The Damned King: The Pumpkin Spice Tales, #3

By R.M. Callahan

Spice loves her witch...but not the creature possessing her!

 

Pumpkin Spice, Maine Coon cat and part-time familiar, knew Morwen's magical mentors were bad news. But did Morwen listen to Spice's sage advice? Hell no. So instead, Spice has to beg her frenemy, the ghoul-king, to drive Morwen's tormentors out of town. 

 

But those wicked witches have friends in low places... 

 

Now murderous beings stalk the streets of Kingsport—and only the cats can see them. The town is under siege and the death toll is mounting. Spice forms a desperate plan to deal with the creatures, but it all hinges on a long shot: an unlikely (and probably unholy) alliance between cats, ghouls, and witches. No three species could be less cooperative, yet Spice must somehow rally her allies to her cause.

 

Otherwise, it's Morwen's children who will pay the price...

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.M. Callahan
• Release date: Sep 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732867550

Book preview

R.M. Callahan

The Damned King

A Pumpkin Spice Tale

First published by Flock Hall Publishing, LLC 2019

Copyright © 2019 by R.M. Callahan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

R.M. Callahan has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-7328675-5-0

Editing by M.R. Callahan

Editing by T.M. Kostelc

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

To Quinn, who taught me the language of cats.

Contents

Acknowledgement

1. Bestial

2. Indefinable

3. Incongruous

4. Pungent

5. Cowed

6. Tantalizing

7. Arcane

8. Metaphysical

9. Friable

10. Howling

11. Ominous

12. Ragged

13. Flailing

14. Hysterical

15. From the Author

About the Author

Also by R.M. Callahan

Acknowledgement

Thanks as always to my husband, for his undying support, and to my editor Tessa, for still getting excited about my books. Special thanks also to the Johnson family for letting me borrow their cat Onyx as a character.

1

Bestial

There was a witch in my kitchen, and I didn’t like it.

I had nothing against witches in general. I lived with one—or, at least, I lived with a woman who wanted to be a witch. But that was Morwen, and this was Val, and Val was a different cauldron altogether.

Not that I could pinpoint precisely what the problem was. There was nothing offensive about her appearance, which was that of a strong-willed, hard-nosed woman in her fifties. Her long, graying hair waved at its ends, and she possessed a proclivity for ankle-sweeping skirts and little boots with buckles.

Nor could I complain about her interaction with my beloved mistress. Val had only four months before saved Morwen’s and her daughter’s lives, from a birth enchantment gone seriously awry. In addition to this, she’d proved a steadfast companion to Morwen since then. It was Val’s visits, more than anything, that had cajoled Morwen from the deadly postpartum depression in which she’d found herself. That Morwen could now hold her new baby girl, smile at her, and play with her, was in large part due to Val. This I, unfortunately, couldn’t deny.

I crouched at the top of the stairs and peered around the corner. This afforded me a partial view of the kitchen, and I could just see Val pouring steaming water from the kettle into two mugs. The mugs had been a gift to Morwen from Val, and were stylized versions of a high-heeled boot from which striped tights emerged. They were intended to be ‘witchy,’ I supposed, though in no lifetime of mine could I recall any witch wearing anything resembling those garish stockings. They seemed a glaring indicator, suggesting a dire need for the wearer to be dunked into the nearest pond—or, more likely, burned at the stake.

Morwen, of course, loved the stupid things.

She smiled as Val carried the steaming mugs of tea over, and went on chattering in her bright, vivacious way. If I focused, I could catch most of the meaning of Morwen and Val’s conversations, but I’d long ago ceased listening. They rarely spoke about anything interesting. Blah blah blah, seasons. Blah blah blah, goddess. Blah blah blah, lightworkers. Not really what I considered magic—though I couldn’t deny that Morwen’s sorcerous attempts had, of late, improved.

