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top of his. “I’d like that.”
    They left the bar, and halfway down the block she stepped a little closer so their arms were almost touching.
    “Do you have to work in the morning?” she asked.
    “No, I’m off the rest of the week.”
    “My first appointment isn’t until ten tomorrow.”
    Jason feared reading anything into her words. Maybe she was just making conversation. “I plan to sleep until noon.”
    “Lucky you.”
    Mitch stopped in front of a narrow rowhouse with shuttered windows and a marble stoop. “This is my place.”
    “We—”
    She cut off his words with a quick kiss, her mouth soft against his. “I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but do you want to come in?”
    He did. He wanted to go in, kiss her again, and strip off all her clothes. Instead, he lifted her hand and kissed the back of it even while a voice in his head called him a stupid fool. “I’ll be honest. I’d like to, but I’d rather wait.”
    Mitch smiled. “Okay.” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a business card. “My number is on here.”
    Jason pulled out his wallet and did the same. She leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. He breathed in her coconut smell, his body protesting his decision.
    “I like you, Jason. I hope you call me.”
    “I will,” Jason said, and he meant it.
    After she went inside, a quick click let him know she’d locked the door. He turned around and walked back in the direction of his car. He would call and ask her out. Dinner, maybe, but someplace nicer than McAfee’s.
     
    11
     
    Jason awoke in shadowy darkness, confused by the sound of scratching. The red letters of his clock glowed like ghosts in the room—3:35 a.m. He rolled over on his back, raised his arms above his head and listened, but the house replied only with silence. He closed his eyes, almost asleep when the sound came again.
    Scrrrrtch.
    A small, insistent sound. The sound a cat made when it pawed at the door to be let in or out, if said cat had its claws extended. Jason sat up and pushed his hair off his forehead. He’d forgotten to close the blinds, and the streetlamps outside cast a dim light into his room.
    Scrrrrtch.
    This time it sounded close and angry. He didn’t have a cat, and his bedroom was on the second floor. It didn’t make sense. Only half awake, he pushed back the blanket, swung his legs over the side and walked across the room, the wood floor cool beneath his feet. He looked out the window at the empty street. No people, no cats. He looked under the bed. Nothing there either, just the long expanse of dark wood floor and a few dust bunnies that had escaped the vacuum cleaner.
    Jason sat back down on the bed. The half-asleep part of his mind beckoned; the half-awake part said find the damn cat and chase him away.
    Scrrrrtch. Scrrrrtch.
    Jason looked down at the bandage on his arm. Dried blood had turned the fabric stiff. He should take it off, use the ointment and put on a fresh bandage, but—
    Scrrrrtch.
    Jason froze. It sounded as if the scratching noise came from underneath the bandage.
    Impossible.
    He shook his arm, waited a few minutes, then shook it again, but the scratching noise did not return. Writing it off as a trick of the night, house-noise made too vivid in the shadows, he went back to bed. It had been a stupid thought, anyway. The only thing underneath the bandage was the tattoo.
     
    12
     
    The next morning, Jason took the bandage off and covered the tattoo with ointment, wincing when his fingers touched the still-tender skin. He spent almost ten minutes staring at the detail. The griffin’s talons looked sharp enough to scratch and tear open flesh, the beak hooked and ready to strike. Each feather of its wings, Jason’s favorite part, ended in a golden brown the color of wet sand. They appeared soft enough to touch; real enough to spread wide and take off at a moment’s notice.
    After coffee, he thought about calling his parents to break the news about his