Dogs and Goddesses Read online

  She walked past Bun and Gen sunbathing on the green, dressed in matching bikinis, and for the first time, Abby had no doubts at all that she was looking at the incarnations of Fertility and Pregnancy, cheerful and fecund.

  “Hey, Abs!” Bun said, feeding a Cheeto to her tiaraed dog. “Where are you going?”

  “You guys have any idea where Christopher Mackenzie lives?” Abby asked, while Bowser held a muted conversation with the elderly Baby, making polite inquiries about her health and digestive system.

  “Of course I do,” Gen said, peering up from behind her oversized sunglasses. “He’s my cousin.”

  Bun rolled her eyes and giggled. “Professor Mackenzie is scary as shit, and he’s wrong. You and I are just alike and I suck at math.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Gen said, giggling, too. “But Christopher isn’t scary—he’s just, you know, reserved. And he’s a great teacher.”

  “Now that surprises me,” Abby said. “I would have thought his students would bore him.”

  “He loves math,” Gen said. “I mean, he really loves math, and he loves it when other people get it. Anyway, Cousin Christopher isn’t nearly as whacked as some people”—she cast a pointed look at Bun—“think.”

  But Bun was oblivious, shoving another Cheeto at Baby.

  “Damned things give me gas, but I love ’em,” Baby muttered to Bowser, who made sympathetic noises.

  “You going to see him, Abs?” Gen asked.

  “I needed to tell him something,” she said dismissively. “Uh, how long has your family lived here?”

  “Forever. Just like Bun’s. Our families were here when the town was founded.”

  “The first families,” Bun said. “Seven of them. You’re one, too. My mother says you should come to dinner.” She smiled up, cheerful. “Don’t. My family is nuts.”

  “Hmmm. So that makes Christopher a descendent from one of those families?”

  “I guess so,” Gen said, pushing her sunglasses up onto her forehead to look at Abby. “Why?”

  “Just putting pieces together.”

  Gen grinned at her. “You like him, don’t you?”

  Abby could feel the color rise in her face. “Certainly not. Bun’s right—he’s cold and unfriendly.”

  “Oh, I’m never right,” Bun said genially.

  Gen nodded. “You do like him. Good. He needs someone.”

  “He doesn’t need me!” Abby protested. “I just want to tell him something.”

  “O-kay.” Gen drew the word out with appropriate skepticism. “He’s in the old house at the edge of the quad.” She pointed, her flower-stenciled fingernails sparkling in the sunlight. “Say hi for me.”

  Abby and Bowser started across the green. “I bet you think I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said to him. “But he needs to know he’s not crazy.”

  “Very noble,” Bowser growled.

  “You know, nobody likes a sarcastic dog,” Abby said.

  “Know you too well,” Bowser said.

  It was a muggy day, and Abby was wearing nothing but a thin sundress. Maybe she should have put on something a little less revealing, she thought as they crossed the street, moving toward the old house. Christopher had already said she wasn’t what he wanted, and he certainly was a far cry from her heart’s desire, no matter what the fucking cookies tried to tell her, but something a little more demure might have been a good idea.

  She started up the cracked sidewalk. Professor Mackenzie’s house was straight out of a Gothic nightmare. It looked about a hundred years old, with leaded windows, dark shingles, a slate roof missing several pieces, and wildly overgrown landscaping. It looked about as welcoming as a funeral home, and Abby and Bowser both faltered on the front steps.

  “Maybe I should have called first?” she said. “Maybe I should have stayed home?”

  For once Bowser wasn’t talking. He padded up the front steps beside her, his huge presence at least some source of comfort, and waited beside her while she knocked on the door.

  She was half-hoping he wouldn’t be there, but the door opened with suspicious speed, and Christopher Mackenzie stood there, looking none too pleased to see her. He was wearing jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His glasses were pushed to the top of his head, and he looked dusty, sweaty, and bad tempered. He should be the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t even eaten cookies in a couple of days. So why was she feeling this sudden ache inside her, which only he could fill?

