This chapter is heavily inspired by Phantom. If anoyone had read Susan Kay's masterpiece, they'll get it almost immediately. I basically gave Macavity one of Erik's more dangerous talents, but no, he does not have the voice of an angel!

Disclaimer: Props to TSE!! (And Al Dubs, I guess...)

He lay, ginger body stretched over a slightly stained velvet cushion, slowly running his claws over a long piece of wood he had found earlier that day. His eyes were like slits, seeing everything but leaving everyone sure he was in a dazed state of unconsciousness.

Oh, how he relished these moments of rare peace and ecstasy!

He flexed his paws, his eyes rolling back as his claws began to caress the wood in a deathly powerful scratch. He could feel it resisting, but like everything else it would yield to his grasp. He prized the first moment of impact with his claws, the first dent made in the perfect surface.

Macavity loved to mark things as his own.

He had always had a strange fancy for owning things and making sure they knew who owned them. From an early age he took to scratching long, sharp lines into everything that pleased him. But back then that didn't include living beings.

What a silly little tom he had been then, thinking that trust and friendship were enough to bond another to him. He had learned long since then that the only way to mark something for your own was to physically leave a mark.

Macavity could feel the tension in the air and fed on it like a parasite. He sucked in anxiety and fear and let them swim around in his lungs before being expelled in a dank black cloud that engulfed any who dared to come near.

Two of his henchcats were stationed just inside his den now, their stiff bodies standing erect in almost laughable severity. But Macavity did not -- would not! -- laugh. He, the Napoleon of Crime, the Hidden Paw, the Mystery Cat had a reputation to uphold, and he would not let a little enjoyment ruin it.

"Bring her in," was all he said, carelessly flinging the piece of defiled wood with such aggression that both of the henchcats jumped. It made quite a bang as it hit the walls of stone and slid down to rest on the dirt ground. Small particles of wood -- the shavings from his clawing, no doubt -- drifted slowly in the air around him, one landing on his nose.

Rather than shake the particle away, Macavity licked his nose, feeling the splinter sink into his tongue. His eyes rolled backwards in ecstasy, savoring the salty taste the blood brought to his mouth. Very discreetly, he pulled the small particle out of his tongue and flicked the now red splinter to the ground with one sharp claw.

His attention was captured by the sound of a scuffle outside the entrance to his den. He turned his head lazily to see two new henchcats enter, dragging a magnificent queen with them.

"Ah," he purred deeply, betraying his pleasure at the sight of her face. "I can't tell you how much effort it took to find you, my dear. You should be very proud of yourself. Running from the Hidden Paw is not an achievement no fool could hope to reach."

His voice was low and deep, his practice of ventriloquism allowing it to wrap around the queen in a strangling embrace, brushing against her exquisite fur in a way Macavity had never tried. He watched, pleased, as her eyes closed, not in fear, but an undeniable pleasure.

"Yes, you like the sound of my voice, don't you," Macavity waved one paw, signaling for the henchcats to exit. He picked himself up off the cushion and began to walk over to the queen who now sat entranced by the sound of his voice. "It does have a certain sense of power, does it not?"

He was close enough to touch her now, and yet she remained oblivious of his intentions. Her eyes remained closed and Macavity noticed her claws were out, slowly tensing and relaxing in time with his voice inflection.

"You see, dear, the Hidden Paw possesses a voice like no other, powers of persuasion like no other. My deep, low rumble has entranced -- even seduced --" Here the queen's back arched and she let out a small moan, "-- many queens stronger than yourself."

She was all his now, his for the taking. All he had to do was reach out and grab her paw and lead her down into the dizzying black hole that awaited them.

Macavity began tracing her outline with his paws, moving as carefully as if he was a master sculptor lovingly caressing a finished piece. With each swoop of his paws through the air, he added another swoop to his voice until it elicited the desired reaction.

Without the slightest touch, he had driven the queen onto his velvet cushion, lying on her back in a provocative position. He knew she would never consciously act in this manner, displaying herself for a tom, but he wanted to see what her future mate was in store for, what she was capable of.

He wanted her to learn, to please him. To be broken in.

How close he was to her now! Barely breathing, he began crawling onto the cushion as well, crawling on top of her but not making any physical contact. Her ragged breathing played about his neck, tickling him with its light touch and flowery scent.

She really was a jewel, this one. A pure diamond glistening among a tribe of mud-streaked pebbles. He had only to drop a single black dot into that diamond to make her as his own, to claim her from any other tom forever. His claws were aching terribly, as if they were going to swell up and fall from his paws. His whiskers twitched, longing to mingle with her own in a forest of passion.

It would only take a second, and the pain would subside in time, even though the mark would remain forever on her… inside her.

For none was Macavity's for the taking unless it had been marked first.

"Skimble, tell me about Rhet again!" Macavity whined, his paws aching from following Skimbleshanks around, begging for a story.

"Mac, I can't," Skimble's voice was strained but apologetic. "I promised Jenny I'd be back before twilight. You know how big she's getting…"

"Please, Uncle Skimble," Macavity pressed, fastening one ginger paw on Skimble's arm. "I didn't get to hear it last time."

