Demon Night

daylight—they were nothing compared to the glitter caught in the arcs of the street lamps, that beaded against her balcony railing, her windows. The shine of brake lights slicked scarlet on black asphalt; tires lifted a wet spray and splashed through puddles—unremarkable and dirty during the day, but after sundown they became part of a brilliant play of color and sound, and her little enclosed balcony more like a private box at a ramshackle opera house.
    Even if the music remained in her head. Her neighbors probably wouldn’t have appreciated Bellini at midnight, and Charlie liked to play Norma at the volume it deserved.
    But the quiet was welcome, too. She tilted her head and listened when, from the adjoining balcony, a door scraped open rather than slid—inexpensive apartments, damp climate.
    She hadn’t known Ethan McCabe was home, but she was glad for the company. Glad for anything that might distract her from sharp teeth and crossbows and the ache in her cheek.
    The wood creaked under his weight. He was looking out over the railing, she realized. Not avoiding the wet, whereas she sat tucked up close to the door, sheltered beneath the roof, with her sweatshirt, flannel pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers as a ward against the cold. Hardly an attractive ensemble, but it hardly mattered.
    It was several moments before he said, “I thought you quit.”
    The tip of her cigarette glowed brightly with the depth of her inhalation. Ethan couldn’t see it through the wall that separated their balconies, but the scent would have been unmistakable.
    She sent a stream of smoke into the night air, smiled grimly up at the overhanging eaves. “It seemed like the kind of night to start again.”
    He didn’t immediately reply, but she hadn’t expected him to. In the two months he’d occupied the apartment next to hers— occasionally occupied it—she’d become accustomed to his silences.
    During their first conversation, as hidden from her sight as he was now and with only the lazy drawl in his voice to guide her, she’d thought he was slow. It hadn’t taken long to discover that “particular” fit him better.
    “Seems to me,” he finally said, “the only difference between this night and any other is that you’re home a mite early.”
    So did “indirect.” He wouldn’t ask what had happened, but give her an opening.
    And Charlie needed to say it aloud. She couldn’t to Jane; her sister knew her too well. She’d recognize that Charlie wasn’t joking. She hadn’t told the two police officers who’d taken a look at the gate and her statement, or Old Matthew when he’d driven the four blocks from Cole’s to her apartment.
    She’d seen shadows following them, slinking through the dark streets—most of them, she was certain, the product of her paranoia. Most of them.
    “I had an…incident down at Cole’s.” Though she’d tapped it off into a saucer before her last draw, the ash at the end of her cigarette was already a quarter-inch long. Not a leisurely smoke—she was sucking on it like a drowning woman might air. “Three vampires tried to attack me on the roof, but the Lone Ranger arrived and shot them with a crossbow. Or maybe the Rifleman. I couldn’t tell, and I don’t know my cowboys very well.”
    Ethan didn’t respond, not even with the slow Why, Miss Charlie, I do believe you are having me on he’d given her when, a month ago, she’d told him her voice was a mess because she’d traded it to a sea witch for a pair of legs, and that she lived in Seattle because it was so wet.
    He’d never seen the scar. She’d never seen him, but judging by the angle and projection of his voice, she thought he must be tall, with a chest to match.
    It was probably fortunate that a wall separated them, because she could have used a chest like that to lean against. Would have used it.
    So she used a plastic patio chair instead. Her crutches: a chair, a cigarette, and a white feather. It lay on her lap—stiff, but like silk to the touch. When she’d spoken with the police, she’d clung to it like Dumbo with his magic feather.
    “My hero had wings,” she added when his silence continued. Might as well make it as ridiculous as possible. “Like a guardian angel. And, for a second, I thought he was you.”
    Charlie knew from experience that almost anyone else who’d found themselves included in such a story would have said Me? with a bit of startled laughter.
    Ethan only said, “I’m no