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Why would she?
The answering machine kicked in. “I'm sorry if I spooked you, kiddo. I know it was a traumatic night. I'm sorry I ever brought it up. Please call me back. I owe it to Gen not to leave you this way. Something wicked’s bled the south dry; now it’s moving northeast.”
Taking a deep breath, I called him back. “Sorry,” I said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve revisited the details of that night.”
“Yeah, tough,” he agreed. “Listen, kid, I don’t got long, today or on this earth. Word along the grapevine is a necromancer’s looking for you.”
“Who’s the grapevine?”
“They are who they are,” he said.
“What’s he want?” I asked, trying to keep my thoughts from careening off course. Ingram Hayes wasn’t news to me, but Ronan didn’t know that. In fact, he seemed to think Gram had raised me knowing all about the Otherworld Society’s denizens – probably thought I was a werewolf, too.
“He’s offering hunters and monsters alike a treasure chest from a sunken wreck to the one who brings you to him. Only requirement’s that your heart’s still beating. I was there that night with the shaman. I think you died and he brought you back, and I think the necromancer knows it. You’re about to get a hell of a lot of attention, Rhetta. I’m too old to help you these days, but I wanted you to know what’s coming. Now—”
“Wait!” I said in a rush. “There’s something you can help with. Gram never told me where she buried the bodies.”
“For good reason. Didn't want you troubled if your cover got blown. They're in a small cemetery outside Buckhorn Island state park, near Niagara Falls. Fellow by the name of Rowtag buries monster vics who can't go home and sometimes monsters themselves. Go and see him, Rhetta. The world don’t want a necromancer disturbing the sleep of what’s in his cemetery. He’d lend you a hand.”
We hung up. I sat on the ground, my legs freezing from the AC, the fridge humming nearby. I didn't know what to do, think, or say. While my grandmother might have trusted him, to me the man on the other end of the line was a stranger. Better to wait, I decided, dragging myself off the floor. Better to take a couple days to gather my thoughts and process what he'd told me.
But, a small vacation to upstate New York might be just what I needed.
For now, though, I had Mila to keep me company through recovery. The werewolf-in-miniature was more excited to see Samson than me, but her indomitable spirit was an inspiration.
???
A slow, languid week passed, complete with a trip to the movies with Lisa and Wyatt to catch a matinee about a ghost in the woods. Apart from Lisa noticing the lack of my usual flinch at the jump scares, I managed to fake my way through the flick and dinner after and felt shitty doing so. Lisa had been my best friend for years; sure, she never knew about my past life, but no one had. By the time we'd met, Marcy Davins was more than a character: she was me.
I'd never lied to her about anything worse than the usual harmless stuff friends lie to each other about. These past few weeks felt like a betrayal of our friendship, but what could I do that wouldn’t result in her death or serious injury except keep her at arm’s length?
I was sad to see them leaving arm-in-arm in the opposite direction after saying our goodbyes in the restaurant parking lot, but happy they were safe. I got back in my car and got on the highway. The night was still young, the sun an aging light in the grey sky, when my car passed signs for West Hartford.
It was a poor decision, but at the last second I flipped on my blinker and took the exit. Promising myself I was only going to observe the outside, I parked in one of the big garages for the Shoppes at Nokhurst Crossing, walked past three blocks of busy stores and restaurants, and found a bench across the street from Zakar's shop. On the shopping district’s fringe, his store’s side of the street abutted a thin forest leading to a residential area. While it was quieter than the other areas, plenty of walkers trafficked the street underneath the rising spring moon.
Empty benches lined both sides of the street. After a brief detour for magazines and a bubble tea, I settled on a bench across the street, indirectly overlooking the black door and its jaguar etching. Sipping tea, flipping gossip-filled pages underneath a dingy streetlight, I allowed myself a moment of normality. Every so often, when a person neared the entry, I'd hold the magazine a little higher and peek over the top, but time and again the plain little door went ignored.
I didn’t know what I was going to do if I saw someone go in.
Hell, I didn’t know what I’d do if Zakar came out.
I promised myself I’d leave when it grew too dark and the foot traffic thinned, but as the time neared, a black truck parked in front of the shop. I turned away into the bench so fast, searing pain clawed through my healing wound.
But it was Caelan, not August, who stepped out of the vehicle. Abandoning my reading material, I crossed the street and sidled up behind him. “'Evening, sheriff.”
There wasn't even the hint of a smile on his face when he realized who'd addressed him. He rubbed his temple. “Miss Davins. Why are you here?”
I couldn't explain to him how I felt drawn to be here when the smarter part of me wanted to get the hell away, or at least change outfits. Nice clothes got ruined around werewolves, and here I was, in my favorite pair of jeans and a cold-shoulder top I was fond of. Impractical stakeout attire.
I jiggled my cup. “I was thirsty.”
“Not smart.”
“That’s dehydration for you,” I mumbled, poking a tapioca pearl with my straw. “Why are you here?”
“I'm going to—Doesn’t matter. I'd planned on addressing you tomorrow, but since you're here...”
He stepped around me and popped the passenger door. A large bag sat on the seat cushion. At his word I reached within. Plush white fur grazed my fingertips.
