Sophie Schwarz turns up dead, and then a werewolf shows up on my doorstep. I believe in coincidences, though not any that involve a being who was raised the same as me. This is no coincidence.

The only part I can't yet determine, is if Sophie's death was the cause or the effect of this werewolf's visit to Heisenbühl. If he's responsible, then he's still in town. If he's not, then he's been drawn here by the scent of her gore. Either way, neither of those things are good.

My house wasn't broken into. There had been no one inside and none of the windows or doors were broken or smashed. What the werewolf had been doing in my driveway, or what he was preparing to do, is a mystery.

I took my time in gathering the clothing I needed, only half hoping that the suspect would return. I disliked the idea of leaving the house unattended overnight after a lurker had shown clear interest in it for some reason or another. But I disliked the idea of leaving Lattie and Nanni by themselves even more.

So I locked up all the windows and doors and resisted the building urge to look over my shoulder. I left and went back to the McNamaras' house where the stoop light had been left on for me and the door unlocked. When I entered the house I found Nanni sitting in her usual upholstered armchair, her knitting needles clicking aggressively away at a piece of yellow material.

"Is Lattie...?"

"Upstairs in her room," Nanni replies without looking up from her knitting. "Poor girl has worn herself out." My heart aches at the memory of Lattie's watering eyes and quivering lip.

"I think you should sleep upstairs tonight, too." I blurt it out before I can overthink it.

"Upstairs?" Nanni gawks. "You know how badly those stairs hurt my knees."

"I know, Nanni, but—I'll help you up and down them. I just think that upstairs would be safer for a while, with all that's going on. I was in the village and it just... something doesn't feel right."

"Doesn't feel right?" She questions, a gray eyebrow quirking. "Might that be because you and Lattie went off and saw a dead body this evening?"

Shit. Lattie cracked.

I open my mouth to defend myself but close it on that subject just as quickly. "No. It's not that. It's an instinct."

"Like the instinct that told you to go to a bridge where you knew a murder had just been committed?"

I throw my head back, groaning in exasperation. "I thought it would have been cleaned up."

Nanni lets out a sigh, setting her knitting aside on the end table near her chair. "I just want you girls to start listening to me. That's it. That's all I ask."

"Lattie does listen to you."

"And you think Lattie can listen for the both of you? I know you're your own kin, Leila, and I know we've not an ounce of the same blood and you're not my granddaughter, but you might as well be. For the love of God, child, a girl is dead and you can't keep your nose to yourself. You don't go looking for things and live a normal life, Leila Ardeneux. And if you'd like to live to be as pruny as I am, then you'd better start paying attention to what I say." She wiggles to the edge of her seat and grunts as she pushes herself up. "Now help me up those godforsaken stairs."

~

Nanni and Lattie, I'm willing to bet, have never met a werewolf. Heisenbühl is sheltered, secluded, and safe, and if any have ever even passed through, they haven't stayed.

A lot of humans know of the existence of werewolves. It isn't kept a secret, thought it isn't blurted about either. Most humans will never encounter one, and of those who do, most will never know. Some humans obliviously cross werewolf paths, some believe them to be rumors and myths, and others know where a pack resides but simply keep their distance from them, as is the wise decision.

I don't know where Nanni and Lattie stand on the topic of werewolves. I've never heard them mention it, because I've never had the guts to tell them where I came from. They know I was born in America and that my family is a subject I'd like to forget, and that's where we've left it. They've never minded, and I'm appreciative of the fact.

But now, as I tuck Nanni away in the upstairs guest bedroom for the night and peek my head in to check on Lattie, asleep on top of the covers and hugging a stuffed bear to her chest, I wonder if I've been lying to them after all.

I've never made up a cover story to make myself or my circumstances sound normal. They know I ran away from home. They know my sole purpose for showing up in their little-known village was to escape from everyone who'd known me before. If I don't want to answer a question, they never ask it twice.

But is it still a lie, when the person you've invited into your home isn't human and doesn't tell you?

The feeling in my gut—similar to the nauseous one I'd gotten after Lattie had talked me into (incorrectly) following a Dutch pastry recipe which I'd been foolish enough to taste—doesn't point to the answer I'd like.

I'm filled with anxious energy as I pace the ground level floor, checking locks and turning out lights. After all is dark, I pop into the hall bathroom, shed my jeans and jacket, and slip into a pair of grey plaid lounge pants and a loose fitting baseball t-shirt.

When I come back out, rounding the corner from the hall into the living room near the stairs, I freeze dead in my tracks. My heart falters in my chest, my throat having gone dry as I stare at it.

A person is looking in the window beside the back door. They're on the McNamaras' porch, the one Lattie had cried on earlier today. The sides of two large hands are pressed against the glass, cupped around a male face pressed just as close.

