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A black shadow nailed the deputy square in his back. His head slammed against the rotted planks and in less time than it took for me to gasp his body was dragged out of view. The porch light illuminated the splat of blood where his head had hit and the wrinkled plastic containing the keys, then a hairy hand reached through the gaps in the railing to sink one nail through the baggie.
chapter 5
WELL, HELL
I had two options: discover if werewolves possessed the dexterity to turn a key in a lock, or shove the hall table across the door. Some latent curiosity wanted to watch the creature stride onto the steps key in claw, but self-preservation won out.I dragged the table against the door then sprinted upstairs for Samson and Igor.
Neither had left the bed, though Igor scrunched her lips over her teeth when I burst in and slammed my bedroom door over the whine of shuddering hinges below.
With a grunt of adrenaline-fueled effort, I pushed the dresser back across my door, all the while wishing I’d swallowed my pride and slept in a parking garage with the cats.
Sheriff Harlowe said fifteen minutes. Assuming he’d decided the unanswered phone call meant bad news, help might arrive quicker. So, I would keep calm by surviving sixty seconds at a time. I could do anything for sixty seconds, according to my workout instructors.
First, I weighed my options, my foolish, stupid options.
The bat had marginal range compared to the knife; if I was close enough to stab the werewolf, I was close enough to get my guts ripped through my belly button.
Three resounding knocks echoed up the staircase.
My heart raced a thousand miles in the span of fifteen seconds. My chest rose and fell and the room took on the lightheaded tremors of a panic attack. I scooped the cats and retreated to the master bathroom, where I sank against the tub, hugging Samson to my chest and shutting my eyes. My cat was soft, quiet, and physical; I had to ground myself in the physical: Samson’s chin rubbing mine, the sweat soaking my shirt, Igor’s slobbered velvet underneath my palm. Thirty seconds to quell the panic was all I could afford. I kissed him and Igor, then opened the sink cabinet and pulled out the cleaners.
Popping a lipstick tube, I scrawled 'S+I' on the mirror, trying my best to ignore their pleading mews and thumping paws. It might not have been the most effective hiding place or smart to signal their existence, but what mattered was anyone finding my body needed to notice the cats.
The front door crashed open.
My home had been invaded.
Gram had been worried our home would be invaded at the end.
She’d lost it in her final months, calling the New York State Police to ask after a retired officer, leaving letters in the mailbox with no addresses, hiding bags of feather and bone in drawers and under pillows. She and I had spent several tense nights in the kitchen, me unable to get her to bed, her with her hand on the checkered tablecloth between a cup of cold coffee and the revolver she no longer had the strength to pull the trigger of.
A crack of broken pottery spelled the demise of my brand new areca palm.
In that moment, the bat in my hands felt as dangerous as a popsicle stick. I needed better.
…Gram had better.
Apart from her clothes, which I'd donated except for some silk scarves, I still kept many of her belongings packed in the walk-in. I flipped the closet light on, shut the door (it didn’t lock and opened from the outside), then laid the knife and bat on the floor in exchange for a stepstool.
The gun was old, an antique in my grandfather’s family since before World War II. Shortly after we’d moved to Connecticut, Gram had smashed a hot frying pan on my hand when she’d caught my fingers stretching toward the dark cherry case on the table. I never forgot that moment or what she’d said.
“Open this box, you’ll never close it!” Her nails dug into my blistered flesh as she’d dragged me to the sink. “You want a life of pain? Answer me, child! Do you want to spend your life battling tooth and claw?”
As I grew, she promised we'd get my permit and head to the range, but when high school hit she’d offered a hardline choice: painting lessons or the dusty box in the closet.
Tonight, my knuckles stung retrieving the case. Gram had worn the key on a silver chain around her neck, but since she'd passed, I, demonstrating the epitome of irresponsible gun ownership, had taped the key to the bottom.
The revolver was burnished silver, heavy with a carved walnut grip. I'd seen her clean, carry and take enough shots at soda cans (plus a few ‘swooping hawks’ over my ex-boyfriends’ shoulders) to know what to do.
The werewolf padded up the staircase. The sound was pleasant, eager, the tick of a dog’s nails on the way to greet its master.
No ammo in the case, but four rounds in the chamber. Apparently safety hadn’t concerned Gram, either.
I turned toward a commotion outside the closet—the methodical crack and rumble of my bedroom door ripped from its post and flung downstairs. Next, came the scrabble of nails on the dresser.
My hands shook. The edges of my vision browned.
An odor of muddy decay seeped into the closet.
