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The wolf shoved his head through at first opportunity and shouldered in. He paused to regard the empty couch, then navigated carefully into the kitchen and sprawled against the air-conditioning vent.
“I made the bed for you and everything, but whatever.”
One ear rotated toward the sound of my voice.
Igor, intrigued and pissy about the wolf in her kingdom, crept beside him with her bottlebrush tail raised for war.
When her prey exhaled a drowsy sigh, she slapped him across the snout. He lifted his head and the corner of his lip, but with a grumpy growl angled his face the opposite direction.
Igor had spent the afternoon meowing to be let into my bedroom; later, after being shut in to allow the sheriff rest, she became desperate to escape. As punishment, I was forced to listen to her scratching at the door through the night, earning a reprieve only when I retrieved Mila around three in the morning. Holding Mila’s hand, helpless as she cried, hurt worse than any physical pain the Otherworld could have inflicted.
???
By the time I'd stumbled out of the shower, it was nine am. Highs were forecasted into the mid-eighties, so my choice of jeans and a black baggy sweater was a sauna in the making, but after encountering the walking dead, lighter colors were too much of a stain risk. I dug one of Gram’s concealed carry holsters out of the closet. Caelan and I worked as a team, so I needed to be able to protect myself (and him) when he was and wasn’t close. After a thorough assessment from all angles in the mirror, I deemed the coverup satisfactory and jogged downstairs for an expert opinion.
Caelan had made coffee and scrambled eggs. Mina sat on the couch brushing Samson. The wereling had her earring out on the counter. Tempted though I was to show off my handiwork, I had tucked Snowmane underneath the bed for a nighttime discovery.
The sheriff set a cup of coffee in front of me. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Well aren't you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” I observed, settling into an empty kitchen chair.
He sat across from me, tapping the table. “People to see, places to go.”
From the state of my kitchen—clean, sink emptied and counters wiped—he'd been raring to go for a while.
“The father of a hospital patient spoke with Jali yesterday. His son was in for a broken wrist. Met our suspect in the common area restroom. We’ve got footage of them talking, however, this father ID’d him as Mr. Harry Shan, owner of The Sooty Cat Witchcraft Company.” Caelan slid his cell across the table. The browser was open to a spells and witchcraft website. Front and foremost was a squat, elderly Chinese gentleman gripping a cat and a fistful of colorful incense sticks.
“Leona described Ingram. The footage shows a man of Ingram’s build. I know the cameras didn’t get his face, but how is it possible this father saw someone so different?”
“Shouldn’t be, yet this man insists Shan”—using two fingers, he magnified the seller’s smiling face—“visited him and his son five minutes before the attack, peddling a charm that would see his son back slinging pitches in time for the high school baseball championship.”
“I’m not liking this face changing thing,” I admitted. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t dream about you or anyone else.” It’d been quiet. Maybe too quiet.
“Harry calls the suburbs of Hartford home. Few weeks ago, he was hauled in over an incident concerning the werewoman with tentacle hair Jorge described. He’d rented his basement to one of Ingram Hayes’ associates. Let him off with a warning.”
“Is he human?”
“Werewolf; handed.”
“Why’d you give him a pass?”
“The ecosystem needs a few rats. He ain’t harmless; but he’s informative.” Caelan watched me pull out my phone. “Who're you texting?”
“Cal. I'm going to see if she’d let Mila have a play date with Aiden, or if she knows a good babysitter.”
“You shouldn't trust Mrs. Finn.” He leaned on the table. The concern in his voice was more for me than Mila. “She has an agenda.”
“And you don't?”
“You already know mine.”
“Not after last night I don't.”
“That was a lapse in judgment. It could have gone another way.”
“Yeah, you could’ve woken up on nice, clean sheets instead of dirty laminate.”
His eyebrows rose. He reached across the table to take my hand. “If I’d carried you upstairs last night, Miss Davins, the sheets would hardy be clean.”
