Salem—my overgrown furball of a familiar—spent the entire train ride refusing to stay in my bag. Nope. Not even for a minute.
He decided my neck was the perfect lounging perch, occasionally switching to my lap, like the spoiled demon he was. For someone who constantly preached about dignity, he sure clung to me like a comfort blanket. Every five minutes: "Don't slouch.""Your disguise sucks.""Try not to look like a fugitive."
Honestly, it was the only thing keeping me from spiraling back into the darker corners of my mind.
That, and the fact I didn't want to cry in front of a talking cat.
Somewhere halfway through the ride, I went to the tiny train bathroom—an actual closet with pipes and a magic-draining rune etched into the mirror (I don't know why, but it gave me the creeps). And when I stepped out—
I froze.
There. Just down the corridor.
Him.
