Then intros: Michael and Jeannie (whom she already knew), and their daughter, Lara, who had her father’s odd yellow brown eyes and her mother’s aggressiveness, and the petite blonde was Moira, and oh, several others that she lost track of, but she didn’t mind, because even though they were all strangers, it was exactly like coming home.
“SO YOU TOLD THEM WE WERE COMING, HUH?” Derik asked.
Antonia, who was just as ridiculously breath taking as the rest of them, shrugged. “Don’t get pissy. It’s what I do.”
“Thanks for all your help,” Sara said.
Antonia grunted. Sara had never known that someone who looked like a swimsuit model could be so sullen.
“So, what’s next for you two?” Jeannie asked, picking up the pitcher of lemonade, pouring herself a glass, then promptly draining it off. They were sitting in a gorgeous sunroom, the remains of a glorious lunch laid out before them. “And why did I do that?” she griped aloud. “Like I don’t have to pee often enough. Pregnancy,” she finished in a mutter.
“You’re glowing,” Michael said automatically.
“That’s because of all the puking,” she retorted.
“So?” Michael prompted. “You guys? What’s next?”
“Um . . .” Sara said, because she didn’t have a clue.
“Well, we’re getting married in a couple of days, and Mike’s going to give us an RV for a wedding present, and then we’re going to drive around the country looking for Rachel Ray.”
“That’s the lamest marriage proposal ever,” Sara commented, while Antonia actually cracked a smile.
“Yeah, but you’re gonna go along with it.” When she didn’t say anything, he dropped the cocky pose. “Right, Sara? Sara? Right? You’re gonna be my mate, right? Sara?”
“Oh, Christ, tell him yes,” Antonia said, rolling her great dark eyes. “Before I pick up this fork and jam it into my ear, just so I don’t have to listen to any more of that.”
“Actually, it’s a refreshing change,” Michael commented, biting the chicken leg in half and sucking out the marrow in one slurp. Sara managed to conceal her shudder. “Keep him on the hook, Sara.”
“Never mind,” she told them, and then said to Derik, “It would have been nice to have been asked, jerk. But it sounds like a fine plan.”
“Congratulations,” Antonia said, bored. Then she leaned forward and speared Derik with her gaze. “And before I forget, numb nuts, who told you to go to her house and kill her?”
“Huh? I mean, you did.”
“No, I told you to
take care of her.
As in, look out for her, so she could destroy the moGhurn when it manifested.”
“
What
? Wait just a goddamned minute! You
never
told me to look out for her. You told me—”
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t be able to ice her, but I wanted you to stay close anyway,” Antonia explained. “The world was saved because you were fated to love her, not because you were fated to kill her. Not to mention, you were fated to die . . . but not for too long. Dumb ass.”
“Now
wait one minute
.” Derik was as furious as Sara had ever seen him. She clutched at his sleeve, trying to get him to sit down, but he towered over Antonia and ignored Sara’s tugging. “You sent me there to—”
“Take care of her—do I have to get out the hand puppets? Look, Derik, I couldn’t tell you the whole thing. We probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now if you’d known what I’d known. Not that you could ever be bright enough to know what I know—”
“God
damn
it, Antonia!”
“Oh, take a chill pill. Everything that happened this week, you guys had to do. It
all
led to the big showdown. High noon in Boston, so to speak.”
“I still don’t get it,” Sara confessed. “The bad guys—Arthur’s Chosen—made the demon-thingy on purpose? No?”
“No, it was an accident. You screwed up the spell. They were trying to bring Arthur back, remember? With your blood. But the spell screwed up—which anybody who watches
Charmed
will tell you—and then they were in over their heads. I mean, that’s the trouble with screwing around with black magic. You make one slip, and suddenly there’s a world-devouring demon in your warehouse.”
“Which Sara got rid of,” Derik said, calming down. “You guys shoulda seen it.”
Sara laughed, which calmed Derik down even further. “I was so scared, I didn’t know what to do. I think I kicked it—the whole thing’s kind of a blur. I guess my blood did away with it? Because my blood conjured it up?”
“Do I look like I’m wearing a pointy Merlin hat?” Derik griped. “Track down your mentor, Dr. Cummings. Ask him. He can probably explain the whole thing.”
