Derik's Bane Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  PART ONE - Sara and Derik

  Chapter 1 - THE PRESENT

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4 - “YOU HAVE TO SAVE THE WORLD.”

  Chapter 5 - THE MONTEREY PENINSULA

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  PART TWO - Sorceress and Werewolf

  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

  PART THREE - Mates

  Chapter 32

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for MaryJanice Davidson’s

  Wyndham Werewolf Tales

  “LOVE’S PRISONER”

  (from Secrets Volume 6)

  “This is by far the sexiest and most romantic story in this collection, and alone is worth the cover price . . . Davidson also manages to do what I thought was impossible: weave an honest-to-goodness love story in a scant fifty pages. And the sex? Wow. My grade: A.”

  —All About Romance

  “An arousing triumph.”—Harriet Klausner

  “Erotica at its best.”—Affaire de Coeur

  “Get set for some high-powered sex and romance that will have you howling at the moon for Mr. Gorgeous, too! Ms. Davidson created a memorable story in ‘Love’s Prisoner’ that I know I won’t forget. Very creative and it sure gets your juices flowing in the right direction!”

  —Suzanne Coleburn, The Belles and Beaux of Romance

  “JARED’S WOLF”

  (from Secrets Volume 8)

  “Four stars!”—Romantic Times Book Club

  “Here is a sequel that many MaryJanice Davidson fans have anticipated. First introduced in ‘Love’s Prisoner’ (Secrets Volume 6), the Wyndham werewolves ignited a spark in many hearts, and the result is this phenomenal story.”—Romance Reviews Today

  Praise for

  UNDEAD AND UNEMPLOYED

  “Delightful, wicked fun!”—Christine Feehan

  UNDEAD AND UNWED

  “Chick lit meets vampire action in this creative, sophisticated, sexy, and wonderfully witty book.”

  —Catherine Spangler

  “What can you say about a vampire whose loyalty can be bought by designer shoes? Can we say, outrageous? . . . A hilarious book.”—The Best Reviews

  “Undead and Unwed is an irreverently hilarious, superbly entertaining novel of love, lust, and designer shoes. Betsy Taylor is an unrepentant fiend—about shoes. She is shallow, vain, and immensely entertaining. Her journey from life to death, or the undead, is so amusing I found myself laughing out loud while reading. Between her human friends, vampire allies, and her undead enemies, her first week as the newly undead is never boring . . . A reading experience that will leave you laughing and ‘dying’ for more from the talented pen of MaryJanice Davidson.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “A hilarious book.”—Paranormal Romance

  “This book is fantastic. These vampires are different from any that I’ve read about . . . The lead characters are strong and independent, the action fast and furious . . . This is one of the most erotic books that I’ve read in years.”—Escape to Romance

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DERIK’S BANE

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation edition / January 2005

  Copyright © 2005 by MaryJanice Davidson Alongi.

  Excerpt from Undead and Unappreciated copyright © 2005 by MaryJanice Davidson Alongi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04354-7

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Giselle McKenzie, who has been waiting for this book for years. And for my husband, who hasn’t.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks as always to my family, who willingly shares me with the computer, and my husband, who shares the computer with me, not so willingly. Thanks also to the fans of Love’s Prisoner and Jared’s Wolf, who write me every week asking for Derik’s story. Here it is.

  “What, were you raised by wolves?”

  Sara Gunn, R.N., Ph.D., Sorceress

  “Uh . . .”

  Derik Gardner, amateur cook, werewolf, Wyndham affiliation

  PART ONE

  Sara and Derik

  PROLOGUE

  THE PAST

  THE MAN HAD SHORT BROWN HAIR, NEATLY trimmed. His eyes were that mold-colored shade between gray and brown, a color everyone has seen at one time or another in the back of their fridge. His skin was the color of cheap milk chocolate, and his height was supremely average.

  He was dressed in a suit several shades lighter than his skin tone, a white button-down shirt, and a gray tie with brown stripes. He had a plain gold wedding band on the third finger of his left hand, although he wasn’t married. He wore black wire-rimmed glasses, although his eyesight was 20/20, and his shoes had never been shined. He looked like an accountan
t.

  He wasn’t an accountant.

