by Hannah Jayne
“When he says ‘the flame shall give you strength,’ look in that window right there.” He pointed to the screen and slowed down the video, the man’s speech stretching out. If it didn’t sound devil-like before, it certainly did now. When he got to the phrase, “Flamma tibi fortitudinem,” the flame in the window doubled in size, leapt from the window with a whooshing roar, and began raining flaming bits of detritus down to the ground. A piece of the flaming debris fell into the man’s outstretched hand and he pulled his palm toward him, fascinated. Even with the grainy output, I could see the flame dancing in his eyes, illuminating the weird smile on his lips.
“Sir, sir, you’re on fire! Let me help you!”
I could barely make out Will’s accent behind the respirator as he yelled at Gerald Ford. When Will’s gloved hands came into view, moving closer and closer to the man with the flame, Gerald looked directly into the camera, his eyes fearful but wild. He pulled his burning hand into his chest and I could see his skin crackling and bubbling as the fire engulfed each finger, then rose up his sleeve.
Bile itched at the back of my throat. “Turn it off, please.”
Will looked at me with pity in his eyes, but shook his head. “In just a second. You need to see this.”
Gerald Ford approached the camera—which meant he approached Will—the fire crackling up his arm and singeing the edges of his longish hair. His face was completely serene.
“The fire lives,” Ford said in a delighted whisper. “The fire lives and so does he. You don’t have much time, Will Sherman, and neither does she.”
Breath choked in my throat and my eyelids felt as though they were glued open as the man crossed his arms in front of his chest and caught the rest of his clothing on fire. The flames rose and swallowed him, licking across his chest and his arms, moving toward his throat. Finally, they were at his chin, the flickering firelight reflecting in his wide-open eyes, illuminating the grotesque smile on his melting face.
I heaved and clapped a hand over my mouth. Nina handed me a glass of water and I sipped, grateful for her sympathy until she used her vampire strength to shove my head between my knees.
“Nina!”
“Just breathe, Sophie, honey. It’ll be okay.”
I pushed myself up to sitting again and glared at her, then looked at Will. “Why did you show us this?”
“Because that guy was talking about you,” Vlad said as though it were the clearest thing in the world.
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
“Sophie, he knew who I was. He knew my name,” Will said.
I felt a surge of vague hysteria and just as quickly stamped it back down. “You were wearing your uniform. Your name is right on your jacket, right there. And it’s on your helmet!”
“My last name is on both of those things. Not my first name. And no reference to any kind of bird, let alone you, love.”
I knew exactly what Gerald Ford meant. I know exactly who he meant. But I wasn’t ready to let go of my cool new sense of not-freaking-out-ness just yet so I tried to play the logic card.
“San Francisco is a small place and you’re out patrolling a lot. You talk to everyone. It’s totally possible that you talked to Gerald once and he remembered you.”
Will nodded. “True. And what do you make of the bloke setting himself on fire?”
“Crystal meth.”
I had no idea whether or not crystal meth would turn someone into a human torch, but given that the alternative explanations were that my father had turned a homeless guy into an inflammable minion of Hell, or a homeless guy just decided to up and smoke himself for hellish glory, it didn’t seem that far-fetched.
Nina swallowed. “I hate to tell you this, Soph, but—”
I held up a silencing hand. “Don’t. I have a couple hours off work for the first time in I don’t know how long, and horrible camera video aside, I would like to have at least a tiny sliver of enjoyment. Just an hour or two.”
I could feel the sweat beading along my hairline and upper lip while Nina, Vlad, and Will looked at me, each with a mixture of incredulity and sympathy in their expressions.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure what was worse.
As I’d spent most of my adult life running from crisis to murderer to sadistic police officer, I knew how bad the video, the fires, and Lance Armentrout were. And what was far worse was the gnawing, warning ache at the pit of my stomach telling me that this case—these circumstances—would make everything I had faced in the past look like pure child’s play.
“Please?”
