"Kitty? Hey, little guy," I called, following the cat into the depths of my dad's house. "Where'd you go, now?"

As cute as it was to have a random cat make itself at home, my obsessive anxiety was a less welcome guest. It always showed up as soon as something unexpected happened.

What if the cat peed or pooped somewhere? Isn't the smell of cat pee hard to get rid of? What if it had fleas, and the house got infested? What if it had rabies, and that's why it was acting weird? I mean, isn't it weird for stray cats to just run into people's houses?

I stopped in the hallway and forced myself to think a rational thought.

"It doesn't have rabies, Ellie," I muttered, sneering at myself. "It's just a hungry stray. Like you."

Continuing down the darkened hallway, I called to it in a high, soft voice, wrinkling my nose and trying not to sneeze.

Honestly, a hint of cat pee would likely go unnoticed among the stale scents of a house abandoned for months. It would have stayed abandoned longer, too, if my dad's lawyer hadn't tracked me down and told me he was dead.

Halfway along the hall, I paused.

At the end, near the base of the stairs, the door to my dad's study stood ajar. I was sure I'd shut and locked it the last time I was here; it was my least favorite room in a house full of rooms I hated.

Of course the cat would go in there.

"Kitty?" I pushed the door open and flicked on the light, peering into the cluttered gloom within. It looked the same as I remembered it, the last time I saw it as a kid.

A large walnut desk sat beneath a dirty window, dusty drapes hanging to either side, shelves of books spanning floor to ceiling on every wall, and exotic rugs covering the hardwood floor. A comfortable leather reading chair occupied one corner, along with antique side tables, and green–shaded lamps. There were also a number of strange instruments on stands, including a large brass telescope, and a weird globe crisscrossed by lines that made no sense.

Unlike when I was a kid, however, and like nearly every other room in the house, it was also full of boxes and crates, stacked head high, and dust cloths covered the furniture, giving the room a ghostly vibe.

"Kitty?" I called again, shivering. The room was freezing—so cold I could see my breath. I'd think the A/C was broken, except that the house doesn't have A/C. "Come on, now, kitty. You can't stay."

My voice came out soft, barely above a whisper, as if even then I feared my dad would catch and punish me. I'd always been terrified of entering his study, though except for the fact he'd warned me not to, I couldn't remember why.

According to my mom, he hadn't even known I existed, until I was about five. Then he showed up out of the blue and demanded a paternity test. When it came back positive, he demanded custody, too.

It was a losing battle, luckily. My mom was my mom, she wasn't an addict or an abuser, and she wasn't his wife—or even his girlfriend. Meanwhile, the sum of his contribution to my life so far was a shot of sperm.

Still, he'd been persistent and unrelenting, and since the court saw no reason not to, they'd given him rights: weekdays with mom, weekends with dad.

I came to dread the weekends.

It's not like he hit me, or anything. It was just that, for as much as he insisted on having me here, it seemed he couldn't care less about being my dad. We didn't play catch, or go to baseball games (not that I'd have wanted to), or eat junk food, or even watch TV (all things my friends with separated parents told me they got to do).

Instead, he'd do things like make me sit in a chalk circle for hours, staring at an unlit candle, trying to make it light with my mind (which was stupid, and obviously never worked). Or he'd give me different crystals and ask me what I saw in them (Cracks? Swirls? Not the future, that's for sure).

Once, he took me camping, but it was certainly not fun. He made me stand outside the tent all night, in the middle of the freaking woods, to see if something would 'take' me. I was so terrified, I peed myself (I was eight).

Worst of all, he told me I couldn't tell my mom about any of that, or something bad would happen to her.

Then, when I was nine, something bad happened to her, anyway.

After the car accident, my dad had full custody, but it seemed like he didn't want it, anymore. He made sure I could take care of myself—walk to the bus stop, buy groceries and school supplies with the cash he gave me—and then he left.

He'd disappear for weeks, and when he came back, all he'd bring me were more weird tests. I failed every one, of course, and as time passed, he grew even less interested in my existence.

