“Sure.”
“So, I’m twenty-five, right? That’s old to be an unmated female. And there isn’t a werewolf in Massachusetts—maybe the whole world—who wants me to bear his cubs. So I sat down last week and thought and thought. I was trying to make a vision happen, which I’d never tried before.”
“And it worked?”
“Duh, it worked. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Oh, you’re back,” Bev said. “Good; it’s harder when I feel sorry for you.”
“Save your pity, monkey. Anyway, this thought pops into my head: If you help the queen, you’ll get what you need.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. Well, almost it…an address popped into my head right after. So off I go.”
“To help the queen and get what you need,” Bev repeated thoughtfully.
“Yup.”
“Why aren’t you flying? Or is it so you can occasionally stop and help a monkey stop doing something silly?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Fly? Stick myself in a tin can that hurtles through space at a zillion miles an hour, a thousand miles up on the air? Breathing recycled monkey farts and choking down peanuts?” Antonia shuddered. “No no no no no no no.”
“Werewolves are claustrophic?” Bev guessed.
“And the monkey gets a prize!” Antonia patted her, mussing her short red curls. “Good, good monkey!”
Bev knocked her hand away. “Stop that. I can’t help not being as evolved as you are.”
“That’s true,” Antonia said cheerfully. “You can’t.”
“Is that your big problem with humans? We can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound?”
“Not hardly. Although, that’s a good one.”
“So what else?”
“This wasn’t part of our deal.”
“Yes, but…” Bev smiled at her, and Antonia actually blanched. “You’re dying to tell me. You can’t wait to tell me. So…tell me.”
“Okay, you asked for it. Not only are you not evolved—which, granted, you can’t help—but you’re the most rapacious, bloodthirsty species the planet has ever seen. You go to war over money, religion, land, and drugs. If there isn’t a war on, you make up a reason to have one. You kill when you’re not hungry, and you kill when you’re fat and don’t need it. And you stink.”
“We stink?”
“You reek. It’s awful! You don’t take enough showers, and when you do shower, you slop nine kinds of perfumed soap, body powders, scented shampoos, and aftershave or perfume all over yourselves. I had to take the subway once in Boston—never again! I had to get off after one stop—after I threw up.”
“I don’t think all of us stink,” Bev said carefully. “I think your sense of smell is developed to such a high degree that it seems like—”
“No. You all stink.”
“Oh. Well, sorry about that. Thanks for answering my questions.”
“Thanks for not jumping—I’m almost out of Advil.”
“It was nice meeting you.” Bev stuck out her hand. After an awkward moment, Antonia shook it, and Bev tried not to wince at the bone-crushing power in the woman’s grip. “Good luck with the queen.”
“Good luck with your life. You might try ratting your boss out to the IRS. He hasn’t paid taxes in five years. That could put a little excitement in your life—he’s a big fish and the feds would love to get him on that, if nothing else.”
Her boss? Which boss? She couldn’t mean…not the big guy. He had fingers in too many pies for her to count. Besides, she was just a worker bee in one of many hives.
“This is Chicago,” she explained to the werewolf. “Things are different here.”
“But you could change that,” Antonia said, climbing up on the ledge. She balanced easily for a moment, her long coat flapping in the wind. “And they have programs, the police do. They could give you a new name, a new life. Something more interesting than contemplating rooftops, anyway.”
“Yes,” she said dryly, “but there’s always the chance that he could have me killed.”
“Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?” Antonia said, and jumped. She landed on her feet in a perfect little crouch; Bev was instantly jealous. More than jealous. Sure, it was easy for the gorgeous werewolf to give career advice. It was slightly more difficult for the little people, thanks very much.
But the niggling thought
(sounds exciting, doesn’t it?) wouldn’t go away.
Chapter 1
Antonia paused and then knocked at the door of 607 Summit Avenue. Mansions, of course, were nothing she wasn’t used to, but she had never seen an entire street of them. And this one—across from the governor’s mansion, no less—was nearly the grandest of them all.
