Continuing the tradition I started last year of posting a horror story for Hallowe'en.

The Master of Cuts

by

Rodford Edmiston

The airport was crowded with busy people, but one woman caused even those distracted by their rush to catch planes or cabs or shuttles to pause and watch. She attracted attention in the same way as a tiger walking down a city street. Tall, very dark-skinned, handsome rather than beautiful, she was striking in a manner that went beyond mere appearance. The way she moved... like every gesture, every turn of the eyes was carefully choreographed. She seemed to glide across the lobby, one hand on the strap of her oversized camera bag and the other swinging freely, her flowing dress and long, straight hair adding to her eerie grace. Even when she interrupted her course to step out of the way of a careless youngster, she seemed to dance rather than merely stride.

As usual, Lisa Dawnwind was the object of wonder, lust, admiration and envy from those who saw her. As was also usual, she found such attention disturbing, something which made her acutely uncomfortable. Of course, she didn't show this. All the world saw was that calm, aloof face with its expression of disinterest, and those intense eyes. Predator's eyes...

"Lisa!"

The voice was familiar and, even after thirty years, so was the form waving to her. Lisa changed direction, stepping with casual grace around a trash can and lithely dodging several hurried and harried travelers. The two women came together and held hands for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. Then they embraced, careless of public perception, expressing an affection born of shared trials. Finally, they pulled apart, though even then they continued to hold hands for a moment.

"Its good to see you," said Marcie, a catch in her voice.

Lisa didn't trust herself to speak just then, so she mutely nodded.

"Girl, how do you do it?" Marcie demanded, as they began walking to baggage claim. "You look older, but not nearly as much as you should."

"Its hereditary," explained Lisa, glad to have something safe to talk about. "You should meet my mother. She's nearly eighty and has only a few strands of grey hair."

Lisa turned her head to examine her old friend more closely.

"You don't look like you have any grounds for complaint. Especially not with two children."

"Two grown children," laughed Marcie. "Susan is in college and Little Billy now has his own practice up in Seattle!"

Lisa suddenly felt an awareness of the passage of time. She normally didn't pay much attention to days, months or even years, but on occasion her age and the span of her life were brought painfully to her awareness. All the things she had done and, worse, that she hadn't done... Where had the time gone? What had she really accomplished?

"You're getting Little Billy's room, by the way," Marcie continued. "I've fixed it up just for you. Since Susan goes to a local college she's still living at home. You'll meet her and Bill this evening.

"So when are you coming to one of the unit reunions?" Marcie chatted, abruptly changing subject as they reached baggage claim. "They ask me about you every time, since I'm the only one you still write to regular, and every time I have to make up some excuse. I usually tell them you're busy with your writing."

"You wouldn't be far wrong," laughed Lisa, casually snatching her small suitcase as it came around the carousel. "Most people who don't write don't realized just how much time and effort it takes."

"This yours, too?" asked Marcie, as the matching large suitcase appeared.

Lisa confirmed this guess. Marcie made three tries at lifting it off the conveyor; then she gave up and stood back to let Lisa try. Lisa casually hefted the bag with one hand.

"Yeah, I forgot about you and that Marine, that time," muttered the nurse, giving Lisa an evaluating glance. "How you beat him arm-wrestling. Must be all those mountains you climb."

"Not many mountains where I live now, in Louisville," said Lisa, grinning, as they headed for the parking lot shuttle. "Partly it's height. It was easier for me to lift it over the rim because I'm taller than you. I just had a better angle. Of course, I do have a big, run-down house and large lot, with just me and a housekeeper to look after things. Keeps a woman in shape."

"Hey, if that was all it took..." laughed Marcie. "I mean, I work as senior nurse and keep my house in order."

Lisa was a bit disappointed to see that her Army buddy's vehicle was a minivan. The whole situation was such a cliche; upper middle-class housewife driving a minivan. Of course, the situation produced some envy, too. There was very little about Lisa's life which could be termed normal.

San Francisco traffic wasn't nearly as bad as what Lisa remembered from her one trip to Los Angeles; in fact, it wasn't much worse than what she often encountered in Louisville. That, of course, was quite bad enough for Lisa to avoid driving during the day unless she had to. And she never rode with someone else driving except in an emergency.

Here and now, though, she was forced into the role of passenger while her friend drove, and Lisa's manners wouldn't allow her to comment on the close calls and narrow escapes. The worst part was that Marcie kept chatting as if everything were perfectly normal and safe, and expected Lisa to reply in kind. Lisa clenched her teeth and held on, doing what she could to maintain her end of the conversation. It wasn't until they were nearly to Marcie's home that Lisa realized that she wasn't just hanging on, she was digging in. Shocked, she willed herself to relax, hoping the damage wasn't too noticeable. She couldn't look just then, for fear of attracting attention to the dash.

"Here we are!" Marcie triumphantly announced, as she wheeled into the driveway of a very nice suburban home.

As Marcie bounced out to open the side door Lisa took the opportunity to examine the results of her little accident. There were ten neat holes punched into the padding. They might not be noticed... if Lisa were lucky, the next people into the minivan were all blind and the holes somehow miraculously healed at least halfway before then. With a sigh Lisa climbed out to help with the luggage. She felt guilty, and wanted to pay for the repairs, but how to explain the holes without revealing things Marcie was much better off not knowing?

As they carried the luggage toward the side door - Marcie taking the small suitcase, Lisa her camera bag and large suitcase - Lisa was irritated to hear barking inside.

"You have a dog?"

"Oh, yeah," said Marcie. "Don't tell me you're afraid of them?!"

"Not exactly," sighed Lisa.

