LXXXI
I awoke with that sick, sinking feeling.
It was the kind of stomach drop that tells you something has gone wrong before your eyes even open.
The apartment was too quiet. The armchair was empty.
The ice pack lay melted on the floor.
And the dancer, our golden boy, was gone.
I shot upright. "Where'd he go!"
The cat blinked awake on the windowsill, pupils narrowing as he sniffed the air, tail puffing in alarm. The check was gone, and so was the young man.
Then his ears flattened.
"Oh no…"
He hopped down, pacing in frantic little circles.
"The money. He took it to the races! He's betting on the hounds!"
You stared at him, horrified.
"He WHAT?"
The cat threw his paws up.
"He's an idiot! A beautiful, golden, tap‑dancing idiot! He thinks he can win big and pay off the Russos in one go! He always thought that!"
You didn't waste another second.
You dressed in record time, scooped the cat into your arms, and bolted out the door.
"Quick! Where'd he go?"
The cat pointed with one paw like a tiny, furious compass.
"Dog track! He always went to the dog track! He spent half his life there!"
You flagged down the fastest taxi you could find—a bright yellow cab with a driver who looked like he'd been awake for three days straight.
"Dog track!" you shouted.
The driver didn't ask questions.
He hit the gas so hard I slammed back into the seat.
The cat clung to my coat, fur bristling.
"He borrowed money from the Russos to pay back his lost bets, sweetheart."
His voice trembled with old anger.
"He thought he could work it off, but Slim never paid him enough. He kept betting his salary, thinking he'd get one big win."
The city blurred past the windows, brick buildings, signs of every sort, crowds, smoke.
The cat's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Every time he lost, he sank deeper. Every time he tried to climb out, someone kicked him back down."
I held his little furred form tighter.
"We'll stop him."
He nodded, jaw tight.
"His shadow hounds…"
The little cat closed his eyes, swallowed, and reminisced.
"They could've taken any form. But he chose dogs. Racing dogs. The same ones he spent all his money on before he died."
The taxi screeched around a corner.
The cat pointed again with white paw.
"There! The track!"
The taxi skidded to a stop in front of the gates.
The dog track loomed ahead, the Lucky 7 Dog Track.
Bright lights, roaring crowds, cigarette smoke curling into the air, bookies shouting odds, dogs barking from their cages.
And somewhere inside, our young dancer, clutching three thousand dollars, ready to throw his life away.
The cat leapt from your arms, landing on the pavement with a determined thump.
"Come on, sweetheart."
His voice was tight, urgent.
"We're about to stop the stupidest mistake of my entire life."
You ran after him, heart pounding, the timeline trembling around you like a taut wire ready to snap.
And the dog track swallowed him whole.
He was standing there at the rail, ticket in hand, eyes bright with that dangerous, naïve hope you only ever see in gamblers and dreamers. The crowd roared around him—men shouting odds, women waving programs, dogs barking from their cages—and your golden boy looked like he belonged to all of it.
The cat saw him first.
And the cat launched.
He sprang from your arms with the force of a tiny missile, landing squarely on the dancer's chest.
"HOW MUCH DID YOU BET, BOY?!"
The dancer staggered back, clutching the ticket like it was a holy relic.
"Trust me!" he said, breathless, excited, absolutely out of his mind. "I'm going to double the money! Imagine having almost double our money?"
The cat's fur stood on end.
"DOUBLE?! You bet DOUBLE?!"
The dancer held up the ticket proudly.
"I set aside a thousand for the Russos," he said, "but I put a thousand on the first dog. Double or nothing! Odds aren't great, but I have a good feeling."
You felt your stomach drop.
"A thousand dollars?!"
He nodded eagerly.
"Lucky's Private Dancer! Number nine on the third track! He's a sure thing!"
The cat whipped around to you, tail puffed like a bottle brush.
"Sweetheart, he bet a small fortune on a dog!"
You grabbed the dancer by the shoulders.
"Champ—this is THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS. This is your whole future. This is your escape. This is your LIFE."
He blinked at you, confused.
"But if Lucky wins..."
The cat cut him off with a furious hiss.
"Lucky's Private Dancer is a long shot! He's named after YOU, you idiot! That's not a sign, that's a joke!"
The dancer looked wounded.
"He's fast…"
"He's cursed!" the cat snapped. "Every dog you ever bet on lost! That's why you died!"
The dancer froze.
I grabbed his wrist, the ticket crumpling between my fingers.
"It's too late," I said, voice tight. "We've got to get the money back. We have to stop the race. We have to stop the bet. We have to stop YOU."
The cat nodded sharply.
"If that dog loses—and he WILL lose—you're dead in three days."
The dancer swallowed hard.
The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers:
"Third track! Dogs to the gate!"
The crowd surged forward.
The cat looked up at you, eyes blazing.
"Sweetheart… we're out of time."
And the gates began to open. The horn blared, signaling the start of the race.
The moment you whispered in his ear, the whole world seemed to tilt.
The dancer's breath caught. The cat's golden eyes widened. And the track already humming with tension felt like it was holding its breath.
"If we know he's going to lose, what do you say we help fate a little, hat-man?" I whispered only for the hat-man.
You felt the cat stiffen in your arms.
"Genius!"
His eyes flared gold, bright as stage lights. A shimmer rolled across his fur. And the air around your ankles cooled.
It started as a thin veil. The fog rose as a faint, shadowy mist curling along the ground, barely visible under the track lights. Not the full, monstrous fog of the mirror realm. Just a whisper. A memory. A fragment of the power he once wielded.
The dancer stared, mouth open.
"Wh‑what is that…?"
The cat didn't answer. He was focused. Every whisker forward, every muscle taut.
The fog slithered across the dirt, weaving between the legs of the crowd, slipping under the rail, drifting toward the starting gates.
Just tangled wisps. Barely there. But enough.
The dogs pawed at the ground, restless. Lucky's Private Dancer—sleek, gray, number 9—shook his head, ears twitching.
The fog reached the group of greyhounds. One by one the greyhounds seemed to slow, or stumble, or become unfocused on the race. In subtle ways, they lost momentum.
A single swipe, like a shadow brushing his paws, and the race was decided.
Lucky surged forward before the others even reacted, muscles snapping like coiled springs. The other dogs stumbled, confused, thrown off by the sudden shift in scent and shadow.
The crowd roared. The dancer gasped.
The cat's golden eyes dimmed, the fog evaporating as quickly as it came.
He slumped in your arms, panting.
"Sweetheart. I might have overdone it."
But the dancer was already cheering, clutching his ticket like a holy relic.
"HE'S WINNING! HE'S WINNING!"
The cat hissed sharply.
Lucky's Private Dancer tore down the track, a streak of gray lightning.
The announcer shouted: "Number 9 pulls ahead! Lucky's Private Dancer is in the lead!"
The dancer grabbed your arm.
"Lady—this is it! This is the big one! This is—"
The cat cut him off with a growl.
The Russo brothers were somewhere in the stands.
Watching. Waiting.
And now, they'd seen something impossible.
The cat looked up at you, eyes still faintly glowing.
"Sweetheart, I hope we don't regret this." The hat-man said in half regret. He had seen the addicted glow in his living body's eyes.
Lucky crossed the finish line.
The crowd exploded.
And the dancer, our golden boy, had no idea what storm he'd just unleashed.