Page 8 of Just Dare Me
It’s obvious Parker doesn’t like my answer. With another of his annoyed sighs, he enters a code into the security keypad by the door, unlocking it. He pulls it open for me. “In sixty seconds, the alarm will reactivate. Enjoy your walk.”
I don’t bother trying to say something snarky to get the last word. Stripping my underwear off, I shift with the intent of bounding out the open door. But just enough irritation carries over into my fox brain that I can’t help myself—I snap at Parker’s ankles. He leaps back with a hiss of anger. After I make my escape with Muppet, he slams the door.
In Detroit, it’s not uncommonto see a wild fox roaming the alleys, or to spot a stray dog on the streets. It would be uncommon, however, to see a fox and a dog walking side-by-side as though they’re pals, which is exactly how Muppet always wants to be. Sometimes I allow it, in places that are unpopulated, with no risk of being seen. But if a car comes, or people are out in their yards, I have to bolt, pretending to flee from the big bad dog who wants to eat me. It’s humiliating, plus Muppet thinks it’s a fun game, so he gets all excited and tries to tackle me or nip at my tail, the big oaf.
It’s perfectly cold out, just the right temperature. April is a month of compromise for weather in Detroit. On the one hand, we go from miserably freezing to nice sweater weather; on the other hand, we go from dry to wet. The most acceptable form of greeting in April is to sigh and say, “Here comes the rain again,” to which I always reply, “Great song.”
I take us on our usual route, a five-mile loop that starts in the industrial sector and will bring us home through residential neighborhoods. We sniff at Dumpsters, chase raccoons, and scare the crap out of a drunk guy who mistakes Muppet for a bear.
The highlight of our loop comes at the transition from industrial to residential blocks. There’s a back alley that runs behind a series of warehouses for a quarter mile, straight and clear, a perfect strip for racing. I’ve always won these races, but each time my margin of victory shrinks. I think that in a fair race—speed versus speed—Muppet would win, but I’m too vain to play fair if that means losing against an animal that is gullible enough to fall for my tricks.
Muppet knows we’re getting close. He sticks to my side and watches me with jittery anticipation. I have to be careful. At the slightest provocation from me—any quick movement or step in the direction of the alley—he’ll be off like a shot.
We cross a street to enter the alley, but still I play it cool, feigning interest in a toppled garbage can. Even though the can is empty, I poke my head inside and sniff around, knowing that Muppet will copy me. Sure enough, he edges his way past me into the can, forcing me to back out. That’s when I make my move.
I bolt down the alley, spurred by the sound of Muppet flipping out, banging his head on the inside of the can as he scrambles to get away. I’ve given myself a good head start. The alley is a blur whipping past at thirty miles an hour, faster than the world’s fastest human. In thirty seconds, I’ve run the entire quarter mile. Amazingly, Muppet has caught up. We finish neck and neck.
It’s a good thing dogs have no capacity to understand winning or losing, or else Muppet would be gloating the whole way home. Instead, he wags his tail like crazy and leaps all around me, as if to say, “Let’s go again!” I’m tempted to start another race, only to stop and see how long it takes him to notice, like when you fake throwing a ball.
Suddenly, we’re both startled by savage barking from a huge Doberman Pinscher. I feel like those cats you see in cartoons that jump four feet straight up and all their fur sticks out. Luckily, the beast is on the other side of a chain-link fence. Muppet backs away, his head tilted in confusion at such an angry greeting. He gives a hopeful wag of his tail, but the Doberman only gets angrier, throwing itself at the fence with bared teeth.
I feel a strange sense of contempt for such a rude response. Muppet’s unfailing cheeriness can be annoying, but it doesn’t deserve the dog equivalent of a middle finger. Besides, if anybody’s going to treat Muppet that way, it’s going to be me.
I feel compelled to put myself between the two of them with the intention of nudging Muppet away, and that’s when the weirdest thing happens. As soon as I take one step toward the fence, the Doberman shuts his mouth and lowers his head. I immediately freeze with a chill racing down my spine, because I’m absolutely certain that the beast must have spotted a threat behind me—someone or something terrifying. But, whipping my head around to look…I see nothing.
When I turn back to the Doberman, he lowers his head even more and steps away from the fence. Now I’m really freaked out, because maybe there’s a ghost around. Or we’re about to have an earthquake. Dogs are supposed to be able to sense ghosts and earthquakes, right? I ask Muppet with a tilt of my head:Isn’t that right, Muppet?But by the way he furiously wags his tail, all he can sense at the moment is rainbows and cupcakes.
Back to the Doberman. The longer I stare at him, the lower he drops his head, until finally his chin rests on the pavement. There’s no doubt about it—he’s acting submissive. To me! Which—I feel goes without saying—is a first. I’ve never known any aggressive dog to act anything but hungry toward me, even Chihuahuas, forget about Dobermans. I mean, you’d think I’d be flattered, or excited, right? But I’m too stunned to feel anything.
As a final test, I take the tiniest step toward the fence, and that’s game over. The Doberman’s legs skitter and tangle, tripping him up. He rolls over, finds his footing, and sprints away.
Muppet hasn’t the slightest clue that anything weird has happened, but I’ve got the jitters now. Something’s not right, and I don’t like it. I turn in slow circles, scanning every window, rooftop, and dark corner in sight. I don’t see anything. I don’t hear anything.
We roam in silence after that, Muppet not because he’s spooked—he’s obliviously chipper, as always—but because he takes cues from me, and right now I’m trying to get us home as quickly and stealthily as possible. I dart from shadow to shadow, pausing frequently to look behind us. With each passing second, I feel more and more unsettled. Every little sound makes me jump, but if there’s no sound, then I start to feel that it’stooquiet. Total paranoia. Is this a panic attack?
After several minutes of nerve-racking uncertainty, it’s almost a relief when I see a green glow down a dark lane behind a row of abandoned houses. Instantly, I flatten myself to the ground and crawl behind a hedge bush. Muppet joins me there, but standing at full height, panting happily. So much for stealth.
The green glow is from a flare. Of course it is. And I don’t take it as a coincidence that the mark of the Windsor vampire clan has appeared on my usual walking route. Against the advice of my racing heart and panicked animal instinct, I remind myself that if the Windsor clan wanted to hurt me, they wouldn’t have announced themselves first. This signal was meant to get my attention.
A shadowed figure steps on the flare, grinding it out. I detect a hint of a French accent when her soft, velvety whisper seems to float on the slightest of breezes down the lane. “I am alone, and I am no more armed than you.”
No more armed than her poisonous fangs and preternatural speed. Small comfort. While I’m doing my due diligence of weighing our options—trust a vampire, or run away as fast as I can—Muppet decides he’s got this and trots down the brick lane toward her.
“That’s far enough,” she murmurs. “Rest yourself.” Immediately, he obeys, lying down and resting his head on his paws. Even his tail goes still. I’ve never seen him so calm.
Once I’ve moved into the deep shadows of the lane, I shift and say, “I’ve been meaning to have a talk with him about stranger danger.”
“A suboptimal endeavor, if not completely impossible,” she says flatly. “Imprudent, in either case. His kind are weak-willed and half-witted. As with humans, natural selection has already prescribed their eventual and inevitable extinction.”
“Well, aren’t you just a shit-ton of fun at parties?”
“Actually, not at all. I avoid parties.”
“And sarcasm, I guess.”
“Come closer,” she demands.
“Tell me what you want,” I demand back.
