“Let me in,” I whisper.
In my mind, I hear an answer, barely a breath, the faintest scratching echo, like the crackle of an old record.
Let me out.
My heartbeat stutters, and a chill runs over my skin.
The buzzing aura of the door spikes suddenly, engulfing me in a sense of something unutterably vast and alien.
Again the voice speaks—stronger, resonating in my skull, vibrating along my nerves, louder and louder.Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me—
A pickup truck roars down Broad Street behind me, “Werewolf” by Motionless in White blasting from its open windows.
Snapped out of my trance, I recoil from the door.
I’ve sensed the mystical before, in various ways, but this was by far the most intense, defined, and frightening experience yet. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to run, so with a sharp intake of breath, I obey the impulse and flee the frowning entrance and its compulsive energy. I run across the grass, back to the sidewalk.
So I’m hearing voices now? Fuck my life. This day has been too weird, first with that strange commission request and now with some unnamed force reaching out to me. I don’t want to confront what either of those encounters could mean; I’d rather ignore them both. Pretend nothing happened. Tell myself that the voice was all in my head—which, let’s face it, could very well be true, given the stress I’ve been under. In this case, denial is much better for my mental health, overall. What I need is a comfy couch, a bowl of ramen, and a couple episodes of mindless reality TV on Netflix. And I’m going to burn some incense for good energy.
And if the hellcat wants to sit on the sofa and keep me company, I won’t say no.
4
Baz
I leave the old Coast Guard building behind and jog up Broad Street toward the ocean. Ahead lies the marina, a thicket of boats bristling against a backdrop of gleaming water and the James Island Bridge.
The sun has nearly set. It’ll be dark by the time I get home.
A man is running toward me—a lithe, lean figure, his feet pounding the sidewalk with a speed beyond the norm for joggers in this area. Like he’s running from something.
I know that feeling too well. I’m always moving, never quite resting, in a state of perpetual, low-key anxiety, constantly glancing over my shoulder in the hope that the hulking shadow of my past will be gone. But it’s always clinging to my back, dragging along the ground behind me. Souring every damn thing I try to do for myself.
Okay, this runner is racing straight for me. Not swerving in the least. And now he’s close enough that I recognize him, with a jolt that runs straight down my spine, buzzing through my body in ripples of shock and anger.
It’s Dorian Gray. His white T-shirt is sweat-glued to his front, highlighting his pectorals and a very respectable six-pack. I hate thetraitorous tingle between my legs at the sight of him, which only heightens my anger.
I slow my pace, and he pulls out of his breakneck charge down the sidewalk just in time to avoid colliding with me.
“The fuck?” I plant my fists on my hips. “Are you stalking me now?”
“No.” He sweeps blond tendrils back from his face, tucking them into the low knot at his nape. His throat and forehead glisten with sweat. “I’m stayingthere. With a friend.” He points back toward the Chandler Apartments, the towering luxury complex I was eyeing earlier, which now lies just behind me, to my right.
“So you don’t live here in Charleston?”
“Just visiting. I have a house in Nashville. For now. I switch cities when I get bored.”
“Must be nice.” I can’t help my clipped tone; this guy really unsettles me.
Probably because his earlier request sharpened the teeth of the things that chew on my soul at night.
He’s smiling at me, and I hate it.
“You should—um, get back to your run or whatever. Gotta keep in shape for your fans.” I give the last word the most disdainful twist I can manage.
“Oh, I don’t have to run to keep in shape. But I like to, sometimes, when I…” He breaks off the sentence, and his smile widens. “So you looked me up on socials.”
Crap.
