Wicked Appetite (20 page)

“Moron,” I said to him.

And then I turned on my heel and wheeled my cart past him, down the bread aisle. Last I looked, he was tasting the pudding that was slopping into his ears and glopping down the back of his neck. I wasn’t nearly so calm. I’d never smashed an egg on someone or given anyone a pudding shampoo. I was simultaneously horrified and exhilarated. I did deep breathing through English muffins, and by the time I got to the hot dog rolls, I was able to relax my grip on the cart. No one from security was stalking me. Spike-Face wasn’t running after me with retaliatory eggs. And no one was going to tell my mother. I was golden.

I love my little historic house. I love that it has a history, that people have celebrated holidays and conceived children and grown old in the house. I love parking in front of it and looking at the door and the onion lamps and knowing its mine, and that I’m now part of the continuum. And I know this is a scary thought, but I like walking into my dark living room from outside, turning the light on to make everything happy and cozy, and having Diesel at my side. How hideous is that?

Cat 7143 uncurled himself on the couch, stretched, gave Carl the once-over, and re-curled.

“Maybe I should work on a recipe,” I said to Diesel.

“Would it involve a steak?”

“It could. It happens that I bought a couple steaks at the store. If I make you a steak, will you sleep on the couch?”

“Yes.”

“For real?”

“No,” Diesel said. “Will you make me a steak anyway?”

I followed him into the kitchen and watched him dump the bags on the counter. “You could make your own steak.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a back rub if you make me a steak.”

I put the milk, butter, cheese, and lunch meat in the refrigerator. “Thanks, but the deal is I’ll make you a steak if you promise
not
to give me a back rub.”

“Afraid to let me get my hands on you?”

“Absolutely.”

I pulled the steak out of the bag, and Diesel’s phone rang. Diesel asked for a location, said he was on his way, and disconnected.

“What was that about?” I asked him.

“It was Mark. He’s on Pickering Wharf, and he needs a ride.”

“Not good,” I said to Diesel. “I expect this means Wulf has the charm.”

“Probably. We’ll find out in a few minutes.”

“I’m going to sit this one out. You don’t need me to handle anything, and I need cooking time.”

Diesel took a banana off the counter. He peeled it, gave half to Carl, and ate the other half. “Keep the doors locked and don’t let anyone in. Call me immediately if you sense something weird.”

“Okeydokey.”

Diesel went to the door, and Carl trailed after him. Male bonding. Go figure. As for me, I was about to tackle pound cake. I had a perfectly good recipe, but it wasn’t my own, so I had to build a better pound cake. I assembled sour cream, butter, flour, and vanilla. I could go citrus with a key lime cake. Or I could go exotic with rum. Definitely rum, I decided. I mixed the ingredients, poured the batter into a tube pan, and slid the pan into the oven. I took the big bowl to the sink, ran hot water into it, and the back door crashed open.

It was Hatchet in full Halloween regalia. Green tights, white tunic, chain-link armor jacket, and silver metal helmet that was a cross between Sir Lancelot and Hell’s Angels. The one authentic-looking piece of equipment was his sword. It was a genuine, heavy-duty, freaking sharp saber-type weapon with a fancy hand-forged handle.

“Greetings, wench,” he said.

“I’m not a wench,” I told him. “And what the heck do you think you’re doing? You broke the lock on my door, and you’re going to have to pay for it.”

“Nay, wench. I’m here at my master’s bidding to retrieve what is rightly his.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Your master sent you?”

Hatchet fidgeted with his sword handle. “Not exactly. But it mattereth not. He’ll be pleased when I return with the sacred treasure.”

“You’re not returning with anything. The sacred treasure isn’t here.”

Hatchet lunged in my direction with his sword drawn. “You lie.”

“Yipes,” I said, jumping back. “Watch what you’re doing with the sword.”

