Prologue
A man, woman, and large white cat sat side by side on metal folding chairs. While free to move from their seats, none were in any position to leave the area. Large flood lamps shone into their faces, preventing them from seeing the shadowy figures behind the lights. The figures moved about, murmuring among themselves. What was being said was impossible for the trio to make out, but how it was being said was not reassuring.
The man was dressed in a long coat, jeans, and a torn-up t‑shirt bearing an obscure cartoon. He was covered head to toe in various bandages and wraps, giving him the appearance of a half-finished mummy. His only serious injury seemed to be a splint on his arm. His curiosity seemed to have gotten the better of him as he attempted to make out the shadowy persons behind the lights. When he found he could not identify any distinguishing features, his attention shifted to the room, then to the lights themselves. Each time he tried to speak, a cough from the woman caused him to remain silent.
Beside him, a woman in pink workout attire sat with a glum look on her face. Her brow creased as she waited. She looked inconvenienced as she studied the ground, angry and disinterested in the delay, but every so often, her ear would twitch or her eyes would shift to the shadows. For now, she was content to gauge the tone and nature of the hushed conversations. If she could just make out what was being said, she might have a better opportunity to prepare her answers.
The third seated occupant, a large, fluffy white cat, sat annoyed at the very existence of this tribunal. From what he could gather, this was merely human meowing and pointless chatter, and he had to attend to important activities at home. Namely, he needed to nap upon his tower and have the fanciest of feasts brought to him by his human servants. Instead of doing any of these things, he now sat on a chair like some trained fool. It was almost to the level of being a dog, and that offended him to his core. The simpletons beside him sat obediently in their chairs, but he expected humans to abide by such silly rules. As a cat, he would partake in this game of words only until it fully bored him. At the very least, the annoying beings that wanted him to sit on this chair had taken care of his wounds and provided him a nice plush pillow on which to sit while they wasted his time. He considered not biting them when this was over, but that would depend on how much of his time they wasted with their questions.
A mechanical click came from behind the lights, and a deep voice spoke. A device altered the figure’s voice, protecting the speaker’s identity. All the shadows spoke in the same monotone, echoing voice.
“Please state your names for the record,” the mystery voice announced, followed by a pop as the microphone cut back off.
“Marcus Kyle,” the man said, leaning forward as if there had been a microphone.
“Just your name,” the shadowy figure added. “We do not need your title, Magus. To clarify, your name is Kyle…”
Marcus let out a long, soulful sigh. There was an old agitation and weariness to the sound. In the past, he might have laughed at the mix-up or mispronunciation, but after hearing it so many times, he found the joke had worn out its welcome. “You know, that was funny at first, but—”
“Just your name,” the voice repeated.
“My name,” he said, putting emphasis on his words, “is Marcus—with a C, not a G—Kyle.”
The figures debated for a moment, muttering among themselves before one approached the microphone and spoke. “Isn’t Kyle a first name?”
If the first sigh had been long, this one was an eternity that bordered on a breakdown. “Yes, but it’s an old name. It comes from—”
“Ah,” the figure replied, as if the logic of that term said everything. “Your name, miss?”
“Alana Kym,” she answered, folding her arms over her chest. “And yes, my surname can also be a first name. Do you want me to spell it? I can almost guarantee you’re going to spell it wrong.”
“No need, Ms. Kym,” the voice replied in a flat tone. Alana’s face soured, as she was sure they were going to writer her name down wrong. Another pause followed, and a series of scribbling noises came over the crackle of the microphone. “Oh… oh my, yes, that is quite enough, Mr. Purloin. Again, please accept our apologies for… Yes, we understand the insult.” There was a fear, and a bit of reverence, in the voices now.
“Are you talking to my cat?” Marcus looked between the darkened shapes and the cat on the pillow. “You can speak feline? Why does Savannah’s police force have a cat whisperer?”
“We are asking the questions here, Mr. Magus,” they stated. “What we can and cannot do is not up for discussion now. But in the interest of cooperation between civilians and law enforcement… Yes.”
Marcus’ eyebrow rose and he tried to fold his arms only for a sharp pain to remind him of his injury.
“Now, why don’t you all tell us how… this”—there was the general disturbance of a shadowy arm waving toward the three of them— “all happened?”
Marcus, Purloin, and Alana looked at each other. The cat huffed, laying his head on the pillow as Alana shook hers. “Fine, you can start. Just try to be brief… this time.”
His apprehension from moments ago forgotten, Marcus Kyle smiled from ear to ear and turned a little too quickly to his inquisitors. “This will sound strange, but it all started one sunny day when…”
