Tamay’s. What could one say about Tamay’s Pet Shop when one would rather say as little as possible about it? Not even Mercer had spared it more than three sentences: "Dealer in exotic, rare animals of magical or other inclinations. Owner is a buffoon and a louse--a buffoon's louse. You know why, Tamay." The memories it held for me smarted as badly as it had for Collector and the calf he had to chase down.

In bottom row shirt pocket number three, which was fortunately still intact, resided a key that laughed in the face of any door or lock. Well, not literally, but that would be an interesting upgrade to say the least. Hmmm. Anyway, I hadn’t used it in a while, so I hoped it remembered its additional benefit of leaving doors permanently unlocked for a few days.

Tamay owed me; or rather, I owed him a little something for his role in crushing my dreams.

How many times did I need to exchange his property with my calling cards to stick in mind? Even if the papers couldn’t remember me straight, the repeat victims should.

I unlocked the door, visibly, stepped inside, visibly, and slammed the door, visibly and audibly.

Birds and dogs called out from a backroom. It was dark. The business room featured tables, chairs, and on the checkout counter, the record book and cash register.

Tamay was out, keeping his nightly appointment with the bed and tables at the local night house/gaming parlor famous for its exotic employees and one-of-a-kind gambles. Probably where he had run afoul of Mercer, who, in writing of the place, had punitively penned the following description: "A place where unpleasant, lying, little men go to cheat on honest, loving women."

I turned to the front door to kick up my own larks, starting with a spell on Tamay’s lock to greet his next few returns; see if that sparked a memory or two.

Then, I continued by poking about the upper part of the doorframe.

“What are you doing? Find a collar and leash. Secure the kitten and depart.”

“Oh, I’m sure Kitty's secure enough in her cage for the moment, Your Lowliness. Don’t worry your little orange brains about it.”

“Fool, careless fool. You have only yourself to blame for your multiple deficiencies--”

I tuned her out as I fished about. Last time I was here, I had passed the time by hiding the money he had earned from his illegal ventures and tax evasions. I doubted he was clever enough to find all my caches of mischief. Like this one: I retrieved the bills from the crevice.

The trip here had only taken me two hours. I had time to spare before I needed to hoof it back, not to mention a few seeds to brain into silence, so I decided that Tamay needed a refresher course in “The Thief Who Returned What He Stole”--as my one and only article in the paper had dubbed me.

I smacked the bills against my hand. Coughed at the dust. And thought an exchange of dusty moneys for crisp and well-counted was called for.

I ventured upstairs and made the exchange, almost too swiftly for pleasure. He should really know better than to think his ill-gotten gains safe in a manually and magically locked lockbox under a floorboard under his bedpost in his upstairs living quarters. He would know better after tonight.

Even after lining the last cages of snoozing grey sparrows--elevated by a few choice feathers and some magic glue into Frasani parrots--some tax evasion remained unspread about. So, I turned into storeroom and finally picked up a leash and collar. Wound several around my belt, actually; I would need to rig them together before they'd fit, I suspected. The result would go well with the old "dog tag" in my pocket. Years ago, I had helped myself to some of Emilita's "trackable" protypes and converted them into "antis." In exchange for them, I hung some bills from the empty hooks, with the help of some "Frasani" glue.

My last stop was the empty isolation room, to check out the new contraband. I pulled aside the rug, lifted the trapdoor, and descended the drop-stairs to find . . . nothing. A waist-high, empty cage.

A waist-high, empty cage with a tag on it still.

A waist-high, empty cage soon to be fed the last, crisp yellow ten-mark.

After all, that cage had paid me the same attention the pups and parakeets had after a couple minutes’ passage. I pushed the bill through the gap in the upper bars.

A splatter of paw prints appeared on the sandy floor inside.

The bill was snatched down and batted about.

Then it stilled, and the empty cage meowed at me.

An invisible cat?

“Finally,” the Weedy One whispered.

I dropped my visibility to see the curiosity better, and my other, unwelcome state sluiced coldly over me.

The cage meowed again. And the meower appeared . . .