  “Well?” he said, after a minute. “Are you just going to stand there staring at me? Or did you come for a reason?”

  “Such a lovely welcome,” she said. “I was momentarily dazzled by your charm and beauty.” Unfortunately, that was only half a lie. “I came to talk to you.”

  “All right,” he said, opening the door wider.

  “We could talk on the porch,” she said, suddenly nervous.

  “And have half the student population of Summerville College watch and conjecture? I don’t think so. If you want to talk to me, you can come in. Otherwise go home.”

  So much for errands of mercy. She was half-tempted to turn on her heel and stomp away, except you couldn’t stomp very well in sandals, and she could see the troubled darkness in his eyes, and that treacherous softening inside her pushed her forward. “Okay,” she said, stepping inside the cool, dark house.

  Bowser hadn’t moved, sitting down on the peeling front porch. “Aren’t you coming?” she said.

  “Your dog is welcome,” Christopher said.

  “Staying here,” Bowser growled. “Waiting.”

  “I thought you didn’t like dogs,” Abby said to Christopher, hesitating in the open doorway.

  “I like dogs,” Christopher said, and the admission seemed almost painful. “I’ve never had one, but I like them.”

  That was enough to shock her. “Never had a dog? Even as a child?”

  “My foster parents were allergic. And we didn’t have the time to care for a dog.”

  Bowser had collapsed onto the porch with a peaceful sigh, clearly determined, and she gave up trying and followed Christopher into the darkened hallway. He closed the door behind her, and for a moment it felt like they were floating in the shadows. A stained-glass window let shards of colored light splintering the darkness, and the house smelled of dust, old books, and fresh coffee.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, forcing herself to stay on task. “Even if they worked full-time you could have taken care of a dog.”

  “I worked full-time, too.”

  “Child labor?” she said, disbelieving.

  “Child prodigy,” he replied. “We had government grants, research. I spent my childhood in a laboratory.”

  “What about school?” she asked, appalled.

  “I didn’t need conventional schooling. My foster mother took care of the basics. By the time I got my second Ph.D., it really didn’t matter.”

  “And how old were you at that point?” No dog, no school, no real family. It was little wonder that he seemed like an antisocial pain in the ass, when in truth he was nothing more than a sad little boy, and she wanted to put her arms around him.

  He’d probably run screaming if she tried it.

  “I was seventeen. Did you come to talk to me about my peculiar childhood or did you have some other pressing reason?” he said, clearly impatient.

  “Why did you have foster parents? What happened to your real ones?”

  He let out a long-suffering sigh, sounding bored. “My mother died young, and my father wasn’t equipped to raise a child with my … talents. He put me in the care of people who could properly train me. Unfortunately, I never learned the gift for small talk. Why are you here?”

  “It’s never too late to learn,” she said, at least some of her nerves vanishing. “When someone comes to visit, you invite them into the house; you offer them a place to sit and something to drink. And you don’t bully them.”

  He said nothing for a long moment. “This way,” he finall
y muttered, heading into one of the adjoining rooms, leaving her to follow him.

  She immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut. The room was dark, as shadowy as the hallway, with heavy velvet curtains blocking the windows. There were piles of books everywhere, a couple of chairs covered with more books and papers, and a brass bed pushed up against the marble fireplace. The bed was rumpled, unmade, pulling her.

  “This is the only room that has furniture,” he said. “I haven’t gotten around to buying more. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the bed, daring her.

  “I think a chair will be fine.” She scooped up the books and papers and set them carefully on the floor before sitting in the old chair. The springs were long gone, and she sank down with a definite lack of grace.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, taking the bed. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything to drink, or eat for that matter. I just finished the last of the coffee and I usually go out to eat.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” He was too thin. He needed more than cookies and punch. He needed something to make him whole as well. “I wanted to talk to you about the voices.”

