Free The Familiar by Jill Nojack Page A

scurry after him and coast out the door in his wake. He calls to the man, and they talk briefly, then Kevin hands him his card. It's worse than I thought—Kevin is definitely following through on his plan to move in on the darker side of the business now that Eunice is gone. Too bad for him he doesn't have either the client or supplier list. All that illicit business Eunice keeps locked in the storage room is about to come to an end, and I can't see how Kevin is going to manage to keep it going without some very bad juju going down for Cassie. She has no idea, none at all, how dangerous things could get.
    Kevin turns back toward the shop and looks me right in the eye before I scramble back into the recessed doorway. His eyes narrow as he hurries toward me. I mewl like my tail's on fire to get Cassie's attention, and it works. She opens the door and scoops me up, scolding me for ducking out. Back on the counter I go before Kevin can get to me. He peers in the window briefly, then moves on.

***
    "Granny never let me in to the smaller storeroom, Tom. What do you think I'll find there? Fairy dust? Voodoo dolls?" She smiles weakly at her own attempt at a joke. Her spirits are brighter tonight. It must be a relief to have the funeral out of the way.
    What's in the closet, Cassie? A whole lot of trouble, that's what. Without any way to know what Kevin is up to, and, trapped as a cuddly kitten, I've got no way to protect her from what's going to go down if someone comes for the treasure Eunice locked up in there. When an interested party comes to take it, I sincerely hope it's cowardly Kevin instead of a more dangerous threat.
    Cassie tries every key on the big metal ring. None of them fit, but I already know that. Eunice used a spell not a lock. The spell won't stop someone who's determined to get in and would remove the door to do it, but it will prevent casual snoopers such as a curious granddaughter or a business rival with a roving eye.
    Cassie gives up on the lock and scoops me up on her way upstairs.

***
    It's cozy in the upstairs parlor, cuddled up in Cassie's lap while we watch TV. But my thoughts, when I can put a non-Cat thought together, are starting to focus almost entirely around two little words: say it.
    I tried the jumping-on-the-table manipulation on Cassie as soon as she knew my real name, but she hasn't had the same response again. Frustrating. I was so sure I'd be freed with a couple of quick jumps. Or failing that, she'd have to go to Eunice's room for something and read the words out loud as I follow her in. But she hasn't ventured into that room. I know. I've been her shadow.
    To keep the pressure on, I've been at my most adorable for days, bringing Cassie presents whenever I find something new she might appreciate—mostly things I've batted under furniture over time and Eunice never went searching for. Why in the world can't she just say it? I'm being as good as I know how to be.
    All I get as I drop off my packages is:
    "Tom, how sweet! I've always wanted a ball of rubber bands."
    "Tom, you shouldn't have! A dusty old spool of thread? Thank you."
    "Would you look at that—this must be at least twenty years old. Where did you find it?"
    Then, Eureka! I remember something that has to work. I leap from her lap and race into the guest bedroom, then return to the parlor and drop a gold ring on the table in front of her. I just rank a "Where did you get this, Tom? Was it Eunice's?" She slips it idly onto her pinky and twists it as she finishes watching her show.
    Why can't she just say it? Just one "good Tom.” How hard is that?
    I can't tell her that the ring was payment for a potion to precipitate miscarriage. The desperate woman had nothing but her wedding ring to pay with, and the baby she was carrying would have been the wrong color for her husband's genetic background. I thought she would have been better off with the father of the child—the one who cared about her—instead of the one who'd have