Part 87 (1/2)
Swinging the empty bucket, Claire closed the door on the dissolving manifestation. ”At least she stuck to the script.”
”I always thought the CBC was overreacting about the effects of the American media,” Dean said thoughtfully, ”but now I'm not so sure.”
”Aren't you a little young to be out so late.”
The tiny girl watched the candy drop safely into her bag before answering. ”My daddy just got home.”
The shadowy figure at the bottom of the stairs raised an arm in a sheepish wave.
”I see. Well, what are you supposed to be?”
She tossed her head, setting a pair of realistic looking paper horse ears waggling, and spun around so Claire could see the tail pinned to the back of her jacket. ”I'm a pony.”
”Oh. Sorry.”
”You've got a cat in the window,” she continued. ”I want a cat, but my stepmom's allergic. Can I come in and pet your cat? Just for a minute.” Head to one side, she smiled engagingly. ”Please.”
”What about your father?”
She spun around again. ”Daddy! Can I go pet the cat?”
The arm lifted in what could have been a wave of a.s.sent.
Like most cats, Austin was not fond of small children. Claire grinned and was about to step out of the way when she noticed the threshold seemed to be a darker color than the surrounding wood. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a paper packet of salt and, as the child's eyes widened, ripped it in half and threw it in her face.
The glamour faded.
The runes blazed red.
The little girl stretched six, seven feet tall, costume vanis.h.i.+ng although the horse ears remained, curved fangs protruding from her lower jaw, oversized hands sc.r.a.ping at the bricks on either side of the door.
Daddy breathed fire.
Claire and Dean together slammed the door.
”That was close,” Claire said with feeling as the latch finally caught.
Shoulders against the wood. Dean let out a breath he couldn't remember taking. ”Do you always keep salt in your pocket?”
”Strange question from a man carrying a brown'n'serve.”
”Aren't you guys a little old to be out tonight?”
One of the three identical junior skinheads scowled, differentiating himself momentarily from the other two. ”Aren't you a little ugly to be pa.s.sin' judgment?”
”Yeah. Just give over the f.u.c.kin' candy.”
The teenager in the middle elbowed them both hard in the ribs. ”What we meant to say, ma 'am, was trick or treat.”
Claire thought about it a moment as the boys postured. ”Trick,” she said at last and closed the door.