DAYLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE WINDOW tickling my face. I yawned and snuggled under the covers. I didn’t want to wake up. Not yet. In retrospect driving out of the city close to midnight, and with an aching hip, wasn’t the brightest idea, especially considering that the tech hit around four, leaving my truck marooned a mile away from the house, but I had gotten in just before the sunrise and now none of it mattered. I was home.

I stuck my face into the pillow, but daylight persisted and I stretched, sighing. My bare feet hit the sun-warmed floor and I happily padded to the kitchen to make coffee.

Outside the late morning was in full swing. The clear sky was luminescent with blue. No wind troubled the leaves on the myrtles. The kitchen window begged to be opened. I unlocked it and pushed the bottom half up to let the coastal, sea-spiced air into my house. Home. Finally.

In the yard, positioned so it could be noticed from either kitchen or porch, rose a stick. On the stick was a human head.

Long hair hung in blood-caked strands. Pale eyes bulged from their sockets. The mouth gaped open and green flies were breeding among the torn lips.

It was so out of place in my sunlit world that for a moment it didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be real.

An unmistakable stench of rot crept into my kitchen I sprinted to the bedroom, wincing at the pain, grabbed Slayer, and went to the front door. My wards were up. Cautiously I opened the front ward and stepped onto the porch.

Nothing.

No sound. No power.

Nothing except a rotting head in my front yard.

I approached the head and circled it slowly. It belonged to a young woman. She had died recently—the expression of horror was still frozen on her face.

A large nail pinned a folded piece of paper to the back of her head. I raised the paper with the tip of Slayer’s blade. Uneven letters glared back at me.

Do you like my present? I made it special for you. When you see your half-breed friend, tell him I won’t waste his head like this. I’ll strip every shred of meat off his bones. I’ll gorge myself on his carcass until I can’t walk and let my children finish the rest, while I sleep it off with half-breed women. Half-breed meat tastes like shit but it has good texture. Olathe never did appreciate it. It’s a shame about her dress. I was partial to it.

I walked inside and dialed Jim’s number.

THE DEAD HEAD LOOKED AT JIM. JIM LOOKED AT the head.

“You know some fucked up people,” Jim said.