CHAPTER SIX
Candy Vargo didn’t mess around. She worked quickly. My new house didn’t look like my old house at all. I didn’t complain. At least there would be a roof over our heads. Unsurprisingly, Candy had crappy taste. The main house she’d conjured up was a single-story tract home and was painted an unfortunate shade of teal. There were a dozen double-wide trailers surrounding the new and unsightly abode. Each trailer had a number plastered on it—one through twelve. Gideon groaned. Abby and Prue almost choked on their spit. I was with them. It was an eyesore, but everyone was exhausted, and my baby needed to sleep.
“Ta-freakin’da, corn nuts!” Candy yelled, taking a bow.
“Ya done good, girlie,” Gram told her as she, Mr. Jackson and Jimmy George Carrots zipped around the new and temporary neighborhood.
Other than the ghosts, only Tim and Shitty Ritchie seemed enchanted with the strange layout. Tim snapped photos with his phone and Shitty Ritchie oohed and ahhed over every detail. For a hot sec, I wondered where Charlie had found the tiny dude and what his living situation had been. Not important. I wouldn’t use up a wish to find out that information.
En masse we toured the tract home with Candy leading the way and Tim on her heels. Gideon walked with me and held our baby. Behind us, Charlie and Heather walked on either side of Shitty Ritchie, sandwiching him in. Prue, Abby, Rafe and Gabe brought up the rear. If the tiny weirdo tried anything, ten insanely powerful Immortals would be all over him in less time than it took to blink. Shockingly, because of Alana Catherine’s decree that turd-man should stay, I wasn’t overly worried about another tornado this evening. However, I was alert and ready to step on him again if he posed any sort of threat.
The main house had two bedrooms—a master and a nursery. All of the furniture was serviceable and bland except for the kitchen. It was gold and bright orange with accents of olive green. It looked like something the 1970s had puked up. The orange Formica countertops and mustard yellow linoleum floors were perfectly awful. The appliances were olive green and matched the table and chairs. It was too heinous to be called kitschy. Ugly was ugly. Didn’t matter. Gideon and I could rebuild at a later date.
“Let’s divide up and hit the hay,” Candy Vargo announced, looking damn proud of herself for the lodgings. “Prue and Abby can take McMansion number one. Rafe and Gabe, number two.” She chuckled like an elementary school kid. “Put you in number two on purpose. Figured a good poop might help your shitty personalities. Pun motherhumpin’ intended!”
“Pretty sure shitty ain’t on the approved list,” Gram told Candy.
“Dangit!” Candy bellowed, bending over and spanking the daylights out of her own bottom. It was a little much, but was preferable to her going up in flames. “My bad! Lemme try that again.”
“Please don’t,” Heather pleaded.
Candy Vargo did not listen. She turned to Rafe and Gabe. “I put y’all in number two because I figured a good poop might help your potato chip penis personalities.”
“Lordy,” I said, choking back a laugh. “That might have been worse.”
The Keeper of Fate shrugged and popped a toothpick into her mouth. “Possibly, but it was legal.”
Rafe shook his head. Gabe closed his eyes. However, both of my brothers were grinning. It was too absurd and dumb not to laugh.
“Alrighty then,” Candy continued. “Charlie and Tim can take number three. Heather and I will take number four.”
“Nope,” Heather said quickly and forcefully. “You snore. You take four and I’ll take five.”
“Suit yourself,” Candy said. “But I’m just sayin’, I tell one heck of a bedtime story.”
“I can attest to that,” Tim said with a smile. “Very graphic, but quite amusing.”
“I can definitely live without that,” Heather replied dryly.
“Gram, Mr. Jackson and Jimmy George Carrots can bunk with me so I ain’t alone,” Candy said, giving Gram a hopeful look.
“That sounds right nice, girlie,” Gram announced as Mr. Jackson and Jimmy George Carrots turned flips of agreement in the air. “We don’t sleep cause we’re dead and all, so the snorin’ won’t bother us a bit!”
Candy grinned and Gram and gave her a thumbs up. “Daisy, Gideon and Alana Catherine get the house. Capiche?”
