The air came apart with the sound of the rifle and the screams of the woman and the roaring of the cat. Caine waited, as though this were a dream he was watching. The cat had leaped straight for the woman, and she was tangled with the black and white claws now, so that Caine saw only a rolling, screaming mass.
Then there was no more sound from the woman, just a broken, bleeding body, and the cat was crouching again, the black coat stippled with red, the orange eyes wild.
Caine blinked, realizing that Fairchild was sprawled beside him, a bullet through his head, his hands just touching his unfired rifle.
I can't do it, Caine thought, looking at the rifle. Too slow. I'll have those claws in me before I can even touch it.
The cat hugged closer to the ground, its muscles bunching.
I'll try, Caine thought, and his hand was moving toward the rifle, slowly, like a floating feather, it seemed. Jump, he said silently to the cat. I can't do it.
"Grith?" sounded a flute-like voice.
The cat was motionless.
"Grith?"
The cat rose slowly and backed, tail swishing. Green hands slapped together, and the cat turned and disappeared.