Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,3
him on his stately green hammock situated strategically beneath a heating vent. He stretched again, huge paws flexing, and offered another slow-blink. Of course he’d had a wonderful day. Tully was a Café Crowley staple. He had a cat’s dream life: after snoozing in the sun for hours, he’d wander from patron to patron for cuddles and pets and ear scratches. Most of the staff even snuck him treats when they thought I wasn’t looking.
Spoiled little shit.
“Well, you keep on enjoying yourself,” I told him, lowering down onto my feet again, then cocking an eyebrow. “Unless you want to count cups for me?”
Eyes closed, he offered one last long, loud purr, then rolled over and curled up, tucking every limb into the hammock, even that huge tail. Seconds later, his purrs evened out—dead to the world, totally asleep.
“Yeah, thought not,” I muttered, shaking my head with a smirk. After double-checking the locked front door, peering out into the quiet downtown side street that had begrudgingly accepted our gothic weirdness over the last few years, I figured tonight would be a long, uneventful night of counting and recounting and recounting again, until—
Thump.
The hairs on the back of my neck shot up, adrenaline spiking. Still as stone, I stood listening, waiting for another sound—met only by the usual symphony of the building settling for the night, the wooden groans and soft clicks and the odd water dribble nothing out of the ordinary. Not purposeful. That thump had intent.
Shooting a quick glance at Tully, I found my familiar had rolled back over, bright blues scanning the café same as me, his tail over the hammock’s side and swishing with interest again. Although half the lights were off, everything looked pretty standard as I did a quick sweep of the tables along the windows, the clump of armchairs, the dead fireplace, the bookshelves.
At no point was I about to call out a Hello? like I was some idiot in a horror movie. Nibbling my lower lip, I padded toward the stacks, mindful of my heels on the hardwood. My palms prickled with charged energy, magic thrumming through my veins, surging, ready for any kind of nonsense.
Three stacks over, I spotted a book on the floor. Herbs and their Uses: A Guide to Practical Hedge Magick. A bit on the nose, but there was zero harm in humans reading about non-magical plants that, when brewed properly, could dull a headache or soften period cramps. Loitering at the end of the two bookshelves, I stared at the tome for a moment, daring it to move, daring someone to move it, and then sighed when it just sat there.
“Henrietta, please don’t be back.” Shoulders slumped, I marched in and swiped the book off the ground. Adrenaline was a great tool, but when it faded, it sapped all your energy right along with it. Suddenly my eyes felt tired, the weight of the day dragging on me as I carefully slid the book back into its place on the second-highest shelf.
Strange that it had fallen.
Henrietta was our last ethereal visitor, a mischievous ghost who liked to rifle through my office and burn the few breads we made in-house. I’d hoped she would have been reaped by now—or taken out by whatever celestial being dealt with rogue spirits. Apparently, I needed to re-check my crystals; if they had lost their charge, she might have found a way back inside the premises.
Just as I smoothed a hand over a few of the spines, checking for dust, Tully yowled.
A high-pitched, terrified howl that I felt in my bones, our heightened emotions twined together as witch and familiar. I gasped, pushing away from the books and racing down the stacks.
Only to find his hammock empty on the other side of the café, one of the suction cups torn from the window.
“What the hell?” I hissed, adrenaline back with a fury. It made me shake, heightened my senses. Somewhere deeper in the back, a door slammed shut, and I nearly jumped out of my skin at the wham echoing through the building. “Tully?”
Footsteps skittered through the stacks, boots clomping down one of the back aisles. I whipped around and shoved my fear deep, deep inside. No time for panic. No time for paranoia. Tully could handle himself; hopefully, he’d beelined to a high vantage point at the first sign of trouble. Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself to not spiral, Katja.
Hurriedly, I reached into the ether. No vibrations of another rogue spirit—just