by Amanda Milo
Maggie reaches up and throws back the door’s bolt. She turns the handle and peeks out. “Mr. Finn?”
“Howsagoin, little Maggie!” Finn executes a move that must put a terrible crick in his neck, peering around the jamb like he is. “Everything okay in there?”
“Yes,” Maggie confirms. “I’m not supposed to open the door for strangers though.”
“That’s a good rule you should always, always follow, and I’m going to leave now. I just needed to be sure everything was okay.”
“It is. Deek turned into a wolf at the park, but I got the key and he picked up his pants. I carried his shirt.”
“Oh. Good,” Finn replies, sounding a little strained. A little louder he asks, “Did you by chance pick up your kex, or are some poor blights going to find them and wonder why a man was stripping them off at a child’s playground, you gobshite?”
Kex is Irish for underwear. And now I’m really glad I retrieved mine.
I press up against Maggie, pressing open the door a little farther, making another barrette fall off, and I wurf once to confirm that no children will be finding men’s underwear near the playground equipment.
Finn takes one look at me and guffaws.
Startled, Maggie almost slams the door shut on my nose—but once his initial burst of sound registers as laughter, she recovers. She bends to pick up one of the fallen barrettes. She replaces it on my cheek fur, the bow so large I can see it out of the corner of my eye. One of the glittery pink ones.
“What the feck!” Finn cries, slapping at his pockets until he finds and retrieves his phone. He holds it up, trying to suppress his loud chuckles so that his camera isn’t bouncing. “Hold still, hold still. Oh, this is class!”
I sneeze.
Maggie makes a dismayed noise as several barrettes fall.
Finn is crying.
He wipes his face and stomps his fat thumbs on his phone, chortling to himself. “I’m sending this to your da, my da, my mam—all the cousins. You poor sap, you will never live this down!” he wheezes.
Maggie puffs out a slightly aggravated but still ladylike breath. She makes the tiniest tsking sound. “Well, it’s time for lunch. I’m going to feed Deek sandwiches. I know how to make them by myself.”
“That’s good, sweetheart,” he manages in his thick accent. Then, with obvious, hopefully painful effort, he struggles and manages to get himself under control. “Awright, you two have a good lunch then. If you need me, find Deek’s phone and call me or your mam. Okay?”
“All right.”
Finn smiles at her. “Close and lock the door now.”
Maggie does.
“Good garl!” he calls. “I’m off. Bye you two.”
“Goodbye,” Maggie calls back. Then she huffs and puts her hand on my shoulder, turning and indicating I should turn with her and follow her into the kitchen.
Without protest, I do. But I keep my pace dutifully matched to hers so she can replace my barrettes as we go.
CHAPTER 13
LUCAN
The clock on the wall chimes little singsong cheeps at three. Shortly after, keys rattle outside the door, and girls’ laughter can be heard as Charlotte shoves open the door and walks in with Ginny.
They both stop short when they get a look at the transformation of the living room. All the sofa cushions, from here and from the couch in the basement, have formed fort walls. A bedsheet messily drapes over this, and inside it all is Maggie, sleeping collapsed over my side.
I’m stretched out, my muzzle on my paws, my ears relaxed. I’m trying not to pant, but this little girl stopped feeling warm and cute about a half an hour ago (okay, she’s still cute) and now she just feels like she’s reached that stage right before we both turn into molten lava.
“Hey Deek,” Charlotte whispers, reaching behind herself very slowly. “Don’t move. I have to take a picture of this for Mom.”
Seems the sight of little girls, werewolves, and bows brings out the budding photographer in everyone.
“Got it,” she whispers, grinning. She slides it back into her pocket.
“Wait,” Ginny murmurs. “I’m taking some too.” To my surprise, she’s also smiling. “There! Thanks.”
I close my eyes.
“Awwww,” they breathe. I hear cell phones come back out of pockets. “He looks like he’s sleeping now. That makes the picture so much cuter.”
I chuff at them, making them laugh softly.
