Never Say Sever in Deadwood

by Ann Charles

  I smirked. “I’m surprised you didn’t say it’s good for nose erections.”

  “If it’s good for the heart,” Cornelius said, lifting his mug to me in a mock toast, “it’s good for all sorts of erections, including nasal and penile. So, drink up, Tall Medium and Bristly Detective.”

  Cooper groaned. “You had to go there, didn’t you, Parker?”

  “Violet has a way,” Aunt Zoe said with a wink in my direction.

  “Drinking rum always makes me feel like a pirate,” Natalie said. “Is that a hornpipe in your pocket, Coop, or are you just happy to see me?”

  Cooper’s cheeks reddened slightly, which made Natalie laugh.

  “I think he’s happy,” Aunt Zoe said, teasing him along with Natalie.

  “Well, it certainly makes everybody purtier when I drink rum,” Harvey said. “I mean, look at you, Coop. Yer downright knee-wobblin’ handsome at the moment. I’m startin’ to feel the urge to hug you and give you some wet, sloppy kisses.”

  Cooper pointed at his uncle, his eyes narrowing to gunslinger slits. “Don’t even try it.”

  I looked at Doc. “How about you? You finding Cooper extra pretty now, too?”

  Doc eyed Cooper with a grin. “He’s a fine, handsome man with or without the rum. How about you speak some French to me, Coop?”

  “Shut up, Nyce, or I’ll shoot you.”

  Chuckling, Doc clinked his mug against mine. “Coop is mighty fine, but you, me proud beauty, leave me shiverin’ in me timbers,” he said with a gravelly pirate accent. “You have the finest booty I ever laid me eyes on. How about I haul you upstairs later, plunder yer wares, and fire me cannon through yer porthole?”

  I snorted and then choked, coughing in laughter.

  “Plunder her underwear, ya say, you salty dog?” Harvey asked, snickering. “Or plunder her under there?”

  I reached over and snapped his suspenders. “Zip it, dirty bird, before I plunder your derriere with my size eight boot.”

  He wiggled his bushy eyebrows at Doc. “I got yer heifer all heated up and ready for mountin’, Captain Doc. You owe me another bottle of rum.”

  Doc lifted his mug to Harvey and said to me, “Prepare to be boarded.”

  “Sparky’s gonna get heiferized!” Both of Harvey’s gold teeth shined back at me.

  “That’s it,” I said, starting to rise. “I’m going to kick your butt until those gold teeth fall out.”

  Harvey tee-heed and hopped out of his chair, racing out of the room.

  “You better run, old man!” I called after him. I turned back to the rest of the table, finished off my buttered rum, and set the mug down with a hard clunk. “Now, what are we going to do about those eggs?”

  * * *

  Monday, January 21st

  I didn’t dream about the eggs, thank God. However, I did dream about cows, and for that, I was going to pinch Harvey several times today.

  Doc’s side of the bed was empty when I sat up, but I could hear the shower running, so he hadn’t left for the Rec Center yet. I decided to surprise him and get some coffee brewing in the kitchen. Pulling on some pajamas over my camisole and underwear, I headed downstairs.

  By the third step down, I could smell that somebody had beat me to the coffee maker. But the kitchen was empty when I got there. Where was Harvey? He hadn’t been in the recliner when I peeked in the living room.

  I poured some coffee and stood in front of the kitchen sink staring out into the gray and dark blue of early dawn. Movement next to Aunt Zoe’s workshop drew my gaze.

  A dog appeared from behind the shop, sniffing the air. Then it slinked over near the front of the shop and nosed at something on the ground. Was that a … Crap, it was a bowl of food. The kids must have put that out there yesterday for the dog, even though I’d explicitly told them not to feed it.

  I set my coffee down and grabbed my thick cardigan sweater from the peg next to the back door, sliding into Aunt Zoe’s snow boots. Quietly, I eased out the door and tiptoed down the porch steps, pausing at the bottom to glare at the blue-handled digging shovel partially blocking my path. I sighed. Darn kids never listen to me.

