Waking up with a cat on top of you sounds cuter than it really is. Especially when you don't own a cat.
The sensation of a weight and of someone poking me with little needles welcomed me back to consciousness, and I opened my eyes to see a black cat staring down at me, purring loudly as it kneaded my chest with its claws.
For a good ten seconds, we stared at each other while my brain rebooted and began searching for explanation and memory. I recalled getting up that morning, and then going to work in the afternoon, and then...
As the rest of my traumatic day came flooding back, right up to the part where I'd met my very first daemon face to face, the cat transformed.
The daemon stared down at me, long black hair spilling over his shoulders in a silky cascade and his yellow eyes gleaming in his shadowed face.
I shouted in alarm and began to thrash and struggle, but he weighed a lot more in human form than he did as a cat, and kept me pinned to the floor quite easily.
"You can stop that now," he said with a lazy grin. "Unless you want to pass out again. I'm not going to hurt you, obviously."
I stopped. I was getting tired, anyway.
"What the hell do you want?" I rasped. My mouth was dry, and I felt a bit cold and sick.
"An interesting question," he said. His hands rested on my shoulders, and from the way they dug into my skin, I guessed he still had claws. "I want quite a few things, actually. Foremost, to return to my native realm, and never to serve another damned witch again. First, though, there are several things I do not want at all, but that I need in order to eventually get what I want. You, for example. I need you to help me solve your father's murder; and, of course, I need to keep you alive in the meantime, as per your father's final command."
The last part sounded like a bit of an afterthought, and I frowned. "Good to know where we stand."
"We all have our priorities," he said, his eyes narrowing as his grin widened.
"Are you going to let me up?" I asked, beginning to feel a little awkward on top of everything else.
"Are you going to scream and faint again?"
"Depends. Got any more shocking revelations to deliver?"
He laughed—a low, musical sound—and shifted off me to help me up.
"No wonder it took me so long to find you; you're not like your father at all."
"Good," I said, and then sneezed. Lying on a dusty floor wasn't good for my allergies, and I was probably allergic to cats, too.
Scrubbing my itchy nose with my sleeve, I pulled the cloth cover off a reading chair and collapsed into it, resting my head against the back and shutting my eyes.
"Okay, so for the sake of argument, let's say this isn't a hallucination, and I'm not insane, and you're a daemon. What did you say your name was, again?"
I peeked at him through one eye, mostly to check if he was still there, and found his expression had turned guarded.
"I didn't. I said that you could call me 'Ro.'"
"Oh, right. Ro, then." I shrugged. Daemon got trust issues. Cool. "So, why don't I remember you? I mean, why didn't I remember you until you did that thing, before?"
'Ro' paced the room, taking it in with a critical eye. "Because Oscar didn't want you to. He made me seal the memory deep in your mind, along with any other memories that might trigger it—namely, any memory of my other form."
It felt weird, hearing my dad's name spoken aloud—especially by a cat-daemon guy. Almost like it was a spell, my long-dead curiosity about him stirred to life, resurrected by the sound.
"Why? I mean, he was obviously testing me for something. Why not tell me he was a witch?" I asked.
Ro looked at me over his shoulder, arching a thin, elegant brow. I noticed his fine clothes were as pristine and unwrinkled as before, and had changed with him from man to cat and back. I wondered if they were real, or part of some illusion, and whether the man or the cat was his real form.
"He was testing you, yes," he said, trailing long, claw-tipped fingers across the top of an antique side table. "When he first learned of your existence, he was convinced you were witchborn. Then, when you showed no sign of having any magic at all, he thought that perhaps it would manifest with age—at twelve, or at puberty, maybe. When those benchmarks came and went, and your ability still failed to appear, he gave up. As for why he kept it secret?" He shrugged. "Only the initiated are supposed to know this world even exists, and he thought ignorance would be easier for you. Rather a disappointment, I imagine, to learn you're the son of a High Witch, only to learn you yourself are something of a... 'dud.'"
