Page 13 of Wishing for a Werewolf
Heavy woods surround us only a few yards in, shading the way. Tank’s lack of suspension really shows as we bounce down the rutted road, and Babybelle lets out a complaining baa that gets broken up into little sound bites: ba-aa-aa-aa-aa.
“Sor-ry, g-irl.” My voice comes out jittery, too, and I fight down a laugh. I’m supposed to be getting my mad on!
By the time I pull to a halt in front of the house, my insides feel like a James Bond martini, shaken not stirred.
Snatching the letter off the passenger seat, I jump out and clomp up the front steps of the sprawling Victorian that looks ludicrously large for one man. It’s a grand old house, or at least it used to be. Now, the windows are dusty, and the front rooms look deserted.
When the doorbell doesn’t make any sound, I knock on the door. When that doesn’t work, I pound. Ah, there’s my mad! It’s coming back.
“Rune! You get that fine ass out here!”
The door opens so abruptly the side of my fist lands on muscle instead of wood, but that muscle is almost equally hard.
“Sorry!” Dammit, I’m supposed to be angry at him, and here I am apologizing. But even if I’m upset, I didn’t mean to hit him. “That was meant for the door, not you.”
“It’s nothing,” he rumbles. “Did you say my ass is fine?”
“What?” Embarrassment makes my voice hit a high note, and I lie. “No.”
The edges of his lips curl, showing a peek of fangs, which is so hot.
But totally not the point! I wave the letter in his face. “What is this?”
“I have no idea.” A bear paw of a hand wraps around mine, pulling it to a halt. He squints at the envelope and shrugs. “I still can’t read it.”
“Why not?”
“Faerie’s inherent translation magic only works on spoken languages.” He pushes the letter back toward me and lets go of my hand. “Read it to me?”
It wouldn’t be neighborly to say no, but hell, the realreason I nod agreement is I’mdyingto know what it says.
Before I can open the letter, Babybelle twists into action, squirming until she slips from my grasp. As soon as her little hooves clatter against the wood of the front porch, she races between Rune’s legs and straight into his house.
“Oh, no! Babybelle!” I push past him and give chase.
Rune calls out behind me, “It’s all right.”
“It’s really not.” I sprint down the hallway. “She can chew up a rug in two seconds flat!”
Babybelle looks back over her shoulder to make sure I’m following, then gives a triumphant bleat. With a bounding hop and a flick of her white tail, she dives into an open doorway. “Me! Me! Me!”
We race through the living room, then the dining room, white sheets covering all of the furniture and making the rooms appear like ghosts of themselves. The mini-goat’s hooves clatter over the hardwood floor in a dancing beat as she dashes back across the hall and into what must be a den or office, furniture-less except for a white-enshrouded desk and empty built-in bookcases climbing the walls.
“Do you actually live here?” I pant as I spread my arms wide and attempt to box Babybelle in a corner, only to have her careen past me with a playful hop.
“Yes,” Rune grumbles, his voice closer than I expected.
I glance over my shoulder to find him following hard on my heels, his big body moving silently behind me in a way that makes my skin prickle.
We finally chase her into the big white kitchen and across to the pantry. Seeing its shelves are empty and therefore safe from any rottenness she might get up to, I givea triumphant “Ha!” and shut the door. She thumps against the wood, and I crack it open. Babybelle’s little nose sticks out, snuffling, and she bleats. She barrels inside, parkours off the back wall with a midair flip, and dashes past me only to be scooped up by Rune.
His huge hand cradles her body, and she’s never looked tinier, but Babybelle cuddles against his chest and headbutts his chin. She’s no fool, my little one—she knows a good thing when she feels it, and Rune snuggles seem to be her new favorite.
“Just a minute. Let me catch my breath,” I gasp, fanning my heated face with the envelope. The kitchen is spotless, but not in an I’m-addicted-to-cleaning kind of way. Instead, it feels unused, the countertops bare, the sink dry and empty. “Cook a lot?”
“No.” He grimaces, and I wonder what that’s about but don’t push.
I’ve got more important things to focus on. The envelope rips with a satisfying sound, and I open the letter and read:
