Клеа Саймон - A Spell Of Murder

“It’s fine, really.” Becca perked up a bit in the warmth of his gaze. “Would you like something? More tea?”

A soft laugh. “Please,” he said, “I don’t think I could. I only wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Oh.” A soft mew of disappointment. Laurel, meanwhile, was leaning against the visitor’s shins so aggressively that he almost stumbled as he tried to step forward. “Please, won’t you sit for a minute?”

“Well, if I’m not interrupting.”

Now it was her turn to chuckle. “I think I was just kind of overwhelmed. Who knew not doing anything would be so exhausting?”

“Who said you’re not doing anything?” Sidling around the feline, he took a seat on the sofa. “Living the self-directed life—being freelance—takes more energy than simply punching a clock.”

“But I’m not freelance. I’m just unemployed.” Becca settled in beside him, and for once, Laurel did not insert herself. Instead, she sat back and, when Clara approached, swatted her sister. “Stop that!” The hiss as swift as the paw.

“That’s still stressful.” Trent sounded as if he knew. “And, of course, you’re still processing the grief and the shock, I would imagine.”

“I guess,” Becca acknowledged. At their feet, the two cats faced off.

“What are you playing at?” Clara’s murmured question only earned her a fierce stare.

“Just…watch.” The low yowl was unmissable.

“Your cat makes such a funny sound.” The two felines looked up to find the guest watching them. “They’re sisters?”

“Yeah.” Becca nodded. “I know it’s odd, but littermates can have different fathers, and Laurel’s definitely got some Siamese in her. They’re, well, more talkative than other cats.”

Trent nodded, as if he understood. Laurel blinked at him slowly. Even if he couldn’t make sense of her vocalizations, thought Clara, surely, he would get that the slinky feline was flirting with him.

“Kind of like some of our coven mates.” He turned toward Becca, a hint of humor softening his words.

“Oh, they’re not so bad.” Becca was looking at her hands, Clara noted. And while they were very clean, gentle hands, the calico could not see what made them so interesting at that moment.

“I don’t know.” Trent must have admired her hands too. He’d reached over to place his own over hers. “They were a bit much tonight. Admit it.”

His tone begged for a response. “Well, Larissa can be a little demanding,” she conceded, peeking up at him.

“Tell me about it.” He chuckled softly. “But I was thinking more of how you were attacked in the kitchen.”

“I wasn’t attacked.” Her demurral as soft as Clara’s mew. It didn’t matter. Whether it was the word or some latent gifts that Clara didn’t understand, Harriet had heard her and came trotting into the room. “Did someone say ‘kitchen’?”

Those wide yellow eyes turned from her two sisters to take in the humans seated so close as to be almost cuddling on the couch—and became almost saucer-like as Becca pulled back.

“Actually, I’m glad you came back, Trent. Because I realized I still have some questions…”

“ I have some questions too,” Trent interrupted, his voice soft as velvet, as with one finger, he turned her chin to face him.

Becca gave a slight squeak, as if a mouse were hiding in the depths of her throat, and blinked as if transfixed. Clara looked on in dismay, wondering if she should interrupt. There was no way Harriet would put up with being so ignored.

“Becca?” Trent’s voice was soft and insistent as he leaned in, apparently unaware of the hefty marmalade who had bounded up onto the sofa.

Neither was Becca, it seemed, an oversight that Clara could not comprehend, as her plump sister had landed beside her with a noticeable thud. But even as she opened her own mouth to mew a warning, she heard a soft growl of warning.

“Don’t you dare.” A hiss as soft as a sigh. Laurel, her blue eyes glowing with anticipation.

And suddenly, Clara understood. Finger still beneath her chin, Trent had lifted Becca’s face and leaned over to gently kiss her lips. The sound she made in response—as faint as a kitten’s whimper—seemed to encourage him further. Shifting on the sofa, he leaned forward to pull her close. The gold amulet swung from his open shirt, almost as if it too wanted to make contact with the person Clara most loved.

For a moment, that gold pendant was the only thing moving, swinging back and forth in the space between the two humans as they kissed. It was mesmerizing, Clara had to admit. That steady motion. The glitter as the engraving caught the light. Beside her, on the floor, Laurel had begun to purr, the rhythmic sound matching the back and forth, back and forth.

And then everything changed. Trent shifted, moving one arm around behind Becca as if to draw her closer still. But Becca pulled back, ever so slightly, to address the dark-eyed man. “Wait, Trent, I need to know—”

Before she could finish her question, a sound like the grinding of gears caused them all to turn. Harriet had had enough. And whether she growled because of her annoyance over the lack of cookies or other treats, or whether the hypnotic swing of the amulet had been too much for her subjugated hunting instincts, Clara didn’t have the chance to inquire. As her complaint modulated into a high-pitched whine, the plump marmalade launched herself over Becca and onto Trent’s lap, landing with a thud that made the young couple flinch.

“Ow!” Trent jerked back. Of course, thought Clara, Harriet would use her claws. But whether it was her size or lack of agility that had made her dig in, it did Trent no good to pull away. Those yellow eyes were focused on one thing—the glittering toy that had swung so provocatively only seconds before. And with one fat paw—Harriet’s fluffiness extended even to her white mitts—she swiped at her prize, knocking the shiny piece off its chain and sending it flying across the room.

“Harriet!” Becca was off the couch, even as Trent squealed. “Bad girl. Bad! I’m so sorry.” Trent pressed his hand to his pillaged chest. “Trent, are you all right?”

“I think so.” He glanced down to check his fingertips.

“Are you bleeding?” Becca returned to the sofa and nearly climbed into her guest’s lap to check.

“No, I’m fine.” To Clara’s surprise, he retreated. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Here.” Becca bounced up again. “Let me get you something to put on that. Her claws must have gotten stuck in the chain or…something.” Her words trailed off as she ran to the bathroom. Clara could hear her rustling under the sink.

“ She could just say fur.” Laurel leaned in, apparently amused by the whole adventure. “He has a thick pelt.”

“She’s distressed.” Clara contemplated going after their person, but she had emerged, cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in hand. “He’s a guest.”

“Could’ve been more,” Laurel purred. But the romantic mood had definitely been dispelled.

“No, really!” Trent backed up as Becca approached, holding out one hand as if to ward her off. “I’m okay.”

In truth, Clara could almost understand. The rubbing alcohol smelled foul, its stench so sharp and biting that the three cats retreated to the window. That might have been why the man had stood and was stepping backward, but when he suddenly fell to all fours, the calico grew concerned. Straining to see, she stood as tall as she could. Luckily, at that moment, Becca closed the noxious bottle and, as the fumes began to disperse, got down on her knees beside her guest.