Chapter 19. Annette
Annette
It was only after I changed clothes that I realized I’d dressed like I was going into battle as opposed to simply talking to my grandson.
I’d donned my favorite black jeans, the comfy ones that stretched enough for me to kick a bastard in the junk if I had to.
I’d also dug my old leather jacket out of the closet and thrown that over a teal tank top.
Steel-tipped boots completed the ensemble.
I had my knife, too, of course. Strapping that to my back was habit, as natural as wearing socks.
I was halfway down the stairs when there was a knock at the front door.
The shop was closed, but people had been stopping by all morning to check on us.
I’d accepted sympathy and well-wishes from Caleb, who worked at Wicked Good Books; our neighbor Mindy; and one of our regulars, a retired dentist who came in every week for crossword puzzle books and to gossip about the school board.
Jenny reached the door before I did this time, which was fine by me. I waited while she chatted briefly with a man and woman who looked to be in their early twenties. She returned carrying a foil-covered casserole dish and announced, “The Satanic Temple sent us a tuna casserole.”
“Put it in the fridge with the rest,” I said. “I’m borrowing your protégé and heading out.”
Jenny paused on her way to the kitchen. “You’re going to talk to Morgan?”
“I want answers about those shelf cards. I keep telling myself he couldn’t have known what he was doing.
He wouldn’t deliberately harm Temple or the shop.
” I could understand how he’d fallen for Alex’s bullshit.
Morgan had so few people he could talk to about magic.
Connecting with Alex and his stories and knowledge must have been like winning the lottery.
But deliberately trying to hurt people? I couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that.
Jenny balanced the casserole in one hand and patted my arm with the other. “Call if you need me. And no killing!”
“I’ll be fine,” I lied. I was too upset, and her sympathy would only shatter my self-control. I turned to Ronnie, who was sorting books into three categories: Fine, Salvageable, and Ruined. I cringed at the size of the last pile. “Ronnie, let’s go. I’m driving.”
He followed me out the back door. “Did Jenny say we had Satanic casserole? That sounds spicy.”
We’d gone only a few steps when something low and dark raced through the parking lot and disappeared beneath my car.
“What the hell?” Ronnie pulled a collapsible baton from his trench coat, extended it with a snap of his wrist, and pressed a button on the handle. Blue light crackled along the tip.
“You have a whole armory tucked away in that coat, don’t you?” I stepped sideways. “It was too big to be a skunk. Didn’t move like a dog.”
The thing shot out from between the front tires. Claws scraped the blacktop as it charged and sprang at my face like it had been flung from a catapult.
I spun out of the way and landed a solid backfist to its body as it passed. The blow sent the thing flying to strike the shop’s back door with a heavy splat. The sound was like five pounds of raw hamburger shot against a brick wall.
“I think it’s—it was—a cat,” I said. It was maybe fifteen pounds, tops, with four legs and a too-long tail. Smaller tentacles writhed from its body. It shook itself, crouched, and lashed its tail.
The ex-cat had far too many eyes, and almost all of them were watching me. They blinked at random, one after another. For some reason, that asynchronous blinking disturbed me more than the tentacles or the thing’s clear desire to claw me open.
I drew my knife.
“What are you doing?” asked Ronnie. “You can’t kill it.”
“We won’t know until we try.”
“But it’s a cat.”
“Maybe it used to be.” I watched as the cat stalked closer, keeping its body low to the ground. “I think Jenny’s softheartedness is rubbing off on you.”
He drew back like I’d spat in his face. “It is not!”
The not-a-cat pounced again. I dodged and slashed . . . but turned my blade at the last moment. Instead of cutting the creature in half, I smacked it with the flat and knocked it to the ground.
Maybe Jenny had rubbed off on me, too.
Ronnie circled to my left, trying to flank the ex-cat.
The next attack was different. Rather than leaping for my face, the thing charged my legs like a bull. I stepped aside, but the tail whipped around my ankle and yanked me off balance.
Ronnie lunged.
I shouted for him to stop, but I wasn’t quite fast enough. The tip of his baton sank a good two inches into the cat’s slimy flesh, sending electricity through its body . . . and through mine.
I felt like I was being punched everywhere at once by a professional boxer.
“Shit!” Ronnie yanked the baton out and jumped back. “I’m sorry!”
Every fiber of my body was twitching, and not in a fun way. Muscles cramped and tightened like they were trying to snap my bones into bite-sized bits.