"And you don't think you're getting a little too old for these stories?" Skimble asked sarcastically, cuffing Macavity fondly on the ear.

"No!" Macavity insisted. He was quite a bit older than he had been all those Balls ago when he had first learned of his abilities, but he never tired of Skimble's stories about Vainamoinen and his son Rhet. Now, almost out of his kittenhood, Macavity still curled up into a tight ball, his tail flicking viciously, and listened in silence to all of Skimbleshanks's stories.

"All right," Skimble conceded at last, gesturing for Macavity to join him in a nook of the junkyard between an old mattress and a long abandoned bookshelf. Macavity snuggled up on the ground, his back resting against the mattress, while Skimble took a spot opposite him.

"What do you want to hear about Rhet, then?" Skimbleshanks asked.

"Tell me the one about how he came to find himself," Macavity requested, not at all ashamed of his liking for the gory tale.

"You always did like the horror tales best," Skimbleshanks shook his head, but cleared his throat and began the story.

"Rhet returned to the Jellicles not long after his father's death. Nobody recognized him as Vainamoinen's son, one of the dreaded thaumaturgists, so he was able to slip easily back into the group under a false name.

"As you know, each Jellicle has three names: the family name, their Jellicle name, and their personal name that will remain hidden. Rhet pretended to have adopted a family's name: Percival.

"Under the guise of a domestic housecat, Rhet became well-loved in the tribe. He made sure to always say a kind word to the kittens to win over the queens and listened to the tales of the older Jellicles. This was how he was able to find out more information about his father's childhood.

"This was also when he found his mother. She was very old now, suffering from arthritis and completely blind. Rhet heard her story, how she had left him and his father out of fear, before meeting her. When the two finally encountered each other, Rhet treated her with indifference bordering on contempt that shocked the others. Eventually Rhet was able to gloss over this first reaction, but from then on the elder Jellicles became wary of the seemingly perfect tom.

"They became even more suspicious when his mother disappeared, but none of them dared do anything about it. They were terrified at what a thaumaturgist was capable of and none wanted Rhet to reveal himself.

"He remained as Percival, took a mate, and fathered a litter. His kittens turned out to have no magical ability, so the tribe began to relax, deciding that a couple coincidences were not enough to convict a near-perfect tom.

"But Rhet had not converted to the life of the Jellicles, far from it. He took on a double life, a doting mate and father under the Jellicle Moon and a perverted mastermind and murderer. He had a hunger for all things obscene and horrific that steadily grew to be insatiable. Rhet became careless, letting his real identity slip into Percival's persona.

"When the Jellicles finally opened their eyes to see the terrible truth, it was too late to make amends and accept him as one of their own. He had committed crimes that were unspeakable, unfathomable, for a Jellicle. They knew they were dealing with a very twisted mind.

"Rather than have things escalate to a fight, Rhet left the tribe on day, never to return. Nobody is sure why he chose not to hurt them, but it was widely accepted that he did not want to hurt any of his kittens. One of them may have been hiding a magical ability that had yet to develop.

"After Rhet departed, he went into withdrawal, deeply conflicted. As much as he tried to convince himself that he hated the Jellicles for what they had done to his father, he could not deny the wonderful stories he had heard and the unforgettable fun he had had. He even still felt twinges of affection for his mate from time to time, and there was a fierce and burning love for his kittens. These feelings combined with his old hatred caused the tom so much distress that he turned to the only release he knew.

"Queens."

Here Skimble paused, his expression concerned. Macavity had his arms wrapped around himself and was rocking back and forth in an almost worrying fashion.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes!" Macavity gasped, his breath coming short. "Please keep going. I love this story."

"Okay…" Skimbleshanks looked skeptic but pressed on nonetheless.

"Queens. Somehow he was able to seek out the ones that knew just how to act, just what to say, just what to do to please him. He took so many into his den -- willingly or by force -- that he found it impossible to keep track of them. Their multicolored furs blended together in his hazed mind, causing him distress as his own inferior memory.

"But it was when a very special queen arrived that he finally found the solution to his problem.

"Somehow his old mate had gotten captured by his cronies and was dragged helplessly to be thrown at Rhet's feet. At first Rhet did not recognize the scrawny tabby, but upon closer inspection he realized just who she was. Terrified that she might escape and return to the Jellicles to tell them of his true identity and alienate his kittens, Rhet used ventriloquism to force her eyes closed, to force himself inside her mind before her body.

"He asked her many questions that night, questions about the tom she had once loved. He asked her about the kittens, who were now almost reaching adulthood. He asked her about the Jellicles, about herself, about himself. He wanted to know why his friends, his family, had deserted him, had left him to drown in the black tornado swirling around him.

"When he was finished interrogating her, he felt he could not take her as his own. She belonged to another cat, Percival, whose return she admitted she still waited for. He had lain with her so many times in nights past, allowing her to break the emotional barrier he had guarded so strongly since his kitten hood. She had been his friend, his companion, the only cat he would ever love.

"But no! Percival was no longer, and Rhet was who was here now. As the queen laid on the ground, her breathing labored and still wavering between consciousness, Rhet flexed his paws, inviting his claws to come out.

