Page 27 of My Neighbor Literally Bites

HANNAH

Morning comes with clouds and the gray grudges through the broken parlor window. I couldn't sleep so I'm on my knees with the dustpan.

Glass is scattered everywhere, catching the weak light. Warped now, and swollen where the rain entered through the gap the door left when it tore loose of its top hinge. I sweep, and the broom snags on a nail head pried up. I work it free.

The coffee starts to knock and spit on the stove. The house stinks of scorched iron and a chemical bite that catches at my throat. The hunters left it on my threshold. I have scrubbed that board twice. It will not come out of the grain.

I drag the kitchen chair we never sit in over to the front door, wedge its back under the ruined handle, and lean my whole weight on it. It holds. Just.

"You didn't sleep." Lily is on the stairs, wrapped in the quilt, hair a dark snarl.

"Neither did you."

She comes down slow, favoring the arm she hurt, and stops three steps from the bottom. She holds a square of paper, folded twice, the creases pressed sharp.

"He gave me this." Her chin is steady. "I'm not defending him. I'm just handing it to you."

I don't reach for it. "Lily."

"It isn't what you think." She sets it on the post instead, flattens it once under her palm. "It's not a letter."

I pour the coffee, drink half of it while leaning against the doorway. I last maybe six minutes before I take it.

Lily was right. It's a list, written in a hand so even it looks ruled against a straightedge: the two north windows that don't seat in their frames, the cellar hatch with a gap wide enough for a forearm, the third and fifth porch boards that announce a footstep before it lands. How to seat a brace. How to salt a sill. Where the man who built this house left the back stair weak for anyone patient enough to lean on it.

No apology. No *because.* Nothing about himself at all. It unsettles me more than tenderness would have. He knows every nook and cranny of the house. He has been counting our weak places. And then he wrote them down so I could close them. I fold the note again, but I don't throw it away.

I hear a scrape come from the chimney. Walking by it, a clatter inside.

"What was that?" Lily asks.

I take the poker and shift the cold ash that's been there since we moved in. Something drops from the flue with a puff of soot: a dented tin, blackened, wrapped in oilcloth so old it flakes under my fingers.

Inside is no journal. Just a folded paper, a narrow ledger page, and Elspeth's handwriting, cramped and deliberate.

Not enemies. Shelter them.

Below it, a list of initials, dates, and single words: Passage. Kept. Quiet.

Beside each line sits the same hooked mark carved into the cellar beam.

They come hunted, she wrote, not hunting. The nightfolk who keep the old peace need a roof the hunters cannot read, and I have given them one. No blood is spilled under this roof, and none will be while I draw breath. Tell my granddaughter, when she is ready, that the danger was never the dark. It was always the men who came to cleanse it.

I read it twice, and cold rushes through to my fingertips. She was helping vampires, hiding them. From men. Hunters.

"You found something." Lily pipes up.

"Yes." I throw myself back on my heels. "Why did you go to him?"

"Because nobody will just say what's true. He didn't ask me to forgive him, ya know. He didn't even try. I asked questions and he told me straight, no excuses. Then he said the choice about all of it was yours. He kept saying that. Yours."

"He lied to us. He stood here and lied."

"I know."

The knock comes soft. Three taps, considerate, against the braced door.

Nathan stands well back, hat in his hands. He doesn't step on the third board. Or the fifth. The same boards from the note. I tuck that away where I keep the rest.