If It Walks Like A Duck
The taste of copper lay bitter on his tongue as he dragged himself out of the forest. He was certain that his left hindlimb was broken and the right throbbed whenever he attempted to put weight upon it, so he suffered the stones and twigs that dug into his belly as he crawled further away from the pack of wolves that had his scent.
He should have known that he was being set up. He should have realised that Viktor was trying to get rid of him.
His paws were ripped and bleeding and every step was agony. His fur was matted and there were gaping wounds over his flanks and everything hurt, but he kept crawling because the further he got away from the forest, the further he got away from the Viktor and the werewolves.
The shadows of the night provided cover from wandering gazes but if anyone cared to look hard enough, they would see fiery orange fur and the snowy tip of a tail slinking through the paved streets of Oakwood village - a small farming village that was just far enough away from the city for the cityfolk to be oblivious to its existence.
He managed to drag himself past two houses before finally giving in to the pain and hauling himself up the garden path of the third house and curling up on a doormat that stated, in a cheery font, ‘Wipe your paws!’
He passed out.
Molly Ramsgate knew a little magic - the sort of magic that ensured her toast was the perfect shade of golden every time it popped out of the toaster, and the sort of magic that had her guests saying ‘You brew a good cuppa,’ no matter what their preferences were regarding tea or coffee.
The sort of magic she didn’t know and, ironically, the sort of magic she needed, was the sort of magic that stopped her from hitting the snooze button twice on her alarm and subsequently arriving twenty minutes late to work.
Perhaps she would be more enthusiastic about arriving on time if she enjoyed her job, but nursing had been the Plan B because Plan A hadn’t really worked out in the ever-fluctuating cost-of-living crisis. Art simply didn’t provide a living wage anymore, and with the uprising of AI - don’t get her started on AI - people were becoming less focused on quality and more drawn to cheap. Even in the tattoo industry.
So, Molly had sold her tattoo parlour to the first fast food company that had been waiting to get their fry-greased hands on the property, and had started her nursing degree - which had pleased her parents greatly.
And now, she barely had time to put a pencil to paper.
Seven a.m. was far too early to start a shift. Why couldn’t people be considerate and get sick after nine? She brushed her teeth and showered and ate her perfectly golden toast alongside her not-too-hot, not-too-sweet coffee, and stuffed a packet of noodles into her bag for lunch because they were quick to make, quick to eat, and nurses thrived off sugar and shit.
She shuffled out of her front door and her doormat yelped as she stumbled over it.
She managed to save her hands from the jagged edges of the crazy-paved path by falling directly on her face.
With a groan she rolled onto her arse and frowned at the huge, orange cat trembling in front of her door.
No. Not a cat. A fox.
A bloodied fox with a broken leg and great, oozing wounds in its flank.
Poor thing. It looked as though a dog had grabbed hold of it. She should probably take it to the vets to see if it could be treated or, at the very least, be put out of its misery.
She clambered to her feet and moved to pick it up, then paused. Didn’t foxes carry disease? If the farmers weren’t complaining about them eating their livestock, they were complaining about them infecting them with one thing or another. She should wrap the fox in a towel.
She grabbed an old, ratty towel she had once used when she was testing tattoo ideas and she threw it over the fox.
The fox groaned in pain. “Fuck off,” it said as it tried to shake the towel off.
Molly blinked. She had never heard a fox speak before, although she admitted that she hadn’t met too many foxes.
She slowly pulled the towel off the fox’s head. “What did you just say?”
The fox cracked a fiery eye open and glowered at her. “I said fuck off and let me die in peace.”
Molly threw the towel over the fox’s head once more and blinked at the writhing, grumbling lump of material, wondering what to do next.
A talking, half-dead fox was a good excuse to call into work sick, right?
She carefully peeled the towel off its head and it bared its teeth at her. “Would you like me to take you to the vets?” she asked it.
“No,” it snapped. “I don’t want to go to the bloody vets! I want to be left alone!”
Molly glanced at the patch of crimson slowly radiating through the towel. “I think you need stitches.”
“You’re going to need stitches if you don’t take this damn towel off me!”
Molly removed the towel and pursed her lips. “I was only trying to help.”
“If you really want to help me,” said the fox in a snide, smooth, and decidedly male voice, “you can find me a witch to bond with so I can heal myself.”
Molly raised her eyebrows. “You’re a Familiar?”
“No. I’m a four-legged parrot.”
“I’m only asking. What’s your name?”
The fox narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Carinthian. How do you know about Familiars?”
“Carinthian,” Molly echoed with an amused snort. “Do you have a brother named Revelations?”
“It’s spelled differently. You’re avoiding the subject,” he accused. “You didn’t scream when you heard me speak and you know what Familiars are. What are you?”
Molly scowled at him. “I’m assuming you chose my doorstep to die on for a reason. You already know what I am. Familiars recognise magic when they see it.”
“My dear, I have lost a lot of blood. I am talking to three identical copies of you. Believe me when I say that everything has an aura surrounding it right now, even the bin.”
Molly considered this for a moment and nodded. “I’m going to take you to the vet.” She picked him up despite his spluttered protests.
“I’m not an animal!”
“If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck…”
“Yes, well, this duck has a human form, thank you very much!”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Turn into a human and I’ll take you to the hospital.”
Carinthian glowered at her. “...I can’t.”
Because he’d lost too much blood. “Then keep your mouth shut like a good little fox and maybe when they tell me how much the bill will total after a blood transfusion, I won’t opt to euthanise you instead.”
His ears drooped but he did, incredibly, manage to remain silent when they arrived at the vets.
