Dead Over Heels (wyndham werewolf)

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “Uh . . . I don’t have a tail. Not that I have anything against tails. Particularly yours. In fact, yours is gorgeous,” he hastened to assure her.

  “Gorgeous?” she repeated doubtfully.

  “Gorgeous.” It was the color of candlefish, all sleek silver, wider at the hips and narrowing to wavy silver fins. “In fact, you are really gorgeous.” And those tits! He was having a terrible time maintaining eye contact. She was delectably curvy, and her breasts bobbed sweetly in the water, the nipples so pale a pink they were almost cream colored. She was like a ghost . . . or a dream.

  “No, I am ugly,” she replied simply, as if she were explaining that two and two made four. “And I think you must be ill. Perhaps you should rest. Or eat.”

  “Ugly!” He nearly toppled out of the boat again. “Are you shitting me?”

  “I . . . do not believe so.”

  “You’ve at least got some meat on your bones, unlike all those anorexic big-mouthed Hollywood brats. Your hair—your tail—your eyes—your ti—your brea—you’re the best-looking woman I’ve ever seen. Ugly! Sheee-it!”

  “Well,” she said, swimming idly around the boat, “my blubber does keep me warm.”

  “We’re in the South Pacific,” he said, feeling stupid. “What do you need to keep warm for?”

  “I travel all over. And if you swim to the bottom, it can be chilly. But my coloring is bad. My friends are yellow and blue and green and anything you can imagine. I am”—she looked down at herself—“I’m a noncolor. I am practically not here.”

  “Noncolor, my Alabama butt.”

  “Your—what?”

  “Where I come from, silver’s just about the most precious thing there is. We use it for money. It’s really valuable. And pretty.”

  “The habits of bipeds are not known to me,” she admitted, rolling over on her back. She idly splashed with her tail, and yawned. “That is why I followed you for the last two days. When you seemed, ah, confused, I thought I might offer assistance.”

  “Well, that was nice of you.” Two days? “Appreciate that.”

  “Due to recent events among my people, we are allowed to show ourselves now.”

  “Get outta here!”

  “I beg your pardon.” She splashed, harder, and he was instantly drenched from eyebrows to belt buckle.

  He coughed for five minutes while she watched impassively and finally wheezed, “Sorry, it’s a biped saying meaning to express shock or amazement. I remember, I saw it on CNN! You guys have been in hiding for, what, centuries?”

  “Indeed. But our great king, in his wisdom, has decreed that if we wish to show ourselves to surface dwellers, we may. But you are the first one I’ve seen so close.”

  “Well, I’m honored.”

  She seemed oddly pleased. “Thank you.”

  “So, you live around here?”

  “I live all over.”

  “Ever been on land?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever been to an Alabama barbeque?”

  “No.”

  “That was a joke.”

  She frowned. “It wasn’t funny.”

  “Well, I’m tired. And thirsty. And starving. Shouldn’t have mentioned barbeque. I—hey, where’d you go?” Because she’d disappeared, dropping out of sight with a flash of her tail.

  “Well, sheee-it,” he muttered. “Meet the prettiest gal ever and scare her away in five minutes. Nice work, Con.”

  It didn’t seem to be his week, that was for damned sure.

  Chapter 3

  A couple of minutes later, she was back. “Say, hi there!”

  “Hello again.” She tossed shiny things into his boat. Tiny . . . headless things. Fish. She had caught and killed three small silver fish for him.

  “I am aware that bipeds can be unusually squeamish,” she said, picking a scale out of her unusually sharp teeth, “so I killed them for you.”

  His gorge rose, and he fought it down. This wasn’t a meal, this was bait! “Uh, thanks, Ree.”

  “Reanesta.”

  “Yeah, I’m stickin’ with Ree. I, uh, it’s not that I’m not grateful, but I can’t eat these like this.”

  “Like what? Shall I bite the fins off for you?”