. . . still invisible; as invisible as me now. Or, well, not quite, not with that set of eight paw prints accompanying the vocal greeting. The feline's ability to stay hidden from me was encouraging, but the same could not be said about the number of paws, the size of the cage, and the choice of vocality.

“Retrieve the kitten, thief. That is what you are meant to do, or have you forgotten?”

Ah, but a little healthy skepticism never hurt anyone around certain goddesses. Too bad her supplicants never became enlightened to that fact.

I crouched down and flipped the tag so I could read the verdict.

SPHINX

JUVENILE

FEMALE

COLLECTOR’S

Seeing how the description just tripped off one’s tongue, I had no doubts left. This was one of the few genuine purchases Tamay had secured: the Sphinx’s kitten.

“How in the world did he manage this? No, a better question. How does one even find a Sphinx, young and eight-pawed or giant and four, to take anyway?”

“Just take her!”

“Now, now, goddess, politeness--and explanations--go a long way.”

The angry rustling inside my goddess vial evoked another response: a trill from within my target’s cage.

I smiled and patted the cage top soothingly, “Your mother, or rather mothers, sent me to bring you to her. Not the smartest course of action given her involuntary living situation, but, hey, it’s your family. Maybe they’ll listen to you. Although mine never did.”

With a loud meow, half the paws disappeared--not that she didn’t have plenty to spare--and three reappeared pressed against cage bars. I appreciated that interesting visual--floating pawprints--and wondered about the remaining paw. Didn’t have to wonder long.

The missing one batted at my hand.

I jumped, then laughed. “Sharp senses. Wonder which is doing the tracking?” And why couldn’t I return the gesture on either Sphinx?

The paw slid off my hand, but not the print. Its warmth faded, slowly, and with it, eventually, the image. I shook the feeling out.

“Careful, that warms the cockles of my thieving heart, Kit.”

While the goddess growled and vibrated, the kitten meowed, but I doubted she agreed with the goddess. To the goddess’s further annoyance, I pulled out from my whistling repertoire a lively folk tune about a sailor man who returns to his long-lost love, a farmer woman. While the goddess imprecated noisily, I freed Old Reliable from my chest pocket and jabbed it into the lock.

Yup, magic. And strong.

The needle was as frisky as Kit and her helping paw or three. I stuffed Ol’ Reliable back home, pulled out my lockpick kit, and whistling louder, got down to work.

That Door of Promise I had talked about earlier? I was opening it now.

Wide open.

##

Once freedom was complete, I forestalled Kit’s escape and unwound from my belt the purloined leashes and collars. I selected the blue one, attached my anti-tracker, and tossed the spares into a corner.

The kitten gave no protest as I fastened it and guided her out of the cage. She even allowed me to reengage the lock without jerking me about.

“Are you sure you’re feline?”

The Collector wasn’t the only one who had an interest in invisible kitties. In my seventeen (and a half) years, I had run across exactly three invisible things. And the first was currently holding the leash of the last. Mother made second. Or did she count as second and third, making Kit fourth--or fourth and fifth?

Hmmm. It did make a kit-napper wonder.

In spite of the goddess clinking out a few more complaints, I picked the juvenile Sphinx up.

Though long, large, and awkward, she was surprisingly lightweight, house-kitten weight . . . and feline beneath my touch: long body, long tail complete with a rear end, and cat-like legs--forgiving the number, of course. But once I reached over the collar to find the head, she did protest, pressing paw prints against my legs and suddenly increasing to bobcat weight--another feline feat--and I thought I discovered why: a shaved patch, but no wound, on the neck. I had missed it when collaring her.

Her tail, hard and whiplike, lashed against my leg, and I lifted my hand from her neck before a score of something sharp and painful followed.

“Shh.” I stroked her back. Jerkily, since it was hard to determine where that began. “Head area off-limits; got it.” That patch was troublesome. No doubt the missing fur was in Collector’s hands and would be in the most powerful sorcerer’s come morning to track the kitty. “Perfect. We’ll see how well my blocker works after all this time. It would do my sister proud.”

Emilita loved anything to do with magic and security. Mostly security.

So maybe when we finally caught up, I’d leave out the particulars of some of my exploits.

Some.

