Broken (20 page)

A soft growl. “In an emergency, yes, and if you really want to…”

I slid my pants down my hips and guided his hand between my legs. “Does it feel like I really want to?”

Another growl, harder this time, as his fingers slid into me.

“Maybe if I just…start. Play a bit,” he said. “That couldn’t hurt.”

“Couldn’t hurt at all.”

I reached behind me, undid his jeans and reached inside. As I held him and arched my hips back to meet him, I closed my eyes, imagined him sliding in…and stopping partway.

“Not going to work, is it?” I said.

“I can try, but—”

“Doesn’t matter.” I looked over my shoulder. “You can try stopping, but once we start, I’m going to do my damnedest to get the rest of it.”

He chuckled. “How about we revert to plan A? A jog back to the park, a private hunt, we Change back and you take your forfeit in another way.”

“Once we Change, it’s only going to get worse. The human side might be able to argue logic, but the wolf knows exactly what she wants. Take me for a run tonight, and it’s not rabbits I’m going to want to hunt.”

A growling laugh. “Funny, that’s what I was thinking earlier, watching you run ahead of me. Had a helluva time remembering you were chasing someone, not running away to tease me.”

I leaned over the bed, one hand down to hold myself up, the other reaching between my legs. I found him and tugged him to me. He tensed.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m being good. Just…teasing.”

He let out a low growl as I stroked him, still prodding against me.

“Teasing who?” he said. “You or me?”

I grinned. “Both. That’s the best kind.”

He shifted forward, pushing another half-inch. My eyelids fluttered, and I pushed back. Just another—

“Better stop,” he growled.

I slid my hand up his shaft, fixing a stopper for myself, and stroked him from there, letting him thrust just that inch or so, barely parting me, the teasing so exquisite that I had to dig my fingers into the bed to keep from losing my balance.

When it was too much, and I was ready to just let my hand “accidentally” slip off him and let him slip into me, I arched forward onto the balls of my feet, leaning farther over the bed, and slid his shaft down lengthwise along me. Then I held him there, tight against me, and let him thrust.

Didn’t take more than a few minutes. Then I slid face-first onto the bed, rolling onto my side as my belly touched down. He crawled in behind me, pressing up against my back, breath tickling the back of my head.

“Getting more inventive,” he murmured.

I chuckled. “By the time this baby comes, we’ll have figured out all the tricks.”

Too lazy to move, I pulled down a pillow, tucked it under my head and closed my eyes. Within minutes, I was asleep.

The next morning we headed straight to the airport to pick up Antonio and Nick, the two remaining members of the Pack.

At five, the Pack was at its lowest recorded size. Changing that wasn’t as easy as it might seem. In the past, Packs grew primarily through procreation, with werewolves fathering babies and taking the sons, the gender that carried the werewolf gene. In a modern Pack, with modern sensibilities and a modern Alpha, taking children from their mothers wouldn’t happen. Under Jeremy’s rule, Pack wolves had two options: surrogacy—and take the child regardless of gender—or joint-custody arrangements with the mother, since by the time a boy had his first Change, he was college-aged and old enough to keep that part of his life from his mother.

The problem was that, until Clay and me, no one in the Pack had showed any inclination to procreate. Antonio was content with one son—Nick—as Jeremy was with Clay. Maybe someday Logan or Peter would have had children, but they were gone now, killed in a mutt uprising five years ago. As for Nick, no one expected him to embrace fatherhood anytime soon, if ever. Although Clay and I were now doing our part, neither of us had any interest in replenishing the ranks by ourselves.

The other method of increasing Pack ranks was assimilation—taking in mutts who wished to join after they proved themselves capable of following Pack Law. Again, this worked far better under previous Alphas. Back in the days when Pack wolves hunted mutts for sport, there’d been no shortage of mutts clamoring for membership.

Under Jeremy, though, the Pack only harassed man-eaters, who certainly didn’t qualify for Pack membership without serious rehabilitation. Most mutts who’ve developed a taste for hunting humans have no interest in being “fixed.”

