Without looking away, I replied, “Because I told him I would take care of him.”
Chase was quiet for a moment before he said, “It doesn’t solve the money issue, though.”
He was right. Veterinary care was extremely expensive. Up until a few months ago, I’d had a cat. I’d adopted him when he was a little kitten and raised him on my own. But the cat was diagnosed with prostate cancer—which was extremely rare in cats and often diagnosed when it was at an advanced stage, which was exactly what had happened in my cat’s case.
Treatment for that wasn’t just experimental but also astronomically expensive. I couldn’t afford it. So, I had a few choices: surrender my cat, let him wither in my arms, or have someone adopt him from me, someone who could afford the treatment.
In the end, I swallowed my ego and chose the latter, handing my cat over to my filthy rich ex-boyfriend, whose only redeeming quality was his love for cats—and my cat specifically.
It had been one of the hardest decisions of my life.
Looking at the dog now, I felt the pang of sorrow hit me deep. I didn’t want to give up another stray animal I found. Sure, I suspected the dog wasn’tjusta dog, but whatever he was, he was still a living being currently under my care.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to cover the costs,” I said, the resolution settling down in my gut and squeezing it. I tore my eyes away from the dog to look at Chase. “Even if it means taking on a side job.”
Chase gave me an odd look. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation, because I was. I was never surer of anything in my life.
I’d let my sisters down eight years ago when I failed to protect them.
I’d let my cat go when I couldn’t afford his medical treatment.
I was sick and tired of being incapable of caring for those I cared about. And while I’d only met this dog last night, I cared about his well-being. I needed him to make it, to heal.
It was hard enough to live with myself as it was. The least I could do was lessen some of the horrible guilt I would feel for the rest of my life.
Chapter 3
Wild New World
After Chase left, I spent the rest of the morning looking for vets who did house visits. They all asked for atrocious prices, and in the end, I settled on the one who seemed most sympathetic to my situation and offered a 10 percent discount for a first-time dog mom—her words, not mine.
By the time I made an appointment for later in the afternoon, the dog had fallen asleep. I crouched by his head and watched his body rise and fall with his deep breathing. Now that his piercing arctic-blue gaze wasn’t following my every move, I allowed myself to put my hand over his shimmering bronze fur.
He felt so soft, like touching a fluffy cloud. I stroked down his sides, careful to avoid the wounded area, and felt his muscles, tense even in his sleep, relax under my touch. I’d never felt something as soft as him.
There was also a distinct smell to him that made me take a deep breath, inhaling the scent. He smelled like freshly cut grass or the damp earth after a rainy night.
It made me want to borrow my head into his fur and breathe him in.
But I had no time for this. I had to work if I wanted to afford the vet’s visit—and also keep a roof over my head and food on the table.
Reluctantly, I withdrew my hand and headed to the desk, settling behind it on the broken, worn chair and flipping the laptop open.
First things first: My article regarding the Sunset Boulevard killing was approved. That meant I would see the money in my account tomorrow.
Next, I began researching for my personal project. I wanted to find more murder cases similar to the one on Sunset Boulevard. Shadow marks appeared only at violent crime scenes, after all.
Unlike with sigils, I didn’t quite understand the point of shadow marks.
Seeing nothing noteworthy in the news—no new crimes that raised my supernatural-acute alarm—I decided to shift gears and start working on my next piece.
After seeing the unknown sigil on the dog’s back, I had found yet another mystery to look into. Besides, it’d been a while since I wrote about sigils.
Most people don’t look at a knife wound and think, magic,I typed.But I do.
From there, I let my fingers lead the way, and for the next few hours, all I did was type, look in my sigils notebook, and contemplate a name to call the sigil on the dog’s back.