Derik's Bane

by Davidson, MaryJanice

“It’s pretty great,” Derik admitted. And it had been, until he’d fucked it up. Until he’d gotten the idea in his head that he could be a boss were. Dumb ass. “I’ll put in a good word for you, if you want.”

  “Would you?” The boy’s eyes, already big, went huge. “That’d be great. Thanks a lot.”

  “What do your folks think about your ambition?”

  “Oh.” The boy waved his parents away in the careless manner of preadolescents. “Mom wants me to stay out here and go to USC. Dad says I should aspire to more than being a ‘spear carrier,’ that’s what he calls it. But I don’t care. They’re doing what they like. Now it’s my turn. I mean, it will be.”

  “Well, while you’re waiting to turn twenty, you could take a year or two of college, see if it suits you.”

  Terry shrugged.

  “Terry! Get out of there and let the man have some privacy.”

  Terry sniffed the air. “Also, cookies are almost ready,” he muttered.

  “And cookies are almost ready! So get out here!”

  Derik cracked up when the boy rolled his eyes and walked out, closing the door behind him. Jesus, had he ever been that young?

  Sure he had; he and Michael and Moira had practically been littermates. Man, the shit they used to pull . . . it’s a wonder Michael’s mom hadn’t drowned them all.

  He picked up the phone and punched in the main number of the mansion.

  “Wyndham residence,” Jeannie answered, sounding harassed.

  “Hey, Jeannie, it’s me, D—”

  “Lara! No! Don’t you dare jump from there—don’t you dare! Hello?”

  “Uh, yeah, Jean, it’s me, D—”

  “Lara! I don’t care if your dad does it all the time. Your dad’s an idiot! And if you think I’m wasting my afternoon by driving you to the E.R.—hello?”

  “It’s Derik!” he hollered. “Can you patch me through to Antonia’s house, please?”

  “Jeez, stop with the yelling. Sure I will. How’s it going? Save the world yet?”

  “I’m gonna, just as soon as I finish my butterscotch chip cookie,” he said dryly.

  “All righty. Patching you—Lara!—through now.” There was a smooth, humming silence, then another ringing telephone.

  “That is Morgan Le Fay,” Antonia said by way of greeting. “She’s an unspeakably evil creature and must be stopped from destroying the world. So get your ass back there and take care of her.”

  “What? Antonia? How’d you know it was—”

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I don’t have a lot of time for dumb questions. Also, you’re boring the tits right off of me.”

  “Come on, you should see this girl! There’s no way she’s the one. She’s a goof, and she’s so cute. Not to mention really clueless. I think you got your wires crossed, or whatever, on this one.”

  “Impossible. It’s her. And you know what they say about the devil and pleasing faces. Now get back there and do your job.”

  “This sucks,” he said to the empty line, and hung up.

  “Cookie?” Marjie asked brightly when he stomped into the kitchen.

  He took six.

  SARA GUNN, THE UNSPEAKABLY EVIL CREATURE, NOTICED the van as she was parking her loaner, but shrugged it off—Monterey wasn’t that big a town, and lots of people went to and from the hospital. Monterey Bay General was a teaching hospital, the largest in two hundred miles, and the parking lot was the size of a small college campus.

  She hurried through the main lobby, afraid to look at her watch to see how late she was. Dr. Cummings hated it when staff was late for grand rounds, though God knows he’d kept them waiting often enough. And even though she was Dr. Gunn, her doctorate was in nursing, so to old-school jerkoffs like Cummings, she was just a glorified maid with an extra diploma. Most days it slid off her like water off a duck, but days like today, when she knew she was in for a reaming and resented the hell out of it, she—

  “Sara Gunn!”

  She had been just about to step into the elevator when she heard her name and jerked her foot back. She turned, and her brain processed the half-dozen men dressed in—could it be?—flowing red robes. They had monks at the hospital now? Monks dressed in red? Like big lipsticks?

  Armed monks?

