Munkustrap – Part One

I was only seventeen when I found out I was a werecat. It was shortly after my birthday. Now that I know better seventeen was an ideal Age of Change, but considering how unknowing I was at seventeen, how naive and immature, makes it seem all the more young.

I could never see the stars in Manhattan; the lights were too bright. But it wasn't something I ever missed. I was born and raised here. The headlights of the cars twenty stories below turned the city streets at night into a gently flowing river of gold, criss-crossing between the dark buildings, some square, some rounded. These lights were dwarfed by the stair-stepping luminescence of the World Trade Center and the Twin Towers. Sometimes I could see the moon when I sat on the roof of the building where I lived, though only rarely. The bleat of the sounds outside were as common to me as my heartbeat, the lights as welcome as the sun. Of course at seventeen I didn't appreciate these things as I should have. At that moment nothing was on my mind except Sara Whitson.

Sara and I were alone on the rooftop after escaping the hot crowded birthday party my father had thrown for me. It was nothing special: the same stuck-up people I saw at all the other parties, the same tasteless food and drinks, the same boring gossip and chit-chat. I was glad to leave. Now I stared only at Sara. Her dark eyes reflected the golden lights from below, her black evening gown sparkling with sewn patterns of beads. Even after all these years I can still remember the scent of her hair blowing in the gentle sea breeze.

Was I in love with Sara? I don't think so. The relationship I had with her then was a mere infatuation brought on by youthful longing. I thought I did at the time.

"I'm glad we got out of there," Sara said finally. "Those parties get so boring."

I nodded in agreement, not disturbing the serenity with more speech. I was too captivated by her appearance: the curves of her female shape as she sat on the building edge, the deep crimson that covered her lips, the long sweep of her lashes, the feeling that we'd been here a quarter of an hour already and my anxiousness was mounting. Nowadays I would never allow myself to think the thoughts that were running through my head then. I wanted her. And what Hunter Blakeney wanted, Hunter Blakeney received. I suppose it was this kind of thinking that urged me on when I leaned forward and kissed her.

The kiss alone I don't think she would have minded if I'd stopped there. Ah, but the fool I was! I wasn't thinking with my head. I advanced further, impatient, wanting everything immediately: the sort of life I was used to. These are the memories of my younger self that I wish I could forget.

"No, Hunter," she said firmly, pushing me away a little. But I didn't stop. For shame! If I could only travel back to that night, given my former self a rightful drubbing, apologize to Sara so that she may speak to me again. But I can only wish for such things. I had her wrist trapped, pulling her forward, her struggles growing stronger. "I said no!"

Despite the pain it caused me, I'm now glad she got away. Heaviside only knows what he would have done. I speak of my younger self as though a different person. It may as well have been that way. I was so different then, so utterly inconsiderate and selfish. My change from that has been slow, but drastic. I'm getting ahead of myself. Those things will come later.

She did indeed escape me. Before I could even cry out her high-heeled foot had connected with the one vulnerable spot between my legs and she was bolting down the stairs. I must have cursed horribly as I collapsed to the ground, holding myself in agony as tears sprang into my eyes. Her footsteps died away in my ears, and I was glad. I must have wept piteously from the pain. I couldn't have beared it if she remained there to see me. For a long while all I could do was writhe.

My father always said I was spoiled, being an only child. I asked him why, then, did he not remarry and have more children? He said he had his reasons, but was never more specific than that. And I was spoiled. My family was one of the richest in New York City, having gained a fortune of nearly 16 billion dollars through generations of careful planning, investments, and luck. I was the heir to that fortune, and in being rich I was used to getting things I wanted. And when I didn't, I became cross and bitter. This was why Sara's rejection so angered me. That, and the fact I was utterly humiliated for having to struggle nearly half an hour before I could stand and speak normally. Even then it still hurt to walk.

I limped back down the stairway into the main hall as quickly as I could manage without drawing curious attention. My eyes scanned the crowd there angrilly for Sara, but she was nowhere to be found. My father, however, sighted me immediately and was standing at the foot of the stairway, eyes locked on me as I came down slowly, straightening my jacket, trying to regain that image of an unemotional aristocrat who cared about nothing; a look that my father excelled at. I stopped when I stood next to him.

"Just like you to leave your guests at your own party," he said to me, his lips barely moving. I glared at him, and could only attempt to stare him down for a few moments before I looked away.

"I was on the roof," I said flatly. "I needed some fresh air, sir."