Shitty Ritchie let loose with a piercing cry then dropped to the ground and began to wail—tears, snot and ground kicking included. “What about Shitty Ritchie?” he screamed. “Doesn’t Shitty Ritchie get a luxury home? A McMansion?”
Again, I wondered where the guy had been living if he thought a double-wide was a luxury home.
“Itty Ritty!” Alana Catherine called out with tears running down her cheeks. “Ohhhhhhhh, Itty Ritty.”
“Crap,” I muttered. “First, she wanted the skunks for pets… now Itty Ritty. We’re doomed.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Gideon questioned warily.
“Umm…” I began with a wince as Itty Ritty continued to sob in the background. I decided to just rip the bandaid off. There was no sugarcoating it. It was going to be bad no matter how gently I revealed the story. “There’s one minor detail I forgot to tell you about from our trip to the Higher Power’s plane… Our daughter is housing forty dead, machine-wielding skunks inside of her. She wants to keep them as pets.”
Gideon looked back and forth between Alana Catherine and me. The expression on his handsome face was one of utter disbelief. “That’s a joke. Right?”
“Heck to the no!” Gram said as she swooped down into the conversation with a cackle. “Them little stinkers love our gal and she loves them. And I know, I really do, that forty pole cats might seem like a lot, but they’re dead. Therefore, they ain’t gonna eat nothin’ and I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that their anal rumpus blasters don’t work no more.”
Gideon was at a total loss for words. I didn’t blame him. It was a lot. Alana Catherine giggled, grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled. Our little gal then proceeded to cover his face in wet baby kisses.
The Grim Reaper was instantly charmed. His daughter had him wrapped around her little finger. I was pretty sure she could ask for an entire zoo and Gideon would get it for her.
“Dadadadadada!” she squealed. “Skoonks!”
Before anyone could comment on the fact that she’d just said the word skunk… well, kind of, she pumped her free arm in the air and began to glow in every color of the rainbow. One by one, the army of black and white ghostly stinkers floated out of her small frame and gathered at Gideon’s feet. They stared up at Alana Catherine with reverence and unconditional love in their beady little eyes.
“Holy heck on a bosom stick,” Candy Vargo cried out. “In all my gadzillions of years, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that!”
“Fascinating,” Tim said, waving at the gathering. “Welcome, friends!”
“This is real?” Gideon whispered, still in a semi-state of shock.
I blew out a raspberry and laughed. “One hundred percent.”
“Welp,” Candy said, getting back to business as the skunks wandered around the area. My dog Karen couldn’t see the dead, but Donna could and seemed delighted that we were expanding the furry part of our family. “We can put the dead stinkies in McMansion number six.”
At the news, Shitty Ritchie lost his tiny and debatably sane mind. He beat the ground with his itty-bitty fists and stubbed every single one of his bare toes on the hard ground. “WHAT ABOUT ME? Where does Shitty Ritchie sleep?”
“Seven. McMansion number seven,” I said in my outdoor voice so I could be heard over his sobs. I wasn’t sure if his tantrum was about to devolve into something worse. We’d already seen worse. Having a repeat would piss me off.
“Really?” he asked, peeking up at me. The crying ended as abruptly as it had started. The tiny freak smiled. It was slightly horrifying with the sharp fangs, but it pulled hard at my heart for some reason. My compassion was probably going to get me killed one of these days. “Seven? For me?”
“Umm… yes, seven,” I repeated. “Will that work?”
Shitty Ritchie got to his feet and did a few jazz squares as he shrieked in excitement. His happy screams were as ear-piercing as his desolate ones. Most of our group had slapped their hands over their ears. The dead skunks sprinted away and hid. It was wonderful that the tantrum had ended, but I still didn’t trust him. I was ready to step on Shitty Ritchie if the jazz squares led to a natural disaster like the tornado earlier. Thankfully, it looked like jazz squares only meant the strange little man was in a good mood.
The learning curve with Shitty Ritchie was steep.
“Yes! So fine,” he said. “The number seven is very important in many cultures! It represents completion, perfection, rest and spiritual wholeness. Very much like Shitty Ritchie.”
“Oh my!” Tim said, walking over to Shitty Ritchie. He squatted down and shook his hand. “Excellent! Seven is also a prime number, can represent luck, and is notable for the Seven Wonders of the World, the seven colors of the rainbow and the seven days of the week.”