  I picked up the shovel, planning to put it back inside Aunt Zoe’s workshop. Halfway across the yard, the dog looked up from the bowl of food and stared at me. Its white and tan hair was matted and dirty. One ear stood high and mostly straight, the other flopped over. It lifted its snout, sniffing the air.

  “Hello, Rooster,” I said, trying to figure out what breed he was. He looked long in the “mutt” department and short on pedigree papers. I held out my hand, palm up. “Come here, boy.”

  The dog whined and took a step back.

  Then I remembered the shovel in my other hand. I planted the blade in the snow and held out my hand again. “Come on, Rooster. It’s okay, it’s just me and my smell.”

  The dog glanced left and then right, and then it let out a small bark and took a hesitant step toward me.

  “That’s it, buddy.” I crunched through the snow, easing closer. “Let’s get you cleaned up and we can see if the shelter can find a forever home for you. Somewhere other than with us.”

  Rooster took another step, and then stopped. He started to shiver visibly. I couldn’t blame the mutt. My nose was nearly frozen already, along with my fingers. It must be ten degrees out here, maybe five. The snow had that hard crust that comes with ass-freezing temperatures.

  I inched closer, both hands out now, palms up. “Come here, Rooster. I promise not to hurt you.”

  He lowered his head, looking up at me submissively and whimpering softly.

  Something in my chest tightened and then reached down into my stomach. A wave of nausea crashed into me. I stood up straight and swallowed several times. What in the …

  Snap!

  Rooster and I both looked toward the trees behind the workshop.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  A cloaked figure stepped out from thick shadows under the trees. It moved like the Tin Man, stiff-jointed and wary. In one hand, it held a bow. In the other, a small ball of fire crackled.

  Rooster started to growl and hustled over to stand next to my leg.

  The figure stopped just this side of the tree line. Bright yellow eyes glowed out at me from under its wide hood.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  It spoke in a guttural growl that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Whatever it had uttered, I couldn’t understand the language, but I thought I heard the word Scharfrichter.

  Rooster let out a sharp bark. The hairs on his back were raised, too. He and I were in agreement—this was not a friendly wood sprite here to wish us a happy winter morning. Unfortunately, I’d shown up to a bow-and-fireball fight with nothing more than fuzzy teeth and a stray dog.

  After another bark, Rooster took off running across the snow. He disappeared around the other side of Aunt Zoe’s glass workshop and into the trees beyond.

  “Thanks a lot, Rooster!” So much for filling that guard dog position. Now all I had left was my fuzzy teeth for defense. “The kids should have named you ‘Chicken.’ ”

  I turned back to my morning visitor and froze.

  It had raised its bow and had the fireball aimed at me like an arrow. It spoke again in that guttural growl. This time, I thought I heard the word Nachzehrer.

  I lifted my hands in the air. “Are you here for me?”

  It grunted and pointed where its ear would likely be under the hood. “Eier! Nachzehrer!”

  Eier must either mean ear or eggs. I really needed to learn some other languages besides English and pig Latin. “You want your Nachzehrer eggs?”

  It nodded, that ball of fire still trained on me.

  Here I was, standing face-to-face with the bounty hunter that had unleashed those long-limbed bastards on me and my friends. I tightened my fists. If only I could destroy its precious eggs in front of it while laughing maniacally.

  “Too fucking bad. I don’t have them. And if I did, you’
d be the last one I’d give them to.”

  “Mine!” it snarled, pounding on its chest.

  Ah, so it did speak some English. I shrugged. “Not anymore. Now they belong to me.” I pounded my chest back at it.

  It roared and pulled on the bow string, drawing out the fireball until it looked like an arrow.

  But before it could let go, a streak of white and tan fur came from the trees and slammed into it. The fireball veered wide, hitting in the snow next to me and sizzling out.

  Rooster snarled and yipped through clenched teeth, playing tug-of-war with the hunter’s cloak.