My father's face always reminded me of soft leather, worn from age and furrowed from his days spent in deep thought. His eyes were the deepest brown, contrasting the silver-gray sheen that covered his chin and thinning hair. He was tall, towering a good head over me. If he'd had the accent, John James Blakeney could have easily passed for Sean Connery. The way he looked at me now as I came down those stairs was the way he always looked at me: regarding me as the snot-nosed brat I was. In my niavte I hated him for it. I tried to honor him as best I could, as I should have, actually, but time and time again I lied to him, stole from him, went directly against his orders when I knew well enough not to. Enough church and religious teaching had been pressed upon me so that I held a deep fear for God. I feared him, but I did not respect him. I did not know this at the time, though. I thought about this often in later years. My fear of going to Hell and of God's wrath was complete, yet I sinned constantly and never asked His forgiveness. It made me dispicable: an aristocrat as well as a hippocrite. It was the same way with my father. I feared him, but did not respect him. But I did not think these things at the time.

"Well, get back to your guests. You'll offend them otherwise."

Those cold words and I dragged my feet through the crowded hallway, returning the false smiles thrown at me and the countless congradulations. I avoided all who wanted to drop into a lengthy conversation. At the far end of the main hall opposite the stairwell it narrowed into a short entrance way that ended at the main door. In this entrance way was a soft velvet-cushioned couch that I plopped myself down on wearily. The sound of soft opera music came from somewhere, and I listened to it longingly. With only the wall before me it was inevitable that my eyes landed on the portrait of my mother. Everyone, even my father, told me how much I resembled her. But I don't see why. I was tall. My hair was a mix of blonde dominated by chestnut brown, matching my eyes.

I hardly remember my mother. She died when I was about three. Heart disease, I was always told. There was a large portrait hanging of her in the main hall, the one I gazed at now, but my father kept no other pictures of her. And that's all the portrait was to me: a picture. I never felt emotionally drawn to it, not even for the thought of her. I didn't know her. Therefore I had no desire to be with her. It was with this strange detachment that my father's voice took on when he spoke of her, flat, to the point. After awhile I stopped asking.

According to the painting my mother was a very beautiful woman. Full-faced and full-figured, her hair was a thick, curly blonde that fell in a golden shower down to her shoulder blades, the higher curls of it framing her face in lovely brightness. Her eyes were crystal blue, the clarity that only holiness achieves. I though it was just the painting. I remember thinking of her appearance to be very child-like, with that youthful innocence that only enhanced her beauty. Then I scoffed myself for thinking such. If a painting could work for a President, it could certainly work for a rich man's wife. My father never told me where she was buried, but with the knowledge I have now I see that he had good reason not to.

Mark Jeffrey Daniels III was probably the only person I considered my "friend" back then. Red-headed and hot-blooded, he was one year older than me and in my opinion had a much better life. He lived with his aunt and uncle, his parents carrying on their businesses in Ireland, and he had complete freedom. His aunt and uncle didn't care what he did. He drank, he gambled, he messed around with girls. Of course, at eighteen, he was an adult…legally. His family didn't have the vast fortune mine did, but these pleasures of the flesh that he enjoyed freely were what I wanted to spend my youth doing…so I visited him as often as my father would allow. Mark lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue, only a few streets from mine on Fifth and Broadway. The morning after the party I was able to escape to his counsel. I found him lounging in the indoor heated pool he called a bathtub in his trunks. He asked what was foremost on his mind when he saw me: "How's Sara?"

"Hello to you, too," I said. He grinned, swimming up the the edge and crossing his arms over the tile floor. His thick hair draped over his head with sogginess, but was none the less brighter.

"C'mon," his freckled face contrasted his wide blue eyes eagerly. "What happened? You were up there almost an hour. How far did you get?"

"I didn't," I admitted and pulled up a chair. I was in a plaid sweatshirt and dark slacks that were gold compared to that horrible tuxedo. "I don't think I'll ever get her alone with me again."

"She's playing hard to get," Mark continued to laugh. In one smooth movement he pulled himself out, dripping water over the floor and onto me as he reached for a towel. "No worries, Hunter." He ruffled his hair with the towel then threw it at me. "I'm throwing you a real party. Tonight. Me and some guys I know are taking you out for a night on the town. Our treat."

To say the least I was astonished, but not ungrateful. "Where?"

"It's a surprise. The music's loud, the beer's great, and the women…" He gazed at the ceiling with a sigh of one living a fantasy. "You'll forget all about Sara."

By the end of that night, I had indeed forgotten all about Sara.

