At Sheena's scream, the entire feline tango class dropped into a battery of defensive postures. Fur of every stripe exploded into full-body Mohawks while tanguero hats tilted over dangerously blazing eyes. Some of the younger toms hissed in tense accompaniment to the faint breathing of Piazzolla's bandoneón solo.
As Sheena and I stared down Main Street, the last nanoglimmer of the Hyal twin twisted out of sight. The shape-shifting Selofainian had eluded us.
"I didn't see Hyaline, Brumous," Sheena whispered giving me a sidelong glance, "and they are always together. That means she's still here."
We heard a sharp spitting tussle and Boris shouldered casually between us, shrugging at my quizzical look.
"Longhairs should have better manners," he explained gruffly, whiskers twitching.
I turned to see the offended Persian rapidly licking himself, as if such an unmannerly skirmish were utterly beneath his notice, much less his participation. It might have been convincing had it not put him at such odds with the rest of the class. His was the only pair of elliptical eyes that were not staring at the three of us with expectant menace. Most had retracted their fur from red alert, though their backs and tails maintained a brushy warning caution. We had disrupted their fun. They wanted a good explanation but did not expect one. I gave a sharp, guttural growl and spoke.
"That was Hyaloid. Hyaline is here."
A kittenish calico gasped and looked around with wide eyes.
"Lususnaturae?" demanded the burly tiger who had been dancing with Sheena.
The music drifted to a gypsy singing Tango Notturno in a sultry tremolo purr, but at the mention of the ruler of Selofaine, the chords of love were forgotten. All felines know of Lususnaturae, bladed suzerain of the seventh dimension who grows stronger with each attempt to enter ours.
"Not yet." I replied, "Never if we do our job."
There was no need for more explanation. The clowder had already begun to prowl around the studio in search of Hyaline. Ears twisted at every sound and tails flicked as they jostled one another in distracted concentration. I reflected that the midnight H.A.T.S. class did not have to dance to exude its powerful grace.
Sheena's delicate murmur slid into my ear.
"Brumous, I think you need to talk to Uthopia."
In the bitter realization that I forgotten the molly who had followed me here from Argentina, my eyes darted around the room until they found her. She was near the door, staring at the floor. Her slender back was toward me and her silky ears trembled with tension. She heard me walk up behind her and raised her head, but refused to turn around.
"She's beautiful. And smart," Uthopia mewled unsteadily, twitching her tail in Sheena's direction, "the little Manx."
"Sweet, too, but she's not mine, Uthopia. Sheena's looking for a human home."
"You can't expect me to believe that Sheena hasn't had her choice of homes, Brumous. She's adorable."
"There are a lot of homeless cats, Uthopia."
She faced me abruptly, "And what happened to our home, Brumous? What good was having five lives if you weren't in them?"
She darted out the door.
I wanted to go after her, but a thick white-gloved paw stopped me. Boris planted himself in my line of vision, white chest and chin emphasizing his serious gray face.
"We're here for Hyaline."
Closing my eyes, I allowed the scent data stored earlier to wash over me. A mocking illusion of Uthopia heated my eyelids and for the hundredth time, I considered my infinite lifespan as nothing more than an echo chamber for regrets.
I turned back into the studio.
© Silver Cat Works
