Page 13 of A Skirl of Sorcery (The Cat Lady Chronicles #3)

Chapter

Twelve

I plucked a small tuft of black fur from He Who Roams Wide and swallowed it. Unfortunately I banged my forehead on one of the oak’s branches as my body rose, spun and spasmed into transformation; I’d have a duck-egg sized lump come tomorrow.

Once I was safely on four paws, I shook off the pain and dipped my head in gratitude towards He Who Roams Wide. He knew better than to follow me into the dryads’ grove and I could trust him to wait close to the oak tree until I returned.

I touched my nose briefly to his then performed an unnecessary – but very satisfying – air spin so I was facing the high fence.

I checked its length for inconsistencies or weak points but, as I’d already thought, the easiest way into the grove was via the oak tree where I’d been hiding.

I purred deeply, unsheathed my claws and sprang up the trunk to the first broad branch.

He Who Roams Wide was hovering at the foot of the tree, watching my progress with his judgmental gaze.

I knew better than to show off; I was a cat sith, not a cat, and my joints often reminded me of that.

As a result, it took me a while to choose the best branch to access the grove.

I wanted to get as close to the top of the fence as possible so that it would be easier to jump over, but the nearest branch was rotten and wouldn’t hold my feline weight.

Instead, I opted for a higher one which, although narrower, appeared to be sturdier.

My claws dug into the soft bark and I swayed for a moment or two as I fought to maintain my balance, but I relaxed as my feline instincts kicked in.

I sauntered the length of the branch towards the other side of the grove wall.

I was less than a foot away when the branch started to shiver from my weight.

I paused, but it seemed strong enough to let me inch a few more steps. I kept going.

I eyed the jump ahead. The top of the fence was wide enough for me to land on it without too much trouble but I suspected that would trigger some sort of magical warning system.

The dryads weren’t stupid; they could enforce a simple perimeter spell that wouldn’t activate if a mere bird landed on the fence but which would screech an alarm if anything bigger did the same.

My smartest move would be to leap over the fence and land on the ground on the other side of it.

In theory that was easy, though I couldn’t see what lay directly below it so I’d have to be careful.

I moved forward another inch and the branch swayed alarmingly. I moved back an inch: I’d have to jump from where I was. My eyes pierced the darkness, scanning as much of the grove as I could; it looked safe enough and my time was running out. I had to make my move.

I stopped prevaricating and focused on a spot at least a foot away from where I thought I could reach, bunched up my muscles and went for it.

Leaping through the air in a feline’s body is vastly different to jumping in human form.

As a cat, I had five hundred muscles, all of which engaged when I leapt – it was closer to a bird’s flight than a human’s jump.

In mid-air, I could make micro-adjustments and switch direction so that I landed where I wanted, and I would hit the ground like a coiled spring rather than a lump of concrete.

If I were a full-time feline, I’d jump all the time. It was brilliant.

I landed exactly six inches from the spot I’d aimed for, straightened up and waited to see if my landing had activated an alarm.

There were no shouts and no vibrations of running feet: my entry had gone unnoticed.

Pleased with myself, I licked my paws clean of loose dirt and cast around for an alder tree.

The nearest trees were willows, which had their uses both magically and medicinally but weren’t what I was looking for.

My whiskers twitched as I swivelled to my left and looked for anything that was alder sized.

There appeared to be at least twenty of them only about thirty metres away to the east of the willows. I moved towards them.

I estimated I had five minutes until the stroke of midnight; if I was wrong, it would only be by about ten seconds or so and I reckoned that fell comfortably within the margin of error. I had about a minute to strip the bark I needed. It would be more than enough.

As soon as I passed the last of the willows, I knew that my cat eyes hadn’t failed me.

I was so taken aback at the ease with which I’d located the alders that I hesitated and double-checked that I wasn’t padding into a strange dryad trap.

No: it appeared that sometimes things really were straightforward.

I battened down my concerns and approached the trees. Now all I had to do was find one that would let me strip a section of its bark with my teeth.

The first alders were young so their healthy, supple bark would have to be harvested by a sharp knife.

The next line looked easier to work with, but I passed them by and headed for the innermost trees.

They were the oldest so their bark would be gnarlier and easier to pull off.

With about a minute to spare, I found the perfect specimen.

Somebody had already carefully stripped several sections of bark away from its trunk, doubtless a dryad harvesting produce for the markets or witchery stores, so I felt easier about taking some for myself.

The tree could clearly withstand the assault.

Even so, I paused in front of it with my head bowed respectfully for several seconds, thanking it for its sacrifice.

It was what a dryad would have done, and I hoped it was also what Keres would want me to do.

The clouds shifted, temporarily obscuring the moon, and I heard the distant howls of more of the Coldstream werewolves. I ignored them. It was time: I had to harvest the alder bark now or never.

I tipped my head forward, snagged a loose section with my feline fangs, and pulled.

Thanks to some dryad’s earlier efforts, it came away easily.

I didn’t need a lot; as long as I had enough to make the concoction for Keres, I’d be happy.

I yanked hard and peeled away a good four inches.

I twitched in satisfaction then, holding it carefully in my jaws, I set off back.

I wouldn’t celebrate until I was home safe and sound but, thus far, I was smugly pleased with my progress.

I returned to the spot where I’d entered the grove.

There were no overhanging branches to clamber up so I had no choice but to use the fence.

Yes, it might set off any in-built magical defences but I was leaving now, not arriving.

I had a plan. Unless the situation were truly dire, I always had a plan.

I tensed my muscles and sprang upwards, scrabbling up the final foot. As I passed over the top, I felt the ripple of barrier magic: I’d been right that the dryads had other security measures in place.

I darted to the same oak tree as before, dropped the alder bark and miaowed at He Who Roams Wide. His ears twitched in response. He scampered up the fence then stopped on top of the nearest post and planted his cute furry arse in place while I pressed myself against the trunk of the oak tree.

Three seconds later, four dryad guards came sprinting over from the front gate of the grove.

They might have been dryads but they were highly trained dryads: their gaze was focused and they didn’t waste time chatting. The one at the front was the older dryad who’d confronted the werewolves. I’d already seen that he knew what he was doing.

He ran to the fence, craned his neck upwards and immediately spotted He Who Roams Wide. He gestured to a tall woman beside him who fixed my sleek black cat with a long look and murmured several words under her breath. A breeze rippled He Who Roams Wide’s fur before it receded again.

‘A cat,’ she said.

‘Just a cat?’

‘Definitely just a cat.’

If it had been me on that post, they’d have sensed something else. They might not have thought cat sith but they’d have known I was dangerous. It was a good job I’d planned ahead.

‘Shoo!’ The male dryad waved his hands. When He Who Roams Wide blinked lazily down at him, he gently shook the fence. ‘It’s not a good idea for you to stay up there, Kitcat – in fact, you shouldn’t be out tonight. It’s dangerous.’ He jiggled the fence again.

He Who Roams Wide took pity on him and jumped down. He wove around the dryad’s ankles and purred loudly.

‘Maybe we should grab him and keep him until dawn,’ one of the others said. ‘He might get eaten.’

As the older dryad nodded and reached down, He Who Roams Wide darted away, running for the dubious safety of the city streets.

‘So much for that idea. It looks like that kitty can look after himself.’ The dryad’s head jerked up and his nostrils flared. ‘Another alert has been triggered on the north side.’ He nodded at his companions and all four of them sprinted away.