Dead Over Heels

  “Well, thanks, folks, for putting up with that. Now let’s get to the season opener of Con Con the Survivin’ Man.”

  Chapter 19

  After the show had been airing for two weeks, Con decided Ree wasn’t coming. Well, that was her prerogative, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have it coming, leaving her like that for his stupid career. He got the shakes every time he thought of how stupid he’d been, how he’d thrown happiness away with both hands and never even looked back. Stupid Con! Ree had been right all along.

  “Con?”

  But he was going to keep up the appeals, and if the crew had a betting pool he was pretending not to notice, and if his producer was starting to think it was time for a new angle, he didn’t give a shit.

  “Con?”

  “No autographs right now, hon,” he said, walking by whoever-it-was. No, he couldn’t worry about fans right now, his heart was breaking and he was—

  “Stupid Con!”

  He whirled on his heels and—there was Ree!

  “You’re wearing clothes,” he gasped. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Well, I could hardly come to your set in my usual manner,” she said. “May I have some water? I’m dreadfully thirsty.”

  “You—water? Water! Right!” He seized her hand, thinking that he preferred her nude, although she looked nice in her jeans, sandals, and dark blue T-shirt. Her silver hair was pinned up; he preferred it down. Cripes, he’d been aching for her for weeks and had walked right by her. He wondered briefly where she got the clothes, then dragged her to his trailer.

  Once inside he seized her and kissed her until they were both gasping. Then he fished around in the fridge and handed her two bottles of water, which she glugged in twenty seconds.

  “Oh, thank you. Much better. Also, I am carrying your pup.”

  “My—you’re pregnant?”

  “Yes. And I thought you said lovely things about me on your show. And you must be Jertan’s slave, because he told me you were looking for me. How he found me off the coast of Fiji I’ll never know,” she added in a mutter, “but he did. And here I am.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “Yes.” She eyed him warily, silver eyes narrowing. “That troubles you? You do not wish a half-breed child?”

  “Troubles me?” He whooped and spun around in a circle. “I’ve got you now, Ree! You’re stuck with me forever! Ha!”

  “That is sweet,” she said. But she looked doubtful. “Well, shit, you don’t seem very fuckin’ excited about it!”

  “I do not wish to trap you, or make you give up your lifestyle. And I am willing to live with you and be your mate—more than willing. But I need the sea, Con. I need to see it, smell it, be in it, every day. Or I’ll die, as you would have died.”

  “No problem,” he promised instantly. “We’ll move the studio to the California coast. We don’t have to stay in Alabama. And you can come on-site whenever you want.”

  “I shall have to,” she said dryly, “if only to make sure the father of my pup doesn’t expire of dehydration, malnutrition, or shark attack.”

  “You can be my costar,” he said eagerly. “You’re the real survival expert. I’ve been telling everybody that.”

  “Yes, I saw.” She smiled at him. “That’s why I came back. When you admitted your—ah—failings. To your audience. And your crew. I do not require credit. You may be the survival expert in the family, and the television star. But if you ever leave me again, I will hunt you down and break your silly biped legs.”

  “Agreed,” he promised fervently. “Great. No problem. Man, wait’ll I tell my mom! Will the baby be a mermaid, too?”

  “I do not know,” she replied. “I only know she— yes, it’s a girl—will be part me, and part you. And I never knew I wanted that, until I had it.”

  He snatched her to him and kissed her again, then let go like she was radioactive. “Oh, shit! Did I hurt the baby when I did that?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but the baby will likely be stronger than you the moment she reaches her weaning year.” Then, “You have a mother?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll love you. And so will all my brothers and sisters.”

  “All your—how many—”

  “Seven.”

  She sat down as if all the strength had gone out of her legs. “But I don’t know how to be in a family!” she wailed. “My folk died when I was still in my nursing year!”

  “Well, babe, it’s time you learned. You didn’t think I was gonna let you wander the ocean alone forever, didja?”

  “Well. For a little while, yes.” She smiled again. “But then I saw your show. I almost didn’t recognize you without the beard.”

  “And I didn’t even notice you with your hair up and clothes on. Which reminds me”—he pointed—“off!”

  She obliged, seeming happy to be rid of the clothing, and unpinned her hair, and he pounced on her. Then he hesitated. “This won’t hurt the baby, will it?”

  “Stupid Con,” she said, and kissed him so hard, his mouth was bruised for three days.

  Speed Dating, Werewolf Style

  Or, Ow, I Think You Broke the Bone

  There is no silver bullet and frankly you probably don’t need one. It is far more important to be able to find the right kind of gun, be able to load the gun . . . and perhaps most importantly, be able to figure out where the werewolf is.

  —MATTHEW OLIPHANT, USEABILITY WORKS

  The werewolf is neither man nor wolf, but a satanic creature with the worst qualities of both.

  —JOHN COLTON, STUART WALKER

  The werewolf instinctively seeks to kill the thing it loves best.

  —JOHN COLTON, STUART WALKER

  I have led her home, my love, my only friend.

  There is none like her, none.

