Thank you for the reviews! Still working on my other WIPs. These short chapters are doing wonders for my writer's block.
The headlights finally illuminated the wooden welcome sign for the township of Hog Hollow. The population wasn't big enough to support a Wal-Mart, but according to the little hand painted metal placards, it still had a disproportionate variety of churches to choose from and two hardware stores, wow.
Coming up in the world.
The highway detoured through the middle of town, down Main Street's row of brick buildings, two blocks in total and none of them taller than two stories — a far cry from skyscrapers and freeways. The whole place was asleep, deserted except for a group of teens loitering at the drive-in burger place. Some things never change.
Muscle memory took over halfway through town. Left at the flashing intersection light, right just past the school and another right onto the highway again. Five more miles. Don Henley crooned about one of these nights, and every so often Murphy snored, curled up under a blanket in the passenger seat.
It felt like I hadn't blinked in two freaking hours.
Every flickering shadow at the roadside was another dog — had I really seen it? Lately I had been asking myself that question more and more. Assuming it was real, what the hell was it? I'd seen my godmother's hellhounds up close and personal, the Erlking's hunting dogs, even a grim or two in a graveyard, but nothing quite like that. The better question was whether or not it was the culprit preying on the farm animals. I wasn't lucky enough to have almost hit the damn thing.
The mailbox labeled McCoy finally came into view and I slowed for the turn. The dusty dirt road led up a small hill and down again to where the farm sat in its own little hollow, like something on a postcard. A scattering of trees surrounded the two-story house. It looked a lot like the one in the famous pitchfork-guy painting — pristine white, tall windows and a mossy copper roof that had turned green decades ago. A wide porch circled the entire structure and a dogtrot separated the main part of the house from the storeroom and McCoy's study, which was an odd mishmash of wizard lab and farm office.
The shed stood open, the old truck parked inside. Behind it sat a small vegetable garden and chicken coop in a high mesh fence, to keep the deer and other animals out. The big pastures were empty — the neighbor kid had already moved the livestock into the safety of the pens near the barn.
Everything looked just as it did the day I left.
Ebenezer ran a tight ship, and I had known even then that I was more hindrance than help. He was the first person since my father to look after me for my own sake, instead of for a measly government stipend or because he thought I'd make a good thrall. I had been old enough to understand that. Old enough to understand that it was the last second chance I'd get, and I had done my best to deserve it. Now those few bright years were tarnished by the knowledge that I'd been living with my potential executioner. Worse still, now I kind of understood why.
I parked the car by the house and turned off the motor, listening to it click as it cooled. Nothing to do for it now except pack those feelings away to be Future Harry's problem. Sleep wasn't just calling my name, it had a warrant for my arrest.
Speaking of.
"Hey, Murphy." I turned to the snoozing figure in the passenger seat. Nothing but snores. I poked her shoulder, gently. "Karrin." She mumbled something that ended with 'not going to school today, Mom.' I grinned and put a hand on her arm, though I should have known better. She seized my wrist in a lock before her eyes were open — immediate, automatic, without any of the thoughtful restraint she would have shown if we were sparring. "Christ, Murph—" I squawked. "It's me."
"Huh? Oh, fuck. Sorry." She blinked once, took a deep breath and let go of me. "What time is it?"
"Almost one." I shook out my wrist. "I think."
She frowned blearily at me, then at the digital clock on the dash, which read 99:99. She rubbed at her eyes and her frown deepened.
"Almost hit a dog."
"A dog." She sat up, her expression softening when she saw the blanket I'd thrown over her while she slept. She folded it and tucked it behind her seat.
"Looked like a dog."
"Looked like?" she echoed as I handed her the keys. I opened the car door and got out, stretching as I surveyed the rainwashed fields. She did the same, smothering a yawn. The bearings in the windmill creaked as it turned with the breeze, pumping water into the elevated tank by the house. "Oh, wow," Murphy said, glancing around as we both stepped to the back of the car. "It really is a farm."
"... You were expecting something else?"
"I dunno." She unlocked the trunk. The Saturn didn't have much in the way of cargo space, the back seat was folded flat to make room for our respective gear. Murphy pulled out her gym bag and one of those hardshell rifle cases almost as tall as she was, leaned against her shoulder. "I was expecting something a little less Anne of Green Gables and a little more Ted Kaczynski."
"I think the same thing every time I go to your place," I said, grabbing my duffel bag and staff. She pressed her lips together and laughed sleepily, the sound as warm as the night itself, countermelody to the ripple of the creek, the chirp of crickets and cicadas in the trees. My weary brain conjured a split-second daydream; the two of us, that White Sox blanket, a six-pack to share and the moonlit, wildflower-filled clearing on the far side of the treeline. Definitely not Hawaii, but it didn't matter where we were as long as I could make her laugh like that again. And again. And—
She bumped me with an elbow, concerned. "You okay?"
"Tired." I shook my head. "I'll give you the official tour tomorrow."
"Sounds good."
