AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Damn," Cassidy said, trying to lighten the mood, "I guess Priest isn’t in the mood to be held by any more confessors."
River did not appear amused. They stalked to the periphery where things were less crowded, and then toward a large door that stood half open so that people could pop out to the parking lot for a smoke or a breath of fresh air.
"Oh, fuck," River breathed. They ran for the door and stood peering out. "Shit, shit, shit."
"Hey, it’s okay," said Cassidy.
"No it’s fucking not," River snapped. "He could’ve wandered out here and gotten lost and it’s freezing out."
Cassidy opened his mouth, hoping something reassuring might pop out.
"Good thing he’s wearing a fur coat," is what his traitorous brain provided instead.
"It’s seventeen fucking degrees out," River said. "And he’s just a baby. Maybe you’ve never had to sleep outside in the middle of winter, but it fucking sucks."
River’s eyes were haunted and their cheeks flushed. Then they were gone, leaving Cassidy in air cold enough that it could cut.
Cassidy swore and turned back inside. He had to find this fucking cat.
CHAPTER 9
Cassidy
After a quick wave from Nora that she’d hold down the fort, Cassidy began to search for Priest. There was no logic to where he began, but before long he realized that he should check all the places with food in the hopes the cat had smelled something good and gone in search. But neither of the food courts or the coffee stand revealed a cat.
On his rounds, he passed a booth that sold catnip mats in every color, and his heart leapt, certain he’d find Priest napping on one of them.
"Has a cat been sitting on these?" Cassidy asked.
The person behind the booth looked confused. "Well, I make them at home and I have two cats. So probably they’ve sat on some of them at one point or another. Is your cat quite territorial? Because I have some in a box that have never—"
Cassidy apologized and moved along. Crocheted stockings to hang with care; spiced nuts for that distant cousin who shows up when you didn’t think they would; wine bottle gift bags elaborate enough to make spirits more than something you give to the coworker who has a shabby chic Live, Laugh, Wine decorative wood block on their desk.
No sign of Priest.
Past blown glass ornaments and stained-glass wreaths; past a child reaching for the ear of a service dog and the chaos that ensued; past a woman grabbing truffles off a tray and being told they weren’t free samples but eighteen dollars’ worth of merchandise, Cassidy searched.
Still no sign of Priest.
Past carolers in matching sweaters and the facade of a snowy cabin hung with mistletoe and holly; past a woman with her eyes closed, taking deep, calming breaths as two kids in braids tugged on her sweater and made demands.
No Priest.
Cassidy started to feel the concern he’d dismissed in River. What if the sweet little cat had gotten outside. What if, confused and perhaps fleeing the noise and fluorescent lights like Cassidy would so love to do, he had zigged instead of zagged and now couldn’t find his way back to the booth? What if, as Cassidy was driving home that evening, he passed a small black form lying motionless on the side of the road?
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he muttered through gritted teeth.
A white woman wearing a sweater with Santa on it that declared I Have a Big Package For You, gave him a dirty look. He grimaced and excused himself.
A murmur began in the crowd. Murmurs often began in the crowd at Craftmas—there were activities going on the whole time: contests for the best ugly Christmas sweater and the best rewrite of a classic carol, a cookie decorating demonstration and make-your-own-wreath classes. Murmurs usually meant a winner was being announced or a demonstration was beginning, so Cassidy ignored it and kept his eyes wide open for any sign of Priest.
But when the murmur turned to gasps and Awws, with phones being removed from pockets and purses and the bottom of bags loaded down with Craftmas goodies, Cassidy turned in the direction the phones were pointed.
The huge Christmas tree that was in the direct center of the room was ceremonially lit every day at noon, so Cassidy figured it was time for the lighting. But the event didn’t usually include such wide-eyed stares from adults and children alike.
When a little boy next to him pointed at the top of the tree, Cassidy saw that it was … Was it moving?
Yes, the boughs near the apex of the giant tree were rustling, the lights moving with them. Then, as Cassidy (and about two thousand other people) watched, a small head poked out of the tree and two fuzzy black ears pricked forward.
It was Priest, and he was yawning and attempting to make himself comfortable on the swaying bough a foot beneath the elaborate glass star that topped the tree.
