Werewolf the Podcast: A Werecats Story (Episode 207)

The fairy Foxglove is desperate to find something at the Professor's Manor. We already know that the Professor is drunk from the holy grail, so it makes sense that it is at his home. Does'nt it? She is a little angry at... well, everything, to be honest. 

The Professor releases Vaughnt to do 'The Business,' as he says. She is super fast and is super gone, and she is probably super killing not-so-super fairies. 

He is not quite fast, so he tells us the Werecat's story as he trundles up his gravel drive to his home. I know. Character exploration. How dare we. 

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At Grendel Press, we believe that great stories should never be forgotten. Sinister Soup celebrates dark fiction, offering a second life to reprints and oft-rejected yet polished tales that deserve to be heard.

Every month, we feature a chilling, thought-provoking, or spine-tingling story, presented in both written and audio format, followed by an in-depth interview with the author. Our unique structure ensures each tale gets the spotlight it deserves—first as a gripping read, then as a hauntingly immersive podcast experience.

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Greg's first Werewolf book. Brilliantly written characters in an incredible story. 

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Transcript

The fairy Foxglove is desperate to find something at the Professor's Manor. We already know that the Professor is drunk from the holy grail, so it makes sense that it is at his home. Does'nt it? She is a little angry at... well, everything, to be honest. 

The Professor releases Vaughnt to do 'The Business,' as he says. She is super fast and is super gone, and she is probably super killing not-so-super fairies. 

He is not quite fast, so he tells us the Werecat's story as he trundles up his gravel drive to his home. I know. Character exploration. How dare we. 

https://grendelpress.com/sinister-soup

At Grendel Press, we believe that great stories should never be forgotten. Sinister Soup celebrates dark fiction, offering a second life to reprints and oft-rejected yet polished tales that deserve to be heard.

Every month, we feature a chilling, thought-provoking, or spine-tingling story, presented in both written and audio format, followed by an in-depth interview with the author. Our unique structure ensures each tale gets the spotlight it deserves—first as a gripping read, then as a hauntingly immersive podcast experience.

Please give us some support.

Buy us a coffee At this link right here:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Werewolfwil

Buy a book about werewolves. Here it is, straight from a fang-filled mouth.

Il Lupo

Greg's first Werewolf book. Brilliantly written characters in an incredible story. 

https://amzn.to/4090lpy

A Werewolf's Story

https://amzn.to/3BjXoZu

Werewolf the Colouring Book.

What should I do this evening? Why not sit and do some Wonderful Werewolf colouring?  Red may be a theme.

https://amzn.to/40k93l6

Facebook Group

https://www.facebook.com/groups/werewolfthepodcast/

Greg's X profile:@SempaiGreg

Werewolf the Podcast:@AWerewolfsStoryWil

Foxglove

'Find it!' This is my chance to make it finally into the big leagues. Fuck a few hundred humans and drug dealing; I could become the ultimate. 

A god. A god damn god, god! I could show the world that Fairies should be respected. If I can find it.

I know the aristocratic bastard has it here. He drank from it. He would not have left a fucking thing like that where it was. It has to be here, but where? Aaaagh!

'Fucking find it.' I demand as I send a blistering blast of magic... oh no, I don't. (raging)

I point my finger and describe the spell term in my head, and a little... poot.... yes, a little poot of glitter pops from my pointed index digit. 

I keep forgetting how good the Professor was at this type of thing and keep forgetting that he has stopped the use of magic for anyone but him and his here. He's no fun. Where's the fun in that?

Nah, he is not that thoughtful, actually. He probably stops anyone but him from doing the spellies with sparkles. 

'What the fuck now!' A fluttering gang of dumb-looking fairies flies up, and one of them volunteers to give me the news by being pushed towards me by the others.

It was lovely to see how frightened she was to share it with me, and it was lovely to see that the others were so frightened that they would make her the sacrifice to do it. 

This was all good and thrilling, although I knew it would be bad news that she was delivering.

