Men of the Otherworld (12 page)

He picked up the knife. My gaze flew to it. Jeremy's footsteps thundered down the hall.

“Oh, don't worry, brat,” Malcolm whispered. “I won't hurt you. Won't lay a finger on you. That would suck all the challenge out of it. No, I know a better way. Rid myself of a growing inconvenience and get a little payback in the bargain. Teach my son a lesson about the danger of picking up strays.”

Malcolm tucked the knife into his pocket and sauntered out, as Jeremy raced in.

I didn't tell Jeremy anything. He knew something had happened, but seemed only able to sense a general danger, with no specifics. He pressed, but when I insisted I was okay, he took me back into the study and told me to stay with him.

As he worked, I took my spot on the rug and set about working on a revised plan of attack. I considered Malcolm's threat, and dismissed it. He hadn't even dared box my ears for the knife incident. I understood enough of his babble to know he wanted me out of the house, but I wasn't concerned. He admitted he couldn't touch me. So how could he hurt me?

What I forgot, though, was that it wasn't me Malcolm wanted to hurt. I was nothing to him. Nothing but a new tool in a campaign he'd been waging for years.

Though our days at Stonehaven may have seemed unstructured, there was a schedule at work. Jeremy liked order; therefore, Jeremy liked schedules. Mornings he devoted to me—teaching, playing or more often, a combination of the two. After lunch, he squeezed in a couple of hours of work while I napped, then came a walk, snack time and the dreaded daily speech lesson. Once my lesson was done, he took an hour of much-needed personal time, reading or doing target practice or sketching. Next came dinner, followed by a walk or a game, another snack, then back to work while I dozed by the fire.

On Tuesday and Friday nights, Jeremy went for a run. Al though he often Changed when I did, he spent that time playing with me rather than running or hunting. Adult werewolves need more. A Pack wolf knows that he must Change at least once a week and run off that excess energy, adrenaline and aggression. Otherwise, he risks a spontaneous Change, likely at a very inconvenient moment.

So the day after my knife-scheme failure, Jeremy went for his run, as he did every Tuesday. Leaving me alone was relatively safe. I was in more danger of emptying the refrigerator than
sticking something in an electrical socket. As for Malcolm, he always left around dinnertime, and never returned until near morning, so Jeremy assumed I faced no danger from that quarter. Yet, as it turned out, I wasn't the only one who paid attention to Jeremy's schedule.

That night, Jeremy left me with a plate of cold cuts and a
National Geographic.
The pictures in the magazine fascinated me—not the photos of humans, but the ones of wilderness and wildlife. I was studying a spread on lions hunting gazelle when the side door to the garage opened. Knowing it had to be Malcolm, I growled and got up to close the study door. Then I smelled something that made me stop. There was a human in the house.

No werewolf likes having strangers in his house. It's a territorial thing. They learn to tolerate the occasional repair or delivery person, but most will go out of their way to avoid having a stranger step through their front door—like Jeremy having our groceries and dinners left in a cooler on the doorstep, claiming convenience for the deliverer.

Yet, while it only made them uncomfortable, it drove me crazy—synapses deep in my brain went wild when they scented a stranger on our property. We'd discovered this last week, when a woman selling cosmetics had rung our bell and Malcolm let her in, which had more to do with her youth and attractiveness than a sudden interest in lipstick.

What happened next was as much her fault as his. Jeremy and I happened to be at the other end of the hall when Malcolm invited her inside. When she stepped in, I snarled. When she screamed, I pounced. If she hadn't screamed, I would have backed down and retreated to a safer part of the house. But a scream shows fear, and fear shows weakness, and weakness
showed that I had the upper hand. So, recognizing my advantage, I acted accordingly. Luckily, Jeremy was right behind me, and managed to grab me in midsprint and hustle me upstairs.

This time, when I smelled the stranger in the house, I jumped to the obvious conclusion. Someone had broken in. With Jeremy gone, it was up to me to defend our territory. I swung into the hall, prepared to do battle. Then I heard familiar clomping footsteps.

“Whoops,” a female voice giggled. “Is there a light switch?”

“To your left, my dear.”