It was white, except for enormous black shutters. Three floors that she could see from the front. Wraparound porch deep enough for couches and several rocking chairs. A detached garage as big as most people’s starter homes.
Well, a queen lives here, she reminded herself. Of course it’s going to be grand. What did you expect, a tent?
Still, it was weird. She had no idea American monkeys had started electing royals.
She didn’t bother to knock again; she could hear someone coming. The door was pulled open—the small, skinny woman had to struggle with it—and then Antonia was face-to-face with a beautiful woman (yawn…they were a dime a dozen on the Cape) with skin the color of good coffee. Her eyes were also dark and tip-tilted at the ends, giving her a regal (daresay queenlike?) air. She had cheekbones you could cut yourself on.
“Are you the queen?” Antonia asked. Dumb question; of course she was the queen, who else could be? The woman was born to be on the one dollar bill.
At least this one didn’t stink too badly—she’d had a shower that night and, even better, hadn’t drowned herself in nine kinds of powders, soaps, perfumes, and deodorants.
“I’m here to help you,” she continued when the woman didn’t say anything. “I’m Antonia Wolfton, from the Cape Cod Pack.”
The queen blinked at her, a slow-lidded, thoughtful blink, and then said, “You’d better come with me.” She turned, and Antonia followed her through an enormous entryway, down several hallways (the place smelled strongly of old wood, old wool, and Pledge), and into the largest kitchen she’d ever seen. Several people were sitting on stools, which were grouped around a long, industrial counter, bar-style.
“Guys,” the queen announced, “this is Antonia Wolfton, from the Cape Cod Pack. Hold onto your panties: She’s here to help us.”
One of them, a leggy blonde dressed in linen pants and a sleeveless white blouse, looked up from her tea. Actually, they all looked up. But it was the blonde Antonia couldn’t look away from.
And there was something going on here, wasn’t there? It wasn’t just the group, almost unnaturally still. And it wasn’t their smell—though they’d obviously gone easy on the fake scents and heavy on good, old-fashioned showers—their scents, that was it, she almost had it, could almost taste the problem, the—
She heard someone coming down the stairs and then the door about fifteen feet away swung open and a man walked in.
Well. Not walked. Loped, really. He was tall and lean, with a swimmer’s build—narrow hips and broad shoulders. Shirtless, with a fine fuzz of dark hair starting at the top of his ribs and disappearing into his jeans. He had shoulder-length, golden brown hair—sunny hair, as her pack leader’s daughter would have said—and mud-colored eyes. When he looked at her with those eyes, she had the distinct sensation of falling.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said faintly. Those eyes…they weren’t intelligent. They were just this side of savage. Oh, she liked those eyes. She just needed to fatten him up some; he was far too thin. “How’s it going, Garrett?”
“What?” the blonde said, spilling her tea. “What did you say?”
“Garrett Shea, right?” Antonia asked. “I—saw a picture of you.”
“What?” someone else said, someone wit
h a profound bass voice, someone not to be ignored, but she couldn’t stop looking at Garrett.
Which was a good thing, because Garrett Shea picked that moment to leap at her. Really leap, too. He covered the distance between them in half a heartbeat, tackling her so hard she slammed back into the wall.
He was sitting on her chest, ignoring the pandemonium that had just erupted. His long hair swung down into his face, almost touching hers. His hands were on her shoulders.
And…he didn’t smell! He had no scent at all. Not “he recently showered and took it easy on the Mennen”—no scent. Zero scent. He smelled like a piece of paper. She had never, in her quarter-century of life, ever smelled a person who—
That’s how he got the drop on her! He could get the drop on any werewolf, and what the hell was he, anyway?
“You’re not pack,” she told him, trying to get a breath.
“Garrett Shea?” he asked.
