Derik's Bane Read Online Free PDF Page B

white, and looked sharp. The guy probably ate his steak raw. He could make a fortune doing Chiclets commercials. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
    “No, you’ve got the right house. I’ve been waiting for the loaner.” She nodded at the flashy little blue convertible. “The other profs are going to accuse me of entering my midlife crisis a little early, but what can you do? Come in. How are you getting back to the garage?”
    He stepped inside, and as she reached past him to shut the screen door, she was reminded all over again—as if she needed it!—just how large he was. She was not a petite woman by any means—in fact, she ought to lay off the chocolate croissants—but he made her feel absolutely tiny. She caught a sniff of him and nearly purred. He smelled like soap and male. Big, clean male.
    He glanced around her kitchen. “Listen, I don’t want to put you out, but can you tell me which house is number 6 Fairy Lane?”
    “It’s this one,” she said with bare impatience. Gorgeous, but not terribly bright. Well, nobody was perfect. “I told you, you’re in the right place. I’m running late for rounds, so if you could just arrange to have someone pick you up—”
    “Yeah, I’ll do that. ’Cuz there’s obviously been a mistake.”
    “Tell me about it,” she said, looking at him with longing. In a perfect world, he would be her pool boy. Instead, she was late for work and he had to hitch a ride back to his place of business. “Well, thanks for dropping off the car—see you.”
    He followed her onto the porch. “It was nice meeting you. Sorry about the misunderstanding.” But, interestingly, instead of being regretful, he sounded weirdly relieved.
    Odd! But, she had no time to ponder it. “Bye!”
    She got the car going with no trouble—she’d heard the phrase “the engine purred like a kitten” before but had no real experience with it until now—and pulled out of the driveway. She waved to the man who should have been her pool boy, who was looking as though he’d had a touch of sun, and dropped the pedal.

6
    DERIK WENT TO THE NEAREST SAFE HOUSE, THE one down the block from the aquarium. An adorable cub answered the door, a boy about eight years old with big dark eyes and black hair.
    “Hi,” Derik said. “Are your folks home?”
    “Sure. What’s your name?”
    “Derik.”
    “Okay. Come on in.”
    Derik followed the boy into a kitchen that smelled like cookie dough and found the lady of the house up to her elbows in butterscotch chips. “Well, hi there,” she said, her greeting a soft Midwestern twang. “My name’s Marjie Wolfton; this is my son, Terry. Do you need some help?”
    “Just a private phone. I’m—uh—sort of on a mission to—um—never mind.” He just couldn’t bring himself to say “save the world.” It was too bizarre.
    Marjie, however, seemed to know all about it. Either that, or she was used to strange werewolves showing up at her door. “Yes, of course. Terry, show Derik the den.”
    “Okay.” The boy snatched a fistful of dough and disappeared down a hallway. Derik followed him into the den, which had a hardwood floor, windows set into the ceiling, a computer, a phone, and a television.
    “Are you from Massachusetts?” Terry asked.
    “Uh-huh.” He was going to have to call Antonia and figure out this mess. No way was that distracted cutie Morgan Le Fay. No way. “How’d you know? Am I dropping my Rs?”
    The boy ignored the question. “And you live with Michael Wyndham? The Pack leader?”
    Derik looked at the boy, really looked. That was pure hero worship, if he wasn’t mistaken. And since he used to think of Michael’s father in the exact same way, Derik completely understood where the kid was coming from. Men who took a Pack . . . ran a Pack . . . they were just . . . different. More there . And they could make you like them. It was a talent, the way some people could raise just one eyebrow. It was hard to explain.
    “Yeah, I live out