Page 72 of Fang Fatale

The porch creaks.

A man's voice.

Low.

Close.

Then—

"Theo."

One word.

"Movement."

For a fraction of a second I relax.

Then immediately tense again.

Protocol says voices are only used when things have already gone sideways.

The screen door whispers open.

Then closed.

I breathe slowly through my nose and briefly imagine the scene from overhead.

Three people.

Two awake.

One asleep on a threadbare couch.

Waiting for fate to decide whether tonight is a tragedy or a very dark comedy.

A coded knock.

I ease back the deadbolt and pull the door open.

Theo slips inside, rain clinging to his jacket, his face already wearing that familiar pre-violence calm.

I've only seen it once before.

The night he threw a skinwalker out of a toddler's birthday party armed with nothing but a plastic spoon and profoundly misplaced confidence.

"Two men coming up the drive," he whispers.

"Big."

"Not subtle."

"One's limping."

"The other's favoring a wrapped hand."

"They're checking for tripwires."

He glances toward the living room.