My blood was already humming at a frenetic pace, but I was damn determined to keep a bit of normalcy in my early weekend. Will was exhausted and sooty and looked like the most beautiful calendar fireman in all of humanity, but he wasn’t hurt. The fire had been contained, and it was a balmy and unreal sixty-six degrees outside my apartment window. I was pretty sure the entire world was going to come crashing down anyway, so I figured I deserved a few minutes of what passed as sunshine out here on the coast.
“I’m going to take ChaCha for a W-A-L-K.”
Everyone stared at me, but no one spoke. I took that as a sign of agreement and stood up.
My little dog couldn’t tell me when she had to pee and spent forty-five minutes each night fighting with a sock, but she knew how to spell “walk.” She immediately tore into the living room and popped up on her hind legs, jumping around like a circus poodle.
The expression on Will’s face was skeptical so I put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re just going to the park and back.”
He heaved himself up. “Just give me five minutes to change.”
I shook my head. “Appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t need an escort.”
I looked to Vlad and Nina to back me up, but they were both staring at me, wide-eyed.
“Soph, I’m not sure going out alone is such a good idea.”
I forced a smile and pointed to ChaCha. “I won’t be alone.”
“Right,” Will said. “You’ll be with your attack mop.”
Vlad shook his head in disbelief as I scooped ChaCha up. “Something bad is simmering, Sophie.”
“Yeah, well, call me if Armageddon breaks out while I’m out scooping poop.”
FOUR
I clipped on ChaCha’s rhinestone-studded leash—no easy feat, since she was jumping and yapping like a prisoner just set free—and grabbed her doggie diaper bag. I couldn’t match my shirt to my skirt, but my pooch was outfitted with an entirely color-coordinated wardrobe, thanks to her auntie Nina, who practically ripped my throat out when I “forced” ChaCha into a blue nylon collar once.
I zipped into a windbreaker and mashed my Giants cap over my hair. It was still in its reality-show-marathon mess, so I pulled the hat down lower, shoving every bit of hair I could find underneath. A few red tendrils still poked out, but none of them were snarled or caked with chocolate, so I figured I was good to go.
The great thing about parks in San Francisco is that they are situated by, and basically hidden by, urban sprawl, so each postage-stamp-sized lot appears to be a lush, emerald jewel among hobos and hipsters. The closer we got, the spazzier ChaCha got, her brown marble eyes bulging as she yanked against her leash, her tiny toenails clawing at the sidewalk as she struggled to gain an inch. I let her run the second we reached the small dog enclosure and she sped off, her feet barely hitting the ground as she pranced like a show pony through a collection of butt-sniffing dogs twice her size. When she came nose-to-nose with a miniature schnauzer, I thought for sure she’d turn tail and run, but she sucked herself up, making her body look minutely larger but no more fearsome. She bared her teeth and the schnauzer backed up slowly before trotting off to join a pack of beagles along the back fence.
“That little thing has some guts.”
I blinked at the woman standing next to me. She was a full head taller than I am, her jet-black hair cut in a severe pageboy that ended at her chin. When she smiled, her eyes—a combination
of midnight blue and violet—seemed to glitter.
“Yeah.” Warmth bloomed on my cheeks. I may be absolutely adept at quieting a screaming banshee, but making small talk with the warm blooded isn’t my strong point. “She’s mine. She thinks she’s a bull mastiff.”
The woman nodded. “If only we could all be that confident, right?”
I smiled, suddenly feeling a lot less like a single-syllabled idiot. “Which one is yours?”
The woman gestured to a pile of beagles and mutts as they vied for a soccer ball glistening with slobber. “In there.”
I was about to ask which dog when ChaCha’s spastic barking cut through the calm of the park.
“Hey, could someone get this dog?”
A balding man in a Members Only jacket was shielding his dog as ChaCha inched forward, her spastic barking as terrifying as a pop song. I jogged over and snatched her up.
“I’m sorry, sir. She really is harmless. She’s never bitten another dog or anything, she just likes to assert—”
But the man was crouching down, scratching his pooch under the neck while he murmured baby talk in its big, floppy ear. Finally he turned to me and pointed. “That dog is a nuisance. She should be leashed at all times. I could file a complaint.”
