Wolf at the Door (4 page)

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Authors: MaryJanice Davidson

BOOK: Wolf at the Door
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His looks, for instance. In addition to the change in his coloring, there had been changes to his very nature . . . external and out. He’d been narrow and lean until adulthood, all gawky elbows and long legs. Maturity had helped him grow into a powerful body. He might have relaxed enough to dodge workouts, but he could still put his fist through the trunk of a tree, could still squeeze a rock into gravel.
His eyes, though . . .
His eyes had always been a savage gold, rare and striking even among their kind. From the moment he pulled her from the bog, she knew this boy would be the greatest Pack leader in the history of the
lupi viri
. And no matter what had happened to the Pack since then, no matter the deaths and births and matings and Challenges, his eyes had
never
changed.
No, Michael Wyndham was in the right place, the right Pack, and she knew it, and nearly everyone else did, too.
Oh, sure, there were scuffles now and again, mostly in the early years. Jeannie Wyndham, mother of Lara, the future Pack leader, was involved with at least one.
That
had been humbling for all of them. A
human
coming to Michael’s rescue and saving them all with time left over to bitch about how chilly the manor got in the darker corners . . . ah, the shame of it . . .
Now, years later, as an adult male in his prime (to be fair, the males tended to be bigger and stronger with no effort on their part, though she disliked distinctions by gender), his no-longer-black, no-longer-long, now-shoulder-length dark gold hair had a ripple of a wave through it, and when he stepped into sunshine, it often looked to her as though he was blessed by the sun god; their Pack leader was dazzling, which was annoying.
He had no idea. At all. No idea that to her, to the Pack, he really did seem as something of a living god. And that was annoying, too. She could hear herself thinking such nonsense and wanted to roll her eyes. Unfortunately, knowing it was a cliché (and a silly one, too) did not make it untrue.
He snarled at her, showing a lot of teeth, but it was more show than substance, he was still trying to articulate what he needed from her. Her! One of his least fiery, passionate, ferocious Pack members. One who never married, one who kept to herself, had never left the state of Massachusetts except for one ill-fated trip to New York City. One who didn’t seek people out.
Come to think of it, she would go because Michael knew all her flaws, knew she disliked fights and intrigues, knew she was more
sapiens
than any other Pack member, knew she was happy at spreadsheets. She would go because Michael
knew
all those things about her . . . and loved and valued her not despite her odd habits, but because of them.
Her father and Michael’s father had been brothers born a generation apart. Her father loved to read, loved to figure things out, loved to learn, loved to teach.
Michael’s father loved to fight.
So here they were, two branches of the same tree, but for all they had in common, there were many differences, too.
“Listen: I don’t think they mean trouble for us. Specifically, I don’t think Queen Betsy does. I don’t know what her consort wants . . . that fucker’s harder to read than my own dad was.”
Yow. Not a lightly made comparison. Her uncle had been famous for sitting quietly one moment with a cub in his lap, then exploding into a fight to the death after tossing said cub to a bystander.
Her irritation at the rude uprooting of her business and personal life—
What personal life, you silly bitch?
That’s enough out of you, inner voice who sounds like Mother.
—began to fade, and interest began to take its place. The interest wasn’t necessary, but it was a bonus she was grateful for. Because the two people in this room knew she would leave at once for Minnesota, despite the dreadful seven-month winters.
Of course she would go; there had never been a doubt. If it meant her death, fine. If it meant permanent banishment from her homeland followed by death, as it had for Antonia, fine. If it meant tedious meetings and bad food and shrill vampires and dreadful weather and frostbite and a thousand tornadoes (they had all sorts of them in Minnesota, right?) and having to eat lutefisk and lefse so as to blend in, and to march through the monument to consumerism that was (drum roll, please, or maybe a cow bell?) THE MALL OF AMERICA . . . so be it.
But she was a family member first, a werewolf second, and an accountant third. Aw, nuts. If her mom was still alive, she would have given Rachael a smack. Mother had always thought her only daughter’s priorities should be different.
But! Mother was (probably) dead. So Rachael’s priorities were her own.
And it suited her fine.
She would go. He was family; more, she loved him like a brother and was bound, not only by their blood, but by her heart, to do as he asked.
But it would never do for Michael to know too much of that, so she fumed and scowled and insulted him and let herself be placated and pretended this thing was a terrible inconvenience.
Oh, wait. It
was
.
Dammit!
Three
 
“Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe.”
Eddie Batley groaned and tossed
The Sandman
across the surgically neat living room. Then he gasped in horror at his foolish, foolish act and hurried across the spotless blue carpet and retrieved the graphic novel. Ennui was no excuse,
ever
, to abuse anything by Neil Gaiman. Ever.
He blew on the cover but it was relievedly flawless.
Ever!
His (un)dead roommate, who would have heard a carpeted version of
The Sandman
hit carpet in the deep (carpeted) vacuum of space, yelled from the back bedroom, “Rule six, Eddie!”
“Ed
ward
,” he muttered back.
“Rule six, Ed
ward
!”
Vampire hearing. Argh.
(Rule six: no hurling graphic novels before five thirty P.M.)
“I need to get out of here.”
“Where would you go?”
“I’m talking to myself out here, if you don’t mind.”
“Rule eleven!”
(Rule eleven: before five thirty P.M., talk to yourself in your head.)
“Rule twenty!”
(Rule twenty: back off Ed
ward
if you’ve brought up two or more rules before supper.)
Edward waited, but Greg (“Gregory, dammit!”) Schorr was finished.
It wasn’t Greg(ory), anyway. It was him. It was Edward Batley IV, heir to a long and distinguished line of accountants. He had to get out of there. Being a third wheel for a few months was almost fun. Fodder for late-night routines (which Greg loved, being the only vampire comedian on the planet, probably), right? Something to blog about, yes? He should have pitched the idea to Hollywood; all things paranormal were being turned into terrible movies and terrific sitcoms. He could move out to California, pitch screenplays. There were worse ways to make a living. Guard at Buckingham Palace. Brazilian mosquito researcher. Portable toilet cleaner. Roadkill remover.
That would all have been fine, except for the tiny detail that it hadn’t been months. He had been a third wheel going on four years. No, that wasn’t . . .
He whipped out his cell, stabbed the calendar button, and gaped with horror at the date. It hadn’t been going on four years. It had been four years and seventeen days. Boo would never allow a party, never mind a simple, “Hey, thanks again for saving me from being devoured and turned into a shambling Night Thing,” but he always made a mental note of the day they’d met.
Four years and seventeen
days
? That was nothing to blog about. It wasn’t almost fun anymore; it wasn’t something to pitch to public access, never mind FX. It wasn’t an undead
Three’s Company
. It wasn’t even
Wings
, or
Coach.
It was more like an
I Love Lucy
, if Lucy was a vampire slayer and Ricky was a vampire, and Fred had divorced Ethel because of her vain, snoopy competitiveness but lived with Lucy and Ricky anyway. In Boston. And was an accountant for Grate and Tate.
I have to stop seeing my life as a series of old sitcoms.
And
I have to get out of here.
And go where?
That was it. His enemy wasn’t just ennui; it was the sweet, sweet comfort of knowing where the strawberry Smucker’s was, and when Boo and Gregory were out at a comedy club so he could enjoy, um, alone time, and when they were getting drunk enough so he could hear their slayer/vampire sexual shenanigans from half a block away. (The first time he’d realized what he was hearing, he simultaneously popped a boner and threw up. Boo was hot; Gregory was hot if you were into sculpted urbane intelligent vampires; and they were both terrifying.)
He liked most everything else about his roommates; they were always a good time on a Friday night, and sometimes they let him come hunting with them. He liked knowing he was paying next to nothing for his share of a gorgeous Quincy apartment (Jack had moved in with Chrissy and Janet for a reason, right?), and where the best black-and-white cookies were, and when the Tuesday staff meetings were safe to skip (which was every third Tuesday). And yeah, like he’d said, he liked his roommates, too. It would be weird, being in the Boston area and not living with them.
Also, they’d miss him dreadfully.
“Pathetic,” he announced.
“Seriously, will you stop? Rule eleven!”
He ignored Greg(ory) and pointlessly began tidying the spotless apartment. Boo had always been one to let a bra fall where it may, but he and Greg were sticklers. Edward suspected it was his mind, which tended to stray toward all things tidy (you could perform an appendectomy in his cubicle). And Greg was old-fashioned.
Really
old-fashioned. “Cleanliness is next to you-know-what,” he’d informed them the first week he had moved in. When Boo had realized he was serious, she laughed like a hyena for ten minutes. Then they’d disappeared into her bedroom for . . . uh . . . never mind.
He swiped nonexistent dust off the coffee table in front of the squat black-and-white TV, circa 1950 (Gregory liked his antiques, and Boo didn’t give a shit), and thought about his living situation. Despite the lack of a plasma TV and windows
not
curtained in dark brown, it was pretty sweet. He couldn’t believe he was considering leaving. Well. Considering considering leaving.
Who are you kidding?
Good question. He stayed for the reason he stuck with anything in his life: he needed a kick in the ass to get going. So far, kicks in the ass were in short supply. Worse: if not for the third-wheel thing, it would likely never occur to him to move out. His roommates were the most feared vampire slayer (not that Boo would ever, ever refer to herself as such) in the history of time, and a dead comedian who lived (so to speak) for the slayer.
What could compare? Honestly? A corner office at Grate and Tate? The newest toy from Steve Jobs, the iAll? Regular sex with Uma Thurman (provided he could overlook the manhands and man-feet)? To quote a sage of the age, “Shyeah!”
Also, they had a view of Wollaston Beach. A tiny sliver of a view they could only enjoy during high noon with clear skies on Thursdays, but still. Water view! In Boston!
So he stayed.
“I’ll live here until I die,” he announced.
“Which, if you don’t stop breaking rule eleven, will be later this evening.”
Edward did not have a heart attack, or jump back, or even flinch. Although he never heard Gregory coming, years of cohabiting with a dead guy had given him a flinch-free poker face.
“Nothing’s going to make me move out,” he announced.
Gregory yawned and headed for the kitchen.
“Not one thing.”
“So, who asked you to leave? We found this place together, you, me, and Boo,” Gregory said mildly. “No reason not to make use of it as long as you like. Half of it is yours, after all.” He opened the fridge, withdrew several oranges, plugged in the juicer, and began shredding orange after orange. Edward had never seen anyone fonder of fruit juice. Maybe it was a vampire thing.
“My place is here.”
“All right.”
Edward yawned, showing too many teeth that were too big. He was a tall, lean man with a tendency to slouch, Columbo style. His dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, though he occasionally clipped it savagely short. Or cop short, which made sense, as he’d been a member of the BPD in the years leading to his death.
“You realize you get this way every several months.”

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