Mad for a Mate, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2022 by MaryJanice Davidson
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Aleta Rafton/Lott Reps
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Cover
For my children, Christina and William, who think nothing of going out of their way to make the world a better place.
Chapter 1
Someone had dumped another body in the garden.
Magnus Berne swallowed a sigh with his coffee, one of the things Americans did better than anyone else. Oh, aye, arguments could be made for café au lait and chicory and espresso, for café breve and affogato, for the long black and the flat white, but in terms of turning a bitter beverage into a lush dessert it was socially acceptable to gulp down at 8:00 a.m., no one beat the Yanks.
Besides, it was too early for hard cider. He had today’s bottles all lined up in the icebox: Hoppet and Cran Dry from Thor’s Hard Cider.
He trudged out the back door and through the yard, heading for the property line. His loathsome seasonal allergies had kicked in and the wind was going the wrong way, so he wasn’t getting much in the way of a scent, but he was betting this new body would be like the others. Limbs strewn about, a bad wig, or no wig, faceup, and looking at the sky with the frozen “look at this, aren’t I elegant?” expression of the store mannequin.
Why someone kept pitching mannequins into his yard, he hadn’t a clue. Was it malice? Or affection, the way cats laid mice on pillows? Was it a game? Or a mistake? A courting ritual? A dare? An environmental protest? He knew he should be taking some sort of action, but it was such a weird, ridiculous problem. He had the vague hope it would resolve itself but didn’t especially care if it did.
It took effort to care about much since Sue Smalls had been foully murdered.
He tried to wrench his mind back to a relevant track—the dummy pileup—but it was hard to find the motivation to come up with a plan. Set up motion detectors? Stay up all night guarding the yard with a shotgun across his knees like a rancher worried about poachers? Let the bodies pile up into some sort of macabre structure, as opposed to hopping in the boat and lugging them to the dump?
Was it a neighborhood thing? Specifically, a new-neighbor thing? A deeply fucked-up welcome wagon thing? A Stable thing? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. They didn’t do this shite in Scotland. They did entirely different shite in Scotland.
Regardless, it was past time he took steps. He might be too puzzled to come up with a strategy, but he could still do what anyone would when they discovered a body in their back yard: call an accountant.
He blew his nose on a wad of Kleenex, stuffed them back in his robe pocket
(fucking allergies)
and then pulled his phone out as he reached the dummy, dumped on its front and abandoned like trash. Pale as a pearl, short, with slender limbs and shoulder-length dark-red hair so wet it looked like black cherry soda with a healthy shot of grenadine. He gently prodded a toe into her ribs, and nearly screamed when she flopped over on her back and her eyes popped open. Shrieking wasn’t remotely dignified, but damn.
He dropped the phone. On her face.
“Ow!”
“You’re not a store mannequin!” he blurted, wondering how he could have missed something so patently obvious.
Her rebuttal was swift: “Idiot!”
Fucking allergies.
Chapter 2
She clambered to her feet (nudely!) and slapped his hand away (also nudely) when he tried to help her up. “Jesus. Get one of the smaller phones, pal, that one felt like an Etch A Sketch when it nailed me on the forehead.”
“I like the bigger screen,” he said, already shrugging out of his robe and doing his damnedest not to notice her sweet, plum-sized breasts. Her head came to his Adam’s apple; if he pulled her into his arms, she would fit perfectly.
“So if someone asks you for a wake-up call, do you just whip your phone at their face?”
“Almost never,” he replied deadpan.
“Ha! Okay, that was—” Whack! “Stop trying to help me up. I don’t need your help and also, I’m up.”
“This is amazing. You don’t have a bad wig. You’re not bald!”
Given her expression, he could have been trying to hand her a pile of dead snakes instead of a robe. “Did you just tell me I’m not bald?”
Magnus ground his teeth. He loathed the “did you just say something I definitely heard you say?” question, which wasn’t a question at all. Her American accent was nice, though. The midland patois always sounded friendly to him. “Are you all right? What are you doing here? Did the dummies foretell your coming?”
“Dummies. Jesus.”
“Did your boat sink? Or were you trying to get away from someone? Should I call nine-nine-nine?”
“Knock yourself out, but I don’t think it’ll help. We don’t call nine-nine-nine in America, you British weirdo.”
