by JJ Knight
He frowns, looking confused. “Dusty old files?”
“I know, right? I’ve been there a week and they haven’t promoted me up to vice president yet. Obviously they don’t know real talent.”
He laughs and leans back in his chair. “You’re a talent, all right. Your cheeks are flushed. Should we go for a walk outside?”
I lick my lips and glance over at my roommates. They’ve compromised with a half-shot of tequila each, and they’re making a mess throwing chunky sea salt everywhere. I ask them if they mind if I go out for a walk with Dylan, and they say no problem.
A few minutes later, I’m stumbling out the door, holding Dylan’s hand. The coolness and the dark sober me up instantly.
“Wow. It was hot back in there,” I say as we walk down the street.
Dylan throws his arm across my shoulders. “Was I making you hot?”
“Always.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you getting cheeky?”
I smile and look down, feeling self-conscious.
We cross a street and keep walking. We’re heading in the opposite direction of the shops, and the houses here are bigger and older.
We get five blocks away from my house. Dylan stops and stares at a house with a metal construction fence around it. “What do we have here?” he asks.
“I guess they’re tearing this one down.”
Beyond the fence, the house is dark, with all the windows boarded up. It’s a tall house, with a steeply-pitched roof, like a haunted house in a movie.
“Let’s explore.” He nods at the fence.
I laugh, because I think he’s joking.
He jogs a few feet to the side, where the neighbor’s property starts. He steps on a big rock, then the neighbor’s picket fence, then vaults over the metal construction fence. He wipes his hands off on his jeans and stares at me, waiting for me to do the same.
I look up and down the street. This house is in the middle of the block, between two street lamps, but it’s not that dark. People could see us.
“I’ll wait here,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets.
“Come on, Jess. You’re not the kind of girl who stands around waiting while other people have fun, are you? At dinner tonight, your sister kept talking about how you used to jump off barns and things.”
I step closer to the fence and whisper, “But that wasn’t trespassing.”
He puts his hands up against the fence, his palms facing me. I put my palms against his and look into his eyes.
As soon as we lock eyes, I know I’m lost. His dark eyes call to me. If he wants me to jump over a fence, I’m going to do it.
He smiles.
I pull away, shaking my head, and go to the spot where he jumped over.
I’m not as tall and strong as Dylan, so I struggle and laugh at myself, but I get over.
“This way,” he says, leading me along the side of the house.
He grabs hold of the wood covering a window and pulls it away. The wood was already loose. We aren’t the only ones who’ve been here.
I look around, getting a bad feeling about this. But Dylan is already climbing in through the window and waving for me to follow. I shake my head. This is something kids do, not adults. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am.
I climb through the window.
Now I’m inside a dark basement. The only light is what’s coming in along the edges of the wood covering the windows.
Now what?
Dylan grabs me and pulls me close. Okay, maybe this isn’t so scary. His lips land just to the side of my mouth, which makes him chuckle for a moment. Then he finds my mouth and we’re kissing in the dark.
My body responds to his touch, and I push against him. His chest is so broad compared to mine, he’s like a wall. A warm, sexy-smelling wall. I wrap my arms around him and revel in his masculinity.
The darkness plays with my senses. I can’t tell if we’re tipping to one side, or to the other. I try to adjust, to stand up straight, but that just throws us off balance more.
He pulls his mouth away and steps back quickly.
“You’re trying to tip me over,” he says, laughing in the dark.
“No, you were trying to tip me over.”
He stops laughing, but he’s still smiling. I can just barely make out the glint of his teeth in the dim light.
The ceiling overhead creaks, the crack like a thunderbolt in the relative hush of the basement. Instantly, my blood runs ice cold.
I whisper, “We have to get out of here.”
“Not yet.” A square, blue light flashes on, illuminating the cement floor under our feet. He’s got his cell phone in his hand, and he’s using the flashlight function.
With the help of the light, I find my way back to the window. I’ll need a boost to get back out. What is it with Dylan and windows? He’s definitely got a thing for windows… and getting in trouble.
“Gimme a boost,” I say.
“Hang on, Jess. I just want to check upstairs. These old houses have great hardware. If they haven’t stripped everything, I want a piece.”
“You’re joking, right? If there’s squatters in here, I don’t want to run into them. Or what if there’s rats?”
He aims the light up at his chin and shakes his head, like I’m being ridiculous. Maybe I am. I’m from a small town, and I don’t know much about squatters besides what I’ve seen on TV, but I am scared. My heart is beating fast, and my hands and face feel clammy with cold sweat.
“You won’t come with me?” He shines the square light directly at my face.
I shake my head, no. “I’ll stand guard here by the window.” The little light is bright enough that when he turns it away, I see nothing but spots.
I hear his boots on the cement as he walks away. “Gimme five minutes,” he says.
He keeps walking, muttering about stairs for a moment, then I hear his boots on wooden steps. A door creaks open, and he’s gone.
Now I’m alone in the empty, dark basement. My face itches. I wipe at my cheek, and feel a silky strand drag across my face. OH FUCK, NO.
SPIDERWEB.
