Page 9

Summer

T uesday afternoon, it’s raining so hard I stop work early at the Vandersons’ and walk home beneath a blackened sky, bag slung over my shoulder.

Rain pelts the sidewalk, soaking my tank top and pants until they stick to my skin like oiled cling wrap.

I pass mansion after identical mansion wrapped in old vines of ivy and tumbling roses. Many contain a blank-eyed ghost hovering in a high window or in the garden, their mouths working in silence, eyes brimming with hollow hope.

Darn beseeching ghouls with their sad, accusing stares. I feel sorry for them, trapped on this mortal plane, possibly forever, but I wish they’d stop pestering me. They expect me to ease their torment because I can see them and hear them, but I have no clue how to assist. I really wish I did.

If I could help even one of them depart their tormented limbo, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Especially if it were my mother.

I’d do almost anything to avoid being stuck with her for the rest of my days. She disliked me enough when she was alive, but since she’s been dead, her disapproval has ascended to new heights now she considers herself an all-knowing, supernatural being.

A ghost she may be, but wise and omniscient she most definitely isn’t.

I’d rather be haunted by all the creepy kids from every horror movie combined than spend another year with my mom looking down her translucent nose at me. It’s the worst kind of hell.

I’m glad that Zylah works late on Tuesdays because I’m not in the mood for another lecture about how I should have given Hank up to the animal experts four days ago. I mean he looks perfectly healthy and content to me. What’s the harm in keeping him a little longer?

His wound healed fast with no signs of infection, and he’s so placid, not mean or aggressive. He just lays there, black tail thumping, a deep moan rumbling against the concrete floor while I pat him.

I keep telling myself that although he may seem tame, he doesn’t belong to me, even though it feels like he does. Which I know is insane. I can’t keep him. He’s not a house pet.

He’s kind of fussy with his meals. Won’t eat canned pet meat, only fresh stuff, more akin to human food. And the way he stares at me, green eyes burning through all my defenses, I’m starting to believe he actually understands what I say.

One thing’s for sure; he’s a very strange wolf.

I wave at an apparition in Gravenshade’s upper turret window, then race up the front steps, throw my work bag on the hall sideboard, and suppress a bolt of disappointment when I hear Zylah clanking dishes in the kitchen .

Bracing myself for the difficult “Hank-talk”, I barrel through the doorway to ask why she’s home so early—and let out a scream loud enough to wake any ghouls that might be asleep in the walls.

Why the scream?

There’s a stranger in my kitchen! And not just any kind of stranger—a strange, naked man to be precise. A single earsplitting shriek is justified.

Thinking fast, I pick up the closest available weapon—a bunch of bananas—and hurl it at the back of his head, ducking into the hallway as they bounce off the tiles with wet-sounding smacks.

The naked man doesn’t curse, shout, or come running after me, the soft clunks continuing as if he’s doing the opposite of what a nude stranger in your kitchen should be doing. Unpacking the dishwasher or polishing spoons.

Could he be an apparition? A neighborhood ghost who’s gotten lost? Even so, I’m not taking any chances.

Patting my pockets for my cell so I can call 911, I peek around the door frame. Yep. He’s still there, back turned, stance wide and relaxed, like he owns the goddamn house.

The tiles beneath my feet blur, and I blink fast, hoping he’s just a mirage conjured by rain-drenched exhaustion. I must be seeing things. Perhaps I’ve finally lost my mind to the soul-destroying guilt of possibly being responsible for both of my parents' deaths.

I rub my eyes and blink again, praying he’s disappeared. Nope. Still there.

A well-muscled arm—connected to one of the finest-shaped backs I’ve ever seen, not to mention the statuesque planes of his perfectly sculpted butt—calmly sets the coffee pot on the stove as he turns toward me, grabbing the back of the kitchen chair.

The chair hides the more gossip-worthy parts of his anatomy, but not the ridiculous perfection of his face.

Who the hell is this nude psycho staring at me across the kitchen table as I stand mute and feel around the bench for a lethal weapon? A knife. A fork… Maybe some cat kibble. Anything I can lob at the subtly mocking smirk curling its way across his mouth.

“Time to stop smiling,” I announce. “I’m calling the cops.”

Other than arching a single dark brow, he remains preternaturally still. “Now why would you do that? I thought we were friends.”

Oh, sweet hellish demon lords, he’s got a voice made for sin, deep and raspy with a hint of a vague accent. Despite my dire circumstances, a hot chill races down my spine.

