by Sam Cheever
Sebille bent down to pick up the ancient, leather-bound text the cat had apparently knocked to the ground. “This book is two hundred years old, Naida,” she whined, her long fingers wrapping around the spine. “It’s delicate...”
The book skimmed sideways, banging against my foot. I looked at Wicked and he seemed to smile, even as his gaze narrowed with innocence. “What are you up to, cat?”
He shoved his back paws into my belly and I released him, watching him drop gracefully to the ground. He twined around my legs a couple of times and then looked up, giving me another throaty “Meow!”
Sebille put hands on hips, expelling an angry sigh. “Blast you back to the hellish environs you came from, you wicked feli…”
I slammed a hand over her mouth. “Don’t you dare!”
Sebille glared at me over my hand, and then slowly tugged my appendage from her face. “I’m going home.”
My first instinct was to agree, but then I remembered the magic wave. “But we haven’t found the magical artifact that needs protecting.” Even to me, my voice sounded a bit whiny. I couldn’t help it. Sebille and I were like oil and water, but without her help I was totally in the dark.
A truly frustrating experience which made me feel inadequate on a daily basis.
She tossed a hand over her shoulder and kept walking. “You’ll be fine. Let that damnable cat help you find it.”
She slammed the door between the front room and the artifact library and I fought to keep from stamping my foot.
“Meow!”
I glanced down to find Mr. Wicked sitting beside the book, whacking it with one of his paws as if trying to kill a bug. “Here, young man. Don’t destroy the magical items.” I grabbed the thick book and lifted it, brushing grime from the floor off its leather cover.
To my horror, the cover seemed to roll underneath my fingers, as if basking in the rubbing action of my touch. I almost dropped it, barely keeping hold with the tips of two fingers as it finally stopped moving. “Ugh!” I shook my head at Wicked. He was watching me as if he expected me to do something interesting.
I opened the book and flipped through its gold-edged pages, noting the yellowed but surprisingly well-maintained condition.
The pages were entirely blank.
I frowned. “Why in the world?”
The front door slammed and I jumped, sighing. Setting the book back into its spot on the shelves, characterized by a rectangular, dust-free area midway up from the floor, I headed toward the front room. “Come on, Mr. Wicked. We need to close the shop. Miss Huffy left without locking the doors.”
Wicked hung back for a moment. But, by the time I reached the door into the bookstore, he was bouncing along beside me, short gray tail stuck straight up behind him. The kitten loved the stacks of books inside my magical bookstore and he never missed an opportunity to explore beneath the rows of shelves and in the corners for scraps of paper, bits of fluff, or forgotten string.
2
A Ribbiting Experience
Wicked trotted past me and ducked through the door when it was only open a crack, acting as if he thought I’d try to keep him from entering with me.
I shook my head. “Take it easy there, little man. You almost knocked me off my feet.”
To all outward appearances, the determined cat couldn’t have cared less. He’d already disappeared beneath the nearest shelf and seemed to be trying to scratch trails into the threadbare carpet. “Hey!” I called out to him. “Stop that.”
The scratching stopped and I moved toward the front door, quickly turning the series of deadbolts and running my fingers over the air around the locks to make sure the warding was still in place.
The deadbolts were to keep human types from entering the shop when it was closed. Triggered when the physical locks were engaged, the warding would do the same job against the magical community.
Checking the ward was habit. I’d purchased it from a fourth-generation witch when I’d moved into the building and she assured me it would last until someone with power equal to hers came along to dismantle it.
Since her family was the oldest family of witches in Enchanted, I figured the chances of that happening were slim.
I closed my eyes as my fingertips felt their way along the familiar weave of the ward, feeling the distinctive threads, bumps, and dips of it against my skin. When I got to the end and felt the flashy Q for Quilleran which served as the lock for the magical ward, I smiled.
The warding was still good.