“Tell me the treasure location, or I’ll cut you up into tiny pieces. I’ll slash you to ribbons. I’ll rip open your stomach, and all your guts will fall out.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Hatchet lunged at me again. “It’s delicious. My liege lord would be proud. Perhaps I’ll bring him your guts.”

So now he was starting to freak me out. At first sight, it’s hard to take Hatchet seriously. I mean, he’s a pot-bellied geek in stupid clothes. Even with a big knife, he’s not especially threatening looking. Talking about my guts falling out of my body was making me reconsider my assessment of him. Plus, his eyes were getting glittery and crazy looking and the rest of his face was way too happy. Gleeful, actually.

Help!
I thought to Diesel.
Are you listening? Can you hear me?
Probably not. Probably, he was too far away.

“Here’s the thing,” I said to Hatchet, putting the work island between us, taking my cell phone in hand. “Diesel is the one with the treasure. How about if I call him and tell him to bring it home?”

“I think not. My superpower tells me the treasure is near. I can smell it. I can feel the evil vibration.”

“You’re a nut,” I said to him.

“I’m not a nut,”
he said. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not.”

He chopped at me with enough force for the blade to split me in two. Fortunately, it was a foot short, and it sliced the air and bit into my butcher-block cutting board. I had my phone in my hand, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Hatchet long enough to dial. He yanked the saber blade out of the cutting board, and we danced around the island.

Hatchet’s eyes were compressed into black pinpoints, his face was white with rage, and spit flew out of his mouth. “I hate when people say I’m a nut. I hate it. I hate it.”

He lunged across the island, tagging me on the arm with the tip of the saber. My phone flew out of my hand, into the sink, and a bright red line of blood oozed from my elbow to my wrist. I grabbed my arm, stumbled back, and Hatchet continued to come at me, crawling over the island. He raised the saber to strike again, and a blur of striped cat flew through the air in front of me and latched onto Hatchet’s face. It was Cat 7143 holding tight to Hatchet, growling low in his throat, his tail bushed out like a bottlebrush.

Hatchet dropped the saber and batted at Cat. “Get him off!” Hatchet shrieked, his words muffled by fur.

I was dumbstruck. I’d love to say I rose to the occasion, grabbed the saber, and so filled Hatchet with fear that he went to his knees. Truth is, I stood with my mouth open and my feet glued to the floor. Probably, it was only for a moment, but it felt like a lifetime.

Cat climbed to the top of Hatchet’s head, leaving a series of bloody dots where his claws had dug into the sides of
Hatchet’s face. Hatchet swatted Cat off his head and ran out the back door into the night.

Cat leaped onto the butcher block and watched Hatchet leave, and when the sound of a car engine catching came through the open back door, Cat relaxed back on his haunches, curled his half-tail around himself, and went into his grooming ritual as if nothing had happened. I closed the door and propped a kitchen chair against it to keep it closed.

“Thanks,” I said to Cat. “That was really brave of you.” I stroked his glossy back and realized he was on my cutting board. “Probably, you shouldn’t be sitting on the board,” I told him.

Cat stopped grooming and looked at me.

“You’re right,” I said. “You can sit wherever you want.”

I wrapped half a roll of paper towels around my arm to keep from bleeding on everything and secured the towels with Scotch tape. I plucked my cell phone out of the soapy sink water and tried to dial Diesel. No luck. The phone was dead. I could call him on my kitchen phone, but I didn’t know his number. It was locked up in the dead cell phone. Blood was beginning to ooze through the toweling on my arm, so I grabbed my purse and went to the front door. I cautiously looked out and measured the distance to my car. I had keys in hand. I stepped out, quickly closed and locked the door, ran to my car, and drove to the hospital in Salem.

______

The whole hospital procedure had taken just a little under an hour. I’d been fortunate to get injured in the lull between rush-hour fender benders and late-night bar brawls. I’d also been fortunate that most of the cut hadn’t required stitches, and I was already up to date on my tetanus shot. I drove the short distance back to my house and found Diesel and Carl standing at the open front door. Carl was looking curious, as always. Diesel was uncharacteristically grim.

