Really Unusual Bad Boys (2 page)

“A
w, son of a
bitch!”

Lois wasn't sure if she shouted it, or if it was just a thought. She could feel warm hands running over her limbs…

(checking for injury?)

…stroking her stomach, shoulders, even her breasts, and something warm and tickly on her lips, almost like a kiss, but of course that wasn't—

She was afraid to open her eyes and look. But she was afraid to keep lying there, too.

She wasn't dead.
Ergo,
she was alive.
Ergo,
she was in a hospital somewhere.
Ergo,
she'd have to go through Psych and treatment and T-groups and then try again sometime when they weren't watching her so carefully anymore. Dammit!

She opened her eyes. And instantly assumed the overdose had driven her insane.

She wasn't in a hospital. She wasn't even in her house. She was lying on the ground, in the middle of what looked like a desert—there was hard-packed sand everywhere, and one or two scrawny trees, and dunes in the distance. But it wasn't hot—it felt like a perfectly pleasant seventy-five degrees or so. And the light tickling on her lips was actually a raspy tongue. A puma was standing over her, and the sky was lavender. She wasn't sure which was more startling.

She blinked, then slowly rose to a sitting position. Yep, that was a purple sky, all right. She was in a desert that wasn't hot, and the sky was the color of an iris petal. She had definitely gone crazy. And the puma was backing off but still watching her. Her cheek still throbbed from its rough tongue.

She stared at the big cat, which was staring right back. It was enormous—probably two hundred and fifty pounds at least. Its coat was the color of the desert sand and—weird!—its eyes were the color of the purple sky. Its paws were huge, easily as big across as her hand if she spread her fingers wide.

It was sitting up very straight beside one of the stunted, twisted trees. Its tail—at least five feet long, and as thick around as her wrist—switched lazily back and forth. It seemed tame—it hadn't killed her in her sleep, after all.

She thought about standing up, rejected the idea, then reconsidered. After all, why was she being careful? She'd tried to commit suicide and now she was worried about a predator? What in God's name for?

She stood, slowly, never taking her eyes off the big cat. It was only when she was on her feet that she realized the last thing, the most shocking thing—her knee didn't hurt. Not even a tiny bit.

She flexed. She crouched. She jogged in place. Nothing, not a twinge, not a whimper.

“It worked!” she cried, forgetting herself for a moment. “I'm dead and—and somewhere else.” Heaven? Hell? Some weird place in between? Who cared? She was out of pain for the first time in a long, long time. “I'm okay! I'm here and I'm okay! Do you hear? I made it and I'm okay!”

The puma was strolling toward her. She was so elated she forgot to be afraid. “I'm better now,” she told it. “Isn't that great?”

“What was wrong with you?”
the puma asked. Except it didn't really speak—its jaws never moved. But she heard the question in her head.

After the purple sky and the painless limb, nothing was going to faze her. “Plenty of things, believe you me,” she answered. “But I guess things are finally looking up.” She cleared her throat. The puma was standing no more than two feet away, looking up at her. “You're—uh—not going to eat me, are you?”

“I was thinking about it.”
Something was wrong with the cat's coat. It was shedding—no, its skin was rippling—no, it was sick—no, it was shrinking—no, it was growing—no, it was a man, a darkly tanned man with shoulder-length tawny blond hair and purple eyes. A man standing where the puma had just been. He grinned at her. His teeth were incredibly white and looked sharp. “Yes, I was definitely giving it some thought.”

“Aaaaaaaaaa—”

“Are you all right?”

“—aaaaaaaaaaaggggggggg—”

“My lady? What's wrong?”

“—gggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

“Um, well, I will just change back, then.”

“—hhhhhhhhhhhhh
—what? No, don't do that. Just give me a minute.” Panting, Lois sat down before she fell down. The puma man, who was splendidly nude, sat down cross-legged across from her. He was tanned, with the sleek muscles she had noticed before. His stomach was a washboard, and his forehead was creased with concern.

“Perhaps you need a healer,” he suggested.

“Perhaps I need the department shrink, followed by several Budweisers. Um—what are you?”

“I am—a man, as you are a woman.”

