Nightstruck - Jenna Black Page 0,65

away.

“Smells good,” Luke said. I think that, like me, he was trying to hurry us both past his uncomfortable declaration and steer us into safer waters.

I closed the oven door and shrugged. “It’s not exactly a gourmet meal,” I warned him. I was reasonably certain it would be edible, but all I’d done was throw some odds and ends together in a casserole dish.

“Hey, I saw beef and pasta and cheese. You hit all of the major food groups, so I’m happy.”

I knew we were both casting anxious glances at the windows as the light inexorably began to fade. Wondering what the night would bring. And maybe also wondering if, when the sun rose in the morning, we’d be around to see it.

I know, morbid thoughts. But it was true that for a while now, each night had been worse than the one before, and last night had been terrible. That didn’t bode well for tonight, and it was hard to put the reins on the dread.

I was pleased that the power stayed on long enough for my casserole to bake, and doubly pleased to discover that my Frankenstein’s monster of a meal was actually pretty tasty. Luke certainly seemed to appreciate it, gobbling down seconds and then thirds.

He had almost finished that third serving when Bob, who’d been lying at our feet, staring longingly at each forkful of food that went into our mouths, leaped to his feet, bristling. I grabbed for the gun.

Bob rocketed toward the front door and started barking, seconds before a series of loud raps of the door knocker sounded through the house.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Bob was at his snarling, most ferocious best, and I was sure I looked as pale and frightened as Luke did. However, I’d already registered that the sound I’d heard was nothing like the feral battering of last night. This was the sound of the door knocker being used as it was intended, if with a little more force than necessary.

The knock came again, three sound raps, cutting through Bob’s barking. Holding the gun with both hands, its barrel pointed toward the floor, I crept toward the door, wondering if it was possible there was just an ordinary person out there. Though I supposed any ordinary person knocking on a stranger’s door after dark during this particular crisis was not to be trusted. And although Bob always barked when someone knocked on the door, there was an uncommon level of fury in him right now, just like there had been last night.

Luke was out of his chair, food forgotten as he stepped toward me. He kept behind me and a little to the left, making absolutely sure not to get in the way of my gun.

“You’re not going to let whoever that is in, are you?” he asked, and I gave him a look that silently conveyed Do you think I’m stupid? “Just checking,” he said, holding his hands up.

I crept a little closer to the door, though I supposed if I wasn’t planning to let anyone in, there was no reason to get closer. I debated trying to get a peek through the peephole but decided I was more comfortable keeping some distance between myself and whoever or whatever was outside.

The knock sounded for a third time, the three raps louder and closer together this time and conveying a sense of impatience.

And then a voice shouted above the barking, a voice so startling it almost made me drop my gun.

“Call Cujo off and let me in already, Becks!”

It was Piper.

At least, it sounded like Piper. I’d seen more than enough not to take anything for granted. Luke and I shared one long, shocked look before we both started forward.

“Wait!” I said, blocking him with my arm. “Let’s make sure it’s really her before we open the door.”

“Who else could it be?” he asked, but thankfully he listened to me and didn’t rush to throw the door open.

I realized that although Luke had seen some strange things and had heard a bunch of strange stories, he hadn’t seen things like the dissolving baby or the trash monster or the biting pothole with his own eyes, and there was a part of him still clinging to the illusion that the world was a normal, rational place. A notion I’d pretty much given up on over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

“Bob isn’t acting like it’s Piper,” I said, and it was true. He always barked when she—or anyone else, for that matter—knocked