Then again, Felix might have hexed him.
Dizziness and nausea crashed over him. Lucifer choked on vomit, trying not to get sick in Abigail’s basket of clothes, but he couldn’t help himself. The food came out of him anyway. The combination of tuna fish and cinnamon roll were far less pleasant coming out than going in. His bones lanced with pain, and his belly churned. Pleasure and pain stabbed against his flesh, confusing his senses. Jolt after jolt of electric shock rushed through him. He was too senseless to even guess what was happening or why.
All he knew was that it was Red affinity magic at work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cinderfella
Lucifer’s head swam in a muddled haze. He wandered out of the closet and darted out the door when Clarissa went outside. He was sick again, and his bowels turned to liquid, but he was hardly lucid enough to remember much more. He thought he recalled something about a flock of ravens circling overhead, but it might have been a dream. He felt woozy and strange, unable to focus as the pains coursed through him.
Eventually he found himself in the sanctuary of the closet again.
He had no idea how much time had passed. Several times he heard Abigail say his name as she came looking for him. He wanted to respond, to meow and tell her he was near and that he wasn’t well, but he couldn’t make his vocal cords work. At some point, he was aware of Abigail opening the closet door and throwing laundry in the basket, but the room was dim, and she didn’t notice him.
He lay on his side resting as the effects of the magic slowly faded. It was dark by the time he became fully aware of his surroundings and in control of himself. He listened to the sound of Abigail’s shallow breathing coming from the bed.
The air in the closet was stuffy and smelled foul. Earlier he must have smashed the laundry basket because it now had flattened sides, clothes spilling out onto Abigail’s tidy rows of shoes. He’d gotten his whiskers caught in a purse’s zipper, and he held the leather down to wrench his face free. The pain was enough to make him roar, but his throat was raw, and the only sound that came out was a hoarse cough.
His limbs shook as he rose on all four limbs. His body felt clumsy and wrong. He hit his head against the wall, cushioned only slightly by a fluffy dress zipped in a garment bag. Lucifer felt sticky, vomit clinging to him and assaulting his nostrils. He slid the closet door aside with his face and climbed out.
The room seemed darker than usual, but he was able to make out the shape of Abigail in bed. His belly cramped with hunger, and dizziness washed over him. He still didn’t feel like himself. He crawled over to her bed, wanting to snuggle up against her and feel the comfort of her arms around him. Only, he didn’t want to soil her bed after he’d been sick and taint her blankets with his filth.
He also knew he wasn’t going to be able to give himself a bath on his own or get himself more food. The door to her room was open, and he considered venturing to the kitchen for a drink of water to slake his parched throat, but he didn’t want to track his mess over her carpet. He hated being so dependent on someone else to care for him.
Reluctantly, Lucifer dug his paws into the mattress and hauled himself up. He was surprised by how easy it was to lift himself that high. He nuzzled her hand. She smelled different, her scent of earth and plants oddly muted. Perhaps it was his nose that was at fault, stoppered up with magic.
Abigail sighed in her sleep and scratched him under his chin. Her touch soothed the agitation lingering in his nerves. He purred against her hand, but the sound didn’t come out as a vibrating rumble. It was oddly uncatlike.
Abigail flinched in her sleep, drawing her hand away. He placed a paw on her hip to tell her it was him. The fabric of her nightgown was soft and smooth to the touch, something he had never noticed before. She sat up and drew back.
“Who’s there?” Panic laced her tone.
He meowed, but the sound was deep and wrong. He turned away and coughed. His throat was scratchy and raw.
Abigail scrambled out of bed and away from him. She turned on the small lamp beside her table and picked up a book from her nightstand, holding it in front of her like a shield. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Lucy!” She glanced around frantically as if searching for him.
He wanted to tell her it was him. He was there for her.
She threw the book. He dodged to the side and fell onto the floor. He’d never seen such fear in her eyes. He hated that he had caused this panic. She probably thought he was some Fae miscreant from the Raven Court who had slinked in to get her.
Her voice came out tremulous. “I’m calling the police.” But she didn’t call the police. Her cell phone wasn’t on her nightstand. She threw a plastic cup at him, splattering water onto her bed in the process. Next she threw her pillow and scrambled toward the door.
He lifted himself up so that she could see him better, and he wasn’t in the shadows. He used his paws to lift himself onto the mattress, but as he looked down, he noticed he no longer had paws.
He had hands.
This couldn’t be possible. He had to be dreaming.
He pushed himself up and stood on shaky legs. The sight of legs first startled him, and then amazed him. He stared at his hands, transfixed, before examining his muscular arms and his large feet. He rubbed a hand across his broad chest. Unsurprisingly, he was sticky with vomit.
Abigail had almost made it to the door when she stopped. “Mr. Thatch? Is that you?”
Lucifer whirled, scanning the room for his despicable brother. They were alone. He realized the terror in her eyes was because of him. He looked like Felix? No wonder she was so startled. He couldn’t imagine anyone more terrifying he might resemble.
