I stopped a few steps before the door and held Cassie behind me. This whole situation was preposterous knowing there wasn’t even a lock on the door. Come on in, already.

“Who’s out there?” I said, my voice deep and gruff like some gate commander of the night’s watch. Wishing this was fantasy.

There was a different quality to the quiet now. An expectation in the air. You can tell whether you’re alone or not. Feel the energy of others even if you can’t see or hear them. There were people outside, milling around. More than one. The shafts of amber light shifted in the windows.

“It’s me, Malia,” a woman said, but her voice sounded older than the Malia I knew, tinny and weakened with age. “Please open, no one will hurt you.”

“Door’s unlocked,” I said.

“Yes, that’s true. Though I’d rather be invited inside.”

I felt Cassie begin to push past me, and held her back. “I’ve got it,” I said, stepping forward and opening the door. To my surprise, it was Malia who stood outside. But not the one I had met. The lady on the doorstep was fifty years her senior, yet unmistakably the same person. Same height, albeit a bit hunched over. Black hair pulled up in a bun with a lock of white curling down the side of her face. She had aged well. Her skin was smooth and shiny, most of the wrinkles by her eyes and under the jowls. The dress was Victorian, but of a steampunk variety. Crimson with black lining. A form-fitting buttoned top with a billowing skirt, frilled at the bottom. High-heeled boots with black ribbons running up the open sides. Her eyes were unchanged. That sparkling jade.

This was not an old lady who merely looked like Malia.

“Hi, Jesse. Miss me?”

This was the same chick who had flashed her tits to me on stage. Had blown me in the bathroom back at the imaginary Mule. Had let me bend her over the countertop and take her from behind. And had photographed it all somehow and sent the pictures to my wife. Disgraced me in the eyes of Al.

“No,” I said, my vocabulary reduced to this lonely word.

Torches lit the street behind her, held by statues of stone men that must have been men in costume. Fog from the Smoky Mountains hung in the air, creating a corona of haze around each amber flame.

“Don’t lie,” she said, her red lips twisting into a wry smile.

“I’m not,” I said. “I’ve given that up.”

“You give up everything and you’ll have nothing left to give.”

“I’ve got plenty left,” I said, and stepped aside. “Come on in.” She tugged her skirt in the briefest curtsy and came through, carrying with her the scent of autumn spices. I closed the door, and a large roach scuttled up the wall.