Summary:

“Uh, hello,” Ilya says when the cat rises up on its legs and stretches, back bending and paws curling down. Its ears flick and it gives him a dour sort of mwor in return. Witches have familiars, Ilya knows that. And this is a perfect spot for a familiar to be, on the stoop of the witch's house. Logic follows that the cat must be the witch's familiar.

So he says, very politely, “Shane is expecting us,” even though he has no idea if that’s true or not.

The cat yawns, tiny sharp teeth flashing at Ilya. Its ears flick again and then it curls up into a ball of fur, right there on the brick wall despite the fact that they’re hurtling towards the end of November and it’s fucking freezing outside.

“Is that good or bad, do you think,” Ilya asks Seryozha in Russian, gesturing at the cat when the familiar doesn’t move again except to curl its tail over the tip of its pink nose.

Seryozha’s phone screen flashes white in the darkness. That is a cat, he types, and Ilya scowls. It’s a fucking magical cat.