For a former...well, for a person whose employment used to involve slinking around and eavesdropping, she was so clumsy sometimes.
The delivery guy shrugged and handed her the customer copy. "As long as we get the signature."
The two other guys pushed and tugged a large carton out of the back of the truck-a brown box about as tall as they were and almost as wide. They hoisted it between them and toted it across her yard. Large arrows on the sides indicated "this end up".
What in the miaow was that? Not a yoga mat, that was for sure. The box they supported could hold a refrigerator and a half.
"Do you need us to bring it inside, ma'am?" one asked.
"No." She didn't know what it was. No way was it coming in her house. "Just leave it there."
They looked at each other as if she was dim-witted, set the box near her stepping stone pathway, and returned to the truck.
The guy with the clipboard tipped his cap at her. "Have a nice day, Ms. Waters."
She waited until the men drove off to fetch a box cutter, slip on her hated shoes, and head out to the yard to inspect her new possession. While she didn't want it inside until she could figure out what it was, that didn't mean she wasn't dying of curiosity.
It wasn't a fatal flaw...considering she was still alive...so why curb it when so many fascinating things awaited discovery?
Her name was clearly marked on the box, as was her address. Nothing was misspelled. Didn't seem like a mistake. Hm, was it that new predictive delivery she kept hearing about? Something she needed but didn't realize she needed it yet?
She gave the box an experimental shove. It moved half an inch through the close-cropped grass. Probably too heavy for her to carry by herself, but she had several nice neighbors.
Next, she shook the box. Something inside, something large, thunked against the cardboard.
Rachele jumped back, box cutter held low. The better to slash with.
When the contents of the box didn't thunk again, she straightened, smoothed her long, black hair, and casually glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her freak out over a box.
"Mrow!" Shona, her long-haired, grey tabby, minced through the flower bed. Her tail waved like a plume behind her. She was not accompanied by the jaunty jingle of a bell.
Well, turd buckets.
"Where have you left your collar this time, puss?" Rachele knelt and buried her fingers in the cat's warm fur. Four collars, just this month. She didn't want to keep the cats locked inside, but roaming the streets could be dangerous for critters. Even these streets. The least Shona could do was leave her collar on.
The cat rolled onto her back, purring. Guests to Rachele's home had been certain Shona was a Maine Coon, but she wasn't. She was as mixed-breed as all of Rachele's cats.
They were her kitties. Her charges. Her babies. She might be a bit of a crazy cat lady, but what did she care?
It was better than what she had been. Before.
In fact, everything was better than it had been before except Jacques, but he would never be okay again.
Never mind that. Never, ever mind that.
"Let's see what's inside." Giving Shona one last pat, Rachele pushed thoughts of the past aside and felt around the edges of the parcel, looking for seams and tape. If Gene was her destructo kitty and Shona was her gorgeous wanderer, Luiken was her box lover. This box, however, was a touch larger than the shoe and paper boxes he favored.
She stuck the box cutter into the crack along the side and sliced downward. Cardboard and glue parted ways with a long, dry rip that sent shivers up Rachele's spine. Ack! It was nearly as bad as daggers on a chalkboard. She continued along the bottom, stood, and sliced along the top.
The front of the box eased open like a door. Inside the parcel was something she had definitely not ordered for herself.
A person-high wardrobe with a single door rested inside the box, no Styrofoam cushioning. Well, that didn't seem like a very sensible packaging technique. The wardrobe was shaped oddly, almost triangular, with a bottom as wide as the box and a top that came to a point. Intricate carvings covered the aged wood-vines, fairies, unicorns, and other mystical creatures. The door, like the wardrobe itself, had three sides.
She took a step back and frowned. Cocking her head to the side, she realized it wasn't a triangle.
It was an upside down heart.
Graceful swoops at the bottom rested on the ground, giving the wardrobe more stability than one might assume an upside down heart would have. The doorknob was also a heart, iron filigree and very fancy.
