Chapter 127: Chapter 127: The Cat Owner

GRAYSON’S EXPRESSION had gone hard and cold, every trace of the man who’d kissed her last night vanishing beneath the demon who’d survived centuries of supernatural politics.

“Someone just breached the outer perimeter.”

Shadow leaped from the desk and streaked toward the window, its form flickering again—briefly taking on the shape of something larger, more predatory, before settling back into cat form.

“Definitely not a normal cat,” Mailah muttered.

“Stay here,” Grayson commanded, already moving toward the door.

“Like hell,” Mailah replied, following him. “We’re engaged now, remember? That means we face things together.”

His jaw clenched, clearly wanting to argue but knowing it would be pointless. “Fine. But you stay behind me, and if I tell you to run—”

“I’ll consider it,” Mailah interrupted. “No promises.”

Lucien’s laugh was dark with approval. “She’s perfect for you, you know. Absolutely infuriating and completely fearless.”

They moved through the estate quickly, Grayson leading, Mailah close behind, Lucien bringing up the rear with Shadow trotting beside him like a small, furry sentinel. The household staff they passed looked worried but not panicked—suggesting this wasn’t the first time the wards had been triggered.

They reached the main entry hall just as Mrs. Baker appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron with the calm efficiency of someone who’d dealt with too many supernatural crises to be easily rattled.

“Visitor at the gate,” she reported. “Refused to identify himself. He’s not trying to force entry, just… waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Grayson asked.

“An invitation, I assume,” Mrs. Baker replied. “Or for you to come to him.”

Grayson moved to the window, pulling back the curtain to look toward the estate’s main gate. Mailah followed, peering over his shoulder.

A figure stood just outside the wards—tall and striking in the kind of effortless way.

He wasn’t imposing in the traditional sense—no black coat flapping dramatically, no storm of dark magic crackling around him—but there was something. An undercurrent that made her pulse skip.

The man wore a cream-colored sweater that clung a little too well to broad shoulders, soft jeans faded from wear, and sneakers that had clearly seen better days.

Sunlight caught in his hair—a tousled, chestnut brown that looked like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. He had the kind of face that would make strangers trust him without question: kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, a jaw that suggested quiet determination, and a faint stubble that only made him look more unfairly human.

Except… Mailah wasn’t entirely sure he was.

Most supernatural men she’d met had that same unfairly symmetrical thing going on—the too-good-to-be-true kind of handsome that made you suspicious by default. And the way he stood—perfectly still, yet somehow aware of every inch of space around him—didn’t feel like the posture of a normal mortal.

Then she noticed what he was holding: a cat carrier in one hand, and a cardboard sign in the other.

Mailah squinted. “…Is that a Lost Cat poster?”

“What?” Grayson moved closer to the window, his expression shifting from battle-ready to confused.

The man must have noticed movement at the window because he lifted the sign higher and waved enthusiastically, as though greeting old friends. Then he pointed to the cat carrier with hopeful triumph, as if to say Look! I found it!

“Oh my god,” Mailah said, laughter bubbling up despite the tension. “I think he’s here for Shadow.”

“That’s not possible,” Grayson said flatly. “Shadow walked through our wards three days ago. No normal person could track a familiar here.”

“Then he’s not a normal person,” Lucien said, moving to get a better look. His expression shifted from amused to intrigued. “Well. That’s interesting.”

“What?” Mailah asked.

“He’s mortal,” Lucien replied. “Completely, utterly human. But he’s got enough residual magic clinging to him to suggest he’s been around supernatural beings his entire life. And that cat carrier he’s holding has protective runes etched into the plastic.”

Shadow, who had been sitting quietly at Mailah’s feet, suddenly yowled—a long, plaintive sound that was distinctly unhappy.

“I think Shadow recognizes him,” Mailah observed.

“Which means,” Grayson said slowly, “that either Shadow actually belongs to this man, or this is an elaborate trap designed to look harmless.”

“Only one way to find out,” Lucien said, already moving toward the door. “Let’s go meet the mysterious cat owner.”

They made their way to the front gates as a group—Grayson leading with supernatural grace, Lucien beside him radiating casual menace, and Mailah bringing up the rear with Shadow trotting at her heels like a small, furry traitor.

The man beyond the wards looked up as they approached. Up close, he was even more distracting in that infuriatingly harmless way—softly handsome, with kind brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a smattering of freckles that gave him a permanent air of apology. When he smiled, it was unguarded and genuine.

“Oh thank god,” the man said, setting down the carrier and crouching. “Shadow! There you are, you little escape artist. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Shadow sat down primly and began washing its paw, pointedly ignoring him.

“You’re going to pretend you don’t know me?” the man said to the cat. “Really? After I’ve been putting up lost pet posters all over the city?”

Mailah bit her lip to hide a grin.

“Who are you?” Grayson asked, his voice carrying enough authority to make even the birds stop singing.

The man straightened, offering a slightly awkward wave. “Right. Sorry. I’m Oliver Thorne. That’s my familiar—well, technically my grandmother’s familiar, but she passed away last month and Shadow’s been with me since. Except three days ago, he slipped out during her funeral rites, and I’ve been tracking him ever since.”

