Derik's Bane (2 page)

Best friend or no, nobody—
nobody
—knocked the alpha male around in his own . . . damned . . . house. The other Pack members lived there by his grace and favor, thanks very much, and while the forty-room house had more than enough room for them all, certain things were simply . . . not . . . done.

“Don’t start with me,” Derik warned. The morning sunlight was slanting through the skylight, shining so brightly it looked like Derik’s hair was about to burst into flames. His friend’s mouth—usually relaxed in a wiseass grin—was a tight slash. His grass-green eyes were narrow. He looked—Michael had trouble believing it—ugly and dangerous. Rogue. “Just stay off.”

“You started it, at the risk of sounding junior high, and you’re going to show throat and apologize, or you’ll be counting your broken ribs all the way to the emergency room.”

“Come near me again, and we’ll see who’s counting ribs.”

“Derik. Last chance.”

“Cut it out!” It was Moira, shrieking from a safe distance. “Don’t do this in his own house, you idiot! He won’t stand down, and you two morons—schmucks—losers will hurt each other!”

“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 Jeannie 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.

DERIK HEARD THE FOOTSTEPS AND SLOWED. HE’D made it almost all the way to the beach but, unless he felt like swimming to London, it was time to stop and think with his head instead of his temper.

Whoever was approaching was downwind, so he didn’t know for sure, but he braced himself for Michael. He’d have to apologize, or there would be real trouble. And he
would
apologize. He would. He owed it to his friend, and worse, he’d behaved badly. So he would apologize. Yes. Absolutely.

But it would taste like shit in his mouth.

Derik stared out to sea and shook his head at this sorry-ass turn of events. He and Mike had grown up together. Their mothers had often put them in the same crib to nap. They had experienced their first Change the same month of the same year; he remembered Mike had been as thrilled, as terrified, as drunk on the moon as he had been. They had chased together, hunted together, killed together. Had defended the Pack together.

He had no problem with Michael; he loved the big dope.

He just didn’t love Michael being the boss. Not anymore.

Derik made a fist and hit himself on the thigh. This was his problem, not Michael’s, and he had to figure out how to fix it, pronto. He owed the big guy respect, not just brotherly love. And show it he would, no matter how the words wanted to choke him. He wasn’t some—some monkey, fighting for the sake of it. He was a werewolf, member of the Wyndham Pack, and fully grown besides. Squabbling was beneath him. So was picking fights.

He turned, forcing a smile . . . and the clod of dirt hit him right in the middle of the forehead. It exploded, and dust sprayed everywhere.

“Idiot! Putz! Dumb ass!”

“Jeez, Moira,” he complained, secretly glad showing throat had been put off a bit, “you could have put my eye out.”

“I was
aiming
for your eye, you stupid asshole!”

“Now, Moira, you know you shouldn’t use such vague terms,” he teased. “You gotta speak in black and white, honey, really let people know what’s on your mind.”

She wasn’t having it; the scowl didn’t crack. She marched the rest of the way up to him—looking cute as hell in khaki shorts and a lavender T-shirt—and kicked him smartly in the shin. It hurt, too; Moira had toenails like a sloth. “How could you risk your life like that? We nearly had a fight for dominance in the main hall in front of all your friends. In front of Lara! You’re lucky Michael didn’t tear your head off. You’re lucky Jeannie didn’t shoot you!”

He didn’t want to, but couldn’t help it: He felt his lips draw back from his teeth. “I could have taken him.”

Moira threw up her hands. “What is
wrong
with you? You’ve been like a hungry bear all summer. This is a good time for us, Derik—Michael’s brought peace, Gerald’s gone, we caught the monster who’d been killing those poor girls . . . there’s never been a better time to be a werewolf. So why are you trying so hard to screw things up?”

He looked at her, this fine woman, as dear to him as Michael was.
Oh, yeah?
a treacherous inner voice whispered.
Dear to you, huh? You’ve got a funny way of showing it, jerkoff.

He didn’t have an answer for her. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” he said dully. “I just want to fight, all the time. Everything that comes out of Michael’s mouth is pissing me off. I love him, but I could choke him right now just to watch his eyeballs bulge.”

Moira’s own eyeballs bulged a bit at that, but she recovered quickly. Her eyes—so fine a blue they were nearly lavender—went narrow and thoughtful. She began to pace, looking not unlike a petite blonde general.

“Okay, well, let’s figure this out.” He smiled in spite of himself. Moira the math genius. Every problem could be broken down to an equation and, thus, solved. Well, hell, she’d figured out where Bin Laden was hiding, hadn’t she? Luckily for the world, one of the cabinet members was a werewolf. Moira had sent an E-mail, and forty-eight hours later, hello, spider hole. “Are you in love with Jeannie?”

“Wha—no!”

“Okay, calm down. It’s an explanation, you know . . . if you wanted another man’s mate.”

“Well, I don’t. I mean, I
like
her and all, but she’s Michael’s. Just like he’s hers. You can’t really picture either of them with anyone else, can you?”

Moira stopped pacing and smiled at him. “No, you’re right about that. All right, then,” she continued matter-of-factly, “are you in love with me?”

“Ewww, no!”

Unfortunately, she kept going. “Are you upset because I’ve taken a mate and am having sex with him pretty much every chance I—”

“Aagghh, Moira, please, my eardrums are gonna implode!”

She arched her brows. “ ‘Eww’?”

“Honey, you’re too cute to be believed, but I have never—
never
, yuck!—thought of you that way. Never. Ugh! Did I say never?”

“All right, you don’t have to induce vomiting to get your point across.”

“If it’ll get your mind off that track . . .” he warned, fully prepared to shove a finger down his throat.

“Well, it’s another theory, that’s all.”

“A bad, terrible, awful, yucky theory. Baby, we grew up together. You’re like the sister I never wanted.” He flopped down onto the sand to watch her pace. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but if you put your tongue in my mouth, I’d probably barf.”

“Mutual, wise guy. Actually, I was sure you were picking a fight because you’ve got the urge to settle down with a mate, and you’re surrounded by mated couples, and . . . well, I know how you feel, is all.” She paused, looking pensive. “I was so lonesome before Jared came.”

“Moira mated with a monkey, Moira mated with a monkey,” Derik sang.

“Shut up, don’t call him that! God, I really hate that term.”

“I dare you to use it in front of Jeannie,” he teased.

“Do I look like I want to spend the rest of the day in an iron lung? Never mind the humans in our lives . . . my point is, I couldn’t stand to be around Michael or Jeannie, because seeing their happiness made me feel worse. I figured that was your problem, too.”

“Well, it’s not. Don’t get me wrong, cutie, I’d love to find the right girl and knock her up—”

“And cherish and love her,” Moira added dryly.

“—but I’ve got time. Hell, I’m not even thirty yet.”

“Well, we could see if Michael—”

“Leave him out of this.”

She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then adopted an overly innocent expression that put him instantly on guard. The last time she’d looked like that, she had encouraged Lara to cut up his cashmere sweater to make soft puppets. “We should talk to Michael, you know. He’s our leader. He’ll tell us what to do.”