Men of the Otherworld (11 page)

I know now that Jeremy was working, though at the time I just thought he spent a lot of time reading. To be honest, I wasn't even clear on the reading part, not remembering having seen anyone in my family partake of that pastime. Now I realize that much of that reading time was actually work. Jeremy made his living translating, mainly for academics. It wasn't going to make him rich anytime soon, but it kept the bills paid, and it was something he could do from home, which suited him better than any office job.

We'd been in the study for about an hour when the door swung open. I smelled Malcolm and kept my eyes shut, hoping he'd see we were both very busy and go away.

“Christ,” Malcolm said, footsteps thudding into the room. “He's like a goddamned puppy, curled up at his master's feet.”

I lifted one eyelid just in time to see Malcolm take a swipe at
me with his foot. His aim went wide, coming nowhere near me, but I growled to let him know I'd seen.

“Don't growl at me, you little—”

“Then don't antagonize him,” Jeremy said, still reading. “Leave him alone, and he'll leave you alone.”

“He'd damned well better leave me—”

“What did you want?”

“I need money.”

Jeremy's expression didn't change. Nor did he glance up from his book. “I've had some unexpected expenses with Clayton. I can spare a few hundred now, but if you'll be gone for a while, I can wire you more when I get paid.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

At that, Jeremy stopped reading. The barest reaction flitted across his face, but vanished before Malcolm could seize on it.

“I see,” Jeremy said slowly, laying his book on the side table. “What happened this time?”

“Don't take that tone with me.”

“I wasn't taking any tone. If there's another… problem, I need to know about it, don't I?”

Malcolm thumped onto the couch, sprawling across it, a clear invasion of our territory. I squelched a growl, and settled for inching closer to Jeremy.

“Just a dispute with a mutt,” Malcolm said. “A disagreement over a lady. Not that I'd expect you to know anything about that. You'd have to leave the house to get—”

“You do more than enough for the two of us.”

Jeremy pulled out his wallet, took some bills and handed them to Malcolm.

“Eighty bucks?” Malcolm said. “How the hell am I supposed to live—?”

“That's all I have. If you're staying, then you don't need more.
Things are tight this month. I'll be lucky if I can pay the electric bill.”

“The trials and tribulations of home ownership.”

Malcolm slid a crocodile grin Jeremy's way, then stuffed the money into his pocket and left.

So we were stuck with Malcolm.

Long before I'd arrived at Stonehaven, Malcolm and Jeremy had perfected the art of living together without actually living together. Despite what I'd thought on my first day, Stonehaven was no mansion, but it was a roomy five-bedroom house, just big enough that two people could pass their days without spending more than a minute or two in the same room.

Most times, Malcolm ignored us. Several times a day, though, he'd corner Jeremy with some petty complaint or slam him with a sarcastic put-down. With Malcolm there, Jeremy was always wary, stiffening at the sound of a footstep, lowering his voice, scuttling me off to another room when Malcolm approached.

The cure for Jeremy's discomfort seemed obvious enough. We had to get rid of Malcolm. Foolishly simple… or so it appeared to me. As Antonio had said, the house belonged to Jeremy. I understood little of what went on between Malcolm and Jeremy, but the concept of territory was hardwired in my wolf's brain. This was Jeremy's territory, and if Malcolm made Jeremy miserable, then he had to go. Foolishly simple.

By getting rid of him, I don't mean killing him. However dangerous I liked to imagine myself, I knew I stood no chance against Malcolm. For now, I'd have to settle for getting him out of the house. To do that, I needed to understand him. The wolf in me knew this, and told me how to do it. To understand your adversary, you watched him. You studied him. You stalked him.

*   *   *

My first opportunity came a few days after Antonio left. Jeremy was out back practicing with his new revolvers. Usually, I was content—if not downright happy—to sit and watch whatever he was doing. Today, though, I had a more important mission, so I left Jeremy in the courtyard and slipped into the house to find Malcolm.

Malcolm was watching television in the back nook, a room Jeremy and I rarely entered. Though I vaguely recalled the delights of cartoons, sitting in front of a television no longer held any appeal for me, probably because it held no appeal for Jeremy, and he was the yardstick by which I now measured the attractiveness of any activity.

