#ngl if I had a vampire cat i would simply accept it

[thishazeleyeddemon]

@deepwaterwritingprompts

(TW for home invasion, violence, discussion of past pet illness)

(Dropped it on AO3 as well here.)

My girlfriend’s cat drinks blood. Fluffy and white, she swears it’s never killed anyone, that its diet is non-negotiable, and that I should stop asking questions.

Don't get it twisted, it's a cute cat - it's small and soft and it purrs whenever anyone is within five feet of it, craning its little head up to be pet. I like her, despite my misgivings - it's a sweet creature, and it's never attacked me, even while I've slept over my girlfriend's apartment. I've woken up a couple of times to find it sitting on my chest, head turned towards the fan, and despite the old legend I've never felt short of any breath.

Not anymore so than is normal for when a cat sits on your chest, anyway.

Maybe I should ask questions. But I love my girlfriend - Camilla's never done anything to me, and neither has her cat - the worst thing Mel (short for Melinoe - my girlfriend was a Percy Jackson kid) has ever done to me is licked a cut I got on my finger while I was cooking, making me wince from her raspy tongue. Our apartment is perfectly free of mice, even if sometimes we find little soft bodies, pale and drained of blood, two glaring puncture wounds - it's not as gorey as some mouse traps people sell, and saves us a lot of money for the exterminator.

Don't get me wrong, I know something is up that's not natural - no cat has eyes like Mel's. They're usually yellow, but when the light hits them right they shine red, like some kind of deep-sea creature instead of a cat. It scared the shit out of me the first time I saw it, but I've learned to adjust to it now.

Mel also doesn't sleep. She doesn't do anything particularly ominous instead of sleep - just chases her toys around the apartment - but even though I sometimes see her relaxing, I never see her sleep. If she does, it's light enough that I can't tell. What kind of cat doesn't sleep?

My cat. And that's the most important part.

Maybe it's premature, two years into a relationship and six months actually living together, but I like to think of Mel as my cat, too. She keeps me company while I work, and she likes to play, and sometimes I sneak her raw meat while I cook and she seems to like it.

She's not even that hard to feed. You can ship blood if you know where to look, and some markets carry it - lots of humans use it, for blood sausages and blood puddings and the like. It's not to my taste, but then, it's not for me. It's for my strange little baby, with her strange little tastes.

Maybe I should ask questions. But I love Camilla, and I love Mel, and when I see how Camilla smiles at me at my acceptance of her cat, something eases in my chest. If she doesn't want me to ask, then I won't.

It's six months of living together before that resolve is broken. I'm petting Mel on the couch while I watch TV, Mel rumbling happily in my lap with my hand sunk deep into her white fur. She likes to be scratched on her neck and behind her ears; she cranes her head back into your hands when you do that, eyes closed in apparent bliss. She's very sweet.

I'm watching TV, giving her scratches like she wants when my fingers brush over a raised welt in her fur and I freeze. It's hard to see down to the skin since Mel is so, so fluffy, but I brush her fur aside (ignoring her little complaining noises and attempts to look around to see what I'm doing) and yes, there it is, a raised welt on her skin like a bite mark from some bug. I find another one nearby it, to my dismay.

"Do you have fleas?" I ask, but of course Mel can't answer me. She just mews, waiting for me to resume petting her, and when I don't she gets off of me and leaves in a huff.

I get up too, going to find Camilla.

"I think Mel has fleas," I announce, pushing her bedroom door open. She'd left it cracked, which usually meant it was okay if I came in; sure enough, she's laying in bed on her phone, and doesn't look at all annoyed when I come in. Her neat brows furrow in worry as she looks up.

"Fleas?"

"I found two bumps on her neck," I say, indicating their location on my own neck. I'm about to offer to get flea medication for Mel when the worry leaves Camilla's face, replaced by a flash of recognition and understanding.

"Oh, that's not fleas," she says, laying back down. "That's old, don't worry about it."

I blink, surprised. "Are you sure?"

Camilla nods. "Those are scars. From -" Her face falls, nervous, and she says, "A fight she got into a while ago. Don't worry about it."