She snorted. The world—this strange new place—had stopped tilting, that was something. For a black moment, she'd thought she was going to faint. And that would be just too damned embarrassing. “Sure. Just a run-of-the-mill fella. Who can turn back and forth into a puma—”

“What is a poo-muh?”

“—and walks around naked and is magically delicious, besides.”

“I know no magic.”

“Never mind.” She was trying not to stare, but couldn't help it. He was probably the best-looking guy she'd ever seen. He was big, but not bulky—his muscles had the lean definition of a swimmer's. His hair was gorgeous, tumbling around his shoulders, thick and wavy. His eyes were enormous, the palest lavender framed with darker purple lashes. His pubic hair, thank God, wasn't purple, but rather two shades darker than the hair on his head. His shoulders, legs, and arms were lightly furred, and his nails were longer than hers. Since she was a nail-biter, that wasn't much of a trick.

When they spoke, it was simultaneously.

“Where am I?”

“How did you come to be here?”

She laughed. “You first.”

He smiled. She nearly flinched back, but restrained herself in time. His smile was much wider than a normal person's. She figured he had, at rough count, about a thousand teeth. “As you wish. This is my home. It is the SandLands. And you just appeared. Between one breath and the next, you appeared. I stayed, as I was curious. You slept for a long time.”

“Well, thanks for not chomping me in my sleep.”

He looked offended. “I would never.”

“Oh, take it easy, I was only joking. As for your question, I have no friggin' idea how I came to be here. I tried—back at my house, I was drinking a lot and—never mind. Anyway, I passed out and the next thing I knew, I was here.”

“You must be a sorceress of unimaginable power.”

“Ah—no. No, don't think so. I think being here was a big-ass accident. A good accident,” she said hastily when his forehead creased again. “But it was nothing I did on purpose. Um—what next?”

“You will come with me to my home. I wish my father and brothers to meet you.”

“Oh. Okay, then. Doesn't exactly sound like a request, though,” she added in a mumble.

He rose in one fluid movement while she gaped in admiration, then extended his hand. It was almost twice as big as hers, and she wasn't exactly a shrimp.

She put her hand in his and let him pull her to a standing position. She sensed that he could have tossed her thirty feet if he wanted to. She tried not to stare below his waist, but couldn't resist peeking. He was long, thick, and semierect, which was flattering.

As if reading her mind, he looked down into her face and said matter-of-factly, “You are extremely beautiful.”

She laughed at him. She hadn't meant to, but it was an absurd comment. She was built like a fire hydrant—dense and practical, but hardly the curvy, willowy blond specimen so popular in American society. She had no waist, and her legs were too long, and her tits were only so-so—she'd been a B cup for years. Plus, she had multiple scars from years of street scuffles—knife wounds, bullet wounds, even a permanent rope burn a junkie, high on acid and Jack Daniel's, had given her. Her hair was the nicest thing about her, and it was too curly, too wild, too out of control in humidity, and the color of a tar pit.

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. Even through her shirt, she could feel the heat from his hands, and his erection brushing against her back. This was alarming, yet delightful. She was facing the sun—a small, white orb—and in the distance she could see a castle.

“My home is there. May I keep you?” he asked, leaning down and speaking softly into her ear. She shivered and felt her entire left side erupt into goose bumps. She leaned back against him and felt him drop a kiss to the tip of her ear, then nuzzle the side of her neck. He was definitely an affectionate fellow, no doubt about that.

“Ah—nope. But I'd sure like to see where you live.”

“As you wish, my lady. And about the other, we shall see.” Before she could puzzle out what
that
was supposed to mean, his hands were abruptly gone, and when she turned to look at him, he was a puma again.

Out of pure curiosity, she stretched out her hands. Even when she put her hands thumb to thumb and spread her fingers wide, his head was still wider. He was truly enormous, bigger than any cat she'd ever seen on her own world. Even the lions on her world were smaller.

“My lady, what are you waiting for?”
She could hear him laughing in her head.
“Mount, if you please.”

She blushed all the way down to her toes at the mental image that phrase conjured up, then awkwardly clambered on top of him with many grunts. “You mean I have to ride you to the castle-thingy?”

