Wicked Appetite (Lizzy and Diesel 1)

“Wulf?”

“Gerwulf Grimoire. My age and height. Dresses in black. Looks like he’s down a quart of blood. He’s a really bad guy, and he wants your inheritance.”

“He was here this morning!” Mark said. “Caught me in the office, fixing coffee. Scared the crap out of me. I told him I wasn’t talking about the inheritance, and he put his hand to the coffee machine, and it caught fire. Whoosh. Went up in a fireball, and nothing was left but black glass and melted plastic. He said he could do the same to me. Is that true?”

Diesel shrugged. “Hard to say if he could actually melt you.”

“I can’t figure if I’m more scared of Uncle Phil coming at me from his grave or this Gerwulf guy roasting me like the coffee machine.”

“So you didn’t tell him about the inheritance?”

“No.”

Diesel smiled. Friendly. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“No.”

So much for the smile.

“Call me when you’re ready to talk about the inheritance,” Diesel said, handing Mark a business card. “You haven’t seen the last of Wulf.”

Mark focused on Carl. “What’s with the monkey?”

“We’re not sure,” I told him. “It’s complicated.”

The woman was gone from the front office when we left. Probably, she had no reason to stay after she finished her nails. We loaded ourselves into the Cayenne, and Diesel drove out of the lot.

“Where now?” I asked him.

“Salem.”

“And?”

“He’s at Lenny’s house.”

“Wulf? How do you know?”

“I just know.”

The black Ferrari was at the curb, just as Diesel had predicted. Wulf was standing on the sidewalk by the front of the car. He was wearing a black duster, and his hair was still tied back in a low ponytail. He was watching a guy poking around in the rubble that used to be Lenny’s house. The guy was dressed up like he was straight out of a low-budget Renaissance fair. He was wearing a mustard yellow long-sleeved hoodie under a tunic sort of thing with a coat of arms painted onto the front. A sword was stuck into a leather belt and scabbard, his scrawny legs were encased in green tights, and he was kicking through the ash in what might have been running shoes but were now unrecognizable. He was in his late twenties, with scraggly orange hair and a body that looked as soft and plump as a fresh-baked dinner roll.

“Steven Hatchet,” Diesel said. “Hard at work for his lord and master.”

“Does Wulf always make his captives dress like that?”

“No. Hatchet’s a Medieval nut. If you take his tunic and tights away, he’ll sit and sulk.”

We parked behind the Ferrari, but Wulf never turned to look.

“Does he know we’re here?” I asked Diesel.

“Yep.”

“Is he happy?”

“Nope.”

We got out of the car and ambled over to Wulf. Carl stayed in the Porsche, his monkey eyes huge and black as he peeped out the window.