It looked expensive. And old. Leaning forward, she gave it an experimental sniff. Beeswax mixed with spice and hints of pine, though the wood appeared to be oak. The combination reminded her of something, perhaps something from her past, but she couldn't recall what.
Whatever it was, it made her sad. Since she had no more room in her life for "sad", she shrugged it off and continued her inspection.
She ticked the door with a fingernail. Solid. Next she rapped on it. The hollow clunk seemed to verify it was empty.
How lovely. Who'd sent it to her? And why? It wasn't her birthday, and nobody in her regular life knew when her birthday was. Just the cats, who didn't really care, but they did enjoy the fact she served them ice cream on her special day.
As for the wardrobe, she could place it in her craft room and fill it with yarn and beads and more yarn. She grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open, eager to see if had shelving inside.
A loud crack, like lightning, resonated across the yard. Bright blue light blasted out of the door.
Rachele yelped. Stumbled. Fell on her bottom. Shona hissed and scampered toward the house in a flash of bushy tail.
After a moment, the blue dimmed until there was just a phosphorescent glow around the door edges.
Cautiously, she inched toward the wardrobe and stuck out a toe. She nudged the bottom corner of the door until it swung open on creaky hinges.
A swirling, glimmering portal greeted her stunned gaze.
Hastily she slammed the door. It had no lock but stayed shut.
For now.
Well, dammit! Dammit to Frell and dammit some more. Who had sent her a dog-damned door to Faerie?
After all she'd done to get away from that place.
Rachele tore into the house and snatched up the customer receipt on the foyer table. She'd call the delivery people and tell them there'd been a mistake. They had to take it back. She didn't want it-didn't want it anywhere close to her and the cats.
They had to take it back where it came from.
She scanned the receipt with increasing urgency. What had seemed like a standard form when she'd read it blurred before her eyes. The sender disappeared. The print changed to Faerie. The layout resembled some kind of contract.
Her signature was at the bottom. As red as her blood.
She'd signed it in blood.
Furious, Rachele charged into the kitchen and fetched her steel baseball bat from the pantry, where she kept it beside the canned goods. She ran outside and beat at the box, at the wardrobe, with all her puny human strength. The cardboard ripped apart, but the wardrobe, aside from a few scratches, remained untouched.
No way. No how. Not after what had happened. She'd never go back. There was nothing to go back to and every reason to stay here.
This called for drastic measures.
Angela Abbott. Yard-proud grandma with a chainsaw, fifth house on the right. Except Rachele would have to use the chainsaw herself, and she didn't know how. She couldn't let her neighbors see the blue portal inside this box. They'd think it was wonderful, or call the police, or worse than worse-walk into the light.
What could she do? What could she do?
Heart racing with panic, she returned to the house and fetched her biggest, thickest skeins of yarn, the ones she'd bought to make scarves for her online handicraft shop. Tying a quick knot in one end, she looped the first strand around the wardrobe. Then aga
in. Around and around and around. She knew she looked ridiculous, running circles around this horrible armoire, but she didn't care.
That door could never come open again.
She didn't quit until she'd wrapped half of the inverted heart like a cocoon and had given herself one heck of a headache. Her fingers and palms were red and raw from the yarn ripping through them.
"Goodness gracious, Rachele. Is this an...art project?"
Angela, on her daily walk with her Basset hound, Costello, paused on the sidewalk. "Are you going to sell it on that Ebay?"
"No. I mean, maybe. Hi, Miss Angela." She waved at the woman but stayed on the far side of the yard. Rachele didn't like dogs, and they didn't like her. Costello snuffled as if in agreement. "It's a new way of weaving an afghan."
"Looks like it might rain. Better get your project indoors, missy." Angela nodded her head and continued on her walk.
"You bet." Smiling through clenched teeth, she gave Angela a thumb's up. Then she tied off the yarn with a hard twist.
