Derik's Bane

He glanced around her kitchen. "Listen, I don't want to put you out, but can you tell me which house is number6 Fairy Lane?"



"It's this one," she said with bare impatience. Gorgeous, but not terribly bright. Well, nobody was perfect. "I told you, you're in the right place. I'm running late for rounds, so if you could just arrange to have someone pick you up—"



"Yeah, I'll do that. 'Cuz there's obviously been a mistake."



"Tell me about it," she said, looking at him with longing. In a perfect world, he would be her pool boy. Instead, she was late for work and he had to hitch a ride back to his place of business. "Well, thanks for dropping off the car—see you."



He followed her onto the porch. "It was nice meeting you. Sorry about the misunderstanding." But, interestingly, instead of being regretful, he sounded weirdly relieved.



Odd! But, she had no time to ponder it. "Bye!"



She got the car going with no trouble—she'd heard the phrase "the engine purred like a kitten" before but had no real experience with it until now—and pulled out of the driveway. She waved to the man who should have been her pool boy, who was looking as though he'd had a touch of sun, and dropped the pedal.



6



Derik went to the nearest safe house, the one down the block from the aquarium. An adorable cub answered the door, a boy about eight years old with big dark eyes and black hair.



"Hi," Derik said. "Are your folks home?"



"Sure. What's your name?"



"Derik."



"Okay. Come on in."



Derik followed the boy into a kitchen that smelled like cookie dough and found the lady of the house up to her elbows in butterscotch chips. "Well, hi there," she said, her greeting a soft Midwestern twang. "My name's Marjie Wolfton; this is my son, Terry. Do you need some help?"



"Just a private phone. I'm—uh—sort of on a mission to—um—never mind." He just couldn't bring himself to say "save the world." It was too bizarre.



Marjie, however, seemed to know all about it. Either that, or she was used to strange werewolves showing up at her door. "Yes, of course. Terry, show Derik the den."



"Okay." The boy snatched a fistful of dough and disappeared down a hallway. Derik followed him into the den, which had a hardwood floor, windows set into the ceiling, a computer, a phone, and a television.



"Are you from Massachusetts?" Terry asked.



"Uh-huh." He was going to have to call Anto-nia and figure out this mess. No way was that distracted cutie Morgan Le Fay. No way. "How'd you know? Am I dropping my Rs?"



The boy ignored the question. "And you live with Michael Wyndham? The Pack leader?"



Derik looked at the boy, really looked. That was pure hero worship, if he wasn't mistaken. And since he used to think of Michael's father in the exact same way, Derik completely understood where the kid was coming from. Men who took a Pack .. . ran a Pack .. . they were just.. . different. Morethere. And they could make you like them. It was a talent, the way some people could raise just one eyebrow. It was hard to explain.



"Yeah, I live out there with those guys. Michael's my best friend." Was? Is?Save the world first, he reminded himself.Then you can worry about it. "He's a really great guy, and his wife is supercool. You should try to get out to see him sometime."



"I'm going when I'm twenty." The age of consent, for werewolves. Eighteen was too damned young; everybody knew that. "I'm going to see if he needs a bodyguard, or maybe Lara will." The boy hugged himself and smiled. "I can't wait! I bet it's so cool, living in a mansion with all the boss weres."



"It's pretty great," Derik admitted. And it had been, until he'd fucked it up. Until he'd gotten the idea in his head that he could be a boss were. Dumb ass. "I'll put in a good word for you, if you want."



"Would you?" The boy's eyes, already big, went huge. "That'd be great. Thanks a lot."



"What do your folks think about your ambition?"



"Oh." The boy waved his parents away in the careless manner of preadolescents. "Mom wants me to stay out here and go to USC. Dad says I should aspire to more than being a 'spear carrier,' that's what he calls it. But I don't care. They're doing whatthey like. Now it's my turn. I mean, it will be."



"Well, while you're waiting to turn twenty, you could take a year or two of college, see if it suits you."



Terry shrugged.



"Terry! Get out of there and let the man have some privacy."



Terry sniffed the air. "Also, cookies are almost ready," he muttered.



"And cookies are almost ready! So get out here!"



Derik cracked up when the boy rolled his eyes and walked out, closing the door behind him. Jesus, had he ever been that young?



Sure he had; he and Michael and Moira had practically been littermates. Man, the shit they used to pull... it's a wonder Michael's mom hadn't drowned them all.



He picked up the phone and punched in the main number of the mansion.