“Most citizens would say, ‘O good lord, you mean I, your humblest servant, am allowed to ride atop you?'”

“Yeah, well, I'm not from around here, pally.”

He laughed in her head again—God, that was so
weird!
—dug into the sand with all four paws, and they were off like a shot. She shrieked with surprise and joy and nearly fell off. She gripped him tighter with her knees and clutched his fur, which was coarse and soft at the same time—like rough silk. The stunted trees were whizzing by, his paws thudded into the hard-packed sand with the regularity of a metronome, and above her the lavender sky whirled and twirled. She laughed aloud and felt truly, deeply happy for the first time in a year.

“Oh, faster, can you go faster?” The wind was rushing in her face and the dust was making her eyes water and she was probably going to get a bloody nose if she let her face bang into his shoulder but she didn't give a tin-shit. All she knew was that she wasn't dead—or if she was dead, it was pretty swell—she wasn't in pain, and she was enjoying the first puma ride of her life with the most intriguing man she'd ever met. “Faster!”

She could hear the delight in his voice.
“Most ladies—and lords!—would be yetching all over my coat by now.”

“Yetching? You mean puking, barfing? Throwing up? Ha! I haven't thrown up since I was eight,” she said scornfully. “And that was because I ate all our leftover Halloween candy.”

“Hallo'een? You mean Spirit Night?”

“Hmm,
that's
interesting. Looks like your home and my home have some interesting parallels. And the reason I'm using words like ‘interesting parallels' is because
you're not going fast enough.
”

He snorted, then poured it on. She didn't talk anymore. She concentrated solely on hanging on. She had never been happier in her life.

“T
hat was something,” she said, jumping off. She was panting from the adrenaline rush, but her knee didn't so much as squeak in pain. And she took fresh delight in that. “That was
really
something. Hey, gorgeous, maybe we can do it again sometime?”

He popped back to human form. It was still too quick for her eye to accurately report what happened when he transformed. “I am at my lady's command.”

“Well, isn't that nifty. So, um—you live here?”

“Here” was the castle. When she'd seen it from the middle of the desert, it had looked like a small white castle dreaming in the distance. Up close it was, she figured, about the size of the Empire State Building. Except not as high. But it sure had the square footage of Manhattan real estate. She had to tip her head
waaaaaaay
back to see the top of the spires.

It looked just like the castles she'd seen pictures of back home, except it was pure, dazzling white. She assumed they had mined the stone from a nearby quarry…about a thousand years ago. The flags flying atop the spires were brightly colored and had animals on them—she spotted a puma atop all the others, but lions, leopards, and even a few house cats were also represented.

There were several people about, going to and from the castle, and every one of them was staring at her as they hurried by. She assumed it was her clothes—or her coloring, because they were, to a man, woman, and child, all blond. And they sure weren't wearing an old workout bra and tattered gym shorts. Shit, she was practically as naked as puma-man was. Somewhere along the way, her old shirt had disappeared.

There were dozens of shades of blond represented, from the fairest platinum to what her dad had always called “dirty dishwater blond.” And while many of them had wavy locks, none of them sported a headful of wild curls, as she did.

Ah, great…dead
and
a freak. Perfect.

“…all my life.”

“Huh?”

“I said, in answer to your question, that I have lived in the Castle Royale all my life.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot the question. Is that why they're staring at me instead of you? I mean, at least
I'm
wearing clothes.”

“I told you,” he said simply. “You are beautiful, and so they stare.”

“Uh-huh.” She changed the subject. “So, are you going to give me the nickel tour, or what? After you get dressed,” she added in a mutter.

His brow wrinkled. “Uh…yes. Might I first have your name, good lady?”

“Right! I can't believe I forgot about that.”

“You are increasingly forgetful, it seems,” he teased.

She grinned back. As long as he was standing here, talking to her, she didn't mind the stares so much. “Today, yes. I'm Lois Commoner.”

She stuck out her hand. He looked at it and didn't say anything.

“Helloooooo?”
She waved her hand in front of his face. “And you are?”

“Please forgive; I was waiting to hear your rank and affiliations.”

“Oh, as to that—well, up 'til yesterday, it was Detective Lois Commoner, Minneapolis Police Department.”

