Free Hemlock Grove by Brian McGreevy Page A

hoo … hoo hoo … In the circular drive was Roman’s Jaguar and a black Ford F-150 pickup truck. A light was on in the attic. Peter rang the doorbell and Roman’s mother answered. She was wearing a white robe and her hair was damp and she moved and also stood still like milk being poured under the full moon, and though she would have had neither time nor purpose to apply cosmetics after bathing, her lips were a shock red that in their present purse of distaste caused within Peter’s privatemost circuitry a sudden and confusing crossfiring at how arousing and simultaneously dick-shriveling this apparition was. He tried to envision Shelley Godfrey emerging from … that. Nicolae had told him the world of the upir was a strange and confusing one to a simple wolf man. Peter could think of a few other adjectives.
    “Yes?” said Olivia in a tone suggesting he ought to be grateful she had not perforce closed the door on his nose. But it was not yet outside the realm of possibility.
    “Is Roman here?” said Peter.
    “May I ask who’s calling?”
    “Peter. We’re in the same English class.”
    “May I ask in regard to what?”
    “Study group,” he said.
    “Mm.” This syllable communicating her internal debate over whether to notify her son or the authorities.
    “I’ll inform him,” she said. A moment’s consideration. “You can come in.”
    Peter waited in the foyer as she withdrew down the hall. On one wall was an aged and chipping painting of a grotesquely fat cherub, layered rolls of dimpled fat, wings comically small, and smiling mouth smeared with chocolate. Maybe chocolate. On the other was a large framed photograph of an engorged and multi-hued hermaphrodite’s vulva. Peter’s eyebrows knotted. No—it was a flower, a close-up image of the stamen and stigma of a flame tulip. Peter was still entranced by this intricate arboreal obscenity when Roman appeared alone.
    “Yeah?” he said, with the cold aloofness of a scorned woman.
    “Powwow,” said Peter.
    Roman led him to his room, which was nearly the footage of Peter’s trailer. On the door was a picture of a crucifix with a serpent wrapped around it. The serpent’s tail was in its mouth. Otherwise there was an almost total lack of decoration, except mounted to the wall a train car coupling link, an old oblong of warped and rusted steel. Which despite its meager appearance Peter immediately knew without being told was the most valuable thing Roman owned.
    “Well?” said Roman, with the cold, aloof satisfaction of a scorned woman to whom you’ve come crawling back.
    “Development,” said Peter. He described to Roman the afternoon’s encounter.
    Roman evaluated the story with a noncommittal expression. “So? The Wendall girl totally flipped out. They can’t be taking it seriously.”
    “It’s not that simple,” said Peter. “This woman is what she says she is like a Mexican hates fireworks.”
    Roman nodded, what insult he may have felt about their earlier meeting losing traction to this new intrigue.
    “What is she?” he said.
    “She’s a digger,” said Peter.
    Roman shrugged. What of it? “The only people who really know what you are are your mom and me.” He grew defensive. “And I know how to button up.”
    “That’s not why I’m here,” said Peter, lying: half his reason in coming was to keep the upir from running off at the mouth.
    “So what are you afraid she digs up?”
    “Nicolae,” said Peter.
    “He’s still alive?”
    “No. But she goes deep enough, she’s gonna find out.”
    Roman looked at him.
    “That Nicolae was a killer,” said Peter.

 
    The Taste of Fear
    By nature Nicolae was a pussycat. In his later years he had individual names for every duck he fed, and musicals made him cry. More than anything he loved his Sundays with Peter. On this day he would allow Peter to help him as he went around with a hammer and a dolly looking for cars that had a dent that needed to be fixed. Peter would help by