The girls unload their backpacks and get after-school snacks and lunch. Maggie wakes up and greets them, gets lunchmeat from the fridge, and bribes me with it so she can attempt braiding the fur on my tail again.
It’s too short, but she’s determined.
She and I eventually make our way to the backyard, where I water the family’s two piddly trees, and Maggie and I play hide-and-go-seek. Which is more like just chase me because there’s really nothing to hide behind.
When we head back inside, Charlotte suggests setting the room back to rights, and Maggie begins to do that. I tug some cushions over, surprised when Ginny brushes past me to help. She even scritches my head like she can’t help herself.
I guess she’s either forgiven me for grabbing her yesterday, or I don’t seem as threatening to her when I’m in my wolf form.
That a girl has learned to fear men but trust wolves is… sad.
We all sit on the restored L-shaped couch and the ladies admire my bows until someone knocks on the door.
“Who is it now?” Maggie exclaims like the house has had more traffic than Grand Central Station.
Ginny has gone still beside me.
“I’ll get it,” Charlotte whispers.
Ginny swipes her backpack from the floor and swiftly disappears.
I trot to the door with Charlotte, and when she cracks it open, the smell of the woman on the other side has all my attention.
I can tell from similar scent markers that it’s Ginny’s mom.
Scent markers also indicate that Ginny’s mom is half Jack Daniels at the moment.
“Hi, Ms. Connolly,” Charlotte says with false brightness.
Looking unkempt, unwell, and too thin, the woman weaves on her feet and asks, “Is Ginny here?”
She almost knocks me off my feet with her breath. My God. She’s a walking distillery.
“It’s just me and Maggie watching TV,” Charlotte replies. Which, considering Ginny ducked into Charlotte’s room, is almost not quite a lie.
“Have you seen her?” Ms. Connolly asks. Her eyes glint with a soft, liquor glassiness.
Charlotte nods. “She was at school today. Have you tried calling her?”
The soft glaze in Ms. Connolly’s eyes sharpens to belligerence. “Phone’s off. Has been for two days, ever since—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head hard enough to make herself stagger. She catches herself, sways forward, and accuses, “That lying little bitch is hiding here and we both know it!”
The stench of fear bolts off Charlotte, and she nudges the door shut.
Me, behind her leg, pushes past her and noses the door back open.
Ms. Connolly uses the opportunity to hook her hands over the door and shove it in.
I twist my neck, open my jaws, and nip her thigh.
Ms. Connolly doesn’t seem to hardly notice—until she can’t shuffle forward and she looks down to see why.
She screams.
She screams bloody murder.
With a vicious snarl, I lunge forward, pouncing at her—and she falls back, scrabbles out of the door, and falls off the stoop.
It’s maybe a three-foot drop. Soft woodchips and Chrysanthemums cushion her fall.
I leap out after her, dropping out of sight of the door. I Change.
Flashing the whole street and the woman suffering from substance abuse, I peek my head around the jam to see a shaken Charlotte, Maggie, and hanging furthest back, trying to stay out sight, is an extremely worried Ginny.
“Get my phone,” I tell them. �
�Basement bedside table. Call Finn.”
Ginny is the one who dashes for it.
Charlotte’s worried throat convulses as she whispers, “If the police show up, we can get into trouble for hiding Ginny. Like,” a tear falls down her cheek, “a lot of trouble.”
“There won’t be that kind of trouble,” I promise. “Not if Finn can get here first. Lock the door.”
Finn arrives five minutes later, and with my hand over Ms. Connolly’s mouth, nobody has been bothered by her attempts to keep screaming. It doesn’t seem like anyone has called the police.
One of the girls was kind enough to retrieve a pair of my sweats, and Charlotte cracked open a window to toss them to me, so it was just a werewolf pinning a woman down outside, not a naked one. That fact must have been the clincher that allowed the neighborhood to relax about it all.
Yes, I’m being sarcastic. I’m a little appalled at how studiously everyone seems to be ignoring the show. Nobody stops. Nobody seems outraged at the scene. Double-takes aplenty as people drove by, but no one stopped to step in. Yet on the other hand, I’m relieved damage control won’t have too much more to deal with.
