A London Werewolf in America

by A London Werewolf in America (lit)

  “I did right to choose you. No beta could serve better, or show such courage and compassion. Those are traits you find only in alphas. Lycaon. I never thought I’d catch myself saying such things to a human.”

  Darinda sniffed to hide how touched she was. “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “I trust you,” he said simply. “In everything. Anywhere but behind the wheel of a car.”

  She had to smile at that. “So what’s our next move?” he continued.

  She glanced at the wall clock. It was nearly three in the morning. The realization brought the whole night thudding down around her. She was suddenly very, very tired. “Bed sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Oops. Wrong phrasing, as his eager growl attested. “I meant sleep,” she clarified quickly.

  “I couldn’t possibly sleep right now.”

  “That’s no problem. I know a couple techniques—”

  “So do I.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.” His eyes still held a feral gleam, but his stance had gone to a slump. “Bad timing, worse circumstances. But Lycaon bite it, we’re alone here now, and you’re an attractive female. You can’t expect me not to notice.” He grinned wickedly. “Or you either.”

  Damn his sensitive nose. He could probably sniff out every step on her slide down the path to arousal. “We’re both tired,” she said, “and pumped with adrenaline. You’re right. Bad timing, bad circumstances.”

  “Will the circumstances ever be good?”

  “Not as long as you’re engaged. I can’t break an oath, and I won’t help another break theirs.”

  “No. Of course you won’t.” He puffed out a sigh with a growl in it. “A million shes in this monkey town and I get the one with scruples.”

  “Look on the bright side. When this is over you’ll have a mate. That should solve that problem.”

  “Unless she’s the one trying to kill me.”

  “The clingy blonde drooling all over you? Somehow I doubt it.”

  He flashed a grin at her. “Someone sounds jealous.”

  “You wish.” Darinda rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I need sleep. We both need sleep. Let me check the wards, then we can work out some kind of plan in the morning.”

  The wards on his room remained secure. He tried to say something to her, but she brushed past him and locked herself in the bathroom. Too tired to shower, she slathered on the toothpaste and attacked her teeth with a vengeance.

  Jealous, feh. Who did he think he was? What did he think she was? Probably used to having women of all sorts of species falling all over him. Well, just because he’d damn near kissed her socks off didn’t mean she was ready to roll over onto her back and let the wolf have his way with her.

  She didn’t mind a bit of male company now and again. However, being a witch meant maintaining control, or else the magics could run amuck. Roderick threatened her control. If she followed his lead and gave in to her instincts, it would only lead to disaster.

  Then there was Coraline, Roderick’s betrothed. Tangling herself up in a werewolf mating—Good goddess, “disaster” didn’t even start to cover that.

  All she had to do was keep her distance. Look, maybe lust if she had to, but don’t touch. That way she could keep him safe and herself in the bargain. If she solved this puzzle quickly she could get back to serving the things that went bump in the night without wanting to bump bellies with her.

  She reached her room unscathed. Bless the Goddess she’d had the foresight to pack a nightgown. She slipped it on over her head. Darinda preferred to sleep nude, but not in these circumstances. Not with a hungry wolf prowling around outside her door.

  The prowler rapped, and she jumped. “Darinda. May I come in?”

  The knob was already turning. She bowed to the inevitable and flung the door open. “Yes?”

  Goddess damn him. All he had on was a towel, draped precariously about his loins. Her carefully-crafted resolve nearly crumbled like a castle gate before the battering ram. He didn’t wait for whatever response she might have managed. He lunged straight to the point. “I think you should sleep in my room tonight,” he said.

  Don’t look at the towel. Don’t look at the towel. “Roderick, we just went over this.”

  “Not for that. For mutual security. My room is protected. Yours isn’t. If we’re to be attacked, I’d rather we were together. Safety in numbers, and all that.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be attacked tonight.”

  “I didn’t think I’d be jumped outside of a bar my first night in your country, yet here we are.” He assessed her expression, and sniffed. “I assure you, nothing untoward will happen.”

