Marisol entered her apartment with a series of unlocking sounds: the deadbolt, the chain lock, and the small slide latch she had installed herself. She dropped her keys into a bowl and took a second to relock the collection of locks. She glanced at her phone and smiled. She'd made it home in time.

  She removed her smock, dropped it on the couch, and entered the kitchen. She filled her beat?up electric kettle and started it as she pulled out some honey and chamomile tea.

  She walked out into her front room, where a single cushioned chair had been turned toward the window. A very fuzzy blanket was draped over it, probably the most expensive thing in the apartment.

  She looked down across the street. The first floor of the building had been a lot of different things over the years. She'd seen a bar go in, and go out. There was a yoga studio that she even tried while it was there. It was a nice change of pace. Still, it didn't last. There was a bookshop too, but that was just some hipster trying his best. It was sweet, but old paperbacks didn't hold up as a business plan around here.

  Now a small dance club had opened about a year ago. They were Puerto Ricans—she'd heard them talking when they first bought the place. It was hard to understand them; their accent was so thick. It had a slow start, but week after week more people came.

  The price was steep, but something inside kept people coming back. She watched every Friday, just like today. The music on Fridays was the best—no Bad Bunny, nothing like hip hop. Fridays were for salsa, ballads, the music she'd stayed up listening to on the radio under the covers of her bed.

  The kettle began to shake in its holder, and steam poured from the spout. She walked back, grabbed it, and poured the water into her cup. She sat down in the chair, the warm cup in her hand, feeling the heat seep through the ceramic. She breathed in the smell of honey and chamomile. The ritual had become sacred, like her mother when she prayed to the Virgin Mary.

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  Then the music across the street began to play. People across the way cheered, and she grinned. She used to live for moments like that, down at the club—the people, the sweat, the smell of booze and bodies, the waves of the beat rolling through her. It was amazing.

  She leaned back as the first song played. It was something popular, a fantastic opening song to start the night. She felt the ache in her body ebb as the desire to dance tingled through her limbs. She was too old now to dance like that, but the shadows of youth were still enjoyable.

  The bass of the song hit, and she felt her tea ripple against her lips as she sipped. She chuckled as she brought the cup back down to her lap. The cup kept bouncing in her hand, the liquid rippling.

  It wasn't doing it with the bass.

  The ripples were small at first, but they were growing.

  She looked about the room and placed her feet on the floor. She couldn't feel the room shake. The music across the street faded, preparing to shift to another song, but the cup—now the chair—were shivering.

  She stood up and looked around. She held the cup tight in her hands, droplets splashing out. Her eyes widened as she saw a line—no, a tear—in the space between her and the kitchen.

  She pushed herself back against the window, dropping the tea on the floor. She took a careful step to move away from the tear as it widened.

  A paw pushed through it. A rush of cold air spilled through the tear, carrying a faint glimmer of starlight.

  A claw.

  She froze.

  She knew that paw. It was bigger, straining. She had known it so well, but she'd never seen it strain.

  The creature pulled itself through.

  Astro Rex. Her breath stopped.

  A lion?man, half again her size, built like an old wood stove.

  He was covered in blood and wounds. His mane was torn out in places, and he was missing some teeth as he flopped down to the floor with a thud. The tear sealed itself back up with a slam that sent a shockwave through the room.

  "Starflare! They're dead, they've killed them!"

  He was crying.

  She was shocked, frozen. She had never thought she'd see him again. That had been part of the deal. Yet here he was, in a way she'd never seen him. He had always been strong when they were weak. He never cried, and she'd never seen him bleed.

  "You're the only one," he coughed. Blood splattered on the floor. "I could only get to you."

  He croaked and lifted his hand.

  The charm on her belt began to glow. Her hand unconsciously reached for it.