Chapter 5 – Cassini
CASSINI
“You’re not coming in,” Lily says, wrapping an oversized cardigan around herself and handing me a beer. “Just because you’re here doesn’t mean I trust you.” She sits down beside me, the porch light casting a warm glow over the rickety wooden front steps.
I’m grateful for the excuse to stay outside. It’s less complicated than explaining why I can’t come in—at least, not without a formal invitation.
I pretend to sip the beer and nod. “You’re calling the shots. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay after what happened. Make sure no one followed you here.”
She narrows her eyes. She doesn’t believe me. That’s fair—why would she? I wouldn’t believe me, either. Not after what I just had to do to keep her alive.
But watching Cyrus put his hands on her lit a match inside me and ignited something dangerous. Something primal.
That was reckless. Too reckless. But I was acting on pure instinct. Cyrus I could handle—I’m centuries older than that piece of shit—but the others? I’m not sure. I keep getting weaker and I couldn’t risk a fight with the unknown.
She keeps her gaze locked on me as she slowly takes a sip from the bottle.
If she only knew the real reason.
Stop.
I need to be more careful with my thoughts around her. If she really is what I think she is, then every stray thought could be dangerous. So I focus on the sound of her heartbeat instead, still elevated from the adrenaline, still calling to every predatory instinct I have.
She looks like she has questions but is too afraid to ask them directly. Good—that means she’s afraid, and she should be. That’s smart. Fear will keep her alive.
“That guy tonight,” she says eventually. “What was that back there?”
“Cyrus? He’s just a local drunk. He comes into the shop sometimes and throws his weight around. He’s a low-level criminal thug, likes making threats but doesn’t do much.”
“So if he’s all talk, then why did you kidnap me?” She huffs “Why did you smash his skull into the wall back there? Why have you taken my phone and forced me to abandon my car? This is not normal behavior. I should—”
An impatient mewing noise interrupts her tirade, and she immediately stands up and searches in the dark for the source. Within seconds, a small ginger cat with one eye and a stumpy tail slinks out of the bushes and bounds over to us. She drops to pick him up and pulls him against her chest.
“Oh, bud, I’ve been so worried about you.” She beams, kissing him on the top of the head. “Where have you been, huh? On an adventure?”
“That’s your cat?” I ask.
She settles next to me. The battle-worn cat settles in her arms, nuzzles her chin, and purrs loudly as she scratches his ears.
“Kinda,” she says. “He doesn’t really belong to anyone.
Me and the neighbors all take turns feeding him, and he just decides where he stays.
Someone tried to claim him a while back, but he kept wandering off, so now we all look out for him.
This time he’s been gone for a week without resurfacing, so I started to get worried. ”
I reach out a hand to pet him, but when I get within an inch of Lily’s arm, his ears flatten against his skull and he hisses a low warning. Message received, loud and clear.
Animals hate us. Still, it was worth a shot.
She shushes him as she glances over, brow furrowed. “Weird. He likes everyone…but I guess he doesn’t like you.”
“I guess not,” I agree. “I’m not really a cat person. Maybe he can sense it.” Yeah, he can sense it, all right. “So, what do you call him?”
“El Gato.”
I laugh. “The Cat? Your cat’s name is… The Cat?”
“I mean he’s not really my cat…”
The ginger bundle squirms, so she drops him down onto the deck, and he saunters off into the night, leaving us with only the sound of the cicadas and the rhythmic thunks of a clueless moth hitting the porch light.
“Ah, well. There he goes again.” She smiles. “Mrs. Miller next door probably opened a can of tuna or something. I swear that cat has a sixth sense for it.”
She’s more relaxed than she should be. Less than an hour ago she watched me throw someone across a room with supernatural strength, and she’s making casual conversation about cats. Most humans in her situation would be catatonic with fear or demanding I take them to the nearest police station.
I need to test something.
Carefully, I reach out with my abilities—the ones that let me influence human emotions, calm their fears, make them trust me.
It’s a subtle thing, like adjusting the temperature in a room by a few degrees, and centuries of practice have made me an expert.
I probe at the edges of her mind, searching for an opening, then send a gentle pulse of calm her way, trying to soothe the anxiety she’s radiating.