“All day,” Finn starts, “I been hard at work. Meanwhile, look at you, lad. If work were a bed, you’d be sleeping on the floor.” He stops when he reaches us and crouches at Ms. Connolly’s head, blocking her a little more from the street’s view. “Chrisht, this cow is gee-eyed. And she smells like an exploded pharmacy.”
“It’s rude to call American women cows,” I inform him, teeth chattering from stress.
“Cunt, then.”
I tip my head in acknowledgement. “Never mind. Go back to cows before you get yourself killed.”
Finn grins, but it lacks his usual deep humor. “Nah, I always explain that things are different in Ireland, and the ladies love the accent. Ahhh, Yanks. I can almost get away with anything.” He draws a finger gently along the dirty hair plastered to Ms. Connolly’s temple. “How did this all happen, I wonder?”
“I don’t think Ginny knows,” I tell him.
“Didn’t seem to have any inkling,” he agrees. He meets my eyes, not bothered at all when I immediately drop my gaze. As an alpha, he expects it. His palm smacks down gently on top of my head. “You going to make it? P.S., you’ve got some hairy feckin’ knuckles.”
If he’d been two minutes later, I’d probably be a wolf right now, and I don’t know how I would have kept Ms. Connolly subdued without hurting her since my control options would be limited to teeth and claws and sheer weight. I exhale mightily, reassured by the presence and touch of a dominant wolf. “Yeah, Finn. Thanks.”
“There’s a lad. Now, about Ginny, tell her not to run. Let her know the Pack will—”
I give my head the smallest shake. “You better be the one to tell her. She’s not afraid of you.”
“Poor little thing doesn’t have the sharpest instincts yet, does she?” Finn asks, amused.
Because of the two of us, he is by far the most dangerous.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll make sure she gets them. Help me get her gargled mam in the boot, and I’ll have a chat with our Ginny.”
I glance up at him before just as quickly breaking our gazelock. “You can’t put a woman in the trunk of a car! It’s broad daylight!”
Finn grimaces. “Aw, fine. I’ll move the tarp to the back seats.” He sighs. “If she shites, vomits, or pisses, I’m going to make her regret it.”
I nod, believing him. And then I help heft her up and haul her to his car where we duct tape her wrists and ankles together and tape off her mouth.
For what it’s worth, she’s beginning to look much more sober.
“There now,” Finn declares when we step back and shut the doors. “She’ll keep.” With that, he strolls back to the house.
His windows are cracked enough that she’ll have a bit of a breeze, which is better than she’d have had in his trunk. Since this woman has let men hurt her daughter—and rather than defend her, only hurts her more by chasing her down and calling her a lying bitch, a word that’s much more loaded when uttered by a human—I don’t particularly care how comfortable she is so long as she survives. I turn and dutifully follow Finn.
He knocks politely on the door, and I wait behind him on the steps, feeling the heat of the concrete seep into my bare feet.
The door cracks open. Only part of Charlotte’s face and eye is visible. “Hello?”
“All’s taken care of, love,” Finn tells her kindly. “May I come in and speak to Ginny, please? Send her out if you’d rather, but let me in the backyard then. We need just a little bit of privacy if it wouldn’t be a bother.”
A long pause ensues. Not where Charlotte is communicating with Ginny either.
Finn steps back with one foot and knocks me in the head with his elbow. “Boyo, she’s waiting for you to tell her that you vouch for my character.”
Shocked, my gaze flies up to Charlotte’s. She is indeed waiting… because she wants to know if she can let Finn in, and she’s trusting me to tell her.
Dumbly, I bob my chin.
Finn sighs and knocks me in the head again on purpose as he turns back to her. “That’s a big fat yes, if you couldn’t tell.”
Smiling sheepishly, Charlotte opens the door and invites us back inside.
“Ginny,” Finn calls. “Can I have a word with you?”
Ginny comes up cautiously from the basement. “What?”
