“Imps couldn’t find a brain between fifty of them. No, it’ll be the larger creatures that hunt you.”
“Like what?” I should be frightened, I thought. Anything hunting me should make me scared, especially anything evil. I’ll be scared tomorrow, I decided.
“Nothing for a while. The area’s pretty clean. But you’d better get in the practice of placing wards now. Is there a window in your bedroom?” I nodded. “You ward that. I’ll get the glass door. Anywhere there’s an opening, you have to ward.”
I stumbled off to the bedroom, followed by an insistently meowing Mr. Bond. Ignoring his complaints, I blinked to Primordium and gathered lux lucis in my palms. It took longer for the light to brighten my hands than it had earlier: Apparently my lux lucis was as diminished as my physical energy. Once my hands glowed, I smoothed them along the frame of my window. Before I finished, Doris had come to inspect my handiwork.
“Not bad. Well, good luck, kid. I’ll check in with you when I’m back.”
“Thanks again,” I mumbled, trailing after her light form as she zipped to the front door. Mr. Bond looked as adorable in Primordium as he did in normal vision. He glowed a beautiful, bright white. After all the dark imps I’d seen that night, it was nice to look at something pure. It was going to be even nicer to curl up in bed and sleep.
I looked up when I heard the door open.
“You need to recharge,” Doris said, eyeing me closely.
“I plan to,” I assured her.
“It can be dangerous if you don’t. It’s one of the most important things to remember. And you live in the perfect place for it. Those trees are lovely.”
I nodded and tried unsuccessfully to hold in a yawn.
“I’ll check in with you when I get back,” she repeated.
I nodded. Would it be too rude to push her out the door? Finally she waved a good-bye and I closed and locked the door behind her. I shuffled about the apartment, fed Mr. Bond, brushed my teeth, and stripped down. Mr. Bond darted into the bedroom with his fake fuzzy mouse in his mouth and tossed it about while I crawled into bed. I fell asleep even as I was adjusting the covers around my face.
The alarm went off all too soon, and I fumbled to snooze it. The sun slanted through blinds I had forgotten to shut, but that wasn’t a problem. I slowly pulled the covers over my head. Two years of living with Mr. Bond had taught me slow movements allowed me to sleep longer; fast movements meant I was awake and ready to pet or feed him. I drifted back toward sleep, but a niggling sense that something was amiss prevented me from going under.
It wasn’t new-job jitters. My first day had felt like the first week. If anything, I was ready to call in sick. I didn’t have an appointment I was forgetting. Even snoozing the alarm wasn’t going to make me late.
Trying not to wake up, I carefully cracked an eyelid. If Mr. Bond saw my eyes open, he would decide the day had begun, and there’d be no falling back to sleep. Everything seemed in place, except Mr. Bond. He wasn’t on the bed. He was always on the bed in the morning, looming over me, waiting impatiently for attention.
I listened for sounds of food crunching or scratching in the litter box, but the apartment was quiet. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Was he into the plants?
I opened my eyes wider and looked around the room. The tall plant at the foot of my bed wasn’t looking so good. In fact—I sat up all the way, wide awake. It was dead. Not dying, with a few yellowed leaves. But dead. Brittle and dry. As if it hadn’t been green and lovely yesterday. A shiver of premonition tingled down my spine. The small rubber tree on top of my dresser had dropped all of its leaves overnight. They lay brown and unsightly around the base of the pot, and only the spindly dried trunk remained in the soil.
Something was seriously wrong.
7
I ♥ My Cat
“Mr. Bond, where are you?” I could hear the fear in my voice. I was through my bedroom door in three steps. Mr. Bond lay in a listless lump in the middle of the hallway. I knelt beside him, my heart in my throat. I ran my hand down his back, but he didn’t so much as twitch to acknowledge me. My mind raced through possibilities—gas leak? life-stealing creatures I hadn’t encountered yet? poison?—while I carefully held Mr. Bond’s sides to feel if he still breathed. My heart started beating again when I felt his sides move faintly. He was cold, and his fur felt thick and gritty, like he hadn’t cleaned in a week. I blinked, looking around for enemies in Primordium. Nothing moved. My gaze dropped to Mr. Bond. His brilliant white had faded to a dim, pulsing gray.
