💫🌟 Greetings🌟💫
Hello, my dear readers – It’s probably no surprise to you all that, while developing the Otherworld Outlaws and its many unique characters, I’ve developed a special affection for the hobgoblins. Aside from their being cantankerous and churlish comic relief, something ineffable about them leaves them busily occupying my mental space even when I should be doing other things. And much like listening to an earworm being the best way to cure oneself of it, writing a story about them is the best way to get them out of my imagination enough to make room for what I should be doing—which, ahem, is writing Otherworld Outlaws 5. So today, please enjoy this brief little adventure with Nebulux Spellscourge and her fancy familiar. Also, because the story is so deeply entrenched in the lore of the Otherworld Outlaws, it probably won’t make much sense to you if you haven’t read the series, just fyi.
(If you’d prefer to read this story as an ebook, it’s available here. Audiobook more your thing? Get that here.)
The Problem With Plaid
A round and dainty, some might say coy, feline curled herself around the legs of her mistress, rubbing her furry hide against the heavy cloth of her mistress’s much-singed lab gown, seeking—what else?—dinner. Her mistress was absorbed with her experiments laid out on the tabletop above, but not too absorbed to reach down and absently run her hand along the cat’s arched back.
“Now, now, Meowdusa, I’m nearly done,” came the mistress’s scratchy, distracted voice.
Meowdusa didn’t care if her mistress was nearly done meddling with magical compounds. Meowdusa was hungry—now.
The hand on her back was withdrawn, and the mistress resumed her under-her-breath muttering as she continued her work. This would not do. Meowdusa decided a more direct action needed to be taken. She wasn’t eating for just herself, after all. She was a mother-to-be (the “decorative” change to her fur wasn’t the only thing she’d acquired after slipping out the front door a couple of months back) and probably could have devoured an entire reaping of pixies in one sitting if the opportunity arose. Her mistress had told her she was getting fat, but, being not the most observant of hobgoblins, she’d not realized the truth of Meowdusa’s new girth.
Crouching low in prejump mode, she set her eyes on the tabletop, calculated the distance, wiggled her raised hind end, and leaped.
Her landing wasn’t as graceful as she’d hoped, and not just because of her extra weight. The tabletop, always covered in bottles of this and that, parchments, candles, and frequently burning apparatuses that had on occasion been in the wrong place at the wrong jump, was currently being occupied by no fewer than a dozen inkwells. Two tipped immediately as her bulk landed, and one more teetered dangerously.
Her mistress, Nebulux Spellscourge, the greatest alchemist Tír Na nÓg had ever known, shouted with surprise, her voice not unlike a cat whose tail had been dipped in a flame (ask Meowdusa how she knew). She reached out a hand liberally splotched with the leavings of her many inks and saved the teetering inkwell.
“Deucie, you devil!” she cried. “That was the last of my starlight ink!” She righted one of the spilled wells and pulled it to her eye, looking deep inside. “Not a drop left.”
The sound she made in her throat resembled a harpy choking on a rat, her disgust deep enough to make Meowdusa pause in her tracks. But only for a moment. The mistress would never harm her, no matter how rankled she was by Meowdusa’s insistence.
Nebulux slammed the inkwell back on the counter, then swept up the cat in her arms, cradling her on her back like a child. “That ink would have been the final bit needed to turn you back into the right shade o’ color, like a cat should be. Now you’ve gone’n spilt it all, and I’ve got no more in the cellar. Meowdusa, ye’re an embarrassment to yer kind, you are, lookin’ this way—and no, I’m not talkin’ about this pudge, though it gives me a moment o’ pause wonderin’ where ye’re findin’ that many mice. What am I goin’ to do with you now?”
Meowdusa rumbled a contended purr, letting it bubble from deep in her chest and fill the quiet laboratory as she stretched her front and back legs out, luxuriating in her mistress’s embrace.
Nebulux shook her head. “Don’t care a whit, do you? Ye’re just like me ex, you are—not a thought in yer head fer what’s right, only fer what you want.”
Meowdusa perked up for a moment at the mention of her mistress’s ex—one Toxicore Darkheart, a hobgoblin she knew best to stay far away from. A horrible, monstrous troll of a hob, always scheming to catch and make a snack of Meowdusa. As far as she was concerned, she’d never see the last of him soon enough.
“But I’m tellin’ you, ye’re not fit to leave this house until I get you back to what ye’re supposed to look like. And that means I’m goin’ to have to visit the Lady Brigid again to replenish me starlight ink.”
Meowdusa stiffened and jerked herself back and forth until the mistress let her go.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right, ’tis. I’m headin’ to the Forest o’ Luminosity, and ye’re staying here. You’ll have to make do with dry kibble till I come back, and I don’t care if you hack up ten hairballs a day because o’ it. You spilled yer own milk; now ye’re goin’ to have to drink it.”
Dry kibble? It was obscene that a cat of her distinction and beauty would be forced to stoop so low as to eat dry kibble. And why was it so important for the mistress to craft a color spell that would change her fur from what it was now to what it had been before? The Morrígan may have directed the ire she held for Nebulux at Meowdusa, casting a spell on her that made her the color of cat she was now, but so what?
After all, how many cats could there be in the world whose fur was this most distinct, most brilliant pattern of plaid? Meowdusa may have been a simple feline, but she doubted there was any other like her. And what a marvel that made her!
***
’Twasn’t always easy to be the mistress of a spoiled rotten feline, but when one lived within a grove of capacious interlinked trees whose insides were hollow and as homey as any woodland cabin (and one was always a bit too busy to attend to the upkeep of both a home and an alchemist’s laboratory), one needed an extra bit of help keeping the inevitable vermin in line. Rodents and pests seemed to be a staple of any world, even one solely inhabited by the fae. Still, if she were being honest with herself, as Nebulux tended to be, she had to admit that she’d adopted Meowdusa in part just to be cantankerous and frustrate the whims of her one-time husband. Toxicore loved cats. That was, he loved them sauteed or spitted, roasted or baked. She even recalled an occasion in which he’d consumed one raw, the absolute savage. If that wayward wastrel ever darkened her door again after the last time, she’d positively revel in watching him stifle the urge to get on her bad side, her really bad side—the one that had been known to turn living beings inside out so that their muscles and bones and organs were laid bare for all to see, while their skin was reduced to a shriveled wet rag residing somewhere within the meatsack left flailing around where it fell—by eating her cat. Toxicore knew better, but Toxicore was not known for his self-control. She’d love to cast a wicked spell on him should he be unwise enough to hurt Meowdusa; and, given that he was a necromancer, she was willing to risk him being at the root of any misfortune befalling her cat, as Nebulux would ensure his last act would be to bring Meowdusa back.
The diminutive, mahogany-skinned alchemist, with a wild nest of white hair and the common largish nose of her kind, was deep in these musings as she whisked through the cloudless sky of the Otherworld astride a rented griffin.
Snig-gnawg, the goblin who owned the griffin livery, had a special saddle for lesser fae of her smaller size. He always tried to charge her extra because of her size requirements on the rare occasion she had need of a fast form of transportation to leave the City of Spells. On this day, she’d told him she’d pay the normal price and not a dot more unless he wanted to be doused in a special concoction she’d made just for him—Eagle’s Enthrallment, a potent mix of prey scents that, when splashed upon an object, or a goblin, no griffin could resist chasing, killing, and devouring. If, she’d further described, the griffin chose to deal with its prey in that order. He’d enthusiastically changed his mind about the price and even offered her a stepstool to mount her rented steed. He may not be the world’s canniest goblin, but her reputation had a tendency to help others get their priorities straight.
She needed to be speedy, and Lady Brigid’s court in the Forest of Luminosity was very far away. But with a griffin, she’d be there before lunchtime.
All this trouble for a cat, she thought. But a cat whose fur had been transformed into the most garish plaid pattern she’d ever had the misfortune to witness. As knitting was her most pursued hobby, she simply could not live with a cat bearing such an unspeakable textile pattern. No animal, or anything else, was ever meant to be a checked mix of blue, orange, and a pink so bright it hurt one’s eyes to look at. Not to mention the laughingstock being such a cat’s owner made her, even if few were unwise enough to laugh at her openly.
Nebulux frowned atop her griffin. That Lady Morrígan and her petty grievances. The wailing wench of warfare had stumbled upon Meowdusa stalking pixies outside her castle, and knowing she belonged to Nebulux, she’d cast the dastardly spell upon the feline just to be an obnoxious starts-with-C-and-rhymes-with-bundt. The rivalry went back ages, all because Nebulux had practiced a bit of alchemical sleight of hand and made the Morrígan lose a not-so-friendly competition at the annual Imbolc celebration.
