Page 5

I stare at her, then I look down.

Paws.

I have paws. Black paws, the same as her cursed eyes. I’m covered in fur. My head swivels, and I see the tail twitching behind me.

No fucking way.

She cursed me to wait for my mate as a cat? And… what? The only way I can break the curse is by finding my mate and getting her to fall in love with me—as a cat?

One of the witches cackles. I don’t know which one, but I turn back and see Susan still crouched in front of me. Proving that my reflexes are no worse now than they were when I was a man, I let loose my claws and swipe at the witch.

I get her on the hand. She shakes me off, sending me scrabbling backward as I dodge her attempted strike. Blood flies from the deep gouge, landing somewhere on my fur as I drop low to the floor. I try to demand her to change me back, but all that happens is that I grumble in warning as the three witches gather around me.

“Cute.” Susan shakes her hand again. The scratch disappears, though my new feline sniffer can scent something rusty and tangy and cold in the blood she left behind. “Well, my sisters, I think the warlock has been punished enough. Come. Let us enjoy what’s left of All Hallow’s Eve.”

As one, the three witches vanish from my kitchen. And because I don’t know what else to do, I run out through the open door of my house, chasing after them, hoping like hell I’ll find a way to convince the Spellbrook coven to drop their curse.

PROLOGUE, PART II

THIS HALLOWEEN (ALMOST)

VINCENT

Idon’t. Whether Susan put something in the curse that keeps me from ever stepping paw inside of Spellbrook again, I’m not sure, but no matter what I tried, I never saw Susan, Mary Ellen, or Alice again.

I tried. For almost a year, I tried, but despite the head witch’s fondness for cats, Vincent Morrow is one stray she was happy to leave to fend for himself.

And then, the next Halloween, I learned that there was one small flaw to the witches’ curse. Sometimes I think it’s because—despite being a witch who used curse magic—she wasn’t truly evil. Then there are times when I believe it has something to do with how I ended up with her blood on my fur following the curse. Whatever the reason, every Halloween—from midnight on the thirty-first of October straight to midnight on November 1st—I’m me again.

I’m Vincent Morrow, warlock. My black fur becomes blond hair. My fluffy body becomes toned flesh. I can speak in more than hisses, growls, and the occasional satisfied mrow. I’m a man again, and knowing that I get that one allowance every year is enough to give me hope.

I need that. Especially when I woke up naked beneath a bush that first Halloween, nearly scaring some older woman into an early grave when I climbed out from beneath it without a stitch of clothing on, beaming that the curse was broken. It wasn’t. Twenty-four hours later, I was a cat again. I was crushed when I realized that the curse lingered, though the idea that there might come a Halloween in the future when I find my mate and convince her to love me… I mean. Why wouldn’t she?

I’m Vincent Morrow.

Even better, I use those Halloweens as best as I can. I have hands when I’m human again. For years, every Halloween is spent trying to free myself from my prison of fur. I make potions. I track down other witches who might be willing to help me break the curse. I search for loopholes in the wording of Susan’s spell.

Unfortunately for me, there aren’t any.

Only your true mate’s magic will free you…

At least there’s one thing I can make out of the curse. My mate… when I find her, she’s going to be the witch that breaks this curse on me. I find that fucking hilarious.

Well… eventually, I do. The first decade that I’m a fluffy black cat? Yeah. Not so much. But, somewhere around the time that the humans started worrying that the new millennium would bring about the end of the world, I began to get used to being a cat.

For the most part.

Let me just say something. When Susan cursed me, I was thirty-one. That was nearly forty years ago. I’ve spent more of my extended life as a cat than I did as a man, and while time passes differently when you’re about thirty-five inches from nose to tail, four decades is a long time to spend covered in fur.

It’s long enough to learn that a patch of sunlight is worth fighting for, and that a closed door is offensive to all felines. Long enough to discover that people will feed you if you look lost and pathetic, and they’ll tell you all of their secrets if you sit quietly beside them and act like you’re not listening. It’s definitely long enough that some instincts become harder to separate from the man I used to be.

The world has changed around me. I didn’t miss it happen. Not exactly. I watched the new millennium come—plus the years that both preceded and followed it—from windowsills, alleyways, empty porches, and the occasional couch when I decided that someone was worthy of my company.

And then, about twenty-five years ago, I made my way to Shadowvale.

I’m surprised it took me as long as it did. Unlike Spellbrook, it’s not a hidden town full of supernaturals, but, still, there’s magic here. Not enough that a human would notice, but I did the moment I strutted into town. It’s woven into the ground and buildings, old and strange and comfortable against my own.

I like it. Ghosts linger openly. Vampires pass through from time to time. Shifters live alongside humans who either don’t notice anything unusual or have gotten very good at pretending they don’t.