The weather was, to put it mildly, foul. Rain poured down in a wall, washing away the outlines of the city, when she threw herself under my feet.
Wet fur, matted into clumps, and trembling paws clearly showed that the street had been her home for days.
But the gaze... In her green eyes, like spring foliage, one could read not the despair of a beaten beast, but a frightening, commanding persistence.
The strange feeling that seized me at that second was a wild mixture of pity and an irrational obligation to obey.
— Meow, — she rubbed against my wet pant leg, and a warm wave of love for this dirty ball of fur suddenly rolled up to my throat, squeezing in a spasm.
— Meow, — the cat repeated, looking straight into my soul. A voice cut through my head clearly, like someone else's thought: "I want into your home.
Let me in".
— Some kind of nonsense, overworked, — I joked to myself, but my hands were already lifting the animal.
I carefully placed her on the back seat of the car. The purring that sounded behind my back was not just a sound.
It was a vibration that soothed the nerves and induced a light, viscous trance.
"Strange cat. Why did I even take her?" — sluggishly spun in my tired brain.
— You did the right thing, — sounded right at the back of my head. A velvet, female whisper.
I slammed on the brakes so hard the car skidded. I looked back sharply, my heart pounding somewhere in my throat.
The cat, as if nothing had happened, was sleeping curled up between the pillows. — A delusion, — I exhaled, wiping away sweat.
— Just nerves.
The day had gone wrong from the very morning. The shoulder I had pulled on the horizontal bar ached with a dull pain.
Then I cut myself with a razor — the blood just wouldn't stop. And the final chord was hot fried eggs, splattered from the frying pan right onto my bare foot.
And now, as the cherry on top of this theater of the absurd — a talking cat.
Someone up there clearly had a specific sense of humor.
At home, I settled the foundling on soft poufs in the living room and went to the shower.
Warm water streamed over my body, washing away the dirt of the streets and giving false hope that tomorrow everything would change.
The misted mirror reflected the face of a lonely bachelor who was still trying to convince himself that he was needed by someone.
— To hell with it all... — I swore tiredly and trudged to the bedroom.
Outside the window, the rain drummed just the same, promising a tedious tomorrow. — What is your name, fluffy?
— I asked into the void of the corridor. The answer, of course, did not sound. Only silence and the noise of rain.
The dream that covered me was insane. It was not just a daydream, but a feverish leapfrog of sensual images.
The intertwining of ideal bodies, whispers, touches that made the skin burn with fire. I had never felt so alive.
Power bubbled within me, I soared, I was everywhere and in everything.
Hellish heat in my chest gave no rest, sweet torment grew until a bright flash tore me from the embrace of Morpheus.
I sat up in bed, greedily gasping for air. And then, as if someone flipped a switch, memories flooded in.
A strange old woman at the market, a week ago. She literally forced a bunch of some fragrant dry grass on me.
Her eyes bored into me, and her creaky voice sounded like an order: — Sonny, spread it on the table on the third day. And you will see her.
— See who? Why do I need this broom? — I asked then. But I did spread it.
Out of desperation or boredom, but I did as commanded. On the kitchen table. And today was exactly the third day.
A noise from the kitchen made me wake up completely. The darkness outside the window was thick, almost tangible.
I only managed to notice how the flexible shadow of my new companion slipped towards the temple of pots and pans, wagging its tail.
I followed the sound, stepping with bare feet on the cold parquet. I didn't turn on the light.
In the doorway, I froze, forgetting how to breathe.
In the kitchen, in the moonlight falling through the curtains, she stood. The girl stood with her back to me, leaning over the table.
The thinnest lace negligee barely hid the perfect curves of her body, leaving room for imagination, but most of all the skin amazed — it seemed to glow from within like moonlit marble.
Everything would have been like a dream, if not for the sharp cat ears sticking out of the luxurious mane of blonde hair, twitching at every rustle.
The demoness paid no attention to me. She dug thin fingers with neat claws into the old woman's grass and kneaded the green mass with some primal, almost indecent pleasure.
The scent of mint and musk hit my nostrils, intoxicating stronger than wine.
The pause dragged on. I creaked a floorboard. She turned slowly. Green eyes shone in the darkness with witching light.
Her face was the embodiment of vice and innocence at the same time. — I... am... here... and who are you?
— I felt like an idiot, my tongue was twisting.
She smiled, and from that smile, goosebumps ran down my back. — My name is Selina.
And now you know everything, — she purred. The voice was the same one that sounded in my head in the car.
— And what are you doing in my kitchen? — the brain refused to generate smart thoughts. She took a step towards me.
The grace of a predator, the gaze of a goddess. — Searching, — she whispered. — For what? — I exhaled. — For love.
Reality swam. I rushed to the bathroom, escaping the delusion. Turned on the ice-cold water, splashed it on my face. Stop.
I looked at myself in the mirror. No scars from the morning cut. The shoulder moved freely, without pain.
The burn on the foot vanished without a trace. I was healthy, full of strength, and engulfed in sacred horror.
Splashing water on my face again, I turned sharply, expecting to see the demoness. On the threshold of the bathroom sat the cat.
She was calmly washing her muzzle with a paw, and little devils danced in her green eyes.
— Whew, damn it... I imagined it! Overworked... — I exhaled with relief. My heart was still pounding like mad.
I turned off the light and went to the bedroom.
Taking two steps down the corridor, I stepped on something soft and silky. Bent down, picked it up.
In my hands were black lace panties. The very ones that a minute ago were on the guest in the kitchen.
A chill ran down the back of my head. I froze, afraid to move.
— Those are mine, — sounded right above my ear a satisfied purring.
Chernyshev Vadim Pavlovich
Cycle "Bedtime Stories"
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