LXXVIII
The cat didn't even wait for me. He hopped off the newspaper stand with a little thup of paws on metal and started trotting down the sidewalk like he had a schedule to keep.
"Naturally. This is October 1928 according to that paper over there. I'm not even dead yet. I was whacked in 1929 just after New Years." He stated plainly, glibly, like he'd gotten over his own death.
He didn't argue. He just flicked his tail once, sharply, like a conductor cueing the orchestra.
"Time to take some initiative, sweetheart. Come along."
We walked several blocks, past glaring signs, past men in hats and women in cloche dresses, past the smell of roasted chestnuts and cigarette smoke. The city felt alive in a way modern cities didn't. Everything was louder, closer, more dangerous, more glamorous. And then we turned a corner.
A smaller theater sat tucked between a tailor's shop and a bakery, its marquee glowing faintly in the dusk.
The Golden Note Lyric Hall.
A vaudeville house off Broadway.
The cat stopped, tail curling like a question mark.
"This is where the living me honed his profession. Dancing, magic tricks, a little sleight of hand, a lot of sweat."
I stared at the building, heart pounding. I was about to see him.
The living him. The man behind the shadow.
But first, the cat looked me up and down, unimpressed.
"You can't walk in there looking like a time‑lost mountain woman."
I glanced at my clothes. They were modern, practical, warm, absolutely screaming wrong decade.
I might as well have had a neon sign over my head: Time Traveler and Demon Cat.
"We need to get you something to wear."
He trotted toward the alley beside the theater.
"Employee entrance is this way."
He moved easier than a tire on an oil slick.
The alley smelled like old brick, damp wood, and cigarette smoke. A stagehand leaned against the wall, smoking, but he didn't look twice at a stray cat and a woman walking with purpose. People didn't question confidence in 1928.
The cat slipped behind a half‑open dumpster, becoming an unseen shadow as he neared the stage door. I followed as the stagehand finished his cigarette, and the cat stopped the stage door with an expertly rolled soup can from the alley.
Inside was a narrow hallway lined with costumes, props, and dressing rooms. The air smelled like powder, sweat, and old velvet. Voices echoed from the stage, warmups, laughter, someone practicing tap steps.
The cat hopped onto a costume trunk.
"Find something that doesn't make you look like you crawled out of a glacier."
I opened the trunk.
Inside were dresses, silk, satin, sequins, fringe.
Vaudeville costumes, flapper dresses, dozens of stage outfits in pieces.
I pulled out a simple but elegant dress: deep midnight blue, knee‑length, with a drop waist and subtle silver beading. It looked wearable, not too flashy, not too suspicious.
"Good choice." The cat nodded approvingly.
"You'll blend in. Mostly. Try not to talk too much. Your accent is… eclectic."
I slipped into the dress; the ribboned waist hung just at the hip. I adjusted the hem that hit just under the knees and found a pair of low ankle black strapped heels that fit well enough. I tucked my hair into a bun under a cream cloche hat with black velvet lining the rim.
When I stepped out of the dressing room, the cat gave a slow blink.
"You'll pass. Barely. But you'll pass."
We moved toward the stage. The theatre was half full of people, many tipsy with bootleg liquor and acting disorderly in the back rows.
The cat's tail flicked with something I rarely saw in him, hesitation.
Nervousness. Maybe even… vulnerability.
"You're about to see the living me."
His voice was quieter.
"Don't faint. Don't scream. Don't try to hug him. He won't know you. He won't know me. He's just a man right now. A very alive man."
I swallowed hard. The curtain parted slightly.
And there he was.
On stage. Dancing.
His blonde hair swayed in the stage lights, Tall, lean, sharp‑featured, dressed in a crisp suit with a white tie. His movements were fluid, confident, magnetic. The orchestra struck up a bright, brassy tune—syncopated, fast, full of horns and a rolling piano line. A classic Charleston‑meets‑soft‑shoe hybrid, the kind of number that let a dancer show off footwork and personality at the same time.
He stepped into the spotlight. Blonde hair slicked back with pomade.
Blue eyes sharp and alive. No yellow glow. No shadow trailing behind him.
Just a young man in his 20s in his element, brilliant, ambitious, hungry for applause.
His suit was velvet gold under the lights, not gaudy but luminous, the sequined edging catching every movement. When he lifted his arms, the sleeves shimmered like sunlight on water.
He began with a soft‑shoe glide, sliding across the stage with effortless grace. His feet whispered against the floor—brush, step, tap, slide—each movement smooth as silk. He snapped his fingers in time with the piano, shoulders rolling, hips loose, smile sharp.
Then he kicked into a Charleston variation, swinging his legs out and in, twisting his torso, arms slicing the air in crisp, rhythmic arcs. The audience clapped along, the energy rising like heat.
He pivoted sharply, launching into a fast spin, one, two, three rotations, his coat flaring out in a glittering halo. The audience was in audible awe. When he stopped, he landed in a perfect pose, chin lifted, one hand extended toward the crowd.
The audience roared.
He transitioned into a flash step routine, the kind dancers used to show off speed and precision. Heel‑toe, heel‑toe, shuffle‑ball‑change, hop, kick, tap—so fast his feet blurred. He tossed his hat into the air, caught it behind his back, flipped it onto his head without missing a beat. The living Hat‑Man was dazzling.
He finished with a jazz slide, sweeping across the stage in a long, dramatic glide, arms outstretched. The spotlight caught the gold of his suit and made him look like a streak of sunlight cutting through the dim theater.
He ended with a bow, sweeping deep, theatrical, confident. The audience erupted.
And beside you, the cat watched silently, tail curled, eyes glowing. They were not yellow with magic, but with something quieter.
The cat sat beside me, watching his own past self with an unreadable expression.
"Slim's got him working hard tonight."
His voice was soft.
"That's me. Before everything went sideways. Before the gambling debts, before the mob. before the funhouse mirrors." He sighed deeply.
He looked up at me. "Welcome to the beginning of my end, sweetheart."