Page 79 of Strange Familiars
Danny gives me a conniving grin. “Why? Is Pudding hurt again?”
“Shut up, Danny,” I snap. “I just need to talk to her.”
Danny is still snickering, but he stops when Bridie whacks him in the gut. She looks at me, her expression sympathetic, and says, “She’s out. She left about twenty minutes ago. She said she was looking for something…something she’d lost.”
32
Gwendolynne
Heloise and I crash through the undergrowth, shouting Percy’s name.
We’re in the forest surrounding Seamere that borders the outer paddocks. “Percy,” I call out, angling my magetorch higher. “Percy!” In desperation, I even try “Lord Percival the Second, Purveyor of the Flesh of Small Defenseless Creatures, Destroyer of Carpet, Scratcher of Doors, and Usurper of Recently Vacated Chairs!”
But the only answer is a deep and resounding silence.
Heloise dangles a piece of premium smoked salmon from her fingers, brushing aside bits of bracken, while I shine my torch into every crack, crevice, and shadow that we come across.
There’s no Percy.
“Perhaps he just fell asleep somewhere and forgot to drop his shields,” suggests Heloise, though her expression tells me she doesn’t really believe it. From what I’ve read, mental shields don’t feel like communication is completely severed.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I guess we should head back. Maybe someone will pick him up and hand him in to a vet clinic.”
It’s too difficult to voice my real fear: that Percy has been hurt. Or worse, killed.
But even if he hasn’t—even if for some strange reason it’s just that our bond was broken—it’s still terrifying. If someone finds him and figures out who he is, they might return him to Nathaniel Price. They’ll realize that I never euthanized him like I was supposed to. I’ll get in trouble not only for going against a client’s wishes but also for illegally adopting a familiar.
What will they do to me, if they find out?
What will they do tohim?
I swallow, my mouth dry, and take Heloise’s arm. My fingers dig into her biceps, but she doesn’t say anything.
When we arrive back at my dorm room, the corridor is all dark. It’s late enough that everyone is in bed, sleeping—except for Bridie and Danny, of course, who from the sounds of it are in bed, not sleeping.
I catch a whiff of men’s cologne as I unlock my door. It reminds me of Harrisford’s scent, though that can’t be. He’s probably gone home with that nurse from the hospital and is already busy peeling off her pink scrubs. Has he gone back to her place, or are they here at Seamere, cozying up in the south wing? My pulse rate spikes at the thought, my head growing so hot that my scalp actually prickles.
Grinding my teeth, I force my mind to think of something else. Why the hell would I care where Harrisford Briggs is? Or whose scrub pants he’s currently getting into? Right now, the only thing I care about is Percy and his safety.
As I push open the door, however, the reason for the men’s cologne smell suddenly becomes clear.
“Miss Chan,” a man’s voice says, from behind us in the corridor.
I spin round. Professor Thomas Pickering is standing before me, an unctuous smile upon his goatee-framed lips. He must wear the same brand of cologne as Harrisford. As I stare at the professor, he slides his hands into his trouser pockets. “Are you looking for something?” he says. “Or should I say, someone?”
Percy.Oh shit. “What do you mean?” My voice wavers as I try to feign ignorance.
His smile only widens. “I mean the illegal little kitty cat you were keeping inside your room.”
My heart starts to pound, thrashing wildly in my chest like a bucking unicorn trying to escape its stall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor.”
He takes two steps toward me. Beside me, Heloise stiffens, her fingers curling into fists. It’s actually quite comforting knowing that my friend is willing to punch this loser in the face for me.
“I think you do,” he says, his voice all oily, his eyes shadowed by the overhead fluorescent magelights. “I think you’ve stolen a patient from Saint Gertrude’s and have been housing it in your room.”
My entire body goes cold, as though it’s been drenched in ice water. “Wh-what makes you say that?”
“We had an anonymous tip, of course,” the professor says. “And when we came to your room and opened up the door, the report was proved to be right.” He shifts slightly, so that he has a clear view into my sad, bare little dorm. “Your illegal cat was right there—curled up on that chair.”