I don't say anything for a long moment, just looking at her. Eventually, I say quietly, "You don't have to lie to me."

Camilla doesn't respond immediately. She just looks back, her eyes shadowed. Eventually she says, "I - it's not -" she wets her lips, struggling to find something to say.

"I don't want to," she finally says. "It's - it's complicated."

I don't know what I want to do. I don't mind being told not to ask questions - every relationship has some secrets - but I don't like being lied to.

But what am I going to do? This is the only thing Camilla has ever lied to me about, and besides - it's for Mel. Sweet baby Mel.

I nod, and turn to go back and watch TV. Mel comes back once I've been sitting down long enough for her to be comfortable resting with me. Her fur is a cloud under my fingers.

-----

My next clue comes about a month later. Mel is eviscerating a toy of hers in my room while we're doing some spring cleaning and I find the books.

They're not that well-hidden - although I suppose in another sense they're very well-hidden, because it had probably been a good bet that we would never get to the bottom of this closet in our lifetimes again. But well, you know when you're cleaning and you realize that what seemed like an insurmountable task isn't as long as you thought? I realized I could get in there and actually get at some of the stuff that had been just haphazardly shoved in there over the years and well, I like cleaning more than Camilla does.

I find the books inside of a huge stuffed animal, which is kind of funny. It's a huge Snorlax plushie, big enough to be a pillow. Camilla makes a face when she sees it.

"It's a gift from an ex," she sighs. "I felt bad throwing it out."

"It's kind of cute," I smile at her, watching her smile back. I like Snorlax. "I wouldn't mind keeping it."

It's then I notice a zipper on the Snorlax's back. "What's this -"

I'm not looking at Camilla so I don't see her face fall, but I hear her voice just a smidgen too late. "Wait -"

I've already got it open, hand inside. I touch something firm and cool and rectangular. I touch a corner, find the small soft ridges of pages. "Is this a diary?" I wonder out loud.

Camilla's face is nervous when I glance up at her. "Yeah," she says. "A diary."

I don't think about taking it out - it's already in my hand before I think that maybe I shouldn't. And that's when I get my first clue, just glancing at the cover. I've seen books like these on the news before - a broadcast warning of dangerous, forbidden illegal rites. The design on the black leather feels familiar to me - I might have seen this exact book before.

I put it back inside the Snorlax and smile at Camilla. "So should this stay in the closet or go somewhere else?"

Her smile back is like the sun.

----

Life sort of falls into a routine after that. It's easy to forget that anything is different, really. I go to work and come home and play video games with Camilla, and if I have to go to the butcher to get cat food instead of to PetSmart, that's just part of life sometimes.

Camilla is more relaxed around me, these days. We still haven't talked about the details, but it feels less like we need to. The secret exists, a quiet little thing that we guard together. I can tell Camilla feels more like she can trust me. That's worth what I have to hide.

Mel is worth the secret too. When I come home I can hear her wailing from behind the door. She has a raspy, deep voice - it makes her sound like an old smoker. Hold on, I'm almost there! I call up the stairs, and in return I hear her plaintive wail, like it's the greatest injustice in the world that I haven't opened the door to pet her yet.

I love them both. More than anything.

It's about a year into me living with them that our routine is broken. I hear the doorbell ring from where I'm sitting on the couch and perk up.

"Is that the DoorDash?" Camilla calls from the bedroom.

"I'll get it!" I holler back. I have to dislodge her highness from my lap, and get an indignant Mel chirp in return, but Mel will live.

When I open the door, however, it's not our Chinese food. Two men stand there, hands empty of any white plastic bags. They look old - or not old, but worn, weather-beaten and tired. The shorter one has a scar across his eye.

"Can I help you -" I start, and then I am struck across the face.

It's such a shock it takes my brain a second to realize what happened and by that time they're already in my apartment. I'm screaming without meaning to, scrambling up the stairs after them.

"Marcy?" I hear Camilla say, and then I hear her shriek. Mel screams, a horrifying wild sound.