“That is an odd affiliation.”

“Well, it worked for me, once upon a time.”

He took her still-proffered hand, and seemed unsure of what to do with it. Finally he patted it, then let it go. “I am Damon.”

“Is that Demon or Damien? 'Cuz I got problems with both.”

“Day-MAWN.”

“Oh.” He stuck out his hand and she shook it firmly. He watched their hands pump up and down, bemused. “It's nice to meet you. Thanks again for the ride.”

“You have but to ask if you desire another one. Come, I would like you to meet my father.”

He hadn't let go of her hand that time; instead he pulled her through the gigantic doorway, into the castle's, er, yard, or whatever it was called. But before they could get very far, a short blond woman wearing what looked like a leather tunic and pants came racing toward them. Lois didn't have a chance to see what she looked like before she skidded in the dirt before them, then hit the ground with her arms stretched over her head.

“Forgive my impertinence, Prince Damon!” she cried into the dirt. “His Majesty the King has been asking for you all morning.”

“Of course. Thank you, Rejar.”

Damon charged for the inner door, pulling Lois so hard she actually lost her feet. “Whoa! Slow down. Or leggo and I'll follow you.”

“Forgive—I will be right back. Remain here, if you please.” With that he dropped her hand and was through the door in a half second.

She rubbed her wrist—he hadn't meant to hurt her, but the marks of his fingers remained—and stared at everyone staring at her.

Two choices: hang out here and be gawked at, or follow Damon.
Prince
Damon. Did she say
Prince?

She followed.

 

It wasn't difficult to track Damon down. She followed the shouting. Two floors and five halls later, she figured out what the problem was. It seemed the king—Damon's dad?—was as sick as a dog, and everybody was yelling at everybody else about what to do about it. From the fuss, these guys didn't get sick very often.

She peeked through the doorway—no doors that she had seen, just large archways that led from one room to another. The archways were tall—at least seven feet high—and so wide, four of her could have gone through them at once.

She could see Damon and two other men standing around yelling. Well, they weren't exactly yelling—they were sort of politely disagreeing with each other very loudly. At least Damon had put some clothes on—he was wearing a robe several shades lighter than his hair, with a blazing sun embroidered on the front.

“—all respect to my good lordly brother—”

“—helping our good father the king by—”

“—turn a slops bucket o'er my good lordly brother's tiny head—”

“—try it, my good tiny brother—”

“—both of you should grow headfirst in a pile of Stinkweed, beloved princes—”

Others—she assumed they worked in the castle, as they weren't dressed nearly as nicely as Damon's brothers—were surrounding Damon and the men, and occasionally trying to get a word in edgewise.

She walked down to the next room and peeked inside. And gasped—what a room!

She'd seen a picture of the queen's chambers at Buckingham Palace once. This room put Queen Elizabeth's digs to shame.

It was enormous—the ceiling was at least twenty feet high, and the room itself was as big as the entire Homicide Department. Windows had been cut into the stone near the top of each wall, and the floor was splashed with pale lavender sunlight.

A professional football team could have comfortably slept in the bed, but there was only one person in it now—a man whose blond hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He looked to be in his late fifties, and his complexion had a definite greenish tinge. He was huddled under richly embroidered blankets—only his head was showing—and looked as unhappy as a junkie in withdrawal.

He groaned in abject misery, which made up her mind. She cautiously approached the bed and cleared her throat.

“Hi there,” she said. His eyes—the same pale purple as Damon's—opened wide and he stared at her, stunned. “Can I get you something? Some Pepto-Bismol? A bucket? You look like you're gonna—”

He groaned again, lurched upright, and threw up all over her.

“—be sick,” she finished. She stood there, dripping, and contemplated him. “Something you ate?” she asked at last.

He nodded and slumped back against the filthy bedclothes. “That I should so dishonor a lady, and one who came to me out of a need to lend aid!”

“Chill out, I'll live. You know, you'd be a lot more comfortable with clean sheets. And wouldn't you like some soup? Like—uh—chicken broth? Do they have chickens here? Do they have broth, even? Never mind, I'll find out. And aren't you thirsty? If you're gonna be this sick, you should drink a lot. Don't go away,” she added.