Abigail kept backing away toward the door. “Mr. Thatch? What are you doing here? Where are your clothes?” Her nose scrunched up, probably at the smell of him. He couldn’t blame her.
He struggled to speak, to form words, but it was difficult to make his mouth work. His brain resisted thoughts that had nothing to do with hunting, fighting, or eating. He raked his fingers against his throat, willing his voice to work.
She turned on the light, temporarily blinding him.
He held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Abby.”
She was so much smaller than he remembered. His large frame dwarfed hers. He could see why he might have scared her.
She covered her mouth with a hand. “Lucy?”
He rushed forward, stumbling over his own feet. She caught his elbow, and he grinned sheepishly, feeling like an awkward youth.
“Abby! I’m me.” He wanted to ask her how he looked, but his mouth didn’t want to say more. His throat was too dry, and his tongue felt swollen and clumsy in his mouth.
Words might have failed him, but his body didn’t.
He pulled her into his arms. He was finally human. It was everything he’d hoped for. He stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in her red locks. His every movement was uncoordinated and off. He stooped to kiss her, but she placed a hand on his chest, firmly pushing him back.
“This is all very sudden.” Her eyes were wide, uncertain. “It’s such a shock.”
A pang of hurt shot through him. After all this time he still loved her. Didn’t she want him?
She edged back. “How did this happen?”
He’d blamed Felix hexing him for getting sick, but now he could see his brother had done nothing to cause his illness. Not intentionally anyway. Poor dietary choices had contributed to digestive problems, but that had been a side effect of changing.
Lucifer had transformed and broken his curse. Without Vega. It must have resulted from Clarissa’s and Felix’s sex magic. All this time he’d been trying to use his own magic to change him back. If only he’d realized someone else having sex could have the same effect. Or two other Red affinities like him having sex anyway.
His laugh came out too loud, a bark that made Abigail flinch. He didn’t
like that he scared her.
“I stored my magic. Clarissa and Felix were here today. They must have … released more.” He didn’t meet her eyes, not wanting to tell her about her daughter’s sexcapades.
Abigail was silent.
He shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortably aware he was naked, filthy, and looming over her. He inched back to give her more space.
He glanced up to find her studying him. He scratched his head. He hoped he didn’t have fleas. He touched his throat. His flea collar was gone.
Her eyes were wary. “How about we get you cleaned up in the bathroom?”
He glanced down at the vomit caking his chest hair and the streaks of dirt on his hands and arms. He suspected he wasn’t a pleasant sight. This wasn’t the joyful reunion he’d hoped for.
From the way Abigail stared at him in terror, he was uncertain this transformation was for the best.
CHAPTER NINE
A Taste of Being Human
Abigail stepped into the bathroom down the hallway, getting out towels, washcloths, and rummaging under the sink for detangler. Her white nightgown was stained where he had touched her, and Lucifer felt bad about tainting her perfectness that way. No wonder she didn’t want him to touch her. He was disgusting and stank.
He probably appeared no better than an animal to her.
She continually glanced at him over her shoulder. It wasn’t so much that she looked with the awe and joy of someone amazed to see a loved one. She didn’t even look at him with anxiety as if she was afraid he might return to being a cat.
She shifted away each time he stepped too close. Lucifer retreated to the doorway into the hall so that he wouldn’t startle her. The realization that he scared her only made him feel worse.
He had never frightened her before. They’d been best friends. He loved her, and she’d always known that when he’d been a boy and a cat. If this was what the future held for him, he would rather have been a cat than a man.
His displeasure only increased when she turned on the water in the bathtub.
“I don’t like baths,” he said.
“Do you want to take a shower instead?” She glanced at him through the misty pattern of the shower curtain and then away.
“No.” He was certain he would have hated that more.
He used to jump in the shower with her when her husband was alive, mostly because he wanted to spend time with her while she was naked, even if he didn’t have the benefit of being a man to enjoy it. Also, it had kept Adam Lawrence out of the shower with her if Lucifer could stake out his territory first. It had been selfish and petty, but it was one of the few things Lucifer could do to assert his authority over Adam.
It had taken years of Lucifer being a cat before Abigail had even allowed him to shower with her. By the point that Abigail had allowed him in the room with her as she undressed, she was completely comfortable with him, with or without clothes. Now she moved self-consciously, like she was preparing a bath for a stranger.
He tried not to look at the reflection of himself in the mirror. What he did see, he didn’t like. His beard and hair were wild, his eyes flashing yellow-green like a cat’s rather than the gray they used to be. That face was still too alien.
He wished he could have at least been handsome for her. He only looked feral.
She held up a pink bottle. “Do you want bubbles?”
“No.” His voice came out more curt than he intended. He still wanted a drink of water, but the idea of crawling on the ground to drink from his cat dish seemed undignified, and he couldn’t bear to tell her he didn’t know if he could hold a glass without dropping it.
Probably he would just end up drinking his bathwater.
She sat on the edge of the tub as she filled it with hot water.