Nebulux had once worked exclusively for the Lady Morrígan. It made sense that an alchemist of her skill and talents would be on the staff of the Goddess of Fate and War, who preferred keeping anyone who might help her achieve her dreadful ends as close as possible. Any alchemist worth their salt could devise innumerable potions, spells, and elixirs to further the Morrígan’s warmongering causes, after all, and none better than Nebulux; from mundane poisons to far-reaching spells of foresight to elixirs to enhance strength and virility, Nebulux could concoct everything a growing warrior destined to kill and die might need.
That all came to an end when temptation came a’knocking, however. Working in the goddess’s court had its perks to be sure, but Nebulux had not hesitated a moment when one of Lady Brigid’s attendants had approached her covertly a few nights before Imbolc and offered her this trade: If she would secretly craft a potion that would sour the Morrígan’s infamous rye cakes stuffed with swan paté—the dish that never failed to win the Imbolc Bake-off Contest—thus ensuring Lady Brigid would win instead, Nebulux would be gifted a personal spark of Brigid’s Neverending Flame.
On hearing this proposition, Nebulux could barely stifle the greed that made her fingers twitch and her mouth salivate. A flame that would never go out, a flame that when used as the catalyst to prepare any elixir or experiment she devised would make them ten, fifty, perhaps a thousand times more powerful than one brewed over a mundane flame—her alchemy would be unbeatable, her inventions eternal. She might even find her name recorded in the Great Annals of Enchanters, Arcanists, and Egoists.
That very night, she’d got to work, whisking up a brew that turned the Morrigan’s yeast putrid and her flour thick as sawdust, but not until the dough had been deposited in the oven. The Morrígan wouldn’t suspect a thing until the moment the judges tasted her submission.
As a member of the Morrígan’s court, Nebulux’s visit to the kitchens on the morning of the bake-off was a small thing, and none noticed her swapping her potion for the Morrígan’s special spice: a subtle, rosy-sweet brownish spice from the mortal realm called cardamom. (As a bonus, Nebulux had nicked the spice for her own kitchen. Why let such a delicacy go to waste?)
The Imbolc celebration was the one time of year the Tuatha Dé Danann queens could be found within a thousand leagues of each other. Their feud went back to time forgotten, and one would be simple-minded indeed if one suspected it was merely caused by the typically fraught stepmother-stepchild relationship. Though the Morrígan had been Brigid’s father, Lord Dagda’s, wife for a time, their differences were due to something far deeper, and far more dangerous. Power. They both wanted it—all of it. And until one had it, they would be forever at odds, creating tension both in Tír Na nÓg and out of it that rippled across the worlds.
Thus, this annual bake-off was more than a mere contest about who might be the best baker; it was about who was the best.
The Morrigan always won, of course. Who would dare to pronounce the Goddess of War and Fate the loser? Or, to put it more aptly, who who valued their life would?
Except, on the day of the contest, much to Nebulux’s delight, the results of the taint of her secretly enspelled rye cake caused the judge who tasted it to immediately spit it out and cry, “Gah! That’s the most horrible bog-water-soaked-feet-tasting thing I’ve ever polluted my mouth with!”
Every attendee of the celebration had gone silent at once, as though a spell of another kind had been cast. The poor judge had turned white as paste, staring with a hangdog expression of such defeat at the Morrígan—no doubt, already resigned to his fate—that Nebulux had felt a touch guilty.
It was, to say the least, the fae’s lucky day. The Morrígan had instantly suspected tampering by her archnemesis and forgotten to punish the judge before flying into a rage at her foe. (Nebulux had heard that the fae judge had retired from his bake-off responsibilities and absconded to the human realm, the one place he might reasonably stay safe from the Morrígan’s wrath should she ever recall his insult.) Suffice it to say, though, that the two queens of the Tuatha Dé Danann were too evenly matched to outright fight each other. A magically charged fisticuffs between the two might well destroy the world. And though Brigid’s own Sunbeam Shortbread, a confection as light as sunlight that gave its eater cheer on even the dreariest of days, was the winner by default, the Morrígan had flown off in a tiff before the award was granted. Brigid, deprived of her opportunity to gloat, had sulked back to her own court, and the entire celebration had been cast in a damp cloud, ruining it for everyone.
Everyone except Nebulux. She’d found her promised spark of Neverending Flame packaged carefully in a horn lying on her stoop when she’d returned home that night. Jubilant, she’d already concocted lists of recipes to try cooking over the hearth lit by her new acquisition before she’d even reached her doorstep to find it awaiting her. Lady Brigid was many things, but she was always one to keep her word.