My only obstacle of meeting Mark that night was getting past my father. At first my hopes were doused totally. All evening my father sat in his study with his tea and pipe, working on things I was never sure of. The study was a smaller side room leading off from the main hall, which I would have to cross to get to the main doorway. He always left the heavy wooden doors to the study open as well. So was my obstacle.

Its solution was simple, really: find a means of escape other than the door. Escape! Ahh, that was it. The fire escape. It would be an easy enough climb to the street. I would slip out my window, then use all I could to remain silent on the creaky metal.

Night fell swiftly, and after double-checking that my father was working away soundly, I stole out my window and down the fire escape. I went slow at first, measuring each step on the metal. I knew that a mere pigeon landing on the rail was enough noise to stir me from sleep. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention. But, I found, as soon as I went I could increase my pace and still step without so much as a rustle. I laughed at this, and before long I was on the street.

I hastily straightened my sweater—the same I'd worn earlier—as I rounded the corner of the building to the front. I should have known it would have been safer to meet in the back of the building, but in my anxiousness safety was neglected. I saw Mark in his silver convertible with the top down parked against the curve. Two others that looked about our age sat with him, bobbing their heads to the music that blared over the radio. Deciding myself home free, I strode boldly towards them.

"Hunter?"

I spun in fear when I heard my name, most certain I'd been discovered. I saw first the horsey features of the doorman, a questioning look about his long face. In a haste I slapped two fifty dollar bills from my pocket into his hand, closing his fingers around them. "You never saw me," I whispered harshly. I then left him there, astounded, and jumped into the back seat of Mark's car.

"Birthday Boy!" he crowed over the radio as he took off, the engine of the car purring beautifully. Right off he introduced me to the two other guys: Gary and Simon, then them to me. Simon's green eyes glanced me up and down suspiciously from where he sat up front on the passenger side.

"Are you sure he's eighteen?" he asked Mark dubiously. "He looks a little young."

"Of course he is," Mark laughed, winking at me in the rearview mirror. "Yesterday was his birthday."

That seemed to satisfy him, and I leaned forward eagerly, peering over Mark's shoulder. "So where are we going?"

"Just you wait!" Gary pushed me back playfully.

The bar was of course one of the sleaziest places on the island. The kind where well-to-do heirs such as ourselves would never have been allowed to go...had our parents known. A single neon sign flickered and blinked outside over the single doorway, and from it the only words I could distinguish were "Blood Red." It was a three-story building wedged between two others that looked abandoned. The first floor was a bar, the second was gambling and drugs, the third prostitution…or so I guessed. I wasn't blind to these things, which made me all the more a fool to even go there.

We went in: four eager rich kids looking for a good time, not knowing what it was we were getting into. The place inside was laden heavily with smoke, lights galore, music playing from a loudspeaker somewhere that rattled the boards beneath my feet. Mark led the way directly to the bar, ordering a round of beer for us all. I stared at mine a moment, feeling a slight nervousness. I remembered tasting the champagne at the numerous parties I'd been to. I didn't like it.

"C'mon, Birthday Boy," Mark clapped me on the back. "Bottoms up." And he up-ended his drink after making a mock-formal toast that made my cheeks burn. I downed mine in a quick gulp, following the manner of my peers. The cheap beer tasted rancid and burned my gut, but I kept it down with only a cough. That's when I first saw her.

My arm was crossing over my mouth at that moment, wiping away tasteless foam, when I caught sight of her sitting unassumingly in a far corner amid the shadows. Immediately I stopped. She was indeed beautiful in a dark sort of way. It's hard to describe. Her raven black hair was fine and straight, just barely brushing her shoulders. Her mouth was small and thin, turned up in a small smile when she saw my eyes land on her. I think she must have been watching me for some time. She was dressed entirely in skin-tight black clothes: a shirt that reached only her midsection, and shorts that stopped just above her knees. What I found most sensuous were her eyes. Twin deep pools that had entirely black irises in the shadow. My attention was fixed solidly on her, and would have remained so if Mark hadn't pulled me back to refill my glass. When I looked back, she was gone.

Three glasses of beer disappeared down my throat, nothing compared to the five or six Mark, Gary, and Simon consumed each. In a little over an hour we were all little drunk, and a little bored. The dance floor was was crowded, the same type of loud music playing on end. It seemed all too planned…

"Hello boys," a voice behind us said. We turned. I drew in my breath as I saw the same girl in black standing there. Up close she looked drastically different. Her features were slanted, Asian-like, but her skin very pale in contrast with her clothing. Her eyes, though, still possesed that enticing sensuality. And she was not alone. A blonde and a redhead accompanied her, all dressed in cheap skimpy outfits. "Lookin' for a date?"

