Jaylin hit the door so hard, the wood scuffed his fist.

Open, he cursed to himself. Goddammit, open!

After an impatient moment, his fist beat against the door again. But when the locks unlatched and the door swung inward, it wasn't Alexander or Quentin's face that greeted him. Mrs. Sigvard inspected him slowly, a bathrobe loose on her sharp pointed shoulders, her hair damp and her cheeks heated pink. She looked undone. Nothing like the painting on the wall.

"Oh, um..." Jaylin stepped away from the door and wrapped his jacket tight around him. "I was looking for—"

"Alexander!" Mrs. Sigvard screeched and spun around, trotting away in her velvet slippers without another word.

Alex was there in seconds, looking slightly less pale and dark beneath the eyes. "Jaylin? What's wrong?"

"This!" Jaylin shoved his way through the door, past Alexander. "This is what's wrong!"

Heavy black paws trekked in slowly behind him, sharp curled claws tacking against the stone of the foyer floor. The black wolf stopped just at the threshold of the living room and shook out the rain from his fur.

"He's been following me all night," Jaylin said. "I couldn't go to work, I couldn't go home. Every step I take, he's right behind me. I don't know where the hell you got an actual, living, breathing wolf from, but keep him. I don't need the attention."

Alex rubbed the back of his neck, watching the beast settle on the foyer floor. "This is more Quentin's department."

"Okay, then where is he?" Jaylin stomped past, the wolf once again following his every footstep. "His room's up here, right?" he asked, bounding half way up the staircase. "To the left?"

"Uh, yeah," Alex stammered, jogging after Jaylin. "But I don't think you should—"

"Which room?" he asked, hastening down the hallway.

"Jaylin, I don't think this is a good time."

But Jaylin wasn't listening to Alexander. Something else had gathered his attention—a sound, soft on the ears like velvet. He stopped to listen to the melody, rich and tinny from the keys of a piano. Jaylin followed the sound, Alex fumbling after him.

"Jayin, wait. We're not supposed—hold on a minute!"

But he had to know what beckoned him. That familiar tune, rising and falling with slow, despondent spirit. He followed the sound to a large pair of cherrywood doors and felt the smooth indentation under his hands, the ridged rose carvings sliding beneath his fingertips. Wherever these doors led, the music carried on behind them. The wood shivered beneath his fingertips.

He pried one door slowly open, half expecting the light of heaven to flood his eyes. But it didn't. There was hardly any light in the room at all. The windows were sheathed with a heavy black curtain, the chandelier dead and dark. The only light with which he could see came from a flat screen television on the side of the room, playing a football game on mute.

It looked almost like an office, a pair of leather lounge chairs on one side, the entire wall a bookshelf on the other. And in the middle, settled between two large windows, was a Victorian-style grand piano. Jaylin could tell by his form alone that it was Quentin who sat on the bench, fingers dragging against the keys, sliding up and down not effortlessly, but slow and labored. His body didn't sway like the pianists on television or in music videos. Quentin seemed hardly interested in the piece at all, his spine curved and slacked, one hand working the keys harder than the other.

But somehow, despite his off-tempo playing and the occasional slip of the fingers, the sound was still captivating. And standing in the heart of the song, Jaylin could put the words to it now.

You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine.

Quentin played it beautifully. Some notes staggered andsome were missed entirely, but it was perfectly imperfect. There was a darkness to it, a shadow cast over in the form of a strangely haunting c-minor. All the joy in such a happy song had been turned inside out like a funeral march. Jaylin could feel a presence beside him where Alexander stood, no longer begging Jaylin to stay put but instead watching Quentin play. Watching with a sadness that gave him an entirely different face. He was a boy Jaylin didn't know.

The keys stopped. "Alex," Quentin said. Like an order. A demand.

Alex yanked Jaylin back by his arm and the doors sealed shut before him.

"You need to go," Alexander said, pulling him down the steps to the foyer. "Now's not a good time."

"But—" Jaylin took a look around, eager to point out the reason he'd come to begin with. But the wolf was gone. It must have disappeared at some point, but so long as he wasn't on his heels anymore, Jaylin had gotten what he came for.