So far, the only candidates had proven disappointing: a closet man-eater hoping to escape detection by hiding in our ranks, one randy SOB hoping that the Pack’s communal attitudes extended to communal sex privileges with the sole female werewolf, and a problem gambler hoping the wealthy Pack families would buy his loyalty by paying off his creditors.

Marsten finally seemed serious about getting off the fence and joining the Pack. So our numbers were likely to increase by one. Yet until then, we didn’t consider him full Pack, which is why no one had suggested calling him to Toronto with Antonio and Nick.

So, for now, we were five.

I was the first to spot Nick and Antonio, and I hurried over as fast as I could waddle. Bear hugs, kisses and backslaps ensued, and I’m sure anyone watching would’ve thought we hadn’t seen each another in years, instead of just a couple of weeks.

Antonio had been Jeremy’s best friend since childhood. Nick and Clay were also lifelong friends. Both Sorrentinos were dark-haired and dark-eyed. Nick was a half-head taller than his father, with the polished good looks of someone who doesn’t think hairstylists, fashion magazines and skin cream are only for women, but who draws the line at manicures and facials.

Normally, Nick would have swept me off my feet and kissed me in a way that wasn’t exactly fraternal. Today, though, he stopped short, and settled for a hug and a smack on the lips.

“Am I getting too big to pick up?” I said.

He smiled. “No, I’m just being careful what I do to a pregnant lady in public.” He leaned down to my ear. “Wait until later, and I’ll make up for it.”

“I heard that,” Clay said.

Nick grinned. “Of course you did. And you can see it too, if you want. Maybe learn something.”

Clay made a comment, and Nick turned to answer, but his gaze snagged on my stomach. A look passed through his eyes as if he still wasn’t quite sure what it was, how it got there or, most important, what it would mean.

I grabbed Nick’s hand and squeezed it. Our eyes met, and I smiled. He leaned down to kiss me again. I put my hands on his stubble-covered cheeks.

“Couldn’t find time to shave?” I teased.

“I’m growing a beard.” He tilted his head and posed. “What do you think?”

“Sexy. The gray adds a nice touch of sophistication.”

“Gray?” His hand shot to his cheek.

Behind me, Antonio laughed, then caught me up in a hug that
did
lift me off the ground. “You realize he’s going to spend the rest of the day in front of the mirror looking for that gray?”

“I think it’s sexy,” I said.

Nick turned to Clay.

“No,” Clay said. “You’re not borrowing my razor. You grew it, you get rid of it.”

“Troublemaker,” Antonio murmured to me.

He kissed my cheek, then leaned back for a better look. The shortest member of the Pack, a couple of inches under my five feet ten, Antonio was also still the brawniest and most powerful. He and Nick had passed themselves off as brothers for as long as I’d known them. Nick had been born when Antonio was a teen, so—combined with a werewolf’s slow aging, and Antonio’s zeal for healthy living—it had been decades since they
could
have passed for father and son.

“You look more beautiful every time I see you,” Antonio said. “Pregnancy suits you.”

I made a face. “I’m huge. Getting bigger by the hour.”

“You’re pregnant. You’re not supposed to be getting smaller.” One arm still around me, Antonio turned to the others. “So, I hear you have a little adventure for us.”

Theories

I SLID INTO THE BACKSEAT BESIDE NICK
.
CLAY SQUEEZED IN
on my other side.

“Hey, Jer?” I said as we shifted around and fished for our seat belts. “Remember when you replaced the Explorer and I suggested buying the model with the third-row seat? Really would have been a good idea.”

“That’s why I offered to sit back there,” Jeremy said from the passenger seat.

“And how would that help? I’m not any wider than you. All my extra load is up front.” I bumped Nick’s hip. “You’ve got another couple more inches. Shove over.”

“This is fine.” Nick put his arm around me. “Nice and cozy.”

