Page 27 of The Wolfing Hour
“Exactly what does it mean to be a guardian of Hades?”
“My son’s magic kept the underworld in check. While he was in charge, it was next to impossible to summon a demon like that annoying insect you run into from time to time.” He peered down his nose at me. “I have no idea why you allow him to continue to exist.”
“Who? Gnath?”
He gave me a lip curl, chin lift, and slight nod telling me wordlessly that mentioning the highway demon by name was beneath me. Sexton was good at those kinds of looks.
“When Christoph was helming Charon’s ferry,” he said, the frost back in his tone, “the demon Belial would not have dared to show its face in the presence of one of our bloodline. Everyone feared your father. He had power that even the gods envied.”
So many questions. Again. “Helming Charon’s ferry?”
“I am speaking metaphorically.”
“You say that, but I worry you’re being literal. That my father was actually piloting the dark ferryman’s boat on the godsdamned river Styx.”
“Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.” Sexton’s bones clacked as he drew to his feet.
I also stood and nodded at Fennel, who returned the gesture then stalked over to the gnome version of Sleeping Beauty and poked him awake.
“You didn’t tell me how my father died,” I said.
“Christoph died doing his job.”
I absently splayed my hand over my heart. “Keeping the underworld in check?”
“Protecting you.”
The ride homewas a blur of angry Fennel tail thumps, Cecil snores, and Elton John songs on KLXX’s Double Thursday lunch hour. By the time “Rocketman” played, I was ready to launch a spaceship to Neptune with both my partners aboard.
“Stop with the thumps before you give me a headache,” I snapped.
Fennel scowled at me in the way only a ticked-off cat can.
“You know what’s eating at me? The way he described my father as “helming Charon’s ferry” as if he were some kind of hell pirate. Cool thrash metal band name, but what does it mean?” I switched off the radio. “Full disclosure, I’m low-key freaking out right now.”
“Meow,” Fennel drawled.
“Fine. I’mhigh-key freaking out. It’s not fair. I’ve finally got my magic working better than ever. The saguaros are back. I’mable to protect not only my park, but Ronan, too—or at least help him as much as he’ll allow. Why now?”
Cecil blinked sleepily up at me. He removed his hat, pulled a spike of lavender from within its bottomless depths, and extended it to me. It was a sweet gesture, and because Cecil rarely offered sweet anything, I accepted it with a smile.
“Thanks for the bud, bud,” I said.
Cecil rolled his eyes and put his hat back on.
“Yeah, I know the teeny parts are the buds, but I’ve always called lavender spikes buds. No one except you cares about the difference between a spike and a bud, anyway—except actual spikers, I guess, and they’re more worried about the kind of spikes that go directly into your brain, not the kind we grow. See what I mean? I’m babbling. More evidence of my weak grip on my sanity.”
The boys relaxed in the cat car seat. This wasn’t my first freakout, and they were accustomed to hunkering down until the storm passed.
“Did you hear what he said when I tied his shoe?”
On our way back to his strange little house, I’d noticed Sexton’s running shoe was untied. I couldn’t imagine the series of creaking, origami folds his body would make to address it, so I’d stopped him, knelt, and tied it. When I was back on my feet, he gave me a stern, cold look.
“Never bend the knee to demons, Betty.”
“You’re not only a demon, Sexton. You’re my grandfather.”
His jaw worked as he studied my face. “I am demon, Betty. You can never fully trust my kind. Remember that.”