I didn’t have time to answer nor sic my tiny terror on him as the man marched forward, nose in the air, brushing by me with the faint scent of Drakkar Noir and dog slobber.
“Well, ChaCha, do you see where your aggressive behavior has gotten you?”
She did the air doggie prance in my arms, then struggled to climb up and give me a face-moisturizing kiss.
“Love you, too, you little monster. Ready to go home?”
ChaCha and I took the long way, crossing the park but giving the dog enclosures a wide berth. The sun was fading and the fog had rolled in, giving the early autumn air a cold bite and making the bushes and trees loom larger as people left the park in droves. I could see the woman with the pageboy crossing the street. She pulled her coat up tight, flipping her collar up to her ears.
I heard a low growl behind me. ChaCha immediately stiffened, the hair along the back of her neck bristling. She bared her teeth but stayed silent, her body pressing against my chest.
“It’s okay, ChaCha baby. There are lots of dogs here. They’re not going to hurt you. Mama won’t let them hurt you.”
I nuzzled into her warm, caramel-colored fur but she stayed stiff.
I heard the crackle of leaves behind me and then that deep, low growl again. My heart started to beat a tiny bit faster, and I tightened my grip on my dog as I slowly turned around.
I had never seen eyes like that before. Black, as though the iris covered everything. Flat, but focused, as though there were one thing—and one thing only—on his mind. The dog’s black lips curled up, exposing incisors that looked as sharp as any vampire’s, and he growled again. Only this time, it seemed to come in stereo.
“Good boy,” I said, my voice shaking. “Good, good boy.” I glanced over the dog’s head. “Where is your person?”
The dog took another step toward me, his eyes focused on my throat.
My heart thudded and heat raced up my spine. What were you supposed to do to quell an angry dog—run? Not run?
I didn’t have time to decide because the dog—a hard-muscled, fearsome-looking cross between a Rottweiler and a raging bull—charged, his jaws snapping, his short red-black fur glistening like scales on a fish.
ChaCha yipped and I spun, kicking dirt and leaves behind me as I covered ground, gripping my dog to my chest as my heart slammed against my rib cage. The dog barked, a throaty, deep roar that tore through the fog and terrified me. There was more barking, more than one dog could do, and as I hit the sidewalk, his paws thundered behind me.
The dog lunged and snapped, catching the edge of my scarf in his mouth and pulling with the force of a tow truck. I felt my knees buckle as the soft fabric tightened around my throat and I clawed at my neck, trying to release the noose.
The dog pulled and growled and barked.
I steadied myself and felt the nip of his teeth as he caught the back of my calf, teeth cutting like barbed wire right through my pant leg, scraping against my skin. It seemed like the dog was everywhere.
Finally, I found the edge of the scarf and wound my way free, catching a glance at the snarling face of the dog as he lunged closer. But it wasn’t the same dog. This one had a narrow, almost pointed face, with a thin muzzle that made his teeth look that much bigger. In a split second I heard another bark, another snarl, but the dog’s jaws were clamped tight.
A pack of dogs?
I kept running, my thighs burning, the hand that held ChaCha soaking from my sweaty palm, but I managed to glance back.
One dog. One thick, well-muscled body. Red black fur stretched across a back that seemed as wide as a horse. Snarling, snapping jaws just at my waist—at my hip, at my flailing right hand.
One dog. Three heads.
If I weren’t so terrified of even one rabid dog’s teeth sinking into my flesh, I would worry about the three-headed monstrosity vaulting toward ChaCha and me.
I started to scream, and I could feel ChaCha’s tiny body quivering against me. The dog seemed to be gaining on me and for the first time—probably in history—there wasn’t a single person on the street willing to help. There wasn’t a single other person out at all.
