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The Thunder-Cat
He comes with the rain. Every storm brings him back — my lover, my curse, my black cat. Seven centuries have passed since the night we made our fatal bargain on that cursed Venetian island. Now, I wait by the fire, listening for thunder and praying the storm will be strong enough to return him to me.
He came with the rain. He always came with the rain. I knew he was coming when I saw the lamps flickering in my study. Yet, he detests being wet. It was a dark night, and the clouds hung oppressively low over the city. That’s how I knew he was coming.
Another round of flickering. He cannot enter until the lightning strikes the ground. But I know he is coming. At last, the sky was cleft open. A gust of wind nearly blew the fire out, and sparks flew into my study. For the briefest of moments, the city was covered in darkness. He has arrived.
“Dry yourself by the fire first,” I said.
As always, he took the form of a black cat. I left my desk and added more wood to the fire.
“There, that should get you nice and toasty, won’t you say?” He looked at me with those amber eyes, licking his coat. Always a black cat.
“I am glad we can meet again.” The only reply I received was a growl and a hiss. He was upset tonight. He has waited so long for this moment — the summer has been dry and the heavens have…