I glanced upwards at one of her most recent projects, a sigil burned into wood and hung upon a nail. Looking to See That Which Cannot Be Seen, I could discern a glimmer of real power within the symbol’s blackened lines. Enchantment rolled off the talisman in waves, almost like heat, and I could feel it running ticklishly down the fur on my back. I wouldn’t say it was yet quite as good as one of my own Marks, which were clawed deep into the baseboards all around the house. It came close, though. Yes, there was no doubt that Morwen’s craft had improved dramatically since she’d befriended Val.

But at what cost?

A plaintive mrrow, barely audible through the walls, caught my attention. I attempted to ignore it. It was Cinnamon, hiding in the backyard, come to tell me—once again—what an evil creature Val was, and how she spelled the doom of us all. As I’d already listened to Cinnamon’s foamy-mouthed ravings on the topic twice this week, I wasn’t prepared to listen a third time. Besides, exiting the house would require me to pass through the kitchen, and I wished to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Val knew me only as Morwen’s cat, but her associate, Neil—or, rather, the thing that possessed Neil—remembered me from the Dark Yule. That thing recalled my interference in their blasted ritual, and blamed me for her husband’s ensuing death. I knew this because she’d told me so four months ago…just before trying to kill me.

I’d seen Val with Neil once, but wasn’t sure of their precise relationship. Still, I preferred to err on the side of caution. Whenever Val came around, I stayed well out of sight, but never ceased watching her.

From behind me, I heard the faint crinkle of a mattress. A few little grunts, followed by a half-hearted wail, informed me that one of the babies was stirring. Silently I rose and padded down the short hallway, checking first one bedroom door, then the second.

Morwen’s son Arthur—who until recently I’d always thought of simply as my baby—was still asleep in his crib. With his cheek pressed firmly to the mat and his butt high in the air, he showed no signs of awakening soon.

Not so with Morwen’s daughter. I head-butted her door open and discovered the tiny infant rolling about in her bed, fussing and moaning. I slipped over, paws quiet on the nursery’s rug, and leaped atop the changing table. Peering into the crib, I could see that, though her monkey-like face was screwed up in distress, her eyes remained firmly shut. She didn’t require her mother or milk, only a bit of comfort.

I jumped down into the crib and settled myself beside her on the thin mattress. Tiny hands clasped my belly fur, yanking uncomfortably, and her little mouth made distressed sucking motions. But Rose’s quivering eyelids remained closed, and I watched her features slowly slacken, as the child slipped back into the dreamlands.

Tenderly I licked the top of her head, barely touching my rough tongue to her delicate, ruddy skin. She was a darker child than her brother, taking more after Morwen’s bloodline.

Rest easy, Rose, I told her, and purred a little feline melody, the same I had sung to Morwen’s belly when Rose had been in the womb.

Footsteps slowly ascended the stairs. They were too heavy to be Morwen’s, who in the warm summertime went barefoot whenever she could. Nor were they quite as clompy as Her Husband’s work boots—and besides, he wasn’t home yet.

Don’t worry, dear. I’ll check on them for you, Val called down to the kitchen.

Damn! She was already at the top of the stairs. There was no time to try and hide. Besides, what could I do? Abandon the baby?

I flattened down in the crib, my ears pressed tight to my skull, as the door creaked open further. Val poked her head inside, her long hair swinging, and studied the now-silent infant.

Her eyes shifted from the baby to me, and her coral-painted lips parted in something like a smile. With care, she edged through the narrow crack, and ever-so-softly closed the door.

Long time no see, kitten, she murmured, her voice nearly inaudible. Her expression was indulgent, and sweetness oozed all through her meaning. But her eyes—a curious light, flat color between brown and gray—contained no warmth. I see you’ve calmed the baby. Well done. You are such a good familiar.

She took a step closer, skirts rustling. My lips drew back from my teeth, spreading in a silent hiss.

Now, now, she scolded, in that same undertone. Is that any way to behave? After I saved your mistress? And that baby?

She lowered her gnarled, beringed hand into the crib, and came within a tail’s-length of Rose’s wispy hair. That was as far as she got—I could stand it no longer.

My paw lashed out against her knuckles, hard, but with no more than a touch of claw. A warning tap, supplemented by the growl that trickled forth from deep within my chest.

