Page 4 of Cats Never Fly

Ilooked left.Thenright.Thenover my shoulder.

Nothingseemed out of place.Noone jumped out at me.

Ishifted into my human form, my clothes reappearing with the magic of my shift.WhenI’dleft home last nightIhadn’t knownI’dneed pockets, butIwas gladI’dworn my hoodie with the zippered pockets now.

Ireached for my whistle.

ThenIfroze before my human-shaped fingers touched it.

Wouldthe magic hurt me?

Nah.Itwouldn’t, right?I’dtouched it as a cat, and it hadn’t bothered me.Although, a shifter was always stronger and more immune to magic in their alternate form.Butthose wolves had all seemed okay.Oneof them had to have touched it when they put it in the bag, right?

Decisionmade;Iplucked the whistle from the dirt.

Itwas lighter thanI’dexpected.Dustdropped away from its surface without me having to do a thing.Thewhistle was the length of my hand, from the tip of my middle finger to the bottom of my palm.Cradlingit like a newborn kitten,Iturned it to get a better look at the etchings.Istill didn’t know if the marks were supposed to be waves or flames, but it didn’t matter.Iloved it.

Icurled my fingers around it asIlooked around to see if anything else had dropped out of the bag.Nothingbut faint footprints and tire tracks marked the dirt.Thatwas okay.Myprize was enough.Itucked the whistle into my pocket and zipped it up.Myhand wrapped around it through the fabric.Justto make sure it was still there.Safeand secure.

Andthen, becauseIcouldn’t curb all my cat-like impulses,Ilet my curiosity take the lead.Thosewolves didn’t have the magic to create portals, like some of the supernatural beings did, so they had to have done something else to get to the inn from here.Isniffed and followed the trail.

Afew steps away, concealed by more scrubby shrubs, was a disguised doorway of old weathered wood and rusted hinges.Thewolves had left it slightly ajar.Ipeered through the crack and found a tunnel.Ibet it led right to the inn.Thatplace had been an old pack house once upon a time.Thishad to be a secret escape tunnel from way back, likely built during theShifterWars.

Sofreaking cool.

Istepped toward it, ready to explore it for myself.

Butthen the whistle shifted in my pocket.

Right.

Thetunnel opening was tempting, butIalready had a prize from tonight.I’dcome back and explore the curious passage later, afterIknew the wolves were done with it.Therewas no reason to go in there, especially when the wolves might come back.Iwould be trapped inside.Idoubted there’d be an escape route from the tunnel since itwasthe escape route.

Iwas too protective of my nine to risk it.

Itightened my grip on the whistle and turned away from the intriguing door.

Assoon asImoved away from the tunnel, the whistle filled my thoughts again.IwishedIcould ask someone about it, but what if someone recognized it as something belonging to the inn?Imean, yes,Iprobably should returnit toUlric’sgrandkid, but he hadn’t been using it,Iwas sure of that.Likethe wolves said, everyone knewJakewasn’t a supe.

Theother locals found it strange he wasn’t a supernatural being considering who his grandfather was—they even had a bet going at his pub about when his magic would show up and he finally discovered magic was real—butIfigured strange things happened every day.Whycouldn’t a non-supe be born in a supe family?

Accordingto my high school biology teacher, genetics did weird things sometimes.Ofcourse, that didn’t meanIhadn’t put some money down on the bet.Thechances of winning were much higher compared to the human-run lottery.

Andwasn’t finding the whistle almost like winning the lottery too?

Yes.ThemoreIthought about it, the moreIwas sure the whistle was better off with a supe—me specifically—than withUlric’smundane grandkid.

Butwas it weird to feel a connection to the pretty whistle?Ihoped it hadn’t cursed me.Mamawould have my hide ifIlet something like that happen.Still,Iknew, right down to my polydactyl toe,Icouldn’t give the whistle over to someone who wouldn’t appreciate it.

No.I’dfigure out what the whistle did all on my own.Becausethis was no ordinary whistle.Magicwouldn’t cling to it like it did if it was no different from the shrill whistles police constables used in those historical mysteriesMamaliked to watch onNetflix.

First, though,Ihad to get back to the house beforeMamathrew my breakfast in the garbage becauseIwaslate.Sinceneither my siblings norIwere kittens anymore, we didn’t live with her andPops, but she still insisted we all come for breakfast every day.Shecalled it family bonding time and the most important meal of the day.Thetime when we all talked about our lives and what we’d gotten up to during the night.

Todaywas the first timeIwouldn’t be completely honest with my family as we chatted over bacon, eggs, and smoked kippers.

Ididn’t want to tell anyone about my whistle, not even my mama.Notyet anyway.

Chapter Two