I don't move a muscle. The window the man is at looks directly into the center of the living room. The staircase and hallway are to the left of that window, far enough to the side that I should be able to blend in with the dark as long as no movement draws his eye.

A flurry of curses sound off in my head as I stand frozen, staring at the man staring into the dark of the house.

I didn't tell Lattie or Nanni about the person who'd been in my driveway for fear that it would only distress them further. How in the hell am I going to pass this one off?

The face and hands remove themselves from the window. I suck in a shaky breath. Waiting. Waiting. The porch boards groan ever so slightly through the wall. There's a pause. Stillness. Silence. Then, the gentle testing of the back door's knob. It clicks quietly as the mechanisms meet the unbudging lock.

The knob is released.

I let free my held breath.

Weapon. My mind settles on that objective. No criminal comes to a house at night without bringing a means to take what he wants by force—at least not the criminals who succeed.

I check all of the windows from where I stand, relieved to not see his ugly mug in any of them. I consider pulling closed the curtains while he's away, assuming he's still nearby, but decide against it since that would reveal my presence if he returns and therefore diminish any element of surprise I might have.

As quietly and quickly as possible, I cross the living room into the kitchen. There's a wooden block of knives placed on the counter near the sink. I take the largest one, a massive thing that looks to be capable of not only preparing the cuts of the cow, but butchering it as well.

There's more moonlight shining through the kitchen windows than the living room. Once my knife is in hand, I crouch in a shadow near the kitchen archway, peering into the living room and checking the windows once again.

The windows are all vacant, but he isn't gone. The front door is the one having its knob tried now, a bit more persistently than the back. The jiggling of the knob goes on for a full minute. I sit poised on the balls of my feet, watching that stupid knob jitter side to side, vastly uncomfortable with the fact that if that door opens, the person on the other side will be closer to the stairs than I am.

I have to move. I have to be able to reach the stairs first, or to intercept him before he can. I have to... call the police. That's how humans handle their problems, right? They call the police and then the police come and arrest the maniacs trying to enter your house in the middle of the night.

But the house phone is on the table beside Nanni's knitting in the middle of the living room, directly in a spot of moonlight, and my cell phone, I realize, I left on the bathroom counter.

Something has to happen. I can't leave it up to me. Lattie and Nanni are asleep upstairs. If something happens to me, they'll be left entirely vulnerable. Yes, I decide. Calling the police is nonnegotiable. Then, even if I am removed from the equation, someone will be coming for them eventually.

The house phone which is bathed in moonlight is my closest option. It's the one I go with.

When the knob stops rattling, I wait and listen for any indicator of the creep's location. His horrifying face appears in one of the windows on the front of the house, his eyes darting crazily about. My muscles petrify on the spot.

From that window, with this angle, I'm in perfect view if he happens to look over.

He doesn't.

He leaves the window and returns to the door quickly, as though he ran. Except this time his actions are more agitated, faster and more forceful, and a periodic banging begins against the door like his shoulder is ramming against it.

He's occupied with the door. This is my chance.

I dart across the room on light feet, diving behind Nanni's armchair and reaching around to snatch the corded phone from the table. With my back leaning against the chair—out of sight so long as the man stays at the front of the house—I bring the phone to my ear.

Nothing. No sound greets me. No buzz. No dial tone. The phone is dead. The line has been cut.

I feel myself drain of color and blood and any ounce of heat, as if it's all melted to the floor.

Fuck. Fuck!

I toss the phone down onto the hardwood floor beside me. All the body heat I'd lost out of fear comes back to me tenfold, and in the form of a different medium that isn't fear.

"LEAVE!" I shout, my voice grating through the silence. The banging against the door ceases immediately.

I blanch for a beat, thinking I've made a terrible mistake. But then, in the absence of the violating noises such as the locked doors being tried, I feel encouraged.

"LEAVE NOW!" I get to my feet and storm to the door, my skin boiling. The absurdity and violation of this day hasn't ended. A body beneath the bridge, Lattie's tears soaking into my clothes, Nanni's simplistic view of the world, the person in my driveway caught in my headlights, and now a man determined to enter this house.

I pound against the front door with my own hand, irate and violent, hoping such a sound disturbs him as much as it did me.

"I swear to God, I'll kill you myself," I snarl into the door: an inhuman, animalistic warning. My heart is thumping in my burning ears. The adrenaline throbbing through my veins is the startling proof of my own sincerity.

Silence and stillness fall as I stand there, forehead resting against the door, my breathing ragged.

There is no more knob jiggling. There are no more shadowy faces peering into dark windows.

The rest of the night is serene.