"He began running his claws against her body gently, never anywhere to cause her discomfort and never hard enough to draw blood. He traveled over her altered figure, her neck, back, tail…

"His paw came to a rest at the top of her right flank. Yes, that seemed to be the spot. He spread his paw as wide as it would go, prepared his claws and himself for what he was about to do, and sank his claws into her body.

"She let out a shriek that reverberated around the room, her blood flowing freely to stain her leg. The sticky liquid covered his claws in a thin red film and mingled with the fur on his paws. Her body went limp and she collapsed on her side, her injured flank facing upwards.

"His old mate now had five deep claw wounds on her leg. Rhet knew they would close up eventually, but he knew that scars would always remain. He had marked his first victim.

"Rhet continued in this fashion, permanently placing his mark on his many cronies and queens. This not only helped him keep track of his followers but also made it easy to sniff out imposters, which had become a problem after he had let his mate go, unharmed in any other way.

"But this encounter showed Rhet who he truly was: he was an avenger, out on a mission to create a new race of cats. He was going to find the next generation's thaumaturgist and take him away, train him, teach him. He was going to finally quash the Jellicles, the tribe that had caused his father so much pain.

"One day, Rhet swore, every cat would bear the mark of the Hidden Claw."

"One day," Macavity's voice was a low growl, menace growing every second, "One day every cat will bear the mark of the Hidden Paw."

His eyes, still slit-like, turned away from the queen on his velvet cushion and towards the fire in the corner. Its crackle could be called merry, even friendly, but nothing enters Macavity's lair with those adjectives. The popping coming from the fire was menacing, matching the growl of its creator.

Macavity walked over to it, his paws fastening around the long metal rod poking out of the fire. At the end was the shape of a paw print, glowing red hot. This paw print looked as if a cat had gotten into a terrible accident and tracked blood all over.

He had discovered the art of branding by accident. He had been sitting peacefully by his fire when one of his henchcats so unwisely chose to disturb him. Outraged, Macavity seized the tool he had been using to stoke the fire and struck the cat with it. Though the burn healed, the fur never grew back.

Macavity had then discovered the perfect use for this discovery. Using his own paws as a guide, he created a brand like none other, that none could replicate.

It was a brand of a paw print with six claws.

For six claws was another mark of a thaumaturgist, one gone unnoticed to others. Macavity himself sported six claws on his right paw, just as the thaumaturgist before him had. How he laughed at those pathetic Jellicles, scampering around trying to locate the thaumaturgist when proof was right beneath their eyes. Nobody, not even the wise and all-knowing Old Deuteronomy knew of this unique quality.

Normally the mark went unnoticed to other cats, and if they did get close enough they did not look long enough to notice the peculiarity of the brand. Macavity had been able to keep himself safe from spies quite easily.

He approached the unsuspecting queen, the brand humming with impatience. How it longed to sear the flesh of a new victim, to mark another forever as having been used by Macavity. Her haunches were calling to it, asking for its warm touch, its burning caress.

For the brand only went on the haunches of those queens Macavity took for his own. His henchcats each had the mark on their sides, but only queens had this special mark.

Macavity paused, his eyes intent on the queen.

How to do it? He wondered, as he often did before a branding. Some came to him begging for the mark, wishing nothing more to be of use. Others shrank against him, screaming in protest and then pain as the hot metal touched their flesh. Others still he kept spellbound, his voice convincing them that nothing was happening to them, that a nice warm paw was resting there.

But this queen was special, and Macavity couldn't just mark her and be done with it. This queen deserved something more, something special.

"Dance for me," he demanded suddenly, surprising himself when he crossed back to the fire with a business-like importance and replaced the brand.

"Yes," the queen's voice was deep and foggy. She rose from the cushion and began swaying her hips, swinging her tail along to silent music. Macavity recognized this dance; he had seen it countless times as a young tom, and it was only fitting that this was the one performed for him.

This dance was a Jellicle tradition, the only tradition Macavity respected and wished to keep one day. At the very middle of the Ball each year, mates would meet in the clearing and dance together as one being before lying down together. Macavity had always longed to dance with that one special queen while he was still a part of the tribe, but it had become clear as he grew that she would never come to him willingly, not while he still lived.

But now Macavity had a queen all for himself, dancing that special, sacred dance for him. He restrained himself from joining her with difficulty, reminding himself that she was not the one he was to share this with, that that special queen was still out there somewhere, waiting for him.

But this one… This one was still different. Macavity had had his eyes on her for a long time, for she was a queen strong in both body and mind, a rare tuxedoed queen that had never graced the face of the Earth before.

No, Macavity was not going to bind himself to this queen in the everlasting Mating Dance. He had picked out that queen before he consciously had known what he was doing. But that would not stop him from marking another queen as his own, a queen that would stand out from the others he had already branded.

This queen, the one preparing herself for him now -- whether she was willing or not -- was his queen, the one chosen to bear his litter.

Macavity knew, even now, while she still remained pure and untouched, that she would bear him a tom that would be the spitting image of her, one with six claws on one hand.

She would bear the little tuxedo kitten that would become the next thaumaturgist.

Don't you just ADORE foreshadowing?