Trey fumbled around in his pack and handed Delilah her magical collar. She hadn’t worn it since Wilde had altered the spell because he’d been too tired and busy to fix it. “Good luck,” Trey said, then slipped away, sneaking off on his own.
Delilah rubbed her thumb over the pink leather, then brought it to her neck. “If someone’s not here to take the collar off, I’ll be stuck as a cat andreallymad about it.”
“I thought you were always a cat,” Angelica said snidely.
“I am, but I still prefer to have thumbs.” Delilah closed the clasp on the collar and lost her precious thumbs immediately. One second, she was crouched low, on the same level as everyone. The next her furry belly pressed flat to the ground. She tilted her head back to look up at the others and meowed.
An odd expression rippled over Angelica’s face. Then she suddenly reached out and stroked Delilah’s head. “Gods, why are you socute? This is unfair.”
Delilah slowly blinked her eyes closed and nuzzled her head against Angelica’s hand. Being a cat—a real cat—was so nice. The sun was warmon her dark brown fur, and she wanted to roll over and expose her belly to feel it there too. She flexed her fingers, and her claws popped out, tiny little knives. She arched her back and padded over the rubble, feeling the whole world beneath her paws.
“Good luck,” Fitz whispered and nudged her toward the lair.
She didn’t like being nudged, so she turned around and nipped his hand. He yanked it away and scowled at her, but she scampered off before he could scold her.
The world seemed enormous when she was so little. Any time she saw a guard, they towered over her. One of their feet almost came down on her and she panicked, imagining herself as a furry little pancake, and scrambled away from them, foregoing stealth in favor of safety. The guard yelped in surprise, but she slipped through the front door before he called for assistance.
She crept through the lair, counting the minions. They stood scattered about, guarding doorways and stairs, patrolling the hallway. Their gazes swept far above Delilah, never thinking to lookdownfor the threat.
The guards had at least tripled since Delilah stayed in the lair. She counted twenty-four on the first floor, then slunk up the stairs and counted twelve on the second.
There was more foliage to hide in on the second floor. The cleaning hadn’t reached quite this far. She hadn’t been allowed on the second floor during her stay because Wilde always warned her away from any stairs, but this was the floor she and Fitz had searched last time. Out of curiosity, she padded down to the room where she and Fitz had been caught.
Last time, the walls had been covered with someone’s collection of decorative vases. She’d broken several during their search for the curse’s anchor. There was no reason to look here—nothing she could report to the others—but some cat instinct drew her to the fragile collection. An urge to knock them off the shelves, one by one, to see what happened.
Before she could enter the room, two firm hands wrapped around her middle and carried her into the air. Her paws scrambled, trying to find purchase, making her look like she was swimming. “Put me down!” her protest came out in an irritated yowl.
“Sorry, kitty, but you’re trespassing.” The orc shifted Delilah in his arms so that her bottom was supported and her front paws rested against his shoulder. “And we’ve been ordered to bring all trespassers to the lord.”
Wilde would recognize her as a cat, of course, but what would he do? Would he find some excuse to release her? Or hold her prisoner? She needed to finish her job, to report back to the others. She hissed and scratched the orc’s shoulder, squirming in his grip until he dropped her.
She landed on her feet and raced through the hall. Another minion lunged to catch her, but she was small, and quick, and their hands barely brushed against her long fur. At the staircase, she had to choose up or down. Further into the lair or return to the others.
She chose down.
The other minions had been alerted to her presence now. Some tried to chase her, others tried to coax her, crouching down, and whispering, “Psp psp psp.” She dodged grasping hands and stomping feet, winding her way through dozens of legs until she finally burst into the throne room.
The throne room had a throne again. It was not the original throne created with a curse, but an entirely new one, made from one of the fallen trees, carved with intricate swirls and painted all black. It was a statement, a challenge to the former Lord of Grimnight:I’ve stolen your title, your lair, your minions, and even your throne, and I have done it all with more flair and power than you could ever dream.
A cloaked figure sat on the throne, one leg tossed over the other knee, one hand supporting their chin. The black hood completely obscured his face, not even hinting at the features beneath.
The Lord of Grimnight.
Delilah suddenly feared that this was not Wilde, but Trey’s father, come back for revenge. She tried to change directions, but her paws slid against the smooth floor and for a second, she ran in place.
The cloaked figure laughed at her efforts. Neither evil nor malicious, just a soft snort he couldn’t contain.
She paused, looking at him curiously. The minions caught up with her, but the cloaked figure waved them off.
He stood and approached her, each step careful and measured. The cloak flared around him, surrounding him in shadow.
Delilah stared up at him with big, round eyes, wondering what he would do. Tell her the plan? Assure her everything was fine?
The figure knelt on one knee and scratched between her ears.
The tension leaked from her body, and she purred in contentment, happy to see her friend was still on her side.
Nimble fingers slipped around the collar. Once he took it off, she could ask him all the questions building up in her head. What was his plan? How could she help? What role did he want her to play?