The naked mannequin thinks I’m the weirdo? “Scottish weirdo,” he corrected. “Would you like to come in for tea? Or coffee? I think the last owner left a bag of beans.”
“Hot water run through old, abandoned beans does sound tempting.” Her pale brow furrowed. “What time is it? I didn’t get a chance to check your phone as it careened into my forehead.”
“It’s seven thirty a.m.”
“What? Did you just tell me it’s seven thirty?”
“Yes,” he replied through gritted teeth. What came out was Yzz.
“Shit on toast, I’m late!” She batted his robe-laden hand away again and dashed away like a pretty, profane White Rabbit.
“Wait! Where are you going?” He had to raise his voice as she widened the distance between them. “I have a boat! You don’t have to swim away!”
Nope. Gone. He had a last glimpse of a pert bottom before she splashed into the bay.
His phone squawked at him. “—nus? Magnus? Hello? You okay, big guy?”
In a few strokes, she was just a bobbing head, far out and getting farther. Reaching land meant a swim of about three kilometers; thank God it was a calm, sunny day. She’d be exhausted by the time she hit the shore. Especially if she’d swum round trip.
His phone let out a demanding “Maaaaaaaaaagnus!”
“A beautiful dummy just came to life and swam away,” he blurted.
“Uh. What?”
“What is happening?”
“Excellent question.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Me neither! Magnus, you called me.”
“It was some sort of bizarre Alice-in-Wonderland situation,” he explained. “If Alice were naked. And a grown woman. And an utter nutter.”
“Uh. That doesn’t sound—are you okay?”
“Good point—it’s not right. It was more a White Rabbit situation.”
“Sure. Sure. Your standard White Rabbit event. Totally normal thing that happens all the time. Not weird at all.”
“Is this something you Americans do?”
“Not this American. I’d have to check with the other three hundred and thirty-one million, though.”
“I have to think about this.” Magnus broke off to sneeze into his elbow. “Sorry t’bother you, lad.”
“Magnus, wa—”
“Goodbye.”
Fucking allergies.
Chapter 3
The Seventh Squib, who also went by Verity “Take No Shit” Lane, splashed out of the surf (not that Lake Minnetonka had much in the way of surf) and hoped like hell her car was nearby. The latest Damp Squib challenge had stipulated booze, relay swimming, and stuffing random mailboxes with teddy bears; she was pretty sure the others had dumped her car in the lot on the south side of the lake. If not, she was in for a fifty-mile walk. Naked. Or a ten-minute walk to her phone and, ultimately, Uber. Also naked.
Either way: places to be.
The brisk swim had left her equal parts exhilarated
(I did it!)
and tired
(gah, this is taking forever; did I fall into the English Channel by mistake?)
and starving. She could murder a dozen Pop Tarts; no need to cook them first. Or a dozen eggs; no need to cook those, either.
At this hour, the only people on the beach were a couple of Stables in Phi Delta Gamma sweatshirts, one blond and stocky, one brunette and also stocky, whose jaws dropped lower the closer she got. A pity they weren’t Shifters; her own kind wouldn’t have questioned why she was swimming naked in the wee hours.
“Uh…” Blond and Stocky began.
Verity waved. “Good morning!”
“Are you okay?” Brunette and Stocky managed, because Stables weren’t just stuck in one form, they were nosy, too.
“Never better.”
Stocky Blond cleared his throat. “Walk of shame?”
“Not even close.” It was, in fact, her fourth Damp Squib challenge. The exhilaration made it worth the inevitable aches and pains. It could be argued that the pain was the point.
She could only see a third of the parking lot from where she was, so she scrambled up some brush and a tiny dune for a better look, slitting her eyes against the aggravating early sunshine.
“Do you. Um. Need a ride?” Stocky Blond’s voice cracked on ride, which was too cute. “Or a coat?”
“Actually, I might take you up—nope! Never mind. There it is. Thanks anyway, guys.”
“Okay, I’m Travis and this is Biff—”
“Really? A little on the nose, doncha think?”
“—you sure you don’t need anything? Like, a cop?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe you should take our numbers,” Biff put in. “In case you need help.”
“Nope.”
“What’s your name?” Travis asked.
Verity “Second-Class Citizen” Lane, she thought. The Seventh Squib.
“And how come you’re naked in a lake at, like, seven a.m.?”
