Night Latch

by Anela Deen

  We lay there for a stunned moment, clouds of white vapor sketching our rapid breath. Ethan rushed down the ladder, feet clanking against the rungs. Higher up, Sam stared down at us with startled eyes.

  “Are either of you hurt?” he shouted.

  “Wow, did you hear her swear?” Noah said, a grin in his slightly shaky voice. “I’ve never heard half of those.”

  “We’re fine,” I answered dryly. So much for his earlier terror.

  As Noah shifted off of me and I sat up, my ankle flashed with a shackle of hot pain that had me biting back a groan. Ethan had reached the ground. He offered me a hand which I waved off, and then he helped his brother up. They immediately fell into an argument about whose fault it was, and which one of them was more stupid for either following too close or not moving fast enough.

  “Take these and sit in Sam’s truck,” I interrupted, terse, and held the keys aloft. “Do you know how to turn it on for the heat?”

  “Course,” Ethan said, taking them.

  “Then do so and wait there. I will stay with Sam until he’s down.”

  Noah hesitated. “Are you okay? You’re bleeding kinda.”

  I touched my lip, sore where Noah’s skull had bashed into it. A drop of blood came away on my finger.

  “It’s nothing,” I told them, careful not to put weight on my ankle as I got up. “Go and make yourselves warm.”

  Noah chewed his lip. “Thanks, for what you did. For catching me like you promised.”

  A smile might’ve crossed my mouth if it didn’t hurt. I patted his head, surprised by the softness of my tone as I said, “Repay me with wiser choices in the future.”

  Both nodded and headed off toward the truck. When I was certain they were far enough not to overhear, I turned to Sam and limped closer to the treacherous ladder.

  “Am I allowed get off this thing now?” Sam asked as I neared. “The view up here is kind of spoiled by the absence of structural integrity.”

  “No, you can’t come down yet.”

  He blinked at me. “Why not?”

  “You’re a danger to anyone around you.”

  Quickly, and editing for speed, I explained the information Jo had given regarding the hex.

  “Noah’s fall was my fault?” he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear it below.

  “Not your fault, Sam. The hex. Search your pockets, quick as you can.”

  He did, starting with the back, turning them inside out. Nothing. He went to the front and did the same with the right side, then went to the left. He paused.

  “Wait, I think I found—Yow!” He yanked his hand back and gaped at the gash on his thumb and forefinger. “It bit me.”

  “Did you expect a hex to be a tame conjuring?”

  “Well, I can’t climb down if it chews off my hand, can I?”

  “Just get rid of it.”

  “I’m all ears if you’ve got problem-solving tips.”

  “Remove your pants.”

  “Say what?” He shot me a panicked look. “You want me to strip right here on the ladder?”

  “Sam,” I growled. “This better not be an issue of modesty.”

  “Fine, but just keep in mind it’s not a flattering light out here.”

  He reached for his buckle.

  The rung under his foot snapped.

  Holding on with only one hand, he was caught by surprise. He plummeted a few rungs, banging his head before catching himself. His body roughly jerked to a halt and my heart beat hard enough I could feel it in my throat.

  He didn’t speak for a moment, his shoulders moving rapidly up and down.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” he chanted, breathless, then wrapped his forearm around the side rail and braced his shoulder against the frame. His other hand, noticeably shaky, reached into his pants. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  I didn’t understand what he was doing, his features twisted with struggle, until I heard the tear of fabric. Sam retracted his hand. He held up the torn-out pocket, smudged red from his blooded fingers.

  “Look out below,” he rasped and released it.

  We tracked its course to the ground, both of us watching as it fluttered downward like an innocuous, white banner.

  ***

  A few hours later, I lay reclined on Sam’s well-worn couch, my twisted ankle wrapped in ice packs and elevated by a bed pillow, frowning at the thoroughly baffling movie at play on his television.

  “You’re certain this is a Christmas movie?” I asked for the second time.

