The Werewolf Nanny Read online

  The Werewolf Nanny

  by Amanda Milo

  Copyright © 2020 Amanda Milo ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. 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.

  Edited by LY Publishing Services.

  DEDICATION:

  To R, for reading over this one again and again, and for making me laugh with terrible jokes. And because the lobster one didn’t make it in the book elsewhere, here it is, you nut: “What’s the difference between a dirty bus stop and a lobster with breast implants?”

  “One’s a crusty bus station and the other’s a busty crustacean.”

  I’m still shaking my head at you.

  To Lindsay at LY Publishing Services, and Janet Seavey, Empress of Homophones, for dropping everything to proofread. Also to Tammy, Ronika, Lyda, Kitty, and Dawn for reading over my words and making them shiny. Readers, when you find errors, it’s not the fault of this team, but mine.

  To CormacMacD, for tirelessly answering my questions and supplying me with proper Gaeilge (including the Gaelic name for an otter :D ).

  (Plus a stalker’s shout-out to Jamie Dornan, Allen Leech, and Niall Horan, who provided some fascinating Irishisms in their interviews.)

  And to Siobhán from BiteSize Irish, who patiently teaches how to pronounce Gaelic phrases. Go raibh maith agat!

  DEDICATION:

  GLOSSARY

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  EPILOGUE

  JUST FOR FUN

  ALL IN A NAME…

  Books & Audiobooks by Amanda…

  About the Author

  GLOSSARY

  THE OFFICIAL LIST OF IRISH SLANG AND GAELIC USED IN THIS STORY

  (More or less in the order these words appear.)

  Go raibh maith agat—thank you.

  Gargled—intoxicated.

  Mam, Ma, Máthair—mother.

  Da—father.

  Gobshite—a mild word for idiot.

  Geebag—a slightly less mild word for idiot. Can reference female genitalia, but can also be non-gender specific and applied like jackass/asshole.

  Gee-eyed—intoxicated.

  A Donkey’s Years—a very long time.

  Gaff—house.

  Knickers—underwear.

  Melter—a person you dislike.

  Shite—a good all-around word used for things like excrement, a fool, rubbish.

  A stór—treasure.

  Howeyeh, Howaya, Howsagoin—the Irish hello.

  Fair play to ya—a warm-hearted congrats.

  Lad—an informal term for boy, can also refer to men or women.

  Mot—female friend, girlfriend, or wife.

  Dryshite—someone who’s extremely boring and never wants to do anything remotely interesting.

  Codding—joke.

  Jays, Jaysus—an alternative to taking the Lord’s name in vain, like ‘Golly’ or ‘Gosh.’

  Buck eejit—SUCH a dork.

  Banjaxed—broke slap up.

  Stop the lights—calm down or hold up now, go back.

  Any more of this and there’ll be less of it—this is craziness and I’m about to put a stop to it.

  Pox bottle—pox means crummy, nuisance, worthless. And bottle… I couldn’t nail this colorful little bit down, but I loved the term and so it’s in the story. ;D

  Kex—underwear.

  Class—awesome, fabulous, very good.

  “If work were a bed, you’d be sleeping on the floor”—you are so lazy.

  Boot—trunk.

  Faolán—Little wolf.

  Going clappers (going like the clappers)—super fast, like the old fashioned clanging fire alarms that speedily clacked together. I’m told it also means crazy good sex, as in rapid-fire fornicating, or things are going well. My sources could be teasing me, but I’m going with it.

  Battery counselor—this isn’t particular to Irish, but a good number of early readers were thrown by the term, so here it is: domestic violence therapist.

  Béar—Gaelic for bear.

  Knackered/Flahed—exhausted.

  Get a leg over—to have sex.

  Lickarse—embarrassingly fawning manner; brown-noser, kiss-ass.

  Yark—vomit. This might not be Irish.

  Cracking—going awesome.

  Give it a lash—give it a go, let’s try it.

  The Irish Goodbye—this one has two meanings which seem to be in complete opposition: you can’t hardly leave a function because your loved ones are mobbing you with goodbyes while enticing you to stay on a bit longer. And thus why the term is also applied to someone who dares to slip out of a party without saying goodbye.

  You three-legged jackal—werewolf term for ‘Why, you low-down little cuss.’

  Coyote—werewolf term, a curse word of the strongest degree, the deepest insult for a person considered to be a contemptible rotten thief and killer.

  Hup ya boya—a cheer; of support, a Look alive, everybody! Let’s do this.

  Muppet—silly fool.

  Maggot—stupid, troublesome, disliked person or behavior.

  Flute: penis. See: https://youtu.be/0NTczzgcYzI, can also be used as a verb to describe wasting time.

  Langer—penis.

  Slag—whore.

  Taking the piss out of [somebody]—teasing and joking with someone (could also mean mocking or ridiculing someone).

  Seraphim—Holy creatures, loyal.

  Dosser—a worthless person.

  Bampot, Bamsticks—dolt, idiot.

  Bold—this word has two meanings, depending on how it’s pronounced in Ireland. When Finn uses the word, it means naughty.

