Wicked Appetite

  Cat strolled into the room and gave my father the once-over.

  “I didn’t know you had a cat,” my father said. “What’s his name?”

  “Cat 7143. Cat, for short.”

  My father squinted at Cat. “He’s only got half a tail. And there’s something weird with his eye.”

  “It’s glass.”

  My father went blank-faced for a moment. “Is that Ophelia’s cat?”

  “I don’t know. He came from the shelter.”

  “If it’s Ophelia’s, he must be the oldest cat on the planet. Ophelia was telling us she had a one-eyed cat when we visited her, but no one ever saw it. We always figured she was making it up. And in the years before she died, she’d tell your grandmother crazy things about the cat. How the cat could read her mind. And that he was actually a ninja.”

  Oh great, I thought. Just what I need . . . another mind reader in the house. I looked over at Cat, and I swear he looked back at me and winked. Okay, so I guess he could have just blinked his one good eye, but it seemed like a wink.

  “You know what we should do?” I said to my dad. “We should go out for dinner. I know this bar that makes unbelievable wings.”

  “No way. I sent you to cooking school. I want to see what you can do.”

  “I haven’t got a lot in the house,” I told him.

  “Do you have beer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m a happy man. You can make me a sandwich, and we don’t have to go out in the rain. And there’s a game on tonight. I see you have a television.”

  “Right.”

  And I might have a big, strange guy in my kitchen. I hadn’t heard the back door open or close.

  “There’s something I should tell you,” I said. “I don’t exactly live here alone.”

  “I know,” he said, moving past me toward the kitchen. “You have a one-eyed cat.”

  “Yeah, but there’s more.”

  “More?” He stepped into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. “Does your mother know about this?”

  I sunk my teeth into my lower lip and followed behind him. “I can explain.”

  “Your mother would have a heart attack if she knew you had a monkey in your kitchen.”

  “That’s all? A monkey?” I peeked in and did a fast scan of the room. One monkey. No Diesel.

  “That’s Carl,” I said to my father. “I’m taking care of him while the rescue organization finds him a real home.”

  “What kind of monkey is he?” my father wanted to know. “His fur is all fluffy. He looks silly.”

  Carl gave my father the finger, and my father’s eyebrows went all the way up to his hairline.

  “He’s sensitive about his fur,” I said.

  My father looked like he was working at squelching a grimace. “You’re sort of living in a loony bin.”

  Yeah, I thought. And this is just the tip of the iceberg.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  An hour after my dad arrived, I had dinner on the dining room table. Steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans. And vanilla pudding for dessert.

  “This is great,” my father said, taking his seat, shaking out his napkin. “I’m starved.”

  Carl had followed us in and was standing on tiptoe, peeking over the edge of the table, surveying the food.

  “He looks hungry,” my father said.

  “He’s always hungry. He just ate enough junk food to feed half of China.”

  “Maybe he needs green beans after all that junk food.”

  Carl bobbed his head up and down. Yes, he needed green beans. He scurried into the kitchen and returned with a plate and silverware. He plunked the plate and silverware down on the table, climbed onto a chair, and sat erect on his haunches. He could barely see over the table. He jumped down, ran into the living room, and came back with a throw pillow. He carefully placed the throw pillow on his chair and climbed on board. Now he was just right for the table.

  “Eep,” Carl said, hands folded in front of him.

  “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t just seen it,” my father said.

  I spooned potatoes and beans onto Carl’s plate, and I gave him two small pieces of steak. Carl picked a green bean up with his fingers, smelled it, and ate it. When he was done with his beans, he popped a piece of steak into his mouth and chewed. His lips curled back, his mouth opened, and the half-chewed piece of steak fell out.

  “Guess he doesn’t like steak,” my father said.

  Carl looked at his mashed potatoes, and he looked over at me. “Eeee?”

  “Mashed potatoes,” I told him. “Do you like mashed potatoes?”

  Carl shrugged.