  “No!” he shouted. Then, more quietly, “I mean, no thank you. Listen, I couldn’t never even eat sushi without wanting to puke.”

  She frowned at him. “But you need the moisture as well as the protein.”

  “I know. But I can’t. It’s a mental block thing.”

  “You require them cooked?”

  “Yup.”

  “But we have no fire. So you must eat them as they are.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t.” Inwardly: Some survival expert! Well, what his viewers didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. “See, usually my crew has food, and I don’t have to actually do the things I tell people to do.”

  “Watch me, Con. It’s easy.” And she reached into the boat, snatched up a fish, and crunched. He watched, wide-eyed, as she demolished the thing with her small, sharp teeth, wiping a dot of blood off her cheek when she was finished. “Ah! Delicious. See?”

  He leaned over the boat and retched. Oh, you’re making a great impression, asshole! he thought as he barfed.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Please don’t do that again,” he begged.

  “I foresee problems ahead.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Let me do so,” she said. “I will come back.” And she was gone again.

  He lay back in the boat and thought about what an idiot he was.

  Chapter 4

  He must have dozed, because a gentle rapping on the lone oar woke him up. He sat up and there was Ree, holding out a fistful of what looked like puffy seaweed.

  “We call this Traveler’s Grass,” she explained. “It grows in salt water, but it won’t dehydrate you and will fill your stomach.”

  “Well, I never was a salad man, but you know what they say about beggars and choosers.”

  “No.”

  “Never mind,” he said, accepting the clump of seaweed. He put some cautiously in his mouth, chewed, then took another bite.

  “Slowly,” she cautioned, “or you will vomit again.”

  “Don’t wanna do that,” he said with his mouth full. This . . . wasn’t bad. A little briny, sure, but his stomach wasn’t resisting and that was the important thing. And the more he ate, the more he wanted. He finished the fistful in less than a minute. “Wow, thanks, Ree! God, I feel better.”

  “I will bring you more. I will come back.”

  “Not one for long good-byes, are you?” he shouted at her disappearing tail.

  In another minute she’d brought an armful and plopped it into the boat. “Perhaps once you’ve had more of this, you’ll be sensible about the fish. You must have fresh water.”

  “For such a pretty gal,” he said, chewing, “you’re a pretty big nag.”

  “And for such a helpless biped, you’re remarkably unwilling to save your own life.”

  “Hey, I bet you’ll find people all over the world who don’t eat raw fish.”

  “Stupid people. Dead people.”

  “Aw, go bite the head off another fish.”

  “Perhaps I will!”

  “Well, who’s stopping you?” he yelled, still chewing.

  “No one at all,” she snapped back, and vanished again.

  Which was fine with him.

  Er, right?

  Chapter 5

  Reanesta guiltily swam back an hour later.

  Yes, he had annoyed her with his helpless ways and silly prejudices, but he was sick and, even if he wouldn’t admit it, already dying. She had been wrong to take offense and leave.

  So she swam up to the boat, which had drifted but not so far she couldn’t find it, and politely knocked on the oar again.

  His stubbled face popped over the side and he smiled when he saw her, showing those odd, flat teeth common to bipeds. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t ea
t the fish. It was a wonder they managed to eat anything with those dull things.

  “Ree! You came back!”

  “Yes. I apologize for arguing. You’re ill and unaware of your irrationality.”

  “Uh . . . thanks, I think.” He was looking down at her with those dark eyes, his cheekbones prominent and the stubble on his cheeks an interesting reddish brown. His hair was as dark as his eyes. Like her, he had very ordinary coloring, but she found him interesting all the same.

  He was the first biped she’d had the courage to approach. And, she had to admit, she liked that he liked her. Perhaps that was part of his appeal.

  “Here.” She handed up a fistful of Lallyflowers, the ones that grew in shallower waters, which she was fairly certain he could eat. “Try these.”

