Title: Where Angels Fear To Prowl
E-mail: jixers at yahoo.com
Feedback: Always accepted, preferably in a large glass.
Distribution: Any free fanfiction site, just tell me.
Spoilers: Not Really
Rating: R (cat violence)
Pairing: W/T
Disclaimer: All characters of BtVS are owned by Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon. One of these days he might even realize what he’s lost.
Summary: Some old debts are harder to work off than others.
WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO PROWL
Chapter One
Nappus Interruptus
I like to think of it as the nap that got away. There I was, just settling in for a bit of shut eye on Tara’s sweater when Sam Spade waltzed into the bedroom. It was Bogart as Spade really, which isn't bad, but it's not the books. I looked at the mug and yawned. Some beings shouldn’t try disguises around a cat.
"Okay, angel," I said. "What's the skinny?"
"Sorry," the winged dude says turning into his real shape. "I'm here to collect on a favor."
"I don't remember any favors," I said carefully.
"Look, you're no mook," the angel replied. "Remember that vision in the crystal ball?"
"That was for Tara."
"Nope, that was yours."
I washed my paw as I thought back to that night. Thanks to the warning in Tara’s crystal ball I'd helped stop a rat named Warren Meers*. He's in the state bughouse, my witches are together and if there's one thing about angels they always know what you owe, complete with the vig. Good thing they can't stretch the truth.
"Why did an angel help witches?" I ask to buy time.
"Whose side are they on?" he says with a smile. Smug bastard.
"Fine," I say unhappily. "I'm no welsher. What's the caper?"
"It's a rescue mission. A two-fer."
"Oh great," I say with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. "Why me?"
"Because your echo is in over her head."
That explained a lot. Without going too deep chum, let me explain. Somewhere else in the big folded taco that is the multiverse a me without my street smarts was trying to do her job as a witches' cat and was up against it. What was needed was a cat hip to the happenings on the pavement, and that fit me to a T. It isn’t easy being the coolest cucumber around.
"Okay, Charlie," I say nodding. "Let's amscray and you can fill me in on the way."
We do a quick fade number through the wall and ankle over to the other reality. It's a nice gig, kind of late Edwardian with a touch of magic. The girls are still witches, but here Red's also an inventor. Came up with a practical high speed steam engine for jalopies, only here those four wheel death traps are called motor carriages or "motors" by the racing set. I'm getting more of a Raffles feel than Mike Hammer. It also looks like a snow globe and I know Red and Tara aren’t in surfer land here. The pale sun is just breaking the horizon. Great, morning and winter, two things I can do without. We do the hoodoo and appear before, well, me. Only she's a bit chubbier and there's a magic collar on her with a bell of all things!
"Are you, um, me?" she asks.
"Yeah, sister," I reply. "What gives?"
"My ladies are about to embark on a most dangerous escapade!" she caterwauls. "They are after the Meers diamonds whilst a child witch is in danger in the city!"
"Meers, huh?" I ask as my tail lashes just a bit. Angel boy coughs gently, which he needs to do like I need to learn Pekinese. "We'll get back to that. I guess feathers here is really worried about the kid. What's the scoop?"
“She is a match seller whose territory is on Third Avenue,” the other me explains. “She is in grave danger for she is an orphan and her current master is a thoughtless reprobate who leeches magic from his charges and has them selling his wares in the coldest of weathers. There are whispers there are even more sinister things done in his doss. He sets himself up as a flash cove and..I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to slip into slang.”
“I get the picture, doll,” I say. Now my tail’s really jumping. “He doesn’t have a scarred up mug, does he?”
“He does indeed,” my opposite number says in surprise.
“Catch his moniker?”
“No,” she says hesitantly. “I was able to get a box of the matches he makes his girls sell.”
“That’ll do for a start,” I say. It’s kind of obvious she’s embarrassed by not being curious enough. I figure she’s been relying on her witches to be smarter, but something’s got their wind up. Given that Willow’s a redhead and I know how ginger fur and those green eyes can go I think I have it pegged.
“Why are the girls hot for the ice?” I ask. “Meers do a flimflam and get his paws on some dingus that cost Red some skull sweat?”
“Milady Willow has indeed invented a gyroscope balanced reciprocating housing for her mechanical actuator,” my reflection tells me. “Meers stole the prototype before she brought it to the patent office and has placed it in his aerial torpedo! And then he has the gall to offer it to the Pasha of Khamr! I know it’s unsporting but I wish I could just give that Meers fellow a good ride with my claws!”
I just nod. She’s gotten fuzzed and her tail is showing some real action. Besides, I know how she feels. I look at the angel. He seems a bit uncomfortable.
“Let me guess,” I say coolly. “You want me to get the chick out from behind the eight ball, stop the gonif and the high stepper, and make everything Jake?”
“You got it,” wingboy says.
“And I’m on my own because you’re already riding the line?”
“Yes,” he says. “And there’s a deadline. Tonight it’s going to be record-setting cold.”
Great. I should have seen that coming with a girl selling matches. I want to tell him to kiss off, but I can’t do that. His little show and tell gave me my break and I saved my girls. I owe him. Isn’t life just a big fun hairball sometimes?
“I’m in,” I say smooth as silk.
