Chapter 2: Chains and Fragments

"Sir, this..."

The manager hovered near Mr. Harrison, looking pale as milk and about to faint, but loyalty—or maybe just confusion—made him drop to his knees too. He whispered, "This cat is missing an eye, and its tail’s all split up. Can it really save our little girl?"

Mr. Harrison shot him a look sharper than a lawyer’s glare. "What do you know? With all the marching bands and fireworks outside, any ordinary stray would have run off. The preachers and ministers all said no, but this one’s still here—doesn’t that mean something?"

While they argued, I was halfway through the turkey—skin, bone, and all. Didn’t care who was watching. The meat was hot, the skin crisp, and it tasted better than anything I’d had since Thanksgiving at Mrs. Perkins’s place down the block. After weeks of living on foul-tasting spirits that left my fur smelling like burnt plastic, real food was a revelation. I realized just how hollow and weak I’d gotten, muscles aching from hunger.

Seeing I cared more about dinner than their crisis, Mr. Harrison edged closer, voice cautious but desperate: "Great Wildcat Spirit, can you see if my daughter can still be saved?"

Mouth full, I tore off the last turkey leg, clamped it between my jaws, and hopped down from the table with a casual grace only a half-starved stray could manage. I sauntered toward the SUV, ignoring the hush behind me.

My single eye might have looked blind to most, but it saw through more than just the surface. I caught the glimmer of otherworldly light around the child in the car, like the glow from an old lamp in a storm.

Inside, the little girl couldn’t have been more than five, but her spirit was nearly snuffed out—just a faint ember of her inner light left. Of her seven fragments, the Watchdog and the Thief were missing. She was half-gone, barely tethered to this world.

What’s worse, her wrists and ankles were shackled with heavy iron chains, thick as tow cables, shimmering in and out of sight. The other ends trailed off into shadows deeper than midnight. I reached out a paw, and the chains felt icy, buzzing against my pads like live wires.

The chains pulsed, tightening, trying to yank away her last spark of life. The sensation was chilling—like watching a child caught in a riptide.

Soul-stealing.

I leaned in, nose twitching, examining the strands more closely. This girl wasn’t at the end of her natural time. No chill of fate’s hand—just the stink of something crooked. And the way her soul was being reeled away, slow and methodical, wasn’t the style of any reaper I’d ever tangled with.

Since this was some back-alley spirit’s handiwork, I didn’t hesitate. I jumped into the SUV, claws flashing, slashing at the chains. Black smoke gushed out, swirling and vanishing with a hiss like oil on a grill.

To everyone else watching from the sidewalk, it must’ve looked like a puff of smoke from nowhere. Phones went up, someone started livestreaming, and I could already imagine the headlines: “Haunted Cat Terrorizes Suburbs.” They shrieked in alarm, some neighbors ducking behind their car doors, others fumbling for their phones.

"Ellie!" Mr. Harrison, heart in his throat, sprinted over to check on his daughter, hands shaking.

The little girl didn’t stir, her small face pale as porcelain. Mr. Harrison paced, torn between fear and hope, wringing his hands until his knuckles whitened.

I let out a sigh—no use keeping up the silent act any longer. I spoke, my voice oddly raspy in the human tongue. A beat of silence, then a neighbor gasped, "Did that cat just talk?"

"Your daughter’s spirit has been taken and her fragments are lost. If you don’t get them back, she won’t wake up."

Mr. Harrison’s jaw dropped. For a second, he stared at me like he was seeing a talking animal on late-night TV. But he snapped back, desperate: "Then what should we do, Great Spirit? Should we try to call her back?"

I shook my head, ears flicking. "That won’t work. When ordinary kids are scared, their spirit usually lingers nearby and can be called back. But Ellie’s spirit was taken, and who knows where she’s trapped now—it has to be snatched back."

"Has anything strange happened to her recently?" I pressed, trying to sound calm. The air in the SUV was thick with worry, the smell of old fries and spilled juice mixing with something colder—a whiff of the supernatural.