  The man gazed through the glass at DOE, JANE, born seventy-two minutes ago. DOE, JANE was a sweetly chubby infant with a wild shock of dark red hair. DOE, JANE was apparently born surprised, because her hair stood straight up from her skull, and her small reddish brows arched above her blue, blue eyes. She opened her small, wet mouth and let out a yell the man who wasn’t an accountant could hear even through the glass.

  “Well?” the nurse asked. She was a floater, here at the hospital—so thought those in charge of such things—because of understaffing. In truth, her presence at the delivery of DOE, JANE had been foretold six centuries ago. As had the violent death of DOE, JANE’s father just minutes before the child crowned. As had, of course, DOE, JANE herself. “Is it . . . are they right? Is that—?”

  “She who will redeem us, and our king,” the man replied, “yes. She is Morgan Le Fay, among us again, and this time she will do what she could not before. This time . . .” The man smiled, showing a great many white teeth. Too many, it seemed, for his average, unassuming mouth. “This time, ours will be done.”

  The nurse smiled back. By contrast, her smile wasn’t frightening in the least—she had the grin of a beauty contestant. But her eyes were dead.

  They watched DOE, JANE through the glass for a long time.

  1

  THE PRESENT

  MICHAEL WYNDHAM STEPPED OUT OF HIS BEDROOM, walked down the hall, and saw his best friend, Derik Gardner, on the main floor headed for the front door. He grabbed the banister and vaulted, dropped fifteen feet, and landed with a solid thud he felt all the way through his knees. “Hey, Derik!” he called cheerfully. “Wait a sec!”

  From his bedroom he heard his wife mutter, “I hate when he does that . . . gives me a flippin’ heart attack every time,” and couldn’t help grinning. Wyndham Manor had been his home all his life, and the only time he walked up or down those stairs was when he was carrying his daughter, Lara. He didn’t know how ordinary humans could stand walking around in their fragile little shells. He’d tried to talk to his wife about this on a few occasions, but her eyes always went flinty, and her gun hand flexed, and the phrase “hairy fascist bastard” came up, and things got awkward. Werewolves were tough, incredibly tough, but compared to Homo sapiens, who wasn’t?

  It was a ridiculously perfect day outside, and he couldn’t blame Derik for wanting to head out as quickly as possible. Still, there was something troubling his old friend, and Michael was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  “Hold up,” Michael said, reaching for Derik’s shoulder. “I want to—”

  “I don’t care what you want,” Derik replied without turning. He grabbed Michael’s hand and flung it away, so sharply Michael lost his balance for a second. “I’m going out.”

  Michael tried to laugh it off, ignoring the way the hairs on the back of his neck tried to stand up. “Touch-ee! Hey, I just want to—”

  “I’m going out!” Derik moved, cat-quick, and then Michael was flying through the air with the greatest of ease, only to slam into the door to the coat closet hard enough to splinter it down the middle.

  Michael lay on his back a moment like a stunned beetle. Then he flipped to his feet, ignoring the slashing pain down his back. “My friend,” he said, “you are so right. Except you’re going out on the tip of my boot, pardon me while I kick your ass.” This in a tone of mild banter, but Michael was crossing the room in swift strides, barely noticing that his friend Moira, who had just come in from the kitchen, squeaked and jumped out of the way.

  Best friend or no, nobody—nobody—knocked the alpha male around in his own . . . damned . . . house. The other Pack members lived there by his grace and favor, thanks very much, and while the forty-room house had more than enough room for them all, certain things were simply . . . not . . . done.

  “Don’t start with me,” Derik warned. The morning sunlight was slanting through the skylight, shining so brightly it looked like Derik’s hair was about to burst into flames. His friend’s mouth—usually relaxed in a wiseass grin—was a tight slash. His grass-green eyes were narrow. He looked—Michael had trouble believing it—ugly and dangerous. Rogue. “Just stay off.”

  “You started it, at the risk of sounding junior high, and you’re going to show throat and apologize, or you’ll be counting your broken ribs all the way to the emergency room.”

  “Come near me again, and we’ll see who’s counting ribs.”

  “Derik. Last chance.”

  “Cut it out!” It was Moira, shrieking from a safe distance. “Don’t do this in his own house, you idiot! He won’t stand down, and you two morons—schmucks—losers will hurt each other!”

  “Shut up,” Derik said to the woman he (usually) lovingly regarded as a sister. “And get lost . . . this isn’t for you.”

  “I’m getting the hose,” she warned, “and then you can pay to have the floors resealed.”

