Chapter 1
Living with Finn Hughes is a study in contradictions. On one hand, I am a prisoner in this ridiculous feline form, subjected daily to the indignities of being treated like a common house pet. On the other hand…
I’m not entirely miserable.
Not that I’d ever admit that aloud, even if I could speak properly.
“Good morning, Your Royal Fluffiness,” Finn yawns, padding into the kitchen in nothing but boxers and those ridiculous socks with dancing turtles on them. “Sleep well on my face again?”
I offer my most intimidating glare from my perch on the counter. It’s not my fault his pillow is the optimal sleeping location in this apartment. The fact that his face happens to be on it is merely coincidental.
He chuckles, reaching out to scratch under my chin. I consider biting him but… the chin scratching is acceptable. For now.
“You know, I’ve been calling you ‘cat’ for days now. You need a proper name.”
I HAVE a name. I am MORAX, scourge of the underworld, collector of corrupt souls!
“How about… Muffin?”
I hiss with such vehemence that he actually takes a step back.
“Okay, okay! Not Muffin. Geez.” He pours himself coffee, watching me thoughtfully. “You know, you’re unlike any cat I’ve ever treated. Those little horn nubs and wing attachments… I’ve been researching, but I can’t figure out what kind of sicko would do experimental surgery on a cat.”
If you think THIS is bizarre, wait until you see my true form, mortal.
Finn’s clinic occupies the first floor of the building, with his modest apartment above.
The arrangement seems efficient, though his living quarters are embarrassingly sparse.
The furniture is worn but comfortable, bookshelves overflow with veterinary texts and fantasy novels, and the walls are adorned with photographs of animals—presumably former patients.
My observation of his morning routine is interrupted when he scoops me up without warning.
“Clinic time, Your Majesty. The animals miss you.”
Unhand me, peasant! I do not consort with lesser beasts!
But my protests are ignored as he carries me downstairs to the small but surprisingly well-equipped veterinary clinic.
Three examination rooms, a surgical suite, and a recovery area with kennels line the back wall.
It’s obvious from the worn equipment and mismatched furniture that Finn operates on a limited budget, yet everything is meticulously clean.
“Morning, Finn! Is that your weird cat again?” A young woman with vibrant blue hair arranges supplies at the front desk.
“Morning, Josie. And yes, this is still my weird cat. He seems to be settling in.”
I am NOT settling in. I am PLOTTING.
“He’s certainly… unique.” Josie approaches, attempting to pet me. I swat at her fingers with appropriate menace. “And still a total grump, I see.”
Finn laughs. “He’s selective with his affection.”
I don’t DO affection.
Except… when Finn scratches that spot between my shoulders that makes my wings twitch involuntarily.
Or when he speaks to me in that low, gentle voice he uses for frightened animals.
Or when he falls asleep on the couch with his veterinary journals, and I can curl up on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
But those are strategic comfort choices. Nothing more.
The day passes in a blur of animal patients—dogs with upset stomachs, cats needing vaccinations, a parrot with an injured wing, and a terrified rabbit with an abscess. Through it all, Finn’s hands remain steady, his voice soothing, his patience seemingly endless.
He’s competent… for a human.
I observe from a cat bed he’s placed on the counter (which I only use for optimal surveillance purposes, NOT because it’s comfortable).
His clients clearly adore him, many paying with homemade food or promises of services instead of money.
Several times I overhear variations of, “Just pay when you can, Mrs. Garcia” or “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Lee.
Consider it covered by the good neighbor discount. ”
Foolish human. No wonder his clinic struggles financially. Where’s his demonic business sense?
That evening, after closing, Finn collapses onto a stool with a heavy sigh.
“Seven vaccinations, three spays, one emergency surgery, and approximately five million pet questions,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “Successful day.”
I jump onto the counter beside him, examining his face. The dark circles under his eyes have deepened. His shoulders slump with exhaustion.
Why does he push himself so hard for these ungrateful mortals and their mediocre pets?
Almost unconsciously, I bump my head against his hand. His lips curve into a tired smile as he strokes my back.
“Thanks for the support, buddy. You know, for a cat with scary eyes and demon accessories, you’re pretty good company.”
The genuine warmth in his voice creates an unfamiliar sensation in my chest. It’s probably indigestion from the premium cat food he insists on buying me.
Later, I’m subjected to the ultimate indignity: bath time. After an unfortunate incident involving a curious exploration of an open can of pink wound ointment, Finn decides I need cleaning.
“Hold still, you little demon,” he laughs, trying to keep me in the bathroom sink as I fight for my dignity. “It’s just water!”
Water is for lesser beings! I bathe in the tears of my enemies!
But his hands are gentle as they work the soap through my fur, carefully avoiding my eyes and being especially tender around my wing nubs. The sensation is… not entirely unpleasant. His fingers massage my scalp, working behind my ears in a way that makes my back leg thump involuntarily.
This is humiliating. I am NOT enjoying this. I am NOT purring.
“There we go,” he murmurs, wrapping me in a fluffy towel. “Was that so terrible?”
Yes. Absolutely terrible. Do it again immediately.
After drying me, he settles on the couch with a medical journal. I contemplate sleeping in my designated cat bed (purely to maintain appearances), but instead find myself jumping onto his lap. For strategic reasons. Obviously.
His hand automatically begins stroking my back, and that rumbling sound emerges from my chest again. It’s NOT purring. It’s a fearsome growl of… contentment.
This is merely reconnaissance. Know thy enemy and all that.
“You know,” Finn says softly, scratching under my chin in that way that makes my eyes close involuntarily, “I’ve been alone for a while now. It’s nice having someone to come home to, even if you are the weirdest cat I’ve ever seen.”
Something in his voice—a note of genuine loneliness—catches my attention. I look up to find him staring off into nothing, a melancholy expression on his usually cheerful face.
He’s just a human. His feelings are irrelevant to me.
But as he continues to pet me absently, his heartbeat steady beneath my paws, I find myself thinking that perhaps—PERHAPS—not all humans are completely worthless.
This one might be marginally acceptable.
For a mortal.