by Hannah Jayne
“Don’t worry,” Parker said as he maneuvered the car through traffic. “We’ll eat it at your house. You have cable, right?”
My stomach dropped into my groin, and I clamped my knees together.
This was not going to be good.
Twenty minutes later I was balancing a pizza box on my thighs and directing Parker to my apartment. My blood was pulsing, and as astoundingly hot or not Parker Hayes may have been, I had just determined to move him firmly to the Never in a Thousand Years pile. Especially since he really did make me buy the pizza (and a six-pack of beer, to boot). I was slumped in my seat, ticking off Hayes’s annoying attributes—sexist, demonist, thinks every woman wants him—when I heard him mutter, “Holy shit.”
My head snapped up, and I squinted at the glare from the police lights flashing red and blue into our car.
“Is that your building?”
I nodded, my mouth hanging open, my stomach immediately souring. “Uh-huh. I wonder what happened?”
There was a line of squad cars snaking into the street, and the police were filing in and out of my building, radios squawking.
“Nina,” I whispered, gulping. “I have to get in there. Something could have happened to Nina or Vlad.” I began to stand, my hand on the door handle, the pizza box burning a warm trail as it slid down my legs.
“Wait.” Parker’s voice was stern, his hand soft on my knee. “Let me find out what happened first.” Parker turned to me, his grip tightening on my thigh, his eyes firm and dark. “You wait right here.”
“No, no, I can’t wait.” I kicked the car door open and followed Parker, zigzagging into the line of squad cars, weaving around the officers.
Parker found an officer, and I found them both, angling myself closer to Parker. “What happened? I live here,” I demanded.
“Break-in.” Parker said, looking down at me.
I looked at the other officer, who nodded. “Break-in,” he agreed.
I gripped my heart and blew out a long sigh. “That’s not too bad.” I looked at both the officers, at their hard eyes, both their mouths set in stern, thin lines. “Is there something else?” I asked in a whisper.
Parker took my arm just above the elbow and eyed me. “Do you know a Thomas Howard?”
“He broke in? He wouldn’t break in. He lives here,” I said.
“The break-in was 6B.”
“That’s me.” I thumped my chest. “I’m 6B. Mr. Howard is 9B. He wouldn’t rob me. He’s a nice old man. Kind of a dirty old man, but really nice.” I blinked. “Right?”
Parker lowered his voice. “Lawson, Mr. Howard is dead.”
I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach, and immediately, my eyes began to water. “No, no, no.” I wagged my head, sniffling, barely noticing Parker’s arm as it slid behind my back, steadying me.
“We just talked to him—Vlad and I—yesterday, in the hall. He was fine. He’s fine. How could he be dead?” In an instant, I thought of Vlad, last night, thought of Nina warning him about indulging in human victims, the way he looked so disdainfully on humankind. There was a sharp pain in my stomach. “What happened to him?” I whispered, terrified.
“Mr. Howard called in a disturbance—the break-in—at your place. When the police arrived, there was no one in your apartment and they found Mr. Howard on the back stairs. His neck was broken. It looks like he fell.”
“We think he may have been trailing the intruder, perhaps lost his footing and fell.”
“He fell?” My voice was small, and for the first time I noticed the cold night air as it washed over me. “And he died?” I caught Parker’s eye and he nodded. I swallowed. “You’re sure?” I whispered.
“Yeah, they’re sure. There were no other”—Parker cleared his throat, lowered his voice—“circumstances.”
A small prickle of relief rushed through me, until I thought again of Mr. Howard, of his toothy smile and him snuggling up to all his women. Parker moved his arm to my shoulder, and I instinctively snuggled into him. “Oh, that poor man. That’s awful.”
Parker led me away when the ambulance pulled up, and he settled me back on the front seat of his car. “Wait here. The other officers just need to finish up a few things. We should be able to go up to your place shortly.”
I nodded, still sniffling, and when Parker came back and gathered me and the pizza together, I didn’t protest, handing him my keys and letting him lead me to my cracked-open front door.