  “Moira, out,” Michael said without looking around. She was a fiercely intelligent female werewolf who could knock over an elm if she needed to, but she was no match for two males squaring off. The day was headed down the shit hole already; he wouldn’t see Moira hurt on top of it. “And Derik, she’s right, let’s take this outside—ooooof!”

  He didn’t duck, though he could see the blow coming. He should have ducked, but . . . he still couldn’t believe what was happening. His best friend—Mr. Nice Guy himself!—was challenging his authority. Derik, always the one to jolly people out of a fight. Derik, who had Michael’s back in every fight, who had saved his wife’s life, who loved Lara like she was his own.

  The blow—hard enough to shatter an ordinary man’s jaw—knocked him back a full three steps. And that was that. Allowances had been made, but now the gloves were off. Moira was still shrieking, and he could sense other people filling the room, but it faded to an unimportant drone.

  Derik gave up trying for the door and slowly turned. It was like watching an evil moon come over the horizon. He glared, full in the face: a dead-on challenge for dominance. Michael grabbed for his throat, Derik blocked, they grappled. A red cloud of rage swam across Michael’s vision; he didn’t see his boyhood friend, he saw a rival. A challenger.

  Derik wasn’t giving an inch, was shoving back just as hard, warning growls ripping from his throat, growls that only fed Michael’s rage (rival! rival for your mate, your cub! show throat or die!)

  made him yearn to twist Derik’s head off, made him want to pound, tear, hurt—

  Suddenly, startlingly, a small form was between them. Was shoving, hard. Sheer surprise broke them apart.

  “Daddy! Quit it!” Lara stood between them, arms akimbo. “Just . . . don’t do that!”

  His daughter was standing protectively in front of Derik. Not that Derik cared, or even noticed; his gaze was locked on Michael’s: hot and uncompromising.

  Jeannie, frozen at the foot of the stairs, let out a yelp and lunged toward her daughter, but Moira moved with the speed of an adder and flung her arms around the taller woman. This earned her a bellow of rage. “Moira, what the hell? Let go!”

  “You can’t interfere,” was the small blonde’s quiet reply. “None of us can.” Although Jeannie was quite a bit taller and heavier, the smaller woman had no trouble holding Jeannie back. Jeannie was the alpha female, but human—the first human alpha the Pack had known in three hundred years. Moira would follow almost any command Jeannie might make . . . but wouldn’t let the woman endanger herself, or interfere with Pack law that was as old as the family of Man.

  Oblivious to the drama on the stairs, Derik started forward again, but Lara planted her feet. “Quit it, Derik!” She swung her small foot into Derik’s shin, which he barely noticed. “And Daddy, you quit, too. Leave him alone. He’s just sad and feeling stuck. He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

  Michael ignored her. He was glaring at his rival and reaching for Derik again, when his daughter’s voice cut through the tension like a laser scalpe
l. “I said leave him alone.”

  That got his attention; he looked down at her in a hurry. He expected tears, red-faced anger, but Lara’s face was, if anything, too pale. Her eyes were huge, so light brown they were nearly gold. Her dark hair was pulled back in two curly pigtails.

  He realized anew how tall she was for her age, and how she was her mother’s daughter. And her father’s. Her gaze was direct, adult. And not a little disconcerting.

  “What?” Shock nearly made him stammer. Behind him, nobody moved. It seemed nobody even breathed. And Derik was standing down, backing off, heading for the door. Michael, in light of these highly interesting new events, let him go. He employed his best Annoyed Daddy tone. “What did you say, Lara?”

  She didn’t flinch. “You heard me. But you won’t hear me say it again.”

  He was furious, appalled. This wasn’t—he had to—she couldn’t—But pride was rising, blotting out the fury. Oh, his Lara! Intelligent, gorgeous—and utterly without fear! Would he have ever dared face down his father?

  It occurred to him that the future Pack leader was giving him an order. Now what to do about it?

  A long silence passed, much longer in retrospect. This would be a moment his daughter would remember if she lived to be a thousand. He could break her . . . or he could start training a born leader.

  He bowed stiffly. He didn’t show the back of his neck; it was the polite bow to an equal. “A wiser head has prevailed. Thank you, Lara.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the stairs, catching Jeannie’s hand on the way up, leaving the others behind. Moira had released her grip on his wife, was staring, openmouthed, at Lara. They were all staring. He didn’t think it had ever been so quiet in the main hall.