He remained in the doorway, not wanting to come in and spook her. He kicked at a hairball stuck to the carpet. “I got sick in your closet earlier. I didn’t mean to. I should go clean that up.”
“It’s all right. I’ll get it in a minute. Your bath is almost ready.”
He stepped into the hall, considering whether he would be more helpful or make things worse if he tried to clean her closet for her.
He hated the idea of inconveniencing her. He didn’t want her to take care of him. More than that, he didn’t want her to resent him for leaving her one more disgusting mess to clean. He wasn’t her pet.
Abigail turned off the water. “It’s ready. Feel the water, and tell me if it’s warm enough for you.”
She stepped back toward the wall. The bathroom felt too small with both of them in there. He eyed the steaming tub and swished a hand in it.
Her eyebrows rose expectantly. “How is it? Too hot? Too cold?”
He shrugged. It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold. It would be insufferable. He frowned at the drips plopping into the water from the faucet.
She pushed the shower curtain farther back. “Do you need help getting in?”
He didn’t need help. He wanted to say no, but she held out a hand, and the desire to be touched was stronger than the urge to rebel.
She was willing to touch him even if he wasn’t presenting himself at his best. That was all that mattered. He took hold of her hand and allowed her to help him into the tub.
“There you are. One step at a time. You can sit on the edge for a minute. You don’t have to get in right away.” She spoke with the same soothing voice she had used with her adopted daughters when they’d been children.
He didn’t want her to see him as a child. He climbed in the rest of the way without her help. The heat of the water stung against his skin as he lowered himself into the tub. It wasn’t as unpleasant as he had anticipated, but he didn’t enjoy the sensation of being submerged. She set the soap and washcloths on the ledge next to him, her gaze carefully avoiding his naked body.
She picked up a bottle and shook it. “This bottle is shampoo for your hair. And this one is conditioner. You use that after you wash the shampoo out. This one is—”
“I know which is body wash. I haven’t forgotten how to read.” He hated how sharp his voice came out.
She set the bottle down on the floor, bowling each of the other bottles over as she did so. She hurriedly righted them.
“I’m sorry.” He drew his knees up to his chest. Logically he understood she was trying to help. He just didn’t want to be babied. He felt so defective right now.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
He released his legs, wanting to squeeze her hand, but she withdrew. She closed the door behind her.
He crossed his arms and glowered at his sticky chest, despising everything about this new body. For the amount of hair on him, he could have still been an animal. His legs were too long, and he didn’t fit in the tub.
Did he truly look like his brother to her? The stranger he’d glimpsed in the mirror had been too unkempt to resemble the immaculate person his brother was with every hair in its place. But if he did look like his brother, clean and tidy, speaking like a civilized man, perhaps he wouldn’t appear as uncultivated.
Perhaps he wouldn’t scare her.
He lathered up a washcloth and cleaned himself. Bathing in the stream had never been a chore like this, but he was willing to do this. For Abigail.
He used to like swimming. But that had been different. Those were in the days when he had traveled from one spring or summer forest to another, the heat of an afternoon making the cold embrace of water inviting. He’d loved the excuse to go fetch water for Baba so he could take a quick dip in the stream.
His belly cramped thinking about Baba, the old hedge witch who had practically raised him. There were times she had treated him with kindness, like a grandmother would have. But she had been cruel to Abigail, chopping off her toes and fingers for pain magic and blood magic. Those had been the days when Abigail’s affinity had enabled her to regrow severed limbs.
After she’d lost her magic and could no longer heal herself, Baba still wanted to keep on taking from Abigail. The only way he’d been able to protect her was to ensure she left.
But the idea of Abigail leaving him had been too much. He’d panicked, thinking of his brother and sisters abandoning him. He had disobeyed Baba and chosen to go with her to the Morty Realm.
If Baba had truly loved him like a grandmother, she wouldn’t have cursed him with the body of a cat.
The water was discolored and covered in a film of dirt by the time he’d finished scrubbing himself. There was no way he was drinking from that. He tried to shampoo his hair and got soap in his eye. It burned, and he wiped his face on a dry washcloth.
He leaned forward and ran the cold water, drinking from the spigot. A tap-tap sounded like it came from the pipes. He didn’t realize it was Abigail knocking until the door creaked open, and she peered in at him.
He jerked back from the faucet. “I was thirsty,” he said quickly. He turned the water off, embarrassed to be caught like a cat drinking from a hose.
“Do you want me to bring you something to drink?” She bit her lip. “Water? Juice?”
“Water.”
She left and came back a moment later with a glass etched with patterns of flowers in her hands. She kneeled beside the tub.
He hesitated. It just about killed him to admit it, but he didn’t want to risk dropping her pretty glass. “I don’t know if I can make my fingers hold it.”
“That’s fine. I can help.” She wrapped his fingers around the cup and held it with him as he drank.
She was wearing a different nightgown now, a thick green one with fuzzy pajama pants and a robe. He supposed she’d had to change and do laundry because of him.
She set the cup down when he finished. “Are you hungry?” She shifted, looking like she was ready to bolt.
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