Yet, sometime shortly afterward, the Morrígan had become suspicious of Nebulux. She didn’t know why or when exactly, but the Morrígan’s thoughts on the matter soon festered through the gossip of her court the way news of others’ misfortune inevitably does, until the day the Morrígan had told Nebulux, with undisguised hostility, that her services were no longer required. Of course she couldn’t prove Nebulux’s role in the matter; the alchemist had cast a very potent Shroud of Discretionary Discrepancy spell over the kitchen before she’d switched out her yeast-rotting potion for the cardomom, thus ensuring no magic could be used to look into the past and detect her. But the Morrígan, as powerful as she was, had intuition to match, and Nebulux had certainly forever lost her favor, with or without proof.
But no matter. She had her Neverending Flame, and that would easily keep her occupied and content for ages, regardless of the duchess of dirge’s rancor.
The griffin settled into the canopy of a mighty and ancient rowan as Nebulux shook herself free of her memories. They’d arrived.
Dismounting, Nebulux found herself surrounded by the guards of the court, tucked amid the branches and leaves of the great tree, their hands on the hilts of their shortswords. They knew her though, and didn’t draw their weapons. Still, the group of five who were visible didn’t relax. Nebulux’s reputation, again.
“I seek an audience with Her Majesty,” she announced.
“Lady Brigid is enjoying entertainment at the moment,” said the leader, a lithe fae soldier. “You should arrange an audience in advance if you anticipate being seen.”
The storm clouds on her dark brow made his jaw tense as she peered at him. “Far be it from me to disturb her entertainment. Just lead me to her court and I’ll wait me turn, don’t you worry, lad,” she groused. To push her advantage, she dipped a hand into one of the deep pockets in her cloak—a harmless gesture. Perhaps her fingers were just cold? Or, perhaps, she was reaching for a potion that could turn his hair into worms and his hands into bricks.
Taking no chances, the guard waved her forward and turned his back to her, leading her through the foliage and down wooden stairs that would have appeared to a human’s eye as though the tree had grown them.
She couldn’t help the barely-there half-grin that slid across her mouth. Her reputation was quite handy.
Within moments, the melodious tune of a master harpist filled the air, growing louder as they approached the court’s central chamber. It was neither inside the great tree’s trunk, nor was it outside. The flora of Tír Na nÓg was much like the inhabitants—nothing was fixed, everything could change at a whim, and what one saw on the outside rarely led to predictable expectations of what one would find on the inside. That went for living things and nonliving things alike. Though she sensed they’d stepped indoors, if they went through a doorway to reach the tree’s hollowed interior, Nebulux couldn’t say when. And at the same time, she saw no walls or curtains to impede her view, nothing at all but more forest surrounding them. Who could say what created the sense of being safe from the elements? And what did it matter, really, when one was in the presence of the beatific fae Goddess of Poetry, Healing, and Fire?
The lady of the court glowed as she always did, sitting demurely on the edge of a handsomely shaped wooden throne (not carved, simply having grown to accommodate her), her feet resting upon the back of a human servant kneeling on all fours for this purpose. Her shimmering blonde ringlets, flawless luminescent skin, and ethereal aura of timelessness and cheer made fools and sages alike flock helplessly to her, like lambs to slaughter. These enraptured sycophants would serve her willingly in any way she wished, even, as Nebulux observed, as ottomans.
The alchemist couldn’t help rolling her eyes. It helped that she too was fae and not so easily enspelled by Lady Brigid’s charms. And she had little patience for courtly etiquette. Brigid could listen anytime to her harpist; Nebulux had spells to try and potions to test, and most of all, a horridly ensorcelled cat to return to normal.
“My lady, if you would—” That was as far as Nebulux got before Lady Brigid swept up a hand in a “silence” gesture, her thin golden brows briefly arched in consternation. She didn’t so much as look Nebulux’s way before shushing her, which didn’t help the alchemist’s patience a bit.
The harpist played on, and the many courtiers seated and standing around the woody chamber listened attentively and in complete silence, whether they were as enthralled by the tune as the fae queen seemed to be or not.
Music. Pah! Time may not pass in Tír Na nÓg the way they said it did in the human realm, but that did not mean Nebulux wasn’t aware of when it was being wasted. Her desire to get on with things was coming to a head, and she might have done something too hasty to achieve her ends had she not brushed her hand across the corked bottle in one of her dozen right pockets. Ah, the Elixir of Misdirection—she’d forgotten it was there. (Naturally, as a top-rate alchemist, she etched a symbol in the cap of all her elixirs to identify them, and could easily read them with just the brush of her fingertips.) Could she perhaps repurpose it into the Elixir of Musical Misdirection and make the blasted harpist lose his way for a bit? With the entertainment on intermission, Brigid would have no reason to ignore Nebulux, who could be quite assertive when needs be. The trouble would be getting the elixir close enough to unleash upon him without getting noticed.