Shitty Ritchie blushed under Tim’s praise. The oxymoron of who he was when he got here and who he was now was difficult to reconcile. However, I’d take this Shitty Ritchie over the other one any time.
Charlie cleared his throat. “As lovely as this is,” he said, eyeing the skunks with amusement and Shitty Ritchie with some trepidation. “We should get some rest.” Charlie walked over to Gideon and me and lowered his voice. “We need to put a guard rotation on Shitty Ritchie. It would be unwise to accept without question the new version we’re seeing at the moment. We also don’t want him getting away.”
Thankfully, the little nard didn’t hear Charlie. He was too busy trading seven trivia with Tim.
“I agree with having guards on Shitty Ritchie. Although, I don’t think the violent dummy is going anywhere fast,” I said quietly. “I’ll be up first with Tim. Should I question him about the Higher Power? Or Alana Catherine?”
“No,” Charlie said firmly. “There’s a fine chance he’ll go off again during that conversation. Wait until we’re all together tomorrow—heavily armed and preferably in an open field.”
“Good thinking,” I told Charlie. “I’ll handle this.” I smiled as I walked over to Tim and Shitty Ritchie. Potentially explosive news always went better with a pleasant expression—or that was what I was going with. However, it was all in the phrasing. “Shitty Ritchie, since you’re new to our… umm… friend group, I thought it might be nice for you to get to know everyone. Tonight.”
He squinted at me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mmmkay, great,” I replied to his favorite line while keeping my smile bright. “Tim and I are going to spend a few hours with you and get you tucked in.”
“Wonderful,” Tim said, catching on immediately. “We can discuss the number seven in a deeper and more meaningful way.”
Shitty Ritchie looked doubtful but nodded his agreement. Apparently trading essentials of the number seven was too tempting for him to turn down.
“And after you get to know Daisy and Tim, I’ll come on over and tell you a ball eatin’ bedtime story with Heather,” Candy Vargo volunteered.
“And if you’re still awake, Gabe, Prue, Abby and I will join you for a bit and chat about the weather,” Rafe told the little Immortal.
“I quite enjoy discussing the weather,” Shitty Ritchie said with a nod of approval. “Of course, I do realize that none of you trust Shitty Ritchie yet, but that’s fine. I am aware that blowing up your house upon my arrival might make it seem like I’m a terrible houseguest, but I shall prove you wrong! Shitty Ritchie is a WONDERUL houseguest. STUPENDOUS!”
“Remains to be seen,” Candy Vargo muttered as she meandered over to her trailer. “But I sure as fuck hope so.”
Everyone froze and no one said a word. Even Gram kept her trap shut. I crossed my fingers hard that Candy wouldn’t realize she’d just broken her own rules again. It was getting old watching her light herself on fire and violently smack her rear end. Thankfully, she missed her f-bomb.
Again, it was the little things that kept me sane.
“Shall we call it a night?” Charlie inquired. “Tomorrow is a new day and we’ll get to work at seven AM sharp.”
“Yes,” Gabe said. “Good night, all.”
Pleasant rounds of “sweet dreams” were exchanged. I kissed my husband and my baby. The next four hours or so would be challenging.
Or… maybe not.
One could always hope.
After an hour discussing the merits of the number seven, the boys had moved on to the weather. It was getting difficult to keep my eyes open.
“Did you know that mild autumn weather means that bigger spiders will invade your home?” Shitty Ritchie announced as we all sat on the wooden slatted stoop in front of McMansion number seven.
Warily, I glanced around for spiders. The coast was clear.
The stars hung lazy and low in the sky, and the creepy haze from the moon was gone. Glancing up, I felt a momentary peace. Nature’s beauty could be as calming as my baby’s smile. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but I took peace where I could get it. Shitty Ritchie’s trailer was pretty dang homey. But since the evening was warm and lovely, we’d opted to sit outside.
I was thrown that the McMansion was much nicer than the house—at least as far as the color scheme went. Instead of orange, gold and olive green it was a palatable celery green, peach and cream. I’d have a word with Candy Vargo about that tomorrow.
