MaryJanice Davidson - Dead Over Heels

“Stupid Con!”

He whirled on his heels and—there was Ree!

“You’re wearing clothes,” he gasped. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, I could hardly come to your set in my usual manner,” she said. “May I have some water? I’m dreadfully thirsty.”

“You—water? Water! Right!” He seized her hand, thinking that he preferred her nude, although she looked nice in her jeans, sandals, and dark blue T-shirt. Her silver hair was pinned up; he preferred it down. Cripes, he’d been aching for her for weeks and had walked right by her . He wondered briefly where she got the clothes, then dragged her to his trailer.

Once inside he seized her and kissed her until they were both gasping. Then he fished around in the fridge and handed her two bottles of water, which she glugged in twenty seconds.

“Oh, thank you. Much better. Also, I am carrying your pup.”

“My—you’re pregnant?”

“Yes. And I thought you said lovely things about me on your show. And you must be Jertan’s slave, because he told me you were looking for me. How he found me off the coast of Fiji I’ll never know,” she added in a mutter, “but he did. And here I am.”

“You’re pregnant ?”

“Yes.” She eyed him warily, silver eyes narrowing. “That troubles you? You do not wish a half-breed child?”

“Troubles me?” He whooped and spun around in a circle. “I’ve got you now, Ree! You’re stuck with me forever! Ha!”

“That is sweet,” she said. But she looked doubtful. “Well, shit, you don’t seem very fuckin’ excited about it!”

“I do not wish to trap you, or make you give up your lifestyle. And I am willing to live with you and be your mate—more than willing. But I need the sea, Con. I need to see it, smell it, be in it, every day. Or I’ll die, as you would have died.”

“No problem,” he promised instantly. “We’ll move the studio to the California coast. We don’t have to stay in Alabama. And you can come on-site whenever you want.”

“I shall have to,” she said dryly, “if only to make sure the father of my pup doesn’t expire of dehydration, malnutrition, or shark attack.”

“You can be my costar,” he said eagerly. “You’re the real survival expert. I’ve been telling everybody that.”

“Yes, I saw.” She smiled at him. “That’s why I came back. When you admitted your—ah—failings. To your audience. And your crew. I do not require credit. You may be the survival expert in the family, and the television star. But if you ever leave me again, I will hunt you down and break your silly biped legs.”

“Agreed,” he promised fervently. “Great. No problem. Man, wait’ll I tell my mom! Will the baby be a mermaid, too?”

“I do not know,” she replied. “I only know she— yes, it’s a girl—will be part me, and part you. And I never knew I wanted that, until I had it.”

He snatched her to him and kissed her again, then let go like she was radioactive. “Oh, shit! Did I hurt the baby when I did that?”

“I hate to tell you this, but the baby will likely be stronger than you the moment she reaches her weaning year.” Then, “You have a mother?”

“Yup.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll love you. And so will all my brothers and sisters.”

“All your—how many—”

“Seven.”

She sat down as if all the strength had gone out of her legs. “But I don’t know how to be in a family!” she wailed. “My folk died when I was still in my nursing year!”

“Well, babe, it’s time you learned. You didn’t think I was gonna let you wander the ocean alone forever, didja?”

“Well. For a little while, yes.” She smiled again. “But then I saw your show. I almost didn’t recognize you without the beard.”

“And I didn’t even notice you with your hair up and clothes on. Which reminds me”—he pointed—“off!”

She obliged, seeming happy to be rid of the clothing, and unpinned her hair, and he pounced on her. Then he hesitated. “This won’t hurt the baby, will it?”

“Stupid Con,” she said, and kissed him so hard, his mouth was bruised for three days.

There is no silver bullet and frankly you probably don’t need one. It is far more important to be able to find the right kind of gun, be able to load the gun . . . and perhaps most importantly, be able to figure out where the werewolf is.

—MATTHEW OLIPHANT,USEABILITY WORKS

The werewolf is neither man nor wolf, but a satanic creature with the worst qualities of both.

—JOHN COLTON,STUART WALKER

The werewolf instinctively seeks to kill the thing it loves best.

—JOHN COLTON,STUART WALKER

I have led her home, my love, my only friend.

There is none like her, none.

And never yet so warmly ran my blood

And sweetly, on and on

Calming itself to the long-wished-for end

Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

—ALFRED TENNYSON,TENNYSON, A SELECTED EDITION

There’s no such thing as a werewolf.

—ERIC SINCLAIR, VAMPIRE KING

For all the Wyndham werewolf fans out

there, this one’s for you. And yes, I’ll

probably do another single title one of

these days. You know, when I kick my

booze and prescription pill habit.

Author’s Note

The events of this novella take place four days after the events in Undead and Uneasy.

Most people wouldn’t know a werewolf if said werewolf (literally) bit them in the face.

Werewolves look like you or me; perhaps a bit more muscular, yes, and their reflexes are much quicker, but it is the nature of man to not notice such things, and so . . . most people wouldn’t know a werewolf if they saw one.

Not so with Cain.

Cain just looked wrong . Your brain registered it, even if the eye did not. She was short, almost petite—barely five feet tall. She wore her coffee-colored hair brutally short, in a buzz cut that emphasized her sharp cheekbones. She tended to run around in jeans and tank-tops, which showed off her smoothly muscled legs and arms.

Most arresting of all, she had a sharp, fox-like face, with a pointed chin and glaring green eyes. Cat green. And some people described them as poison green.

A striking woman who moved just a little too quickly, who seemed a little too strong for her size. A small woman who ate two steaks a night, just about every night. And multiple raw eggs for breakfast.

Yes. Something wrong. Even if you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

Cain was pondering this phenomenon as the mugger, who was over a foot taller and several pounds heavier, got a good look at her eyes, dropped the knife, and fled. She hadn’t even had to say anything. She had just looked at him.

She bent and picked the knife up off the street, wary of some tourists stepping on it and hurting themselves, snapped off the blade, and dropped both pieces into a nearby trash can.

She’d been back on-Cape for just a couple of days and already some idiot tried to mug her? On the Cape ?

She had decided long ago that she would never fit in—except, of course, with the Pack, and what else mattered?—so why bother trying? It’s not like the monkeys ever paid attention. They stayed away from her or they ignored her. Or they tried to mug her—apparently that was the new thing.