  He froze. “I’m really not interested in discussing that with you. I can’t imagine why I even told you in the first place. It was a moment of weakness.”

  “Maybe I’m easy to talk to?” she said, getting impatient.

  “You’re annoying.”

  Abby gritted her teeth. “Did you ever stop to think there might be a reason why you’re here?”

  “I know why I’m here. I dropped out of my foster parents’ research program and came here to teach math.”

  “But why Summerville College?”

  “My mother’s family lived here. There aren’t many people left—”

  “Only Gen.”

  He looked at her. “You’ve been busy,” he said, his voice cool.

  “I saw her on the way over. She told me where you lived.”

  “She’s the one I get to thank,” he said, not sounding particularly grateful.

  “So you left your parents’ research program and moved back here.…”

  “My foster parents,” he said in a stiff voice.

  “How old were you when you went to live with them?”

  “What the hell business is it of yours?” He stared at her, stony-faced. “I was four.”

  “You lived with them for more than twenty years and you never thought of them as anything but your foster parents?” she said, appalled.

  “The Hedleys were not particularly parental. Which was fine; I wasn’t particularly childlike. Are you going to get to the point or are we going to continue with group therapy here?”

  “I think there’s a reason you hear Miltie’s voice.”

  “Milki’s,” he corrected her, glowering. “And I’m not particularly interested in your theories. If that’s all you came to talk about, you can leave.”

  She was tempted. If it weren’t for the shadow in the back of his eyes…”I don’t think you’re imagining it. You’re not channeling Einstein or Stephen Hawking; you’re hearing someone who is specific to this time and place.”

  “Specific to 4000 B.C. Mesopotamia, you mean.”

  She bit her lip, not sure what to tell him, what he might believe. She kept thinking of the Wicked Witch of the West—“these things must be done delicately”—and pushed up from the sagging springs, crossing the shadowy room with the dust motes dancing in the air.

  “There’s something about the original Seven Families,” she said. “Things that have been passed down.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t hear a Mesopotamian mathematician talking to me. But I hear dogs talking.”

  He didn’t look impressed, so she persevered. “It turns out I’m descended from an ancient Mesopotamian priestess. There are seven of us, and we meet at a dog-training class in the history building.…” Her voice trailed off at the expression on his face.

  “You think this is funny?” he snarled.

  “I’m telling you the truth. And it’s not just me; it’s Daisy and your cousin Gen and Shar Summer and—”

  “You’re all descended from Mesopotamian priestesses?”

  “And Sam … he came from the bas-relief, and he’s related to your friend Milki, and you know, I even have powers.…” She was standing in front of him, and he was staring up at her like she was out of her mind. “I can prove it. Those cookies I gave you. They make you hungry for your heart’s desire. That’s why you came back to the coffeehouse.”

  “I wanted more cookies?”

  She took a deep breath. “You wanted me. At least, maybe not consciously, but why do you think you kissed me when you don’t even like me?”

  “I like you,” he said. “You’re a little strange, but I like you.” He leaned back a little, looking at her, and the defenses and the sarcasm dropped away. “So if the cookies made me come and jump you in the kitchen, what did they do to you? Assuming you were eating these magic cookies, too?”

  “I was.”

  “And?”

  Oh, shit. She was standing too close to him, and she started to back away, but he reached up and caught her hand, and the darkness was gone from his eyes. He was looking at her with none of the defensiveness and anger that had danced around them, looking at her with a sudden, heated intent. “And that’s why I kissed you back,” she said nervously, wondering if she should pull away.

  But his thumb was moving back and forth over her skin, bringing forth a frisson of reaction, and she wasn’t going anywhere. Not when he was finally ready to open up.

  “I’m no longer worried about being insane,” he said, his voice wry. “Compared to you I’m a paragon of mental health.”

