“Oh, Nick,” Crash said. “You are so… so…”
“Slutty?” Nick offered.
“No,” Crash said. “Damaged, I think that’s the word I want here. Look, I am asking you to dinner because I want to go on a date with you. I have no desire for a cheap act of friction in the back of your truck or some such. I won’t lie—I’d dearly love to get in your pants, you are pretty for sure, but I think… hmm… Yes, I think I would much rather wine you and dine you before I get around to sixty-nining you.”
“Sixty-nine isn’t nearly as hot in practice as it is in theory,” Nick said.
“Says you,” Crash said. “But answer my question, Nick: Will you have dinner with me?”
“What happens if I say yes?”
“Then I take your ass out to a fancy dinner,” Crash said. “I thought that was obvious.”
“It is,” Nick said. He had never been on a date before. The closest he had ever come to it was that old standby line: Hey, baby, you looking for a date? The consummation of which ended in a back alley or on a stained mattress with a dick in his ass or his dick in some john’s ass while together, they made another stain on the old sheets.
“So…?”
“So… Okay,” Nick said. “I think I’d like to try that.”
“Well, all right then, we have an accord,” Crash said. “I’ll get back to you with the details as soon as possible.”
“Sure,” Nick said. He was already starting to believe nothing would come of it. That was how things in his life usually worked.
“Good,” Crash said. “I need to return to my post since I am not officially on break and perhaps you should return to yours as well since your break has been over for a while now I’d wager.”
“Shit,” Nick said, but he didn’t move.
“I see you are horribly concerned,” Crash said. He started to walk away then pivoted on his heel and came back to Nick. He kissed him again, a soft brush of lips that he ended with a gentle nip followed by a lick. “Later, Nick.”
“Later, Crash,” Nick said. His head was buzzing and his lips were tingling. It was almost overwhelming as he watched Crash lope back across the road and the parking lot. A moment later there was a wash of yellow light as he opened the outer door of the morgue. Then he was gone and Nick had the night all to himself for a few more minutes, minutes he used to think about nothing as he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and held it there.
A starburst of red and orange light exploded in the sky, too far away for Nick to hear it, but large enough he could see it hanging there against the dark for a few brief seconds. Then it was gone again and only the stars remained.
18
Winter rain pounded down on the roof and Josephine Miller shivered, imagining the icy needle spray as she nestled down in her pile of polar fleece throws and an old afghan. She had a cup of hot apple cider and a new book to read; her cat Bartholomew was curled up in the crook of her knees, the vibration of his purring a steady comfort. Josephine liked winter, but she was freezing and hadn’t been able to get warm all damn day. She’d woken up that morning to find her house cold and her heater no longer working. The repairman she called to come take a look at it had not shown up. The next time he checked his voicemail he would discover a politely enraged message from Josephine, spoken through chattering teeth.
It was January third and Josephine thought that so far the new year was turning out pretty crappy; not that the last half of the old year had been anything to write home about. The wind whipped around her raised house and she swore she could feel it sway though she knew that really wasn’t true. It was only the idea of being so high up in such strong winds that made her mind turn that way. That and it was better than thinking about the screams of the goats as that whatever slaughtered them so cruelly.
She still thought it was a bear and damn that Melinda Turner for being so ugly to her about it. Josephine was allowed her theories about what it was just like everyone else. Sometimes she thought Melinda didn’t really like her much on account of Josephine being a vegan. Her brother, Charlie, told her she was being silly—both about her veganism and her imagined persecution by the townspeople. Charlie was a butcher, of course he thought Josephine being vegan was a bad idea. His wife, Helen, was a psychologist and had once suggested that Josephine felt persecuted for certain life choices she made because she herself felt unsure about her commitment to them.
Helen definitely did not like Josephine, but at least Helen had the decency to (pretty much) say it to her face.