  Sitting on the floor, his shoulders pressed against the middle sofa cushion by my hip, he grinned my way without ever taking his eyes from the screen.

  “Absolutely! It’s a classic, holiday film.”

  “But the hero just ran through a hallway full of broken glass with his bare feet and I’ve seen at least a dozen innocent people killed by the bad characters. How can this be a holiday classic?”

  “You have to trust me. The end scene, Alice, wait till you see it.”

  “How many of these films are there?”

  “Technically, there’s six, but everyone pretends that last one never happened. We only have time for the first three, and those are the best anyway.” He reached over to the enormous popcorn-filled bowl on my lap and grabbed a handful. “If I can’t take you to the Christmas parade or sledding anymore, the least I can do is give you the next best thing.”

  “A movie marathon,” I repeated the term he’d enthusiastically supplied when we arrived to his home.

  “With a smorgasbord of goodies,” he added, cramming the popcorn in with one hand while gesturing to his food-crowded coffee table with the other. “This is my usual holiday routine—hole up with a supply of treats and wait for the Christmas mayhem to subside.” He winked my direction, still managing to keep his gaze affixed to the movie. “It’s better with you here though. Less brooding.”

  “Brooding? I think you had one too many of your mother’s hot-toddies,” I said, too amused to hold a dry tone.

  He reached over again, I thought, to get more popcorn, but brushed my arm instead. “Nice try. I can tell you’re having fun.”

  Admittedly, I was, over-the-top movie plots and all. Far preferable to the lights and people-crammed streets we passed on the ride home as the town prepared for the parade. The banquet of food, too, was rather stupendous. In particular, the liberally buttered and salted popcorn appealed to me.

  After we returned the missing boys to their tearful parents, it took some time to notify authorities they’d been found. Early evening had arrived by the time we returned here. Sam, fretful for my ankle, had wanted to take me to the doctor until I pointed out the injury would cease to exist by midnight.

  He’d seemed troubled by this, as if he’d somehow forgotten, until we experienced a parade of another sort from the comfort of his apartment. First, his nana, having heard of our “heroics”, arrived with a handful of church ladies bearing a full-course meal and several tins with an infinite variety of Christmas cookies inside them. Then Sam’s mother and Matt, blessedly without the man’s children, dropped off a thermos of her hot-toddies, a divine loaf of airy bread, and a platter of cheeses. This, along with the provisions Sam had stocked in preparation for his birthday, meant we were well and truly supplied for our movie-marathon.

  “Your friend Nick seems to be doing better,” I said as an elevator exploded in the movie. “Does he intend to remain nearby?”

  Nick and the girl who had loaned me her clothing—Heidi—were the final visitors to stop by, though they departed rather quickly upon seeing me with him. Glad smirks abounded, which irritated me. Even if their assumptions had been correct, what sort of acrobatics did they think we’d attempt with my injured ankle? Ever astounding, the notions the living concocted to entertain themselves.

  Still, I couldn’t regret the visit. Sam had worried greatly for his friend after the ordeal at the paper mill last month. Nick still wore a sling for his broken arm, but had otherwise mended fully. W
e awaited only one more delivery, and my eyes continually went to the doorway dreading its arrival.

  “Nick’s got a couple of active service years left in his term, but he’s looking into transferring back to the U.S.,” Sam answered. “In the meantime, the army’s giving him furlough through the New Year.”

  “Generous.”

  “More like, owed bereavement and recovery time. It’s the first holiday season without his brother.”

  “Of course.”

  “Alice, I was wondering.” He glanced back at me, thoughtful. “Do you remember anything about the souls you collect?”

  “Sometimes,” I said carefully, concerned where this was headed.

  He turned back to the movie but didn’t seem to be watching it anymore.

  Softly, he asked, “Do you remember my dad?”

  “Sam,” I said as gently as I could. “You know better than to ask such questions.”

