Abbernathy and the Cat Kingdom

(16) -Goodbye Home-

It was an odd feeling, running like Abby was now. It wasn't exhilarating or freeing. She felt cold, her skin clammy. Thoughts raced through her head, circling back to the same question: what would she find once her running ended?

Deep down, she didn't want to know. And deeper down a tiny, quivering voice whispered that not-knowing would somehow be much worse.

Her desire to know kept her legs moving even as they felt like minted jelly jiggling on a saucer of finely-crafted Ean crockery. Crum stumbled along behind at her heels, a third cat of sorts, beside Lucy and Sebbi. 

As they approached the house, the screams grew louder. Another sound joined them, a splintering one like that of a tree falling down during a storm. To Abby's knowledge, no trees resided in the house. She had peonies on her balcony and a few poorly watered plants on the porch, but nothing large and wooden enough to splinter.

The sound came from the woodwork of the house, the floors, the beams, the chester drawers that held hundreds of pricey knick knacks and priceless pictures of Abby's mother. Wood had been the skeleton of the house; so what happened to the insides when a skeleton splintered?

They got squished.

The first hint of flames caught Abby's gaze and she froze mid-stride. Both cats and Crum nearly tumbled into her shins and shoulder blades respectively. The dining hall blazed with the fiercest oranges and reds, as if an entire sun had been stuffed into one room. The second floor seemed calm, no fire, though smoke hazed the windows. 

Abby's panic swelled. When had a fire started? Where were the guests? Why had no one run outside?

"Shit!" Crum screamed as he ran up to the patio door.

Abby followed, mindfully navigating the rows of old Ms. Seivers' herb garden. An odd thought nestled its way into her chest. Why was she careful not to trample the plants? If Ms. Seiver was in the house, then it wouldn't matter if Abby stepped on the plants or not with her soft shoes. The dead didn't worry.

At the door, Crum gathered the cuff of his jacket and placed it over his mouth. Smoke slunk through the cracks and curled upward, like an angered snake wanting to strike out at the stars.

With his free hand, Crum tried the handle. "It's not opening." He jingled it harder. "Shit! Why isn't this opening?"

Something doesn't want to let us in, Abby's brain told her. Or let whoever's inside out.

More splintering sounded, more crackling. The voices though were quieting. Where were they? Mimi? Polly? Dad?

Panicked, Crum slammed his fists against the door. "Dad! Dad!"

Abby looked up. A shadow skittered across the smoke. Then another and another. Were those her guests? The shadows looked too round to be people. Deep inside the house, a few clangs rang out, followed by something bouncing off the window to Abby's right.

"They're not getting out," she whispered.

Crum turned toward her and grabbed her shoulders with trembling fingers. "What do you mean they're not getting out? Why not?"

Abby shook her head. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I think it's magick." Bad magick, she thought. But not Anti-magick. That was for dour girls with heads of red curls and—

I'll never see Poppy again. Hear Polly. Think of how squirrelly Henrich Jo looks in his tattered coats.

Crum clicked his tongue. "That's absurd. Magick's for silly tricks and tonics. It turns your hair blue. It doesn't lock people inside a burning house."