He bid Alex goodbye, and as the doors were pushed closed behind him, Jaylin couldn't help but shake the feeling that he'd done something wrong. That he'd seen something he shouldn't have.

But all he'd seen was a musician. A musician and a baker and a woebegone alcoholic in a single man. The more he was learning of Quentin Bronx, the more of a paradox he became. There were secrets in that room, in that song and in Quentin himself.

Jaylin wasn't so sure he wanted to know what really hid there in the darkness. 

-

When Jaylin woke the next evening, he hauled himself up from the sofa and jogged his way up the narrow staircase to clean his room before Tisper's planned arrival. Another night of B-rated movies hadn't exactly been on his agenda, but he was off from work and needed the release. A moment where nothing mattered but the snacks in their laps and the shapes on the bulky television screen.

He knew there was a monstrous heap of dirty laundry waiting for him upstairs, but working nights had wrecked his internal clock and there was no time to clean or cook when sleep devoured most of his day. He'd just pick up just a bit and then set the stove for tea. But when Jaylin opened the door to his room, the last thing he'd been expecting was a beast on his bed. He stumbling backward at the sight, slamming into the hallway wall behind him.

Taking up well over the entire expanse of the mattress, was the long, wreathing body of the black wolf. His yellow eyes flickered to Jaylin, and then his tail began to wiggle lazily from where it spilled off of the bed.

"You've got to be kidding me." Jaylin clutched his hair and looked around for an explanation. "How the hell did you even get in here?"

The beast drew out a breath, cracked open its jaw in a yawn and nestled back into his sheets.

"No. No, this is not okay." Jaylin rushed to the window, unlocked the latch and shoved it open with one hard push. Then he pointed. "Out!"

The wolf didn't move.

Jaylin thought about calling Alexander, or getting the number to the Sigvard's home. But Tisper was on her way over, there was no time for that.

He cursed and slammed the window shut again. "Okay, fine. Stay here"

Then Jaylin was throwing open the door and scrambling down the stairs, skidding on his tube socks as he rushed into the kitchen. He needed something to keep the wolf quiet. But as he dug through the freezer for an old pack of pork chops, the front door was thrown open with a rattle.

"If it's going to be this goddamn cold and rain this goddamn hard, it might as well snow. At least I'd look cute walking around in it." Tisper was already kicking off her boots, unwrapping the scarf from her neck.

Jaylin shoved the pork chops back in the freezer and straightened out, fetching a box of popcorn from the cupboard instead. He looked over his shoulder as he tore open the cardboard and gave her the most inconspicuous smile he could manage. "You always look cute."

"Tell that to my boyfriend," she scoffed and dropped her bag to the floor. "Wait, you can't. He doesn't have ears. Or eyes, or a mouth—or a body."

"The sex must suck." Jaylin threw the popcorn in the microwave and turned to find her already strung out on the sofa.

"Well, he's no Quentin Bronx," she grumbled.

His name made Jaylin flinch. Quentin was the last thing he wanted to talk about tonight. Well, nearly the last thing. Just above him on the list of things I don't want to talk about was the wolf currently lounging around his room like a domesticated labrador. He'd get through this movie—hopefully without a hitch—then he'd find a way to get the meat-eating, throat-ripping, skull-crunching wolf out of his bed.

He waited for the popcorn to finish and then settled in on the couch beside Tisper, huddling beneath a thick fleece blanket. The movie they'd chosen played on in the background—an indie film that could either be the best hipster feed since vegan burritos, or the worst monstrosity to ever grace his television screen.

"What about Matt?" he asked after the conversation had nearly escaped them. "Have you considered giving him a second chance?"

Tisper went quiet and Jaylin could feel her sigh beside him. "Matt didn't want me," she said finally. "He didn't want me when I was head over heels for him, why would he want me now?"

"I think he's come to terms with his feelings." Jaylin brought his feet up from the cold floor. "You know, it had to be kind of weird. We've all been together for so long, hearing that your best friend since seventh grade has the hots for you—"

"Is that what was so weird about it?" Tisper looked at him and then away again. "Or was it that he didn't see me the way I wanted to be seen? Anyway, I'm over it. Cowboys aren't really my thing anymore."

