Wolf at the Door - By MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,31

strappy sandals Rachael had ever seen. And she, too, was wearing a heavy sweater over everything.

Rachael belatedly realized it was warm . . . almost hot . . . in the mansion. Of course. Their blood doesn’t flow like ours. They’re likely cold all the time, poor creatures.

“You’re a werewolf, right?” the queen was asking. She snuggled deeper into her sweater. “That’s what Pack means, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“There is also the matter of all the fruit we keep frozen,” the teenager added sharply, “to satisfy your cravings for smooth—”

“Irrelevant, Tina, you nag from hell!” Again, to Rachael: “See? See?”

“Perhaps,” Rachael began, “this is a bad—”

“We’d better not be out of fruit again,” the scrawny gestating woman said, growing (Rachael wouldn’t have thought it possible) more hungry and alarmed. “Are we fucking out of fruit again? There was a ton of it last night!”

“The driver will be here soon, Jessica, so fret not,” the teenager, Tina, soothed. She had a slight southern accent and put across confidence and calm with her voice and gestures. Probably not a teenager, then. She could be a hundred years old for all you know. “Then you may gorge on all the fruit and steaks and Pop-Tarts you like.”

“Ohhhh . . . don’t talk about the food I can’t have right now because the cupboard’s bare . . .” Jessica actually clutched her stomach and moaned. “Sooo hungry . . .”

“This is definitely a bad time,” Rachael decided aloud.

The blonde snorted again. “Ya think?”

“I shall return.”

“Okey-dokey.” For an undead monarch, the queen was quite laid back. “Don’t let the door slam you upside the head on the way out.”

Hostility . . . why? I’ve done nothing. Or do they resent the reason for my presence? Their perceived reason: that I am here to put their friend to rest, the final act to wipe Antonia off their radars?

Or is it something else?

How will I ever tell?

By coming back, she decided. As often as was necessary. She certainly wasn’t going to warn any of them about the murders. Not until she thought about what she had just now seen. Rachael disliked acting on impulse. In this, she was very different from Pack. Before now she hadn’t realized it could be a tactical advantage.

“Sorry to have troubled you.”

“Are you kidding? This was the least troubling part of my whole day!” The vampire queen laughed, and Rachael found herself warming to the young woman. The laugh, she decided. Fun and carefree. It made her want to—

Rachael got out of there. Fast. Some people, she knew, could make you like them. It was a knack, like being able to raise one eyebrow. She imagined the queen’s charisma came in handy more than once. So it was past time to go.

“Next time, maybe you could bring some Pop-Tarts?” Jessica called as Rachael hit the porch.

Next time, I’ll bring some howitzers.

Twenty-three

At 5:59 P.M. central standard time, a blue Prius with rental plates pulled into the alley beside the Victorian. Rachael knew this because she had been sitting on the sherbet porch, chatting with her landlords and thinking about vampires.

From the little she’d seen, that was not a mansion filled with terrified minions. Or any minions, possibly. And the queen had seemed more annoyed by their antics than by a werewolf just dropping by. It was perfect camouflage. Or the queen really was that stupid and shortsighted. Not to mention easily distracted.

No, it was an act. Had to be. Because the alternative did not bear pondering. The alternative—

“That last cupcake won’t eat itself,” one of her landlords reminded her, so she (ever mindful of being a good houseguest) complied.

She liked Call Me Jim and his wife, Please Call Me Martha. They weren’t intrusive but did welcome questions about their own lives. They were both outstanding bakers—apparently they were retired, and their son (Turret Boy, whom she was cordially jealous of because of where he got to sleep) ran their business now.

Retirement did not keep them from baking pies and lemon bars and brownies. It did not prevent them from baking snickerdoodles and peanut butter cookies and coconut macaroons. It was no impediment to the baking of croissants and strudel and sticky buns and apple turnovers. Nothing stopped them from whipping up chocolate donuts and maple Long Johns and fried cinnamon rolls. Certainly nothing got in the way of their creating strawberry tarts and Svenska tortes and Boston cream pie (which they had made the day she moved in, in her honor!).

Because they were so busy