Mad for a Mate, page 6
“We’re trying to prove ourselves to ourselves, mostly.” Jerry shrugged and put the notebook away. “I mean, it’s not like we can talk to our parents about this. They’d collectively shit.” Nods all around, and Verity actually shuddered. “Why d’you think we’re going out of our way to keep this quiet?”
“The trespassing?” Magnus guessed.
“Well, yeah, a little.” Jerry absently patted his beard. “But listen: it’s not about what other people think, which is why none of us can take your unsolicited fretting seriously right now. It’s about reminding ourselves that the only people who can marginalize us are us. Is us. That’s right, right? Is, not are?”
“Absolutely no one cares, Jerry,” Verity said kindly. To Magnus: “That’s it? That’s your piece?”
“You’ve already lost one of your number.”
“This will sound callous—”
“Oh, jeez,” Jerry moaned. “Everybody brace.”
“—but accidents happen,” she finished.
If it was an accident. He wasn’t sure why he had such a bad feeling about…all of it, really, but he wasn’t inclined to stifle his unsettled inner voice. The last time he did that, the result had been millions in property damage and a full morgue.
“Magnus? Is that it?”
No. He could have cautioned/scolded for an hour. Half the day. Longer, if she’d let him. But she wouldn’t. And it was patently obvious that everything he was saying was met with implacable resistance.
“Yes,” he lied. “That’s my piece. My best to you all. Good luck. And the offer stands. You’re welcome to my island anytime. All of you.”
“The way he emphasized all makes me think you were the only one welcome before,” Jerry faux-whispered to Verity.
“That was earlier in the week,” Magnus said. “Now that I’ve gotten to know all of you so well in these past fifteen minutes, it’s an open invitation.”
That won him a laugh from Verity. “Nice recovery, Old Man Berne.”
“I’m thirty-four!”
“Do not care. Bye.”
Nothing for it but to leave, then. Besides, he had a full afternoon of sampling hard cider (today’s flavors: 2020 Orchard Reserve and Chestnut Crab, both from Keepsake Cidery).
“Goodbye,” he said and turned his back on the glorious view and Verity, too.
* * *
2. It is!
3. Details can be found in Bears Behaving Badly.
Chapter 13
That was it, then.
Chapter 14
(Nope.)
Chapter 15
Your timing blows a bit. Dev still isn’t home, and Mama Mac is doing that thing where she’s pretending everything is all right while simultaneously baking non-stop. Do not go into that kitchen unless you want to be force-fed chocolate pound cake and meringue by the double fistful.
“I’ll take my chances, lass.” Magnus hesitated then offered the note back to Caro, who took it with the de rigueur eye roll that needed no translation, written or otherwise. All he knew about Caro was 1) the young werewolf had been through some trauma that was none of his business (though he couldn’t deny he was curious) and was selectively mute as a result, 2) Mama Mac and Annette were fiercely protective of her, and 3) the lass probably didn’t need anyone’s protection, as the werewolf tended to bite first and ask questions (so to speak) later. “My own fault for coming by without invitation.”
She scribbled something then handed it to him. DON’T BE DUMB was slashed across her original note.
“Too late,” he muttered, and she laughed at him.
He’d knocked on the front door (this time he’d found himself at the big purple house with the purple birdhouse in the yard, just a block away from Lila’s place), and so he now moved through the living room into the big sunny kitchen on the south side of the house.
Why, he wasn’t sure. Whenever he “moseyed to Mama’s” as Oz put it, the others teased him by implying he wanted a peer to talk to. Which was ludicrous—he was thirty-four!—but he couldn’t deny he enjoyed the older woman’s company. Her efficient, calm, and loving manner, coupled with her fierce and boundless affection, were obvious reasons why young ones flocked—
A crash derailed his train of thought. As did the contralto roar—
“Dammit, dammit, God damn it!”