Should she buy chains and padlocks? Would the yarn hold? It wasn't as if she could enchant it here. It was merely yarn. But it was good yarn. The wardrobe was wrapped in hundreds of dollars of expensive wool. Granted, she wasn't in danger of monsters or constructs sneaking through from the other side-they couldn't exist on this plane without magic-but people could.
Well, the yarn barrier would keep her animals out of trouble. That was what mattered. The cats might be tricksy, demanding, and nosy as hell, but they couldn't untie that many knots.
Rachele shoved the armoire onto its back-it wasn't difficult, since portals had no weight-and dragged it awkwardly into the side yard where it wouldn't attract attention from the street. After disposing of the cardboard, she entered her cottage, shook a bag of kitty treats, and doled them out to her cats when they came running.
Shona, Gene, Luiken and tiny Joely. All accounted for, safe and sound.
While they snacked, she fastened the cat door to keep them inside, fetched her purse, and headed to the hardware store to purchase strong chains.
And a sledgehammer. And an axe. And some lighter fluid. And the biggest bag of salt she could find.
And cat food, because they were almost out.
Later that night, Rachele returned home, satisfied with her shopping trip, even though it had required the wearing of the hated shoes. None of the people she'd interacted with today had seemed threatening, and a store clerk had instructed her in the use of her new chainsaw in a friendly fashion. He'd then helped her load her supplies into the back of the minivan and wished her a nice evening.
If more people in Faerie were like that guy, maybe she and the cats wouldn't be hiding on the dead plane. But they'd lost too many friends, too many years, too many battles. After they lost Jacques, she'd acknowledged that she was broken, her will beaten.
She'd decided for them all...no more.
So here they were. Their lives were better for it, despite what anyone else might think.
Besides, the cats were so happy. Lounging in the sun, scratching the couch she'd bought just for them, sleeping in boxes, playing chase-the-wisp through the house at three am. No stress, no danger. She fed them, petted them, cared for them, entertained them. They lacked for nothing. They were healthy, furry and happy, as only pets on the dead plane could be.
She was as happy as anyone broken and beaten and alone could be.
Soon she'd be happier. She'd take that evil, heart-shaped box apart piece by piece, burn it and salt down the ashes, which she would cast into the biggest body of water she could find. Then she'd start house hunting. She and the cats would relocate, since apparently someone from the other side had found them and sent her a portal.
Had they intended to come through, or had they intended to force her through it? She didn't know and it didn't matter.
This time next week, she and the kitties would no longer be here. Their enemies wouldn't have another chance to try again.
Humming a song she'd heard over the radio to silence the worries in her brain, Rachele left the box-killing supplies in the minivan and entered her house through the back door. Plastic bags of groceries dangled from her arms. The cat flap was still cinched, meaning the new lock had defeated Joely and her practically human paws.
Excellent. That one-she reminded Rachele the most of herself.
Except happier.
"Kitties," she called as she bumped her way into the kitchen, bags swaying. "Tuna time."
After her hardware store adventure, she'd visited the gourmet grocer for the high-quality pet food she and the cats preferred. Shona was going to want out after the meal, now that night had fallen, and possibly Joely as well. She'd snap the new collar and tags on Shona-she kept an ample supply of tags for Her Majesty-and give them all a thorough brushing before settling down for her evening work. She had beads to string, wire to bend, thread to tat, and store orders to fulfill. The minutiae of crafting jewelry and wearables quenched her excess energy and her talent for intricate configurations.
It also kept them in house and tuna without Rachele having to land a traditional eight to five job or spend much of the gold. The dead plane was a far cry from Faerie, and her skillset didn't lend itself to most occupations on this side of the wall.
Only Gene answered her dinner call. He galloped into the room and skidded to a halt, black, sleek and completely innocent. His yellow eyes gleamed at her, seeming to say, "Oh, is that you? I never noticed you were gone."
Cobwebs dusted his whiskers. She couldn't help but wonder where he'd found them...and what he'd destroyed in the process. For a cat with such a ravenous appetite, she supposed he had to do something to stay as slinky as a snake.
