Undead and Underwater

“Shut up,” Derik said to the woman he (usually) lovingly regarded as a sister. “And get lost . . . This isn’t for you.”



“I’m getting the hose,” she warned, “and then you can pay to have the floors resealed.”



“Moira, out,” Michael said without looking around. She was a fiercely intelligent female werewolf who could knock over an elm if she needed to, but she was no match for two males squaring off. The day was headed down the shit hole already; he wouldn’t see Moira hurt on top of it. “And, Derik, she’s right, let’s take this outside—ooooof!”



He didn’t duck, though he could see the blow coming. He should have ducked, but . . . he still couldn’t believe what was happening. His best friend—Mr. Nice Guy himself!—was challenging his authority. Derik, always the one to jolly people out of a fight. Derik, who had Michael’s back in every fight, who had saved his wife’s life, who loved Lara like she was his own.



The blow—hard enough to shatter an ordinary man’s jaw—knocked him back a full three steps. And that was that. Allowances had been made, but now the gloves were off. Moira was still shrieking, and he could sense other people filling the room, but it faded to an unimportant drone. Derik gave up trying for the door and slowly turned. It was like watching an evil moon come over the horizon. He glared, full in the face: a dead-on challenge for dominance. Michael grabbed for his throat, Derik blocked, they grappled. A red cloud of rage swam across Michael’s vision; he didn’t see his boyhood friend, he saw a rival. A challenger.



Derik wasn’t giving an inch, was shoving back just as hard, warning growls ripping from his throat, growls that only fed Michael’s rage—



(Rival! Rival for your mate, your cub! Show throat or die!)



—made him yearn to twist Derik’s head off, made him want to pound, tear, hurt—



Suddenly, startlingly, a small form was between them. Was shoving, hard. Sheer surprise broke them apart.



“Daddy! Quit it!” Lara stood between them, arms akimbo. “Just . . . don’t do that!”



His daughter was standing protectively in front of Derik. Not that Derik cared, or even noticed; his gaze was locked on Michael’s: hot and uncompromising.



Jeannie, frozen at the foot of the stairs, let out a yelp and lunged toward her daughter, but Moira moved with the speed of an adder and flung her arms around the taller woman. This earned her a bellow of rage. “Moira, what the hell? Let go!”



“You can’t interfere,” was the small blonde’s quiet reply. “None of us can.” Although Jeannie was quite a bit taller and heavier, the smaller woman had no trouble holding her back. Jeannie was the alpha female, but human—the first human alpha the Pack had known in three hundred years. Moira would follow almost any command Jeannie might make . . . but wouldn’t let the woman endanger herself, or interfere with Pack law that was as old as the family of Man.



Oblivious to the drama on the stairs, Derik started forward again, but Lara planted her feet. “Quit it, Derik!” She swung her small foot into Derik’s shin, which he barely noticed. “And, Daddy, you quit, too. Leave him alone. He’s just sad and feeling stuck. He doesn’t want to hurt you.”



Michael ignored her. He was glaring at his rival and reaching for Derik again, when his daughter’s voice cut through the tension like a laser scalpel.



“I said, leave him alone.”



That got his attention; he looked down at her in a hurry. He expected tears, red-faced anger, but Lara’s face was, if anything, too pale. Her eyes were huge, so light brown they were nearly gold. Her dark hair was pulled back in two curly pigtails.



He realized anew how tall she was for her age, and how she was her mother’s daughter. And her father’s. Her gaze was direct, adult. And not a little disconcerting.



“What?” Shock nearly made him stammer. Behind him, nobody moved. It seemed nobody even breathed. And Derik was standing down, backing off, heading for the door. Michael, in light of these highly interesting new events, let him go. He employed his best Annoyed Daddy tone. “What did you say, Lara?”



She didn’t flinch. “You heard me. But you won’t hear me say it again.”



He was furious, appalled. This wasn’t—He had to—She couldn’t—But pride was rising, blotting out the fury. Oh, his Lara! Intelligent, gorgeous—and utterly without fear! Would he have ever dared face down his father?



It occurred to him that the future Pack leader was giving him an order. Now what to do about it?



A long silence passed, much longer in retrospect. This would be a moment his daughter would remember if she lived to be a thousand. He could break her . . . or he could start training a born leader.



He bowed stiffly. He didn’t show the back of his neck; it was the polite bow to an equal. “A wiser head has prevailed. Thank you, Lara.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the stairs, catching Jeannie’s hand on the way up, leaving the others behind.