“Right,” she groaned. “Get off.” He was leaning in, his upper lip curling back from his teeth, and she didn’t know whether to be alarmed, afraid, pissed, or aroused. It was so damned confusing she just laid on the tile like a squashed bug.
“Shea?” he said again, almost into her neck.
“Now. Get off now.”
“George!” someone shrieked, a drilling sound like a bad visit to the dentist. “Get the hell off her right this minute!”
“—swear I didn’t know, she just said she was here to help and I thought you guys would get a kick out of—”
“Sir, if you’ll grab a hand, and I’ll grab a hand—”
“We’ll be too slow.”
“Shea?” Garrett asked her again. His befuddled expression had entirely disappeared, leaving a look of sharp concern in its place.
Too bad; she had her legs up now, her feet resting on his belly, and she kicked out, hard, and was extremely satisfied to see him sail over the counter and crash into the tiles behind it.
She flipped to her feet, making the dark-skinned woman flinch, and grinned as Shea slowly pulled himself up behind the counter.
“Are we going to do this now, or should we put it on our schedules for later? Because either way works for me. Actually, right now works for me.”
“Jesus,” the blonde said, making everyone but the dark-skinned woman flinch. “How many teeth do you have?”
Oh. Her smile. Monkey etiquette, monkey etiquette! Her palm shot up, covering her mouth. “Enough to get the job done, I s’pose. Who are you?”
“Introductions,” the bass voice said, and it belonged to a terrifying-looking man, tall and dark, a man who did not suffer fools lightly, a man who would just as soon eat you as listen to you whine. Oh, she could like this man. “They are long overdue.”
Chapter 2
The tall dark man was the king of the vampires: Sinclair. The tall blond woman was the queen: Betsy (har!). The black woman was their monkey-servant/friend/ watcher-type: Jessica. Garrett was a “Fiend” named “George.” The shorter brunette woman was an ordinary vampire, their servant, like a beta werewolf back home: Tina. They all lived together along with a monkey named Marc, who was currently “on shift.” It made much sense to Antonia; Michael and Jeannie, her alphas, surrounded themselves with betas. They lived together like a family.
One in which she had no part.
She shoved that thought away and it went, as she was practiced at ridding herself of that particular thought. Instead, she pondered the most fascinating thing about these oddballs: The king, the queen, and Garrett had no scent at all.
She had heard of vampires, of course, but she had never seen one. Nor did she know anyone who had ever met one—or, at least, who admitted to it. According to lore, vampires were territorial to a degree that they had convinced themselves werewolves didn’t exist. Which was perfectly fine with the werewolves.
“Well, here I am, then,” Antonia said, feeling peevish that she’d assumed the servant was the mistress. “Put me to work.”
“If you’ll give us a moment, Antonia,” the king said pleasantly, in the way leaders pretended like they were asking. “We need to ‘catch up,’ as it were. You say you’re a werewolf?”
“Yes.”
“Mm-hmm. And you left your pack to serve our queen? The queen of the vampires?”
“I didn’t know she was the queen of the vampires,” Antonia explained. “That part wasn’t in the picture.”
“But you believe us? That we’re vampires?” the queen asked.
Antonia shrugged. “Sure.”
Sinclair continued. “And you get these, ah, pictures of the future? Do you have a camera of sorts?”
“Yes, my brain,” she snapped. “Which is overtaxed right now having to go through this again.”
“Do not speak that way to the king,” the tiny brunette, Tina, warned her.
“Why not? He’s not my king.”
“This is how you serve the queen?” Sinclair asked silkily. Antonia, who hardly ever noticed such things, noticed his suit: black, immaculate, and obviously made for him.
“I’m here to help the queen, not kiss your ass. I think ‘serve’ might be an exaggeration. I’m not a walking TGI Friday’s.”
The queen burst into helpless laughter, which almost made Antonia smile. Certainly, everyone else in the room was looking sour.
“That’s great,” the queen said between giggles, “but I already have more help than I can shake a stick at. I mean…well, look.” She gestured to the kitchen. “I’ve been trying to get rid of some of these bums for almost a year.”