Such thoughts were putting Josephine in a grumpy mood. She got up from the couch, grabbed her afghan and wrapped it around her shoulders as she padded into the kitchen in search of a snack. She settled on making a sandwich out of some leftover tofurkey she had from Christmas and ate it standing at the kitchen sink with Bartholomew twining between her ankles.
“You won’t eat this,” Josephine told him. “You’re a carnivore and I am not interested in killing you.” People who enforced their lifestyle on their pets needed to be kicked in the face. At least Josephine and Charlie agreed on that. Hell, even Helen the Snoot agreed with her about that.
“God, I’m a real jerk today,” Josephine told Bartholomew as she took down his jar of kitty treats.
She gave the cat the allotted six little treats shaped like crudely drawn fish and chicken drumsticks. She wasn’t usually so unhappy and grouchy, but the cold was getting to her and the gloomy weather was only making it worse. She jumped as a gust of wind flung rain against the windows so hard the drops clattered like small pebbles. She thought she heard the shush-ping of sleet as well and groaned. That’s exactly what she needed—a rare Louisiana snowfall with no heater to help her out. She seriously considered calling Charlie and asking if she could stay the night with him and Helen. It was only 7:30, which was definitely not too late to call and inquire. She could put up with Helen’s negativity and disapproval for one night, sure she could.
Josephine went back to the living room and curled up in her blankets again as she pondered. Mostly she wondered why Helen disliked her so much, it had been bugging her for the last eight and a half years—since the first time they ever met. Helen was pretty and smart and nice to almost everyone… except Josephine. There was something dismissive and judgmental in her attitude toward Josephine. Sometimes Josephine thought it was because Helen secretly disliked animals and thought that Josephine running a shelter (or only taking in the occasional stray as she’d been doing when they first met) was ridiculous and a waste of time. Maybe Helen was a secret PETA supporter because PETA murdered animals.
“And maybe I really am crazy,” Josephine said. “I already talk to myself all the time. Helen is nice to me, she does nice things for me all the time.”
Helen had given her a beautiful coat for Christmas with matching gloves and a lovely little clock for the desk in the building Josephine was doing restoration work on. It was going to be her shelter and she hoped to have it open by Valentine’s Day. Helen came by on her days off and helped Josephine paint, she gave her input and offered encouragement when Josephine started to feel pessimistic. She had all the traits of someone who was trying to be a good friend and still Josephine didn’t trust her or believe Helen liked her. Just like she thought Melinda Turner believed she was a flaky neo-hippie airhead. Just like… God. Just like everybody who was against her.
“I need a drink,” Josephine said when it got to be too much, when it started to feel like maybe Helen had been right. Like maybe Charlie was on to something. Like maybe, just maybe, Josephine was a little paranoid; a little bit fucked in the head. Drinking always made those ugly thoughts lie down and go shh.
Josephine took the bottle of spiced rum from its hiding place behind her bookshelf, unscrewed the cap and took a long, much needed swallow. The slight shaking in her hands began to abate almost immediately, the quivering sensation in her belly quieted. Her too-rapid heartbeat began to slow and calm back down. Her head felt infinitely clearer.
/> Bartholomew ran across the living room, hightailing it for the hall. He disappeared around the corner with a hiss and Josephine laughed; cats were such eccentric animals. She turned the bottle up for another long swallow and nearly choked when the scratching started at her front door.
“Damn,” Josephine said as she lowered the bottle. She wiped at the dribble of rum on her chin then licked it off the heel of her hand. The scratching came again, followed by a small, soft whine. Such sounds tugged at Josephine’s heart strings in a way nothing else did. The crying of babies was supposed to have that effect on women, but not on Josephine. The whimpering of puppies or the mewling of kittens—those things were what got to her the most.
People knew what Josephine did and a stray showing up at her place was nothing new. It never stopped making her angry with the people who dumped the animals off like they were trash. Though she was glad, too, in a way because at least they brought them to her and didn’t throw them out somewhere to starve or drag them off into the woods and shoot them or take them to the river, tie them up in a sack and throw them in. Josephine shuddered and put the rum away as another plaintive whine came through the door.
