Chapter Twelve
The little battered automobile was returning once again. Demeter's ears pricked at the sound; from her hiding place in the rosebushes, she leaned forward expectantly.
Jellylorum and Roary Huffersnuff were immediately on-edge as well, holding their breaths as their eyes followed the car up the driveway. After what seemed like an eternity, Minerva slowly emerged from the cat door.
"Something's wrong." The words were out of Jellylorum's mouth before she could stop them. Minerva was walking too slowly, her eyes were too veiled, her manner too subdued.
"No." Demeter's heart broke. She moved towards the tortoiseshell, towards the words she didn't want to hear, the knowledge she didn't want to have, and yet, she couldn't stop herself. It was as if she'd lost complete control of her own body.
"No, no, no, no. Please. No." That was her prayer, a hurried whisper repeated over and over again.
Minerva saw the words on her lips and her face contorted in compassion. And that look answered all of Demeter's fears, bringing them to life in roaring, ripping, blinding color.
"It...can't." Suddenly the air was sucked out of her lungs. Everything became very still and very, very quiet. The world stopped.
"I'm so sorry," Minerva's voice was soft, pained, broken. She reached for Demeter, but then pulled back, as if she feared that by touching her, she would shatter the black and gold queen completely. "They tried. But it was too late."
"When?"
"Beg your pardon?" Minerva leaned forward, trying to catch Demeter's low tone.
"When did she die?" Demeter was suddenly calm, achingly calm. Roary looked over at Jellylorum and was shocked at how quickly her entire being had changed—she looked like a different cat, with her red-rimmed eyes, her face that seemed to age a century in a matter of seconds, her slumped shoulders, her vacant stare.
"This morning." Minerva sighed. She motioned back to the stoop, where another cat timidly waited. "Sybil was with her. She can talk to you about it, when you're ready."
Demeter gave a curt nod. She turned back to her mother, took a step forward, and fainted.
Jemima woke up screaming, being shaken awake by Dina, whose face was pale and filled with worry.
"Jems! Jems, it's just a dream!"
The younger queen sat up suddenly, looking around wildly. She couldn't remember the dream, all that she could remember was darkness and terror and something else.
"Something's happened," she tried to catch her breath. "Something's happened back home."
"What? What has happened?" Dina's voice was soft, but her eyes were curious. Rumor was that every Jellicle possessed a mystical power, and she wondered if Jemima had some kind of prophetic gift.
"I don't know," Jemima began to cry. "Something bad has happened, I can feel it. I just...I don't know what it is."
She suddenly looked very tiny and very young, and Dina's heart felt a twinge of motherly affection for this poor kit. She pulled Jemima to her, cooing softly in her ear as she held her. She felt the warm gusts of Jemima's breath on her shoulder, and heard the younger queen whisper some unintelligible words. Dina tried to discern them. Jemima was saying them over and over, like a mantra or a prayer.
"I have to go home, I have to go home, I have to go..."
Tantomile gently dabbed a wet cloth around the still-red stitches. It had been two days since Teathrice's injury, and Tanto was surprised at how easily she'd fallen into the role of nursemaid, cleaning her wound and feeding her and singing her to sleep. She generally became queasy at the sight of blood, and was practically useless when it came to taking care of other cats, but she never had the slightest difficulty when it came to Teathrice.
Perhaps it's different when you love someone. The thought rolled across her mind so naturally, and yet it left her stunned. It stunned her because she knew it was true.
She loved Teathrice. More than any other cat besides her brother, but that was a different kind of love—the love of siblings was something that seemed imbued from birth, some strange bond that could hardly be broken. It wasn't a choice, or something one really thought about.
Of course, she hadn't really thought about loving Teathrice, either. It was just something she knew, something that had grown so quietly and so gently that she hadn't even realized it was there.
But now she knew.
The black and white queen immediately tried to sort out this new information, to categorize it and put it in its appropriate box in her mind, but she found that she couldn't. She loved Teathrice, she knew that much, but it wasn't in the way she loved Coricopat, it wasn't in the way toms loved queens, either—at least she didn't think so. She'd never loved anyone with the kind of love that cats sang and wrote poems about; she'd always thought that part of her must be broken in some way, that she was forever detached from the ability to feel such all-consuming passion. No, what she felt was something quieter, much gentler.
