Dead and Loving It (12 page)

C
rescent stood on the rooftop and stared down at the street. It wasn't so far. One measly story. Shoot, people fell that far all the time and survived…mostly…and besides, she wasn't a regular person. Probably.

If she was ever going to fly, now was the time.

She put her hands on the ledge and started to boost herself up when she felt a sharp tug on the back of her shorts and went flying backward. She hit the gravel rooftop, and all the breath whooshed out of her lungs. She laid there and gasped like a fish out of water, and when she was able, she rolled over on her knees.

The largest wolf she had ever seen was sitting three feet away. She was too startled to be frightened. And it wasn't growling or baring his teeth, but just staring at her in the moonlight.

A dog she could almost understand, even here, in the middle of the city. But a wolf? Where had it come from? Did it escape from a zoo? And how did it get up on the roof? Could wolves climb fire escapes?
Was
there a fire escape?

If she spread her fingers as wide as she could, its paws were just about that size. And its head was almost twice as wide as hers, with deep, almost intelligent brown eyes. Its fur was a rich, chocolate brown shot with silver strands, and when the breeze ruffled its pelt, the wolf looked noble, almost kingly.

“What'd you do
that
for?” she asked it. “If I want an animal biting my butt, I'll start dating again.”

It stared at her.

“All the better to see you with, my dear,” she muttered. “Now you stay here. I have to do something.” She got up, brushed the dust off her knees, and started for the ledge. She got about a step and a half when she heard a warning growl behind her. She threw up her hands and spun around. “Jeez, what
are
you? Why are you picking on me? And why do you care? Look, I won't get hurt. I can fly. I mean, I'm pretty sure. And if I'm wrong—but I don't think I am—it's only one story.”

Nope. The wolf wasn't buying it.

“Well, hell,” she said, and sat down cross-legged.

It had been a long day and a longer night. Almost before she knew it, she was tipping over sideways. The gravel was probably cutting her cheek, but it felt like the softest of down pillows.

She slept.

S
he was stiff and freezing, and someone was shaking her by the shoulder. What the hell had happened to her cot?

She opened her eyes to see a man down on one knee beside her. And, hello!
Not bad
for an old guy. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and had great dark eyes, brown hair touched with gray, and smile lines bracketing his mouth. His shoulders, in the dark suit and greatcoat he wore, were impossibly broad. His thighs were almost as big around as her waist, and he was crouching over her like a dark angel. It was a little disturbing, but kind of cool.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was deep, pleasant. He probably worked in radio. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” she said, but she groaned when she sat up. “I can't believe I fell asleep up here.” She brushed gravel off her cheek and looked around. The wolf was gone, thank goodness. “Oh, shit! I never got to—never mind.”

“What are you doing up here?”

“Mind your own beeswax,” she said. “You can go now.”

“You don't seem suicidal,” he commented.

“I'm not!”

“Then why are you up on a roof?”

“You'll laugh at me.”

“Doubtful.”

“Also, it's none of your business.”

“Well,” he said pleasantly, “I'm not leaving you up here by yourself. So you might as well tell me.”

“Dammit!” What was going on? First the gang decided to be dumb (dumber than usual, anyway), then a weird-ass giant wolf tormented her, and now
this
guy. God hated her is what it was. “Fine, I'll tell. I'm pretty sure I can fly. I've felt I could all my life. It sort of—runs in my family. Except my family's all dead, so I never really knew
for sure
for sure, y'know? So anyway, last night I finally screwed up the courage to try, but I couldn't because—never mind, you'll think I'm a nut-job. More so than now, I mean. Anyway, that's why I'm up here. Not to die. To fly.”

“Mmmm.” He put a big hand on her face and peered at her pupils. “Well, you're not on drugs. That's something.”

“I quit doing drugs when I was seventeen,” she snapped and batted his hand away. “I've been clean for ages.”

“And you're not terminally ill,” he finished.

“How d'you know
that
?”

“I'm a doctor. It's my job to know.”

“What, did you do a blood test in my sleep?”

He ignored that. “What's your name?”

“Why do you care?”

He looked at her soberly. “I care.”

Weird. But cool. Okay, fine. “It's Crescent.”

“That's it?”

“No, I have a last name, but I'm not telling.”

“Why? Are you a fugitive?”

“I wish. It's just that everybody laughs. You'll laugh.”

He raised his hand, palm out. “I promise I won't laugh.”

“It's Muhn.”

“Crescent Moon?”

“The h,” she said with as much dignity as she could, “is silent.”

“That's all right,” he told her. “My last name is Dragon.”

“Doctor Dragon?”

“Doctor Drake Dragon.”

“Oh dear.” She giggled. “We're both cartoons.”

“You realize, of course, that we must get married.” He said this with a perfectly straight face, which made her laugh harder.

