Cat's Claw

by Amber Benson

  Of course, it would render the adage “Not a snowball’s chance in Hell” kind of obsolete.

  As I stood there, weighing my options, I could feel a bead of sweat snaking its way down from my hairline and insinuating itself into the folds of my sweater. I really was gonna have to wrap things up if I was gonna have any chance at all of getting the Missoni dry-cleaned before every stain I’d gotten on it set.

  “Okay, done. I agree to the deal,” I said, since all other options seemed moot.

  Snarly head smiled, the first smile I’d ever seen cracking its ugly beast of a countenance. It kind of gave me the chills. The little voice inside my head was still babbling about what I’d gotten myself into, but I ignored it, making myself think of Runt’s cute little mug instead. If this is what I had to do to secure her freedom, well, consider it done.

  Both of the dumb heads came forward and licked each of my hands in turn. It was the weirdest way I’d ever sealed a deal—and minorly unpleasant to boot.

  “If you fail in your mission, Calliope Reaper-Jones,” Snarly head said after I had been double licked by its brethren, “you will forfeit all rights to Giselda and she must be returned to me, no questions asked, your favor will not be discharged, and you will remain beholden to me until I see fit to release you from your debt.”

  “What do you mean when you say the word ‘beholden’?” I asked quietly.

  Snarly head smiled again and this time I felt a definite creepiness set in.

  “You will become the Guardian of the North Gate in my stead.”

  I swallowed hard, the heat and the magnitude of my situation making me feel faint.

  “I had a feeling you were going to say something like that.”

  “Do you accept?” Snarly head asked, long, sharp teeth revealing themselves beneath the now-waning smile.

  There really wasn’t a choice. I was between a rock and a really, really, really hard place. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my jeans sticking to the salty wetness of my body like a second skin.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Snarly head lowered its face so that it was mere inches from mine. I could smell the stench of rotting meat on its breath and I almost gagged. Its face was so close to mine that the great unblinking yellow eye looked like a giant fried egg plastered to its face.

  “Calliope Reaper-Jones, you have twenty-four hours to complete your task . . . or else you are mine!”

  I know I should’ve just turned around then and there and let Cerberus have his big dramatic moment, but I couldn’t do it. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I needed his help getting back to Sea Verge.

  “Uhm, sorry to spoil the climax and all, but could you, uh, call up a wormhole so I could get back to Earth?” I asked tentatively.

  Snarly head blinked and I was gifted with another blast of rotten-meat breath right in my face.

  Yummy!

  “I suppose I could,” Snarly head said, raising itself back to its normal height.

  “Thanks,” I replied, once again feeling like a dimwit for not being able to call up my own wormhole and disappear.

  I really needed to remedy the situation—and fast—so that I didn’t have to rely on the kindness of strangers to get me where I needed to go. It was annoying and totally embarrassing at the same time.

  “By the way,” Snarly head said, “this is for you to take with you.”

  Something cold, solid, and about the size and shape of a gold Amex card magically appeared in my right hand. Little digital numbers flashed across its face faster than I could read them.

  “What is this?” I asked curiously, feeling its weight in my hand.

  “It’s a rubidium clock,” Snarly head replied. “It will let you know how much time you have left, down to the exact Planck unit.”

  As I stared at the rubidium clock, I suddenly felt a gentle breeze playing with the hair on the back of my neck. I turned around to find the wormhole Cerberus had opened for me right in the ether of Hell. I slid the rubidium clock into my pocket and stepped inside.

  i found clio and Runt waiting for me in the kitchen when I returned. They both looked perturbed but hopeful as I landed on my ass in the middle of the spotless whitewashed oak floor and promptly collapsed into a nauseous heap.

  “You okay down there?” Clio said, munching on something creamy and beige that looked surprisingly like a Nutter Butter square.

  I nodded, but just the thought of food being consumed nearby made me want to hurl whatever stomach juices were left in my stomach after the last time I’d thrown up.

