“Basil,” he murmurs, pacing nearer. “Such a strange name for a girl. You never did tell me where it came from.”
My lips part, but I can’t make myself speak. A dread certainty tightens my chest.
“So we’re pretending neither of us understands the real reason you won’t paint me,” he says softly. “I wasn’t sure you knew, but obviously you do. Which makes this both easier and harder.”
Silent comprehension prickles in the air between us. Urgency plucks at my nerves, a tugging compulsion to yield or to run.
But I won’t give in yet. “What do you think I know?”
He’s closer now, looming over me in the darkness despite my platform heels. I retreat until my spine hits the concrete wall of the house.
Dorian opens his mouth to reply, but I’m distracted by movement behind him.
On the curb sits a yard-waste bag full of sticks and leaves—the trimmings of nearby trees and bushes, waiting to be hauled away.
The sticks in the bag are…moving. Pushing, tenting upward, as if something is burrowing up from the bottom of the bag toward the air. A low, garbled sound emerges.
“Oh my god.” I grab Dorian’s sleeve and pull him toward me,away from the bag. “There’s something in there—like a possum or a raccoon—”
He turns to look, then recoils. “Shit!”
The sticks in the bag rise higher, hitching upward, collectively elongating into something like a neck, then a head—two broken sticks like ears, a muzzle of twigs and thorny vines. Shoulders emerge, then a body assembled from sticks, trailing Spanish moss. Then hindquarters, twitching and jerking, as the thing pulls itself free of the bag and stumbles onto the sidewalk.
It’s a dog, or maybe a wolf—entirely made of branches and twigs.
“What the hell is that?” Dorian’s voice is ragged. He’s pushing me along the wall of the house, away from the thing.
“It’s—it’s a dog who rolled in sap or glue, then crawled into the bag and got sticks stuck all over its body,” I gasp.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know that!” I’m clutching his sleeve, still gripping the pepper spray with my other hand. “What else could it be?”
But I already know.
Monster.
It’s a monster. Ergo, the proof I’ve been looking for my whole life. Evidence that I’m not the only screwed-up supernatural thing in this world.
The dog-wolf cocks its head sharply, a broken jerk. Its twig-nails scrape against the sidewalk as it steps forward.
“I think we should run,” I say. “People in movies never run until it’s too late. Run!”
I flee up the sidewalk, with the staccato of Dorian’s footsteps close behind. The rapid scratch of sticks on concrete tells me the wolf-monster is running after us.
“Maybe it’s not evil,” I theorize aloud. “Maybe it wants companyor an owner, or it’s like this benevolent nature spirit—”
I glance back just in time to see the creature leap, thorny jaws wide, emitting a strident, echoing shriek. Its front paws tear down Dorian’s back, stripping his shirt into ribbons.
“Fuck!” I screech.
But Dorian puts on a burst of speed, waving me forward. “Keep going!”
Panic roars through my body, and I run faster. Of all the times for literallyno oneto be around in this neighborhood…fuck, fuck…
A rasping snarl, and Dorian cries out, followed by the thud of a body on pavement. I spin around. He’s down, pinned by the stick-monster while it claws frantically into his back like it’s digging down to his heart.
With a faint scream, I aim my pepper spray at the thing’s face and squeeze the trigger. The monster recoils, backing off Dorian’s body, so I advance, still spraying, emptying everything onto the sticks.