  An avid movie fan, Sara recognized nine-millimeter Beretta pistols when she saw them and was so startled, she froze in place. It was the context, of course. Sure. Seeing men in robes (big lipsticks!), toting guns, in the hospital, her hospital, was just . . . weird. If she had any sense, she’d be screaming her head off and hitting the floor, like several of the people around her, but she just stared, and now she was staring down the barrel of more than one pistol, and how many people could say that in life, that not only did they have one gun pointed at them, they had several, it was just too—

  The one nearest her tripped on the newly mopped floor, knocking over the bright yellow CAUTION sign. He hit hard, too hard; she heard the wet snap as his neck broke.

  She heard a muffled explosion from her left and flinched, but the pistol had misfired and the barrel imploded; the would-be gunman was screaming through a faceful of blood, screaming and staggering around and dripping. He’d lost all interest in her, and she could actually hear his blood pattering to the floor, which now needed to be mopped again.

  The clip fell out of the third one’s gun, something Sara had never seen before—a day for firsts! She didn’t realize clips could fall out of guns, just slide out and clunk to the floor without anyone touching it, but this one had, and the robed man had taken to his heels, and then the lobby tipped crazily, as someone kicked her feet out from under her.

  “Cross of Christ,” Dr. Cummings grumped. He was lying on the floor beside her, and she realized he was the one who had knocked her down. His white beard, hair, and eyebrows were their usual chaotic mess; the eyebrows in particular resembled a pair of large, struggling, albino caterpillars. He looked like a pissed-off Colonel Sanders. “Leave the hospital for fifteen minutes, and the whole damned place falls apart. Last time I ever try to get coffee before rounds.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said to the tile.

  “Do you know why they’re trying to kill you?”

  “I have no idea. They—they knew my name.” She realized she was existing in a ball of shock-induced calm. Well, that was all right. It was better than the screaming meemies. “But they’re not having much luck, is the thing, and lucky for me.”

  She heard a terrific explosion, magnified in the lobby, and then heard it again, and saw the last two men fall, and saw the policeman standing by the Information Desk, gun out, very pale.

  “Lucky for you,” Dr. Cummings said, “there was a cop here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Really lucky,” he said, giving her a strange look.

  “I’m going to go throw up now, I think.”

  “No you aren’t. We’re late for rounds.” He seized her by the elbow—for a man in his late fifties, he was as strong as a PCP addict—and hauled her to her feet, then pushed her into the elevator. “You can puke later.”

  “I’ll make a note of it in my Palm Pilot,” she said, but already the urge was passing. Damn Dr. Cummings! Or bless him. She could never decide which.

  7

  THE POOL BOY WAS STILL THERE WHEN SHE GOT home. He was sitting on her front steps, chin cupped in hand, obviously waiting for her.

  Sara brought the convertible to a smoking halt, bolted out the door, and ran to him. She had no idea why he was still there—Couldn’t get a ride? Had news about her car?—and she didn’t care. After the morning she’d had, she needed to talk to someone, and Dr. Cummings wasn’t what you’d call a warm and nurturing person. This walking Ken doll would do just fine.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, you wouldn’t believe it!” she cried as he stood. She seized a fistful of his shirt and shook it. He stared down at her. “A bunch of robed weirdos came to the hospital today and tried to kill me! There were guns all over
the place!”

  “I believe it,” he said, nodding glumly.

  “And I was late for grand rounds! And then I had to talk to the police for, like, ever. And I have no idea why you’re here, but I have to tell you, I’m going in for a drink before I do anything, but you can have your car back, and maybe I’ll have two drinks, I—I—oh, crap.” She was fumbling with her keys and finally got her kitchen door unlocked.

  Wordlessly, he followed her inside. She was momentarily uneasy, then dismissed it. Lightning wasn’t going to strike twice today, and, besides, she knew this guy. Sort of. At least, her mechanic knew him. She was pretty sure.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, you wouldn’t believe it,” she babbled again, pawing through her freezer for the bottle of Grey Goose vodka. A screwdriver—light on the O.J.—was just what she needed. Possibly more than one. Possibly half a dozen. “What a crazy day! Even saying ‘crazy day’ doesn’t do it justice—”

  “Wait.” At his command, she fell (uncharacteristically) silent. “You’re Sara Gunn?”

  “What? Of course I am. You know who I am. Yes. Am I out of ice? Oh, who cares. I’ll drink it neat, if I have to . . . is vodka good with vanilla ice cream?”