The weight in my arms shifted, adding a couple dozen pounds over my wrist. I returned to minding her, and after a few stroking apologies and promises, her weight eased to housecat margins, and some of the paw prints eased up and lifted away. They disappeared further as she curled in my arms and “purred.” Not the most reassuring sound coming from the big-cat types.

“Are you done with play, child?” the goddess said. “Leave here, thief.”

“Patience, my sweet slime mold, patience. I still have business left.”

I set Kit down and pocketed Collector’s tag--memento--one to start over with, since I burnt such things years ago as a waste of time. But inside that same shirt pocket, I had secured my last few calling cards. Blank as blank could be.

Here you go, Collector, have a few. No, have six.

I dropped them in the cage. Maybe that might be a clue. Or better yet . . . I snatched one up and scribbled on its back. I forwent the usual: particulars of how my theft could be retrieved and whom they could thank for that misappropriation. Instead, I chose a simple taunt, “Remember me now?”, to go along with a graphic aid of an elephant with many tusks.

Sharp, overextended, and oddly placed tusks, thanks to Kit’s helpful paw.

I attached that card in place of Collector’s tag.

The goddess scorned my artistic abilities or something like that, until she realized she wouldn’t get a rise out of me, not this time. She belonged on the other side of that opening door.

But Kit didn’t, especially not when she rubbed her odd, closed jaw against my legs: a nice reminder to be followed by one less pleasant if I didn’t heed.

“Right, right,” I told her. “Time to go. Fame and remembrance don’t wait around for me. Though oddly, you do.”

The goddess made a disgusted sound.

“That’s a long attention span for a cat. For anyone and everything, actually. Your mothers are the same.”

“It is not hard to ignore your insolent insubordination, thief.”

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Kit meowed and struck a paw at my vialed nuisance.

“Ignore her, lovely girl.” I petted Kit’s head. “She gets cranky”--and strangely retentive--“when stuffed in a lone little glass, without a single worshipper around to corrupt or ignore.”

The goddess made a new growling sound, one that sounded more like cracking nuts than anything. Kit returned one far more convincingly. I just snickered as I guided Kit to the drop-stairs. That was when another thought hit: what would people think, seeing just a leash following paw prints in road? Would that be worth ten minutes’ notice? Maybe twenty?

I didn’t know, but it was worth finding out.

Halfway up the stairs, my thoughts were interrupted: a load groan and growl of machinery sounded outside.

Kit strained up the last stair and onto the floor above. I didn’t get the chance to remove the hinges and leave the trapdoor as a hard welcome mat as planned. She barely let me drop the trapdoor and rug back into place; my own curiosity barely let me. Kit kept the leash taut and shot a straight path, avoiding tempting tweeters and bossy barkers and tables and chairs to tangle leashes around and foul their holders under. Now what animals run toward a racket?

I caught up and snatched her up at a front room's window.

The machinery outside was long, gleaming, grey, and it smelled of smoke.

So, this was Collector’s “motor vehicle”--never a “car”--up close and noxious. And he had sent his minion to come collect something else. Could one dare hope he had sent himself in the car, too, given the object in mind--and currently in my arms? I could spare a little hope that way, at least.

The goddess sighed like skidding gravel and tinked softly. “It all ends.”

“Now, who’s the fool?” My hands were full, so I couldn’t slap her one. “Shut up.”

Tamay limped into view first, from the right. He never limped unless forced out of pace.

Then I saw that force, stalking after him in the form of compacted muscle in black-garbed man-shape. This guy bore a silver, long shock-stick slung across the back like a sword, while one silver glove rested on a matching long-knife poking above the hip. The only oddball was on his right wrist. A white bracelet . . . with black markings, but still, it broke his color scheme of silver, silver, and lots of black. Thus, it was something important. Thus, worth picking off. Later.

Tamay and Collector’s grunt passed beyond my view, arriving at the door--but where was the reason for Tamay’s premature culmination of nighttime pleasures? I pressed closer to the window. Cooling his heels in the rumbling monstrosity? Surely the noise or the smell would drive him out soon.

Kit shifted in my arms, squirming. I soothed her with a stroke down the back. She soothed herself with a clawed stroke down my arm. But not eight rends. I got the hint and let loose a little invisibility, like dipping my hand into ice sludge and lavishing it all over.