My vision is red. My heart is in my throat. I don't know what I'm planning to do.

I'm stopped at the top of the stairs, though, by a knife pointed at me by the taller man. I stop, eyes fixed on the blade. It seems to take up the whole room, shockingly bright.

"Easy," the man says. His voice is cool.

"Cam?" I say.

"Here," she says. I don't take my eyes off the blade, but I can tell she's close. She sounds shaken, and in that moment I taste fury in my mouth, sharp and coppery. They're in my house. They scared my girlfriend. My cat.

I open my mouth to ask what they want and am cut off by, of all things, a splash of water. It's warm, and unpleasantly mineral-tasting - unfiltered tap water, probably. I sputter, stumbling backwards.

"What the fuck," I manage, as soon as I've cleared my eyes.

"It's not her," the taller man says to the shorter one. He's in the hallway, knife on my Camilla. I want to gut him like a fish.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

I am ignored. The shorter man nods and goes for his pockets. I tense, ready to go for him and damn the consequences, but it's not a weapon he pulls out. It's a plastic water bottle. The incongruity of it makes me freeze, for just long enough for him to splash Camilla. She sputters like I did, trying to get it out of her eyes, but there's no obvious ill-effects.

"What is happening?" she manages, spitting water out of her mouth.

The men look nonplussed. Clearly this wasn't the outcome they were expecting.

I stiffen as the taller one turns back to me, knife at the ready.

"Where's the vampire?" he demands.

I swallow. "What vampire?" I will not let this man have Mel.

Of course it's Mel - it couldn't be anyone or anything else - but I don't care. She's my cat.

You see monster hunters on the news and in movies and stuff, but in movies they always look more...impressive. Chiseled muscles and flowing hair. These men look worn and weather-beaten and scarred, their clothes wrinkled and weapons having the duller look of regular use. It's more convincingly dangerous then the hunters I see in the movies. It only bolsters my conviction. My cat is not a monster. I am not giving her up to them.

The man glares at me. It's a good glare, fierce and intimidating, but it bounces off of me. I will not be intimidated. Not in my house.

"We know there's a vampire in this household," he says. "It took us weeks to narrow it down. Tell us who it is and it'll go easier for both of you."

"We don't know any vampires," Camilla says shakily. Her eyes meet mine.

The shorter man scoffs. "We know it was one of you who took one of the Books," he says. He has a thick Texan accent. I don't know why that's something that I notice in the moment. I'm not sure I'm thinking totally clearly. I see how Camilla stiffens when he says that. He presses the knife closer to her, and my whole world seems to narrow down.

I don't know where Mel is. I hope she has the sense to stay hidden.

"What book?" I ask, trying to get their attention back on me. They both look at me, thankfully. I try not to flinch under their eyes.

The shorter man looks at the taller one. He's creeping me out more than the taller one; he seems more erratic. The taller one is bigger than me which is frightening, but he seems calmer, colder. "Is she serious?" he says.

"Dead serious," I say before he can finish. They're still looking at me and not at Camilla. Good. My voice isn't shaking, but I have to hold it in a tight grip to keep it steady. "We kinda don't have a lot of physical books, I mean, we have Kindle and everything...I think you might be in the wrong house..."

"We aren't," the shorter man sneers at me. The taller man shifts the knife to his off-hand to pull something out of his pocket. It's a pendant on a silver chain with a smooth black stone. He tilts it to let it catch the light. There's something about it that seems odd. Something about looking at it makes my eyes hurt.

I don't know anything about the tools hunters use. It might be just a necklace. I somehow don't think it is.

"Do you know what this is?" he asks.

"No," I say. I'm looking towards him, but not at him. I'm looking at Camilla. There's a strange expression on her face. Her eyes are shadowed. I can't even tell if she's breathing. "What is it?"

"A geomantic pendulum," he says.

"Like for dowsing?"

He smiles a thin, grim smile with no humor in it. "Yeah. Like for dowsing. Except this actually works."

