Werecats and Werelocks (Collection) (6 page)

The indignities she'd had to suffer since she'd gone out for a walk to clear her head five days ago were above and beyond a point well made, thank you.
I get it, okay?
She mentally transmitted a message to whoever the Powers That Be were. Surely someone up there was listening.

A loud, angry growl of discontent drifted to her ears.

Ah, ding-dong. Her empty stomach was calling.

The scent of chicken taunted her, wafting to her delicate, pink nose and settling in it ... oh, God, chicken, chicken—chicken—chicken. What she wouldn't do for just one bite and it wouldn't even matter if it was still clucking—which was hedonistic, no doubt. But she was way beyond hedonism after five solid days without much but the scrapings of a Hungry Man Salisbury Steak Dinner and a half eaten corn dog. She might even consider eating a mouse if push came to shove. Her whiskers, like tiny tentacles of tactility, sliced the air almost feeling the tender morsels of meat touch her tongue.

She sniffed again, deeper and with longing.

Wait, was that ... she'd groan if she were in human form—loud and proud. Of all the scents to taunt her with. Chicken Chow Mein, Sesame Chicken, and by God, General Tsao's Chicken, too.

How grossly heinous. How supremely unfair.

She'd gotten herself caught in a Dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant.

Way. To. Go.

But then she shook her fluffy head. Hoo boy, panic had set in and it had a steely grip on her. She knew better than to allow the midnight horror stories her brothers had once freaked her out with get the best of her. All lies. However, when in a jam, panicked and starving, your logic wasn't always cooperating with your imagination and sometimes it just ran away with you. She would not allow ridiculous rumors to turn her into a hot mess.

Not now.

Frankie stretched, letting each muscle in her sleek length tense, then release.

Now, back to what to do.

You, Frankie Lane, are trapped in a Dumpster. Seriously, how often do people pay a visit to the trash can? Once maybe twice a day? What are your chances of getting out of this anytime before like tomorrow?

Shit. By then her fantastic mane of hair would be matted from the cold, wet air.

Sweet fancy Moses.

She knew exactly what to do.

Summoning her last bit of will and backing up against the far corner of the trash bin, she did exactly what any smart feline who was maybe just a little spoiled, was used to having three squares a day and was trapped in a garbage can would do.

She opened her mouth wide.

"Meeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwww!"

"Beulah?"

"Glynice?"

"Wait. Stop right there. Did you hear that?"

Glynice Ackerman halted her purposeful steps, placing a hand on her longtime friend Beulah's arm and held up a wrinkled finger. “Shhhhhh."

"Did you have too many Cosmopolitans at Hwang's, you crazy bat? Don't shush me, old woman."

Glynice narrowed her eyes at her friend. “I said shut up and listen, and don't call me old. You're older than me by three years. Now, hush!” She cocked her head, turning it to the left, then to the right. Damn, she'd swear she'd heard a cat howling.

"Glyn—"

"Shhhhhhhhhh,” she hissed, placing a hand over Beulah's mouth. Turning her head once more, she reached for her hearing aide, cranking it up a notch. She nodded her head in affirmation.

Beulah swatted at her hands. “Get off me, you crazy coot!"

But Glynice grabbed her hand and dragged her around the corner of the Chinese restaurant they'd just eaten far too much in. Not to mention it was a work night and they'd consumed alcohol long past what was considered an acceptable Happy Hour. “It's a cat, Beulah. Don't you hear it?"

Beulah yanked her arm from Glynice's grabby hands and straightened her tweed jacket. “I don't hear a damned thing but your senior ramblings. Now let go of me. I have to get home to Angus in time to give him his heart medication or he'll die on me and I don't fancy joining one of those date sites with that cute Dr. Phil on it at the ripe old age of seventy-five. I think my choices would be severely limited to monthly Viagra subscribers and men who wear white socks with their sandals."

Glynice waved her off, distracted by her mission. “You go then."

Beulah's aggravated sigh rasped the cold night air, slicing into Glynice's freshly turned up hearing aide. “I can't leave you here alone. It's dangerous for a woman to be out this late at night. Rapists wander the streets at this hour."

