The night I stopped being a man started like any other: with a missing cat and a bad cup of coffee. I was slouched in my ramshackle office, nursing a stale brew that might have once been coffee, when the phone rang. Probably another cheating spouse case or someone wanting me to dig through their neighbor’s trash. Glamorous life of a private investigator, right? But work is work, and my rent wasn’t going to pay itself.
I answered on the second ring, trying to sound more awake than I felt. “Sam Slater, Private Investigator,” I said gruffly, relishing slightly in the catchy rhyme. I secretly dreamed of coming up with a catchy jingle and making klitschy TV and radio commercials.
“Hello? Is this, um, a good time?” a timid voice asked. The woman on the line sounded ready to bolt.
I straightened up, nearly spilling my coffee. “Detective Sam at your service, any time of day or night.” I commended myself for my excellent customer service. “What can I do for you?”
There was a pause, followed by a heavy sigh. “It’s about my cat, Mr. Slater. Muffin’s gone missing.”
I resisted the urge to groan out loud. Missing cat. Of course it was a missing cat. It was after 10 PM on a Tuesday, and I was about to play pet detective. Still, a job’s a job, and call me soft, but I have a hard time saying no to someone who sounds like they’ve been crying.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, grabbing a notepad and a pen and scratching the paper until I drew ink. “When did you last see Muffin?”
“Th-this afternoon,” the caller stammered. She cleared her throat softly. “Muffin usually comes home by dinner, but tonight he didn’t. I looked everywhere on our street. Then one of my neighbors said they saw a cat that looks like him by the old construction site on Maple and 3rd.”
Maple and 3rd. I knew the place — a half-finished skeleton of a building some developer had abandoned. Now it was just a neighborhood eyesore and, apparently, a cat playground.
I scribbled down the details. “And what does Muffin look like?” I asked, picturing the dozens of stray cats that prowled that area.
“He’s a black cat with a little white patch on his chest. He’s very friendly.” Her voice cracked with worry. “Please, Mr. Slater, I know it’s late, but could you look for him? I can pay a little… just not a lot. I’m sorry.”
I glanced around my dingy office — peeling wallpaper, a sagging bookshelf, the wilting fern in the corner that my assistant Zoe insisted would “brighten the place up.” The bank account was as shabby as the décor. A little is better than nothing, I thought.
“Of course,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll head over to that construction site and see if I can find any sign of Muffin. What’s your name and number?”
“Claire. Claire Thompson.” I took a moment to jot down and verify the number she gave me.
“That’s my cell,” she told me. “Feel free to text me.”
I briefly recalled a case earlier in my career in which a lonely widow strung me along to indulge in her own role play fantasy. Fortunately, this sounded like a genuine case.
“Alright, Claire. Sit tight. I’ll call you if I find him — or even if I don’t, just to check in. Try not to worry. Cats are resourceful little guys; he’s probably having an adventure.”
She sniffled. “Thank you, Mr. Slater.”
After hanging up, I let out the groan I’d been holding back. “Muffin,” I muttered. “I’m a grown man who spent a year undercover busting a drug ring, and now I’m chasing after a cat named Muffin.”
Across the room, on the couch that doubled as my nap area, my own cat, Whiskers, cracked open an eye at me. Whiskers was a fat gray British Shorthair with an attitude problem. I could almost imagine him rolling his eyes, if cats could do that.
“Don’t judge,” I told him, shrugging into my coat. He responded with an enormous yawn and curled back into a ball, utterly unimpressed. Typical.
I holstered my trusty flashlight — a P.I.’s best friend on late-night jobs — and slipped my old revolver into the shoulder strap under my jacket. I hadn’t needed it in months, but hey, the one time you leave it behind is the one time you’ll wish you hadn’t. Plus, you never knew when a raccoon might get feisty… or when a desperate developer might be guarding a half-finished building, I thought wryly.
As I locked up the office, the neon sign in the window flickered SLATER INVESTIGATIONS in sputtering blue letters. Zoe kept telling me to replace that sign. She said it made us look like the front for an off-brand fortune-teller. She wasn’t wrong.
Outside, the city greeted me with a drizzle of cold rain. I flipped up my collar. Great, more water for my coffee to compete with. The streets were quiet—just the hum of distant traffic and a flickering streetlamp buzzing on the corner. Maple and 3rd wasn’t far. I decided to walk; my old Buick was on its last legs and I didn’t fancy coaxing it to life at this hour for a cat hunt.
As I cut through the damp streets, I reflected on my situation. Sam Slater, thirty-five, divorced (well, almost — papers ready to sign if my ex would ever send them back), ex-cop turned private eye, now prowling construction sites for runaway pets. If my old police captain could see me now, he’d have a good laugh. Or he’d hire me to find his golf clubs again, I mused.
I reached the construction site, which loomed like a dark skeleton against the cloudy sky. A chain-link fence surrounded the lot, adorned with “No Trespassing” signs every ten feet — an open invitation to someone like me. The padlock on the gate had long been busted by local kids or vagrants seeking shelter; it hung uselessly from the chain, doing about as much good as a screen door on a submarine.
I pushed the gate open just enough to slip inside. My footsteps squelched in mud as I drew my flashlight and clicked it on. The beam cut a narrow path through the darkness, illuminating graffiti-sprayed concrete and piles of lumber covered with tarps. The whole place smelled of wet cement and rust.
“Muffin,” I called softly, feeling a bit foolish. “Here, kitty kitty…”
My breath misted in the cold air. I played the light around, peering behind stacks of bricks and inside the skeletal outline of the ground floor. A few syringes and empty beer cans told me local teenagers had been here recently, but no sign of a black cat.
“Come on, Muffin,” I tried again, making a little kissing noise that usually worked on stray cats. “I’ve got, uh… tuna?” I winced at how unconvincing I sounded.
Something scurried behind me. I whipped around, heart lodging in my throat, only to spot a rat darting away through a puddle. “Just a rat,” I muttered, exhaling. “Get a grip, Sam.”
The wind picked up, and with it a strange sound: a faint, high-pitched mew. I froze, straining to listen. It came again — definitely a cat’s cry, and it sounded distressed.
I followed the noise deeper into the construction site, weaving between half-built walls and piles of rebar. The mewing grew louder, guiding me like a feline homing beacon. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the foundation pit, where they’d excavated for a basement or parking garage.
Sure enough, I found a ramp leading down to a lower level. I carefully descended, boots sliding on the slick earth. The flashlight beam danced ahead, revealing concrete pillars and shadows that stretched like grasping claws.
“Muffin?” I whispered. The crying had stopped. I swept the light slowly across the pit.
Then I saw it: a small pair of glowing eyes reflecting back at me from under a steel support beam. They were low to the ground — cat height.
“Hey, Muffin,” I said gently, slowly crouching. “There you are, buddy. Your mom’s worried about you.”
I inched closer. The black cat was pressed against the cold concrete, eyes wide and fixed on me. He looked terrified. His fur was soaked and matted with mud, and he let out a low, plaintive yowl.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, inching my hand forward. “I won’t hurt y—”
Before I could finish, Muffin bolted past me like a miniature rocket. “Hey!” I twisted around, catching a glimpse of his tail disappearing around a dark corner deeper in the pit.
Damn it. I got up and jogged after him, deeper into the gloom.
And that’s when I saw the glow.
At first I thought it was a reflection from my flashlight, but my beam was pointed at the ground. This light was coming from around the corner where Muffin had fled — a flickering greenish glow, casting tall, warped shadows on the damp concrete walls.
