Deviltry

The alarm clock screamed at 5:47 AM, three minutes before Kyrsha had set it to go off. She cracked one ice-blue eye and glared at the offending device like it had insulted her ancestors. "Bite me, you mechanical bastard." Sampson's massive head appeared over the edge of the bed, his amber eyes sympathetic. At 140 pounds of pure German-Shepherd-muscle, he could have easily rested his chin on the mattress without stretching, but he always chose to loom instead. Her gentle giant had opinions about early mornings too. "Yeah, I know, boy. Life's a cosmic joke and we're the punchline." She rolled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold hardwood with a slap that sent Brigit and Ickarus—her two cow patterned cats—scattering from their perch on the windowsill. The Los Angeles morning light filtered through her blackout curtains in thin, rebellious stripes, casting everything in shades of gray that matched her aesthetic. The apartment smelled like coffee, which meant Gladys was already up. Twenty years of friendship had taught them each other's rhythms. Kyrsha stumbled toward the kitchen, her oversized Metallica shirt hanging to her knees, ash-blonde waves cascading down her back in a riot of tangles that would take half a bottle of detangler to sort out. "Morning, sunshine," Gladys called from the couch, not looking up from her laptop. Steam rose from the mug beside her elbow, and the TV droned in the background—some morning show host with teeth too white for nature's intentions. "Morning is an abomination," Kyrsha muttered, pouring herself coffee that could strip paint. "What does the world have to offer today?" "Same as yesterday, plus a side of weird." Gladys finally looked up, her dark eyes concerned. "You see the news about that thing in Europe?" Kyrsha paused with the mug halfway to her lips. "What thing?" "Some kind of viral outbreak. Started in Romania, I think? Or maybe it was Hungary. Somewhere with castles and bad weather." Gladys turned up the volume on the TV. "—urging citizens to maintain social distance and report any unusual symptoms to authorities immediately," the anchor was saying, her plastic smile not quite reaching her eyes. "While officials maintain the situation is contained, several European Union countries have restricted travel—" "Ah, f**k," Kyrsha said, settling into the other end of the couch. Sampson immediately claimed the space between them, his bulk taking up most of the cushions. "Please tell me we're not doing the pandemic dance again. I just got used to showing my whole face in public." "Different kind of thing, apparently. People are getting... aggressive. Violent. There was some footage from Prague yesterday, but they pulled it pretty fast." "Aggressive how?" Gladys shrugged, but her fingers drummed against her laptop in that way they did when she was worried. "Biting people. Like, really going for it. One report said a guy in Budapest tried to eat his neighbor's face off." "Charming." Kyrsha took a long sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground her. Her wolf stirred uneasily in her chest—that instinctive part of her that her father had taught her to listen to, the part that knew when something was hunting in the dark. "Bath salts?" "Maybe. Or maybe people are just losing their s**t. Economy's f****d, climate's f****d, politics are f****d. Something's got to give." The anchor had moved on to sports scores, but the unease lingered. Kyrsha stared at the screen without seeing it, her mind already at the animal hospital. They'd been getting weird cases lately—pets acting strangely, more aggressive than usual. A Pomeranian had nearly taken off Dr. Martinez's finger last week, and that dog had been sweet as pie during every previous visit. "I should get ready," she said, though she made no move to leave the couch. Sampson's warmth was solid against her side, and for a moment she let herself imagine calling in sick, spending the day wrapped in blankets with her animals, pretending the world outside didn't exist. But bills didn't pay themselves, and the Poison Apple Animal Hospital didn't run itself. Besides, her patients needed her, even if their owners were getting progressively more paranoid about everything lately. "David texted again," Gladys said quietly. "Did he now." Kyrsha's voice went flat, arctic. "What pearls of wisdom did that worthless sack of d**k-cheese have to share?" "The usual. He misses you, he made a mistake, Sarah meant nothing—" "Sarah and her perky t**s meant nothing. Got it." Kyrsha stood, her movements sharp. The wolf in her chest snarled, wanting to bite something. "Delete it. Delete them all. I told you to block his number." "I thought you might want—" "I want him to fall into a wood chipper. Feet first. While Sarah watches." She headed toward her bedroom, calling over her shoulder, "But since wood chippers are expensive and I have a job to get to, I'll settle for pretending he doesn't exist." Thirty minutes later, she emerged transformed. Her hair hung in controlled waves over one shoulder, and she'd traded the Metallica shirt for black scrubs decorated with tiny silver skulls. Her makeup was subtle but deadly—smoky eyes that made her ice-blue gaze even more striking, and dark lipstick that suggested she might bite back if provoked. "Much better," Gladys said approvingly. "You look like you could throat-punch someone." "That's the idea. If the apocalypse is starting in Europe, I want to be properly dressed for it." "It's not the apocalypse. It's just... people being weird." But as Kyrsha gathered her keys and kissed Sampson's massive head goodbye, she couldn't shake the feeling that weird was just the beginning. The wolf in her chest was pacing now, restless and watchful. Something was coming. Something that would make David's betrayal seem like a minor inconvenience. She