Dorian shakes his head. “What if another wolf-monster shows up? I’m not taking any chances with your safety or mine.”
Once the valet brings his car around, we hop in. The air between us is thickly charged during the drive to my house, but we don’t talk, and Dorian keeps both hands on the wheel.
He swings onto Wentworth Street, stops the car in front of my house, then frowns toward the building. “The fuck is she doing?”
I follow his gaze and see Mrs. Dunwoody, in a floral-print housecoat, standing in front of my door. Her arm is moving like she’s writing something.
“I don’t know. Not sure I can handle any more weird tonight.” With a groan, I step out of the car, and Dorian does, too. Though he doesn’t follow me, his presence bolsters me as I walk up to the house.
The dim light by the door casts a watery glow over Mrs. Dunwoody’s frizzy auburn hair, streaked with gray. A handful of large black moths flutter near the hissing bulb of the light. One of them is on her head, its delicate feet perched on the auburn fluff, its huge wings waving gently. Mrs. Dunwoody doesn’t seem to notice. Her arm continues its jerky movements.
As I approach, the moths stir, flying more erratically, but they don’t swarm me, thank god.
“Mrs. Dunwoody?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She turns around. Several necklaces with cross pendants hang around her neck, and she’s holding a big black Sharpie. Her eyes are pink along the edges, bloodshot and stricken with anxiety. “I saw something lurking around your house, and I… Well, I thought you could use some Scriptural protection, bless your heart.”
My gaze switches from her face to the pale blue surface of my door—now covered in crooked black writing. Bible verses, from the look of it. I recognize snatches of it, ragged remnants left in my mind from a period in Mom’s life when she decided to be Catholic and see if that helped with her depression. Spoiler alert—it didn’t.
“You wrote Bible verses all over my door?” Anger leaks through my tone. “Why would you do that?”
“I told you. For your protection, fromthem.” Her eyes peer up at me, wide and earnest, begging me to understand.
The scent of smoke trails through the air, announcing Dorian’s approach. He halts at my elbow, a cigarette between his fingers, and casually exhales a swirl of smoke toward my neighbor.
“Evening, ma’am,” he says. “I hope you realize you’ll have to pay for that door to be repainted.”
“You don’t understand.” Mrs. Dunwoody tries to cap the Sharpie, but her hands are shaking too badly. “It’s happening. I saw the Devil’s wolves wandering around this place about an hour ago.”
“Oh shit.” I cover my mouth with both hands.
“Wolves?” Dorian asks.
“Wolves made of sticks, of driftwood and moss.” My neighbor manages to cap the Sharpie. She points it at Dorian. “I’ve been here a long time, like my family before me. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Come inside, please.” I unlock my door and beckon to her and Dorian. “I think we all need to talk.”
When Mrs. Dunwoody enters my house, she looks around, taking in my altar, my incense burners, the morbid art I’ve hung around the place, and my collection of tiny jars carved from bone. Her fingers clasp her crucifixes tightly as alarm floods her face.
“I thought you were a victim,” she says. “A wayward innocentthat the Dark Ones wanted to devour. But you’re one of them. You’re a pagan. A witch.”
“Sort of?” I wince. “But I’m not some ‘Dark One.’”
She fumbles in the pocket of her housecoat and pulls out a palmful of metal bits—iron, maybe?
“Touch these,” she orders.
With a shrug, I run my fingertips over them.
Muttering, she returns them to her pocket and extracts a tiny bottle. “Hold out your hand.”
“What is that?” I ask.
“Blessed water. I’m a Baptist, and I don’t hold with the teachings of them Catholics. But some of their practices are useful. Your hand, child.”
I obey, glancing at Dorian. His arms are crossed, displeasure furrowing his forehead.
“What’s the point of all this?” he asks.
