Monster in My Closet (7 page)

“Need some help?” I stuck my hand out and helped haul him to his feet.

He brushed himself off and stretched. “That was pretty cool. Not sure you needed an herbalist for it, but I’m happy to be here.”

“Glad we could entertain you.” I grinned. He had no idea how much I had needed another human around today. If nothing else, I needed confirmation that I wasn’t insane.

“I guess the show’s over for now. Milo and I should head back.”

I was a little worried about getting them out of the driveway, but apparently security wasn’t as concerned about who left as they were about who arrived. I watched the tail end of his car disappear down the road, and my stomach sank.

I was on my own again.

Chapter Seven

The baby raccoon in the basket by my desk wouldn’t eat the Tootsie Roll I was trying to feed him. Frustrated, I wished I had some celery. Raccoons love celery.

I returned to my paperwork and squinted. The words jumbled together and my eyes wouldn’t focus. It was as if each letter squirmed out of reach of my direct gaze, making it impossible to string them together into words, phrases and sentences.

Maybe I needed glasses. The light was a little dim, but the wedding was about to start and Maurice hadn’t lit all the candles yet.

Sara appeared beside me, looking stern. “What
are
you wearing?” she said, dragging me from my desk. “You look ridiculous. Start the music. Everybody’s waiting.”

I grabbed my cell phone and punched at it to bring up my ringtones. A synthesized version of “The Wedding March” rang out, and Sara pushed me toward the aisle.

My
wedding? Crap. I looked down at my clothes. I couldn’t get married in a Hello Kitty nightgown. Did I have a wedding dress? The music from my phone ended. Everyone was leaning over the pews looking at me. I tapped buttons and scrolled through the ringtone list, but I couldn’t find the song again to restart it.

Panicked, I darted into the church foyer to rummage in my closet. No wedding dress. No, wait, there it was. I ripped the plastic from the frothy black gown and pulled it over my head. The sleeves were too long and the hem was above my ankles. Now everyone would see my bare feet. I should have painted my toenails.

I ran into the church and walked down the aisle as slowly as I could. The groom faced away from me. His sandy hair curled over the collar of his tuxedo. My feet moved faster.

From his seat in a pew ahead, Dad smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I worried for a moment that he wasn’t walking me down the aisle, but then I remembered he had died, so couldn’t possibly give me away. When I walked past him, he leaned out and grabbed my hand.

“Your mother’s dress suits you,” he said. “I hope you kept her chili recipe.” He pulled his arm back and faced front.

The groom was gone. I must have taken too long. The candles had blown out, and I was alone.

The darkness was oily and thick. Weak moonlight trickled in through the stained-glass windows causing shadows to flit around me. I tried to leave, but a tree branch snagged at my skirt, pinning me in place. I tugged at it, desperate to press my back against something solid. The open space left me exposed to something moving in the lightless night. A hungry thing. A thing with claws.

I ripped the fabric free and fled, every step impeded, like taffy pulling at my feet. I raced in slow motion, knowing something was coming for me in the dark. The pressure on my legs released and I stumbled forward into soft, velvet arms.

Glowing green eyes bored into me. “My dear, you look lovely. Positively delicious.”

Sebastian leaned his head forward to taste me. I opened my mouth to scream and his mouth engulfed mine, tongue darting in to lick at my panic. His eyes remained locked on mine, and waves of fear and pleasure shot through my body. My struggles weakened and my arms went limp.

I loved him. Of course I did. How could I have forgotten? I stroked my hands against his velvet coat and up to his face, then curled my fingers in his hair. I moaned and moved my body tighter against his.

He broke the kiss and chuckled. “Just a taste. Let’s not be greedy. I wouldn’t want to overfish the lake when the harvest is so bountiful.”

He released me, and my legs buckled. A pathetic, mewling protest escaped from me as I watched him go.

I crawled after him through the grass, but I didn’t have far to go. He stopped and knelt over the prone figure of a woman covered in tattoos. He glanced at me and winked before pressing his lips against hers.

She stirred and moaned, her body twisting about in a sensuous dance. He stroked his hand along her waist and she bucked, her moans more frantic. Sebastian pressed his mouth harder against hers, and her back arched in the throes of orgasm. His hand moved to her hip, fingers digging into the fabric of her jeans. Her back arched again and she groaned. Her legs kicked out and her arms shoved at him to release her.

He clutched her harder.

The pitch of her muffled cries became higher, more frantic. Another orgasm ripped through her body. Her back arched so hard I thought it might snap. Her arms flapped like caged birds, batting at him with less and less force.