  Apparently while I was gone, Clio had eaten two pieces of toast, an orange (whose peel now sat in a Jenga-like clump on the counter), and a container of yogurt, and was now working her way through a shiny red package of Nutter Butters. This was tantamount to a binge for my usually calorie-conscious kid sister, so I could only surmise that she had been worried about me while I was gone.

  This thought made me feel all warm and loved . . . until she started yelling at me when I tried to explain why Cerberus had summoned me down to Hell.

  “You what?” Clio shouted, bits of uneaten Nutter Butter spraying in my direction in response to what I’d just told her.

  “There was nothing I could do,” I moaned. “My hands were tied.”

  “And if you don’t find this guy in twenty-four hours—what then? We lose Runt?” Clio said, her eyes wide with dismay.

  I nodded, not liking it any more than Clio did—but she hadn’t been there! She didn’t know how little wiggle room Cerberus had given me . . . or how intimidating it was to deal with a three-headed hellhound who could rip you in half with just one bite.

  “Look, how hard can it be?” I surmised, my stomach feeling less heave-worthy now that I was back on my feet and functioning. I could even watch Clio munching on the Nutter Butters without too much distress.

  “Have you ever been to Purgatory and seen the Hall of Death, where they keep the Death Records?” Clio asked. “It’s a huge place, and if you even got that far, you’d need a letter of release from Dad or someone on the Board of Death to look at the stupid files anyway.”

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

  I figured it wouldn’t be a huge deal to talk my friend the Goddess Kali into giving me the release form I needed—and if she balked at my request, well, I could just do what I usually do and wing it.

  “You can’t just wing it, Callie,” Clio said as if she were reading my mind. “Yeah, I know how you operate, and don’t even think about it. There’s so much security in the Hall of Death that it’s ridiculous. They’d sniff you out in two seconds flat.”

  I scowled at my younger sister as she leaned against the marble slab-covered kitchen island, not at all appreciating her negative attitude.

  “And how do you know all of this?” I asked, trying to keep the snippiness out of my tone.

  Clio sighed, then stuffed another cookie into her mouth. As she chewed, I could see her struggling with how much information she wanted to divulge to me. Which only made me wonder what exactly my little sister got up to when I wasn’t around—and once again I found myself curious about the mystery man my sister had to be seeing. Now wasn’t an appropriate time to give her the third degree, but I definitely intended to get the information out of her at a later date . . . whether she liked it or not

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, Cal,” Clio said finally. “It’s just . . . I sort of promised Dad that I wouldn’t tell anyone about it. And I don’t want to piss him off or anything—”

  “Tell anyone about what?” I blurted, exasperated by my sister’s hedging.

  “About the internship he got me in the Hall of Death last summer—”

  “He got you what?” I stammered, not entirely believing I’d heard her correctly.

  “I wanted to know more about what Dad did for a living, so I asked for an internship at Death, Inc.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, confuse
d.

  “Are you mad at me?” Clio asked, looking at me nervously, her hand distractedly petting the top of Runt’s head like it was Buddha’s belly, ready to grant her an extra helping of Luck.

  “Why would I be mad?” I said, squirming inside for some reason.

  “I don’t know . . .” Clio offered, her words trailing off into the unsaid.

  I shrugged.

  “Look, there’s nothing to be mad about, Clio. Why would I care?”

  Clio exhaled, releasing the tension in her jaw and shoulders I hadn’t even noticed was there until now.

  “Thanks, Cal,” Clio said, smiling. “But please don’t tell Dad I told you, okay?”

  I nodded, my jaw and shoulders now acquiring the tension Clio’s had just lost. I didn’t really know why I felt so unbearably weird inside about the whole thing. I mean, it wasn’t like I wanted to work for Dad or anything. Still, the fact that he’d just let Clio chill in Purgatory without any supervision all summer made me feel kind of, well . . . I guess the correct word would be “jealous.”

  “It’s not really a big deal, Cal, but you have to believe me when I tell you that security was, like, extremely tight.”