For nearly an hour, I peered around the doorway and watched Malcolm watch TV. Finally the show ended. Malcolm turned off the TV. I darted into the hall closet and waited until he started down the hall, then slid out and followed. Several times he paused and seemed ready to turn, but only shook his head and kept walking.

On to the kitchen. When he wasn't looking, I ducked inside and crouched beside the counter. Malcolm fixed himself a sandwich. Though I failed to see the importance of his selection of cold cuts, my brain told me it was critical information. Finally, he finished making his sandwich, poured a glass of milk and headed for the dining room. I scurried after him, then watched from the doorway.

Malcolm sat down. He took two bites. Then he turned fast and caught me watching. I raced for the back door.

“Jeremy!” Malcolm shouted.

*   *   *

“He's following me,” Malcolm said before Jeremy got through the back door.

Jeremy unzipped his jacket and wiped a line of sweat from his forehead.

“Who?” he asked.

“Who? How many people live in this house?”

“Clayton? Where—?” Jeremy looked around and frowned, then saw me hovering behind him. His gaze swiveled to Malcolm. “What did you do to him?”

“Do? I didn't do anything. He's been following me around for the last hour, watching me.”

“Of course. He's a child. He's curious.”

“Curious, my ass. He's stalking me.”

“Stalking?” Jeremy's lips twitched. He coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, erasing all signs of a smile. “He's a little boy, Malcolm, not an animal. He's playing a game with you. Spying. All children do it. If you ignore him, he'll tire of it soon enough.”

Before Jeremy could lead me away, I snuck one last glance at Malcolm. He returned a glare. In that glare, I saw my victory. My stalking had unsettled him. Jeremy hadn't forbidden it, which meant I was free to do it as often as I liked.

This was going to be easier than I thought.

In stalking Malcolm, my only goal had been to gather information, but I quickly learned that the very act drove him crazy. Within days, all I had to do was slip past a room and he'd be on his feet, storming into the hall to glower at me. And all he did was glower. Never said a word, never raised a hand, never again complained to Jeremy.

Once I learned how much he hated being stalked, I stopped
making any attempt to hide my efforts. If he was watching TV, I'd walk right into the room, sit down and stare at him. He'd scowl at me and try to sit it out, but I outlasted him every time.

In Malcolm's refusal to challenge me, I read cowardice. Yes, he'd terrorized me in the bayou, but this was Jeremy's territory, and here, Malcolm didn't dare touch me, which made me decide that in our little pack, Malcolm's status was no higher than my own. If anything, it was lower because I enjoyed Jeremy's personal protection.

I wondered, then, if Malcolm was so powerless, why hadn't Jeremy kicked him out years ago? But the very thought felt like betrayal, so I swept it from my mind. Had I been older, I would have realized there must be more to it. Yet at the time, I was too pleased with my success to question it.

After two weeks of being stalked, Malcolm showed the first sign of cracking. One day, when Malcolm retreated to the back nook to read, I followed, perched on the chair across from his and stared at him. Just stared. After ten minutes, Malcolm threw down the magazine, shot a single scowl my way and stormed from the room. He gathered his jacket, wallet and keys, then shouted to Jeremy not to lock up, and stalked out the door.

I had him on the run.

Now all I needed to do was give him a reason to keep running… and not come back.

Again, my wolf's instincts blessed me with a centuries-old plan for handling this next step of the fight. To keep an enemy running, one had to give him a reason to believe that staying would be bad for his health.

I knew I stood no chance in a fight against any grown werewolf. In a fair fight, that is. But what about an unfair fight?
Strategy, that was the key. The world of the wolf is heavily dependent on might and muscle, but there's plenty of wiggle room for a beast with brains.

I didn't need to hurt Malcolm. I only had to make him think I could. And the only way a pup could take on a seasoned fighter many times his age was to catch him off guard. Attack when he is most vulnerable.

When are we most vulnerable? When we're asleep.

Two nights after I first scared Malcolm out of the house, I decided to act. I had a plan in mind. I'm not sure how I came upon it, but most likely had dredged it up from a half-remembered movie or television show. Whatever the plan's origin, I was certain it would work.

I didn't sleep that night. I kept myself awake by fantasizing about life post-Malcolm. About how happy Jeremy would be, and how happy that would make me.