  “Thanks,” he said gratefully, and chomped into the yellow petals without hesitation. “And thanks for coming back.”

  “I was wrong to leave.”

  “Naw, I was being a jerk.”

  Privately she agreed, but said nothing.

  “These aren’t too bad, though if I get out of this I’m never eating a salad again.”

  “Do you think,” she said tentatively, “now that you have something in your stomach, you might try a fish?”

  He looked guilty and said around a mouthful of petals, “I chucked ’em after you left.”

  She inwardly cringed at the waste. No wonder the planet was such a mess! Perhaps her folk should take it away from the bipeds. “If I brought you more?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yeah, okay, I’ll give ’er a try. Can’t promise to keep ’em down, though.”

  “Excellent! All right, I will get some. You stay here.”

  “I wasn’t planning on going nowhere,” he said dryly, and she flushed, embarrassed—what a stupid thing to say!

  “I will come back,” she promised, which was something she had never said to anyone in her forty-five years, but which she had said many times to this man. It was very strange.

  “I’ll be waitin’.”

  She vanished into the water, darting for the bottom, looking for something he might try to bite. She ignored the manta rays—too big—and the barracudas (same reason), although she knew for a fact both were delicious. She finally settled on a wrasse and two small parrot fish, snatching them and biting their heads off before they could evade her. Then she arrowed back up to the boat, watching as the silhouette got bigger and bigger until she popped out of the water.

  “Oh, great, you’re back,” he said with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  “You said you’d try,” she scolded him gently. She handed him one of the parrot fish.

  He sniffed it, shuddered, and nibbled on one of the fins.

  “No, no. You have to bite. You’ll never get any protein that way. I know! Hold it over your mouth and squeeze and at least drink the blood.”

  “You’re being,” he said, “the opposite of helpful.”

  “Oh, for the king’s—” She seized the side of the boat, switched to her legs, and heaved herself into it.

  He stared at her. “Silver hair, uh, all over, I see.”

  “Yes, yes. Like this.” She grabbed the fish and leaned toward him, holding it over his mouth. He was still staring at her. “Open your mouth,” she said, trying not to lose her temper, and, obediently, he did. She squeezed, and blood trickled into his mouth, over his silly flat teeth and down his throat. She squeezed the fish dry, then dropped it on the bottom of the boat. “Oh, hooray! You did it! Oh, well done!” She bounced and clapped, but quit when the boat started to rock.

  “Huh? Did what? Bleeeccchh! What the hell did you do?” He spit over the side.

  “You drank the whole fish!”

  “I did what? No fair!” he accused. “You distracted me with your nudity.”

  “And a good thing, too,” she said primly, folding her arms across her chest and crossing her legs. “Otherwise you’d be dead of dehydration. Now. Ready to try another one?”

  “Another what?” he said absently, but opened his mouth again, and drank both fish, and afterward they had a terrific argument about the diabolical use of her feminine wiles—whatever that meant—and she jumped overboard and swam away again.

  Chapter 6

  An hour later, he was still spitting, but couldn’t deny he felt better. But it was pretty damn diabolical of her to use her body like that to distract him into—eecccch!—drinking fish blood.

  And it had all started so innocently, too! He’d been minding his own business, working on not staring at her tits, when all of a sudden she had legs (and like the song said, she knew how to use them) and was clambering into the rowboat.

  She was all flashing pale skin and long hair and silver eyes. Her lips were moving, but he had no idea what she was saying; he was too busy hoping she wasn’t noticing his hard-on.

  And the next thing he knew, his mouth had tasted like blood and she was cheering, which made her breasts bounce in a really charming way, but didn’t lessen his feeling of being tricked.

  So they had another fight, and off she went. And good riddance!

  But he wasn’t entirely surprised when she came back. It seemed she was doomed to always come back. This time she didn’t bother knocking, just popped up out of the water and said, “What are feminine wiles?”

