Hungry is the Night

Chapter One

Marcus

I watched as Grace bit down into a slice of rare steak with ravenous abandon, strands of filthy brown hair falling into her diamond-shaped face. She rolled her shoulders back as she chewed, her eyes flickering shut. Sweat shined on the exposed plane of her chest, the thin gray hoodie she wore doing little to hide the fact that she was naked beneath it. Leaning against the back of the vinyl booth, knife and fork gripped tight in her hands, she breathed deep through her nose, face held up to the sky as she swallowed.

Thirty years, and she was still the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. As I slid into the booth across the table from her, it took everything I had to keep a tremor out of my voice as I queried, “Rough night?”

Grace’s hands seized around her utensils. Her eyes shot open, but she didn’t look over at me right away. Her surprise surprised me—she should have smelled me from a mile away. She was slipping, getting sloppy .

Smacking her lips, she answered, “I suppose you could say that.”

When I didn’t respond, she tipped her head back down to look at me at last. Her gaze was cold, revealing nothing of what she might have felt. “Been a long time, Marcus. What are you doing here?”

I smiled at her, my left hand fiddling with the thin gold chain wrapped around my right wrist. “Looking for you, of course.”

Grace slid farther down in her seat, baggy sweatpants slipping up her hips. Her gaze roamed over me unchecked, every place it passed breaking out in goosebumps. “You found me.”

I clasped my hands together on top of the table, examining her in kind. I swallowed hard, trying and failing to muster up a smile. “You look good.”

Grace blinked. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Shaking her head, she pulled her gaze away from me and focused on her plate, cutting off another hunk of steak. “You look exactly the same.”

I was silent as she lifted the bite to her mouth. The sounds of the five a.m. weekday Waffle House washed over us…the scratching of cheap silverware against cheaper ceramic and the clatter of cup against counter, the old trucker at the bar, red cap perched back on his forehead, slurping his fifth cup of coffee as he worked through his third plate of pancakes, the muted murmuring of a pregnant woman and her partner, seated in a faraway corner, splitting an order of chili fries, the shuffling of two waitstaff workers and the short order cook, bored out of their minds, but too tired to gossip.

“How’s the job?” I asked at last, desperate to try and carry on a normal conversation, as if nothing had happened, as if the intervening thirty years were so much smoke between us.

Grace glared at me as she chewed. “The job is fine,” she said around her mouthful of meat. She took a large gulp of milk, tangled hair falling away from her face. “Did you really come all this way to chit-chat with me, Marcus?”

The blood drained from my face. My smile faded. “You can’t fathom for a moment that maybe I missed you?”

Grace stared into my eyes, her own expression stubbornly blank. She put down her knife and fork and scratched the side of her nose.

Breaking under the weight of her gaze, I collapsed back into the seat, hands sliding off the tabletop and into my lap. “I need to talk to Mama, all right?”

Grace snorted a laugh and cut another piece of steak free from the whole. “So you come to me?” She lifted her fork and gestured with the hunk of flesh. “You must have heard by now—the last time Mama and I came face to face, we nearly ripped each other’s throats out.”

My smile returned, one corner of my lips pulling up over my stark, white teeth. “God, I wish I’d been there to see that.”

“My point is”—continued Grace, shoveling the meat into her mouth—“you’re barking up the wrong tree.” She winced. “Pardon the expression.”

“Grace, you’re my only way in.” I shifted in my seat, pulling my suit jacket tight over my chest. “None of the other Nameless will even talk to me.”

Grace chuckled again, but this time it was a laugh devoid of mirth. She tossed back the last swallow of her drink. “Well, yeah. The last time one of us talked to you, it didn’t end well, did it?”

“Grace. This is serious.” I stabbed the smooth plastic tabletop with my finger. “This isn’t just me asking. This is the Feóndulf. We need to talk with Mama.”

With slow deliberate movements, Grace picked up her napkin, wiped the grease off her lips and dropped the crumpled paper onto her dirty plate. She met my eyes, gripped the edge of the table and leaned in. “I am done with Mama.” Sliding out of the booth and standing, she jabbed her finger into my chest. “I’m done with you, and with the dens, and with all of that shit. I’m not sure what you expected to happen here, Marcus, but the past is the past. I’m focused on my future.”

Looking from her finger to her face, I let out a strangled sigh. “You know it’s not that simple, Grace.”

Grace scoffed and straightened, tugging her pants further up her waist. “I’d love to stay and shoot the shit, Marcus, but I’ve got work in a few hours and I need a shower.” She turned and walked toward the cash register at the front of the restaurant, wiggling her fingers in an insincere goodbye. “Wish I could say this has been nice.”

