Right Hand Magic by Nancy A. Collins

mysterious noises and see spectral figures flitting across the lawn.
    I tilted my head and listened to the sounds the house made late at night. Instead of rattling chains and ghostly moans, all I heard was the slow, steady grind of the electric clock over the stove, the gurgle of the watercooler, and the muffled rattle of the ice maker inside the fridge. So much for the sisters Brontë.
    As I turned to rinse my glass in the sink, I glanced out the window and saw something flit across the backyard. At first I thought it might be Scratch, but whatever it was seemed larger than the familiar, and I was pretty sure it had hair.
    I am a sucker for animals in distress. Always have been, always will be. It doesn’t matter if it’s a duckling or a wildebeest; if it’s limping, lost, or hungry, I’ll try to nurse it back to health, find it a home, or feed it. And although I had caught only a fleeting glimpse of whatever it was, the way it moved told me it was hurt.
    I unlocked the back door and stepped out onto the porch, peering into the shadowy garden. “Don’t be afraid,” I called out softly as I headed down the steps and crossed the yard. “I’m not going to do anything bad to you.”
    A rustling sound came from deeper in the garden. The moon was a third full, and its distant light limned everything in silver and shadow. I could make out the tops of the shrubbery shaking as something pushed through it.
    “It’s okay, boy,” I whispered, patting the side of my leg in hopes of calling the animal into the open. I eased my way down the path, the gravel crunching under my slippered feet. “C’mere, boy. ...”
    My desire to help a poor, hurt animal was suddenly replaced by a sliver of fear as whatever was in the bushes moved to circle behind me. It was too big to be a house cat, of that I was sure. My heart began to race. I took a step backward, only to freeze when I heard a growl coming from a nearby elder bush. As I looked into the shrubbery, I saw a pair of yellowish green eyes set two feet from the ground staring back at me. I realized then that what I had seen running across the garden lawn wasn’t a dog, either.
    Now that I knew precisely where to look, I had no problem seeing a cougar with a shock collar about its neck crouched in the shadows. I stared at the creature for a long moment, trying to decide whether it was better to flee or stand my ground.
    “ Thaaaat’s a good kitty,” I said like an idiot. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a friend. ...”
    As it stood upright, the cougar revealed the torso and lower body of a man. Although I had never seen one in the flesh before, I recognized the creature as one of the bastet, a species of shape-shifter that took the form of various big cats—in this case, a mountain lion.
    The were-cat’s fangs flashed in the moonlight as it hissed at me. I screamed and fled in what I thought was the direction of the house. I glanced back and saw the bastet in hot pursuit. It ran with a strange, rolling gait, as if hobbling. No doubt that was the only reason I wasn’t cat food already.
    Hoping I wasn’t making things worse than they were already, I ran in the direction of the hedge maze. At that moment I decided it was better to chance whatever dangers might lie inside it to the certainty of being torn limb from limb by a ravening hell-beast.
    The moment I entered the maze, its living walls shot upward, until they towered over me like evergreen monoliths, sealing off the sky. All I could see wherever I looked was tightly grown shrubbery, broken here and there by arch-shaped openings. Not sure which way to go, but fearful of stopping, I dodged through a passageway on my left.
    As I crossed the living threshold, there came a sound like the rustling of a thousand crinoline skirts. I turned and saw the opening behind me seal itself shut. The hedge abruptly shook, knocking a few leaves free on my side of the wall, as the were-cat collided against it on the other side.
    The