Rachele set down the four plates of tuna and then fed herself. Fish, mmmm. You couldn't get fish like this in Faerie. The fish there tended to resist being eaten a lot more vigorously.
Next Luiken wandered into the clean, bright kitchen, sniffing for the tuna. He was as light as Gene was dark, and so big he nearly outweighed Shona. Shona stooped and caught him in her arms. He was the sweetest of the cats, the lap sitter, the lover. He gave the best hugs.
"Did you spend the day in my out-box? You're so warm, big guy. Yes, you are. Who is a big lovey baby?" She scritched his neck and back as her opposite arm supported his impressive weight.
His loud, raspy purrs in her ear and his wet nose on her neck reassured her that she had done, and was about to do, the right thing. He'd never been happy before. Not there. He'd never had the luxury of spending a day curled in a box that was half his size, head and butt sticking out on either end like the prow and stern of a fat, hairy ship.
Luiken touched his nose to her cheek, probably sniffing the tuna on her breath. She placed him gently beside his plate.
"Shona! Joely...kitty, kitty!" Rachele rinsed her plate and set it in the sink-the better to keep Gene from knocking it to the floor-before seeking the girls. Gene and Luiken wouldn't immediately inhale the girls' dinner, but it wouldn't do to wait too long.
The cats weren't in the bedrooms upstairs. Or in the bathroom. Or in the craft room. Or in the foyer.
Ah, there was Joely, snoozing in a basket of laundry in the utility room. Rachele could hardly see the little calico. She blended into the clean, unfolded garments like she did in autumn leaves.
Well, Rachele may have retained some of her Faerie vigilance, too-like blending into the background. Most of her wardrobe was earth-toned. That meant she spent less time deciding what people would consider "matching", since it all did.
She didn't want to attract attention, that was for sure. Though her achievement at bringing herself and her charges here was no small feat, she wasn't the only one who'd ever managed it.
She just wished she could have managed it for Jacques.
Ah, Jacques. If he were here, would Joely still hate her so much? He'd been Joely and Gene's brother. Littermate, she supposed. Shona was their mother and Luiken their father.
> One big family-not happy until she'd brought them here.
"Little Bit." She tickled Joely under the chin, letting the drowsy feline smell the fish scent that lingered on her fingers. "It's dinner time."
Joely did not like to be picked up and cuddled, but she did like fish. She sat up, cut Rachele a suspicious glance, and headed for the kitchen.
Now, where was Her Majesty? Shona's favorite spot in the house, when she couldn't be outside, was the window seat. From there she could see her domain and fluff and hiss at any who entered.
"Shona, don't ignore me. That's rude." Rachele went into the largest room in the house, the parlor, where her old yoga mat lay in the floor. The couch, aka the scratching post, was pushed against the wall to give her a space for calisthenics.
Or, as she liked to think of them, catisthenics, since one or more of them usually inserted themselves into her exercising. It kept her nimble.
Rachele came to an abrupt halt a few feet from the entryway.
There, near the fireplace, was the heart-shaped box.
It had no yarn wrapped around it, tying it shut, keeping everyone safe.
And its door was cracked open, gleaming as blue as a willow wisp around the edges.
Rachele practically yowled with fright.
Mid-scream, warm, silky fur brushed her bare foot. Luiken strolled past her legs and headed toward the armoire.
It was a box. And he was Luiken.
"Oh, no, you don't." She pounced on him before he could get any closer to the evil wardrobe. The blue glow of the portal glistened on his snow-white fur. She held him tight.
Had...how had this happened? Had her neighbors, had Miss Angela, somehow wrangled the armoire inside when it started to rain? Had the delivery guys come back and done the same thing? Was this in the damned contract?
And where was the yarn? Who'd taken it off?
"Mew?" Luiken had a tiny little voice for such a big cat. She was squeezing him too hard in her fright.
She shooed him away and closed the parlor doors, locking the other three cats out. Rachele's gaze darted around the room. Shona. Shona. Where was Shona?
Oh, Goddess. Had she...gone through?