Val lifted her hand and examined the slight scratch I’d left with interest. Well, well. Perhaps Margery was right.

As I wondered who Margery might be, Val abruptly squatted down, into an oddly bestial crouch. Her eyes were now directly across from mine. I could feel my fur prickling its way up my back as we stared at one another through the crib’s white, insubstantial netting.

Perhaps you are dangerous. She smiled brilliantly, showing all her teeth. As though we were sharing a joke. Perhaps I should dispose of you, before you lead Morwen…astray.

My pupils blew wide with fear, turning the sun-dappled room dazzling. I could see every sparkle and gleam on Val’s many rings as she tapped the netting between us.

Luckily for you, she went on, sounding amused, I formed a much more favorable impression of you than dear Margery. Such a clever and devoted kitten can still be useful to us, I told her. Don’t you agree?

Even if I could have spoken the human tongue, or if she could have understood the language of cats, I wouldn’t have had an answer. Apparently she didn’t expect one, for she stood back up. Her eyes never left mine, nor mine hers—I tilted my head back as the tall woman towered over the crib.

I’m glad we could have this little chat, Val purred—or came as near to purring as a human could. I’m sure you only want to do what is best for your mistress, and… she paused, and dropped her gaze to the baby. Only then did I realize I’d draped a protective paw over her tiny ribcage.

…and her children, Val finished.

Without warning, the mask of joviality dropped away. No, more than that—something intangible, yet fundamentally human, vanished utterly. I was staring up, not at a middle-aged woman, but something more approaching a spirit, or a goddess, or a ghost. Or a monster.

What was it that was different? Did her skirts cease to rustle? Her bangles to jingle? Did the wrinkles around her mouth smooth, or her hair stop flowing? I couldn’t put my claw on it—but the transformation terrified me. Something great, and terrible, and old, stared down at me from the earth-colored eyes.

I watched Val don humanity again like a costume. A little shake of her braceleted wrist, the slightest toss of her wavy hair, and she was once again in character: just a female human, getting on in years, with somewhat bohemian taste in clothing.

We’ll talk again soon, she told me, and left the room without a backward glance.

2

Indefinable

Ididn’t resume my post by the stairwell. I didn’t dare. I remained crouched by Rose’s door, ready to attack Val should she ascend the stairs again. I had a rough plan, loosely based upon my friend Libby’s brilliant attack upon Neil. Libby and I, working together, had successfully toppled the wicked occultist down a long flight of stairs, very nearly killing him. Unfortunately, very nearly wasn’t nearly enough, and Val had just confirmed for me that Neil—and the thing inside him—were likely still in Kingsport. Close enough, at least, to participate in fun conversations with Val about how and when I should be eliminated.

Still, Val had dropped an invaluable hint. Margery. At last I had a name for the worm witch who’d possessed Neil during the Dark Yule, and ridden his body all the way into our present-day Kingsport. At least, I was nearly certain that Margery must be her name. I wasn’t aware of any other humans, let alone witches, with a murderous vendetta against me.

There was a scraping of chairs down in the kitchen, followed by the usual fluttering, chirpy vocal patterns of human farewells. The profound relief I experienced when the front door finally opened and closed can hardly be described. Moving as quietly and unobtrusively as a Maine Coon possibly can, I crept down the stairwell. The witch had left my kitchen, and I could hear, outside, the characteristic throaty rumble of Val’s car engine. Thank the stars, the visit was indeed over.

I could also still hear Cinnamon meowing vigorously from the backyard. I was sick at heart and had no desire to listen to her near-incoherent ravings. I didn’t care who Val or Cinnamon had been in past lives. I only wanted to know what she intended to do in this lifetime.

I slunk round the corner and stole into the kitchen. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window above the sink; dust motes floated in the golden rays. Morwen still sat at the battered old dining table, humming something softly to herself. I slipped under the chair and wound myself between her ankles, purring mightily, as much to reassure myself as to please her.

Her fingers dropped down lazily, dangling beside the chair. I rocked back onto my hind paws and stretched upright, brushing my nose against her warm palm. She scratched just behind my ears, and I purred yet harder, pushing my skull firmly into her hand.