Marcie opened the door and a Jack Russell terrier came bounding out. It slid to a stop and stared for a moment at Lisa, then bounded back inside, yelping in terror. There was a stunned silence on Marcie's part and an embarrassed one on Lisa's.

"Something about my scent, I guess," Lisa said, shrugging. "Most animals just don't like me."

Normally Lisa would have simply put on her accustomed enigmatic, superior air and made some snide
comment. With her friend, though, she wanted to be honest, and couldn't. So she said nothing, and felt uncomfortable about it. Marcie gave Lisa an odd, evaluating look, then motioned for her to proceed. The two women followed the terrified dog inside.

* * *

An hour and a half later Lisa was unpacked and much more relaxed, the second condition being greatly assisted by a large mug of coffee with a correspondingly large shot of Kahlua. The women were alone in the house, which was what both wanted. They were in the den, sitting on the big, somewhat worn, comfortable couch. The dog, whose name turned out to be Oscar, was hiding under it and refused to be coaxed out.

"When you were introduced to the unit my first thought was 'that's the darkest white girl I ever saw!'" laughed Marcie. "I'd seen Indians on TV and in the movies and knew they had brown skin, but it was always light brown. You were darker than me!"

"My Mother used to say that it was the domesticated Indians who got the best jobs and the most exposure," Lisa replied. "What she meant was that the ones who looked the most white and acted the most like whites expected Indians to were the ones the whites allowed to be seen in public. I think that in the movies that was at least in part so the white actors made up as Indians wouldn't look so obviously fake. Not every time, mind you, but often enough."

They both laughed. Then followed an awkward silence. Lisa could tell that Marcie was trying to find a way to tell or ask her something, but had no idea what. Presumably it was the reason for the urgent telephone request to come to San Francisco.

"I never bought that story about you being attacked by a tiger in the storage area," said Marcie, finally, turning to look Lisa in the eye. "I figured you had freaked out, throwing those drums and crates with hysterical strength. You are a lot stronger than you look. Lord knows you had a right to go crazy right then, what with that boy dying on you and all. Then I heard about what you did in Hue. I know that hospital. There's no way anything human could have jumped that gap. Or frightened hardened VC so bad they ran right out and into the guns of the Marines who had the building surrounded. Then you started writing those horror and fantasy books... I read every one of them, you know.

"Then there's this." Marcie shifted, reaching out to push Lisa's hair back from her right ear, revealing that the top portion was missing. "Ear wounds bleed a lot, but this one was already healing over by the time they got you to an aid station. I know; I've met some of the folks who worked on you. They still talk about you.

"I don't know what you are," Marcie continued, more quietly. "I don't need to know and I don't think I want to know. I do know that you are a friend, and that you help your friends when you can. I need your help. That's why I called you. I figured you would come running, and you did."

"Tell me what is happening," said Lisa calmly, neither denying nor confirming the other's speculations.

"It started over a month ago," Marcie began. "You know my husband and I work in a health clinic. Our patients range from lower middle class to the homeless, with most in-between. A lot of migrant worker, but mostly legal and fairly well off compared to the illegals. Well, one of the doctors was killed, in a really gory fashion. He was cut up like a chicken, then shredded. They found parts of him in six different rooms of the clinic and two areas of the parking lot. They couldn't even find all of him."

"God..." whispered Lisa, feeling sick. She'd seen things like this in 'Nam, where both sides mutilated the dead of the other, and didn't always restrict themselves to the dead. Or even to the other side. For something like that to happen here, in San Francisco...

"The strangest part was that no-one saw or heard anything until it was all over," Marcie resumed, looking almost as affected as Lisa. "It was late at night, and there were only a few other people there, but someone should have noticed something. The police investigated, but couldn't come up with anything. I think they would have wrote it off as unsolved, just some sort of mystery, except..."

"It happened again," guessed Lisa.

"Thirteen days later, to another doctor from the clinic. It was worse this time. The first doctor had been young and single, which was why he pulled night duty. This one was married, with a young child. He, his wife and the toddler were all given the same treatment. All these killings happened at or right after midnight, just like the first. They found all of the wife and kid, and most of the doctor... but not his heart."

A wave of nausea threatened to sweep over Lisa, but she clamped down and fought it off. She resolved to be clinical about this, to focus on the situation as a problem to be solved.

"Another thirteen days later, it happened again. This time it was a nurse from the clinic, a woman nearly my age, and it happened at the clinic again. She was sent to get some supplies and never came back."

"How old is Bill?" whispered Lisa, suddenly understanding.

"Fifty-nine," said Marcie, almost as quietly. "We both think he's next. He denies it, but I can see it in his eyes. I know he plans to be alone, away from us, three days from now, when the next one is due. The police think he's in danger, too, and offered him protection, but he turned them down."

"What makes you think he's targeted?"

"Because the only connection we've been able to find is that all three victims - with Bill as senior staff member supervising - were on duty during one bad night three months ago. There was a gang war, and a lot of people died, both gang members and bystanders."

"So someone may blame a death on the doctors and nurses on duty that night," said Lisa. "Damn."

"Or they may blame them for saving someone," said Marcie, bitterly. "A lot of those gang members are crazy.

"That gives us a possible motive," said Lisa, cautiously, "but what makes you think the police can't handle this?"

"Because no-one noticed anything unusual while the acts were taking place," said Marcie. She thumped her mug down on the coffee table, the noise making Oscar whine under the couch. "Also, the second guy was a body-builder and martial artist. His wife and kid were killed but their bodies were left intact and in the apartment. He got special treatment. He weighed over 90 kilos, yet he was strangled, carried out back to the top of the steps going down the hill behind his apartment building, mutilated, and the body parts strewn all over the hillside below. All of this between security camera sweeps."

"What's the period of the sweeps?" asked Lisa, sitting up.

