Ghosts

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  http://www.Kel eyArmstrong.com/

  I sat in the study, listening to the silence of the empty house.

  Antonio and Nick were right outside the window, on the

  patio, but even their muted whispers didn’t disturb the hush.

  Clayton and Elena had only been gone a few hours, but the

  house had already settled into hibernation, waiting for their

  return.

  Every now and then, I’d catch echoes of a voice raised in

  anger, joy, frustration, laughter—always raised. Every

  footstep was a pound or a stomp, as they barreled through

  doorways, sprawled across sofas and carpets, their

  presence so loud I could hear it in the wal s when they were

  gone.

  Gone.

  Temporarily, I tel myself. I should think of it as a respite—a

  few days to rest and plan before their return invasion. God,

  let there be a return—

  There wil be. This was for the best, and they’d return from

  Toronto safe and together, and this threat would be

  annihilated, our dead vindicated, and every corner of the

  house wil boom with those shouts and footsteps until I

  retreat to my studio, and wonder why I didn’t enjoy the

  peace while it lasted.

  I hate the silence.

  I loved it once, during those barren, blessedly short years

  between my grandfather’s death and Clayton’s arrival.

  Silence then truly did mean peace, that my father was gone

  again and I could relax. But then Clayton came, and Elena .

  . . and it was never quiet again.

  I turned from the window and, for a second, time stuttered

  and I was standing here, in this same pose, eleven years

  ago. Elena was on the couch, smiling the first genuine

  smile I’d seen from the nervous, confused young woman

  who’d appeared on my doorstep with Clay the day before.

  She’s sitting there, smiling at something across the room. I

  turn, and see a giant golden wolf slinking into the room. For

  a moment, it doesn’t register—Clay here, as a wolf, in this

  setting, the pieces don’t connect and it takes a moment to

  realize it is him. By then, it’s too late. His teeth sink into her

  hand, and one thought fil s my brain: this is my fault.

  I know it wasn’t my fault—not entirely, though I do share

  some of the blame, as we al do. But as I see him bite her, I

  feel the gut-punch of guilt for not seeing this coming, for not

  having understood months ago what was happening in his

  life.

  I hadn’t seen the truth because I’d been too busy worrying

  about what his change in mood portended. I’d seen him

  drifting away, and it had terrified me, specters of a silent,

  ghost-fil ed house rising. I’d told myself that I was happy for

  him, hating the selfish pit of grief in my gut every time I

  thought of him leaving.

  I turned from the window.

  "Jer?"

  For a moment, I stood frozen, caught between times. Then

  Antonio cal ed again from outside the window. I knew what

  he wanted. To do what we were supposed to be doing now

  that Clay and Elena were gone—plotting a way to end this

  threat. Yet I wasn’t ready. Not ready to get down to

  business, and not ready to face him.

  I’d suggested sending Nick to Toronto with them. Antonio

  refused. We needed him here. So I hadn’t pushed. I should

  have pushed. My family, my "children," were gone, tucked

  out of harm’s way . . . and his son remained.

  He’d refused my suggestion—that was the logical thing,

  and Antonio put logic first, emotion second. He hadn’t

  always been like that. A self-taught life lesson, and a harsh

  one. Given the chance to send Nick away from this, his

  heart would have leapt with eagerness. But his brain had

  said no—we need the extra fighter. I should have pushed.

  Insisted.

  "I’l be out in a moment," I said, not moving closer to the

  window, speaking where I couldn’t see them. "I’l just switch

  the laundry over and bring out some lunch."

  He started to answer, probably to say the laundry could wait

  —which it could—and even lunch could be postponed,

  under the circumstances, but I was already out of the room.

  I headed down to the basement. As I passed the cage, soft

  crying fol owed me, slowing my steps. I turned, but of

  course there was no one inside. Just ghosts. The crying

  stopped, muffled by a snuffle, hands swiping away tears,

  throat unclogging in a cough.

  "Jer—Jeremy." My name came awkwardly from her lips, as

  if she’d prefer not to use it, to cal me something more

  formal, keep that distance between us: captor and captive.

  "Can I come out please?"

  I walked faster. I hadn’t walked away back then. I’d stayed

  and tried to reason with her, knowing how ludicrous that

  was—insisting on applying the dictates of reason to what

  must have been, for her, sheer madness. She’d come to

  meet her fiancé's family, and now found herself locked in a

  basement cage, changing into a wolf every few nights, her

  lover banished, the keys to her dungeon held by a stranger

  who insisted she be reasonable, of al things. I could not

  begin to imagine what those few months must have been

  like for her. But I’d get a taste of it soon enough.

