The morning was, surprisingly, never a write-off at Paddy’s Tavern. There was always some boozehound or night worker looking for a fix at ten a.m., and who was Russ to deny them?

He wiped down his first table of the day. There were already a smattering of patrons at the bar, laughing and chatting and drinking; in the corner of the room sat a man in sunglasses and a comical yellow mac.

The staff and regulars had started a betting pool on what was underneath it - Russ had twenty pounds on bat wings.

Mornings were his favourite: no arguments or over-animated discussions about which actor has the best haircut, or which football team needs to sack its manager. The smell of cleaning products was preferable to sweat and booze-breath, too.

Inhaling the ammonia aroma, Russ felt his eyes being drawn to the front door. Phantom hackles raised as he snarled, his every instinct telling him to Shift and start fighting - a reviled enemy long forgotten had returned to haunt him, and he wasn’t letting it get the drop on him.

“Meow,” mocked the cat, a tiny black thing with shifting, shadowy ears and a tail longer than its body.

“You again,” said Russ, popping the buttons of his shirt as he tore it off. “I knew this day would come.”

***

Climbing off Choo-chooin, Jack and Sam took in the facade of Paddy’s tavern. There were a few people milling about around them, and the sound of traffic and street salespeople overwhelmed the lack of noise from the pub.

The air was crisp and cold, the smell of fumes and salt eliciting a grimace from Jack, whose head was pounding.

“Are you sure we should have left her alone?” said Sam, stretching.

Shrugging, Jack stepped towards the door. “She said she’d be fine. Besides, waiting in case it comes home isn’t a bad idea.”

“But if it’s her cat-”

Jack whirled round, pressing his lips together. “You remember this thing, yeah?”

“Well, yes-”

“And you do realise that in the stories, Bakeneko end up killing their masters, right?”

“I doubt there’s much truth to that-”

“If said master had pissed it off?”

Sam blinked. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

“You’ll find out.” Shaking his head, Jack paced through the front foyer and into an empty barroom.

Several stools and tables had been upended, shattered and splintered wood littering the floor; drinks were abandoned on the bar, which was covered in smoking scorch marks.

Sitting alone at an untouched table was Russ, naked and plastered in angry red welts and scratches. Were those bite marks? He nursed a tumbler of scotch, his swollen eyes cast down.

Jack edged closer. “Bit quiet, ain’t it?”

Sam scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. It’s barely eleven o’clock.”

He cast an eye to the line of half-empty glasses on the bar. “Yeah, sure.”

Glancing up at him, the giant Shifter’s stance shifted, and he threw the chair out from underneath himself; his eyes were wild and frenzied, his teeth bared and dripping.

“What the fuck did you do?!” he said, grabbing Jack by the collar.

Squinting, Jack shoved at his iron grip. “What you on about?” His arms went slack. “Don’t tell me…”

Sam’s brow knit together.

Jack said, “the shit I took this morning was so monstrously big it clogged your plumbing, too?”

Russ’s nostrils flared. “Obviously not! What have you been eating? And what’s with the sudden explosion of toilet humour?”

“Don’t you mean excretion of toilet-”

Shaking him, Russ howled in rage. “I’ve had enough out of you! You told me you took care of that cat, so why’s it coming here walking on my face?! And when are you going to pay your tab?”

He chuckled in an effort to mask the escape attempt being made by his insides. “I mean, it sort of just took care of itself; found a person it liked and moved straight in.”

Russ growled. “So you didn’t actually do anything? What did I give you all those free drinks for, then?”

“Camaraderie?”

Wrapping his hands round Jack’s throat, Russ glowered at him. He felt his windpipe constricting, the delicious air blocked from making it to his lungs. He panted. His chest was burning, and his vision was getting spotty.

Gasping in relief, he stared up at a broad back clad in black.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Sam, arms spread wide. “But I don’t think we’ll get anywhere like this.”

Russ leaned in, eyes narrow and sharp. “And who the bloody hell are you?”