"I checked. There are eight outside cameras which cycle at five seconds each. The killer had to carry the body out the back door - and you and I both know just how hard it is to carry a dead man by yourself - cut him open, strew his organs all over the stairs, cut off his arms and legs and slice them up like shredded beef and throw them down the hillside, then leave, in thirty-five seconds maximum."

"Shit," said Lisa, faintly.

There was a long awkward silence, which neither woman knew how to break. Lisa was about to say something - anything - to interrupt the quiet, when they heard the distant sound of a door opening and closing.

"That will be Susan," said Marcie, with relief.

"Hallelujah," sighed Lisa, giving a wry smile. "It was getting entirely to morbid in here."

Surprisingly, Oscar darted past them as soon as Marcie opened the door, running down the hall and around the corner. Lisa could hear the dog barking and jumping and someone talking to him. She and Marcie rounded the same corner, to find a young black woman trying to calm the frantic terrier.

"What's wrong, boy? What's the matter?"

"Susan, this is my old Army buddy, Lisa Dawnwind," said Marcie, as Oscar - seeing Lisa - ran away again. "Lisa, this my daughter, Susan."

"I've heard so much about you," gushed Susan, shaking hands. "I wasn't sure I believed Mother when she told me that Leslie Markhov was the pen name of someone she knew."

"My goodness, I hadn't realized how late it was," said Marcie, suddenly, as she spied a wall clock. "We need to get supper started."

She herded them down the hall, chatting as they went. The kitchen was large, open and well organized. Oscar was cowering under the table. After he refused to come out on his own Susan crawled after him, hauled him out and put him in the attached garage. The three women busied themselves preparing supper, Lisa insisting on helping.

"Mom says you're from New Mexico," said Susan. "We're studying Native American legends in sociology. Can you tell me anything I can use to impress my teacher? I mean, with all that stuff you put in your stories you must have studied a lot of the old tales"

"Well, to start with, New Mexico is a pretty big place," said Lisa, demurring. "Also, there have been a lot of Indians there, of a lot of different tribes, for a long time."

"Don't you mean Native Americans?" asked Susan, looking a bit confused.

Lisa laughed.

"Look, I can understand why some people object to the name, but I never have," she informed Susan. "You can call me whatever you want, as long as you don't mean any harm. Any name can be an insult, if that is what you want it to be.

"Anyway," Lisa continued, suddenly seized by an idea, "here's something I've noticed that is pretty much a common bit of folklore for the whole area. Cougars are revered as healers and protectors of the land and its people."

"Cougars!?" said Susan, surprised.

"I know, they're predators. However, humans aren't part of the cougar's normal diet, and they aren't seen as rival predators, so the big cats are pretty neutral about them. Also, even though their lifestyle requires them to be solitary, they seem to enjoy company. There have been several instances of woodsmen or researchers befriending a wild cougar."

Lisa paused a moment, collecting her thoughts. She noticed that Susan was interested but preoccupied with peeling carrots, while her mother stared intently at Lisa. This might be a good time to prepare her friend for an accidental revelation. If the revelation never happened, they could both pretend Lisa was just making small talk about old folklore. If it did...

"Getting away from biology and back into legend, the Navaho say that during a time of great crisis - when they had been reduced to just a handful - the Creator gave Bear, Cougar and Wildcat the task of protecting humans." Lisa smiled. "Meaning Navaho, of course. They appear to have done their job pretty well, at least until the whites started trapping and shooting all three creatures. Bear and Wildcat seem to have given up on their old job, but even today you can hear tales of a lost traveler being guided to safety by a strangely friendly cougar."

"Ooohh, that's eerie," said Susan, shivering. "That sounds like something out of one of your books."

"The best stories are grown from seeds of truth," said Lisa, quoting something her mother liked to say. She paused a moment, then continued, in a wistful tone. "It's funny. The Navajo despise werewolves and other shapeshifters. So much so that they never even entertain the idea that some of the intelligent, friendly animals from their legends might be shapeshifters in their animal forms."

"So you're a Navaho," said Susan.

"Half Navaho," Lisa corrected. "My mother is from Acoma Pueblo. Which caused some problems."

"A mixed marriage?" asked Susan. She glanced at her mother, who just grinned, having heard all this part during long, lonely nights in 'Nam.

"Well, the Navaho invaded the area where I was born a few centuries ago and conquered the Acoma pueblo," said Lisa. She smiled again, this time showing some teeth. Her canines were long and pointed. "You think those Southerners who claim the South shall rise again have long memories? You should meet some of my Pueblo relatives. It didn't help that there was bad blood between my Dad's father and my mother's great-grandfather. Something about Grandfather stealing some fruit when he was a boy."

A clatter from the garage and frantic barking from Oscar announced the arrival of Bill. Moments later he swept into the kitchen, hugged both wife and daughter, and was introduced to their guest.

"Supper won't be much longer," said Marcie. "By the time you get changed and read your mail it should be ready."

She was off on her prediction, but not by much. Bill actually had time to help with the final preparations before the four of them settled down to eat.

Polite conversation was made about Bill's work at the clinic, both in general and today in particular. In return Lisa had to answer the usual questions about her writing career. Bill had been a corpsman in 'Nam, returning to get his medical degree after his first and only tour. He was a bit younger than Marcie, and had been there at a slightly later period, after Lisa had gone home. Marcie had still been there, but the war was a big place and she and Bill hadn't met then. They actually got together when both happened to be assigned to the same San Francisco military hospital. Bill had that conservative, efficient, practical attitude so common to doctors, especially military doctors. Even though he had been out of the service for more than twenty years, he still reminded Lisa of several Army medicos she knew.

