Wolf at the Door - By MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,29

stood on her tiptoes in virtually any part of her den, she could see out—a perfect view of the backyard, the side yard, and the side street. And it was much harder for someone to see in.

She had liked the apartment as soon as she’d seen it, and she knew why. It was her den. It wasn’t so small she felt claustrophobic, nor so large she felt intimidated by the empty space trying to swallow her. (She had no idea, none, how Michael tolerated living in that enormous mansion by the sea.)

In it, she felt closed in and safe. She supposed it wasn’t very interesting as far as individual characteristics went. Pack members liked small spaces they could call their own. She was Pack, ergo she found the basement apartment both comfortable and charming.

Dull, dull, dull.

She went to the rolltop desk and woke her laptop, which kicked right into her e-mail account. Nine new ones. A thanks for doing this from Michael. A come to my next show! group e-mail by comedic Einstein Jim Gaffigan. A here are the new movies out this week from Netflix. And six from Edward, whose e-mail account was (and why was she surprised?) PicardRules666.

“I’ve assumed by now you were a figment of my imagination. A smokin’ hot spectacular figment. On the off chance I haven’t gone clinically insane, when can I see you? How’s tomorrow? Or tonight? Or an hour from now? Or right this second? Am I coming off as creepy or obsessive? Because I’m neither, I think. Did you know your hair smells like strawberries? Why do I now want a huge bowl of strawberries? It’s summer, why can’t I find strawberries? Call me, call me, oh for the love of God, please call me: 651-249-3377.”

The others were more or less the same. She could feel the silly smile spread across her face and didn’t especially care. So she hit reply and typed, “Tonight’s good. Come by my new place . . . remember how we agreed our new living situations were sad? Mine’s not so bad. Pop by 369 Summit Avenue, anytime after six P.M. Sincerely, Strawberry Fields. P.S. I have no idea if you’re clinically insane, and don’t much care.”

Then she memorized the queen’s address and looked up the quickest way to get there. She memorized the directions, made sure her den was secured, and left.

What if you don’t make it back in time?

A fine question. Rachael stood on the sherbet porch and pondered.

Am I worried about being killed in her house, or missing my date with Edward? The fact that I have to take a moment and figure that out is sad, sad, sad.

So she mentally shrugged and went on her way.

Twenty-two

Rachael stood on the porch for 607 Summit Avenue. The threestory mansion was white, with black shutters. Relatively fresh paint job; no more than three years old at the most. A front wraparound porch that put her small sherbet porch to instant shame. A detached garage—again, something she was used to, given where she had been raised.

I didn’t call for an appointment. I just came. Mrs. Cain knows what I’m doing, but no one else.

Still: I’m here to warn, not engage. We’ll see if she has the intelligence to see it. And if she jumps me, or sics underlings on me . . . then I’ll know, won’t I?

She rang the doorbell. And was surprised: instead of an old-fashioned chime, the doorbell blatted the chorus from “Cell Block Tango.”

What the hell?

Faintly, from what she assumed was the middle of the home, she heard hurrying footsteps. Then the door was yanked open and she was face-to-face with the skinniest African American she had ever seen. With the largest pregnant belly she had also ever seen.

The woman greeted her with a sharp, “Byerly’s grocery delivery?”

Hunger. Irritation. Hunger.

“No. My name is—”

“Well, why not? Can’t you see I’m starving here?”

Rachael believed her. The woman didn’t have an ounce of spare flesh that hadn’t been diverted to her gestating belly. Her hair was skinned back so tightly her eyebrows arched in permanent surprise. And Rachael could actually see the woman’s blue T-shirt shifting as the gestating spawn moved and kicked.

“I can absolutely see you’re starving here. Perhaps you should sit down.” She knew nothing about how humans procreated, and this one looked ready to burst into labor on the half second. “Maybe I—”

“Oh, you might as well come in.” The woman stretched up to peer over Rachael’s shoulder, doubtless seeking the grocery truck.