Chapter 7 #2
“And I’ve been alive for three hundred years, Mortal. I know a fox when I hear one.” There was a pause. “And it’s calling your name, Ramona. Specifically.”
Ramona sat up, the covers pooling around her waist. “What? You speak fox?”
“Are all mortals this dense?” Zara huffed in annoyance.
The sound came again. Closer this time. Ramona got out of bed and went to the window, pulling back the curtain. The alley behind the building was lit by a single streetlight, casting everything in sickly yellow. And there, sitting on top of the dumpster, was a fox.
It was small, red-furred, with a white-tipped tail and dark legs. Its ears were pricked forward, pointed directly at Ramona’s window. As she watched, it opened its mouth and made that sound again — that eerie, climbing cry that definitely wasn’t a cat.
And she felt something.
A pull. A recognition. Like a string tied around her ribs, tugging gently.
Ramona sighed. “I guess it could have been that fox.”
Behind her, she heard Zara stand up. Heard her cross the room. Felt her presence at her shoulder, warm and solid.
“You feel something,” Zara said. It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t—” Ramona stopped. “I don’t know. I never had a familiar.”
“I thought all witches had one. Felix has Gerald, Posey has that plant, even Kashvi has the—” Zara’s voice broke off, as if she was trying to stop herself from revealing something.
“Kashvi has what?” Ramona pressed.
“Never mind. Where’s your familiar?” Zara asked.
“I’ve just never had one. We had a cat growing up that I used to pretend was my familiar, and Simone’s hare was sweet, but I’ve just never… found one.”
“Who is Simone?” Zara asked.
“My ex-wife,” Ramona explained, shutting the curtain.
Zara nodded, glancing back to the window where the fox was staring up at them with an intensity Ramona didn’t appreciate.
“Do demons have spouses?” Ramona asked, going very still.
“No,” Zara said.
“Oh,” Ramona said, and she didn’t know why she felt a pang of disappointment. Maybe it was just the intense and stoic loneliness that Zara exuded when talking about the demon realm. “Demons don’t have any romantic connections?”
Zara raised one eyebrow. “Mortal, are you asking me if demons fuck?”
Ramona nearly laughed from surprise at Zara’s bluntness. She shifted her weight and attempted something eloquent. Instead, what came out of her mouth was, “Oh, uh, I mean, that’s none of my business, I’m just curious, I only—”
“Of course we fuck. Such things don’t require romantic connection, though,” Zara said as formally as if she were explaining Hell’s highway system.
Ramona turned back to the window, pulling the curtain open again and setting her jaw in an attempt not to combust in mortification.
The fox was still there. Still watching.
Ramona cleared her throat, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “Why is this thing screaming my name, then?” she asked.
“As far as I know, that’s how it starts.” Zara moved closer to the window, studying the fox with careful intensity. “A familiar choosing you. You’re being called, Mortal.”
“I don’t want it.” The words came out sharper than intended.
“That’s not really how it works. When you’re chosen, you’re chosen.”
“Well, I’m un-choosing.” Ramona let the curtain fall, cutting off the fox’s unblinking stare. “I’m good. I don’t need a familiar.”
“Every witch needs a familiar.”
“I’m not a—”
“You are a witch,” Zara repeated, like Ramona hadn’t heard her.
“I’m really not. I’m a retail worker.” Ramona crossed back to her bed, climbing under the covers with more force than necessary.
“I sell fake sage to tourists. I don’t need a magical companion for that.
And certainly not a fucking fox. Why can it never be something easy to explain to the non-mages, like a purse Pomeranian? ”
Zara was quiet for a long moment. Then she returned to her chair, the springs creaking under her weight. “He’ll keep coming.”
“Can we not talk about this?” Ramona pulled the covers up to her chin. “Please?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “Of course.”
Silence settled over the room again. Ramona closed her eyes, but she could still feel it — that pull. That recognition. The sense that something outside was waiting for her, patient and persistent.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on her breathing, on the exhaustion in her bones, on anything except the image of that fox sitting on the dumpster, calling her name.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time felt strange in the dark, elastic and uncertain.
“Mortal?” Zara’s voice was quiet.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the pillow.” A pause. “And the blanket.”
Ramona opened her eyes, staring at the dark ceiling. “You’re welcome.”
More silence. The building settled around them, groaning and creaking. Outside, the fox had ceased calling. In the quiet, Ramona could feel the different ways her soul was pulled, tethered to Zara in a constant, insistent whisper. The strange tug toward the window, toward the fox.
Ramona closed her eyes again. The exhaustion was finally catching up to her, pulling her down into something that might actually be sleep.
Her last conscious thought was that the chair springs had gone quiet. That Zara had stopped shifting, stopped adjusting.
Like maybe she was actually sleeping, too.