  “You don’t have to believe me,” she said, flustered.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “As a matter of fact, there’s only one interesting piece of information in your entire long-winded fantasy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I’m your heart’s desire.” He was tugging her toward him gently, and she knew she ought to pull free, get the hell out of there. Because she’d tried, he didn’t believe her, and by now he was even more convinced she was a nutcase, and…

  He pulled, and she stumbled out of her sandals, and his body was hard and warm and strong as she tumbled onto the unmade bed. She found herself flat on her back in the middle of the mattress, and he was leaning over her, his eyes dark, searching, though she didn’t know what he was looking for.

  And then it didn’t matter. He brought his hand up and carefully pushed her tumbled hair off her face. He let his fingertips touch her skin, her nose and her cheeks, her lips, her jaw. “You actually think you’re the descendent of a Mesopotamian priestess?” His voice was soft and low.

  “Actually I’m a demi-goddess.” Her voice shook just the tiniest bit as his fingertips danced across her lips.

  “Even better,” he said. “I’ve never been to bed with a demi-goddess before.”

  She didn’t move. “Who says I’m going to bed with you?”

  “Where do you think we are? You aren’t getting up, are you?” He began unbuttoning his shirt slowly, waiting for her protest.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not.” She reached up and pushed his hands away, unfastening the buttons with shaking hands, pulling the shirt away from him. He had smooth, hard skin, sleek and perfect, and he was hot; everything was hot in this shadowy room. She touched him, put his hand on his chest to feel his heart beating, fast.

  “Are you checking to see whether I have a heart or not?”

  “You have a heart.”

  His faint smile was unexpected, and for the first time she could see what his habitual glower had hidden. He had dimples. The most gorgeous dimples bracketing the sides of his mouth. “So are you going to finish undressing me?”

  Shit. Now was the time to tell him she’d never done this before. She opened her mouth to say something, but he covered it with his own, a fierce kiss of such hunger that all hesitation vanished
, and she kissed him back, rising to meet him, sliding her arms around his neck, and pulling him down to her.

  He had her naked in under a minute. She was so busy kissing him, being kissed, that she barely noticed that he’d managed to slide off her sundress with far too much practice.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought, I ought to be nervous. Wary. But the way his long fingers slid over her skin, touching her, the way his mouth moved slowly, so slowly down the side of her neck to her breasts, kissing her, and she let out a little squeak—she wasn’t sure if it was surprise or arousal or both—but Christopher was too busy.

  Not that she had anything to compare it to, but damn, he was good. He knew just how and where to touch her, and when he slid his fingers inside her, she arched, feeling a little explosion of pleasure, and she gasped, throwing her head back in shock as the ripples ran through her body, and he rubbed her harder, and a stronger climax rocked her body, and she tried to say something, but no words came out, just a soft, keening kind of sound, as her body went rigid and the spasms shook her.

  He took his hand away, and she wanted to cry, but he simply kissed her again, a slow, deliberate kiss that had her sweating and shaking and ready to come again, just from his mouth on hers, his hands on her breasts, and she wanted so much more, she was going crazy.

  She tried to pull him over her body, between her legs. “Now,” she said in a rushed little voice.

  “Why are you in such a hurry? Afraid the dogs will tell on you?” His voice was slightly strained, as if he was trying to sound cool and failing.

  “Now,” she said, desperate. She needed him inside her, she needed to be filled, deep and hard, and it was him, only him, she had to have.

  “Whatever you say,” he said, pulling her legs apart. He handed her something, and she realized with shock that he’d given her a condom. He must expect her to put it on him. She tried to tear open the package, but her hands were shaking too much, and she was going to try to tear it with her teeth when he took it back from her, ripping it open and sheathing himself. She could feel his erection against her, hard, waiting, and she realized she hadn’t touched him, hadn’t even looked at him. She’d seen enough porn in her life to know what to expect, read enough romance novels to know it would be somewhere in between, and she really didn’t want to think anymore; she just wanted to feel.