'We've checked the basement,' said the stuttering fairy Daisy with a gulp whilst cowering. Oh, the power I have is intoxicating. I want more!. The fear-filled Fairies who surrounded her all took the equivalent of a flittering step back. (laughter)

'And!' I yell. I am not doing well. I need to find this thing before something or someone gets here. This is almost... stressful.

'It's not there.' She said apologetically, flinching away from me.

(Scream)

I point the finger of my left hand at her. 

'Nothing huh? Well die.' and... shit, shit, shit, shit. Fucking nothing!

A poot... yes, poot of glitter sparkles pathetically into the air from my normally lethal fingertip. Most disappointing, to be frank. 

(scream)

'What do you want us to do now?' the forlorn fairy asks while she checks if she is still alive and fairy-shaped.

'Fairy Daisy, I would like you to fucking die.' I tell her, staring at my finger and giving it a good shake. 

'But, luckily for you, my finger of power is...' I stared at what was normally a finger of death.

'It's only pooting.'

I gave the finger an evil look just in case I could frighten the finger into making something less pooty and more bang, smash and crunchy. 

(Scream)

'So instead. I would like you to go and fuck yourself. In fact, I would like you to fuck everything about you!' I told her. The fairy looked confused and scratched its head. She seemed very confused as she thought about how she was going to do that.

'Erm, I don't think I can do that.' she whinged.

Rage fills me. I want to... I want to... I want to. 

Suddenly, there are a bunch of screams, and a flock of fairies come bolting out of a door from somewhere. I roll my eyes and sigh. Following them and snapping teeth at them is something that looks like it lost a bet with a hedgehog and a blender.

The terrified fairies fly up to the ceiling, screeching and yelling at the thing.

'Fuck off!' I yell at no one in particular. 

'We don't have to be scared of anything anymore.'

To prove my point, I flew over to it, smiling whilst the fairies shouted for me to stop. 

I looked at them... with that look. My eight out of ten look of shut the fuck uppedness.

The creature was roughly the size of an over-caffeinated terrier, and it sported spikes, scales, and a disposition that could curdle milk at fifty paces. It was all yap, yap, yap and spitty, spitty, spitty. 

I held its eyes for a moment.

It whined a little and settled, staring at me. Weighing me up. Ropes of slavers drooled from the thing's mouth. It was incredibly yucky.

'Sit!' I told the creature, and it did with a wag of its tentacle-like tail.

I turned towards the fearful flitterers with a look of contempt.

'See!' I spat. I pointed my finger once more at the horrid thing and another poot. The thing barked its appreciation at this poot of sparkles.

(pause)

Turning back to the spiky, scaly thing, I circled my hand in front of its nose, and it rolled over like a...

'Good... boy? Good... girl? Good, it?' It's a well-trained, whatever it is.

The fairies descended, looking at me in awe. 

'It's got a collar on it's... erm, neck.' I tell them. I think it was a neck; it was the gap between its body and its head. 

I tickled it under the scaly chin and then reached for the tag that was hanging from the baby blue-coloured collar.

'Dave!' I said. Fucks sake. A name ruined for me. 

'Hi, Dave.' I said to him, and it wagged its tentacular tail.

There were many 'aws' from the fawning fairies in the now peace. I looked at them in disgust.

'Raaarrrrrrh!. What the fuck are you still doing here!' I yelled. I could not control my anger. 

'Go find the... fucking holy... fucking grail!'

'Dave, fetch the grail... come on, Dave, go fetch.'

Vaughnt

I had been transported to the gateway at the start of the private road to the Manor. The gatehouse was lit, but I would not disturb Thompson. 

What? Who is Thompson? Why do you want to know who Thompson is? He has no relevance to the story apart from the fact that he was in the house at that moment.

Why did I mention him then? If he was not going to be a significant part of the story.

Look, do me a favour and shut up; I don't have time to talk about Thompson. 

(Pause)

Okay, okay. Thompson is the retired Gamekeeper of the Estate. He is... erm old and... erm. The rest, I don't care.

It was a dark night. Which was fine. I could see. Am a cat.

The rain was cold and steady; well, that could go fuck itself. Am a cat.

The moon was full and white behind the clouds, and sometimes, it broke through them, giving me moments where I would be a shadow. Not a problem. Am a cat.

