Derik bounded beside me on the stairs like a big blond puppy. "It's nothing personal," he said cheerfully keeping pace with me as I climbed the eighty zillion stairs to the nursery. "But we can't tell if you're lying or not-that whole 'no scent' thing-and it's driving the chief out of his head."
"I'll bet." I was a smidge--just a smidge- sympathetic. To go your whole life being able to tell if everyone around you was lying or not, that had to come in handy. One of the few things Antonia had mentioned was that her Pack hardly ever bothered with lying. . . there was absolutely no point. And then to run into me, someone who could (she was a short, genius brunette and still smell, fine not smell, as the case was), that had to be frustrating.
"So I, the most charming and handsome werewolf in all the land-"
"Should I throw up here on the stairs? Or try to wait until I can find a garbage can?"
"-will catch you off-guard with my witticism and charisma."
"And don't forget your sexy Martha Stewart T-shirt."
"Hey, hey. Don't diss my girl Martha. She could kick your fine undead ass with one homemade seashell napkin holder behind her back."
"Derik, you're seriously bent, you know that?" He ignored me. "And then I, fearless Pack member, shall swoop down on the truth like a crow on a grub."
"Did you just call me a worm?"
"I did not," he said, following me into the nursery. "I called you a grub. Big difference. Huge!"
I laughed; I couldn't help it. The big doof probably was the most charming werewolf in all the land. "Dude, you really are the-eh?"
I had reached the crib, bent over, plucked Babyjon it And was surprised to be alone. I turned and Derik was-there was no other word for it-he was cowering beside the nursery door.
"What's going on?" I asked, completely startled to see the six-foot-plus blond huddling in terror.
"I was gonna ask you the same thing. Jesus!" He forced himself to straighten, shook himself all over, then cupped his elbows in his palms. It almost looked like-it looked like the big strong badass werewolf was hugging himself for comfort. But that couldn't be right. "Every hair on my body is trying to jump ship right now. Least that's what it feels like. I've got the worst fucking case of the creeps. I-what's that?"
"This is my baby brother." Babyjon wasn't crying or anything. I had slung him over one of my hips, and he was just looking at Derik, patiently waiting for his bottle. What a sweetie. Orphaned, and hungry. And not crying! "Isn't he the cutest?"
"Keep him away from me," Derik ordered, actually backing out of the room. Guess he wasn't fond of babies. "It feels like thirteen o'clock in here."
"Derik, what the hell's gotten into you?" I followed him out into the hall, genuinely puzzled. If Michael had sent his Good Guy WereCop after me to try to look for more info, this was a weird way to go about it. "You're acting all-"
"Don't do that!" Both Derik's hands shot out palm up. He was warding me off? No way. I had it wrong. I was misreading werewolf body language, or whatever. "I might have to bite you. And not in a nice way, get it? So just-aaaaiiieeeeee!"
He said aaaaiiieeeeee because at that moment he fell down the stairs. All the way down. And with my hands full of Babyjon, I had no chance to catch him. So I just stared, cringing at some of the thuds and wincing at some of Derik's more colorful language as he plummeted to the bottom.
I sighed. Then I put Babyjon back in his crib, ignoring his surprised squawk, shut the nursery door, and started down the stairs.
There was no way they were going to believe Derik fell down the stairs-all the stairs-without assistance. I assumed there was going to be another fight. Best to get it over with.
Too bad, really. Just when I thought we'd established a little trust.
