Barely slowing, I glanced back over my shoulder. Vic stood behind me, holding the storm door open with one hand, while the other covered his nose. Blood ran down his right arm, dripping from his elbow to land in a spreading crimson puddle on the back step.
Damn. I’d slammed the door in his face.
“Sorry!” I yelled, already turning back to face what little I could see of Marc as he ducked beneath a low-hanging branch at the tree line. Vic mumbled something so low and muffled that even with a cat’s enhanced hearing I couldn’t make it out. But I could guess, and it wasn’t pretty.
My eye on the goal, I sprinted with a new surge of speed, powered by determination and irritation at Marc. Blood raced through my veins. My lungs expanded with each deep, exhilarating breath. My entire body was alive in spite of the heat, reveling in the thrill of exertion and the glory of the outdoors.
I pulled my sports bra over my head as I passed the guesthouse, where Marc and the guys lived. The warm wind tore the lightweight material from my fingers, and it snagged on a clump of holly bushes growing along the back porch of the guest house. As I ran, I worked the ponytail holder free from my hair and let it fall to the ground. At the tree line, I kicked off my shoes and stripped from the waist down.
In a small clearing just inside the forest, I dropped to all-fours, pleased to see Marc in the same position several feet away. He was almost done Shifting, and I hadn’t even started, so I did an abbreviated version of my usual silent meditation routine. As I focused on the rhythm of each slow inhale and exhale, my Shift began on its own, a convenience which was the result of years of practice and a conscious effort to put my mind and body at ease.
In Shifting, one rule holds true: the more anxious you get, the more pain you experience. But I’d learned quickly, following my first Shift at the onset of puberty, to relax and go with the pain. And eventually I came to welcome it. My mind was never so clear as when pain forced me to concentrate and internalize my focus. Each searing, stabbing sensation sharpened my thoughts, and each agonizing ache lubricated the grinding gears in my brain. My learned ability to think through pain had come in handy on more than one occasion, and had saved my life at least twice. That made pain my friend. A very good, love-to-hate kind of friend.
As my back bowed and my joints popped in and out of their sockets, movement to my right caught my eyes through lids squeezed almost shut in concentration. Marc had finished his Shift. He stood before me on four powerful feline legs, long muscles bulging beneath a gorgeous coat of glossy, solid-black fur. He stared back at me through eyes the same gold-flecked brown they were in human form, though the shape was entirely different.
Unlike lions, tigers, and the other breeds of large cat, which have round pupils similar to that of a human, in cat form, we have the distinctive oval pupils of a house cat—vertically oriented black slits. And because it was daytime, Marc’s pupils had narrowed almost completely out of existence to protect his sensitive feline retinas.
I blinked at him, and he licked his muzzle in return, flashing a mouthful of pointed, slightly curved teeth. He was mocking me. He could already have been halfway to the stream, but he’d stuck around to watch my Shift because he knew he could afford to. Marc was flaunting his anticipated victory, and in that moment, my new goal in life became making him pay for his arrogance with a mouthful of bitter dust raised by my paws as they flew past him.
Marc watched me carefully, waiting for the onset of the final phase of my Shift, which would be his signal to leave. If he hung around until I finished, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Fresh pain lanced through my face as it began to ripple over a sickening current of elongating bones and protruding teeth. Marc huffed through his nose and slunk gracefully toward the far edge of the clearing. Toe pads nestled on a soft bed of ivy, he turned back for one more glance, just as the first undulating wave of fur sprouted on my back, flowing down from my spine to cover my torso.
With a silent, powerful shove against the earth, Marc was gone, soaring over a three-foot-high clump of undergrowth to land soundlessly on the other side. By the time sharp, curved claws erupted from the ends of my new cat toes, I could no longer hear him running through the forest. But that didn’t mean much. Cats can be absolutely silent when they want to. And Marc wanted to.
His nose still dribbling blood, Vic shoved aside a low-hanging branch and ducked into the woods. I paused long enough to give him an apologetic glance, then followed Marc through the forest toward the stream.