He rubbed his hand over the splintered door frame and looked at me sympathetically. “We’ll fix this door and get you a new lock tonight.”
I nodded and shrugged out of my jacket, pulling open the coat closet. “I just can’t shake the heebie-jeebie feeling,” I muttered. I reached into the closet for a hanger when a pair of yellow-green eyes blinked at me from the depths of the darkness and I screamed, my own voice sounding tinny and sharp.
“What the—?” In an instant Parker was crouched beside me, gun drawn.
“Don’t shoot Steve, don’t shoot Steve!” Steve jumped off a stack of board games, dropping a golf club and raising his small troll hands, palms up.
I put my hand on Parker’s and slowly pressed the gun down to his side. “It’s okay, Parker. Don’t shoot. Yet.”
Parker furrowed his brow and leaned into me, lowering his voice. “Who’s the dwarf?”
I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Oh, Parker. Now you’ve done it.”
Parker’s eyes widened as he stared from me to Steve. “Uh, little person, sorry. Do you know him?”
I could see the lichen on Steve’s thick arms tremble as his eyes darkened, his lips going thin and taut over his yellow, snaggled teeth. His fingers curled into tight little fists.
“Steve is a troll. Steve is not a dwarf,” he spat angrily, his eyes glaring fire.
“I’m really sorry—Steve, is it?”
Steve nodded slowly, his little troll body coiled in anger. I pulled Parker by the elbow and hissed into his ear. “Trolls are especially sensitive to being called dwarves. There has always been a vicious rivalry between the two. Trolls do intellectual work, dwarves do menial labor.”
Parker raised an eyebrow. “Intellectual work?” he whispered, looking from Steve to myself.
“They live under bridges and allow passage to travelers who can answer trivia questions. Haven’t you ever left the Bay Area?”
Parker’s brow furrowed and he shrugged. “I am so not getting this.”
“The only thing worse than calling a troll a dwarf is calling him an elf.”
Steve’s nostrils flared and the stench of blue cheese and old gym socks intensified. “Steve is not an elf! Steve does not even like Christmas! Steve is all troll.”
“I know, Steve—I was just illustrating a point. What the hell are you doing in my closet anyway? You scared the crap out of me!” I clutched my chest, my heart still beating furiously against my palm.
Parker looked incredulously from me to Steve. “You know this … guy … well?”
Steve dropped the golf club and inched himself between Parker and me. “Steve was protecting Sophie.” He looked over his shoulder, eyeing Parker disdainfully. “Steve and Sophie are an item.”
I stood back, edging away from Steve. “No, we are not an item. Steve stalks me at the UDA.”
“Steve works at the UDA,” Steve corrected.
“Steve, how long have you been hiding in my coat closet?”
“Not hiding. Protecting.”
Parker wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “It kind of smells like you were rotting in there.”
Steve glared up at him. “Steve’s scent is distinct.”
“I’ll say.”
“How long, Steve?” I wanted to know.
Steve shrugged. “Since Sophie left. Steve lost sight of her. Steve should never lose sight of Sophie.”
Parker leaned in to me. “What is he again?” he whispered.
“Troll,” I murmured.
Steve r
eached up and laced his fingers through mine. “Lover.”
I shook them off. “Not.” I paused. “How did you even get in here?”
Steve grinned, rolling up on his toes. “Steve has ways.”
I glared at him, and he sighed. “Steve fits through the bathroom window.”
“So this”—Parker pointed to the shards of wood hanging from the door frame—“wasn’t you? You didn’t break into Sophie’s apartment?”
Steve wagged his head.
“Then you must have seen who did. Or heard it. Did you? Did you see anything? Did you see who chased Mr. Howard?” I knelt down to be eye to eye with Steve.
Steve’s gray cheeks flush a deeper gray. “Steve took a little nap.” He grinned. “He was dreaming about Sophie.”
I pointed to the open door. “Get out, Steve! And stop following me. And don’t ever break into my apartment again!”
Steve eyed me and flared his nostrils at Parker. “Steve will go this time, but Steve will be always around. Steve will make this up to Sophie.” He pointed a stubby finger at Parker’s kneecaps. “And you, breather, you’d better watch your step. Steve has his eye on you.”