Heart thudding, I switched off my flashlight and crept forward, hugging the wall. I wasn’t sure what I was about to stumble into. Local teens smoking something funky? Some kind of occult graffiti gang? The drug ring I’d busted last year liked to play at Satanists to scare the competition, but they usually stuck to basement poker games, not half-built condo projects.
The green light grew brighter as I neared the corner. I heard a voice — low and rhythmic, muttering words I didn’t understand. A chant. Not teenagers; this was an adult’s voice, resonant and oddly doubled, as if two people spoke in unison. Goosebumps prickled my arms. I reached under my coat and rested a hand on my holstered gun, just in case.
Peering around the corner, I saw a sight that made me question the half-cup of stale coffee I’d chugged earlier.
In a partially enclosed space that might have been meant for an elevator bank, a figure in a dark hooded cloak knelt on the ground. They had drawn a large circle on the concrete in what looked like chalk or maybe salt, and strange symbols that reminded me of the doodles in that old Necronomicon paperback Zoe once showed me as a joke. At the circle’s center was an object emitting the eerie green glow: a pendant or amulet of some kind, shaped like a cat’s head with emerald eyes. Those eyes were the source of the light, pulsing softly.
And next to the amulet, trapped under an overturned milk crate, was Muffin. The cat hunkered down, ears flat, unmoving, as if entranced or maybe just too scared to move.
The cloaked figure’s hands were raised above the amulet, palms down, fingers splayed in concentration. Bracelets or beads dangled from their wrists. The chanting reverberated off the concrete, echoing strangely. I couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female; it had an eerie, layered quality.
I had officially stumbled into something way above my pay grade. Some rational part of me whispered: Back away slowly and call the cops. But the cops would laugh me out of the precinct if I told them I found a wizard (witch? cultist? cat-napper?) summoning Cthulhu in a half-built basement. Plus, that protective instinct that got me booted from the police force kicked in — I couldn’t just leave poor Muffin.
So, doing what was probably the stupidest thing possible, I stepped out of the shadows and announced, “Okay, pal, drop the Druids-R-Us act and let the cat go.”
Subtle, I know. In my defense, subtlety has never been my strong suit.
The chanting stopped abruptly. The figure’s head whipped around toward me. Under the hood, I caught the glint of pale skin — maybe a chin and a slice of mouth — and two eyes that reflected green from the glow.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved: them kneeling, me standing there in a muddy construction pit, rainwater dripping off my coat, gun half-drawn but not yet aimed. Muffin gave a low, uncertain mrrp from under the crate.
The cloaked person hissed something — not quite English, something harsh and sibilant. They snatched up the glowing cat-head amulet and rose to their feet in one swift motion. The milk crate toppled off Muffin, and the cat darted free, streaking into the darkness (so much for gratitude).
“Hey!” I barked, taking a step forward. “I don’t know what you’re doing out here, but you better—”
I didn’t get to finish. The figure thrust their free hand toward me, fingers spread. The amulet in their other hand flared with a sudden blinding brilliance. Green light filled my vision. I felt a force — like an invisible wave of pressure — slam into my chest. It was as if I’d been hit by a truck made of static electricity.
I flew backward. My back collided with a half-built wall. Pain exploded in my shoulder. My flashlight went clattering into the dark. The air rushed out of my lungs, and my vision blurred.
Through the ringing in my ears, I heard more guttural words echoing around the concrete chamber. I saw the cloaked figure advance, their amulet raised high and blazing with light. Desperate, I tried to lift my arm — to point my gun or shield myself, I’m not sure which. Then came a crack like a thunderbolt.
A bolt of searing green energy arced from the amulet straight into my chest.
I remember a sensation of falling — even though I was flat on my back. Falling through myself, through darkness. Pain, then heat, then a tingling that surged through every nerve in my body, all in the span of a heartbeat.
I might have screamed. I’m not proud to admit that. It felt like every cell in my body was being zapped and rearranged — not an experience I recommend.
The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was the hooded figure looming over me, cat-eyes pendant glowing fiercely. In a voice that sounded warped and distant, I swear I heard them snarl, “Interfere no more, cursed meddler.”
Not exactly comforting words to lull me to sleep.
I woke to the sound of rain. My head throbbed like I’d gone on a bender with an angry mule. For a long moment, I didn’t move. Eyes closed, I inventoried my injuries: breathing, painful, but ribs didn’t feel broken; head, still attached; ego, smashed to pieces.
And… there was something else. Something off.
My center of gravity felt wrong. And I was cold — strangely cold in some places and uncomfortably warm in others. None of it made sense.
Groaning, I sat up. My back was against a damp concrete wall. The construction pit was dim and silent; dawn’s first light crept in, a cold gray illumination. My flashlight lay a few feet away, flickering weakly, half buried in mud. The green glow and the cloaked figure were gone. So was Muffin. No surprise there.
What was surprising was how my clothes fit — or rather, how they didn’t. My coat felt like a tent draped over me. The sleeves spilled past my hands. I blinked hard, wondering if the blast had messed up my vision. Everything looked a bit… larger than it should, as if the world had shifted to a higher magnification.
I rolled onto my knees and got unsteadily to my feet. My boots were loose, my feet swimming in them even though I had laced them tightly before. I had to grab the waistband of my pants to keep them from sliding off my hips.
“What in the hell…” I muttered.
My voice. It sounded… different. Higher, smoother. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Testing… one, two.” The words came out in a sweet alto that definitely wasn’t mine — at least not the me from last night.
Panic bubbled up in my chest. With trembling hands, I reached up to feel my face. My stubbled chin was… not stubbled. Smooth skin met my fingertips. My jawline felt narrower, my nose a bit smaller. My fingers traveled upward — my hair was longer too, wet strands of it tangling around my neck.
This had to be a dream. Maybe I hadn’t woken up at all, and my brain was concocting some insane scenario where I got knocked out by a wizard and now I was—
I froze. My hands had strayed to my chest. To two distinct, soft mounds where there had previously been a flat expanse of muscle and scar tissue from a bullet years ago.
A strangled yelp escaped me. I stumbled away from the wall, nearly tripping over my now oversized boots. Heart racing, I spotted a shard of broken mirror leaning against a toolbox nearby — probably intended for a future bathroom installation.
In two steps I was in front of the cracked mirror, dropping my flashlight to cast its feeble light upward. A stranger stared back at me.
A soaking wet, wide-eyed woman.
She looked to be in her early thirties, maybe the tail end of twenty-something. Her dark brown hair was plastered to her face and neck, dripping onto the collar of an obviously oversized coat — my coat. Her skin was smudged with dirt and rain, but beneath the grime it had a warmer olive tone than my own ruddy complexion. Her eyes — my eyes, I realized — were the same grayish-blue as before, but set in a face I barely recognized. The nose was a little smaller, the cheekbones a little higher. And her lips… they were fuller than mine had been, currently parted in shock.
I raised a hand to my face; the mirror-woman did the same. A slender hand with delicate fingers pressed against my cheek. The reflection confirmed what every other sense was screaming: I wasn’t looking at Sam Slater anymore. Not the original model, anyway.
“Oh… oh no,” I whispered. The woman in the mirror whispered it too, in that voice I didn’t know but somehow knew was mine.
That psycho with the amulet hadn’t just knocked me on my ass. They’d — what, transformed me? My brain struggled for an explanation beyond “this is a bizarre coma-dream.” But the cool rain soaking through my loose shirt felt pretty damn real.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat, and I clamped my mouth shut because I feared if I started laughing, I might not stop.
Focus, Sam. One thing at a time.