“Some of us,” Jessica piped up, “her whole life.”
“Well, too bad. I have to help you to—to get something I want, so here I am.”
Tina leaned over and murmured something in the king’s ear. Idiots. When she said she was a werewolf, did she say she was hard of hearing, too?
“I don’t know who Dr. Spangler is, but don’t call him. There’s too many people for me to deal with as it is.”
Tina looked startled, and Jessica, who had only seen Tina’s lips move, jumped, and then said, “Well, uh, I think—we think—you might be. Uh. Crazy.”
“No no no,” Sinclair said smoothly. “That’s a harsh word, I think.”
“Confused,” Tina suggested.
“Oh, come on,” the queen said. “Give her a break. She came all the way from Maryland—”
“Massachusetts.”
“—right. And she knew George’s real name! I mean, hellooooooo? Am I the only one who thinks that’s a really good trick? So why can’t you give her a break on this?”
“Because werewolves don’t exist,” Sinclair explained.
A short silence followed that and then Jessica said cautiously, “But you’re a vampire.”
“The existence of one does not ensure the existence of the other,” the king almost snapped. “And I can assure you, in all my long life, I’ve never seen one.”
Antonia snickered. “So that’s why we don’t exist? Because you’ve never seen one? Too bad; I thought you were smart.”
He blinked and said nothing.
“Well,” the queen said, and Antonia almost—almost—liked her. The woman was obviously pulling for her. She must be used to strangers popping up out of nowhere and making declarations. “When’s the full moon? She can, you know, get furry and make believers out of us.”
“It’s in six days,” Antonia said with a sinking feeling. “But the thing is, I can’t Change. Into a wolf, I mean.”
“Oh?” Sinclair asked with a truly diabolical smile.
“Yeah, yeah, I know how it sounds. My father was a—anyway, the pack thinks that instead of Changing, I get visions. All the disadvantages of being a werewolf, and none of the advantages,” she joked. “I might as well be a m—be a regular person.”
“Boy oh boy, you’re not making it easy for me to stick up for you,” the queen commented.
“Sorry,” Antonia said, and almost meant it.
“She isn’t,” Garrett
said from his corner, and they all jumped.
“Cripes, George! I forgot you were there, you were so quiet.”
“Why are you calling him George?”
“Well, he doesn’t—uh, didn’t—talk, and ‘hey you’ got old.”
“His name’s really Garrett Shea?” Jessica asked, leaning forward. “How did you know that?”
Antonia shrugged. She wasn’t about to go into the whole “sometimes in addition to pictures, a whole fact will appear in my head, indistinguishable from something I read” thing.
As it was, they were probably about ready to toss her on her finely toned ass. She was pretty sure. It was so hard to read them! Except for Jessica, who smelled hopeful and interested, an altogether pleasing scent. But the others…nothing. It was maddening, and cool.
“Garrett,” Garrett said, nodding.
Tina and Sinclair looked at each other and then back at Antonia. “We really aren’t in the habit of letting strangers just, ah, insinuate themselves into our lives…”
The queen buried her face in her hands. She’d painted her claws lavender, a monkey habit Antonia found completely ridiculous. At least she didn’t bite them. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’ve even got the nerve to say that.”
“That was entirely different, my love. As I was saying, this is not our normal habit, but you seem to possess information we can find useful.”
“Aw,” Antonia said. “Stop it or I’m gonna cry.”
They all looked at Jessica, for some reason, who said, “Hey, there’s plenty of room for her and then some. She’s welcome to hang.”
“Jessica owns the house,” the queen explained.
“Oh,” Antonia replied, mystified.
“And I’m sorry, you probably said your name earlier, but I didn’t catch it.”
“It’s Antonia Wolfton.”
For some reason, this made the queen blanch. “No. That’s not really your name, is it? Antonia?”
Dead and Loving It Page 15