"High Witch? There are levels, or something?" I rubbed my brow.
"Indeed." Ro turned to face me, hands clasped behind his back, his yellow eyes in stark contrast with the strange bluish-brown of his dusky skin. "There are many 'levels,' as you say, from the common hedge-witch up to the Council of Thirteen. Thirteen thrones, held by thirteen High-born Witches. Your father held the Ivy Throne. It's yours, now, by blood. Although..."
He sauntered towards me, set his hands on the armrests of the chair, and leaned close, shutting his eyes and inhaling deeply. I pressed myself into the backrest, leaning away from him.
He wrinkled his nose, pushed himself away and straightened his posture once more. "Unless we can discover how to unlock your abilities—if you have any—it won't be yours for long."
"Well, I don't want it, anyway," I huffed. "I'm not a witch, and even if I was, I don't want anything from my dad. I don't even want this house. Much less the weird things that come with it."
I did my best to glare at him, but with little effect.
He grinned again, showing his sharp, cat's teeth.
"Unfortunately, a Throne isn't something you can simply 'give away.' You're bound to it, for life. So, either we figure out your ability, or..."
He shrugged.
"Or what?"
"Or someone kills you for it, like they killed your father. For better or worse, Oscar kept you a secret. No one knew he had a child. It should have been impossible—infertility being among the prices of immortality, after all. Hence, his surprise when he discovered you."
"Imm... Immortality?" I repeated.
"Well, near immortality. Witches can be killed, obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."
He rolled his eyes, and I got a sense of where I stood in his estimation (spoiler: it wasn't high).
I rubbed my eyes. "Okay... look, cat-guy. Ro. Whatever. I've had a helluva crappy day. My boss fired me, my pseudo-boyfriend cheated on me with a hunk, and now my dad is fucking up my life from beyond the grave. So, like, cut me a break, okay? What the hell do you want me to do? Click my heels three times and make a wish?"
Ro narrowed his eyes at me, the pupils contracting to slits. A smile twisted his mouth, but it was far from a friendly expression.
"Look, 'Ellie,'' he said in a low voice, biting his lip and leaning over me again. "I don't want to be here any more than you do. I hated your father from the very bottom of my pitch-black soul, and as his spawn, I suppose I ought to hate you, too. All I want is to fucking go home, and you're my 'ticket to ride.' Meanwhile, if you're at all interested in staying alive—and honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you're not—you need to stick with me. So... do we have a deal?"
He held out his hand, and I stared at it—at his long, thin fingers, grayish skin, and sharp black nails.
"Nah," I said, shaking my head. "Sorry, man, but no."
I pushed myself to my feet and—to my relief and moderate satisfaction—'Ro' stepped back to let me up.
"I don't want anything to do with this shit. You can keep your 'Ivy Throne,' and Witch-born nonsense. Hell, you can keep the goddamned house, for all I care. Just leave me the fuck out of it."
I strode towards the door, intent on leaving, but when I reached it and tried the handle, I found it locked. Feeling like a character in a horror film, I turned to find 'Ro' at my back.
"Oscar installed this system a few months ago," he said, coolly. "He was paranoid well before anyone tried to kill him."
He punched a sequence into a number pad on the wall, which I'd failed to notice on my way in, and the lock clicked.
I tried the door again, and it swung open.
"Yeah, well. See ya 'round, 'Ro,'" I said shakily, and stepped through.
He stood in the shadowed entryway, watching me with yellow, cat-like eyes.
"Sooner than you think, if I'm not mistaken," he said. "You'll be back—'Ellie' Elwood Harris—before dawn, I would bet."
"Right." I laughed. "Okay. I bet not."
Then I stumbled down the walkway to my car, just as the purple tones of evening darkened into true night.
I got in, started the engine, and drove away.
But, as I would soon learn, betting against a demon was a bad idea.