When Jeremy came to bed, I feigned sleep. Then I waited and listened for Malcolm's return. Finally his footfalls thumped down the hall. His door slammed. Jeremy started awake, mumbled something and fell back onto the pillow. I listened to his breathing. It took awhile for him to return to sleep. It always did.

By the time Jeremy fell asleep, Malcolm's distant snoring signaled that he'd done the same. I reached between the mattress and bedspring and removed the prize I'd secreted there earlier in the day. Then I slid from the bed.

It took a long time for me to get out of the bedroom, moving as slowly as I could, so I wouldn't wake Jeremy. I scampered barefoot down the hall to Malcolm's room, eased open his door and peered through the crack. Malcolm was on the bed, his back to me. I pushed open the door and looked around.

Unlike Jeremy's room, Malcolm's had stuff. Lots of stuff, all in a jumble that smacked of carelessness more than untidiness. Clothing hung on the chair back and piled on the seat. Dual dressers, both covered in toiletries, cuff links, watches, paperback novels. Where Jeremy's only decorations were pictures of his friends, Malcolm didn't have so much as a photograph on his nightstand. Everything was his: his acquisitions, his hobbies, his life.

I dropped to all fours, crawled forward and peeked over the bedside. Malcolm still faced the other way. I considered my options. Over the bed or around it? Having grown accustomed to Jeremy's fitful sleep habits, I knew the danger of crawling onto the mattress. Better to take the longer route around the bed.

When I was on the other side, I lowered myself to my belly and inched along the hardwood floor. A board sighed. I froze. Malcolm's snoring continued, undisturbed. I crept to the front legs of the bed. My fingers tightened around my prize. A steak knife. I'd considered one of the carving knives, but decided it would be too awkward to carry, and too easily missed.

I eased my head over the mattress edge. A warm puff of Malcolm's breath tickled my face. I watched his eyelids, tensed for any sign of movement. Then I lifted the knife and laid it on the pillow, so it would be the first thing he saw when he awoke.

Message delivered. Time to retreat.

I waited all the next morning for Malcolm to wake. A bloodcurdling scream would be nice, but I'd settle for a good shout of surprise.

Shortly before lunch, Malcolm came downstairs. He passed the open study door without so much as a glare in my direction
and headed to the kitchen. He fixed himself breakfast and took it into the dining room.

Had the knife fallen off the bed? In rising, Malcolm could have shifted the pillow, causing the knife to slide to the floor undetected. How else to explain this complete lack of shock and terror?

After lunch, Jeremy retreated to the study again. Once he was enrapt in his work, I sneaked out and followed the sound of the television to the back nook. The door was open. I peered through. The TV was on and the recliner was turned toward it, facing away from the door. I slipped inside.

I tiptoed toward the chair. When I'd made it halfway across the room, the door clicked shut behind me. I whirled to see Malcolm standing in front of the closed door. I backpedaled, eyes darting about for a second exit.

“Relax, brat,” Malcolm said. “I'm not going to touch you. I'm just playing a game.” He smiled and tossed the steak knife onto the side table. “You like games, don't you?”

I backed up until I hit the wall. Malcolm stayed in front of the door.

“I bet I can guess the name of your favorite game,” he said. “Let's see… Is it: ‘Get Rid of Jeremy's Old Man’?”

I said nothing, just stayed pressed against the wall, watching his body language for signs of impending attack.

“Lots of fun, I bet,” Malcolm said. “It's pretty close to a new game of my own. Do you know what mine's called?”

I didn't move.

“‘Get Rid of Jeremy's Little Beast’ It's still in the planning stages, but I'm quite looking forward to playing.”

He sauntered to the recliner. I lunged toward the door, but he was in my path before I got halfway there. In the distance I heard
a clatter, as if Jeremy's sixth sense had told him something wrong, and he'd leapt up, his work falling to the floor.

“Want go,” I said, then cleared my throat and pulled myself to my full height. “I want to go.”

“Oh, don't worry. You will. In…” Malcolm glanced at his watch. “Today's Monday… so let's say by Wednesday night, you'll have your wish. You'll be gone.” He grinned. “Unless you can get rid of me first. But it'll take more than a steak knife to do that.”