He said it all so matter-of-factly, as if mourning rituals and familiars were perfectly normal conversation topics.

“A mourning ritual,” Lucien repeated, his tone suggesting he was either amused or plotting something. Possibly both.

“For my grandmother,” Oliver clarified. “She was a hedge witch. Very traditional. Insisted on all the proper ceremonies, even posthumously. I was trying to follow her instructions, but apparently I got the incense wrong because Shadow took one whiff and bolted.”

He looked genuinely embarrassed about this, his cheeks flushing slightly.

Lucien’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a study. “You performed a hedge witch’s death rite without full training?”

“Yes,” Oliver said brightly, then paused. “In hindsight, that was probably… unwise.”

Mailah found herself warming to him despite her better judgment. “Your grandmother was a witch?”

“Three generations back, actually,” Oliver replied. “Though I’m the first male in the family line, which made things… complicated. Most of her magic didn’t pass to me—just enough to see through glamours and communicate with Shadow. And apparently to really screw up mourning rituals.”

Shadow meowed, a sound that was distinctly judgmental.

“Yes, I know I should have used sandalwood instead of cedar,” Oliver told the cat. “But the shop was closed and I was improvising.”

“This is the strangest territorial dispute I’ve ever witnessed,” Mailah murmured to Grayson.

“This is the strangest anything I’ve ever witnessed,” Grayson replied, his confusion evident. “And I’ve been alive for centuries.”

Lucien, however, looked delighted. “So you’re telling us that this familiar—who walked through demon-grade wards without triggering a single alarm, who’s been spying on the estate for three days, and who may or may not have interrupted several intimate moments—belongs to a human hedge witch’s grandson who can’t get incense right?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds absurd,” Oliver admitted. “But yes, essentially.”

“It is absurd,” Grayson said.

“Welcome to my life,” Oliver replied with surprising cheer. “Grandmother always said the Thorne family was cursed with inconvenient timing and stubborn familiars. Shadow takes after her side of the family.”

Shadow yowled in agreement, then finally deigned to walk over to Oliver, rubbing against his legs with what looked like genuine affection despite the earlier cold shoulder.

“Traitor,” Mailah told the cat.

“I really am sorry about the intrusion,” Oliver said, scooping Shadow up. The cat allowed this with dignified tolerance. “I didn’t realize he’d taken up residence in a demon’s estate until I tracked his magical signature here. If I’d known, I would have called ahead. Or sent a letter. Or… something less likely to get me turned into a decorative lawn ornament.”

“We don’t have lawn ornaments,” Mailah said.

“Yet,” Grayson added darkly, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Oliver clutched Shadow a little tighter. “Right. So. I’ll just take him and go, and we’ll never speak of this again?”

“Not quite,” Lucien interjected smoothly. “You see, Mr. Thorne, your familiar has been living in this estate for three days. Consuming food, occupying space, and—most importantly—gathering information about the residents. Information that could be quite valuable to certain interested parties.”

Oliver’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “I swear I didn’t send him here to spy. Shadow goes where he wants. I’ve never been able to control him—that was always Grandmother’s gift. I’m just the person who feeds him and cleans up after his chaos.”

“A familiar without proper binding,” Grayson said, understanding dawning. “That’s why he could breach the wards. He’s not bound to you specifically, so he doesn’t register as an extension of any particular supernatural entity.”

“Exactly,” Oliver confirmed. “Grandmother said Shadow chose to stay with our family, but he was never truly bound. She said binding him would diminish his power, and she refused to do it even when other witches warned her about the risks.”

“The risks being that he could be captured and used by anyone with enough magical knowledge,” Lucien supplied.

Oliver nodded miserably. “Which is why I’ve been terrified for the past three days. Not just that he was lost, but that he might fall into the wrong hands.”

Shadow chose that moment to bite Oliver’s finger—not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely hard enough to make a point.

“Ow! What was that for?”

The cat’s expression clearly said, I don’t fall into anything. I make deliberate choices.

Mailah leaned toward Grayson. “He’s either the most genuine person I’ve ever met, or the best liar alive.”

Lucien smiled faintly. “I’d wager the first.”

“I didn’t realize Shadow had been… spying,” Oliver said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought he’d found a nice place to nap. I promise I’m not trying to invade anyone’s supernatural privacy. I just want my cat back.”

“You realize,” Grayson said evenly, “that your familiar has been inside a demon’s estate for three days, consuming resources and learning things no human should?”

Oliver winced. “When you put it that way, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad,” Grayson replied.

Lucien, however, stepped closer, studying Oliver like a puzzle. “But interesting. Mortals don’t usually wander into places like this and survive, let alone stand outside smiling.”

“I’m very good at pretending I’m not terrified,” Oliver admitted.

Mailah laughed again before she could stop herself. “That makes two of us.”

Lucien’s tone softened, though his eyes still gleamed with curiosity. “Perhaps it’s fate, Mr. Thorne. You and your runaway familiar have wandered into quite the den.”

Oliver glanced between them all, clutching Shadow’s carrier like a shield.

“Do I… get to leave the den?”

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