I let out a near-silent wail and swipe my face and hair as fast as I can. I shake everything. Repeatedly.
Whimpering, I finger-comb through my hair. When I’m done, I hold absolutely still, listening for spiders. Yes, I’ve lost my mind. I’m listening for eight tiny legs walking.
Screw this, I’m going back outside. I grab onto the windowsill and try to pull myself up to the ledge so I can crawl out. If only I was just a little bit stronger, or had a step, I’d be able to get out, but I can’t.
Sweating and grimy, I finally give up and stand there, waiting.
I’ve been hearing footsteps upstairs, but now the whole house is quiet. This tall house has at least three floors, so Dylan probably found more stairs and went up.
Something crashes. Like a big piece of furniture, or a person, falling hard.
I hold my breath, waiting for more sounds.
The house is silent.
My mind plays through a number of possibilities. One idea is the strongest. Dylan fell in the dark and hit his head. I have to get to him.
I don’t even have a light, because my phone is back in my bedroom, at the house.
Still listening in vain for noises, I fumble my way in the direction Dylan left. By some miracle, I find the stairs and get up to the main floor without falling down.
“Dylan?”
I’m on the main floor, which is almost as dark as the basement.
He doesn’t answer. I call his name again, louder. I don’t care if anyone discovers us in here, I just need to know that he’s okay.
The floor squeaks behind me, and arms grab my middle.
I’m so relieved, I don’t even scream.
He clutches me against him.
He smells different.
Sour.
Nasty.
My blood turns cold again. A man rubs his chin along the
side of my cheek. His bearded chin.
It’s not Dylan.
I open my mouth to scream just as a hand claps over my mouth.
Chapter 11
The hand over my mouth is rough and smells of motor oil.
I scream as loud as I can, the sound coming out muffled.
My self-defense reflex starts up, not even conscious.
My elbow smashes back, aiming for the solar plexus, the soft spot below a person’s ribs. He’s behind me, so I crack my head back, trying to connect my skull to his face. Something connects with a satisfying crack.
The arms around me are all bone and sinew. They loosen, and I pull away. I bring my arms up in a defensive position. This floor is dark, but not as dark as the basement. I should run.
My eyes make out a human form in front of me. His hair is wild, and he’s skinny, but tall.
Everything’s happening fast, but I’m hyper-sensitive.
RUN. I need to run.
I’m aware of my feet, flat on the ground. A patio door, to my left. A man holding his broken nose, in front of me.
I let out a scream, take a breath, then scream Dylan’s name.
The shadowy man in front of me takes two steps forward, positioning himself between me and the door. I back up, holding my fists in front of me. My feet contact something soft, and I fall back. I land hard on my butt.
I’m on something—a pile of blankets, or a mattress. It reeks of body odor and filth.
In a terrifying, high-pitched voice, the shadowy figure says, “You broke my nose. Such a handsome nose. All the girls love my handsome face. How about you?”
He leaps toward me, landing on me as I’m struggling to get up.
He’s all elbows and hard edges, pressing me down on my side, on the rancid mattress.
I scream again, arms and legs flailing.
“Jess?”
The voice is distant, maybe a floor away.
“Dylan! Help me! There’s a—.”
My attacker’s hand is over my mouth again. I can’t see. No, it’s not his hand, it’s blankets or clothes, smothering my face.
I scream and kick, my hands grasping out, in fists, and then as claws.
The blankets press harder against my face, and now I’m gasping for breath, my mind and body pulling away from each other. Everything is slow now, like I’m underwater.
The weight lifts off me. Am I conscious?
I push my head free of the material and gasp for breath to scream again.
There’s a growl, and a soul-shattering, inhuman noise.
Forms roll away from me, limbs crashing into floors and walls.
Someone whimpers for mercy and is silenced by the crunch of flesh.
There’s a perfect square of light on the ground in front of me. I pick up Dylan’s dropped phone and shine it at the figures. The light catches Dylan’s fist coming down against the bearded man’s cheek. The man’s eyes roll up and he coughs, sputtering blood.
At the sight of the blood, my stomach rolls and I drop the phone. The flashlight blinks off.
There’s no movement now. My eyes are so confused, but my ears pick up the sound of breathing.
“Jess?” Dylan’s voice is compressed, worried.
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Please don’t hurt him.”
His form doesn’t move. My eyes adjust and he comes into focus, one hand grasping my attacker’s throat and the other hand raised high in a fist.
“Please, Dylan,” I whisper.
“Did he hurt you?”
The man coughs again and groans, but doesn’t speak.
“Not like that,” I say.
The man coughs again, gurgling, and I see why he isn’t talking. Dylan’s choking him.
I pick up the phone and scramble to Dylan’s side. I hook my hands under his armpits from behind and tug him back.
“Dylan, let’s go,” I say, my voice pleading.
He lets go of my attacker’s throat. The man’s head thuds against the wood floor, but he’s still breathing. He’s still alive.
“Come on. Let’s go,” I repeat, pulling Dylan toward the door.
It’s unlocked, and a minute later, we’re outside and going down the back steps.
