A Wolf at the Door

“Gretchen Keene took her own life tonight.” For just one moment, I was tempted to look over the edge of the pool to the lobby far below, but I squelched the urge. Some things I just didn’t need to see. Not really. What I’d already seen had been bad enough.

20

Gretchen Keene was declared dead at 12:15 a.m., New Year’s Eve morning. Just like Axel and Cindy said, it was all over by New Year’s. Stupid me, I’d thought she had at least another day, twenty-four more hours to put things right, but…you see what happens when you assume.

Spencer’s presence turned out to be fortunate. When security and the police came storming out of the elevator, he was able to back up my story, swearing that yes, Gretchen had held me at gunpoint, then jumped to her own death. He didn’t mention golems, or angels, or the fact that my sword was tucked away under a bench far out of sight. Because really, who would have believed him? I was there, and I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Still, the police held me for hours, asking the same questions over and over again, mostly centered around why in the hell I was wearing a full suit of mail armor. I used my one phone call to ring Ivan up, and by the time the old man arrived, the cops gave up trying to make me say something different. I gave them my contact information in Missouri, and they let me go.

“I am to being sorry, Dawson.” That was all Ivan had to say, and I was glad for his stoic silence. There was too much going on in my brain to make small talk.

My ticket back home wasn’t good until tomorrow, so that gave me an entire day to kill in L.A. First, Ivan took me to retrieve my gear, and inspected my back closely as I changed into a clean T-shirt. “I have never to be seeing the like.” One thick finger touched my shoulder blade, and the ridges of his fingerprint rasped like sandpaper. I hissed, jerking out of his reach. It was too sensitive, still. Tender.

“Now what are we to be doing?”

“Now I need you to help me play bad cop–worse cop.” Apparently, he got the reference, ’cause he didn’t ask me any more questions after that.

Tai and the real Dante had been taken to the hospital, and though I wanted to go check on them both, I just couldn’t make myself. I’d failed to protect Gretchen and I just couldn’t face either of them yet. If ever. There were, however, two people I very much wanted to visit before I left town. I chose the more pleasant—if you can call it that—of the two first.

With Ivan and a phone call to a faraway Viljo on my side, it wasn’t hard to find the address for Gretchen’s mother, and I knew we’d found the right place when we pulled up to find the house surrounded by a veritable army of paparazzi and news vans. They snapped pictures and tried to thrust microphones in my face as I got out of Ivan’s car, but one look from the big Ukrainian had them backing up a good couple of yards. Someday, I wanna learn to do that, just back people off with a look.

I didn’t know the woman who answered the door. Family friend, if I had to guess, and acting as a gatekeeper in this time of tragedy. She was ready to do battle, that much was clear. “If you don’t get off this property, I’m going to have the cops on your ass so fast…”

“I’m not a reporter. I’m…I was one of Gretchen’s bodyguards. I just came to talk to her mother.”

The fierce expression on her face faded into a bit of doubt, but I still don’t think she was going to let me in until a voice came from inside. “Let him in, Rebecca.” Reluctantly, the self-appointed guard let me pass, then made a show of slamming and locking the door behind me.

The house itself was…average. Everything was average. Seventies-era wood paneling, threadbare and scuffed furniture, a few dusty doilies, some knickknacks on the shelves. It could have been my mom’s house. It could have been anybody’s mom’s house. Part of me cringed to be walking across the rug in my dusty boots, expecting to get smacked upside the back of the head for it.

Rebecca escorted me to the room on the left, where two other women were seated on the worn sofa. I recognized Gretchen’s mother, sitting with her back ramrod straight, her face severely composed to hide her grief. The other was lying with her head in Patty’s lap, and sat up when I entered, brushing her blond hair back out of her face and hastily rubbing the tears off her cheeks. Gretchen’s sister. Older than the picture on the mirror, but I’d have known her anyway. The resemblance to Gretchen was eerie.

It occurred to me as I went to introduce myself that I didn’t even know Patty’s last name. I settled for “Ma’am. I’m Jesse Dawson.” Patty stood to shake my hand, offering me a smile because it was the polite thing to do. “We haven’t really met, but I saw you the other day at the hotel.”

Patty nodded. “I remember. You’re fairly new to her employ, yes? I don’t remember seeing you before.”