She crossed the living room to the door as the scratching came again, more insistent. Poor little guy or gal had to be soaked through and freezing. Her heart gave another sad lurch in her chest for the animal’s plight.
Josephine unlocked the door, twisted the knob in her hand and pulled it open, expecting to find a small dog or a puppy. She was smiling, all ready to coo at the frightened creature and coax it inside.
She screamed when she saw what was standing on her porch and screamed again, louder, when it rose to its full height. Its jaws cracked open in a toothy approximation of a grin and Josephine tried to slam the door, but it caught it and shoved it open like it was nothing. Josephine staggered backward, still screaming and nearly fell down when it stepped over the threshold and into the living room with her.
“Get out!” she cried, waving her hands at the monster in an ineffectual attempt at shooing the thing.
Its pointed ears pricked up, cocking forward as Josephine began to weep. She jumped and covered her mouth when it reached out and slammed the front door closed. The sight of its long fingers, black claws gleaming like onyx blades, wrapping around the edge of the door to grip it, horrified her more than its dripping wet, fur-covered body. It was something caught between man and beast, a vile mix of animal strength and human dexterity. It shook itself off, spraying frigid rainwater everywhere; it misted her face and arms, she could taste it on her lips.
Josephine saw her chance and made for the mouth of the hallway, but it was closer and it wasn’t that distracted. She shrieked when it stepped in front of her and used one of its hands (could they really be called that?) to push her back. It chuffed, something grating in its throat and making its broad shoulders shake lightly. It took it a second for her to understand what the sound was and when she did, Josephine began to outright bawl. She had been surprisingly calm before; afraid, but not panicking though she wanted to. To hear it laughing at her knocked her mind offline. Such a human sound coming from an inhuman throat made her insides go liquid.
“No,” Josephine moaned as she backed away, thinking she could duck into the kitchen and slam the door. There was no lock, but she could slide the breakfast table against it and there was an old pie safe made of heavy wood that she could use to barricade the door as well. Her cell phone was on the kitchen counter, plugged in to charge.
It followed her every step, keeping her within easy reach and she did not dare turn and run, not even when it took two playful steps toward her, almost like it was dancing. I’m gonna getcha! It was a game adults played with children or their pets. Sneaky-sneaky. Josephine remembered playing that game with her own parents as well as with countless puppies; even young horses seemed to like the Getcha Game.
She looked up into its goddamn face, down the long, lupine muzzle and into eyes that twinkled with madness and mirth. The eyes looking back at her from that alien face were human, absolutely without a doubt human. They were insane—and they were amused. It was the cruelty of them and the way its pink tongue lolled from its huge maw; the mix of man and beast so evident in the two things that Josephine’s creaking mind threatened to crack right down the middle. Though she was looking at it, she could not reconcile it for what it was, which was… What? Something out of a scary movie? Old folklore?
That was it! She had to be dreaming. She had fallen asleep on the sofa, stuffed full of tofurkey and a few double shots of rum. Josephine hadn’t quite gotten over the awfulness that had happened to her back in the summer; the dead goats, the thing scratching at her floorboards. It had gotten stirred up in her subconscious for some reason and now it was deviling her. All she had to do was take control of the dream now that she was aware of what was happening. She had to face her fear and let it know it held no sway over her.
“Leave,” she said firmly. “Get out of my house and out of my head. You’re. Not. Real.”
In response, the monster reached out so quickly the movement was a blur and grabbed a handful of her long hair. It yanked her so close to its face that she could smell its breath and was appalled to find it smelled like vanilla-mint toothpaste. It leaned down until it was eye-to-eye with her and drew its lips back from its teeth as it snarled. It seemed to be asking, Now do you believe?
“No,” Josephine said even as she began to shake all over. “You’re not here. You’re not real. Werewolves do not exist.”
It leaned close, sniffing her hair, breath running across her skin, hot and damp. It licked the side of her neck where her pulse beat hard and strong. It growled again and Josephine felt the vibration of it run beneath her skin and make it itch.
