Page 58 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“Who’s there?” Phillip called boldly, immediately following that with an under-the-breath mutter of, “God above, look at this mess.”

A growl began deep in her chest, moving up to her throat with a crackle, before exploding from between her teeth in an awful yowling scream. Phillip jumped a foot in the air, swinging his fire poker uselessly in front of himself. Hissing so furiously she was spitting, Deepa stalked right up to him, batting the poker out of his hands and forcing him up against the couch, which he climbed over backwards in an attempt to escape.

“Deepa?” he stammered, both hands on the back of the couch, the cushions between him and her. “Is that you?” He gave a nervous laugh. “That's how the curse turned out, is it? I can feel it on you.”

Snarling, she launched herself over the couch as he scrambled away from her, knocking things off tables and bumping into chairs as he tried to get away. He was clumsy in his fear, and she was faster, catching him before he could find the doorway, and slamming him against the wall with her front paws on hisshoulders and her bared teeth an inch from his throat, pinning him.

“I imagine you want me to break it,” he said. “Because I was right; you can't manage to break it yourself, can you?”

She dug her claws into his shoulders, not enough to draw blood, but certainly enough to make the threat clear.

“I can’t!” he yelped. “I told you how to break it, but I can't do it myself. I've always been rotten at breaking my own curses.”

She stared at him, eyes widening as she processed that. “How many more women have you cursed?” she demanded, but it could only come out as a raspy, spitting snarl.

He flinched back from it, which was gratifying, but it didn't answer her question. Frustrated, she shoved at him, but with nowhere for him to go, she could only bring him forward and slam him back against the wall again, hard enough to rattle his teeth in his skull.

“Killing me won't break it,” he said quickly. “It won’t help you at all.”

She sneered, very much doubting that. There was no magic in the world that could survive death. If she killed him, her curse was sure to break. And who could trace a wild animal mauling back to her? Flexing her paws, she let her claws slide out a little more, piercing the shoulders of his robe like ivory daggers.

“You can’t,” he stressed, desperately looking for some way to get himself out of this.

To Deepa’s right, in between them and the doorway, a writing desk stood against the wall. As she followed his gaze, he threw himself sideways towards it, wrenching out of her grip and falling to his knees, frantically fumbling through the drawers. Dropping back to all fours, she went after him, violence written in every line of her body and in every firing neuron in her brain.

Too slow.

Ripping open the drawer he was looking for, Phillip pulled out a little firearm that looked like it had quite literally been through the war, cocked it, and aimed it right at her head.

She drew up short.

He wouldn’t shoot her. Not with the knowledge that she was really a woman, rather than a dumb leopard.

But he’d already cursed her. How much personhood did he really believe she had?

He pulled the trigger and Deepa shrank back with a full-body flinch before realising the pistol had jammed, either not well-cared for or simply handled too inexpertly. Either way, she wasn’t giving him the opportunity to try again. Hissing, she fled, throwing herself back out the open window and booking it through the garden and into the night. Though he shouted after her, and a sharp report from the gun followed, she didn't look back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

IN WHICH REFUGE IS SOUGHT IN FAMILIAR GROUNDS

Running blindly, Deepa’s paws carried her north of the city, away from the metropolis and into rolling farmland and cottage gardens. She couldn't say how long she ran, flooded with panic, frustration, and self-loathing at the fact that she hadn't gone through with it and killed the wretch — self-loathing equal in amount to the fact that she’d seriously thought about killing him at all. She ran until her lungs burned and her paws hurt and she didn’t know where she was, or how long it would take to get back home.

She wasn’t afraid so much of being lost, as she was confident that her feline senses could guide her back to her flat easily enough, but she was concerned that dawn might break before that happened, and she would be stranded somewhere on the city’s outskirts without any clothes. She wouldn’t be the first tofind herself in such a situation, though previous accounts had always involved more drinks, drugs, and revelries than curses, from what she’d heard.

As she slowed her pace, fear and adrenaline subsiding, she considered the most sensible course of action. Returning to Phillip’s flat to rip out his throat was appealing, but too risky, what with him being armed and her uncertainty as to the time. It would be best to make her way to Aaliyah and Jasmine’s house, where they lived with Alphonse and Jacobi just outside the city. But she wasn’t entirely sure where their house was in relation to her current position, and wasn’t confident she could track it down the same way she could retrace her steps to her own flat.

Besides which, going to Aaliyah and Jasmine meant telling them about Roz once she had a human voice again, and she didn’t particularly want to have that conversation. Seeing as they were both keen on her finding her true love with a woman and joining their sapphic ranks, they would advise her to offer an olive branch. Deepa had never been the first to reach out to anyone, nor offer an apology. It felt demeaning.

Furthermore, she didn't think she had anything for which to apologise. Throwing the fight and winning the money was the smart thing to do, pride be damned, and she wouldn’t be convinced otherwise. If anything, Roz owed her an apology for assuming Deepa would throw her over for some man, just because a past lover had done the same.

Deepa had promised Roz they could make things work, and she believed it. She’d never have floated the idea of marriage to Appleton if he seemed at all interested in women, or if she thought there was any chance he’d want her as a genuine wife. Engaging in a sham marriage for the sake of optics without even consummating it was a world away from actually marrying anyone. Roz was too much of a romantic if she couldn’t concede that.

Not that it mattered, what with Appleton shutting her down.

The musky hay-sweet scent of horses came to her on the breeze, and she turned towards it, sense-memory hitting her. She knew where she was. Though Appleton hadn’t given her a tour of the stables that afternoon at his sister’s garden party, she recognised the smell. Despite the night’s confusion, she’d made her way to his estate as if her thoughts of him had summoned it from the ether.

If she was very lucky, perhaps Appleton would be walking the grounds, and she could intercept him and explain her situation. It was wishful thinking at such a late hour, but she was rattled and desperate. She might not have wanted to tell Appleton about the curse, but he had the sort of money that came with connections. Perhaps he could find her someone to break it. All assuming she could reach him, and furthermore, communicate her woes.

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