Nothing. She’s gradually warming up, but when I try to penetrate her emotions she seems to bristle, like she’s sensed the intrusion without understanding what it is.
Well, that’s that. She’s definitely not a normal human.
I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I’m going to have to talk my way out of this instead. Emotional manipulation I can do no problem, but speaking? That’s never been one of my virtues.
“You’re still shaking,” I observe. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m being placated,” she shoots back. “I want answers, and if you don’t give me anything satisfactory, I’m going inside and calling the cops.”
“I have your phone,” I challenge, but it’s playful.
She squares her shoulders in defiance. “Then I’ll use the landline.”
I smile. “You still have a landline?”
“I do.” But her voice wavers, giving the lie away.
I put the beer down, careful to tip a little out onto the ground so it appears like I’ve been drinking it, and turn to face her, ready to lay on the charm.
“Cyrus is a petty thug, but he’s got a huge ego and a lot of bad friends.
He doesn’t like being told no or put in his place.
In a few days he’ll cool off, and this will blow over, but when he’s on a rampage, it’s best to get out of his way.
What happened tonight was probably nothing, but I didn’t want to test that theory. Okay?”
She side-eyes me. “Fine.”
This seems to satisfy her, and she softens a little. She rubs the spot on her throat where he grabbed her and lets out a long breath. Her shoulders drop a few inches, and I hear her heart rate returning to normal. When she shivers again, I don’t think it’s from fear.
“You cold? You want this?” I say, pulling off my leather jacket before she can protest.
She accepts it with a tiny nod as I drape the weight of the heavy, ancient leather across her shoulders.
This thing has seen decades of wear, the hide soft and supple from years of use, and it swallows her small frame entirely.
The sleeves hang past her fingertips, and she has to push them up to free her hands.
“Be honest with me. Are you telling me the truth about recognizing the tattoo?” she asks. “You really don’t know anything about it?”
I hesitate. Lying to her doesn’t feel good, but I can’t tell her the truth either, so I try deflection instead.
“Why are you looking for that tattoo? Are you looking for somebody?”
“My mom had the same one. At least that’s what I remember.
When she died, it was ruled a suicide, but…
” She trails off, staring out into the darkness.
“There were things about her death that never fit. And tonight I saw that same mark on a dying girl in my ER…” She turns to face me.
“I just felt like it was too much of a coincidence.”
I weigh my options as I watch the gears in her head turning in the hazy glow of the porch light.
The smartest thing to do is try to shut this down before she ends up stumbling into a world she isn’t ready for. Soon enough the Sixth Clan will want to know who she is, what she knows, why I protected her.
They’ll come for her whether I’m involved or not.
At least if I guide her through this, I can control what she learns and how fast. Give her just enough truth to keep her from falling into something that’ll get her killed, while keeping the worst of it hidden. It’s damage control, nothing more.
“The truth is,” I say finally, “you’re asking about things that some very dangerous people consider their business. And those people don’t like curious nurses poking around asking questions.” I glance at her, watching her reaction. “But I have a feeling you’re not going to drop this, are you?”
The faintest hint of a smile plays on her lips. “No,” she admits. “Probably not.”
“You mentioned earlier that you’ve been having headaches. Hearing things.” I keep my tone conversational, like we’re discussing the weather. “How long has that been going on?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she’s not going to answer. Then: “A few months. Maybe longer? I don’t know anymore. It’s getting worse every day.”
“What kind of things do you hear?”
“Voices, mostly.” She doesn’t meet my eyes, just pulls her knees up to her chest. “Sometimes they’re asking for help.
Sometimes they just say random words or phrases.
Last week at the hospital, I could have sworn I heard someone saying ‘thank you’ over and over in the break room, but there was no one else in there. ”
“Has this ever happened to you before? When you were younger, maybe?”
Her mouth opens in shock, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression. “How did you—yes. When I was a kid. But it stopped right around the time my mom died. I thought I’d imagined it all.”
“Trauma can suppress abilities like that, but they always have a way of coming back.” I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “I think there might be a way to find out about your mom and stop the headaches, but it’s a little out there.”
“Abilities?” She laughs bitterly. “What are you selling? Whatever it is, I’m not buying.”