Page 9 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“I doubt you will find what you are searching for,” the same voice said, coming from the cat.
The cat stared. I stared. Surely the cat hadn’t…
“I beg your pardon, but did you speak?”
“Yes,” the cat replied simply. “What? Have you never heard a cat talk before?”
“No…” I had gone through many new experiences in less than a day. Chased by wolves, captured by a demon, escaped that demon, then faced by a talking cat. Considering what had transpired, if my eyes and ears weren’t deceiving me, she may not be a cat at all.
Clenching my fists, I prepared to run. “Demon.”
Hissing, the cat swatted at me. “How dare you call me a demon in my own home!”
“How am I to know you aren’t a demon? Talking cats are not exactly an everyday occurrence.”
Her back arched higher. “How do I know you aren’t a demon, strange naked woman who broke into my home?”
That was a fair question, although I did not recall breaking into any house. Raising my hands defensively, I leaned away from the frustrated ball of fur. “My apologies. If you are no demon, then how do you speak?”
“My collar is enchanted.” The cat rested on her haunches. She wouldn’t maul me to death. Yet.
I may have considered an enchantment if I hadn’t gone through one of the worst days of my life. In truth, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed what happened. I leaned toward an injury. Perhaps a branch snapped off a tree and rendered me unconscious. That would make more sense than what transpired and explained the bump on my head.
“I apologize for implying you may be a demon. I have had a long night,” I said while biting back a hiss when my fingers prodded my head wound.
The details came to me in bursts. Carline, however, remained vivid, as if she were tethered to me: her golden eyes and sharpened fangs, her breath along the back of my neck, and the scratch. I laid a hand on my neck. Dried blood flaked from my skin, congealed around the row of wounds.
“Seems so. You smell positively atrocious.” The cat scratched behind her ear, then stood tall, her nose pointed skyward. “The name is Miss Beamy Hawthorne. I am killer of mice, chaser of vile birds, and queen of naps. What do they call you?”
“Indy Moore.”
“What a boring name.” Miss Beamy’s tail sprung from side to side. She had a sense of irritation about her, holding a grudge against me for daring to call her a demon, most likely.
“Yes, I fear my name is not as illustrious as yours, but Miss Beamy, where are we?”
We weren’t in Carline’s cottage. A ruined lounge laid beyond the door, the couch unturned, cushions shredded, and chewed curtains dangled from a broken curtain rod. The wallpaper swayed in shreds, ripped from the walls and left in tatters.
“Why, you are in the Ivory House! Ivy, for short,” Miss Beamy said proudly.
“The Ivory House,” I repeated, the name known by most in the kingdom, said to belong to an artificer who constructed a home capable of traveling great distances unlike the world had ever seen.
No one shared the same tale, claiming the house traversed the wild lands on wired legs or floated down rivers like a ship. None in Westshire or Cavehallow had seen the Ivory House, so children to adults alike enjoyed conjuring possibilities, imagining elaborate scenarios about the owner, too.
Once, a rumor spread claiming the lone artificer to be a demon in disguise, fooling the sovereign herself into a passionate affair, only to run off with a small fortune, having broken her heart. That had been told by a bard passing through town, so I put little faith in the rendition. Truth be told, I put little thought into any of the tales, having little interest in artificers and their enchantments. They were expensive to hire and too haughty, believing themselves better than the rest for beingborn to magic. They marched through the streets, their boots high as their noses, and demanded to be treated as royalty.
The townsfolk would think differently of Miss Francesca if they were around when she woke in the morning to breakfast being even a minute late. She always left her room an utter mess and complained about Westshire as soon as she arrived.“Filthy,”she always spat.“An utter pigsty! How can anyone call this dump a tavern? I got my LAA to avoid coming to rundown places like this.”And that was her on a pleasant day. She was exceptional at stringing along curse words, practically poetic at times.
“I suggest you get dressed. Otis will be here soon.” Miss Beamy pranced further into the room, tail flicking.
At the mention of another arriving, my search for my missing clothes intensified, then I remembered: Dolly. She was gone.
I ripped through the closet in search of her, my voice coming out frantic, “Miss Beamy, do you happen to see a doll? A, um, cat mixed with a bear.”
“I’ve seen no doll,” she replied. “Perhaps it has been shredded, along with everything else.”
Susannah would be heartbroken if I lost Dolly. She wasn’t in the closet, and I hoped she wasn’t broken in the ruined room. I tossed on a long sweater and pants, then, hugging the waistline of the trousers, carefully meandered out of the closet.
This could be a trick. Carline could be toying with me by making me believe I found safety. I didn’t know more than stories about demons and what they were capable of. That was an artificer’s area of expertise, but after what happened last night, I would never put it past Carline, being capable of conjuring such a believable illusion.