She glanced surreptitiously right and left through narrowed eyes. She needed a distraction. What else did she have in her pockets? Rifling through them, she came across a simple Smoke of Phantasm. If she could send something scurrying through the court long enough to gather these fine folks’ focus for just a few seconds, she could splash the elixir on her target and would then have but a short wait until his “music” became too unbearable to listen to any longer.
No one was looking her way, and as cannily as she could, she uncorked the phantasm inside her pocket and flung its contents to the side.
No one who wasn’t looking directly at what emerged would have noticed the shape at first—just a small gray puff of smoke slithering across the floor like the worms the fae guard had feared his hair might turn into. But it was growing in size as it moved away from Nebulux, and changing in shape. She whispered the words that would allow the spell to know what form to take, and it exploded into its potential.
Above the fantastical woodland court of Lady Brigid, with wings that spread wider than the arm-span of two men, a sharp-taloned, three-headed harpy ascended. Her wings blew a mighty puff of wind through the room, and the screech that came from her three human mouths was eaglelike enough that it could have split the eardrums of less-resilient folk. Testament to their fae roots, none of the crowd cowered or quelled, though everyone’s attention was unequivocally diverted to watch the rapidly soaring birdwoman. Perfect for Nebulux.
The harpist’s hands paused on his instrument’s strings, but he paid no attention to Nebulux as she swept nonchalantly behind him and dribbled the vaporous orange contents of yet another uncorked bottle into his collar. Swiftly, she made her way back to her original place at the edge of the court and waited for the phantasm to disperse.
Her bottle had contained just a small amount of Phantasm Smoke, and the moment the harpy hit a beam of slanted sunlight coming through the roof of leaves and tree limbs, the illusion rippled and broke apart in tiny motes of ashlike flakes, which then winked away with final sparks.
The assembled crowd of courtiers, guards, harpist, and human footstool all took a moment to appreciate the momentary diversion, either with short, polite claps or through an exchanged comment here and there. Nebulux noted, however, that Lady Brigid did not seem to appreciate it and stared at her across the chamber with bright blue eyes that shot daggers her way. Nebulux played innocent, saying nothing and appearing to be biding her time until summoned. After a moment, Brigid flicked a hand toward the harpist to begin playing.
The next note he played was a short pluck, followed by a rapid and discordant strum and another burst of short plucks of widely separated strings. The resulting sound was worse than a novice just learning; it was more like the harpist was trying to exact revenge for an unknown slight by launching an assault on everyone’s tender ears.
The poor fellow yanked his hands back as though the strings had bitten them, his expression deeply perplexed. “Begging your pardon, my lady,” he said. “I seem to have… I seem to, ehm…” He seemed, if anything, deeply confused about what he was meant to be doing whilst sitting before the great, towering harp of gold. Nebulux’s potion was quite effective; he’d be as unable to remember how to play the instrument for the afternoon as he was unable to remember his own name.
He reached out to try again, retaining at least the reflex of playing if not the skill. After another tormenting attempt with an equally abrasive outcome, Lady Brigid called, “Stop!” With a sigh, she waved him off sharply. “That will be all for today, Kevros. I’m sure you’ll be yourself once again soon.”
The harpist rose and retreated from the chamber, muttering to himself in confused half syllables.
Brigid’s gaze fell once more on Nebulux. “What is it you want, Alchemist? Now that you’ve so thoroughly disrupted my afternoon entertainment, I may as well hear it.” She shifted and crossed her legs atop her human ottoman, her white-and-silver gown slipping to reveal her dainty bare feet. Her ceramic-smooth skin glistened even there.
“My lady, thank you ever so much for speaking with me on such short notice.” Nebulux pretended not to see the look of “as if you gave me any other choice” that tightened the skin of Brigid’s perfect face. “’Tis a simple request I have. I’ve run out of starlight ink, and would like to see about gettin’ more.”
Brigid flapped a hand dismissively. “I have no shortage of it, but after your rude interruption, I can’t imagine why you think I’d be willing to part with any to you.”
Nebulux knew she couldn’t come empty-handed. Fortunately, the trade she had in mind cost her nothing and weighed even less. It was information, a tidbit she’d overheard while imbibing in an evening tipple at her favorite local tavern.
