Twisting around, he shoved off the body that had fallen across him and staggered to his feet.

A hand grabbed him by the elbow and twisted him around.

"Let's get out of here," said Oop. "Someone will get hurt."

Carol was backed against the table, bent over, with her hands clutching the scruff of Sylvester's neck. Sylvester was standing on his hind legs and pawing the air with his forelegs. Snarls were rumbling in his throat and his long fangs gleamed.

"If we don't get him out of here," said Oop, "that cat will get his steak."

He swooped down and wrapped an arm around the cat, lifting him by the middle; hugging him tight against his chest.

"Take care of the girl," Oop told Maxwell. "There's a back door around here somewhere. And don't leave that bottle behind. We'll need it later on."

Maxwell reached out and grabbed the bottle.

There was no sign of Ghost.

Chapter 6

"I'm a coward," Ghost confessed. "I admit that I turn chicken at the sight of violence."

"And you," said Oop, "the one guy in the world no one can lay a mitt on."

They sat at the rude, square, rickety table that Oop once, in a moment of housekeeping energy, had knocked together from rough boards. Carol pushed away her plate. "I was starved," she said, "but not any more."

"You're not the only one," said Oop. "Look at our putty cat."

Sylvester was curled up in front of the fireplace, his bobbed tail clamped down tight against his rump, his furry paws covering his nose. His whiskers stirred gently as his breath went in and out.