  “You’re not allowed to say?”

  I considered how to explain. “It’s not an established rule, but it doesn’t sit well with me to speak of an experience that isn’t mine to share.”

  “I understand.” He nodded, though I could see the disappointment in his profile.

  He let the subject drop, but I found it difficult to set it aside in my thoughts. Sam deserved a better answer than that. I remembered him well, Mateo Alvarez. Sam was taller than his father, and had the influence of his mother in his features, but they shared the same perpetually tousled dark hair, the same mischief in his smile.

  Let me stay, his father had said to me, staring down at his broken body. Please, let me stay. They need me.

  “He thought of you,” I told Sam quietly. “You and your mother. He loved you.”

  A muscle moved in Sam’s jawline. He lowered his face and rubbed the heels of his palms roughly into his eyes.

  “My mom’s getting remarried,” he blurted. “At least, if she says yes. Matt asked for my permission back at his house.”

  “So, it wasn’t to look at his collection of beer steins?”

  His chuckle had a watery edge. “Oh, the collection was unfortunately real. Ninety-nine of them lined up. On the wall. And I know there were ninety-nine because I was treated to a special rendition of that earworm of a song.”

  I laughed at the exaggerated misery that crossed his face. “What answer did you give?”

  “About the steins?”

  “Very funny. No.”

  He leaned his head back against the cushion and gazed at the ceiling. “I said I appreciated him asking and told him to go for it.”

  I smiled, setting the big popcorn bowl aside so I could see him better. “That was good of you.”

  “Nah. It seems kind of fast, but I guess they’ve been seeing each other longer than they let on. He treats her well and my mom really likes him.” He sighed. “Besides, he’s going to ask her on New Year’s Eve. She’ll need something to look forward to after, well, whatever happens to me.”

  A heavy knock sounded on the front door, making us both jump. We exchanged a look.

  Sam got up. “Hunters wouldn’t knock before doing anything assassin-y, would they?”

  “Doubtful.”

  He headed for the door with a cautious step. “Stay behind me if anything happens.”

  “As opposed to hopping about on one leg?”

  “Shh.” He put a hand on the doorknob. “Who’s there?”

  No one answered. Slowly, he drew the curtain an inch to the side with one finger. Porchlight filled the gap where he peeked through the glass.

  His shoulders relaxed. “It looks like a gift basket.” He tilted his head. “Full of weird stuff.”

  “Weird?”

  “There’s a bundle of cinnamon sticks dangling from the handle.”

  “Moreau’s delivery.”

  “Without Moreau, looks like.”

  I felt my own shoulders relax. “Good.”

  After we’d called Jo back to tell her what’d happened and consult on next steps, I’d spoken to the old witchdoctor over the phone. His extended cackle to hear the tale of my frozen arrival and twisted ankle more than grated on the nerves. My pride was somewhat mollified by the sudden silence on his end when I spoke of the Hunters. Yes, he wouldn't want them lurking nearby. There was a bounty or ten active on him at any given time. Every few years a Hunter would make another attempt at fulfilling that elusive contract. My warning more than paid for the items needed.

  Sam retrieved the parcel from his doorstep, sparing a look down his driveway before closing the door.

  “I guess he didn’t need me to sign for it,” he said, setting it on the coffee table.

  It did indeed look like a gift basket with the gold and green ribbons twining the wicker. The contents were another matter.

  Sam held up a vial of dark red liquid and peered at the label. “Dragonsblood oil? Seriously?”

  “Merely an eccentric title. It’s a resin made from the draco palm.”

  “’Anoint the palms each night before bed’?” He read on, eyes bulging. “I have to anoint things now?”

  “Stop being so dramatic.”

  He grumbled as he rummaged through black tourmaline, yarrow sachets, and packs of dried garlic until he reached a cloth pouch. He upended it into his hand.

  His lips flattened. “Oh good, there’s jewelry, too.”

