Page 24 of Booked for Murder

“I could have done that for you,” he announced.

“This coffee maker eats souls for breakfast. It cost me ten whole dollars, and it demands souls in exchange for its dark brew. Unless you wish your soul to be consumed on my quest for coffee, you will stay out of my kitchen.”

Ajani bolted from the bedroom, skidded across the tiles, and sat in front of her empty bowl, staring at me with expectant eyes.

Ugh. My cat was about to sucker me out of second breakfast, and too weak to resist her feline charms, I snagged one of her smallest cans of wet food from the cabinet.

Bradley dared to enter my kitchen, stooping over to pick up my cat’s dish. When he offered it to me, I considered flinging the opened can at him, but I set it aside, accepted it, and mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Pride cometh before the fall. If you try to pick that up when you can barely walk, you’ll land on your ass, where your cat might go for the kill for delaying her next meal. Cats are entities of evil, Janette. Didn’t you know that?”

Despite everything, I smiled at his complaint. “She really is. I found her out on the street, cold, wet, and starving to death. I was on my way to my interview at the library, but I couldn’t just leave her there to die, so I took her with me. She’s the branch mascot now. We warn the patrons there is a mouse huntress on the premises, and we take steps if there are any allergies. She’s great at keeping rodents out of the stacks.”

“We’re getting a team of library cats at the main branch,” Beatrice announced. “She’s worked so well at your branch the boss wants to try it out at ours, but we’ll be doing a little better than half-dead strays plucked off the street.”

“Copycat!” I cleaned Ajani’s bowl, and as Bradley had opted to enroll himself for base servitude to my feline goddess, I held the dish out to him to put on the floor. “Exactly two gentle strokes over her head and down her back. If you try for three, she will tear into your hand. Two is the exact number of gentle strokes she will permit as your payment for being her slave. However, you will earn a week of three strokes if you brush her once she’s done eating. Her definition of a week varies, so you would be wise to brush her daily should you wish to earn three strokes at a time. She lives for the brush.”

“I have no idea how to brush a cat.”

“Then you shall learn. It involves picking up the brush on the end table and grooming her fur with it. If you stroke her fur backwards, she will educate you on the error of your ways with her claws, but as she is the feline goddess of this household, you will accept your punishment with grace. You can check the brush. I’m sure it’s imprinted sufficiently for you to learn how to handle such a mundane task.”

Bradley crouched beside my cat, set her bowl down, and stroked her twice as directed, earning a purr from the stray who’d taken over my home and made me like it. “She’s soft.”

“With as much brushing as she gets, she better be soft.”

“You don’t mind me checking her brush?”

His courtesy startled me, as I expected him to take exactly what he wanted when he wanted. “It might be all that saves you from being mauled for daring to brush her wrong. You’re not precisely the nurturing type. Kittens and puppies would have taken too much of your time, and heaven forbid you spend time brushing random strays.”

“It seems I’ve made a few mistakes.” Bradley headed to my couch and located the brush, rolling it between his hands. “Will you share your coffee, or will we have to fend for ourselves?”

“If you value your taste buds, fend for yourselves. I’ll even be a courteous hostess and leave the door unlocked. I bought the cheapest coffee money can buy, because I chug it in the morning and use its terrible taste to wake me up.”

“I’ll send Ren down the street,” Bradley announced, pulling out his phone. “Would you like anything, Beatrice?”

She gave him her order, which involved three different coffees, one of which was destined to be mine, as she wouldn’t touch caramel, hazelnut, and chocolate syrup unless someone held a gun to her head.

“Ren?” I asked rather than betray I would become the benefactor of Beatrice’s jab at Bradley’s wallet.

“He’s one of my bodyguards. We bore each other half to death, and he was quite relieved when I said he could play on his phone in the car until I finished here. He won’t mind fetching coffee. It beats actually doing his real job.”

“That is how idiot adepts like you get killed.”

“I’m not without my defenses. You know that.”

He wasn’t, but Bradley preferred having someone else do his dirty work. “And what’s your flavor of the day?”

Bradley opened his suit jacket and showed off his shoulder holster, something I found to be uncomfortable at the best of times. The sight of the standard-issue, common as dirt Ruger, a lightweight and compact model meant for conceal carry reduced me to muttering curses under my breath. Unlike the newer versions, it lacked a proper trigger safety. “Burn it with fire, get rid of it, and don’t be a cheap ass. That piece of shit doesn’t have a proper safety.”

Bradley laughed, took the gun out, and showed me the profile of the weapon. Unlike the original Ruger, he’d gotten someone to install a mod, and at first glance, the mod likely served as a robust safety system, although it didn’t match my general expectations for the weapon. “Trigger safety mod?”

“It’s a magical trigger safety. I could hand it to you, and if the trigger can’t register my magical signature when it’s pulled, the safety remains engaged and the gun will not fire.”

I leaned on my cane, eyeing the gun while fighting the urge to lick my lips. “Really.”

“If you’re going to work as an investigator, you will need to be licensed, and every investigator cell requires a shooter. You could talk me into providing you with a weapon with a similar safety system installed.”

“But will it be a Sig Sauer?”