"I tried reading one of your books a while back," he announced at one point, sounding half apologetic. "The way Marcie and Susan devour them I figured they must be good. While I like your style and you write well, I just couldn't get into the story. This was the one about the reformed gangster who becomes a vampire to seek justice for his murdered family. That was just too much for me to swallow."

Lisa smiled tolerantly. That story was one of her few which was based almost entirely on actual events. The subject of the tale hadn't minded her writing about him, but after reading the novel he called her in for a stern lecture on discretion. Lisa had just barely avoided revealing facts which could have gotten both of them killed.

Marcie seemed to realize that Bill had unintentionally put his foot in his mouth and changed the subject. Returning to what she, Lisa and Susan had been talking about earlier, Marcie asked Lisa to recall more legends and folktales from her "native land." Lisa did so for the rest of the meal, a couple of times even giving examples regarding the same subject from both sides of her family, comparing and contrasting the Acoma and Navajo traditions. As they were clearing the dishes, though, Lisa covered a yawn.

"Sorry," she told them. "Forgot about the three-hour time difference. It's pretty late by my biological clock, and I've had a busy day."

"Well, you can go ahead and turn in," said Marcie, taking her cue. "We'll clean up."

* * *

Lisa was putting on a show; she was a night person and normally stayed up until two or three AM, Eastern Time. Though she was tired, a quick nap was all she actually needed. She got more than that, waiting for the family to go to bed, and then waiting longer to make sure her hosts were asleep. Finally satisfied she wouldn't be noticed, Lisa gathered her bag and set out. She had a lot to do and only three days left before the next scheduled murder.

Lisa also had much to think about, but one thing she had learned was that there are times to think, and times to just be. Right now, Lisa was being a cougar.

She ran faster than any cheetah, and for far longer, supple muscles working under loose, tough skin under tawny coat. She was a supernatural creature, exempted from the normal laws of biology. She raced over the hills and through the valleys of the city, cutting across the terrain, heading almost directly for her goal, her camera bag bouncing on her back. Lisa cleared high fences and bounded over roads, feeling the rush of cool ocean air on her face and whiskers. This was not her most powerful form, but it was the fastest, and if she were spotted a cougar would seem less unusual than a two-legged cat creature.

Across a large section of San Francisco people wondered as their dogs howled into the night and their cats cowered in fear.

Lisa paused on the crest overlooking the clinic, panting slightly. The night was so alive! Even in human form Lisa's senses were far keener than a normal human's, but as a full cat she had a sometimes painful sensitivity to everything around her. This was her birthright. The cat blood ran in her mother's line, dating back far beyond any written records. Unfortunately, the birthrate among them was as low as their lives were long. Lisa was an only child, in spite of her parents both wanting a large family.

She shook her head. Those were thoughts for another time. For now, she needed to focus on her friend's problem. From here she could see part of the bay, to the northeast; a moonlit fog was rolling in. Already it had covered the bridges, except for the tops of their towers. It was a perfect night for murder, a thought which made Lisa shiver.

Assured there was no-one around she went to her mid-form and started down the slope. Once in the thin line of trees at the edge of the parking lot Lisa became human, pulled the bag off her back and got out her wrap dress. She wanted privacy for her investigations, but she had permission to be here from a senior staff member, so there was no real problem if she was spotted. If she was spotted she wanted people to see a curious woman, and not a half-human monster. That sort of thing would unnecessarily complicate an already messy situation.

Slipping in a side door would have been easy. Lisa, however, wanted to try something else. According to Marcie, the security cameras at the apartment building where the second victim had lived took turns feeding into a single video recorder. Here each camera had a separate channel, so all areas covered were recorded continuously. However, at both places the cameras were fixed, instead of being the more expensive, oscillating ones. Knowing this, a person could make a good guess of a particular camera's field of view and avoid it.

Up against the building, certain she wasn't being observed by eye or camera, she shifted to her mid-form. Her chest deepened, her shoulders narrowed and her arms lengthened. Her heels pulled upwards and her arches stretched, more than compensating for the shortening of her thighs and calves, and she now stood on the balls of her feet. The black tip of her long, thick tail hung below her dress and avoided touching the ground only because of its curve. Her proportions were still nearly human but even in the shadows against the wall no-one would mistake her current form for one. She jumped to the roof in an easy spring.

The roof hatch was obvious, as was the fact the lock had been forced, probably recently. Lisa shifted back to human and pulled the hatch open. A ladder inside led down into a service area, full of plumbing and boxes with lights. However, just under the roof, in the wall beside the ladder, was a hole giving access to the space above the false ceiling. In the dust on top of the ceiling tiles, conduits and pipes and the structures supporting them were signs of recent disturbance. Lisa was feeling quite smug as she dropped silently to the concrete floor of the service room.

A quick listen at the door revealed no activity outside. Marcie had described the layout of the clinic pretty well, so once in the hallway Lisa turned left and went directly to the supply closet, her bare feet making no noise on the linoleum.

Lisa hated places like this for pretty much the same reasons as most people, but far more intensely. The sights, scents and sounds of sickness and death pressed in on her, intensifying sharply as she reached the police ribbons blocking off the closet. Someone had recently been killed here, in a terrible fashion, and it showed. Since the murder was still under investigation the room hadn't been cleaned yet. Lisa sighed, and ducked under the ribbon.

The door was open, so plenty of light spilled into the supply room without her needing to touch the light switch. However, just to make sure, Lisa pulled a small flashlight out of her bag and used it to look in the shadowed areas. The first odd thing she noticed was several naked footprints in the dried blood on the floor... but only of the left foot. Where a right footprint would be logically expected was instead a strange, round smear. Did the killer have a peg leg?

Peering into corners and under furniture with her flashlight revealed nothing interesting. However, examining the jam behind the open door did. Scratched into the paint - in fact, deeply into the metal - was what looked like a bird's clawed footprint.