Mark leaped upon the opportunity. "I don't know," he swaggered. "Can you three handle us?"

The redhead squinted her dazzling green eyes, making an ugly face. "More the other way around: can you handle us?"

Mark thought there was no need for further conversing. So the four of us, hooting and hollaring, followed the three girls upstairs. I was the least drunk of the lot, which was probably the same reason the slant-eyed Asian took my hand and urged me on. Of course this was what I thought. The real reason I wouldn't discover until much later. "C'mon," she said, her dark eyes drawing me in. And I went.

They took us up the stairs to the third floor of the building, down a dark hall lined with doors. This building had once meant to be a hotal, I thought, and that was all on that subject. The hallway was dark with night, but in the dimness that filtered through I could make out the numerous cracks, gaps, stains, and peeling on the walls. I tried not to touch them. And from behind those rotting doors I could hear the most vulgar sounds. I don't care to remember them. It was the last doorway at the end of the hall that they swept us into, laughing mystically, shutting the door behind us.

The room was about the right size for a hotel, bare of furniture except two ratty metal-framed beds. A single window on the far end streamed in light from outside: the only source. Immediately Mark took one of the girls and sat her on one of the beds, covering her in wet, sloppy kisses that she seemed to encourage. The second girl pushed whom I just recently knew as Gary up against the wall, kissing his neck aggressively. She must have been doing something great, because suddenly he became very still and very quiet, her face turned away from me but still locked on his throat. Simon I heard snicker and join Mark.

The slant-eyed one pushed me up against the wall in a similar manner with a strength I found surprising, but in my intoxication very alluring. Her sensuous dark eyes caught mine and held them. It took my breath away when she kissed me, breathing slow and deep. I was rigid to the wall in fear, for you see I'd never done this sort of thing before…this was far different from the way Sara had acted. I grabbed her around her waist as her kisses went from my mouth to my neck, and that was when I was able to see over her shoulder.

Gary was still against the wall, but now he sat slumped on the floor, head lolling limply, as though asleep. I saw the woman he had been with glide like a ghost across the room, slipping into eager Simon's arms. She seemed fuller now than when I'd seen her before: healthier, older. Not a girl, but a woman. It didn't strike me that something was wrong until the woman crushing herself against me kissed my neck again, and I felt the prick of two tiny sharp teeth. I opened my mouth to cry out, but the raspy sound of hunger that came from her silenced me by fear. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails penetrating my shirt, and this time I saw the gleam of fangs as she lunged for my throat. The word "vampire" exploded in my mind then, but barely recognizeable. I pushed her back in a violent reaction to get away from this thing I knew not to be natural.

I screamed for Mark, but the sound of it seemed to be swallowed as something materialized from the shadows…or had it been there all along? All attention was drawn to him, the tall dark figure, standing in absolute stillness, face hidden in shadow. His outline dwarfed us all: Mark, myself, the three women, one of which now held a lifeless Simon in her grasp. I didn't know why or how Gary and Simon were dead, but it seemed that no other solution fit.

"What is this?" Mark growled roughly, pushing aside the girl clinging to him to stand. My own reeled a step back from me, glaring evilly at the new presence. Another sound, this one like the hissing of a snake, but just as disturbing, was aimed at the new figure but chilled my spine.

"Away with you," the slant-eyed woman hissed. "These boys are ours." She threw back a hand that pressed against my chest, pinning me to the wall with her strength, but I wouldn't have moved anyway. I was too petrified. Even moreso when the figure raised one incredibly long arm and pointed directly at me.

"I want only that one." His voice echoed in my ears, drawing from me an involuntary sound that I think was a moan. I could feel my sweaty hands press against the wall, shaking under the power of his voice. Mark was not so taken.

"Hey!" He strode forward boldly to the figure. Even if I did call out for him to stop I don't think he would have listened. "What's the deal? Are you making videos or someth—hluck!"

He wasn't within an arm's length of the figure when something flashed, faster than my eyes could follow, and my mouth fell open in horror as Mark crumpled to the ground, beheaded in mid-sentence.

If I screamed I didn't remember it. The same flash of black, an unseen movement, and I was jerked forward and flung to the floor. I found myself at the feet of the tall dark figure, staring into Mark's lifeless eyes. I held my breath, the figure's voice like steam escaping a vent. "It will only hurt a little, Hunter." He laughed, heartlessly.