  Hullo—a Scottish greeting, variant of English hello.

  Deadly—awesome, excellent.

  Savage—awesome, amazing, fabulous.

  Ripping—angry.

  Mo mhuirn
ín—my beloved.

  Colúr—dove.

  Acushla—pulse of my heart.

  A ghrá—a romantic endearment for love.

  Mo rúnsearc—my secret love.

  CHAPTER 1

  SUSAN

  I open up my front door with a tight, strained smile on my face.

  Even if I could have managed to paste a more convincing smile on, the men on my doorstep would know my heart isn’t in it. They’d immediately be able to smell my nerves and my stress.

  Because werewolves can do that.

  That’s right. Werewolves. Shifters. Men who transform into dangerous animals.

  The tall one is a man I know pretty well. Finnigan Cauley. He’s some sort of alpha boss of the territory, one of several, and as alphas go, he’s—

  Hang on. Let me back up in case some of this is new information to you. About a year or so ago, werewolves revealed themselves among the population. They’ve been around for as long as humans have, staying nicely hidden just the way they liked. But in our modern age, where everybody has an excellent camera and movie-quality crisp recording options, keeping hidden was a struggle they were starting to lose. So they confirmed their existence, and the world scrambled to accept the reality that bipedal shapeshifting beasts mingle daily with mere mortals.

  The werewolves made acceptance pretty easy. They’ve long been policing their own kind to stay hidden, so they know very well how to keep their head down and how to color within the lines enough not to get into any trouble. Rumor has it (and by rumor, I mean the Internet) they’ve got quite the developed setup—as in small private town—along with an evolved hierarchy—as in social ranks and the duties thereof. For example, Cauley, the bigger man on my doorstep, is called something like Marú mok cheerah—it’s hard for me to say if that’s an official title for sure because I’ve only ever heard werewolves whisper it when he’s not around. Wolf Killer, is what someone told me it translated to, but beyond spelling it for me, Marú mac tíre, they wouldn’t say more. And it’s odd, but it’s not uncommon to observe the shifter crowd acting nervous around him, even other alphas. Alphas are the bold type of werewolf that humans are familiar with. Familiar with—and fond of. We pretty much can’t help but be taken with their good looks and charm. At well over six feet tall, Cauley is the embodiment of the mesomorph body type, packed with muscle and not an ounce of fat on him. That seems to be true of werewolves in general. All the ones I’ve met and seen on TV via interviews are handsome, charismatic, tall-looking, and ripped.

  So I’m a little taken aback by the werewolf beside him.

  I’m five foot six, and the werewolf across from me is maybe an inch taller. He’s hunching, so it’s hard to say. He’s also flinching like someone’s about to hit him.

  “Umm,” I start, glancing at Cauley with concern.

  “He’s fine,” Cauley says, smiling his million-dollar grin. Jaw shaved smooth, his wheaten-colored hair wiry, thick, and permanently tousled—he’s hot. Dressed in slacks and a tight Under Armour shirt that hides absolutely none of his athletic frame, he could be a movie star he’s so pretty—not a far-fetched notion at all, because a lot of movie stars are werewolves. (Something the world was shocked to learn when werewolves came out.)

  Cauley isn’t on the big screen though. Instead, he’s a territory boss, and in his spare time he runs the Pack-owned pub where I work, The Gargled Werewolf. I sort of know what he does at the pub (he’s a problem fixer—everything from dealing with an unruly customer to jumping in to wait tables whenever we need the extra hands).

  But what does he do for his territory boss gig? Believe me, I’ve searched the heck out of the Internet to find out what an alpha in a Pack of werewolves does (especially in the last twenty-four hours) but it’s hard to know what to believe. There’s a ton of information posted online that may or may not be true about these creatures of legend come to real life.

  Cauley flicks his fingers. “Is it okay if he comes inside? He’ll calm down quicker.”

  “Oh,” I say, slapping a hand to my cheek in shock and chagrin. “Yes, come in! Where are my manners? Sorry.”

  The as-yet unintroduced man—werewolf—who looks like he wishes he could disappear never raises his gaze. In fact, it looks like he might have his eyes squeezed shut. It’s hard to tell, with the way he’s doing his best to fold in on himself. He’s in a lightweight heather green long-sleeve and some type of black workout pants. His hair is dark brown. So are his beard, eyebrows, and mustache, all of which are very… full. Like… beginning to cover his face full. He’s either very rugged-looking, or he’s seconds away from turning from a man into an animal.

  Cauley shoots me a sexy smile. “Relax, Sue.” His grin goes lopsided, which makes my stomach flip. “Trust me, swayt hart. This is going to be fine.”

  It takes my brain the tiniest moment to recognize the endearment as ‘sweetheart.’ But my body responds to the endearment the moment it rolls out of his mouth. I should tell you right here that Cauley is Irish.

  (If you’re thinking, “But he’s so tall!” that’s pretty much everybody’s first reaction. I’m sure he just loves to keep hearing the short jokes.)

