Page 22 of The Wolfing Hour

“Well, I’m, uh, glad you’re comfortable.” I glanced over my shoulder at Cecil, who was napping atop the tombstone of a woman who’d died over a hundred years ago. Fennel sat in front of the stone, a gentle desert breeze ruffling his black fur, eyes green with magic. Cecil might be out of commission, but my other partner was primed for trouble.

“You do not require a reason, but I would like to understand why you have come to see me today.”

A polite, yet roundabout way of asking,What in the hell are you doing here?

“It’s time,” I said.

“Time?” He blinked so slowly I visually traced the veins in his eyelids on the way up and down. “For what, may I ask?”

“For you to tell me who my father was.”

Chapter

Five

Chapter Five

“Now?”

It wasn’t the response I’d expected. After all, this was the creature who’d been hounding me about discussing my father. To the extent that he’d once interrupted an online gardening video I was watching to contact me. Interrupted, as in literallyappeared on my tablet.

“Well, if you’ve got a prior engagement…” I rolled my eyes. “Yes,now. You’ve been begging me to ask you about him, so what’s with the pushback?”

“Begging?” He rolled his eyes back at me. Sort of. The round orbs made a sucking wet noise and rotated like an old globe, his irises disappearing entirely then reappearing in agonizingly slow stages.

Bile rose in my throat.Never again.

If he was trying to teach me a lesson about rolling my eyes, consider me educated.I’d be keeping my gaze trained forward in his presence from now on.

“I didn’t mean it literally. Just that you’ve been wanting me to ask about him. And,” I spread my arms wide, “here I am asking.”

He surveyed the cemetery. It was empty except for a couple on the eastern side who were having lunch on a plot, seemingly conducting a conversation with the deceased.

I flicked my chin in their direction. “Do people do that a lot?” Personally, I’d rather hit Rosie’s Cantina or El Rancho Grande for lunch, but to each their own.

“It isn’t an uncommon sight to see picnics in the cemetery on special occasions. Or for the first few months following a loss.” His denture smile made a brief appearance. “It’s not uncommon to see spirits join them on occasion, either. This isn’t a human cemetery, after all.”

“Why do some come back and some don’t?” I asked, thinking of my mom.

“Why does a tornado destroy one home on a street and not another? Why does a wildfire skip one street and burn another to ashes? Circumstances vary.”

“Kind of hate that you chose to use catastrophic weather events to illustrate your point.”

“Metaphors. I was trying to be human accessible. Were you a creature from the otherworlds, my explanation would have been different.” He lifted a skeletal arm and shuffled forward. “Let’s walk. We can chat while I inspect the grounds.”

Normally when I spoke with Sexton, I carefully considered any information I shared. He might be related to me, but he was still a demon. It was smart to guard my words, my tone, and my soul.

Today, I told him everything.

We walked the gravel paths and weaved around headstones as I poured it all out. Sexton listened, periodically bending down to pull a weed or extract a damp cloth from his pocket to wipeaway a water spot. He inspected the sprinklers, tossed dead bouquets into a bag he’d fastened to his belt loop, and returned in-ground vases to their proper spots.

“Bloody Mary was afraid of me.Me. Why?”

He directed me to a bench beneath a shady willow tree. I sat. He sat. He didn’t respond right away, and I didn’t pressure him.

“The thing about Mary is,” Sexton said finally, “she is a vulgar, visually repellant, inelegant bitch.”

I almost fell off the bench. I didn’t like that word—especially when directed toward women—but when the shoe fits, Cinderella, you gotta put it on.