He gives it a little swing, and I watch as it swings for two beats and then stops like it's being weighted down, pointing directly to the ground. Even used to my cat as I am, I shiver. Magic isn't a thing people usually talk about; it's too strange and unpredictable for any real consistent commercial usage, so it's not mainstream, dubiously legal. I can count on my hands the amount of magic I've seen in person.

"And you think your necklace showed you a vampire?" I say dubiously.

He doesn't seem to appreciate my attitude. He gives me the nasty glare again, ramped up this time. I am thrumming with tension, I realize. So stiff I'm shaking. I try not to look obviously at Camilla. I don't want them to notice whatever she's doing as she reaches her hand into her pocket.

"Not think," he says, enunciating carefully like he thinks I'm a fucking idiot. "Know."

"We're wasting time," the shorter man snaps. "It's here, let's turn the place upside down -"

Camilla taps him on the shoulder. He whirls around furiously. Camilla does - something I can't discern, shoving something in her hand towards his face - and then he's stumbling back with a cry, knife falling from his hand. The taller man swears, whirling.

I've tackled him before I realize it. I'm not a fighter, and he's bigger than me, but he was off balance, unprepared -

Faces break easier than it seems in movies. I hit him, and hit, and hit -

It's Camilla that pulls me back. There's blood on my knuckles. I gasp, a long, shaking shudder.

"It's okay," she manages. She's shaking too. "I got this."

She urges me back to the couch. I let her. I sit on the couch and stare at the wall.

I'm startled out of my haze by a wet rasping on my knuckles. It's Mel. She's licking the blood of my hands. She stops when I look at her, and call me crazy, but it's almost like she's afraid I'm going to be mad at her. I scratch behind her ears, and she leans into it. It's so normal I could cry.

I let Mel finish licking my hands and watch as Camilla works. I've never seen witchcraft done before. It's less flashy then it is in the movies. There's a thrum through the air as she works though, slipping a pouch of something into the pockets of the men. It makes my teeth itch.

When she's done, she stands up, glancing back at me. "Help me get them out of here," she says.

"What did you do to them?" my voice rasps strangely.

"They'll be fine," Camilla says. She takes the geomantic pendulum as I watch, slipping it into a pocket.

"Cam -"

"It's a memory spell," she finishes. "They're just going to sleep and when they wake up they'll just remember they couldn't find what they were looking for."

"I broke his jaw," I say.

"Maybe they'll think it was a bar fight or something," she shrugs. "But they won't remember any connection to us. We have to get them out of here though, or the spell won't work."

I help her carry them out. Thankfully it's late; no one is out to see us. As we carry the smaller man, his head falls forward and something falls out of his mouth. It looks like a small purple stone. Camilla makes me hold him while she bends down to pick it up and put it back.

"It's complicated," she says sheepishly when I look at her.

I don't say anything. I can't tell how I'm feeling. I think the man's blood is under my knuckles.

It's not until we finally are done and back behind our locked door that Camilla's bravado finally cracks. She gasps, reaching for me; I go to her arms, breathing in the smell of her perfume.

I am crying, I realize. So is she.

We end up on the couch again, wrapped in each other's arms. It's hours before we feel up to untangling from each other's grasp. I cling to Camilla, my girlfriend, my beautiful brave witch with illegal stolen goods girlfriend, and let myself fall apart a little. Camilla doesn't seem to mind.

"I thought you would mind," Camilla says eventually. Her voice comes out thick and gummy with snot and tears. She's always been a messy crier.

"A good partner supports their lover's hobbies," I say. The resulting laughter is rather hysterical, but at least she's laughing.

There's a mrrp by our feet, and I look down to see Mel jump up. We have to shift around to let her sit in between us like she enjoys, but once we do she curls up, purring up a storm.

Camilla strokes her head, looking sad.

"I got her when I was seven," she says finally.

Camilla is thirty-two. That's not outside the average lifespan of a cat, but by rights, Mel should be old and gray-muzzled - that is, if she wasn't what I'd always suspected she was. I sit and say nothing, letting her talk.

"She had - she had cancer," Camilla manages. "She had black around her muzzle, and she was bleeding, and she was so tired, and I just - I couldn't..."