The leash and paw prints disappeared. She squirmed, and my invisibility squirmed with her.

Now isn’t the time to act all antsy like your lesser kin species, Kit.

After all, this wasn’t how I wanted to make Collector’s acquaintance. Surrounded by reporters, yes; surrounded by tacky grunts and brain-freezing, bowel-loosening shock-sticks, no.

Tamay was rattling at the door, trying to insert his key by the sound of a scratching attempt or three. By the pause that followed, he had found it already unlocked (permanently for a few days).

Oops.

I heard something indecent from him, loud enough to make Kit squirm again. Tamay’s curses ended at the same time as the door banged open, removing, by the sound of it, an inch of plaster from the wall. Just like the grunt had removed an inch of lung from Tamay, by the sound of it. The birds and critters awoke again, screeching and barking with gusto. The grunt dashed in, fast as a dog strike, bearing shock-stick. With the heel of his boot, he helped the door rebound closed, though it banged into Tamay instead. The grunt glanced at the wall behind it.

What, thought to have squooshed me? Not hiding there.

The grunt, looking over the room and seeing nothing, moved on, to nose about the animal noise, and incidentally, one hoped, the isolation room.

I could leave now, no one the wiser. Or I could stick around a while and see them grow wise to their loss.

Or Kit could stick a set of claws into my arms as Collector’s grunt passed; that could wisen folk up, too. Too well by eight.

I tightened my hold and lifted the paws.

Meanwhile, Tamay, rubbing a minor dent in his chest, closed the door and thumped after the grunt at a safer distance.

I tracked their progress through the store’s rooms as the animals sat up and took louder chorus. I was about to follow myself when a stubborn, warm paw print appeared on my hip.

She was too distracting, to me and my hold on our shared invisibility. So, I flipped her over, holding her like a human babe, startling her into stillness.

That wouldn’t last.

But I only needed enough time to make sure my message got across. I didn’t expect Collector to connect me to the family he had snubbed (via a minion, never in person), but he damn sure was going to connect me to the thief he had ignored years ago. But what did it take to hurry things along? I looked down at my armload and wondered exactly how long Kit prints would linger on car windows. Long enough to make a decent impression?

Out of nowhere, my chest twinged, hard. Couldn’t be a Sphinx-related warning; it was hours too soon for that. I would have shifted the kitty aside to rub at the pain, but the sidewinding weight in my arms turned board stiff. That was a warning I chose to heed.

The shop door opened silently, and a man stepped in.

Collector was tall, in a three-piece grey suit and a white cravat like a flourish of frosting at his neck. In a grey-gloved hand, he had a cane, yes, with a grey body, but its head was not visible. His head, however, was, and it was topped with short hair of an unnatural hue of grey, although his face had frozen at some point during the centuries as middle aged. His eye color matched it, as did the single scar peeking up his neck and onto his jawline.

He did not glance about, but moved directly and silently inside like a shadow, stopping a few paces from the door.

A grey shadow.

A shadow that did not need the cane. Fashion accoutrement or something more in an innocuous shell? When he tucked it under his arm to pull off his gloves, its head came into view at last: a white labyrinth design floating in grey, at which Old Reliable twitched once.

Since I had resumed use of my magic detector, it had been rather vocal, commenting with neurotic regularity since the Lab and its Sphinx, and not just on magical things. Since Ol' Reliable had been quiet all this anxiety-inducing while (for a needle), I suspected its current commentary hinted toward something magical being afoot.

I had a suspicion that magical something was interesting. Memento-interesting. Hmmm. . .

I put thoughts of appropriating a certain cane aside for the moment and watched as Collector's grunt barged back into the main room (with thumping Tamay in tow). That only left the beasts even more unsettled now that he was out of sight.

“Sir. Sir, you should have waited.”

His arms twitched as if he wanted to move Collector somewhere safer or just hurry him along anywhere that wasn't here. Touchy.

“I sensed,” Collector said, “all was not in order.”