We climbed the porch stairs together. She stood back as I put out a hand to check the state of the wards. My mentor hadn't changed them much; earth magic that would knock a trespasser out into the driveway and trap them in a circle of increased gravity to be dealt with at his leisure. The ward bypass doohickey —a leftover brass washer from building a gate— still lived on my keychain.
I opened the unlocked door and stepped inside. The threshold was as strong as ever. It had been my home for a while and I passed without leaving any power at the door. As I did, the candles on the windowsill and in mirrored metal holders on the walls of the kitchen flickered to life — a bit of automated spellwork I'd never been able to accurately (and safely) duplicate.
Karrin followed. Wailing bagpipes blared from somewhere in the dim farmhouse as soon as she stepped inside. I swore and jumped so high I hit one of the ceiling beams. She froze, one foot across the threshold, cringing at the ear-splitting rendition of Scotland the Brave.
I reached toward the door as I realized what it was, sensing the web of spells that made up the warding. I picked at a thread, the single well-hidden tripwire that had detected her presence accompanying mine, and the spell began to unravel, the noise died away. "Sorry," I mumbled into the abrupt silence, rubbing the sore spot on my skull where it had met the wooden beam. "I, uh. Wasn't supposed to have any girls over."
"And I tripped the Hot Date Proximity Alert." She hid a smile and mercifully didn't mention how surprised I had been.
"Patent pending." I had no idea the old man set a trap for me, having never sprung it. "Bathroom's on the right." I nodded toward the hall. "Spare room is at the top of the stairs. I'll get you some blankets and stuff."
Murph set her rifle case on the kitchen table and hefted the gym bag onto her shoulder, headed for the bathroom. I left my stuff in the corner and shucked out of my coat to hang it on the hook near the door. The place was spotlessly clean as ever, spartan but not uncomfortable. The few concessions to modernity included indoor plumbing, a rotary-dial telephone and an old icebox-style fridge.
I gathered up a double armful of sheets and quilts from the closet beneath the stairs and trekked up the creaking steps. The spare bedroom was dusty, the old-fashioned furniture covered by drop cloths. I shook them off, lit the candles with a spell, made the bed. I turned to leave and almost ran into Murphy. She had changed into pajamas; black sweatpants and a threadbare gray t-shirt with her gym's faded logo on it. Her hair was pulled back into a messy braid, her face flushed and just washed. She smelled like minty toothpaste and Noxema.
Talk about your teenage flashbacks.
"Thank you, Harry," she murmured, taking the blankets I offered, her hands lingering on mine. "You didn't have to do that."
"Turndown service is limited to your first night only, and we're fresh out of fancy chocolates," I rambled, suddenly fifteen again, half-expecting my voice to crack. "Don't even ask about the WiFi password."
"Can you fold a towel into a swan?" I shook my head. "No tip for you, then." She gave me a little push toward the hall. "G'night."
I fled into the next room with my own blankets. I shut the door behind me, ready to slide to the floor, bury my face in the faded quilt and shriek like a banshee, until I remembered there was only four inches of wall between us. Every sound carried; the shuffle of bare feet on the braided rug, the click and clatter of things set on the bedside table — what little jewelry she wore, probably, and her pistol. The old mattress springs squeaked as she sat down, with a soft sigh that I tried not to interpret as having anything to do with me.
My room hadn't changed at all. The narrow bed still sat beneath the steep slope of the attic roof, the candles on the wide sill of the gable window. The bookshelves and their battered assortment of classics and secondhand Latin textbooks. It had felt so safe here, still did, but it was a kick in the gut to know the whole time I had been one little fuck-up away from being disappeared by the White Council's cleaner.
I knocked my head against the ceiling again as I made the bed. I kicked out of my boots and clothes. I flopped down on the bed in socks and boxers, muttering frustrated profanity into the pillow until I dozed off.
… Only to wake again when someone slipped into bed with me. The stubs of candles had burned out and the moon had set, the room so dark I might as well have been blindfolded. Small, strong hands on my chest pinned me down and a slight figure straddled my hips, warm and soft in all the right places. "Whoa," I said, fuzzy enjoyment competing with the weird itch in my brain, a dim awareness that this was Not Quite Right. She stilled as I thought it, hesitating for a fraction of a second. A fraction was all I needed.
I grabbed her by the throat and pulled her down to eye level.
"I told you to stay the hell out of my dreams."
Green eyes glowed in the dark a few inches from my own, a sigil shaped like an hourglass. The figure evaporated like a cloud, the weight of her vanished. Only her voice remained, annoyed and entirely in my head.
"You are no fun at all."
I laid there, unmoving, not even sure I was really awake until I heard it. Bloodcurdling wasn't a strong enough word to describe the howl that rent the night. It was something more akin to a human scream than an animal sound. My skin crawled like it was trying to leave without me. There was no way in hell that sound came from anything other than the creepy dog I'd almost hit.
I untangled myself from the blankets and heard the same in the next room; feet on the floor, a window opening as I opened mine. We both leaned out, looking in the direction of the sound.
It howled again, somewhere off in the woods. I turned toward Murphy and found her eyes on me, dark and intense, her hair a sleep-tousled halo, her backup pistol gleaming in her hands.
"Better not be another goddamn werewolf, Dresden."
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