—that followed. He heard Caro making herself scarce and actually hesitated before stepping into the kitchen. Not out of fear or even caution. No-no-no-no. It was the simple hesitation of an uninvited guest pausing before imposing on a woman who could disembowel a predator with her hind legs.4
Yes, that sounded plausible. He’d run with it: hesitation, not terror. He cleared his throat as a warning and stepped into Mama Macropi’s normally spotless kitchen. She was infamous for several things, one of which was that you could perform surgery on her kitchen floor. And given the shenanigans her foster children got up to, he didn’t doubt surgery had been performed on the floor.
Today would be a bad day for surgery: she’d dropped a bag of flour and was waving away the cloud with her broom while kicking the much-deflated bag around. This made things worse. Which he had to assume was the intent.
“Good morning,” she snapped. “Scones will be late.”
Noooooooo! Her scones were the definition of divine. Light, buttery, tender crumb, generously studded with berries and/or chocolate, not cloying. “Not necessary,” he lied. “I already ate.”
“They aren’t just for you, Magnus!”
Caro had the right idea. “Let me help you,” he said, coaxing the broom out of her hands.
Her fury was instantly replaced with chagrin. “No, no. Can’t have you do that.” She wiped her face, leaving a smear of flour that trailed up into her hairline. “I’m sorry for snapping. It’s been a hard day.”
“It’s not yet ten a.m.”
“Exactly.”
“Here now,” he said, subtly shoving her into a chair. “Let someone else do the work for a bit.” He grinned as he swept. “Seeing as how Caro’s made herself scarce, it’s just me and thee.”
“That girl is many things, but naive isn’t on that list.” She sighed and ran a hand through her close-cropped white curls. The flour blended in perfectly. “She didn’t give you a heads-up?”
“She did,” he replied. “First thing. But I’m a big strong werebear who fears nothing. And I’ve taken the precaution of disarming you,” he added, brandishing the broom.
She laughed, so he swept, and she seemed content to watch. Her bright kitchen smelled like citrus; the cupboards and pantry bulged with spices, dishes, food. The red tablecloth was faded but clean; the front of the fridge was buried under calendars, pictures (Mama Mac as the Easter Bunny, a young Annette, a younger Oz, and a third child, pale and fair, as eggs), and several of Caro’s notes (“Mama, please consider switching out whole milk for skim, you’re killing MEEEEEE! Also we’re out of chocolate Malt-O-Meal.”). Smack in the middle was a crayon drawing of Mama, Caro, Dev, and Annette, beneath which was scrawled I should be insulted that we’re only allowed crayons in detention, but I’m not. This looks like a five-year-old’s work on purpose, and not because I’m a crap artist, signed by Dev.
Mama Mac followed his gaze and sighed. “Oh, that kit. Crayons and candy in detention now, like that’s a deterrent?”
“Sounds pretty sweet,” he agreed. “No pun, et cetera.”
“The candy machine is right across from the detention room, and Dev hasn’t needed money to get a Reese’s out of a vending machine since he was nine. I swear, half the time that boy gets in trouble just for the sugar rush.”
“A viable theory. Caro said—well, she didna say, exactly, but you understand my meaning—that your boy Dev still isn’t home?”
“He’s not my boy,” she replied. “Which is the problem.”
A common one, Magnus thought, given Mama Mac’s status as a foster mother to various cubs as assigned her by IPA. “He’s run off?”
“Yes. And it’s not like him. Not like him now,” she amended. “He’d scamper from other foster homes if they weren’t to his liking, but not from me.”
“It’s hard to imagine any cub wanting to leave here,” Magnus said. A quick peek in the pantry and he spied the dustpan, thank Christ. How many pounds of flour did the woman spill in her rampage? He found the garbage beneath the sink and dumped the first pan full of flour: whoosh!
“Not to be bragging,” she replied, “but I certainly thought so. After Annette was assigned as Dev’s caseworker and she brought him around a few times—I always cook too much anyway, so I’m happy when she brings a cub around—he said he wanted to be here.” She rapped the table for emphasis. “One time, he ran from his assigned fosters and came here instead. He remembered the route even though he’d only been here once! Of course, I had to tell Annette, but not until I filled him up with chicken and dumplings.”