Finn gestures. “We can talk down there, or in Charlotte’s room or the back—”
“Tell me here,” she says, wary as all get out and staring at him hard. “I’m not going anywhere alone with you.”
Finn’s eyes lower from hers. An extremely rare thing from an alpha. “I don’t blame you, faolán.”
Little wolf.
He meets her gaze again, face serious. “Do you happen to know who your father was?”
Ginny’s chin goes up, her jaw turning hard. “Not really. Why do you care?”
“Because your mam’s got some werewolf blood in her.” Finn tips his head, studying her. “But you have more.”
CHAPTER 14
SUSAN
To be honest, I was dreading working with Finn today. I was half-convinced that because he’d solved the obstacle of a babysitter, he’d pounce on me the minute he found the opportunity, and ask to go out on a date.
He didn’t.
Twice he approached me during my shift, but he was distracted both times and the second, he was literally called away. From his expression, whoever was on the phone with him was telling him something of urgent importance.
“Star of the County Down” is blaring from the stage where we have live musicians playing the banjo, a mandolin, a bodhran drum, a guitar, and an honest-to-God accordion.
One of the pub’s bouncers, a guy everyone calls Rooker, is the one wielding the last instrument, and he’s doing it really, really well. His arms look huge as he squeezes and yanks on that thing, his thick fingers nimbly flying. Before this gig, my only experience with anyone playing an accordion was watching Steve Urkel on Family Matters.
In real life? Accordion players are kind of badass.
“He really likes you,” Kelly, another (human) waitress, tells me as Finn hustles out of the pub to take his call where he can hear the other party.
“Who?”
“Finn!”
“Oh yeah?” I say noncommittally, stacking glasses. A signed dollar bill flutters down from the wall, and I pause to tack it back up. Our pub, like a few other famous Irish pubs, adopted a tradition of having dollar bills autographed and taped or tacked to every surface in the bar, right up to the rafters and even papering the ceiling. The money is counted as an asset (and therefore, insured) as it adds to the pub’s ambiance and experience. There’re more than one million signed dollar bills papering this place. Because everybody leaves a dollar bill here with their John Hancock on it. Even me. On my first day, my very first dollar of tip money came from
Finn.
He was running me through possible drink orders, pretending to be a customer. When I passed his tests, the crazy werewolf tipped me and made obnoxious drumroll noises until I took his marker and signed my dollar bill.
He pasted it to the door that leads to the management’s office, where previously, only Pack members’ signed money made the space.
Kelly makes a bah noise. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed!”
Not wanting to have this conversation, I spin around and lay it out for her. “Finn’s a nice guy. I’ve literally watched him give the shirt off his back to people—”
Kelly smirks. “Women. He likes to give his shirt to ladies who get spilled on.”
Yes, he does, and he’s become sort of famous for it. Especially around New Years when he made everybody laugh by bringing a box of shirts to put on then strip off for the unfortunate. Now it’s become something of a schtick. Fewer and fewer of the spills are accidents—and who can blame these women? For a chance to watch Finn work the bar half-naked, it’s worth getting beer stains on your blouse.
But the first time he did it, he was just being nice.
That’s Finn.
“Like I was saying,” I say to Kelly. “Finn’s great. He’s also got some serious animal magnetism working for him, no pun intended. But that charm he sprinkles like confetti for everything with XX chromosomes makes me nervous.”
Kelly’s nose wrinkles. “This about that dirtbag you divorced?”
My shoulder raises up in a half-hearted shrug. “After my ex-husband dicked around with everything that had a clamshell, I’ve kind of been soured on the handsome, charming type, yeah.”
Kelly frowns. “So, what? You’re only going to consider ugly, unappealing men?”
I grimace. “I’m not considering anyone. I don’t have it in me to trust anyone again.”
“Not even Finn?” Kelly asks sadly.
I move past her, picking up my tray and towel. Bills flutter along the walls as I pass them. My eye clocks the signatures absently, celebrities and average joes named on endless rectangles of green. “Tell me this: if he were yours, what would it do to you to watch him flirting up the bar every night?”