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Pooka, guised as a young man with tangled black hair and yellow eyes, his shifting stone safe in his pocket, strolled down North Bay Road admiring the big, well-protected houses that looked out over Biscayne Bay. Here and there, a giant fichus tree, roots enquiring in all directions, leaned over a wall. In other places, fragrant, trumpet-shaped flowers, deadly poison despite their pale beauty, drooped over the walls like weary maidens. Pooka flicked the flowers with a fingernail and stuck out his tongue at the security cameras that tracked him as he passed. Tiny lizards darted across the sidewalk, and he danced around them. The air was thick, hot, and musty, oozing with life. Pooka breathed it in and grinned. Two steps later, the grin dropped from his face. His feet, which had been skipping along quite happily, had sobered, suddenly, turning him away from his intended path. “Feet, where are you going?” The feet did not answer, they merely continued walking, taking him away from the handsome mansions of North Bay Road, across busy Collins Avenue, toward the boardwalk. “South Beach would be all right, feet.” Pooka liked South Beach, its Art Deco hotels, tanned humans, and the low-slung cars pulsing with salsa music. But his feet did not want to go there; instead, they took him up the wooden steps to the boardwalk, then turned north. The boardwalk was crowded, and Pooka looked around for something to fend off the spell that had fastened itself to him. He passed a pack of statuesque Germans in bathing suits made of a few pieces of string and fragments of cloth. No help there. Then a pair of Latinas arguing in rapid Spanish, who gave him scornful looks when he tried to interrupt. He elbowed past a group of Hasidim, the women in long skirts, the men in dark suits, and the babies laughing in their strollers. He eyed the string that Orthodox Jews had tied from one light pole to the next, all along the boardwalk, to signify the wall of their city. It had power, their string, but it could not protect Pooka from the spell possessing his feet. The hotels along the beach grew seedier until the boardwalk ran out. Pooka felt the call in his stomach, a hollow pang stronger than hunger. He fingered the stone in his pocket and considered changing into a cat. But the call would still have him, even if he did, and the cats around the hotels were a feral and dangerous lot, especially to strangers. Pooka shrugged and trudged on. Finally he reached the Bayswater, a hotel even more tumbledown than its neighbors. He went in the front door and climbed the stairs to an apartment on the top floor. The door stood open and he was drawn inside.
 There, an old woman with bright blue eyes and hair like thistledown sat in a rocking chair, a white cat on her lap. “Come in, Pooka,” she said, looking him over. “Katzy and I have been expecting you.” Pooka paused on the threshold, returning the look. The cat was just a cat. The woman? Well, she was a witch. That much was obvious. But how could a human, even a witch, have the calling of him? The spell she had cast was tingling just below the surface of his skin, making it impossible to think, or even to move; if he tried to shape shift now, he might explode, he feared. “Cancel the summoning, witch,” he growled. “In a moment.” She began whispering something to the cat in her lap. Pooka ignored them and jittered in place, the spell buzzing in his ears, his feet twitching. “All right, Pooka,” the witch said at last, rising from her chair. “Kneel down.” Pooka obeyed immediately, not liking it, but wanting more than anything to get the spell off of him. And once he was free... The witch held gnarled hands over his head. She hesitated. “But first, Pooka, you must promise to stay until I dismiss you.” Pooka frowned darkly and shook his head. She began to take her hands away. “All right!” he said. “Promise.” “And promise not to hurt me in any way.” Pooka cursed. She waited. “All right,” he agreed at last. “Promise.” “And once more, promise,” the witch ordered. She knew the power of three, the witch. Pooka growled in the back of his throat, then capitulated. “Promise.” A few mumbled words, a few passes with the gnarled hands, and the witch had freed