First: I was alive. Sore and shaken, but alive. Second: I was, apparently, a woman now. Every piece of evidence pointed to that conclusion, and denial wasn’t going to change it. Third: The nutjob who did this was gone, along with their cat-amulet. They’d called me a “cursed meddler” — cursed, as in this was probably not wearing off.
I realized I was hyperventilating and forced myself to breathe slower. Calm down. Panicking won’t help. Figure this out logically.
I patted myself down for injuries — or, more accurately, for anything else weird. Aside from the cosmic gender-reassignment, nothing seemed broken. My shoulder ached from the earlier impact, but I could move it. A couple of nasty bruises forming, no doubt.
I retrieved my fallen flashlight, now flickering on its last gasp of battery. Miraculously, I found my revolver in the mud a few feet away. I wiped it clean on the inside lining of my coat and slid it back into the holster with hands that were a lot smaller and steadier than I expected.
A quiet meow echoed from somewhere behind a stack of bricks. My head snapped up. “Muffin?” I called, then winced; the name sounded so strange in this new voice.
Another meow, off to my right. I swung the flashlight beam over and saw the tip of a black tail peeking out from behind a concrete pillar.
Finally, some luck. I crouched, wincing as my ribs protested, and tried to sound gentle despite the turmoil churning inside me. “Hey, Muffin… it’s okay, buddy. That weirdo’s gone.”
As I inched closer, the black cat emerged cautiously. He seemed a bit unsteady, but otherwise he appeared unharmed. The eerie glow was gone from his eyes, which were now normal, cat eyes.
“Come here, pal,” I said softly. “Let’s get you home.”
Muffin looked at me, head tilted. Then, to my surprise, he walked right up and began rubbing against my mud-stained pant leg. This was the friendly kitty Claire had described. Maybe he sensed the bad guy was gone and decided I was okay.
I carefully scooped him up, cradling him inside my coat for warmth. He was trembling, but after a moment he settled into my arms, probably too exhausted to protest.
“That’s it. I’ve got you,” I murmured. In truth, it felt good to hold something warm and alive. It grounded me at a moment when I desperately needed grounding.
I turned to leave, but as I did, a soft voice said, “Thank you.”
I almost dropped the cat. I looked down at Muffin. “Did you just—?”
Muffin looked back at me with sleepy green eyes and… I swear he shrugged. “You got rid of that psycho. Thanks,” he said in a tiny, raspy voice.
A jolt shot through me and I yelped in surprise. Muffin leapt from my arms, landing with a splash in the mud. He shook himself and gave me a reproachful look.
“You… you can talk?!” I blurted.
Muffin flicked his tail, clearly unimpressed with my eloquence. “Keep it down, lady. Head’s killing me,” he muttered.
I clamped my jaw shut so fast I nearly bit my tongue. The cat — the cat — was talking. Not just meowing in a way that my brain interpreted. Actual words. His mouth wasn’t moving like a human’s exactly, but the cadence and tone were as clear as day.
The world tipped sideways for a second. Not only had I been body-swapped, I’d apparently been given Dr. Dolittle powers as a bonus prize.
Muffin sat back on his haunches and gave himself a quick shake, splattering more mud. “I’m going home,” he announced, as casually as if we were wrapping up a coffee date.
“W-wait!” I stammered, stumbling toward him, one hand out. “Your owner — Claire — she’s worried sick about you. Let me take you back to her.”
Muffin yawned, showing off tiny fangs. “She worries too much. I always come back.” His tone had the indifference of a teenager explaining why curfew is a dumb idea. “Anyway, can’t go back right now. Too wired. Gonna go climb a tree or something and sleep it off.”
I just stared. How was I supposed to respond to that? He talked like a surly college kid, not a fluffy missing pet.
Muffin twitched an ear at me, clearly over this conversation. “Tell Claire I’ll be home by morning. And, uh, thanks again, lady.” With that underwhelming display of gratitude, he trotted off through a gap in the fence and vanished into the gray pre-dawn light.
I stood there in the drizzle, mouth opening and closing like a fish, a million thoughts colliding in my frazzled brain. The most prominent was: What the hell did I get myself into?
Thunder rumbled in the distance, as if the universe was having a laugh. The situation was so absurd I half expected to see some youngster with a cellphone step out from behind a column and inform me I had been pranked.
I needed to get out of here — someplace dry, warm, and not infested with sorcerers or chatty cats. Claire’s cat was alive (and apparently able to deliver his own homecoming announcement), the cloaked maniac was gone, and I… I was a woman who could suddenly speak feline. Just another Tuesday night.
Clambering out of the foundation pit proved interesting in my oversized attire. I had to hold my pants up with one hand and my flashlight in the other. By the time I reached the street, dawn was breaking in earnest, lending the empty neighborhood a wash of pale light.
I kept to the backstreets as I made my way toward my office. The last thing I needed was a police cruiser rolling by and stopping to question the muddy, barefoot (I’d finally ditched the loose boots) woman skulking around. I imagined that conversation: Why no, officer, I didn’t steal these clothes from a homeless giant, they’re mine. I just, uh, shrunk overnight.
At last I reached the old brick building that housed Slater Investigations. I slipped in through the side door and climbed the single flight of stairs to my office, every step reminding me via jiggle or ache that my body had indeed changed in some radical ways.
Inside, I locked the door behind me and sagged against it, water pooling at my feet from my drenched coat. Safe. Well, safe as one can be when reality has turned on its head.
“Merow!” Whiskers’ loud complaint cut through the silence. He was sitting on the couch, tail flicking, eyes wide and fixed on me like I was an intruder.
I blinked at him. In my frazzled state, I’d almost forgotten the whole “talking to cats” thing. “Uh, hey, Whisk.” My voice cracked, still not sounding like mine, and my attempt at casualness earned me a suspicious squint from the gray fluffball.
He hopped down and approached warily, sniffing at the air. His fur stood a bit on end. “Who the hell—” he began with a low growl, and I heard it not as a meow, but as actual words.
I held up my hands. “Whiskers, it’s me!” I said quickly. “Sam.”
Whiskers stopped in his tracks and gave me a long, dubious once-over. “Sam?” he echoed, tilting his head. “You… you smell like Sam. But you sure don’t look like him.”
I let out a breathless laugh. Hearing my cat talk and sound concerned was officially the weirdest part of my night, and that bar was high. “Yeah, no kidding,” I said, shrugging off my soggy coat. It hit the floor with a wet plop. I peeled off my ruined fedora—now also enormous on my smaller head—and tossed it aside. “It’s a long story. Short version: I messed with the wrong creep.”
Whiskers slowly walked a circle around me, as if inspecting a substitute teacher. “Hmph. You humans and your trouble. I take a nap for a few hours and you up and change species on me.”
Despite everything, I cracked a grin. It was undeniably Sam-like, that grin, even on a new face. “I didn’t plan this, furball.”
He sat down and wrapped his tail around his feet. His green eyes—no longer just an inscrutable animal gaze but now expressive with dry humor I could fully comprehend—stared up at me. “So, let me get this straight. You got yourself cursed, now you look like a lady, and you can understand every brilliant word I utter.”
“That about sums it up,” I sighed. “And apparently Muffin can talk too. Or at least I could understand him.”
Whiskers let out a snorty little chuff. “Muffin? That pampered neighborhood brat? What’d he have to say?”
I slumped into my desk chair, which felt oddly too big now. “He mostly told me to buzz off, then went on his merry way.”
“Cats,” Whiskers said with a shrug, as if that explained it. “Present company excluded, of course.” He leapt with a soft fwump onto my desk, eyeing me more softly now. “Glad you’re not dead, by the way. I was… worried when I saw a green explosion out the window.”
