Mostly, it had included a lot of cheesy porn-ish music, heavy on the horn section, and Harry in his boxers, dragging her off to his red and black lairlike bedroom where he’d perform untoward, deliciously sinful acts on her person.
Harry’s small house, located in the outskirts of Buffalo, was in reality a disaster. So much unlike his work space, Mara was taken aback. This wasn’t the Harry she knew: in control, organized, unruffled—if not a little goofy.
As Harry picked his way across the room, he stepped on a bright red Lego, mouthing the word “fuck” while hopping around.
The little boy ignored their entry, and Harry, continuing his bid to reach the ceiling with a plastic sword as his guide. Nina approached him, shoving a pile of dirty clothes out of her way as she went, her head bobbing in time with his leaps. “I’m Nina. What’s your name, little man?”
He didn’t miss a beat when, without so much as acknowledging her, he said, “None of your business.”
A grumble escaped Harry’s throat as though he knew he needed to chastise his nephew for his disrespect, but he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. “Fletcher! Don’t be rude to our . . . guests. Now stop jumping up and down and tell the lady your name.”
Fletcher made a sour face at Harry’s demand, his small nose wrinkling, his words petulant. “You’re not my dad. I don’t have to do what you tell me.”
Mara watched Harry’s face change from parental to pained in the blink of an eye. His internal struggle to manage this child was so agonizingly obvious it wasn’t so internal. Oh, she’d done it and done it good. Not only was poor Harry struggling with his sister’s children, but now he was a werewolf. Impeccable timing for a pile-on, Mara.
Nina grabbed onto the back of Fletcher’s pajama shirt, pulling him up into the air so his feet dangled. “Your uncle said to do something. Do it, dude.”
All motion stopped. His quiet defiance did not. “But you’re not my uncle.”
“Nope, but I am somebody who likes little dudes who have good manners. You? Your manners are in the toilet, Shorty. So, let’s start all over again. Introduce yourself to me, little man, and do it right or I get cranky. You don’t want to see Auntie Nina cranky.”
No truer words.
Harry’s feet, clad in fuzzy, black slippers, made a scuffling noise. But Mara placed a hand on his arm to prevent him from chastising the boy or even Nina. She’d seen Nina in action with not just her own little girl Charlie, but with Mara’s niece Hollis and countless others at pack picnics. All animals and children adored Nina, something that never failed to amaze Mara, seeing as Nina was the crankiest of the undead, maybe even the world.
Yet, when Nina had become a mother herself, something no one thought possible, she’d become even better at child wrangling.
Fletcher hung there, doing exactly what his uncle had done earlier—weighing Nina’s mood—averaging his options. “You’re not giving me enough choices.”
Nina popped her lips. “Funny thing about that. I don’t have to. Know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the adult.”
Fletcher’s sigh reflected his eight-year-old displeasure with Nina. “But Uncle Harry always gives us choices. Like multiple choice. We can do A, B, or C, ya know?”
“Yep. I know. That’s why you’re jumping up and down on the couch like a wild animal and your house is a cruddy mess, ’cus Uncle Harry gave you all those choices. Auntie Nina doesn’t give choices. She gives orders. Know what those are?”
He nodded, his attention now fully captured, his bright eyes fixed on Nina and her uncanny knack for child whispering. “Like a general gives orders. That means no choices.”
Nina tweaked his cheek affectionately and grinned. “That’s exactly right, Fletcher. So, last chance, smarty-pants. Introduce yourself so we can be friends. You’ll totally wanna be my friend because I’m out-of-this-world cool. But you’re gonna miss out if you don’t bust a move. So on with it. Now, please,” Nina repeated with a smile not to be mistaken for leniency.
He stuck out a hand, lean and thin, with an unsure glance up at Nina. “My name is Fletcher Graham. It’s nice to meet you.”
Nina grinned and shook his hand, setting him back down on the sofa. “So, how about you help me clean up this mess, Fletcher Graham, while your Uncle Harry and my friend talk.”
“One question?” he asked, his voice tentative and steeped in respect.
“Only if you promise to help me clean up. Who dumps ravioli on a couch, dude?”
His face fell, as if Nina’s disapproval was the end of the world for him. “It was an accident. And only one question, promise.”