Cats in Heat by Asha King

along the doorway, dragging her fingers through a line of it.
    Somewhere in the back of her mind, a memory pushed at her brain, attempting to break free. But it was so long ago, she couldn’t do more than vaguely remember that day. The sun on her face, her mother’s disapproval when she saw the dirt streaking her little skirt, her grandmother’s voice whispering something...
    No, it was no use. She couldn’t remember. It was twenty years ago—it was silly of her to try.
    Addie wiped back more tears and gently closed the photo album, then set it aside and looked back in the box. At the very bottom was a sack, not overly large but bigger than the ones she’d found previously. It weighed a few pounds and she straightened it, pulling at the ties so she could peer inside.
    Sand? No... She reached in and lifted a handful. Not sand, but something an orange-red, fine and gritty. It reminded her of old brick. The ground dust of ones maybe?
    Tingles ran from her fingertips through her hand and up her arm. It looked normal, but...
    Addie withdrew her hand and tied the sack closed again. Maybe it was what she had been playing with in that photo, but a sack of some kind of dirt seemed an odd thing to keep in the house.
    She surveyed the boxes—she’d been through a dozen so far, but her stomach was rumbling. For the time being, it wouldn’t hurt to head down and get something to eat, even if it meant dealing with Erik.
    If he’s even still here.
    He likely was, though, wasn’t he? Because, oddly, she suspected that somehow she’d know if he was gone.
    And that troubled her most of all.
     

 
     
    Chapter Eleven
     
     
    Erik listened to Addie’s steps trekking across the ceiling. What she was doing in the attic, he couldn’t say, but she’d been up there for hours. Once something thumped in the direction of her bedroom, like a door closing, he rose and headed for the kitchen. Dusk had settled an hour ago without her return and he’d held off doing anything while he waited for her. Now he filled the kettle for tea and scanned the cupboards.
    Besides helping her to cook lately, he basically had little experience with meal preparation, and his skills in taking down wild prey wasn’t useful in this instance. But he knew she liked tea to start with.
    His head wasn’t entirely with him and pain flared up on his side. Perhaps it was that she hadn’t prepared anything to go over the wound for the dressing change that evening, or perhaps it was her will that brought the ache. Neither would surprise him.
    He retrieved a package of noodles from the cupboard along with a jar of tomato sauce and a pan from under the sink—boiling water and heating sauce for spaghetti was something he could manage.
    A few minutes later, as bubbles began rolling in the pot of water on the stove and the kettle whistled, he heard her faint steps on the hardwood. Erik swallowed dryly, strangely uncomfortable and tense. He’d faced his death over and over again but it was her poor opinion of him that he couldn’t stand.
    Before turning, he poured the tea and added the spaghetti noodles to the pot. Then he faced her.
    She stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him warily. He could smell mustiness on her from the attic, and her clothes were streaked in grime.
    “I thought you might’ve left,” she said, her voice holding an edge of coolness.
    “Would you prefer that?” He waited, braced for her to tell him to get the hell out.
    She held his gaze, whether debating his question or to draw out the tension, he didn’t know. At last her shoulders dropped and she looked away, stalking into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Spaghetti.” He reached for the mug as she neared the stove and offered it to her. “I’ll take care of it.”
    “Thank you,” she mumbled as she accepted the tea, still avoiding his eyes. She took it to the kitchen table and pulled a teaspoon from a mason jar in the center along with a container of raw sugar.
    This