"Wyndham residence," Jeannie answered, sounding harassed.



"Hey, Jeannie, it's me, D—"



"Lara! No! Don't you dare jump from there— don't you dare! Hello?"



"Uh, yeah, Jean, it's me, D—"



"Lara! I don't care if your dad does it all the time. Your dad's an idiot! And if you think I'm wasting my afternoon by driving you to the E.R.—hello?"



"It's Derik!" he hollered. "Can you patch me through to Antonia's house, please?"



"Jeez, stop with the yelling. Sure I will. How's it going? Save the world yet?"



"I'm gonna, just as soon as I finish my butterscotch chip cookie," he said dryly.



"All righty. Patching you—Lara!—through now." There was a smooth, humming silence, then another ringing telephone.



"Thatis Morgan Le Fay," Antonia said by way of greeting. "She's an unspeakably evil creature and must be stopped from destroying the world. So get your ass back there and take care of her."



"What? Antonia? How'd you know it was—"



"I don't know about you," she said, "but I don't have a lot of time for dumb questions. Also, you're boring the tits right off of me."



"Come on, you shouldsee this girl! There's no way she's the one. She's a goof, and she's so cute. Not to mention really clueless. I think you got your wires crossed, or whatever, on this one."



"Impossible. It's her. And you know what they say about the devil and pleasing faces. Now get back there and do your job."



"This sucks," he said to the empty line, and hung up.



"Cookie?" Marjie asked brightly when he stomped into the kitchen.



He took six.



Sara Gunn, the unspeakably evil creature, noticed the van as she was parking her leaner, but shrugged it off—Monterey wasn'tthat big a town, and lots of people went to and from the hospital. Monterey Bay General was a teaching hospital, the largest in two hundred miles, and the parking lot was the size of a small college campus.



She hurried through the main lobby, afraid to look at her watch to see how late she was. Dr. Cummings hated it when staff was late for grand rounds, though God knows he'd kept them waiting often enough. And even though she wasDr. Gunn, her doctorate was in nursing, so to old-school jerkoffs like Cummings, she was just a glorified maid with an extra diploma. Most days it slid off her like water off a duck, but days like today, when she knew she was in for a reaming and resented the hell out of it, she—



"Sara Gunn!"



She had been just about to step into the elevator when she heard her name and jerked her foot back. She turned, and her brain processed the half-dozen men dressed in—could it be?—flowing red robes. They had monks at the hospital now? Monks dressed in red? Like big lipsticks?



Armed monks?



An avid movie fan, Sara recognized nine-millimeter Beretta pistols when she saw them and wasso startled, she froze in place. It was the context, of course. Sure. Seeing men in robes (big lipsticks!), toting guns, in the hospital,her hospital, was just. . . weird. If she had any sense, she'd be screaming her head off and hitting the floor, like several of the people around her, but she just stared, and now she was staring down the barrel of more than one pistol, and how many people could saythat in life, that not only did they have one gun pointed at them, they had several, it was just too—



The one nearest her tripped on the newly mopped floor, knocking over the bright yellow CAUTION sign. He hit hard, too hard; she heard the wet snap as his neck broke.



She heard a muffled explosion from her left and flinched, but the pistol had misfired and the barrel imploded; the would-be gunman was screaming through a faceful of blood, screaming and staggering around and dripping. He'd lost all interest in her, and she could actually hear his blood pattering to the floor, which now needed to be mopped again.



The clip fell out of the third one's gun, something Sara had never seen before—a day for firsts! She didn't realize clipscould fall out of guns, just slide out and clunk to the floor without anyone touching it, but this one had, and the robed man had taken to his heels, and then the lobby tipped crazily, as someone kicked her feet out from under her.



"Cross of Christ," Dr. Cummings grumped. He was lying on the floor beside her, and she realized he was the one who had knocked her down. His white beard, hair, and eyebrows were their usual chaotic mess; the eyebrows in particular resembled a pair of large, struggling, albino caterpillars. He looked like a pissed-off Colonel Sanders. "Leave the hospital for fifteen minutes, and the whole damned place falls apart. Last time I ever try to get coffee before rounds."



"Sorry I'm late," she said to the tile.



"Do you know why they're trying to kill you?"



"I have no idea. They—they knew my name." She realized she was existing in a ball of shock-induced calm. Well, that was all right. It was better than the screaming meemies. "But they're not having much luck, is the thing, and lucky for me."