“Oh yes!” Tim exclaimed, pulling his notebook from his pocket. “I did know that about the arachnid species. And I’d like to add that one can tell the temperature by counting cricket chirps.”
“You don’t say,” Shitty Ritchie replied, clearly impressed with Tim’s knowledge. “Here’s one that might surprise you… did you know that a hurricane in Florida resulted in nine hundred pythons escaping their cages?”
“No! That’s dreadful,” Tim said, shocked as he scribbled the information down. “I must tell Jennifer. She has plans to buy a vacation home in Florida with some of her settlement money from her fourth divorce!”
“I thought all her money went into Botox and boobs,” I said, yawning. Listening to weather facts was not invigorating. I was tempted to remind Shitty Ritchie and Tim that the weather discussion was supposed to happen with Rafe, Gabe, Abby and Pure, but decided against it. A peaceful conversation was preferable to Shitty Ritchie losing his mind over something.
Tim chuckled. He and Jennifer were our go-to folks for bizarre and usually unappetizing facts. I was beginning to think that Shitty Ritchie might be their perfect third.
“Speaking of Florida,” Shitty Ritchie announced, clasping his tiny hands together with glee. “Did you know that you are technically required to pay for parking if you tie your elephant to the meter?”
Tim actually squealed with the new news. I groaned. Shitty Ritchie was on a roll.
“Oh yes! Back in the day, I was once given a parking ticket for my elephant, Frank. It was ridiculous. I had simply hopped off to scoop his poop. I wasn’t parked at all.”
The mental image of an eight-inch-tall man scooping elephant poop was almost too much to handle.
“My goodness,” Tim said. “Whatever did you do?”
“I ate the parking meter attendant,” Shitty Ritchie shared.
Welp, that caused a pained pause in the conversation.
The tiny cannibal kept going, not realizing that Tim and I were turning green. “It’s also illegal in Florida to sing in public while wearing a bathing suit. I know this because I received a citation for the issue.”
I couldn’t stop the words. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. “Please tell me you didn’t eat the officer.”
“Okay,” Shitty Ritchie said with a giggle. “I won’t tell you.”
Tim gagged then covered it with a coughing fit.
Pressing the bridge of my nose, I debated on how to handle this new and terrible info about our guest. I was mentally kicking myself in the bahookey that I hadn’t made him leave earlier. Hosting a miniature tornado who ate police officers, and God only knew who else, was not good .
The conundrum was that Charlie was sure he could help us. There was always a chance that Charlie was wrong. Highly unlikely, but possible. It made me sick to my stomach and infuriated me that Shitty Ritchie talked so casually about eating innocent humans. It was beyond unacceptable. Candy Vargo had the wherewithal to be mortified that she’d eaten my siblings. The other difference in the scenarios was that my brothers and sisters were Immortal and somehow survived. The logistics of that made me want to hurl, but Shitty Ritchie’s offenses were far worse.
The tiny turd was oblivious to Tim’s and my discomfort and kept regaling us with farked up Florida laws.
“Unmarried women are forbidden from parachuting on Sundays,” he informed us.
I was pretty sure that law gave him no reason to eat anyone. He wasn’t female and I was positive he was single. Sadly, I was incorrect.
“Yes, yes,” he lamented in his high-pitched and squeaky voice. “I had a friend once. Myra. Lovely human. Made a tasty meatloaf. She received a citation for parachuting on a Sunday by a rotund officer of the law named Stew. It was awful, considering that poor Myra’s parachute never opened and she died on impact. Very messy business. I was obviously furious that Officer Stew could be so callous, so I avenged the tragic death of Myra by ingesting Officer Stew.” He paused in deep thought. “It was unfortunate he didn’t actually taste like stew.”
“DUDE,” I yelled, completely over it. If Shitty Ritchie got his panties in a knot and tried to eat me, he was going down. Permanently. “You can’t go around eating freaking humans because they pissed you off. It’s wrong.”
Shitty Ritchie was wildly confused. “Why?”
I stood up and threw my hands in the air. “Because they were just doing their jobs. They might have had families and children. Eating people is against every law on the books in Florida and the rest of the world.”
Tim raised his hand. I squinted at him. Whatever he was about to say I was sure I didn’t want to hear it.
