Mad for a Mate, page 20
“I wasn’t thinking of that exactly,” Magnus admitted. “But now y’mention it, maybe there’s some truth to it?”
“Nope. No more than when a Stable goes blind, their hearing gets sharper. Their blindness forces them to pay more attention, so it seems like they can hear and smell better. That’s all.”
Whether you bought into the “squibs have enhanced senses” SAS propaganda or not, the truth of the matter was the park smelled rich and coppery and meaty to her. There was almost a miasma drifting up from the ground. Like someone in a trance, she began walking parallel to the crime scene tape, parallel to the bloody gouges in the grass, and then swerved right, stepped over the tape—
“Aw, shite.”
—and walked right up to the eagle statue overlooking the river valley. She knelt, felt behind it, found the loose stone, pried it aside just enough to slip her fingers into the crack, felt the wadded paper, brought out her prize.
Jerry’s battered notebook.
* * *
18. We’re talking Carly Rae Jepsen and Katy Perry-esque levels of earworm!
Chapter 45
“Son of a bitch!”
It was hours later, and the only thing she had to show for it were paper cuts. “Dammit! There’s nothing here. Well, some things are here.” A self-confessed “pseudoluddite,” Jerry was fond of his phone but only used it as an alarm clock and for the occasional phone call. In all other ways, he preferred his notebook. He’d sketched a number of street signs for some reason, and a few recipes (if charcuterie board assembly could count as a recipe, and it didn’t), movie reviews (he had not been a fan of the Mission Impossible franchise), addresses (but he was a fan of the Panera Bread franchise), and his friends.
Her own face peeked up at her more than once as she flipped through it. Maggie’s, too, and Les’s. And rough sketches of a black wolf—small and blurry and scrawny, it looked like a stiff wind could blow it over. Jerry had loved to bitch about how no one took weredeer seriously, but he’d held his own in more than one fight. The black wolf had been too skittish to let Jerry get close enough for a whiff or a decent sketch, and it was hard to picture the thing getting the drop on her friend.
In other words, Jerry’s notebook was crammed with all sorts of tidbits, none of them relevant to his murder.
“It’s not like I was expecting a sketch of the killer with a helpful all-caps caption: ‘THIS IS THE PERSON WHO KILLED ME.’ But I really thought this was the clue that would crack the case. Ugh, I just said ‘crack the case’ like someone who watches too much TV. I also watch too much TV.”
“I thought so, too,” Magnus confessed. “Nadia certainly seemed to think that’s how things would go.”
“Who the hell is Nadia, and why was she telling you how things would go?”
“Annette’s colleague.”
Ah. Annette’s mixed blessing. The rabid organizer who would selflessly die for Annette but not before carping endlessly.
Verity sighed. “I’ll hang on to this. I’m sure his parents would like it back. Hey! No touchy.” She lightly slapped his hand when he reached for it. “These fall under the purview of private papers. Jerry’d be mortified if randos were flipping through it.”
“If I knew what a rando was, I’d be hurt, wouldn’t I, lass?”
She ignored the silly question. “Like I said, this belongs to his parents, but I can’t face them tonight. Driving out to Apple Valley will cut into my drinking time. C’mon, let’s go back to my place.”
He shook his head, either in negation or because he wasn’t sure it was an invitation. “You want me to come with you?”
“Desperate times, Magnus. It’s pathetic to drink alone twice in four days. You being there will make it slightly less pathetic.”
“Then how can I refuse?”
***
Six shots in, they were in the living area watching Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation in Jerry’s honor. Verity knew that if she’d been the one to die, Jerry would have hosted a movie night featuring only films she hated.
Well. Verity had six shots. She was pretty sure. In the general area of six, at least. Maybe seven. She had no idea how many Magnus had. It took a lot to get a Shifter drunk, and she was more than up to it.
“You’re making that up! There’s no fucking way that a) you’re drinking your way through every hard cider brand, b) there’s such a thing as rhubarb hard cider19, and c) it’s your favorite. Admit you’re lying, you liar!”
