Page 2 of Strange Familiars
But the Prices havemoney, so at least this time that won’t happen.
“Mrs.Mason-Price,” I say, correcting my error. “Percy here seems to be suffering from magiphilia—that’s too much magic. It’s quite an unusual presentation, and I’m going to have to run some tests—”
“No.”
I pull up short and gape at her for a moment. “N…No?” I hadn’t expected her to be so abrupt.
She stares at me, her eyes hard. “Just, no. No tests.”
Flustered, I shuffle through some scrolls that contain price lists, trying to find one that itemizes the tests I want to perform. “If it’s about the money, I can try to modify the diagnostic plan to find the least expensive way of—”
“It’s not themoney,” Mrs.Mason-Price snaps, obviously affronted. “It’s the hassle of it. I don’t want this cat continuing to soil my furniture. Ruining my best clothes with magic. Setting fire to my antique rugs.”
My mouth is open; I shut it. “He—he can’t help it…”
“I don’t care. I want him gone.”
“But he’s your familiar!” I can’t help the note of outrage that creeps into my tone. Witches’ familiars—which help magical folk tap into magic from the atmosphere—are usually closely connected with their owners. The human-familiar relationship is supposed to be one of the strongest bonds there is.
“He’s not mine,” she says icily. “He’s my husband’s. And Nathaniel can afford to buy another.”
Percy, the cat in question, glares at the woman, his one yellow eye slitted. He’s now settled himself into the curved seat of the chair, his crooked tail thumping against the plastic.
I’m lost for words. This has never happened before. Sure, people decline treatments all the time, because they can’t afford them. But here is an owner whocanafford it, and she’s declining because of what? Convenience?
Slowly I restack the scrolls and glance at Percy. He’s lolling again, leisurely licking one paw. But his feigned indifference doesn’t fool me—his tail is still twitching. He’s heard, and understood, what his owner has said.
“Well,” I venture, trying to think through my options. “We have a no-adoption policy here. You’ll need to take him to the shelter—”
She scoffs. “Ineed to take him? I don’t have time for that!”
My irritation is rising; I try to tamp it down. Instead, I smile, my teeth together, my words edging out through the cracks. “Like I said, Saint Gertrude’s has a no-adoption policy.”
She gives a hard, bitter laugh. “Then put him down.”
There’s a long pause. The only sound is of Percy’s spiny tongue dragging through his shabby coat. He’s enthusiastically licking at his belly now, which is almost entirely hairless—soft, pink, and wrinkled.
“Put. Him. Down?” I repeat, not sure I heard correctly.
“Yes, you heard me. Put him down.”
“Like, to sleep? Put him to sleep? Not…down on the floor?”
“Do you not understand English?” she says, enunciating each word, as though my East Asian appearance suggests I’m fresh off the boat and not a BBC—British-born Chinese—who was literally born and raised in England. “Put him down. To death. With your toxic potions, or whatever it is you magical quacks do.”
My throat tightens; my mouth runs dry. I drop my gaze to Percy, watching as he begins to lick his crotch. Even by usual cat standards he’d only be middle-aged: far too young to contemplate putting him to sleep for a potentially treatable condition. And since he’s a witch’sfamiliar, it’s even worse. Some familiars can live for centuries. By magical standards, he’s practically a baby.
“Please,” I say, my voice coming out small. “Won’t you reconsider? I know I don’t have the answers yet, but if you’ll just let me run some tests I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it…”
Mrs.Mason-Price leans forward, gripping her designer handbag. Her voice has turned acerbic, her pink-painted lips twisted in a sneer. “I’d advise you to do as I say, little quack, or it may be that my husband has a little…word…with the hospital board. Andyoumight find yourself unexpectedly expelled.” She sits back, satisfied.
My swallow is painful, my throat thick. “Yes, of course.”
Just minutes later, I watch through the window as Percy’s owner speeds off in her red sports car. She skids around the corner, tires squealing, spraying mud all over my rattly old bike in the process.
As soon as she’s out of sight, I turn to face Percy again. He stops grooming and regards me with one bright yellow eye.
My heart pounds. I don’t want to do it. I can’t do it. The glow of his life force, his qì, envelops him, bright as a polished penny, and I know that apart from the magiphilia problem he’s in fine, robust health. But it’s the rules, and the piece of parchment Mrs.Mason-Price signed to consent to his euthanasia lies on the table behind me. Effectively, it’s Percy’s death warrant. So noxious it could well be burning a hole right through the steel-topped surface.