The cat wasn’t much better off. Its stiffened tentacles looked like black icicles. It crawled away, twitching and spasming.
Sensation and control were coming back. I pushed myself up just as the cat shook itself and let out a low, gurgling growl.
I crouched lower.
The cat leaped . . . directly into my oncoming fist. The poor thing spun backward end over end before hitting the ground.
It stood, wobbled, and fell onto its side.
I stepped around the cat and opened the back door. “Jenny?”
“Are you back already? That was quick.”
I wasn’t in the mood for her jokes. “There’s an unconscious mutant cat in the parking lot. I did the fighting, so you get to handle cleanup.”
· · ·
We took Ronnie’s van. I didn’t trust myself to drive until my muscles stopped twitching, and I wasn’t about to let him behind the wheel of my BMW.
Jenny texted me as we were approaching Blake’s house. She’d simply written: ??!!
I replied with two emojis: an angry cat face and a shrug.
“Do you think we’ll have to fight more demon-cats?” Ronnie’s excitement was palpable. I could practically smell the adrenaline flowing through his system.
“More what-cats?” I asked.
He reddened. “Sorry, I meant shoggoth-cats.”
“We’re not starting a corrupted pet rescue, if that’s what you’re asking.
” I couldn’t be too annoyed at his eagerness for action.
I’d been the same way. That rush, whether it was the tension of following a suspect or the physical exertion of fighting a shifter hit man for the mob, was what had gotten me hooked on the supernatural PI gig.
On my best days, the work had been almost as satisfying as sex, without the inevitable emotional fallout from my partner.
The front door opened as we pulled into Blake’s driveway. Blake and Ava stood just inside. Anger and fear wafted off them both.
“Did something else happen?” I braced myself for more bad news as I hurried toward them. “Why isn’t Ava in school?”
“My son’s chemistry teacher is giving them drugs and teaching them blood magic. I’m not sending either of my children back to school until this is over.” Dark smudges under Blake’s eyes betrayed his exhaustion. “Also, Ava and I had the talk last night.”
“I see.” As relieved as I was to hear that, it clearly hadn’t been a happy conversation, and the last thing we needed now was another family feud.
Before I could say more, Ava demanded, “Have you found Sage yet, Grandma? What’s going to happen to him?”
“We have. That’s one of the things I was coming to tell you.” I stepped inside and offered her a hug, but she backed away. “Sage is safe, but he’s . . . sick. We’re doing everything we can to help him. This is what Aunt Jenny does. She helps people.”
“People?” She glanced at her father. “You mean monsters like us.”
“You’re not a monster,” Blake said before I could answer.
Ava rolled her eyes. “No, I’m a sex demon.”
“The preferred term is succubus, thank you very much,” I said. “And you’re only one-eighth sex demon.”
“What about him?” She pointed to Ronnie. “Is he a demon, too?”
Ronnie huffed. “I am not.”
“Take it down a notch, junior. It was a question, not an insult.” I turned back to Ava, thinking of when I’d had this same conversation with Blake, remembering all his questions and his fears.
All the ways I’d screwed it up. “Listen to me, kiddo. No matter what happens, you’re still you.
You’re clever and creative and stubborn and beautiful and strong and annoying. Who and what you are hasn’t changed.”
She took my hand and pressed my fingernails. “Dad says you grow claws when you’re angry.”
“If I have to protect myself, yes.”
“Can I see?”
I thought of the attack on Second Life Books. My fingers tightened.
“Whoa.” Ava yanked her hands away from my claws. “That’s . . . It’s kind of gross, Grandma. Am I going to get them, too?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, trying not to take offense. She was in shock and overwhelmed, and at least she was talking to me. I relaxed my hands. My claws eased and flattened back into nails. “Your father never did. Not that he told me, anyway.”
“I tried a time or two, but no.” Blake shook his head. “Your claws used to come out when you were pissed at me.”
“I never grew my claws at you!” I protested.
“Not all the way,” he admitted. “But they got distinctly pointed sometimes.”
I was getting off track. I crouched so I was eye level with my granddaughter.
“Ava, hon, I know this is a lot to handle, and I know it feels scary and unfair. I promise I’ll take you for ice cream soon and answer any questions you have.
If it’s all right with your father, that is.
But right now, I have to talk to your brother. ”
Blake was nodding. “I was going to call you. Morgan sounds worse this morning, and he won’t open the door.”
“What’s happening to him?” asked Ava. “Is it a demon thing?”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “Morgan is sick.”
“Like Sage?”