No Rest Fur the Wicked
The rain is finally coming to a stop, but the forest remains humid And cold. A heavy scent of rotting pine needles and wet earth presses down on me. With every step, my leather boots sink past the ankles, the thick mud sucking at my heels with a wet pop that makes each stride a chore. At this pace, it'll be another full day before I reach the safety of the cabin. I knew I should have stayed at the inn until the storm passed, but the keeper was driving me crazy. I would rather face the storm than hear one more sad monologue about how everyone leaves.
I guess he was right.
Seeking a momentary reprieve, I haul myself onto an ancient root the size of a small carriage. My legs burn with the effort as I settle against the rough bark and pull the brass compass from my pocket. Thin strips of moonlight slip through the canopy above, catching the damp glass of the dial just right to create a tiny rainbow around the needle. Despite the freezing dampness seeping through my cloak, it makes me smile.
"Still pointing north?"
The voice, smooth but laced with a distinctly arrogant drawl, comes from the shadows directly above me.
I snap my head up, half-expecting to spot the glowing eyes of a woodland elf, or perhaps the fluttering wings of a nosy pixie. Instead, looking down at me with absolute disdain, I find a cat. A massive white Maine Coon with pale blue eyes, perched regally on a thick branch, barely a few feet above my head.
"It does not," I answer, my voice raspy from the cold as I snap the brass lid shut and swiftly tuck the device away. "I made it to guide me somewhere specific."
"A witch," the cat purrs. He descends with grace, leaping effortlessly from branch to branch without a single rustle of leaves, until he lands softly on the wood just a few inches above me.
"I prefer mage," I correct him, shifting my weight to look up more comfortably.
He ignores me entirely. Instead, he arches his spine back in a long, luxurious stretch, closing his little eyes and shaking softly as his front paws rhythmically knead the wood. After a moment, he straightens, settles onto his haunches, and begins methodically licking a front paw.
"I don't care what you prefer, witch," he declares nonchalantly, his words muffled slightly between rhythmic licks of his fur.
A tired laugh escapes my lips, briefly turning to a cloud in the cold air. "And what are you?"
"A cat," he deadpans, pausing his grooming to fix me with an unblinking, condescending stare.
"Yeah." My smile widens. "And you talk. Are you an anima?"
He recoils, his ears flattening as he shoots me a deeply offended glare—a reaction that, unfortunately for his dignity, is incredibly adorable.
"No. I'm not a witch, witch," he spits out the word like a bad taste. He turns his head to the side, lifting his chin and pretending to ignore my existence altogether as he resumes dragging his wet paw over his ear and face.
I reach up slowly, my numb fingertips barely grazing the impossibly soft, dry white fluff of his shoulder.
Faster than I anticipate, he turns and swats my hand away, baring tiny fangs in a vicious hiss. "Away, witch!"
I chuckle, instinctively pulling back and cradling my stung hand against my chest. Three long, stinging red lines rapidly swell on my pale skin, droplets of blood welling up and falling to the dark below.
"So you just happen to talk?" I prompt, wiping the blood on my trousers.
He hisses again, before dropping lightly onto the root beside me. "I used to be a handsome prince," he growls, his bushy tail flicking angrily against the wood. "But then a filthy witch did this to me."
I crouch down, tilting my head to get a better look at his indignant face, particularly that soft pink nose. "What did you do?" I ask calmly.
He glares up at me, his eyes widening in absolute outrage. "What did I do?!" he demands, his voice pitching up a squeaky octave. "Oh, you witches are all the same. Always victim-blaming!"
"Victim-blaming?" I echo, raising an amused eyebrow.
"Don't play dumb." He shoots me a withering sideways glance. "You're acting like I brought this upon myself."
"You did," I assert smoothly. I have absolutely no idea if it's true, but the way his fur puffs up in indignation tells me it upsets him, and right now, that is more than enough reason to sound confident.
He hisses a final, dramatic time. "Should have known you'd be just like every other witch," he mutters. He turns his back to me with an exaggerated huff, acting as though I owed him a personal debt.
"I'll break the curse for you, if you want," I offer casually. I push myself off the root, landing heavily back into the mire. Cold mud violently splashes up my shins, sticking to the damp fabric of my trousers.
He slowly turns his head, peering down his little pink nose at me from his elevated spot on the root.
"You have a staggeringly big ego," he sneers. "What makes you think you would even be able to? This was an extremely talented witch, one coy and powerful enough to trick someone as exquisitely intellec—"
His pompous monologue is cut abruptly short. Behind my back, my fingers had been deftly weaving the complex gestures of a silent incantation.
With a sharp flick of my wrist, a cloud of glittering, silvery dust puffs from my palm. The cat's body violently bursts into a blinding flash of incandescent light, forcing me to shield my eyes. There is a loud gasp, followed instantly by the flailing silhouette of a rapidly expanding human form.
Unable to catch his balance, his newly human body stumbles blindly off the curved edge of the root and hits the muck below with a sickening, heavy thud. I shield my face with my arms as a wave mud splatters up.
"Damn, careful," I say, wiping the sludge from my coat with my hand. I lean over to inspect my handiwork.
Through the dissipating magical smoke, I see him. He looks to be somewhere in his thirties, with a wide, burly build and an astonishing amount of thick, dark hair sprouting everywhere on his body.
"You did it!" he screams in shock, scrambling into a sitting position and staring wide-eyed at his mud-coated hands.
I eye his stout, hairy body critically. "You don't exactly look like a prince," I point out.
He scoffs, aggressively wiping mud from his chest. "Well, I am one! I just... uh... put on a few pounds. People liked to feed me."
He attempts a dignified stand, puffing out his chest—until the freezing air hits him and he realizes he is completely naked. Yelping, he frantically crosses his hands over his groin to cover himself.