  “Okay, security’s tight. I get it, Clio,” I said, gathering more confidence as a plan began to form in my mind. “I’m not just gonna go in there and improvise. I’ve got a plan and it’s great. So, everything’s gonna be just fine and dandy.”

  Clio didn’t look at all reassured by my little speech.

  “You promise,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I’ve got the whole thing figured out,” I said, the words just flowing out of my mouth without my brain paying the least little bit of attention to them.

  “Trust me.”

  nine

  “Hey, Jarvis,” I said, the smile fixed so securely on my face that I just knew he was going to suspect something. “I have a huuuuuge favor to ask you.”

  Clio, Runt, and I had scoured the house for an hour looking for the faun, only to find him sorting manuscripts in Dad’s library. He looked up briefly from his work when we first entered the room, but didn’t for one minute stop what he was doing. Usually I’d have been annoyed by his lack of attention, but since a “distracted” Jarvis meant a less “suspicious” Jarvis, it made my job of pulling the wool over his eyes that much easier.

  “Yes?” Jarvis said as his eyes flicked in my direction, then quickly returned to the ancient, calfskin-bound manuscript he was holding in his manicured hands.

  Realizing it was now-or-never time, I moved farther into the large, well-appointed room and sat down in one of the stately brown leather wingback chairs that were flanking the matching brown leather couch that was the centerpiece of the room. Clio and Runt stayed firmly in the doorway (for moral support), but I was essentially on my own for this one.

  I guess it serves me right, I thought to myself. Any girl who makes a dumb deal with a full-grown hellhound deserves all the trouble she gets.

  “Well . . .” I began, then instantly started worrying about getting dog saliva all over the buttery leather upholstery. With the time crunch, I hadn’t had two seconds to change my clothes, so I hopped back up onto my feet again and moseyed over to the other side of the room, taking up residence beside the huge, inlaid mahogany fireplace.

  I could just see the look on my dad’s face if he came home and found dog drool on one of his prized wingback chairs. It would not be a pretty sight. Already there’d been Hell to pay when I’d sort of trashed his study a few months ago.

  In that room, I’d unconsciously doodled all over his desk set, turning the brown leather binding into a wannabe Rorschach test. Granted, it was a dumb thing to do, but I had been under a lot of stress at the time. Stickler for accepting personal responsibility that he is, my dad totally made me replace it—and no matter what anyone tells you, leather-embossed desk sets are not cheap!

  “Yes . . . ?” Jarvis intoned again, looking up at me over the lenses of his pince-nez like he was channeling some kind of uptight schoolmarm.

  The more time I spent in Jarvis’s company, the more feminine I judged his behavior to be. I didn’t know if this was because of the clipped British accent and European sensibility, or if it just meant that Death’s Executive Assistant, Jarvis De Poupsy, was batting for the “other team.”

  I was about as unhomophobic as they came, so it didn’t really matter either way to me, but I was definitely curious about Jarvis’s sexual orientation. Leaving thoughts of Jarvis and his choice of “bat” for another time, I cleared my throat.

  “Well, like I said before, I need a huge a favor.”

  Jarvis gave me a piercing stare that was not at all deadened by the half inch of pince-nez glass that it was filtered through. I swallowed hard, my mouth so dry and prickly I might as well have been back in Hell.

  “Go on,” Jarvis said as his fingers slid through the pages of the manuscript he was holding.

  “Well, my boss at work—”

  “The zaftig woman with the incredible sense of style?” Jarvis said, interrupting me.

  “Yes, the zaft-whatever woman with the incredible style,” I answered, nodding.

  “She’s quite attractive.”

  Boy, after Jarvis said that, you could’ve heard a pin drop. I looked over at Clio, who raised an eyebrow. Only Runt seemed unfazed by Jarvis’s statement.

  “You think so?” I asked curiously, and immediately a deep scarlet blush began to creep up the back of Jarvis’s neck, across his cheeks, and into the roots of his meticulously maintained sideburns. His face was so flushed that I was surprised the pomade in his hair didn’t start melting down his neck.

