Visions (Cainsville #2)(39)

“TC?” I called.

Silly, of course. He wasn’t the only black animal in Cainsville. But when I paused, my legs twitched, as if urging me to keep going. I checked around the hedge. No sign of any furred critters. I scanned the yard but still saw nothing. So I resumed my jog.

I’d gone halfway down the quiet street when a shape darted across the intersection ahead. There was no doubt it was a black cat, roughly the same size as TC.

I whistled. The cat scampered along the next street and vanished out of sight.

“TC?” I called as I hurried after him.

Seriously? Take a hint, girl. Dude’s running the other way. You’ve never chased a guy before. Don’t start now.

I just wanted to make sure he was okay. That he hadn’t been . . .

What? Abducted from my apartment? Kidnapped and dumped here, a mile away, and somehow couldn’t find his way home? It was a mile. Real pets cross continents for their people.

When I reached the corner, there was no sign of TC, but I jogged along looking left and right. At the next corner, I stopped on the curb and closed my eyes. I felt a twinge and opened my eyes just as a black cat dashed into a yard.

Let me get close enough to make sure it’s him. That’s all I need.

When I neared the house, I slowed. The shuttered windows made the house look as if it was asleep. No, as if it was drowsing, waiting . . .

I shook off the feeling. Still, the house was worth staring at. Victorian literature was my area of specialty, but I’d always taken an interest in architecture, too, and this house combined the two perfectly. It was a Queen Anne, which often conjures up images of the most over-the-top, wedding-cake Victorians, but this one had the hallmarks while showing dignified restraint. Less of a flouncy cancan dancer than a well-born lady who knows how to rock a fancy dress and killer pair of heels.

It had an asymmetrical front, with a rounded porch extending along the left side. There was no Queen Anne tower, but the front window and the one above it were large, three-sided bays, forming a half tower. The details were Free Classic style, meaning they lacked the ornate gingerbread, instead favoring columns and simpler molding.

I continued forward. The street was lined with oaks and elms and maples, not one of which was under a hundred years old. An evening breeze made the leaves dance, and brought the faint perfume of magnolia blossoms.

I reached the house. The yard was emerald green and perfectly trimmed, as were the rose bushes and hydrangeas. The gardens were otherwise empty, though. Weeded, as if someone had meant to plant but lost track of time and missed the season.

A wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. On every post was a chimera head, like the ones in the park. I touched a minotaur.

This fence wasn’t something you could hire the local builder to install, even a hundred years ago. Gorgeous, expensive custom work. I walked down to the next chimera. That’s when I glanced up at the house and noticed the frieze under the cornices. Gargoyles.

“Mrrowwww.”

The plaintive cry made me jump. It was TC, beyond a doubt. The call came from the side of the house, but I could see nothing there. Then it sounded again.

I bent outside the fence and called him. I whistled. I chirped. I clucked. I made every “here, kitty kitty” noise I could think of, and as I did, his cries grew louder and more urgent.

He’s hurt. He’s trapped.

He couldn’t be. I’d just seen him.

I pushed through the latched gate and up onto the porch. I rang the bell. I used the knocker. Brass, with a cuckoo’s head—a good marriage omen. I called a hello. TC yowled louder.

No one was home. That’s why the shutters were closed. The owners were gone for a while, the house battened down tight.

I cast one last look at the leaded-glass sidelights to be sure a light wouldn’t suddenly flick on, then I went back down the porch steps and around the side of the house. I immediately saw where the noise had come from: an open basement window. I hurried over. The window was a side-slider, open maybe six inches. Below, all was dark, but I could hear TC meowing.

My flashlight app is far from perfect, but when I reached my phone through the window, it dimly lit a typical old-house basement, with a dirt floor and bare walls. And a cat. My cat. Yowling for me to rescue him.

“What?” I said. “Ten minutes ago you run away from me, then you jump through a window to hide, find yourself trapped, and decide maybe I’m not so bad after all? I should leave you down there.”

He yowled louder.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered.

I looked around. One shutter near the front of the house had come unfastened and tapped in the breeze. I walked over, opened it, and stood on tiptoes to peer into the house.

The room was as empty as the basement.

The owners hadn’t just left for a while. No one lived here. I stepped back for a better look. The house was in excellent shape for its age. Well tended, too. How could a place like this sit empty without even a For Sale sign on the lawn?

Not my concern, really. What mattered was that it was empty and my damned cat was trapped in the basement.

I went around to the back door. While I had no issue with breaking into an empty house for good cause, I sure as hell wasn’t doing it from the front.

The backyard was at least a half acre—classic Victorian garden, with grass replaced by cobblestone walks and flowerbeds. There was an empty fishpond, too, with a fountain. Moss and ivy covered fantastical statuary—fairies and green men, mermaids and fauns. Cleaned up and filled in, it would be a showpiece. Right now, it had a desolate, almost haunting air, and I paused there, feeling the tug of it, inviting me to wander in the twilight. Lovely thought, if my damned cat wasn’t still yowling.