Wolf at the Door

chapter Twenty-two



Rachael stood on the porch for 607 Summit Avenue. The threestory mansion was white, with black shutters. Relatively fresh paint job; no more than three years old at the most. A front wraparound porch that put her small sherbet porch to instant shame. A detached garage—again, something she was used to, given where she had been raised.

I didn’t call for an appointment. I just came. Mrs. Cain knows what I’m doing, but no one else.

Still: I’m here to warn, not engage. We’ll see if she has the intelligence to see it. And if she jumps me, or sics underlings on me . . . then I’ll know, won’t I?

She rang the doorbell. And was surprised: instead of an old-fashioned chime, the doorbell blatted the chorus from “Cell Block Tango.”

What the hell?

Faintly, from what she assumed was the middle of the home, she heard hurrying footsteps. Then the door was yanked open and she was face-to-face with the skinniest African American she had ever seen. With the largest pregnant belly she had also ever seen.

The woman greeted her with a sharp, “Byerly’s grocery delivery?”

Hunger. Irritation. Hunger.

“No. My name is—”

“Well, why not? Can’t you see I’m starving here?”

Rachael believed her. The woman didn’t have an ounce of spare flesh that hadn’t been diverted to her gestating belly. Her hair was skinned back so tightly her eyebrows arched in permanent surprise. And Rachael could actually see the woman’s blue T-shirt shifting as the gestating spawn moved and kicked.

“I can absolutely see you’re starving here. Perhaps you should sit down.” She knew nothing about how humans procreated, and this one looked ready to burst into labor on the half second. “Maybe I—”

“Oh, you might as well come in.” The woman stretched up to peer over Rachael’s shoulder, doubtless seeking the grocery truck. “My name’s Jessica.” Hunger. Irritation.

“I’m Rachael Velvela. I come from my cousin, Michael Wyndham, who is my Pack—”

“Dammit! Delivery the same business day, my black ass.” She scanned the street once more, then sighed and stepped back to let Rachael come in. She slammed the door hard enough to muss Rachael’s hair. “Heads are gonna roll.”

“I believe you.” Gestating humans, she had decided, were somewhat terrifying. This small dark-skinned woman looked capable of any violence. And who would dare hit her back, risking injury to the infant? “I’m here to—”

“Well, finally.”

Rachael turned to look. A tall, good-looking blonde with shoulder-length hair (and red lowlights) was galloping down the eight-foot-wide sweeping staircase. The front hall was easily as big as the average living room; these living quarters were perfectly suited for royalty. Since she was related to some, she ought to know.

“About time you got here.”

“It is? About time?” Rachael asked.

The blonde on the stairs snorted. “Duh, yes. We’ve had her stuff boxed for weeks.”

“Antonia’s stuff?” Rachael guessed.

“Duh, yes.”

They think I’m here to collect the late Pack member’s possessions. Is that good for me, or bad for me?

“You are the vampire queen?”

The blonde, who looked to be in her late twenties, grimaced. “Ugh, yes, and it’s Betsy, okay? Do not call me that other thing. Once you pick it up, it’s, like, impossible to quit.”

“Your Majesty—”

“See? You heard that, right?” Betsy pointed to the one who had spoken, a small woman with long blond curls who didn’t look a day over seventeen. She had appeared from nowhere and was hurrying toward the small group. The mansion was doubtless a warren of long hallways and secret entrances and many, many staircases. “She’s never gonna get out of the habit. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s still ‘Your Majesty’ this and ‘Your Majesty’ that.”

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“Your Majesty—”

“See?”

“—forgive my intrusion but I’ve been going over the monthly—oh. Hello. I thought I heard someone at the door.” The teenager squinted at Rachael. “You are not human.” Nothing. Nothing.

“Not since the operation.”

Silence. Stares.

Ouch, tough room. “Uh, no, I’m Pack. I apologize for not calling ahead, but time is not on our side. I was sent here to—”

“She’s here to get Antonia’s stuff.” Hunger, hunger, hunger!

Rachael tried again. “Not really, but—”

“Oh! Yes, it’s all packed. You must relay our sympathies once again to your king.” The teenager looked as distracted as she sounded; clearly she had other things on her mind. “We’re running out of freezer space. So I suggest we purchase a chest freezer to be kept off the kitchen in that little nook no one uses.”

“We wouldn’t need a freezer or a nook to put it in if you didn’t buy eighty flavors of vodka.” Nothing. Nothing.

The teenager blinked slowly at the queen, like an owl. She was wearing khaki knee-length shorts and a red polo shirt; an unbuttoned red cardigan was thrown over her shoulders. Sockless, her tiny feet were pale and perfect. “Yes, well. I do buy eighty flavors of vodka, thus we do need the space.” Nothing.

Rachael immediately remembered what she, and every other Pack member she’d discussed this with, tried so hard to forget. The most disconcerting thing about vampires wasn’t how indestructible they were. And it wasn’t that they had their own rules of behavior. It wasn’t even that they were technically dead meat walking. No, the scariest, awfulest thing about vampires was only this: they had no scent. No scent.

At least, they had no scent the Pack could detect. Which was unnerving, to say the least. Rachael was used to reading scents almost unconsciously, the way humans read facial expressions. But with vampires, there was no way, no way at all, to guess what they were thinking, or what they would do next.

Unnerving? No. Frightening.

The small pregnant woman was starving and angry—most likely the former because of the demands of pregnancy, and the latter because of hormonal influences.

But the two vampires? Were they angry? Hungry? Bored? Irritated? Sexually aroused? Indifferent? Murderous? Amused?

No way. No way at all to know until they acted.

No wonder you forgot. They’re terrifying! That’s what they call a psychological block, and small wonder.

“This,” Betsy said, once again noticing Rachael, who was frozen in the entry hall with no idea of what to do. “This is what I have to put up with! Dead girls swilling vodka shots. Werewolves dropping by to pick up clothes for other dead girls.” She was wearing a dark rose linen shirtdress, belted at the waist, and the prettiest gold 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 f*cking 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.