She suddenly realized that she didn't want to know. She didn't want a label or a category for this feeling; she didn't want to take this unnameable thing and slip it into a box that couldn't possibly contain or describe everything that it was supposed to hold. Trying to find a simple logical term for this complex emotion seemed only to profane and degrade it. For once, the unknown seemed better. So she would let this thing remain as it was, without question or reason or name or known source.
Notekins O'Malley entered the den, giving Tanto an excuse to pull away from her thoughts. He offered a small, tired smile, "How's she doin' this morning?"
"Better, I suppose," Tanto returned a small smile of her own.
"You could just ask me instead of talking over my head like I'm not here," Teathrice's low voice was tinged with amusement. She didn't even open her eyes to watch Notekins' reaction.
"I thought you were asleep." He admitted, and now the smile on his face was deeper and warmer.
"I was until you came in. You're the noisiest cat I've ever known." The grey queen directed her next comment to Tanto, who was still lightly dabbing the cloth on her stitches, "That feels nice."
"It's healing nicely, too," Tantomile informed her.
"As nicely as a debilitating wound can heal, anyways," Teathrice added, her tone still wry.
"It's not debilitating," Notekins corrected her.
She turned her attention back to him, her face suddenly sober, "O'Malley, I can't feel the tips of my toes. My whole left foreleg feels like it's asleep. Whatever damage was done, some of it will heal, but not all of it. Even if I don't end up being a complete cripple, I'll still have a limp that will effectively change my daily life."
"We don't know that for sure." There was a hardness in Notekins' voice. He wasn't the type to accept defeat.
"I do." Teathrice replied softly. She understood his need to fight, his desire to overcome, but she knew her body and she knew what it was telling her. Besides, the sooner she accepted that some things would never be the same, the sooner she could start the emotional and mental healing process.
"I'm not saying I won't try," she added gently, and she was relieved to see that it seemed to be enough to calm whatever was brewing beneath the surface of Notekin's eyes. "I'm just saying that I won't be joining the circus as a flying acrobat anytime soon."
This earned her a smile from the tom. It was a rare thing, seeing his smile, but it was also a nice thing to see, with so many troubles lying at their door. Which brought her to her next question, "Has there been any word from Roary and the others?"
"No," Notekins shook his head, and she could tell that the lack of news frustrated him. He would never admit to worrying about them, but Teathrice could read him well enough to know he was.
"I don't think it will end well," Tantomile spoke quietly, and the certainty in her voice turned Teathrice's stomach to lead.
"What do you mean?" Notekins was still, very still.
Tantomile didn't answer.
"Tanto," Teathrice's voice was soft, with fear dancing just at its edges. "Did you…did you see something?"
"I haven't had a vision," the black and white queen answered, setting the cloth back in its bowl. "But I always seem able to sense when something's wrong with Demeter, or when something's about to happen to her—and this morning, I woke up with a queer feeling in my bones."
"Perhaps you could be a little more specific," Notekins' expression was unreadable, but Teathrice could tell that he was shoring himself up for whatever ills were to come.
"I can't, really," Tanto replied sadly. "I just felt…off. Like something bad was going to happen. It was a foreboding, but not a vision. I can't tell you who or what it was about, specifically. I'm just assuming it concerns Demeter, because she's the only one I have that connection to."
Notekins let out a frustrated sigh, but Teathrice simply nodded—after all, she understood better than anyone else the intricacies of Tanto's prophetic gift.
"Well, if something has happened, then I'm afraid we shall know soon enough," the grey queen rested her head on her paws. "Nothing left for us to do but wait."
The black tom gave another growl of discontent as he turned and walked out. Tantomile watched him go with worried eyes, but Teathrice seemed unfazed by his behavior.
"He doesn't like waiting," she commented, although Tantomile had already figured that out on her own. Her voice softened, "That's the warrior in him, I suppose. Give him a battle and he'll fight til the bloody end, no matter how hopeless and futile it seems. So long as he feels that he can do something. He's always been a tom of action. It's all he knows."
The last line was delivered with a mournfulness, a pity that Tantomile found both touching and intriguing. It was obvious that Teathrice and Notekins were close friends, at least at some point. Tantomile wondered if the grey queen ever used that tone when speaking about her to other cats. She certainly hoped not. Being pitied was the worst fate she could imagine.
