Kitty's Keeper/No Clean Blades

Finale

Carum returned to George's chamber once the siren was settled in for the night. George watched them enter with a discerning eye, half expecting them to arrive drowsily and covered with cat hair. Instead, they were wide awake and clean, with a book tucked under their arm. "Good evening, George!"

"Good evening. How was your nap?"

They walked over to their clothing chest. "Long and refreshing!" After some rummaging around, the acolyte found the ideal replacement for their day robe and changed their clothes. "If any beast knows how to relax, it is the clever cat!" They smoothed out their nightie and reached for their basin and pitcher. "I heard you all ate while I was asleep."

George nodded. "We did. Paul lured in a very good meal."

"That's good," they replied, then rinsed their face. "What did he sing?"

"She's A Woman."

"Feeling extra powerful tonight, eh?"

"Must be."

Finally clean and re-clothed, Carum lifted the linens and sat next to George on his bed. They stretched, rocking their head and rolling their neck, unwittingly subjecting the youngest siren to a show of their throat.

Their smooth, enticing throat...

Subtly, George squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled. When he opened them again, he chose to focus on his acolyte's face, a countenance of unwavering affection and trust. They would do anything he asked, happily obey every command they were bidden as long as it was within their capacity.

Like offering that throat to me... Like allowing me to claim what is already mine...

George's eyes widened slightly. No, that was not his to claim! There was nothing to claim! Carum's body was their own, and no other!

The Hold is distinct from the power you alone hold over them. Go ahead, put them under and make them a proper thrall. Remind John who they really belong to.

"Carum?"

"Yes?"

"How was your time with John today? I mean, how was it really?"

Carum considered their words before realizing there were precious few adjectives that could match their experience. "Interesting," they said at last, for lack of a better term. "John is...confusing."

"That he is."

"I think he likes seeing me entranced."

I do too. My patterned stare has more colors than his and is less vivid, but far more pernicious. Shall I show you tonight? "That he does, but don't be afraid to tell him if that bothers you."

"It doesn't, but I will certainly let him know."

George nodded. "Good."

The conversation fell into a lull as Carum thought of how to form their next question. "George, what do I smell like?" they ultimately asked.

You smell delicious. "What?"

"John said I had a scent. That I smell like fish. And you."

"How did that come up?"

They told him about the touching scene at breakfast. George considered Carum lucky to catch John during his more vulnerable moments, even if the older siren tried to cover it up soon after. "So now," they finished, "I wonder if he succeeded, even if he did not intend to."

"Let's see." He took a whiff at eye level. John was present and he did threaten to overpower every other scent, but George's nose was keen. Beneath that thick layer was every cat in the guitarist's care, and beneath that was a layer of George that felt stale in comparison. Beneath that rested the acolyte's link to their past, a blast of sea air and salty water punctuated by the smack of fish at all stages of life. George surmised the odor would have vanished altogether if it was not regularly refreshed by Ringo's bathing ponds. "Oh, yes," he laughed, "You reek of John." Then he scooted closer to them. "Let's change that, shall we?"