Vuur leaps from the car and pulls open the hatchback.
As he rifles through something, he says, “You will stay in the jeep until I return.” There is a pop—metal against metal—and I realize he’s loading a weapon as he continues. “I do not need to tell you my intentions, but I will appease you by saying I plan to observe the situation from that massive tree behind the house over there. Should I feel our intruder is a threat to … the bait, I will intercede. If you move from this location, I will consider you an intrusion and treat you accordingly.”
I turn in the direction of the massive oak tree he’d pointed to. From a block over, I can still see it high above the houses.
Vuur closes the back of the Jeep and comes around to the passenger side. He opens the door and hands me what looks like an old fashioned walkie-talkie.
“I will turn mine on if you promise not speak at me through that one. Click the black button on the side should you need to alert me.” His eyes narrow. “You may only alert me for two reasons: If another human is passing, click twice. If the wendigo shows up, click three times. Do you both understand?”
I nod, and Jane is uncharacteristically quiet.
“I will not tolerate insubordination. This is not a game.”
After pulling a zip-up navy-blue hoodie over his shirt, he pats something in the back of his jeans and something in the side front pocket, slams my door, and jogs toward the yard of a house adjacent to the street Dick was on.
I take a deep breath and can feel Jane’s fear-driven frustration, coupled with a controlling desire to follow. I know this will be my strongest attempt to suppress the emotions of the woman I wear, yet I find myself siding with her instead. I slide over the console and into the driver’s seat, crank the engine, and complete the circle of the block that Vuur did not finish.
Parking the car several houses down from where CeCe is boarding, we watch in anxious silence.
Five long minutes later, while I’m barely able to contain myself or my host, a figure rounds the end of CeCe’s block and walks toward us. We watch him and suck up another two minutes of anxiety-laden frustration before a tingle of fear wiggles up my spine. I realize it’s Gaire. He’s dressed in the same clothes he’d walked out of the coffee shop wearing earlier today. As he gets closer, I can see the determined set of his jaw, the tension in his eyes, and the gait of his step accelerates as he nears the white house with purple trim. Taking in short fast breaths, I grip the steering wheel with one hand and the door handle with the other. When he reaches the stairs on the front porch, I’m frozen with thoughts of Vuur lying in wait, CeCe’s life in danger, and Gaire so totally unaware of what I am and what my previous relationship with CeCe is about to do to him.
Chapter 15
Gaire
As I take the front porch steps two at a time, I tell myself to be cool. This is perfect timing. It’s late midday, and there’s probably no one around.
While the neighborhood naps, I hear a crow bar and, as if in shameful apology, a mourning dove coos. The smell of crisp air carries fall on its back, and makes me take a deep breath.
There’s a big, obnoxious knocker in the center of the door. Before I close my fingers around the brass bulldog’s grinning face, I notice someone has painted its lolling tongue fingernail-polish pink, and its bulging eyes baby-blue, and topped them with black arched eyebrows.
Grinning, I palm the snout and lift the knocker. A girly scream right out of a class B horror flick comes from inside the house. I shoulder the door and burst into what looks like the common-room—small-screen television balanced on a prefab, generic-colored wood-grain table, three recliners and a lumpy couch of assorted color and pattern. The crisp air outside is quickly swamped by the aroma of last night’s pizza, the box is open and empty on the floor, and a plethora of girly smells: perfumes, powders, deodorants, shampoos, body lotions, and the acrid smell of nail polish remover. I take all this in with my first breath.
A threadbare rug covers the middle of a worn pine floor. CeCe is flat on her back, arms flailing, feet desperately sliding on the oak at the edge of the carpet in an attempt to gain purchase. A strong hand is wrapped around her throat, and the dark-haired man dressed in a black suit looming over is trying to stuff CeCe’s mouth with what looks like her own tee shirt. Her screams are muffled. Her frantic eyes search the room and lock on mine, as the man unbuckles his belt, hips grinding between CeCe’s thighs. I’m on him before he can react to my interruption.