  “Sara Gunn of 6 Fairy Lane?”

  “Yes. We’ve been over this.” He was so beautiful, and so, so dumb. It wasn’t fair. Like she needed this, today of all days. “Now, d’you want a drink? Because I’m having one. Or do you need a ride? Am I supposed to keep the blue one? It’s a nice car and all, but not really my style. Although frankly, the day I’ve had, I don’t give a shit either way.” Belatedly, she remembered her manners. “I’ll call the garage for you and have someone come pick you up. Okeydokey?”

  He scowled at her, his gorgeous green eyes narrowing until they looked like pissed-off lasers. “D’you think you can ramp down the condescension a little bit, Miss Gunn? I get enough of that from my friend Moira.”

  “Doctor Gunn,” she said automatically, even as she blushed. “Sorry,” she added. “It’s just that you seemed . . . confused. Even more than me.

  And that’s saying something.” She reached for the phone. “I’ll call the garage.”

  He took the phone out of her hand, moving so quickly she didn’t realize he’d taken it, until she saw he was holding the cordless.

  Odd. Odd! One second he’d been standing by the kitchen door, the next he was right in front of her. It was like watching a home movie, speeded up. Had she started drinking already?

  He made a fist, still holding the phone, and then small pieces of plastic were raining down on her tile.

  “I’m really, really sorry about this,” he said dully. “It won’t hurt. Just stand still.”

  “What won’t hurt?”

  His hands reached for her throat.

  8

  AT THE LAST SECOND, SHE WRIGGLED OUT OF HIS grip like a greased fish and kicked his shin pretty hard for a human. It actually hurt. “What is wrong with you?” she screeched. Her eyes were starry and wild. She reeked of tension and stress and fury. “Has everyone in this town gone completely nutso bonkers today?”

  “Sort of.” He took another swipe at her—if he could get his hands around her neck, he could end it in about half a second for her—she’d be in Heaven before she heard the snap. She ducked, and his hands closed on air. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m so sorry. But I have to do this.

  You’re—I guess you’re pretty dangerous. Sorry,” he added lamely.

  “Jerkoff, you have no idea! Now get the hell out of my house!” She snatched a statuette from the shelf by her head, and he ducked, but not fast enough—the five-inch-high Precious Moments figurine hit his forehead just above his right eye and exploded. By the time he shook the chips out of his hair and wiped the blood off his brow, she had darted down the hallway.

  Grimly, he plodded after her. He didn’t much like killing—heck, he’d only killed two people in his entire life, and they’d both been rogue werewolves. That had been a totally different thing, not even in the same universe as what he was attempting now. He’d been defending the Pack then, and that was entirely different from snapping this poor girl’s neck.

  This is defending the Pack, too, buddy. You’d better believe it. Now get your head in the game!

  He tried. He really did. He understood intellectually that this sort of thing went against his even-tempered grain. He also understood that this woman was a threat to his family, his entire way of life. Intellectually. But he wasn’t angry at her, he wasn’t scared of her, she wasn’t fucking somebody dangerous, he wasn’t defending territory, he wasn’t feeling any of the things he needed to feel in order to be okay with breaking a person’s neck.

  Not to mention, Sara Gunn was a stone cutie. He really liked her, even on such short acquaintance. He liked her sass, he liked her scatter-brained good humor, and he loved the way she smelled: like roses wrapped in cotton. Since she was a doctor, he figured she was the comely female embodiment of the absentminded professor, which was cute all in itself. Another time and place, and he’d be tempted to charm her into getting a nice hotel room for the day and . . .

  He caught up with her in the hallway, but she tripped as he reached for her neck, and he missed again. Well, of course he did. His heart was so completely not in this, it would have been funny if it wasn’t so fucking depressing.

  She kicked out at him from the floor and scrambled away. He reached again, and this time he tripped, falling hard enough to rattle his teeth.

  Christ, will you get on? Stop drawing this out! Bad enough you have to kill her, you’ve got to play cat and mouse first? Scare her worse than she is? Asshole.

  Except she wasn’t so much scared as infuriated. Oh, he could smell the fear, an undercurrent beneath her rage, but she was primarily pissed. He really liked her for it. Any other woman—person!—would have been gibbering in the corner and begging for their life.

  He climbed to his feet—only to be hit in the face with a box of tampons. The white missiles exploded out of the box and rained down on the floor.

  “Get . . . lost!” she shrieked, hurling a perfume bottle at him. This time he did duck, and the bottle shattered behind him. Instantly the hallway reeked of lavender, and he sneezed.

  “Out!”

  “I can’t,” he said, then sneezed again. “You know, if you just stand still a minute, it’ll be over in—”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Right. Well, that’s understandable. I mean, I wouldn’t stand still for this, either. It’s okay,” he added soothingly, if inanely. What, exactly, was okay? Nothing. Not a single goddamned thing.

  He followed her into a bedroom and was momentarily startled at the sheer mess—it looked like someone had been killed in there. Then he realized that she was just a slob. There were clothes on almost every surface, and he couldn’t tell what color the carpet was because of all the junk on the floor.

  There were plenty of things to throw, too, and her aim was frightening—he was fast, but in her terror and anger, she was just a bit faster, raining missiles on him and shrieking like a fire alarm. He ducked about every two out of three, but that still left him vulnerable to: a jar of Noxema, an empty vase that smelled like stale water and dead flowers, a DVD case (Vertigo), a remote control, an empty box of Godiva chocolates, a box of computer discs, a hardcover copy of Stephen King’s The Stand—cripes, how much did that weigh?

  Have you noticed you haven’t been able to kill her? Sure, you’re phoning it in, but come on—you’re a werewolf in your prime. So how come she’s not a corpse?

  His inner voice sounded weirdly like Michael, which made him inclined to ignore it. Normally.

  But he realized—on the top of his mind this time, not just the bottom—that it was true. He hadn’t been able to kill her. Every time he got close, she tripped, or he did, or she scored with another missile. His head was throbbing, and it was hard to think.

  Still, she should have been toast about three minutes ago.

  Okay,
that was it. No more fooling around. She was treed on top of her dresser, which was bare of things to throw at the moment—she’d run out of ammo, finally. Instead of cowering, she crouched on it like a cat, one with several swipes left in its paws.

  “You son of a bitch,” she rasped, hoarse from all the screaming hysterics. “I haven’t done a single thing to deserve this—”

  “Well, not yet,” he said.

  “—and now look at this mess! Worse than usual! My house is a wreck, there’s a tear in my skirt, there’s dead bodies all over my workplace, and my crazy blond stud of a mechanic’s helper is trying to kill me! Son of a bitch!”

  “It’s been a bad day for both of us,” he admitted. Then, “Blond stud?” He was absurdly flattered.

  “Fuck you! I want you to get lost and leave me the hell alone!”

  She had screamed that last part, shrieked it, roared it. Her fury was intense, overwhelming—he couldn’t get the smell of burning cedar out of his nose—it was practically choking him.

  Suddenly, startlingly, the pain in his head intensified—cripes, it felt like his skull was splitting! —and he started to get dizzy for the first time in his life. It was extremely unpleasant. But before he could complain, or explain, everything got dark around the edges, and the room tilted, and then he didn’t know anything, anything at all.

  9

  MORE EXHILARATED THAN FRIGHTENED, SARA FINISHED taping Psycho Jerkoff to her kitchen chair with her last roll of electrician’s tape (a must for any single woman’s toolbox). Then she stood back, looked at him for a long minute, and went to get her bag.

  She supposed she should find a phone and call 911, but she wasn’t too worried about what’s-his-face getting out of that chair. In fact, she wondered if he’d ever get up again . . . he was the color of kitchen plaster, and his body had a loose, boneless feel she didn’t like at all.

  She found her bag, shook the dirt off it, stepped over the spilled planter, and returned to the kitchen. She briefly wished for a cell phone—she kept losing the fucking things, and she was paying for it now—and bent to Psycho Jerkoff. She peeled up one of his eyelids and grimaced—blown pupil. Really blown . . . the thing looked like a burst pumpkin, all brownish orange leaks. The sclera was shot with red threads, and his breathing was gasping, agonal.