Grey Dawn by Clea Simon

Trista nodded. ‘The full moon is tomorrow.’

FIFTEEN
    T he combination of the sherry and everything else should have left Dulcie exhausted, but she felt strangely wired by the time she’d climbed the stairs. Strangely wired – and not only awake, but driven. A quick text message to Chris –
Trista walked me home. All locked up! –
and she was at her desk, that curious manuscript open before her.
    â€˜I know it doesn’t make sense, Esmé, but there’s something here,’ she said as the young cat jumped up to peer at her laptop. ‘Something in this book that ties everything together.’
    As if in response, the little tuxedo cat began to wash furiously, attacking her inside hind leg as if it were possessed.
    â€˜You don’t have a flea,’ Dulcie looked up. ‘Do you?’ The cat ignored her, moving on to the pink spaces between her toes, and Dulcie returned to work.
    â€˜For dangers abound on this Road, as the bilious Moon rides to her turbulent zenith, and I would be your Friend.’ Deep in the shadows, the Stranger sat, regarding her with hidden eyes. Silent, since his initial salutation, he watched steadily, as the storm beyond raged and those fiendish things, the Beasts of the Night cried their blood-curdling cries.’
    â€˜Meh.’ A paw appeared, dabbing at the cursor on the screen.
    â€˜No, Esmé.’ A little carelessly, Dulcie brushed the paw away. It reappeared, as Esmé batted at the cursor. Not, Dulcie told herself, at the word ‘Friend.’ She read on.
    â€˜Beasts of the Night cried their blood-curdling cries …’
This was better: Dulcie needed to focus on the text, not on some vague hope that this character was some kind of precursor of her own spiritual friend.
‘Cried their blood-curdling cries?’
The awkwardness of it hit her. Surely the author meant to revise that. The paw reappeared.
    â€˜Ravenous as wraiths, they sounded, calling for their prey in voices meant to freeze the very Blood. Only the Stranger …’
    â€˜Meh!’ More insistent, this time.
    â€˜What?’ A small fang appeared over the edge of the laptop as Esmé began to gnaw on the computer. ‘No! Esmé, stop!’
    Dulcie slammed the computer closed and found herself face to face with her cat. ‘I know I’ve been busy, Esmé. But at least I’m working at home. I’m trying.’ The wide green eyes stared up at her. ‘You know, you can talk to me, Esmé. If you want to.’ The cat tilted her head, as if to get a better view of her person. The look could have been an appraisal, leaving Dulcie feeling that in some way she had been found wanting, when it hit her: Esmé hadn’t been fed.
    â€˜Of course.’ Dulcie got up and headed for the kitchen. Esmé bounded ahead. ‘Sorry, kitty. Everything that’s happened has taken over my mind. In fact …’ As Dulcie reached for the cat food, she realized how hungry she was, as well. That soup had been hours before, and the effects of the sherry were just about worn off. The apartment larder wasn’t as well stocked with people food as it was with Fancy Feast, however, and Dulcie contemplated going out. Not yet eleven, Mary Chung’s might be closed, but Hi Fi Pizza would still be open.
    Dulcie was going for her sweater when the realization of what she was about to do stopped her. Another woman had been attacked tonight. Granted, both the attacks had been in Harvard Square, a full mile from where she was now. But she’d told Chris she’d be careful. Besides, as good as pizza – extra cheese, pepperoni, mushrooms – sounded, Dulcie really wanted to read more of the manuscript. It was funny how it seemed to expand. She was reading a section now that she had only the dimmest memory of transcribing. It was almost as if …
    â€˜Mr Grey? Are you sending me stories now?’ The vague thought that she had