“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 th
ink 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.