  “It’s a Gaia protection charm,” I informed him, pleased to see Moreau had been able to procure one. I pointed to the individual stones strung upon it. “That’s red fossil, coral, amber, and jet.”

  “Yes, but do they match my eyes, that’s the real question.”

  “Take this seriously. Jo said these stones are associated with protection, for yourself as well as those you’ll be near. You must trust her expertise in this matter.”

  “I am.” He went to his dresser and dug around in the top drawer.

  “Yet, you continue to complain.”

  “I have to rub my palms in red gunk, stuff garlic and salt in my pockets like I’m fending off vampires, and put dried weeds under my pillow. And that’s just before I go to bed.” Sam fished a lanyard out of the drawer and hooked the charm on it. He slipped it over his head and stuck out his arms. “There. I’ll do what I’m told, but I’m entitled to complaints.”

  “Very well,” I said, stifling a laugh at his martyred posture. “Perhaps you are. Shall we resume our movie marathon?”

  He perked up at that, walking back. “An excellent idea. There’s nothing like watching an American hero save a few busloads of people to take the mind off assassins and prophecies.” He paused beside me. “But only if you promise not to point out any more plot holes.”

  “Come now, Sam, be fair,” I said with an extravagant cringe. “Give me at least three.”

  “I’ll give you two if you agree to say the movie’s slogan with them.”

  “The movie’s slogan?” I drew back in shock when he supplied it. “Yippee kai—That’s offensive.”

  “That’s the toll.”

  “What happens if I defy you?”

  He considered. I realized what he intended a moment too late. By then the popcorn bowl was already in his hands and out of my reach. He raised his brows in challenge.

  “You wouldn’t,” I said, aghast. “Not while my ankle is sprained.”

  The smirk he made oozed satisfaction.

  I laughed outright. “How unexpectedly wicked of you.”

  “Tis the season.” He settled back into his spot on the floor by my hip, sending me a look of playful suspicion as he placed the bowl back in my lap. “Don’t think I won’t be keeping tabs on your callouts. I’ve seen these a hundred times. I can now multitask while watching.”

  “Have I mentioned how well that pretty charm matches your eyes?”

  “I’m setting a new standard for rugged manhood,” he snorted, and unpaused the movie.

  ***

  Despite Sam’s enthusiasm, the long day caught up to him after his sleepless night. Midwa
y through the second movie, his head tipped back and his eyes drooped closed.

  I watched him. He looked different when he slept. Somehow older and more serious, as if the humor and easy smile he wore during the daylight was a mask, the worries hidden inside only surfacing when he didn’t think the world could see. It reminded me unsettlingly of his expression in the ambulance when he’d asked me not to leave—the lost look of him and the prayer of his request. I wondered, sometimes, if he felt as alone as I often did.

  When the final movie ended, I glanced at the time. Eleven-fifteen. Another forty-five minutes before I returned to my true form. I swallowed hard, gaze returning to Sam. Perhaps I ought to let him sleep and allow myself to slip silently away from the living world. That might have been easier, but it would hurt him. Worse, he would blame himself for sleeping through my departure.

  No, I couldn’t do that. I would wake him in a few minutes, but first, I needed to speak with the presence that thought I didn’t know it was there.

  “Is it true?” I asked, keeping my voice low in the quiet room.

  “There are many truths,” the answer arrived readily, as ever unsurprised. His voice, as beautiful as a blade catching the sunlight, came from by the door. He didn’t show himself fully. Only a faint golden shimmer marked where he stood. “Which truth do you ask me?”

  “Don’t be coy. You know what I’m asking.”

  “Do I?”

  “Michael,” I warned. “Answer me clearly. He’s been told he will die before the new year. Is it true?”

  “The future is determined by choice. His choices and those of others. You know this.”

  “If that’s so, why is his death hidden from me?”

  No reply. The silence was its own answer, and I felt the blow of it in the mortal skin I wore.