“And this whole ‘everything is for a reason’ bushwah . . . you mean my car conking out was part of the big plan, too?”
“The universe is a mysterious place,” Antonia said, popping the last cherry tomato into her mouth.
Derik sat down. “Fucking miracle it all turned out all right,” he muttered.
“Miracle.”
“Oh,” Sara said, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek. “My specialty.”
“At least the alpha thing is taken care of,” Moira said. “Thank God.”
“What alpha thing?” Sara asked.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Derik said, visibly uncomfortable.
“What?” Michael said. “It’s fine, Derik. Shit, I’m not one to argue fate.” He glanced fondly at his wife. “Not anymore.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Sara asked.
“Derik’s an alpha, too, which usually means trouble for us,” Moira explained, “because our Pack already has an alpha.”
“I don’t suppose he can, like, try to win the next alpha election, or whatever . . .”
“It doesn’t exactly work like that,” Antonia said dryly.
“But part of the problem of
being
alpha is the overwhelming urge to
prove
it . . . men,” Moira added, shaking her head.
Sara decided she would like the tiny blonde, if the woman wasn’t so damned cute. Thank God she was married!
“Anyway, not only does Derik not have to prove anything,” Moira went on, “he’s aligned himself with a mate who is quite possibly the most powerful being on the planet.”
“Oh, now, well,” Sara said self-deprecatingly.
“Know anybody else who can get rid of a demon by kicking it?” Antonia asked rudely.
“Kicking it,” Jeannie said, shaking her head. Then, “Excuse me. I gotta pee.”
“Anyway,” Moira continued, frowning at Antonia, who sneered back, “it sounds like you guys aren’t even going to be around that much. So the problem has, essentially, been solved. Both internally—feeling alpha and feeling the need to prove it—and externally, because you’ll be traveling.”
“Oh,” Sara said. It all sounded like a lot of werewolf bullshit to her. She’d have Derik go over it with her later. Probably. “Well, that’s good.”
“Real good,” Michael said, “because I would have broken out all his teeth, and then I really would have gone to work on him. And I would have hated to do that.”
“Dude, what have you been sniffing? You were so
toast
if I decided to bring the smack-down. I would have spanked you!”
“And then I would have snapped your spine.”
“You’re high! You are on
serious
uppers, dude! You gotta know I would have totally . . .”
“God, I’m bored,” Antonia mumbled. “At least when we thought the world was gonna end, it was interesting around here.”
“Maybe you can go off an have an adventure of your own,” Sara suggested.
“Yeah, yeah . . .”
“So,” Sara said to Jeannie, who had just returned and was working on her third glass of lemonade, “how are you feeling?”
“Oh, fine. I haven’t started craving raw meat yet—thank heavens.”
“Are you thinking about names?”
Jeannie set down her glass and shook her blonde hair out of her face. “Well, you know, Sara,” she said seriously, “we really haven’t been lately. Because of—because we weren’t sure what was going to happen.”
“Oh. Sure, I get it.”
“But I guess now we have to get back to it. And I think, just for the record, that Sara is a lovely name.”
“Oh, vomit,” Antonia said, which was just as well, because Sara was too choked up to say anything.
EPILOGUE
“HI, AND WELCOME TO
‘
FORTY DOLLARS A DAY.
’
I’M Rachel Ray, and I’m here today at the annual San Antonio rattlesnake festival with Derik Gardner, who has taken first prize with his
wonderful
dish, Rattlesnake
en croûte
. I know, I know, it sounds kind of yerrrgggh, but you
gotta
try it. Derik has come out of
nowhere
and unseated last year’s champion with his awesome dish. Derik, congratulations!”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
“Your dish is
delicious
. I mean, yum! Who would have thought something made out of snake could look so delicious? I mean, look at that, so crispy and golden and just . . . gorgeous! And it’s very tender. It really doesn’t taste like chicken at all. So, Derik, do you catch the rattlesnakes yourself?”
“Yes, I do, Rachel.”
“That’s
amazing
. . . do you use a net, or a trap?”
“Something like that, Rachel.”
“And this is your wife? Sara?”
“Yeah, hi.”
“Do you help Derik catch the rattlesnakes?”
“God, no. The whole thing just creeps me out. I stay in the RV, while he does that.”
“Well, it looks like you get to partake in the fruits of his labor, then . . .”
“Yes, lucky me.”
“. . . and is it true you two travel around the country going to cooking shows and the like?”
“Yes, that’s true, Rachel.”
“Well, that’s certainly working out well for you so far, at least from where I’m standing.”
“Thank you, Rachel.”
“You’re right about that one, Rachel.”
“Oh, whoa now! I guess you would call that the newlywed effect . . . and congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
“Yeah,” Derik said, beaming. “Thanks.”
Continue reading for a special preview of MaryJanice Davidson’s next novel
Undead and Unappreciated
Look for the hardcover coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
“OKAY, GUYS, LET’S SET UP HERE . . . CHARLEY, YOU okay here? You got light?”
Her cameraman looked up. “It’s shitty out here. Should be better inside.”
“We won’t film out here . . . So, you’re sure this is okay?”
The representative, who was smooth and sweat-less, like an egg, clasped his hands together and nodded slowly. Even his suit seemed to be free of threads or seams. “People need to see that it’s not a bunch of chain-smoking losers who are afraid to go outside. There’s doctors. There’s lawyers. There’s”—he stared at her with pale blue eyes—“anchor- women.”
“Right, right. And we’ll put all that across.” She turned away from the AA rep, muttering under her breath. “Fuckin’ slow news days . . . okay! Let’s get in there, Chuckles.”
Charley knew his stuff. With the new equipment, setup was not only a breeze, it was relatively quick and quiet. Interestingly, none of the room’s inhabitants looked at them directly. There was a lot of coffee drinking and low chatting, a lot of nibbling on cheese and crackers, a lot of quiet milling and sideways glances. They looked, the newswoman thought to herself, exactly like the man said. Respectable, settled. Sober. She was amazed they’d agreed to the cameras. Wasn’t the second
A
supposed to be for
Anonymous
?
“Okay, everyone,” the rep said, standing in the front of the room. “Let’s get settled and get started. You all remember Channel 9 is here tonight, to help raise awareness . . . someone watching tonight might see we’re not all villains in trench coats and maybe will come down.”
“I left my trench coat in my other pants,” someone called in a low voice, and the room rustled with restrained laughter.
“Anyway, I’ll start, and then we’ve got a new person here tonight . . .”
Someone the reporter couldn’t see protested in a low voice, and was ignored—or wasn’t heard—by the rep. “I’m James,” he said, “and I’ve been sober for six years, eight months, and nine days.”
There was a pause as he stepped down, then a rustle, a muffled “Oof! Stupid steps” and then a young woman in her mid-twenties was standing behind the small podium. She squinted out at the audience for a moment, as if the fluorescent lighting hurt her eyes, and then said in a completely mesmerizing voice, “Well, hi. I’m Betsy. I haven’t had a drink in three days and four hours.”
“Get on her!” the reporter hissed.
“I’m tight,” Charley replied, dazzled.
The woman was tall—her head was just below the No Smoking On These Premises sign—which put her at about six feet. She was dressed in a cherry red suit, with the kind of suit jacket that buttoned up to her chin and needed no under blouse. The richly colored clothing superbly set off the delicate paleness of her skin and made her green eyes seem huge and dark, like leaves in the middle of the forest. Her hair was golden blond, shoulder length, and wavy, with red and gold highlights that framed her face. Her cheekbones were sharp planes in an interesting, even arresting face.
Her teeth were very white and flashed while she spoke.
“Okay, um, like I said, I’m Betsy. And I thought I’d come here . . . I mean, I saw on the Web that . . . Anyway, I thought maybe you guys would have some tricks or something I could use to stop drinking.”
Dead silence. The reporter noticed the audience was as rapt as Charley was. What presence! What clothes! What . . . were those Bruno Maglis? The reporter edged closer. They were! What did this woman do for a living? She herself had paid almost three hundred bucks for the pair in her closet.
“It’s just . . . always there. I wake up, and it’s all I think about. I go to bed, I’m still thinking about it.”