Fool's Gold (3 page)

“Ow, shit!”

The cat yowled, as if I was attacking it instead of the other way around. I kicked my leg out, but the godsdamned thing sank in its claws.

Grabbing it by the scruff of its neck, I ripped the cat off me. Stinging pain flared before the cold sensation of blood flow took over. But I was too busy holding the severely pissed-off feline away from my face.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I shook it a little.

“Yoooowl!”

I shook my head and stomped toward the open door. I didn't throw the cat, but I might have forgotten to gently lower it to the ground before I released it. The furball screamed its rage and pounced toward me. But I ran inside and slammed the door before it could get its claws in me again.

I leaned with my back against the door, my sides heaving from the adrenaline rush. Looking down, I inspected the angry red streaks on my shins. The wounds would heal quickly thanks to my vampire blood, but right then, I felt like I'd been shredded.

Scratch, scratch
.

“Go away, Satan.”

Scratchscratchyowlscratch
.

Shaking my head, I hobbled over toward my beer. Being attacked by a cat with anger issues was thirsty business.

Blondie was now singing “Just Go Away,” which was pretty fitting, all things considered. I shook my head and picked up the address book again.

Scraaaaatch!

“Damn it!” I tossed down the book and jumped off the couch.

This time, I left the gun on the table and walked directly to the door. But just in case, I picked up a baseball bat I kept near the door for emergencies. I cracked the door, careful to keep the bat between my legs and the opening.

An orange paw shot through the opening and swiped at the air. “Ha!” I taunted. “Not so tough now, are you?”

A hiss flew through the crack, followed by two more impotent swipes of the paw.

“What the hell is your problem, cat?” I opened the door a little wider. The hell beast looked up and dropped back on its butt.

The cat tilted its head and purred.

“What do you want?” Even as I asked the question, I realized how ridiculous it was to be having a conversation with an animal.

“Meow?”

Now that it had stopped trying to shred me into Sabina jerky, I realized how pitiful the thing looked. It was too thin, for one thing, and its fur was matted and dirty. It didn't have on a collar, so I didn't think it had a home. “Are you hungry?”

“Meow.”

I pursed my lips and thought about my options. My fridge was full of beer, rotten milk, five bottles of mustard, and some fried rice from a few nights earlier. “Hold on.” I shut the door, careful not to slam it on the cat's tail.

Almost immediately, the yowls and scratching started up again. “I said hold on!” I shouted over my shoulder. Throwing open my cupboards, I scanned the contents for something edible for a cat. “Aha!” I yelled in victory. Back behind a couple of boxes of pasta and a can of evaporated milk I don't remember buying, I found a single can of Spam.

I pulled back the top and sneered at the wet, hammy fragrance. It took a few good shakes to dump the lump of meat onto a paper plate. It looks about as appetizing as a brick of processed meat could, I guess. With a shrug, I carried the feast back to the door, which was rattling as the cat's scraping escalated.

Opening the door wide enough to fit the plate through, I dropped the feast in front of the panting feline. “Bon appétit.”

The cat's face dove into the meat. Every few bites, its ears would fold back and it would emit a growl.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Anyone ever tell you it's rude to hiss with your mouth full?”

Eventually, the beast settled into its meal. I knelt down and watched it. Closer, I could see the notch in its ear and the patches of missing fur that indicated I wasn't the only foe the cat had tried to best.

Something warm bloomed in my chest. I didn't recognize the feeling, but I figured it might be something close to affection. Maybe it was that I felt like I'd spent most of my life fighting, too. Maybe it was that, like my feline dinner guest, I was mostly alone in the world. And, maybe, just maybe, it was that I'd been forced to mold myself into a killer by my grandmother's order, when all I'd wanted to be was someone who comforted the lost.

I'd never forget the day Lavinia had told me that I wouldn't be allowed to enter the Temple to become an acolyte. She'd said that no mixed blood would ever be allowed into the sacred order. Besides, she'd said, she had other plans for me to be of service to the Dominae. A couple of weeks later, I arrived at the school where the Dominae's future Enforcers were trained.