Whoosh! “Would’ve worked on me. Is that how they met? She was his case manager?”
“They’re called caseworkers on this side of the pond, dear. And not exactly.”
“Well, don’t be coy. Now I’m invested.”
“I got the story in bits and pieces over time,” Mama said through a cloud of flour. “From both of them. They took to each other right away. Like moths!”
“Moths take to each other right away?”
“Hush.”
* * *
4. Seriously. Don’t mess with kangaroos, Shifter or otherwise.
Chapter 16
A long time ago. Like, really a very long time ago. Way back when.
He hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, which was half of a discarded Happy Meal left by a Stable family when they bussed their table and vamoosed. (They also forgot a lone baby shoe.) It was shocking, really. The food waste. If he wasn’t picky, he could survive indefinitely. And he wasn’t. (Also he ran after them with the shoe and slipped the mom’s billfold out of her bulging diaper bag while she thanked him. Then felt bad and put it back. He wasn’t that low.)
That’s right! Because things were okay. Might get tricky this fall—Minnesota got more snow in the fall than lots of places got in the winter—but for now, there were places to kip. Churches were the easiest, and they were always warm. He was making money too—when middle-schoolers were bagging groceries for 4-H or Boy Scouts or whatevs, if he stood close enough, he’d get mistaken for one of them, bag some food, and walk off with cash or food or both. When he got caught, he ran. Nobody could catch him on two legs or four. That was just a fact.
But over the past couple of days, that woman kept showing up. Never overtly following, never getting too close, but if he stayed in one place longer than half an hour, she’d pop up in his periphery. Not a social worker—clandestine following wasn’t their style. They tended to suddenly descend with cops and unceremoniously bundle the kid in question into a squad car. A PI? Why? He didn’t have anything, didn’t see anything, didn’t know anything. Was she tracking him to—to do stuff to him? Or hand him over to a pimp? He knew a couple of older kids who earned their meals on their knees. He knew more who pretended to, then kicked ass and snatched wallets. The one time a drunk pedo tried to force him in the park, he shredded him pretty good. Dumbass thought a fox would go easy. So did the dumbass make an official complaint? Was the rando lady a cop? Again: cops didn’t do things like that.
A coincidence? She was just bopping around in some of the same places he was? Maaaaaaaybe. But he had to be careful. He could feel how much he wanted it to be a coincidence, that she wasn’t stalking him, that he was safe (relatively speaking). But lying to himself was why he was on the streets in the first place. The day he bounced, he swore he was done with that shit.
So here she was again, and discretion was the better part of whatever it was, so he dodged down an ally, snuck through the kitchen door of a sushi place (Minneapolis was lousy with alleys and sushi places), walked through acting cool—if you acted like you belonged, even when you were just a kit, people tended to assume you did—let himself out into another alley, then trotted toward the street. He’d been on his own for almost a year, thanks, and he could handle anything that—
“Ark!” That was all that came out when an arm swooped out of nowhere and caught him by the scruff of his jacket collar, levering him off his feet. And yep. It was her. Worse, she was a meat eater.
No, wait. Not a meat eater. Holy shit, she’s a—
“Are you lost?” Her bright, brown eyes had friendly crinkles at the corners, and she was almost laughing, like snatching him off the street (literally!) was a pretty good joke.
“No, non, nyet.” His legs swung and kicked, not that it mattered. She could have been holding a kitten made of cotton balls for all the strain she was showing. If his feet were on the ground, the top of his head would only hit mid-boob. Usually he delighted in being small; it made the things he liked/had to do so much easier. Not right now. “Are you?”
“No.” It was late enough that the sidewalk was nearly deserted, and the few people who were around didn’t seem to think anything unusual was going on. Or were too drunk to care. The bars had just closed, and there was money to be made. Friendly drunks were walking, talking ATMs. He made fifty bucks last weekend helping three of them find their cars.