"Beulah, it's nine o’ clock. That's only late to old broads like us. Kids are just getting started at this hour and ask yourself something."

Beulah trudged behind her friend, dragging her feet through the cold slush that had accumulated as they'd chatted during dinner. “Uh, what?"

"Who, mugger or rapist, would accost an old woman in galoshes?"

Beulah chuckled. “I see your point, friend. But I'm still not leaving you alone."

Glynice tilted her head again. “Over here,” she said, picking up her pace to a brisk trot and stopping at a Dumpster.

"Meooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!"

"Hell's bell's, Beulah! There's a cat trapped in there. Hurry, help me open the lid..."

Frankie yowled for all she was worth when her acute hearing picked up the two women talking.

As they tried to pry the lid open, she planned her escape. If she was quick, which wasn't terribly likely seeing as she was downright weak from lack of salmon, she could escape the trash can without the “Oh, poor, homeless kitty” spiel. Frankie knew all about being caught unsuspectingly when you'd shifted at a most inconvenient time. It'd happened to her cousin Ralph and there was no way in hell she was going to be someone's pet, thrown the occasional sardine from time to time while she ate dry cat food, lapped tap water and slept on some cheaply carpeted kitty condo.

No. Way.

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So maybe it wasn't the worst thing that could've happened to her.

She did, after all, have Bart's Bacon and Tuna Treats to gnaw on.

And really, Glynice was truly lovely. If one were to choose their captor, Glynice was now high on Frankie's list of most treasured abductors. She had scooped her out of the trash can, weak and undernourished, whisked her away to the local twenty-four hour deli, bought her some outrageously priced canned cat food and treats and given her a yummily warm, hand-knitted blanket to sleep on.

That said blanket was in a
cage
was neither here nor there.

That she was sporting a big, red bow around her neck, a couple of pokes from some vets needle, the suggestion that she be spayed and was left feeling grumpy about it all was petty after such great lengths had been taken to see to her comfort.

However, that she was in some strange house, on some moron's desk that apparently worked too much, had next to no family and didn't have time for anything other than business acquaintances as his Christmas present was stretching her generous nature.

A line sincerely had to be drawn here.

Frankie closed her eyes, ignoring the mat of hair she'd shed since her adventure had begun and allowed her mind to drift. So Glynice worked for this guy, and according to the conversation she'd had with her friend Beulah, Sam was a lonely man. Always wrapped up in his business. All work, no play made him dull, dull, dull. Sam was the only one who didn't seem to notice his life lacked a good frolic through a buttercup field.

So Glynice, being the motherly sort and an employee of Sam for a number of years, had decided he needed the tender, loving care of a pet that would snuggle with him at night. Greet him lovingly when he came home. And she thought Frankie was the one to fill the position.

The hell?

How many times did a feline have to hiss at only the merest of glances before her valiant rescuer got the hint? She was so not going to cuddle with some strange old man.

She'd gone out on that fated walk because she didn't want to cuddle with just anyone—or wonk with them as tradition in her culture deemed necessary.

Of course, because she wasn't willing to mate with the man her parents had chosen for her also meant she was perpetually stuck in her cat form for indeterminate periods of time. It was just unfortunate timing when she'd run out of her parent's house needing space, then ended up shifting and was unable to return to her human form. Stubborn ass that she was, she'd refused to go home and admit defeat. And just look at her now.

"What did you say, Glynice?"

The sound of heavy feet coming from the hallway startled her, the husky voice of her new “owner” carried on a chilly whoosh of air brought in by the opening and closing of the front door. Frankie slammed her eyes shut and curled tighter into a snug ball, but her ears perked up.

"You did
what
?"

Frankie would nod in sympathy if she were in human form. Sam must be hearing the goodwill Glynice thought she'd spread for the first time via a phone.

A longwinded sigh, followed by the slamming of a door came just before an astonished, “A cat!” happened. “Look, Glynice, I know you think I'm overworked and I don't get out enough. I know you think I need more fun in my life, but I like my life just the way it is and it doesn't have the time or the room for a cat in it. And cats aren't fun, they're aloof and hairy."