“Sam Bluett-Duncan. Paladin.” He fingered his collar. “Slightly concerned about the state of this city’s plumbing.”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

As if synchronised, a drop of sweat fell down the others’ heads. Russ said, “a Paladin? As in, mighty warrior of God? You don’t look all that mighty to me, sweetheart.” Despite Sam’s stature, Russ was still a couple of inches taller and significantly wider.

Sam grasped the sword in his belt. “Can’t you tell from the presence of a holy sword?”

“I don’t see any holes, though,” said Russ, leaning down to analyse it.

Simmering, Jack leapt at Russ, pushing his face away. “Don’t just flip from straight man to wise guy mid-scene! Who’s supposed to retort?”

“You!” He dived towards Jack, thumping into Sam’s side-stepping torso.

“This is entirely unconstructive,” he said, pushing Russ back by the shoulders. “First, my friend, tell me your name.”

Scowling, Russ knocked the Paladin’s hands from his shoulders. “I’m not your friend, and my name’s Russ.”

“Ah, yes, if I recall correctly, you are…” He looked up, lips pursed. “Shifty.”

“Shifter! I’m a Shifter!”

“Yes, that was it. Anyway, we require your sense of smell in order to track down the Bakeneko. And since you are clearly not fond of the creature, what reason could you have to refuse?”

Pointing over Sam’s shoulder, Russ said, “just the one: I can’t work with someone who keeps dodging his responsibilities!”

Jack exhaled, shaking his head. “Always getting tied up over the tiny details.”

“There’s nothing tiny about your bill.”

Sam looked between them, eyebrows raised. “How much?”

Russ told him.

Spluttering, Jack said, “that can’t be right!”

“That’s just the interest,” said Russ.

“You could buy a peerage with that!”

With a solemn expression, Sam turned to Jack. “Can you pay?”

Jack looked away. “No.”

Clenching his fists, Russ said, “stop adding to it, then!”

Sam turned back to Russ. “It is okay to want what you are owed, but material possessions will not follow you to the kingdom of Heaven, and that is no reason to raise a hand against your fellow man.”

He clicked his tongue. “He barely qualifies as a man.”

Jack mirrored his action. “Yeah, f*ck you too, Russ; you’re just bitter you got beaten up by a cat.”

“What was that? Maybe you’re just bitter because Lydia’s the real protagonist!”

Silence fell, deafening the three of them as Jack stared through Russ, hyper-aware of his own heartbeat; it was like a marching band had decided to hold a rehearsal outside his window at three in the morning.

Diving for Sam’s side, he gripped the holy sword’s pommel and heaved.

It refused to budge.

His face red and stomach acid boiling, Jack braced his feet on Sam’s thick legs, yelling as he tried to budge the immovable sword. “Why isn’t this working?!”

Sam cleared his throat. “It can only be drawn by those with a righteous heart.”

“Not the one destined to rule England? And I’m about to inflict righteous justice, dammit!”

“You can’t say that when even the monochrome girl is more important to the story than you.”

“What was that, you glorified extra? Wait till I get this sword out!”

Sighing, Sam eased Jack away, regarding the two of them. “Rather than violence, gentlemen, why not a contest to decide who is in the right?”

Jack scoffed. “Like we have time for a contest.”

Sam nodded. “But of course. Whoever catches the Bakeneko first will be the winner.”

They both stared at him for a second, looked at each other, nodded, and floored him; in a flurry of movement, both men rained blows upon the grunting Paladin.

In unison, they said, “how stupid do you think we are?!”

***

She decided Blackpool didn’t look any better from the air.

She was hovering a few hundred feet from the ground, surrounded by a grid of massive roads and tiled roofs. There was a network of alleys branching out from beneath them, full of vermin and rubbish. The smell wafted up; her nostrils cringed.

“I don’t see any fires,” said Hannah from beside her. After a quick tutorial, she had taken to flying like she’d been born with wings. Lydia’s stomach had twisted seeing it: it had taken her months to get it right, and it was her magic.