Lisa didn't really want to smell the odors in here any more keenly, but her conscience wouldn't let her avoid that duty. She shifted to cougar, and gave the room a good sniffing. As she expected there were the scents of blood and urine and feces and fear. There was also the scent of eagle feathers and an odd, earthy odor. Finally, she noticed something seriously out of place, and at once strange and familiar. Something that smelled distinctly of big cat... but not of cougar.

* * *

As a writer Lisa knew the importance of research. The scene of the second murder revealed little more, partly because it was so much older, but it confirmed much of what Lisa learned at the clinic. Among other clues duplicated was a bird's foot scratched onto one of the stairway risers. The next day, with Marcie back at work, Lisa went to the main library branch downtown at the Civic Center. Several hours of diligent work refreshed her memory of folklore and myth concerning the supernatural creatures of the Aztec Empire. It also uncovered some rather interesting facts that might or might not apply to the murders. Nearing the time she had promised to return to the Watley household for supper, she finally closed her books, leaned back in the chair with a sigh, and reviewed her notes.

The Aztecs had practiced ritual warfare, taking prisoners from other tribes to use as sacrifices. Armies from the Empire had ranged as far as 1500 kilometers both north and south, even into Lisa's own home area in New Mexico. These prisoners were sacrificed to Tezcatlipoca, the smoking mirror, the second name derived from the practice his priests had of looking into a disk of polished obsidian for messages from their god. In myth and art he was represented in many ways, but one of them was a warrior with his right foot gone, bitten off by a sea monster. The leg ended in bare, jagged bones. Lisa winced at the idea of someone walking on such a thing, but that fit the prints she had found at the clinic. So did the bird-foot mark, since the turkey claw was a symbol associated with Tezcatlipoca.

Lisa also searched the newspaper morgue for unusual items in local newspapers, starting shortly after that night at the clinic which may have sparked this horror. That effort paid off as well. A few days following the gang war someone broke into the local zoo and killed and mutilated an eagle, stealing some of its feathers. Eagle feathers were part of the traditional garb of Tezcatlipoca, so that certainly fit. Once alerted, the zookeepers searched for other violations and found part of a human foot in the alligator pool. The police were suspecting the disposal of a murder victim, but Lisa had a different idea.

She could almost see it; someone so hurting for vengeance that he (or perhaps she, but that seemed unlikely) voluntarily performed an empowering ritual that included having his right foot bitten off, in emulation of an ancient god of death. As for the intervals between killings, the period of thirteen days had major significance in the Aztec calendar. The big cat she had scented was undoubtedly a jaguar, though she wasn't certain how that fit the puzzle. Those felines figured more strongly in Mayan mythology than Aztec.

Something she still didn't understand was the mutilation of the bodies. The Aztec priests had made their sacrifices by presenting the still-beating heart of an enemy warrior to their god. That meant one quick - and very skillful - incision to open the chest, and then the immediate removal of the organ. There was a different ritual where the victim was skinned alive, but that didn't seem to follow the pattern in the murders, either. Was the killer simply trying to cover up the missing hearts? Or was he so carried away by grief or rage or power that he simply couldn't stop himself?

Lisa sighed again and folded her notes. She stuffed them into her bag as she rose, and strode thoughtfully out of the library, onto the broad walk beside McAllister Street. Lisa considered going out of her way on the trip back to the Watley home so she could ride on a cable car, but the nearest line was several blocks from the Civic Center, and went the wrong direction. Besides, she didn't feel much like playing tourist just now.

A few months earlier she would have scoffed at the idea, but the evidence had convinced her that someone - presumably Hispanic, of Aztec ancestry - had become the avatar of a death god. No wonder the murders had occurred like clockwork, both in their timing and their inevitability. Lisa had started this project confident that she could stop whoever was killing people. Now she wasn't so sure, because the "whoever" had turned out to be a "whatever."

She put on a cheerful front for Marcie and her family, but after supper Lisa's host made sure to get her alone, on the pretense of wanting to discuss old times. Once the door to the den closed, though, Marcie's smile vanished.

"Its bad news, isn't it?"

Lisa nodded.

"I could be wrong - I hope I'm wrong - but this seems to involve a creature from Aztec mythology. If I'm right, something that will happen the morning after the next scheduled attack could help us, if I can fight him off or Bill can avoid him for one night."

She explained what she had learned, including the events at the zoo.

"This is insane!" said Marcie, sinking numbly onto the couch. "This sort of thing just doesn't happen!"

"It's rare, but it does happen," sighed Lisa. She put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "I'll do everything I can to keep it from happening again. You have my word."

* * *

Lisa waited outside the Watley home, hardly noticing the cold wind blowing in from the ocean. San Francisco was famed for being uncomfortably cool in spite of a temperate climate, but Lisa was from the Rockies, and both her Indian and werecougar heritages made her quite resistant to temperature extremes. Besides which, just now she was wearing a fur coat.

She was here on a hunch. Some of the signs she had found at the scene of the second attack made her wonder if the killer had scouted out the apartment building ahead of time. On the chance this might be so, Lisa had begun to keep watch the night before, shortly after telling Marcie the bad news. She catnapped under some shrubs, not worried much about missing anything important. In her cougar form she was more aware of her surroundings while asleep than humans were while awake. Lisa had slept in worse places.

She had just woken from one of these naps and was preparing to make a scouting trip around the home when a slight sound caused her to freeze. Slowly, silently, she rose and crept towards where she had heard the noise, making sure to approach from downwind.