I sighed and let my butt drop to the ground. The cat side-eyed me but didn't hiss this time. “Relax, Satan. I'm not going to hurt you.”

The Spam was almost gone now. Satan looked up from the plate. Speckles of pink meat dotted its whiskers. A pink sandpaper tongue stuck out of its mouth to catch every last morsel. “You really were hungry.”

“Meow.”

I sighed and rose from my seat. As much as I'd like to sit in the predawn light with my new pal, I needed to finish strategizing for the next night with Slade. “All right, I need to go.”

I scratched the fur between its ears but withdrew my hand quickly when its paw swiped at me again. This time instead of being pissed by the aggression, I was amused. “Take care of yourself, Satan.”

The cat's head tilted and it watched me until I finally closed the door all the way. With a sigh, I walked back toward the sofa. This time, the drink I took from the beer was a contented one. With a smile, I leaned over the address book. Instead of going letter by letter, I fanned the pages and stopped on random pages.

I was on the letter H when a name leaped out at me. “Liliana Hartshorne,” I said out loud, testing the sound of it. “Hmm.”

I'd only met Lili once, and it hadn't been a pleasant experience. But if anyone knew where to find a horndog like Zeke Calebow, it was the faery known as
The Faerywood Madam
. “Gotcha,” I breathed, feeling excited.

I would have called Slade to let him know I had a new lead, but the sun's pink rays were already creeping across the City of Angels. I'd tell him tomorrow when he came to pick me up. I took a celebratory drink, polishing off the beer.

Scratch, scratch!

Shaking my head, I rose off the couch. “What do you want now, Satan?” Emboldened by my earlier generosity, I opened the door all the way.

Satan sat on the threshold. I expected the beast to attack me again. Instead, it sashayed into my house like it belonged.

My mouth hanging open, I watched the orange ragamuffin stroll casually toward my sofa. It climbed onto pillow I'd knocked off earlier. Satan circled a few times counterclockwise and then two clockwise before laying itself on the pillow like a queen on a throne.

“By all means, make yourself at home.” I considered shooing the uninvited guest back out the door, but I didn't have the heart. First of all, I'd kind of asked for it by offering the beast a smorgasbord of processed meatstuff. And second, now that its belly was full, Satan passed out on the pillow and was already snoring.

I sighed, accepting the inevitable. “All right,” I said, “but just for tonight.”

One eye opened and regarded me for a moment before closing again. And that was that.

The next evening, my arms were loaded down as I pushed open the door. When I'd woken up that evening, I realized that if I was going to have a houseguest—even a temporary one—I'd need provisions. Satan had been hiding under the sofa and looked as if it didn't plan on coming out any time soon. So, I'd headed out to the closest pet store for some basics.

An hour later, I owned more cat toys, treats, and supplies than a crazy cat lady. The clerk at the store had talked me into a lot of extras, like flea dip (very necessary) and a skull-and-crossbones cat collar.

“Satan—I'm home.” Balancing my burdens, I kicked the door shut with my heel and turned to face the living room.

“Holy shit!” The plastic cat crate dropped to the ground with a clatter. In its wake, the room felt ominously silent.

Satan sat in the middle of the room, watching me with unblinking eyes. The two-foot radius around its body looked normal. However, the rest of the room looked like the aftermath of the explosion of a shit bomb.

“Oh, gods!” Apparently, the Spam hadn't been my best idea.

In addition to the streaks of cat diarrhea all over every surface, including a few walls, Satan had taken his angst out on my sofa. The cushions were torn open and cotton batting and foam spilled out like entrails.

I let the remaining bags slid to the ground next to my feet. I only had half an hour before Slade was scheduled to pick me up. “I hate you so much right now,” I said to the cat. It leaned back on its hip and slowly began licking at its nether region.

With a sigh, I went to the kitchen to look for rubber gloves, a bucket, cleaning solution, and paper towels. I grumbled to myself as I gathered the items and tried to decide whether I'd stuff and mount the cat after I killed it or if I'd simply leave its carcass on the porch to ward off any other demon cats who considered playing on my sympathies.

