Charlaine Harris - Day Shift

“Just one more night,” Fiji said, even more obliquely.

Manfred wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what the Rev was up to. “I guess we’ll find out if we’re supposed to know,” he said, and grabbed a piece of corn bread from the basket in the middle of the table.

Arthur came back in, Magdalena stopped looking from one to the other of them as though she expected them to speak in tongues, and Dillon eased through the swinging doors to the kitchen with a brimming pitcher of tea. He refreshed their drinks, but he seemed subdued. Manfred had a moment of doubt. Was the atmosphere of Midnight contagious? Dillon had always seemed like a normal ranch teenager. Now he was preoccupied.

“Dillon, you doing okay?” Bobo asked, just before Manfred could get the words out.

“Yeah, just broke up with my girlfriend,” Dillon said, and smiled weakly. “I made her mad. I told her I saw…” He hesitated, and the smile faded away. “Well, never mind. She just got mad at me. When she cools off, we’ll talk.”

“That’s a good plan, Dillon,” Bobo said. “Give her time to come around.”

He ducked his head. “Can I get you guys some more bread?” The basket for rolls and corn bread was almost empty.

“Sure,” Manfred said, not because he wanted any more but because he wanted to give Dillon a reason to exit.

Arthur looked after the boy. He seemed lost in thought for a moment.

Magdalena was unexpectedly entertaining at table talk. She had a number of stories that Manfred suspected were stock stories, anecdotes she told to keep the social ball rolling: terrible clients, terrible judges, funny lawsuits. Arthur was more engaged in that world than any of the others, and he laughed the hardest. He was inspired to tell “best arrest” stories. And Bobo told a few “weird things people wanted to pawn” anecdotes — the used coffin, the grenade, the blank tombstones.

This was high entertainment for a Midnight dinner. Manfred looked at the smiling faces around the table: at Joe and Chuy, who were clearly enjoying themselves; at Fiji, who laughed out loud; at Olivia’s guarded smile and Bobo’s animated face. Dillon brought out a buttermilk pie with Madonna’s demand that they all try it, since it was a new recipe. It was already sliced, and they each took a piece. It was rich and delicious, but Manfred thought it too sweet. However, Madonna was so formidable that he didn’t say anything.

At eight thirty, the diners scattered for home as though they’d heard a warning bell sound. The glow in the sky was golden pink, and Magdalena’s and Manfred’s shadows preceded them as they strolled back to his house, where her car was parked. They didn’t talk: It was hot, and they were full, and Manfred had things to think about. Apparently, so did his lawyer.

Magdalena unlocked the car and opened the driver’s door. A blast of furnace-hot air gusted out. There was no question of leaning against the metal; she stood, shifting from foot to foot, a woman whose shoes were definitely pinching.

“You call my mom yet?” she asked.

“Nope, but tomorrow for sure.”

She seemed to consider, her eyes on her feet, as if she could make them ache less by looking at them.

“You people here are all very odd,” she said at last, and then she left.

The sun seemed to plummet; the light vanished abruptly, and only the glow of the moon illuminated Midnight. From time to time, it was obscured by clouds. Despite what the weather report had told Chuy two days before, the chance of rain was heavy in the air.

Fiji stood on her back porch, looking out over her garden, until the light was absolutely sucked away. She saw lightning cut through the darkness miles away to the south. She noticed a little piece of the darkness moving in the bushes, and then Mr. Snuggly was by her feet.

“Get in,” he said, in his bitter little voice. “Foolish woman.”

Fiji, who’d been mesmerized by the lightning, flung open the back door and skittered inside, Mr. Snuggly dashing in past her. She had the door shut and locked while he investigated his water and food bowl. He looked up at her with wide, sad eyes, and she could almost imagine tears.

“You piker,” she said, not without affection, and opened a can of cat food. She put half of it in his food bowl and cleaned and refilled his water bowl. There was silence for a few moments, while Mr. Snuggly made his food disappear with a neat dispatch that had her shaking her head incredulously.

When the cat finished, he began to clean his paws. He paused for a moment to say, “Did you know Joe has wings?”

“Yes,” she said. “I suspect he’s an angel.”

“Everyone else thinks they’re fake,” Mr. Snuggly observed, and resumed his cleaning program. “The wings, that is. The ones he and Chuy ‘wear’ at Halloween.”

“They’re just not always visible.” She sat down in one of the chairs by the kitchen table. She scrubbed her face with her hands. “Did you see anything else out there that I should know about?”

He nodded. “The Rev and Diederik are out and about,” he said. “Everyone else… besides you… is properly in a house.”

“And now I am, too,” she said, determined not to be miffed with the cat.

“The big man is almost back,” he said. “Diederik was talking to him on the phone.”

“Diederik’s father? That’s wonderful. The boy will be so happy. He’s grown so much! I wonder if his dad knew he would.” Fiji beamed at the cat.

“He told his son he was sorry to have missed the boy’s first moon time. I have very sharp ears.”

“I’m glad he’s coming back.”

“Tonight is very, very dangerous.”

The smile vanished from Fiji’s face. “More dangerous than the past two nights? Why?”

“Don’t need to know,” Mr. Snuggly muttered. “Long as you stay inside like a sane creature.”

“Why would I not?”

Muttering something unpleasant under his breath, Mr. Snuggly stalked into the front room. Making his way between the display cases and chairs and the table, he went over to the window and jumped onto a padded stool Fiji had placed there just for him. The light was off in the big front room, and Fiji went to look out with the cat. There weren’t any streetlights in Midnight, of course, and the traffic light and the moon were the only sources of illumination.

Fiji caught her breath.

In the middle of Witch Light Road (smack between Manfred’s house and hers) stood a tiger.

It was huge.

When she finally exhaled, she whispered, “Bengal. Holy Goddess, look at those teeth!”

“Told you so,” said Mr. Snuggly.

“But is that…?”

The first tiger was joined by another. It was larger.

“The Rev? And Diederik?” she breathed.

“Maybe his dad is here by now,” Mr. Snuggly said. “I can’t tell ’em apart unless I smell ’em.”

“Do they… Would they know me? If I went out there?”

“Do you want to risk them not knowing you?” the cat asked acidly.

“Ah. No.”

“Then keep your butt indoors.”

“I will.”

She was glad the light in the shop was out, for though she didn’t imagine the tigers would notice her at the window, she felt very strongly that avoiding their attention was better than drawing it. Shoulder to shoulder, the two huge cats paced slowly down the street until they reached the empty house two doors east of Manfred’s, where they simply vanished into the shadows. Their smooth movements, their silence, the massive heads turning slightly from side to side to survey the night around them… it was as eerie and powerful as anything Fiji had ever seen.

Perhaps they’d vanished because they’d heard the car coming. The road was empty for only a few seconds before it appeared. It was an antique car with big tail fins. Fiji had no idea what make and model it was, and she was not interested. She didn’t know the driver, who seemed almost irrelevant to the behemoth he was driving. He was a short, plump man with thick blond hair and a lot of rage. She could see it simmering and shimmering in the night like a red nimbus. He’d pulled into Manfred’s driveway, blocking Manfred’s car, and he got out of the car to walk rapidly to the front door, his arms pumping with energy. He banged on the door with his fist and began yelling.