“Seriously. I’m going to figure out how you keep getting into my place. I locked the door last night, Fennel. I always do before I renew the spell.”
He lifted his front paw and examined it, gave it a nibble and a lick. The cat equivalent of a sarcastic shrug.
I unlocked the cell.
There were thirty-two text messages, all from Alpha Floyd, all after midnight, all making demands using degrading, hateful language. The term, “filthy, low class, trailer-park grunge witch” came up several times.
Great band name, but I wasn’t taking that BS from him.
Now that I’d agreed to work for him, the wolf thought he could abuse me the way he did his wolves. He figured he had the upper hand.
Fennel lowered his paw and cocked his head. Waiting.
I looked from him to the messages to him again.
“Someone needs to learn a lesson about how to treat a witch. You in?”
“MEow.” Fennel bobbed his black head up and down.
“Get Cecil and meet me in the parking lot in five minutes. Tell him to bring the Alpha Pallás special. He’ll know what I mean.”
Chapter
Thirteen
Fifteen minutes later, I parked beneath an overgrown palm tree in the deserted lot of La Paloma Federal Credit Union and cut the Mini’s engine.
“You sure you’re good with this?”
Cecil chittered excitedly. He was more than good. He was ecstatic.
“Excellent. Fennel, you sure you’re okay? We can do it another way.”
“Me-ow.” He lifted his chin, obviously insulted.
“Hey, don’t get mad. I just want to be sure, is all. I’m not doubting your talents.”
I tugged a tiny black beanie over Cecil’s purple hat and handed him the burlap-wrapped package. “Stay out of sight. If anything happens to one of you, the other comes straight back to me and I’ll charge the place like a credit card on Black Friday.”
“Meow.”
Chitter.
I opened the driver’s side door, and they spilled out onto the blacktop. Cecil climbed atop Fennel’s back, and they shot across the lot and disappeared down the alley.
I didn’t dare run down the Mini’s battery, so I kept the radio off and, instead queued up the oldies playlist I kept on my cell. Linda Ronstadt belted out “You’re No Good,” and I sang along.
Forty excruciatingly slow minutes later, I opened the door and let them in again. Fennel was covered in dust and Cecil’s black cap was askew, but they appeared unharmed and unhurried.
“Find anything?”
Cecil huffed a dark laugh.
“Mee-ow,” Fennel said, showing all his teeth in a spooky little Cheshire grin.
“You’re both devious and amazing, and I never doubted you for an instant,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
We drove through McDonald’s on the way back and got a chocolate sundae and a large order of French fries to share. Cecil ate all the chocolate topping, half the ice cream, and a human fistful of fries, and Fennel had to carry him to the garden room to sleep off the effects.