Something small ran through the bush. I almost chased it... Almost, but need to keep my mind on the important thing. That was good for a cat.

I was the only one that could do anything about the problem at the Manor. As per usual, they needed a cat.

It would be a disaster if I did not get there in time. See, that may be an issue. The getting there on time thing is difficult as you know I am a cat.

Once again, I was the only thing in between success and the complete failure of this entire operation. I could save it. I could change the future. I could make the difference. I could save my tuna steaks. 

What?

What? Am a cat. 

Oh, and you can't judge me because... I'm a cat, and we will always do the judging.

I set off running. 

The Professor

She was gone. 

I cocked the Mozzy shotter and Geronimo...I charged after her at full steam. I started at a thunderous pace but soon realised there was no need to get there wheezing when I had released her to do the business, as it were. Well, I say I realised, but due to pace and the significant weight I carried, it was the fact that I ended up bent over and gasping for breath a few yards into my sprint.

She was, of course, far more capable than most to do that business. In fact, she was the business if you could keep her on task. That was somewhat impossible, though. 

I know what you are thinking: why have I not been using her as part of my bladdy team. Well, the reason is that she is a cat.

Let me tell her story as I wander up the lane. I have some time to kill before I get to kill at the Manor.

(Way back music)

They had sent me the most morose news from a village that was too small for me to value remembering its name. What was that bloody place called? Erm... Never mind, it is utterly of no consequence. 

Anyway, the news was that livestock had been taken in the night, shredded clean to bone and hoof, and that the poor bastard who had tended them had been left half-alive, babbling about his attacker and that the attacker was not of the human ilk. 

In this case, it was also not a wolf nor a bear but a feral girl. A black-haired, mute child who was as naked as the day she was born, and when she had leapt at him, he swore that her body had twisted in midair, bones had cracked, and skin had ripped until what landed wasn't human at all.

A Vaughnt. Yes, a Vaughnt. An ancient name for an incredibly rare beast. A werecat.

I had hunted her kind before. They're far rarer than werewolves and don't suffer the same clumsy fury as lycanthropes. Vaughnts are much colder, much more calculated predators. Well, again, I take that back. The Surgut tribe of Werewolves are calculating evil bastards, but she was like them. She was just not so evil if you can ever say that cats are not evil. Hmm!

A Vaughnts hunger isn't wild, though— it's patient. And when a young one first turns, they rarely know the difference between man and beast. That kind of thing has to be taught. You need to teach the big kitty that people are not nom-noms. They do get it eventually. Well, that is after one or two awkward, erm, incidents.

So, I sharpened my Armourer's sword of Meteor iron, my old reliable blade, which was more than enough for cutting through curses, even older ones. Packed the silver darts for unlife insurance, readied the old Lancaster rifle, and was off.

Once I arrived, I told myself at this particular point — and the village elders — the same hard truth I'd learned to live by: that there's no cure for what she is. She'd killed, and she'd kill again. Better I end it quickly and cleanly before any more of this bloody business continues.

Her trail was easy enough for an old hunting hand like me to read. 

There were paws, far too large for any ordinary cat, pressed into the snow-soft mud, and once, I glimpsed a bare human footprint which was left oddly alongside them. 

I followed that path with some unease. This creature would not usually leave such an easy path to read. I may be in for a feline surprise at some point. So, as I sniffed the trail, I grew wary in case I was being flanked or if the beast was going to waylay me in a trap. 

I travelled for many hours through the dense spruce and into the mountains, where the air grew so thin it tasted like iron. The woods were silent — no birds, no chattering insects. Only the heavy hush of an ambush waiting.

And then, I found the den. I say a den, but it was a pitiful dank hole under the bowl of a pine tree.

Once I had recognised it for what it was, I took my time and used all my stealth to crawl to the entrance. Then I saw her. My first sight was by moonlight. She was curled up in the hollow of the tree roots, and her black fur was retreating from her skin like morning frost melting on sun-kissed stone. 

She had become a human of sorts again, but evidently not human enough. Her eyes were closed, and the silence around her was not born of fear — it was respect. The forest knew her. Claimed her.