  I ate a forkful of potatoes. “Mmmm,” I said. “Good.” I handed him his fork. “You try it.”

  Carl vigorously shook his head no.

  “It’s easy,” I said to Carl. “You just stick the fork in and scoop up potatoes.”

  Carl looked from the potatoes, to me, to my father. He looked at the fork and tested a prong with his finger. “Eeh.”

  “If you can work a DVD player, you surely can manage a fork,” I said to him.

  Carl sucked his lips in and squirmed in his seat.

  “Be a man,” my father said to him. “Eat your potatoes!”

  Carl squared his shoulders, forked up a glob of potatoes, and concentrated. He got the potatoes almost to his mouth, the fork twisted ever so slightly, and the potatoes fell off onto the floor. “Eeep!” Carl narrowed his eyes and dug into the potatoes again with the same result. “Buh!” He flipped my father the bird, threw the fork across the room, grabbed a handful of potato, and shoved it into his mouth.

  My father dug into his food. “This is like eating with your brother.”

  After dinner, my dad and Carl settled onto the couch and tuned in to the ball game while I cleaned the kitchen with Cat keeping me company.

  “This is a real pain without hot water,” I said to Cat. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll call a plumber and get an estimate on a new water heater.”

  Cat fixed his good eye on me and didn’t say anything.

  “I love my house, but I didn’t have this problem when I was renting,” I said to him. “I paid my rent, and that was it. I guess you wouldn’t know about that if you’ve always lived here with Ophelia. I suppose you’ve had your own problems, what with your eye and tail and all, but at least you’ve never had to find money for a plumber.” I put a pot of hot water on the stove to heat. “And by the way, I never thanked you for saving me from Hatchet. I really do appreciate it. That was very brave of you.”

  Cat sat statue still.

  “Are you really a ninja?” I asked him.

  No answer.

  “I guess I didn’t expect you to tell me,” I said to Cat. “It’s all pretty far-fetched anyway.”

  I finished the kitchen and went to the living room with a clean quilt and pillow for my father. I looked out the window and checked the street. No Spook Patrol. No Hatchet. No Diesel. I told myself it should feel good to be free of Diesel, but truth is, I missed him. Thank goodness he wasn’t around to hear me think it.

  “How’s the game?” I asked my dad.

  “Tie, but Baltimore’s gonna win.”

  Carl gave my father the finger. Carl obviously wasn’t an Orioles fan.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t tell Mom about Carl,” I said to my dad.

  “Too late. I already sent her a picture. I got a new cell phone, and it’s got a picture function. It’s magic. It’s your brother who’s gonna be upset. You just replaced him as family goofball.”

  “He worked for years to keep that title.”

  “Yep,” my father said. “And you just kicked him to the curb. All his tattoos and loud motorcycles and bad table manners can’t compete with your monkey.”

  “I was afraid you might not understand.”

  “What’s not to understand? You have a monkey who gives people the finger.”

  “He’s only temporary,” I said.
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  “Your brother will be relieved.”

  Carl burped and scratched his butt.

  “It’s like he’s human,” my father said.

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to skip the game. I have work to do on the computer.”

  “Don’t stay up late. I know you go to the bakery early. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here on the couch.”

  “One more thing. My water heater conked out today. I’m getting a new one tomorrow, but in the meantime there’s no hot water.”

  Rain drummed on the roof and ticked against the window over my desk. I’d put in a solid hour of work, and I’d finished the final edit on the part of the cookbook dedicated to entrees. I’d answered some e-mails from friends in New York, and I’d read through two news sites. Cat was curled in the worn-out easy chair alongside my desk. He looked relaxed and asleep, but his ears were pricked forward in listening mode.

  “Bedtime,” I said to Cat.

  His eyes opened, and he stood and arched his back in a stretch. He followed me out of my office and into my bedroom. The television was still on downstairs, so I closed my door to muffle the noise. A sticky note had been left on my pillow.

  Be extra careful. I’m not there to protect you.

