A Wolf at the Door

Returning to the front, I found a place on a bench just outside the door. The least I could do was enjoy the weather. My seat was what we’ll call less than comfortable, but the California sunshine more than made up for it. Seemed like everyone else was enjoying the fine weather too, a constant stream of people parading up and down the sidewalk despite the fact that it was the middle of a weekday. Did no one work here?

People-watching is fun. Well, it used to be. Now, my eyes swept over bared arms, looking for telltale black swirls. Even with the temperatures fairly cool, sun worship ruled here, and most folks had short sleeves on. Made it a little easier. I saw plenty of tans, both real and sprayed on, but no demon tattoos.

I stretched out my legs, got as comfortable as I could, and tried to clear my mind. I had some things to think on.

There definitely was a bad guy in play. That much was certain. Someone who knew I was here. Someone who knew I’d warded the doors. While once upon a time, that would have narrowed down my suspect list, my picture in the morning paper meant that just about anybody could have seen me. And face it, in the demon world, I’m memorable. I’d spanked too many of them for me to go unrecognized.

Hm. If I were a demon, who would I send?

Images of a handless, armless female zombie flashed through my mind’s eye, and I shuddered in spite of the sun. Handless was still out there, somewhere. Prowling the Colorado Rockies, last I knew. Her master was out of the picture for the time being (I hoped) so I didn’t expect to see Handless make an appearance. Besides, she didn’t seem the type to send flowers.

My mirror had ruled out Scrap demons, and honestly, I had no idea what else was even on the table as far as demonic minions.

Maybe just a guy. Some poor demon-sworn schmuck, just following orders in the vain hopes of getting his soul back. I’d encountered that before too. Had the scars to prove it, though not nearly as impressive as some of my others.

Or, maybe Axel was just screwing with me. Though, I couldn’t see him wasting his favor on an elaborate practical joke. That favor was a valuable asset to him, so if he was spending it now, he had his reasons.

In the midst of my deep and circular thoughts, a shiver ran through me and my head snapped up, immediately scoping for the danger. About three seconds later, I realized it wasn’t my danger sense spiking. It was my cell phone, buzzing in my pocket. Mira…

But no, the caller ID said IVAN ZELENKO. Hell. The phone kept buzzing insistently as I stared at it like an idiot, and I started to feel like the old man knew I was debating on whether or not to answer. I could feel that icy, blue-eyed glare across the distance, however great it was.

To pick up, or not to pick up. That was the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to answer the phone and get my ass chewed out (probably rightly deserved), or to valiantly let the call roll to voice mail…yeah, by the time I got done trying to recall my very rusty Shakespeare, the phone stopped ringing. A minute or so later, the message notification blinked on.

I still debated on listening to it. Ivan had been dodging me for three months. I didn’t think he was calling just to catch up. But best to rip the bandage off quickly, right?

The deep gravelly voice forced me to hold the phone away from my ear, but there was no chance of me not hearing him. “Dawson. Am I to be understanding that you are to be working in California, and have not provided this information to Grapevine? This is to being unacceptable. It endangers you, and others. It is to be fortunate that your student is to be worried for your well-being and called me. You will to be returning this message.” Click.

I decided then and there I was gonna beat the crap out of Estéban when I got home. The little twerp narced on me! I was almost thirty-three years old, dammit, I didn’t need to check in with Daddy every time I set foot outside my door. And really, Ivan of all people was gonna quibble about sharing information? Mr. Hide-the-Champion himself? I wondered if he’d understand me if I called and said “Hi, Pot, this is Kettle.” Probably not.

Feeling inordinately rebellious, I hit the DELETE button, erasing the message. He’d kept me waiting this long, I’d call him when I goddamn well felt like it.

Yeah, I’m twelve. I admit this.

Sitting there pissed off and brooding for a few hours didn’t sound like a lot of fun. I eyed the bench for a moment, then managed to fold my long legs up into a close approximation of a lotus position, just resting my hands on my knees. When in doubt, meditate. And if anyone thought it strange, seeing the scrawny blond dude meditating outside the trendy salon, no one said a thing.