  He’s really, really Irish though, and when his accent gets thick, it makes women stupid. It makes women do whatever he tells them to do, makes them agree with whatever he’d like us to agree with—moi included. “Right,” I concur on an exhale.

  When the hunched werewolf only crouches lower and shivers, Cauley wraps his hand around the back of the man’s (male’s? How does one refer to a werewolf?) neck and hauls him inside.

  Stomach twisting with nerves, I close the door and turn to face them. “Have a seat anywhere you like.” I gesture to my living room, which is off to the right. My townhouse is humble, but clean and well-maintained. There’s one sectional sofa that dominates the space in front of the TV, and I expect the men to take it, but Cauley walks the frightened-looking wolfman into the kitchen on our left, letting the man sag to the floor by the island. His big body knocks the barstools to the side, making screeching noises on the linoleum flooring.

  “Is he all right—” I start, worried. Okay, if I’m being honest, I’m quickly shifting from naturally worried to straight up freaked out. I was already nervous about bringing a stranger—let alone a werewolf stranger—into our house; this isn’t helping.

  “Awf, for the sweet love of Jaysus,” Cauley murmurs to himself—or to God. “He’ll be fine,” he assures (‘Heel b’fyne!’ is what my ears first hear before my brain can translate), righting the stools and propping the man up before throwing me his patented sex-charged smile. But my eyes hone in on the gleam to Cauley’s teeth. I’d swear, they almost look… sharp. His eyes do too. And for the first time, I feel a little bit unsafe with him.

  The absolute besheeshus is scared out of me when Cauley whips his head up, bares his teeth, and turns a hard smile on me. “Susan? Getting scared with a werewolf isn’t a helpful thing. So don’t be scared, okay?”

  Fear rips through me, but I get a throttlehold on it, and try for an apologetic grin that I don’t feel and nobody believes. Faintly, I murmur, “Got it. Sorry.”

  Cauley gives me an appreciative nod. “This,” he says, squeezing the nape of the now-shivering man, “is Lucan. But everyone calls him Deek. And she,” he says firmly, giving the man a shake that makes me unconsciously hug myself in shock (ironically, almost the same move is made by the werewolf being shaken on the floor), “is Susan Taylor. Say her name.”

  The shaking wolf—Lucan—stammers my name on a panted whisper. He draws his wrists closer to his chest, protectively and submissively, projecting the strange impression that he’s more beaten dog than man. “Su-susan.”

  “Good,” Cauley says, and without releasing the man’s nape, his other hand gruffly pets the top of the werewolf’s head, mussing the thick hair between his rapidly changing ears. They aren’t a man’s ears anymore. They’re furry and triangle-shaped, and they’re moving—sliding higher up on his sk
ull. “For the foreseeable future, Susan is your alpha. Repeat after me.”

  “S-s-susan is my alpha,” the trembling man whispers.

  “MOM! Can we see him?” Maggie, my six-year-old, shouts excitedly from the living room where she is not supposed to be. She was told that she was to wait in her room until Cauley gave me the a-okay.

  I expect that her older sister at least obeyed the directive. Charlotte is fourteen, and she is, in a word, dependable. Capable too. She wanted to oppose this plan to bring a werewolf stranger into our house for the purpose of babysitting Maggie—yes, that’s what this Deek guy is here for, and I know how crazy that sounds—but Charlotte is enrolled in advanced courses in summer school and thus can’t babysit her little sister herself.

  Just how, exactly, did we arrive at this moment, where we’ve elected to have a shapeshifter watch over my six-year-old?

  The day before yesterday, the pub was uncharacteristically dead, so Cauley let me head home early. Normally, I always opt to stay for my full shift because I need the paycheck. I’m a single mom with two kids: money is always tight. Because it’s almost Labor Day though—directly after which school begins—it means that Maggie is stuck with a babysitter during the day hours, and she’s miserable.

  We’ve had some terrible babysitters.

  Being the child of divorced parents myself, I remember all too well how some babysitters acted once my mom had to leave for work. Some were great, but most sitters were hell. And if even half of what Maggie was reporting could be believed, I knew she’d appreciate the rescue.

  I pulled up in front of our townhouse, parked at my spot at the curb, grabbed my purse, locked up the car, and groaned as I made my feet take my weight for the two dozen or so steps of sidewalk it takes to make it to the house.

  I wasn’t quiet when I unlocked the door. But apparently, the girl I was paying my hard-earned dollars to watch Maggie couldn’t hear me over the blaring TV. I walked in to find the kitchen a mess (typical—sitters don’t clean up nowadays, even though I distinctly remember doing dishes and wiping down counters every day when I was a babysitter myself), there were kale chips spilled out on the floor—what looked like darn near the full bag of them (just what the heck had happened in here? Wasting food? Not in my house, heck no!), and the sitter, Bella, was parked comfy as you please watching television and eating a pan of macaroni and cheese. Seriously, straight out of the pan. Which wouldn’t bother me (one less dish to wash later)—but it begged the question: what was Maggie eating?