  “They’re when you grow gorgeous long legs and flop into the boat like a wet dream come true, and I’m so busy trying not to stare at your bush and your legs and your boobs and your eyes that you can pretty much talk me into anything.”

  “And a ‘wet dream’?”

  “Forget about it.”

  “But you feel better now, yes?”

  “Yes,” he grumped.

  “Then I think it is past time you left.”

  He waved his arms around, trying not to fall out of the boat. “We’re in the middle of the South Pacific! And I’ve only got one oar.”

  “So jump in,” she said with barely concealed impatience.

  “I, uh, can’t swim.”

  She blinked and said nothing.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’m well aware of the irony of a survival expert who gets his ass stranded, can’t stand to eat raw fish, loses an oar, and can’t swim. I’m aware, ’kay? But see, I’m the star. I don’t have to do those things, I just have to be able to tell people about them.”

  “I had no idea,” she marveled, “that bipeds were so completely helpless.”

  “You shut up.”

  “And in fact,” she pointed out, “you do have to do those things.”

  “Well, I can’t,” he grumped, “so stop with the nagging.”

  “That’s all right,” she soothed.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “I’ve never had a pet before.”

  He had just flopped back down, but now bolted upright in outrage. “I’m not your goddamned pet!”

  “You are a creature who would die without my help, who needs constant tending, and who cannot get out of trouble on his own. Is that not a pet?”

  He sputtered and fought the urge to seize a handful of her long hair and yank. Dimly, part of him realized that he was overreacting, that he was getting in real trouble and needed to get to land and protein pronto, but most of his brain was consumed with rage.

  “I am not your fucking pet!”

  “Oh, but you are,” she went on with maddening cheer. “Do not fear; have I not taken excellent care of you so far?”

  He seized the lone oar, wrenched it out of the oar-lock, and smacked her over the head with it.

  “Ouch!” she cried, while he stared at the cracked oar. She really did have a head like a coconut. “Bad, bad biped!”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry, I don’t know what . . . came . . . over . . .” Then everything fuzzed out and he collapsed back into the boat.

  Chapter 7

  Reanesta shook him gently, and he eventually opened his eyes and grinned dizzily at her. “Hey, you’ve got legs again!”

  “It
was the quickest way to get into the boat. I think you’d better actually eat some fish now, instead of just drinking the bl—the fluids.”

  “I’ll tell you, I could murder a steak right now. Oh, and I’m really, really sorry I hit you. You should whip my ass.”

  “You are not yourself. I was wrong to tease you about being a pet.”

  “That was teasing?”

  “I am not funny,” she informed him.

  “No, no, it was hilarious.” He forced a giggle. “I just, uh, wasn’t tracking very well.”

  “See here,” she said. “I have descaled this fish and broken it into small chunks. Won’t you sit up and try some?”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Please, Con?”

  He wasn’t sure if it was the “please,” or her use of his name, or sheer desperation, but whatever it was, it changed his mind. “Okay,” he said, and sat up too fast, and the bow dipped and swayed (more than usual) and the sky spun a crazy blue until things settled down. “Oooooh, boy! What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Really? You guys keep track of the days of the week?”

  “Stop stalling and chew.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, and she stuffed a slimy, fishy chunk inside. He held his nose and chewed, gagged, chewed more, swallowed, gagged again, held his head over the side of the boat, and threw it up.

  “Again,” she said impassively, but he was so tired and wrung out, even the sight of her breasts hanging in his face failed to distract him, or even interest him that much.

  No question: he was dying. The day he didn’t take notice of a terrific rack was the day they’d—

  “Again,” she said, and stuffed another chunk into his mouth. He held his nose again, chewed, swallowed, gagged . . . and kept it down.

  She fed him for about half an hour, occasionally disappearing for more fish, which she beheaded, scaled, and chopped up (with her teeth? He didn’t want to think about it) before getting back into the boat. He managed to keep about a dozen pieces down.