“No!” I started to scoop Mr. Bond into my arms, ready to run off to the vet, only to realize I was naked and unprepared. Cursing myself and Primordium, and praying for all I was worth in between, I blinked back to normal vision and raced about the house. I dressed in the first things I could find: jeans and a sweater. I pushed some toothpaste around my mouth with the brush in between shoving my feet into socks and shoes. Sprinting out to the porch, I grabbed Mr. Bond’s carrier from the outdoor closet, spit toothpaste over the side of the balcony, and raced back inside. Mr. Bond still hadn’t moved.
Throwing his favorite blanket in the microwave, I used the minute it took to warm the fuzzy cotton to rinse my mouth, collect my purse, yank my hair back in a ponytail, and check on Mr. Bond again. The microwave beeped, and I grabbed the blanket and stuffed it in the carrier. Then I lifted twenty-two pounds of Mr. Bond’s dead weight into the carrier, trying to be gentle, but without his help it was difficult. I was crying by the time he was settled. Normally getting him in his carrier was an ordeal and a half. This time, he didn’t even open his eyes.
“Hang in there, little buddy,” I whispered. I hoisted the carrier in both arms and jogged out of the apartment, gaze snagging momentarily on the three front room plants, all dead.
I hardly remembered locking the door or the flight to the car. I was moving on fast-forward autopilot, all my attention focused on the small form huddled in the carrier. I took my time settling him gently into the front passenger seat next to me and buckling the carrier in, then sped out of my complex, cutting off two people and only caring that the blare of their horns might have scared Mr. Bond. I went sixty in a forty-five-mile-an-hour zone, and that was only because I couldn’t go faster in the traffic. In minutes, I was unloading Mr. Bond and racing toward the doors of the Love and Caring Veterinary Clinic.
Luckily, there was no one else in the waiting room. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d expected me to wait in line.
“I woke up, and he was like this. All . . . lifeless,” I blubbered to the vet who stepped out of the back at the sound of the door opening. “I haven’t changed his food or his routine. He doesn’t go outside. He was fine last night. He was playing with his mouse and—”
“It’s okay, Madison,” the veterinarian soothed in his deep voice. “Let’s have a look at him.”
I carried Mr. Bond to an examination room and carefully set his carrier down on the table.
“Can you look at him in there? I don’t want to drag him out.”
“Sure.”
The vet opened the front of the cage, and for the first time in his life, Mr. Bond wasn’t eagerly pressed against the opening, ready to race out.
“I heated the blanket because he was so cold. I didn’t know what else to do,” I babbled while the vet gently poked and prodded Mr. Bond.
“That was smart of you. I think we need to pull him out. Why don’t you hold the carrier still for me.”
I watched anxiously as the vet easily lifted my hefty cat and placed him, blanket and all, on the table. I held myself quiet, wringing my hands, while the vet finished his examination.
“I’m going to take some blood, okay? Are you going to be all right to watch?”
I met the vet’s steady, calm blue eyes. Normally at the mention of needles I’d leave the room. “I would donate blood if that’s what it took.”
He rewarded me with a s
mile. With a jolt, I realized that the vet was none other than the attractive and charming Dr. Alex Love himself. I couldn’t bring myself to care. If Mr. Bond was okay, maybe then, but right now, all that mattered was my little boy.
Mr. Bond didn’t flinch when the needle pricked his skin. I watched the blood fill the syringe, staring as if I’d see answers in the red liquid. Dr. Love was gone barely a minute, during which time I petted Mr. Bond and told him softly how much I loved him and how he better be faking. The vet returned with an electric blanket that he gently wrapped around Mr. Bond.
“We’ll send the blood to our lab, which will get back to us tomorrow, but there are a few preliminary tests I can do here based on my suspicions. Those results will be ready in about ten minutes,” he said.