Digging my cell phone out of my trouser pocket, I muttered, “So do I.”

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I was looking for and hit ‘call’, holding the phone up to my ear. I only half-listened to the ringing, the rest of me preoccupied with watching Grace pay for her meal and exit the Waffle House, my gaze intent as she pushed open the door and disappeared into the dim parking lot. Rubbing at my chin with my free hand, the sound of the other line picking up brought me out of my memories and back to reality.

“Yes, sir. I found her.” I shook my head. “No, she won’t help.” Sighing, I slid down in my seat until the back of my head hit the top of the booth, screwing my eyes shut. “I did, sir. Yes, I did. I think we’ll have to try something else.”

* * * *

Grace

Seven a.m. found me pushing my fingers through my sopping wet hair, shivering under the onslaught of ice-cold shower water. I listened as the mournful cry of a distant freight train floated through the open bathroom window and closed my eyes, scrubbing off the dirt, sweat and blood. I couldn’t go into work smelling like roadkill. It was fine for the customers, but the employees were held to higher standards. Squeezing another dollop of soap onto my rough loofah, I attacked my raw, red skin with vigor.

I wouldn’t think of him. I wouldn’t think of him. I wouldn’t think of him.

But trying so hard not to think of him was, in a way, thinking of him—wasn’t it?

I held the loofah up to my face and breathed in deep. Still, the scent of him, real or imagined, lingered.

With a sigh, I went back to washing myself, paying special attention to the bottom of my feet, my knees and my hands, all places I knew from long experience where forest filth liked to stick and hide.

The summer was still young in Southeast Oregon, stretching its legs out into the nineties as the days tripped their way through July. Already, I had had enough of the heat. In Seattle, it had been a near-apocalyptic event for the thermometer to register above eighty. Here it was the norm.

The one-bedroom home I had rented in the small, rural town of Klamath Falls had no air conditioning and no shade. I’d invested in an army of fans that were useful in pushing the hot air from one room to the other. The only real relief from the heat came at night, when I could lie, starfished and naked, beside my open windows, or when showering, when I could douse myself in cold water.

Mindful of my sky-high utility bills, however, I turned off the shower and stepped out onto the worn red towel that served as a bathmat. Standing in the brightening dawn, water dripping from me, I thought about Marcus.

How had he found me? There was only one person who knew where I had ended up, and I couldn’t understand why Lily would break a confidence like that, especially to a stranger like Marcus. If he had found me, would other wolves come sniffing around as well?

Was it really so terrible to be found by him?

Hadn’t I missed him?

I met my eyes in the square bathroom mirror that hung over the pedestal sink. I dragged my hands down my face and watched the skin stretch and snap back into place.

Timing was everything and, as usual, Marcus’ timing couldn’t be worse. It had only been a year since I’d left the Nameless behind, a year since I’d told Mama and Seattle goodbye. I wasn’t about to go crawling back because Marcus had batted his eyelashes at me. I’d worked too hard to get out.

Grabbing my towel off the rack, I rubbed myself dry, still lost in thought. The whole thing was strange. Thirty years of silence, then a sudden reappearance…a sudden, desperate need to see a woman who would most certainly kill him if she ever laid eyes on him again. What were the Feóndulf up to? What had the Nameless done this time?

I walked into the bedroom, heedless of the open windows, and tossed my towel onto my bed. Taking in a deep breath, I shook my head in an attempt to clear it.

These were questions from another lifetime, for another Grace who still concerned herself with such things. This Grace’s biggest worry was what to wear to work today. That felt good. That felt normal.

My closet stood open, and I pawed through my clothes without really looking at them, considering the day ahead of me. At least work was air conditioned.

I plucked out a knee-length red summer dress and considered it. Looking down at my bare legs, I groaned. I had forgotten to shave again.

The light cotton fell over my head and onto my hips with feather touches. I shook my wet hair out across my shoulders and examined the effect in the full-length mirror. I took another deep, centering breath and let it out slowly. I smiled, testing the expression. It had been a long night. But I could get through the day. I always had.

* * * *

The bank where I worked was not really a bank, but a credit union. There was more than a cursory distinction, I assured the customers who daily sat in front of me in my cubicle, anxious to open up checking accounts and apply for home and car loans, but leery of giving their hard-earned cash over to strangers.

“A credit union”—I explained to the plump young lady across the desk from me—“is a non-profit organization. We’re not in the business of making money, but taking care of yours. A bank—well, profit is the top thing on their agenda. That’s why we offer lower interest rates on loans, higher interest rates on savings accounts, financial literacy resources, and we welcome more members through our doors!”

