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How he could find this cat attractive was a mystery. She denigrated his appearance, his intelligence, his courage, and his morals regularly. But still, those eyes…
“Ask me another one,” she said.
He wracked his brain for something that would offer proof she was who she said she was. It had to be nothing to do with him. If Loki was stripping some memories when he shape-changed, he might have stolen all those related to Archibald.
“Who was the favorite to come first in our training after the first year?” he asked. This was not only a question that had nothing to do with him but designed to tweak Pixie’s whiskers.
It worked. Her voice was sour when she answered. “Mottlegill Deathcap. That mangy, pretentious fur ball had no business being there, much less beating me in every contest.”
“But what position did he actually finish in?” Archibald prompted.
“Third,” she replied immediately and with deep satisfaction. “And he dropped out soon after. He couldn’t even outlast you.”
Archibald started crawling toward her. Maybe she was Loki, but even if she was, there might be food forthcoming. “You’re very judgmental about the pedigree of other cats, considering you come from the Sunshine family. No one in your line has ever been a Guide, either.”
She sniffed disdainfully. “Maybe not, but my great-grandmother pulled Freya’s chariot twice, which is more than can be said for either Mottlegill’s or your ancestors.”
Archibald finished wiggling out of the blackberries, fully convinced she was who she said.
“Where are your guards?” he asked, looking around.
“Dead, both with an arrow in each eye.”
Archibald took a few tentative exploratory steps forward and surveyed the area. They were halfway down a steep bluff. The bodies of the elves who’d served as the additional guards lay a few yards away, and the bright pink cat carrier was a few feet from them. Below them was a large industrial area intersected with roads and railway spurs. It crawled with trucks, the rumbling of engines reaching them even this high. He knew this place.
“Swan Island,” he said grimly. The last time he’d been here he’d watched Frankie battle Loki, slaying him with lightning channeled through her as-yet-unnamed sword. It was a bad omen to be here again if Loki considered it a place of power.
Pixie followed his gaze. “It doesn’t look like a place swans would frequent, nor does it look like an island,” she said doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t know how it got its name. Perhaps once it was beautiful. But this is where Frankie slew Loki for the first time. I don’t like being back here.”
“Well, let’s go up, then, instead of down,” Pixie said, heading up towards Willamette Boulevard.
Archibald followed her for a few wobbling steps, then sank down onto his haunches. “I don’t know if I can. But I know I don’t want to. I’ve no desire to stand trial, especially if the outcome is already predetermined. I can stay here until I regain enough strength to walk easily. The rats here are fat and lazy and will make an easy meal to bolster me.” He gagged inwardly at the thought of rat. He was, after all, a cat of discerning taste. “And once I’ve recovered, I can go home.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” Pixie said patiently. “For you to come home. I’ll help you.”
“Not back to the Heart. My home is the Aerie, with Frankie.” Or the safe house where Frankie stayed when the chaos at her mother’s home grew too much for her. If he was correct, that house was only a couple miles away. If he could get there without being followed, he’d be safe behind Valkyrie wards and able to rest and recover. Frankie or Dusana would find him quickly, and if not them, one of Frankie’s sisters.
Pixie blurred in his vision, and her human form stood in front of him once again. She scruffed him and pulled him into her arms. He fought against her, but to no effect. She was too practiced.
“You are coming with me,” she declared. “I don’t care who comes after us. I will get you there or die trying.”
“It’s the ‘die trying’ I’m worried about,” Archibald muttered.
Pixie replied with grunts of effort as she half-climbed, half-crawled up the steep, bramble-infested hill towards the road above. Her feet slipped frequently, and her hold on him loosened. He could have leapt free of her, but for now, he was content to let someone else do the hard work. There’d be time to get away when they were at the top, and she was complacent about her hold on him.
Chapter Eight
Pixie dropped to her stomach, nearly smooshing Archibald, who held back a startled meow—he never made that noise if he could help it. It wasn’t natural.
“What are you doing?” he whispered as softly as he could.
“There are a bunch of people up there milling around,” she breathed. “No bicycles or vehicles in sight, and they do not look as if they are out for any other exercise.”
Archibald wiggled underneath her. Her hold had loosened, and he could easily escape. “Let me see.” If Loki’s agents spotted them, they’d be snatched up—again. Archibald’s limit for being kidnapped was zero, and he’d already surpassed that by four times in the last twenty-four hours. He would not take the risk of being captured again, even if he got away from Pixie.
After all, Loki might want information, but he would not ask nicely and let Archibald go when he had it. At least if he went back to the Heart with Pixie, he’d live. He might be in trouble and either imprisoned for a short while or banished for the same amount of time, but he would not be executed, even if they somehow proved he’d murdered several people.
