P.C. Cast - Mysteria Nights

And he was waiting for an answer. “My parents were killed when I was a baby,” he explained. “I was raised by regular people. I mean, my foster mother.” Not exactly “regular people.” He prayed word of his slip wouldn’t get back to Mama Zee.

Wyndham was nodding. “Yep, yep, that’s what I figured. I can smell them all over you. That’s not a bad thing,” he added quickly. “You can probably smell them all over me—I married one.”

“Ha!” Rae cried. “There you go. He married a regular person.”

Wyndham laughed. “I didn’t say that.”

“She’s no threat to you,” Cole said quickly. “The vampire killer. She was just trying to—” What? What in the world could he say? Annoyingly (or mercifully), Rae remained silent.

“Are you sure? You’re part of my family, even if you never knew, and I want to help you any way I can.” Wyndham clapped a large hand on Cole’s shoulder. It felt like a brick. “You’re not alone anymore, Cole.”

Then why, he wanted to ask, did hearing that—at long last—make him feel exactly nothing?

“That was, no joke, the most amazing thing. Pot leaves, the werewolf guy shows up, and how nice was he? I mean, wow! He had kind of an Errol Flynn thing going on, did you notice? Yummy. And where’d he go already? You guys didn’t even get a chance to catch up or anything!”

“He left for his Change.” Change. Pack. He could hear the capital letters in his head, sensed their deep meaning. “We don’t like to be in towns or cities when the Change happens.” We. Werewolves. My people. Us. Our.

“How long do you have?”

“About an hour.” Fifty-three minutes.

“So you have time!”

“Time?”

“You’re not fooling me, pal. I heard you sticking up for Charlene. And I heard you tell him you weren’t in any big rush to get out to the Cape.”

“Too many tourists,” he said automatically.

“Ha! The thing you came here for, the reason you blew Charlene off, it’s handed to you on a platter, and what? You’re all Mr. Cool, ‘Oh, well, I’d love to visit, maybe for Christmas.’ Give me a goddamned break.”

He said nothing.

“I mean, look at the situation,” Rae continued. Christ, she loved the sound of her own voice. “You’ve basically got a choice: go off with your people—like Pot did—or stay with what you like and marry a local—like your boss says he did. And he’s soooo helpful: you don’t have to move in with all the werewolves on the Cape. What’d he say again?”

“There are too many in the world to live in one place,” he said automatically.

“I just knew you were paying attention. Aaaaaaand?”

“Any werewolf past the age of consent can live anywhere, with Wyndham’s permission.”

“Which he gave you about five minutes ago. Aaaaaaaand?”

“I don’t have to choose; I can move between worlds, as his mate does.”

“Ding ding ding!”

“What?”

“Cole. For Christ’s sake. What are you still doing here? You’re talking like I didn’t hear you puke at the thought of Charlene dying alone.”

Fifty-one minutes.

“And you’re talking like you have a choice. When really, you never ever did.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“So, again. Stop me if you’ve heard this. What the hell are you waiting for? Does that Wyndham guy have to chisel an invite on your forehead?”

“No,” he said, and practically jumped toward the doorway. But before he could get it open, it opened by itself (but not really) and like magic (but not really; she probably just drove up and he was too distracted to hear the car) Charlene was standing there. Her thereness, her concentrated punch, washed over him like a wave and he wondered why he was surprised. Of course: she had a short life span; her people jammed everything they could into a dozen years. Of course they were more there than ordinary people. And how could he ever have resisted her?

“I knew this would happen,” Rae said, sounding shocked. “I think I’ll see if I can install free cable.”

He opened his mouth, but as usual, the smarter person beat him to the punch.

“Before you leave,” Charlene began, “I’ve come to tell you that I’ve changed my mind, and no matter where you run to, I’ll hunt you down like a rat.”

“I met the head of the werewolves,” he replied. “And it’s pack, not herd.”

“And , it’s fine if you don’t want to get married, but you’re going to be with me until the bitter, gory end.”

“Also,” he added, “the baby is welcome with my people anytime; a drop of werewolf blood is as good as a hundred percent as far as they’re concerned.”

That gave her pause, he saw at once. Her brow wrinkled and then smoothed out, and she said, “You’ve been busy in the last few hours. Days, come to think of it.”

“I was coming to get you,” he told her.

She smiled, and it was like clouds blowing away from the bright, beautiful moon. “That’s funny. I was coming to get you, too.”

A split second later, they were in each other’s arms. “You’re not allowed to die in six years,” he said into her hair, her dark, dark hair.

“Well, I’ve had some thoughts about that. This is Mysteria, you know. The oddest place on earth. Maybe we can find a spell or something. You’re just as much on the edge as I am—what if you’re out chasing rabbits and get hit by a truck? It could happen anytime. It’s the risk we all run.”

“Repeat,” he said, kissing her throat, her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth, “after me: I’m not going to die in six years.”

“Well . . .” She was busy kissing him back. “I won’t if you won’t. Er, how much time do we have before you grow a revolting amount of back hair?”

“Forty-seven minutes.”

She laughed. “Plenty of time.”

To those of us who probably should live in Mysteria:

P. C. Cast, Susan Grant, and MaryJanice Davidson.

And to Christine Zika for a wonderful experience.

“Men suck,” Genevieve Tawdry muttered, “and not in a good way.”

She was tired, so very tired, of Hunter Knight’s hot and cold treatment of her. He was making her crazy, laughing with her flirtatiously one moment (translation: stringing her along without giving her any actual benefits, the bastard), then dropping her altogether the next moment, then laughing flirtatiously with her again.

By the Great Goddess, she wasn’t going to tolerate it anymore.

Unfortunately, lovesick witch that she was, Genevieve didn’t have the strength to shove him from her life—which meant she would have to up her game. But how? Truly, she’d tried everything. Spells and incantations. “Accidental” meetings where she happened to be braless. “Accidentally” ramming her car into the back end of his Ford Explorer. Or the latest, an incident that happened only last night, “accidentally” tripping and falling into his lap at a mutual friend’s wedding.

Nothing worked.

Last night had been a “cold” night. Hunter had taken one look at her in her brand-new white silk dress (no, she hadn’t been the bride and yes, the bride had been pissed that she’d dared to wear the “sacred” color) and he hadn’t been able to get away from her fast enough. She sighed.

What would it take to make herself irresistible to him? To hold his attention for as long as she desired it? To at last put an end to the heart-pounding tension that always sparked between them when they were together? Whatever was needed, she’d do it. Anything. Everything.