But something happened. It began slowly, starting as only a warm feeling in my hands. It felt like a tingle, the circulation rushing back into them after being cut off: a hot itch. It spread quickly up my arms, through my back, igniting all of my insides in a burning fire. I felt myself gasp for breath, though the feeling was strange and frightening, it wasn't unpleasant. And something came with it. Something deeper down. An unfathomable rage such as I'd never known before. It is hard to describe unless you have felt it as well. Rage, wrath, bloodlust, none of these words seem to draw close to that feeling. I heaved myself to my feet, struggling to stand straight as the room seemed to rock. I heard the cruel laughter of the dark shape and the women falter, dying out. Then the room lit up, as though a sudden light flooded it, and for a fraction of a second I could sense everything around me. I could see easily through the darkness as though in broad daylight. I saw the figure's face: a rotting, molded lump of flesh that reeked of decay. I could smell as well. The scent of blood from the floor was overpowering, accompanied by the smell of ages that surrounded the women and the figure. But more than that, I could hear. Not only distinctly make out the sounds two floors below my feet and beyond the walls, but the rapid beating of their vile hearts, the sharp intake of breaths as one of the women cried out a word I didn't understand. And I felt power. That unspeakable, undescribable anger at nothing directly was accompanied by a surge of power. With these burning golden arrow shafts hurtling through my blood I launched myself forward at the figure. Anything after that was black.

The next thing I remember, I was collapsed before the main double door of the penthouse I called home, weeping horribly, and I had no clothes on. And a scent covered me. My mind didn't register in the sudden confusion that the scent was not as strong as what I thought was only a few moments before, but the horrible deathly musk I knew could only be blood.

I reached for the door handle, blinded by hot tears that poured from an unknown source, but visible plainly were my hands, covered in scarlet red. I must have already knocked or made some sound, for in an instant the door swung open, revealing the pleasant face of the maid. It turned a stark white when she saw me.

"Sweet Saints," she gasped and crossed herself, taking a step back. Her Scottish accent I had always found amusing before, but of little comfort now. She turned back, urgently calling my father. His angry words at being disturbed were heard plainly. He came stomping up behind her, removing the pipe from his mouth, his expression lightened in considerable astonishment as he saw his son. I looked at his face, but hadn't the strength to meet his eyes.

"Dad…"

My father said nothing. He waved the maid away, then drew me up to put his arm around my shoulders and led me inside. "This way, son." He took me up the flight of stairs to my room, draping the blankets over me as I crashed onto the bed: a heap of exhausted flesh. What happened next I'm not sure, for soon everything was forgotten as I slipped into a deep sleep.

My father was dead the next day.

They said it happened in his sleep, a mixture of stress, age, and double pnumonia. Where he'd contracted it, how long he'd had it, I don't know. The maid had found him when she came in as she did every morning. Immediately she roused me groggily and called the paramedics. I sat slumped wearily into the den chair and watched them take his body, seeming to be just asleep, down to the street where a curious crowd had gathered: public and press. I only then realized what had happened. Not emotionally, but financially. The rest of the day I was approached by people I'd never met: lawyers, accountants, my father's friends, and signed my name to more documents than I could count. By the end of the day I was the owner of all my father's assets, willed to me in his last statement. I wasn't able to even see my father until around midnight, and by then he'd already been laid in his coffin.

I remember standing there, looking down on his peaceful, leathery face, and finding myself shocked at the realization that I felt no sorrow. I felt nothing inside. Only a bleak emptiness. I had never loved my father completely, and I hated myself for it. I look back on it, then I look at the friends I have accumulated since then. They speak of their families as they knew them. I can only remember my father as a straight public figure who spent his days doing our accounts, and his nights working the circles of the aristocracy politics. I listen to those who say they have even slaughtered their parents. But it was blind, and they reflect on it with a near suicidal remorse. But I cannot. I could have slaughtered my father in cold blood and felt nothing. He was a stranger. I never loved him.

