Men of the Otherworld (23 page)

I laid the rabbit down. Malcolm's muzzle dipped, nodding, as if this was what he expected from me. I released the rabbit and stepped away. As Stephen lunged for it, I grabbed the rabbit by the rear legs and ran the other way.

I got about twenty feet before Malcolm leapt into my path. From behind me came the pound of Stephen's running feet, growing closer each second. Malcolm jerked his muzzle to the side, telling me to toss down the rabbit. I planted my feet and pulled myself up as tall as I could, my head barely reaching his chest, rabbit still in my mouth. His eyes met mine. He tilted his head and, for a moment, just looked at me. Then he stepped aside.

I got to keep my dinner that night. I might not be able to outfight or outrun Stephen, but I could outsmart him, which I did by
picking a path through brush too thick for a full-grown wolf to pass. By the time I finished eating, I heard Raymond Santos whistling for his son, and I knew the others had Changed back. I did the same, then ran to catch up.

I found Jeremy with Dominic and Jorge, about a quarter-mile from the house. As I ran to Jeremy, Antonio ambushed me from behind a tree, scooping me up in the air.

“Hey there, scrap,” Antonio said. “Where'd you run off to?” He held me out at arm's length and made a show of sniffing. “Is that rabbit I smell? I hope you caught enough for all of us.”

“If he can catch one for himself, he's doing just fine,” Dominic said.

“But he can always use more practice. I say, next Meet, we let Clay catch our dinner. A bunny buffet.” He grinned down at me. “Or guinea pig. He knows how to carve up a guinea pig.”

“No, I don't,” I said. “They never let me finish.”

Everyone laughed. Antonio swung me down to the ground. At a shout from the yard, I looked to see Nick running toward us.

“Good hunt?” he called.

Antonio shot his son a thumbs-up. Nick raced up beside me.

“Did you get to help?” he asked.

“Course he did,” Antonio said. “And he caught his own rabbit.”

“Oh, man,” Nick said. “You are so lucky. Was it a big one? Where'd you find it? How'd you catch it?”

While I answered his endless questions, the rest of the Pack caught up with us. Only Ross Werner and Dennis Stillwell joined our group—the Santoses and Cliff Ward hung back with Malcolm.

“Is someone here?” Ross asked, pointing at the driveway.

He was off to our right, the only one who could see around the rows of cedars lining the drive. A few more steps, and we all saw
what he meant—a black pickup truck in the lane, new paint glinting in the winter sun.

“Oh, right,” Nick said. “That's what I came out about. Some guy dropped it off about an hour ago. Didn't come to the house or anything. Just left it there. Joey said you guys must have forgotten to tell me we were getting a new truck.”

“Truck?” I said, wrinkling my nose. I glanced over my shoulder at Antonio. “You bought a truck?”

Dominic mock-scowled at me. “And what is wrong with a truck, Clayton?”

Antonio put his arm around my shoulder, his other going around Nick. “They aren't fast, are they, boys? And we like 'em fast.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes.

“So whose truck is it?” Nick asked. “Jorge? Poppa?”

Jorge shook his head. Dominic looked around, pretending not to hear.

“Hey,” Antonio said. “I think we're missing a car in that driveway. Not that I'm surprised. Damn thing was on its last legs. Probably crumpled into a pile of rust.”

I scanned the driveway, then looked over at Jeremy, who was doing the same, his brows knitting.

“Where's our car?” I asked.

“The junk heap,” Antonio said. “Where it belongs.”

Jeremy turned to Dominic. “Please don't tell me you—”

Antonio grinned. “It was a mercy killing.”

I watched Jeremy, seeing him struggle to keep his face impassive.

“I appreciate the gesture, Dominic,” he said slowly. “But I don't need—”

“I know you don't,” Dominic said. “But
I do.
Last month, when
Nick had a fever, it took you eight hours to get here in that snowstorm. We can't have that.”

“Hell, no,” a voice muttered behind us. “Kid might have died. A fever. Imagine that.”

Dominic turned sharply, lip curling. Stephen, Wally and Raymond Santos all stood behind us. Dominic's gaze slid from one to the other, but he couldn't tell who'd made the comment.

“Dominic has a point,” Jeremy said softly. “My car wasn't suited to winter driving, and if I'm going to provide emergency medical care, I need something that is. So I will buy myself a truck—”

“What?” Antonio said. “Some old beater that doesn't run any better than that car?”

