Page 27 of Jacob Michaels Is Not Jacob Michaels

“What the hell are you doing now?” Oma grumbled when she entered the kitchen through the back door.

Glancing over my shoulder at her, I took in the dirty bib overalls, the rubber gardening shoes, the too big gloves, the big sun hat, and the spade in her hand as she stood there. She looked like any grandmother from anywhere across the country getting ready to plant her garden for spring. The fact that I knew she was anything but the innocent old lady planting her garden made the ensemble look ridiculous. Lena was standing at her side, arms crossed over her tiny chest, glaring at me, helped me remember that Oma was not the little old farmer lady she appeared to be.

“I told ya’, sir,” Ernst whispered up from my side, where he had been standing for the last few minutes. “This was a bad idea.”

“It’s okay, Ernst,” I replied and turned away from the cellar door I had been attempting to open.

The door in the kitchen that led down to the cellar was tightly shut, though I couldn’t see anything that kept it sealed so tightly closed. A good lock would have kept me out, but the door didn’t even budge a fraction of a centimeter when I pulled on the knob. Most doors will give at least a little, rattle in the frame, when yanked on forcefully. The cellar door did nothing but stay tightly in place, keeping me from gaining access to the room below.

“Where’s the key?” I turned to Oma, crossing my arms over my chest as I stared her down.

“Why?”

“So I can open the door.” I glowered. “Obviously.”

“Why would you want to do that?” She said. “I done told you to stay out of there. There ain’t nothin’ down there for you.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Where’s the key?”

“You ain’t goin’ down there.”

“It’s either the key…or an ax.” I shrugged. “Maybe I can figure out that fire throwing trick again…but I’m not entirely sure how that works so who knows what I’ll end up doing. Up to you.”

Oma glowered at me.

Lena’s eyes had grown wide, and her arms had dropped to her sides.

Ernst was shifting from foot to foot by my side.

“Ernst.” Oma barked. “How could you let this happen?”

“Ernst isn’t my keeper.” I snapped. “And you leave him alone. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

I placed a hand gently on the top of Ernst’s head, luckily without memories flashing through my mind. Like the green lasers and the fire, the memories came whenever they felt it was appropriate.

“So, I see he’s your little pet again.” Oma rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry?”

Oma looked startled for a minute then was back to glowering at Ernst and me.

“Nothin’, ya’ shithead!” She snapped. “There’s no key to the damn cellar and ya’ ain’t goin’ down there. End of discussion.”

“Fine.” I nodded.

Calmly, I motioned for Ernst to move away. He gave me a pleading look but shuffled a few feet away. I gave Oma one last look, then turned around, took a step back, then attempted to put my foot through the door. All I managed to do was send pain up through the heel of my foot that settled in my calf. I didn’t let it stop me. I kicked again. And again. And again. The door was rattling, finally, but I knew after the fifth kick that this was not going to provide the results that I wanted.

I spun around to glare at Oma, my foot aching.

“I’m going to get an ax.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Oma grumbled before I could make a move for the back door. “You want in there so fuckin’ bad, fine.”

The fact that Oma hadn’t screamed at me for trying to kick in one of her doors was not lost on me. Maybe she knew that I could pay to replace anything I broke? Or perhaps she knew I’d never be able to kick it in and one of her household helpers would fix any damage?

Lena and Ernst were both looking uncomfortable as Oma stomped across the kitchen to the sink and opened her “catch-all” drawer. I waited, trying not to wince at the pain in my foot as she rustled around in the drawer. Oma muttered to herself like a crazy person—naturally—and Ernst and Lena shifted nervously from foot to foot as I waited for the key to be found. With all of her mumbling and cursing under her breath, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe Oma was stalling for time until she could figure out a way to distract me.

Kicking at the door had been a dick move. I knew that. However, with everything that had happened since I got into Point Worth—Kobolds, werewolves, magic fingers (not the sexy-time kind), naked burned up women, Teenage Ghost Rob—everything was making me desperate to figure out what was going on. If I had to kick in a door, or, try to kick in a door, then I was going to do that. Having more and more unfamiliar memories flashing through my head when I touched someone, ghostly apparitions of my teenage self, or more attacks from local werewolves, were things I could do without for the rest of my life.