I nodded and swiped at tears. Dr. Love left again. I needed to do something. I blinked. Mr. Bond was still a dim, pulsing light. I wanted revenge against whatever or whoever had done this! Glaring about the sterile room, I silently dared dark creatures to show up. When none came out of the woodwork to be killed, I switched back to normal vision and petted Mr. Bond as calmly as I could. It felt like an eternity before Dr. Love returned.
“As I suspected, it looks like Mr. Bond is very dehydrated,” he announced. “When was the last time you saw him drinking?”
“Yesterday.” Even though he had a bowl of water, Mr. Bond always wanted to drink from the tub when I was going to the bathroom, and I always indulged him by turning the water on a trickle.
“That’s very peculiar. By his blood results, it looks like he’s been dehydrated for five or six days.”
“Can you do something?”
“Yes. I’m going to give him some liquid. It’s like an IV for cats. Only a cat would never lay still long enough to leave a needle in a vein and gradually pump liquid back into him, so we have to do it in one dose. I’m going to inject the liquid under his skin here”—he indicated the spot between Mr. Bond’s shoulder blades—“and it will gradually absorb into his body over the next twenty-four hours.”
“How soon will he be better?”
“I think you’ll start to see signs of him improving in maybe an hour or so. By tonight, he should be acting a lot like his old self.”
I had to grip the table to restrain myself from leaping across it and hugging Dr. Love. I watched as he injected the liquid under Mr. Bond’s skin until there was a golf ball–size bubble between his shoulder blades.
“Doesn’t that hurt him?”
“Maybe a little, but there’s a lot of loose skin here. By the time he starts moving again, the bump you see will be much smaller.” Dr. Love gave Mr. Bond a gentle scratch under his chin.
My hands began to quiver as the adrenaline tapered off. I slumped into the plastic chair in the corner.
“Are you sure he’s going to be fine?”
“Yes. You did the right thing getting him here so quickly. A few hours longer and I don’t know that this would have been so easy.”
I stared adoringly at the man who had just saved Mr. Bond’s life. Dr. Love could easily have been a model with his spectacular bone structure and delicious physique. Yet, here he was, taking care of animals and their frazzled owners. He was being too nice and my nerves were too frayed. I began to cry all over again, embarrassed but unable to stop.
Dr. Love pulled his little round doctor’s chair in front of me and sat down, reaching out to pat my knee.
“He’s going to be fine. It’s okay now,” he said softly. His thick dark brown hair was cut almost military short, and as close as he sat, I could see blond sprinkled throughout it.
“I know.” I met his earnest blue eyes, admiring the shallow laugh lines at the corners. I became abruptly aware of my appearance. Sniffing, I used my sweater to dry my face. I knew I looked horrendous, and I knew it was silly to want to look sexy after the ordeal I’d just been through, but I wouldn’t have been a woman if I hadn’t wanted to look attractive to a man like Dr. Love. “Thank you so much. I-I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Madison, it’s people like you that make my day.” At my questioning look, he explained, “You love your pet like a child. You’ve clearly taken good care of Mr. Bond. You make my job easy.”
I found myself smiling crookedly back at him. When he stood, I stepped up next to him at the examining table. Mr. Bond already looked a little better. When I rubbed his cheek, he actually cracked an eyelid to look at me.
“What do you think caused this?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Watch him closely for the next few days, but let me know if he’s not better by tonight. We’ll give you a call tomorrow to see how he’s doing, too, and to let you know what the lab says about his blood.”
Dr. Love lifted Mr. Bond back into his carrier and walked me to the front desk. At five-ten, I’m used to looking most men in the eye, but Dr. Love must have topped six feet by a few inches, because he made me feel petite. It was a novel experience for me.
He shook my hand good-bye. His hand was warm and engulfed mine pleasantly. Bridget and I argue on the matter, but I’ve always thought I could tell how good a man would be in bed by the shape and feel of his hands. Bridget maintains that she can tell by a man’s posture. Based on either criteria, I found myself wishing that I’d been at the clinic for a different reason entirely.