Electra was mentally sizing up the building's security system when Misto and his father appeared from inside the club—each day, Macavity was showing his son another part of his vast empire, and today it was his largest and most successful venue, The Blind Tiger.
"It's the best that money and illegal connections has to offer," the gingertom informed her, following her gaze up to the set of cameras positioned at the top of the building.
"I bet I could get around it," she stated. Her voice held no challenge; it was simply matter-of-fact.
Macavity gave a surprised grin, "You think so?"
The dark queen gave a curt nod, her eyes following the wires connected to the cameras, which ran along the edge of the roof. There was something methodical about her inspection which told Macavity that she wasn't bluffing.
"I like her," he told his son. He cast another admiring glance back at Electra, "She's got brains, I can tell, and she isn't afraid to speak her mind."
"Speaking her mind has never been a problem for Lecs," Misto agreed with a wry smile. This earned him an annoyed look from the dark queen, but he could see the amusement behind her eyes.
"No point in having the ability to think if you can't express your thoughts," she returned easily, her gaze going to Macavity. It was a phrase she'd heard Jennyanydots quote many times, and she felt a small prick of sorrow at the memory of the cat who'd raised her.
"Indeed," the gingertom's grin widened. He gave a nod in Misto's direction, "My son tells me that you wouldn't let him come here without an escort."
"I'm sure you can agree, sir, it's neither wise nor safe to walk these streets alone. Especially these days."
Macavity nodded in agreement. He turned back to Mistoffelees, and though his tone was light, there was a seriousness behind his eyes that his son did not miss, "Keep this one around for as long as she'll stay. No matter what you do in life, you always need cats you can trust, cats who will stand by you and protect you, even when you don't think you need it. Those are the ones you keep, no matter the cost."
Misto simply nodded, shooting a glance at Electra, who was looking down at her paws. If her fur wasn't so dark, he would guess that she was blushing. She wasn't used to being complimented, especially not by the most powerful cat in London.
"We'd best be going," he gave his father a quick hug—it was funny, how easily they had fallen into this strange ritual of hugs and jokes and back slaps and laughs, as if they weren't complete strangers only a few days ago. He was grateful for every minute of it, because in these little moments, he realized that on some level, he had finally found that bond that he'd so often envied in other fathers and sons. He felt a pang of sadness at the thought that Electra would never know that feeling.
She was turned away now, trying to give them a little privacy as they said their goodbyes. When Misto walked up beside her, she flashed one last smile at Macavity, who waved and wished her well in return.
The two Jellicles headed down the street, falling into the comfortable gait of two friends who had walked many miles together.
"He's nothing like I thought he'd be." Electra spoke after a pause.
"I never knew what to think he'd be," Misto admitted.
"I'm glad." She noticed that Misto was looking at her, silently asking for more explanation. "For you. I'm glad that he's not what I thought he'd be like. I'm glad he seems like a real dad."
A smile blossomed on Misto's face. "Me, too."
There was another pause. Misto spoke again, "Lecs, do you ever wonder what your parents are like?"
A few seconds passed as she considered his question, "I used to. Not anymore, though."
"Why not?"
"Because I knew that I'd never know for sure," she admitted with a light sigh. "So what's the point in wondering?"
"You might still meet them, someday."
She gave a short, bitter laugh. "And how will I know them, Misto? Do you think they'll instantly recognize me, like Macavity did you? I was found in a cardboard box in an alley only a day or two after I was born."
There was a beat. Electra's voice was small, broken, "I'm not even sure when my birthday is."
In that moment, Misto swore that he could literally feel his heart break. His heart was breaking for this beautiful queen with her uncertain and tragic past, for her lost parents and her unknown birthday, for his friend whose face was filled with a hurt that he could understand on such a deep level.
He stopped. She stopped as well, but she didn't look at him.
"Lecs."
"It's OK, Misto." Her eyes finally met his, and he could see the unshed tears shimmering at the edges. "I told you earlier, it's something I've had to live with my whole life. It is what it is. Don't make a big deal out of it."
"But it is a big deal."