"So you found a Book," I say. Camilla nods, sniffling.

"I traded a bunch of weed for it, can you believe that?" she giggles, wet with tears. "I don't think the guy knew what he had. It took ages to figure out the ritual, and she was almost gone by then..."

She extends her arm, showing me her wrist. There is one long dark brown scar by her wrist. I'd seen it before. I didn't realize what it was.

"I thought it wouldn't work," Camilla continues. "I was so scared, and then I felt her licking my arm and I realized..." she sniffles, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "I couldn't tell anyone obviously, and I was just - I thought you would judge me." She swipes at her eyes. "Because who does illegal necromancy for their cat?"

"I would," I say. I scratch Mel's ears. She makes a happy little chirp and raises her head, asking for chin scritches too.

"Really?"

I nod. "We're going to have to find someone to take her eventually," I say. "Since she's going to outlive us."

Camilla sniffles again. Her eyes are big and bright and shiny. "You're not going to -" she cuts herself off.

I give her a look. "Obviously not," I say. I keep scritching Mel. "She's my cat too, you know." It's a little tricky with Mel in the way, but I lean over and lean my head on Camilla's shoulder. I feel her nuzzle into my hair. She always does that when I do this.

"Personally, I think how you snore is worse than this," I mumble. Camilla giggles weakly.

"You're so weird." Her voice is fond.

"Not any weirder than you." I yawn. I'm exhausted, I realize. My eyes are scratchy after all the crying I did, and my hands ache.

"We need to make some kind of - are there spells to like, hide us?" I ask.

Camilla shrugs. "I don't know."

"You don't know -"

"I'm self-taught," she practically wails. "I'm still learning."

I yawn again, leaning further into her. Mel is a cool weight on my lap.

"Guess we'll have to learn together," I manage. My voice is muzzy, words a little slurred.

I feel Camilla pet my hair. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah."

Fin.

Cats being our masters or Interdimensional travelers that fix history, or actually in charge of the human race. Anything really interesting about cats or kittens.

I love all your prompts!

Cat prompts below! I knew I had many many cat prompts, and when that happens I like to gather them rather than writing more. Feel free to request cats again if this list hast not satisfied you.

My cat is halfway between here and elsewhere, her eyes often vacant, her fur blown as if by invisible winds. Sometimes she starts to speak, or twist into impossible shapes. Then she blinks, and forgets again.

The forest is full of cats, good with directions and generally cordial. Just remember to check the eyes, in case something more sinister has been borrowing skins.

Like most powerful families, they had a cat guarding the door. It stretched, and used my own voice to ask what I wanted.

The cat comes back with a note from about seventeen universes over. I pick him up and stare straight into his glassy eyes: “How.”

A cat is following me, an empty one. I don’t know what it wants, and I never want to find out.

My familiar is a sleek black cat that still won’t choose a name. It hunts the wild wishes I can never catch by myself, leaving them barely alive on the doorstep.

My girlfriend’s cat drinks blood. Fluffy and white, she swears it’s never killed anyone, that its diet is non-negotiable, and that I should stop asking questions.

As witches' homes go, this one is especially odd. Filled to bursting with all manner of skeletons, most are immobile. Only the old white bones of a long dead cat creak and scrape through the halls.

No vet can agree on whether our cat is pregnant or not. They say it must be Schrodinger's Syndrome, and we need to report it at once to the Bureau of Space Time.

Schroedinger’s cats are only available through witness protection programs, or on the black market. They will hid you effectively, in a constant state of temporal uncertainty.

I run a shelter for cats from all realities. Many are strange or frightening, and my definition of ‘cat’ has deteriorated over the years.

Cats do not have nine lives. Cats have nine wishes, courtesy of an ancient deal with a god who no longer exists.

They say the bone cats were death’s pets, before they got bored and left. Wicked smart, tough as nails, they are almost impossible to lure into domesticity, but ridiculously useful once you do.

My cat had no tail. He had traded it to a witch for several more lives.

All cats slip easily between realities, but kittens born in these halfway spaces always come out a different breed of feral.