Cats in Heat

by Asha King

  The door creaked open and a short ladder slid down. Darkness awaited her above.

  A flashlight would’ve been handy but she’d left it in the kitchen and didn’t want to leave her room and deal with him at the moment. But she vaguely remembered a light switch up there from years ago when she’d peeked around the house after inheriting it. She just hoped it still worked.

  Addie climbed up the dusty ladder, the light from the closet the only thing helping her see. The attic was musty, air stale and smelling funny. She paused with her head poking through the ceiling and glanced around until her eyes settled on a chain above—that had to connect to one of the lights. She pulled herself up the rest of the way and climbed onto grimy, dusty floorboards, then onto her feet.

  A shiver crawled up her spine as she stood in the dark attic, then she reached up and pulled on the chain. A single light turned on over her head, a faint yellow glow falling over the space.

  There wasn’t much to the attic; it was barely taller than her and was mostly empty space with boxes gathered in the corners. Much of it was her grandmother’s things, at least according to her mother. So much had been thrown out but her mom couldn’t part with everything. Anything of Granmama’s that had already been in the attic would still be there.

  And here’s hoping some of it is helpful.

  Addie moved carefully across the floor, dust slippery beneath her feet. She figured Erik could hear her moving around but resolved not to think on it. If he had any sense, he’d leave her the hell alone for the time being.

  Her eyes moved to the switch on the far wall, wires running from it and up the boards that the walls consisted of. She moved there, flicked the switch, and two bulbs turned on toward the back of the attic.

  Well, she had light. Now she just had to use it to find something that might help her.

  ****

  Addie sat in the middle of open boxes on the dirty attic floor some time later.

  The smell had stopped bothering her and, God help her, she was actually growing used to the staleness of the air. Her brows were pulled down in concentration as she rifled through the box in front of her.

  She’d found stacks of recipe cards, her grandmother’s scratchy handwriting on yellowed cardstock, only the ingredients didn’t seem to be for food. She could hardly make sense of some of them, while others looked like notes for oils and powders. They had names like Fiery Wall of Protection and Follow Me Boy and Van Van Oil. Little of it made sense to her but she recognized various herbs mentioned as ones growing in pots on the porch as well as in the backyard, so she figured they had to be important.

  The recipe cards were stacked neatly beside her while she continued going through the current box. Drawstring pouches in an array of colors waited at the bottom. Some were empty, others had stones and dried plants in them. A few were intact while others were moldy and moth-eaten. Sorting through them didn’t seem a priority, so she moved the box aside and pulled over another.

  This one contained a smaller wooden box sitting on top, which she pulled out to rest on her lap. It was plain, unadorned with anything but weathered scratches. She gently lifted the lid and peered inside.

  Silver glittered back at her, Catholic saint medallions among a tangle of rosaries. Only a few were familiar to her, but she picked up each to study them. Her grandmother usually wore one though Addie couldn’t recall which, or if it had varied from day to day.

  Beneath the rosaries were old prayer cards. She didn’t think her grandmother had been Catholic—Addie certainly wasn’t raised that way—but there’d been a mishmash of various religious items in the boxes of her things, so perhaps she either merely collected such pieces or combined everything somehow in her own worship.

  Below the prayer cards was a small bible—Psalms, specifically. Addie lifted it from the wooden box and opened it. The spine creaked and the onion-skin thin paper was yellowed and weathered. A ribbon held a spot and Addie flipped to it, her eyes scanning the dark text in the low light.

  A passage was underlined: To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.

  She shivered and closed the book, tucking it back in the wooden box, which she then set aside.

  Below it waited a book with “Addie” stitched onto the padded cover. Her breath caught, tears crowding her vision. Gingerly she lifted it and pulled it into her lap, fingers gently tracing over her name before she lifted the cover.

  It was a photo album. The pages were filled with photos of her as a child. A very small child, at that—she was six or seven when she stopped seeing her grandmother at all, as Addie recalled. A handful of pictures showed her as a baby while the rest were as a toddler and onward. Most had been snapped around her grandmother’s house—Addie recognized the porch, the backyard, the altar. Furniture that was long gone before she’d acquired the house herself filled the living room and triggered memories. The rocking chair by the bay window, the coffee table beneath with she’d play with her toys. The backyard looked much the same and there were still cats, even then. In several pictures Addie was playing with them.

  Toward the middle of the album, she found a large photo with her grandmother on the porch steps and a four-year-old Addie in her lap, the pair of them smiling at the camera as if they shared some secret between them.

  Addie sniffled and idly wiped at the tears streaking her cheeks.

  She wasn’t crazy. No matter what Mom believed, Granmama wasn’t crazy. God, she wished she could tell her grandmother that.

  The next photo was likely taken the same day, once again in the backyard. Young Addie was brushing sand along the doorway, dragging her fingers through a line of it.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, a memory pushed at her brain, attempting to break free. But it was so long ago, she couldn’t do more than vaguely remember that day. The sun on her face, her mother’s disapproval when she saw the dirt streaking her little skirt, her grandmother’s voice whispering something...