  I raced over and grabbed the blue-handled shovel standing in the snow. When I turned back, Rooster had pulled the cloak half off the hunter, giving me a clear picture of its curled horns, wide gray forehead and glowing yellow eyes.

  What in the hell was that thing?

  The tightness in my stomach, along with a fresh batch of raised goosebumps down my back, said it certainly wasn’t friendly. I raced toward it as the hunter shook free of Rooster and kicked out at the dog, who yipped in pain and ran off.

  The hunter drew its flaming arrow again and sent another fireball at me.

  I gripped the handle and swung the shovel, hitting the fireball right back at the hunter.

  It dodged, its yellow eyes widening in surprise.

  “That’s right, cocksucker. All-star softball team.” I tromped through the snow toward it. “Come on. Hit me with another.”

  It took aim again.

  BOOM! A shotgun blasted, echoing off the hillside.

  Birds screeched around us, fluttering away from the trees.

  The fireball missed again, landing several feet to my right.

  “Get it, Sparky!” Harvey cheered from behind me.

  The creature looked over my head, taking aim at the back porch.

  “Don’t even think about it!” I raced at it, moving like the wind, and swung right as it let go of another fireball. The shovel blade nailed the fireball, bashing it back into the hunter’s face.

  It screeched in pain and stumbled, crashing into a tree.

  Before it could lift the bow again, I grabbed the shovel handle in two hands and skewered the son of a bitch, jamming the pointed blade through its chest.

  Its mouth gaped, and then it crumpled to the ground. Brown fluid dripped down its furry chin as it stared up at me with those wide, yellow eyes. Bubbles sputtered from its lips. The hunter appeared to be trying to speak.

  But I didn’t feel like listening. This fucker liked to infect humans with parasitic nightmares so it could use them as pack hunters to kill my kind instead of fighting me one-on-one with its own two hands. There was only one thing to do with the chickenshit dickosaurus.

  I tugged the shovel free of its chest. It lay gurgling in the snow as more dark fluid trickled from its mouth.

  “You picked the wrong Scharfrichter to hunt.” I stood over it and raised the shovel. “To Hell with you.”

  With a loud grunt, I brought the blade down hard, aiming right below its furry chin. A sickening crunch filled the air, and then the fireball in its hand spread up its arm and quickly engulfed its torso. The head combusted next, burning bright blue and white. I stepped back, shielding my face from the searing heat.

  And then it was over, leaving smoldering bluish corkscrews of ash on the snow.

  I stood huffing down at what was left of the hunter. Something nudged my leg. I looked over to find Rooster panting up at me, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth again.

  “Thanks for coming back, Rooster,” I said, reaching down and scratching the mutt between the ears.

  He barked once and walked over to what remained of the hunter. He circled the ashes, sniffing at them, and then lifted his leg.

  “You’re kidding me,” I said as he splashed some piss on the blue ashes and the snow around them.

  He finished peeing and then wagged his tail, seeming quite pleased with himself as he kicked snow onto the ashes.

  “Criminy,” I said, shaking my head. “How am I supposed to give you away when you pull that kind of heroic dog crap?”

  Grumbling, I trudged toward the back porch where Harvey stood waiting. Doc had joined him at some point, probably after the shotgun blast that most likely woke up the whole neighborhood.

  “Nice job, Killer,” Doc said as I crested the steps. His hair was still very wet from the shower, his breath steaming. He grabbed me by the sweater collar and pulled me close. His dark eyes searched mine. “You okay?”

  I nodded up at him, my body still humming from the post-killing adrenaline rush.

  “Sorry I wasn’t here faster. You caught me mid-shower.”

  “You smell good.” I thumbed toward the trees behind me. “That was the bounty hunter.”

  “I figured.”

  “It wanted its eggs back.”

  “Did it, now?”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t say ‘please.’ ”

  “How rude.” He leaned down and gave me a hard, fresh kiss. “Never a dull moment with you, Tish.”

  Harvey rested his shotgun on his shoulder. “Well, I didn’t get to kill any bad guys, but at least Bessie got to clear her throat.”

