Broccoli & Broomsticks

by Jennifer Fischetto

  “Don’t you eat at home on Sundays?” Davey asks me.

  “Um, yeah, it’s later. We’re here because of Malik’s grandfather. He came in last week, and I’m wondering if you remember him.”

  Malik pulls out his phone and scrolls through his photos. He shows Davey a pic of Mr. Zayid with a man I assume is Malik’s father. He could pass for the grandfather’s younger twin. You know, if it were possible. “The one on the right. He was in here on Thursday.”

  That’s the day before Gio was infected.

  Davey studies the picture. “Yeah, I’ve seen him before. I’m not sure if it was Thursday, but he’s here a lot. Is something wrong with him?”

  I glance to Phoebe. Oh boy, if he only knew.

  “Do you remember anything weird happening that day?” I ask.

  Davey raises his brows. “Weird? Like what?”

  This conversation would be easier if my friend knew the secrets of Nocturne Falls. I can’t tell him. I don’t know how he’ll react, and I won’t be the one responsible for taking away his peace of mind. Even if you believe the paranormals are friendly and not dangerous, you still have to worry and will see things completely different. And let’s face it, while the vamps and werewolves aren’t actively drinking people to stay alive or ripping at their flesh, they are vamps and werewolves. I mean, look at my own family. What if a person was passing our house when the Japanese maple fell down and got caught under it? Accidents happen all the time.

  “Anyone get sick from the food?” Phoebe’s obviously still wary about ingesting the zombie virus.

  Davey’s frown is deep, as if we offended his cooking, but he’s a bus boy. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “And no weird customers doing weird things?” Malik asks.

  “Only you three right now. What’s with all the weird talk?”

  This conversation is useless if we can’t be direct. If a zombie had come in and wreaked havoc on the place, chances are someone would’ve seen. Nocturne Falls’ water supply is doused with magic so the paranormal elements are blurred to the normies, but surely someone else would’ve seen something. Gossip in a small town feeds and breeds. Everyone would be talking about it.

  Chances are Davey knows nothing and this chatter is only making him suspicious.

  I wave a hand and giggle. “It’s nothing. His grandfather came down with a bug and we want to be sure we don’t get it too.”

  Davey’s expression turns neutral. I’ve no idea what he’s thinking, other than how crazy we sound.

  We spend the next hour eating and watching everyone in the place, but nothing happens. No zombies, no one spouting a second head from their bacon and eggs. It’s a typical diner with people eating, chatting, and leaving. Just the same, when the server returns with our check, we ask her the same questions we asked Davey.

  She rolls her eyes. “There’s always something weird going on in here.”

  I sit a bit straighter, ready to hear the juicy details. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  She glances over her shoulder to the window which leads to the kitchen, where the food is set once cooked. It looks like she doesn’t want the cook to overhear her. Oh, this is going to be good.

  “Well, one day last week, this guy dressed as a vampire came in and I would swear those fangs were real. Of course it’s crazy, right? He either paid a lot of money for some amazing fakes or maybe he’s one of those freaks that really think they’re vampires and he had some wacko dentist put them in. Totally crazy, right?”

  I slump back against the booth. Oh, is that all?

  “Yeah, crazy,” the three of us said in unison, all excitement depleted from our tones.

  Our server leaves the check and walks to the kitchen with a chuckle.

  “That was a bust,” Malik says and pulls out his wallet.

  After splitting the check three ways and grabbing a takeout order of pancakes, I wave bye to Davey and get into Malik’s father’s car.

  “That was useless,” Phoebe says.

  I wish I could disagree. It does feel like a complete flop.

  We pull onto Malik’s street and he slows down. There’s a cop car parked across the street from his house.

  Malik swears under his breath and pulls into the driveway.

  Standing by the shed are the man from the photo, Malik’s father, and Sheriff Merrow.

  Crap.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Let’s leave,” Phoebe says from the backseat. Her voice is tight, but Malik’s already turned off the motor, and I’m opening my door.

