18

This was a strong one, bigger than all the others, and Peter had watched him for several nights.

It was dark and there was a cold wind. Spits of wind struck his face as he carried the box along the Ouse, avoiding the quaking puddles of rainwater. There were stars, but they came and went as clouds sliced the sky. A lash of rain made him blink.

He had his special gloves with him, the stout leather gloves he had bought at the gardening and home repair store near Fishergate. If only the chorus of sounds in his head would be quiet for a moment. If only he could stop and consider.

But he could not stop. It was pleasure, wasn’t it? And it rid the world of these nasty beasts, didn’t it? Because they were nasty, there was no question about that.

Only this time he found himself weeping as he laughed. It was wrenching, this confusion. He knew he was doing the right thing, and he knew he would not stop.

But there was something wrong with him. It was just like all those years before. There had been something wrong then, too. He hated himself for his weakness. Why was he trembling so tonight?

He was disgusted with himself. He had a right to pleasure, just like any other man. Besides, this cat had a chance, not like the others, who had been weak. This cat was a fighter, much heavier than the others, a brawny male who was in excellent condition, a great gray stud of a cat.

This would be a battle. He relished this, and to be far, where no one would be able to hear, and to forestall what he knew would be sweetest pleasure, he carried the box to Clifton Ing, the vast black meadow.

It was wet here, and sometimes his feet sank into the turf. The cat was wheeling within the box, clawing, hissing. And howling—great savage howls that meant that the world would suffer for what was happening.

A battle. This would be sweet.

Then the cat was out. Peter had been nearly ready to stop, but it surprised him, and he grabbed for the cat, and missed. His left hand snatched and caught a hind leg, but this hand was not wearing a glove.

Fortunately, the cat did not think of fighting yet, only of escape. It clawed the air, and clawed the darkened grass, hissing and spitting, and screaming like a woman.

Then it thought of fighting.

It was on Peter’s arm, and up his arm, to his face. Peter thrust the leather glove to protect his eyes, and the savage rear feet clawed the glove, tearing even that tough hide.

Peter ducked, but the beast was much heavier, and much stronger, than Peter had foreseen. The brute spat, lashing with its paws, and one claw tangled itself in Peter’s hair. Peter cried out. He lifted the beast high into the air with his gloved hand, and could barely keep it there. The animal twisted, and jackknifed.

The cat was nearly off, vanished into the dark.

Only the many nights of cat hunting allowed Peter to react by reflex, without a chance to realize what he was doing. He had the cat’s tail, before he knew what he had done, and the cat didn’t understand what was happening, either. Otherwise the beast would not have wasted its time raking the wet grass, and the demon would have doubled up and buried its fangs into Peter. He tried too late, snapping and tearing at the air.

Peter swung the beast around and around by its tail. The animal screamed, and fought, and tried to double back to the fist that held it, but Peter swung hard. Twice the cat succeeded in seizing the hand, but Peter slammed the savage thing to the turf, and the cat lost its grip.

Peter’s blood was streaming. It tickled as it ran down his wheeling arm. He had his gloved hand ready, and caught the cat’s skull in the best grip he had ever used on a cat, and the cat wasted its effort on the air, and on the thick coat sleeve. The powerful hind legs tore the coat, but could not find his flesh. Peter was ready, approaching the keenest pleasure.

And past it, panting.

The cat kicked convulsively. He flung it aside, and it did not move again. He fell to his knees, and gazed at the black around him. It began to rain again, hurried, lancing drops.

He knelt, empty inside. Retching, and trembling.