"Quickly, witch, give me your coat!" he barks, his regal tone completely undermined by his violent shivering.
I smile pleasantly, folding my arms tightly across my chest. "No."
"You wench!" he roars, his face turning an angry shade of plum. "Give it to me, or I swear I'll have my father arrest you the moment I return home!"
Lunging forward, he tries to snatch the coat right off my shoulders. I simply take a half-step back. His bare feet lose whatever little traction he had. His legs fly out from under him, and he face-plants directly into the deep, churning sludge.
"I see. This is exactly how you got yourself cursed, isn't it..." I ponder aloud, watching with immense satisfaction as he struggles desperately to get up. He keeps slipping helplessly back down into the mire, making loud, squelching splats every time he tries to push himself onto his hands and knees.
"Pbbbt! Something's in my mouth!" he yells frantically, spitting brown water.
My smile widens into a grin. "Probably a worm."
"Take it out! Take it out!" he shrieks, thrashing in the muck like a beached–excessively hairy–fish. He scrapes desperately at his own tongue, spitting out brown water and leaves.
I sigh, watching him flail. A harsh gust of wind cuts through the trees, biting through my cloak, and I feel a sudden, unwelcome pang of pity. The man is freezing, naked, and entirely devoid of survival instincts.
Stepping forward, I reach down and grab him by the forearm. With a heave that makes my sore shoulders groan, I haul his bulk out of the puddle. He stumbles to his feet, coughing violently, and spits a wriggling, half-chewed earthworm onto my boots.
I wrinkle my nose. "You're welcome."
He furiously wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his teeth chattering. Despite being covered head-to-toe in freezing slime and desperately trying to hide his modesty with his hands, he still manages to jut his chin out with unbearable arrogance.
"You... you insolent peasant!" he stammers, shivering violently. "I demand you give me your garments at once! You have humiliated a royal, and I will see you hanged—"
"A simple 'thank you' would suffice," I interrupt, my voice flat.
He gags indignantly. "Thank you? Thank a filthy witch? I am of noble blood! I bow to no dirt-dwelling, spell-casting—"
He doesn't get to finish. I don't even bother with the dust this time. I simply snap my fingers, murmuring a sharp, single syllable under my breath.
Another blinding flash of silver light illuminates the dark trunks around us. The heavy thud of a man is instantly replaced by a pathetic, wet splat.
I look down. The majestic, fluffy Maine Coon from earlier is gone. In his place sits a miserable, soaked creature. The magical transformation couldn't erase the physical mud he'd just bathed in, so his once-magnificent white fur is now plastered flat against his frame. He looks like a drowned rat, half his previous size, with his large ears drooping sadly sideways.
He lets out a high-pitched, miserable yowl.
"Let's try this again later," I tell him, turning on my heel and continuing my trek deeper into the woods.
The squelch of my boots resumes, but now it’s accompanied by the frantic slap-slap-slap of wet paws trailing right behind me.
"Wait! Wait, witch! Mage! Whatever you are!" he cries out, his voice returning to its feline pitch. He scrambles over the roots to keep up with my long strides. "I'm sorry! Okay? I am sorry! I take it back! Turn me back! Please!"
I ignore him, pulling my cloak tighter. Slowly the oppressive darkness of the woods starts to lift. The thick gray mist, weaving through the trunks, begins to dissipate. The rain clouds have long parted. Wet leaves turn muted gold as the very first rays of dawn bleed through the canopy.
"I'll do anything!" he wails, his voice growing raspy from complaining. "Anything you want! Gold! Land! I'll make you a royal advisor! Just don't leave me like this!"
The muddy terrain gradually gives way to a soft, springy bed of fallen pine needles. We step through a natural archway of twisted fir trees and emerge into a small, quiet clearing. The dawn light is clearer here, illuminating a dry patch of moss near a massive boulder.
I let out a long breath and slide the heavy pack off my shoulders. My muscles ache as I stretch, humming with the familiar fatigue of a long night's march.
I kneel and begin unrolling my waxed canvas tent.
"What are you doing?" the wet cat demands, trotting into the clearing and leaving a trail of muddy paw prints over the moss.
"I'm setting up camp," I say without looking at him, driving a wooden peg into the dirt with the heel of my boot. "I'll think about your offer tomorrow. Right now, I need to sleep."
He stares at me, eyes wide with absolute disbelief. "Tomorrow? The sun is literally rising! Are you a vampire?"
I don't bother answering the question. Instead, I pause my work, resting my hands on my knees, and fix him with a serious stare. The amusement is gone from my voice.
"Use this time to think," I tell him, my tone low and quiet. "Think very carefully about whether you really want to make a deal with a witch to get your human form back. There is always a price."
He blinks at me. His little pink nose twitches. I hate how adorable it is. For a fleeting second, I expect a glimmer of realization to dawn on him—a healthy fear of what dark bargain a practitioner of the arcane might demand. But he just looks confused. His royal ego and sheer, unadulterated stupidity form a perfect, impenetrable shield against intimidation.
He scoffs, a sound that comes out as a wet sneeze, and lifts one muddy paw in disgust. "Whatever. Just don't expect me to sleep in the mud while you play in your little tent."
Turning his back on me, he leaps clumsily onto the lowest branch of a nearby pine tree. He settles into the crook of the wood, glaring down at his ruined coat. He begins the loud, deeply unpleasant process of licking the mud out of his fur.
I shake my head, finishing up my small camp. I crawl inside the small canvas shelter, shedding my muddy clothes and wrapping a heavy woolen blanket tightly around me. As I close my eyes, trying to tune out the relentless sound of feline grooming, I can feel it. Those piercing blue eyes fixed on my tent, watching me.
Damn cat.
