“Who is it?” I grabbed a sweater and struggled into it, hearing the knocking—dull thuds muffled by the acoustics of snow—that hadn’t managed to dent my dreamless sleep.

Or had I dreamed? I couldn’t be sure.

I made it halfway downstairs just as the thudding stopped. Graves bumbled along behind me until I turned around and gave him a glare, putting a finger to my lips. He froze in the act of opening his mouth, scratching at the lower curve of his ribs on the right.

Three more thuds, each very distinct. I froze, my skin going cold and prickling, every hair on my body standing straight up and doing its best to escape my skin.

I knew that feeling. Gran had called it the singing willies. Dad called it the tingles.

I called it something nasty on the other side of that door.

And me without a gun or anything.

It tasted like old sludge and rust, the tang of iron against the back of my palate in that special place ordinary people don’t have. Dad said he always knew when I was getting the tingles by the look on my face, and it must have been true, because Graves went white as milk under his coloring, his nostrils flaring and his messy hair quivering as he shook like a dog caught between cowardice and outright peeing itself with fear.

I caught something shifting over the surface of the door, a ripple like blue lines, just caught out of peripheral vision. The bolt of pain searing through my head caught me unaware, and I let out a hard, whistling breath.

I snapped a quick glance at the entrance to the living room. Stopped myself—the blinds were up, I hadn’t pulled them before bed. No cover. There were weapons up in my room. I’d have grabbed one on the way out, but if a cop was at the door—or another adult authority figure—I would have gotten myself in trouble.

This is getting ridiculous.

One last knock on the door, a playful tap. Little pig, little pig, let me in.

I let out a soft, shallow breath, just a sip of air. Pointed at Graves, pointed upstairs, and made a gun with my forefinger and thumb. Raised my eyebrows meaningfully.

He nodded, the pink scars on his shoulder standing out vividly against pale skin. His undies had ridden up into the crack of his narrow ass, of which I was treated to a full view as he turned and tried to go as quietly as possible up the stairs.

I settled down into a crouch, watching the door, my entire skin alive and alert to every sound I could possibly pick up. Whoever it was, they were on the front porch, waiting. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name. It’s like being able to see the heat shimmer off pavement on a summer day, the disturbance created by something weird standing in the normal world. The blue lines trembled on the edge of being visible, the house’s space rejecting something inimical.

Every place we lived, I usually snuck out of my room the first night and traced the windows and outer doors with the wand Gran left, feeling my will bleed through the rowan wood and into the fabric of the walls themselves. She called it “wardin’” or “closin’ up the house.” Dad called it “that old Appalachia foolishness,” but never very loudly, and he never stopped me.

Too much of what Gran taught me was useful. He just made a token protest, that was all. I never pointed out that the protest was ridiculous, considering his line of work. It was just one of those things.

Sometimes I almost saw those thin blue lines running like lightning over the physical texture of the walls and windows. This time, it seemed like they were getting stronger, the lightning crackling together and concentrating, repelling something.

Holy shit.

The stairs creaked. The house responded, singing its almost-morning song under a blanket of snow. Yesterday the front yard had been a carpet of white, only barely broken by nubs where the picket fence stood guard, buried under a drift.

The front door did not creak. It just stood there, radiating the secret of something behind it, running with blue light I could almost, almost see. My palms had gone slick with sweat, my mouth cotton-dry and tasting funny, like morning and rust all swilled together.

That’s not rust, Dru. That’s blood. The voice of instinct announced it quite calmly. It’s something weird and it smells like blood. It’s on your front porch, maybe looking at the dead plants in plastic pots you never bothered to move. If you look out the window in the living room, what do you want to bet you’ll see it grinning back at you?

A faint rattling, scratching noise touched the door. I began to feel woozy, thinking of Dad’s bone-scraped fingers screaking against glass.

Little pig, little pig, let me in.

There’s a lot of things in the Real World that can’t cross a threshold without an invitation. Zombies aren’t one of them—but maybe this thing was, and maybe the old ritual of closing up the house Gran had taught me was doing some good.

Maybe? No, definitely. “Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin,” I mouthed, as Graves tried to move quietly down the stairs behind me. A board groaned sharply under his weight, and he let out a breath and froze.

The sense of presence leached away, like oily water sliding down a drain. I heard a thin sound that might have been a chuckle or a scream, depending on how far away it was.

I sat down hard on the stairs because my legs wouldn’t hold me up. They were shaking too bad, and weak as wet noodles.

Graves handed me the gun over my shoulder. I took it, not having the heart to tell him the thing at the door was gone. My legs jittered like I’d had a jolt of pure caffeine laced with terror.

Well, I certainly had the terror. It spilled through me, dark as wine and tasting of ash and metal.

“It smells bad,” Graves whispered. “What is it?”

I don’t know enough to even guess. Except just one thing—it’s bad. Really, really bad. I swallowed four or five times, my throat dry as silicon chips. “You can smell that?”

“Yeah. It smells nasty. Something rusting.” His nostrils spread slightly as he inhaled, taking in a gulp of air that flared his rib cage. Muscle stood out in his neck and shoulders. He was shaking, too.

“That’s not rust. It’s blood.” We both let out the breath at the same time, me at the end of my sentence, him as if he’d been waiting for me to exhale. “Are you psychic?”

“Me? No. I can’t even get a date.” He gave me a glance, and his eyes burned sickly phosphorescent green. Against his deadly paleness, the ethnic coloring of his skin drained away to stark white, the glow of his eyes was an insult. “It’s gone, isn’t it.”

“It is.” I wished my legs would stop shaking. “I don’t know what it was.” But I can guess, can’t I? It pretty much means one thing—something so bad even Dad would turn tail and run hard from it.

I just hope I’m wrong.

Dawn came up clear and cold, snow throwing back thin sunlight under an aching-blue sky brushed with high white horsetail clouds. I put on Dad’s Army sweater and his surplus coat, threw on a pair of jeans, stepped into my boots and stamped downstairs. I squinted at the ammo box, which was better than staring at the grease-dusty stain on the carpet.

Did I want to go around armed in broad daylight? It was looking more and more like a good idea. But still, the thought of getting caught with a firearm, no good ID, and no good explanation why I was packing heat was daunting.

To say the least.

“I still think I should go with you,” Graves said. He leaned against the door to the living room, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets.

I shook my head, my braid bumping my shoulder. I’d drenched my hair in conditioner and braided it back, wanting it out of the way. “Dad would kill me if I dragged a civilian into this.” I winced inwardly as soon as I said it, soldiered on. “Best thing for you to do is forget you ever saw any of this and go back to getting through high school.” Since something hinky is knocking at my front door and I can’t blow town unless I have the truck. You’re already too involved.