7. Otis Joins the Ranks

Growling. Wolves with their teeth bared snarl and snap, tearing into one another with sharp, deadly claws. Howls. A ring of savage, slathering animals tethered by string as Declan stands in the middle, shoulders straight, accepting what's to come.

A woman stands in a weak circle of light, darkness encroaching. A man climbs steps toward her, a long needle held at his side. She knows who he is, knows what he plans. She tries to push him away, but he stabs her in the neck, injecting her with poison.

Sylvia struggles in the hospital bed, trapped in a coma of the demon's making. He's crushing her, sitting on her chest. Calliope whispers foul curses in her mother's ear, sharing a look of triumph with her demon.

He waits in the woods, hidden, watching the young boy play with Iron Man and Spider-Man. The boy runs in a loop, both action figures tight in his grip as they fly through the air. He smiles, thinking about his experiments and what a sharp knife can do to skin.

The woman is paralyzed with fear; the dinner party and her work partner are too far away. A high-pitched voice calls her name again. Why is this happening? What has she ever done? She tries to run in the mud but slips. She hears a sharp intake of breath and then nothing more.

Whispers. A long, dark corridor. Thick carpet. Carved wooden walls and doors. A light is barely visible beneath the last door. The whispers make her skin crawl. She moves closer, trying to make out the words, but hears the crack of a hand against flesh, a gasp of pain.

Pearl sits in a coffee shop, typing on her laptop, a textbook open on the table beside her. Long, dark hair curtains her from view, so he moves his seat. He watches her around a man's shoulder. She hides in the far corner. Bitten fingernails with chipped polish. She jumps when a barista drops a bottle. She's barely changed. Still the same scared little mouse.

He can't wait to see her eyes widen in disbelief and terror. God, he loves the fear. It's powerful. Intoxicating. Addictive. He'll make the little mouse squeal. Soon.

I startled awake, early morning light streaming through the windows. Alone, I checked my phone. Three and a half hours. Damn. Normally, sleeping next to Declan gave me six to seven hours of solid, dreamless sleep. Perhaps last night was too much. My mind hadn't been able to settle down, especially after watching my cousin be murdered. Most of the images in this last nightmare had been familiar horrors that had woken me many times before. What I hadn't recognized was the one lingering in my head: a long, dark corridor filled with doors. What the hell did that mean?

I sensed a shadow pass over the skylight. Looking up, I expected a dark raincloud. What I found instead were two eyes staring back. I jumped out of my skin. We had a sorcerer and her demon to contend with, after all. Thankfully, what I was looking at wasn't evil. It was the baby raccoon who'd taken to hanging out with me at dawn and dusk while I painted.

I'd named him Otis and he was, no doubt, wondering when I was coming out to play. "Give me a minute," I called and then ran up the stairs to put on work clothes.

It took a while to get set up, tarping the area under where I'd be working today, filling a large basket on a rope with paints, brushes, trays for mixing the paints. My mural went over the newly renovated side wall of my gallery. I made the boards look grayed from the ocean spray, rotted through in places. A long, purple-blue tentacle appeared to break through the decrepit old building. There would be another one bursting through the roof, but that'd be a physical tentacle, like the ones I had coming up from the water, curling around the deck, seeming to be pulling my gallery down into the ocean.

There'd been an article in the online version of the local paper, saying I'd given more than a few fishermen a shock the first morning they'd gone up. Apparently, there were many messages being passed on their radios that morning, as they were all telling each other about the sea monster finally tearing down that old cannery. A few of the boats ignored their normal timetable and swung by for a closer look. Lots of flashes were going off as I sat in my dark studio, drinking tea and smiling.

I'd done it on purpose, putting them all up late at night so the fishermen would be the first to see them. Declan and me, that is. It had been a two-person-with-super-strength job. I wasn't anywhere near as strong as a werewolf, but my father's fae blood made me much stronger than a human.

After the article, I started noticing more cars driving by, watching me work on the mural. A few would honk and wave, but most just slowed down and took pictures. My gallery could use the hype. I was a little off the beaten path and needed buzz.

