Men of the Otherworld (19 page)

“My father isn't home,” Jeremy said. “And not likely to return anytime soon.”

For several minutes, neither man spoke, but just stood there, watching one another.

“That's a shame,” Pritchard said at last. “Course, it'd be even more of a shame if I came all this way for nothing. I'm thinking maybe I could have that talk with you instead.”

“If it's my father you wanted, I'm a poor substitute.”

Pritchard rocked on his heels. “Maybe, maybe not. Your daddy does have a damned fine reputation, but a rare opponent is just about as good as a famous one. Can't say I've ever met anyone who fought the elusive Danvers Junior.”

“That doesn't mean no one ever has. It just means no one ever returned to tell the tale.”

Pritchard barked a laugh. “Nice try, boy, but from what I hear, the real reason is you've never stuck around long enough to let anyone throw a punch.”

Jeremy tensed, but quickly hid it with a shrug. “If that's true, it won't gain you anything to bother with me, will it? So I would suggest that you return when my father is home and take up your quarrel with him.”

The man laughed again. “Another nice try, but you aren't going to weasel out of it that easily. I'm throwing down the towel.”

“You're giving up? Can't say I blame you.”

Pritchard scowled. “I'm challenging you.”

“Ah. Well, in that case, for future reference, the correct phrase
is ‘throwing down the
gauntlet’
And, you know, that's a fine idea, so why don't you just go out, find yourself a gauntlet, bring it back, throw it down and we'll talk… or fight, though I must warn you, I'm a much better talker.”

For the next couple of minutes, Pritchard said nothing. I think it took him that long to process Jeremy's words, and even then, when he did speak, there was an air of hesitancy.

“I'm challenging you to a duel.”

“Right then. A duel. At dawn? Does that work for you? Pistols or rapiers? My swordsmanship is a bit rusty, but I could probably make do.”

Again, Pritchard hesitated, dull brain whirring. “I don't think you're taking this seriously.”

“No? Really? Perhaps that's because the situation itself is so ludicrous I find it impossible to take seriously.” Jeremy stepped forward. “You're here because you want to challenge my father. At worst, you could die. But even at best, if you kill him, what have you have gained? A better reputation as a fighter. What will that get you? More challenges. More challenges equals more chances that you aren't going to live to see forty.”

“Yeah. So?”

“It's
stupid,
” Jeremy said, meeting Pritchard's eyes. “Is that obvious to no one but me?”

“This is the way it works. The way it's always worked. I come here. I'm on your territory. You have to kill me.”

“No, I don't have to. That may be the practice, but it's not the Law.”

“Damn,” Pritchard said with a laugh. “You're as yellow as they say.”

Jeremy's cheek twitched and Pritchard tensed, obviously expecting that would goad Jeremy into a fight. Instead, Jeremy turned his back and began to walk away.

“You think about what I said,” Jeremy said. “I'll give you one hour to get off my territory. Then I'm coming after you.”

“Whoo-hoo. I'm scared now.”

Jeremy just kept walking. Pritchard waited another minute, then snorted in disgust, turned on his heel and stormed back down the drive. At the front door, Jeremy turned and peered into the night. Seeing Pritchard gone, he hurried over to where I hid in the trees.

“Come on, Clayton,” he said. “Into the garage. We need to follow him.”

Jeremy followed Pritchard's car, keeping his lights off.

“I know you might not understand what you heard,” Jeremy said after a few minutes. “I'm not sure even I can explain it, not in any way that makes sense to me.”

“He's a mutt, isn't he?”

“Yes, and they aren't supposed to come on our territory, but they do. We say they can't, but the Pack doesn't always mean it. It's … complicated. The point is that mutts think if they hurt a Pack wolf, it'll make them important, and the best way to get a chance to do that is to come on our territory.”

“Because you're supposed to fight them.”

“Yes. But I didn't, and I'm sure you're wondering about that.”

“It's like you said about him. If you win, more mutts will come. They'll want to fight you, too.”

Jeremy blinked, as if surprised that I'd picked up on this. Then his lips curved in a quarter-smile. “Smart boy. Amazing how that can make sense to you, yet no one else seems to see it.”

“What if he doesn't leave? Will you fight him?”

“I said I would. I have to follow through.”

“But at the Meet, Wally said…” I let the sentence trail off.

