Page 18 of Terror at the Gates

The wind screamed, and my head exploded.

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I woke up coughing, my throat so dry I couldn’t swallow. At the same time, I was aware of an incessant knocking at my door. I reached for the water I usually kept on my nightstand but only found my phone.

I could barely breathe as I scrambled from bed, eyes watering. Frantic, I swiped at my face and inspected my fingers, only to find normal tears, not the blood in my nightmare.

Now my heart was racing too.

This is how I die, I thought, stumbling into the kitchen, past the front door, which shook with each hard knock. Whoever was on the other side wasn’t going away.

I retrieved a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water from the faucet before downing it like I’d never had it in my life. I gulped a second glass before slamming it on the counter.

Now certain of my survival, I stalked to the door.

“What?” I roared as I tore it open, only to have a piece of paper flung in my face. I flinched and flailed as I struggled to catch it against my chest, only to find my landlord standing in front of me.

“There’s your goddamn receipt,” he snapped back, but I was too distracted by his face to really hear him. His eye was nearly swollen shut, and his lip was split.

“What happened to your face?”

“What do you mean what happened?” he seethed. At first, I didn’t understand why he was so angry with me. I didn’t punch him, but then he continued. “Zahariev Zareth happened. You could have warned me you were fucking him.”

“I’m not fucking him,” I said.

The last thing I needed was that kind of rumor reaching my father’s ears.

“Well, maybe you should. He paid your fucking rent. Three goddamn months.”

He pointed at the piece of paper I clutched to my chest. Finally, I looked at it, realizing it was a receipt showing exactly what he said.

Our rent was paid up to November.

Zahariev, I thought.You motherfucker.

I was torn, feeling grateful but also frustrated. I hadn’t told Zahariev about my rent because I wanted his money. Now I just felt like a greater burden and wondered if he would rescind his offer to let me dance at one of his clubs.

“Next time you’re gonna be late, justdon’t…fuckin’…tell him,” said Paul. “I’ll fucking work with you.”

You’ll work with me?

I never thought I’d hear Paul say those words, though I doubted he wanted Zahariev to bash his face in a second time.

I didn’t want that either.

I’d just wanted a fucking job.

Paul stormed away, disappearing into the dark morning.

Slowly, I closed the door, locked the dead bolt, and slid the security chain in place. When I turned, Coco stood at the front of the hallway looking very sleepy, her face smeared with last night’s makeup. Still, she was beautiful—tall and blond, her hair dark at the roots. She probably could have been a model if she’d been born in Temple City or Hiram.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Zahariev paid our rent,” she said.

“Yeah.” I handed her the receipt.

She took it and read it over. “Lilith…did you ask?”

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