They purr softly when we hold them in our lap. In the morning, they mew outside the bedroom door, asking to be fed. And no matter how well fed they are, when we open a can of tuna they dance around our legs and reach up toward the top of the kitchen counter begging for just a taste. They play with our shoe laces while we're hurrying to leave. But most of the day they sleep. They find a spot somewhat secluded where they can survey every access to the room, and they sleep. Or they half sleep, peering at the world out of half-closed eyes, always watching.

That is how Tabitha and Cleopatra move in and out of the dreamworld. They perch on its boundary and see both ways through their half-closed eyes, see the facade of reality and see through the facade, see the flesh and matter and ordinary light and see the spirits and the ether and the light shining through the spirit gateways, all at once. But unlike dogs, who get fussy and start howling at the smell of a ghost, the cats coolly watch without ever letting on what they know.

Tabitha and Cleopatra can transform themselves at night in the light of the full moon. They draw down its energy by licking moonlight into their fur, rubbing it into their eyebrows and their whiskers with their paws, stirring it with flicks of their tales. Their legs stretch, their backs arch and grow, their fur flattens into bare skin, their tales shrink away, their ears descend, until they are two naked humans lying curled on the floor. They use their magic to spin dresses and coats and boots for themselves from the moonbeams. This is only one of many transformations they enjoy, but it is their favorite, because humans fancy themselves superior and the cats love to make sport of them.

They slip out the window without a sound. Then they slink toward Chicago Avenue and Lake Street, looking to see whom they can catch tonight. There's always someone: drug dealers looking for new customers, Johns looking for a lay, cops looking for a sting. Or there may be other brother and sister cats transformed in the moonlight, waiting to play with them.

They find a vampire, desiccated, pale and scabby, wearing a moldy blue coat and squatting next to a dumpster in an alley. This one hasn't had much blood lately and it is sluggish. It stares at them through dull, yellow eyes, its claws poking out below the frayed edges of its sleeves, its breath like the hiss of air escaping a balloon. Tabitha scowls at it and Cleopatra growls. It scuttles backwards into the shadows, behind the rusty, metallic hulk, until nothing is visible but the edge of its sallow face and its two bulbous eyes. All three of them decide: Not worth the trouble. The vampire warily watches them as Tabitha and Cleopatra slip onwards.

Three more walking corpses over by Thirty-First and Elliot, clinging to each other like drunkards under the street lamp. "The waking dead taste like ashes," spits Cleopatra, "Is there nothing good out tonight?" Tabitha laughs and breaks into a run. "Plenty good out," she says, "We just have to find it!"

At Thirty-First and Chicago, there is a huge dog, larger than a man, lying on the sidewalk in front of the enormous stone church taking up half the block. At night the church's large round stained-glass window facing Chicago Avenue is always lit from the inside. A glass shard Christ hovers over a mosaic rainbow of violet, azure, emerald, daffodil, amber, and ruby, wrapped in resplendent crystalline robes and quartz-like clouds, a gilded, burnished sun casting fragmented streams of fire like a halo around his head. His outstretched palms seem to be offering scarlet diamonds, the marks of the cross. The dog is under the window, blocking the sidewalk with its two hundred fifty pounds of bulk. It raises its behemoth head off of paws the size of fat human feet, yawns baring rows of jagged teeth, and lazily peers at the intruders. Tabitha and Cleopatra notice its tail flick ever so slightly, its hind legs almost imperceptibly tense, and a deep growl rumbling too low for humans to catch but high enough to stand up the hairs on the smalls of the necks of two felines in human shape.

"Are you afraid of a dog?" hisses Tabitha at Cleopatra. Cleopatra just glowers at the bear-like silhouette in the snow and ice.

Tabitha walks with a lilt, but her eyes are fixed, a phantom smile spreading, showing just the points of her fangs, the light of the moon gleaming in her moist, insatiate eyes. Cleopatra follows, peering over Tabitha's shoulder. The snow and ice do not crunch under their feet as they walk; they almost glide, like ghosts. Their shadows, cast by the rusty light of the street lamp, slip onto the edge of the snow-covered lawn of the church, and rumble in the dog's throat rises into a menacing growl. Their shadows slide one step closer, and the dog is springing toward them, snarling and snapping.

Tabitha and Cleopatra run. Cleopatra is flying two full bounds ahead of Tabitha. Tabitha can feel the hot breath and the spittle of the dog, and the snapping of its jaws just behind her calves, and its bark in her ears almost as if it were on top of her. Their hearts are pounding madly, as if to burst, and each leap down the dirty, ice-glazed sidewalk is precarious, threatening to topple one or both of them under the angry maw and claws of the beast.