  Yes, my insides feel jittery, and I’m terrified I’m going to start giggling because it’s what I do when I’m nervous, but I also really want to know why they’re here. Does the sheriff now know there are zombies in town? Does he know one of them is Gio?

  We step out and walk over to the shed.

  Malik’s father gives his son a pat on the back. “This is my son, Malik, and his friends.”

  Sheriff Merow nods at us. “Hello, Aria and Phoebe.”

  He doesn’t know us individually, but he knows our families. When you’re the sheriff in a small town of supernaturals, you get to know the different clans and species. I don’t think I’ve ever said more than “hi” to him when Dad and I have seen him in town. My family has never needed to call him for anything official. And the only thing I know about him is he’s a werewolf.

  He is a bit intimidating though. Maybe it’s because he can shift into wolf mode at any moment. Not that he would for no reason. Or maybe it’s because he’s super tall, especially to my five-two stature, and muscular. I’m pretty sure he could bench press Phoebe and me at the same time. Plus, there’s the whole he’s a cop and my brother is a zombie thing.

  “What are you kids up to today?” I’m almost certain it’s a friendly question, but I’m on pins and needles, so it comes across more accusing to my ears.

  I shrug. “Hanging out.”

  Phoebe is glued to my side. Her panicked breathing starts to sound like panting in my ear. She’d never make a good spy.

  “Is something wrong?” Malik asks.

  “I was telling your father there have been some noise complaints. Neighbors have heard an unusual amount of growling from your property. Do you know anything about this?” The sheriff’s stare is intense.

  Malik doesn’t seem fazed by it though.

  Phoebe, on the other hand, squeezes my fingers until I want to yelp from the pressure. I try to pull away, but she’s holding on too tight and I don’t want to yank and cause the sheriff to wonder why we’re acting weird.

  Malik juts his chin out toward us. “We’ve been together most of the morning.”

  He doesn’t answer the question but it’s a nice way to skirt around the truth.

  Sheriff Merrow narrows his gaze and continues staring.

  After a sweat-inducing moment which results in my fingers being crushed more, he says to Malik’s dad, “It’s good to see the two of you again. When you see your father, please tell him to give me a call.”

  “Of course.”

  The sheriff nods at Phoebe and me and walks off.

  She finally lets my hand go, and I painfully flex my fingers to ward off the numbness.

  “Sorry,” she whispers and tugs at her lower lip with her teeth.

  When we hear the sheriff’s car drive down the street, we turn to Malik’s father for answers. The man seems hesitant to say anything, so Malik says, “They know everything. When we left here an hour ago, Grandpa was with Mrs. Ricci.”

  “My grandmother,” I say in case he doesn’t know Nana and I are related.

  Mr. Zayid’s face softens. “Lucia. Yes, she and my father have known one another for years. I’m glad he’s in good hands, but I don’t know where they went.”

  “I didn’t think about the neighbors hearing Grandpa,” Malik says.

  His father clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Neither did I. This is unknown territory for us. Don’t blame yourself. I should go find Pop.”
>
  “No, you stay here. We’ll go,” Malik says.

  His father doesn’t argue and heads inside their house.

  “Where to?” Malik asks us. “Do you think they walked to your house?”

  “Has to be. Where else would they go? Besides, after all we did with Gio, Nana now knows hiding a zombie in the garage works.”

  “I need to get home,” Phoebe says. “Sorry, but I promised my parents I wouldn’t be gone all day.”

  “I’ll drop you off and then we’ll go to your house,” Malik says on the walk back to his father’s car.

  As soon as he pulls away from the curb, he speeds down his grandfather’s street and nearly takes out a mailbox whipping around the corner.

  Phoebe yelps and he raises his foot off the accelerator but barely.

  As we screech to a stop in front of Phoebe’s ranch-style house, she leans her head in the space between me and Malik and gives me a grimace. “Wish I could help more.”