  The mystery wasn’t who wrote the note, but how the heck Diesel got it onto my pillow and then left the house without being seen. I looked in my closet, under the bed, and in the bathroom, checking behind the shower curtain, just to make sure he wasn’t lurking somewhere.

  Ten minutes later, I was in bed, and Cat was sitting on my chest.

  “I suppose you’re protecting me ninja-style,” I said to Cat. “Or maybe you’re just trying to keep warm. Either way, I can’t breathe. You have to get off my chest.”

  He didn’t move, so I lifted him off and set him next to me. When I woke up the next morning, he was back on my chest.

  “You’re killing me,” I said to Cat. “I’m lucky I didn’t die in my sleep. Maybe I should cut back on the cat food. You weigh a ton.”

  Cat stood and did the back arch thing again. He stepped off my chest and sat at the bottom of the bed. He didn’t look like he was worried about his weight. And either he knew an idle threat when he heard one, or else he didn’t understand a word I was saying. If he was a ninja, maybe he only spoke Japanese.

  I skipped my morning shower, opting to wear a ball cap rather than attempt to wash my hair in frigid water. I dressed in my usual jeans, T-shirt, and sweatshirt, and I quietly walked down the stairs and sneaked into the kitchen. I poured out some kibble for Cat and gave him fresh water. I could hear my dad snoring on the couch, and I assumed Carl was with him. I started making coffee and then thought better of it.

  “I don’t want to wake my dad,” I whispered to Cat. “I’m going to eat breakfast at the bakery.”

  Cat was hunkered down in front of the back door. I approached the door, and Cat growled at me.

  “I fed you,” I said. “And you can’t go out.”

  Cat didn’t move.

  I reached out to move him, and he slashed at me.

  “Bad cat!”

  I shoved him with my foot and squeezed past him, out the door. The last thing I saw was his face in the window, and the last thing I heard was Hatchet calling me a stupid wench. And then everything went black.

  The room was cool and quiet. Lights were dim. The walls were taupe. Across the room was floor-to-ceiling black glass. Some of the mind fog lifted, and I realized I was on my back. Not hurt, but disoriented. There was nothing between my kitchen and this room. I had no idea how I’d got here. No memory of capture, but I knew I’d been physically moved to an unfamiliar place. I had a rush of panic and then a flash of insight. Wulf. I couldn’t see him, but I had a sense of him. This wasn’t the warehouse that Lenny and Mark More had described. This place felt serene and was fully furnished.

  I was on a couch in a living room, I thought. I swung my legs over the side and sat. Furniture was all clean lines, ivory and cocoa. Expensive art on the walls. The black glass was a window. The street was at least twenty floors below. I moved my eyes left, and spotted him. He was motionless in a chair across the room, his dark eyes fixed on me. His face was almost as pale as the ivory chair. His glossy black hair was loose, swept back, falling to his shoulders in waves.

  “My apologies,” he said, his voice soft. “Steven acted without my direction. Although, it has turned out well, because here you are . . . unprotected by my annoying cousin.”

  “Where are we?”

  “You’re in my home.”

  “It doesn’t look like the brownstone.”

  “This is a new address,” Wulf said. “A necessary inconvenience.”

  I looked around the room. “Does Hatchet live here, too?”

  “No.”

  “How did Hatchet get me here?”

  “Stun gun and then a mild anesthesia. He was a paramedic in the military.”

  “He’s insane.”

  “Yes, but sometimes in an amusing way. His obsessive brain is currently mired in the Middle Ages, but he’s actually quite brilliant. He’s an authority on paralytic toxins and Inquisition torture techniques. And as you know, he’s one of only two people living who can identify an empowered object.”

  I walked to the window and looked out. We were in Boston. The sun was rising, tinting the black sky red at the horizon. A few car lights slid along the streets. I could see the Common below me. Behind me, the far end of the room opened to a marble-floored foyer and elevator. Wulf was occupying a penthouse. If Diesel were living here, there would be shoes left lying around and a sweatshirt draped over a chair back. Wulf’s home was pristine.