  “Uh huh. And the minute you get me into your bed—”

  He blurred. The towel pooled on the hardwood floor around the black wolf’s paws. He looked up at her with an arch expression on his muzzle and wagged his tail.

  Okay. Props for trustworthiness. Darinda conceded defeat. “You’d better not change back after I fall asleep.”

  He huffed, affronted, and stalked away. She followed him into his room.

  The floor was miraculously clear of dropped clothing, the bed smartly made and neatly turned down. Knowing no outsider could have entered, she regarded Roderick with new respect. He thinned his yellow eyes at her. We keep our dens tidy, he said in her head. What do you take me for?

  Several things, but she didn’t list them. He hopped onto the bed. Warily she climbed in and slid under the sheets. He turned around twice and lay beside her. His fur gave before the round solidity of her hip.

  She touched his pelt. She couldn’t help herself. Beneath its thickness she found muscles rigid as basalt. She kneaded his neck and shoulders until they lost their tension. Roderick yawned mightily. That’s nice.

  “Just so you know,” she said, “I’m not normally a dog person.”

  Just as well. I’m not a dog.

  Darinda chuckled. Oh, he was a dog, all right. Somehow she couldn’t work up any real anger toward him. She settled comfortably under the covers, while he settled his flank against her back. Seconds later he was asleep. Seconds after that, so was she.

  Chapter 11

  Only one short shaft of dream penetrated Darinda’s sound sleep. In it, she hovered over the bed at ceiling height and watched Roderick watching her sleep. He still lay tight against her back, but had resumed his human form. His hand caressed her gently, but only where the blanket covered her. He pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled deeply, as if he meant to memorize her scent. The tip of his tongue escaped through his parted lips and brushed against her cheek.

  With a breathy sigh the sleeping Darinda smiled and rolled over toward him. Her slumbering self accepted the warmth of his palm cupping her face, and the more human-style kiss he bestowed on her lips.

  She watched his body tighten and heat flare up in his eyes. The prey lay helpless, his for the taking. Hunger warred with propriety while she lay pliant and unresisting in his arms. At last he leaned back with a little irritated growl. The fire in his eyes had banked into a hot glow of longing. He shook his head, shoved himself off the bed, and stalked out of the room.

  He had an erection the size of a Clydesdale’s.

  Darinda jolted awake, her heart thudding. What the hell?

  She turned at once to Roderick’s side of the bed. The spot where he’d lain was till warm and still wolf-sized. No impression of human arms or legs or human anything else marred the covers. Clearly nothing untoward had happened, just as he had promised.

  Tell that to her pulse rate or the tingle between her legs.

  “Crap,” she greeted the day, and bolted out of the bed like it contained snakes. Sex dreams about a werewolf? She’d hit a new personal low.

  She took a leisurely shower, and spent more time than normal choosing her garb for the day. Even she recognized these as delaying tactics. She had no intention of facing Roderick until she felt ready. Even though he had done nothing, and
would do nothing. And neither would she, so there.

  By the time she emerged cautiously from her bedroom, a delicious odor had crept upstairs. It went right up her nose and down into her stomach and reminded her dinner had only been a salad, and that nearly twelve hours ago. Who was cooking? Had Aunt Letty returned against orders? Curious, she padded downstairs.

  To her surprise, she found Roderick busy at the stove. “About time,” he greeted her. “The sun’s been up for ages. There’s no coffee, but Aunt Letty keeps a generous assortment of teas. Are you all right with eggs?”

  “Tea’s perfect. I can do eggs, but fruit’s better. Let me see what she’s got.”

  “No, you sit.” He motioned to the kitchen table and the chair already pulled out for her. A basket of warm muffins sat beside her plate, along with a fruit bowl laden with grapes and strawberries and a single ripe banana that jutted toward her like—like a banana, she corrected herself with mental alacrity.

  He spotted her look and frowned. “The banana’s not meant as an insult. I found it atop the fridge.”

  “I’m not offended.” She took her seat. “I am surprised. I didn’t know you could cook or that you’d even bother.”

