Page 8 of Pretty Kitten

“It’s on the list,” she shrugged. “Come on in. I’ll show you to the staff waiting room – there are lockers for your personal belongings; no cellphone on you while you work.”

She half expected a tantrum from Niamh, who seemed surgically attached to her iPhone, but she didn’t bat an eyelash.

“I’d planned to give you a tour after we opened - right now, I need to start on the croissants, so you can either stay out of the way or…”

“I’ll wash my hands. Let me know how I can help.”

Well, what do you know?

* * *

The presence of the obnoxious bodyguard strangely didn’t bother her after a few minutes; in part because she was used to seeing him hanging out in the shadows without saying a word, and also because she was on her turf now. After a while, she managed to stop feeling self-conscious and got on with the work.

It soon became obvious that Niamh wasn’t a stranger to baking; she did better than Clari had the first time Ace showed her her methods.

“’Fess up. You’ve done that before.”

The teenager grinned.

“You know I was adopted into the pride, right?”

Clari nodded. All the children - except the baby Ace was currently carrying - had been adopted. She’d been curious at first, but she’d never asked for their backstory, feeling like it was something private. They’d share if they wanted to. It wasn’t like she didn’t understand; Clari was also pretty close to an adopted kid.

“I grew up on the streets, in another country. When I was young - very young - I realized I had powers and I used them to survive. I stole food, mostly. I think I was about ten when I had to defend myself, though.”

Clari froze, dumping a ton of frosting on the cake she was working on. She’d had to defend herself at ten? From what? From whom? Children shouldn’t have to even think about that - ever.

“It wasn’t pretty. So, some agents of the PIA turned up.”

Giving up on baking overall, she pulled a seat and planted Niamh on it, before rushing to the coffeemaker, and starting a hot chocolate. It felt like a story that needed to be accompanied by hot chocolate.

The PIA stood for the Paranormal Investigation Agency, and, even as a human being, Clari knew they were a big deal. When some big stuff happened because of sups - vampires, shifters, witches, angels, and other paranormal beings - they stepped in. Normally, you never heard about the perpetrator again.

“Go on,” she urged.

“I got lucky. They could have sent a normal agent - I’m sure they would have, actually - but instead, someone from one of their special units arrived within minutes; in time to save the kids who were trying to hurt me, so I never murdered anyone.” Niamh accepted the hot chocolate, and then Daunte took the one she’d made on autopilot.

“A special unit?” Clari asked.

“Yeah, normally their field agents just take care of the problem when a sup messes up. That means asking us to surrender - which is impossible when you lose control that way. Then, they can use deadly force. But, instead of an agent, I got Tria. She’s part of a research department. I think she filed a report saying that an artifact malfunctioned, or something. I have no clue how she got me over here - it can’t have been legal. She let me stay at her place for a few weeks, got me some papers, and then she asked me to get in touch with Rye.”

Whoever this Tria was, Clari wanted to meet her and give her a hug.

“Anyway, she can’t cook. Or bake. So, while I stayed there, I looked up some recipes and tried to make her favorite things. Maybe I thought if I did all that, she’d let me stay.” She shook her head, and then changed direction. “It was weird, you know? Having as much food as I wanted in a fridge, and being able to do all these things with it.”

Oh, the feels. A kid - a ten-year-old kid - who thought it was weird to have food? Clari was never going to give her sob story in front of Niamh. Never. Compared to that, it sounded like she’d been born with a damn silver spoon.

“When I moved to the pride, Ola let me help in the kitchen, too. I like it. If I could, I’d go to culinary school when I’m older.”

“If you could?” Clari frowned, as Niamh pointed to her own chest.

“Witch. Before our kind are allowed to go to college, we have to pass tests to evaluate how dangerous we are. Everyone knows that I’d be disqualified.”

“Not necessarily,” Daunte intervened, his dark chocolate voice reminding her of his presence. “You’ll probably be classified as highly dangerous, yes; but if you prove that you can control yourself, the human authority can’t stop you from living your life.”

Niamh bit her lip, visibly restraining herself from stating the obvious; she wasn’t on her way to prove anything if they didn’t let her attend school, or meet anyone. Clari was just about to spell it out, when Daunte’s phone interrupted.

“Cross,” he said sharply.

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