  “Is there a Mrs. Wulf?” I asked him.

  “No. I live alone.”

  He crossed the room to stand behind me. When he moved, there were no sounds of footsteps, just the barest rustle of cloth. He made no attempt to touch me, but I could feel his energy field edging against mine.

  I stepped away from him into a more benign space. “I’m supposed to be at work.”

  “You have something I want. After you give it to me, you can leave and go to your work.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Eventually, I’ll require more from you,” Wulf said. “When I possess all of the SALIGIA, I’ll need to take your gift away. Unless, of course, my much too normal cousin loses control and risks his power before I have the pleasure of your company.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of the risk?”

  “If I have the SALIGIA, there will be no risk.”

  “You’re assuming I would cooperate in this.”

  “I’ll have no trouble persuading you to cooperate.”

  That was a chilling thought.

  “How many charms do you have?” he asked me.

  “I don’t have any. Diesel has one from Shirley More. And you have the charm from Mark More.”

  “And Lenny’s charm?”

  “Lenny’s charm got exploded.”

  “Yes, but not destroyed,” Wulf said. “The empowered object can shift forms, but it can’t be destroyed.”

  “It doesn’t seem to me that Lenny’s charm matters. We’re at a deadlock. The hunt for the SALIGIA is done. You and Diesel each possess a charm, so the charms will never be combined.”

  Wulf’s eyes dilated totally black. “One way or another, the charms will be combined, and the first of the SALIGIA Stones will be found.”

  Yipes. For a nano-second I thought I saw tiny flames flicker deep in Wulf’s eyes. Probably, it was a reflection from the candles on the sideboard. The other explanation was that he was the devil. Either way, he was wigging me out with the SALIGIA stuff.

  “Four members of the More family were given identical boxes when the estate was settled,” Wulf said. “Sadly, the estate executor died shortly after the will was read and property was distributed. So I can’t encourage him to share his information. The
re’s no record of the four recipients, but we’ve managed to find three of them. I don’t suppose you know who the fourth is?”

  “I thought there were only three.”

  “Three were at the reading of the will. The fourth didn’t attend and was privately given the box. Neither Mark nor Lenny knows the identity of the fourth More. And you’ve effectively silenced Shirley.”

  “Why are you sharing this with me?”

  “There are far too many Mores in the Salem area, and searching for the correct one will be tedious. I’m going to let you find the last More for me.”

  “I’m working with Diesel.”

  “In the end, it will come down to a deal and a roll of the dice. It doesn’t matter who finds the last charm. Possession of the Stone is all that matters.”

  “Why do you want the Stone?”

  Wulf thought about it for a moment, his eyes still intense and fixed on me, his energy prickling against my skin. “I suppose I enjoy the hunt,” he said. “And the power of the SALIGIA fascinates me.”

  “Diesel will turn the SALIGIA over to the BUM for safekeeping, so it won’t be used for evil purposes.”

  “Admirable,” Wulf said. “And predictably boring.”

  “Would you use it for evil purposes?” I asked him.

  “Evil is relative.”

  “That’s a convenient attitude taken by people who do bad things.”

  Wulf smiled at that, but the smile was small and didn’t extend beyond his mouth. “Perhaps.” He picked a slim cell phone up from an end table and tapped a number in. “I’m done with her . . . for now,” he said into the phone. “She’ll be on a park bench on Boylston, in front of the swan boats.” He disconnected and turned his attention back to me. “Face the window and close your eyes,” he said, moving behind me, placing his hand on the back of my neck.

  His grip was firm, and his hand was warm. A wave of panic slid through my stomach, and my heart tap-danced in my chest. “Who did you call?” I asked.

  “I called your ride.”

  And then an electric charge buzzed down my spine and hummed in my head. My legs gave way, my vision blurred, and the last thing I remember was Wulf wrapping his arms around me.