  “And where would we be right now if that were the case? All the higher ranks are expected to be able to provide for the pack. Feed the pups and all that. I can drive a car, too. I haven’t insisted on it because I don’t know my way around. Or did you assume I let others ferry me about while I hang my head out the window?”

  “I assumed low-ranks handled the day-to-day chores.”

  “Yes, normally that’s the case. But since one slip-up can make you a low-rank, it pays to be prepared.”

  He demonstrated his preparedness by expertly cracking eggs into a frying pan. Darinda didn’t look at the eggs or the pan. Instead she studied the jeans he wore. They fit deliciously snug on him, fore and aft. She couldn’t help remembering the dream. Assuming, of course, she’d been dreaming…

  He paused before the stove. “Is there any particular reason why you’re staring at my trousers?”

  “Who, me? I’m not staring.” To distract them both, she reached blindly for the fruit bowl. Her hand closed around the banana. Of course. Too late to back out now. She ripped off the peel and crammed a huge bite into her mouth. Again too late, she realized what that must look like. Fortunately Roderick had turned back to his eggs. His butt muscles twitched as if wagging an invisible tail.

  She forced herself to chew her bite of banana into mush before she swallowed. “What I meant was,” she said carefully, “are those still Charlie’s clothes?”

  “My only option, for the moment. Until the airline recovers my luggage or I can get to a clothing store, this is all I’ve got. Luckily Charlie and I are close in size.”

  Not to mention equal in rank. She couldn’t picture Roderick lowering himself to put on Eugene’s hand-me-downs. “You look good in jeans,” she blurted. Oh crap again.

  “Thank you. If you promise not to take offense, let me say you look stunning this morning.”

  Stunning, right. In a simple blouse, tan slacks she hadn’t had time to press, tennis shoes and with her hair still damp from the shower she could pass for Miss America. “You’d say that if I had a sack on.”

  “Yes. Because it would be true.”

  “You just want me in your bed again.”

  “For starters. What man wouldn’t?”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said. Human men topped the list. The reality of a witch and a witch’s power was more than most could take. Good thing witches were solitary by nature or she wouldn’t be able to stand it as well as she had.

  The teakettle screamed for attention, deflecting the path of their conversation. Just in the nick of time. Roderick found cold cereal in one of the cupboards and brought a bowl, corn flakes, and milk to the table. While she poured herself a helping and adorned it with strawberries, he loaded his plate with eggs and a hunk of Canadian bacon. She couldn’t help wrinkling her nose, and he couldn’t help lifting his lip. “I’m going to eat this whether you approve or not.”

  “Go ahead. I won’t stop you. Part of ‘do no harm’ includes not forcing my views onto others.” She stirred her corn flakes and heaved a sigh. “I still miss sausage pizza.”

  Roderick brought their tea to the table then seated himself. “If it makes you feel any better, I could never stomach liver. Mother used to make the most wretched blood pies. It’s just as well the lower ranks handle the kitchen chores.” He forked eggs and bacon into his mouth and chewed thoroughly. No wolfing his meal for this were. Or perhaps he was merely being polite in her presence. He washed it down with a sip of tea. “Your turn again.”

  “For what?”

  “Tell me something about yourself. Here we are facing mortal peril together and I know next to nothing about you.”

  “I’m a witch. That about sums it up.”

  “Oh, come, I know there’s more. Your name, for instance. ‘Darinda.’ Rather unusual.”

  “That was Dad’s little joke. He named me after a character on an old TV sitcom, another clueless mortal male who married into a coven of witches. My twin brother Paul was supposed to get it, but Mom insisted on naming him after her favorite uncle. I guess we ought to be grateful the Harry Potter books weren’t big then. They probably would have named us Ron and Hermoine.”

  “Trash,” Roderick pronounced. “Almost as bad as those horrid romances. They show such a skewed view of us, and they always get everything wrong.”

  “Hmmmm, not everything. Vampires really do—”

  “So you’re a fan.”

