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Authors: MaryJanice Davidson

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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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
 
Copyright © 2011 by MaryJanice Davidson.
 
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 piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY SENSATION
®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
 
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / October 2011
 
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 
Davidson, MaryJanice.
Wolf at the door / MaryJanice Davidson.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed. p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-55039-7
1. Werewolves—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. 3. St. Paul (Minn.)—Fiction. I. Title. PS3604.A949W65 2011
813’.6—dc23
2011026406
 
 

http://us.penguingroup.com

For the readers who have been asking
for this since
Derik’s Bane
.
All right, enough already!
Seriously: thank you. Without you I might not ever
have gotten a chance to write this,
and what a dreadful thing for the Wyndhams,
trapped inside my head!
No one should have to live in my head.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 
Thanks as always to the hardest-working people I know: my agent, Ethan Ellenberg; my editor, Cindy Hwang; and my assistant, Tracy Fritze. I deserve none of them. And yet, they’re trapped with me, endlessly, endlessly trapped. They must have done something dreadful in past lives. Lucky for me!
Also to my family, who never get bored with boring other people about the awesomeness that is me.
My husband, for cheerfully tolerating the awesomeness that is me.
My children, for resisting their genetic proclivities.
My readers who, incomprehensibly, keep reading.
Thanks, y’all!
 
—MARY JANICE DAVIDSON
 
I keep the wolf from the door
 
But he calls me up
 
Calls me on the phone
 
Tells me all the ways that he’s going to mess me up.
—
A WOLF AT THE DOOR
, RADIOHEAD
 
I’ve got my dead stepmother working for the devil, I’ve got the
devil
, I’ve got my sister (the Antichrist), a half brother who’s teething like a moray eel, I turn completely evil in the future, my friend won’t stay dead, and my husband has been withholding sex since he found out I kill him once the magic’s gone. I don’t have time for werewolves. Besides, they’re fine. They’re hanging on the Cape, they’re doing werewolf stuff.
—BETSY, QUEEN OF THE VAMPIRES
 
Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody.
—
THE SANDMAN
, NEIL GAIMAN
AUTHOR’S NOTE
 
This book takes place after the events of
Undead and Undermined.
Probably. Betsy’s pretty sure. “Look, shit’s going down, all right? What am I, a walking, talking table of contents? I’ve gotta raise the dead and maybe shoot my sister between her baby blues. Stuff’s
happening
, okay?”
For Michael Wyndham’s backstory, see
Secrets
, vol. 6, “Love’s Prisoner,” and
Secrets
, vol. 8, “Jared’s Wolf.”
For Derik’s backstory, see
Derik’s Bane.
For Boo Miller and Eddie Batley’s backstories, see “The Incredible Misadventures of Boo and the Boy Blunder,” from
Kick Ass.
Also, the yuck-o jobs Eddie mulls over came from “Ten of the World’s Worst Jobs,”
www.oddee.com/item_96873.aspx
. Talk about small blessings.
Prologue
 