  I made it as far as the laundry room before the next ghost

  cal ed out to me, stil from that damnable cage.

  "Jer? Jer, please. Let me go with you. I’l find her. I’l make it

  up to her. She’l understand. Just let me talk to her."

  That time I had turned away. I had to. Bolted up the stairs

  two at a time, hearing Clayton’s pleas turn to shouts then

  screams as he begged me to let him help me find Elena.

  Upstairs, I’d packed a bag and left. Left before I turned

  around, marched down those stairs and screamed back at

  him, vented al my frustration and rage and helplessness on

  him.

  My throat had itched to say the words—to shout them—to

  make as much noise as he did for once. Why had he

  opened that cage door and let her out? Did he think me a

  monster, locking her up? I’d had no choice. He’d left me no

  choice.

  He’d bitten this girl and I was the one who had to listen to

  her sob, rage, scream until she had no voice left and, worse

  of al , cry quietly in the corner, cal ing his name when she

  thought no one was listening. I had to restrain her during her

  Changes, fight her, bear her bites and scratches, but none

  of them more painful than that look of utter terror on her face

  as she watched her body change forms.

  Stil , that wasn’t why she was in the cage. I could deal with

  the rages and the fits. But she wasn’t weak or foolish

  enough to listen to this stranger, to simply lie down and let

  the madness envelop her. She fought not just me, but this

  life and every time she thought I wasn’t watching, she tried

  to escape.

  That’s why I locked her up: because I knew if she made it

  away from this place, she’d find true hel . Bitten werewolves

  rarely survived. Clay had, but only because he was a child

  —a bright, resourceful and, most importantly, accepting

  child. He’d accepted what he was and dealt with it. Elena

  could not accept. Who could blame her? Turned into

  something that, in her world, existed only in nightmares and

  horror films. And made that way, not by a stranger or an

  enemy, but by the man she’d entrusted her life and future to.

  While I’d been out, Clay had snuck back, hoping to explain

  —as if such a thing could ever be explained—hoping to

  make amends, and he’d opened the door that kept her

  safe. The moment it opened, she’d attacked, knocking him

  out, locking him in and running. Now she was about to

  discover that this nightmare wasn’t one you woke up from,

  nor one you could leave behind by simply fleeing the

  madhouse.

  I’d never considered taking Clayton with me to find Elena.

  Just as I hadn’t considered forcing him to stay and help

  mend what he’d broken. After the bite, I’d been so furious,

  I’d inflicted the worst punishment I could imagine on him:

  banishment. Later, when Antonio suggested I let him come

  back, so he could truly see the damage he’d wrought, I

  refused. By then, any thoughts of punishing him had

  passed, and I cared only about healing Elena. Having him

  around would only remind her of his betrayal.

  So when he begged to come with me, I’d refused.

  It took a few days to find Elena. She’d returned to Toronto.

  As for how she made the trek with no money—I hadn’t

  wanted to think about that. Once I arrived in the city,

  tracking her down had been more a matter of patience than

  skil . I’d tried to do it the "logical" way—returned to her

  school, found her apartment, even located a couple of

  friends, but she’d visited none of them.

  After a few days of tail-chasing, the answer came to me, as

  I knew it would. I was eating dinner, having skipped lunch,

  so hungry that, for the first time since she’d escaped, I’d

  been too intent on something else to worry. Then, as I sat

  there, I knew where she was. Just knew, as if picking up a

  beacon.

  Holding onto that beacon wasn’t easy—it wavered and

  faded, and seemed to slip away a few times. I tried too

  hard, as I always do. The strange connection I have to my

  Pack is a fragile, difficult thing, rarely coming when I need it,

  and always threatening to leave before I’m done with it. It

  was like being given a complex piece of equipment with no

  manual—I fumbled and experimented and, sometimes, it

  worked.

  Eventual y, I found Elena.

  When I did, I wished I’d brought Clay along. He should have

  seen her there, cowering in the shadows, driven half-mad

  by her Changes, and the horror of what she’d done under

  their influence, starving and brain-fevered. Then he would

  have truly seen what he had done.

  In that moment, I wanted him there. But later, I’m not sure I

  could have made that choice. Would it have forced him to

  understand? Or would it have broken him?

  I pul ed myself from my memories, switched the laundry and

  headed back upstairs, hurrying past the cage, now as silent

  as the rest of the house.