Trees flew past as I ran, launching my newly lithe form over moss-covered logs and around bushes. My body resisted such strenuous exercise at first, because I hadn’t taken the time to properly stretch my new configuration of muscles. But soon the act of running eased my residual stiffness and alleviated that I-don’t-fit-into-my-own-skin feeling that followed a Shift. With those kinks worked out, I was free to enjoy the exhilaration of racing through the forest at a speed no human could possibly experience without the benefit of an engine and at least two tires.
From all around me came the sounds of the forest: nature’s residents, busy even in the midday heat. My practiced ears had little trouble weeding through the myriad croaks, squeaks, chirps, hisses, and the rhythmic rustle of leaves as I searched for any sign of Marc.
Marc had truly disappeared, but I’d only been running a few minutes when the gurgle of running water met my ears. Even if I hadn’t known the way by heart, I could have followed the sound to its source. Rather than tracking by smell like dogs, cats use their sensitive hearing to locate prey, one another, and anything else that makes noise.
I turned toward the sound, and a couple of minutes later I could smell the water. Or rather, I smelled the minerals, plants, and creatures in the water. And suddenly I could smell Marc. We may not use our noses to track, but we use them regularly to identify one another, and my nose was telling me Marc was somewhere just ahead.
The race wasn’t over yet.
Encouraged, I scrounged up a fresh burst of energy. Small animals darted out of my path. Thorns tugged at the fur on my legs and stomach. With each bounding step, my paws sank into a soft layer of ivy, moss, and last year’s leaves. I ran directly into the breeze, stirring the branches over my head, and only the occasional twig cracking beneath my paws betrayed my presence. And as I drew closer to the stream, I heard a faint huffing noise.Marc. And he was close.
I sprinted around a thick patch of raspberry briars to find him directly in front of me, headed straight for the stream. He was almost there. But so was I.
A growl rumbled from deep in my throat. Instead of stopping at my warning, Marc sped up. I did the same, my muscles burning in protest. Cats are sprinters, not long-distance runners. But I was so close!
The distance between us narrowed. My claws gripped the earth as I ran, providing traction on a slick bed of moss that grew thicker the closer I got to the water. My lungs burned from exertion, demanding that I win, that I not put my body through such torment in the heat of the day for nothing.
But I couldn’t win. Marc’s tail was only inches from my nose, but I had no more speed to offer, no more energy to spend. Marc had cheated, and he was going to win.
Unless I cheated, too.
After an instant’s hesitation, I sank my teeth into the tip of Marc’s tail.
He yelped and tried to stop instantly. Instead of the graceful halt he’d no doubt intended, he tumbled forward, stumbling over his own front paws. His muzzle hit the ground, buried in a patch of moss, while his hind legs kept going, propelling the rest of him forward. He looked like a pig rooting in the mud.
I dropped his tail without slowing, and huffed in Marc’s ear as I passed him. It was the closest I could come to laughing in his face.
He recovered quickly. I glanced back to see him running after me, moss stuck in his front teeth. He was too late. I splashed into the stream up to my shoulders, snorting and tossing my head as I inhaled too much water.
Before I could clear my nasal passages, Marc bounded into the water after me. He hissed and slapped the surface with one front paw, spraying me with a backlash of water.
I’m sure you are pissed, you cheating son of a bitch, I thought. But all I could do was grunt at him. And splash him back.
For the most part, stories about cats hating water are exaggerated. About us, they’re an outright fabrication. Like most large cats, we love water. The guys and I had been known to waste entire summer afternoons splashing around in the stream, treading water at the deepest parts. We’d catch fish when we got hungry, and when we grew tired, we’d stretch out on the banks to dry in the sun before bounding off into the woods for more recreation. And with the national preserve bordering our land, we had plenty of forest in which to play.
While the woods were usually thick with humans during the tourist season, none of the backpacking trails or campgrounds were anywhere near our private wilderness. We’d seen very few hikers, and on those rare occasions when we had, the noise of their approach gave us plenty of time to hide in the trees before the two-legged wanderer came into view.
Marc and I played in the water for several minutes before Vic, now in cat form, padded to the edge of the stream, announcing his presence with a low-pitched yowl. His nose looked better, from what I could tell. It was swollen, but straight, and the bleeding had stopped.