Parker raised his eyebrows as Steve waddled out the front door. I sighed, made sure Steve was actually gone, and closed the door after him.
“Interesting friend you’ve got there,” Parker said, a half smile playing on his lips. “Parker thinks he might have some competition.”
My stomach fluttered despite the stench of gunpowder and sleeping troll hanging in the air. “Right. Now, what about that pizza?”
Parker went for the pizza box he dropped on the counter as I turned around, scanning my apartment. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.
“Everything looks the same in here. I mean”—I picked up Steve’s golf club and tossed it back into the closet—“it doesn’t look like anything was stolen.”
“We think Mr. Howard scared the intruder before he actually had a chance to get in.”
I shuddered, glancing around at my IKEA furniture, my collection of overdue library books, the hand-me-down pillows from Grandma’s old couch. “What would anyone want to break in here for?”
Parker shrugged, heading into the kitchen and helping himself to napkins and plates.
I swallowed, feeling my muscles tense. I stared at the carpet. “Do you think it was an intruder, or do you think it was Mr. Sampson?”
Parker slid a piece of pizza onto a plate and handed it to me. “You should eat something.”
I rested the plate on the table.
“You think it was Sampson, don’t you?”
Parker turned his back to me, rattling around in my drawers. “Do you have a bottle opener?”
“Answer me.”
Parker’s rattling stopped and he turned, his blue eyes sharp. “I think it was Sampson. And I’m not entirely convinced that Mr. Howard fell on his own. I think Pete Sampson really wants to find you.” Parker slid the plate back toward me. “You really should eat something.”
“I’m too creeped out to eat.”
Parker snaked my plate and swallowed my pizza in one gulp.
“Obviously you’re not.”
He went for a second piece. “I need to keep my strength up. Someone’s got to look after you.”
I glanced up at Parker as he studied the grain on the table.
“I don’t need taking care of,” I told him.
Parker swallowed, then took a long pull of his beer. “Yes, you do. That’s why I’m staying here tonight.”
That familiar anger started to roil again. “Says who?”
“Says me.” He leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet onto the table and reaching for the remote control.
“Don’t make yourself comfortable.” I lifted up Parker’s ankles and dropped his feet to the floor. “Besides, I think I’d rather take my chances with the killer, thank you very much.”
I stood up, holding the front door open, but Parker didn’t move. Instead he just flashed that Cheshire grin and took another swig of his beer.
“You’re spunky,” he said finally. “I like that.”
“I’m not joking, Parker.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “I appreciate your help, but I can take care of myself.” I eyed the open door. “Thank you for the shooting lessons. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow?”
Parker stood up reluctantly and slid his jacket off.
“Parker!”
“Relax,” he said, striding up to me. “I’m going. But I’m not leaving you unprotected.” Parker took my palm and laid his gun, still warm from his chest, into it. “You know how to shoot and you know how to dial the phone to reach me. I really hope you’ll do the latter.”
I lifted my chin. “Thank you.”
“It’s loaded, so be careful. Put it somewhere safe.”
And then he kissed me.
Parker Hayes closed my hand, pushed my arm to my side, and swept a delicate kiss over my lips.
I wasn’t sure whether to shoot him or tear off his clothes.
I wanted to be indignant and angry and feminist, but he smelled so good, like cut grass, campfire, and soap, and his lips were so dizzyingly soft. By the time I had finished arguing with myself, he was gone.
I shut the door, shuddered at the gun in my hand, and tossed it into the freezer for safekeeping.
I spent a full two minutes watching Eric Estrada sell swampland before I speed-dialed Nina. “Hey,” I yelled when she picked up, “where are you? Is Vlad with you?”
“Huh?” I could hear the thump of bass, the tink of glasses, and a rumble of laughter in the background. “Sophie? Is that you? I can barely hear you.”
I pushed out my bottom lip and sniffed. “Can you come home? I’m scared.”
I heard the phone fumble, and then the tink and rumble were quiet. “Sorry about that—it’s so loud in here,” Nina said. “Now what were you saying?”