him from the summoning spell. At once, Pooka leaped to his feet. He could not leave and he could not harm this human, but she had obviously summoned him for some purpose, and he would do his best to leave it unfulfilled. The witch sat down again in her rocking chair and fixed the pooka with a gimlet eye. “You don’t remember me, do you, Pooka?” Pooka pushed a lock of tangled black hair out of his eyes and examined her carefully, then shook his head. No, he’d never met this old woman before. She smiled. “Maybe this reminds you, huh?” From up her sleeve she pulled a freshly picked daisy and began plucking off its petals, one by one. “Lyubit, she loves me. Ne lyubit, she loves me not. Plyunit, she spits on me. Potseluyet, she kisses me. K sertsu prizhmet, she hugs me to her heart. Dorogoj nazovet, she calls me her dear one. K chertu poshlet, she sends me to the devil.” Pooka spun around three times, then sat down, hard, on the floor. “I remember, Marfa Petrovna Kopelnikova.” He glared at her. “I remember that you tricked me.” The witch smiled. “A great beauty, Nadja was.” “Unlike her older sister,” Pooka interrupted. The witch ignored him. “You promised once, twice, three times that you would owe me a favor if I brought my sister to you.” On the floor, Pooka put his head in his hands. “I must have been bewitched.” “Maybe you were, Pooka, to make such an unthinking bargain.” The witch looked at her cat. “His kind always demands that you hold to the promises you make to them, Katzy, but you can be smart about it. I brought my sister wearing iron rings on every finger and toe, an iron belt, iron crown, iron at her wrists and ankles. He couldn’t touch her.” She laughed. “You were so angry, Pooka.” “I still am,” he growled. “But you owe me the favor, even so.” Pooka nodded grudgingly. “I do.” “Good.” Stiffly, the witch climbed out of her chair. “Now, Pooka, come and have tea and cookies.” Pooka sat, sullen, on the floor for another moment, just to show her that he would not be appeased. Then he leaped to his feet and crossed to the table, where she’d set out a plate of pryanik and was pouring out tea. After sniffing the cookies and taking a tiny sip of the herb tea, purple loosestrife--hah, for controlling demons--Pooka seated himself. She sat down opposite and the white cat jumped up onto her lap. “Now, Pooka, this is serious.” “I’m listening.” He took a bite of cookie. Ginger, his favorite. Dusted with powdered sugar and warm from the oven. “My apprentice is missing.” Amid crumbs, he answered, “Maybe she got tired of working for you, witch, and ran away.” “Not she.” “He?” Pooka laughed. “Only you, Marfa Petrovna, would think of training up a boy to be a witch.” The witch folded her hands, prim. “And he did not run away for that reason, Pooka.” He gobbled another cookie. “Tell.” “I was teaching him a podbljudnaja. This was last night, during the storm. When he spoke the words there was a strike of elemental magic. Here, on the roof of the hotel.” She paused to take a sip of tea, but didn’t take her eyes from her guest. “He couldn’t control the spell. The element transformed him.” “Into what?” The witch’s eyes narrowed, daring him to laugh. “Into a cat.” Pooka laughed anyway. “And he ran away?” “He was frightened.” His teacup was empty and the plate of cookies had been transformed into a plate of crumbs. Pooka stood up. “So that’s your favor. You want me to fetch him back for you.” “Yes.” The witch climbed wearily to her feet. “I looked today, all day, but I could not find--” “Maybe he wouldn’t come to you,” Pooka interrupted. “Behave, Pooka. You will know it when you see a cat who is not a cat. Now, Miami Beach is a bad city. You’ll need a zagovorui, for protection.” “I don’t need any of your spells, witch.” Pooka crossed his arms and put on his haughtiest look. “It’s almost dark outside, Marfa Petrovna. I am lord of all, after dark. I’ll find your boy-witch for you.” Marfa Petrovna narrowed her eyes. “He’s a nice boy, Pooka. Treat him nicely. No wild rides.” Pooka spun around once and grinned, not a nice grin. “The favor is to you, witch, not to him.” He fingered the shifting stone in his pocket. “I’ll bring him back, but your favor doesn’t bind me to any more than that.” He left, slamming the door behind him.
