Page 21 of The Wolfing Hour

Fennel snuggled into the car seat and nudged the gnome with his nose. “Meow.”

Cecil screeched what sounded like a curse and viciously flicked the cat’s whiskers with his toes. Fennel jerked back and immediately began cleaning himself.

“Hey. No whisker flicking. He's right, Cecil. Stay alert and on your best behavior at the cemetery. Don’t do anything to anger Sexton. I need him to cooperate.”

Cecil’s nose wrinkled, and he huffed. I’d obviously insulted him, but there was nothing to be done about it. I wasn’t apologizing. The gnome had a history of causing trouble when he was stone-cold sober, much less high on Fae pastries.

I started the car to the tune of a stream of angry gnome chatter, which didn’t cease until I switched on the radio and “Overkill” by Motörhead started playing.

“No way.” I exchanged a look with Fennel. “Nodamnway this plays on a normal top 40 radio station.”

His sable tail swished in agreement.

We both looked at Cecil, who was making heavy metal signs with both hands and whipping his head to the rapid-fire beat. I tried to talk to him, but the mid-song drum solo began, and he started jamming to the music with his air guitar.

As the goddesses were my witnesses, I was going to figure out who was running that radio station someday. My best guess was something or someone from Faery, but even Cecil’s people had their limitations.

A type of paranormal I’d never heard of? A lesser god?Aliens?

“Overkill” segued into “Ace of Spades,” which made me even more suspicious; however, by then I was already pulling into the cemetery, so I sent my concerns into the lowest drawer of the filing cabinet in my mind for later retrieval.

I parked on a graveled road beside the path that led to Sexton’s home. His place was larger than a shed but too small to be a house—and not in a cool, tiny house sort of way, either. It was too tall, too narrow, tooweirdto be anything but a doorway to wherever Sexton went when he wasn’t milling around the cemetery like a terrifying spirit.

Fennel hung back, taking a circuitous route through older tombstones, the ones that stuck out of the soil like the crooked teeth of a dragon. Cecil walked beside me, though he stopped from time to time to inspect a wildflower or an interesting species of weed.

He was still pretty much faery-caked out, a fact evidenced by his stumbling gait, his periodic thousand-yard stare, and the series of loud belches erupting from his tiny gut.

“Brrp.”

“I’ve got to have some ginger in here somewhere.” I unzipped my purse and rifled through the pockets, extracting a tiny bag of pale-yellow powder. “Here.”

Cecil scrunched his nose and shook his head. “Brrp.”

“Fine.” I shoved the bag back into the pocket and zipped my purse. “You’re going to be absolutely no help at all today, are you? I should’ve left you at the café.”

“Perhaps your gnome friend is overworked and in need of a day off.”

The voice didn’t send shivers down my spine. It sent icicles directly into my bloodstream, evoking a chill that gripped me from the inside out. My nose itched and my lips went numb.

“Hello, Sexton.”

“Hello, granddaughter.”

The graveyard demon emerged from behind a palm tree with a trunk far too short and skinny to have hidden him. He was always doing unsettling shit like that. I think he sensed that it annoyed me.

Damn it, he really was my grandfather.

“Can you turn down the chill a little, please? My lungs are frozen.”

“My apologies,” he said, straightening his shirt collar.

Lately, Sexton had been making significant changes to his appearance. Last time I saw him, he’d sported a set of new dentures that he didn’t need because he most definitely had teeth. This time, it was his clothes. Instead of his usual haunted-mortician look, he wore navy slacks, a short-sleeved, white dress shirt, and a gray windbreaker.

“Are thoseNew Balance sneakers?”

He craned his neck and peered down at his navy-and-white running shoes. It wasn’t a smooth progression, but a series of jerks and joint creaks, like a nineteenth-century automaton.

“I am told they are called men’s trainers and are excellent for walking. Lo, in all my years of existence, I cannot recall possessing foot coverings capable of such comfort.”