As she drew near, her hackles rose. The steady breeze carried familiar odors; blood and eagle feathers and a strange, earthy scent. There was no big cat scent, however. She saw nothing. Except for that one, slight sound from a moment before she heard nothing. However, her nose - and her instincts - told her that there was something there. Once she knew this, once she focused closely enough on the source of the scents, the sights and sounds came rushing in.

He was dressed in bound robes of red and green, decorated with crude drawings of skulls and bones. His face was painted in horizontal stripes of red and green; that makeup probably being the source of the earthy smell. He carried a hide shield and an obsidian-pointed spear with accompanying atlatl, or spear thrower, and an obsidian-bladed maquahuitl, or war club. He walked on the bare bones projecting from the stump of his right leg, limping as he went.

He appeared older than Lisa expected, but that didn't mean he was any less dangerous. As she had guessed, he was looking at the home as he walked slowly around it. Except for the limp his movements seemed unhindered by that terrible wound. Lisa paced him, at a distance, belly to the ground. His unfamiliar presence caused no disturbance among the pets and wild animals in the neighborhood, which had taken hours to get used to Lisa. Apparently even normal beast senses weren't enough to pierce whatever magical cloak of concealment he wore.

Lisa had learned that sometimes it did pay to talk to monsters. She shifted to her midform and stepped into his view. With any luck she'd scare him away just with her appearance.

She didn't get that luck. He didn't look frightened. He didn't look surprised. He didn't even look impressed.

"Ah. I was warned he had a protector," the man announced, in English with a heavy Mexican accent, his voice quiet but strangely carrying. "Though I was expecting a male. Do you come to waste your life opposing the Master of Cuts?"

Well, at least she had something to call him, now, even if it was rather immodest.

"Leave this family in peace. They have done nothing to harm you."

"Of course not. How could they harm me? I seek the life of Doctor William Watley for other reasons. He is a warrior against death, and I serve death. What better sacrifice could I make?"

"This is not your time, this is not your place!" snarled Lisa.

"What do you know about what I am?" roared the Master of Cuts, shaking his shield and spear. The sudden contrast with his previous whispering made Lisa start.

"You serve the Smoking Mirror," said Lisa, quickly, trying to cover her alarm and - yes - fear, "also known as Ek Chuah, Tezcatlipoca, Huitzilopochtli, Tloque Nahuaque..."

"So, kitty has done her homework. Very impressive, though you have combined two beings," he said, again whispering. He laughed, also in a whisper, a sound that send shivers up and down Lisa's back. "I am the Master of Cuts. I will be just as glad to serve you to my master tonight as the one I intend to take tomorrow night."

Lisa snarled and charged him. The Master of Cuts threw his spear in a surprisingly quick response, but Lisa dodged and slashed. He put his shield in the way. Lisa expected it to offer about as much protection as tissue paper, but to her surprise her claws scraped across it doing little more than scratching the surface. The Master of cuts drew his war club and swung.

Lisa dodged again, then circled, trying to get around that shield. She saw an opening, and darted in, counting on her speed to protect her. It didn't.

She slashed his left arm, knocking the shield aside, making him drop it, but at the same time he struck with that club. Fire stabbed into Lisa's left arm as the glassy volcanic stone cut deep into her flesh. She was already bouncing back, and managed to get clear before he could follow through, but she knew he had hurt her at least as much as she had hurt him.

The wound felt... strange. The pain wasn't going away, might even have been getting worse. It felt like the time at the hospital in Hue when the VC soldier had cut the top of her right ear off with that rune-inscribed knife, a scar she carried to this day. Which meant the weapon was magical, and could kill her as easily as it could a human.

On the other hand he was obviously shaken by his own wound. This was probably his first injury since gaining his powers. Lisa had been hurt before, and knew she could still fight. She decided to press the attack before he could recover his shield.

Only, the side door opened, and Marcie stepped out, holding a riot shotgun. She glanced at the scenario revealed by the uncertain light of the street lamps, gasped, and froze. The Master of Cuts glared at her, then back at Lisa, menace in his eyes. In an abrupt move he scooped up his shield, whirled and darted away, leaving his spear. Lisa considered following, but she was hurt, and there was a good chance he would be waiting in the shadows for her, cloaked beyond her ability to easily detect. There would be a better opportunity later.

Marcie belatedly raised the shotgun towards the fleeing figure; then, realizing that was wasted motion, swung it on Lisa. Her eyes narrowed, and then widened in surprise, and the gun dropped, hanging forgotten at the ends of her limp arms. She shook her head, and smiled tentatively.

"No... sudden moves, right?" she joked weakly.

"Actually," said Lisa, giving a tired grin but carefully avoiding opening her lips too much and revealing her fangs, "I don't think you could make a move I'd consider sudden."

Marcie shook herself, her whole body this time. Then, once more the professional nurse, she leaned the shotgun against the house and moved to the cat-woman. Lisa was impressed. There were very few creatures - human or otherwise - that would willingly approach a shapeshifter in midform. Marcie took Lisa's arm and quickly but skillfully evaluated the injury.

"You need this cleaned and dressed. We better get you inside."

"Wait," said Lisa.

She shifted to human form, the first time she had ever done so while someone was touching her. She wondered what Marcie felt as it happened.

Lisa allowed Marcie to lead her into the house, noting that her friend had enough presence of mind to grab the shotgun on the way. Marcie settled Lisa at the kitchen table and went to fetch her medical kit. She also brought a robe. It wasn't until Marcie handed this over that Lisa remembered she was still naked. She thanked Marcie and laid the robe on the table; no sense putting it on until the wound had been seen to.

Normally Lisa wouldn't bother treating an injury such as this, but normally this minor a wound would have already healed. This had been made by something foreign to her, and she figured the more precautions the better. Marcie cleaned the cut, and reached for a packaged suture kit.