  “Peri,” she said hurriedly. “Peri reads them. I may have glanced at a couple.” He lifted a brow. She set down her spoon. “Oh, all right. I admit it. I like fairy tales. I like the happy endings. Witches don’t get many of those. It’s comforting to know they’re out there for somebody.” She cupped her chin in her hands and smiled at him. “So how about you? Or don’t werewolves read? The trashy books don’t say.”

  “Of course we can read.” He looked uncomfortable, and cut off a big chunk of bacon to forestall his reply. “Don’t let on to Aunt Letty, but I was always rather taken with that French author. The one who wrote all those American Westerns.”

  “French?”

  “Louis L’Amour.”

  Her laughter overrode his growl. Once she explained, even he saw the humor of it. “No wonder he was so fascinated with your Wild West. But if he’s going to write those things, he needs an appropriate name. Zane Grey and Max Brand are Western writer names. Gross misrepresentation, that’s what that is.” He stabbed his fork into his eggs with a vengeance. “We can’t just sit here and wait for them to attack. We need to take action.”

  “I’d love to. Tell me what. They’ve got numbers and the advantage of knowing who we are and where to find us. I can’t even pin down a motive.” She stirred her corn flakes disconsolately. “I suck as a bodyguard.”

  “You most certainly do not. You probably saved Albert’s life.”

  “Thanks. There is that. But if we intend to carry the fight to then, we’re going to need—”

  The wall phone went off like an alarm. Roderick and Darinda exchanged a look, then Roderick got up to answer it. “Yes.” Pause. “Yes, this is he. Really?” A long stretch of silence followed. Roderick listened with interest, and Darinda watched him with interest. “Absolutely,” Roderick said. “We’ll be ready.”

  He hung up and turned to her. “Well. Perhaps there’s some hope after all. Don’t make any plans for this evening. We’ve been summoned to an audience with the King.”

  * * * *

  Darinda drove Roderick into Center City for a tour of Philadelphia’s most exclusive clothing stores. One did not go before the King Wolf of Philadelphia in a cousin’s castoffs. However, she balked when Roderick insisted on purchasing a gown for her to match his new suit. “You’re my pack,” he pointed out. “Your appearance reflects on my reputation. Do you want hi
m to think I can’t take care of my followers?”

  She stared at the price tag in dismay. “This would cover my rent for six months.”

  “Relax. I’ll charge it to my business account. Mother will pick up the tab. I’m sure she wouldn’t want her son to look bad in front of the King.”

  He smiled when he said it, or showed teeth, at least. Darinda let the green and silver silk creation flow between her hands and imagined how it would look and feel on her body. Maybe the Chase clan did owe her something for services rendered after all.

  At precisely six-thirty a black sedan pulled up to Meadowlands. Two muscular wolves in roomy sport coats came to the door and escorted them to the car. Neither spoke beyond as few polite “sirs” and “ma’ams” as necessary. Their sharp stares took in everything—the house, the road, the layout. The driver never went over the speed limit, even on the Schuylkill Expressway. “Did we just drop into a gangster movie?” Roderick whispered in her ear.

  “Big Alex has his way of doing things. I just hope he doesn’t pull out his Sopranos DVDs. We could be there all night.”

  The driver pulled up before a restaurant on Lombard Street—Italian, Darinda saw with no surprise. The driver stayed with the car while the other henchwolf ushered them inside and into the King’s presence.

  Big Alex Vittori came by his nickname honestly. He stood six-four and boasted a gut roughly the size of a blimp. His hair, red as marinara, stood out on his scalp in blunt-cut bristles. Knowing his age, Darinda suspected he dyed it. He greeted them heartily. “Darinda Lowell, the witch of South Street. Mama, you look good enough to eat. Hey, just funnin’. We don’t do that no more. You must be the Brit.”

  “Roderick Chase,” Roderick said stiffly. He stepped forward, placing himself between her and the other were. They did not shake hands. They stood apart and sniffed each other’s air without making a show of it. Once each decided the other wasn’t worth a challenge, their postures relaxed fractionally.

  “C’mon in,” the King Wolf invited. “Take a load off.” He made shooing motions at the were behind them. The wolf went to stand by the door.