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Chapter 1

Call the Vet and Maybe an Exorcist

T he bedroom door rattles against my sweaty palms as Lucy claws furiously at the other side.

“ Mrawwwrrrr… ”

“I think I should crawl out the window,” I say, my heart pounding.

From the laptop on my unmade bed, Hazel’s voice is stern. “You listen to me, Katie. You’re going to take a big breath, open the door, and trap that kitten under your laundry hamper like your life depends on it.”

There’s a terrible pause as we both seem to wonder the same thing. Does my life depend on it? What, exactly, does this cat want to do to me?

“You saw my arms!” Adrenaline pumping, I turn around and lean back against the only barrier between myself and mortal peril.

“So put a jacket on before you touch her!”

“More like a hazmat suit.” I look heavenward. My skin stings so fiercely that tears well in my eyes. Aside from the bloody scratches, boils have erupted on my hands, arms, and neck, resembling gigantic, pus-filled versions of the zits I used to get in high school .

But Hazel’s right. I have to take Lucy to the vet. And possibly take myself to the hospital, depending on what the vet says.

“You’re sure you haven’t developed an allergy to cats?” Hazel asks. “It’s been a long time since you had one.” On my laptop screen, she paces in and out of the frame, flapping her hands in her signature oh-my-god oh-my-god gesture. She’s ready for class in jeans and flannel, with her dark hair braided and her makeup done. She’s three hours ahead in Toronto, so it’ll be ten there. Guilt twists my stomach for delaying her like this. But the rising panic pushes it aside.

“It’s not allergies. I’m not sneezing. It’s…” I scrunch my face. How do I explain without sounding like I’ve lost my mind? “The way Lucy’s acting, there’s something wrong with her. I know the shelter checked her health, but…”

But I don’t think there’s a test for whatever this is, I finish in my head. In the corner, her food bowl sits melted to the floor, a lump of pink ceramic with ash in it that was once kibble. The charred scent still hangs in the air. Beside it, the kibble bag slumps where I left it when I jumped back screaming, letting the flood of spiders scuttle out and disappear to God-knows-where.

These are not your typical symptoms.

Which is why they’re probably unrelated incidents, right?

There’s no sound of a tiny paw trying to turn a doorknob, so I dart to my closet, grab the laundry hamper, and empty it onto the carpet. Then I rummage through the hangers for a few layers of protection. “Can you research boils for me?”

A chair scrapes as Hazel sits in front of her laptop. “Yeah, for sure. Skin boils from cat scratches… aggressive behavior… anything more?”

Yes. A lot more.

I shake my head, unable to say it. I’m afraid of what’s happened, afraid of sounding unhinged, and afraid of what it all might mean. “That’s it. Look for a condition that could transfer from cats to humans. ”

“On it.”

The frantic tap-tap-tap of Hazel’s keyboard rings out from my laptop, the noise reassuring me that I’m not alone.

My heart fills with gratitude as I pull my ski jacket off its hanger. Where would I be without her? Even from across the country, she’s here for me—the same way it’s been since we met in Grade 10. Back then, we were two multiracial girls adrift in a small-town high school—me, Filipino and German, her, Japanese and Italian—and the cliquey nature of our class meant neither of us was sure which social group we belonged in. Too white to be one of the Asian kids, too Asian to be one of the white kids, not athletic enough for sports, too studious for the rebels, not into gaming… So we formed our own group, just the two of us. It’s always the two of us.

My ski jacket swallows my small frame as I zip it up over the moon-phases t-shirt I use as pajamas. It’s like I’m donning armor for a battle I never signed up for. I put on winter gloves and a balaclava for extra coverage, then jeans to try to bring some normalcy to the look.

Hazel groans, sending a jolt of dread through me. That is not something you want to hear when you’ve asked someone to research what sort of disease you might have contracted.

“What is it?” My panicked voice is muffled through the balaclava. I race over to the laptop and lean down.

Her brown eyes flick to me through the screen. She doesn’t laugh at my appearance, which is a testament to both our friendship and the grimness of the situation. The visible part of my face is clammy, my normally rosy-beige complexion drained and ashen. My dark eyes are wide, and light brown tresses poke out from the balaclava, which I tuck away so I don’t look like a mad scientist.

“Come on. Hit me.” I clap my gloved hands and make a ‘bring it’ gesture. “This day can’t get any worse. Might as well know what I’m dealing with. ”

“Well, I’m not sure,” Hazel says calmly. “But it might be some kind of… worm or parasite? None of the pictures look exactly like what you’ve got going on, but it’s the closest I can find.”

A wave of nausea crashes over me. The idea of these boils being worms under my skin makes me light-headed. I lean on the bed for support. “Th-there’s a cure for that sort of thing, right?”

“Of course.” Hazel types something else. “A twenty-four-hour vet is a few minutes away from you. Helping Paws Vancouver Animal Hospital and Emergency .”

“Helping Paws.” Easy to remember. Help, like what I desperately need right now. “Got it. Thanks.”

Lucy yowls from beyond the door.

Hazel stands to resume her pacing and oh-my-god hands.

I draw a steadying breath. As usual, my roommate and upstairs landlords aren’t home, leaving me alone and in silence except for the gutter runoff splattering on the stone walkway outside my window. It’s a jarring change after growing up with three sisters and a very vocal husky.

I take out the little blue kennel I used for Lucy when I adopted her four days ago. A pang of sadness pierces the adrenaline. My sweet girl. Our life together, possibly over before it began. She was supposed to solve my loneliness in this new city, and now look at us. Why does nothing ever go the way I imagined it?

