The Familiar (11 page)

"Oh, it's..." he pauses in a way I find suspicious, like he doesn't actually have a name to give me, "Keisha, my housekeeper." Boy, he and that housekeeper sure must be close if he's running errands for her all the time. He continues, "And yes, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call. Well, Dad, we've probably upset the apple cart enough today."

"I agree. And Cassie, I apologize for my son. I don't know what could have possessed him to say what he did about your kitten." Kevin glares at his father now instead of me, so that's a nice change. "Please accept my apology, and don't let it prevent you from considering the offer about the gallery. I'd be disappointed if his thoughtlessness prevented you from accepting a position so well suited to your interests."

" I'll think about it, Robert."

We make our goodbyes, but I'm liking those guys less and less. Talk about pushy. And what the heck was Kevin really doing in the back?

Suddenly, I have to squeeze my eyes shut to get rid of the horrific image of what he suggested Tom might have done to Granny. Did he? How can I keep him if he did? I'll never be able to stop thinking about it. I
really
need to talk to Gillian.

When I turn to where Tom is still sitting on the counter, his little head shakes back and forth and back and forth like he's denying the charges. Like he knows what we were talking about. I know what Kevin said shouldn't influence how I feel about him, but I scoop him up and put him in his cage just the same.

Gillian's face is tight and angry. "I can't believe those two! What a couple of wankers! No, Tom did not turn on Eunice after she died. He took a bite out of me when I found him, though. That's how hungry he was. And the medical examiner said there was no sign of any marks on her skin before or after death. The poor little thing did absolutely nothing improper. You have no idea how unusual that is for a cat. They're just not loyal to dead owners the way dogs are."

I set a cup of tea in front of her and sit down across from her at the small table in the kitchenette. "That's good to know. I...well, I couldn't keep him..."

"I understand. That's why I specifically asked about it before the medical examiner left. I'd have had no problem seeing that he disappeared to a nice farm with no one the wiser. I can't imagine why Kevin would even suggest it unless he was just manipulating you to try to get you to move on."

"Robert said he'd be glad to make an offer on Eunice's businesses."

Gillian rolls her eyes. "Yes, of course, he would. He's been trying to buy Eunice out for years. She was the only obstacle in the way of him owning everything worth having in Giles. I won't blame you if you sell, but I wouldn't want to see it happen."

"Why not?"

"Cassie, there are forces at work in Giles you don't know anything about. As they say, ignorance is bliss."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly blissful right now. And if I'm really going to stay, you should clue me in."

Gillian looks at her hands. Her jaw works back and forth while she thinks. Then she obviously makes a decision because she says, "I'll spill it if I must…because if you sell to the Andrewses, it will upset a delicate balance in Giles. As long as Robert is alive, I have hope things won't go down a bad path. But once Kevin inherits..."

I wait, but she's holding back again. Now I'm extra curious about this dark secret in boring little Giles. "Gillian!"

She sighs a huge sigh. "Yes, all right. Whether or not you stay, you should understand about your grandmother, me, Giles, and your legacy. It's not just city politics."

"So…what is it? What's the big mystery?"

She looks me directly in the eye.

"Cassie, I'm a witch, your grandmother was a witch, Robert and Kevin are warlocks, and although you don't know it yet, I'm betting you're a witch, too. Robert is our high priest, and Eunice was our high priestess. They've had equal power and kept each other in check all these years. But now, that balance is threatened. Natalie will become our high priestess on the next new moon, but she can only restore balance within the coven. She can't keep the balance in the town."

Huh. Okay, so basically, not only have I gone insane and started seeing things, but my only friend in town is just as short of a full deck as I am. She waits for my reaction quietly, her face wearing her usual, kind expression. Nothing to hint that she's an escaped lunatic or gone utterly senile.

I figure I have to say something. I can't just continue staring at her. I take the picture of Granny, Gillian, and the handsome stranger out of my pocket and push it across the table to her. "Give me time to think about that. It's a lot to take in. I actually called you because I wanted to ask you who's in this picture with you and Gran."

Gillian takes the photo, and her lip quivers a little as her smile fades. "That's my ex-husband, Tom. He disappeared after having an affair with your grandmother. She drove him away. Or, lately, since Eunice's death, I've had the feeling that maybe he never left at all."

Huh.

I sit there and wait for her to say more, my heart racing, but my face blank. Nothing to hint that I'm an escaped lunatic or gone utterly senile.

Gilly stays where she drifted off to, her expression telling me her thoughts are far away.

I'm afraid of the question, but I ask it anyway. "Gilly, where do you think your ex-husband is?"

She looks back at me, and, dead serious, says, "There's no way to ease into this, sweetheart, so I'm just going to say it. Where's your cat?"

Gillian and I stand behind the counter, looking at Tom in his cage.

"So, the part about everybody being witches, that's true?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"And the reason you think I'm a witch?"

"Because you made a good portion of the potions in this shop, and they work just fine. Better than fine. Eunice raised you in real magic but told you it was herbal medicine or tourist magic. It wasn't."

It's exhaustion psychosis again; I know it. But what the heck, I'll go along with it. "I see. And the reason you think my Tom is your Tom?"

"The collar. Tom's name in Eunice's handwriting. It would be just like Eunice to do something like this if she had the power to do it, and I believe she had more power than any of us knew. She had a
lot
of secrets."

I nod to myself, thinking. Wait, what? I'm acting like this could really happen. Yeah, I guess I am. Might as well go for the whole enchilada. "Hang out for another minute, Gilly," I say.

I hurry up the stairs and gather the men's clothes I found in the closet. When I return, I set them on the counter.

"Are these Tom's?"

She looks sad again. "Yes. His favorite trousers and shirts. They went missing from the house the same day I found the note telling me he was leaving me. I don't recognize the robe, though."