Twenty minutes later, I'd managed to clean up the worst of the mess. The process had involved some gagging and lots of cursing while Satan sat by and watched me. After I placed the garbage bags full of batting and paper towels out by the curb, I ran back inside for another shower.

I'd just managed to pull on my boots when the car horn honked at the curb. I came out of my bedroom to find Satan curled up in the remains of my sofa. “You and I are gonna have words when I get back,” I said. The cat peeked open one eye, but didn't look at all worried.

I grabbed my keys, my gun, and my jacket on my way to the door. Opening the door, I stepped out onto the porch. But before I could shut it behind me, an orange furball streak past me. It jetted of the porch with a yowl that sounded suspiciously like a “fuck you” and disappeared into the woods surrounding my house. “Ungrateful asshole,” I muttered.

Slade leaned against a black van at the curb. Judging from the frown on his face, he'd seen the cat's escape. “What the hell was that?”

“Unwelcome houseguest,” I said.

He looked like he had other questions, but let them drop. “You ready?”

I climbed in and waiting for him to do the same before I asked about the molester-style van. “What happened to the Karmann Ghia?”

He shrugged. “This has better storage.” He jerked his head toward the back. I looked over my shoulder and my eyes widened at the treasure trove of weaponry. He'd installed racks filled with guns, knives, crossbows, and various other implements of death. Along the opposite wall, a low bench featured manacles instead of seatbelts. Red shag carpet completed the dungeon-on-wheels look.

“Nice carpet,” I said.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. “Hides the blood.”

An hour later, we pulled up in front of Zeke's house in Glendale. Calling it a dump would have been generous. It looked like someone dropped a cinder block and then stuck a door and a couple windows on it. Although, the weeds, beer cans, and cigarette butts added a certain charm to the landscaping.

“Looks like peddling porn doesn't pay as much as I thought,” Slade said.

“Yeah, extortion is much more lucrative,” I replied, scanning the dark windows for signs of life. “Doesn't look like anyone's home.”

“Let me grab some party favors, just in case,” Slade said. He ducked back into the cargo area. He opened his leather blazer and started filling interior pockets with assorted stabby things.

Let me just say, nothing is sexier than watching a male strap on weapons. Slade was no exception. For an ass, he had a certain alpha-male sexiness going for him. But I knew better than to entertain those thoughts for very long. I needed to keep my mind on the mission. So, I took my eyes off his physique and focused on his weapons. That's when I noticed he didn't bother grabbing any guns.

“No firearms?” I asked, checking the chamber of my own.

He paused. “Never use 'em.” He pulled up the leg of his bell-bottoms and strapped a nylon sheath around his ankle. Into that went three wooden spikes.

“Why not?”

He paused, as if considering the matter for the first time. Finally, he shrugged. “Just don't like guns.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “You're
old.
”

He laughed. “I'm only sixty, Sabina. Hardly
old
by vampire standards.”

“You're joking. Sixty?”

He shook his head and grabbed a few throwing stars made of applewood from the shelf. Judging by the smirk on his face, I'd managed to amuse him. As much as I didn't like being the source of anyone's amusement, I had to look at him with grudging respect. To have accomplished so much as an assassin at such a young age was mind-blowing.

“Ready?” he said, breaking into my thoughts. I nodded and cocked my gun. I might want to learn from Slade, but I drew the line at giving up my weapon.

We went in through the back door. In his haste to leave, Zeke must have forgotten to lock it. I shook my head at the oversight. For someone who'd managed to elude us this long, Zeke sure was an idiot.

The kitchen stunk like rotting trash and spoiled food. Even in the dark, I could see the dishes piled up in the sink and the mountain of pizza boxes stacked next to the overflowing trash can. Spatters of food crusted the harvest yellow fridge and the avocado green counters.

Two doors led off the kitchen to other rooms in the house. Slade pointed to the right, indicating we should split up. I nodded and went through the breakfast area.

The only signs of life from my perspective were cockroaches crawling over forgotten cereal bowls and glasses coated with dried blood. Zeke, in addition to being a pain in my ass, also appeared to be the biggest slob I'd ever encountered.