“What do I do?” my more voluptuous version asks.
“Our sneaky seraphim is going to switch our bodies,” I explain. “You’re going to head on over to my pad.”
The celestial snoop lets out a big breath and then I’m not quite as svelte as I was. I look back at the real meat part and remember how good I look. My echo suddenly looks worried.
“You’re not due for the vet, are you?” she asks.
“No sweat,” I shrug. “Take a nap. I’ve got it covered here.”
She shimmers away and the angel is getting ready to take it on the heel and toe, or wing and harp in his case and I pipe up.
“Not so fast,” I snap. “I need one thing, feathers.”
“What’s that?” he asks with a frown.
“I need to ditch this noisemaker so it doesn’t get me in a jam,” I tell him straight. “And I have to get it on again without those opposable thumbs so the witches don’t glom onto the idea I’m a ringer.”
“You got it, doll,” he says and the choker gets a bit looser. “Just bite the bell if you want it back on.”
“Got it,” I say slipping it off and getting it back on like a first rate dip. “You’d better scram.”
He lights out and I’m all alone in the posh digs. I catch the scent of albacore and decide to grab a bite. Then I stop and look in one of the full length mirrors. I decide I’m not hungry and I pass on the prime gnosh and the soft overstuffed chair. It’s time to get down to brass tacks. I track down the box of lucifers my echo found following my scent and the tang of phosphorus. I catch the scent of a young human female and file it away in the old noggin. Then I adjust my eyes and read - well of course cats can read, humans just don’t write anything interesting - the brand name on the box.
‘Rack Matches
First Strike Lights ’
It’s old home week, if your home sits on a gateway to Hell. There’s no one around and I let out some good old fashioned cat swearing. Then I head for the witches’ scents. I need to check out this pair. On the cluttered landing halfway up the huge winding staircase I catch a scent of a dog. I’m looking to fade when I see a scared pair of brown eyes on my level.
“Uff?” he wheezes.
“So what gave me away?” I ask sitting down.
“Um, ah, that is to say, Ma’am,” he kind of stutters. “You strut. And my Miss Kitty would never swear. She’s much more ladylike.”
“Thanks, Fido,” I say. “Get out here and let me eyeball you.” What steps out might be called a dog, if you were generous. Start with an Italian Greyhound only make it skinnier, even in the knitted doggie sweater he’s stuffed into. There’s the remnants of old healing sores on his ears. His tail is between his legs and I’m not even fluffed. “Why aren’t you barking?”
“There’s the scent of angels about you, Miss,” he says softly. “And I know Miss Kitty was in dire straits. Is she all right?”
“What if she’s not?”
“I’ll-I’ll have to fight you,” he replies and tries to growl.
“Easy, Bruno,” I say to the glorified mouse. “She’s safe as houses. How long since Tara picked you up off the street?”
“Three weeks,” he says dreamily. “She’s ever so kind. And Miss Willow is just as nice but she does get distracted by her work sometimes. And it’s not Bruno, it’s Chester.”
He finally looks me in the eye and I can tell there’s a hint of spunk in that skinny body. Now I need to see if there’s any brains.
“Okay, Chester,” I say wrapping my tail around my paws. “You seem like a right guy. What’s going on here?”
“Um, well...” he says looking away. Dogs always make lousy liars.
“Come on!” I almost hiss. “If I’m gonna pull this off I need the skinny. You were a street dog, so what’s on the wire?”
“I beg your pardon,” he says with a confused look.
“What’s the word from the curb?” I explain.
“You need to smell this,” he says reluctantly as he heads down the hall.
I stay a half length behind him and keep my whiskers tuned. We enter a bedroom with all the smells of my girls and me along with Chester’s odor. He stops at a huge armoire and I get what he’s chinning about. Instead of a masked or faint scent there’s no scent at all from the fancy dresser. I push my vision over to magic and there’s a blank spot. Not an illusion. There’s no magic at all. I eel into the doors.
“That’s Miss Tara’s!” Chester whines.
“Don’t gum my prowl,” I warn as I push open the door so I can get in some light. My whiskers tell me the back is just a hair too thick. I snake out a claw and pull on what should be the back panel. It opens and I’m sure I’ve been doing too much catnip. Chester’s worried sigh brings me around. In a recess in the wall there’s the black cat suit with a underlaying pattern of stripes. That makes it better than flat black for fading into shadows, which is something I know about. A matching hood with the same pattern and clever gloves make up the rest of the ensemble. There’s a series of precise cut outs for tools and other toys that tell me Willow knows all about this other side of Tara. I look at Chester.
“Oh dear,” he whines. “Miss Tara is La Chatte.”
*My Claws Are Quick
To Be Continued
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I have to admit I'm coming up blank. Unless you mean Spike? Hmm, curious. And then I read it again, and I pick up on the name on the matchbox. Rack. Sorry, I'm just a big doofus.
I do believe I need to go lie down thanks to that particular mental image.
I loved this line, and I have to agree with Miss Kitty. There are so many things to like about Willow.
to that whole concept.
Hell, yes! I know this for a fact, from person experience of a cat legging it poste haste over my shoulder and kicking me in the back of the head as he goes. Always fun.