And suddenly it occurs to them that in the fury of their escape they have been racing blindly onward for several minutes with nothing pursuing them but a mischievous frost spirit that evaporates as soon as they peer back. The street is perfectly still, like a photograph. Moon shadows, pockets of street lights, rows of squat, dark houses, and not another soul, not a breath of wind. They tremble and gasp.

"Where is he?" Tabitha huffs.

"What? Are you afraid of a dog?" sputters Cleopatra.

They eye each other hotly. Then Tabitha giggles.

"You have to admit, that was exciting."

They examine their surroundings carefully. This is not a street where they have wandered often. They are past the south end of a large park.

"It's been a long time since we've been to the park," purrs Tabitha, "Let's go see if anything's happening."

They peer all around, one last time, and then gingerly trace their steps back down the frozen sidewalk and cut down a side street toward the park. They arrive at the south edge of a snowy slope overlooking a lake, thick patches of trees, more hills and fields, clumps of tables and benches and monkey bars and swing sets ice-clogged, hugged by shadows, abandoned to winter.

Cleopatra, who has been leading the way, stops suddenly and hisses, "Do you hear something?"

Tabitha scrunches her nose and tenses her ears. She nods. "What is it?"

"Bells," Cleopatra whispers, twitching her nose, "and . . . drums."

"I smell smoke," says Tabitha. "Do you think?"

"Witches!" Cleopatra exclaims.

"Let's go scratch their eyes out," growls Tabitha.

Cleopatra surveys the park, but sees no movement. "I didn't think witches gathered in Powderhorn Park any more."

"It's been a long time since we've been to the park."

They choose their steps carefully as they sink into the snow, descending the slope, straining their eyes ahead, searching for the slightest flicker or flutter anywhere in the park.

"Wait!" says Cleopatra, "I don't hear it any more. Do you?"

Tabitha stretches her neck and closes her eyes. "The wind has shifted."

"Now I hear it again!" says Cleopatra, "but from a different direction!"

"You're right," nods Tabitha. "Damn witches! Don't follow the sound. The sound can trick you. Follow the feel of it. Let the moon lead us . . ."

They find a snowman at the edge of the lake, at least as tall as a man, with two pieces of charcoal for eyes and blackened sticks for arms.

"Do you think children made it?" Cleopatra puzzles.

Tabitha studies some curly indentations on Mr. Snowman's forehead. "This is a witchy snowman," she declares. She peers across the lake in the darkness. "Look!" she hisses, "There, on the other side!"

Cleopatra stares into the gloom, toward the other side of the lake. She starts at the sight of a shadowy figure next to a tree. She freezes and watches it for one minute, two minutes. It remains motionless, like she. "Another witchy snowman," whispers Tabitha, "And there's another," pointing toward the west side of the lake, "and another," pointing toward the east. "They're guarding the witchy circle. The witches are in the lake."

Cleopatra blinks in the moonlight. The lake is covered with ice and snow. Tabitha thrusts aside the crackley, frozen reeds poking up out of the solid lake as she steps out on to the ice, and Cleopatra follows, right behind her. As they walk across the ice, there is a sudden wind. A dense cloud of fog, carried by the wind, engulfs them. Then comes a wintry blast that ruffles their hair and their clothes and threatens to knock them off their feet. Cleopatra cries out, almost losing her footing on the ice. And then it is still again, the fog is gone. And they see the witches.

There is a small island in the middle of the lake, usually covered with dense brambles and twisted trees leaning out over the water. There is an altar there now, a giant rock, and a fire leaping up off of the altar. And on the ice, dozens, perhaps more than a hundred, tiny, multicolored paper lanterns flicker in a giant circle around the altar. Inside the circle of lanterns, the witches are dancing on the lake.

There is a tall, graceful woman with long dark hair hanging freely, sitting on a log next to the altar, wearing a white shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders over a lacy black dress that falls to just below her knees. She is hugging a large, tall drum with her thighs, deftly rapping the skin of the drum with the balls of her hands and the tips of her fingers, summoning a wild, ethereal rhythm. Sitting next to her on the log, a full head shorter than her, is a plump, balding man with a scruffy, ashen beard. His upper body is naked except for a necklace of large, colorfully painted wooden beads, several rows of bangles around his wrists, and long, bronzy earrings hanging from his earlobes almost to his shoulders. Wrapped like a skirt around his waist and his thighs is a long, wide, red and yellow tie-died fabric. On his lap, in front of his round, Buddha-like belly, he is holding a small drum, steadying it with his right hand and tapping on it with his left hand, beating out a rapid, squirrelly cadence that weaves in and out of the rhythm invoked by the tall woman. Tabitha and Cleopatra see the shadows of two other witches sitting on the log behind the altar, drumming and adding their own layers to the frantic, fey nautch.