“I believe that cannibalism is only technically illegal in Idaho,” he reminded me.
I’d been correct. I didn’t want to hear it.
“You cannot eat people. Period,” I snapped, glaring at Shitty Ritchie. “That’s common knowledge and common decency. Where in the hell do you even live? In a cave? How can you not know right from wrong?”
Shitty Ritchie’s eyes filled with tears. “I do live in a cave,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t eaten anyone in decades. I didn’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The waterworks were on full display. His on-demand excuse for everything he didn’t want to deal with wasn’t cutting it.
“Save it,” I ground out. “Crying isn’t going to move me. Do you have any friends?”
“No,” he replied, sniffling.
While that wasn’t surprising, it was sad. However, friendless people didn’t have the right to eat humans. As always, I was shocked that I was even having these thoughts. A year ago, if I’d been told I’d be sitting under the stars with an eight-inch magical cannibal, I would have laughed.
I wasn’t laughing now.
“Do you have any family?” I demanded.
“No.”
“Education?” Most of the Immortals I knew were over-educated. Gideon had so many degrees that I couldn’t even count them. When a person lived forever, they had a lot of time on their hands. Some used it wisely, and some ate people.
“No.”
“How old are you, Shitty Ritchie?”
“I am the oldest one of them all.”
I squinted at him. That wasn’t possible, or I didn’t think it was. From what I’d been told the Higher Power came first. Literally. Granted, the little man had been living in a cave for a while, and might have lost his grasp on reality. I hesitated before my next question, but went for it. “Children?” I seriously hoped the answer was no. It would be terrifying to think there was more than one of him.
“No,” he said with a whimper. “I’ve never even had sex. I thought Myra and I might do the deed, but she perished in the parachute accident before I was able to seduce her properly. I have never known the joy of making the beast with two backs. I will never have the privilege of spreading my seed.”
I was speechless and grossed out. The thought of Shitty Ritchie doing the deed or seducing anyone was repulsive. This had to be the strangest conversation I’d ever been part of. Tim, thankfully took over.
“Oh my goodness… umm… friend,” Tim said, carefully patting the idiot’s back while making sure his hand stayed as far away from Shitty Ritchie’s sharp teeth as possible. “I too, have never participated in the beast with two backs. I’m more of an asexual kind of being. However, I have donated sperm in hopes to see a little Tim or Timina running around one day.”
This was entirely too much information to absorb. It was well known in our circle of friends that Tim had offered to be a sperm donor for Heather and Missy. It was unclear if they were going to take him up on the offer.
“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “You donated sperm?”
Tim nodded enthusiastically. “I did. Around sixty some odd years ago… possibly closer to seventy. I’d have to check my records to be sure.”
“Umm… okay. Where?” I asked.
“Right here in our lovely little town,” he explained.
“And was it ever… you know… used by anyone?” I questioned.
“As far as I know it was not,” Tim said sadly. “I put my information on the DNA sites in the last decade but alas, not one Tim or Timina has ever reached out.”
“Hang on,” I said, a little freaked out that he’d given a human company his Immortal DNA, but even more freaked that he’d randomly donated sperm in the first place. “Your DNA isn’t exactly normal. Can’t that set off alarm bells? We live hidden in plain sight.”
Tim patted my hand. “Not to worry, friend. Charlie helped me with all of that. He’s a wonderful doctor and scientist, as you know. Nothing that would throw up any red flags was revealed.”
I heaved a relieved sigh. The thought of Tim being abducted and experimented on was horrifying.
“Plus,” he added. “What I didn’t know sixtyish years back was that it’s nearly impossible for an Immortal to impregnate a human. I learned that when Charlie and June tried to have children naturally. And that’s why I have offered my reproductive services via a turkey baster to my Immortal friends!”
“Can I donate sperm too?” Shitty Ritchie asked, intrigued with the idea. “Maybe at the same place you did?”
Either Shitty Ritchie wasn’t listening or he didn’t take in that Immortals and humans don’t exactly mix in the baby department.