His voice was cultured, but amongst the elite, that left him sounding . . . normal. Take away the hair, eyes, scar, and attire, he looked like normal, casual wealth. A look my family strived for, especially Bredt and Father, but as their money was always grudgingly spent, it always came off forced. They would be envious but awed to have the opportunity to see the paragon of affluence standing before them.

Me, I felt . . . I felt . . .

A pain in my chest and a tense cat trying to be mouse weight.

Tamay was obviously feeling the same shrinking emotion, trying to appear innocuous as furniture. Not the best idea, especially standing behind a tense grunt expending energy through rippling his muscles. I had a feeling furniture didn’t last long around him once he got all rippled out.

Collector said nothing else, but his grunt gave Tamay a look, like a set-on pointer dog. That sent Tamay sputtering into action.

“Sir, Col--your pur--ac-acquisition--” He flapped an arm, expressively, until the grunt stared him down. “Gone.”

Collector took his cane and placed it square in front of him. He folded his hands over its head. He did not regard the speaker. He just . . . waited.

“Sir.” The grunt shouldered Tamay aside. “No evidence of the rotten snatcher, but the lock’s on, and there’s something you should see.”

“Please,” Collector said.

Grunt snapped into action. With a look and muscle twitch, he forced the sweating Tamay to limp ahead. Collector followed, sedately. Let’s just hope Collector could evince some surprise, some emotion before the news journalists’ time came, otherwise . . . I looked back at the shop front door. How would Kit handle a car ride to the local news parlor or three, I wonder?

Despite a rustle-seed protest and wriggle of an unwieldy cat, I took a precious moment to crack ajar the back door, just in case. Collector’s grunt had a suspicious bulge at the back of his pants that bespoke a hidden projectile device, and that I wanted to become acquainted with even less than his shocker.

Emergency escape route secured, I sat down on the drop-stair step where I could see how the others preoccupied themselves. I left Kit on the floor above, where the rug once laid before Grunt kicked it against the wall. Yup, all furniture better start inching itself next door before its next incarnation was kindling.

I let the invisibility slip off Kit to lessen my distractions, but left it on the collar and leash (I wasn't that much of an idiot, weedy opinion aside). Now, what had I missed? Nothing good I hoped.

Tamay stood by the cage, looking as if he contemplated the safety of Kit’s former cage over sharing open space with the rippler-turned-pacer behind Collector.

And Collector?

He turned his head and looked in my direction.

I held my breath, hands tightening on the leash. His focus made the ache in my chest expand tenfold.

What had he seen? Had he heard me walk? My escape-route door hadn’t squeaked, neither had any of part of the drop-stairs, and the animals hadn't changed their tune since the invasion by Grunt. The leash stayed out of sight, invisibly so; Kit more so, hunkered on the floor. What then?

Nothing much, apparently, for Collector, at his leisure, turned back to the cage.

He went to one knee, amongst the litter of blank-white cards.

Reached out a hand like a man receiving a goddess's blessing.

And he touched my little reminder.

Tamay mopped his brow, lips dropping voiceless curses, while Grunt flicked glances between Tamay and my card all the while licking his lips.

“Mr. Tamay.”

Tamay stopped and ducked, as if somehow the name and title were a death threat. Could be. Never heard of Collector not getting what he wanted; wouldn’t it be great if the whole world could?

I gave Kit a stroke of thanks that could turn into a muzzle of restraint if need be, but she did not budge from her tense crouch.

“This implies,” Collector said, “our nameless thief has interfered with my possessions once before. What say you on this?”

Tamay licked his lips. “Sir--I--sir--”

Tamay didn’t know. I sagged. I had stolen from Tamay--and thus his customers--five times as practice runs. Each time, I had left the blank-faced cards, with the particulars handwritten on, including my name (in case they wanted to chat about it). I had taken special care with the be-all, end-all failure. It wasn’t easy picking that four-tusked elephant calf. I had to remove a door; or rather, it did. Sadly, everyone remembered it as the elephant that escaped on its own, which was why large animals were no longer on Tamay’s to-get (or to-fake) list.

My former victim remembered that well enough. Why not a hint of me? I rubbed the twinges in my chest. What was so hard about that, huh?

Tamay was winding up his incoherence with “I’ll--sir--the--” He stumbled backward. “--the police--let me--sir.”