Witches are processing rhythmically in a circle, each interpreting the beat with wildly different movements, some leaping, some sliding, some shimmying, some bobbing, some writhing, some twirling. A short, muscular man wearing a seamless green silk robe and a eucalyptus wreath on his head is hopping backwards, waving a long purple scarf in front of a busty woman wearing only a leather vest, a gold necklace, and black tights. They are in a mock chase, she lunging at the scarf floating above her head, and he wobbling out, jerking the scarf away just as her fingers close around it. Another witch is clutching her chest as she pitches back and forth, giving birth to her breath, tracing its path with her fingers from her diaphragm up past her ribs, her throat, her cheeks, out into the night air where it explodes as a puff of steam, swirling mysteriously off her tongue before it floats upwards and vanishes. Another witch is riding a hobbyhorse, caressing it and sliding it lasciviously between his legs. Another with bells tied about his wrists and ankles and neck is skipping and scattering imaginary rose petals, blowing kisses at the stars.

There are other witches who are neither drumming nor dancing, with neither physical exertion nor the altar fire to keep them warm, pressing together in groups of two or three at the edges of the circle, wrapped around each other and huddled under blankets, swaying gently and humming strange melodies to the rhythm, watching steam rise off the bodies of the circle of dancers, watching the steam of their own breaths, watching stars in a sky which seems unnaturally vivid, clear of clouds and city lights.

"Look at them! They're disgusting," snarls Tabitha. "Where's their big horned god with his big, horny . . . ?"

"I want to dance with them!" exclaims Cleopatra.

"You what?" hisses Tabitha.

"You always make the decisions," says Cleopatra. "It's my turn. I want to dance with the witches. It looks fun. If you don't want to dance, you can stay here and freeze, or go home for all I care."

At that she shrugs and turns toward the circle, skipping slightly to the rhythm of the dance as she runs. Tabitha's fists tighten into knots, her breathing is suddenly tense, there is a bitter taste at the back of her throat, and she growls, "Come back here! Just you wait, little girl!" She imagines shape-shifting into an enormous black tiger and leaping down on them, slashing with razor claws and biting with saber teeth, and snapping their spines with a shake of her head. She would especially like to bite in half the tall witch with the big drum.

She feels the change coming on. Her heart is beating violently. But when she looks down at her hands expecting to see giant paws, they are still just soft, pink human hands. "Damn witches!" she sputters helplessly.

She is left with her rage and dread bouncing around inside her head like broken glass and rusty metal. Can't Cleopatra see how filthy they are? But more than with the witches, she is furious with Cleopatra. For the first time she feels truly abandoned.

She is not sure how long she has been sitting on a stump at the edge of the lake, tears of exasperation stinging her cheeks, when she is suddenly looking into the eyes of Cleopatra.

"Good grief, sweety," says Cleopatra, "There's nothing to be afraid of. They're not so bad!"

Tabitha glares back at her, eyes glistening with anger.

"Come on," begs Cleopatra, "It's not as fun without you. You don't have to dance, but at least come and watch!"

Tabitha considers her alternatives for a moment. She is furious that Cleopatra might learn to have fun without her, and it is that unbearable eventuality that pulls her to her feet. "I won't dance. Don't try to make me."

Cleopatra smiles and grabs Tabitha by the hand and pulls her toward the circle. "I won't make you do anything," she laughs. Tabitha is humiliated by the gratitude she feels at having Cleopatra tugging at her hand.

As Cleopatra and Tabitha approach the dancers, Tabitha notices that the circle has mutated into free-form movement, the dancers no longer tracing any kind of clear path or flowing in an identifiable direction. The beat of the drums has grown savage, with chaotic rhythms and counter-rhythms rolling into an unpredictable cavort.

The woman in black leather and the man in the green robe whirl past them, around them. "Come join us!" they laugh, "Dance to the goddess!" Cleopatra looks hesitantly at Tabitha, then back at the dancers, shaking her head. "Everybody dance!" As the man in green sails past, skating on the ice, he reaches out and catches Cleopatra's hand. Cleopatra is holding Tabitha's hand, and suddenly they are a chain, skipping past a dozen other dancers moving in as many directions weaving around, and under, them. Tabitha notices that someone has taken her free hand. The woman in black leather grins at her, and blows a kiss. "Hello, stranger! I'm Mira!" As they scuffle across the ice like a dragon in a Chinatown parade, Tabitha and Cleopatra each find a hurky-jerky rhythm in the wicked drum chorus, a rhythm that keeps them flying across the ice without losing step.

