Myka watches from a safe distance as Lattimer coaxes the squirmy animal into the bird cage.

She's still not sure why, if ferrets were as common an occurrence as Artie as said they were, there are no proper ferret cages around here. Do ferrets even live in cages? Enclosures? Gardens? And just what is she supposed to feed this thing?

Not that she's planning on keeping it. No, she is going to Leena's bed and breakfast, she is going to make sure Lattimer doesn't get them irrevocably lost on the way, she is going to call Dickinson, and then, after Dickinson gets back to her – which he will – and she is getting on the first plane back to Washington D.C..

But it probably won't kill her to find out what it eats.


"Shouldn't – shouldn't you give it, like, a – a thing?" Lattimer hisses beside her, too loud and too close.

Myka adjusts her sunglasses and sidesteps away from him and the cage he's carrying. "Get in the car, Lattimer."

"Your ferret – "

"Stop calling it mine, I'm going to give it away at the nearest –"

"What! You can't –"

"I can, too!"

"No, you – look, just give it a sock, or something, okay?"

That catches Myka off guard. "A sock?"

"Yeah." Lattimer lifts the cage onto the backseat of the SUV and Myka cranes her neck to find a ferret scratching discontentedly at the metal floor. "Aren't ferrets nocturnal or something?" The ferret rolls onto its back and springs back up, nearly hitting its head on the perch swing. Myka aims a look at Lattimer, who ignores her with alarming ease. "It probably wants to sleep right now, and it doesn't have a pillow. Or a blankie!"

Lattimer looks at her plaintively and she sputters. "Ten minutes ago, it didn't have an existence!"

"Still," he murmurs, and his voice is unaccountably gentle.

They load their bags and suits in silence. "I have a scarf," Myka says finally. "It's...soft."'

Lattimer only nods, and Myka waits until he's climbed into the driver's seat before rummaging for her scarf. She busies herself patting down the fabric, layering it and folding it back so it's as even as possible, and tries not to touch the ferret too much.

The ferret, of course, takes it as an invitation to play, and pounces on her hand, butting its head against her fingers, chirping excitedly all the while.

Nocturnal, my ass, she thinks, with a fondness she'll never admit to.

"Just don't poo in my scarf," she mumbles gruffly, daring a light pat behind its ears.


She becomes aware of rattling as she's calming herself down after she – after Sam – she calms down quickly, is the important thing.

"What do you want?" she asks the disgruntled ferret, mostly to hear the sound of her own voice, reassure herself that she is real.

The ferret rattles the cage again and Myka is reminded again to get a more suitable ferret enclosure, or her new guest might get his paws caught in the bars trying to get her attention.

"Shouldn't you be asleep? I gave you my scarf and everything."

There's a knock on her door and the innkeeper peers in. "Your whiskey neat," she announces, and Myka smiles sincerely for the first time all day.

The alcohol burns pleasantly going down and Myka lowers the glass to find Leena crouched down in front of the ferret, cooing nonsensical words. The ferret chirps back, bouncing up and down.

"I didn't even know ferrets made sounds," Myka muses. Another reason she's can't keep it, she's far too ill-informed.

"Sure do," Leena replies easily. "They're also crepuscular, which means – "

"Most active at dawn and dusk, yeah." The words come out a bit harsher than she intended, but Myka sets her chin defiantly. It doesn't matter if the innkeeper thinks Myka's a know-it-all, Myka won't be here long.

"Sleep fourteen to eighteen hours a day," Leena adds, ineffably cheerful. "You'll be getting to know a lot about ferrets. They have a life expectancy of six to ten years."

The ferret stops chirping abruptly, and stares at Myka with a remarkably skeptical expression for a non-human creature.

"And are they supposed to stink?" Myka asks, purposely looking away.

Leena laughs. "Luckily the wishing kettle descents them, but yeah, you might want to bathe it."


Pete the ferret knows how to pick the lock on his cage – the proper ferret cage, Myka gripes, the one she had made specially for the little devil so he wouldn't feel cramped.

Myka has no idea where he learned it, or how, but she's probably going to punch Pete the human anyway.

It should go without saying that when she comes home from a long, tiring day of chasing down Walter Burleigh's element statues, or the spine of the Saracen, or whatever fresh hell the Warehouse throws at her, the absolute last thing she wants is to deal with is a hyperactive rodent. (Technically, a small voice in Myka's brain pipes up, ferrets are part of the weasel family, so he's not a rodent at all.)

But Pete has an alarming tendency to pee in her shoes when she doesn't pay enough attention to him – At least I named him well, Myka thinks with a weary sigh – so, Myka drops her bag by the door, and gives chase.

The ferret watches her advance eagerly, bouncing in place as he chirps loudly.

"Can't we just have one day where we don't do this?" Myka complains as he scampers beneath the bed. Myka ducks behind him only to see him dashing out the other side.

"I have proper outside-cage time set up for you! I've explained this! Honestly, you're worse than the real - no wait! Not the –" He sinks his claws into wooden leg and clambers up until he's darting deftly in between hair brushes and jewelry boxes with barely any jewelry in them. "Dresser," Myka finishes weakly.

Pete stops suddenly, looking back at her with an expression that gives Myka a bad enough feeling to rival human Pete's vibes.

"You touch my bookcase and I will skin you!" Pete sets off like he was waiting for her cue and Myka yelps, sprinting after him. She catches him on the floor, halfway to the shelves, executing a tackle dive worthy of one of Pete the human's football heroes.

Myka gathers him in her hands, wincing when he digs his claws in too tight. Pete scurries up her arm like he always does, curling around her neck, chirruping smugly into Myka's ear. She giggles a little, because the whiskers tickle and he is really is very cute. She gives in eventually, untangling Pete from her shoulders and scratching along his sides where he really likes it.

(She'll never admit it, but it soothes her, having this bratty ferret that demands her attention in the evening, no matter near-death experience or easy snag and bag)


"Y'know, little no-name could've been my pet," Pete muses, handing the ferret a raisin. Myka watches in amusement as Pete (the ferret) sniffs inquisitively at the fruit and, deciding it's worth exploring, chomps down on it.

"No way," Claudia says, weaving in between the sofa and the coffee table, scooping up the ferret as she does. Pete (the human) makes a halfhearted sound of protest.

"Yes way," Pete shoots back. "Myka actually shoved him at me, as soon as he appeared, kettle and all."

Myka punches Pete's shoulder. "I took him from you when we got to Leena's, didn't I?"

"So fast I thought the cage was on fire," Pete agrees, smirking.

Artie snorts into his paperwork. "Hey!" Myka protests immediately. "I was still shocked Pete could tie his shoelaces in the morning, okay? I didn't trust him with another life."

Pete falls back against the couch in mock offense, and laughter rings out bright and loud.