  And never yet so warmly ran my blood

  And sweetly, on and on

  Calming itself to the long-wished-for end

  Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

  —ALFRED TENNYSON, TENNYSON, A SELECTED EDITION

  There’s no such thing as a werewolf.

  —ERIC SINCLAIR, VAMPIRE KING

  For all the Wyndham werewolf fans out

  there, this one’s for you. And yes, I’ll

  probably do another single title one of

  these days. You know, when I kick my

  booze and prescription pill habit.

  Author’s Note

  The events of this novella take place four days after the events in Undead and Uneasy.

  Chapter 1

  Most people wouldn’t know a werewolf if said werewolf (literally) bit them in the face.

  Werewolves look like you or me; perhaps a bit more muscular, yes, and their reflexes are much quicker, but it is the nature of man to not notice such things, and so . . . most people wouldn’t know a werewolf if they saw one.

  Not so with Cain.

  Cain just looked wrong. Your brain registered it, even if the eye did not. She was short, almost petite—barely five feet tall. She wore her coffee-colored hair brutally short, in a buzz cut that emphasized her sharp cheekbones. She tended to run around in jeans and tank-tops, which showed off her smoothly muscled legs and arms.

  Most arresting of all, she had a sharp, fox-like face, with a pointed chin and glaring green eyes. Cat green. And some people described them as poison green.

  A striking woman who moved just a little too quickly, who seemed a little too strong for her size. A small woman who ate two steaks a night, just about every night. And multiple raw eggs for breakfast.

  Yes. Something wrong. Even if you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

  Cain was pondering this phenomenon as the mugger, who was over a foot taller and several pounds heavier, got a good look at her eyes, dropped the knife, and fled. She hadn’t even had to say anything. She had just looked at him.

  She bent and picked the
knife up off the street, wary of some tourists stepping on it and hurting themselves, snapped off the blade, and dropped both pieces into a nearby trash can.

  She’d been back on-Cape for just a couple of days and already some idiot tried to mug her? On the Cape?

  She had decided long ago that she would never fit in—except, of course, with the Pack, and what else mattered?—so why bother trying? It’s not like the monkeys ever paid attention. They stayed away from her or they ignored her. Or they tried to mug her—apparently that was the new thing.

  For this reason she had never once left Cape Cod, not in twenty-nine years.

  Except once.

  Which was why she was in her current predicament.

  Antonia, the unbelievably bitchy werewolf (except she was a freak; she never changed . . . she saw the future instead) who had taken off for Minnesota ages ago, had gone missing.

  And Michael, their Pack leader, had instantly formed a small group to hunt her up. He had politely invited Cain to join them—except with Michael, a polite request wasn’t really a request at all. And so she had gone.

  And seeing all her old friends again, catching up on their lives, she had been amazed to find them all . . . settled. Domesticated, even.

  Jon had been bad enough, but then Michael . . . and Derik . . . and Brendan . . . they were all happily mated and having cubs, for God’s sake.

  And they had grown up together, had been cubs together, and had sworn not to settle down before age thirty. Now they were all settled, and she was the only single one, and damned if her competitive streak wasn’t kicking in. Now she had until her thirtieth birthday to find a mate.

  In other words, she had twenty-two days.

  Cain irrationally blamed the entire thing on the vampire queen, because if she had been able to keep her house in order, Cain would never have been forced to face certain facts she’d been successfully ignoring by living in Provincetown . . . as far from Wyndham Manor as she could get without actually leaving the Cape.

  So the hunt was on. Time to find a Pack member who needed a mate and didn’t mind a quickie wedding.

  How she was going to do this, she had no idea. Thus, the late-night stroll to clear her head. The only man in her life so far had been the mugger.

  Stupid vampire queen.

  Chapter 2

  I need to find a mate,” she announced to her oldest friend, Saul, who froze with a forkful of clam linguine halfway to his mouth. “Right now.”

  “And you’re, uh, telling me why?”

  “Because you know a lot of guys, and I don’t. You’ve got to help me hook up.”

  Her only single friend blinked at her as he chewed his pasta. She had known him forever—they had been babies in the crib together, their mothers had been best friends—and they always told each other everything.

  When he’d left the Cape after they graduated high school she had been afraid he would never return, but they’d stayed in touch with weekly phone calls and after he got his degree in engineering from (of all places!) the University of Wisconsin, he had come back and settled into a job at Excel Engineering. Within five years he was the number two man there.

  It didn’t surprise her. Saul had always been brilliant around machines and gears and things. It was people who gave him trouble. He had a tendency to stammer when nervous or angry, didn’t seem to know what to do with his long arms and legs at parties, and, in short, was a classic beta male.

  That wasn’t to say he wasn’t pretty cute, because he was. Tall and lean, with a shock of black hair that tended to fall into his eyes at inopportune moments, and chocolate brown eyes. At least he had stuck to their deal, because otherwise some bim would have snatched him up ages ago. He’d be a great husband for some lucky woman. Hmm. Maybe after she was settled, she’d think about fixing him up with somebody. Problem was, he was her only real friend, she didn’t really know a lot of—

  “Why the big rush to find a mate?” he asked after swallowing.

