ELEVEN
I yanked myself back to the present and reminded myself that Jessica was right—we had no idea how the mess du jour was going to shake out, and it was too soon to contemplate. I was opening my mouth to cough up the equivalent of “there, there, don’t fret, want a booze smoothie?” when the kitchen door swung inward and Marc galloped in, hauling Will Mason in his wake like a kid dragging a blankie. It didn’t help that the guy was wearing a pastel blue shirt and smelled like laundry detergent.
“Jeez, there you are!”
“Uh, I wasn’t hiding, Marc. Remember when we both popped into the kitchen at the same time? And then you scampered off? Remember? Happened less than five minutes ago?”
“No jokes,” he barked, “this is serious!”
“Actually, I usually joke because things are serious—”
“And now where’s Sinclair run off to?” Tell you what, Marc could really hit high notes when he was upset. He usually saved the shrieks for whatever Game of Thrones nonsense he was enduring at the hands of the heartless boob-obsessed bums at HBO. “Where is he?”
“Dude, you’re the one who keeps yelling and then leaving. And keep it down.” I shifted the warm little football that smelled like milk and was named Elizabeth or Eric from one arm to the other. “You’ll wake the babies. Theoretically.” They didn’t nap so much as hibernate for hours at a time. I was amazed at the things they slept through. I took another sniff (someone seriously needed to bottle eau de bébé), then laid Elizabeth or Eric down beside Elizabeth or Eric. “Hi, Will. Nice to see you again. Thanks for not breaking in this time.”
“I didn’t break in last time,” he protested. He looked frazzled and wispy as usual, like he wasn’t all there. Pastel shirts and jeans were his uniform of choice, and he smelled like Dreft and Suave. His hair was longish, over his ears, baby fine, and always messy. His eyes, behind wire rims, always seemed a little too wide and starey—you could see the whites all around. He was always like a horse about to bolt. “I just . . . y’know. Came in. You guys need locks.”
“Yeah, because you walking in uninvited means we’re the problem.” I was needling him more for sport than out of any real ire. Look: if he was going to be anything more than a one-night stand for Marc, he needed to toughen up. So far his life had been smooth sailing. Except for being orphaned at a young age. And being terrified when he realized he could see ghosts. And struggling for his place in a world where the dead bugged him and the living didn’t notice him. And referring to himself in all seriousness as the Freak. And being a huge John Cusack fan. And being gay on top of all of that. Or bi. I wasn’t really paying attention to that part of it.
I couldn’t imagine the hell of his lonely, terrifying childhood. No parents. Lots of ghosts. Cripes. I saw ghosts, too, but not until I was thirty. And they weren’t bugging me so much lately. Probably because they knew plenty of souls in Hell were busy bugging me.
“Listen,” Will was saying, all earnest and cute, “my sources—” And I laughed. I couldn’t help it; he was downright adorable. Sources was how he referred to the dead people who pestered him. “Yeah, yeah, I’m aware you think that’s hilarious—”
“You’re adorable!”
“—but you’ve got a real problem.” He was trying to stay stern, but a shy smile escaped anyway; he was like a little kid sometimes. Honestly, the mansion, our lives, the danger, the profanity—it was all no place for him.
“You had Sinclair haul me from Hell to tell me that? I’ve got about nineteen real problems.”
“Darling.” Speak of the devil, and there I was. Oh, and my husband, too, who’d just walked in holding my most precious, most treasured book. “How did you get the author of Smoothie Nation to sign this with that immature nickname you persist in using?”
“Isn’t it nifty?” I cried. I rushed over to him, nearly knocking Will over. “Did you check out page sixty-three? Banana split smoothies!”
“I think that particular smoothie ventures into milk-shake territory.”
“Never question Smoothie Nation, you ignorant bastard. Plus, pictures! I love cookbooks with photos.” Truth! I liked knowing what the thing I was consuming was supposed to look like if a competent person had followed the recipe.*
“You guys.” From Will, and it got our attention, because that guy never raised his voice. Probably because he was always running around whispering to ghosts so people wouldn’t think he was insane. “My sources told me the Wyndham werewolves—”
“Oh, damn,” I sighed. “You’re right, that’s a problem.”
“Yeah, well, they’re not pleased; that’s for sure. I heard rumors so I canceled my meeting with Marc—”
“Meeting?” As opposed to date? Hmm. That might mean the Ant was going to win the bet. Did I care? Too early to tell.
“—and followed up and it’s true. It’s happening.”
“A pack of werewolves is on their way to see us?” Jessica sounded as tense as I felt. She’d met several of them. Werewolves on their worst, weakest days were still nothing to mess with.
“No, I mean a pack of werewolves is here.”
Which is, of course, when the doorbell rang. And when our puppies set up a clamor like I’d never heard. If puppies could scream, they’d have sounded like Fur and Burr just then.
Dammit.