  No, it was no use. She couldn’t remember. It was twenty years ago—it was silly of her to try.

  Addie wiped back more tears and gently closed the photo album, then set it aside and looked back in the box. At the very bottom was a sack, not overly large but bigger than the ones she’d found previously. It weighed a few pounds and she straightened it, pulling at the ties so she could peer inside.

  Sand? No... She reached in and lifted a handful. Not sand, but something an orange-red, fine and gritty. It reminded her of old brick. The ground dust of ones maybe?

  Tingles ran from her fingertips through her hand and up her arm. It looked normal, but...

  Addie withdrew her hand and tied the sack closed again. Maybe it was what she had been playing with in that photo, but a sack of some kind of dirt seemed an odd thing to keep in the house.

  She surveyed the boxes—she’d been through a dozen so far, but her stomach was rumbling. For the time being, it wouldn’t hurt to head down and get something to eat, even if it meant dealing with Erik.

  If he’s even still here.

  He likely was, though, wasn’t he? Because, oddly, she suspected that somehow she’d know if he was gone.

  And that troubled her most of all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Erik listened to Addie’s steps trekking across the ceiling. What she was doing in the attic, he couldn’t say, but she’d been up there for hours. Once something thumped in the direction of her bedroom, like a door closing, he rose and headed for the kitchen. Dusk had settled an hour ago without her return and he’d held off doing anything while he waited for her. Now he filled the kettle for tea and scanned the cupboards.

  Besides helping her to cook lately, he basically had little experience with meal preparation, and his skills in taking down wild prey wasn’t useful in this instance. But he knew she liked tea to start with.

  His head wasn’t entirely with him and pain flared up on his side. Perhaps it was that she hadn’t prepared anything to go over the wound for the dressing ch
ange that evening, or perhaps it was her will that brought the ache. Neither would surprise him.

  He retrieved a package of noodles from the cupboard along with a jar of tomato sauce and a pan from under the sink—boiling water and heating sauce for spaghetti was something he could manage.

  A few minutes later, as bubbles began rolling in the pot of water on the stove and the kettle whistled, he heard her faint steps on the hardwood. Erik swallowed dryly, strangely uncomfortable and tense. He’d faced his death over and over again but it was her poor opinion of him that he couldn’t stand.

  Before turning, he poured the tea and added the spaghetti noodles to the pot. Then he faced her.

  She stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him warily. He could smell mustiness on her from the attic, and her clothes were streaked in grime.

  “I thought you might’ve left,” she said, her voice holding an edge of coolness.

  “Would you prefer that?” He waited, braced for her to tell him to get the hell out.

  She held his gaze, whether debating his question or to draw out the tension, he didn’t know. At last her shoulders dropped and she looked away, stalking into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Spaghetti.” He reached for the mug as she neared the stove and offered it to her. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled as she accepted the tea, still avoiding his eyes. She took it to the kitchen table and pulled a teaspoon from a mason jar in the center along with a container of raw sugar.

  This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

  After checking on the spaghetti and giving it a stir, he leaned against the counter and faced her. His strength still wasn’t one hundred percent but he felt distance was best. Her energy practically prickled the air. He didn’t think she was aware of it, but now wasn’t the time to bring it up.

  “I need to ask you about the people you saw,” he said gently.

  Addie stiffened but said nothing.

  “Can you describe what they looked like?”

  “The man was...forgettable. Average. White guy, tall and skinny.”

  Not Lincoln, then. Most people noticed Lincoln—although he physically might look completely normal, everyone who encountered him sensed his power.

  “The woman, though...” Addie shook her head absently. “Also white. Very red hair. Dressed like a biker.”

  Angelica. He managed not to shudder but just barely. Lincoln’s second in command was just as vicious and deadly as he was.

  “They asked about a ‘fighting club’ in town—I pointed out the martial arts group at the community center where I worked but I didn’t think that was what they wanted.” Her eyes turned upward to meet his at last. “And she asked about new age shops. Healers, she specifically said.”

  So they know.

  Of course, they couldn’t know the full truth. If they’d sensed anything, they would’ve taken Addie right then and there. But they must’ve figured out Erik would look for some sort of healer, that he couldn’t survive on his own. Addie didn’t seem to be connected to any group like that in town, but that didn’t mean she was out of danger.

  “Do you know them?” she asked.

  “I think so,” he admitted.

  “In my dream, you were in a cage.”

  There was no hiding that from her now, no matter what it led to her thinking about him. “There are very wealthy people who pay money to see people like me...fight.”

  “A gladiator arena.”

  “More like dog fighting.” He looked away, shame rushing through him. He didn’t enjoy killing. He wasn’t proud of the things he saw and did to survive.

  “And they won’t just let you go now that you’ve run.”

  “It’ll be fine. They won’t catch me.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “You’re right. They’ll pursue until I’m found.”

  She took a deep breath. “And how long until they find you here?”