A burning sensation prickles at the corners of my eyes, and I grit my teeth. I refuse to give up on her. First, she’s already been abandoned once in her short life, and I could never bring myself to return her to the shelter. Second, I’m an Alexander, and Alexanders don’t give up.

With the kennel open, the laundry hamper dangling from my fist, and a red fleece blanket sitting by in case I have to throw it on her, I go to the door.

My pulse pounds as I grip the knob with a gloved hand.

Lucy stops yowling, and a heavy silence falls .

She knows.

I scan the room for things that could go wrong.

Window shut. Closet closed. The storage platform bed leaves no room for hiding underneath. My nightstand, desk, and shelves hold lamps, plants, textbooks, romance novels, the diffuser I use to mask the dank basement smell, three years’ worth of pictures of Hazel and me, and a lifetime’s worth with my sisters. It can all handle being knocked over. The plush cat bed, scratching post, and toys I bought her sit in the corner, mocking me.

“I’m doing it.” My voice trembles. “If things go south, call an ambulance.”

“Okay…” A note of worry tinges Hazel’s tone. Maybe she’s wondering how helpful she’ll be from across the country.

I raise the hamper like a shield, draw a breath, and muster all my resolve. Then, I whip open the door.

“Heyyy, girl.”

Lucy is sitting in the hall, a white fluff ball on the beige vinyl, her stubby tail sticking out like a cotton swab. She’s ten weeks old, her beige-tipped ears suggesting she could be part ragdoll. There’s a tiny brown smudge on her left rear paw like she dipped her toe in chocolate.

I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. But now…

A glint in her eyes makes dread creep up my spine. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I swear her retinas have turned purple. They’re gleaming, unnatural, like a little alien.

The lights flicker, sending a chill through me.

“C’mere!” I swipe the hamper down, but before I can trap her, she darts between my legs and into the bedroom.

“Crap.” I spin around, gritting my teeth.

“Katie, look out!” Hazel cries.

Searing pain shoots through my thigh. The kitten is latched onto me, clawing and biting .

I scream, kicking my leg. “She’s trying to infect me!”

“Grab her!” Hazel shouts.

I seize Lucy’s tiny body, and she spins to attack my glove. Her claws break through the material, and I yelp, shaking her off onto the bed.

“Get—off—” My big toe slams into something, making my eyes water. “Ow!”

It’s my biology textbook, lying in the middle of the floor.

Wait, where did that come from? Weren’t all my books on my desk a second ago?

I stare at it, mentally fumbling all the strange stuff that’s been happening, trying to connect them into a reasonable explanation.

Before I can reach any conclusion that isn’t “my brain is broken,” a gust of wind and a flapping sound pulls my attention.

I gasp.

A crow has flown through the window and is circling my room in a panic. It hits the walls in the tiny space, cawing. Wind whistles in and sends a draft through the room, lifting papers from my desk. Loose pages and feathers float like confetti, raining down in a chaotic mess.

What—is—happening?

“Why did you leave the window open?” Hazel shouts.

“I didn’t!” In pain everywhere, I lunge for the fleece blanket. “Hazel, I swear it was closed. There’s something weird going on. I think I’m losing my mind.”

This infection—it’s got to be making me hallucinate. Objects moving on their own, a crow in my room, my kitten trying to commit murder… this can’t all be real.

But the stabbing pain all over is real enough. Same with Hazel’s screaming.

While the crow continues in frantic circles, Lucy scampers over the bed and up the wall like a squirrel, her claws gripping the drywall.

“She’s going to crawl across the ceiling!” I cry .

“Oh, God, it’s like The Exorcist !” Hazel shouts.

I bat away the crow. “I don’t think there’s any ceiling crawling in The Exorcist !”

“Well, I don’t know, I haven’t seen it!”

My potted aloe plant hits the carpet, dirt spilling.

“Yes, you have! Remember in—”

“Shut up and trap her before she escapes!” Hazel yells.

Point taken. I crawl onto the bed, hurl myself at the wall, and trap Lucy beneath the fleece blanket before she gets to the ceiling.

She yowls louder than ever, thrashing. I bring my hands together to keep her inside the blanket, falling sideways.

Hazel screams as I roll across the duvet, holding Lucy to my chest, and hit the floor. Panicked sobs escape my lips as I crawl for the kennel.

“Hold her tight!” Hazel cries.

I drag the kennel closer and stuff the bundle inside. Sucking in rattling breaths, I swing the door shut. Victory surges in my chest. “She’s in—”

There’s a crash, and I flinch. The floating shelf with all my pictures has fallen off the wall. I stay focused, pinching the latch to lock it.

Lucy frees herself from the blanket and lunges at the metal grate. Her fuzzy little arms stick through, claws out, trying to destroy my fingers. The purple glint in her eyes is brighter than ever, a flame roaring to life.

I yank my hands away and slump back, gulping down air and coughing. The crow is still circling, cawing loudly—but I can deal with that in a second. The more important problem is contained.

“I did it!” My room might be in shambles, but relief floods through me, leaving me light and shaky.

“Yes!” On my laptop, Hazel jumps up and down, pumping her fist.

Lucy is the only one not celebrating. “ Mrawwwrrrr… ”

The kennel shakes as she throws herself at the sides, hissing and spitting.

My heart does the same thing against my ribs, fear smothering my victory as Lucy’s eyes blaze. Stinging everywhere, I grab the handle, praying the vet will know what’s happening to us.