Excerpt

Thirteen pairs of golden eyes stared down at Jem, as hard and unyielding as the granite dais the cats sat on. The weight of their combined judgement pinned him in place like he was the mouse he'd been toying with that very morning, and he shifted uneasily.

"You blew up her potions room."

The accusation came from the short-haired black cat perched on a cream and gold cushion at the far left of the thirteen. Sir Rogers III, Thirteenth Elder of the Feline Familiar Society, and snooty twat with an irritatingly pompous voice. Jeremiah Snufflekins – or Jem, as he was known to those who didn't have their head so far up their own arses that their whiskers tickled their intestines – detested the cat, and often imagined leaving a nasty surprise in his tuna.

Trying to look suitably repentant, Jem cleared his throat. "I wouldn't say that I blew up her potions room. The flammable potion she left lying around did that."

A pregnant silence filled the large, circular chamber that held court to disciplinary proceedings for the FFS. Jem cringed despite himself.

This whole thing was so unfair. If the witch hadn't withheld the catnip, he wouldn't have gone on a midnight zoom around the house. He needed the damn catnip to help him sleep, so really it was her own fault that he knocked over the potion and caused the room to explode.

Anyway, it was only a minor explosion. One room. It hardly singed her nose hairs. And they'd wiped the next-door neighbour's memory, so no harm done really. Unless, of course, you counted the old man forgetting to put clothes on when he left the house the next day, but Jem could hardly be held responsible for that little side effect. As usual, FFS were making a fuss about nothing.

"This is the eighth time you've been returned to us by a witch charge we've assigned to you," Sir Rogers continued, not even acknowledging Jem's defence. "Eight times you've faced the disciplinary panel."

Lucky me.

Jem barely managed to restrain himself from sticking out his tongue at the cat. It wasn't his fault that all the witches he'd been assigned to were too soft.

Come on, so what if he'd gotten one fired from her day job? He'd told her it was a bad idea to bring him to the office, but apparently she didn't think he could be trusted at home. And the one who burned off her hair and eyebrows after mixing up his spell instructions – which might or might not have been a little hazy – looked better bald anyway.

The ones who complained about the noise he made while playing at three o'clock in the morning were the worst. Why should he have to stick to their schedule? He'd kept his claws retracted when he pounced on them. What more did they want?

"What say you?" demanded Magdalena, from her position at the centre of the thirteen.

He blinked. Oh, they'd been expecting a response? Would they actually bother listening even if he gave one?

Jem swished his tail, his eye catching on a tassel that swung from the corner of Magdalena's gold cushion. "Eh, not guilty?" he mumbled, distracted by the movement.

Back and forth. Back and forth. He itched to take a swipe at it.

A disappointed sigh snapped him out of his tassel trance, and he looked up at the eyes that were as familiar as his own cerulean ones. There was a sadness in Magdalena's expression that almost made him feel guilty. Almost.

She'd never been much of a mother to him. Her role as First Elder demanded all her attention, and it was clear that being a mother meant little to her. She popped out the kittens as if it was her duty to ensure the continued survival of the familiar population, but raising them was a different story altogether.

Still, it was hard to shake the innate desire to please her, even if decades had passed since he was that naïve kitten longing for a mother's affection.

"I cannot protect you any longer, Jeremiah." She gave a resigned shake of her head. "Our cause here is too great, and your actions put our world in danger of being once again exposed to humans. I cannot allow it to continue."

At her words, Zachariah, the Elder to her right, stepped down from his gold gilded cushion. He padded to a scroll resting on the floor of the dais and swatted it with a paw, unrolling it.

"Jeremiah Snufflekins," he said, in a voice so monotonous it would've made Jem nod off if it wasn't for the adrenaline holding him rigid before the Elders. "You are being charged with your eighth misdemeanour in your capacity as a witch familiar. It is hereby decreed that you are on your final life. The Elders have conferred and the decision is unanimous. You will be assigned to a rehabilitation trainer for a period of one month. During this time, you will be required to pass a series of inspections. If you do not pass, we will have no choice but to strip you of your powers. For good."

What?

Was that even possible? He was a familiar. They couldn't take away his magic. Could they? A chilling cold washed through him, and he shook his head in disbelief.

As if reading his thoughts, his mother said quietly, a tinge of regret edging her tone, "We can, and we will do it, Jeremiah. You've given us no choice."

This was a joke. It had to be. They were going to send him to another trainer? Another witch like her… Nausea twisted his insides at the thought.

"There's really no need for this," he insisted, panic rising in him. "Just assign me another charge. I'll be on my best behaviour."

"You've had your chances," Sir Rogers sneered, looking down his nose at Jem. "Eight of them."

"It has been decided, and so it shall be," Magdalena declared, all compassion gone from her voice.

With that, the thirteen Elders relaxed down onto their respective cushions in a clear sign of dismissal. Oblivious to, or uncaring of, the inner monologue of furious denial that was running through his head, some set about grooming themselves while others lapped at the bowls of water placed in front of them by the human witch aides.

Jem stared at them in disbelief. That was it? They were seriously going to do this to him, then go about their business as if nothing had happened?

Could a familiar even survive without their magic? He'd only ever heard rumours about familiars having their magic stripped…

It was who he was; being a familiar was all he'd ever known. They were effectively assigning him a death sentence, and they hadn't even once stopped to consider the possibility that he wasn't the problem. Maybe some witches weren't cut out for a familiar – did they ever think of that?

Well, screw them. He'd pass their stupid inspections, but if they expected him to be best buds with the trainer, they'd be sorely disappointed. He'd made that mistake once before. He wouldn't make it again.

Shoving away the lingering sense of dread, he turned on his tail and stalked from the chamber. As he moved through the winding corridors of the FFS headquarters, his anger grew. No doubt they'd already decided he was going to fail. Well, he'd show them. He'd be the best damn familiar they'd ever seen.

He held that thought with fierce determination as he scaled the climbing frame and emerged into the old library that concealed the entrance to the FFS HQ. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases loomed on either side of him, and he rubbed his body against the nearest one, purring as the musty scent of the books tickled his nose.

Oh, yes. He'd be on his best behaviour…

For now, at least.