He thought he’d been très slick to shake her, but all she had to do to net him was stand downwind just out of sight. It was humiliating but also a tiny bit cool.
Predator.
He snorted. Predator, jeez, hind brain, is that the best you can do? She’s a friggin’ bear. He’d never seen one, never mind been this close to one. Not a meat eater—worse, actually. An omnivore; they were famous for it: they ate anything. And, rumor had it, anyone. He had to fight the urge to curl up, knees to belly.
“Dev Devoss?”
“Lady, you got the wrong kit.”
“No, I don’t,” she replied pleasantly.
“If you’re going to eat me, could you at least knock me out first?”
“I’ve already eaten.” She set him down and gave him a “don’t make me chase you” stare. He was pretty sure he could lose her, but… “Saw me, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Buncha times. You’re not slick.”
“Caught you, didn’t I?”
He refused to concede the point and scowled up at her instead. “You should prob’ly change your hair if you want to blend into a crowd.”
Her hand went to her shaggy locks, all reddish brown with white tips. Her eyes were the same reddish brown, big and dark. “Point taken.” There was a pause while she looked him up and down, and for a moment, he was embarrassed and wished he smelled better. The jacket he had on wasn’t his and hadn’t been clean when he’d, um, found it. The sneakers were his, and he’d worn holes through the soles. His jeans were stiff with dirt. He washed his hair in various bathroom sinks, and it showed. “You’ve got people looking for you, Dev.”
“Ha!” Did she think that was gonna work? Because it wasn’t gonna work. “You mean my mom? Who d’you think sold me in the first place?”
The smile disappeared. “Yes, well. That isn’t who I meant.”
“Who’d you mean?”
“Me, of course,” she replied, like it was obvious. “Also, your mother is an unadulterated menace.”
He was so startled, he couldn’t say anything for a few seconds. He agreed, but still. “Social workers aren’t supposed to say stuff like that.”
She shrugged. “It’s a simple truth. No one with any sense could ever give you up, regardless of cost, no matter how dire the straits.” She rested her hand lightly on the top of his head and smiled down at him, a big, pretty smile that took her from interesting to dazzling in half a tick. “Come along, Dev. We have things to discuss.”
Discuss? Like he had some say in what happened next? He liked how she acted like he was a grown-up. Or at least a big kid, a high-schooler. And shouldn’t they be halfway to Child Services by now?
“I’ll buy you lunch,” she wheedled, like she had to persuade him. Like he could choose.
He blinked and thought about it. “It’s, um, two a.m. Surely you noticed the free-range drunks.”
“I’d be able to notice them with a blindfold on. Fine, I’ll buy you supper instead.”
In the end, they had supper and lunch. After, he even let her put him in her car for the drive to IPA5. And stuck around.
He didn’t know, then. How it was all an act. How he was just a job to her, another silly kit in over his ears. Even if he’d known, he prob’ly still would’ve gotten into the car.
That’s how dumb he was.
* * *
5. Interspecies Placement Agency
Chapter 17
“So Annette fixed it. And Dev moved in.”
Magnus blinked, still digesting. “That was quite a tale. I have to wonder how you knew the extent of Dev’s thought proce—”
“I told you, I got the story out of both of them over time,” Mama snapped, ruffling.
“It was almost like you were reading from a boo—”
She threw up her hands. “What, I should tell a boring story? That’s what happened. Most likely. The short, dull version is that Annette scooped him off the street and made him safe.” She paused, considering. “As safe as a kit like Dev can ever be, I mean.” She shook her head. “Foxes.”
“Sounds like a lucky break for the lad.”
Mama brightened. “I thought so…but I’m not objective. He seemed happy. And he was over the moon when Caro came. They knew each other on the street, y’know. And that’s all I’ll say about that,” she added, as if Magnus had been pumping her for info.