That admission caught me off guard. I reached out and scratched behind his ear. He leaned into it, purring gruffly. “Thanks, buddy.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t. I’ll deny it.” He hopped off the desk and sauntered toward the little kitchenette in the corner, where his food bowl was conspicuously empty. He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Well? I think saving a cat and surviving a magical murder-blast earns me extra breakfast rations, don’t you?”
Some things never change. Shaking my head, I went to the cupboard, grabbed a can of cat food and scooped a generous helping into his bowl. The familiar routine of feeding Whiskers did wonders for my scrambled nerves. It was something normal.
As he chowed down, I sank onto the threadbare couch, suddenly bone-tired. The adrenaline was long gone, leaving me trembling and exhausted. My hands were dirty, my clothes soaked, and my entire body felt foreign. I needed sleep. I needed to wake up and discover this was all a bizarre dream.
But the rhythmic crunch-crunch of Whiskers munching away was a pretty solid anchor to reality.
I scrubbed my palms over my face. The sensation of smoother skin where I expected stubble was still jarring. “This is impossible,” I murmured.
Whiskers looked up, crunching kibble. “You want the long version or the short? Short: It’s happening. Long: You pissed off someone with some serious mojo. Now you’re… different.”
I let out a mirthless chuckle. Leave it to a cat to be blunt. “Different. Yeah. Understatement of the year.”
He finished his meal and hopped back up beside me, curling into a loaf position. “So, what’s the plan? You do have a plan, right?”
I looked down at him, feeling a rush of affection. Pet or not, he’d been my partner for years. And now, strangely, he was also the closest thing I had to a voice of reason. I placed a hand on his soft back. “Working on it,” I said.
My mind drifted to the cloaked figure. Who were they? What did they want with that amulet and the cat? Did they even intend to turn me into this, or was it some side effect? And more pressingly — could it be undone?
“Earth to Sam,” Whiskers prompted, tail tapping my knee. “I asked what the plan is. Or are we just gonna sit here until you grow old and die, now with extra girl power?”
I made a face at him. “The plan is to figure out how to fix this, obviously. But I can’t do that alone.”
Whiskers gave a theatrical sigh and glanced around pointedly. “Well, there’s me.”
I snorted. “Yeah, you’re a big help. I meant a person. With thumbs.”
He flicked an ear. “I have thumbs,” he insisted, flexing his front toes. “See? I’m doing opposable thumb things.”
I managed a small laugh. It felt good to laugh, actually. “Sure you are, buddy.”
But he had stirred a thought. A person with thumbs. Someone I trusted, who could handle weird.
Zoe.
My assistant was nothing if not adaptable. Hell, she’d once managed to deliver a client’s baby over the phone while I raced to get paramedics to the scene, and then acted like it was no big deal. Weird was practically her baseline. If there was anyone who might actually believe this story and help me strategize, it was Zoe.
“I need help,” I said aloud, more to myself than to Whiskers. “I’m going to call Zoe.”
He purred softly. “Good choice.”
I took a deep breath and pulled out my phone with shaky hands. The screen was cracked, courtesy of my unplanned flight into a wall, but it still worked. I fired off a text to Zoe: Emergency. Meet me at the office ASAP. Use your key. Serious — I’m okay but need you.
Unsurprisingly, even at this early hour, she responded within a minute: WTF? Are you hurt?? I’ll be right there. 20 minutes.
I exhaled slowly. Help was on the way. Now all I had to do was prepare for the most awkward conversation of my life.
Twenty minutes isn’t a long time, but in my state it felt like an eternity. To distract myself, I set about the careful task of peeling off my wet, muddy clothes. I grabbed a clean-ish towel from a supply closet and did my best to dry off and wipe away the grime. Every glimpse down at my new form made my heart do a weird flop, equal parts fascination and panic. I tried not to linger on anything too much. That was a spiral I didn’t need to start.
With no spare clothes that would fit me, I settled for my trench coat — now more like an ankle-length overcoat — buttoned up to keep me warm. Not exactly a flattering dress, but better than nothing.
By the time I’d tidied myself and tossed my ruined shirt and underthings into a garbage bag, I heard the jingle of keys at the office door.
Showtime.
I planted myself in the middle of the office, pulse thudding in my ears. Whiskers, perhaps sensing incoming drama, prudently hopped off the couch and slunk under the coffee table out of the line of fire.
The door swung open, and Zoe rushed in, breathless and drenched from the rain. Her cobalt-blue pixie-cut hair was plastered to her forehead under a knit beanie, and she wore her usual oversized army surplus jacket over Star Wars leggings — a geek chic look only Zoe could pull off. She skidded to a halt when she saw me, confusion and alarm crossing her freckled face.
“Uh… hi?” I offered weakly.
Zoe’s eyes darted around the office, not recognizing me at all. In a flash, she pulled out the small stun gun I knew she carried and leveled it in my direction. “Who are you? Where’s Sam?” she demanded. For a five-foot-two tech nerd, she could be scary when she wanted.
My heart clenched. I held my hands up slowly. “Zoe, it’s me,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and level.
Her brow furrowed. “What?” She kept the stun gun trained on me. “Lady, I don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave. Now.”
I realized that, to her, I was just some strange woman standing in her boss’s office wearing his coat. And I had used the phrase “emergency” to summon her. Of course she thought something bad had happened — or maybe that I was the emergency.
This was going south fast. I needed to convince her, and words alone wouldn’t cut it. I racked my brain for something only I would know. Something that would shock her enough to listen.
“Zoe, I can prove it,” I said quickly. “Remember the time we were on that stakeout at Lenny’s Diner and I ate four chili dogs? You joked that I’d regret it and, well… I did.” My cheeks warmed at the embarrassing memory. “I nearly blew our cover with a uh, loud digestive episode.”
Zoe’s jaw dropped. Her grip on the stun gun faltered. “How could you possibly…?” she whispered.
I pressed on, taking a cautious step closer. “And two months ago, you caught me hiding that flask of peppermint schnapps in my desk. You know, the one you called my ‘detective juice’? And then you blackmailed me with stories about it for a week.”
Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. The stun gun lowered an inch. “Sam?” she breathed.
Relief flooded through me. I nodded. “In the flesh. Kinda.”
Zoe blinked rapidly, trying to process. She slowly lowered the stun gun. “This is… you can’t be…” She trailed off, then abruptly stepped forward, peering at my face. “Holy crap, it is your eyes. And that nose… sort of. What happened to you?!”
That was all the invitation I needed. Words started tumbling out of me in a half-coherent babble: the call from Claire, the construction site, the hooded figure, the amulet, the freaky green blast, waking up like this, Muffin talking — everything.
Zoe listened with her mouth slightly open and her hand firmly gripping the back of a chair, as if to keep herself grounded. Her expression cycled from shock to concern to an odd kind of giddy fascination. I realized I might be overwhelming her. Hell, I was overwhelming myself.
When I finished, ending with a croaked, “…and then I texted you,” Zoe let out a long breath and sank into the chair. “That is… wow. Just… wow.”
I nodded meekly.
For a moment, the only sound was Whiskers slinking out from under the table. He trotted over to Zoe and gave her ankle a rub, as if to say yep, it’s all true. She absently reached down to pet him, then froze. “Wait — you said you can understand him now. Like, he can talk?”
Whiskers looked up at her and gave a perfectly timed, “Meow.” The intonation uncannily resembled a sarcastic yes.
I translated anyway. “He said ‘yes’. Well, technically he said ‘meow,’ but I heard ‘yes’… you get the idea.”