“Have you been home long?” I asked Diesel, dragging myself out of my car, suddenly exhausted.

“Only long enough to see the broken door, the blood on the kitchen floor, and the saber. I was about to have Gwen start calling hospitals.”

“I’d explain it all to you, but I’m so tired I can barely stand.”

“My heart stopped beating for a full five minutes when I walked into the kitchen,” he said. “The instant I saw the saber and the broken door, I knew it was Hatchet. If I’d found him before I found you, he’d be dust.”

“I tried to call you, but my phone got dumped in the sink during the scuffle and died.”

“As long as it was just the phone that died,” Diesel said, following me into the house, looking at my arm bandaged from wrist to elbow. “How bad is it?”

“I caught the tip of the saber. It didn’t slice especially deep, with the exception of a small part in the middle. It only required seven stitches.”

“And Hatchet?”

“Cat attacked him and scared him away.”

Diesel smiled. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Cat was awesome.”

“I’ll never begrudge him another muffin.” He looked over at the door. “Since your door got kicked in, I assume Hatchet was acting without Wulf.”

“Hatchet was having delusions of greatness. He had a fantasy of presenting Wulf with the charms.”

“I have a fantasy,” Diesel said. “Would you like to hear about it?”

“I already know about fantasies number seven and eight. How does this one stack up?”

“This one is much better.”

“Maybe you want to save it for when I’m not doped up on painkillers.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to waste this one. You look like you’re done for the day.”

I took the burnt cake out of the oven, trudged upstairs, brushed my teeth, changed into pajamas, and crawled into bed. I turned the light off, and ten minutes later, Diesel slipped under the covers next to me. One minute after that, Carl climbed under the covers and inserted himself between us.

Diesel flipped the light on.

“Out,” he said to Carl.

“Eep?”

“Where do monkeys usually sleep?” I asked Diesel.

“Trees, cages, Dumpsters. The last time I had to live with this one, he slept on the couch.”

“So get him settled on the couch. There’s an extra pillow and quilt in the hall closet.”

Diesel slid out of bed and pulled Carl out from under the covers.

“Jeez Louise,” I said to Diesel. “Could you put something on?”

“Don’t look if you don’t like it.”

That was the problem. I liked it a lot. And there was no way I wasn’t going to look.

“It’s easier protecting you if I’m next to you,” Diesel said. “And this is the way I sleep. Just deal with it.”

I woke up minutes before the alarm was set to go off. Diesel was asleep beside me, and Cat was sitting at the foot of the bed, watching me in the dark. I shut the alarm off, grabbed some clothes, and went into the bathroom to get dressed. Cat was waiting for me when I came out. He followed me down the stairs and into the kitchen. I poured crunchies into his bowl, gave him fresh water, and started coffee brewing.

Carl came in from the living room, dragging his knuckles, fur sticking every which way, eyes bleary.

“You didn’t have to get up this early,” I said to him.

Carl shrugged, took the box of Froot Loops off the counter, shoved his hand in, and ate a fistful. I did the same with the Frosted Flakes. Ordinarily, I’d take my coffee out to the back porch, but this morning I hesitated. The back porch didn’t feel safe anymore. My door was broken and my arm throbbed where it had been sutured. Diesel had cleaned the blood off the floor and the saber was gone. The kitchen looked normal, but it would take a while before I felt completely comfortable.

I was pacing with my coffee, muttering to myself, angry that my life was disrupted, angry that I’d become afraid of the dark, when Diesel ambled in. He was barefoot, and from the way his jeans rode low on his hips, showing nothing but skin, I suspected he was wearing just the jeans. He poured himself a mug of coffee and drank it black, lounging against the counter.

“How do you feel about carrying a gun?” he asked me.

“I’m scared, but not
that
scared. I wouldn’t know what to do with a gun.”