Free A Night in the Lonesome October by Roger Zelazny

cat.
         I went looking for Graymalk again but she was nowhere about.   Cats are never around when you really need one.   There was still time, though.
     
      October 19
         I went out last night and sniffed around the ancient manse.   There were signs of recent work on the place, smells of fresh-cut lumber, of paint, of roofing, but it was locked up tighter than a canopic urn, and I couldn't tell whether there was anyone about.   I walked home, still feeling relieved that I was done with my corpse dragging.   The wind whistled and dry leaves blew by me.   There were flashes of lightning from off in the Good Doctor's direction.
         The Thing in the Circle said, "French poodle?" when it saw me enter.
         "Not today."
         "Anything else?   Anything at all?   I'd sure like to get out and kill and rend.   I'm feeling stronger all of a sudden."
         "Your time will come," I told it.
         The Thing in the Steamer Trunk had poked a small hole in the front.   An enormous yellow eye regarded me through it.   It didn't make a sound, though.
         Snoring noises emerged from the wardrobe in the attic.
         I paused before the mirror in the hall.   All of its Things were clustered again, rather than slithering, and a close inspection showed me that they had positioned themselves before a small flaw in the glass which I hadn't noted earlier.   Had they found a way to create such dimensional flaws in their prison? Still, it was too finite to be of much use to them.   I resolved to keep an eye on it, though.
         I awoke to the crunching sounds of wheels, the clopping of horses' hoofs, and the sounds of several voices, one of them singing in a foreign language, from the road out front.   Stretching, and stopping for a quick drink of water, I let myself out to see what was going on.
         It was a fine, crisp morning, of sunlight, breezes, and leaves crunching beneath my feet.   A line of caravans was passing on the roadway, men in sashes and bright headcloths, Gipsies, all, walking beside or driving, headed, I guessed, for one of the open areas between us and the city, off in the direction of Larry Talbot's place.
         "Good morning, Snuff," came a voice from the roadside weeds.
         I walked over and investigated.
         "'Morning, Quicklime," I said, when I spotted his dark sinuosity there.   "How you feeling?"
         "Fine," he replied.   "A lot better than the other day.   Thanks for the advice."
         "Any time.   You headed anyplace in particular?"
         "I was following the Gipsies, actually.   But this is far enough.   We'll get word where they camp, by and by."
         "You think they'll be stopping near here?"
         "Without a doubt.   We've been expecting them for some time."
         "Oh?   Something special about them?"
         "Well. . . . It's common knowledge now that the Count's in the area, so I'm not talking out of class.   The master spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe, where he learned something of his ways.   When the Count travels, he's often accompanied by a band of Gipsies.   Rastov thinks he came here in a hurry when he determined where the locus would be, then sent for his band."
         "What function will they serve here?"
         "Now we're past the death of the moon, with the power rising, things get dangerous.   Everybody seems to know where the Count's residing, unless he's established a few more, uh, residences.   So someone with a fence picket who's decided the Game would be better off without him could end his eligibility.   He likely wants his Gipsies about to guard his quarters by day...”
         "Good Lords!" I said.
         "What?"
         "I hadn't even thought of the possibility of a player's having more than one residence.   Do you realize what that would do to the pattern?"
         "Damn!   No, I hadn't!   This is bad, Snuff.   If he's got another grave