It was a cat, a very scraggly one—and a cat I was pretty sure I’d seen before. It was smaller than Aubrey, maybe younger, and I could see its ribs poking out underneath the fur, which was matted and dirty. When I petted the cat’s head, I noticed a dry texture to the fur that often indicated fleas. The cat seemed unsure of me—but not enough that it ran away. It mostly seemed curious for now, like it was trying to figure me out—and maybe score some food.

Which was fine, because I was trying to figure it out too. Clearly, this cat had no owner, or if it did, that ownership needed to be revoked. I studied its yellow eyes and every frail line of its body. The cat looked so different and yet . . . I was certain it was the one. And in a musing that was worthy of Carter, I suddenly wondered if the universe might not be done with me after all.

I let the cat sniff my hand a bit longer, and then I reached out and picked it up. It was a she. She didn’t fight me as I held her to my chest and walked home. In fact, she started purring. Maybe she knew me. Maybe she was just weary of fighting all the time too.

When I shouldered open my door, Aubrey’s head immediately jerked up from where she’d been napping. She made no noise, but all the fur on her back stood on end as she studied our new visitor with narrowed eyes. Roman, lying on the couch as usual, also studied us. He looked at the cat, taking in her orange and brown patched coat. Then, he looked up and met my eyes. I’m not sure what he saw, but it made him smile.

“Let me guess. That’s a tortie.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “This is a tortie.”

THE END

Other’s Books by Richelle Mead’s

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Chapter 1

I was drunk.

I wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened, but I suspected it had occurred around the time my friend Doug had bet me I couldn’t take down three vodka gimlets faster than he could. He’d promised to take my weekend shift at work if I won, and I was going to do his stock duty for a week if he won.

When we’d finished, it looked like I wasn’t going to be working next weekend.

“How did you out-drink him?” my friend Hugh wanted to know. “He’s twice your size.”

Through the crowd of people crammed into my condo, I peered at the closed bathroom door, behind which Doug had disappeared. “He had stomach flu this week. I’m guessing that doesn’t go so well with vodka.”