 On the street outside the witch’s hotel, Pooka paused to get his bearings. Where would a man go, if he’d been changed into a cat? South Beach, maybe, which is where Pooka would have headed first, if he’d been an apprentice liberated from a bossy witch like Marfa Petrovna Kopelnikova. He skipped south on Collins, past the Spanish grocery, the McDonalds, the kosher bakery, and the travel agency advertising trips to Israel, keeping a sharp eye out for cats who were not cats. As he continued, Lincoln Mall beckoned, and he allowed himself to be distracted by the throngs of luscious young men and the little art shops. But a promise was a promise, so he oriented himself again, heading south. By the time he found himself trudging through the glittering, gawking crowds along Ocean Drive, the night was quite advanced. He’d seen lots of cats, but no witch-apprentice-cat. His feet hurt. He fingered the shifting stone in his pocket, feeling the tingling sparks of the elemental magic embedded within. His horse form would cover a lot more ground, at speed, but a horse galloping through South Beach at midnight? He shook his head. Somehow, he just couldn’t picture it. He cut through Lummus Park and sat down on the sand, the lights and pulsing sounds of nightlife behind him, the quiet hush-hush of waves on the beach before him. On the other hand, a stallion black as night galloping along the glimmering sands, spray flying beneath his hooves? A very romantic image, and quite possible. He stood up, took the shifting stone from his pocket, and popped it into his mouth. Elemental magic sizzled through him and he gasped, then fell forward, catching himself on his fore-hooves, raising his head and shaking it, feeling his long, tangled mane writhing with blue sparks. Transformed, he pawed the sand and took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand, feeling as if he were about to leap out of his skin with joy. He gathered his strength and bounded forward, racing north along the waterline, kicking up feathers of sand with each flying step. After a brief, wind-tossed gallop, he slowed. He hadn’t yet checked the most obvious place. At 41st Street the back doors of two fancy hotels faced each other across a dead end leading to steps up to the boardwalk. The street there always stank of rotting garbage, and it was always swarming with feral cats, especially at night. He’d have to try there before heading back to Marfa Petrovna to admit defeat. Prancing to a halt, he spat out his shifting stone, the magic dancing through him quickly enough that he was able to catch the stone in a human hand. Slipping the stone into a pocket, he left the beach, crossed the boardwalk, and walked warily onto the dead end of 41 st Street. The streetlights gave off a meager, orangish light, and shadows stalked the hotel walls. The smell was dense and sour, cat-piss and rotting food. He bent to look into the darkness below the boardwalk. A lone black cat crouched there, peering out. Pooka saw not the slitted eyes of a cat, but the dark, frightened eyes of a human caught up in magic he didn’t quite understand. “At last,” Pooka breathed. “Come on out, witch boy. Marfa’s sent me to bring you home.” The cat backed further into the shadows, back arched, ears flattened. Extending his hand, Pooka purred, “Come on, sweetheart. It’s just Pooka here; I won’t hurt you.” He added under his breath, “Much.” The cat stared at him but did not move. Fine, then he’d have to go in after the stupid creature. Pooka crawled under the boardwalk, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “Come here, lovey. Come on.” At last the cat edged closer and Pooka lunged, grabbing it by the scruff of the neck. The cat squirmed and scratched without making a sound. Pooka gripped harder and the cat reached up and raked a claw across Pooka’s cheek. “Right, you’ll pay for that, my lad.” Pooka backed out on his knees, the cat clutched to his chest. When he reached the alley, he stood and dropped the cat; it twisted to land on its feet. Pooka wiped the blood off his face and glared down. The cat stared back at him. “All right, witch boy. You’re mine now, and I’m bound to take you back to Marfa Petrovna. Get on my back, if you dare!” Pooka popped the shifting stone into his mouth and bit down, hard. The goat, this time, stark black with wicked, curving horns, yellow eyes, and a demon grin. He expected the cat to flee in terror, and if it did, he would chase it down and trample it before dragging it back to its mistress. Alive--a promise was a promise--but not necessarily unharmed. But the cat stood its ground, tail bristling and back arched. Pooka stamped a hoof and tossed his head; the