Otherworld Secrets, page 9
I shot him a glare and then looked back at Jeremy, who’d been quietly listening. “We could ignore this. Let Morgan dig himself out of the mess. But considering it’s on Pack territory . . .”
“We should handle it,” Jeremy said. “If he had your phone number, he was planning to announce his visit. That means his detour was a youthful indiscretion, not a deliberate one.”
“The guy’s older than Reese,” Clay grumbled. “That’s not youthful enough to excuse it.”
“How old is he again?” Jeremy asked me. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”
“About that.”
Jeremy took off his music player and wrapped the earbud cord around it. “I seem to recall that isn’t too old to do something rash and impulsive. Something that might have far-reaching consequences.”
Clay flinched, despite Jeremy’s casual tone. It was a subtle reminder that Clay had been that age when he bit me.
“I’ll drive up and take care of it,” Jeremy said.
Clay and I both stared at him.
“Yes?” he said, pocketing his player.
“You’re still Alpha,” I said. “You make decisions and send out your trusty minions to enforce them. That would be us.”
Kate shrieked from the kitchen. “Give that back!”
“I believe I should handle this,” Jeremy said. “You’ve been preparing to take over as Alpha. Likewise, I should prepare to resume duties as a Pack member.”
“Nice try,” I said. “No adventures while you’re Alpha. That’s the rule.”
“I don’t believe I ever said—”
Clay clapped him on the back as we headed out. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of this.”
“It’s not a matter that requires both—” Jeremy began.
Logan raced past the open doorway, a sandwich in each hand. Kate stumped after him, limping on her bound foot.
“The Alpha-elect needs a bodyguard,” Clay said. “That’s another rule. Sorry. Love to stay. Gotta go.”
We snuck to the front door and grabbed our coats and boots. Jeremy followed.
“Enjoy it while you can,” he said to me. “Once you’re Alpha, no more adventures.”
“Pfft. That’s your rule,” I said. “When I’m Alpha, I’m changing it. That’s the beauty of being the bitch in charge.”
Clay grinned and handed me my gloves. At the sound of footsteps, Jeremy stepped into the foyer with us. We all stood silently watching as Kate clomped past down the hall. She had both sandwiches mashed in one hand and was taking a bite. When she didn’t notice us, I exhaled in relief and grabbed the door handle.
“Mom!” Logan shouted.
“We’ll be back before bedtime,” I whispered to Jeremy.
“You’d better be,” he said as we made our escape.
5.
Stonehaven is a rural estate outside the small town of Bear Valley, New York. The closest city is Syracuse. According to the GPS in Jeremy’s SUV, Westwood was almost an hour west of that, off a regional highway. We’d been driving for about thirty minutes when the snow started falling again and the radio announcer declared another blizzard was set to hit before nightfall.
“I don’t like the sounds of that,” I said.
“It’ll be fine.” Clay turned up the windshield wipers. “I’m planning on getting this done before dinner. And since we said we’d be back by bedtime—and not sooner—that gives us a few extra hours.”
“For a nice meal, without screaming kids and flying food?”
“I was thinking more like . . .” He pointed to a roadside motel as we passed. “Unless you’d rather go out to dinner.”
I grinned. “Not unless we’re done early enough to swing into Syracuse and get a hotel with room service.”
He put his foot on the gas.
About an hour later, we finally reached Westwood . . . complete with a werewolf leaping off the town welcome sign.
“Walsh chose to Change here?” Clay said as we passed the sign.
“There must be a good explanation.”
Clay jerked his chin toward an old feed mill on the edge of town. Through the snow, I could make out a wall mural of a snarling werewolf.
“Yeah, there’s an explanation, all right,” Clay said. “The guy’s an idiot.”
I refrained from comment. Whatever Morgan’s explanation, it had better be good. By this stage, I was starting to think Clay had a point. Which meant Morgan Walsh’s bad day was about to get a whole lot worse.
We parked on the main street, a few doors down from the police station. As we tramped along the snowy sidewalk, we passed a shop with a huge WARNING: WEREWOLF TERRITORY sign in the window.
“Did I mention the idiot part?” he said.
I sighed.
“I don’t care how good his excuse is—” Clay began.
I spun to ward off . . . nothing.
I stood there, fists clenched. I hadn’t heard anything. It was just . . . a feeling—the hair on the back of my neck rising, some deep-rooted instinct flicking on my fight-or-flight response.
“Elena?” Clay said.
Down the street, someone was coming out of a shop. On the road, a single car was trying to get traction, engine whining. That was it. Just one car and one person.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking it off. “That’s what happens when I don’t leave the house in a week. I get outside, and I feel like someone’s watching.”
“Small towns. Someone’s always watching.”
“No kidding.” I took a deep breath. “All right, then. Let’s sort this mess out and go home.”
The police station was actually just a storefront along the main street, wedged between the hardware and the bank. I was a little concerned about signs in the hardware advertising bolt cutters and shotguns. Maybe the Westwood cops were bored, hoping to convince some drunken local that breaking into the bank next door was easier than he thought.