Why, oh why, aren’t I running out of the house while dialing emergency services, terrified and crying like a baby?

I already know part of the reason… I don’t have the best history of dealing with local law enforcement officers. But, eeeek, I really can’t think about that right now.

“ Friends ?” I yelp instead. “I’ve never seen you before.

You’re a naked danger in my coffee, making house!

Ugh . I can’t speak straight.” Holding the bench for support, I shake my head, rebooting my brain-to-mouth connection.

“I meant to say, you’re a naked stranger in my house, making coffee.

How do you suggest I respond appropriately to that situation? ”

“Sorry. Glamour’s malfunctioning.”

“The what now? ”

The man shrugs, rustling the messy hair almost touching his shoulders. It’s thick, dark, and shaggy with a chunk of silvery white in the long bang above his left eye, which somehow reminds me of Hank.

Hank!

My gaze shifts toward the basement where the door hangs ominously open. Where’s my wolf? If this dude has let him out the back door into the woods, I’ll personally strangle him, clothed or not.

“Join me?” suggests the naked stranger, pointing to a steaming mug of coffee on the table. “You like milk? Sugar? It’s no trouble to make another.”

“Oh, that’s kind of you,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm and rising in a shrill manner, not uncalled for given the situation. “Stop talking about sugar and milk and tell me where my wolf is? What have you done with Hank?”

Laughter rumbles in his chest as he pulls the chair out and sits, but not before I catch an unwelcome flash of something girthful swinging in the breeze that I’ve, so far, only envisaged while reading Zylah’s romance books that I borrow from her room on rather too frequent occasions.

Story of my life. For once, I find a guy with a decent-sized package, who going by his athletic build and sensual moves, might even know how to use it.

But just my luck, he’s forgotten to take his anti-psychotic meds and decided that enjoying coffee and nudity in a random person’s house was a great way to spend his day.

Lord help me.

“So I’m guessing you don’t want coffee?” he finally says when it’s clear I’ve lost the power of both speech and movement .

Ollie appears out of nowhere and springs onto the tabletop, ears flat as he makes a truly bloodcurdling noise.

Naked-guy rears back, and says, “Draygonets, what is that ?” Then he leans forward until his nose is an inch from my tufty cat’s and lets out an unmistakable, low growl . Without another sound, Ollie scampers from the room. The little coward.

My mouth opens to reject the coffee offer for the second time, but only a zombie-like groan issues forth.

“Are you okay?” he asks, brow furrowing in what looks bizarrely like concern. I’m the one that should be feeling concerned right now. “The wolf you’re worried about,” he continues, “that’s me. I’m Hank.”

And cue the dramatic organ music to herald in the moment I realize exactly how badly this guy is fucked in the head.

He looks about my age, so no more than mid-to-late twenties, and his expression is calm, intense, a little arrogant, but neither of his eyeballs are spinning with madness.

He swipes a chunk of black hair out of tilted, almond-shaped eyes, the green shade not dissimilar to mine, just more electric. An unreal fluorescent jade .

Those eyes are familiar. The naked, ripped body not so much.

“No, you’re definitely not Hank. What you are is insane.”

I rush past the table, down the basement stairs, and search every nook and cranny large enough to hide a massive wolf, but find only dead-eyed, dusty roadkill creatures staring back at me.

“You don’t believe me,” says a deep voice from the top of the stairs, infused with a note of hurt.

I feel like I just kicked a puppy .

“Sit back down or I’ll call the cops,” I shout. “Last thing I need to see is that monster thing of yours again.”

“What monster thing?” he asks, dropping into a defensive stance and looking behind him.

“Don’t worry about it,” I shout up the staircase. “You won’t be able to fight it off. It’s connected to you. Just go back to the table and keep your distance.”

When I reenter the kitchen, his head is in his hands, his elbows on the tabletop and fingers twisted deep in dark, glossy strands of hair, tugging gently.

“Listen,” he says. “Even if you don’t, I remember everything. Your name is Summer.”

Crossing my arms, I lean on the opposite wall. “Could’ve learned that from looking at a letter in my mailbox.”

“Okay. Last night, you gave me leftover butter chicken for dinner and told me it was the best one you’ve ever made.

The night before, I had meat pasta. You visited me every day—told me about your gardening job, how you’re hoping to finish counseling school next year.

Now explain to me how I know these things if I’m not the wolf living in your basement.

I’m a shifter. I can take this human-like form, or I can—”