Finally, on my thirteenth birthday, he'd given me a gift: a silver ring shaped like a little twining vine of ivy. He'd made me put it on, and then stared at my hand for a long time, as if he expected something interesting to happen. When nothing did, he'd sighed, patted my shoulder with a strange, resigned expression on his face, and retreated to his study. The next day, he disappeared again.

That time, he was gone so long the electricity and water were shut off, and I ran out of the cash he'd left me. Finally, I got caught stealing food from a convenience shop, and I couldn't hide the fact I'd been living alone anymore.

Thankfully, a friend's parents took me in, and despite my dad's threats, nothing bad had happened to them. Yet.

As for him, it seemed he'd lost interest in me altogether, and I'd never spoken to him again.

No wonder I had anxiety.

"Kitty?" I whispered, bringing myself back to the present. I peeked beneath the dust cloths, but the room seemed empty. Maybe the cat hadn't come in here, after all. It must have gone upstairs.

Rubbing the back of my head, I sighed, surveying the mess. I'd long since concluded that my dad had been insane. I still hadn't figured out what he'd been hoping would happen when he 'tested' me, though; I only knew I'd disappointed him.

"Well, Dad," I said to the empty room. "You disappointed me, too. Thanks for the house full of crap, though. If I ever manage to sell it, I can pay off my student loans. Get my own place, maybe even buy a car that doesn't break down once a week. Hell, new place, new job, new boyfriend—get myself a whole new life. Though, with my luck, I don't—"

Still muttering to myself (a habit I picked up as a kid, probably from spending so much time alone), I turned and found myself face to face with the cat. Perched on a bookshelf, it stared down at me with gleaming yellow eyes, its head tilted to the side and its tail lashing aggressively.

My fear of rabies resurfaced, and I took a step back in alarm.

"Whoa! Hey there, little guy..." I lifted my hands and kept my voice soft, thinking maybe it felt cornered or something, though honestly, it just looked pissed. "Let's get you out of here, okay? You wanna go back outside? How 'bout—"

Before I could say more, it leapt down, landed gracefully, and then it was gone.

It was gone, and in its place stood a man. A tall man with long black hair and dark skin with a strange, blue-gray undertone. A man with a starkly beautiful face and gleaming yellow eyes.

He smiled.

I screamed, stumbled backwards, knocked over a pile of boxes, and fell over.

He stared down at me. "Oh, dear. I do hope I haven't startled you, 'little guy,'" he said, his smile broadening to reveal sharp teeth.

"What the...?" I hyperventilated, shut my eyes and opened them again, but the man was still there. "What in...?"

"Hell?" he supplied, his grin sharpening. His voice was smooth and low. Through my confusion, I noted that he wore what looked like a black silk shirt and vest, black dress slacks, and black shoes. "You wouldn't be able to pronounce my real name, so you may call me 'Ro.' I'm a daemon, and for the last forty-seven, miserable years, I served as your father's familiar. Now I should be free, but the old bastard gave me one last order before he died, and now I'm stuck here until I fulfill the damned thing."

It was a hallucination, I thought—some kind of psychotic break brought on by my stressful day. Might as well talk to it. "And what's that?" I asked, staring up at my frightening yet handsome delusion.

He crouched in front of me, frowning as his yellow eyes traveled my form. "Well, to find out who murdered him, of course," he murmured. "And to keep whoever it was from murdering you, too, now that you're his heir. I suppose you could say... you've inherited me."

"My dad wasn't murdered," I argued weakly. "He had a heart-attack. And you're not real."

His grin returned, and he reached out and grasped my hand, pulling me up with him as he stood. He felt very solid for a hallucination.

"I assure you, Ellie, I'm very real. Your father was a witch, and he was definitely murdered. You're a witch, too—even if you were born without talent."

I laughed, a little hysterically. "Right. And you're a 'daemon' named 'Ro.'"

His eyes blazed yellow, the pupils slit like a cat's.

"Yes. And we've met once before. Remember?"

He touched two fingers to my forehead and memory flooded my brain, unlocked from some deep recess: the little black cat that came and went, following my dad; and the time I'd entered his study and seen something impossible—a cat that became a man, that became a cat.

"Oh, shit," I said, and then—having reached my limit of shocking events for the day, and in keeping with my streak of awesomeness—I fainted.