I drove home sanely and left Mr. Bond in his open carrier when we got inside. Belatedly, I checked the time and then called the office to let Mr. Pitt know I would be in late.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pitt,” I explained to my new boss on the phone. “I had to take my cat to an emergency appointment at the vets this morning.”
“I hope it was nothing serious,” he said politely.
“It could have been, but I got him seen in time. He’s back at home now.”
There was a pause. “What were his symptoms?”
I explained Mr. Bond’s complete lack of energy and dehydration. “Do you know what caused this?” I demanded.
“I’ll explain when you get in.” He hung up.
My heart did a funny lurch. I’d been right: Some evil creature had hurt Mr. Bond.
I put all the dead plants outside and opened the windows to air the house out, then reinforced the weak wards. Taking no chances, I emptied and washed Mr. Bond’s food and water dishes and threw the comforter from my bed and Mr. Bond’s kitty bed into the washing machine. When I checked on Mr. Bond again, he had stretched out more comfortably in his carrier, his feet twitching in a dream. I crouched beside him for several long minutes, content to watch him. Then I brushed my teeth for real, grimacing at the frumpy image of myself in the mirror.
“Next time you do something crazy like that, Mr. Bond, make sure I’m all dressed up and looking sexy.” I eyed his sleeping form sternly. “Better yet, never do that again.”
I wanted to stay home all day with him, but Dr. Love had assured me it would be fine for me to go to work, and since it was only my second day, I grabbed my keys and promised Mr. Bond I’d be back during my lunch break to check on him.
I saw the message light blinking on my answering machine as I was headed out the door. Backtracking, I pressed the play button.
“Hi, Madison. It’s me.” It was Mom. “Just calling to see how you’re doing. We haven’t heard from you very much since you were . . . let go. We’re getting worried. Give us a call. Bye.”
Guilt made me reach for the phone. I should have called my parents yesterday before going to meet Bridget. My eyes fell on the clock. It was nine thirty. I didn’t want to be later than I was. Assuaging my guilt would have to wait.
It wasn’t until I was nearly to my car that I remembered Medusa. Having a cell phone was going to be convenient.
I dialed my parents while I waited for the car to warm up.
“Hello, Fox residence,” my mom answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, hi, Madison. Where are you calling from? I don’t recognize the number.”
I mentally sighed. Caller ID. Now they could reach me anytime. Having a cell phone might just have become decidedly inconvenient.
“It’s my cell phone. I had to get it for my new job.”
“New job!” Predictably, Mom covered the phone with her hand and shouted for Dad. A moment later, a click announced that my dad had picked up the other phone in their house. “Madison has a new job,” Mom declared.
“That’s my girl.”
“Where is it?” Mom asked on top of Dad’s, “Do they have a good retirement plan?”
“It’s called Illumination Studios. They make bumper stickers. It’s about three minutes from my house, so we need to talk fast.”
“She’s on a cell phone,” Mom told Dad.
I explained how I needed it for my new job.
“Are you on call?” Dad asked.
“No, but after I finish training, I get to make my own hours.”
“Make your own hours? That’s peculiar,” Mom said.
“What about a 401(k)?”
In the recent years leading up to their retirement, Dad had become compulsive about reminding me of my own retirement plans. Thanking the universe that I’d remembered to ask about it when I’d filled out the company forms, I happily reported that I was going to be able to retire in forty-plus years.
“What do you do?” Dad asked on top of Mom’s, “Are you late on your first day?”
“That’s not going to look good at all,” Dad admonished before I could respond to either question.
I decided to avoid attempting to explain my job just yet, and dodged that question. “It’s my second day. I had my first, uh, training day yesterday. Besides, I had an emergency this morning: Mr. Bond had to go to the vet.”
I cruised down Douglas Boulevard, telling my parents about my morning in fits and starts through their steady stream of questions. When I pulled into the Illumination Studio’s parking lot, I assured them again that Mr. Bond was going to be fine and I didn’t need them to drop by to check on him today.
A Fistful of Evil: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Madison Fox, Illuminant Enforcer Book 1) Page 8
