A Wolf at the Door

I think I must have stepped from the mysterious tunnel a hundred times. A thousand, maybe. Over and over again in that endlessly looping dream, out onto an open field of dirt, beaten solid under thousands of tramping feet. I never figured out what I was waiting for, or if the distant shadowy figure was it. I never figured out what was waiting in the tunnel behind me, or if it was enemy or friend.

I do know that when Tai’s hand grabbed my shoulder, jolting me awake, I came up swinging. My fist slapped into his hand with a resounding smack, and we both just blinked at each other for long moments.

“Bad dream?”

I played it over in my head again, then just shrugged. “I honestly have no idea.” My dreams had come true before. Well, just one dream, but it was enough to set a precedent. What the hell did this one mean? I had the last one for four years before it finally happened. I had to wonder if and when this one would pop out of my brain and into reality. Somehow, this one scared me more than the Yeti dream ever had, and I didn’t even know why.

17

I didn’t even know L.A. had a Chinatown, but sure enough there was one, and that’s where Ivan’s horribly scrawled directions sent us. We had to park the car and walk, and as we threaded our way down the crowded street, I felt like a tourist, gawking around at the ornately decorated buildings. Oddly, instead of it marking me as an outsider, I fit right in with the rest of the sightseers, everyone around us craning necks and snapping pictures in front of local landmarks. Like most things out here, Chinatown was geared toward the almighty tourist dollar, with flashy colors and music, gold leaf and neon. Twice, we had to dodge frantically dancing Chinese dragons, their puppeteers’ feet moving in sync beneath the thick fringed edges, and there didn’t even seem to be any special occasion warranting the display.

I had a hard time picturing Ivan walking down this street, all severe in his black trench coat, a black mark on the carefully choreographed gaiety. Of course, I was rapidly coming to realize that I knew very little about the man himself. It was impossible to say what had drawn him down here to find this person he’d now sent us to locate.

“Here. I think we turn here.” Gretchen led the way as we left the clamoring street behind. Tai and I spread out some, flanking her protectively as the voices behind us dwindled to nothing within a few yards. Now this, this was somewhere I could picture Ivan frequenting.

I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a street or an alley. It was narrow, and clogged with Dumpsters and discarded paraphernalia from the surrounding businesses. No one would ever be able to get a vehicle down it. A thin trickle of water (we’ll hope it was water) ran from a gutter, down the middle of the uneven paving stones, and vanished into a sewer grate with a sad little tinkle of sound.

No one was here, I realized. No employees sneaking out back for a cigarette break, no homeless people scrounging in the trash. No lost tourists, except for us. Goose bumps whispered along my shoulders, and I rubbed my thumb over the disk hanging from my belt loop. Around the edges, it was faintly purple.

The doors along the walls were mostly padlocked shut, blank and anonymous, until we reached one that was not. A sign hung on the wall, written in Asian characters I didn’t recognize. It was a rather utilitarian sign, generic in its plainness. No hint of “welcome” about it, but no sense of “fuck off” either.

The metal door itself was ajar a few inches, allowing the thick aroma of incense to escape into the dank alley. There was a light on inside, dim and flickering. Candles, maybe?

“Do we knock?” Gretchen looked at me questioningly.

“Oh, hell yes.” I didn’t know what kind of person might specialize in reading demonic script, but I was willing to wager that barging in on such a person unannounced would be hazardous to everyone’s health.

Reaching past her, I rapped my knuckles on the metal sharply, and was rewarded with the faint tingle of a ward flaring. I had to smirk a little. The heady incense almost drowned out the distinctive scent of cloves, and I had to wonder if that had been done on purpose.

Within, a voice answered in a language I didn’t speak, but the sound of “coming!” is pretty universal. Within moments, an elderly Asian woman opened the door, smiling when she saw us. Her head barely reached my bicep, even petite Gretchen towering over her. Her graying hair was nearly white, pulled back into its tight bun, and her clothes were some kind of traditional garb, a small jacket and long skirt in simple fabrics. Not Japanese, I knew that much, but it didn’t look like Chinese either.