Page 36 of Lethal King

“I know it’s in here somewhere.”

Riffling through the cabinets as quietly as possible, I try to find what I’m looking for. But I’m not having any luck. And I’m running out of time.

It’s a peaceful Sunday afternoon in the countryside, which means the owner of this idyllic little cottage should be waking up from her nap anytime now—I’m not trying to speed up the process by making a bunch of noise.

Unfortunately, the kitten has other ideas. Her meows rise up from her spot on the countertop, each louder than the last.

“Give me a second,” I mumble. “The old lady loves her tuna. There’s got to be a canister or two stuffed away in the back.”

“Try the third cabinet from the left.”

Babcia’s unexpected voice twists me around. Instinct makes me reach for my knife. But that kind old sagging face immediately drops my guard.

“You should be napping,” I tell her.

“And you should be out looking for a nice man to settle down with,” she waves me off.

Her frail voice creaks with the floorboards as she shuffles into the kitchen.

“If only you knew,” I smirk. Sliding across the counter, I open up the fabled third cabinet from the left. Sure enough, a leaning tower of tuna cans is tucked in the back corner.

“Who’s this precious little thing?” Babcia asks.

When I look back over my shoulder, I find the old Polish grandma gently brushing the black kitten. The tiny creature is a lot more welcoming of her than she has been of me.

“It’s my prize,” I mutter, disappointed.

“Living things aren’t prizes,” Babcia tsks. “What is her name?”

“I haven’t thought of one yet.”

“Well, I have. Welcome to the family, Kaja.”

“What family?” I huff.

Using my switchblade, I open up the kitten’s lunch. To my surprise, the black furball slinks out from under Babcia’s fingers and makes a beeline for the food.

“Ah, she’s a survivor,” the old polish grandma acknowledges. “Just like you.”

I’m about to brush off her remark when I’m suddenly ambushed by a flood of heavy memories.

A starving kitten. Scraps of fish. A melting cage. A brutal choice. A false savior.

“Animals require food,” I grumble, shaking my head.

“And what do you require, my dear?”

“A babysitter.”

“For this sweet little creature?”

Babcia’s kindly voice brings me back to the present.

“If you wouldn’t mind…” I whisper, a pulse of guilt pounding through me. Babcia doesn’t deserve my attitude.

“Of course not, dear. I will treat her as I treat you. As if she is my own granddaughter.”

“I hope she treats you better than I do.”