Page 9 of Waifs And Strays
I nodded.
‘Weird name. Why don’t you call her Hissy or something more normal?’
‘Like what?’ I asked drily. ‘Tiger? Blackie? Socks? She Who Hisses is what she calls herself. Cats are perfectly capable of christening themselves.’ I pointed. ‘That’s He Who Roams Wide. The least I can do is show them respect by using their preferred names.’
Nick took a step backwards. ‘Ms McCafferty,’ he said. ‘Do you … talk to cats?’
He was remarkably naïve, even given his upbringing away from Coldstream. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ I asked mildly. ‘And I thinkwe’reon first name terms now, Nick. Call me Kit.’
He continued to eye me as if I were crazy, though cat-lady crazy, not murderous maniac crazy so I supposed it could have been worse.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘how did you get on with your job hunting? Did you have any luck?’
His expression transformed. He bit his lip and nodded, putting me in mind of a small child clutching a stick of candy floss. ‘There’s a construction crew working out of the Glebe,’ he said, naming the warehouse district that bordered Danksville. ‘They’ve agreed to take me on probation. It’ll be scut work but the money’s not bad and it might lead to better things.’
‘Uh-huh. What’s the name of the crew?’ I’d have to checkthem out and make sure they were above board; there were plenty of unscrupulous people around who’d be happy to take advantage of a kid like Nick.
‘The Crushers.’
They didn’t sound very friendly. Did the name mean Skull Crushers or Candy Crushers? My mouth tightened but Nick didn’t notice.
‘The foreman is a bloke called Tommy. He’s half-ogre, but he’s really nice. He gave me a tour of the site and said that they’ve been looking for someone like me to join their team. I’ll get three hundred a week until I pass probation, then it’ll go up to five hundred.’
That wasn’t a bad deal for someone of his age without any experience or obvious family connections. It could be above board – or they could be hoping to use young Nick as a sacrifice to appease any nasty creatures that were lurking around whichever warehouse they were working on. I’d find out.
Such dark thoughts weren’t plaguing Nick, who was hopping excitedly from toe to toe. ‘I like the idea of building things,’ he beamed. ‘Creating something useful.Contributing.’ His eyes shone. ‘I can do this, Ms McCafferty. I can be good at this.’
‘Kit,’ I said to him. ‘Not Ms McCafferty.’
He didn’t hear me. His expression had taken on a distant gleam as no doubt he imagined himself designing and building skyscrapers. I softened further. This, I decided: this was the reason I was fighting his cause. He deserved to forge his own path and experience life for himself.
‘My dad would be really proud of me,’ he mumbled.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I imagine he would be.’
I pickedup the pile of mail that had landed on my doormat and flicked through it with a disinterested eye: three bills, and a whole heap of junk mail advertising a series of druid-led yoga sessions; a subscription service for a range of useless magical ingredients, and something exhorting me to spend the winter solstice at Crackendon Square. It was all rubbish.
I dropped the letters and flyers into the bin without another thought then I put away the shopping and busied myself tidying up before schooling Nick in the art of peeling potatoes and chopping onions in preparation for dinner. He approached the tasks with gusto, even though the onions made him cry harder than I had when She Who Loves Sunbeams had given birth to a litter of four poorly kittens who didn’t make it through their first night.
Before too long it occurred to me that I’d forgotten to pick up tomatoes during the excitement of the morning’s activities, so I sent him to buy some. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks. It was quite a sight as he lolloped off, a bag in one hand, a pastry in the other, a contented grin and a lot of crying. At least the boy was happy to be making himself useful.
Once he’d gone, I went outside to put down food for the neighbourhood ferals – my motley crew would eat later. As I did every afternoon, I replenished the water bowls and laid out several plates of cat food. Usually the cats were waiting, ready to pounce as soon as the food was down, but today there was no sign of them. Even He Who Roams Wide had vanished.
Something was up. Unfortunately, I suspected I knew what it was.
There was no sign of any werewolf watchers but just because I couldn’t see any of them didn’t mean they weren’t out there. I stepped away from the food, went to the gate and peered up and down the street. At first the way seemed clear, then I glimpsed the car trundlingin my direction.
Only the uber-wealthy drive in Coldstream because something about the innate magic in the city makes cars break down frequently. Maintaining them is an expensive process, and keeping a petrol-driven vehicle is next to impossible, although electric cars tended to be more affordable. Or so I’d heard.
I rarely travelled far enough to make owning a car of any description worthwhile. Since I’d left my last job, I’d had no reason to stray from Coldstream. If I needed to head into the city centre, I jumped on a tram and walked the rest of the way. Trams were reliable and there was no chance of being diverted down an unusual road only to end up stuck in a too-narrow street. Given the powerful coven of witches who ran the tram network, there was also far less chance of random hijackingseven in this dodgy neighbourhood, and for that I was grateful. There was nothing quite like the experience of being trussed up in a corner by a bunch of violent, spell-wielding idiots to ruin your day.
The car rolled to a halt outside my gate. Its windows were tinted so I couldn’t identify the occupants, but that didn’t stop several of my neighbours from twitching their curtains and gawping. It had been a long time since a car had driven down this road, so it would be the talk of the street for days to come. To be honest, it was a miracle its wheels were still intact; there were enough deep potholes in Danksville to rip most tyres to shreds.
I watched warily while the driver’s door opened and a woman stepped out. Her authority and power were obvious: she held herself in a manner that didn’t so much suggest‘don’t fuck with me’as‘please fuck with me because breaking every bone in your body will make my day’.I already liked her.
Quack and Ribbit must have been the Z-list of MacTire werewolves but this woman, with her sleek black hair, perfect poise and clever green eyes that didn’t miss a trick, wasdefinitely A-list. These werewolves really wanted Nick back in the fold.
She carefully adjusted her cuffs as if she didn’t already know I was watching her then lifted her head and smiled at me. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes but her expression was more professional than threatening. ‘Good afternoon, Ms McCafferty,’ she said and gestured to the car. ‘Please step inside. I’d like to take you for a drive.’
