“This will do nicely,” Chassy said, looking up at a three-story brick building. The grass around it was long and shaggy, and bugs whizzed about the tips of the blades. Wrinkling her nose, she waded through the yard and tried the door. It was locked; no surprise there. A half-smile crossed her mouth. Locks had ceased to stop her a long time ago.
A few minutes later she was inside, with minimal damage to the door. She pulled out her gun—just to be safe—and wandered around inside, checking out the layout of the place.
“I think I could like this place,” she said, her voice soft. There was a vague scent of mildew arising from the floor, but she could ignore that. “And if I can’t, I can just find another place.”
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been inside, but when she was on the second floor, her new suite all picked out and loaded with locks (whoever lived here before must have been quite the cautious sort, she thought wryly—then quickly pushed aside the notion before the irony of it could hit), a flicker of movement out the window caught her attention. Her body jerked straight, her hand going to her gun, and she sucked in a deep gulp of air. Black wings fluttered, and her shoulders slumped with the escape of her breath.
“Just a bird,” she whispered. “ ‘A stately raven of the saintly days of yore.’ ” She frowned, the parallelism of the quote striking a nerve she didn’t want to be struck. “No more Poe for you, Chassy, I think.” Her voice trembled a little, belying the humor she tried to insert. “ ‘Saintly days of yore’ indeed. What exactly is that supposed to mean, anyway?” She couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that the bird’s appearance had jarred in her, though, and she checked the window to make sure it was locked and secured—then for good measure started pushing over the dresser.
When it was in place, only a sliver of the window could be seen. The only way one of the Creatures could see in was if They were climbing on the wall above—not necessarily an impossibility, but an improbability, yes. Or so she told herself, curling up on the full size bed. She refused to think about when the last time someone slept on it was—nor what might have happened to that person—and instead pulled out her supper and her notebook, Journ. Time for another night’s regime. She blinked a few times, staring out at the wedge of reddish sky. “Another night of being by myself…”
After a silence, she added, “Better than being in the company of Them.” Somehow, the thought didn’t cheer her.