“Sadly, no,” Tim told him. “The clinic burned down decades ago. Broke my heart. All the records were singed to ash and I’ll never know if a little Tim or Timina exists even though the chances of that are very slim. So, that’s why I have chosen to only donate sperm to Immortal lesbian friends now. I would love to be a fun uncle to little Tim or Timina.”
“Do you have Immortal lesbian friends?” Shitty Ritchie asked, perking up considerably.
I knew where this was going and I was really glad that Heather wasn’t on the first watch. She’d crap her pants.
“I do!” Tim said. “Heather, who you’ve met, is a fabulous lesbian and her partner is Missy. Now, Missy isn’t technically Immortal, but she is a Soul Keeper, so it could possibly work with her since she has magic.” Tim clasped his hands together dreamily. “Won’t know until the turkey baster has been emptied into the cavity. I have suggested at least…” He quickly checked his notebook. “Twenty-nine times. I have offered my sperm twenty-nine times to my dear friends. I think thirty-three might be the magic number.”
“Okay.” I really tried to find a diplomatic way to express myself. There wasn’t one. “Tim, calling a vagina a cavity isn’t going to earn you any points. Also, the turkey baster method is not gonna fly. How about we rest this subject and you just wait for the gals to let you know if they’re game.”
“I’d say try thirty-seven,” Shitty Ritchie told him, ignoring my last statement. The little dude had very selective hearing. “Seven is a very magical number.”
“Ah! Excellent thinking,” Tim replied, scribbling it down on his pad.
I made a mental note to set up hearing appointments for both of the dummies. A change of subject was in order. I reached deep for something that might distract them. I went for the only weather fact I knew. “Hey! Did you guys know that cyclone in North America is called a hurricane and in Japan it’s called a typhoon?”
No one took the bait.
Shitty Ritchie grew weirdly agitated and fidgeted for a full five minutes as we watched. It looked like he needed the bathroom, but I knew that wasn’t the reason. I held my breath and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long.
“Do you think Heather and Missy might be interested in my sperm?” Shitty Ritchie asked with his blue eyes filled with hope.
I wanted to laugh. I didn’t. I wanted to scream NO. I didn’t. I considered dropkicking him again. I didn’t. Instead… I used my words. Hard but doable.
“Alrighty, Shitty Ritchie,” I said in the most neutral tone I could muster up considering the circumstances. “I don’t think that’s a good ask right now considering when you got here you yelled the word fuck multiple times and then blew up my house—not a great first impression. Also, it’s not a given that Heather and Missy want kids, so both of you need to be prepared for that outcome. But… if, and I seriously stress the word if you want to ask, you need to shape up your act.”
“Could you define that?” Shitty Ritchie inquired.
“Sure. No eating people. Ever. No blowing up houses. No turning into a tornado. And if there are other storms you can turn into, those are off the table as well.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
I racked my brain for a few more rules that might make his visit less dangerous and more tolerable. “Tantrums are out.”
“That might be difficult,” he admitted.
“Try,” I said flatly. I’d told Charlie I wouldn’t talk about the Higher Power or Alana Catherine until we were all together, but I could pave the way just a little bit. “If you want to stay here and have our protection, then you’re going to have to help us in return.”
Shitty Ritchie stared at me. I stared right back at him. He was very aware that my last statement was loaded. He might be eight inches tall with a penchant for eating people who wronged him, but he wasn’t stupid. He was still alive. That couldn’t have been an easy feat if there were people after him. A lot of Immortals resorted to brutality first and asked questions second.
The stare down lasted about fifteen minutes. I wasn’t going to look away first. I’d fought Zadkiel. I’d fought Clarissa. I’d fought Demons and evil Angels. I’d won every time. There was no way I would let a tiny cannibal best me.
Shitty Ritchie caved first. He walked over to me and stuck out his doll-like hand. My instinct was to run without looking back. I quashed that inclination and extended my hand.
“Deal?” I asked.
“Deal,” he replied, then did three jazz squares.
I answered his move with jazz hands and a mostly graceful chassé.
So far, so good. The little turd was growing on me. That might be a mistake on my part, but my gut was all I had to go on. Shitty Ritchie was innocent until proven guilty, or until he ate someone.
We could solve all of this. Together we could keep both my baby and Shitty Ritchie safe. The alternative was unacceptable.