Dead Over Heels

know a lot of—

“Why the big rush to find a mate?” he asked after swallowing.

“Haven’t you noticed? All our old friends are mated and most of them have cubs, even! So much,” she added bitterly, “for swearing to stay single until at least thirty.”

“Yeah,” he said, idly spinning his fork in the pasta. “I had noticed.”

“Right!” She plopped down in the kitchen chair opposite him. Saul had inherited a beautiful house on 6A from his parents; it was big enough to be a bed and breakfast, but Saul made plenty of dough at Excel. It was a bitch to get to in the summer (awful, awful tourists), but worth the trip every time. She felt more at home here than at her apartment in P-town. “So now I’ve gotta get married by the time I’m thirty.”

“But that’s three weeks away.”

“I knowwwwwww. Thus, the ‘right away’ comment. Remember, when I came in?”

“Yeah, I remember. It was forty seconds ago.”

“Okay, then!” She slapped the flat of her hand on his table. “So hook me up. Maybe we can set up one of those speed-dating things, except with werewolves.”

“Or maybe,” he said, after chewing another forkful, “you could set aside your ruthless competitive streak for once.”

“Fat chance of that happening. It’s me, Saul, Cain. Remember?”

He sighed. She picked up a napkin and wiped a dab of garlic sauce off his chin. “Yeah. I remember. Stop that, you’re not my mother.”

“Aw, Saul.” She tweaked his chin. “I’m practically your sister, and you know it.”

He snorted. “I’ve got enough problems without having you as a sibling. That would complicate my life enormously. And you’ve already done that, and you haven’t been here a minute.” He snorted again. “Speed dating.”

“Aw, come on. I know you can do it. We’ll set it up at Finnegan’s.”

“Forever to be known in the future as Hell on Earth.”

“Will you stop being such a crybaby and help me?”

He sighed. “Yes. And yes.”

She beamed. “Good boy. And you’ve got sauce on your cheek.”

Chapter 3

Candidate number one sat across from her at her table in the back corner of Finnegan’s, her and Saul’s favorite bar in Orleans. And immediately sneezed into his drink.

“Sorry,” he said, whipping out a cloth handkerchief and (ecch!) blowing his nose in it, then stuffing it back into his jacket pocket. “Allergies.”

“But you’re a werewolf!”

“Half. On my mom’s side. And the pollen’s murder this time of—” He sneezed again and a glob of snot actually landed on her arm. Before she could break a chair over his head, he had mopped it up with his damp handkerchief.

“Next!” she called. She wasn’t even going to give this guy the full minute, so she reset the timer.

Candidate number two sat down, clutching two orange drinks—she assumed they were screwdrivers—and frantically waving the waitress down for a third. In thirty seconds he had gulped both drinks, and had the flushed cheeks and bloodshot eyes of a closet drunk. It took a lot of booze to get a werewolf drunk, but he was managing nicely.

“Next!”

Candidate number three sat down, eyed her, then said disapprovingly, “What have you done to your hair? It’s much too short. You’ve got to grow it longer.”

“Next!”

“You’re not even giving them the full minute,” Saul murmured in her ear, making her jump. For a gawky, gangly engineer, he moved like a matador.

“Oh, boy, are you gonna get it when we get back to your place. I can’t believe you picked these guys!”

“Your gratitude is overwhelming.”

“Get lost, here comes number four.”

Saul glided away as number four sat down across from her . . . and instantly pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind?”

“Yeah, actually.” She couldn’t abide the smell of cigarette smoke; most werewolves couldn’t. She was amazed he’d picked up the habit.

“Well, this is me, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby. Next!”

Candidate number five sat down and instantly started nibbling on his nails, a filthy monkey habit almost as bad as smoking.

“How do you hunt,” she asked, fascinated, “if you keep eating your claws?”

“Nervous tic.”

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of skeeving me out.”

He nibbled harder. “It gets worse when I’m under stress. Which you’re definitely putting me under.”

“Pal, you haven’t seen stress. Next!”

“That’s it,” Saul said.

“What?” she cried. “Only five? Five losers?”

“You gave me,” he reminded her, “twenty hours notice.”

“Oh, sure, it’s my fault. Man, if I didn’t know you so well I’d swear you set me up with those idiots on purpose.”

“Now why would I do that?” he asked mildly, sitting down across from her. “You can just call me candidate number six.”

“Very fucking funny, Saul. So now what do we do?”

“Have a drink?”

“After that. My birthday loometh.”

“Well, I did fix you up for a blind date tomorrow night.”

“Excellent!”

“Yeah,” he said, draining his beer. “Excellent.”

Chapter 4

Is that what you’re wearing?” Saul asked as soon as she walked into his living room. He had all kinds of incomprehensible paperwork spread around him, and looked harassed.

She looked down at herself. Clean denim shorts, a navy blue T-shirt. Black suede flats. It was July on Cape Cod; what else would she wear? “What? What’s wrong with it?”

“What if he’s planning to take you somewhere nice?”

She scowled at him. “I’m not wearing a dress or a skirt and that is that.”

He sighed. “You’re not making this very easy.”

“Hey, I never said it would be easy.”

“Yes, you’ve been threatening me with that since kindergarten.”

“What’s all the stuff?” she asked, kneeling beside him. “Work junk?”

“Work junk,” he agreed. “New client. Place is a disaster. I foresee a month of twenty-hour days. Especially now that you’ve dumped your little project on me.”