Four days after his death I was still signing papers, the richest teenager in New York with a 16 billion dollar heritage to manage, alone in a top-floor penthouse with only a maid and man servant. I was sitting at my father's old desk…the large, polished oak desk in the study where he used to spend his days. I'd found myself sitting in this large cushioned chair for hours on end since he died, my chin against my chest, my hands gripping the arms, wondering why I did not miss him. I thought the reason was obvious. I was an inconsiderate brat and so was my father. It seemed simple enough. My eyes roved over the study. I saw the ancient leather-bound books shoved together wall-to-wall along the high bookshelf, the dust dancing like golden sparkles through the evening sunlight that poured through the open windows, the marks in the polished wood surface of the desk where countless pens, mail openers, or coffee mugs had strayed my father's hand. This room reminded me so much of him, yet the thought of him was the thought of when I looked at a photo: meaningless memories. The same feeling when I looked at the portrait of my mother. I knew these people existed, that I had lived with them, but cared nothing.

I was in the study, thinking these things, when the maid knocked and entered slowly to hand me a large envelope that had just been delivered. It was large with no return address, only one word scrawled across the front in green ink: the flawless cursive strokes that I knew were my father's. Hunter. Slowly, I tore it open. Its contents were even more curious: a leather book no wider than my finger, a typed letter, a photo, and a knife. I sifted through them slowly. They smelled of dust and age, except the letter. I picked it up and read it.

"To Hunter Blakeney from your father John James Blakeney."

That didn't surprise me. It was the first line that disturbed me most.

"My son, you are not human. And you are in danger. Horrible danger. I am sitting here by your bed, watching you sleep, as I write this. I will probably be dead by morning. It may be due to the cough I've had for a month now, but I think it is more than that. If I live, this letter will be of no use and I will tell you myself, as I think I should. But you are exhausted from whatever it was that happened earlier tonight which brought you home bedraggled and bare. I can guess. The slight marks on your throat and the stench hovering about you reeks of vampire. I can see you are well, though tired.

Yes, I do know of the vampires. I know of them and much more, so vast I could not possibly explain to you in a mere letter. Let me start with the most important: you are not human. Nor am I. Nor was your mother, your grandparents, your aunts and uncles. If you remember what happened last night, you will know I am speaking true. If not, then read carefully. You, your entire family bloodline, are werecats: we appear human, but have the special gift of being able to change our forms into that of cats. You were never told because it had to come on your own time, when you first changed. With the actions of tonight I suspect that this was it. From my guess you were out, against my wishes, but out…"

That was my father. Dead for days and he still berates me.

"…and that you had some sort of an encounter with vampires. Their appearance must have triggered your Age of Change, but it was that involuntary shift, my son, that possibly saved your life. Otherwise I doubt you would have returned here. I can feel my cough growing stronger by the moment, so I doubt by morning I will live. I'm leaving you these few instructions. First, after you read this letter, burn it. Second, I am enclosing the address of B.J. Jones, or as I know him: Bustopher Jones. He is a close friend of mine who shares our secret of being a Jellicle. He will be able to explain things thoroughly to you. Have no fear, he knows who you are. I can't tell you everything you will need to survive this curse and blessing that runs in your blood, but he will. Trust him, but no one else until you have learned the signs of vampires, werewolves, and our other enemies. You must believe me, son. All of this may sound outrageous, but it's true. In time, you will learn. Lastly, the items I am enclosing in this letter are vitally important. Do not let them out of your sight. You must take them and go immediately to Bustopher. He will be able to explain their significance.

I trust you to good judgement through your life, son. I have tried to raise you as best I could, but being wealthy and having to hide my feline blood has been a task. Perhaps you will succeed better as a father than I, as you eventually must. You are my son, and I have always loved you as one."

I read and reread the letter at least four times, sifting and shuffling the words over in my mind, trying to make sense of them. I remembered dimly Brian James Jones from the times he'd visited my father, but barely. The rest of it, oddly enough, I did not question. After what had happened, so many deaths, the encounter with what I was now firmly convinced were actual vampires, my blank lapse, I found that I was willing to accept any explanation. At least now I had one. I moved as though in a daze, writing down the address, reading again my father's parting words, feeling a bite of remorse, burning the letter, then gathering up the items to leave. If I read the address right, this "Bustopher Jones" lived on Park Avenue, only a few apartment buildings away from where Mark used to live. I put the book and knife back into the letter package and was going to do the same with the photo when I held it up, studying it.

My breath stopped as I saw it. The photo was black and white, a little fuzzy, but its image was clear. A woman sat amid a tangle of sheets and pillows, a white slip her only cover. She was smiling at the child she held in her arms. I knew that woman immediately. It was my mother. And the child…

The child in her arms wasn't human. Built like one, it was covered in fur, possessed a tail, and had the features of a genuine cat. Its fur hung limp and wet from birth, a delicate pattern of bold stripes.

"That's me," I gasped out loud.

That was how I found out I was a werecat.