“You’re not real,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes closed.
Its growl rose in pitch. It shoved her away. Josephine screamed as she began to lose her balance, eyes flying wide open as she stumbled backward and tried not to fall. She hit the low table against the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. It was another second before she realized the front of her shirt was wet. The pain came only when she looked down and saw the deep claw marks tearing diagonally through her chest.
It chuffed again as Josephine began to wail. That real enough for you?
The phantasmagoric veneer over everything shattered like weak crystal at the sight of her own blood. Josephine believed then, too little, too late, but her disbelief—that thing that had been holding her relatively steady—wobbled and collapsed under the weight of the pain shooting through her shredded breasts. Thick, yellowish fat welled around the edges of the wounds like they were bubbling pus already though she knew better. It was ruined tissue, the product of wounds that went down into the subcutaneous fat beneath her skin.
Panic, hot and mindless, rushed through her in a flood and at last Josephine ran. She careened around the kitchen doorway, hit her shoulder hard against it and barely felt it as she slammed the door in the monster’s face. It knocked politely and Josephine giggled, the sound hysterical and verging on madness. She couldn’t stay in the kitchen, no, no she could not. Blood pattered onto the floor in big red splotches. She tracked through it and nearly slipped down in the mess as she dragged the table in front of the door. The monster knocked again and Josephine screamed as she slapped her hands over her ears.
What was on the other side of the door was not a dream, it was not a nightmare brought on by too much tofurkey and spiced rum. It was alive and breathing and it had huge teeth. Josephine thought of the three little pigs, how the wolf huffed and puffed until he blew their houses down. Hers was the wood house and the wolf had come to her door. It had asked for admittance knowing she would let it in. It was smart and it was having a rollicking good time playing with her.
Out. She had to get out.
The back door was down the hallway that she could not get to, but the kitchen windows looked out on her wraparound porch. There was no screen
on the window over the sink and it was plenty big enough for her to get through. She had no idea what she would do if she made it outside; she only knew that she had to get out there.
The knock at the kitchen door came again, louder, harder. The doorknob started to turn. Josephine backed up, hands still over her ears, mouth wobbling, blood streaking down the front of her Arbor Day Foundation sweatshirt. The thought rattled through her mind that she was never going to be able to get the stains out of the heather grey fabric.
The table legs scraping against the floor snapped her out of her woozy daze and she turned, slipping in more of her blood as she lunged for the kitchen window. She flung it up, the lower frame slamming into the upper sash so hard the glass rattled. It was an old window, each pane stained a different color. The blue pane cracked through the center and half fell into the old enamel coated steel sink where it shattered with a merry tinkle.
Behind her, the table had stopped moving across the floor and Josephine sobbed with relief. Maybe it had gone away or maybe it was waiting on the other side of the door, thinking she would give up and come out soon. She glanced over her shoulder, saw the door was only open a fraction of an inch, the table had held. In the middle of the table were her car keys. Josephine didn’t remember leaving them there, but it was a relief to see them all the same.
She eased back toward the table, eyes darting to the door as she weaved like a drunk across the floor, tracking through the sticky smears and splashes of her blood. The pain was such a constant thrum in her chest that it was almost numb. Going out the window was going to be absolute hell, but she must be quiet lest the monster outside the door hear her.
Josephine raised a shaking finger to her trembling lips to remind herself to be very, very quiet as she gently scooped up her car keys. She closed her fingers over the whole bunch so they wouldn’t jangle then slowly slid them into the pocket of her pajama pants. Only then did she remember her cell phone and she yanked the charging cord out of it before she snatched it off the counter. With trembling fingers, she dialed 9-1-1 and whispered, “Help me. Please, please help me,” when the operator asked what her emergency was. Then she laid the phone down again because she couldn’t hold it and hoist herself out of the window.
Shades of Night (Sparrow Falls Book 1) Page 23