Page 5 of Caged Kitten

Craning my head back once more, I squinted at the mirror, eyes narrowed on the collar’s reflection. Although it was obviously leather, with no end and no beginning, just a perfectly fitted circle, there was more to it. Runes. Sigils carved into the black, unrecognizable—but I’d been out of the academy for a while. Magical runework had never been my strong suit; I much preferred earthbound magic. But these definitely weren’t for decoration. They had purpose. Marks that most likely stopped my magic like a cork in a bottle. Made me pliant. Made me weak.

What was a witch without her magic?

Practically human.

I flailed again, battling my restraints as a high-pitched whine stretched through my skull from one ear to the other, growing louder by the second—

Until the door opened.

And then everything inside went quiet, save for the hammering of my heart.

A towering blonde in a navy pinstriped pantsuit strolled in, clipboard in hand and a pair of reading glasses propped up on her head. Peering down at the documents, her heavily masacara’d eyes narrowed briefly as the door swung shut behind her, nothing but a dimly lit stone corridor on the other side.

“What the hell is—”

“Katja Fox?” she interjected, gaze snapping to mine. Ice blue—severe, like the rest of her appearance, from the too-tight high ponytail down to the svelte white heels with their ridiculously pointy toes. If she kicked me with those things, would I bleed? Because it looked like she had a pair of knives strapped to the front of her feet.

She arched a prompting eyebrow when I just gawked at her, and I cleared my throat, the brief surge of bravado vanishing.

“Uh, yes, but—”

“I’m Gabriella Smith,” she stated, tugging out a stool from under the table with her foot, then dropping her clipboard with its enormous stack of paper onto the stretch of polished metal between us. It landed with a crash, making me jump again, and I frowned as she settled down across from me, bringing with her a strong whiff of menthol and smoked salmon. Gabriella Smith. That was a fake name if I’d ever heard one. When I tried to steal a glance at the information on the top sheet, she placed her forearm across it and waited until I looked her in the eye again. “I’m the intake supervisor at Xargi Penitentiary.”

My blood ran cold. “P-penitentiary?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m a witch—”

“We’re aware,” Gabriella remarked, and with a curt snap, a silver ballpoint pen materialized between her fingers. Even her stationery was sleek and cold. She hastily scribbled something in the corner of that first page, distracted. “This is a supernatural penitentiary.”

“Those exist?”

Supernatural prisons weren’t a thing. Sure, a few academies specialized in reforming delinquent supernatural youths, but that was hardly the same thing as a lock ’em up and throw away the key prison. Individual communities within the grander supernatural sphere adhered to their own laws; witches had a different set of rules than vampires, and they had their own courts, judges, and councils to deal with lawbreakers. For the most part, supers also followed the human rule of law—if only to keep off their radar. There were always troublemakers, of course, but dealing with them fell to their own kind.

Vampire gone on a killing rampage? They had a freakin’ monarchy to dictate law and punishment. For witches, our coven leaders were the first line of defense, and then it went higher and higher all the way to the tippy-top High Council, with representatives from each continent who met up in Rome for lawmaking and trying of the most serious crimes.

The status quo didn’t seem to faze Gabriella. She sniffed, scanning her clipboard, and then glanced up. “Hmm? Yes, they exist. You’re sitting in one, Miss Fox.”

She spoke perfect English with a faint, barely discernable Russian accent—maybe even Ukrainian, similar to my elderly neighbors back home. Beyond that, she addressed me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet, and if my hands weren’t strapped down, I could have just slapped her.

Not that I would. Hardly my style. But, you know, extraordinary circumstances called for extraordinary action.

I… I could hit a bitch if necessary.

And Gabriella had such a slappable face.

“But…” I licked my lips, opting to use my words instead. “But I—”

“You have been convicted of selling illegal love potions to humans from your café in Seattle, Washington, in the United States of—”

“What?”

“America,” Gabriella continued flatly, fixing me with a narrowed look from across the table. “You are therefore sentenced to a five-year stay in this penitentiary.”

“I-I… I never…” What absolute utter horseshit. I never brewed anywhere but my home kitchen, and even if I was growing some of my potion stock at the café, selling it to humans, unsuspecting humans at that, was worthy of a wand-snapping in the witch community. Never. Never. Humans had no idea we existed beyond the faint prickle of awareness they experienced around a supernatural entity, like some part of their reptilian brain realized they were standing next to a much stronger predator. Only a family member or lover could usher a human into our world, maybe a friend under extenuating circumstances, and even then, everything was so hush-hush.

I had never involved humans in magic. Never ever, ever, ever. I didn’t even brew anything for the few local witches I knew; they had their own covens to shop from, anyway.

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