And he smelled—have I mentioned how frigging delicious these guys smelled? No wonder Garrett found Antonia irresistible. It sure wasn't her personality.
Michael's hand squeezed my arm. He was so cute, thinking he was actually holding me in place. “Betsy, really. Is there anything going on?”
I smiled. “Michael, you worry too much, anybody tell you? I said everything's fine, now didn't I? So don't sweat it.”
On my way to the nursery, from one room and a hallway away, I heard Michael's very distinct order to Derik.
Chapter 18
Derik bounded beside me on the stairs like a big blond puppy. “It's nothing personal,” he said cheerfully keeping pace with me as I climbed the eighty zillion stairs to the nursery. “But we can't tell if you're lying or not—that whole 'no scent' thing—and it's driving the chief out of his head.”
“I'll bet.” I was a smidge—-just a smidge— sympathetic. To go your whole life being able to tell if everyone around you was lying or not, that had to come in handy. One of the few things Antonia had mentioned was that her Pack hardly ever bothered with lying. . . there was absolutely no point. And then to run into me, someone who could (she was a short, genius brunette and still smell, fine not smell, as the case was), that had to be frustrating.
“So I, the most charming and handsome werewolf in all the land—”
“Should I throw up here on the stairs? Or try to wait until I can find a garbage can?”
“—will catch you off-guard with my witticism and charisma.”
“And don't forget your sexy Martha Stewart T-shirt.”
“Hey, hey. Don't diss my girl Martha. She could kick your fine undead ass with one homemade seashell napkin holder behind her back.”
“Derik, you're seriously bent, you know that?” He ignored me. “And then I, fearless Pack member, shall swoop down on the truth like a crow on a grub.”
“Did you just call me a worm?”
“I did not,” he said, following me into the nursery. “I called you a grub. Big difference. Huge!”
I laughed; I couldn't help it. The big doof probably was the most charming werewolf in all the land. “Dude, you really are the—eh?”
I had reached the crib, bent over, plucked Babyjon it And was surprised to be alone. I turned and Derik was—there was no other word for it—he was cowering beside the nursery door.
“What's going on?” I asked, completely startled to see the six-foot-plus blond huddling in terror.
“I was gonna ask you the same thing. Jesus!” He forced himself to straighten, shook himself all over, then cupped his elbows in his palms. It almost looked like—it looked like the big strong badass werewolf was hugging himself for comfort. But that couldn't be right. “Every hair on my body is trying to jump ship right now. Least that's what it feels like. I've got the worst fucking case of the creeps. I—what's that?”
“This is my baby brother.” Babyjon wasn't crying or anything. I had slung him over one of my hips, and he was just looking at Derik, patiently waiting for his bottle. What a sweetie. Orphaned, and hungry. And not crying! “Isn't he the cutest?”
“Keep him away from me,” Derik ordered, actually backing out of the room. Guess he wasn't fond of babies. “It feels like thirteen o'clock in here.”
“Derik, what the hell's gotten into you?” I followed him out into the hall, genuinely puzzled. If Michael had sent his Good Guy WereCop after me to try to look for more info, this was a weird way to go about it. “You're acting all—”
“Don't do that!” Both Derik's hands shot out palm up. He was warding me off? No way. I had it wrong. I was misreading werewolf body language, or whatever. “I might have to bite you. And not in a nice way, get it? So just—aaaaiiieeeeee!”
He said aaaaiiieeeeee because at that moment he fell down the stairs. All the way down. And with my hands full of Babyjon, I had no chance to catch him. So I just stared, cringing at some of the thuds and wincing at some of Derik's more colorful language as he plummeted to the bottom.
I sighed. Then I put Babyjon back in his crib, ignoring his surprised squawk, shut the nursery door, and started down the stairs.
There was no way they were going to believe Derik fell down the stairs—all the stairs—without assistance. I assumed there was going to be another fight. Best to get it over with.
Too bad, really. Just when I thought we'd established a little trust.
Chapter 19
“Well, thanks for stopping by," I said again, and it was even more lame than the first time I said it.
Derik, upon his quick recovery, had done some fast talking to save me from another werewolf beat-down, and now they were all leaving. And not being very subtle about wanting to get the hell out of my house, either. If I hadn't felt so anxious, I would have been amused.
Derik limped past me, which was a big improvement, because he'd broken both legs when he'd hit bottom. These guys regenerated as fast as Sinclair and me. . . maybe faster. Must be their iron-rich, high-in-protein diet. Mmm. . . their yummy, yum diet. I was drooling just watching them file past. Why had I never noticed how delicious Antonia was?
Easy. When Antonia was around, Sinclair had also been around, and his blood was just fine. More than fine. We'd actually incorporated blood-sharing into our lovemaking and now, like a Pavlovian dog (or George on the Seinfeld episode when he equated salted cured meats with sex), all I had to do was get a whiff of someone's delicious blood and also find myself horny as hell. Which wasn't exactly—
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Derik asked, massaging his knee.
“Uh. No reason. Thanks again for visiting. And good luck picking up Antonia's scent.”
I'd offered to show them her and Garrett's room, let them get a whiff of the sheets or whatever, and they'd all looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.
I guess I was picturing a scene right out of a cop movie: baying bloodhounds sniffing sheets or a dirty sweater and then howling off into the night, hot on the trail. Apparently real life was different. And werewolves weren't bloodhounds.
Which was a shame, because bloodhounds were really cute.
“Crazy fucking vampire,” Jeannie muttered, so softly she probably assumed I hadn't heard her.
“Don't forget your parting gifts!” I cried, sending Lara after them with a helpful shove.
“Thanks for your hospitality,” Michael said without the teensiest bit of irony. We shook hands as the others filed past. He squeezed. I squeezed. He squeezed harder. So did I. I figured anybody else's hands would have been crushed to bloody powder by now. “We'll be doing some checking around town and will keep you posted,” he added, slightly out of breath from our mano a bimbo.
“And I'll call you”—I held up the card with his cell phone number on it—“if I hear anything from either of them.”
“Thanks. Have a good night.”
“You, too. Bye, Derik. Cain. Brendon. Lara. Jeannie. Michael.”
“Betsy,” Jeannie said, “I want to make clear that I only shot you because—”
I shut the door. And since it was a big heavy door about two hundred years old, it cut her off with solid BOOM!
Did I think they had anything to do with everything that was going on? No. I really didn't. Werewolves weren't exactly famous for lying or subversiveness. I seriously doubted they'd—what? Snatched Antonia back, staked Garrett, then shown up at my house and staged a pretend fight, all the while playing like they had no idea where Antonia and Garrett were?
Vampires would pull that sneaky shit in a cold minute. The Wyndham bunch? Naw.