Klea Sajmon - A Spell Of Murder. An Incantation Of Cats

1. A SPELL OF MURDER

Chapter 1

It was Harriets fault. Its always her fault, not that shell ever admit it.

That was Claras first thought as she tried to settle on the sofa, flicking her long, grey tail with annoyance. As a cat, Clara wouldnt usually have any trouble getting comfortable. Thats one special skill that all felines share. But even as she tried to calm her restive tail, curling it neatly around her snowy front paws, Clara, a petite, if plump, calico, couldnt stop fretting.

Harriet was her oldest sister, a creamsicle-colored longhair with more fur than common sense. Still, despite the fluffy felines typical self-absorption, she and Clara and their middle sister, Laurel, had cohabited with a nice enough human for almost two years without any problems, until now. Until Harriet.

Yes, Becca, their human, had begun to believe she had psychic powers. Becca, who at twenty-six usually had more sense, was training to be a witch, as if that were something one could learn from books. But to the calico cat who now fumed quietly on the sofa, the petite brunette had always seemed a harmless soulgood with a can opener. Warm. Generous with her lap. And then, last week, Harrietwho cared only for her own comfortconjured up a pillow.

I was tired, Harriet said, in that petulant mew that Clara knew so well, when asked why in the name of Bast shed be so stupid.Becca wasnt even looking.

You could have moved!her younger sibling hissed back, the grey whorls on her sides heaving with annoyance.And she was!

Harriet was taking up the sunny spot on the windowsill, as she always did that time of the morning, and Clara narrowed her mysterious green eyes to glare at her sister. Harriet was more than fluffy, she was immense, a pale orange marshmallow of a feline, whose furry bulk and predictable habits prevented her youngest sister from enjoying any of the solar bounty. Still, she probably shouldnt have hissed. Harriet was Claras elder, if merely by a few minutes. As it was, the orange and white cat just shuffled a bit and turned her rounded back on her sister rather than responding.

Clara didnt know why she even bothered asking. She already knew the answer: Harriet didnt move unless she had to, and on a warm spring day it was easier to conjure a cushion than make the leap from the sun-warmed sill to the sofa, where Clara now fumed. The sofa where, it turned out, Becca had been trying out a summoning spell. And so now, of course, their hapless human believedshe had pulled that pillow out of the ether.

Which was a problem because Becca belonged to a coven. Had for about three months, ever since she saw a flier in the laundromat advertising an opening forWitches: New and In Training. That was the kind of thing that happened here, in Cambridge, where the hippies never really went away. Since then, theyd met every week to drink a foul-smelling herbal concoction and try out various spells. None of which ever produced any magic, of course. None of the humans had the basic powers of a day-old kitten, and certainly nothing like Clara and her sisters shared as the descendants of an old and royal feline line. But now, Clara feared, Becca had become obsessed, spending every waking moment trying to reproduce that one spell, while Harriet, Laurel, and Clara looked on.

Dont you dare Clara muttered in a soft mew as Laurel sashayed into the room, taking in her two sisters with one sweeping gaze. Laurel was the middle one, a troublemaker and as vain as can be. Not simply of her own glossy coatthe cream touched with brown, or, as she called it, caf? au laitbut of her powers. That she was plotting something, Clara was certain. As Laurel glanced from Harriet back to Clara again, her tail started lashing and her ears stuck out sideways like an owls.

Why not? Laurel had a streak of Siamese in her. It made her chatty, as well as giving her neat dark chocolate booties.Itll be fun.

Itll bring more people! Clara felt her fur begin to rise. The idea of her middle sister meddlingand possibly adding more magic to the mixmade her frantic.Dont you get it? Theyll never let up.

The black, grey, and orange catthe smallest of the three sistersdidnt have to explain who they were. That night, Beccas coven would be meeting again at their place, which, to the three felines, was bad enough. Strangers, six of them, would soon be sitting in all the good seats, with their odd smells and loud voices. What was worse was that Becca would think she had to feed them, as well as brew that horrible tea. And as the cats well knew, Becca had no money, not since she lost her job as a researcher for the local historical society.

Redundant, her boss had told her. What with the budget cutbacks and the advances in technology.

That means they can get an intern to do a Google search. Becca had sniffled into Claras parti-colored fur the day shed gotten the news. Harriet might be the fluffiest and Laurel the sleekest, but Clara was the one Becca talked to. The one she had confided in months earlier when she found the book that had started her on this whole witchcraft obsession, a spark of excitement lighting up her face. Shed been researching land deeds, the scutwork of history, when she had stumbled on it, her eye caught by a familiar namesome old relative of hers who had been caught up in a witch trial back in the bad old days in Salem. Then, when shed seen the flier by the coin machine at the Wash N Dry, shed been so exhilarated, shed raced back to tell Clara, leaving her sheets in the drier. And now, without the distraction of her job, Becca had thrown herself into the study of magic and sorcery, spending her days in the library or on her computer, trying to track down the full story of that great-great whatever, and sharing her fears and, increasingly, her hopes with Clara.

Maybe it was because Clara was a calico that Becca whispered into the black-tipped ears of her littlest cat. Calicos had a reputation for being more intelligent and curious than other felines. Plus, that uneven looka gray patch over one eye and an orange one over the othermade her appear approachable. Inquisitive. Becca couldnt know that her youngest cat was often teased for her markings. Goofy, her sister Laurel said in her distinctive yowl. Clara the calico? Clara the clown! Recently, Harriet had taken up calling her that too.

Clara didnt mind, as long as Becca kept confiding in her. The young woman didnt really think her cats understood about her being laid off, but, in truth, they were all quite aware of the straitened circumstances. Not that Laurel and Harriet always sympathized. There was that one time three weeks ago that Becca tried cutting back on the cats food, getting the generic cans from the market instead of the tiny ones with the pretty labels. After wolfing down hers, Harriet had barfed all over the sofa. She didnt have to. She was just making a point about what she considered an affront to her dignity.

Tonight, when Becca took credit for conjuring that cushion, Clara didnt know what her haughty sister would do. Interrupt, most likely. Jump onto the table and begin bathing, if she had to, to be the center of attention. If she tried anything furtherlike pulling more pillows out of the etheror if Laurel got up to her own tricks, Clara would have to get involved, she vowed with a final flick of the tail. And that, she knew, just wouldnt end well.

Chapter 2

Bad Clara! Becca called softly as she clapped her hands at the calico cat. Bad girl.

The cat glanced up from her perch on the counter and blinked, the picture of innocence except for the pink petal that hung from one fang. Her harsh words softened by a gentle smile, Becca reached over and scooped up the multicolored feline, depositing her on the floor.Now, you know better than that!

Is anything wrong? Trent appeared in the doorway, a slight frown pulling his goatee into a pout.