“You know stray cats can take care of themselves, right?”
She says nothing, only nuzzles the kitten again, giggling when it presses its paws to her chin and begins licking her lower lip.
I grimace. “That’s disgusting.”
“No, it’s not. It’s adorable.”
“These are wild animals. They don’t need to be fed and coddled and comforted. They survive well enough on their own without you feeding them.”
“I like feeding them.” She sets the gray kitten down and picks up the fluffy white one. “And Madeline likes me.”
I hang my head and rub my brow. “This is exactly why fae began to change in the first place. Because of humans trying tohelp.”
“I know,” she says, and has the decency to sound somewhat ashamed.
Because I’m right. Long ago, Faerwyvae was only inhabited by fae, and all had only one physical form—their unseelie manifestation. Fae were animals. Spirits. Wild forces of nature. But then humans discovered the isle and began to interact with the fae. They taught us their language and brought food and clothing. Contact with such items began to change faekind. Soon we learned to manifest a second form modeled after human likeness. What followed was a bloody war that divided the isle, separating the humans from the fae. It wasn’t until just over twenty years ago that another war brought the wall that divided our two people down. Since then, we’ve been united. The fae rule the isle, but the humans who live here flourish under their protection.
“I don’t see you complaining about having a seelie form,” Astrid says, glancing at me from head to toe. “Which body do you spend more time in? This one or the bear?”
I purse my lips, debating whether to answer her at all. But the pure curiosity in her voice has me speaking almost against my will. “This one, mostly,” I say with a resigned sigh.
“Why? You’re so cute as a bear.” Her scent constricts with a hint of embarrassment, as if she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
I snort an involuntary laugh. “Yes, well, I spent the first several years of my life as a bear. But after I learned to shift, I didn’t shift back often. Now I only do so when it suits my work as Huntsman.”
“If I had an animal form, I don’t think I’d ever shift. I envy animals. Not fae ones, I suppose, but true animals. They don’t seem to have the same tendency to judge and scheme like people do.” Her scent dips with a note of grief and longing.
“Don’t envy them too much,” I say, tone harsher than I intend. “Animals—whether fae or wild creatures—have their own dangers to contend with.”
She scoffs. “I thought you said animals can take care of themselves.” When I don’t answer, she nuzzles the kitten and breathes in its scent. Something that almost makes me want to gag, considering the creature must smell like garbage.
“What is with you and animals?” I ask.
“I just said as much. I envy them.”
“It’s more than that. Your mood changes when you’re around them.” I watch for any sign that she realizes—for that single moment where she was distracted by her own joy—that Isawher.
She grins. “How could it not? I just…I’ve always loved soft things. The feeling of fur in particular. My very first memory as a baby is my father wrapping me in fur and holding me close. I was so warm then. So safe and cherished and protected. It was the most comfortable feeling in the world.”
“I’m not so sure it was equally as comfortable for whatever beast the fur came from.”
She lets out a groan. “Don’t make me think of such sad things.”
I’m about to counter that with a gibing retort when she takes a sudden step closer and holds the white kitten out toward me.
I stare at the ball of fluff. “What?”
“Hold her.”
“Why would I?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because she lives behind a refuse bin. You do recall I have a strong sense of smell, do you not?”
“Just hold a kitten, Huntsman. It will be good for you. Your grumpy act is getting old.”
“If I hold a kitten, can we get on with our business?”