  He felt her staring at him but still couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. “It’s time you tell me about your grandmother.”

  “What do—” She bit off the words suddenly and sighed. “There’s nothing beyond what I already told you. She lived her. She was supposedly crazy. She was put in an institution, she died, my mom died, and I inherited the house and everything.”

  “What was it that made people say she was crazy?”

  Addie was silent.

  “Adelaide?”

  “She was superstitious, that’s all.”

  “For example?”

  Her tone was exasperated but she continued. “Like she said never blow out a candle; snuff it otherwise you’re ‘blowing away from you’ what you lit it for. And any trimmed hair or hair from a brush, she flushed down the toilet rather than ‘risk’ it in the garbage. And she’d gather water at certain days of the year, she tossed things in the crossroads, she...” Addie trailed off, and the pitch of her voice betrayed how upset the discussion was making her. Whether it was simply her history of believing these things made her grandmother crazy or something else, he didn’t know.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “She...believed things. Magical stuff, I guess, but she never called it that. I made a poultice for your wounds based on things I remembered from her. I keep the plants she did, I light candles on her altar like she did. Now what the hell does this have to do with anything?”

  “You already know, don’t you?” He glanced at her and the glance turned into a stare when he couldn’t look away from her eyes.

  She blinked but couldn’t hide the rising fear in her eyes, nor the sharp intake of breath at his words.

  “You know, Addie. Whatever gifts she had, you have too. Do you think I found by accident the one person who could save me from death?”

  She said nothing and he wished he could see past the conflicting emotions he felt from her straight into her mind—to know precisely what she was thinking.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she began at last.

  “Yes, you did—”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m nothing special.” She abruptly stood and stalked from the kitchen.

  “Addie, listen to me.”

  She abruptly stopped and looked back at him fearfully.

  She wasn’t ready to hear it. None of it. But keeping her in the dark seemed more dangerous than anything else.

  “You can’t trust anyone right now. Not even the people you think are okay. There’s...there’s a lot going on and just promise me when you’re outside of your house that you’ll be careful.”

  She stared at him and made no promises.

  “Addie—”

  But she turned from him, mumbled something about heading to the shower, and seconds later he heard the bathroom door close.

  Erik glanced back at the over-boiled spaghetti, sighed, and turned the stove off.

  ****

  Addie couldn’t get the image from the photo album from her head.

  The sand or whatever she was playing with in the doorway—it was right there, a memory on the edge of her mind, pushing and pushing. But even as it threatened to return to her, her adult, rational mind pushed back. The war in her head seemed to be between her grandma and her mother—one wanted her to remember, to embrace some part of herself long-forgotten, while the other cautioned that the only way she could remain safe was to forget about all of it.

  The whole debate was giving Addie a goddamn headache. Spending hours in the dusty attic wasn’t helping matters—she needed sleep. A lot of sleep.

  After turning off the water and mostly drying herself off, she gathered her things and opened the door. Addie stepped out into the dark hallway, startled as she found Erik waiting for her.

  He’d filled out more the past few days as he healed, putting on bulky muscle. Some of his wounds had faded. His shoulders were broad and imposing and she could see, truly, how he would be capable of killing in the ring.

  But there was a gentleness and warmth to h
im she couldn’t deny either, nor could she deny the sudden heat she felt in his presence or the tingle of energy running along her skin as she met his eyes.

  He’s been keeping things from you, don’t forget. And those amber eyes hold more secrets than you’d care to delve into.

  Her clothes were clutched in her hand and a towel was wrapped around her body from chest to mid-thigh. Her hair was damp still and smelling of the conditioning fruity oil she used to keep it moisturized; water rolled down her back and she suppressed a shiver. The fact that they were both nearly naked—her simply in a towel, him in track pants that sat low on his trim hips—had not escaped her.

  Addie glanced away from him, flipped off the bathroom light, and skirted past him for the door to her bedroom.

  “Addie,” he called after her in a warm voice she felt straight to her bones.

  She paused with her hand on the bedroom doorknob. “Just tell me this: are you safe here?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “And am I safe while you’re here?”

  Dread plummeted when he didn’t answer right away. “For the time being.”

  “Then stay and we’ll talk tomorrow. I need to sleep.” And stay out of my dreams, she nearly added, though that wasn’t fair—it had been her invading his, hadn’t it?

  You know, Addie. Whatever gifts she had, you have too.

  Just eight hours of sleep not worrying about any of this—that was all she wanted at the moment.

  She stepped in her bedroom and closed the door behind her. The room was dark and would be warm if not for the breeze drifting through the windows. Even without the lights she could make out the outline of the boxes she’d pulled down from the attic. More of her grandmother’s things to investigate in detail.

  Tigers, magic healing, and bags of brick dust. What the hell had her life become?

  She leaned against her bedroom door and despite the darkness, she still felt him there. In the hall, just the door separating them. She couldn’t call the things he said crazy, not the way she felt—not with how she sensed him, felt that familiar warm tug toward him.