Jeremy glanced over at me. “He said I don't fight mutts. That I let Malcolm do it for me. That's what he believes—what most of them believe—and I see no reason to enlighten them. If they know I fight trespassing mutts, they'll expect me to fight more, perhaps even challenge me.”

“This mutt… will you kill him?”

“Not if I can help it. Usually a fight is enough.”

“But if you killed him, then he couldn't come back. And he couldn't tell other mutts he fought you, so they wouldn't come either.”

“If only it was that easy. Before mutts come here, they tell other mutts what they're going to do, who they're going to challenge. That's part of the game. If Carl Pritchard's friends never see him again, they'll know he lost the fight. They'd probably think Malcolm killed him, and that's fine with me, but it doesn't solve the problem. The higher my father's reputation is, the more mutts will come looking for him. And more often than not, they'll find me instead.”

“You need to stop them from coming.”

“If I knew how to do that, Clayton, believe me, I would.” An other small smile. “Maybe someday you can figure it out for me.”

For ninety minutes we crouched in the woods behind the Big Bear Motor Lodge, watching Pritchard's motel window, hoping to see the light turn out and hear the roar of his car engine as he beat a hasty retreat from Bear Valley. It never happened.

Finally, Jeremy sighed and shook his head. “Looks like I need to finish this, Clayton. I want you to go back to the car and wait.” He handed me the car keys. “Do you remember where we parked?”

I pointed into the woods. “On the other side. Behind the warehouse.”

“Good boy. Now, you need to stay in there and be quiet. Don't let anyone see you.” He reached into his pocket, took out something, then undid his watch band. “Here's two dimes and my watch. Listen carefully, okay?”

I nodded.

“It's just past ten thirty. When it's eleven o'clock, if I haven't come back yet, then you leave the car and run to the gas station across the road. It's closed. Go to the phone booth and put in a dime. Call Antonio collect. Do you remember the number?”

Jeremy had drilled me on this months ago, teaching me Antonio's phone number even before our own.

“Call him and tell him what happened. He'll—” Jeremy faltered. “He'll look after everything. Okay?”

When I nodded, he had me repeat back the instructions, then sent me off.

I walked back to the car, got inside, waited just long enough to ensure that Jeremy would think I'd obeyed him. Then I headed back to the motel.

This was not a simple matter. Even opening the door handle was a monumental struggle. There was nothing wrong with the door; the problem lay within me.

My wolf's brain was wired to obey my leader without question. Dominic may have been Pack Alpha, but Jeremy was
my
alpha, and I don't think he realized how much sway his words had over me.

Yet as much as I was hardwired to obey, there was now another equally strong instinct conflicting with that one: the need to protect Jeremy. When obedience runs counter to protection, the protective instinct always wins.

So I made my way back to Jeremy. I never reached the motel,
though. By that time, Jeremy and Pritchard had moved into the middle of the patch of woods between the car and the motel. I stopped short as their words reached me.

“How do I know you're not going to attack me while I Change?” Pritchard asked.

“Easy,” Jeremy replied. “We're not going to Change.”

They kept their voices low, so no one outside the woods would hear them. I left the path, got downwind of the pair and crept through the brush until I could see them.

“But we have to Change,” Pritchard said. “That's the rule.”

“Are you a better fighter as a wolf?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then I'm not taking advantage of you, am I? Since you've mentioned the possibility of me attacking you while you Change, I can't help but suspect you've considered doing the same thing.”

“Hey! I know the rules—”

“Then you know that Changing form first isn't one of them. We're barely a hundred feet from humans. Either you fight me like this, or you don't fight me at all.”

“Oh-ho, so that's what you're hoping, is it, boy?”

Jeremy's right hook flew out so fast that all I saw was Pritchard stumble backward. Then I saw Jeremy's arm retract from the blow.

“Does that answer your question?” Jeremy said.

With a roar, Pritchard charged. Jeremy feinted out of the way, swung around behind Pritchard and slammed a fist into the side of his head. Pritchard reeled.

“Anytime you want to stop, you say so,” Jeremy said.

Another roar. Another charge. Again Jeremy feinted, but didn't have time to land a blow before Pritchard wheeled, fists swinging. Jeremy backpedaled fast, catching only a glancing
blow in the side. He landed another strike on Pritchard, but couldn't avoid a hook to the jaw. As Jeremy recovered, he spat blood. Pritchard barreled toward him, but Jeremy recovered in time to feint and strike from behind.