  Empty.

  Had I been right to send them away? I could have used their

  help. Yet how much help would Clay be, knowing Elena was

  a target? And how much help was she, stil burning to

  avenge Logan? Passion can enflame a warrior to

  greatness, but if the flames burn too hot, they consume

  common sense. Plus, there were greater things to

  consider.

  Choice can be an impossible thing. A leader must be

  decisive. Yet how can anyone with foresight, hindsight and

  the ability to link the two ever truly be decisive? You see the

  mistakes of the past, and the possible outcomes of your

  decision on the future, and no choice can ever be

  absolutely right.

  Even decisions that seem blatantly obvious can have

  ramifications you never imagined.

  As a young man—and even before that—I saw problems

  with the Pack, particularly in the way they treated non-Pack

  werewolves, down to the derogatory term they used for

  them: mutts. To a modern, Westernized human, our class

  system and rules would seem abhorrent. Yet even I realized

  we could never live by human standards of equality. A class

  system is hardwired in our brains. We are truly half wolf,

  and we understand wolf ways best—living in a hierarchical

  society based on power, territory and survival of the fittest.

  To undermine that would be suicide—any Alpha who tried a

  more democratic way would be overthrown. If the Pack

  didn’t do it, the outside werewolves—the supposed

  benefactors of those reforms—would. They’d sense

  weakness and seize power. That was just our way.

  Yet reform was necessary—not just for humanitarian

  reasons, but for practical ones. It made sense to stop

  indiscriminately kil ing non-Pack werewolves and target

  only those who posed a threat. It made sense to open a

  dialogue with them, not directly, but through a delegate

  who’d speak on the Alpha’s behalf. It made sense to treat

  them—if not as equals—at least as fel ow beings worthy of

  our notice and even our protection.

  But had those simple, obviously sensible changes been

  interpreted as weakness? Were my choices responsible

  for the situation we now found ourselves in? Would these

  werewolves have risen up against the Pack if Dominic was

  stil Alpha? Perhaps not, but I would not let that change my

  decisions—I was resolute on that point.

  What I had to do instead was prove that, despite the

  changes, there was no weakness. I had to slap down this

  threat with al the force and finality Dominic would have

  used. And if that failed? A good leader always has a

  backup plan, and in sending away Clayton and Elena, I’d

  launched mine.

  I walked into the kitchen, and found Antonio and Nick

  making sandwiches.

  "Five minutes, and we’l be eating," Antonio said.

  Nick glanced at the microwave clock. "Their plane should

  have landed by now."

  "Elena wil cal ," I said.

  I wiped a trail of mustard Antonio had splattered. He made

  a face, tel ing me he would have gotten it, but I just kept

  cleaning. It gave me something to do.

  "You sent them to Elena’s apartment, right?" Nick asked.

  "Where she was living with that guy."

  I nodded. "Perhaps not the wisest—"

  "No, it’s good." A smal laugh. "I wouldn’t want to be there,

  but maybe it’l help. Give Elena a chance to see her

  choices better. And show Clay she’s real y thinking of

  moving on—not just screwing around to piss him off. He

  has to shape up."

  Al three of us nodded, though I’m sure we were al thinking

  the same thing, that Clay might not be able to "shape up,"

  at least not in any way significant enough to overcome what

  he’d done.

  "They’l work it out," Nick said as his father handed him a

  tray of sandwiches. "Just watch. Imagine how much

  mileage I’l get out of this one—reminding them of the time I

  helped put down the mutt revolt, risking my life to save

  theirs, while they were holed up in Canada having a

  honeymoon."

  Antonio waved him from the kitchen. I watched him leave.

  When the door closed, I turned to Antonio.

  "He should go after them. If Elena’s a target, she needs

  protect—"

  "That’s why Clay’s with her." He took the dishrag from my hand and pitched it into the sink. "If you real y thought there

  was a risk of them fol owing Elena, you wouldn’t have sent

  her away."

  "It’s a possibility—"

  "So is a plane crash. Or a nuclear attack. They won’t fol ow

  her, Jer. Sending her away was a precaution and a

  strategy. When Daniel and his gang realize Clay and Elena

  are missing, they’l smel an ambush. While they’re

  watching their backs, we strike from the front."

  I nodded.

  "Good plan, right?" he said. "Of course it is. It’s yours.

  Remember that. Now let’s get outside and put some meat

  on our bones while we flesh out this skeleton of a plan."

  As I took a pitcher of water from the fridge, I noticed

 

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