The werewolves were holding hands. They did not share kinship by blood or bond; their relationship was more like a protective secretary looking out for her clueless boss. Her extremely clueless boss.
The female leaned over and spoke softly in his ear. She wasn’t trying to be secretive. The werewolves across the table could hear every word. “We’ve been through this before.”
His nostrils flared. “
You
have.”
“And I’m still here.”
He seemed to take courage from that, from her neat designer suit, her unmarked face, her unchewed ears and dark eyes. “You’re still here. And so am I.” He glared across the table and she caught an unpleasant whiff . . . a cactus catching fire, maybe. Strong and sharp, enough to make the eyes water.
“Remember the rules,” she reminded him. Her hand was beneath the table, so the other werewolves couldn’t see her nails digging into him.
He swallowed a gasp and nodded. The rules. Right. Show no fear. Ideally,
feel
no fear. If you do, don’t show it. If you absolutely can’t help showing it, make the fear about something else. Anything else.
“Ow, my suit!” he yelped, and showily yanked her hand away from his lap. “My wife’ll kill me.”
“Nah,” one of the wolves across the table said. “She won’t.”
“Be worth it, though,” his partner said, leering at her blunt, small hand and unpolished fingernails. Rachael resisted the urge to make an obscene gesture or put one of his eyes out with her thumb.
“Won’t be anything left to kill, anyways,” his partner added, and they wee-hawed together like two of the three little pigs. Wee, wee, weeeee-haw!
“Quit that.
Anyways
is wrong, just like
towards
is wrong.” Oh, boy, she hated
towards
. More than plague, she hated
towards
. “Don’t get me started. Now if you two are through chortling,” Rachael snapped, “maybe we could get some work done?”
The werewolves, a little taken aback by the feisty tone, had a quick huddle at their end of the table (“She’s so little!” “Chortling? Who says
chortling
?”). Then they manned up (“Shouldn’t it be wolfmanned up?” “Why are you asking me these things? What’s wrong with you?”) and slammed down several thick folders bristling with Post-it flags. The least jarring color was a queasy pale green.
The burning cactus smell intensified, and her client slapped his hand on the table, hard; the
crack!
got everyone’s attention. “You need to understand . . . this is vital. You understand me, boys? I’m talking life or death here. Critical shit.” Their ears pricked forward. “Our records are one hundred . . . percent . . . accurate.”
“Balls.”
“What he said. This audit’s been coming a long time,” the older werewolf said, jabbing his thumbs at (weirdly) himself. “You’ve had years to get your shit together, years of half-assing it, but now time’s up. Now you gotta fight or flight.” He smiled. “And everyone in the room knows you’re not so good at the fight part.”
As one of the people in the room who knew that, Rachael said nothing. Her client spoke instead. “I’m ready. We’re prepped; we can go anytime.”
“Oh-umm?” The younger werewolf paused, and Rachael smiled at the sight of him sifting scents and trying to match them to the wrong sounds. “You are? I mean, you can?”
“Sure.” It was amazing, she thought, how someone could smell so utterly different from one second to the next. The smallest boost to his confidence, and burnt cactus changed to orange bubblegum! “I just thought . . . I mean, I thought Michael . . .”
At the name of the Pack’s leader, all four werewolves eyeballed each other while pretending they weren’t. Rachael Velvela was in the room because she was Michael Wyndham’s cousin.
That was bad news for Tom Fritzi of Fritzi’s Fried Funnel Cakes (FunCakes™), who had been audited with a vengeance yet at first had no idea who she was. He’d hired her because he thought her last name was Velveeta and was so fond of fake cheese he kept her on after he realized the mistake.
The toads across the table, lesser beta-males, had audited Fritzi for the chance to get close to a relative of the Pack leader, and also because they hated FunCakes™. (They were neutral on the issue of processed-cheese food.)
So here they all were.
“I can’t stand suspense, and maybe you can’t, either, so I’ll just come out with it. My cousin isn’t popping in for a cameo.” Rachael was already bored with the proceedings. She had been hip deep in Fritzi’s finances for the last month and could actually smell FunCakes™ coming off the files. “He’s busy running the (were)world. And since there’s no point in waiting for him, we might as well get started.”
So the blood-soaked nightmare that was the audit of Fritzi’s Fried Funnel Cakes, Inc. (seventeen locations nationwide) began.
One
 
“There’s no easy way to say this. There’s not even a cool, clever way to say this. So I’ll just come out with it. I need you to move to St. Paul indefinitely and keep an eye on the vampire queen.”
Rachael had suspected nothing when the summons came. In fact, she had assumed the Pack leader, Michael Wyndham, was wishing her a belated happy thirtieth. He was notorious for remembering significant dates about seventy-two hours too late. It was possible to time him. Sometimes he would round up all the cousins for a big b-day blowout that left the little ones in sugar comas and the adults reaching for sunglasses long before the sun rose high. Could a werewolf get a hangover? Sure. How much booze did it take? Gallons.
But he’d had his hands full with the newly discovered vampire issue (vampires! In Minnesota! Thousands! Controlled by a moron who loved designer shoes!), so she thought nothing of never hearing from him three days after her birthday. She loved her cousin, but he had many responsibilities. As, of course, did she. Tax season was nearly upon them.
So she had suspected nothing when she drove to Wyndham Manor (how too, too aristocratic East Coast!), once a monastery, now the seat of North American werewolf power and home to several generations of Pack leaders.
The monks must have had a keen eye for architecture, mood, and luxury, for the pile of deep red bricks they had abandoned (or had been turned out of and devoured . . . history was not Rachael’s gift) was truly castlelike.
It was built of enormous red bricks and stones, with a dazzling number of windows on all sides, sweeping porches, turrets, multileveled decks, swimming pools (idiotic, given that the Atlantic was right behind the mansion), miles of private beach, and even a golf course. Not that she played; it seemed too much like fetch.
She herself liked to drive out here in her blue Kia Rio when her Change was upon her. She liked to park in the private lot on the beach below the bluffs, Change, then race up the cliff until she was looking at the back of the mansion, nearly always abandoned because her Pack had all Changed and gone away.
Then she would trot around to the immense green lawn in front of the manor, a lawn so wide and deep it was like a dark green lake, one that would take her a while to swim across. She’d flop on her back, wriggle to work out some kinks (human form to wolf form left a nagging ache in her vertebrae), and look up at the bright, bright stars while the wind groaned in her ears and everywhere there was the smell of the ocean, so salty and strong and alive it was almost like the smell of fresh blood.

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