And so the fight went. Jeremy avoided roughly two-thirds of Pritchard's attacks. Of those he couldn't dodge, at least half resulted in glancing blows that didn't even throw him off balance. In contrast, Pritchard felt the full impact of most of Jeremy's hits.

I'd seen enough of Jeremy and Antonio's wrestling matches to recognize exactly where Pritchard went wrong. Jeremy's fighting style was largely defensive. Antonio knew how Jeremy fought and he adapted accordingly, changing tack as soon as he picked up on Jeremy's pattern. Then Jeremy would change his pattern, and Antonio would adapt to that, and so on.

Both men had very different styles, but neither was significantly better—one just suited each better than the other. What Jeremy and Antonio both excelled in, though, was adaptability. I didn't realize this until I saw Pritchard losing to Jeremy. He may have been stronger, and he may have been more experienced, but he couldn't adapt. No matter how many times Jeremy dodged a charge, wheeled and landed a blow, Pritchard never stopped charging.

Finally, after one of Jeremy's lightning-fast blows to his head, Pritchard went down and stayed down.

“Enough?” Jeremy wheezed, wiping blood from his mouth.

Pritchard nodded.

Jeremy straightened and turned away. He'd gone no more than a yard when Pritchard pulled himself up, moving slowly enough not to make any noise. His narrowed eyes were on Jeremy and I knew what he was going to do. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but before I could, Jeremy slowed. His head turned just slightly. Then his mouth tightened, and I knew he'd somehow
sensed Pritchard moving. He didn't turn around, though. He kept walking.

Pritchard pushed himself to his feet, then charged. Jeremy swung around and dodged easily, but this time wheeled at the very moment Pritchard passed, and threw himself onto his back. Both men went down.

From my vantage point, I couldn't see what happened next. The men hit the ground. There was a sharp crack. And everything went still. A long moment of silence passed, then Jeremy stood. Pritchard stayed on the ground, his head to the side, dead eyes fixed in a look of disbelief.

“Goddamn you,” Jeremy said, his voice infused with cold fury “Goddamn you.”

He stood there a moment, staring down at Pritchard's lifeless body. Then he turned and strode back toward the motel. I scampered to the car.

About ten minutes after I got into the car, the trunk clicked open. The car dipped as Jeremy lowered Pritchard's body in. He would have to be buried at Stonehaven. That was Pack Law, that mutts killed on our territory be buried on the victor's land, not as a trophy, but as a safety precaution, so they wouldn't be dug up by plows or bulldozers or hunting dogs. Every member of the Pack knew how to dispose of a body. It was part of the lessons young werewolves received as they approached their first Change.

The trunk snapped shut. Then the driver's door opened and Jeremy slid in. I looked over at him.

“It's over,” he said softly. “There's nothing to worry about.” But I knew there was. That night, I had my first glimpse into a problem that had plagued Jeremy from the moment he'd become a full-fledged werewolf, and one that would continue to plague
him for the next decade. As long as mutts continued to treat Pack territory as a gladiatorial arena, our home would never be a true sanctuary. Someone needed to stop the mutts from coming.

Jeremy had half-jokingly invited me to come up with a solution. It would take nearly a decade before I did, but I never forgot that it was a problem that required solving.

For most children, fall means school. For me, it only meant cooler weather, which I always welcomed after two months of sweltering heat. Compared to Louisiana, New York might not get that hot, but when you're racing around the woods in a fur coat, anything over seventy is hot.

As for school, Jeremy and Dominic had decided to keep me out until high school. Shortly after my expulsion, Jeremy had started me on a formal home-schooling program, which satisfied the state. I was happy at home, Jeremy was an excellent teacher and I was well ahead of my public school peers, so there was no need to hurry me back to institutionalized learning.

Being home schooled, though, did mean that I missed out on a convenient form of peer socialization. To compensate, Jeremy enrolled me in extracurricular programs in Syracuse. Bear Valley did offer some recreational programs for children, but the Pack has always counseled its members to limit their participation in the local social scene. People in Bear Valley knew us enough to say hello, but little more than that. So Jeremy drove me in to Syracuse for my weekly programs.