Mira sways with Tabitha, finds Tabitha's rhythm, and planting a kiss on her cheek whispers, "Just us two!" She whirls around and snatches the hand of the man in green, pulling all four into a tight, madly spinning circle. She winks and smiles and kisses the man full on the lips, and then they are away, just Tabitha and Mira. Tabitha does not know how she lost Cleopatra's hand, casts about for a sign of her, but she is lost in the forest of dancers.

"It should be this filthy witch I'm angry at," Tabitha tells herself, "But it's not. It's Cleopatra. She's the one who got us into this mess, and as soon as I find her, she's going to feel my claws!"

Cleopatra's partner, Tan, is looking intently into her eyes, smiling brightly, his body swaying in syncopation to hers. As they dance, beads of sweat are dropping off her forehead. Though the sky is dark and the lake and the trees are wrapped in ice and snow, the air feels warm, inviting. The fire on the altar burns brightly, bathing the entire gathering in radiant gold. And she notices that many of the witches have flung off their robes or their wraps or their tops. The bright greens and blues and reds and yellows of the dance are giving way to fleshy bronzes and pinks and browns.

Tan pulls his emerald green robe up revealing no other clothing to cover his smooth, solid thighs. He grins before pulling the robe all the way up, past his broad, chiseled chest and wide shoulders, up over his head and off. He tosses it next to the altar and continues the dance with wider, freer movements. Cleopatra unbuttons her little white vinyl, faux-fur-lined coat and tosses it off. She squeezes out of her white halter top, and Tan pulls her close, sighing as her warm breasts press against his chest.

Tabitha and Mira are dancing, steam from their naked skin and thick clouds of breath rising into the night air.

Mira says to Tabitha, "I know what you are."

Tabitha replies, sinking inwardly, "What do you mean?"

"The question is," Mira continues, "Do you know?"

Tabitha holds her silence, but now her body snaps with each stomp to the beat of the drum, and she is suddenly glaring at Mira, searching.

"What are you doing here?" Mira prods, "You didn't come looking for the Horned One?"

"That's it, witch!" hisses Tabitha. She is trembling as she hurls herself at Mira. Her arms and hands are scaly and hard and her fingers have grown jagged, dagger-like points. The claws spread out of her great hind paws, and massive feathery wings unfold out of her back as she bounds into the air. Her hook-like beak opens wide, to crush Mira's face, and she is easily twice Mira's size now, so she can do it.

Mira drops to the ice and rolls away. Mira's naked skin is covered with fur, her mouth full of sharp fangs, and her backside sprouting a stiff, bushy tail. She rolls again and scrabbles on all four for a hold on the ice and snow, as claws spring from her hands-and-feet-become-paws and she gives a warning bark and a growl.

The tall woman with the drum shifts the rhythm of the dance. A wind begins to blow, and there is a cracking sound, the sound of lake ice shifting. The stars in the sky seem to be moving, imperceptibly at first, but then they are turning visibly, then spinning, around the axis of the sky.

Cleopatra and Tan are rolling over each other, sliding on the surface of the ice, toward an enormous crack opening in the surface of the lake. Other witches are scrambling and sliding too. Cleopatra reaches around Tan's neck, holding on tight. She clutches his back, and feels fur rising up under her fingers. She looks into his eyes and sees black irises turning green, looks down and sees two extra pairs of nipples growing on his fuzzy abdomen, his broad shoulders narrowing. She herself is changing, sprouting fur, growing something stiff and thick between her legs, down where Tan had been pushing up against her but is now shrinking and dilating. She clings to him all the tighter as they slip into the black, cold waters. She looks up and sees the trees on the shore shrinking into bushes, and shore of the lake receding away, the lake growing into an immense, shale-colored sea, and the stars pirouetting out of control.

The feathers on Tabitha's wings have hardened into scales, and her front claws are locked around Mira's throat. Mira is a giant serpent, writhing and hissing and lashing at Tabitha with her tail, and Tabitha is a giant winged reptile, raking at Mira with her rear claws. The water around them is frothing and boiling as they sink, thrashing, locked in a savage embrace.

It is the beat of the drum that pulls them back from the abyss, transports them across the eons, back to the mundane flesh, to conventional forms. Tabitha and Cleopatra are running down an icy alley. They flee past familiar houses to the street they know best. The full moon is mostly hidden by rooftops to the west and the stars are flickering out in a pale gray sky, when they soundlessly slip through the front door. They precipitate themselves down the basement stairs, and it is human feet that take the top step and cat paws that spring from the bottom step, and somewhere in between that the transformation happens.

That is when we wake up, when we sit up in bed, shaking our heads, exclaiming, "It sounds like those damn cats are tearing down the house at six-fifteen in the morning!"