The station’s front door opened into a small foyer. A sign asked visitors to leave their boots on the mat. Clay ignored it. I was pulling mine off when I saw the puddles leading inside, suggesting no one else had obeyed, either. I tugged mine back on. I did feel guilty about it, though. I’d spent most of my life doing as I was told; it’s a hard habit to break.
There were only two officers in the main room. One was a man in his early fifties, sitting behind the desk, talking to the other officer—a young woman sipping what I presumed was coffee until my nose told me it was cocoa.
When we entered, both officers looked up.
“Elena Michaels,” I said, walking over, hand extended. “Chief Dales called me?”
“That’s me,” the young woman said, rising to shake my hand. That threw me for a moment. In such a small town, I was surprised that the police chief was a woman; I certainly didn’t expect one who didn’t look past her thirtieth birthday.
A noise came through an open doorway. I looked to see Morgan gripping the bars of a cell.
“Elena? Um, hey. What are you . . . ?” His gaze traveled over my shoulder, to where Clay stood. “Uh, Clayton . . .”
Clay walked toward the cell. The officers looked over but made no move to stop him.
Morgan took a slow step back.
“Er, I can explain,” Morgan said.
“You’d better hope so,” Clay said, too low for the non-werewolves to pick up.
I turned back to Chief Dales. “I’m really sorry about this. We were worried sick when he didn’t show up last night. I guess he made a pit stop for a few beers.” I mustered a glare in Morgan’s direction. “Good thing those coyotes didn’t decide to take a taste of him.”
“The paw prints were too big for coyotes,” Chief Dales said. “And we didn’t find any human tracks. Just the paw prints. All around him.”
I sighed and looked at Morgan, shaking my head. “You were out there long enough for the snow to cover your footprints? You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite anyplace you really don’t want frostbite. Or get bitten by that dog that came sniffing around.”
When I looked at the police chief, she caught my gaze and held it. I gazed back, calm and cool.
“Is that what you think happened?” she asked.
“What else?”
“What else, indeed?”
More staring. Which I’m sure would have worked out a whole lot better for her if I was a small-town perp, not a werewolf who’d spent twenty years covering up mutt kills and, sometimes, dead mutts. I waited patiently until she spoke again.
“Do you want to hear my theory?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She stepped back. She tried to make it casual, just moving, not retreating. But that’s another thing about being a werewolf for so long—I’ve become almost as fluent in body language as I am in English, especially when it comes to expressions of dominance and submission.
“You’ve seen our town has an . . . affinity for werewolves,” she said. “I think that has something to do with your boy’s run through the forest.”
I laughed and glanced at Morgan, who looked worried. “What? You got drunk and decided to go werewolf hunting?”
“Not hunting,” Chief Dales said. “Staging. He’s not the first person to try it. Frat boy passing through, decides to pull a prank on the local yokels.”
“Frat boy?” Morgan said. “How old do you think I am?”
Clay moved in front of Morgan. I couldn’t see the look he gave him, but it shut Morgan down fast.
“Too old for this crap,” I called to him, then turned to Chief Dales. “I’m so sorry. He’s a friend of the family. We haven’t seen him in years. Obviously, he has a few issues”—a glare in Morgan’s direction—“to work through. If there’s anything we can do to fix this . . .”
She walked back behind the desk with the older officer, who’d been watching in silence. “It’s his lucky day. Got another storm coming. Otherwise, I’d slap a public indecency charge on his ass. I expect him to present his ID so I can file a report, but otherwise, just get him out of my sight. And out of Westwood.”
6. JESSICA
When the paperwork was done, Jess led her three guests out of the station. Then she stood at the door and watched them drive away. Once they were out of sight, she exhaled and leaned against the wall.
A close call. Damned close.
She should have made the connection. Guy turns up in their woods surrounded by paw prints, has a map marked with Syracuse and the name Elena. As in Elena Michaels, the only female werewolf.
Years ago, when Jess was at college in Buffalo, she’d made contact with a few local supernaturals. That always helped, for support and companionship. When she told them she’d gotten a job with the Westwood police, one guy had said, “Isn’t that werewolf territory?” She’d thought he meant the local football team. He hadn’t.
“The Pack lives up there,” he said. “Somewhere near Syracuse.”
Someone else said they’d heard the rumor, but it was just that—a rumor. The Pack lived on the west coast. Another said there was no Pack: werewolves weren’t bright enough to organize like that. They were just dumb brutes running around slaughtering people. Like in the movies.
Jess had still done her research. But how exactly did you research that? Google “werewolves in New York State”? That was a ticket straight to Weirdsville. She’d searched police files instead, looking for signs of possible werewolf kills. Nothing.
So she’d chalked it up to rumor. Yet, having heard it, she couldn’t help paying attention when other supernaturals talked about werewolves. She’d eventually learned there definitely was a Pack. One member was a woman named Elena Michaels. It was a common enough name and, really, not worth researching—she didn’t have time for idle curiosity. She’d heard other names over the years, including Elena’s mate, a guy named Clayton who was supposed to be a really nasty son of a bitch. But none of those stories ever mentioned Syracuse or upstate New York, so they didn’t concern her.
Until now.