Zoe’s eyes darted between me and the cat. “No freaking way,” she whispered.
Whiskers, never one to pass up an entrance, hopped onto the desk and sat upright, curling his tail around his paws with regal poise. He focused on Zoe, then slowly and deliberately said, “Nice to finally meet you properly, Zoe. Thanks for all the ear scratches.”
I relayed what he said out loud as he “spoke,” since Zoe only heard the meows. My deadpan translation of my cat’s snark made the whole thing even more absurd.
Zoe’s face was a study in astonishment. She reached out with a trembling hand and poked Whiskers lightly on the shoulder, as if to check he was real. He responded by leaning over and headbutting her hand in a friendly manner.
“This is amazing,” Zoe finally gasped. She looked up at me with something like excitement overriding the shock. “I mean, it’s insane, but… real magic? Curses? Talking cats? This is like every novel I read online come to life!”
I let out a breathy laugh. Trust Zoe to geek out at a time like this. “I’m glad one of us is enjoying my crisis.”
She immediately sobered and stood up. “Sorry, sorry. You’re right. This is serious.” Then, unable to help herself, she squealed softly, “But also incredible, Sam!”
I rubbed my temples. “I’ll go with ‘incredible’ once I know I can get my old self back. Until then, it’s downright terrifying.”
Zoe nodded, pulling herself together. She was slipping into her problem-solving mode — I could practically see the mental checklists forming. “Alright. We need to figure out what exactly happened and if it can be reversed. And in the meantime… manage all this.” She gestured vaguely at me from head to toe.
That brought me to another pressing issue. “Zoe, how am I going to… exist like this? People are expecting Sam. Our clients, contacts… I mean, I can’t just say ‘oh hi, I’m Sam, I changed my gender overnight’.”
She frowned. “No, that would probably invite more trouble. We need a cover story. Like, you left town suddenly and put someone else in charge.”
My brain, still in a fog, came up blank. “Who would that someone be?”
Zoe’s lips curved in a small, sly smile. “Samantha.”
I blinked. “Samantha,” I repeated.
She pointed at me. “You, genius. Samantha Slater. Sam’s cousin from out of town, here to hold down the fort while he… I dunno, handles a family emergency.”
I mulled it over. It had a certain elegance. Sam and Samantha Slater, P.I. cousins. It explained the familiarity (same last name) and gave me a reason to be at the office, answering his calls. “That… could work. People might find it odd we have the same nickname, though.”
Zoe shrugged. “You could go by Sam 2.0—” Seeing my glare, she laughed, “Kidding! Maybe you go by Samantha full-time, or Sammi, or something slightly different to avoid confusion.”
Samantha. Sam. Close enough that I’d respond naturally. “Samantha Slater,” I tried the name out loud. It felt foreign, but not wrong. It would have to do.
Zoe clapped her hands once, decisively. “Alright! Cover story: check. Now, the immediate practical stuff.” She eyed my improvised coat-attire critically. “You cannot walk around like that.”
I looked down at myself. Dried mud splattered my too-big pants (which were cinched tight with a belt and still threatening to slide off my hips). My trench coat covered everything almost like an oversized dress, but I must have looked like a kid playing dress-up in her dad’s clothes. And beneath it, aside from a now ill-fitting undershirt, I was… well, swinging free, so to speak, which was a weird and uncomfortable feeling I was trying very hard not to think about.
“Yeah, I gathered,” I said dryly. “I don’t exactly have a wardrobe of lady clothes in my size, though.”
Zoe grinned, and I suddenly feared what she might say next. “Shopping trip!” she declared.
I groaned. “Zoe…”
“Nope, no arguments.” She wagged a finger. “You need at least a couple outfits that fit, and definitely proper undergarments.” Her eyes darted briefly to my chest, where I was certain the outline of the flashlight’s impact bruise was visible above the coat neckline. “You can’t go around braless in a button-up. Not in the professional world, anyway.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it, realizing I had no actual counterargument beyond sheer embarrassment. She was right. If I was going to pretend to be a female P.I. running an office, I had to dress the part — or at least not look like a slob.
Zoe grabbed her keys and umbrella. “We’ll hit your apartment first so you can shower and get out of that mess. Then, the mall.”
“The mall? It’s barely 7 AM.”
“There’s a 24-hour superstore on the edge of town,” she countered. “Not ideal for fashion, but they have all the basics. And it’ll be pretty empty this early, which is good. Fewer prying eyes.”
She had thought this through already. I sighed, resigning myself to the inevitable. “Fine. But you owe me coffee. And maybe a tranquilizer.”
Zoe beamed and patted my shoulder. “Deal.”
As I gathered my phone and wallet (at least that still worked — though I’d need a new ID photo sooner or later, yikes), Whiskers let out a loud mrow from the desk.
“Can’t forget the real brains of the operation,” Zoe said, scooping up my cat and his carrier. Apparently, she intended for Whiskers to come along; she muttered something about not leaving him alone with “all the breakables” — a fair point, he did love to knock pens off my desk one by one just to watch me twitch.
We headed out into the morning drizzle. I locked the office door behind us, mind reeling at the fact that I was locking myself out as far as the world was concerned. Sam was leaving the building, and Samantha was coming back.
At least the rain had let up a bit as we piled into Zoe’s beat-up Volkswagen. The drive to my apartment was mercifully uneventful. We did pass a police cruiser at one point, and I instinctively slouched in the seat. Zoe gave me a sympathetic smile. “Relax. They’re not looking for you.”
“Not yet,” I muttered, thinking of the potential complications if anyone reported Sam missing.
My apartment was only a few blocks from the office. We made it inside without encountering any neighbors — a small miracle. The divorce had led me to take up quarters in a tiny one-bedroom that mostly served as a storage unit and occasional crash pad.
While Zoe fed Whiskers a second breakfast (he was shameless and had meowed piteously about starvation the whole drive), I took the fastest shower of my life. It was an exercise in trying not to look down. I failed once or twice. Let’s just say having an investigative mind is a double-edged sword — I notice everything, even when I’d rather not.
Twenty minutes later — scrubbed, shampooed, and trembling in a too-big robe — I emerged to find that Zoe had laid out the cleanest, most neutral clothes from my closet she could find: a pair of gray sweatpants with a drawstring and a black hoodie. Both were from my slimmer days and thus almost fit my new frame without falling off. Almost.
“Good enough to get you to the store,” Zoe pronounced, tightening the drawstring on the sweats for me with a double knot. I only blushed a little at the domesticity of it.
Whiskers had made himself at home on my couch, grooming away the rainwater from his fur. “You clean up nice,” he commented idly. I flicked his ear and he purred.
Before long, we were back in the car and en route to the all-night department store. I braced myself. Taking down a magic-wielding criminal? Hard. Facing a changeling curse? Harder. Shopping for bras with my twenty-something assistant? Kill me now.
The department store opened at nine, and we were there just after the doors unlocked. It was one of those big chain megastores with endless racks of clothes, glaring fluorescent lights, and music that was a little too perky for the hour. I hovered near the entrance, suddenly self-conscious. It had been a long time since I’d set foot in a women’s clothing section — actually, scratch that, I don’t think I’d ever ventured in, except maybe to buy a Christmas gift for my ex-wife (and that ended with me panicking and grabbing the first scarf I saw).
Zoe, on the other hand, was in her element. The moment we walked in, she grabbed a shopping cart and a couple of those large reusable bags. “Alright,” she announced, “Operation New Wardrobe is a go.”
I winced, adjusting the baseball cap on my head. Underneath, my damp hair was doing its best impression of a bird’s nest. At least I smelled like lavender shampoo now instead of mud. I’d thrown on the hoodie and sweatpants; far from stylish, but at least I no longer looked like a swamp thing.