ground shook. The cat flinched, but did not run. Pooka stamped again and made his eyes flash sparks. The cat crouched and twitched its tail and, after a moment of hesitation, leaped onto Pooka’s back. At the feel of claws digging into his skin, Pooka bucked, hooves clattering on the asphalt. He swerved and bucked again, but still the cat clung, the sharp pinpricks making Pooka madder with every step. Enough of that. Who was lord of the night, after all? Pooka shifted the stone to his other cheek and bit down; with a crash of magical element he transformed again into the stallion, black with never a hair of white. As the sparks from his transformation died away, he bounded up the steps to the boardwalk and headed north. The claws gripping his back served to drive him on, faster, pounding down the wooden path, each step sending splinters flying, past gaping tourists, and lovers hand-in-hand, and groups of drunken students. Pooka ran for joy, for the power, for the feeling of oneness with the rippling, flowing sable of night. And with the cat, who clung ever tighter, refusing to be flung off. At last the boardwalk ended, but Pooka did not slow as his hooves sank into the sand. Instead, he turned toward the water. Time to teach the witch boy a lesson. Pooka crashed into the surf, striking out toward deeper water, taking malicious pleasure as the chill waves rolled over his back, drenching the cat. Pooka wallowed in the water, trying to dislodge his passenger, but still the cat refused to let go. A wave washed into Pooka’s face. He snorted and, admitting that he was growing tired, pulled himself from the water. At the edge of the water he shook himself, resigned to the fact that the cat would not let go, no matter what he did. Slowly, he began trotting along the tide line. He considered stopping to roll in the sand, but the cat was so stubborn it might not let go even then, and Marfa Petrovna would surely have something to say if Pooka killed her apprentice. At last Pooka trotted past a few dunes, turning inland toward Marfa’s hotel. A cat would be faster, he realized, so he shifted the stone from cheek to under the tongue and felt himself shrinking, becoming more sure-footed, more balanced; the other cat leaped off his back, landing awkwardly beside him. Pooka stopped and regarded it. The witch cat was soaked and shivering, easy prey. Pooka lifted a paw and flexed, and a row of needle-sharp claws sprang out. The witch cat merely regarded him steadily, without flinching. Fine, Pooka thought. You win. Tail raised high, he led the way across the cracked sidewalk into Marfa’s hotel and up the stairs to her apartment on the top floor. She was waiting in the doorway, a dark shadow limned in light. “You better have not hurt him, Pooka.” Then she caught sight of her apprentice and stepped aside. “Come in, Michael, quick-quick.” Pooka allowed the witch-cat to go first, then loped in behind him, taking a seat, tail-over-paws by the door, to watch. Marfa Petrovna set her apprentice on a rug in the middle of the room. “He’s all wet, Pooka.” She shot him an accusing glare, which he ignored. The witch shook her head, then knelt with gnarled hands on the cat’s head, chanting. Elemental magic sparked from her fingertips, falling in a shower over the cat. With a flash, he transformed. The pooka blinked and eyed the apprentice, now human, sprawled naked on the rug. Well, well. A little skinny but...nice. With ginger hair. And he’d had the courage to cling to the pooka’s back when many another would not. “You stay there, Michael,” Marfa said, getting to her feet. “I’ll get you a blanket and some tea.” She left the room. The young man gazed at Pooka with sober, dark eyes. The pooka spat out his shifting stone and returned the look with a grin. The apprentice blinked with surprise but did not look away. “You claimed me,” he said. “You said ‘you’re mine now.’” “That I did,” Pooka acknowledged. “All right, Pooka.” Marfa stood in the kitchen doorway, a blanket in her arms. “You can go away. Thank you for bringing Michael home.” Pooka got to his feet. While he’d been out searching for the apprentice, Marfa had been baking. The apartment was filled with the warm, spicy smell of ginger pryanik. No, he wouldn’t be gotten rid of that easily. “You tricked me out of your sister, Marfa Petrovna.” The witch narrowed her eyes. “It was a trick, yes, but a fair one.” Pooka grinned. A yellow-eyed, tangle-haired pooka and a skinny, ginger-haired, dark-eyed witch boy. What a pair they would make. Pooka’s grin widened. “A trick for a trick, witch. I like Miami Beach and I like your witch boy. I’m staying.“
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