Selma’s hips continued to twitch long after her arms and legs fell to the grass, motionless. When he released her from the prison of his kiss, her head fell sideways. Her lips were bruised and swollen, her eyes glassy and empty. The grocery clerk was dead.

Sebastian rose to his feet and looked down at me where I knelt in the grass.

He pulled a delicate handkerchief from his lacy shirt sleeve and dabbed at his mouth. “I must say, you are a fabulous cook. That was superb.”

His eyes flashed at me and something tightened between my legs. I reached my hand up toward him, a shameless whimper escaping from my throat.

“No, no,” he said. “Thank you, I couldn’t eat another bite. I’m stuffed. But I can’t wait to see what you’ll cook for me next. You are truly an artist.”

My throat cramped and a tear slid down my cheek. He walked away and I crumpled, sobbing.

“Zoey.”

Someone was shaking me.

“Zoey, wake up.”

I opened my eyes to find Maurice standing over my bed, his yellow eyes glowing in the near dark. “Wake up, Zoey.”

I sat up and wiped at my wet face. “What time is it?”

“About three-thirty. You were crying. Are you okay?”

I thought about it. “I think so. That was a weird one.” I slid out from the sweaty, tangled sheets. “I’m sure as hell not going back to sleep anytime soon.”

Maurice dragged me to the kitchen and sat me down at the table. He grumbled while he made hot cocoa from chocolate milk mix.

“Real cocoa, Zoey,” he said, shaking a wooden spoon at me. “You have no idea how hard it is to cook in a kitchen so woefully thin on ingredients.”

I grinned around a mouthful of caramel-pear pie. “From where I’m sitting, you don’t seem to be having any problems.” I poked my fork into the flaky crust and gave a suspicious frown. “In fact, I know I didn’t have any pears in the house.”

In response, he became extra busy at the stove, stirring furiously.

“Maurice, what have you done?”

He pulled his shoulders straighter and faced me with a slow reluctance. “Nothing. I did nothing. They couldn’t eat all those pears anyway.”

I thought about all the deliciousness of the past several meals and cringed. Strawberries. Melons. Cabbage. Green beans. “Oh my God. You’ve been stealing from the neighbors.”

“It’s not stealing, Zoey. I only take a little, hardly enough for them to notice. Fresh is better. And the hens practically show me where their nests are.”

I was stunned. I didn’t know any of my neighbors had chickens.

“Eggs, too? Maurice, we can’t do that. Please, please, write me a grocery list. I’ll go to the farmers’ market if you’re so set on fresh. But I need you not to harvest my neighbors’ produce. We have enough going on here without pitchforked villagers storming the house looking for their missing butternut squash.”

He poured the heated cocoa into mugs and brought them to the table. Taking a seat, he sipped at the steaming drink and blinked his yellow eyes without saying a word.

“Maurice, promise me.”

He gave me a dramatic sigh. “Fine. No eggs. No gardens. But I reserve the right to pick from trees when the fruit is going to go bad anyway. You really are unreasonable.”

I rolled my eyes and speared a chunk of gooey fruit. “Deal. Thank you.”

I slid the fork between my lips. I felt bad for being angry. The pie was incredible and far beyond my meager cooking abilities. What harm was he doing if nobody missed the ingredients from their yards?

Neither of us spoke as we ate. Cups clinked, silverware scraped, and bodies shifted. Maurice’s eyes flicked to my face from time to time, looking worried. I realized halfway through my second cup of cocoa that he was showing incredible restraint in not asking about the dream that had me sobbing in my sleep.

The truth was that I didn’t remember a lot of it.

“It was a crap dream,” I said. I wasn’t sure which one of us needed the reassuring the most. “It didn’t mean anything. Garbled stuff mostly. I was taking out my subconscious trash for the day.”

Green eyes flashed in my head, demanding and hungry. I shivered.

“Taking out the trash makes you cry?” Maurice wasn’t buying it.

“I don’t remember much. A chapel, my wedding dress was wrong, something about a raccoon. It was nothing.”

I can’t wait to see what you’ll cook for me next.

The second half of the dream slammed into me, and I choked. I saw Selma’s body contorted in pleasure and agony. Emerald eyes danced in my brain and sent my head spinning. I could feel him reaching for me through the dream, engulfing me, tasting my emotions. A tiny whimper trickled through my lips, and I clutched at the table.

“Zoey!” Maurice was up and around to my side of the table in a blur. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Zoey, don’t let him in. He can’t touch you unless you let him. Push him away, Zoey!”