Before that could be a moving concern, Collector rose, smoothly, and said, “I see.”

Tamay twitched into stillness.

Shivering, Grunt slid close behind his master’s back. “Let me get the dogs, sir. Flush the scum out. Take a couple hands in prize or . . . ” He licked his lips, rubbing his right, braceleted wrist against his hip. “Something else.”

At that, Ol' Reliable rolled in a visceral warning, but I didn't share its sudden fret. Hard to remove something from someone you couldn’t even see to forget, much less remove a couple somethings.

“No,” Collector said. “That won’t be necessary. I want him whole.”

That was nice. I squeezed my fist as I rubbed it against my chest. All ten thieving digits appreciated that sentiment.

The overeager pit bull in grunt-form didn’t seem to agree, but he did heel. With a soft snarl.

Collector pocketed my calling card. “Pay the man, Mr. Rey."

Grunt’s large hand rested for a moment on the hilt of his hip blade, making it clear how he would like to pay Tamay. Then, with a grumble, he let it slide off. He reached into his pocket.

“But--” Tamay dared to question, but not to look at, Collector. “But, I don’t--I--gone.”

“Oh, but I will have it.” Collector placed his cane under both hands again, and he stared at the cage. “I will have it. Never doubt that, Mr. Tamay.”

My cue to leave. I rose and flipped Kit over in my arms, who surprisingly didn’t protest with a well-aimed claw or stomach missile. I exited through the back. Rounded the building. And perched a hip on the massive trunk at the rear of the shuddering--and still rank--vehicle. Those vibrations Kit did not appreciate, so I had to settle for loafing casually by it while Collector waited by his door.

He leant on his cane, the picture of ease, appearing not at all bothered. But he had to be. He just didn’t show things normal people did. That made him interesting, and interesting meant that much more memorable in the public eye, and that would spread over onto me. Keeps getting better and better, now doesn’t it? I thought as I rubbed a kitty shoulder against my throbbing chest in lieu of a fist. After all, she had plenty of knotty joints to spare.

Grunt arrived and opened the car door. Collector sat himself inside, but instead of shutting it, the employee paused and sniffed, nose in the air, scenting something above vehicle odor. That was how he earned the more apt and less generic nickname: Pit bull. But what was he nosing out?

The cat squirmed in my arms. Not now. I tightened my grip. We don’t want to find out firsthand, or rather shock-hand, Kit.

Pit bull clenched and unclenched his fists, just as the cat wanted to clench and unclench her claws in me.

He stepped closer.

I didn’t dare move.

Kit did; she twisted again, nearly twisting the invisibility off her leash and chunks out of my hands.

I grabbed the paws. I concentrated on the leash and paws’ invisibility, not an easy thing to hold on living things; harder to do on moving things; even more hard on living things trying to move away and get me killed or handless.

I concentrated and concentrated, and Pit bull . . .

. . . sneezed. He shut the door and padded away to the driver’s side door. My cue to move out of the way.

The vehicle rattled and spewed, making the beasties in the shop howl anew. Lucky them; Pit bull drove away in a toxic cloud. A massive toxic cloud.

Once my lungs evicted their gassy squatter, the pain in my chest eased to . . . a complete and total absence of any discomfort. Better and better. I lifted the cat up before me to praise her.

Her hacking made me lower her below face level.

Even so, things were looking up and could only get better. “You deserve a treat, kitty. Want to join me at a deli, or, better, say Collector’s kitchen?”

She went bobcat weight and growled, long and deep in her throat. Message clear. Didn’t need seedly chimings-in, but her Lowliness differed in opinion about that. Long and endlessly.

I set Kit down on the sidewalk, so she could carry her own weight for once. She trotted ahead of me, then behind me, then around me, then between my legs, and once nearly up them. Tame as one of Emilita's guard pups on the first day of training.

Ironically, she favored pit bull mixes.

I wonder if Collector did (of the canine sort).

Em might like a new pup.

Kit carried out her routine twice more before I finally got the hint and turned my full attention onto her. “Done?”

She mrowed.

“Good, time to go home, Kit.”

In her eagerness, she nearly pulled my arm out of socket.