Dances With Demons - A Phoenix Chronicle Novella by Lori Handeland

problem. Or at least it wasn’t the biggest problem right now.
    “There was some—” I paused. I’d been about to say some thing . But I changed it to— “There was someone here last night.”
    “Is that why you’re carrying around the weapon?”
    I followed his gaze, saw that I was still swooshing the sickle through the garden with the hand that wasn’t around my coffee, clutching the thing as if it were a lifeline. “Yeah.”
    “And why you nearly took off my head with it.”
    “Sorry. I was spooked.”
    “You’ve had a rough few days.”
    I’d had a rough few years, but who was counting?
    Me. However... I eyed Quinn. Maybe I could stop, or at least stop while we were here. A man who looked like him, who was basically a drifter, had to be accustomed with short-term affairs. I wanted one.
    “The fellow who came to Murphy’s is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
    He hadn’t been a man, but we’d let that go.
    “Ben told me about the cat dubh .”
    Quinn blinked. That had sounded mighty random.
    “Then we heard a shriek. The box in the car was torn open. Whatever was in it was gone. Ben took the sickle into the backyard and then... poof.”
    Quinn stared at me for a minute. “Maybe you should eat something.”
    “You don’t believe me?”
    “Ben didn’t go poof. He returned to town.”
    “On the wings of angels?”
    Quinn jerked and dropped the bag of scones again. If they weren’t in crumbles by now, they never would be. “I don’t understand.”
    “He left his car. How did he get to town?”
    “That’s my car. He was to leave it for you. He must have gotten a ride from a friend. Like I did.”
    “What about the box?”
    “There was no box in the car this morn.”
    Didn’t mean there hadn’t been one, though I was starting to wonder.
    “The shriek of the cat?”
    “Cat’s shriek, usually when they’re... uh.” He blushed. The man was an infuriating, enticing blend of sin and innocence.
    “It wasn’t that kind of shriek.”
    “And you know this how?”
    “I’ve heard cats shriek when they’re... uh. This wasn’t that. And it wasn’t a house cat.” He opened his mouth, and I kept talking. “It wasn’t a tomcat either. It was a big cat. A wild cat.”
     “The wind whistles off the sea sounding like many things. Hence the legend of the cat dubh .”
    “Ben said the thing killed a lot of people. The wind doesn’t kill.”
    That I knew of.
    Quinn’s cup hit the ground and tea exploded, soaking into the already damp earth. He stared at it for a moment, then lifted his gaze to mine. “The cat dubh was a story used to frighten children into staying close to home.”
    “Yet the town is named Red Door.”
    “So?”
    “Red doors keep out evil spirits.” I lifted my chin to indicate the cottage. “You have two yourself.”
    “A charming tradition you’ll see all over Ireland, as well as the UK. You truly think a painted door would bar evil from a threshold?”
    Once upon a time, no. Today?
    God, I hoped so.
    * * *
    “Let’s sit at the table to eat the scones.” Quinn started for the cottage.
    “I thought they were scones ,” Megan said, using the British pronunciation of the word, which rhymed with con, like skawn .
    He set the bag on the table and rolled his eyes. “Please.”
    If there was one thing the Irish avoided, it was anything British.
    She laughed. “I don’t suppose there’s any clotted cream.” Her laughter faded. “No refrigerator.”
    He shrugged. No need.
    “You have lights but no appliances. Not even a toilet.”
    “There’s a toilet.”
    She gave him a withering glare. “That is not a toilet.”
    He experienced a moment of shame at the primitive nature of the place. However, its lack of amenities was one of the reasons it was so safe. The generator that powered the lights was fueled by propane, which anyone could buy. The water came from the well by means of an old-fashioned hand pump. He supposed he could put in a toilet and a shower,