I raised the rifle.

And then those eyes opened, and she looked at me. Not with rage, not even with animal cunning, but with a kind of hollow, exhausted understanding. As though she'd been waiting for me to end it all along.

My trigger finger itched to fire. I knew I had... to... I had to... I...

I lowered the rifle. I couldn't do it for all my training and all the cases I'd seen, in that moment. I could not shoot that... that young girl's face.

This, I have to say, is unlike me. You see, I've spent lifetimes taking the lives of creatures who never asked for their hunger, their shape, their curse. And lying there with my rifle poised, I realised that the tragedy of these actions wasn't hers alone. It was mine, too. 

I lay there looking at her. My rifle was unthought of at my side. I just watched her. The werecat did not do what was expected. The young Vaughnt didn't bare her fangs, snarl, or lunge as I'd seen her kind do in every other encounter. 

No, this girl... this creature, sat there, trembling, wrapped in the cold like an orphaned kitten, and when I stepped closer, her golden eyes widened not with malice but fear. How could I hurt this? I should. I should release it from its curse, but... no...

I purposefully showed her my empty hands. A slow, deliberate gesture. Then I sat cross-legged in the dirt, pulled a strip of beef jerky from my pack, and placed it between us like an offering at an altar. She stared at it, then at me.

It took an ungodly number of hours to get her to take the food. The sun had dipped low once again behind the Carpathians, painting the snow in bruised purples and deep blood reds. Slowly, inch by inch, she crawled toward the dried meat, her gaze darting between my face and the jerky, as if weighing which might bite first. 

As she tried to understand the situation, she gave me a few warning hisses and bared her fangs a little, but it all seemed somewhat half-hearted and unnecessary on her part.

And when finally her small, cold hand snatched it up, I saw that the hunger was not just for food but for something far older. Safety. Kindness. She had been hurt by the world, and it showed. 

She sat shivering. A naked small girl in the cold of the winter. In response, I shrugged off my old army jacket, the same battered old thing I'd worn through half a century of mundane and otherworldly campaigns. It was a good old piece of kit, very well made and warm. 

I slipped that beloved jacket around her thin shoulders. As I did so for a moment, the girl became still. She was waiting for me to do the bad thing that I was going to do. 

As I tucked her into the jacket, I spoke to her with the warmth of tone she needed. 

'There you go my dear. This old thing will have you warm and cosy in a few moments. You will have to accept the smell, though, I am afraid. Been through the wars a little that thing.' I sighed as I sat back away from her.

'Suits you a lot more than myself, I have to say. You look splendid and will soon be splendidly warm.' I told her as she... as she smiled. Yes, a smile. It fair made my day I have to tell you.

She now pulled it tight around her and buried her face in the collar like it was the first warmth she'd known. She snuggled in that old cloth thing, and she... purred. By crikey, she purred. 

I left her for some time, hoping she would warm up and relax, but she never took her eyes off me. Then, without a word, she reached out for my hand. It was... It was... Well, it was a bloody moment by struth. 

Now, in the real world, I am a dog person. Spaniels and Labs are my breeds of choice, but in this case, I actually felt warmth for a cat. I suppose she was not cat-shaped, though. Hmmm!

When we walked back into the village, her small fingers were wrapped around my own, and the jerky was clutched in her other hand. The jerky that had to be constantly replaced as she ate it ravenously. She had quite an appetite, did the little lady.

On our return to the little settlement, the people only saw the monster, not the child that I saw. It was painful. I will not go into too much detail about their response to us, but the beast was not the girl holding my hand. 

I mean, even with her almond eyes, her dark hair, and the worn military coat swallowing her thin frame, they felt utterly terrified of her. It just was not... right.

Of course, the local priest was the first to speak. They think that they are the exoerts in this field when really... well I will leave that to you to contemplate.

'Beware and back yee demon of the underworld,' he said, raising his iron cross like it would somehow shield him from the sight of her. 

The Vaughnts reaction was to look at me for reassurance and then keep chewing on her jerky while she observed the silly man in a dress.