“Why would I lie about that?” he protested. “Where’s the advantage to that?”
“It’s poison, Magnus, actual fucking poison. And worse—it’s a vegetable! A bitter, disgusting, poisonous vegetable. Like asparagus but a zillion times worse.”
“So I should never make you asparagus–bacon roll-ups. Noted.”
“Just make me bacon–bacon roll-ups.” She downed another shot. Ahh, burns so good. “Okay, okay, I’ll give you a chance to return to sanity. What’s your second favorite flavor?”
“Jalapeño lime,” he admitted.
She shrieked in mingled dismay and amusement and fought the urge to shake him and yell common sense into his big dumb handsome face. “You’ve gone completely over the edge, Magnus! If nobody’s ever mentioned that, I am now, and your taste buds are trying to kill you. There’s no war uglier than a civil war.”
“I’ve been told I’m skating the edge before,” he replied with a grin. “That’s not a shocking revelation.”
“No doubt. Prob’ly started when you decided to learn the secret handshake so you could join Racists ’R’ Us.”
“…yes.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring down the room.”
“No, it’s a fair question.”
“Wasn’t a question. But while we’re talking about SAS and their gaggle of speciesist asshats, is that why you’ve been stuck on me like flypaper?”
Magnus was on the other end of the couch, occasionally taking a sip of whiskey. Now he took another one, and she could tell he was giving what she said careful thought. Which was nice. Most people who knew she was squibby didn’t think about what she said, carefully or otherwise.
“If I understand ye correctly, you’re asking if I was worried you would make the same mistake I did. But I was worried before I found out you were the Seventh Squib. I didn’t want you to get hurt. That was my sole motivation.”
“Fifth Squib,” she said glumly. “We’re down to five.”
“But when you told me, I admit I was worried because the SAS ideology can be seductive. For any Shifter, really—most of us don’t want to stay in the shadows. They offer a chance for us to stop hiding. They’ve always been verra straightforward with that part of their agenda.”
“SAS: Straightforward Asshat Shitheads. It’s got a nice ring to it.”
Magnus ignored her devastating witticism. “But especially for a squib, since they’ve made it plain that they—uh—how to put this—”
“That there’d be room for squibs after the blood apocalypse?”
“Aye.”
Verity stuck out her tongue. “Oh, barf. First, I wouldn’t trust any of the ‘pureblood’ crowd. Second, even if I did, their overall agenda is gross and stupid. I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. There’s not a single squib who wants anything to do with those turds. Third…I forget the third.”
“You have to admit, a group of Shifters who know you can’t shift but still welcome you with open arms—”
“No, you have to admit that. I think you might be projecting all over the place right now. Just because a group wants you doesn’t mean you’re jazzed about it. I mean me. Jazzed. I’m not jazzed. Would you be jazzed if Holocaust deniers wanted you to join their absurd club?”
“—would be a powerful lure,” he finished doggedly.
“I’m not a largemouth bass, fer chrissake. Besides, it’s not a lure for me. Little Melly Swiss Cake Rolls, that’s a lure. Debbie, I mean. Li’l Debbie Swiss Rolls, and I’m like Groucho Marx.”
“I’m having trouble following, lass.”
“If a club wants me, I don’t want them.” She paused, but it seemed he had no comment, so onward: “What yer sayin’ is essentially you’ve been bugging me for days because you worried I was doomed to make all your mistakes.”
“That’s one way to phrase it,” he said dryly.
“I doughnut—don—don’t want anything t’do with them, and maybe, because I’ve been wondering, d’you think those SAS fuckers were involved in that fucking horrible Shifter trafficking thing that spit Caro out?”
He was leaning toward her, one arm slung over the back of the sofa, focused and intent and just ridiculously sexy; it was irritating, all the sexy. The sofa cushion between them was as wide as the Grand Canyon. “Annette and David were sure of it. The War Wolves, especially.”
