Demon Night

“You’re fraternizing him right now. Naked?”
    “Almost.”
    Charlie tried not to imagine that, even though Dylan was…well, yummy. All dark hair and eyes and sinful lips. But he was her sister’s, and they were so cute together. “Why didn’t you say something?”
    “I couldn’t decide if that would be more awkward.”
    “Nerd. You didn’t have to answer the phone.”
    “It was you.”
    “Aw, that’s sweet. Except now I feel dirty.”
    “Imagine how I feel.” The dry tone was familiar—it was Jane .
    Charlie grinned at the phone. “Alrighty then. Try not to be naked at noon.”
    “I’ll try.”
    That ended on a bit of a scream, and Charlie hastily disconnected. The call time flashed up at her from the backlit screen: fifty-six seconds. Her smile faded.
    Adding in the minute it had probably taken to come up here, she had thirteen minutes before she had to return. Shit.
    She should have brought a book. Or her knitting bag. How long had she been relying on Jane being available when she needed a distraction? God knew Charlie had been dependent enough in her life; she should have recognized the signs by now.
    But she shouldn’t be feeling this envy. If anyone deserved happiness, it was Jane. Charlie didn’t know if Dylan deserved her sister, but if Jane was happy with him, Charlie would be, as well.
    With effort, she forced away the self-pity—that emotion was addictive, too.
    She rocked a little harder, let her head fall back against the cushion, and closed her eyes. Why had she let a guy like Stevens get to her? She never had before. She didn’t know why she was so tense of late—or why she couldn’t shake the certainty that she was constantly under observation. Surely after two months, she couldn’t blame her paranoia on nicotine withdrawal.
    At least she could be confident that no one could see her for the next ten minutes. Determinedly, she occupied herself with a game of pinball on her cell phone until she heard a swell of laughter and voices.
    Charlie left the cover of the swing and looked over the low wall at the front of the building toward the Heritage, where an old-fashioned marquee declared it “James Stewart Month.” Groups of twos and threes spilled from the theater’s doors, many of them folding their collars up against the rain.
    The second show must have ended earlier than usual, or there’d been a problem with the projector—Old Matthew always scheduled her break before any theater patrons straggled in.
    Most of the moviegoers turned right, walking down the sidewalk toward Harvard Street and the parking garage. One large group of twenty-or thirty-somethings, males and females in tailored trousers, long, belted coats, and chic haircuts, headed straight for the bar. None of them carried umbrellas, but many Seattle urbanites viewed them with disdain—as if getting soaked honored some sacred Cascadian tradition.
    A few minutes remained before Charlie’s break ended, but she might as well head back and give Old Matthew a hand.
    She walked to the stairwell, hoping Stevens and friends had left—or at least migrated to the restaurant—and hoping that the newcomers wouldn’t offer their own variety of condescending bullshit and a pseudo-intellectual discussion of the film over cocktails.
    But two steps down, still enshrouded by darkness, Charlie froze. Thoughts of annoying customers fled. She stared through the gate at the wet asphalt in the alley, her heart hammering in her chest.
    For an instant, the shadowy diamond pattern at the bottom of the stairs had thickened and congealed into a human shape.
    Around her, the soft pattering of rain steadily increased. From Broadway, the rumble of a bus engine was followed by the gassy release of its brakes.
    No voices. No footsteps.
    It could have been nothing. Someone using the alley as a shortcut. A person who’d just left the bus, or taken in the movie. Someone in the kitchens bringing a bag of trash out to the Dumpster, and she just hadn’t heard the door open and close.
    But it had been so fast . Furtive. And though she hadn’t seen anyone cross in front of the gate, the light source was close to the stairs. For someone to have cast a shadow, the person had to have been near as well.
    Silently, she edged back up to the landing. It might be nothing, and in a moment she’d call herself an idiot—but better than being mugged or raped in a dark alley.
    She looked over the back wall, and her breath caught. A man in black stood