Even when the woman had introduced herself, the light bulb hadn’t flashed. While Jess didn’t consider herself one of those who believed werewolves were all Neanderthal brutes, apparently she did have some preconceptions. And they didn’t extend to a friendly blonde who, with her ponytail and worn blue jeans, looked like a movie star going incognito. It definitely didn’t cover the guy with her, a seriously hot thirty-something who wouldn’t look out of place on a billboard—preferably wearing as little as possible.
When the guy called him Clayton, Jess had nearly choked on her cocoa. Even then, there was a moment when she told herself she had to be mistaken. Right up until she looked at Walsh shrinking back as “Clayton” bore down on him.
There were werewolves in Westwood. Three of them. Real werewolves. It would be damned funny if it didn’t scare the shit out of her.
Jess took another deep breath.
No reason to overreact. It was a freak encounter. Walsh must have been driving past, seen the signs, and been unable to resist a detour. He’d stopped at the diner and had a few shots. More than a few, according to the server, Marnie. The booze had washed away his common sense, and he’d extended his visit to include a run in their forest.
Now the Pack had come and scooped him up. From the looks of things, he was in serious shit. They’d bustle Walsh out of town and steer clear for a very long time. Which suited her just fine.
Jess straightened and strode back into the station before Jaggerman wondered what happened to her.
7. ELENA
When Jeremy first told me I was his choice for Alpha, I thought he’d lost it. Maybe it was stress. Maybe a fever. Clearly something, because the idea was ludicrous. Okay, I’ll be honest for a moment and put aside the false humility. I didn’t think, “I can’t handle it.” I could. Oh, I’d struggle. I’d screw up. I’d never really replace Jeremy. But I could be Alpha. That didn’t mean it wasn’t a crazy idea.
First, I’m not a hereditary werewolf, obviously. The gene passes through the male line. I didn’t grow up in the Pack, either. Even after Clay bit me, I spent ten years boomeranging between the Pack and my old dream of a “normal” life. Eventually, I came to realize that Pack life was normal for me. Everything I’d wanted—stability, family, acceptance—I found there.
But I’ve only fully embraced werewolf life for the past decade. Plus there’s the gender issue of being the only female werewolf. With the Pack, I think that actually worked in my favor—they didn’t quite know what to expect, so they didn’t really expect anything. I could be myself.
Beyond our territory, though, I can win a dozen challenge fights and I still won’t be accepted as “one of the guys.” I’m a chick in wolf’s clothing. That makes me mate material. It also makes me a target for all the mutts who’d love to hurt Clay. But it does not make me a “real” werewolf, much less an Alpha.
I’d come to realize, though, that Jeremy didn’t have a lot of candidates to choose from. Clay wouldn’t take the job and, let’s be honest, I don’t think Jeremy would give it to him anyway. There was nobody more important to Jeremy than his foster son, but there was also nobody he understood better. If Clay became Alpha, all the reforms Jeremy had instituted would begin a slow backward slide. Clay would try to respect them, but he didn’t always understand the rationale behind them.
No one else was suited to the post, either. Antonio was a year older than Jeremy. Nick wasn’t Alpha material. Nor was Karl Marsten. Maybe someday Reese would be, but he wasn’t even out of college. That left yours truly. Which meant that, when faced with a problem like Morgan Walsh, I could no longer just call up Jeremy and say, “Hey, what do you want me to do?” I was expected to make my own decisions. Which, sometimes, really sucked.
But this problem was mostly resolved. Morgan had “found” his ID and Chief Dales had processed his official release. We were leaving Westwood.
Snow was still falling, coming down heavier, which put some extra speed in our strides. It was mid-afternoon. There was definitely time for a stop in Syracuse. Which should not, admittedly, be my first priority. But I wasn’t Alpha yet; I was allowed the occasional spurt of bad judgment. I needed to decide what to do with Morgan in the meantime, but that was best done after we’d hightailed it out of Westwood.
“Look, I know I screwed up,” Morgan said as we left the station.
“You think?” Clay muttered.
“But I did not ask them to call Elena. I would never have gotten you guys involved.”
“Which was the last in your long string of mistakes,” I said. “If you get in trouble like that, you call us. Otherwise, if the problem gets out of hand, you don’t get me coming to your rescue. You get him.” I nodded toward Clay.
Morgan tried for a smile. “Complete with chainsaw?”
“Nah,” Clay said. “You risk exposing us? On our territory? You don’t get the chainsaw. I hang you from the nearest tree, rip you open, and let the vultures feast.”
“Er, I can explain.”
I stopped beside Jeremy’s SUV and opened the back door. “We’ll get to that part. First, we’re going to take you to your car. Then I’ll drive it, following you and Clay, to someplace where we can chat.”
We all climbed in. I kept one eye on Morgan, in case he decided to bolt, but he just fastened his seat belt. Clay started the SUV and put it in drive. It lurched forward with an odd thump. He frowned and pressed the gas. Another lurch. Another bump.
“Shit,” Clay muttered.
He threw it into park and got out. I did the same and looked down at the front passenger-side tire.
“Flat,” I called over the hood. “Good thing we have a spare.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have two.”
“Seriously?”
