51
7:55 a.m.
Duncan kept well back from the frenzied lynx. Russo had attached a leash to the cat’s collar and sought to draw Katch toward the stairwell. The lynx hissed and snarled. Claws dug at the stone, looking for traction. His entire coat bristled out, as if the beast had been shocked by a cattle prod.
Duncan frowned.
Even if we had such a weapon, I doubt it would move the cat down those steps.
Russo must have realized this, too, and glared at Sharyn. “Signorina, if you wish me to force Katch, I will need more of a reason to torture him like this.”
Sharyn stood with her arms crossed, looking ill at the treatment of the cat. She swallowed and nodded. “I’m sorry. Truthfully, I don’t know if this will accomplish anything. I was hoping that if we could get him into the lower levels, we could have him sniff out the wellspring of this toxin. It likely protects the doorway we’re looking for.”
“I don’t smell anything,” Archie said.
“It’s clearly odorless. Same as carbon dioxide. But Katch is plainly responding to something. And a feline’s nose is far stronger than ours.”
Russo nodded. “Fourteen times as strong. Still, their sense of smell is not as acute as their sight and hearing. Lynxes are mainly nocturnal. Their night-vision is exceptional, as is their hearing, making them formidable hunters in the dark.”
As if ready to demonstrate this talent, Katch bunched his haunches and growled.
“If we could borrow his keen nose,” Sharyn explained, “it could help narrow down our search. To discover which, if any, of the brick walls might be hiding a secret door.”
Laurent turned to Russo. “Is there any hope of gaining his cooperation?”
“I can try again.”
Russo dropped to a knee and offered an open palm. She spoke firmly but softly in Italian. The cat’s growl ebbed. His ears, which had flattened menacingly against his skull, lifted up, drawn by her voice.
Archie whispered, “I think it’s—”
Katch snapped out a paw, lightning fast, and ripped claws across Russo’s palm. The cat hissed and backed away.
Russo barely reacted, only showing a slight pinching of her eyes. Blood welled thickly and dripped to the floor. Though her hand had been gouged to the bone, the woman kept her arm out and continued talking calmly.
Clearly this wasn’t her first mauling. Last night, while they were preparing dinner, Russo had stripped off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Her leathery arms had been crisscrossed with ropes of scars.
Katch sank his belly to the floor. His eyes glowed on the blood, on the wound. His hissing quieted into a soft mewling, as if recognizing the damage he had wrought, grieving over it.
“Va bene, Katch. Sto bene . . .”
Finally, the lynx crawled forward, bowing his head. Russo reached her other hand and reassured him, still murmuring, rubbing the spots she must know well, earning the whisper of a purr.
Duncan held his breath, especially when Russo detached the lead from the cat’s collar.
After another minute, Katch grew more relaxed. Russo leaned closer, nearly nose to nose. The cat bumped the tip of his muzzle into her, then rubbed his cheek across her chin.
Afterward, Russo stood slowly. She shook out a bandana from a pocket and bound her wounded hand, using her teeth to knot the bandage. “I should not have attached the lead. It’s my fault. I’ve not leashed him in more than a year. I’ve been training him to be self-sufficient, readying him to be free. So, he’s right to lash out. It’s a good sign of the independence he will need in the wild.”
Duncan took her at her word.
Sharyn stared toward the steps. “Do you think you can get him to follow you down?”
“Right now, he’s feeling guilty, so he’ll likely cooperate. But I can’t say for how long.”
“Then we should get going,” Laurent warned.
52