“It's just too good a story to tell our grandchildren,” she agreed. “But first I have to do this. So good-bye.”

“Come down and have breakfast with me instead,” he coaxed.

Interestingly, she was tempted. He really was a stone fox. And she hadn't been on a date in…let's see, she had been able to legally drink for three years, and there was that guy who took her to the rave right after…

Wait a minute.

“Wait a minute!” God, she was slow this morning. “You're the blind guy from the alley!” Except he didn't
seem
blind. He'd checked her pupils, for crying out loud.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“You don't seem very blind.”

He hesitated and then said again, “Have breakfast with me.”

“Why?”

“You might as well. I'm not going to let you jump.”

She sighed. “Well. I am hungry.”
And I can ditch this guy after I cadge a free meal off him.
“Okay. Lead on, MacDuff.”

H
e offered her his arm when they were at street level, and her smell shifted to amusement—ripe oranges. After a moment, she grasped it.

“Cripes, I can't even get my fingers around your bicep. D'you work out, like, nine times a day?”

“No. But I like to keep in shape.”

“Y'know, we don't have to go anywhere fancy,” she said. “We could just get a cup of coffee.”

“You're underweight for your height. We'll get a proper meal.”

“Bossy,” she coughed into her fist.

He smiled. “Yes.” It was all he could do not to gape at her like a schoolboy. He had no idea why he could see her, but the effect hadn't worn off with daylight…she was like a flame in a street of shadows. “I'm afraid it runs in my family.”

“Can I ask you something? How come you don't use a dog? And where's your cane? Didn't you have one last night?”

“I get around pretty well,” he said, avoiding her question. “I've been blind all my life. It's all I know.”

“Oh. Well, like I said, you don't seem blind.”

He shrugged. Humans always told him that.

 

Over a breakfast of three pancakes, six pieces of toast, and two cups of coffee (hers), and a bowl of oatmeal (his), they talked.

“Don't you want some ham or bacon? Please, order whatever you like. I can assure you I'm good for it.”

She shuddered. “No, thanks. I'm a vegetarian.”

“Oh.” Hmm. That could be interesting. “You know, that's really not the best diet for an omnivore.”

“Dude, I'm not chomping on dead flesh, and that's the end of it.”

“Drake,” he corrected.

She mopped up syrup with the last pancake. “Yeah, whatever. Can I get more coffee?”

“Of course.” He signaled the waitress and then asked, “Why are you so thin?”

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“I'm interested in you,” he said simply.

“Uh-huh. Dude, you're, like, twice my age.”

Yes, that was annoying. But it couldn't be helped. “Stop calling me dude. And it's probably not twice. I'll be forty this year.”

“Oh.” She seemed surprised. “You look younger. I'm twenty-four.”

“You look younger, too. If I may ask, where are you staying?”

“There's a shelter on Beacon Street,” she said without a trace of embarrassment. “I lost my job—the economy, you know—and couldn't make rent, so I've been bouncing around a bit.”

“Is that how you fell in with the little gang that attacked me?”

“I didn't know they were going to do that,” she said earnestly. “I thought it was just talk.”

“I believe you. What about your family?”

“Don't have one.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. I never really knew them. Like you—I guess—being by myself, it's all I know.”

“Why don't you stay with me for a while? I have a big house in Cambridge, and there's plenty of room for a guest.”

She snorted into her coffee cup. “Right. Go home with the strange guy who showed up out of nowhere, who says he's blind but doesn't trip over anything. Not
too
creepy.”

“What's the worst that could happen?”

“You could kill me in my sleep.”

He tried not to show offense. “That's ridiculous. In your
sleep
? I would never.”

She laughed at him. “Oh, okay, so, we've established you won't kill me in my sleep.
That's
promising.”

“The homeless shelter is preferable to my home?”

“Well…no offense, dude…Drake, I mean…but put yourself in my shoes.”

“I understand. But consider this, you could have pancakes every morning,” he coaxed, “and all the coffee you could drink. Until you get back on your feet.”

She shook her head but look tempted. “Jeez, I can't believe I'm even considering this. If this was a horror movie, I'd be yelling at the screen, ‘Don't do it, you dumb bitch!'”

“That's nice. I would really enjoy your company. I live a…solitary life. It would be nice to have a—a friend over.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Well. I have to admit, it's the nicest offer I've gotten all year. But here's the thing. I'm getting these ‘take the poor waif home and take care of her' vibes from you, but I'm not sure you get it. My family died when I was a toddler, and I left the foster home when I was ten. I've been on my own a long time. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course.”

“And the thing is, there's nothing I'll—uh—do for you. You know. To stay at your house.”

“No, I wouldn't expect you to.” And, fortunately, she was a good two weeks from ovulation. He'd be nowhere near his Change then. It could be problematic when a roommate's cycle coincided with a male werewolf 's, but he didn't have to worry about that, at least. “There aren't any strings, Crescent.”