I’ve got something special planned tonight, she told me. She tickled me under my chin. Something just for you and me.

I perked my ears toward her, awaiting further information, but she just gave me a final, dismissive pat before scraping her chair back and rising with a groan. Morwen hadn’t gone out much lately, but with two babies and an old house to maintain, she still spent too much time on her feet. I wished more humans would adopt the feline habit of napping; I suspected just a few extra hours of sleep per day would eliminate many of their social ills.

As she carried the tea mugs over to the sink, I exited through the cat door. A gorgeous afternoon greeted me; the wooden planks of our porch still held the heat of midday, even as a cool, trifling little breeze soothed over my ruff and tickled at my ears. I would’ve flopped onto a step and enjoyed the waning sun, if not for the faint—but unmistakable—gleam of tawny eyes, lurking in the shadows of a nearby pine.

Resigned to my fate, I padded down the short staircase, and over to the chilly grass beneath the trees. Hello, Cinnamon, I told her, in my absolute best discouraging tones.

What happened? What did she say? Cinnamon demanded. Her ears twisted back and forth with anxiety, and her striped tail lashed at the yellowed needles that had collected under the pine. Her eyes were huge and unblinking and, frankly speaking, not a little mad. The overall effect was alarming, especially given that Cinnamon was a Savannah, and therefore already disconcerting in a purely domestic setting.

She threatened my life, I told Cinnamon dryly. Unless I’m a good kitty and do what I’m told.

Cinnamon’s ears swept back fully, pressing into her skull, before springing upright once more. You’re lucky she didn’t do more.

I’m not convinced she won’t.

Cinnamon’s paws flexed upon the grass, as she instinctively strained to bare claws that had long since been removed. What do we do?

Cinnamon asked this every time Val visited. I’d proffered a number of different answers: Wait and see, Be patient, and Bide our time had been chief among them. Now, I attempted a different approach.

Cinnamon, you have to tell the others.

Cinnamon’s tail writhed across the ground, before she did something peculiar indeed: she shook her head, from left to right and back again. The gesture was not dissimilar to how I’d break a mouse’s neck, and for a brief, baffled moment I stared uncomprehendingly at Cinnamon’s empty jaws. Then, my long association with humans provided the answer. Cinnamon had shaken her head no, in the human fashion.

Odd, indeed, that her very negation proved the fact she was so eager to deny.

Look, I told her. I get it. It’s embarrassing.

You don’t get it, she muttered, eyes slanting past me. "You’ve always been a cat."

Probably not. I mean, who knows? I was taking the long view; one could only assume that we must have been something before the feline species came into existence. Just because I could only remember being a cat, for five or seven or possibly more lifetimes in a row, didn’t mean I’d absolutely never assumed some other form.

This was clearly cold comfort to Cinnamon. You know what I mean.

It could’ve been worse, I said weakly. You could’ve been a dog…

She sniffed, with what might have been either disdain or amusement, and turned abruptly to groom her rear thigh. Pleased with these results, I pressed my case.

You’ve explained to me why Val is a threat, I said. Why you think you were reincarnated here

"I know why I was reincarnated here. To stop her."

Do you think you can do it alone?

Cinnamon, nibbling at her haunch, ignored me.

The thing is, I went on, I want to help you, but I can’t. I can’t even leave the backyard without Jack and his Queens trying to kill me. This statement was barely hyperbolic. Jack—I refused to call him King anymore—had taken our little scuffle last spring rather badly. Four months on he still chased me whenever he found me. Worse, every cat in town followed his example, though admittedly some rather lollygagged in their ‘pursuit’. Jack was not a popular King by any means, and I believed I’d won more than a few feline hearts in the course of my own exploits. That said, I was no longer truly safe anywhere in Kingsport save on my own property—and even then Jack had a nasty habit of sneaking in at night and pissing on my porch.

More distressing than my isolation was my expulsion from my favorite part of the dreamlands, the lovely cat paradise that was Carter’s sunset city. There Jack prowled, not as a tuxedo Tom, but as an enormous, black-furred panther,