Page 3 of Whiskers on Kittens

“I sent that bastard to intensive care, Your Honor. I might not look like much, but when it’s time for a fight, I go in ready and able to do whatever it takes to win. There isn’t a need to give me a firearm. I can improvise.”

“I have every intention of making sure you’re appropriately armed, Miss Winfield,” the judge promised. “I’ve seen your qualifications. If you don’t use the gun, that is your business, but you will be going in fully armed to make sure those kittens make it home in time for the holidays.”

I could work with that. I gestured at the cop stuck with me. “What do I need him for, anyway? Isn’t he just going to get in the way?”

The angel snickered, and she waved her hand. “He has his uses, I assure you. But his badge will gain you access to places you will want to go during your mission. He is going to temper your drive with just enough common sense to make all infractions ignorable in mortal courts. You are valuable in your current job, and you do a great deal of good for people although you specialize in corporations. You remember there are humans working for these corporations, and you help secure them better work conditions in a society that does not value workers sufficiently. I cannot help you erase his innate dislike for female felines with zero regard for trivial laws, but I can remind him that there are five young lives relying on him—and on you—to bring them home. I am confident in your ability to make the most of this situation.”

My virus could work with what the angel offered. Within a month, I’d learn enough about the wolf to determine if he was worth hunting in earnest. Our viruses would spend the entire time dancing around each other.

I wondered what his virus thought about being in the presence of a divine single female feline. Soon enough, I hoped to find out. Ready and eager to get to work, I focused my attention on the pages in my hand.

No matter what, I would bring those kittens home.

TWO

“You think I’m beautiful?”

To cultivate a better understanding of the challenges I faced, I needed to brainstorm why traffickers would want to kidnap infected children. A few possibilities came to mind, all of which annoyed me. If caught at an early age, children could be groomed to fit certain roles. If a wealthy family wanted a dedicated wife for their son—or a dedicated man for their daughter—trafficking a young lycanthrope made sense. Over time, the virus would adapt, especially if the family groomed the chosen lycanthrope child.

The virus would eventually cooperate, as it desired a permanent mate, always.

After stealing a pad of paper and a pen from the judge, I jotted down my beginning notes, which boiled down to the various ways someone with more money than sense might take advantage of a child in the trafficking world. Once I pursued the wealthy family route, I delved into the darker world of criminal circles.

Chicago boasted numerous crime rings with various factions warring for dominance. The last I’d checked, the vampires ruled the roost with one brood setting the general rules of conduct. From time to time, the vampires came out to play when I negotiated.

Sometimes, they wanted to join in and cut a deal—and sometimes, they wanted to make or break deals. I’d played the game long enough I had the names and numbers of several vampires in my phone. I picked the device up off the judge’s desk and eyed it before turning my attention to the angel, who paced around the room, waiting for something. “Is this a good idea?”

Sometimes, asking cut out a great deal of red tape. Other times, it opened gateways to my personal version of hell.

I wouldn’t know until I tried.

Something tickled the inside of my head, and a moment later, the angel giggled. “That would surely introduce some chaos, which is neither good nor bad. You would get results, but I cannot tell you if they are the results you want. Some things you will have to decide for yourself. However, you would test the patience of your wolf quite well with that scheme.”

Excellent. My virus enjoyed the idea of toying with the cop, which would guarantee an absence of boredom from my life until Christmas. “Do I get some slip proving ownership?”

“Alas, according to mortal laws, you do not get to own the wolf without his consent. I recommend either a formal wedding ceremony or a courthouse session to secure his consent. He even has some value on your taxes, although not as much as you might like.”

With my earnings, he’d have to be worth a fortune to make a dent in my yearly tax bill. I minimized my tax bill through taking on certain negotiations for the government, knocking down how much I owed from a little over forty percent to a little under twenty percent. “I can afford a freeloader.”

The angel snickered. “You certainly can. He would be quite the pampered police officer by the time you finished with him, and he even might keep you out of community service part of the time.”

“Why don’t you try for all of the time,” the cop muttered.

“I enjoy community service, and it works out better when it’s forced community service. You see more of the problems on the streets and you’re in a better position to do something about it. I could volunteer, but it’s not the same. I get to have fun before I do my good deeds.”

“Is she lying?” he asked.

“She is not. Laws are things she understands very well, but she challenges the system because it sharpens her mind and her skills. The consequences are rewards for her. She abides by her community service time because she wants to. She could easily pay her way out of the system.”

The wealthy could—and often did. “He’s going to go home in a state of true despair at this rate.”

“He will not be going home,” the angel replied. “But the state of despair will begin in earnest when he realizes he will be sharing a hotel room with a divinely beautiful, single female feline.”

I stared at the angel with wide eyes. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“I have seen your soul and know its worth. You are beautiful in flesh and spirit. Perhaps if you engaged with more males you would hear those words more often. It is a good thing to practice.”

“I don’t like dumb men,” I complained. “And the smart ones always run.”