"Why?" She wasn't angry, just hurting and wanting the hurt to stop. Her voice was plaintive, "Why does it matter so much, Misto? If I'm OK with it, why can't you just be OK with it, too?"
He had an answer. He didn't want to say it. Words only meant so much, and this was the kind of thing that needed to be shown, not said.
So he didn't speak. He simply traced the outline of her face with the tip of his paw. Her expression changed from sorrow to confusion to soft wonder as he placed both paws on the sides of her face, leaning forward to place a single, tender kiss on her mouth.
He pulled back, still seeing the wonder in her eyes, coupled with something softer. He held her face a second longer, "It matters because it does matter to you, Lecs, whether you admit it or not. And when it hurts you, it hurts me."
She bit her bottom lip, giving a small nod. He released her and began walking again. She caught up to him, falling back into sync with his steps. She didn't ask why he did it. He hadn't expected her to. Words only said so much, and this was the kind of thing that had spoken so much more.
Demeter stared down with unseeing eyes at the newly churned and flattened earth. The events of that morning seemed a thousand years away—her mother had revived her from her faint, the other house cat, Sybil, had quietly told her about Aleyn's last moments, her baby's last acts of bravery, and the human queen had appeared in the front yard, tearfully digging a small grave under the rose bushes and laying a heartbreakingly tiny cardboard box into the ground before covering it back up. Demeter had hidden in the neighboring yard with her mother and Roary, too cowardly to run over and say her final goodbyes to her baby's face, too scared to try and take the box from the human so that Aleyn could be buried properly beside her grandfather and all the other Jellicles, where she belonged. Now her daughter would rest here, far from home, in a strange box in a stranger's yard, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and sounds.
The black and gold queen felt another wave of hysteria clawing up the back of her throat, and she took a deep, slow breath, trying to fight back the tears and wails and curses that would inevitably follow if she allowed her emotions to rule once more.
She heard her mother's soft, tentative footsteps behind her, felt the warmth and the strength of her.
"Demeter, my darling," her mother's voice was soft, softer than Demeter had ever heard it sound before. "We have to go."
"I can't leave her here."
"You have to, for now at least," Jellylorum was calm, soothing, taking control of the situation, taking care of everyone, as usual. "Minerva has agreed to dig up the box later on and bring it to the Yard. But we have to get back now. We've been gone too long as it is."
Demeter didn't respond, even though she knew her mother was right.
Jellylorum stepped forward again, wrapping her arm around her daughter's shoulders. Her voice was weighted, measured, hesitant, as if she feared somehow disturbing her daughter further, "You have to go home and tell your mate. You have to go home and take care of your other two kits."
"Two daughters," Demeter whispered, her voice harsh with tears. "Two daughters I have lost now. And both because of my mate."
Jellylorum didn't reply. She couldn't refute the statement—in all honestly, she agreed with the score—but she didn't want to stir up Demeter's anger. Now was a time for mourning, not for blaming and pointing fingers.
"Come," she turned and moved back towards the gate, where Roary was waiting with a worried expression. "It's time to go home."
Demeter reached forward, pressing her paw into the rich, dark earth, as if her warmth would radiate down to the little body that she knew was quietly curled up underneath. She had meant what she said—both of her daughters had been victims of their father, one of his cruelty and another of his pride. And upon both their souls, she would be avenged for this. She would be avenged if it took her own life, if it razed London to the ground, if it shattered the foundations of the world around them. Whatever had been left in her heart for this tom was now dead and cold, like her poor baby. She would not rest until he suffered for his crimes against her heart and her blood. And oh, would he suffer. He would suffer until death seemed like a sweet, peaceful release. He would suffer and cry for mercy, and he would know what it meant to betray his family, to betray the most precious gift he'd been given on this earth and had so foolishly tossed aside. He would suffer, and she would be avenged. There was no other way. The die had been cast. There was no other fate for them. Not now. Not ever.
*A/N: Just FYI, The Blind Tiger (the name used in this chapter for Mac's most popular club) is actually a pub in my city-during the prohibition, it was a restaurant of a different name, and there was a speak-easy in the back, and the password was 'blind tiger'. Also home of some of the best onion rings and drunken Sunday night karaoke you will ever find. I'm not sure why I feel you need to know this, but you do. So now you do.*