She didn’t answer them. One, lack of time. Two, where to even begin?
Chapter 4
“Ta-da!”
Every head whipped around to behold her, then they came as a mob and engulfed her in greetings.
“I’m amazed you’re alive now!”
“Thought we might’ve lost you, Verity.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you smell…uh, not great.”
“I didn’t know you were in Phi Delta Gamma.”
“I’m not. Fraternities are weird.” She returned Jerry Hart’s hug. “But I didn’t have any clothes, what with being naked in a lake and all.” She poked at the sweatshirt. “I dunno what kind of fabric softener this guy uses, but I want it.”
“That explains the towel, then.”
She grinned and looked down at the SpongeBob SquarePants towel knotted around her waist. “Give me a break, Jerry. I wasn’t in a position to complain. Also, frat guys named Biff are super nice.”
Les Mearn, their de facto leader, was at first rigid with surprise then let out an exuberant yowl, pushing through the others to give her a welcoming whack—
“Ow! Easy, I’m sore all over.”
—on the shoulder. “Thought we lost you, kiddo. Great to see you.”
“Don’t call me kiddo, we’re the same age, and I’m crushed by your damning lack of faith. Are you gonna eat that?”
Les held the croissant out of her reach, because he was a dope who courted death everywhere he went. “Don’t you dare, it’s the last one. There’s a bunch of jelly doughnuts on the other table.”
Verity wrinkled her nose. “Stuffed doughnuts, ugh.”
“I’ve seen you eat garbage, Verity,” Les said, like it was weird or something. “Literal garbage.”
“That was for a bet. Fine, I’ll choke down one of these puffy, oozy monstrosities.” She poked at the swollen pastries. “Any fruit?”
“This has purple in it,” Maggie Rule said, pointing. The petite—she was even shorter than Verity—brunette with the deep tan was a Simpsons superfan; 100 percent of her dialogue was lifted from episodes. The show had been on so long, Maggie rarely had trouble coming up with appropriate phrases. “Purple is a fruit.”
Verity snorted. “Dammit, Maggie, one of these days a situation will present itself that Simpsons dialogue can’t cover, and I really, really want to be there when it happens.”
Maggie grinned and shook her head so hard, she ruffled her crew cut. “Not a chance.”
“All right!” Les said briskly. “It’s great that Verity’s not dead, but—”
“I feel like you could end the sentence at that point,” she said around a mouthful of doughnut and purple, ahem, “fruit.”
“It is great, but we’ve gotta address more pressing questions. For example, at what point in the evening’s festivities did you misplace your clothes?” Jerry asked. A head taller than she was, Jerry was the most amiable were she’d ever met. Verity tried to sidestep stereotypes, but Jerry was a slim and gangly vegetarian with the big brown eyes and reflexes of a mildly sedated deer and wouldn’t yell if someone set him on fire. Which, as he was a werehart, made sense. He had a headful of shaggy, reddish-blond hair, an explosion of freckles from forehead to chin, and a scraggly neck beard he scratched when he didn’t think anyone was looking. He clutched his ubiquitous, dirt-stained notebook and continued, “And where’d you end up?”
“Berne’s den.”
“Whoa! That’s on the far side! And Lake Minnetonka isn’t exactly a pond.”
“Tell me.” Twenty-two miles at its widest part. She only had to swim about six, thank God.
“No,” Jerry corrected. “You tell me. Did you talk to him? Did he yell at you to get off his land like some coot farmer? What’s he like?” He pulled out a pen. “Inquiring minds want to et cetera.”
“You really do need a decoy notebook. The real one and the one you don’t care if your little sister reads.”
“Don’t change the subject. Good idea, by the way, she’s super nosy. What was he like?”
“Big. Deep voice, cool accent. Super startled to find me on his lawn. Clumsy. Surprised I wasn’t bald. No yelling. And I gotta say, that man can rock a baby-blue robe.”
“A class act all the way,” Maggie snickered.
Berne was the bear everyone knew but no one had met. Werebears were rare bears—she could count on both hands and one foot how often she’d met one in two decades—and when one moved into the territory, word got around. It was probably just as well Stables had no idea Shifters of any sort—wolves, lynxes, harts, wolverines—were living snout to snout with them. And if they ever found out werebears were a thing, Stables would set the planet on fire. As a species, they weren’t known for their restraint.