  “It’s fine.” Promise or not, I know she doesn’t want to be doing this. Searching for zombies and cures. This isn’t Phoebe’s idea of a good time. She’ll help because she loves me and my family, but she’d rather be watching Netflix or at a party. I don’t blame her. Who wants this?

  “Call me later,” she says and climbs out.

  We stay and watch her walk up her front steps and into her house.

  “Ready?” Malik asks.

  I turn to him and stare into his dark eyes. It’s when I realize I want this. Not only because Malik’s nice to look at, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins is kinda exciting. Zombies aren’t my first choice of adventures, but this beats sitting at home prepping the salad for today’s dinner.

  “Yes, let’s go.”

  He puts the car into drive and we speed to my house. He’s not as familiar with the town as I am, so I tell him the quickest route. We reach my neighborhood and he turns onto a side street, going way faster than he should be on a residential road. My side of the car dips and slams into a pothole, first in front and then in back. It all happens super fast, what with the speed Malik is going, he doesn’t have time to swerve out of the way.

  A loud pop sounds and I cry out.

  Malik slams on the brakes and curses again, as the car swerves.

  “What was that?” I ask, a bit frazzled by it all.

  “Sounds like a tire blew.” He shifts the car into park and opens his door. He exams all the tires, rubs his face in disgust or anger, and leans into his window. He pops open the trunk and heads to the back.

  I unfasten my seatbelt and get out to look. Sure enough, the rear passenger tire has a flat.

  He slams the trunk lid down, causing me to flinch. “There’s no spare.”

  Yikes. Mom has drilled the “no hood, no entrance” speech into our skulls, even though Cari obviously wasn’t listening, and Dad has drilled the need for a spare and extra gas. I guess not having a spare isn’t a big deal and my family is just paranoid and preachy.

  “I can call my dad but I doubt he has a spare lying around the house. He must’ve forgotten to replace it after the last time a tire blew.”

  I raise my brows. I think I’ve experienced one flat in my lifetime. “Do tires blow out on you guys often?”

  One side of his mouth lifts. “When you’re chasing things it does.”

  Things? Like supernatural beings? Is that how he justifies killing in his mind, by calling them things?

  “He’s gonna have to get it towed.” He pulls out his phone and calls his father. After a brief but tense sounding conversation, he rolls up the windows, locks the doors, and sighs.

  “We’re not far from my house,” I say. “This way. The next street is a dead end, but there’s a shortcut through it.”

  We walk down the street. It’s quiet. There’s no one outside and no traffic, although there’s a small dog barking, or in his case, yapping from one of the houses. We reach the end and walk up a narrow incline and through a small brush of trees. This wooded area is not more than several yards and it leads to the next street.

  The block is longer than the last but just as noiseless. We reach the end, turn, and suddenly stop short.

  Standing in the middle of the road are three guys. They’re facing one another in a semi huddle, and looking in the other direction. One of them is in jeans and a blue T-shirt.

  Zombie Sire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We sprint into the nearest yard, praying they didn’t see us and the homeowners won’t come out. I don’t want to be responsible for any more people becoming infected.

  There are clotheslines full of sheets and towels. We head that way and hide on the other side of them. It’s not ideal, but I’m hoping we dodged the zombies, and if they don’t see us, they’ll leave. Nothing exciting over here, even though our feet must be evident from the other side.

  I turn my back to the light yellow sheet and glance at the back of the yard. There’s a cornflower blue shed with a white painted window and French doors. It’s much more elaborate than the one in Mr. Zayid’s yard. In the far right corner is a tiny garden. There’s a trellis for tomato vines, and I spot the tops of, something sprouting. It’s hard to tell what it will be at this point. Our garden may be full of magical energy, but for the Georgian normies it is still March.

  Malik peeks to the other side of the clothes and then looks behind us. His face is intense.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “We need to move.”

  Crap.

  He grabs my arm. “Come on.”