“Oh, Gawd,” she hooted. “Don’t get me started on fucking War Wolves. ‘Hey, we’re unique and special but only because we don’t know that mercenaries have been around as long as people have been around, derp.’ Can you believe there are people who actually aspire to joining the ranks of those jackbooted fuckmuppets? Magnus! I gotta go down to that warehouse. Not this one. The one where all the things happened. T’satisfy my curiosity at least. Um. Not now, though. S’late, and I’m a smidge tipsy. Later. Poor Caro. I’m glad she didn’t bite me, but I wouldn’t have blamed her if she did. This probably should go without saying, but hashtag Not All Squibs, right?”
He smiled. He really had a very nice smile; it made his eyes crinkle. Before this moment in time, she hadn’t found laugh lines even a little arousing. “Not all squibs,” he agreed, “but you’re a standout even among your elite group.”
“I’m not calling us an elite group, and you’d better not start, either. Les will hear it and love it, and next thing y’know he’ll have T-shirts made and we’ll be expected to wear ’em. And if we don’t, he’ll get soooooo pissy.”
“Noted. And you’re not the Seventh Squib or the Fifth. You’re your own self. You’re Verity Lane, the duck egg in the hen’s nest: another creature entirely, who doesn’t have to follow the rules of the hen house.”
“I love your sexy farm metaphors.” She blinked hard, because for some absurd reason, that made her want to cry and kiss him on the mouth at the same time. “M’not calling myself a duck egg, either.” She swiveled on the cushion, stretched out, poked her bare toes into his ribs. “Move over, you’re hoggin’ the whole thing.”
“You’re on two of the three cushions!” he protested. “And I’m only taking up half of one.”
She poked him again, only to feel him seize her ankle and then tickle her foot. She pulled back so abruptly, she fell off the couch. “Terrible warehouse cement floors,” she groaned, suddenly questioning every life decision she ever made. “And on top of bein’ hard, they’re chilly!”
Grinning, he stood and extended a hand to help her up, but instead, she yanked him down. He caught himself with one arm or he would have landed flat on top of her. Which wouldn’t have been even remotely terrible. As it was, their faces were just a few inches apart.
“Christ, you’re strong.” He was so close she could feel his whiskey-warm voice. “Ye almost gave me whiplash, lass.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No. Just you, darling.”
“Darling, I like that. Darling.” She blinked up at him and ran a finger along his jawline. His stubble was dark and coarse with—hilarious—a very faint violet tint. “Oh my God, your stubble is purple! Do Stables ever notice?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“Right? It sucks to be a major minority—tha’s—that’s not a contradiction, right? Major minority? Or would it be an oxymoron? We don’t have the nummers, but Stables never notice anything. Or…or if they do, they make up a fairy tale or scary story about it. Little Red Riding Hood. Or Billie Eilish.”
“Stables make up scary stories about Billie Eilish?”
She’d already lost her train of thought. “How should I know? You smell terrific, by the way. In case no one’s ever said.”
“Thank you, darling.”
Maybe it was the booze. Or the lighting. Because at this angle, Magnus fucking Berne had a nimbus. Like one of those old-timey Renaissance paintings where the halo looked like a flat plate. “I like when you call me darling.”
His reply was low and intimate. “By happy coincidence, you are a darling.”
“Nuh-uh. You’re the only one who’s ever called me a darling, darling.” She reached up, seized him by the ears, and planted a kiss right on his astonished mouth. His mouth opened, but that might have been slack-jawed surprise. Who cared? He was warm and smelled like whiskey and cotton and sunshine, and for a hard man his lips were sweetly soft.
“There,” she said when he pulled back. “That’s out of the way.”
“Lass—” He cut himself off as he lowered his head and kissed her back, nibbling on her lower lip while his hand slipped up her shirt and stroked the tender skin of her stomach.
“Oh, excellent,” she mumbled into his mouth. “Knew you’d be good at this.”