I turned away, heading to the counter where a messy pile of the day’s receipts waited to be filed, and thought about the Quilleran clan. They were a strange bunch, secretive and borderline unfriendly with anyone outside the family. And they had an odd affection for cats. Particularly cats with magical sensitivities. Madeline Quilleran was estranged from her family, which rumor had it was mixed up in more dark magic than they should be.
One of the most powerful witches in the area, Madeline had warned me that her ward would keep her family out as long as I tended it. But if I let the threads weaken, over time, her brother Jacob would find a way to break it.
Needless to say, I didn’t let the threads weaken.
Not all of the Quilleran witches were sketchy. I’d gotten Wicked from the youngest Quilleran, Maude, who’d appreciated my helping her locate an errant magical hairbrush she’d misplaced at Enchanted High, and decided to pay me back by gifting me a kitten from their latest litter.
I hadn’t wanted to take the gift, knowing that owing a favor to a Quilleran was not a good idea. I’d insisted she offer me the kitten as payment for services rendered.
I was really glad I had too. Because it had made it so much easier to repel the girl’s sisters as each and every one of them appeared on my doorstep trying to take the kitten back.
I might have given in to their nearly endless pressure that first few months if Mr. Wicked hadn’t gotten such a look of pure terror on his beautiful little face every time a Quilleran walked through my door.
A steady thumping sound emerged from beneath the shelf where Wicked had disappeared. I glanced up from my filing to eye the space. “Mr. Wicked, what are you doing under there?”
Silence met my question, followed by the quick swipe of a gray tail across the floor at the edge of the shelf. “Whatever it is, stop it!” I told him, smiling at the knowledge that I was speaking to a cat who had no clue what I was saying and wouldn’t care a whit if he did.
As if to prove my point, more thumping sounds emerged.
I dropped the pile of receipts and headed over there, sighing wearily. “Buddy, I can’t afford to replace this carpet so I can’t have you shredding it.” I dropped to my knees and laid my head on the floor so I could see beneath the shelf.
At first, I saw nothing but shadows. No movement, no round orange eyes, no haughty snap of a gray tail that told me Wicked resented my micromanaging his life. I’d certainly seen that often enough.
“Mr. Wicked?” Something emerged from the shadows. The shape didn’t move like a cat. It wasn’t graceful. In fact, it sort of shuffled rather than walked. I suddenly feared that my sweet kitten had hurt himself. “Are you okay, buddy?”
The shape reached the light and I found myself staring into a pair of bulging black eyes, surrounded by a scaly green head and a fat, squishy body.
I yelped, jumping back in surprise as the frog leaped into the air and thumped against the underside of the shelf.
“A frog!” I squealed, backpedaling as fast as I could on my knees until I bumped up against the base of the counter.
More thumping ensued. Then Wicked’s head emerged and he glowered at me. “Meow!”
I felt strangely compelled to defend myself. “What do you want me to do?”
The cat yowled unhappily, disappearing back underneath the shelf with a final snap of his tail.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I sighed. The frog was clearly stuck under the shelving. Every time he tried to hop out fro
m under there, he bashed against the underside of the shelf. “I just…” I scrubbed a hand over my face, wondering who I could call to extricate him.
“Yowwww!”
“Sprite’s trousers, Wicked!” I exclaimed in frustration. “I don’t touch frogs. You know this. We’ve discussed it at length.” Not that he’d understood any of it. But he seemed determined to force me into touching this one so I felt the need to remind him. “They’re slimy and give me hives.”
I wasn’t sure that latter was strictly true. But panic was making my pulse race and I had to tell myself something.
Thump. Thump.
The poor thing was going to give itself brain damage. Wait. What was I saying? Frogs don’t have brains. Do they?
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
“Ugh!” I exclaimed, “I’m coming!”
I repositioned myself on the floor, glancing along the line of shelves. Maybe I could just cut the shelf down the middle so he could hop out.
“Meow!!!”
Growling unhappily. I pressed my cheek against the carpet and looked underneath again. The bulging black eyes seemed to be closer to the edge. Maybe he’d managed to move himself, I thought excitedly. Maybe he didn’t need me after all.
