Deadhead (7 page)

“You’re fattening me up because you haven’t fully fed this evening,” I accused tiredly.

Harry just smiled.

Batten and I watched Harry shadow-step with satisfaction to the front porch. He did not look back to see if I would join him, but as he disappeared inside, he said over one shoulder, “Do see that your hunter pays for your services promptly, and in full, Dearheart. I trust you charge extra for hazardous work?”

Batten gave me a long, unblinking look. He pointed at me with a thick finger then switched to offering me a hand up. “Next time, I hire the dude from Mumbai.”

I snort-laughed and used his hand to get to my feet. “Next time, I let you.” I watched his butt until he was in his SUV, waved as he pulled out of the driveway, and then slogged into my cabin, where I could already hear Harry’s pots and pans rattling on the stove and his contented humming filling the kitchen.

***

The next day, Batten added to the
TRESPASSERS WILL BE EATEN
sign out in front of my cabin with a
BEWARE OF SPRIGGANS, REVENANTS, and other Ridiculous MONSTERS
placard. He scribbled a little frog on it, gave it fangs, wiggled a cheeky finger wave at my office window, and drove away. He left a check in the mailbox.

The son of a bitch had deducted his mileage for hauling the shrubbery from his place to mine, and he’d written
For sexual favors and weed
on the memo line, but I couldn't complain too much: I got my hazard pay multiplier.

Maybe I'd blow it on a really nice trellis for my new honeysuckle bush. In the morning sunshine, it was already flowering.

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