“O’ course, o’ course. I t’ink I have just the t’ing I heard you’re a’wantin’.” She paused, grinning, stringing the fae queen along to ensure she had her attention. “’Tis about the Spear o’ Lugh. I understand you’ve been lookin’ for it, yes? Just so happens, ’tis right here in Tír Na nÓg, as we speak.”
Brigid’s blue-beyond-blue eyes lit with an inner fire equal parts curiosity and avarice. “Do go on,” she encouraged through clenched teeth. “How do you know this?”
Nebulux went on to explain the events as she’d heard them—just a few nights hence, the half-blood Lula Cullen had brought it to try freeing Lugh from his mental imprisonment on Magh Mell. But during a fight with the Morrígan, it had disappeared. (She left out her role in the endeavor, not mentioning that Toxicore had brought the half-blood and her friend to meet Nebulux. Wisdom, of which Nebulux had more than her share, dictated it was best to ensure her role stayed anonymous.)
Brigid’s finely arched golden brows drew closer and closer each time Nebulux mentioned the Morrígan, so she quickly wrapped up the story. “And knowing that weaver o’ woe as I do, I’m sure she’ll have the City of Spells cinched up tighter’n corset on a nun. That spear’s in there somewhere, and you, my lady, shouldn’t have much trouble findin’ someone who can get it.”
Brigid said nothing, tapping her shapely chin with a delicate finger as she stared into the distance. Finally, she gestured to a footman. “Brianag, fetch her a bottle of starlight ink.” Her attention returned to Nebulux. “Enjoy your return to your tree, Alchemist. And do try calling ahead next time you visit.”
With a bow and a smile of both gratitude and triumph, Nebulux collected the bottle from the returning footman and hurried back to her mount.
On the return journey, she mused at her luck. It was nigh impossible for Lady Brigid to enter the City of Spells herself without causing a world-shattering rift, what with the endless dispute with her stepmother. But she had her spies and agents slinking about. That they’d not gotten word back to Brigid before Nebulux had that the Spear of Lugh was in Tír Na nÓg was better than luck, but she doubted it would matter. If someone had been clever enough to whisk the coveted artifact out from under the Morrígan’s nose, they had to be clever enough to keep it out of Brigid’s hands as well. Nebulux didn’t know why the fae queen wanted it exactly, but given its provenance, she suspected it had something to do with the divinity orb housed within the spear’s multibladed spearhead. Much could be done with such a powerful relic, both good and terrible. So much that she couldn’t deny more than a little greed for it herself. Yet still, she had no reason or time to worry about Brigid’s intentions. And she knew better than to try finding it herself, not with the Morrígan on the warpath to get it back.
It was enough that she had her starlight ink, and finally she’d be able to complete the spell to return Meowdusa to a decent ginger feline instead of the plaid abomination she was now.
Stepping into the foyer of her home, she called for the cat.
“Meowdusa! I’m back. And soon you’ll be as right as a sprite.”
When the fat ball of fur didn’t come lumbering her way immediately, she cocked an eyebrow and mumbled, “If she got out again, I swear I’ll turn her into a toad.”
A winding stairway rose from the foyer directly to her lab, and she plodded up. The downstairs of her abode was a chaotic living space, kitchen, and bedroom, but she was rarely there. Always there were spells to write and experiments to test in the lab, and since that was where she spent the majority of her time, so did Meowdusa. The feline was probably just too lazy to tramp down the stairs and merely chose to wait for her, knowing she’d be up directly.
Stubborn, self-absorbed creatures, cats.
***
Meowdusa was indeed in the laboratory, nestled inside the soft yarn catbed her mistress had knitted her. But she wasn’t alone. Four fluffy shapes lay against her belly, snuggling and warm against their mother. She gave the closest a lick on the head, a black-tan-and-magenta kitten, her plaid fur patterned so perfectly that any tartan-wearing Scotsman would be envious. Two more were emerald-blue-and-citrine, and the final, the most striking of the lot, was a little copper-and-two-shades-of-lavender critter, with eyes as pink as dawn’s promise.
Given that a magic spell had been cast on Meowdusa to cause her plaidness, it was easy enough to undo with the right counterspell and enough skill. But her kittens’ coloring was inborn magic, and only a force of nature could remove it. Meowdusa was beyond pleased and excited about these little scamps and their rare beauty.
Best of all, she knew her mistress would be too. Because if there was anything more exciting and unique than having one perfectly plaid-furred feline, it was having five.
Copyright © 2023 by Tammy Salyer. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Unauthorized distribution of this work is illegal and infringes upon the rights of the author.