I swatted him away. “Move.”

“Settle down and buckle up, kids, so I can drive,” Antonio said, looking in the rearview mirror. He glanced over at Jeremy. “Maybe we should finish raising this generation before we start another one.”

Jeremy shook his head.

“I didn’t want to bring this up in the terminal,” Antonio said as he turned out of the parking building. “But does
this
have something to do with your problem?”

He handed Jeremy a folded sheet of paper. Jeremy read it, face expressionless. When he lowered and refolded it, I undid my belt and reached through the opening between the front seats. Jeremy hesitated, then handed it to me.

“They gave us that when we got off the plane,” Antonio said.

Clay looked over my shoulder as I read: it was a public health announcement, warning of cholera in the municipal water supply.

“Cholera?” I said. “I thought it was E. coli.”

“So did they, at first, I suspect,” Jeremy said. “That would be the natural assumption, given the source and the symptoms.”

“What’s cholera?” Nick asked.

“It’s a bacterium that gets into the water. Overcrowding and poor sanitation are the usual culprits. It’s almost unknown in the Western world now, but it was a serious problem in the nineteenth century.”

“Victorian England,” I said.

Jeremy nodded.

Cholera is an intestinal infection, not unlike E. coli. The main symptoms are diarrhea and vomiting, which can lead to dehydration and eventual death, but only if left untreated. With treatment and fluid replacement, the fatality rate is less than 1 percent.

Cholera is transmitted through feces, primarily by food and water becoming contaminated with raw sewage. Jeremy was pretty sure London’s cholera problem had been resolved shortly before the time of Jack the Ripper, but sporadic cases had continued, as the problems of overcrowding and poor hygiene continued.

As for how cholera got into Toronto’s water supply…according to Jeremy it was well-nigh impossible. It shouldn’t happen with modern sewage and water systems. Not by any natural means. But by now we were pretty sure “natural means” had nothing to do with the problems Toronto was experiencing.

Opening that portal had let out more than a couple of Victorian zombies. Jaime had warned us about smallpox leaking through that other portal. Somehow these zombies had brought a little of their home with them…and all of our modern precautions couldn’t protect against it.

“Cholera isn’t a cause for concern,” Jeremy said. “If it was, we’d be leaving. Tourism will suffer, which the city doesn’t need after last year’s SARS outbreak, but that’s likely to be the extent of the damage. It was caught quickly enough to avoid fatalities or long-term health problems.”

When I didn’t answer, he glanced back at me. “If you’re concerned, go ahead and call your local media contacts.”

I made those calls. I’d been dying to since all this started, but Jeremy had wanted me keeping a low profile. He didn’t think they could add anything we weren’t finding in the papers, and he was right. They did, however, reassure me that the city didn’t seem to be downplaying the severity of the cholera outbreak. If anything, after SARS, they were being overcautious. Right now, they were busy trying to clean up the system, which seemed to be far more difficult than it should be, confirming this was no natural outbreak.

We stopped in Kensington market on the way back to the hotel to load up on food. While the guys did that, I stayed in the SUV and listened to the radio. Clay stayed with me, although after five minutes hearing him grouse about wanting fresh air and a leg stretch, I shoved him out, locked the door and let him get his air and exercise pacing around the vehicle and pounding on the windows.

Finding reliable news updates on the cholera situation wasn’t easy. The national broadcaster, CBC, paraded a steady queue of public officials, who all repeated the same message: “Everything is under control.” As if, by getting enough people to say it, it would become truth.

Then there were the private stations. A talk radio show had a historian on who was giving graphic accounts of Victorian cholera outbreaks. Then I hit a classic rock station located outside Toronto that kept gleefully referring to the situation as a cholera “epidemic,” and speculating that it was caused by the city’s high population density, congratulating themselves for living elsewhere. Next came a station playing only prerecorded music—I suspected a lone sound technician had lost the straw-draw, staying behind while all his coworkers headed for the hills…or at least Barrie.