He pulled back to agree, excellent! Except he was pulling all the way back, and now he was sitting astride her hips. “You’re lovely. And a wonderful kisser. Glorious in every way, t’be frank. But.”
“Let’s fuck.”
“I can’t,” he said gently.
“Old war wound?”
“What? No! I meant we can’t.”
“Don’t worry, I’m on the pill, and I’m sure there’s a box of condoms in the freezer.”
He stared down at her, shook his head slightly, then said, “I don’t want to know why you do that to condoms, and I’m not wurred about getting you pregnant.”
“Great!” She sat up, and her fingers flew to his shirt buttons. “Let’s just get this off you, and then I can rocketh thy world.”
His hands caught her wrists, held them. “Verity.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the work. Well, most of the work. A third. I’ll do a third of the work. Best and final offer.”
“Verity. You’re drunk.”
“Oh, please, you’re just saying that because I had five shots. Or eleven.” She tugged to free her wrists, but his grip was firm. “I’m completely capable of consent.”
“Disagree.”
Wait. What? She couldn’t remember the last time she got laid, she wanted some release, deserved some release, thank you very fucking much, and Magnus fucking Berne was gonna be the monkey wrench in her gears? Or something?
She scowled up at him. “You’ve been sniffing up my back trail for over a week, and now when you can have me on a platinum platter—because sex with me is way better than a silver platter—you can’t be bothered?”
“That’s not it at all.”
“What? Afraid you’ll get squib cooties?”
He pulled back even farther. If he kept going, he’d be sitting in the hall. “What?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand,” she snapped. “You can’t tell me there aren’t any cooties in Scotland.”
“Lass, you’re not makin’ a whole lot of sense.”
“I’ve never made more sense in my wife! Life, I mean. Y’know, there’s mostly just two different kinds of Shifters. The fuckers who are open about hating squibs, and the fuckers who hate us but aren’t open about it. You’re worse than Roger!”
“Who’s Roger?”
“Don’t try and change the subject!” She wanted to crawl away and hide. She wanted to hit him with a frying pan, cartoon-style. She wanted to shut up his hot mouth with her hot mouth. “All your concern, all the times you said you were ‘wurred,’ it was only ever because I’m a squib. You’ll condescend to crash memorials to ‘save’ me, but when it comes to real intimacy, you opt out.”
The color was draining from his face, which should have been satisfying but wasn’t. “That’s nae true!”
“And speaking of opting out, get out!”
“Verity.” His voice was low, urgent. He leaned forward to take her by the shoulders then pulled back again. Like he’d get squib on him if he touched her again. “Please. It’s not like that. I think you’re wonderful.”
“Shut up!”
“Not because you’re a squib, or in spite of being a squib. For yourself, your own special self—”
“Don’t start that duck egg bullshit again!”
“And if you were sober and hadn’t had to endure a week of loss and pain, I’d count m’self the luckiest lad in the world.”
“No, you could have been the luckiest lad in the world. But you didn’t want to silly—sully! You didn’t want to sully yourself with a squib. So now you’re just the asshole getting thrown out.”
“I would never, ever use that word in connection with any part of you. Far from it. Verity, this has been one of the best weeks of my life, all respect to Andy and Jerry, and it’s because I had the great good fortune to find ye in my garden. Ever since—”
“No. No!” She wrenched out of his grip. “Don’t say that! Not any of it! It’s not true, none of it’s true, an’ it just makes everything worse.”
“Verity. Please.”
“Just…just get the fuck out.” She shoved him, hard, to get him off her finally, and stumbled to her feet. He still had the black overnight bag he’d picked up at Target
(was it only three days ago? two? what fucking day is it?)
a few days ago, and she started shoving his things at him: toiletries, the bag itself, an empty whiskey bottle, whatever the hell else she needed him to take so he would get the fuck out already. And maybe do some recycling on his way out. “And when another squib dies, you’d better not be at the memorial! Just let us sink or swim or die on our own, like the rest of the world does, now get out!”
