Driftwood - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,14

him. And he was old. For vampires, age meant strength. He thought if worse came to terrible, he could take them.

"Let's step outside," Burke said, and seized Pete by the arm.

"I don't think so," the old monster said loudly. "I'm needed here. I—hey!" They tussled for a moment, and then Burke literally started dragging him toward the rear of the restaurant. Serena could see shock warring with dignity on Pete's face: make a fuss and get help? Or endure and get rid of them outside?

She could see him try to set his feet, and see his amazement when Burke overpowered him again, almost effortlessly. She could also see the way Burke's jaw was set, the throbbing pulse at his temple. It wasn't just werewolf strength; Burke was overpowering the monster with sheer rage.

"Killing girls," Burke was muttering, as the armpit of Pete's suit tore. He got a better grip. "Killing girls. Killing girls!"

A few people stared. But this was P-town and nobody interfered. New Englanders were famous for minding their own business.

"What the hell are you?" Pete yelled back. "You're no vampire!"

"I'm worse," Burke said through gritted teeth. They were in the kitchen now, the smell of sizzling chicken wings making Serena want to gag. "I have to kill to eat."

Before any of the staff could react—or even notice, as hard as they were all working—Serena hurried ahead. She figured she might as well contribute to the felony kidnapping in some small way, so she held the back door open for them. Burke dragged Pete out, past the reeking garbage rollaways, past the illegally parked cars, past the boardwalk, onto the beach. Serena bent and picked up a piece of driftwood, one about a foot long and shaped, interestingly, like a spear. She could feel the splinters as she held it in her hand; it was about two inches in diameter.

Pete swung and connected; the blow made Burke stagger but he didn't loosen his grip. "Your pack leader didn't authorize this,"

he said. "You'll start a war."

Ah, the monster knew about werewolves—that was interesting. Of course, it made sense… Pete would want to know who he was sharing the killing field with.

"Serena's my pack. And you're all rogues. Don't pretend you're Europe. Nobody will miss you."

"Nobody missed you," Pete leered at her.

"Not then. But now, yes." She hefted the driftwood, then hesitated, hating herself for it but unable to resist. "Why? Why me, and why Maggie?"

"And Cathie and Jenny and Barbie and Kirsten and Connie and Carrie and Yvonne and Renee and Lynn and so many I've lost count. Why? Are you seriously asking me that? Why? Because that's what we do, stupid. You're—what? Fifty-some years old and you don't know that?"

"We don't do that," she retorted, and gave him a roundhouse smack of her own. "We don't do that! We don't have to! You did it because you wanted to!" Each shout was punctuated with another blow; Burke and Pete were skidding and sliding in the sand. The sea washed over their ankles. She had to scream to be heard over the surf. That was all right. She felt like screaming.

She was, literally, in a killing rage. "You wanted to! She never did anything bad and you wanted to!"

"It's what we do," Pete said again, black blood trickling from his mouth, his nose. "The king won't stand for this."

"Who do you think sent me, bastard? He's getting rid of every one of you tinpot tinshit dictators. He won't stand for your shit and neither will I!"

"Then why," Pete said, and spat out two teeth, "why are you still talking?"

Good question. She kicked him in the balls while she thought of an answer. She had the stake. She had the anger. She even had a henchman. So why was the monster still alive?

"We don't do that," she said at last, and dropped the stake. She was condemning who knew how many more women to torture and death… Maggie was counting on her, wherever she was, and—and—"We don't do that and I don't do that."

"Ha," Pete said, and grinned at her through broken teeth. "All the way from Minnesota. Long trip for nothing."

"Not nothing," Burke said. "She came for me. She just didn't know." Then he broke Pete's neck, a dry snap swallowed by the waves. Pete's mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish in a bowl, and then—Serena couldn't believe it—and then Burke literally ripped the monster's head off and tossed it away like a beach ball. The sound it made was like a chicken leg being pulled from a thigh. Times a thousand.

She spun away from their little group of evil and tried to be sick in the sand, but couldn't vomit. The sound—and the look on Pete's face when his neck broke—and the sound—

Burke briskly washed his hands in the surf and knelt beside her. She leaned against him and wiped her mouth.

"I knew you wouldn't," he whispered into her ear. "I told you: I'm the beast, not you."

"I just—couldn't. He was smirking at me and he knew I couldn't and he just—I just—" She closed her eyes and heard the snap of Pete's neck breaking again. This time it didn't make her feel sick. This time it made her… not exactly happy. More like…

peaceful? "Oh, Burke. What if you hadn't come? What if I'd never met you?"

"But I did. And you did. And Maggie can rest. No more bad dreams."

"How did you know I—?"

He kissed her on the temple. "How could I not know my own mate?"

She clung to him, ignoring the surf wetting their legs, their knees. "Your mate? You still want to—?"

"Since you were in the hole and told me to go away. I couldn't leave you then. How could I leave you now? You're for me and I'm for you."

"Just like that?"

He shrugged.

"Just like that," she answered herself. The events of the past two days flashed across her mind: all he had done. For her. Had anyone ever… ? Who else could have done so much for her, but the man she was destined to be with?

"I'll outlive you," she said tearfully.

"On the upside, I can't knock you up."

"No kids," she said, cheering up.

He kissed her again. "No kids."

They rose as one and walked to the truck, not looking back when the surf covered Pete's body—both pieces—and took it away.

As predicted, nobody missed him, except the liquor rep, and she quickly found a new client.

No one in the bar who saw Burke and Serena ever forgot them, and no one in the bar ever saw them again. Drifters, in and out of P-town, one of several thousand tourists who came through Cape Cod each summer. Nothing special about them.

No, nothing at all.