Whiskers peeked his head out from the unzipped top of the old gym bag I was using to smuggle him. I’d lined it with a towel for his majesty’s comfort. He looked supremely unimpressed by the bright department store lights. “So this is where humans buy their fur,” he commented drily, eyes tracking a passing mannequin in a neon-pink sundress.
I bit back a snort. “Shh,” I whispered to the bag, as if soothing a fussy baby. “Keep your observations to yourself, please.”
He meowed innocently. Zoe glanced over. “He say something?” she whispered. We’d been over this on the drive — she found it both fascinating and frustrating that she couldn’t understand Whiskers herself. I may have translated a few of his spicier remarks about her driving, which she didn’t appreciate.
I cleared my throat. “Just that he’s thrilled to be here.” In response, Whiskers swatted my hand from inside the bag. I quickly changed the subject. “So, uh, where to first?”
“Underwear,” Zoe declared, entirely too enthusiastically.
I balked. “Whoa, at least buy me dinner first.”
She rolled her eyes. “Very funny. But seriously, Sam, you need the basics. You can’t keep wearing…” She gestured up and down at my baggy ensemble. The hoodie, while comfy, wasn’t doing my new figure any favors, and it certainly wasn’t solving the support situation. “A proper bra, some underwear that actually fits. Then we tackle real clothes.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Zoe…” I muttered warningly.
She softened, giving my arm a reassuring pat. “Hey, I’m not trying to embarrass you. But we have to start somewhere. The sooner you have stuff that fits, the sooner you’ll feel more… yourself. Or, you know, the new yourself.”
I knew she was right. It didn’t make it any less mortifying. “Fine,” I grumbled. “Lead the way.”
A few minutes later I found myself in the Holy of Holies: the women’s lingerie section. Racks of bras and panties stretched as far as I could see, in every color and fabric. I suddenly had a new appreciation for how overwhelming this must be even for people who expected to shop here.
Zoe was already thumbing through a display of bras. “So, rough guess — you’re probably a C cup, maybe D. Hard to tell with that baggy hoodie.”
I nearly choked on my own spit. “C or D what?”
She smirked. “Cup size, genius. You really never paid attention in the Victoria’s Secret window displays, huh?”
My ears burned. Truthfully, I’d always tried to be respectful, and okay, maybe I also found the array of straps and lace vaguely intimidating. I had always left that kind of shopping for my ex-wife. Now I was regretting my ignorance.
Whiskers chose that moment to poke his head out again. His emerald eyes flicked left and right at the jungle of lace and cotton. “Humans are so weird. Why hide your nipples under all this armor?” he mused, thankfully only loud enough for me to hear.
“Unless you want to come out and model, pal, zip it,” I whispered, gently pushing his head back down. He gave a muffled mrrow of protest from the bag.
Zoe turned, a couple of bras draped over her arm. “Talking to your cat again?”
“He was asking if I prefer lace or satin,” I deadpanned.
Her eyebrows shot up. “And?”
“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”
She snickered and handed me a trio of bras in various colors. I held them awkwardly, as if they were radioactive. One black, one beige, one an unfortunate floral print. “Do I really need these?” I mumbled.
Zoe leveled a look at me. “Unless you plan on joining a convent and swaddling yourself in robes, yes. Trust me, you’ll feel better once you’re… contained.” She circled a finger vaguely in front of my chest.
I glanced down. I had to admit, doing any kind of active job — running, fighting, even brisk walking — was going to be uncomfortable without proper… equipment.
“Point taken,” I sighed. “But couldn’t we start with, like, a sports bra? Those look simpler.”
Zoe considered it. “Sure, sports bras are great for comfort. But you also need at least one or two everyday bras for outfits where a big ol’ racerback might not work.”
I had no idea what a racerback was, but I decided to nod like I did. My strategy was to let her expert knowledge guide us through this minefield.
Sensing I was overwhelmed, Zoe’s tone gentled. “Don’t worry. We’ll stick to practical stuff. We don’t have to get anything super frilly or push-up or whatever.” She wrinkled her nose at a particularly lacy red number on a display. “Unless you want to,” she added with a cheeky grin.
“Let’s graduate kindergarten before enrolling in college, alright?” I muttered. “Basics first.”
We grabbed a few packs of plain cotton underwear in what Zoe guessed was my size (I left that entirely to her — I couldn’t even begin to decipher the number-letter combos on those packs). And then came the moment I was dreading: trying things on.
I stood in the dressing room area, surrounded by mirrors and harsh lighting, feeling like a herded sheep. Zoe hung up an assortment of clothes she had plucked on our way through the store: a couple of jeans in different cuts, a few blouses, a navy blazer, even a simple black dress “just to see.” She was in full makeover mode.
Whiskers was still safely in the gym bag, currently parked on a little bench outside the stall. Zoe had miraculously convinced him to stay put by bribing him with her phone playing looping bird videos. From inside the bag, I heard a muffled “Ooh, a cardinal.” At least he was occupied.
“Alright, let’s start with the bra,” Zoe said, business-like, as she handed me the beige one (the most boring of the trio) and shooed me into the dressing room. “Shout if you need help.”
I closed the curtain and took a deep breath. I have faced knife-wielding goons in dark alleys without a tremor, but this? This felt like a challenge.
The bra looked straightforward enough, but as I tried to put it on, I quickly discovered I had about six too few hands. I attempted the classic behind-the-back clasping — my fingers squabbled with the tiny hooks, and the band kept slipping. Next I tried hooking in front and twisting it around, which got it hooked but then stuck half-turned so I looked like I’d been caught in a boa constrictor.
“Everything alright in there?” Zoe called.
“Peachy,” I grunted, nearly toppling over as my foot got snagged in the leg of the new underwear I’d dropped on the floor in my flailing. I kicked it aside and regrouped.
Okay. Deep breath. I tried Zoe’s trick again: fasten in front, then shimmy around. This time, I yanked the bra around before hooking, so when I did connect the clasps at my sternum, I could spin it into place. Success! I pulled the straps over my shoulders and adjusted the band.
It was… not comfortable. The fit wasn’t great — probably too tight — and the underwire pinched. But the girls were officially wrangled. I slung my hoodie back on for modesty’s sake and stepped out, feeling oddly exposed despite being covered.
Zoe looked up from where she was entertaining Whiskers. “All set?”
I shrugged. “I think so.”
Her eyes twinkled. “How’s it feel?”
I rolled my shoulder experimentally. “Weird. Like I’m strapped into a harness.”
“Welcome to womanhood,” she said wryly, handing me a pair of jeans and the white blouse. “Try these next.”
Back in the stall, I put on the fresh underwear — at least that was straightforward, though the cut was different from men’s boxers and took a moment to get used to. Then came the jeans. They were a dark wash and mid-rise, Zoe claimed. All I knew is they felt way too snug as I yanked them up.
“Did I get smaller or did pants get smaller?” I grumbled under my breath, hopping a little to tug them over my hips. Finally, I got them buttoned. They hugged my butt and thighs like shrink-wrap, but they fit, technically. The stretchy denim was forgiving.
Next, the blouse: a simple white button-up with a tailored fit. I got it on and buttoned it to just below the collarbone. One button strained a bit over the bust (that damn bra pushing things up), but otherwise it looked okay.
I peered at myself in the mirror. It was surreal. I looked… how to describe it? Sort of like a young professional who’d been caught in a rainstorm and wrestled by a raccoon, given my disheveled hair and scuffed face. But the outfit itself was startlingly normal. It was the kind of thing I’d seen a hundred women wear on their way to work without a second thought, and now here I was wearing it.