The black eyes slowly blinked and the frog’s body quivered. He looked so sad. I stared into those protruding eyes and something inside me shifted. I felt…pity.
“Trolls boogers,” I murmured unhappily, knowing what I had to do.
I pulled air into my lungs and tugged a wisp of calming magic forward, unsure I’d be able to do it. My hand inched closer and stopped as the black, unfathomable gaze pinned me in place. The frog’s body swelled and shrank as it breathed, and its tiny feet shifted uncertainly as my hand came close.
My fingers twitched. My hand stilled in midair. All I could think about was the last and only time I’d touched a frog. It had been cool and slimy to the touch, and its slime had painted my hand, giving me an unsightly rash that had lasted for weeks.
Nothing I’d done had helped the rash. Until I’d accidentally gotten blasted by a ray of healing magic.
I couldn’t count on a random witch shooting healing magics at me a second time. Or, considering my unhealthy relationship with the Quillerans, a non-random one either.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump…Meow!
I sighed, dropping my head to the floor in defeat. “Okay, chillax you two. I’m doing this.”
Before I could change my mind, I quickly extended my hand and wrapped my fingers around the thick, squishy body, jerking it toward me and then releasing it with a squeal and another awkward crawling retreat.
The frog hunched on the carpet, staring at me with its throat working, its puffy body looking iridescent under the overhead lights. I rubbed my hand against my jeans, grimacing, before realizing my hand wasn’t slimy. Not at all. And the touch memory of the frog’s soft, warmish skin still clung to it.
“Ribbit,” the frog said. It gave an experimental hop in my direction and stopped as I twitched with disgust. “Ribbit.”
Mr. Wicked suddenly appeared at my elbow. He gave me soft eyes and rubbed against my knee as I stared in horror at the frog. It had just occurred to me that my trauma wasn’t over. I still had a frog in my bookstore.
“Now what am I going to do with you?” I murmured. I had no idea what frogs needed to live. I wasn’t equipped to deal with amphibians. I was totally a dry land kind of girl. What did they eat? Did they need water to survive?
A spec of black buzzed past me and Wicked’s paw shot up, swiping at the fly. The unfortunate insect dodged sideways to avoid the threatening paw, and flew directly into deadly frog territory.
Quick as a wink, the frog’s tongue snapped out and snatched the fly right out of the air. He seemed to shudder as if even he was disgusted by the action.
“Well,” I said, grimacing. “I guess the food thing’s taken care of for the moment.”
I shoved to my feet. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask Sebille to take you to her family in the woods. You can live on their pond,” I inexplicably explained to the frog and the cat.
With that decision made, I felt better. But just in case, I went into the bathroom and grabbed Wicked’s water dish, filling it up and carrying it out to place in front of the frog. “If you need a drink or…you know…a bath or something.”
“Ribbit.”
“Yowl!” Wicked gave me stink eye.
I shrugged. “Hey, it was your bright idea to save him. I guess you’re going to have to take this one for the team.”
I headed for the door into the artifact library and the stairs, suddenly exhausted from my very long day. I wanted to drop into bed and sleep for ten hours. But first, a long, hot shower and excessive scrubbing of my hand were in order.
It wasn’t until I closed and locked the door behind me and Mr. Wicked that I realized my headache had disappeared.
No rash and no headache. My day was finally looking up.
3
Blank Expression
I wish I could say my night was restful. Unfortunately, it was anything but. It was chaotic and just plain weird.
I drank my chamomile tea as usual and took a hot shower before dropping gratefully onto my bed. A soft rain had begun sometime during the night and the drops pinged musically against the glass of my windows.
It was a recipe for a great night’s sleep. A veritable promise of one. Except that, from the moment I closed my eyes, my mind started churning with pictures that made no sense. First there was the frog. Yeah, it’s weird that he was in my head but he was. I figure it was because of all the questions in my mind about his sudden appearance in my shop. I mean, a frog?
