Page 27 of The Crowned Garza

Saint tuts. “Nuh-uh. You know how this works. If you want my food, you have to let me pet you.”

Her mismatched eyes stare him down before she emits a grumpy purr and prostrates on the ground as if in submission.

Saint pets her, rubbing and scratching her all over as he murmurs Italian words to her. The cat’s eyes squint to tiny slits, and I can’t tell if that means she’s enjoying being petted or begrudgingly tolerating it.

“Look at you, pretending you don’t love it,” Saint coos, picking her up and giving her all the love. “Such a bad girl. My rude, rude, bad girl.”

I’m almost jealous of her. She gets his affection and I get cold apathy. She gets called a “bad girl” lovingly. I get called a “brat” contemptuously.

Lucky feline.

When she’s had enough, she wriggles away then directs a series of meows up at him before she turns and struts haughtily back into the room.

Saint straightens and goes to the kitchen, gets out a bag of cat food from one of the lower cupboards, then heads back and knocks on the door before entering the room.

Muffled words and bossy meowing can be heard before he returns a few minutes later with a now empty cat food bag.

“That’s one mean and bossy pet,” I comment, while trying not to ogle him.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” Saint cautions as he neatly folds the bag before putting it in the trash bin.

“Call her what? Pet?”

He nods. “She hates it.”

“What’s her name?”

“Indy. For independent,” he replies. “I think she hates humans.”

The door slams, making me jump. “What the—”

Saint chuckles.Chuckles!

Well hell, he has teeth. Laugh lines. And a dimple. Who knew?

“Yep, she definitely heard you call her a pet,” he says.

“So she, like, opens and closes doors on her own?”

“Using her kitty ladder, yes,” he answers. “She’s antisocial. I only see her when the dispensers run out of food and water, when she’s in the mood for warm food or fish, or when she wants me to clean her litter boxes. Her room is outfitted with everything she needs. If I go in there without her permission, she’ll fight me.”

“Yeah, none of that’s weird at all,” I mumble. “How do you know when she wants different types of food?”

“When she wants cooked food, she’ll climb onto the countertop and wait for me. When she wants canned fish, she’ll leave one of her toys in front of the pantry. When she wants her dispensers refilled, she’ll sit outside her door. She rarely wants cooked or canned food, though. She prefers the dry stuff.”

“Maybe because the dry stuff means less human interaction?” I suggest.

“Possibly.” He shrugs. “She’s a rescue. I suspect she was abused. I’ve tried everything to bond with her, followed every advice to try and get her out of her shell. Adopted other cats for her to bond with but had to give them up because she kept attacking them. She just prefers to be by herself, so I let her be.” Another shrug. “Oh, she likes being called a bad girl. Call her that if you want to get on her good side.Neverpet.”

He abruptly pauses and stares down at the counter, as if realizing how many words he’s just given me. He squares his shoulders, and I see the moment he decides to retreat into his ice box, behind his mask.

Before he can, I quickly ask, “Why do you live in the Red Cage building?”

“Reasons,” he clips. “Don’t worry. No one but Tor has access to this floor or the path we took here.”

“‘No one but Tor,’” I scoff. “As if he’s not the one I’m most afraid of.”

“You wanted to come with me. Well, here you are.”