Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

  * * *

  Skylar had to get over this. Honestly, it was ridiculous. It had been sort of sad two years ago. She needed to move on. Be rid of him. Say goodbye, switch to a different unit, have as little to do with McGregor as possible.

  So why was it that, for the third time today, Skylar found herself just happening to make a cup of tea at the exact moment McGregor did?

  They exchanged an awkward smile and nod.

  “Just like old times,” McGregor said, offering her sugar.

  Skylar waved him off. Three years, and he still didn’t know how she took her tea; that should tell her something. Why wouldn’t she listen to it? “Yeah,” Skylar said. “Crazy, huh?”

  McGregor looked up from stirring. “What is?” he asked.

  “The old times. You know, that old prophecy, people turning into monsters, our saving the world. And now it’s all happening again. Crazy then and crazy now.”

  Oh God, shut up. Stop saying words. He must think she was mental.

  “It sure was,” he said. He smiled, which just stretched his goatee across his face and made his mouth look enormous. Add that to the thinning reddish-yellow hair (“gold” her mind tried to correct, but she wouldn’t let it) and the massive, alien-shaped cranium and you had one man that was… not ugly, but a long way from handsome.

  And this, this was the man she couldn’t get over?

  “It all worked out, though,” McGregor said, when Skylar failed to say anything.

  “You did more than most of us,” she said.

  McGregor’s eyebrows flew up in shock and he lowered his tea. “Me? You lot were off… containing the zombie horde, invading the Andraste mansion. I wasn’t even within shooting distance of danger, I was curled up somewhere safe with my Book.”

  “Yeah, figuring out how to save the world. And, if I recall, you were there when the shooting started. You killed one of the Browns.” To save her life, no less. She couldn’t forget that.

  McGregor shrugged. “Lucky break,” he said, but he didn’t sound like he believed it. Or was she reading too much into his every word?

  “Hello, count!” Paddington said. Skylar’s head whipped around; McGregor dropped his cup, which hit the counter and deposited its contents all across it. Paddington held a finger up to his lips then turned back to the phone in his other hand. “Enjoying your holiday?”

  Truman ran over from the window. Night had come a few hours ago, but so far there had been no sign of Clarkson or the other vampires at the castle. A few low lights were the only signs of life.

  “The castle’s number is listed in the phonebook,” Paddington told Adonis. “Listen, we need to talk about your breaking our treaty, the Embargo, and corrupting yet another otherwise-peaceful community. I’d rather this didn’t escalate, which is a pretty big offer coming from a demon you’ve already tried to kill today.”

  Truman made frantic hang-up-the-phone gestures; Paddington wandered away, keeping the kitchen’s centre bench between him and the Team’s leader. Skylar took a sip of her tea as the two of them passed her.

  “Well, someone sank my boat,” Paddington said. “Or was Guenevere acting alone? Protecting her dear old dad?” Paddington waved the idea away, not that Adonis could see it. “Anyway, we should have a chat before this gets out of hand. I’m thinking at the Tree, in half an hour.” He listened, then glanced at Truman, who had given up the chase and was watching, seething. “I think he’ll probably want to be there.” Another pause. “We’ll see you then.” Paddington hung up the old-fashioned brick of a mobile phone and slipped it in his trouser pocket.

  “What the hell was that?” Truman said. Shouted, almost, except Truman didn’t shout. Mitchell had shouted, back when he’d been in charge. Truman… placated, and soothed, and forged Team unity. He certainly didn’t use the hundred-pounds of muscle that he had on Paddington to threaten. No, not at all.

  “That was forcing his hand,” Paddington said.

  “Doctor, can they trace that phone?”

  “Rough position via triangulation only,” McGregor said. “They can tell we’re in Estika, maybe the northern half of town, but not our exact location.”

  Truman still seethed. Paddington held out an arm, as if to escort him to a ball. “Shall we?”