Page 29 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
“Thanks,” she said and handed the vape back to Amy.
“I’m glad we met, Tehlor. I know Haven can be a lot—I can be a lot—but it’s nice to have a friend.”
“You have plenty of friends. I’m glad we met, too, though. I needed to get out of the house.”
A small, hopeless laugh lurched from Amy’s mouth, sudden and then smothered. “Well, c’mon, let’s go make some s’mores,” she chirped, stepping back into who she’d been in the kitchen, at the metaphysical shop. Lively and sweet, faithful and unwavering. The Haven good girl.
Tehlor followed her around the side of the house and through the gate, closing it behind her. Firelight licked snowy patio furniture and danced on the frost spread across the yard. Shadows stretched away from ankles, jilting with each step and casual movement. Rose clutched a refilled wine glass, swathed in a wool coat with polished buttons, and Phillip laughed as he speared a marshmallow, nodding at something one of the other men said. Lincoln stood with Daniel. Their conversation appeared tense. Or maybe emotional. Tehlor watched the pair out of the corner of her eye, tracking Lincoln’s solemn nod and Daniel’s heavy sigh. Definitely emotional. Lincoln swatted Daniel on the back—men—and said something that made Daniel pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Looks like our husbands get along,” Amy said, nudging Tehlor with her elbow. “C’mon, let’s have a treat—hey, hey! Oh, those look dee-licious. Jackie, can you hand me one?”
The Haven parishioners clustered in small, obvious alliances. Women huddled together, coupled or as a trio, and men stood apart from them, talking amongst themselves. Tehlor continued collecting information, tidbits she could exploit later. One of Phillip’s friends walked with a well-masked limp. The redhead who’d asked about her tattoo traded nervous glances with a man who wasn’t her husband. Rose watched like a wolf surveying sheep, standing near the small bonfire.
The second Tehlor relaxed enough to step into the bonfire’s warmth and properly case the house, she noticed movement through the slider. It was quick. A sudden flash, but a blur far too familiar to disregard.Don’t you fuckin’ do it. She kept her face forward but slid her eyes toward the glass door that led to the kitchen. Gunnhild, who had jostled Tehlor’s purse from atop the table, rounded the corner and scampered into the hall.Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph.
Amy stepped up next to her, holding a sleeve of graham crackers. “Tehlor, do you want—”
“Where’s the powder room?” Tehlor interrupted. She flashed a tight grin. “Sorry. Yes, I do want one, but I have to pee first.”
“Oh, it’s down the hall on the left. I can show—”
“No, no,” she blabbed, flapping her hands. “Make your s’more. I’ll be right back.”
Tehlor ignored Lincoln’s curious look and darted inside, carefully navigating the kitchen tile on her snow-slicked heels. She kicked her purse aside as she entered the hall, frantically searching for a fleshy tail and listening for the pitter-patter of paws.
“Gunnhild,” she hissed, whispering. “Gunnhild, what thefuck?”
A squeak sounded from the staircase.
Tehlor slipped. Her ankle folded and she caught herself on the wall, reaching for one shoe and then the other. She abandoned her wet heels and pulled up her dress, seething as she climbed the staircase. At the top, she spotted Gunnhild hopping down the narrow hall.
“Where the hell are you going?” She snuck a glance over her shoulder before barreling down the hall after her familiar. “Hey, Gunnnild, stop—Gunnhild!”
The rat halted in front of a plain, eggshell-colored door in the center of the hall, flanked by an empty bedroom and positioned across from a bathroom with a spotless vanity. Tehlor mumbled as she strode forward—you little shitandcome hereandyou’re gonna get us kicked outandwhat are you even doingandyou’re like a drunk girl at a bar—but paused mid-crouch. Her open hand hovered above Gunnhild, who sniffed at the bottom of the door, and her heart seized.
There was something about fear, something animal and grounding, that never failed to impress her. No one liked being afraid, but she appreciated it. How adrenaline shot through her like an upturned bottle, spilling in her stomach. How she couldn’t speak, or move, or do much of anything when it first arrived. How fear took her by the neck and saidlook.
Two skinny, battered fingers slid beneath the door and curled, showing bloodied cuticles and bitten nails. Gunnhild sniffed the bony digits. The person—thing—on the other side of the door stretched its fingers outward, reaching.
Hauntings didn’t show themselves outright. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons cloaked their energy behind innate humanness. Anger, joy, reverence, pain. Spiritual entities used the animalistic patterns at the forefront of unsuspecting minds to cut through corporeal spaces without being noticed.
But this is no haunting, she thought and took a small step backward. The air thinned and crackled. Her lungs ached, but she refused to gasp, rejecting the instinct to panic.
The person behind the door spoke, their voice overlayed like a warped recorder. Many people, many things. “I can smell you.”
Tehlor snatched Gunnhild up from the floor and cradled her close to her chest.
“You know not what you do.” Lilting, scratchy tones. Like a dove, like a woman, man, bear, toddler. “Pray with me, child of the Æsir.”
“Who are you?” Tehlor asked, taking another step backward.
Clammy, invisible hands slid around her biceps, halting her in place. A chapped mouth scraped her cheek. Tehlor’s lungs tightened. Sour blood, like roadkill in summer, perfumed the air. She reached for the magic churning inside her and thoughtlight, thoughtburn, thoughtget away, go, run. Her heart raced. Fear choked her.
Whatever had manifested in the Haven house was not power, but something worse. The unmaking of it. Whatever surrounded her, whatever pressed itself to the backside of that door, was absent the stability of an earth-bound vessel. It was sticky, and brutal, andwrong.
“Come with me to the garden,” the disembodied voice, mingling with noises she couldn’t parse—wails, chitters, cries—whispered against her ear.
She thrashed, stumbling sideways, swatting at the air.