Malcolm. I stepped back into the study and closed the door, not so much locking him out as barricading myself in. After the Avon-lady fiasco, Jeremy had explained the concept of “invited guest,” and my brain understood it even if my body didn't. Although I had little control over my instincts, I was learning to thwart them in small ways.

As far as I was concerned, Malcolm had no right to invite anyone into Jeremy's house, and doing so was a serious insult, but I'd cause Jeremy trouble if I interfered. Better to stay locked in this room until Jeremy returned to deal with the matter.

“The estate has been in the family since the eighteenth century” Malcolm was saying. “The current house was built in 1894.”

“Wow, that's old. That's back in pioneer days, isn't it?”

Malcolm chuckled. “Close enough.”

The footsteps drew closer. I rapped my knuckles against my thighs, eyes clenched, willing them to move on.

“That is the formal dining room,” Malcolm said. “The parlor is beyond that.”

“Parlor? Like in England?”

“That's right. Now, over here …”

The footsteps paused outside the study door. I watched the doorknob twist one way, then the other. I jammed my foot against the door base and put all my weight against it.

“Appears to be jammed,” Malcolm murmured.

“That's okay. Show me—”

“One moment, my dear. I'll get this.”

He knew I was there. He couldn't help but smell me. He knew how I'd react to confronting a stranger in the house. And he forced open the door.

I tried to dart past him, but he grabbed my shoulder, fingers digging to the bone. With his other hand, he tugged the woman into the room. I don't remember what she looked like; I never looked. She was human and she was a stranger, and that was all I needed to know.

“Oh!” she said as she saw me. She waggled her finger at Malcolm. “Did you forget to tell me something?”

“He's not mine. He's visiting. A very short visit.”

Malcolm propelled me forward, pushing me within inches of the woman. I dug my heels into the Oriental carpet and closed my eyes.

“Say hello, boy.”

I kept my eyes screwed shut, concentrating on inhaling and exhaling without smelling the intruder. Mentally, I screamed for Jeremy, but outwardly made not a sound, not daring to provoke Malcolm.

“Say hello, boy.” Malcolm's fingers dug deeper into my shoulder.

“Oh, leave the poor kid alone.”

She leaned down, bringing her face so close I could smell the beer on her breath. I opened my eyes and tried to step backward, but I hit the solid wall of Malcolm's legs.

“What a little cutie,” she said. “Are you shy, hon?”

She reached out and touched my cheek. I growled and
knocked her hand away. She stumbled back, catching herself on the bookcase. Malcolm laughed.

“That's not funny,” she said, straightening up and brushing off her miniskirt as if I'd soiled it. “You should have warned me he was a retard.”

“Oh, but he isn't. Quite intelligent, actually… in a feral way. I suppose you could call him simple, though. A very uncomplicated set of values with clearly defined likes and dislikes. You happen to be one of those dislikes.”

The woman blinked, then made another show of smacking imaginary dust from her skirt.

“You can take me home now,” she said without looking up.

“May I? You're too kind. But I brought you here to teach the boy a lesson and we've barely begun.”

She sniffed. “You can teach the brat manners after I'm gone.”

“Hardly possible, my dear. You are the lesson. A hunting lesson.” His index finger stroked my shoulder, grip still tight. “You see, the boy likes to stalk. To hunt. A born predator. Given his size, he hasn't had much experience with the killing part yet, but I hate to limit such intriguing potential.”

“I—I don't think that's funny I'm going to hitch a ride home.”

She tried to walk past us to the door, but Malcolm grabbed her arm with his free hand. She gasped and her eyes widened.

“Does that hurt? I'm barely squeezing.”

His biceps twitched, werewolf strength kicking in. The woman yelped and yanked back. Malcolm released her arm, letting her crash to the floor. Then he pulled me forward.

“Go ahead, boy. Kill her.”

I closed my eyes and willed my feet into lead weights.

“Come now. None of that. She won't hurt you. She's a woman, and a weak one at that. You're already stronger than she is. I won't let her escape. It's an easy kill.”

“Not hungry.”

Malcolm threw his head back and laughed. “Did you hear that, my dear? He's not hungry. No troubling moral barriers there.”

“Th—this isn't funny”

Fear seeped into the woman's voice, draining any confidence from the words. Holding the chair, she slowly rose to her feet, eyes locked on Malcolm. He waited until she was up, then shot out his leg and hooked hers. She crashed to the floor.