  “Haven’t you noticed? All our old friends are mated and most of them have cubs, even! So much,” she added bitterly, “for swearing to stay single until at least thirty.”

  “Yeah,” he said, idly spinning his fork in the pasta. “I had noticed.”

  “Right!” She plopped down in the kitchen chair opposite him. Saul had inherited a beautiful house on 6A from his parents; it was big enough to be a bed and breakfast, but Saul made plenty of dough at Excel. It was a bitch to get to in the summer (awful, awful tourists), but worth the trip every time. She felt more at home here than at her apartment in P-town. “So now I’ve gotta get married by the time I’m thirty.”

  “But that’s three weeks away.”

  “I knowwwwwww. Thus, the ‘right away’ comment. Remember, when I came in?”

  “Yeah, I remember. It was forty seconds ago.”

  “Okay, then!” She slapped the flat of her hand on his table. “So hook me up. Maybe we can set up one of those speed-dating things, except with werewolves.”

  “Or maybe,” he said, after chewing another forkful, “you could set aside your ruthless competitive streak for once.”

  “Fat chance of that happening. It’s me, Saul, Cain. Remember?”

  He sighed. She picked up a napkin and wiped a dab of garlic sauce off his chin. “Yeah. I remember. Stop that, you’re not my mother.”

  “Aw, Saul.” She tweaked his chin. “I’m practically your sister, and you know it.”

  He snorted. “I’ve got enough problems without having you as a sibling. That would complicate my life enormously. And you’ve already done that, and you haven’t been here a minute.” He snorted again. “Speed dating.”

  “Aw, come on. I know you can do it. We’ll set it up at Finnegan’s.”

  “Forever to be known in the future as Hell on Earth.”

  “Will you stop being such a crybaby and help me?”

  He sighed. “Yes. And yes.”

  She beamed. “Good boy. And you’ve got sauce on your cheek.”

  Chapter 3

  Candidate number one sat across from her at her table in the back corner of Finnegan’s, her and Saul’s favorite bar in Orleans. And immediately sneezed into his drink.

  “Sorry,” he said, whipping out a cloth handkerchief and (ecch!) blowing his nose in it, then stuffing it back into his jacket pocket. “Allergies.”

  “But you’re a werewolf!”

  “Half. On my mom’s side. And the pollen’s murder this time of—” He sneezed again and a glob of snot actually landed on her arm. Before she could break a chair over his head, he had mopped it up with his damp handkerchief.

  “Next!” she called. She wasn’t even going to give this guy the full minute, so she reset the timer.

  Candidate number two sat down, clutching two orange drinks—she assumed they were screwdrivers—and frantically waving the waitress down for a third. In thirty seconds he had gulped both drinks, and had the flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes of a closet drunk. It took a lot of booze to get a werewolf drunk, but he was managing nicely.

  “Next!”

  Candidate number three sat down, eyed her, then said disapprovingly, “What have you done to your hair? It’s much too short. You’ve got to grow it longer.”

  “Next!”

  “You’re not even giving them the full minute,” Saul murmured in her ear, making her jump. For a gawky, gangly engineer, he moved like a matador.

  “Oh, boy, are you gonna get it when we get back to your place. I can’t believe you picked these guys!”

  “Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

  “Get lost, here comes number four.”

  Saul glided away as number four sat down across from her . . . and instantly pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind?”

  “Yeah, actually.” She couldn’t abide the smell of cigarette smoke; most werewolves couldn’t. She was amazed he’d picked up the habit.

  “Well, this is me, baby.”

  “Don’t call me baby. Next!” r />
  Candidate number five sat down and instantly started nibbling on his nails, a filthy monkey habit almost as bad as smoking.

  “How do you hunt,” she asked, fascinated, “if you keep eating your claws?”

  “Nervous tic.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s kind of skeeving me out.”

  He nibbled harder. “It gets worse when I’m under stress. Which you’re definitely putting me under.”

  “Pal, you haven’t seen stress. Next!”

  “That’s it,” Saul said.

  “What?” she cried. “Only five? Five losers?”

  “You gave me,” he reminded her, “twenty hours notice.”

  “Oh, sure, it’s my fault. Man, if I didn’t know you so well I’d swear you set me up with those idiots on purpose.”

  “Now why would I do that?” he asked mildly, sitting down across from her. “You can just call me candidate number six.”

  “Very fucking funny, Saul. So now what do we do?”

  “Have a drink?”

  “After that. My birthday loometh.”

  “Well, I did fix you up for a blind date tomorrow night.”

  “Excellent!”

  “Yeah,” he said, draining his beer. “Excellent.”

  Chapter 4

  Is that what you’re wearing?” Saul asked as soon as she walked into his living room. He had all kinds of incomprehensible paperwork spread around him, and looked harassed.

  She looked down at herself. Clean denim shorts, a navy blue T-shirt. Black suede flats. It was July on Cape Cod; what else would she wear? “What? What’s wrong with it?”

  “What if he’s planning to take you somewhere nice?”

  She scowled at him. “I’m not wearing a dress or a skirt and that is that.”

  He sighed. “You’re not making this very easy.”

  “Hey, I never said it would be easy.”