“Let’s see!” Zoe called eagerly.
I pushed the curtain aside and stepped out.
Zoe’s face lit up. “Oh my God! Look at you!” She did a little excited bounce.
I shoved my hands in the jeans’ pockets — or tried to. They barely went past my knuckles. Huh. I pulled them out awkwardly. “They’re… okay, I guess,” I said, trying to play it cool. Really, I was just relieved I didn’t look ridiculous.
In fact, I looked… kind of good? The woman in the tri-fold mirror standing next to Zoe was a far cry from mud-covered me. The blouse gave me a shape (a curvier one than I was used to, but not bad), and the jeans, while snug, actually made my legs look long and, dare I think it, shapely. I looked like any normal woman in her early thirties out for casual Friday.
“Not bad at all,” Zoe confirmed, walking around me like a fashion inspector. She tugged at the blouse hem, adjusted a shoulder seam. “Jeans fit you well. We’ll grab a second pair. And the blouse is cute, though maybe one size up would be more comfortable.”
I nodded, fingering the gap at the troublesome button. “Yeah. Don’t need to give anyone a free show.”
Zoe chuckled. “Fair point.”
“I don’t know, I enjoyed the show,” came a sardonic meow.
I glanced down. Whiskers had emerged from the gym bag, silently padding after Zoe. Now he sat by my feet, tail curled around him, looking supremely self-satisfied.
Zoe of course just heard a pleasant little mrrp. She bent to scoop him up. “Aww, did Whiskers come to check out the new look?”
I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the cat’s smug expression as Zoe cuddled him. “He, uh, he approves. I think.”
“As does the stock boy behind you,” Whiskers added, eyes flicking past me.
My stomach dropped. I spun around to see a teenage store clerk half-hidden behind a nearby rack of blouses. At being caught openly staring at us (at me), he went tomato-red, muttered “Sorry,” and scurried off, nearly toppling a display of shapewear in his haste.
I stood there, half amused and half mortified. I’d never been on the receiving end of that kind of gawking before. Part of me wanted to chase after him and lecture him on manners; another part wanted to disappear behind the nearest rack of grandma sweaters. So this is what it felt like to be ogled. Not a fan.
Zoe was too busy nuzzling Whiskers (the traitor was purring up a storm) to notice the kid. I quickly ducked back into the dressing room, face burning. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I muttered toward the cat.
“Anytime,” Whiskers purred smugly as Zoe set him down and he sauntered back to his bag.
I changed back into my hoodie and sweatpants for the time being — no way I was strolling through the store in new clothes before purchase (I still had some shame left). We gathered a few more items to round out the wardrobe: another blouse (looser fit), a soft gray sweater, a second pair of jeans that I insisted be one size up (“Boyfriend cut,” Zoe called them, which made me twitch), and yes, even the black dress. It had pockets, and I have to admit I was curious how I’d look in it, though I’d never tell Zoe that.
Shoes were next. My old boots obviously didn’t fit anymore, and Zoe vetoed me clomping around in size-11 sneakers that flopped off my feet. So I begrudgingly tried on a pair of black ballet flats — simple, comfortable, and didn’t make me feel like I was on stilts. Zoe, of course, tried to get me in a pair of kitten heels “just for practice.” I lasted all of thirty seconds wobbling down the aisle before I cursed and yanked them off. My balance was good, but those things were death traps. Even Whiskers peered out and gave a raspy, chuckling meow at my Bambi-on-ice impression.
“Alright, alright, flats it is,” Zoe relented, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “That was maybe too much, too soon.”
Arms full of our picks, we made our way to the register. The cashier, a kindly-looking woman in her fifties, raised an eyebrow at the pile of clothes (especially the variety of sizes and styles), but to her credit she didn’t comment beyond the usual, “Did you find everything you need?”
I flashed what I hoped was a convincing smile. “I think we bought one of everything, actually.”
She chuckled and began scanning tags. Zoe nudged me and tilted her head toward the card reader. Right, I was paying. I fumbled with my wallet and produced the Slater Investigations business card — technically a company expense, I rationalized, since this was all for my… undercover disguise? That’s what I’d tell myself later to stave off guilt.
The total made me wince. I silently thanked whatever retail gods were responsible for sales and clearance racks. Zoe, noticing my look, quietly said, “Business expense. And consider it an advance on your next paycheck.”
The cashier smiled politely and handed over the bags. If she suspected anything odd about this blue-haired pixie and frazzled woman duo with a cat in a gym bag, she didn’t show it. (Whiskers, to his credit, played the role of silent, non-sentient pet perfectly while in public — a true professional.)
We stepped out into the midday sun, loaded with shopping bags. I took a deep breath of the crisp air. It was strange — in the last twelve hours my entire world had flipped, but walking out of that store in new clothes felt like a tangible step toward reclaiming some control. Like I was armoring up for whatever came next.
Zoe nudged me as we walked. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I realized I’d slowed to a standstill on the sidewalk, lost in thought. “Sorry. Just… adjusting,” I said with a faint smile.
She looped her arm through mine, giving it a supportive squeeze. “You know, for someone who woke up to find herself with a new face and a magical cat-whispering power, you’re doing alright.”
I let out a breathy laugh. “You think so? I feel like I’m one freakout away from a straitjacket.”
“Hey, you haven’t screamed, cried, or threatened to jump off a building yet. I’d call that a win.” She shot me a warm grin. “And seriously, Sam — or, Samantha — I’m proud of how you’re handling this.”
Something in her tone, in the use of that name, made my throat tighten. I looked away, focusing on unwrapping a stick of gum I found in my pocket, until I could trust my voice. “Thanks. Couldn’t do it without you.”
“Group hug later, please,” Whiskers chimed in from his bag. “I’d like to get home before the next ice age.”
I relayed the gist of his comment to Zoe, who snickered and picked up the pace. “Alright, bossy boots.”
Soon we were back at the office. It felt like we’d been gone a week, but it was barely early afternoon. Zoe insisted on coming up to help unload (and because she was dying to see me model the dress, which I begrudgingly agreed to do later under threat of her withholding coffee).
While Zoe headed to the kitchenette to fire up our ancient coffee pot, I changed into one of the new outfits: the better-fitting blouse (pale blue) and the second pair of jeans, along with the black flats. These jeans were a bit more forgiving, and the blouse, while feminine, was something I might have actually chosen — simple, with sleeves I could roll up. I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. A strange mix of feelings swirled in my gut.
I looked… normal. Like a perfectly ordinary young woman who might be an office worker or a teacher or, yes, a private investigator. Maybe a bit tomboyish — I wasn’t rocking any makeup or jewelry and my hair was still just pulled back in a damp ponytail. But passable. No one on the street would give me a second glance, and that was a relief. Being an average Jane was a blessing right now.
I returned to the main office area, where Zoe was pouring two cups of coffee. She glanced up and did a little jazz hands flourish. “Ta-da! Look at our detective diva!”
I snorted. “Keep calling me a diva and I’ll assign you all the cheating spouse stakeouts for a month.”
Zoe just grinned and handed me a mug. “Threats from a pretty lady aren’t so threatening.”
I nearly did a spit-take. The look of horror on my face must have been hilarious, because Zoe started cackling. “Oh man, Sam, the face! I wish I had snapped a pic.”
“Don’t you dare,” I warned, though I couldn’t help a wry smile. “Alright, ground rules: No compliments that you wouldn’t have given old me, okay? It’s too weird.”