Spotting something in an alleyway, she set off downwards. “Perhaps we should take a closer look.”

“At what?” Hannah followed her, her balance perfect.

They hovered between a pair of high roofs, looking down at grey concrete and decaying fences and wheelie bins. In a crook between three bins was a family of ginger shorthairs. Two were long and sleek, one with a notched ear; the other was small and fluffy. They all looked dirty and thin.

Lydia pointed at them. “You see, it’s a little-known fact that stray animals have their own, very complex society.”

Hannah blinked. “You’re kidding me. How do you know?”

Shaking her head, Lydia gestured at the splitting group of cats, sending a tendril of energy to each. “I’ve always had a special relationship with animals. Let’s follow, and I can show you.”

They floated along above the kitten, through alleyways and over gardens, drawing the stares of pedestrians whenever they came into sight. Eventually, they came to a corner in another alley.

Several kittens were gathered around a white, regal-looking longhair. They were mewling excitedly, and a couple were wrestling with each other; Lydia motioned to their kitten, which was joining the gathering.

Hannah was more focused on the longhair, which was for some reason wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches.

“Here you see stray cat school in session.”

Hannah twitched. “That’s definitely not what’s happening.”

The jacketed cat mewled, and the kittens fell silent, sitting attentively in a row as their teacher pulled out a whiteboard and began making notes on it.

Gripping her temples, Hannah squinted. “Where did a cat learn to write?”

“At stray cat school,” said Lydia, smiling. “The one in the jacket is the teacher, and they command the utmost respect from the kittens-”

One of the kittens fidgeted, and the teacher mewled angrily; the kitten, its tail rod-straight and hackles raised, pounced on the teacher and tore at his jacket.

Lydia tittered. “There’s always one in every class, isn’t there?”

As a unit, the rest of the class leapt, burying the teacher between a mass of claws and fangs.

“What was that about respect?” asked Hannah, gawking.

Clearing her throat, Lydia started flying away. “I’m sure it’s just part of the lesson. Come, let’s find the mother.”

Her tendril told her their quarry was a few minute’s flight backwards. When they got there, they found the ginger mother with its notched ear; she was writhing on her back on a doorstep, showing her belly to a portly middle-aged woman.

The woman stroked the cat, teasing her with a piece of fish.

“As you can see,” said Lydia, with the practiced air of a tour guide, “the social calendar for a mother stray is very intensive.”

With a flat stare, Hannah said, “it’s just begging for food, isn’t it?”

“Very well,” said Lydia, floating off, “then let us find the father cat.” This one was a longer flight, almost half an hour to get to a wide opening in an alley between two restaurants. The doors were open, and they could hear the whirring of machinery and smell baking food.

All around, nosing in bins and around the doors, was an eclectic mixture of shabby cats.

“And this,” said Lydia, “is the stray cat office.”

Rubbing her cheeks, Hannah groaned. “Please don’t do this to Mr. G*rvais.”

Spotting their target, she grinned; once they resolved this incident, Jack would have no choice but to admit his own incompetence and defer to her. She would be one step closer to running the city.

“Down there, you see our father, yes?”

Following Lydia’s gaze, Hannah nodded. Her eyes set on the shorthair from earlier cowering from a black moggy, having its nose battered by the bigger cat.

“Why’s it not fighting back?”

“Because that’s the boss cat.” She felt the smugness pouring out. “He’ll know everything about cats on these streets, so we should talk to him.” Descending, she alighted in front of the feline pair with a smile.

All the cats stopped in their tracks, turning to glare at Lydia.

Hannah made a face. “How do you intend to talk to a cat?”

“Meow,” said Lydia, blinking slowly at the boss cat.

Hannah slapped her forehead.

All the cats stared at her.

Then, they yowled; with bristly fur on end and teeth glinting in the winter sun, every cat fled from Lydia as fast as its legs would carry it.

She slumped to her knees.

“Oh,” said Hannah, “that kind of special relationship.”