Please come. Losing myself.

I reread the letter for what feels like the hundredth time. I've read it so much that it's not just dog-eared; its edges have attained the softness of velvet. I don't recognize your handwriting, but given what seems to be happening I'm not exactly surprised. There's always the possibility this is a trap, but I doubt it. You were the more powerful enchantress, always. The one who sits on the board of the College of Sorcery; the Ambassador Extraordinary to the Fey Council; the one who gets published in the decent journals.

Me? I'm the charlatan. The one who knows a handful of spells (always had a good nose for illusion magic, which comes in handier than you'd think). The one working out of a decrepit fifth floor office and who spends more time snapping photographs of cheating wives than I do searching for lost magical artifacts. Oliver Crowley, Private Investigator (Magickal Cases A Specialty!) is stenciled on the frosted glass of my office door. You try not to sneer when you visit. Once I offered you a job as a secretary. Laughing, you declined, pointing out -- quite correctly -- I could never afford one.

No one would dream of luring me into a trap. It would never be worth the trouble. But we'd always gotten along well, and we'd bailed each other out of trouble more than once. And if I secretly harbored a crush on you, well, what harm in it? I always knew my limitations. I wasn't about to make a pass at you when you were dangling off the arm of the Fae Prince of Providence, even if I knew it was only a political date.

But I knew more history and archaeology than you did, and when I warned you not to meddle with the ruins in Zaire I wasn't just being playful. There are sorceries there even the Pharaohs knew not to mess with, and the warlords and witch doctors who run riot over the whole continent these days are entirely too careless with them. You laughed it off. You could deal with anything.

No one has heard from you in a year. The letter that finally showed up in my mailbox, stamped with more ink than a crate that got lost at six different ports of call, is dated six months ago and is starting to yellow with age. And that's why I'm standing on the prow of a rusty steamer ship, reading the letter yet again, not quite daring to look at the accompanying Polaroid where anyone might see it, my limited bag of tricks draped over one shoulder.

It's not until I'm in the relative safety of a dreary hotel room not far from the docks that I look at the photo again. I can still recognize you ... mostly. But I recognize the symbol on the necklace around your throat, the symbol of the goddess Bast. I would have told you never to put it on. But the tufts of fur sprouted on your shoulders, your belly -- the fangs behind your lips -- and the terrified golden eyes staring from your face -- tell me no one warned you. Perhaps you never had a chance.

How much further things have gotten in the last six months, I have no idea. And it's still going to take me time to get to the ruins, assuming I even survive the trip.

Doesn't matter. Second-rate sorcerer I might be, I'm going to do my damndest to save you.

I just wonder if you have other ideas.

Saving my crush from a feline fate in a noir-ish world of modern sorcery. By the way, I might well not save you. Cats don't like to be seen as damsels in distress ... and they do so love to be worshipped.