just didn't know what yet. She looked at Sampson for a long moment. and decided to bring him with her. The '69 Mustang purred to life like a satisfied predator, all black muscle and chrome teeth. Kyrsha had bought her after the David disaster—therapy with a V8 engine and an attitude to match her own. The gray leather seats had seen better decades, but they molded to her body like they'd been waiting for her specifically. "Come on, Sampson. Road trip." The massive German Shepherd bounded toward the car with puppy-like enthusiasm that belied his size. Getting him into the backseat required some creative maneuvering—he was built like a small horse—but once settled, he pressed his nose to the window and watched the world with alert amber eyes. "Just a checkup, boy. Nothing dramatic." She clipped his safety harness into place, though they both knew he was coming along for reasons that had nothing to do with veterinary care. Her mind had been restless all morning, and Sampson's presence was like carrying a loaded weapon she'd never have to use. The surface streets of LA sprawled before them, a maze of strip malls and palm trees baking under the morning sun. Kyrsha avoided the highways religiously—too many cars packed too close together, too high up, too much like being trapped in a metal coffin if things went sideways. Down here on the regular streets, she had options. Escape routes. Traffic was lighter than usual, which should have been a relief but somehow felt wrong instead. Like everyone else had gotten a memo she'd missed. She was stopped at a red light, drumming her black-lacquered nails against the steering wheel to the rhythm of "Master of Puppets," when the ambulance came screaming around the corner. No siren. Just the silent flash of red and white lights cutting through the morning haze like a strobe at a rave from hell. "What the actual—" The ambulance didn't slow for the intersection. It blew through the red light doing at least sixty, close enough that Kyrsha could see the spiderweb crack in its rear window. Close enough that she yanked the wheel hard right, the Mustang's tires shrieking against asphalt as 140 pounds of German Shepherd slammed into the passenger door with a yelp. "Sampson! s**t, sorry boy—" The ambulance disappeared down the street without slowing, its lights still flashing that eerie silent warning. No acknowledgment that it had nearly turned her classic car into abstract art. "f*****g asshole!" She thrust her middle finger after the retreating vehicle, though it was already too far away to see. "Learn to drive, you—" Sampson whined softly from the backseat, shaking his massive head. His harness had done its job, mostly, but he looked rattled. She reached back to scratch behind his ears, her anger dissolving into concern. "You okay, baby? I'm sorry. Some people drive like they're i***t babies with a liscense." The gas station on the corner beckoned with promises of overpriced coffee and the chance to check her car for damage. Kyrsha pulled in, the Mustang's engine ticking as it cooled. She'd barely opened her door when she noticed the man. He was walking like his joints had forgotten how to bend properly, each step deliberate and wrong. Too stiff. Too careful. Like he was operating his body from a distance and the controls were lagging. "Excuse me," he called out, his voice carrying that particular quality of someone who'd been talking to invisible companions for too long. "Excuse me, miss." Kyrsha perked up, hackles metaphorically rising. She kept one hand on her car door, ready to slam it shut and peel out if necessary. "Yeah?" "The moon," he said, still approaching with that unsettling gait. "Is the moon still up there?" She glanced at the clear morning sky, then back at him. He was closer now, maybe fifteen feet away, and she could see the feverish glitter in his eyes. The way his skin had a waxy sheen despite the cool morning air. "Moon's clocked out, buddy. Night shift and all." He took another step closer, and then another. Ten feet now. His head tilted at an angle that didn't look entirely voluntary. She could almost smell him from that distance. Old piss and bad decisions. "But I can still feel it," he said, and there was something hungry in his voice. "Can't you feel it? Pulling at everything wet inside you?" She shivered as his voice coiled around her body in waves of creepy. Eight feet. Seven. Six. He moved quickly for someone staggering. She was about to get in her vehicle. That's when Sampson's massive head exploded through the open rear window like a furry missile, all bared teeth and raised hackles. His growl started somewhere deep in his chest and rumbled outward like distant thunder, promising violence in a language older than words. His jaws snapping at the air with spittle flying like blood splatters. The man spun on his heels so fast he nearly toppled over, then took off down the street in that same stiff-jointed run. Within seconds, he'd vanished around the corner like he'd never been there at all. "Good boy," Kyrsha breathed, reaching through the window to scratch Sampson's ears. His tail wagged once, sharp and satisfied, before he settled back into his seat with a pleased huff. "Thanks for your service, soldier." But as she got back in the car and pulled out of the gas station, she couldn't shake the feeling that the morning's weirdness was just starting the day off. First the aggressive ambulance, now Mr. Moon-Obsessed with his talk about things pulling at the wet parts inside you. She was fully awake now, anxiety pacing restless circles in her chest. The Poison Apple Animal Hospital sat wedged between a tattoo parlor and a vintage clothing store, its neon green apple sign flickering lazily in the morning heat. Kyrsha had always loved that about this place—it didn't pretend to be some sterile corporate clinic.