Jeremy stiffened.

Antonio slapped his back. “Come on, Jer. Stop being so damned stubborn—”

“An old truck won't do,” Dominic said. “This isn't a gift, Jeremy. You're taking on this new responsibility, and saving me a bundle on doctor's bills. I know you won't accept anything more than gas money—”

“I don't need payment.”

“Of course you don't. You're doing it for the Pack. And, in return, the Pack will make sure that you have everything you need

to do the job properly—including reliable transportation.” “I—”

“Enough,” Dominic said.

He shot Jeremy a scowl that said he meant it. Jeremy hesitated, then nodded.

Wally strode up beside us. “So, let me get this straight. Jeremy plays doctor and he gets a brand-new truck for it? Hell, if I'd known that I'd—”

“You'd what?” Dominic said, turning on him. “You'd have
thought of it first? You've had years to think of it, Wally. And you didn't. No one did.” “That's—”

“It's called showing initiative,” Dominic said. “Something we could always use more of around here. Now, Jeremy, go check out that truck of yours. Make sure it's the way you want it. If not, you and Antonio can pick out something else. Before dinner, though, I want you to have a look at Cliff's shoulder. It's been acting up again.”

Cliff shook his head. “It's nothing. I don't need—” “You were favoring your right foreleg. First mutt that catches you doing that will fix your shoulder for you—permanently. Did you see Clayton out there today? You'd never know he broke his arm. All those special exercises paid off. That's what I want Jeremy to do for you.” He shot a look at Cliff. “And you're going to let him.”

“Come on,” Nick whispered to me. “Let's go see the truck.” As we started to run, I caught a glimpse of Malcolm. He was watching Jeremy with a strange, unreadable look in his eyes. I stopped and circled back, sliding between Jeremy and his father. Malcolm shook his head, glanced over at the truck, shook his head again and strode off toward the house.

Late that spring, when Jeremy was called in to deal with Gregory's sprained ankle, Dominic found excuses to extend our stay for nearly a week. Why? Because Malcolm was at Stonehaven, and had been for a month. Not only that, but Malcolm had invited Wally Raymond, Stephen and Cliff up to Stonehaven, which turned an uncomfortable visit into sheer torment. Dominic knew we could use a break.

When we returned to Stonehaven, Malcolm was still there. Most times he only stopped by long enough to get money, but occasionally he stayed longer. I had no idea what his excuse was this time. Like Jeremy, I'd stopped caring
why he
was there, only gritting my teeth and toughing it out until he left. Asking him when he was leaving only invited trouble. I'd done that last year, and he'd extended a planned two-day visit to two weeks.

By the time we got home from New York, only Malcolm remained. He pounced before we could so much as pull off our boots.

“All done playing doctor?” he said.

“Yes,” Jeremy said. “Gregory is fine.”

“No, Gregory is not fine and hasn't been for years. If you
really wanted to do us a favor, you'd give the idiot strychnine instead of aspirin. But I'm sure that wouldn't help your cause, would it?”

Jeremy only gave a half-shrug and took off his boots, then turned to me. “Go into the kitchen and we'll fix dinner.” He glanced at his father. “We're having sandwiches. Can I make you one?”

“Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.”

Jeremy tugged off his coat, hung it on the rack and steered me toward the kitchen.

“How's that new truck working out for you?” Malcolm said, sticking at our heels.

“It does the job,” Jeremy murmured.

“Dominic must be pretty pleased with you these days. Taming stray pups. Training the boys. Learning emergency medicine. What'd he call it? Initiative. That's right. Showing initiative. The question is: what do you hope to initiate?”

When Jeremy didn't answer, Malcolm swung in front of him and brought his face to Jeremy's.

“You get in my way, boy, and I'll squash you.”

“I never doubted it,” Jeremy said, and sidestepped into the kitchen.

Malcolm's next extended stay came in early December, a month away from my eleventh birthday.

That weekend, Antonio and Nick were coming up to take me Christmas shopping for Jeremy. Although the Pack didn't really celebrate the holiday the way humans did, we would have a Pack Meet and exchange gifts. The original shopping plan had been for me to go to New York and stay with the Sorrentinos, but then Malcolm showed up, and seemed prepared to hang around until
the holidays, so Antonio decided they'd come to us, minimizing the time Jeremy would need to spend alone with his father.