Through the fog of the remembered dream, I reached for Maurice’s voice and pulled myself back to my warm kitchen. A thin layer of sweat coated my skin. Enormous, unblinking yellow eyes stared into mine, grounding me.

“How is he doing that?” I said. “How can he get into my head?” I was trying my best to hold back panic. “Maurice, what do I do? He got in, despite all the fairies, stinky bags and skunk-apes.”

“You can keep him out, Zoey. You have to take back your power. He tasted you on the street, so he’s tracking you. But he can’t come into your head unless you allow it. Remember what Andrew showed you—you can use that against this demon. Next time, push him out.”

I snorted. That sounded simple enough. Just push him out. Of course. I could do that. “I may never sleep again.”

He squeezed my shoulder and sat back down. “You’re strong, Zoey. And he can’t hurt you from a distance, not really. He’s messing with you. Don’t let him.”

“Am I intruding?” Molly popped onto the table, having vaulted from floor to chair.

I smiled. She was disheveled from sleep, her bruised face already looking far better than it had the day before.

“Not at all. There’s pie and hot chocolate. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

“My little one had a bad dream, and I heard voices. I like pie.”

Molly joined us, and the conversation turned to mundane things like turnip crops, babies and high-top sneakers. For all my years of living alone (and cherishing the solitude), I’d never imagined the warmth of having people around me when I needed companionship. It was a new feeling, and I savored every second. I knew Molly was only with us temporarily, but my heart skipped at the thought of Maurice leaving. How long would it be until he could sort out his own life? For having been there for such a short time, he’d managed to fit into my life and my home as if he had always belonged. After only a few days, I didn’t think living alone again would sit well with me. He’d have to leave sometime, though. He had a life before he came to stay with me, even without his wife in the picture. As if reading my mind, Molly asked the question I’d been too afraid to ask.

“Maurice,” she asked in a gentle voice. “Have you spoken to Pansy since you arrived?”

He swallowed hard and scratched at a dry spot on his wrist. “She won’t take my calls or answer my letters.”

Molly and I exchanged looks. “What will you do?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Give her time. She’ll miss me eventually, right?” He shifted his gaze to my face, pleading.

I had serious doubts that this could be fixed, but that wouldn’t do him any good to hear right now. It was too new, too raw. “Give it time, Maurice. However it’s going to turn out, today probably isn’t the day it does. You’ve got a home here as long as you want it.”

I glanced at the clock over the stove and was stunned to see it was five forty-five. I rubbed my eyes.

“I have two appointments today, one of which is a cake tasting,” I said. “This is going to be the longest day ever.”

Molly nodded her head in commiseration. “My children will be up soon. We are all going to need naps.”

Maurice cleared the plates and cups.

“Maurice, when do
you
sleep?” I asked. I realized I knew hardly anything about him. “And for that matter,
where
do you sleep?”

He laughed. “I’m a closet monster. I’m nocturnal, mostly, but I don’t need much sleep. I doze in the guest-room closet when you’re at work.”

“Do you need anything to make you more comfortable?” I felt terribly guilty for not considering the question before.

“I’m fine, Zoey. I don’t need much.”

“Nothing? Blankets? Pillows? Can I clear stuff out of there for you? Anything?”

He thought about it. “I could use a radio, if you have a spare. It’s awfully quiet around here during the day.”

With all the drama throwing itself at me lately, it probably was a great deal quieter when I was gone.

“Okay. And if you think of anything else, tell me,” I said. “I’m off to the shower, see if I can beat some magic into myself to give the illusion of presentable.”

The hot water and steam engulfed my tired body like a warm hug. I inhaled the scents of shampoo and soap and let them work their way inside, lifting out the disgusting muck that stuck to my consciousness like tar. I used the exercises Andrew taught me to clean it all out, exhaling it into the air and visualizing it swirling down the drain and away from my vicinity. My skin was pink and glowing when I finished, having scrubbed my outsides as hard as my metaphysical insides. I stepped onto the thick purple bathmat feeling cleaner than I had in days.

Sometimes a hot shower can cure a world of ills.

It bothered me that Maurice had done so much for me, yet I hadn’t had one thought for his comfort. Part of it, I supposed, was his efficiency in running my house and the visitors we’d had. He slid into the role so smoothly it seemed he’d always been there. To be honest, he didn’t ask for anything except a roof over his head. But there was more to it than that. I supposed, as much as any of the rest of us, he wanted a place in the world where he fit. It made me uncomfortable to think that Maurice saw cooking and cleaning for me as his place.