At this point, the villagers had closed ranks, faces pale, their fear painting them rather ugly. They didn't shout, not at first. They whispered. Words sharper than blades.

'Demon.'

'Witch.'

'Shapeshifter.'

As they came forward, I pulled the girl behind me.

'Now, now. You chaps will have to come through me to get to this... poor... erm, child. That would be a bad plan for those attempting it.' I told them. 

When the banishment from the place came, it was delivered not with ceremony but with cold finality. I, Simon de Montfort, knight, scholar, supernatural expert, and this frightened, half-starved girl were no longer welcome on their soil.

I didn't argue. I simply nodded, turned, and led her away from the only place she'd likely ever known. I wondered if she had ever been part of the village. Had she been brought up here and then... Hmmm. I can imagine what happened. Hmmm!

The priest and his entourage followed us as we crossed the village boundary. The manner of our departure was most vexing, but she seemed at ease in my company. She just looked up at me every now and again with a brief smile as we walked, with those almond-coloured eyes sharp and sad all at once. I held her small, warm hand and gently squeezed it. It gave me a somewhat paternal feeling to be walking with this child. It made the world a little less bitter, a little less cruel.

Oh, and this wouldn't be the first time I had walked away from a place that mistook fear for justice. And it wouldn't be the last.

I have, as you know, brought many strange things to England over the centuries, relics, texts, the odd cursed trinket, but none quite as peculiar, or as precious, as Vaughnt.

She sat beside me on the long train journey north from Dover to my old Manor, wearing that same battered army coat, silent as ever; she made no noise. She moved silently and never a sound passed her lips.

Her pale eyes were fixed on the countryside slipping past. I didn't press her for words; she'd only known fear and survival until now. 

I had no need to cause her any more discomfort. I would say I needed to develop a rapport with the child, but it was evident that it was there in spades already.

The conversation would come in its own time.

And it did.

I had to teach her British sign language first. It was slower than speech, but it suited her quiet nature. It really did, you see. I suppose, with being a cat, that her eyes were sharp and always alert to movement. 

Within weeks, she used it to name things and ask questions. She'd tilt her head at the most abstract of topics, her fingers nimble and expressive, and I soon realised that beneath the fur, the claws, and the wildness lay a mind as precise and hungry as any I'd ever encountered. 

Six months later, once Vaughnt had mastered enough sign language and we could truly talk, I finally asked her about the night she'd attacked the man from the village. I'd always suspected there was more to it; her eyes told me as much the moment I had met her. But I had waited until she was ready. 

When the question was finally asked, she answered without hesitation, her hands moving with sharp, clear certainty. The man, she told me, had first shown her kindness, bringing scraps of food and speaking softly, luring her in with a pretence of friendship. But when he thought her trust was won, his intentions turned... darker. 

He tried to hurt her, to force himself on her. She hadn't wanted to hurt him, not at all, only to make him stop. That was all. Her golden eyes were steady as she signed it, without any obvious bitterness or fear, just the plain truth of it. And in that moment, I understood her entirely. I believed her without question. After all, I've known monsters my whole life, and Vaughnt was never one of them.

So, I hired tutors. Mathematics, of all things, sang to her. Numbers and patterns came as easily to Vaughnt as shifting from girl to cat. Philosophy spoke to her too. That mischievous little mind of hers adored puzzles with no clear answers. 

We'd sit for hours by the hearth, the scent of old books and wood smoke filling the room, locked in debate about paradoxes and the nature of existence. She was no longer just a rescued creature. She was, in all ways that mattered... Erm, how do I put this? In a strange way, she had become as dear to me as any daughter.

Her shape-shifting, of course, never dulled. With a flicker of motion, one moment she'd be a girl curled in an old leather chair, and the next a sleek black cat, tail flicking with the cadence of her thoughts. The only thing that ever outpaced her wit was her speed. I've seen werewolves, revenants, even fae hunters move like the wind, but Vaughnt — Vaughnt was something beyond that. 

Her speed couldn't be measured, not properly. One moment, she stood beside me; the next, she was halfway across the manor grounds, perched lazily on the stone wall like she'd always been there.