There's silence for a while, then I finally break it. "I'm sorry, Gilly."

"Don't be. Tom and I were young. A few years after he disappeared, I divorced him and got on with life. I had my Martin, as you know, until he passed four years ago. I never forgot Tom—you don't forget your first—but in Martin, I met someone wonderful who gave me all the love I could possibly handle. I just couldn't help brawling with Eunice about it once in a while."

"Marty was a great guy." I put a hand on her shoulder. "And Tom? That's what those fights were about? The ones that always stopped so suddenly when I walked into the room?"

"Yes, dear. Not a fit topic for a young girl to overhear."

"Gilly, I have to tell you this...a few nights ago—well, really, I thought I'd just lost my mind from the stress—Tom was a dead kitten one minute and a live, naked man the next. I freaked. I shoved him out the door, and then he was kitten Tom again. He's the one who brought me that picture. And that was him, the man I saw was the man in the picture. I guess I should let him out of the cage?"

"Yes. Yes, I think you should. Although I haven't an inkling how we'd go about finding out if it's true."

I open the cage and Tom hurries out, wending his way between us, rubbing against our legs.

Gillian leans down and says, "So, what do you think we should do with you?"

Tom doesn't answer as he rubs his face against her outstretched hand over and over and over.

When Tom settles into the small of my back for the night, I move him onto the bedside chair. He looks a little put out before he curls up with his tail tucked in.

"Sorry, Tom. But I don't feel comfortable snuggling up with you. Because, wow, you're freaking hot for a kitten." I laugh at myself now, because I'm totally bonkers.

I swear he nods just like all the crazy talk about him being a man is true. Then he curls up for the night. I curl up, too, trying to ignore that I just moved a cat off the bed because I'm afraid he'll turn into a pinup boy from my steamiest fantasies. The temporary psychosis I apparently share with Gillian is obviously working on becoming permanent.

I wake up to a sound downstairs, just a slight shuffling, but the recent spooky stuff has me waking at every noise. I look to the chair, but Tom is gone. It must be him I hear, prowling around below. I lay back down, but now I'm alert and vigilant, and every creak as the house adjusts to the wind and temperature sounds suspicious. Alright, I'm getting up. I'm not going to be able to sleep until I satisfy myself there's nothing there.

I go to the closet and get my old summer-league softball bat and move down the stairs, trying not to hyperventilate. I'm going for stealth. Definitely not a good time to pass out from anxiety. As I enter the shop and look around, I see movement in the short hall that leads to the storerooms. And then I hear Tom hissing, followed by a sudden, piercing yowl.

Someone's back there, and he's hurting Tom; I'm sure of it. My hand tightens on the bat as my legs tense and I move forward.

I run past the counter, bat raised, screaming, "Get the hell out of my shop!"

There's no one there, no one that I can see as I scan the dark room. But I know I'm not alone. It stinks of nervous sweat in here. I rushed to Tom's defense, but where is he? I don't see him anywhere. Then there's a squeal, and I see Tom in the gloom by the far storeroom door, lying on his side, not moving.

I move toward him and someone pushes me back, but I still don't see anyone. It's dark but not that dark. Where is he? I bring the bat crashing down where a body would be if there was one attached to whoever pushed me. A man yelps in pain before he knocks me down, and the sound of footsteps on the creaky floor race toward the door. It opens and then slams closed.

I half-slide/half-crawl to the storeroom door. Tom is on his side in front of it, breathing shallowly, blood matting the fur of his tiny face and chest, his face contorted. Oh no, oh terrible. Poor Tom.

As I try to look him over without causing greater damage, he stops breathing altogether. His little body relaxes, and I know he's gone.

My chest tightens as the sobs start. My grandmother, Dan, my best friend, all gone. My father can't even show me support by coming to Granny's funeral, and finally, my kitten gets taken away.

And now there are whimpers, but they're not mine. I open my eyes, and Tom's body is changing, morphing, growing, like before. It's wrong and gross and weird, but it's mesmerizing to watch as man parts sprout out-of-proportion to cat parts, then the rest of his body catches up as what was condensed becomes uncondensed. I step back, and when the change is complete, the man from the photos—Gillian's husband—huddles there in all his masculine glory.

He looks right at me and says slowly, pleadingly, and carefully, "Say good Tom. Say good Tom. Just say it."

Then his body contracts again suddenly, collapsing back in on itself, growing fur, turning into a fluffy black ball, and there's a young kitten there again. What the?

So, the hot bum wasn't a cheese fan. And nobody wrote "6000 ton" on the vanity. And this is the third time he's told me what to say.

Alright, I'll just say it. But what am I expecting will happen?

"Good Tom."

The clothes I'd brought down for Gillian to see are still sitting on the table in the kitchenette. I dash in there and come out with the whole stack, placing them on the ground and pushing them toward the man, Tom—I guess I'll have to get comfortable with calling him  that. Or get hauled to the nuthouse, one of the two. He's curled up into a ball just like a cat, his eyes closed. In pain? Disoriented?

"I brought you some clothes."

He opens his eyes and grabs for the robe, treating his hands like paws. He sits up and fiddles with it but can't figure out the sleeves. He looks frustrated and lowers his head, shaking it, and then lifting it and trying again. "Cat long time. A long time. Help."

I really don't want to get near him.

"Please help."

He looks so vulnerable. I grab the robe and take one of his hands, "Stand up. It'll be easier."

He stands up jerkily, balancing until the last minute with his other hand in addition to his legs.

I help him feed one arm into a sleeve and then tell him to turn so that I can reach his other hand and feed that one into a sleeve as well. From there, he manages to pull the robe on, closing it in the front and even managing to tie the belt to hold it that way.