I flew off the curb, darting toward the door to my apartment, but the dog used the curb as a springboard. I felt his front paws on me first, his sharp nails digging into the flesh just below my shoulders, dragging long ribbons down my back. There was a head on either side of me, different colors, different breeds, but both with the same dark eyes. I had thought they were all black before, but now I could clearly see red pupils, bright like laser sights.
The head on my right was arching forward, the sinewy muscles of his neck bulging as his jaws snapped toward ChaCha. Her terrified tremble went through my whole body and her eyes were on me—trusting at first, then in a split second, resigned.
I didn’t think. I shifted ChaCha and flung my arm, my elbow bashing warm snout. I felt the puncture of my skin as the other dog’s teeth dug in. I felt my flesh clinging as he tried to pull it from the bone. The second and third heads must have smelled blood because they were whipping toward my gaping wound—and that’s when it happened.
ChaCha.
She sprung out of my arms, a rocket of fluff and rhinestones, and went for the dog head closest to her. There was a growl, then a shriek, and I was set free. I shot toward the front door, my bloodied skin feeling icy as I ran.
“ChaCha!” I screamed for her as I slapped open the glass door to the apartment vestibule. She didn’t come.
Ten paces back, the three-headed dog was glaring at me—six eyes with laser sights and bared teeth, this time dripping with blood. One of its enormous paws stepped forward a half foot, and I could see ChaCha’s collar discarded on the pavement in front of it. The few rhinestones that weren’t shrouded in blood winked in the light.
A cry lodged in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. The torn skin on my shoulder burned and throbbed, but I didn’t care. ChaCha was dead. ChaCha had lunged at a dog a dozen times her size to save me.
My heart was breaking.
I dropped to my knees, holding my head in my hands. Everyone—everything—I loved was in constant danger or ultimately destroyed because of me. The dog was after me. Where had it come from?
I vaguely heard footsteps coming down the stairs to my left, but I had no strength left in my body. I wanted to curl up there on the scuffed tile floor and every other tenant could just step over me—which is what the boots that caused the footfalls did.
I looked up, my face wet, snot running over my upper lip, and Will was right in front of me in a fresh T-shirt and jeans. His face crashed and he rushed toward me. “What happened? I knew I shouldn’t have let you out alone.”
I tried to shove him off me. “You didn’t ‘let’
me out. I’m not a dog.” My voice cracked on the last word and a new round of tears started to fall. “ChaCha . . .”
Will stood up and edged a hip against the door.
“No, don’t, there’s a—”
But he ignored me, cracking the door open about six inches.
And ChaCha darted in.
I lost my breath, my heart swelling. “ChaCha!”
She jumped right onto my lap, doing her little foot-to-foot dance, licking the tears from my face.
“What are you doing, letting that little mod out there all alone?”
I ignored Will and instead held ChaCha at arm’s length, examining her for gaping wounds or missing limbs. Except for a tiny notch at the tip of her ear and a clutch of blood-matted fur by her chin, she was fine. I hugged her to me, thanking her profusely.
Will, still standing, shifted his weight. “I was the one who opened the door.”
I pushed myself up and Will’s eyes went wide all over again.
“What the hell happened to you, love?”
My hair must have shifted, showing more of the bite mark on my shoulder.
“Dog bite.”
“From what kind of a dog? A giraffe?”
“A giraffe is not a dog, Will.”
“And a dog that could bite you on the shoulder—short as you may be—is not a dog. Were you lying down or something?”
I sucked in a deep breath, still snuggling ChaCha against my chest. “It was a big dog. A mythical dog. A three-headed dog.”
“Run that by me again, love.”
“A big—”
“I got the big. I got the mythical. But three-headed? You’re telling me there’s a three-headed werewolf”—Will turned toward the glass door—“out there?” He very gently pushed my hair over my other shoulder and touched the bite mark. “He got you. Does that mean you’re a—you’re a—” I could see the terror in his eyes.
“A werewolf? I’m very touched by your concern, but I’m not turning into a werewolf.”
“Whew! Thank God! I know our deal is that I only have to guard you from the fallen angel things, but I’m pretty sure getting you turned into a werewolf won’t go into my gold-star file.”