I smiled wide, hands clasped on top of the cheap plywood desk. The ten-year-old desktop computer to my right whirred and hummed as it struggled to run the basic software I needed to do my job. I resisted the urge to kick the tower on the floor until it stopped making noise.

“So, can I get you signed up as a member? Then we can work on getting your application ready for that new motorcycle loan.”

“I don’t know…” The young woman cast a glance around the regulation bland office space. “I mean, maybe I should just put all my cash in a safety deposit box, you know? Like a safe?”

I just managed to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Instead, I nodded, hands sliding off the desk and into my lap. “You could do that, yes, but you should know that anything that you put in a safety deposit box is not insured.”

“What?” The woman widened her eyes. She straightened in her worn chair. “But what if you guys get robbed or something?”

“Well, first, the First Citizens Credit Union has been at this location for over twenty years, and we’ve never been robbed, so keep that in mind,” I said. “Second, for safety and security reasons, our employees don’t know what is in the safety deposit boxes. So, we can’t insure what we don’t know is in there. You see what I mean? That’s why it’d really be better for you to open a savings account and put the money in there.”

The young woman grimaced. “I don’t really want the government to know how much money I have.”

“Forgive me,” I said after a moment. “But…aren’t you enlisted with the Air National Guard here at Kingsley Base?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So…they pay you. The government pays you.” I blinked once, then again. “They already know how much money you have. They…they gave it to you.”

The young woman thought about this for a moment, furrowing her brow. “Oh.”

The rest of my day passed in similar fashion. The members of First Citizens Credit Union were, on the whole, a cautious, some might even say paranoid, pack of people but, I assured myself several times a day, their hearts were in the right place. Finance was not my passion. It was a talent, a knack, and it had proved easiest to get a bachelor’s degree in finance online while keeping Mama and the den in the dark as to what I was doing. It had taken me six years, two years longer than a traditional student. With Mama keeping a close eye on me, I could only manage to take one or two classes at once, even though I was doing my schooling online. But now that I was here, out in the real world, with a real job, all the late nights at the computer, all the hiding of my textbooks, all the breathless moments when I was almost found out—it was all worth it.

Even if the mundanity of my day-to-day tasks and the endless mathematics and paperwork sometimes made me want to put my eyes out.

I finished entering the last pieces of information for a member’s home loan application and looked down at the clock on the computer. Five more minutes and I was done for the day. With a groan, I bent over in my chair, reaching into the knapsack by my feet and feeling around for my phone. I was half under the desk when a voice from my cubicle door queried, “How would I go about opening an account here?”

I jerked up without thinking, the back of my head cracking against the underside of the desk. Hands clutching my now throbbing skull and teeth digging into the tip of my tongue to keep from cursing aloud, I straightened in my desk chair and fixed Marcus with a stare that would’ve murdered a human man on the spot.

“What are you still doing here?”

Marcus stepped inside my tiny office, his hands slung lazily in his trouser pockets, and settled himself into the chair in front of my desk. “I told you,” he said, his face the very picture of innocence. “I need to talk to Mama.”

“And I told you. I don’t care. Go talk to her.” I tossed my head upwards and raised a brow. “You know she’s not here.”

Marcus fixed me with a reproachful look. “I’d waltz in without an invitation, but I’m attached to my genitals.”

I gripped the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. “You’re smarter than you look, then.”

“Listen.” Marcus rested his elbows on top of the shaky plywood and leaned over the desk. “Grace—”

“No. No, Marcus, you listen.” I pushed myself up onto my feet, my words coming out in a low hiss. “I’ve spent all my life neck deep in this bullshit. From the day I was born, I had Mama on my back, whispering in my ear, telling me how I was going to live my life.” Placing my hands on the desk on either side of him, my face inches above his own, I shook my head. “Well, not anymore. I’m out. And I’m not letting you drag me back in because the Feóndulf have a bug up their asses about something. You hear me?”

Marcus stared up at me, his ice-blue eyes wide, his pink lips parted slightly. “I’ve forgotten how beautiful you look when you’re angry.”

My jaw clenched, along with my fists. “Then I’m about to be goddamn breathtaking, buddy.”

“Phew, I am ready to get out of here tonight!” said Tim, rounding the corner into my cubicle. His arms were stretched over his head, his face screwed up as he worked out tight muscles. “I don’t know about you, but I had some real interesting folks—oh.” Tim hesitated on the office threshold when he saw Marcus sitting in front of him. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were still with someone.”