Sherry found herself momentarily at a loss. “I don’t know what to ask. How is this supposed to work, exactly?”
“How would you expect it to work,” the cat asked her, “in a tale of this nature?”
“In a tale of this nature,” Sherry repeated. “I don’t know. Maybe for you to give me a magic sword or something.”
“I am Lord Thomas Cromwell, not Lord Merlin,” said the cat, a little more testily than Sherry thought was completely reasonable, considering that he’dasked. “This is my counsel: Attend to what particularly strikes you as you go about. Attend to the resonances of things. In the deepest human heart there is a memory of ancient enemies, and a knowledge of how to defeat them.”
Sherry watched him expectantly, waiting for more. No more came. That was, apparently, it. “That’s it? Justattend to the resonances of things? I’ve been working hard on investigating, and all you have for me isresonances?”
The cat drew himself up, which—even though he was a tubby fifteen pounds—wasn’t nearly as impressive as Sherry suspected he wanted it to be. “I have advised you in matters ancient and sacred, woman! Take care not to dismiss me so easily.”
“Oh,excuse me, Your Highness,” Sherry said. “I just thought that maybe with all of your drama about making a deal, you might be a little better at holding up your end of it.”
“My lordwill do,” said Lord Thomas. “Orsir. And there’s no need for you to pretend that performing your investigations issuch a great trial. Don’t act as if you aren’t enjoying yourself, woman. This is what you like to do, isn’t it? Meddle in the doings of the dead?”
Something about the way he said it made Sherry regret having finished her whole sandwich. She pushed the empty plate away. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said. “She doesn’tforceyou to take such an interest in her murders. Her powers are the stuff of unquenchable lusts and blinding rages, not the cold-blooded gathering of clues. She can influence the killer, not the detective. You mustenjoysnooping around in the blood and guts, for her to have chosen you. You must feel as if you have a talent for it, and look forward to the opportunity to practice your art. Thinking about corpses gives you a little thrill, does it?” The cat’s eyes, normally green, were glowing a dull red.
“No,” she said. “And that looks stupid.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Thomas said, in a tone of genuine uncertainty that made Sherry feel as if she’d regained a bit more of an even footing with him.
“Your eyes,” Sherry said with authority. “You might be able to get away with it if you were a black cat, but as it is, the red clashes with your fur. It just looks silly, on a marmalade cat.”
“Oh,” Lord Thomas said, and his eyes promptly started to glow green. “Is that better?”
“Yes, much better,” Sherry said. “You look very nice. And stop accusing me of being a pervert. You know perfectly well that that’s ridiculous.”
“Indeed!” Lord Thomas said, triumphantly this time. “You do like it, though, don’t you? You like feeling very clever and important, and saving the day when no one else can. What a hypocrite you are, Sherry Pinkwhistle!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherry said. She was reaching for her purse.
“Oh, yes, you do,” the cat said. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, woman? All of that meddling in other people’s secrets when you won’t confront what you’ve done, when your secrets remain buried, when youarrrllghh!”
Sherry smiled at him smugly over the barrel of her plant spritzer. She’d gotten him right in the face with the holy water, and he’d leapt straight up into the air and landed on all four paws on the kitchen floor, all his orange fluff standing on end. “When Iwhat, Lord Thomas?”
Lord Thomas hissed at her and ran off to hide under the living room sofa.
“That’s what I thought!” Sherry called after him. Then she got up to wash the dishes.
She spent the rest of the day doing lots of things that were, essentially, wasting time, while still preserving a tiny scrap of pretense that she was working hard on the investigation. Mostly she just read some more from her stockpile of books on the occult. Some of them seemed like thinly veiled excuses for the authors to breathlessly report on the scandalous personal lives of nineteenth-century spiritualists. One of them, at least, Sherry thought might actually come in handy: it contained a lengthy section on the sorts of objects and symbols that various pagans and occultists found generally important and powerful while going about their…occulting. She was reading along contentedly enough when a passage suddenly struck her. In matters pertaining to death, there is no plant with stronger and older magic than the yew.
The matters Sherry had been dealing with recently certainly pertained to death.Yew.Maybe that could be helpful.More helpful, perhaps, if she knew what on earth a yew tree looked like, or how to find one. She didn’t know very much about trees—she liked to garden, but she mostly stuck to things she could eat, and wildflowers. She made a mental note to look upyewin the encyclopedia the next time she was in the library.
She jolted awake the next morning before her alarm went off and spent a few moments frozen in place, terrified of something that hadn’t happened yet. What would it be this time? More men screaming outside her door or shouting at her through her cat’s mouth? Something horrible transforming her mother’s face in the photo on her bedside table? Then she got ahold of herself, got out of bed, and answered the phone. The ringing had woken her up.
“Good morning, Sherry,” said Father Barry. He soundedrepulsivelychipper. “I just ran into the coroner when I was out on my run. He’d like to meet you at the diner in an hour, if you have time.”
Sherry blinked, then looked at the clock on her bedside table. “Father,” she said after a moment. “It’sfive in the morning. You ran into the coroner atfive in the morning? It’s stilldarkoutside. Does he have an assistant at the morgue named Renfield?”
There was a brief pause. “I don’t know if Matt has an assistant,” he said finally. “I think that technically he’s the assistant medical examiner, so you have to be sure not to tell anyone that he’s talking to you about the case. He could get fired.”
“Right,” Sherry said. It was too early in the morning to explain her references to a disgustingly youthful and energetic priest. At least she could feel fairly confident that he wasn’t possessed. There was no way on earth (or any unpleasantadjacent plane) that the demon wasn’t familiar with the main characters inDracula. “I’ll be at the diner at six. Thank you, Father.”
“You’re welcome,” Father Barry said. Then he added an extremely cheerful, “Have a nice day! God bless!” before he hung up.
Lord Thomas Cromwell had slipped into the room as she talked on the phone, and gave her an imperious meow. “Good morning to you, too,” she said, and yawned. “Maybe I should take up running.” Then she added, very hurriedly, “Just joking.” The last thing she needed was her possessed cat trying to hold her to her flippant promises to start exercising.