I could feel my lip begin to quiver, the familiar warmth rising in my throat. “Mr. Howard is dead.”
“Oh. Well, Sophie, Mr. Howard was like, a hundred and three. He was kind of on his way out.”
“No, Nina, he was murdered! Well, not exactly murdered, murdered. He fell down the stairs.”
I could practically hear Nina’s eyebrow rise. “So he was murdered by stairs?”
“Nina!” I paused, considering. “Where are you? Have you or Vlad been home yet tonight?”
“No,” Nina said, stretching out the word. “I haven’t. I went straight from UDA out with that werevamp that came in for his relocation papers last week.”
“You didn’t even come home to change?”
“I should have. His stupid claws messed up the beadwork on my brand-new Maggie Sottero. I’ve been leaving a trumpet-bead trail wherever I go. And Vlad met up with some equally moody friends around nine, so I don’t think he’s been around the house either.” Nina paused. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said quickly. “I just wanted to make sure you both were okay.”
“Do you still want me to come home?”
I blew out a long sigh. “No. I guess I’ll be okay.”
“Don’t worry, Soph. I won’t be long, I promise.”
When I opened my eyes I could see nothing but blackness. I pushed down my cocoon of covers and glared at the glowing red numbers on my digital clock: 3:17. I snuggled back down against my pillow when I heard it: a gentle scraping against the wall, then the sound of—fingernails?—something tapping against my bedroom window.
“Nina? Vlad?” I called. “Nina, is that you?”
No answer.
I pushed off my blankets and padded into the living room but stopped short, standing in the doorway. The living room was silent, bathed in darkness. The scraping sound started again as did the incessant thump of my heart. I hurried to the kitchen, snatching my frozen gun out from between a box of icecream bars and vegan corn dogs.
“Nina?” I hissed again. “So help me, I’m going to shoot a
hole in your undead head if you don’t come out here and stop scaring the crap out of me!”
The scraping stopped, and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
And then I heard my bedroom window being pushed open.
“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I whispered, sinking to my knees on the linoleum. I crawled around, gun thawing in my hand, vowing to install telephones in every room of the house from here on out.
I winced, hearing my blinds clatter, the trinkets on my windowsill falling as someone climbed through. “Ohhh …” My teeth started to chatter and I pushed myself up, clamping both my hands on the butt of the gun, just the way Parker had shown me.
I heard someone bumping around in my room, and I took a tiny step, inching myself closer to the phone.
Step. Inch. Step.
The gun bobbed in my hands, and I tried to grip it more tightly, the cold from the frozen steel and my own warm sweat making my palms itch. I was within reaching distance for the phone when I was startled by the sudden silence and then a deep, low breathing. I glanced up, seeing the shrouded figure hunched in the doorway. I stepped back, steeled myself, and leveled the gun. I felt the power roil through me as my fingers inched toward the trigger. I clamped my eyes shut and wrenched my mouth open, letting out a wailing howl as I pulled back and launched. I opened my eyes just enough to see the dark figure over the barrel of the gun as he tore back toward the window, hurling himself over my table and scraping the windowsill before he disappeared into the darkness.
My legs felt rubbery and hot; I sank onto the carpet and crab-crawled into my bedroom. I chanced a glance out the window, but there was nothing below. Whoever had broken in was long gone. So I clamped the window shut, throwing the lock and closing the curtains and blinds for good measure. I crawled to my nightstand, leveled my breath, and dialed the phone.
Chapter Twelve
I opened my front door timidly, just an inch, and my eyes settled on Parker’s. His were deep and intense, but that cocky half smile was still playing on his lips.
“See? I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
I threw open the door, and Hayes sauntered in.
“Look, if I weren’t feeling so”—I glanced nervously toward my open bedroom door—“violated, and if I weren’t so concerned about the safety of all the other tenants in the building, you wouldn’t be here.” I tried to stand tall, look fierce, hide the fact that my heart was thumping in my throat and that I’d paced a bald spot in my carpet, jumping at every little sound over the last half hour.