Stormy the cat, rescued by journalist Quinn Armstrong, is not what he seems. Young mother Christy Jamieson just learned her husband, Frank, embezzled his trust fund, sold their Vancouver mansion, and ran off with a socialite. Worse, Frank's trustees are telling Christy to let them handle it. Desperate to find Frank and fend off his enemies, Christy asks Quinn for help. His price: the dirt on Frank. But the closer Christy and Quinn get to the dangerous truth, the more convinced they become that only the one who knows where Frank is at is Stormy the cat.

The holiday season on Daybreak Island is a mixed bag for Maddie James. On the one hand, her Christmas spirit is in the doghouse after a break-up. On the other, she's busy enough that she doesn't have to pretend to be merry. Business at her cat café is booming, and Maddie's care-taking of a feral cat colony in one of the area's wealthiest communities only helps her bottom line. But tensions between the homeowners and animal activists are escalating to catastrophic levels...and before long a body is found dead in a snowbank.

My life was going just fine by most standards. I ran a successful business in a tight-knit magical community, and lived just blocks from a beautiful lake and series of hiking trails. Then Selene showed up. According to some magical code I inherit my aunt's ancient familiar; a grumpy ten-pound cat with a broken filter. She fancies herself something of a saber-toothed tiger, and claims to have wrestled the thread of her ninth life from the hands of the Fates themselves—although, I'm pretty sure that last part isn't true. Almost positive.

Meet Sidney Grace. Quirky journalist, Hesitant witch, Professional butterfingers. Her grandmother believes Sidney’s talent for communicating with the dead makes her the most powerful witch in the family, but Sidney just wants to make it through the day without getting fired.

My name is Lottie Lemon and I see dead people. Okay, so I rarely see dead people - mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety. And for some reason, those sweet, fluffy, albeit paranormal cuties always seem to act as a not-so-great harbinger of deadly things to come for their previous owner. So when I saw that sweet orange tabby twirling around my landlord’s ankles, I figured Merilee was in for trouble. Personally, I was hoping for a skinned knee - what I got was a top spot in an open homicide investigation.