Moira had released her grip on his wife, was staring, openmouthed, at Lara. They were all staring. He didn’t think it had ever been so quiet in the main hall.



Michael was intent on reaching his bedroom, where he could think about all that had just happened and gain his wife’s counsel. He didn’t quite dare go after Derik just yet—best to take time for their blood to cool. Christ! It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning!



“Mikey—What—Cripes—”



And Lara. His daughter, who jumped between two werewolves with their blood up. Who faced him down and demanded he leave off. His daughter, defending her dearest friend. His daughter, who had just turned four. They had known she was ferociously intelligent, but to have such a strong sense of what was right and what was—



Jeannie cut through his thoughts with a typically wry understatement. “This can’t be good. But I’m sure you can explain it to me. Use hand puppets. And me without my So You Married a Werewolf guide . . .”



Then he was closing their bedroom door and thinking about his place in the Pack, and his daughter’s, and how he hoped he wouldn’t have to kill his best friend before the sun set.



CHAPTER SIX



Though the memory was years old, it still had the power to astonish him. From her earliest beginning, Lara had been as protective as she was aggressive; the only thing she feared was failing in her duty. Nothing else had the power to frighten her: she was too young and vibrant to understand death, never mind fear it, and she had been born into privilege and would never fear poverty or deprivation. Getting caught in a mistake or, worse, letting someone down . . . that had the power to make her tremble.



Sean, now. Humans said cut from a different bolt of cloth and the Pack said came from the wrong litter and both sayings summed up how you could adore and cherish someone not at all like you while also being utterly puzzled by them.



He would kill or die for Lara because she was just like him. He would kill or die for Sean because he wasn’t.



SIX YEARS AGO



“Hey. Move.”



Sean raised a hand to shade his eyes. He’d wandered over to Nauset Beach; public beaches were a pain, but this one had waves today, which, for New England, was pretty much unheard of.



“S’up?” he asked the three shadows. The sun was at their backs, and with the ocean racket and hollering little kids and squealing teenagers and bellowing moms (“Curtis! I said don’t go back in until you’ve put on more sunscreen! Curtis! Do you hear me, young man? Get back over here right now! Curtis, do you hear me? You are gonna be red as a lobster and I’m not gonna—Curtis! You get back here! Get back here now and get some more sunscreen on! Curtis! Curtis Daniel Graham, you get back here! I am talking to you, young man! You get over here right now! Right now, I said! Curtis! If you don’t get over here right now, Curtis, you will—Curtis! Curtiiiiiiiiis!”), he’d never heard them come up. From their lack of neck, he assumed they were Riley, Jeff, and Geoff from the middle school football team. At twelve, Sean had no use for football teams or football players, and not much use for middle school. “Are you trying to loom?” He yawned. “I’m guessing you’re going for loom.”



“You’ve got a private beach, Wyndham.”



“That’s true,” he admitted cheerfully. “But today I want the luxury of my private one and also the pain in the ass of this public one. Go away or I’ll end up with a tan the exact shape of your head and shoulders, which will be weird for all of us—pphhhmm.”



He’d said “pphhhmm” because Riley had—yep, he really had—kicked sand in his face. The smallest of the looming trio, Riley had small, fast feet. “Really?” he complained. “You don’t feel like a bad ad in a seventies comic book doing that?” He spat out several grains. “I know how this goes. All I need is a bikini’d babe to lose respect for me because I didn’t engage, and then I’ll storm home and secretly embark on a weight-gain, weight-lifting regimen, and come back years later to find you and kick your ass. I dunno. That sounds like so much work.”



“So how about you get the fuck outta here?”



“But I just got comfy. See?” He pointed to what he was lying on. “It’s my tanning secret: an authentic President Eastwood beach blanket circa 2016. Note his squinty expression, like Popeye with a kidney stone. His squint says, ‘I’ll keep you safe and will blow up any country that dares mock the U.S. of A., punk.’”



“We never know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Geoff whined. Sean could tell by their tone and scents that they were frustrated bordering on bored; their body language just hadn’t caught up. Their stance and scent broadcast their confusion: they were being all kinds of aggressive and Sean didn’t much care.



Yep. He didn’t. They’d get bored and leave, and he didn’t care; he’d go back to sunbathing. They’d stick around and harass him, and he didn’t care; he’d dish it back. (And nobody could outtalk Sean Wyndham.) They’d step up the harassment and get physical, and he didn’t care; he’d hold his own, or decide they weren’t worth physical exertion and go back to his private beach.