"No," said Lisa, "I need something that won't tear out if I have to change again."

Marcie nodded, and settled for butterfly closures, some gauze pads and an elastic bandage.

"You knew it was me," said Lisa, as her friend worked. "Before I changed back. Almost as soon as you saw me."

Marcie paused from her bandaging to wordlessly reach up and push back Lisa's hair, revealing her truncated right ear.

"It's not so obvious on a human, especially the way you normally wear your hair, but with a big cat, having the top third of an ear missing is pretty noticeable."

Lisa smiled. Marcie had always been smart.

* * *

The wound was much better by morning. That was reassuring. However, it most likely would not be completely healed by nightfall, and quite likely the Master of Cuts would return.

"Take Bill and Susan and get out of here," Lisa urged Marcie. "He'll come after me first, since I hurt him. I can fight better if I don't have to worry about protecting you. If you don't hear from me by the next morning, you'll have a head start."

At first Marcie refused. Even after Lisa convinced her, Bill was stubborn about staying. Trying to persuade him without revealing any details of the nature of their opponent or Lisa was especially difficult. The two women didn't even mention the night before, but simply told Bill that Lisa had uncovered some information on the murderer and needed room to work in order to stop him. Bill was unconvinced.

"I'm not gonna let you fight my fights!" was his response.

Marcie finally convinced him by lying outrageously. She told Bill that Lisa was a special government operative, from an anti-terrorist agency, and that she had already called in reinforcements. Even after that Bill was reluctant, but eventually he was convinced. Maybe it was the way that Lisa kept staring at him, like a cat sizing up a meal. Maybe it was the way Oscar still wouldn't willingly enter the same room as Lisa. Bill knew that Marcie was lying, but he also knew that there was... something about Lisa, something which Marcie was trusting to settle this problem. Eventually he decided to follow the plan.

The Watleys hastily packed and left that afternoon, Bill and Marcie arranging to have this day and the next off work. Oscar, for one, seemed glad to go.

* * *

Nightfall arrived. Then midnight. Right on schedule, the Master of Cuts also arrived. Lisa met him where they had fought the night before, in the large yard beside the Watley's house. He smiled at her, gave a little bow, then threw his spear.

Again, Lisa successfully dodged. This time, though, she had distance weapons of her own. She had long been quite good at throwing knives. Scavenging in the shed out back after the Watleys left, she found eight steel tent pegs. They were now tucked into a makeshift belt. The expression on the Master of Cuts face when the first one buried itself in his stomach was almost worth the danger Lisa had willingly put herself in.

Distressingly, he shrugged the injury off, yanking the stake out and throwing it aside. The wound closed almost immediately. The next one he parried with his club, but in the process he broke one of the obsidian blades. Lisa danced around him, feinting and faking, occasionally throwing a stake. Most of these he blocked with his shield. He was almost as quick as her, but not nearly as agile nor as experienced at fighting. Lisa thought her plan might just work. The Master of Cuts was understandably reluctant to get close; if he could hit Lisa with his club, she could claw him, and his wound from the night before looked barely less fresh. So her claws had the same effect on him as his club did on her, only he wasn't healing as quickly from their effects. If she could wear him down...

Suddenly he was on top of her, swinging his club at her head. She hadn't even seen him move. In fact, while musing about how she was going to defeat him she had forgotten about him! Lisa dropped and rolled away, as he swung repeatedly. He caught her twice, once just scraping her scalp, and the second time catching her with a blunt part of the club on her right shoulder. She barely had time to bound to her feet before he was on her again, and Lisa found herself fighting for her life.

She had vastly underestimated him. The Master of Cuts was much stronger than her, and better armed and protected. As well, that cloaking ability... if he managed to pull that trick again, she would probably be killed before she knew she was in danger. Fortunately, after a few frantic exchanges he backed away. His wounds were as minor as hers, but they were reminders to him that Lisa was not an easy victim.

Unfortunately, the range restriction also applied to Lisa. If she closed she could claw him good at least once before he could strike, but he almost certainly would hit her before she could withdraw.

A dread certainty dawned on Lisa: if she continued this fight she would die, though she would probably take this fiend with her. She didn't like the situation, but her sense of duty wouldn't let her avoid it. Very well, then; a trade. Her life, for all those he wouldn't take. She took a deep breath, and steeled herself to go on the offensive.

Suddenly, a piercing cry filled the air, and a strange figure leapt into the yard. It was male, taller than Lisa and more muscular, with a coat patterned like a jaguar's, obviously another werecat. The one Lisa had scented before, at the clinic.

Wasting no time, he clawed at the Master of Cuts, forcing the murderer back. Lisa spent perhaps half a second on being surprised, then joined him. At first they had the Master of Cuts completely off balance, too busy protecting himself to harm them, and Lisa hoped that they might make short work of this monster. Then he rallied, and slashed madly with that club, keeping the cats at bay. Lisa stepped quickly back and let fly, but the Master of Cuts used his shield to block the stake with hardly a break in his swings. She jumped back into the melee, and for long minutes the battle hung in the balance. Then, as if in agreement, the two sides parted, the Master of Cuts in one direction, Lisa and the newcomer in the other.

The fight took on a different character after that. The newcomer, as Lisa had before, now fought cautiously. He had been injured by those obsidian blades, and though his wounds were minor he had quickly learned to respect the Master of Cuts. Lisa watched him and worked with the stranger, trying to catch their opponent between them. The Master of Cuts, apparently in no hurry and wanting to size the jaguar up, took his time as well, giving ground whenever it looked like his foes had an advantage. The minutes dragged on as the fight shifted slowly to an empty lot near the Watley home.

