the bucket off the ledge and listened to it wind down, heard it splash.

    
"Get in!" I called.

    
If you've ever tried turning a crank with your paws you know that it is rough work.
 
It was a long, long while before I'd raised the bucket high enough for Graymalk to remove herself to the ledge.
 
She stood there drenched and panting.