The years passed, and eventually, I sent her to Cambridge. The finest tutors, the sharpest minds — I thought perhaps the world could give her a place. But a cat is a cat, even if it can wear a human face. 

Academia bored her. The walls of the colleges closed in, and that clever, predatory heart of hers grew homesick for the old Manor, for the quiet, for the scent of the forest after rain.

One rainy afternoon, no more than two months into her studies, I returned from London to find her sitting on the kitchen table, nibbling on cold roast beef, the old army coat still wrapped around her shoulders like a second skin.

She signed to me, simply: The numbers are still here. But your roast beef is better.

And I couldn't argue with that.

She had changed, of course. Time does that to all of us, even to those like Vaughnt who straddle the line between human and something… older. When she padded back into my life that rainy afternoon, settling onto the kitchen table with the nonchalance only a creature like her could muster, it wasn't just her studies she'd left behind at Cambridge — it was the last traces of that quiet, wild village girl I'd found in the Carpathians.

Gone was the plain, long black hair that used to fall across her face like a veil. In its place now stood a stiff, defiant black mohawk — a proud banner that stood a good foot high, lacquered into place with some unholy combination of hairspray and magic... must be magic. 

The sides of her head were shaved clean, save for two sharp tails of long hair that curled down her sideburns like some shadowy adornment from a pagan rite. It was quite a contrast to her image on leaving.

She had, as she signed to me later that evening, become a New Wave Goth Girl. It took me the better part of an hour, and a bottle of scotch, to fully understand what that meant through our clumsy back-and-forth finger spelling.

The look suited her. Black eyeliner ringed her sharp, feline eyes, exaggerating the wildness that was always just beneath the surface. Her lips were painted a deep, matte black, and her nails matched. She'd taken to black lace gloves, tight leather trousers, and shirts with cryptic band names scrawled across them — names I was certain weren't even words in any language I recognised. A walking portrait of the student underground scene, if ever I'd seen one.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Me, I, Simon de Montfort, born in the twelfth century, a man so thoroughly English and so delightfully antiquated, staring at this creature dressed like some stray from a music video, must have raised an eyebrow so high it vanished into my hairline.

But truth be told, I approved.

It suited her. It was her. The world had always been too tame for Vaughnt. Even the old world of beasts and shadows could barely keep pace with her. This — this strange, spiky, ink-black armour of style — was simply another skin. 

Another mask for her to wear as she moved through human spaces, and I was rather pleased to see she still clung to my battered old army jacket over the ensemble. That beloved little scrap of brown canvas, older than most nations, somehow still fit over her rebellious new plumage and looked cool. If an old duffer like me is allowed to use such a term. 

She signed something to me later that night, as we sat by the fire.

You look old, she teased, her hands moving sharp and quick. But I still like you.

I chuckled, pouring us both a finger of whisky. 'And you,' I replied, lifting the glass in her direction, 'look like you've robbed a cemetery and a record store. But I still like you too.' And we laughed as she pulled a face at the sip she took of the whisky. 

As I said right at the start of my part. It's funny—everyone assumes Vaughnt would make the perfect companion for a man like me. A werecat, after all, with her uncanny speed, sharp instincts, and a knack for sniffing out things that don't belong in this world. She seems, on paper, like the very idea of an assistant for my particular brand of work: the chasing down of things that go bump in the night and occasionally tear a few limbs off in the process.

But the truth is, you cannot — and I do stress, cannot — work with a werecat.

It's not that she's incapable; she's far from it. I've watched Vaughnt perform feats of agility and perception that would put the most highly trained special forces unit to shame. She can track scents days old, spot a lie in a man's heartbeat, and move like smoke across rooftops without so much as a whisper. But you see... she is, in the end, still a cat.

And cats — well, cats don't do as they're told.

I've brought her along on precisely three field assignments. Three. Each time, the same wretched lesson was hammered back into my thick, immortal skull: Vaughnt does what Vaughnt wants.

