Outfoxed (The Fox Witch #1) - R.J. Blain Page 0,19

old homes with the tenacity of dandelions in the cracks of sidewalks.

In some ways, I admired those brave and foolish enough to test Mother Nature in her territory.

My new home represented more than just a place to sleep. Within its walls, I’d find safety, shelter, and the illusion of freedom. Only the insane would look for me on the edge of Tulsa’s outskirts, a place deemed so dangerous not even the tax collectors dared to come calling for fear of becoming the next storm victim.

In what I considered to be a lapse of sanity, I hoped Sandro was insane enough to search for me but clever enough to survive Mother Nature’s fury. He’d make the challenge of dodging the bounty worth it.

Every time I evaded him, I wanted to watch the play of expressions over his face as he comprehended he’d been outfoxed by a woman he considered to be a lowly vagrant. The challenge he represented would keep me sharp. He’d force me to hone my skills. He’d force me to practice my shapeshifting so I could transition from fox to woman and back again more than once or twice a day without taking risks. I’d keep a close eye out for him and his bounty hunter brethren. I’d create several bolt holes I could use as a fox and some I could slip through even when human. I’d have to accept the risks of shifting more frequently to access the cellar once I dug it out to my satisfaction. With luck, it would have a ventilation shaft large enough for me to use as an entry point.

If the cellar didn’t have any functioning ventilation shafts, I would have to make one.

The work never ended, but I didn’t have much time before the next storm was scheduled to sweep through and only a few hours of the day left before I needed to get some sleep and go back to the grind. I’d go hungry until tomorrow, but I’d eat something at work. With the risk of a bad blow on the horizon, the kind that would kill a lot of people, I couldn’t afford to hunt as a fox.

I definitely couldn’t afford the twenty minute walk to the nearest place that served food I could afford.

I’d gotten used to the reality that raw meat beat starving, but I’d have to starve until I went to work. My boss made a point of feeding us, as a well-fed staff worked better. With the money I was saving on my rent, I might even be able to afford eating more than once a day—or once every other day.

Assuming I could avoid Sandro and the other bounty hunters, I might even make some headway in life for a change.

One of the four keys Carl had given me worked, and I cracked open the door to peek inside the house.

While the roof was a mess, the interior had somehow survived the swarm. The previous resident had left minimal furnishings—or the resident before. I wondered how many unfortunate souls had occupied the home before it had fallen into my hands.

It didn’t matter, but I wondered all the same.

According to Carl, the entrance to the cellar was located in the living room beneath an old rug, and a discolored board marked a groove that would allow me to access the door’s pull ring. I found the rug easily enough; it’d been in place so long the damned thing stuck to the hardwood and fell apart when I pulled on it. I ultimately had to kick it out of the way in chunks to reveal dye-stained planks.

Through the rug’s ruins, I spotted the right board, which had started its life white. After brushing away rotted remnants of the rug, I located the groove, which was nothing more than a crack I could squeeze two fingers in deep enough for some leverage.

After five curse-filled minutes, the board popped out, revealing the promised steel ring. Like the rug, it showed signs of age and disuse. Rust flaked away at the lightest touch, although it remained intact enough to use. It took some work, but I lifted up a panel barely large enough for a man to fit through.

I gave it four or five uses before the hinges fell apart.

Had the previous tenant not bothered with the cellar? Had Carl not bothered to tell his previous tenants the cellar existed? When had someone last occupied the home? My questions would bother me, but I wouldn’t run the risk