Sweet Reckoning (The Sweet Trilogy #3)(6)

With a shaking hand I slid my key into the bolt lock, only to find it already unlocked. Weird. Patti never forgot to lock the door. My heart rate jacked up as I reached into the pocket of my shorts for the small switchblade I kept there. My other hand went into my purse and wrapped around the leather-clad Sword of Righteousness hilt. I pushed the door open and stood in the doorway without going in. Scents from the Crock-Pot drifted out.

“Anyone home?” I called out sweetly.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary. I gripped the knife handle and peeked around the corner. All clear. I went in and closed the door behind me, then moved in slow steps around the apartment—kitchen, balcony, bathroom, coat closet—all clear. It wasn’t until I stepped into my bedroom that a surge of panic burst through my system.

My laundry hamper was lying on the floor with dirty clothes spilled out. My body went into some sort of protective mode, clearing my mind in preparation for fight. It still came as a shock when a short-haired man in all black tore out from behind the door, and months of training prompted me into action.

I lunged forward, lowering myself so that his balance was thrown off when he hit me. My purse with the hilt inside hit the wall. I managed to keep on my feet as he rolled to the floor and kicked himself up with grace that depleted a bit of my confidence. I swiped my knife through the air, and the blade sliced his bicep. He hissed, and I tried not to think about the fact that I’d just drawn blood from another human being for the first time in my life.

His foot kicked up with lightning speed and I yanked back, but his boot still caught my fingers, forcing me to release the knife with a sharp, searing pain. And now I was mad. Instead of retreating, I pushed forward, taking him by surprise as my shoulder and head rammed the soft part of his torso beneath his ribs. He groaned and grabbed at my waist, but I moved fast, wrapping my arms around his knee and yanking him onto the floor.

He caught my wrist in his strong hand and I went crazy, kicking and stomping anywhere I could—his groin, chest, knees, hips. He moved around, grunting, and we were both too filled with adrenaline to stop. But one hard kick to his armpit made him drop my wrist and cry out. I turned to run, but he grabbed my ankle and I fell onto my elbows. In a split second he was on my back. I tried to buck and throw him off, but he used every bit of his body to control mine.

“Get off!” I ground out, my face in the dirty clothes.

“Stay still, you stupid girl!”

His accent was something European. I spotted my knife, so close, only a few feet away. And then I saw feet rushing in through the doorway. My attacker must have seen, too, because I felt his body weight lift and heard a sound of protest escape just before a reverberating WHAP!

He rolled off me, grabbing at his head and yelling in pain. I looked up and gaped at Patti standing above us, a frying pan in one hand, and a gun in the other. When the heck did Patti get a gun?

She dropped the pan and pulled me up with her free hand, then used both hands to point the gun at the guy. Her hands trembled, but her face was deadly.

“Is he one of you?” Patti whispered to me under her breath.

I looked him over. No supernatural badge at his sternum to signify a demon or Neph. I shook my head. “He’s definitely not from around here, though.”

“Call the cops,” she said.

I did as she asked. While we waited, the guy began to murmur. He was a mess, bleeding from his arm, with a purpling lump on the side of his head. Patti shifted her stance, appearing as uneasy with the sight as I was.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Don’t turn me in. He’ll kill me.”

My pulse, which had finally started to settle, went wild again.

“Who?” I asked.

I wanted to naively believe this was a random break-in.

“He’ll kill me!” he said again.

The door to the apartment opened and I heard footsteps.

“Mrs. Whitt?” a man called. “It’s the police.”

“Please,” the perpetrator begged.

“Back here!” Patti yelled. And to the man on the floor she said, “It’s too late.”

The police took him away and spent over an hour questioning us and examining the apartment. The bolt lock was not broken, so he’d somehow picked it. A definite professional.

“And you have no idea why this man would break in and attack you?” he asked. Again.

“No,” I said, and it was the truth. I was baffled. He hadn’t been trying to kill me; of that I felt certain. It was as if I’d taken him by surprise and forced him to attack. He’d been there for something, but it wasn’t me.

Just as the officer was putting away his pad of paper, another cop walked in and approached. He held out a plastic bag with a small, pink wad of cloth inside. It looked vaguely familiar.

“I think we figured out why our perp broke in,” said the cop. “Panty thief.”

Gah! My freaking underwear!

Patti gasped, and the interviewing officer sighed, shaking his head. “Well, you two gals sure put a hurtin’ on him. I don’t usually suggest that people fight intruders if they can avoid it, but I commend you both.”

“Thank you, officers,” Patti said.

After they left, we stood there in the silence staring at each other, her curly strawberry blond hair askew. I was glad we’d be moving soon, because our home was now tainted. Everything about the place felt violated and unsafe.