The first time, in Prague, I had her posted as my lookout while I tried to broker an uneasy truce with a revenant gang that had been haunting the old Jewish quarter. I thought having a werecat perched overhead would keep things civil. Halfway through the tense negotiations, I glanced up to signal her, only to find the spot empty. She'd apparently grown bored and wandered off to chase pigeons through the Charles Bridge markets. I barely got out of that alley with my head attached.

The second time was worse — on encountering a Skinwalker in the Utah desert. I'd brought her along, thinking her keen senses and animal instincts might give me the edge. For the first hour, she was sharp as a tack, eyes glinting, ears twitching at every desert whisper. But the moment the creature appeared and the real danger began? She sat down on a rock, cleaned her paws, and looked at me as if to say, You got yourself into this mess; you can get yourself out.

And the third time... well, let's just say it involved an Irish banshee, a bottle of scotch, and the most undignified sprint of my life. Vaughnt, as it happened, had decided the moonlight that evening was too beautiful to waste on fighting and simply went home.

I learned my lesson. No matter how clever, no matter how powerful, a werecat isn't a tool to be wielded or a soldier to be ordered. She's a cat. And if the mood doesn't suit her, or if her curiosity is sated and her belly full, she'll happily leave you to fend for yourself against the gaping maw of whatever eldritch horror you've crossed paths with.

That's the thing about Vaughnt — I don't own her and certainly don't command her. She isn't my partner in the professional sense. She's more like... well, like family. Wayward, unpredictable, and maddeningly disloyal to any plan that doesn't entertain her, but family all the same.

And truth be told, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ah, but for all the trouble she's been in the field, there's no denying Vaughnt makes this old Manor a true home.

It's a curious thing, you see. Most people imagine a creature like her — half human, half feline, all wild instinct — would treat a house as just another den. Somewhere to sleep, eat, sharpen her claws and little else. But Vaughnt, well... she thinks of this house as hers. Entirely, indisputably hers.

And because of that, the place is kept in a state of order I never could have managed myself. She's not doing it out of obligation. I've never once asked her to clean a thing. She does it because, like any proud creature, she tends to her territory. Every rug is always in place, every curtain dusted and aired, every corner swept as if her very pride depended on it. 

More often than not, my cluttered old papers are neatly stacked when I return from my ramblings. Usually, this means I can't find a bloody thing I need. 

My teacups vanish to the kitchen the moment I forget them on the side table.

And protection? I'd wager that you'll not find a safer house in the country. Supernatural or mundane, nothing with bad intentions gets within a stone's throw of the place. Vaughnt is a sentinel sharper than any alarm bell or sigil. She knows when something's off long before I do. And woe betide any fool who mistakes this quiet Manor for an easy mark.

Oh, and rats? Not a one. Not since the day she arrived. Which, of course, makes perfect sense.

The truth is, after all these years, it doesn't feel like my house anymore. Not really. I live here, yes — I pay the taxes, keep the books, warm the hearth — but this place? It's hers. I'm allowed to stay like some tolerated guest or slightly annoying family member who's earned a spot by the fire.

Or at least, that's how it feels most days.

And, if I'm honest, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Hmmm! Vaughnt. 

I had got to the porch of the old pile of a place. I would be going in through the front door. No one ever expects you to go through the front door. The house was already silent, so I knew that Vaughnt had probably already happened to whatever had been the issue.

I prepared myself for the fight. Oh, this got the old blood flowing. An owl hooted in the distance to remind me that whatever happened, this was just an ordinary night for everything and everyone else. 

I cocked the Mossberg and took a position at the right side of the door. 

Right, I thought. Kick the door open. Corner check move to left wall. 

On three. 

One

Two 

Thr...

The door opened as I threw my weight at it. This meant I fell forward into as close as I would ever get to the splits while being in one piece. 

Vaughnt silently laughed as she stood there. She signed a greeting while I extricated myself from the awkward pile with little grace and yawned and pointed at her wrist where a watch should have been. I got her point. I utterly adored her, but she was utterly annoying at times.

She could see that I was a little bit irked and signed back to me, followed by that winky blink of hers. 

Well, I am a cat, she said. Then, she raised her hand, shrugged, and bowed me from the porch into the hall.