A Stitch in Time (A Stitch In Time #1) - Kelley Armstrong Page 0,4

It’s an old house.

I flip onto my side, away from the window. No sooner does my head touch the pillow than someone whispers in my ear.

I jump, flailing as the sheets tangle. I fight my way free and scramble from the bed with a “Who’s there?” so tremulous that shame snakes through me.

A memory flickers, from my last night in this house, twenty-three years ago. I woke to a figure looming over me. A figure whose face I can never remember, who said words I can never recall. Who sent me screaming from my sleep and then—

I swallow hard and rub my eyes. There is no ghost here. There never was. A hair tickled my cheek. I opened my eyes to see the moon, and then I imagined the whisper. I’m tense and stressed, overwhelmed by memory and emotion, in a place I once loved above all others, a place I haven’t set foot in for two decades when that love twisted to heartbreak and grief and fear.

There’s nothing here except memories, and so many of them are wonderful. Focus on those. Remember those. Exorcise the ghosts and reclaim Thorne Manor as that place of magic and mystery.

I cross the room and open the window. The night breeze rushes in, and I gulp it down, lowering my face to the screen. As I do, I see my beloved moors, paths winding through it, familiar trails that make my feet and my heart ache with wanting. A cow lows somewhere, and a dog barks, as if in answer. My gaze moves to the narrow road down the hill, and the glow of houses below. A reminder that I’m not truly alone.

I’m crawling back into bed when something thuds deep within the house. I go still, my head swiveling. Another thud, coming from the direction of my old room.

I push to my feet, but a yowl sends me tumbling back onto the bed. I grab the nearest thing at hand, wielding it like a shield, taking sanctuary behind a . . . pillow? I stifle a choked laugh, cut short by another yowl, weak and quavering, a drawn-out cry of despair.

Still clutching the pillow, I creep to the door. The sound comes again, prickling the hair on my neck. My fingers graze the doorknob.

What? You’re going out there?

That only makes me square my shoulders. Yes, I’m going out there. I’m not fifteen anymore. I won’t huddle in my bed, a frightened mouse of a girl.

Except I hadn’t huddled in my bed that night. I’d run, which is when everything went so horribly wrong.

Well, I’m not running now. I’m acting clearly and decisively, armed with my . . . I look down at the pillow, toss it aside and snatch the umbrella from my open luggage. I take my cell phone, too, before I slide into the hall.

The creature keeps yowling. Pitiable sounds that come from behind the closed door to my old bedroom.

I turn the knob. Then I knee the door hard enough that it slaps against the wall.

A cry. A skitter of claws on wood. A streak of orange hurtles under the bed.

Orange?

Well, it’s not a ghost.

I play back a mental video of that streak. Too big for a mouse. Too orange for a rat.

Huh.

As I step into the room, the stink of still air and mildew washes over me. Dust cyclones in my wake. Ahead, my old bed is indeed broken, the box spring sagging, mattress gone.

Propping my umbrella against the wall, I turn on my phone’s flashlight and lower myself to the floor. When I shine the light under my bed, teeth flash. Razor-sharp teeth half the length of my pinky nail. Tiny black lips curl in a hiss, and orange fur puffs, little ears flattened in the most adorably fierce snarl ever.

It’s a kitten. One barely big enough to be away from its mother.

It hisses again. She hisses. I know enough about felines to realize that calico means female.

When I move the light aside, the kitten spots me. Or she seems to, her tiny head bobbing, her eyes likely still struggling to focus.

How young is she?

And what is she doing in my old bedroom?

The kitten lets out the tiniest mew.

“Where’s your momma?” I ask.

Another mew. I reach under the bed, and she skitters away, claws scrabbling over the hardwood.

I eye her. Then I back out and look around. There’s clearly no mother cat in here. My gaze trips around the moonlit space as my heart swells with love