I lifted my brows. “Black cat just randomly shows up at the door of the daughter of two famous sorcerers?”
“She was a kitten at the time,” Lulu said. “And she’s just a cat. She’s not a sorceress in disguise, or a familiar, or shifter, or whatever. She is particular, though. Keeps me on my toes. I bought her a cheap catnip toy one time and she could tell. Left a dead mouse on the kitchen counter. Found her sitting in front of it when I got up to make coffee, like she was daring me to clean it up.”
“Maybe it was a gift?”
“She hissed when I touched it. I had to wait until she was out of the room before I tossed it.”
“She might be evil.”
“Oh, she’s definitely evil.” She smiled broadly now. “That’s why I respect her space and her privacy.”
“How much privacy does a cat need?”
“You’d be surprised.” She yawned, stretched her arms over her head, then swiveled side to side. “Hell of a night, Sullivan.”
“Yeah.”
“Insomnia will not be a problem tonight. Let’s go take a look.”
“At the cat-pee room?”
“At the cat-pee room.”
We passed a bedroom and surprisingly large bathroom, and reached a closed door on the back side of the loft, farthest from the windows. So far, so good.
She opened the door, flipped on the light.
“Ta-da,” she said weakly.
It was a decently sized room, maybe ten feet by twelve. But it looked like the set of a horror movie, right before things go bad. There was a four-foot-high ceramic clown, and a headless male mannequin wearing a pair of lacy underwear. Lulu rounded out the collection with some kind of taxidermied albino rodent and a long board punched with dozens of rusty nails.
But the nightstand and bookshelf were fine.
“Sidewalk finds for future art projects,” she said, dragging the clown toward the back wall. Then she put her hands on her hips, looked around. “At least it doesn’t smell like cat pee,” she said brightly.
“No, it doesn’t.” But I eyed the mannequin warily.
“His name is Steve.”
“Where would you suggest I sleep? And that’s not sarcasm.”
She wheeled the mannequin to one side. The wheels made a rusty grinding noise Eli Roth probably would have appreciated. Then she pulled down a panel of wooden slats that hung on the side wall. I’d thought it was an art piece, but it descended to the floor, making a neat platform bed.
“Murphy bed,” I said. “That’s handy.”
“I had a roommate for a few months. It didn’t take.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“She was... chipper. I don’t mind laughing, appreciate quality sarcasm. But she thought the world was a happy and wonderful place.”
“And you know better?”
“Parts of the world are great; parts of the world are garbage. I can’t abide optimism.”
I pointed down. “Those are Snoopy sheets.”
“Snoopy was a realist. Much respect for Snoopy. Woodstock was the asshole.”