1 Chapter 1

Owen hurled his pencil against the wall in frustration. Useless. If he ever expected to earn his Master’s Degree in Music Composition, he needed to create music of grace and precision. Not the syrupy drivel he’d been slogging his way through for weeks now. How was he supposed to write joyful music when he couldn’t remember what joy felt like?

The pieces he’d written expressing loneliness, grief, and need—now those had quietly offered themselves like old familiar friends, nodding their understanding. But joy? The notes he wrote fell flat. The melody screeched “counterfeit.” Better silence than this pathetic sham.

He viciously crumpled the page of manuscript paper he’d been writing on and lobbed it at the wastebasket. Pulling out a fresh, blank sheet, he stared at the empty staves with loathing.

A long, mournful howl sounded from the back bedroom. Two more joined it in rapid succession. The tiny house was suddenly filled with an awful crescendo of need.

Hopeless exasperation welled up in him. Shoving his chair away from the rickety table, he stalked down the hallway to the spare room. Three black cats pushed to the front of their cages to rub and head-butt against the doors. The howling increased in volume as they saw a potential savior.

Trying to project calming and peaceful thoughts, he said, “Ladies, please, hush! No one is getting laid tonight—not you, and certainly not me. Believe me, I sympathize. But more kittens is not something any of us needs.” Owen had always enjoyed a deep empathy for animals, cats in particular. He could read them and, to a certain degree, communicate with them. Except when they were in heat—the overwhelming drive to mate blocked out everything else. Tonight was no exception.

The frenzy inside the cages intensified, and the volume ratcheted up.

Owen’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Over the din, he pleaded, his voice gradually rising louder and louder, “Look, you’re black cats; I’m Wiccan. Aren’t you supposed to feel a kinship, an urge to be my familiars, to do my bidding? Because I’d really like it if you would just shut up!”

The moment of shocked silence that followed was electric.

Three pairs of sage green eyes fixed upon him, measured him, and found him wanting.

The yowling resumed.

Flinching at the noise, he gave in. Work would have to wait. “Okay, okay, I’ll let you run around a bit.” Securing the bedroom door, Owen went from cage to cage and released the cats. They bounded out and curled around his legs, rubbing and purring and meowing. He grabbed a can of cat food and three bowls and sat in the middle of the floor. “Yum—seafood medley tonight.” He divided the treat equally among his guests. Blessed silence reigned while they gobbled the food.

He sighed in relief. “Only a couple more days, girls, and then it’s off to the animal rescue in Kenston to be spayed.” Owen petted and scratched the cats and had them leaping through the air chasing toys—anything to divert them from the demands of their hormones. And he found it soothing as well—a respite from trying to force uplifting music from his stubborn muse.

But as the shadows lengthened, that ever-lurking voice of urgency was calling to him again, and he returned the cats to their cages. It was already late October, and his final project for his degree was due before the end of the semester. With only half of it complete, there was no time to dawdle.

Now the cats were temporarily lulled into sleep by food and exercise, he retrieved his pencil and settled back at the table in the living room. Joy. Just how does joy sound? He strained to hear notes that his mind steadfastly refused to play.

Instead, the phone rang jarringly loud in the silent room.

A sharp flash of annoyance swept through him at the interruption. Annoyance quickly turned to guilt when he looked at the caller ID. How long had it been since he’d called his older half-sister? Too long, if he couldn’t even remember. “Hi, Brynne. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check in—I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Is everything okay?” Her voice was tinged with a mixture of reproach and concern.

“Yes, I’m fine. Still working on the composition, but I’m making progress.” Yeah, like an ice age makes progress. But at least he could report the headway he’d made with the darker emotions. “The moody pieces are pretty good, I think. And the cats seem to like them.”

“Uh huh. Just how many cats are we talking about now?”

That familiar feeling of failure settled over him, and he slumped in his chair. “Too many. I think the colony totals near forty now. And I’ve got three females in heat locked in the back bedroom. At least I got the rescue up in Kenston to lend me some cages. But the endless howling—you have no idea.” Owen shuddered at the thought of another sleepless night of unrelenting screeching as the cats demanded to be set free to find a mate. “But it should only last a few more days. Then I can take them to be spayed.” He had to keep reminding himself it was safer for the animals to wait out the heat cycle before having the surgery. But this past week had been brutal—for both him and the cats.