Jaylin laughed and let himself lean against her. "Not everyone with a Southern accent is a cowboy, Tisper. His mouth says Johnny Cash, but Matt's about as much of a cowboy as I am a..."

"A werewolf?" she asked.

Jaylin snorted through his nose and he felt Tisper's head knock gently against his own.

"Sure. A werewolf."

*

Halfway through the second movie, Tisper fell asleep on Jaylin's shoulder. It was a struggle to slip out from under her without waking her up, but after almost a decade of friendship, Jaylin had mastered the technique. He moved her blanket up over her shoulders and turned the television volume down. Then Jaylin crept up his narrow staircase, to his bedroom door.

He expected a racket from the wolf, the rustling and clatters as it desecrated his personal belongings, but what Jaylin heard instead was a series of quiet whispers beyond his bedroom door. A cautionary chill bristled his arms and Jaylin braved himself for what might be waiting with the wolf. Slowly, so slowly, he turned the knob.

Light from his small box television had illuminated the room. A figure still laid on his bed, but by the sharp angled knees and the round of the shoulders, Jaylin could tell it wasn't that of a wolf.

"Who's in here?" He crept in slowly, reached to the side of his door where his old baseball bat rested against his study desk. He pointed the weapon in the darkness, felt the walls for the light switch and flicked it on.

A man laid sprawled across his bed in a pair of shorts, too small and nothing else. A head full of red hair pressed back on Jaylin's pillows, the cut sharp and jagged, pointing this way and the next in short curls and unmanageable haywire tufts.

He didn't acknowledge Jaylin, this stranger, he only flipped to the next page of the Goosebumps book in his hands. The one that sat on Jaylin's nightstand.

"Ye need a new TV," the man said, a purr in the Rs of his accent. "Can't see shit on this four-inch screen."

"Who the fuck are you?" Jaylin asked, his voice squeaking some. "And why are you wearing my gym shorts?"

The stranger turned to look at him with a gaze that made Jaylin uneasy. His eyes held a tint of green that grew vibrant when they met the light. "Name's Felix."

"Felix," Jaylin hacked out laugh. "Like the wolf? Felix?"

The stranger pointed a finger and made a clicking sound with his teeth. "Bingo."

"Am I insane?" Jaylin clutched at his hair and wiped his hands down his face. "Am I going insane? Is that what's happening?"

Felix watched the meltdown with idle curiosity. Then he drew himself to the edge of the bed and stood. Jaylin was almost frightened by his build. Quentin was tall, but no taller than what constitutes an average-tall man. Felix was something else.

"While you uh...take yer time absorbing this, direct me to the shower?" Felix said. It was then that Jaylin noticed the blood on his arms, dried on his chest and legs. And then on the bed, blood and bits of fur soaking through his sheets, right to the plastic bug-bed protector beneath. Jaylin made a frightened noise and clapped a hand over his mouth, the smell of copper hitting his nose like a tidal wave.

"You know what, I'll find it myself."

The stranger brushed by and he was gone through the door by the time Jaylin had a hold of himself. He hadn't any idea what had happened here, but the sight and the smell of it all was enough to make his hands tremble. He had expected to find a body somewhere in that puddle of blood, but there was nothing. Just the thick red that ran down the sheets as he lifted them up. Jaylin bundled them into a ball and gathered it all into the trash bag he'd been using to black out his window.

His hands wet with blood and a bundle of clothes in his arm, Jaylin wandered down the hallway to the sound of rushing water. He knew the shower was occupied, but he shoved the door open anyway and shut it again with the heel of his foot.

"Don't bother to knock, aye?" said Felix from behind the curtain.

"This is my house," Jaylin remarked, setting the clothes aside and rinsing the blood from his hands in his small, dirty porcelain sink. "I don't even know who the hell you are."

"I told you." The redhead shoved the curtain open, his hair stuck damp to his head, the water copper at his feet. Jaylin saw, for only a brief moment, all of the jagged scars that striped his arms and his chest. They went in all different directions, some inches, some only small punctures. Not self-inflicted, but battle wounds. "Name's Felix."

Jaylin took his eyes far away from his naked body, the muscles on his freckled stomach emphatic. He was an exclamation point of a man, pronounced at every edge. He held the clothing out. "Take them, they were my dad's."