  “Do you have a crush on Callie’s boss?” Clio said from her spot by the doorway. She had a devilish smile on her face, making her look even more adorable than she already was. I had a feeling she was never gonna let Jarvis live this one down.

  “I will not even honor that absurd question with a response,” Jarvis said hotly as the manuscript he had been holding slipped through his fingers and landed with a soft thud on the dark parquet floor.

  Clio snorted, which only made Jarvis turn redder. Trying to escape our scrutiny, he knelt down and picked up the book, taking longer than he should have so he could collect himself. When he stood back up, the blush was fading, but I could still see annoyance festering in his eyes.

  “She makes your palms sweat, huh?” Clio said, sidestepping the pince-nez that Jarvis immediately threw in her direction.

  This kind of adolescent display from my dad’s Executive Assistant was highly amusing, but definitely not something I wanted to extend if I was going to get Jarvis’s help. I needed him happy, not ready to throw something at Clio’s head.

  “Sorry, Jarvis,” I said, retracing my steps back to a more normal state of play. “We shouldn’t tease you like that. My bad.”

  Jarvis scowled at me.

  “Clio, apologize to Jarvis.”

  Clio opened her mouth to protest, but I gave her a warning glance. If she didn’t apologize, I was never gonna get Jarvis to do what I needed him to do. He’d say no just to spite us.

  Runt seemed to know exactly what was at stake here—her future, of course—because she stuck her muzzle into Clio’s backside, pushing her forward as if to say, “Apologize.” Surprised by the friendly shove, Clio shut her mouth and looked down at Runt. Our adorable hellhound puppy looked back up at her with large, pleading pink eyes, and Clio sighed.

  “All right,” she said under her breath and then to Jarvis, “I’m sorry I made fun of you.”

  Jarvis gave her a smug look.

  “You made me lose my place in the manuscript,” he said.

  Clio looked at me and I nodded.

  “I’m sorry I made you lose your place in your manuscript.”

  Jarvis smiled at Clio’s discomfort, but still looked moderately peeved; definitely not a good time to try anything underhanded on him. I ran my finger across my throat, indicating that I was go
ing to abort the mission, but Clio shook her head forcefully, indicating that I should continue.

  Jarvis’s eyelids lowered to slits as his stare slid from my face to Clio’s. Obviously he had sensed that there was something untoward brewing between us, but before he could ask either of us what was going on, Runt—of her own initiative—padded over to Jarvis and gently placed the pince-nez she’d retrieved from the floor into his hand. He wiped the dog saliva off the tiny glasses with a handkerchief he retrieved from his coat pocket, then gave Runt a gentle rub behind the ears. She closed her eyes, enjoying the attention.

  Situation diffused by a hyperintelligent hellhound, I mused happily. Score two for the Calliope Reaper-Jones team!

  “Attention hog,” Clio muttered under her breath. As grateful as I was to Runt, my sister did have a point; our pup was shameless when it came to getting her ears scratched.

  “So, as you were saying?” Jarvis murmured, dropping his sharpened gaze from my face and returning his attention back to his manuscript.

  If he was willing to forgive and forget so easily, I decided, who was I to argue with him? This thought gave me the wherewithal to muddle forward with my half-baked plan.

  “Uhm, yes, you see, my boss—the well-dressed one—wants me to do some research on a new product line we’re developing . . .” I began, the words I’d initially planned to say slipping right out of my mind as my mouth continued to move of its own volition. It was becoming blatantly obvious that Clio was right. I relied way too much on my improv skills to get by in this life. Sometimes I could talk out of my ass and everything would just make sense, you know? But other times . . . well, my “seat of the pants” attitude didn’t exactly fly.

  This was one of those times.

  “Uh-huh?” Jarvis said, setting the manuscript down on an Empire-style wooden side table and returning his scowl to my face. “And what kind of line might that be?”