Dylan doesn’t say anything. He’s just staring straight ahead, like he’s seen a ghost.
I grab his hands to check them. His knuckles are red, but not bleeding.
We continue up to the front of the yard and leave over the same spot we came in. My adrenaline is flowing and I’m so strong, I practically bounce over the fence. At the sidewalk, Dylan turns the wrong direction, like he’s disoriented.
“This way,” I say, and lead him back to the house.
We cover the five blocks in no time.
We step into my place, which is impossibly bright and hot compared to outside.
This is real. I’m safe. Everything’s okay.
The kitchen is a disaster. By the sounds of their voices, my roommates are in Amanda’s bedroom, listening to music and laughing.
Dylan silently slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair.
Without a word, he crosses over to the sink and washes his hands and face with dish soap. I come over, stand beside him, and do the same.
He grabs my hands and holds them tightly. He stares straight ahead, looking out the window over the sink, unblinking. There’s nothing but night beyond the window.
His voice husky, he says, “I don’t know what I’d do.”
“I’m okay, Dylan. I am. Tonight was a freak accident. I would never go into someplace like that alone, I swear. He just scared me.”
“I shouldn’t have dragged you in there. I’m no good for you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“The more you’re around me, the more you’ll get hurt. This isn’t just about tonight. People around me get hurt.”
“Please don’t say that, Dylan. You’re going to make me cry.”
He turns to me, his eyes wide and glistening. “Don’t,” he says gruffly. “Don’t cry over me. I’m not worth it.”
My voice is so soft, it’s barely a whisper. “You are worth it. You’re worth any pain there is. And remember what I said when we met? Don’t underestimate me. I’m tougher than I look.”
He reaches up with one hand and cleans my cheek with his thumb. “Jess,” he says. “We can’t be together.”
His voice is so full of darkness and pain that it shatters my heart.
“I don’t believe you.” I pull away from him and grab a towel from the bar across the stove. I hand Dylan the towel.
He takes the towel and blinks at me, unmoving.
I glance around the kitchen, and in an instant, I know exactly what to do. It’s like Nan is right here, in this house, at my side.
Nan would say that it’s getting close to the Witching Hour. People always get funny around the Witching Hour, and that’s what’s happening to Dylan.
The only cure, according to Nan, is to tidy up the kitchen and go to bed. So that’s what we’re going to do.
“Do you want to wash, or dry?” I ask Dylan.
He turns his head and gives me a sideways look.
I start gathering plates and utensils from the square table.
Pretty soon, Dylan catches a hint and fills the sink with hot water.
I can’t think about what he just said, because I will start crying. He said I’ll get hurt just from being near him. Maybe he’s right. When he said we couldn’t be together, I started to hurt. My insides are twisting up right now, tying in knots over his words.
My hands are shaking, and I have to be careful to not clatter dishes as I move them around. I don’t know if I’m shaking from the attack, or from the idea of Dylan breaking my heart.
I just want this night to be over.
We finish cleaning up the kitchen, and Dylan crosses the room to get his jacket off the back of the folding chair. He stands still with his back to me. I can’t see his face, so I stare at his a
rm, and his tattoos. The most prominent tattoo is an angel with big wings.
I wonder if the angel is supposed to be the spirit of his wife. His dead wife.
A chill passes through me as I imagine her watching us.
That was freaky.
I didn’t even know her, but the idea of her watching us is making my skin crawl.
A million thoughts race through my head. I wonder if that’s part of the reason Dylan is so distant sometimes. Is he thinking about her when he’s kissing me?
“The dinner was good,” Dylan says.
His voice, suddenly filling the tiny room, startles me.
Dinner feels like a distant memory.
There’s no noise coming from down the hall. My roommates are fast asleep now.
I start to speak, but my voice is rusty. I cough, then say, “Yes, the dinner was pretty good. I’m lucky my roommates are good cooks, because I suck at cooking.”
“I’m sure you’re fine at cooking,” he says.
He’s right. Whenever I want to make something, I look up recipes online and follow the instructions. Cooking isn’t that hard if you can read and pay attention.
Why did I say I suck? There’s something about Dylan… something that makes me feel weak and inadequate. He’s just so gorgeous and perfect. I feel like an awkward dork, always getting myself in trouble, like tonight.
I gasp for breath, feeling smothered by the memory. I need to shower. I need to get the smell of that place off me.
But I don’t want to leave this room, or do anything to make Dylan leave. I want him to stay, to spend the night in my bed. I’m having difficulty saying that.
“I should go now,” he says.
“You don’t have to.” I cough again, and it brings back the smell of those rancid blankets. “It’s late. My grandmother would say this is the Witching Hour. You shouldn’t be out at this hour.”
He turns and looks over his shoulder at me. His dark eyes are in shadow.
He says, “I haven’t heard that in ages. The Witching Hour. Do you know what they call the hour before dawn?”
I get another shiver that travels up my cheeks and makes me feel like I might start crying.
“No. What?”
His lip curls up in something like a grin, but not a grin. “The Hour of the Wolf. That’s the time of day when babies are born, and when people die.”