  “That reminds me,” Doc said, stepping back from me. “Cooper radioed on the walkie-talkie as I was throwing on some clothes, wanting to know if that was Bessie he heard squawking bright and early on a Monday morning.”

  Harvey grunted. “I suppose he’s on his way over now to give me an earful.”

  “Pretty much, yep.” Doc pointed down at the base of the steps. “Who’s your friend, Killer?”

  I looked down at the dog, who’d apparently followed me back to the house. “Doc, this is Rooster. Rooster, say hello to Doc.”

  The dog barked up at Doc.

  He laughed. “The kids must have taught him how to speak on command.”

  I cursed.

  “So,” Doc said with a grin. “Do we have a dog now, too?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He put his arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the temple. “Have I told you lately how much I’m over the moon about you and your kids and all of their pets?”

  “Sure, you say that now, but when I have ten cats …”

  Aunt Zoe met us at the door with the phone in her hand. “It’s for you,” she said to me. “It’s Masterson.”

  I took the phone. “Violet speaking.”

  “Good morning, Scharfrichter,” he said in his usual charming drawl. “I hear you’ve been busy.”

  Did he mean killing Nachzehrer? Or had he heard Harvey’s shotgun blast a few moments ago? “A little here and there. What do you need?”

  “My lidérc is missing.”

  “Oh, really?” I winked at Doc. “Have you filed a missing lidérc report with the local law enforcement?”

  Doc’s forehead lined.

  Harvey snickered. “Here we go again.”

  Meanwhile, Dominick huffed in my ear. “If you happen to know where it is, Scharfrichter, I strongly recommend that you tell me at once.”

  “Is that some sort of veiled threat?”

  Aunt Zoe’s gaze hardened as she stared at the phone.

  “It’s not veiled,” Dominick said, his voice deadly serious. “That lidérc belongs to me. I don’t like it when someone takes something of mine without my permission.”

  “Duly noted, and I wish you luck finding your no-good, pain-in-the-ass Hungarian devil.”

  “Violet,” Dominick warned, the charm gone from his tone, leaving a hard edge behind. “Don’t you dare …”

  I hung up and handed the phone to Aunt Zoe. “Dominick sends his love. It’s a bit prickly this morning, though, sort of like Cooper’s before he’s had any coffee.”

  “You know that’s not the end of Masterson,” she said.

  “It is at the moment.” I linked my arm with Harvey’s while Doc held the door wide for us. “Now, what’s for breakfast, you ol’ buzzard? Killing assholes firs
t thing in the morning makes me hungry enough to eat a cast-iron skillet.”

  The End … for now

  Ann Charles is a USA Today bestselling author who writes award-winning mysteries that are splashed with humor, romance, paranormal, and whatever else she feels like throwing into the mix. When she is not dabbling in fiction, arm-wrestling with her children, attempting to seduce her husband, or arguing with her sassy cats, she is daydreaming of lounging poolside at a fancy resort with a blended margarita in one hand and a great book in the other.

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  The Deadwood Mystery Series

  WINNER of the 2010 Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense

  WINNER of the 2011 Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart Award for Best Novel with Strong Romantic Elements

  Welcome to Deadwood—the Ann Charles version. The world I have created is a blend of present day and past, of fiction and non-fiction. What’s real and what isn’t is for you to determine as the series develops, the characters evolve, and I write the stories line by line. I will tell you one thing about the series—it’s going to run on for quite a while, and Violet Parker will have to hang on and persevere through the crazy adventures I have planned for her. Poor, poor Violet. It’s a good thing she has a lot of gumption to keep her going!

  The Deadwood Shorts Series

  The Deadwood Shorts collection includes short stories featuring the characters of the Deadwood Mystery series. Each tale not only explains more of Violet’s history, but also gives a little history of the other characters you know and love from the series. Rather than filling the main novels in the series with these short side stories, I’ve put them into a growing Deadwood Shorts collection for more reading fun.