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The sound drew nearer, then faded into the distance. Just a person out for a midnight stroll in the fog. That happened. It wasn’t suspicious. Not everything was about him.
“Do you need a warm place to get clean and have a good meal?”
The voice came from behind him, and the shriek that erupted from his body as he jumped into the air was embarrassing.
A woman, bent nearly double, stood behind him in an open doorway from which streamed a warm, welcoming light, flickering with the echoes of fire.
She smiled encouragingly at him and swept her arm back to welcome him into her home.
Her lair, more likely. He knew enough about contemporary storytelling to know that hunched, kindly old ladies with welcoming fires were almost never the good guys.
The smell of roast chicken wafted out the door, and he swore he could almost taste it and feel the warmth. A vision of curling up in front of the fireplace, belly full of warm food, filled his mind, and he wavered.
She wrinkled her nose. “You’ll need a bath, though, of course. I know cats don’t like to be bathed, but it would be a mercy for everyone if you’d submit.”
He couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he was finding it difficult to argue with anything. The warmth from the doorway streamed out, wrapping him in its tendrils and almost pulling him inside. He’d undergo almost any indignity to be clean, warm, and fed right now.
“That’s a good boy,” the woman crooned. “Let’s get you clean.”
Archibald took a step forward. Then another. He brushed against the old lady’s leg, and she shrunk back from him, then violently sneezed.
“Ahhhh-CHOO!”
The noise and the vibrations of her body jolted Archibald back to his senses. The odor of roast chicken turned rotten and no longer tempted him, and the light from the doorway was more industrial yellow than fireplace orange.
“Sorry,” the woman muttered, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing her nose. “I’m allergic to cats.”
Archibald’s ears flattened back over the top of his head. This was Ash. Loki. And Archibald had almost let himself be trapped.
While the old woman—Loki—got her sneezing under control, Archibald took a few careful steps backward. When he deemed himself far enough away to avoid being caught up by a sudden grab, he turned tail and ran for the second time that night.
Chapter Six
Archibald stumbled forward on bloody, aching feet. The thin light of a winter sunrise penetrating thick fog allowed him to see his surroundings for the first time in hours.
Green spires rose out of the clouds hundreds of feet above him, and rough pavement gave way to wet, cool grass.
His limbs trembled. He’d long since lost any sense of direction and wouldn’t be able to lead anyone back to Loki’s gingerbread house or the cold, sterile building he’d been held in before his first escape.
Now that he could see where he was, he could teleport away. Cats may not be blessed with telekinesis, but the ability to move from one place to another with improbable and alarming speed belonged to all cats, magical and mundane. But for those blessed by the goddesses, there was more to it.
It wasn’t the true Stepping the Valkyries could do, walking from one location to another with a step while also carrying others with them. But he could hop short distances, as long as he could see where he was and knew where he was going. It allowed him to mysteriously disappear, creating awe and wonder in his wake, and it shortened journeys.
Once he and Frankie properly bonded, he’d be able to see through her eyes and appear at her side whenever she needed him. He’d held back on completing their bonding, though. He told himself it was for her sake. She’d gone through so much already and finding out she had to do a ceremony to tie her mind to a cat’s was a lot.
But really, he’d been afraid it wouldn’t work, and she’d discover him for the fraud he was.
Right now, though, he didn’t care. If he had the energy to transport himself anywhere, he’d go to her and confess. He’d will himself back to the Heart to stand trial. He’d deliver himself to the goddesses in Ásgarðr and lay his throat bare to them. Anything to stop the throbbing and to quell the pangs of hunger. He didn’t even notice his stench anymore. The pain wracking his body took precedence.
“Archibald?” a quiet voice called.
He tensed and glanced around quickly, looking for a place to hide.
Undergrowth was prominent in the park, and the shadows and remnants of fog should keep him hidden for a while.
“Archie? It’s Pixie.”
He hissed a bit at “Archie,” but didn’t have the energy for anything but the most spurious of protests.