Eventually there was another pause as Lisa and the newcomer stood back a bit to again assess the situation. They were both tired, and showed, it, but the Master of Cuts seemed in better shape than when Lisa had first seen him at midnight. Fortunately, he was in no hurry to resume the fight, and instead prolonged the break by taunting them.

"A protector and a guardian," hissed the Master of Cuts. "How disgustingly sentimental. Surely you know the age of heroes and mystic champions is over."

"Whenever you rise, so do we," growled the jaguar, throwing off his fatigue, straightening to confront the man. "You are supposed to have agreement from Quetzalcoatl before you make war!"

"This is not war! This is blood sacrifice! For that I need no permission from the feathered serpent!"

"We'll see what Quetzalcoatl thinks about that," hissed the jaguar, raising his arm in a dramatic gesture towards the east. "This is the night of his rise in the sky, for the first time since you began your rampage!"

The Master of Cuts gasped, and swung around to stare eastward. It was obvious he had not realized just how much time had passed. Dawn was still a long way off, but Venus - identified by the Aztecs with Quetzalcoatl - was currently the morning star, and would rise ahead of the sun. Lisa desperately tried to estimate how much time they had until that happened, but couldn't. The hour might be two O'clock or five.

The jaguar may have been bluffing. Or maybe he just decided to take advantage of the momentary distraction. He leapt, the Master of Cuts bringing his shield around barely too late. As Lisa joined the attack she saw the jaguar tear open the man's chest with his claws. Lisa tried for his throat, but the Master of Cuts was still very much in the fight and dodged. Even so, Lisa took a good chunk out of his shoulder. The shield dropped. Then the blade. After that it was butchery, pure and simple.

Finally, they stopped. Their opponent had taken enough damage to kill a dozen men, yet the Master of Cuts lived, if just barely. As Lisa stared, panting and bleeding, at the man, she noticed odd details. Things that stood out in the sudden quiet.

His headdress had fallen off during the final, frenzied battle, and underneath his head was shaved, with a stylized tattoo on the back of smoke, flame, a round obsidian mirror, and clumps of eagle down. Just like in the books Lisa had read. The tattoo looked old; it would have been invisible under a normal head of hair. Something from his childhood, perhaps?

Then, the Master of Cuts stirred from where he lay face down on the ground. He looked at the werecats, raised a hand toward them in supplication, not asking for mercy but making an appeal for his cause.

"I... I must...," he stared up at them desperately. "I came to this land to escape the violence... but it was here, too... and I realized the old ways were right... we must serve the violence, or it will consume us. Don't you see? Don't you see?"

With that he died, his hand falling limply to the bare dirt.

"Well, I'm certainly glad that's over," Lisa panted, looking up at her rescuer. "Thank you for the..."

She was alone. There were tracks... big cat tracks. Lisa followed them, but they rapidly faded away. That is, they grew progressively lighter, until she finally could find no sign, not even a scent, of her ally.

It was then she realized that the werejaguar hadn't been speaking English... or any other language Lisa knew...

"Damn," she whispered, shivering, her fur standing on end.

* * *

"A janitor!" Lisa exclaimed.

Marcie nodded, her mouth a thin line.

"He was a political refugee from southern Mexico, able to claim asylum because of persecution. He had spoken out against the local government, you see, and had to flee after his family was killed. He was at the clinic the night of the gang war, cleaning up the blood and gore. I guess something just snapped."

"Now he's been pegged by the press and the police as the newest victim of the mystery killer." Lisa sighed and shook her head. She'd removed the spear, shield and club, but left him in that strange garb, rather than stripping him. Let the police make what they would of his unusual clothing and missing foot.

"I told the cops he was the one who found the tracks in the crawl space at the clinic," Marcie continued, sounding and looking tired. "They'll figure that's the motive for him being killed. What they'll make of the killings stopping with him I don't know. Or care."

The silent pause stretched out for long moments, before Marcie finally stirred, sighing.

"We know the truth," she said, quietly. "We can't ever tell anyone about it, but we know."

"Who says we can't tell?" asked Lisa, with a defiant smile, abruptly changing the mood. "The Master of Cuts might just appear in my next book! Anyway, I've got something here I've been saving for just such an occasion."

Lisa reached into the canvas bag she had brought into the den and produced two bottles. One contained Booker's straight bourbon; the other, High Bridge Springs bottled water.

"You mean to tell me that you lugged those all the way from Kentucky?" demanded Marcie.

"I suspected we'd either have a celebration or a wake," laughed Lisa, "and figured I'd want something special either way."

Like the old days, they used large tumblers. Lisa poured a generous helping of the dark amber liquid into each, then added a splash of the water.

"There's stuff floating in this," said Marcie, dubiously.

"That's just some on the char from the inside of the barrel," Lisa explained. "It's unfiltered. That's what makes it so good."

Marcie took a sip. She barely got it down without choking.

"My GOD!" she gasped. Then she took another, more cautious drink. "Say... that's good!"

"I told you," said Lisa, smiling.

Once the initial surprise was over - and once Marcie had added more water to hers - they settled down to some serious celebration. They didn't want to get drunk, just mellow, and they weren't in any hurry, so two glasses each lasted them well over an hour. Finally, though, Marcie announced that she'd had enough, unless Lisa wanted her hung-over for the trip to the airport in the morning.

"God, no," laughed, Lisa, only half joking. "You drive bad enough clear headed!"

"That reminds me," said Marcie, giving a smile which made Lisa wonder if the other woman had some cat blood herself. "Do you happen to know how those holes got in the dash of my van? They look remarkably like claw holes, but how could something with claws have gotten in my car? I just hope Bill doesn't notice them before I can afford to have them fixed."

Lisa groaned and rubbed her eyes.

"I forgot all about those," she sighed. "Get an estimate and I'll send you a check."