Once everything was set, I climbed up with a thermos of tea, pulled the rope, hauling up all my gear, and got to work. Almost immediately, Otis climbed off the roof and onto the scaffolding, sniffing around for food, but mostly just watching.

I pulled a muffin out of my overalls pocket, unwrapped the paper towel surrounding it, and then rolled it to him. He jumped out of the way, looking betrayed by my hostility, and then sniffed the air, waddling happily back to claim his breakfast. He picked it up with both paws, plopped his butt down, and ate while I worked. It was nice having company.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it from my bib pocket, saw it was Declan, and tapped speakerphone. "Hi."

"Hey," he said. "I thought you'd sleep later."

"How do you know you didn't just wake me up?"

"Turn around."

I did and saw him over at his property. He'd purchased the land across the road and down maybe an eighth of a mile. It was closer to Cannery Row and had been a combination retail space and amusement area for tourists. Outwardly, it appeared to be a large barn. When you went in, there was a full-sized carousel in the middle with small retail stalls selling souvenirs and taffy, fudge, hairbands, whatnot, all around it. I remembered going there as a child. My mother hated the place. Most of the adults did, as the interchangeable teenagers working the carousel barely glanced to see if the children were secure before starting the ride.

My cousin Colin was screwing around and got knocked off when it shuddered and jumped before taking off faster than usual. And I just realized the teenager at the controls probably did it on purpose, as Colin had been harassing him earlier. Good for him. Colin has always been a dick.

Apparently, years later, a child was seriously hurt riding it. It wasn't human error, then. The owners hadn't been putting money or expertise into the upkeep of the old machinery. A tourist with deep pockets sued and the business went under. Honestly, though, it had been struggling for years.

It was a prime location, but the building would cost more to renovate to get it up to code than it was worth, so it had sat until a woodworking werewolf decided to snap it up and make it a workshop instead of a tourist trap.

One of the carousel animals was an octopus. It was the one I always rode when I was little. If he decided to junk the old, probably rotting, animals, I'd asked if he would give me the octopus. I'd take care of her.

Declan was a gifted woodworker, but because he'd moved around so much, he couldn't take what he built with him. He mostly built to order and moved on. If he'd built pieces that hadn't already been sold, he'd leave them in consignment shops and collect the money when they did. Now, as he'd decided to stay in Monterey, he was renovating the building and creating the workshop he'd always wanted.

He waved and I waved back.

"I was thinking about the sleeping thing as I painted and chatted with Otis," I said.

"Who's Otis?"

I snapped a pic of him eating the last of his muffin and sent it to Declan. "He's my dusk and dawn painting buddy. He scared the crap out of me this morning when I looked up at the skylight and saw him staring back at me. I was late, so he was checking up on me."

Declan laughed. "It's good to have company. Anyway, you were thinking?"

"When we've done this before, I was leaning on you or the top of my head was touching your pant leg. Last night, I was trying so hard not to wake you, I didn't adjust the pillow against your leg. Because of that, my head wasn't touching your thigh. It's a working theory."

"We'll have to test it out," he said.

"I'm twenty-eight years exhausted, so I'll take you up on that offer. Also, if you get hungry, I have muffins in the studio. Courtesy of the nightmare night before last, your choices are blueberry-raspberry or strawberry cheesecake."

"Mmm. I'll definitely be over soon. By the way, I called to say the mural is amazing. I know you're not done yet, but it absolutely looks real. I've had a few cars pull into my drive to turn around and then park by the side of the road, watching you."

"Oh, that's…not at all threatening."

He laughed again. "I had my eye on them."

"Okay, good. Well, this wall isn't going to paint itself." Especially now that Otis was playing with my brushes.

"Try to take a nap later."

"No can do. I have a Corey Council meeting today. Oh, speaking of which, can you give me a ride to my mom's or should I order up a car?"

"What time?"

"Elevenish."

He paused a moment. "I can make that work. I'll pick you up and grab muffins then."

"Sounds good. Happy building!"

"Thanks. And happy painting to you."