She mimed zipping her lip, but her eyes were still dancing with mirth. “Got it. You look hideous. Very imposing. 10/10 would not mess with.”
“Thank you,” I said primly, and we both burst into laughter.
We settled at my desk — well, now our desk, I supposed. It struck me that I was now essentially a new hire at my own agency. We’d have to update paperwork, maybe even fudge some identity documents. Add it to the growing list of logistical nightmares.
Whiskers curled up on the windowsill, basking in a rare ray of sun peeking through the clouds. He was already dozing, clearly wiped out from the morning’s excitement (or just full from double breakfast).
I sipped my coffee — ah, sweet caffeine — and sighed. “So, what now?”
Zoe leaned forward, eyes alight. “Now, we figure out how to track down Mr. Magic Cloak.”
She had a notebook out and a pen ready. Ever the diligent assistant… or partner, really. “Let’s list what we know. Cloaked figure, cat amulet, ritual. They used some language or spell to blast you. Called you a cursed meddler.”
“Cursed being the key word,” I mused, tapping my mug. “If this is a curse, maybe it can be lifted. Typically, curses have conditions, right? Like true love’s kiss or whatever.” I waggled my fingers dramatically.
Zoe made a face. “If this is the part where I’m supposed to kiss you, I respectfully decline.”
I laughed. “No offense taken. But seriously, maybe something like destroying the amulet would break it? Or having the caster reverse it.”
She scribbled notes, nodding. “Amulet seems important. Could be the source of the power. If we get our hands on that—”
A thought struck me. “Muffin. He was at the center of the ritual. Maybe the spell was intended for him, or something through him? And I interrupted, so it backfired onto me.”
Zoe tapped her pen thoughtfully. “If the target was the cat… maybe they were trying to imbue the cat with something? Or extract something? Familiars and magic often go hand-in-hand.”
That was true in lore at least. I’d rolled my eyes at enough of Zoe’s late-night supernatural ramblings to remember bits and pieces. “The cat’s eyes were glowing green, same shade as the amulet. Maybe trying to possess the cat? Or channel power through it?”
“Either way,” Zoe said, “the spell misfired onto you. Could it be that now you have whatever Muffin was supposed to get?” She gestured at Whiskers. “You can understand cats now. Maybe that was the goal — to give someone, or themselves, that ability?”
I frowned. “Why would a cloaked creeper want to talk to cats?”
Whiskers cracked one eye open. “Maybe they’re lonely and have no friends.”
I snickered and translated for Zoe, who grinned. “Could be. Or maybe talking to cats is step one of some bigger scheme. If you can control cats, say, that’d be an army of stealthy little spies.”
That sent a chill down my spine. Imagine someone using innocent pets as their eyes and ears all over the city. Or worse.
“Well, they didn’t get Muffin,” I said. “And as far as they know, they might think they just zapped me away and failed entirely.”
“Unless they stuck around and saw you change,” Zoe pointed out.
I bit my lip. True. “But they bolted pretty quick after blasting me. Probably assumed I was either dead or out of commission.”
Zoe scribbled “Find cloaked figure & amulet” underlined twice. “We need to be proactive. I’ll scour the internet for any chatter about weird occurrences last night — maybe someone else saw a green light or cloaked person. And I’ll hit up those forums—”
I groaned. “Not the paranormal conspiracy forums…”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “Yes, those. I’ve found leads there before, you know. Not every case can be cracked by old-fashioned shoe leather, Grandpa.”
“Did you just… Yes, she did.” I rubbed my forehead. “I step out of being your boss for one morning and already with the age jokes.”
Zoe just grinned unapologetically. “Embrace the new dynamic, Sam. I’m the young, hip sidekick who teaches the cranky P.I. how to use TikTok.”
“I’m not that old!” I protested. Though I realized with some irony that I technically was reborn today, in a sense, and definitely not up on the latest anything.
We shared a companionable silence as we sipped coffee and processed. My eyes drifted to the bulletin board on the wall where we pinned up case details. I realized I should call Claire soon to check in, but… what would I say? Hi, I’m Sam’s cousin, he had to leave town but I found your cat and he should be home soon. Weird, but workable.
Before I could dwell on it, the phone rang. The office phone, that is — a number only clients or potential clients used.
Zoe and I both froze, staring at it. Three rings. Four. “Should I…?” I reached for it, then hesitated.
Zoe gave me an encouraging nod. “This is it. First test of the cover story. You’ve got this.”
I snatched up the receiver, my pulse jumping. Here goes nothing. “Slater Investigations, this is Samantha speaking. How can I help you?”
It was surprisingly easy to speak in my new register when I focused — my voice sounded polite, professional, and convincingly like a woman who made a habit of answering phones. Small victories.
“Uh, hi,” a man’s voice answered, tentative and rough-edged. “I’m looking for, um, Sam Slater? The private investigator?”
I steadied myself. “I’m sorry, Sam’s out of town on an urgent case. I’m his partner, Samantha Slater. Is there something I can help you with? He left me in charge of his open files.”
There was a shaky exhale of relief on the other end. “Oh, okay. That might be even better. I was worried he wouldn’t… that he might not believe me. The person who referred me said Sam was open-minded. Are you?”
I raised an eyebrow at Zoe, who was watching intently. I put the call on speaker. “I try to keep an open mind, sir,” I said. “What seems to be the trouble?”
The man lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. “It’s not the kind of thing I want to say over the phone. But… some strange things have been happening at my shop. Unexplainable things. I think I’m in danger.”
My eyes met Zoe’s. Strange and unexplainable? That certainly piqued my interest… and dread. “I understand. We can absolutely meet in person,” I said smoothly. “May I have your name and the name of your shop?”
“It’s, uh, Carl Carlson.” He gave an anxious chuckle, like he knew how it sounded. “Yeah, I know. My parents had a sense of humor. I run Carlson’s Antiques over on Belmont.”
I knew the place — a small antique shop a few blocks away, near the artsy district. More importantly, the tremor in his voice told me he was genuinely scared.
“Mr. Carlson,” I said kindly, “why don’t we come to you? Are you at the shop now?”
“Y-yes,” he stammered. “I’m in the back office. The door’s locked. I don’t want to open up today until… until I sort this out.”
“We’ll be right over,” I assured. “Use the side door, okay? We’ll knock three times.”
“Thank you,” he breathed. “Please hurry.”
We hung up, and for a moment Zoe and I just stared at each other.
“Strange, unexplainable things?” she echoed.
My heart had kicked into a higher gear — part excitement for a new case, part leftover fear from my own ordeal. I stood and checked my gun out of habit, tucking it into the new waistband holster we’d picked up. “Sounded that way.”
Whiskers hopped down from the window, stretching languidly. “You two have fun. I assume I’m sitting this one out?”
“Yes, guard the fort,” I said, giving him a quick scratch under the chin.
Zoe was already grabbing her laptop bag and a flashlight. “I’ve got an EMF meter in here too,” she said, patting the bag. “You know, just in case.”
I rolled my eyes fondly. Of course she did.
As we headed out the door, I paused to flip the open sign to CLOSED, then caught a glimpse of myself in its reflection. A determined woman with steady eyes looked back. I felt a strange mix of uncertainty and resolve.
Life as Sam had been full of surprises and dangers, sure — but life as Samantha was shaping up to be an even wilder ride.
And I had a feeling it was only just beginning. With a deep breath, I stepped into the hallway beside Zoe, letting the door click shut behind us.
“Ready, partner?” Zoe asked, a teasing lilt in her voice as she tested the word partner.
I smiled despite the nerves fluttering in my stomach. “Ready.”
Leave a Reply