“Well.” She finished her coffee. “I can't believe I'm saying this. But we'll try it. For a while.”

“All right, then.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back. He'd never seen a smile before. Hers made him dizzy.

T
hey walked in, and she was instantly dazzled—like the big Colonial house hadn't been impressive enough on the
outside.
“Wow! How many windows do you
have
?”

“I have no idea.”

“Right. Sorry. It's so bright in here!” She was staring; she couldn't help it. Her first, jumbled impression was lots of light, a soaring living room ceiling, a loft, and lots of hardwood flooring. “You don't even need to turn on any lights during the day. Not that you would.”

He was hanging his greatcoat in the closet. “I like to feel the sun on my face,” he said simply.

“Did anyone ever tell you, you live in a pink house?”

“A few have mentioned it.” He shrugged. “What do I care?”

She laughed. “I s'pose. It's just sort of funny. I mean, you're this big, super-masculine guy, and your house is the color of raw salmon. It's a little weird.”

He smiled. It was disconcerting—like he was looking
right
at her. But of course he wasn't. He probably knew she was standing by the door because of her voice. “Super-masculine?”

“Dude, you're about the biggest, boldest guy I've ever met.”

“Thank you. And stop calling me dude.”

He was the sharpest “handicapped” person she'd ever seen. He paid for breakfast with cash…and she noticed the twenty dollar bills were folded into triangles and the ten was a rectangle. Of course…it made perfect sense. He couldn't see the denominations, and the bills would all feel the same. Did he get them that way from the bank? Or did he have a helper to fold his money? Maybe she could fold his dough to earn her keep…

But it was just so weird, because he always seemed to know where she was—he caught her before she started to trip on the curb, for God's sake.

“Why don't I show you to your room?”

“Yeah,” she said, kicking off her sneakers and following him. “Why don't you?”

She expected a simple guest room with a utilitarian twin bed and an empty bureau. Instead, he escorted her to paradise. The bed, a mahogany four-poster, was against the window, and sunlight was splashed all over the Shaker quilt. Through the open door on the opposite side of the room she could see a gleaming bathroom with tiles the color of the sea, and the bureau beside her was almost as tall as she was.

“Uh…you sure you don't have a cot in the basement or something?” she asked nervously. The room was so clean, so beautiful, she was afraid to move lest she destroy it all. “Or maybe a blanket I could spread out on the kitchen floor?”

“Nonsense. This is your room now, for as long as you like. I'll leave you to get settled.” And abruptly, he was gone.

“Get settled?” she asked the empty room. “How?” She hadn't wanted him to see the shelter, so she had no extra clothes. Well, she'd sneak out tonight and go get them. And she'd find Moran and his little gang of retards and give them a piece of her mind. Imagine, trying to rob a
blind
guy.

She wandered back out to the living room and eyed the loft.

Hmmm…

She noiselessly climbed the stairs and had time to notice the loft was actually an office—desk, computer with big-ass speakers, bookshelves—before she clambered up on the railing. This would be even easier—this was only one story. Less, actually. Just a few feet. Piece of cake. If she couldn't fly here, she couldn't fly anywhere.

“Something for lunch?” Drake called from the kitchen. Good, he was a couple rooms away.

“I'm still stuffed from breakfast,” she called back and dived off the railing.

She flopped over in mid-air, had time to notice the living room doing a one-eighty around her, and then she fell into Drake's arms.

“Wow!” she gasped. “How'd you do that? You were, like, fifty feet away!”

“Will you
stop
that?” he snapped. “Stop climbing things and leaping off of them before you give me a heart attack.”

“But how'd you know I—”

“Promise, Crescent. As long as you're in this house, no more crazy jumps.”

“But I won't be hurt,” she explained earnestly, resisting the urge to snuggle into his arms. He was holding her like she weighed as much as a bag of feathers, like it was nothing. And the way he was scowling down at her—it should have been scary, but instead, she wanted to smooth out the frown lines with her fingertips. “Really! I'm sure I can do it.”

“Not in my house,” he said firmly. “Now promise.”

“Or what?” She wasn't being sarcastic. She was curious.

“Or I won't put you down.”

Now she did smooth out the frown line over his eyebrow. Weirdly—but nicely—he leaned down and nuzzled her nose. She felt her nipples tighten and fought the urge to squirm in his arms.

“You're just going to carry me around all day?” she teased.

He smiled down at her. “It wouldn't be much of a hardship.”

“Okay, okay. I promise. No more jumping off stuff in your house.”
But I can't promise I won't jump anywhere else…

“All right, then.” He set her on her feet and gave her a warning smack on the ass that stung like hell—

“Hey!”

—and walked back to the kitchen.