I Will Never Die - Delta Rae

For several long moments the sheriff waited against the blue siding of the neighbor's house. Whatever had gone into Calico Finn's was not the sort to snipe. Whatever stood in Marcy's door was too vicious to kill him at a distance. He wasn't entirely fond of walking straight across the road, but at this moment in time the inherent risk was worth it compared to stalking around three more houses to arrive at Marcy's porch from the side yard.

Hand on holster he started across the street with a half-smile that waned on approach. He liked this home. He liked the driveway and the landscaping that looked like someone made an effort without going full on master gardener. He liked the woman who'd lived in it.

He did not, however, like the flirty thing leaned over the railing, rocking on red heels, whistling and telling him good boys get treats underneath a flickering porchlight. When he was headed up the walkway (an unconscious decision on his part not to trod on the grass), the woman pulled a dog biscuit from her cleavage and tossed it on the pavers.

"An appetizer," she said, winking. When he stepped over it, she rolled her eyes and pouted, pushing away from the stairs with an emphatic sigh. "Aw, Sheriff! Don't tell me you're watching your figure. Mine's the one you should be paying attention to."

The light bulb shattered. In the dark rain of glass the woman's figure shifted, changed, became a shape he recognized in a heartbeat. The magician's trick was complete with a wardrobe change- a black dress of gothic, golden rose brocade.

The thing that wasn't Marcy ran her hands along her sides.

"What a lovely, lovely young doll," said the thing with the fairyland perfection of a changeling. The sound of Marcy's voice was home to him, more than any home could be: relaxed and brushed with velvet, warm and rich as a patio on a late June evening. The gaze she flicked toward him was brown but flashed green like a cat caught in headlights. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Harlowe took a deep breath and pushed past the thing to walk inside. In an instant slender fingers grabbed his wrist. He stopped dead in his tracks, running his tongue over the fang that'd replaced its human equivalent.

Werewolves had to rip their sheepskin off to transform. Well, they didn't have to, but when the wolf was itching to emerge it was considered by most of his kind to be a delight. The more excited one was, the easier it became; an amped wolf practically exploded out of their skin. Caelan's toes felt pinched in his boots, felt the muscles in his left foot contract and cramp. He brushed the demon's hand from his wrist and made down the hallway for the living room.

Not-Marcy, he had to call her that because he lost his edge around even an illusion, jogged in front of him and plopped on the couch, draped an arm across the side and gestured for him to come closer.

He smelled the rotten cat before he saw it. The animal, Sampson, Marcy's old pet, sprang up over the armrest, slunk across the cushions and wound its way into the woman's lap.

"You know the trick to making my pretties so lifelike? Getting to know every inch of the real thing. It's an artform, truly."

"It's a trick."

Not-Marcy ran her hand over the cat's ears and gave him an impish grin. "You know my bride quite well, don't you, Sheriff? The love of my life, stars of my night... And you defiled her. That was some old testament debauchery. I would applaud such a night on most occasions, but as I said, she is my bride. I think-" And here she tapped her fingers along her chin, leaving black smudges from the cat's filth. "I think perhaps the penalty should be biblical in proportion."

This stirred something in the man, as he took his hand from the gun, though it wasn't more than a quick twitch away. "If you came to talk," he said in a stiff tone, careful to keep his expression blank. Claws were stretching against his socks. From shoulders to the backs of his arms, his skin felt itchy and papery. "I'll oblige you the next eight minutes or so until my team arrives. If you came to talk shit, by all means, open those floodgates."

She canted her head, brown locks tumbling over one shoulder. "You'd like that."

"Been awhile."

"You'd like me."

Caelan knew the house, and moved himself into the corner of the room where he could observe without much worry about things creeping behind. "I'd like you both."

Her eyes were green again. "Oh," she said through a teasing smile. "My, my. Rather ambitious, aren't you? It's a good thing I know what you're capable of."

It was trying to rile him up. He really wanted to be riled up. His jaw nearly locked. Someone's bones were getting crushed between his teeth tonight. There would be marrow in his mouth before the night was done. But not yet, not yet. Business first.

"Business before pleasure," Caelan said in a gruff echo of his thoughts, tipping the barrel of his gun toward the direction of Talon Pack's homebase. "Your friend there at Miss Finn's working for or against you?"

The woman's lively posture stilled. Her head drooped slightly, fingers loosening, posture slumped like a castaway doll, as if the poltergeist animating it had stopped to think; and then cheerful countenance returned. A thin smile flattened the pulp of her lips. "What does it matter if I am friends with them? You're here with me now. Either you'll protect me, or I'll protect you."

"And why would you do such a thing?"

With a horse cry the cat jumped from her lap and scampered into the kitchen. Not-Marcy sidled on forward a few steps, sidled on with a vulpine sway that proved just how easy it was to fall for a trickster, just how easily his heart remembered what it wanted.

"I need you, Caelan," she breathed, stepping into his space, hesitating a moment then setting her hand against his cheek. "Marcy needs you."

The first shot smashed through her ribcage, sent her staggering back. The second snapped her head back against her neck. She fell backwards against the floor with a shriek, a shriek that turned into a chuckle as the color drained like blood from her skin and her muscles twitched into unlife. Giggles shook her body as she braced herself on an end table and got to her feet, a brown and desiccated corpse with cut string dangling from what had once been lips sewn shut.

"Wasn't sure if you would do it," the mummified remains said, ripping a wig from its scalp. "Had to find out. Wars are won with attention to detail, you know."

Caelan did not fire again.

"A doll isn't good enough for you, is it? Have to have the real thing. No knockoff, back alley Marcy for you, oh no."

"Clock's ticking."

"Clock'll stop, if I want it to," the thing hissed. "You'll hear me out or your team will hear me under their beds some night in the near future."

"Cut the shit."

There wasn't enough moisture left for the creature to sneer. "Marcy's misbehaving," it said without moving its yellowed teeth. "I've managed to undo most of the damage from her hissy fits, but there is yet one thing remaining that I have been unable to resolve. She took something from me that night she committed to my cause. I need it back."

A flashlight bounced over the deck rails. Help, it seemed, had arrived.

"Not hearing the problem," Caelan said, raising the gun again. preparing to fire a signal for Jali.

The creature dropped back to the floor. Life slipped from the doll's dead eyes. "She may be my bride but she is insolent. Her pretty little thoughts always circle back to you. She called you. She sent it to you. I've been following you and time's up. I don't know where you put it but I want my knife back."

"Would you give her back?"

But the body was still.

As Jali's flashlight zeroed in on the living room, the shadow of a squat, ugly river cat slipped into the kitchen. It's in your best interest to obey, Sherrif. There's more than her life at stake.