I disconnected and put the finishing touches on the tentacle. It was almost photorealistic in its detail. Even this close, I was proud of what I'd created. The flesh was a lightly mottled gray that turned more blue and purple in different spots. I'd used an iridescent paint to highlight the suckers and then a high gloss clear coat just on the tentacle to give it a wet look.

I was letting the clear coat dry while I continued to make my gallery look as though it was one strong gust away from collapsing into the sea. I'd finished the section I was working on and was about to climb up to the top of the scaffolding when a text pinged on my phone. I checked my pocket. It was a text from Declan.

Declan: Check the time.

I did. Shit.

Me: Thanks

I collected my stuff, filled the basket, lowering it to the ground, and then turned to say goodbye to Otis. He was gone. Darn. I'd missed him leaving. Oh, well. After hauling in the basket, I ran upstairs to shower. Mother would be most displeased if I arrived in my paint-spattered overalls.

Hair care was always the biggest time suck for me. I could shower quickly, but once shampooing and conditioning came into the mix, forget about it. Wet, my hair hung down past my butt. I'd tried cutting it a few times over the years. It always grew back to the exact same length by the following day. Clearly, it was a fae thing and I just needed to deal with it.

Far more time-consuming than washing was drying. Couldn't I just spell it dry? Sure, but that filled it with static and made it stick up crazy. So, lots of leave-in conditioners and emollients later, I was gently drying with a hair diffuser. Okay, fine. I was vain about my hair. It was a pain, but it was also soft and beautiful because I took good care of it.

My mom would have preferred I wore a dress, like that was ever going to happen. Clean black jeans with no paint spatters, loafers instead of sneakers, and a lightweight lavender sweater was the best she was going to get. I pocketed my phone and a slim billfold. I'd grab my backpack on the way out. First, though, I needed to try something.

When I went downstairs, I saw my driver lounging on the deck. I unlocked the door and opened it.

"Sorry. Running late. Come on in and eat. I need to do one thing and then we can go." I went to my pantry and looked for an empty jar. Ha! I knew this would come in handy someday. When I turned to go outside, I found Declan leaning against the doorframe, watching me.

"You're looking beautiful, Ursula."

Not gonna lie, the voice, the look in his eye, all of it was doing things to me. "Does that mean you're not angry I'm ten minutes late?"

He shook his head. "Not even a little bit."

I patted his chest as I walked by. "Sucker. Oh, and the muffins are on the counter."

I went out to the deck and hung over the railing. "Hello, Cecil!" A tentacle slapped the surface of the water. "Hello, Charlie. Hello Herbert." My starfish friends were looking bright and handsome on the posts holding up the deck. I searched the waves for the gray seal head of Wilbur, a selkie. We played catch most every day. I scanned the deck for his tennis ball but didn't find it. He must not have returned my last throw yet.

I unscrewed the conical hat on the plastic bear and balanced it on the railing beside me. Holding my hand over the water, I began to pull. Water rose like a slow, measured fountain. I could make seawater shoot wherever I wanted. It had been one of my key defenses against my shitty cousins. The slow control was far more difficult, but I'd been practicing.

When it had finally risen to the height of the railing, I flipped over the see-through honey bear and scooped up the seawater, filling the little container. After screwing the top back on, I turned to find Declan sitting on a bench, finishing a muffin and watching me again.

"What are you up to?" he asked.

"I had a thought last night. The ocean always makes me feel better, heals me. So I thought I should start carrying it around with me to see if it works in small doses."

He nodded. "Great idea. It helped when I brought river water to you when we were in that little girl's house."

"Ana," I said.

"I know," he responded, standing up. "Thinking too much about her or Christopher is hard. I only know a small portion of what's in your head, and it bothers the hell out of me. I don't know how you do it."

"Practice. And art. And my ocean friends here. Otis, who's turned out to be a good painting buddy. Baking." I shrugged. "Finding beauty to counter the horrific, I guess."

"I like that." He checked his watch. "We should probably get moving before—"

My phone buzzed.

"—that," he finished.