Chapter 1: The Hunger of Nine Lives

I woke up in someone else’s body—an immortal, no less—who’d tried to stick around in the human world by playing king.

Let me tell you, that was a wild ride from the jump. One minute, I’m a nobody. The next? I come to in a mansion straight out of a Southern gothic, velvet everywhere, sunlight pouring through the windows, and apparently, I’m royalty. You ever have one of those moments where it’s so absurd, you just want to laugh? Yeah, it was like that—except I was also starving and totally lost in someone else’s skin.

So, I stayed in the royal mansion. Willingly, even.

And honestly? It wasn’t for the money, the crown, or any of that. It was all about the chef.

Wasn’t for the gold, wasn’t for the velvet curtains, wasn’t even for the endless halls. Just the food. More specifically, the chef’s catfish. I mean, can you blame me? Some folks chase immortality. Me? I chase the perfect fried fillet.

It’s not that I was dying to hang out with mortals. It’s just, the chef’s catfish—fried, blackened, however he made it—was out of this world. Impossible to resist.

Seriously, nothing else in that whole palace could tempt me. But the second that fish touched my tongue, it was like a gospel choir started belting hallelujahs in my mouth. I never knew hunger could feel so… divine.

Who’d get it? The original owner of this body—immortal, sure, but actually a cat who’d made it to the next world.

Yeah, you heard right. The universe’s big joke? I was living in the body of a cat who’d somehow hit the immortality jackpot but never really let go of her feline instincts. Some folks get nine lives. I got one—and let me tell you, it was a doozy.

She didn’t want to stick around in the human world. Guess she just never had a bite of that catfish. Her loss.

And honestly, who could blame her? If you’ve never tasted real Southern blackened catfish, you’re missing out. I’d bet even an immortal would come down from on high for a plate.

When I showed up, she’d already been on a hunger strike for three months.

Seriously. Three months? Even for a cat, that’s dramatic. I could almost picture her sulking in a corner, tail twitching, refusing every meal.

The moment I dropped into this body, my stomach was screaming. I was on the edge of starvation.

It felt like there was a bottomless pit inside me, gnawing away. If I was going to go out, it’d be from hunger, not heartbreak. Typical cat priorities, right?

I didn’t know any magic, so what else could I do? I ate the meal the king sent over.

No spells, no tricks, no fancy immortal powers. Just me, a rumbling stomach, and a plate of food with my name on it. What choice did I have?

And oh man, it was good. Like, knock-your-socks-off good.

I’ve eaten in plenty of places—at least, I think I have—but nothing came close to this. The flavors were deep, smoky, rich as a Mississippi sunset. I almost teared up, not gonna lie.

There I was, alone in this cavernous dining room, crumbs all over my face, just going to town on that meal.

Picture it: one person at a table built for twenty, face covered in bread crumbs. Anyone walking in would’ve thought a raccoon had snuck in for a midnight snack.

And that blackened catfish in the middle? I licked the plate clean. Not even a hint of shame.

No leftovers, no regrets. If there was a Clean Plate Club, I was president. My ancestors would’ve been proud.

You couldn’t even tell what used to be on that plate.

It was gleaming—like a cat had been at it. Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Just as I finished, the king strutted in.

He was dressed down, looking casual, with a silver pocket watch swinging at his hip.

You know the type—swaggering in like he owned the place (which, to be fair, he did), but with that kind of tired, worn-out elegance. That pocket watch caught the light, ticking away like it was counting down to trouble.

He came right up, hooked my chin with his finger, eyes fierce and a little possessive. “Kitty, even if you don’t want to stay in this world, you must.”

His voice was low, almost a growl. The kind of thing that might make someone swoon, but all I could think was, ‘Buddy, you’re about to get a handful of bread crumbs.’

I leaned back, pulled my chin free, and had to fight the urge to bat at that chain on his waist.

Honestly, that chain was begging for it. If I’d still been in my old body, I’d have gone after it, no question. Some things never change.

My brain was spinning. What kind of forced-romance plot had I landed in?

Seriously, was I stuck in some melodramatic romance novel? I half-expected him to start reciting sonnets or threaten to lock me in a tower. My inner cat just wanted a nap.

What was I supposed to say? This immortal hadn’t left me a single memory—great.

Total blank. I could almost hear the author waiting for my next line. Thanks for nothing, past me.

So I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Didn’t you notice?”

He leaned closer. “Notice what? That you don’t love me?”

I pointed out, “Just now, when you touched my chin, you got a breadcrumb on your hand.”

His fierce, dramatic look froze. He lost the act in a heartbeat, flicked his sleeve, and turned to leave.

The mighty king, defeated by a breadcrumb. I almost felt sorry for him—almost. His dignity hit the door before he did.

Before he left, he called over his shoulder, “Quit pretending to be crazy. You can’t leave. I already had a preacher cast a spell—you’re stuck in the mansion.”

A preacher casting a spell? Around here, that probably meant some old pastor or backwoods conjurer waving his hands and mumbling, but he sounded so sure, I almost bought it.

I laughed under my breath. Even without a preacher’s spell, I couldn’t leave anyway.

Because I didn’t know the first thing about magic.

Magic or not, I was stuck. Stuck by my own cluelessness—and, honestly, by a serious craving for catfish.

In another couple days, forget leaving—I might not even be able to keep my human form.

That thought gave me chills. What if I just turned back into a cat in front of everybody? That’d be a story.

Weird. Really weird.

The chef hadn’t made fish in three days.

Three whole days. For a cat, that’s an eternity. I was starting to question my very existence.

Those three days were torture. Food tasted like cardboard, and everything felt out of whack.

Nothing hit the spot. I pushed my plate away, missing the heat and spice of real fish. Even the sunlight felt colder.

I sprawled lifelessly on the footstool by the bed.

Flat as a pancake, I could’ve passed for a throw pillow. If anyone asked, I’d say I was working on my cat pose.

What else could I do? This stubborn cat nature—just loves a weird corner to nap in.

Corners, footstools, laundry baskets—you name it. A cozy nook just calls to a cat’s soul, even if that soul is supposed to be immortal.

I rolled over. Did the chef get the boot from that mutt of a king?

I squinted at the ceiling, half-expecting the chef’s face to pop up with a plate of fish. No such luck. Maybe the king’s temper finally caught up to someone else.