On Wednesday night Jeremy woke up from a nightmare. When I heard a muffled cry from his room, I bolted upright and nearly fell out of bed in my haste to get up. As I scurried into the hall, I heard the click of his door handle, and backed into my room.

I listened, heart thumping, almost certain it was just a nightmare, but unable to shake the fear that someone had attacked him in his bed. When I heard his soft footfalls in the corridor I knew it had just been another bad dream. Staying behind my door, I waited until he passed, then slid out after him.

Normally after a nightmare, Jeremy would fix himself a sandwich, or pour a glass of brandy, depending on how bad it had been. This time, though, he walked into the study, passed the brandy decanter and headed for the desk.

He stopped in front of the phone and stared down at it, as if expecting it to ring. For at least five minutes, he stood there. Then he sighed, picked it up, moved it to the table beside his chair and sat down.

He picked up his sketch pad and tried to draw something, but his attention kept wandering, and he'd start to draw those strange symbols he did sometimes. When he noticed, he'd rip off the page and try again. And again, his gaze would go distant, pencil moving across the page, drawing symbols instead of pictures.

Finally he tossed the sketch pad down and took up a paperback mystery novel he'd left by his chair, but after ten minutes of staring at the same page, he put it aside and eased back in his chair. A few minutes later, he started to nod off. His eyes were only half closed when he jerked up, mouth forming a silent
O
.

From my post outside the door, I swear I could hear his heart pounding triple-time. His gaze shot to the door and I pulled
back farther out of sight. He tensed, listening, as if afraid he'd cried out and alerted Malcolm. He listened to the silence for a minute, then looked back at the phone, swore under his breath and rolled his shoulders.

“Call, damn it,” he whispered. “I can't help if you don't call.” The phone didn't ring. After glaring at it for a few minutes, he sank back into his seat.

Twice more, he began to drift off and twice more a vision startled him awake. It
was
a vision, not a nightmare. At the time I didn't understand that, but I do now, looking back.

Jeremy saw things. I don't know how to explain it any better than that. I
can't
explain it any better than that. I've never understood much about this side of Jeremy's life, because I don't ask.

Wolves like conformity. In the wild, a pack will drive out a member who doesn't fit the accepted standard of wolf behavior; most animals do. While the Pack wasn't so heartless, even those less attuned to their wolf side were uncomfortable with change, and with those who were “different.”

I knew Jeremy didn't like to fight, and I knew that wasn't normal werewolf behavior. Yet I could accept that, because I knew he
could
fight. As a wolf, what was important to me was the ability, not the desire.

Not every member of the Pack felt that way. Take Malcolm. To him, a werewolf was a fighter, and a werewolf's value was directly related to his martial skills. For Malcolm, having his only son show no interest in fighting was a humiliation beyond bearing.

If Jeremy's refusal to fight lowered him in the opinion of some Pack members, knowing that he had visions would have only made it worse. Such a thing went beyond the realm of individual
difference. Unlike the rest of the Pack, though, I knew that Jeremy sensed—and sometimes saw—threats facing his Pack brothers.

After nearly two hours, Jeremy fell into a semidoze, disturbed only by the twitches and moans of a fitful sleep. When I was sure he wasn't going to wake up again, I crept into the room and fell asleep on the sofa.

The next day, Jeremy stayed close to the phone. Malcolm noticed. Malcolm always noticed Jeremy's moods. He hated the thought that something might be bothering his son and he couldn't claim the credit for it.

The phone rang twice that day. Both times Jeremy bolted for it, which didn't escape Malcolm's notice either. The first time it was Pearl, the woman who cooked our dinners, confirming our menu for the next week. The second time it was one of Jeremy's translation business clients asking whether he'd received a delivery.

Late that afternoon, Malcolm went out. Jeremy tried to curb his restlessness by painting, one hobby he never dared practice in front of his father. At least marksmanship was a sport. Painting would open him up to a whole new arena of mockery. So when Malcolm was home, the sketch pads and canvases stayed in a basement storage box.

Today, though, even art couldn't distract Jeremy from whatever bothered him. Instead, he threw himself into physical activity, playing two hours of touch football with me before dinner. While we played, he kept the study window open, despite the bitter December cold. Every now and then he'd stop in midplay, motion for me to wait as he looked toward the window, as though he'd heard the phone ring. When no sound came, he'd shake it off and resume the game.