And then there was Mr. Wicked. His odd attachment to the frog was even stranger than the fact that I had a bug-eyed amphibian in my bookstore. My mind conjured scenes of a frog hopping through the shallow water at the edge of a pond. Then a flash of light that made the bulgy black eyes widen in fright.
And then nothing.
Well, not nothing exactly. More like something that wasn’t really…anything.
Sigh. I know I’m not making any sense. But that’s because my dreams didn’t make any sense — especially the part where the frog was sitting in my teacup, wearing a bowtie.
Yeah, really. I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that. You see…
No. It’s easier just to show you. Here’s a replay of my dream.
“Hey you!”
I jerked upright in my bed, looking around frantically for the random voice in my bedroom that had woken me up. I saw nothing except the charcoal gray shadows of my darkened room and the silvery drops of rain sliding down the windows.
“Helloooo?” an annoying voice drawled out.
I jumped, shoving the covers off my legs and surging to my feet. My heart pounded a frantic staccato rhythm in my chest and my fingers curled in an effort to contain repelling magics. “Who’s there?”
“Ima.”
“Ima who?”
“Ima sick of waiting for you to see me sitting here.”
I blinked rapidly. See you? Then it occurred to me it might be a ghost. Did I have ghosts in my loft apartment? More importantly, did I even believe in them? “Show yourself.” My eyes scanned the room, finding only furniture, a thin line of illumination from the streetlight outside painting my floor, and…
“Down here! Jeez, are you blind?”
My gaze jerked down toward the floor and I jumped sideways, exploring the area around my feet with rising panic. “Where? I can’t see you.” I frowned, “Are you a ghost?”
Laughter, deep and…well, deep. “Not hardly.”
I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed, finding nothing but hairballs and a few dusty suitcases.
Hairballs! I jerked upright again, my gaze finding the spot on the pillow where Mr. Wicked always slept. His sleek, gray form was draped there, legs stretched out from his body and soft underbelly gently rounded from all the treats he begged from the customers in the
store.
“Sometime today would be nice,” the deep voice drawled again.
I stiffened, finally realizing where the voice was coming from, and turned my head slowly, my eyes at the same level as the top of my nightstand. Where my teacup still sat.
But it was no longer empty. The frog from my bookstore was sitting inside the cup. Its squishy body bulging over the sides of the delicate china. And, yeah, he was wearing a bright red bowtie with yellow polka dots.
Hey, I don’t make this stuff up.
The frog fixed its protruding gaze on me and its lips seemed to curl up in the corners. “Hey. How’s it goin’?”
Just like that, my dream ended. I jerked upright, chest heaving with fear as my gaze shot to the teacup on my nightstand.
No frog.
I placed a hand on my chest and willed my heartbeat to slow. Groaning softly, I hunched over, burying my face in my hands. I felt as if I’d gone nightclubbing with a Tasmanian devil and his entire spin class. Glancing at the clock, I saw with shock that it was after nine am. I’d overslept and still felt as if I hadn’t slept at all.
I shoved the covers back and climbed out of bed. I needed coffee badly.
Picking up my cup, I peered inside, looking for frog poop or…I don’t know…fly leftovers in the bottom. There was nothing but tea dregs lying there.
I narrowed my gaze at the dregs. Was that a face in the residue? Shaking my head, I chastised myself for being an idiot. My imagination was running amok. I was dreaming about frogs and seeing handsome male faces in my tea leavings.
Wait? Who’d said the face was male? And handsome? “I need to start dating again,” I murmured as I shuffled toward my coffee maker.
I scoured the cup thoroughly as the coffee brewed, washing it three times with hot water and soap, just in case there had been frog butt inside. Then I all but gulped the first cup as soon as it was cool enough to drink. I savored the second cup as my stomach rumbled hungrily.
Foraging desperately for something to eat, I realized the cupboards were mostly bare. I tugged an ancient box of granola out of the cabinet and looked inside. Grimacing at the paltry serving left in the bottom of the box, I shoved it back into the cupboard. Maybe I’d send Sebille out for some bagels.