I frowned as I pushed through the year-by-year dividers, my sadness growing as the number of files shrunk. By the two thousands, I was down to a mere handful, and for the past year, there were only two files. I pulled them out and scanned the name tags—SAMPSON, PETE and HARRIS, SERGIO—and put them aside, poking into some of the previous files.
I pulled one open at random, my fingers and eyes going over the glossy black-and-white photograph that was stapled to the side. It was of a handsome-looking man dressed in early fifties garb. He was clean cut with an easy smile and ears that stuck out over the top of his white sweater. The goofy smile and big ears made his age impossible to pinpoint, but I supposed he was young, my age at the oldest. I yanked at the picture stapled behind this one and sucked in a sharp breath at the beady eyes of the wolf that peered back at me. Because of my job and my familiarity with the way Agency files were kept, I knew that the wolf in the photo was the man in the previous photo, even though there was nothing left of the goofy-looking guy. The ears that were big and off centered in the first picture were sharply angled and alert in the second. The easy smile and soft eyes of the boy were lost in the jagged canine teeth, the menacing gaze of the beast. I flipped through a few more pages of the file, noting that this client had signed his Agency agreement faithfully on the same day each year—which meant that he was willing to abide by our rules and allow himself to be safely contained at night, would not hunt human flesh, and would not be a threat to any person or demon he ran across. And then I saw his death certificate.
Wolf, someone had written in under Manifestation at death. And, under that, Slain. There was a newspaper article clipped to the back of the death certificate. It was yellowed and written in grainy Chinese. I didn’t need to translate to know that the article credited the Du family with this wolf ’s death.
I had read my way through the first half of the files in the drawer when I heard it. My entire body went on high alert and I cocked my head, holding my breath, listening. A rustle. The flutter of papers. The deep murmur of voices being kept low. I slipped my flashlight into my pocket and the records room dipped into immediate and overwhelming darkness—all except for a yellow sliver of light that poured through the two-inch crack of the open door. Someone had turned on the hallway lights.
I crab crawled toward the light, keeping one hand on my flashlight, the other pressed against my chest, doing my best to muffle the sound of my clanging heart. I heard footsteps then, and I stopped in mid-step, my whole body stooped, aching, protesting the awkward stance.
“. . . could become quite a problem,” I heard.
“Not something I’m entirely worried about,” someone responded.
Dixon. I wet my lips. But who is he talking to?
I took a hesitant step, certain that my every motion would ring out like china crashing. Footsteps. Conversation moving closer. Then, silence.
I held my breath and clamped my eyes shut. Sweat beaded at the back of my neck and I knew the scent beckoned like a lighthouse strobe. There were a thousand scents in a deserted office—daily clients, cleaning solution, Post-It notes, toner . . . the metallic scent of human blood, heavy with adrenaline, pulsing through veins.
Dixon knew I was there.
The tiny sliver of yellow light grew as he pushed open the door to the records room. I slipped behind a file cabinet and crouched low, pressing my palms to my cheeks, trying my best to absorb the heat that I knew was wafting from me in waves. I did my best to slow my heartbeat, to make my breathing shallow, barely discernible. I knew from living with Nina that the attempt could be futile, so when Dixon stepped into the room I prepared myself to face him, every inch of my skin tightening, the excuses and explanations spasming through my head. I watched from my crouched spot as his dark eyes swept over the file cabinets and boxes in the room while one pale hand rested on the light switch.
I licked my lips, then bit down hard on the bottom one as Dixon’s light flashed toward my imperfect hiding spot. I glanced at the stack of files I had shoved aside with my foot. They were low and scattered, decently hidden by the darkness and boxes.
Dixon didn’t turn on the light.
He didn’t come after me.
He simply stepped out of the room, clicking the door shut behind him.