it!
He pawed the master’s arm, then his face, carefully, so that only the soft hairs between the pads of his paw touched the skin.
Don’t go!
But the awful evil would not be deterred. With a horrible, joyful cry, it tore something deep inside. Shadow heard the ripping sound and saw the light go from his master’s eyes.
Noooooo!
But the master’s spirit wouldn’t listen. It floated up and off, leaving nothing but the limp husk on the floor. Sated, the evil left, though Shadow was only dimly aware of its leaving.
The master’s spirit was gone.
No more morning walks to talk to Shadow’s neighbors.
No more of his rough hands behind Shadow’s ears, working fur and skin and flesh as joy danced in Shadow’s heart.
No more easing his feet into the slippers to settle in for dinner with his wife.
Shadow turned his nose to the heavens and howled at the master’s soul.
Please don’t leave me!
Please don’t leave!
Please don’t!
Please!
1
Kato wanted to take a walk. The barking of the neighborhood dogs a while back had seemed to unsettle him. Kato, more wolf than Siberian husky by nature, temperament and appearance, often paced for hours, mimicking the forebears who traveled thirty or forty miles a day through the woods.
Thanks to his husky sire, Kato was smaller than the ordinary wolf, only about eighty pounds. But he had inherited the long legs and huge paws of his wolf mother, as well as coal-black coloring and tawny eyes. There was no mistaking his maternal heritage.
Markie Cross, his owner, kept him only by virtue of the fact that she was a veterinarian and there was no local law against wolf hybrids.
But a half hour ago, the neighborhood dogs had burst into a frenzy of barking. Kato hadn’t joined them, but Kato rarely barked. He sat at the sliding glass doors that opened onto the back lanai and stared out into the darkness, listening to the cacophony of yaps and woofs that seemed to come from every direction.
Markie hardly paid it any mind at first. As always, it had begun with a lone dog in the distance and steadily spread, until all the dogs outside their homes were engaged in the chorus.
But as the sound built, she realized she was feeling a shiver of unease. It didn’t sound like the usual howl-fest that dogs would start and stop for no reason other than sociability.
Finally she looked up from her book and paid full attention. These were definitely barks of warning.
She glanced at Kato, her closest connection to the canine world, but he was sitting with his back to her, staring out the glass doors. He didn’t join the chorus, nor even move as if he were impatient to be out there howling along.
He simply sat, his ears pricked. Staring at something she couldn’t see.
Shortly, the dogs fell quiet again. Kato stayed at the window for a while, as if awaiting a reprise, then finally yawned one of those big yawns that said he wasn’t quite certain about something.
And then the pacing had begun.
Markie ordinarily ignored his pacing. He did it a lot, and she was inclined to let him and all other animals be themselves.
But tonight his pacing disturbed her. There was something about the way he was doing it, the way he was pausing at each window and sniffing, that wouldn’t let her go on reading.
Finally she put her book down and asked, “Walk, Kato?”
With a huge leap and a skitter of claws on the wood floor, he headed for the leash. No mistaking that message.
Smiling, she clipped the leash to his collar, grabbed her keys and stepped out into the balmy tropical night.
The nightly breeze was blowing, a gentle, moist kiss filled with the scents and sounds of the Caribbean Sea that surrounded the island of Santz Martina. It was a tropical paradise, where the wealthy could hide away from the rest of the world in geographic privacy, with all the advantages of being a U.S. territory.
At this end of the island lay Martina Town, home to over half the island’s population. All but the very old and the young had jobs. The schools were excellent, the shopping ample. The best of everything provided by the best at everything.
The houses here in old town, and the businesses, retained the flavor of the old Caribbean, with doors that were open all day, Bahamian storm shutters and courtyards rich with tropical blooms. The narrow streets created breezeways that kept the town surprisingly cool even on hot days. Life was slow. Life was good.
At the north end of the island, on the shoulder of Mount Cortez, the expansive estates of the island’s elite looked out over the teal glitter of the sea, rivaling the best the Monterey Coast had to offer.
Tonight, though, Markie and Kato strolled west along Second Avenue. Normally she would have turned left at her office, at the corner of La Puerta, and ambled down to the waterfront park. Tonight, however, Kato was having none of that. He practically dragged her past the businesses and shops and on westward, past rows of houses, narrow alleys and tiny yards occupied by unnaturally quiet dogs.
When she had come here, Markie had realized that she had stepped into a sort of adult Disneyland, where everything was, and was expected to remain, perfect. On the other hand, the people were warm and friendly, the climate wonderful, and the pay too much to refuse. She was on salary, had the most modern equipment known to veterinary medicine and was able to perform everything from surgery to dental cleanings. How could she possibly complain? She didn’t even have to charge her patients.
And so far, being beholden to the elite power structure had proved to be no burden whatever.
Kato tugged firmly on his leash, saying in no uncertain terms that they had not yet reached his chosen destination. Markie shrugged and decided to let him lead. It was rare that he ever did such a thing, and she was disinclined to argue with eighty pounds of stubborn wolf. She had no agenda, and she’d long since learned the wisdom of picking her battles when it came to dealing with this particular canine.
They strolled down another block, Kato’s head up in the air as if he were scenting something above him. How far up it might be she had no idea. Dogs could smell faint odors in the air three hundred feet above their heads. Kato, with his heritage, might be able to do even better.
But he was definitely following something. A bird, probably. Or a person.
Her thoughts had started to drift again, and then they reached the end of Second Avenue and Kato yanked her left onto Harbor Street. Fifty years ago, before developers had added subdivisions and suburban sprawl, this street had marked the western edge of town. Beyond this point, Caribbean charm gave way to planned perfection.
But not tonight.
An ambulance and a couple of police cars stood out in front of a house,
