#17 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?
217 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?
The yellowed paper suddenly feels… gross.
“Not every mission involves heroics, Miss Harper. We try to escalate our missions appropriately.”
I press my lips together.
“What are you doing?”
For one crazed second or thirty, I hold the paper to my phone, half–expecting it to disappear into the world of internet data and update my App.
“Of course. It’s my job.”
Blood?
Sarcasm aside, his logic is logical, even if it only increases my frustration.
He smells like lemon furniture polish with the faintest whiff of stale cigarette smoke, and my eyes fall automatically to his fingers. His left index and middle finger have yellowed calluses near the first knuckles.
Too bad the possibility of lung cancer in his future doesn’t help me in this moment as I ask faintly, “Did you do something to my dog
wd cat?”
How did he get in? I’m pretty sure Andrew would have followed him if it was through the front door. And when, precisely, did he arrive? I didn’t hear the telltale jingle.
So I think it over. Demi–god blood in a shifter laundromat does seem… odd. My mind races through possibilities, none of them comforting, and most of them pulled out of fantasy books and battle–hungry animated shows, which means they all basically end with either the threat or reality of world domination at the hands of some evil master villain.
My spine does its best to shrink back against my skin, equally revulsed by how close he is. “What are you doing?”
“None at all?”
Silver eyes
flick up
from the paper, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising with them. His
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217 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?
expression radiates condescension the way normal people radiate body heat. Seriously, I can practically feel it in the air.
“Fine, but you have to admit it’s a bit anticlimactic to find essentially nothing. A piece of old paper isn’t exactly the stuff of legends, and it wasn’t hidden very well.”
“Mhm.”
“Were you watching the whole time?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure he was, considering his earlier message.
Honestly, I’m betting on weird.
Caeriel examines the small bit of blood–streaked paper like it’s truly some ancient artifact and not a possibly hazardous biosample, and I wonder if he can get any information just from sniffing at it… or if he’s just weird.
All the help.
“Were you anticipating a subjugation mission for your first foray as a Guardian, Miss Grace Harper?” His voice has an annoying lilt, the kind where even a patient old grandma would want to smack him for his sass. “Perhaps battling a demon horde single–handedly? Stopping a dimensional rift with nothing but your wits and a butter
knife?”
“Observing.” Pale fingers pluck the paper from my hand, and he sniffs at it, his face too handsome for his creepy behavior. “How interesting. Good job.”
I point at the paper with a disdainful flick of my finger. “Then why is this even a mission? You probably could have sniffed it out in half a second, and it took me…” I’m not sure how long, but it was probably an embarrassing number.
Frankly, I watch a lot less than most humans do.
And the cat?
And where the hell am I supposed to submit this thing? Does the App have a brick and mortar location? Business hours? A lab?
Demi–God or not, I highly regret not bringing gloves along on this search. Hopefully said blood doesn’t transmit strange diseases.
Where’s Sadie?
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217 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?
Either he hasn’t paid a lick of attention to me in a while, or he can’t see Caeriel. I’m not sure which option is better.
Likely? Probably not. Then again, this world is apparently a lot more complicated than I ever thought it was, so who knows.
But his question is a good one, and while I might not be thrilled over my assigned professor, I still have a mission to complete and I need help.
“Nope,” I lie, even as I’ve already created an entire backstory of how angels and demons had babies and one of them started a laundromat in a poor backward werewolf town, only to be killed by a particularly evil sibling who didn’t like them donating money to orphanages and increasing the goodness level of the world.
“I have no idea,” I finally admit, deciding not to give voice to all the crazy scenarios in my head. If I don’t say them out loud, no one will know I thought them, and then Caeriel won’t think I’m some sort of crazy teenager who watches too much TV.
My entire life feels like the trajectory of some fantastical tragedy, so maybe some evil overlord isn’t too far off as a possibility.
Wait.
Cold, lemony breath blasts my ear and I jerk to the side in justifiably dramatic fashion, cringing my shoulder up to the side of my face to protect myself from Caeriel’s breathing.
Unsurprisingly, nothing happens.
One of the washers suddenly goes manic–high on a spin cycle, making the entire ground vibrate.
they y
He even crosses his arms and legs to lean against the wall as he questions me, sounding rather Socratic. Apparently Wash–N–Were was only fronting as a laundromat to hide its real identity as Professor Creep’s lecture hall.
Suddenly, I hope my washer is still on the ‘wash‘ cycle, and not ‘spin–dry‘.
Huh. He’s a smoker.
“So you were here?”
“Tell me, Miss Harper,” he says, and my name has never sounded so damn annoying in
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217 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?
my entire life, “Why would a random demi–god’s blood sample be hidden away in an establishment catering to werewolves?”
But…
So. Much. Help.
Thanks, I know I’m weak, no need to bathe my ears in your sarcasm. “No, but-”
The corner of his mouth twitches–not quite a smile, but definitely amusement at my expense. Outside, Andrew’s still waiting in the car, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m having a conversation with Death’s fashion–forward cousin.
Way to make me sound unreasonable. I was just trying to point out how inefficient and stupid the mission was, and he’s turned me into some glory hunter.
He hums thoughtfully. The paper disappears somewhere into the folds of his ridiculously dramatic trenchcoat, and I wonder where his scythe is. Maybe it’s out auto–collecting the souls of lesser mortals.
My head whips around, but neither animal is anywhere to be found. A faint, foreboding feeling snakes down my back as Caeriel pushes off the wall to step too close to me, asking what I’m looking for.
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How many of you forgot they were there? Lemme see those hands.
Lenaleia