“See how easy that is, boy?”

The woman started to crawl toward the door. Malcolm pushed me toward her.

“Yes, I know you're not hungry, but this is a lesson, for when you
are
hungry. Now—”

“No,” I said.

The woman was at the door. Malcolm reached down, grabbed her by the hair and threw her across the room. She lay still, then her shoulders convulsed in a sob. She curled up on the rug and made mewling noises.

“Want to go,” I said, straining against Malcolm's grip.

“You're not afraid, are you? If you need help—”

“No kill humans. Jeremy say no.”

It was the wrong answer. Malcolm flung me into the center of the room. I caught myself before I fell and lifted my arms to ward him off. When I turned toward him, though, he was leaning against the door.

“Jeremy's not here, is he?” His voice was calm, the fake camaraderie back in place. “Even if he was, he'd have to agree. The girl must die. We can hardly let her go. She's seen you. She knows about you. A shame, really, but—” He shrugged. “—what must be done, must be done. If you'd prefer, we could wait for him to get back. Of course, I'd have to tell him what you did.”

“Did nothing.”

“You let her see what you are.”

“I—I didn't see anything,” the woman snuffled from the corner.

Malcolm smiled. “Of course you did. A shame, but one easily remedied.”

The woman pulled herself to her elbows. “No, it's true. I didn't see anything. If you let me go—”

“If I let you go, you'll tell what you saw. That the boy is a werewolf.” He paused, smiling at her reaction. “Oh, you didn't know? My mistake. But, now that you do—”

He started advancing on her. She lifted her arms and inched backward.

“I don't know anything. I don't believe you anyway. You're crazy. Just let me go and I'll—”

He grabbed her outstretched arms and snapped the hands back. Two sharp cracks and a piercing screech. The woman fell back, chest heaving, lips moving soundlessly. Malcolm lifted one of her broken wrists. Bone pierced the skin. He filled his hand with blood, then let the woman fall.

“Can you smell this, boy?”

He lifted his hand, letting the blood drip.

“Can you feel this?” His eyes gleamed. He stepped forward and turned the bloody palm toward me. “Can you feel it? Close your eyes and smell it.”

I could smell it, the hot coppery scent filling the room. But I felt nothing. Why would I? To me, blood only smelled like food, and I wasn't hungry.

Malcolm closed his fist, then opened it and wiped the blood on my face.

“Do you feel it?”

His voice was hoarse, his eyes glowing. He leaned down to
look into my eyes, gaze searching mine. Then his eyes dimmed with something like disappointment. He strode across the room, grabbed the woman by the back of the neck and swung her toward me. Her lips still moved soundlessly.

I looked in her eyes and I saw the fear of a trapped animal. Malcolm's free hand went around the woman's throat. He started to squeeze. Her eyes went wild and she kicked at him.

I turned and ran to the door. As I touched the handle, I heard the distant sound of running footsteps. I pulled open the door. The woman yelped. There was a crack, louder than the sound of her wrists snapping, then a thud. I walked into the hall.

Jeremy skidded around the corner. His shirt was off, pants undone and feet bare. His eyes were black with dread. As always, he'd known there was trouble. This time, he'd just been too far away—and probably in the wrong form—to help in time.

When he saw me, he stopped. I raced over to him. He put out one hand, as if to pull me closer, but pushed me behind him instead, and held me there, shielding me.

When I peeked around Jeremy, I saw Malcolm standing outside the study door. Malcolm blinked once, a second's worth of confusion passing over his face.

“How did you—?” Malcolm started, then shook off the question. He knew Jeremy sensed things; that's why he'd made sure to do this when Jeremy was on a run. But he never liked to question his son's powers, didn't want specifics. “You're too late. He's already done it. Killed a woman. I brought—”

“No!” I screamed and lunged forward.

Jeremy caught my arm. “I know,” he said softly. “I know who did it.”

He motioned for me to stay, then walked forward, pushed past his father and stepped into the study When he came out, there was a look in his eyes I'll never forget, a look that made me swear
never to kill a human, if only so I would never be the cause of such a look.

He stood there, caught in the doorway. I thought he was looking at me, then saw the blankness in his eyes. If he was seeing anything at all, it was nothing out here, but something inside his head.