from the humiliating way things had worked out between her and the pretty-faced social climber.
“He’s not still calling you, is he?”
She curled her lip. “I keep telling him to leave me alone, only pretty boy can’t understand why I’m no longer interested. But enough about him.
“Since the storms will keep things slow in here this afternoon, why don’t you go on and head home so that you have time to shower and change,” Michaela said, changing the topic. “You are going to that lecture with me tonight, and while we’re there you’re going to tell me everything…everything…that happened today. There just might have been more there than you realize, Torry.”
Walking to the Tarot table, Michaela went back to work arranging the packs of cards along with a sparkling array of raw crystals, the shallow, rain-dappled light glinting softly against their uncut surfaces in a vivid display of color. “Jennifer is coming in at four for her shift, so I’ll be able to get out of here a little early,” she explained while Torrance rounded the bar, pulling her jacket on, then slinging her backpack over her right shoulder. “I’ll be by to pick you up at five.”
“Thanks, Mic,” she called back, heading out the front door, the tinkling of the door chimes following her out into the misty gray of the day. The rain had let up enough that it now resembled more of a refreshing mist, and Torrance set off down the street enjoying the cool, damp breeze against her face, the clean smell of the outdoors lingering beneath the more acrid scents of the city. She walked at a steady, energetic pace, her eyes taking in the beauty of the historical architecture in that part of town, the weathered, yet well-kept facades framed by towering willows and oaks, their ancient roots bulging beneath the sidewalk, as if seeking sunshine through the heavy, cracked concrete.
She used the time to clear her mind—or at least tried to— but two blocks into her four-block walk, it hit her. A strange, unsettling sense of not being alone, which was odd, seeing as how she wasn’t. In the garden ahead, an elderly woman in a sun hat knelt among an assortment of perennials, while on the other side of the street a young boy walked his beagle alongside his dad, both of them holding hands and smiling. The sun was beginning to peek briefly through the rain clouds, and up ahead a rainbow formed across the distant silver-blue of the sky, perfect and pristine in its beauty. And yet, something felt…not right. The feeling grew, oddly disturbing, and she nearly tripped on an uneven bit of sidewalk, even though she knew this path well enough to walk it in her sleep.
Clutching her backpack, Torrance sent a furtive look over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. And yet, the feeling wouldn’t go away, reminding her of the nightmares that she’d suffered from since childhood. Vivid, terrifying dreams in which monsters stalked her, their warm breath on the back of her neck…before they caught her. The familiar feelings of helplessness, of vulnerability, coated her skin, sinking in through her pores until she felt steeped in them. By the time she reached her apartment building, her lungs hurt from holding her breath and her pulse beat out a hammering tempo that nearly jarred her brain. Moving quickly, she used her key to open her front door. Once inside her apartment, she immediately slid the chain into place.
Leaning her forehead against the cool wood, Torrance let her backpack slip off her shoulder, all the while struggling to get her lungs working properly again. Straightening up, she turned and looked carefully at her living room, seeking comfort in its soothing atmosphere. Mic had helped her to create the perfect ambience, a relaxing blend of bold wood and soft, inviting fabrics, with an old Persian rug covering the dark hardwood floors and scented candles on nearly every surface. Bookshelves lined the walls, while jewel-colored throw pillows covered the oversize love seat and matching chair. Hidden in an oriental-looking cabinet was a small TV set, which she used to indulge her weakness for all the CSI shows as well as Letterman, while a low table under the window held her speaker system for her iPod and her new laptop.
This was her space, her little getaway, her private corner of the world, and Torrance took a deep breath through her nose…waiting for the panic to ease. She counted the seconds off slowly, willing that feeling of safety that she always found here to come. But there was nothing. Nothing but that bitter lump of fear sitting in the back of her throat, churning her stomach into a knot.
“Get a grip,” she muttered, straightening her spine. Damn it, she wasn’t going to let her overactive imagination spook her out of her own apartment! Marching like a zealous militant, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a tall glass of sweetened iced tea, and then crossed back through the living room to the single bedroom. Her slightly slanted blinds allowed a narrow glance at the now swollen sky, a sharp crack of resonating thunder heralding the arrival of another storm. Ah, she’d made it just in time, she thought, forcing a small smile.
Walking to her dresser, she studied her pale reflection in the beveled antique mirror on the wall while slipping the clasps free on her small silver hoops, then unfastened her slim watch and slid off her bracelets. A refrain from one of the Celtic CDs Mic played throughout the day in the store found its way into her mind, and she began humming softly, determined to ignore that lingering unease, until she felt a cold, clammy chill crawl over her skin, her palms going damp and hot.
Something’s wrong, she thought dully, experiencing the oddest sense of viewing the situation from afar. The feeling tightened, sharpening, until she feared that she wasn’t alone, even though she’d seen no one when she’d walked into the room. But on the opposite side of her bed, just behind her, was the closet—and she couldn’t remember if the door had been open or closed when she’d entered the room…and was suddenly too afraid to look. Had she remembered to lock all the windows earlier? Damn it, living in a quiet neighborhood had made her careless, because she couldn’t remember checking them before she’d left for work that morning!
“There’s no such thing as monsters,” she muttered, determined to stay calm, but every terrifying scene from every nightmare she’d ever suffered began playing through her mind. A deep, bone-jarring tremor shook her body like a frail, fragile leaf caught in the destructive fury of a storm, and she watched in a numb daze as her hand lifted, reaching toward the surface of her dresser where she kept her mail. Her fingers touched the cold, hard metal of the antique letter opener Mic had given her last Christmas, and as they curled around the silver handle, she heard the telltale creak of a floorboard. A sickening feeling slipped through her, like something sticky and wet sliding over her skin, sending her stomach into a roiling spin. Her breath stopped, suspended, held tight in her lungs as she raised her wide eyes and caught the reflection in the mirror above her dresser.
It was behind her, at the foot of her bed, visible over her left shoulder. Tall, over seven feet at least, with fangs and fur—and a head that resembled the terrifying shape of a wolf.
She opened her mouth to scream, but before the bloodcurdling cry had clawed its way out of her throat, the beast was on her, knocking the dagger-shaped opener to the ground. It twisted her easily, taking her to the floor, where it slowly looked her over out of dark, lifeless eyes that shone as blank and black as a doll’s. Despite her frantic struggles, long, lethal-tipped claws took possession of her wrists, lifting her arms up high over her head, stretching her out beneath its hard, oppressively heavy body straddling her thighs. An overpowering combination of animal musk, pine-scented forests and a sharp acidic odor filled her head, and Torrance screamed again, if she’d ever stopped screaming—but she couldn’t hear anything over the terrified roaring of her heart, unsure if the sounds of her horror were trapped in her throat or shattering against the walls, drowned out by her heartbeat.
“Well, well, aren’t you a tasty little piece?” it drawled in a deep, guttural voice, the words awkward as they made their way past the muzzled shape of its mouth, fangs gleaming whitely in the graying light of her bedroom. It almost looked as if it were smiling at her, and for some reason, that scared her more than anything.
“Who