  The last place I want to hide is in a shed, not after seeing his grandfather chained up in one. I’d stop in my tracks if Malik wasn’t pulling me forward. But standing in front of the shed door, I spot one of the zombies heading our way. A shed sounds like a better plan than standing out in the open.

  Malik lets me go and presses his hands against the glass pane to peer inside. It must be clear because he pulls open one of the doors and looks over his shoulder as the groaning gets closer.

  I hurry inside, feeling like there’s a target on my back, and stop short at the shed’s contents.

  Lined along the back wall are plastic bins stacked on top of one another. Each one is labeled differently—Minnie 5 yrs, Sabrina age 10, extra kitchen gadgets, Tom’s tools. We are hiding in the shed of a very organized person. Lucky us. The only issue is the unoccupied space is very narrow, not enough to stand sideways and extend both arms.

  Malik shuts the door and peeks outside. “We need to hide.”

  “Where?” There’s a corner behind me without boxes and windows. It’s close to the door, but if I press myself against it, I’ll probably stay hidden.

  Malik decides to join me. There really isn’t another spot, and before I know it we’re both pressed into the corner, which means we’re pressed against one another.

  His breath tickles my forehead. The top of my head only reaches his shoulder, but as I look up, his head is tilted down, staring at me.

  I shut my eyes and breathe in his soapy boy scent. Unlike the first night we met, he smells freshly laundered and showered.

  “You okay?” he whispers.

  I open my eyes and stare into his. “Yeah.”

  We stand there, frozen, with the zombies grunting and groaning as backdrop noise, but to be honest, I hardly hear them. I’m too busy listening to our breathing.

  He moves his arm, and his hand trails up my side, along my hip, stomach, and arm.

  Tingles flutter in my belly, and I suck in a breath.

  His eyes widen momentarily, as if my reaction surprises him. He pushes one of my curls off my cheek and slides his hand over my shoulder and down my arm until his fingers meet mine. He stops moving then.

  The tingling intensifies. I lean forward and rest my cheek against his chest.

  This time he sharply inhales.

  I shut my eyes and tune out the zombies even more by listening to Malik’s heartbeat.

  He rests his chin on the top of my
head and our fingers interlock.

  There’s something comfortable about being this close to him, and no, it’s not his soft shirt or the warmth of his body. It’s deeper, like on an emotional or even spiritual level. Is that possible? I’ve never felt like this with anyone else before. I’ve seen shows and movies where a longing look signifies the beginning of a romance, but that’s fiction. Then again, zombies are supposed to be fiction too.

  I’ve no idea what this means, if anything. Maybe in boy world this is simply a moment stuck in a shed with a cute girl or maybe it’s more. While I want to know, there’s no way I’m asking. It would be super embarrassing. Imagine if he looked confused and said he didn’t like me that way. No, I’ll keep my lips shut.

  Too bad I can’t do the same to my wandering, chatty mind.

  When the grunting moves away from the shed, Malik and I continue to stand there, unmoving, engulfed in one another.

  He shifts his feet and I look into his eyes again. This time, he’s staring at my lips, and I self-consciously dart my tongue out, quickly licking the bottom one.

  He inches his face closer to mine. Does he want to kiss me? His movements are slow as if he’s unsure if I’ll accept it or turn my head. It’s ultra sweet and makes me like him more.

  With everything that’s happened in less than two days, I don’t want to think. I just want to feel. I push up on my tiptoes, closing the distance between us, and gently press my mouth to his.

  The kiss starts off feathery, but after a moment, he leans in, grabbing my hips and pulling me closer, and it deepens. Everything around us fades away. I no longer hear the zombies or care that we may be surrounded. Despite how much disdain I felt for Malik Friday night, being in his arms now feels so right, so familiar, as if this wasn’t our first kiss but our hundredth.

  When we pull away, and the sounds outside come crashing back, it’s okay, because I suddenly feel like I can take on the world.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.