Oh, good. She had neither the time nor the room to be someone's aloof, hairy cat either. They were officially even.

"No, Glynice. I don't want to see the pretty cat. Yes, I'm sure it's very fluffy, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes and I left my briefs here. I don't have time to fool around with some homeless cat you saved from a Dumpster, but thanks for the yuletide cheer just the same."

Pacing ensued by the sound of scuffling feet and then the rustling of papers. “I know they don't require a lot of care, Glynice. Yes, I know all they need is some food, a bowl of milk, toy mice and a cat litter box, but I don't have time for a pet."

Frankie could hear the war he was waging with himself not to yell at Glynice. When that woman got something in her head, God himself couldn't pluck it out.

"Ohhhhh, don't you dare do that to me Glynice Ackerman—don't play the pity card. If the cat needs a home then we'll find it one, it just won't be here."

Well, that was okay by her. She didn't need his, by the minimal view she was allowed, stuffy, boring, dark brown and light beige home.

"You named it?” Disbelief rang in his tone.

Oh, indeed. Frankie had a fine new name now. Glynice had dubbed her
Wiggles
and that held truth to it. She had wiggled—okay, fought to get away from the vet and his shiny needles. Hopefully two rabies shots in one year wouldn't kill her.

"Glynice, be clear on one thing. When the holiday is over, you and I are finally going to talk retirement packages.” He paused, apparently listening closely to his secretary.

His laughter was a sharp bark, oozing sarcasm, but it also held a hint of affection too. “Oh, I am so not a tyrant and you know it. What employer on the face of the planet lets his secretary take two-hour lunches so she won't miss a sale at Bergdorfs? What employer in their right mind gives any employee his time-share in Cabo for a month? A month! A long month where he has to deal with everything he does, like playing lawyer, plus what his secretary does."

Another pause, and then, “I know the heat is good for your arthritis, Glynice. Look, I'm just saying I don't want a cat. That doesn't make me mean. It makes me practical and I have friends, Glynice. I just don't choose to throw darts with them or play golf once a month. I have my work friends and that's plenty."

Dude was dull as the day was long and it showed not only in his décor, but apparently enough that Glynice had decided he needed some un-dulling. He just wasn't playing quite the way Glynice and Beulah had planned. Which was just fine by her.

Frankie Lane was no one's pet.

She just looked like one right now and if she could only find someone, anyone, acceptable enough to mate with temporarily she could shift back to her human form and begin the hunt for the real man of her dreams.

Because the man of her dreams was definitely
not
Henry Weintraub.

Bleh. He was squicky, but her parents found him suitable enough and the mating of their only daughter was a ritual she had no choice but to abide by. Which meant if she didn't hurry up and wonk like soon, she'd be stuck in her cat form forever. Within the shifters of her culture a strict rule applied. Go forth and breed and do it before you're thirty or suffer the wrath.

But somehow, playing with one of those peacock feathers held by the hand of a small child, having her tail nearly yanked off, being potential meat for a dog, eating dry cat food and using a cat litter box seemed worth suffering the wrath rather than ending up with Harry.

Until she'd impulsively left her parents in a rush, shifted, got lost, and couldn't find food because she'd never had to do something so degrading before in her life. She just went to the store and bought it. Which some might call spoiled, but what-evah. She'd still rather starve to death than bunk down with Harry. It wasn't that he was a bad person—he was just—just squicky and
so
not meant to be hers. It was the best word she could come up with.

If she'd spent less time creating a career for herself and more time hunting down a mate like so much prey, she'd be sitting pretty. Like her cousin Maude in Queens. She had a suh-weet deal. A nice house and a couple of kids and a husband who was a Scottish Fold in his cat form. He had an awesome accent...

But alas, here she was on some guy named Sam's desk, listening to him talk about how he didn't need a pet, and she was doing it from a cage.

A
cage
...

Caaa-razy.

This was all too much. A catnap was in order.

She fell asleep to the tune of Sam rebuffing Glynice's
heartfelt, well thought out
gift.

Damn, that woman so knew how to pluck the guitar strings of guilt.