Felix stepped out without warning and shoved his legs through the sweats, not bothering to dry himself beforehand. Jaylin had to squeeze past him to shut the water from the faucet off and pray the shutter of the valves hadn't woken Tisper up.

"You need to go," he said, arms folded over his chest. "Before I call the cops."

Felix gave him an incredulous look, blinking his emerald eyes slowly. "Quentin really is taking his sweet time with you, isn't he?" He shook his head and scoffed. "Christ."

Jaylin tried to hold on to his stubborn demeanor. "How do you know Quentin?"

Felix shook the water from his hair and sighed, shoving his way out of the tiny bathroom. "There's something y' need to see."

Jaylin scurried after him for fear he'd wake Tisper. Felix was anything but quiet as he stomped his way down the stairs, stopping when he saw her asleep on the sofa. "She your girlfriend?" he asked, ignoring the way Jaylin shoved against him like a brick wall. "She's cute."

"Shut up and go," Jaylin hissed, feet sliding against the wooden floor. Finally Felix gave into his push and walked to the door, spinning to look Jaylin in the eye.

"That your car outside?"

"My mom's."

"Grab the keys."

Jaylin rolled his eyes and snagged them from the key rack, cracking the door open and shoving Felix out. The both of them wandered onto the porch barefoot, and Jaylin sealed the door shut silently behind them.

"So what?" he asked, scampering down onto the sidewalk. "You want me to drive you home or something?"

"I told you," Felix wandered on ahead, already at the passenger door of the caravan. Every step he took felt like ten for Jaylin. "There's something y' need to see. And it seems I'm the only one who cares to show you."

Reluctantly, Jayin joined him in the passenger seat and watched as Felix navigated the gear stick like he'd driven the car a million times before. Everything was organic—he didn't have to look for the blinker or the windshield wipers or the emergency brake. "You've driven one of these before?" Jaylin asked as Felix navigated the gas, barefoot.

"I know cars like I know women," Felix said, shooting him a jagged grin. "Don't always know how they work, but I know what makes them purr. And ye' can bet I know how to ride 'em."

After that, Felix reached for the radio and twisted the dial until classic rock rumbled through the shredded speakers. He was strange. Bold and beautiful in an entirely different way—brutish and pointed like a stalwart viking trapped in a backward timeline. Jaylin couldn't help but watch his profile, the entire way to the Sigvard Manor.

The Sigvards' home was somehow quieter tonight. The maids didn't greet them at the doors, and every light in the house had been shut off. It was like the power had been pulled to this place. The electricity that made everything here so curious and magical—the soul of it, just gone. It felt so much like an abandoned music park, or a playground, rusted into decay and wreathed in overgrown weeds.

Jaylin could make out the faint silhouettes and shadows of lamps and paintings on the wall. Felix had lead him down a hallway—the one he'd snuck off to with Tyler years ago. They stopped at the last door on the right where Felix flipped on the light to a small room, filled with wall-to-wall shelves of cleaning supplies. But in the center of the floor was a trap door, with a metal latch on one side. Felix twisted the crescent latch until the door unlocked, then he wrenched it open and shoved the heavy wood back to fall open with a thud. Jaylin watched with a lump in his throat as Felix hoisted himself down a wooden latter and into the darkness. Reluctantly, Jaylin followed.

"Where are we?" he asked, descending deeper into the depths. He couldn't tell how far he was from the ground, until there were no more steps to take.

"Where they should have taken you to begin with."

There was a soft crack as Felix pulled a switch from above. The light flickered and the bulb came to life, vanquishing the darkness. Most of what he saw was simple supplies. Tools, storage, boxes and crates and holiday décor. Then there was a quarter of the room had been blocked off with metal bars, starting from the floor and reaching to the ceiling. The bars stopped partway down the middle to make room for an access door—one that had been sealed closed with an industrial padlock.

And beyond the bars, a figure sat, caged in the tiny room. She wore nothing but a dirty t-shirt and shorts, three sizes too big. Her hair was an unmanageable, tangled mess around her face, her head ducked to hide from the shrill light. Then, squinting her green almond eyes, the woman looked up to Jaylin and recognition froze his veins to ice.

Flora hadn't been at morning kindergarten.