Wolf at the Door

chapter Nineteen



The dead man walked out the front door, stood on the walk for a moment, then slowly ambled toward the street.

Edward, who had been daydreaming about Rachael, specifically Rachael’s awesome boobs and wicked smile, was at first startled, then curious.

He’d come for another stakeout, but more out of guilt than any sense of urgency or duty. He hadn’t been near the Manse O’ the Undead in two days.

Oh, but what a two days!

She’s perfect. She’s a goddess. So smart, and so hot! And Jesus, her mouth. Sharp and sweet and urgent and ah, God, this is no time for another damn boner!

So he’d walked the neighborhood yet again, this time dressed like a tourist in black cotton shorts, a bright yellow polo shirt, and a black fanny pack, which, he was surprised to see in the mirror, made him look like a giant deranged bee. He tended to choose clothing the way he chose snacks: whatever was closest at hand is what he grabbed. Thus: the return of . . . Bee Man!

Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s . . . gross. A giant bug.

He did look like a tourist, at least—he ought to know how to pull that off, given where he lived. Which was good, because if he was challenged, he’d ask for directions to the St. Paul Cathedral, which (per Google) was a few blocks from here.

Rachael really is astounding in every way, he thought, feeling a sappy smile spread across his face. And a goddamned hurricane in bed. Best of my life. No question; absolute best. And not because of what she did with her hands and mouth. Because of the things she told me. Because she cried and didn’t mind that I tried to help her. Because she admitted to being bitchy and homesick and could laugh at herself. Because she apologized to a waitress she’d never seen before and might never see again.

And let’s not forget the things she asked me to do to her. The naked things and the—

And here came the dead man. Not that Edward knew it then; he recognized the man as the same one who’d escorted the pregnant lady out . . . the scrubs helped. House call, maybe? Cigarette break? He wasn’t doing much, just sort of wandering in the yard.

I’ll get close. I’ll get as good a look at him as I can. Maybe he’s not an evil OB. Maybe he’s a regular OB, hold the evil. Maybe . . . he’s a prisoner. Maybe he needs help. I won’t know if I don’t get close. If he’s a good guy, this might be his one chance at safety. I’m not gonna blow it for him because I don’t want to get spotted.

Summit Avenue was utterly quiet as twilight deepened. Edward decided getting closer was worth the risk. So he swallowed his nervousness as best he could and, as casually as he could, started walking across the street. When he got close to the fence, he waved.

Nothing wrong here, just another dumb tourist who didn’t bother with MapQuest . . . Nothing to worry about . . . certainly not someone spying on you or possibly someone you live with . . .

“Hey! Excuse me . . . I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I’m lost.”

“I think you are, too.”

The friendly hey-I’m-a-hapless-tourist smile fell off his face. Edward had gotten close enough to realize he was talking to a dead man.

Not a prisoner on death row.

Not a vampire.

A dead man.

He was so startled he tripped on the curb and fell, flailing, to the sidewalk. He caught himself by the hands, but not quite fast enough.

What a stupid way to meet my first-ever zombie, he thought, clutching his skinned knees and trying not to groan with humiliation and pain.