Right Hand Magic by Nancy A. Collins Page A

were-creature tried to push its way through the dense growth, but it could not pass. I could hear it sniffing the ground, less than three feet from where I stood. I was too terrified to scream, much less move. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I was swaying in time to phantom music.
    My paralysis was broken by the sound of the were-cat shrieking as it caught my scent. I turned, raw terror spurring on my weary body, and headed down the narrow passageway that opened up before me like Alice’s rabbit hole, sending me even deeper into the living maze.
    My lungs ached from running, and my face and arms were bleeding from scratches inflicted by the maze, which plucked at my hair and clothing with grasping twigs like a mischievous child, but I dared not stop for even the briefest moment.
    Although I could not see it, I knew I was being stalked like a deer in the wilderness. What at first had seemed a godsend—the ever-changing maze—now heightened my fear even more, for I realized that I could run headlong into the creature at any moment without any warning.
    After what seemed an eternity of twists and turns, I finally stumbled into the clearing at the center of the maze. Once more the moon overhead was visible, as was the boardinghouse. Still disoriented, I looked around the open green space and saw a group of people standing about, talking to one another. I called out as I ran toward them.
    “Help! Over here! I’m being chased—”
    My momentary sense of relief died as I realized I was looking at a collection of statues. There were four of them, gathered around a small reflecting pool, arranged so that they appeared to be holding a conversation. Three of the statues were male, one female, each from very different periods of history. One was dressed like an Egyptian queen, another wore a toga and laurel wreath, a third was dressed in the chain mail and helmet of a knight, while the last one wore a tricorn hat.
    The sound of snapping branches grabbed my attention, and I turned to see the were-cat stumble free of the maze, pieces of twigs and leaves still stuck in its coat. The moment it saw me, a feral grin spread across its face. Now I knew how Bambi must have felt. I wished I had my welder’s helmet and oxyacetylene torch handy. I’d probably still end up dead, but at least the bastard would know he’d been in a fight.
    The man-cougar dropped into a crouch and began to advance, staring at me with these horrible, burning eyes. I knew that the moment I turned to flee, it would be on me, so I did the only thing I could do—I stared back.
    Suddenly a shadow slid across the heart of the maze, one so large it covered not only me, but my attacker as well. The were-cat looked up, its growl turning into a hiss, and I thought I saw fear in its eyes.
    The next thing I knew, something big swooped down, striking the shape-shifter with enough force to take it to the ground. The bastet screamed like a house cat hit by a car and, idiot that I was, I automatically felt sorry for the damned thing.
    However, although I was glad the were-cat was no longer a threat to me, the sight of my rescuer did nothing to calm my fears because standing before me was a hairless, dragon-winged saber-toothed tiger with a long, scaly tail that looked like it belonged on a crocodile. The creature’s skin was olive in color, with glowing red eyes, and it had long, downward-curving fangs. It also smelled strongly of brimstone and cat— big cat.
    “Scratch?” It came out more like a squeak than a question.
    “Yeah, it’s me,” the familiar growled. “You okay, nump?”
    “I think so,” I replied. As soon as I spoke, my head started to swim, and I sat down heavily on the ground. The dew from the grass soaked through the seat of my yoga pants.
    Scratch turned his attention back to the wounded were-cat squirming under his front paws. “You picked the wrong garden to trespass in, Garfield,” he snarled, licking his fangs with a serpentine forked