She turned, and saw several people—Damon among them—standing in the huge doorway. “Yeah, there you are—listen, I'm going to need clean sheets, and some cold water—can you do ice water?—and some broth. Light stuff, nothing heavy. Maybe a little bread, if you have some.
No
butter…no dairy products at all. Oh, and someone better find me an old shirt or something to run around in. Don't suppose there's a washing machine in the basement?”

Nobody moved.

“Hey! I'm talking to you people!” She marched up to the doorway and made shooing gestures. “Get your asses in gear, the old guy's pretty miserable.”

“You cannot be here,” one of the servants finally ventured, eyes rolling like a scared horse. “This area is for royalty and the servants of same. You—”

“—seem to be the only one
doing
something.”

“Do as she commands,” Damon said suddenly. Beside him, two other muscular blonds—his princely brothers?—were smiling at her.

“Well,
thank
you.”

“But ‘the old guy' is His Majesty the King! She cannot—”

“I don't give a shit if he's the Pope. He's hurting, and you dildos are just standing around. Now
move.”
She put her hand on the nearest chest—it was Damon's—and shoved. Then she noticed the heavy curtain beside the doorway, and tugged on it. It fell into place, obscuring everyone from sight, with a satisfying flap.

From behind the heavy curtain, she heard a plaintive, “What is a dildo?,” and then many retreating footsteps.

“Come here,” the king said weakly.

She turned and stomped back to the bed. “Sorry about that, but Jesus! Someone had to light a fire under those guys.”

“My name is not Jesus. But you do such things very well. Sit here beside me. Ah—your clothing will be tended to, and I must again humbly implore your forgiveness for my foul and coarse behavior—”

“Don't worry about it. You wouldn't believe how many times I've been puked on, spit on, had shit flung at my head, not to mention bullets—seriously, this is nothing. Shoot, I've had dates that weren't this pleasant.”

“The lady is too kind. If you will permit a bold query, does your striking coloring come from your sire or your dam?”

“Um…my mom's Black Irish, if that's what you mean.”

“I do not know that tribe. I
would
know all about how you came to my home.” He leaned back against the pillows and wriggled to get comfortable. He looked happy for the first time since she came into the room.

Poor guy's probably bored to death. Not used to staying in bed, that's for damn sure.

“Sure, I'll talk. What do you want to know?”

“I do beg you to tell me everything, good lady.”

“Your son—Damon?—brought me. My name's Lois, by the way.”

“I am Sekal, Lord High King of the SandLands, Ruler of the Exalted Ranges of the OnHigh Mountains, Emperor of the Snowy Islands, Maker of the—”

“So, Sekal, yeah, nice to meet you.” She automatically stuck her hand out, then cursed herself as he just looked at it. She sort of waved at him and continued. “As to how I got here…” She started to talk. She was still talking when tight-lipped servants showed up with fresh nightgowns—one for her, one for the king—sheets, blankets, and food.

While the servants bustled around, changing sheets and offering her clothes, the king beckoned and Damon was instantly at his side. He started to kneel, but the king waved weakly and Damon took his hand instead. “Ho, my son, when you said you left to go a-hunting, I did not think you should enjoy so much luck!”

“Nor I, my good father.”

“And at exactly the right time, too.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Right time for what?” Lois asked, but then she was hustled behind a changing divider, and being divested of her clothes. She slapped the servant's hands away. “I can undress myself, thanks. What's your name?”

“Zeka, my lady.”

Zeka—poor kid, what a moniker!—was a petite woman with curly blond hair and the greenest eyes Lois had ever seen. They were the color of a newly mown lawn, and as big as quarters. She was dressed simply in a white robe—in fact, all the servants were dressed in white, draped robes; they looked like escapees from the set of
Gladiator.

“Well, Zeka, whatcha got there?”

Teeny Zeka was hefting a brimming stone jug—the thing had to weigh thirty pounds!—with one arm, and pouring bluish-purple water into a large basin. A delightful perfumed scent rose from the splashing water; a cross between roses and water lilies. Suddenly Lois wanted a bath. Very badly.