He said nothing.
“I mean, look at the situation,” Rae continued. Christ, she loved the sound of her own voice. “You’ve basically got a choice: go off with your people—like Pot did—or stay with what you like and marry a local—like your boss says he did. And he’s soooo helpfuclass="underline" you don’t have to move in with all the werewolves on the Cape. What’d he say again?”
“There are too many in the world to live in one place,” he said automatically.
“I just knew you were paying attention. Aaaaaaand?”
“Any werewolf past the age of consent can live anywhere, with Wyndham’s permission.”
“Which he gave you about five minutes ago. Aaaaaaaand?”
“I don’t have to choose; I can move between worlds, as his mate does.”
“Ding ding ding!”
“What?”
“Cole. For Christ’s sake. What are you still doing here? You’re talking like I didn’t hear you puke at the thought of Charlene dying alone.”
Fifty-one minutes.
“And you’re talking like you have a choice. When really, you never ever did.”
“That’s true,” he said.
“So, again. Stop me if you’ve heard this. What the hell are you waiting for? Does that Wyndham guy have to chisel an invite on your forehead?”
“No,” he said, and practically jumped toward the doorway. But before he could get it open, it opened by itself (but not really) and like magic (but not really; she probably just drove up and he was too distracted to hear the car) Charlene was standing there. Her thereness, her concentrated punch, washed over him like a wave and he wondered why he was surprised. Of course: she had a short life span; her people jammed everything they could into a dozen years. Of course they were more there than ordinary people. And how could he ever have resisted her?
“I knew this would happen,” Rae said, sounding shocked. “I think I’ll see if I can install free cable.”
He opened his mouth, but as usual, the smarter person beat him to the punch.
Sixteen
“Before you leave,” Charlene began, “I’ve come to tell you that I’ve changed my mind, and no matter where you run to, I’ll hunt you down like a rat.”
“I met the head of the werewolves,” he replied. “And it’s pack, not herd.”
“And, it’s fine if you don’t want to get married, but you’re going to be with me until the bitter, gory end.”
“Also,” he added, “the baby is welcome with my people anytime; a drop of werewolf blood is as good as a hundred percent as far as they’re concerned.”
That gave her pause, he saw at once. Her brow wrinkled and then smoothed out, and she said, “You’ve been busy in the last few hours. Days, come to think of it.”
“I was coming to get you,” he told her.
She smiled, and it was like clouds blowing away from the bright, beautiful moon. “That’s funny. I was coming to get you, too.”
A split second later, they were in each other’s arms. “You’re not allowed to die in six years,” he said into her hair, her dark, dark hair.
“Well, I’ve had some thoughts about that. This is Mysteria, you know. The oddest place on earth. Maybe we can find a spell or something. You’re just as much on the edge as I am—what if you’re out chasing rabbits and get hit by a truck? It could happen anytime. It’s the risk we all run.”
“Repeat,” he said, kissing her throat, her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth, “after me: I’m not going to die in six years.”
“Well . . .” She was busy kissing him back. “I won’t if you won’t. Er, how much time do we have before you grow a revolting amount of back hair?”
“Forty-seven minutes.”
She laughed. “Plenty of time.”
THE WITCHES OF MYSTERIA AND THE DEAD WHO LOVE THEM
Gena Showalter
To those of us who probably should live in Mysteria:
P. C. Cast, Susan Grant, and MaryJanice Davidson.
And to Christine Zika for a wonderful experience.
One
“Men suck,” Genevieve Tawdry muttered, “and not in a good way.”
She was tired, so very tired, of Hunter Knight’s hot and cold treatment of her. He was making her crazy, laughing with her flirtatiously one moment (translation: stringing her along without giving her any actual benefits, the bastard), then dropping her altogether the next moment, then laughing flirtatiously with her again.
By the Great Goddess, she wasn’t going to tolerate it anymore.
Unfortunately, lovesick witch that she was, Genevieve didn’t have the strength to shove him from her life—which meant she would have to up her game. But how? Truly, she’d tried everything. Spells and incantations. “Accidental” meetings where she happened to be braless. “Accidentally” ramming her car into the back end of his Ford Explorer. Or the latest, an incident that happened only last night, “accidentally” tripping and falling into his lap at a mutual friend’s wedding.
Nothing worked.
Last night had been a “cold” night. Hunter had taken one look at her in her brand-new white silk dress (no, she hadn’t been the bride and yes, the bride had been pissed that she’d dared to wear the “sacred” color) and he hadn’t been able to get away from her fast enough. She sighed.
What would it take to make herself irresistible to him? To hold his attention for as long as she desired it? To at last put an end to the heart-pounding tension that always sparked between them when they were together? Whatever was needed, she’d do it. Anything. Everything.
“God, I’m a stalker.” Frowning, she tapped her fingers against the desk surface.
Moonlight spilled through the window in front of her, mingling with the soft glow of lamplight, illuminating the unread book in front of her. Incense burned beside her, the scent of jasmine curling sweetly and fragrancing the air.
She sat in the office of the three-bedroom home, aka den of iniquity, she shared with her two sisters, hunched over the desk, dark strands of hair falling over her shoulders. Behind her, the TV emitted a crunch, crunch sound, as if someone on screen was enjoying a tasty snack. A family of squirrels raced around her feet—her oldest sister’s newest save-the-world-one-animal-at-a-time “project.”
I don’t want to be Hunter’s stalker. I want to be his lover.
Over the years, he had become the bane of her existence, the mountain she’d tried to climb (naked) but couldn’t quite manage to conquer. But damn it. He liked her; she knew he did. Last night, before he’d run away from her, she would have sworn to the Great Goddess he’d had an erection and had been desperate to get to her, not away. Desperate to touch her. Desperate to taste her.
Heat had blazed in his emerald eyes, scorching, white-hot. Enough to blister. He’d reached for her, his fingers caressing her with phantom strokes, before he dropped his arm to his side. He’d licked his lips and taken a step toward her before catching himself and striding away.
Why, why, why did he continually do crap like that?
If not for moments like those, she might have given up long ago and forced herself to forget him. Yet, he’d beaten John Foster to a bloody pulp for trying to kiss her. He always walked her home if he saw her in town. And it was her he’d called when his father had died, seeking comfort. Her he came to when he had a problem at work and needed help finding a solution.
That meant something. Didn’t it?
“Maybe you should offer to ride him like a carnival pony,” Glory said from behind her. “That always works for me.”