Men of the Otherworld (3 page)

As for what these women could be, Malcolm had no idea. He had only the vaguest idea what else was out there, but he knew there were people who used magic—spells and rituals and potions. That must be what they were.

An excited chirp from the old woman knocked Malcolm from his thoughts. Between the girl's legs, deep in her dark thatch, another dark thatch had appeared. The top of a baby's head.
His
baby's head. The girl slammed her hands down, her chant now a snarl, face tight and shiny with sweat. But she didn't cry out.

Malcolm held his breath as he waited for the first wail. Dominic, who always managed to witness the birth of his children, claimed that you could foretell a child's strength by his first cry. The loudest of his three had been Antonio, who'd already beaten his brothers’ babyhood milestones, lifting his head sooner, sitting up sooner, crawling sooner, walking at not yet a year. So Malcolm braced for his child's first scream, and prayed it would surpass anything Dominic had heard from his.

After one final heave, the baby fell into the waiting hands of the attendant. And it made not a peep.

The child was dead. After all these months, all this hoping…

And yet he couldn't help feeling almost relieved. Having a half-breed baby was one thing, but this was an interracial mixing he wanted no part of. A werewolf who could cast magic? It was wrong. It reminded him too much of his father, always poring over his books, always living in his head, always thinking. A werewolf acted through physical power and strength. Cunning,
yes. Magic spells… ? That smacked of weakness. For all he knew, such a mix would mean this child couldn't even change forms. The humiliation of that would be too much to bear. Better to have no child at all.

His gut told him it was better this way, and Malcolm always trusted his gut, so he stepped back—

The baby kicked and made a noise, a little gurgle, almost a coo, as if to say “here I am” as quietly and politely as possible. The woman holding him laughed and said something to the baby's mother, who'd lain back on the mat to rest, unperturbed by her child's silence.

As Malcolm tensed, his gaze traveled down the child's blood-streaked torso. Then he let out a whoosh of breath. It was a girl. Good, he could leave and forget all—

The attendant lifted the child to show the mother. A tiny penis and scrotum fell from between its legs… and Malcolm's gut fell with it. There was still one last hope. Maybe the child wasn't his. As the woman wrapped the baby in a symbol-covered blanket, Malcolm closed his eyes and inhaled, and his stomach dropped to his shoes. His child. His son. And a werewolf.

The Law was clear. Father a son and you must claim him for the Pack. You couldn't allow a werewolf to grow up not knowing what he was. And yet that didn't apply here, did it? These magic-makers would know what the boy was when he came of age. They would take care of him, and there would be no risk of exposure to the Pack. Malcolm could leave and never think about this again.

So that's what he did.

When Malcolm returned to the Sorrentino estate, he went straight to Emilio, and asked whether there were any “tasks” the
Alpha needed done. It wasn't a surprising request. Malcolm was always ready to serve the Pack, if it meant boosting his reputation. This time, though, he had an ulterior motive—to wipe from his brain all thoughts of that strange, quiet child and those magic-makers. Emilio gave him a job—hunting down and terminating a troublesome mutt—and Malcolm was out the door before the Alpha could say good-bye.

Two weeks later, the mutt dead, Malcolm went home to Stonehaven. He barely got through the door before he heard the familiar thump-scrape of his father's footsteps. He tensed and ran through his mental list of things he'd done that grazed the boundaries of Pack Law. If his father was so quick to welcome him home, he wondered which of his infractions had been discovered.

Edward Danvers rounded the corner, his bad leg dragging behind. In public he used his cane, but in the house, he never bothered. He stopped at the end of the hall and straightened. He always stood straight in Malcolm's presence, those couple extra inches of height being the only physical advantage he had on his son.

Edward looked around the vestibule, his frown growing. Then a flash of sadness behind his dark eyes.

“It was a girl, then, was it?”

Malcolm froze. He'd told no one about the baby, certainly not his father. He opened his mouth to protest, but Edward cut him off.

“I know you well enough to know when you're up to something, Malcolm, and when you're excited about something. So, it was a girl, then?”

Malcolm considered saying yes, but knew even this lie was risky. A werewolf was supposed to take no interest in his daughters, which was logical because they were not werewolves and
therefore could stay with their mothers. But his father was rarely logical, and more than once Malcolm had suspected that when a lump sum went missing from the bank account, the money— part of
his
inheritance—was going to Edward's other child, a daughter a few years younger than Malcolm. If Edward thought he had a granddaughter, it would be just like him to go looking for the girl, to make sure she and her mother were well cared for.

“Died,” Malcolm said as he pulled off his other shoe. “In child birth.”

“Did he?”

Malcolm nodded.

Edward limped closer. “So it was a
he?
A son?”

Malcolm hesitated, then nodded and tossed his shoes onto the mat.

“Your firstborn son dies, and you aren't the least bit upset. How… odd.”

Malcolm shrugged.

“Was it the Japanese girl Dominic mentioned? The timing would certainly be right. Let me guess, Malcolm. The babe didn't die. He just looked a little more… foreign than you'd like.”

With another shrug, Malcolm turned away to hang his coat on the rack.

His father's voice hardened. “If you had a problem with a half-Japanese child, then you shouldn't have bedded the girl.”

Malcolm grabbed his suitcase and tried to brush past his father, but Edward stepped into his path. One good shove, and the old man would topple. Hell, a
really
good shove into the wall, and he'd stay down forever. As much as Malcolm longed to do it, he couldn't. Edward had made sure of that once his son became strong enough to best him—rewriting his will so the estate would be held in trust by the Sorrentinos, meaning someday Malcolm
would have had to go crawling to Dominic for money. That would be a fate worse than putting up with Edward.

“He's your child, Malcolm. Your son.”

Edward's voice had softened. Malcolm's fists clenched. He hated that voice. He'd rather be screamed at, shouted at, swung at—anything that suggested Edward gave a damn. That gentle but firm voice carried no emotion. Edward was like a dog trainer with a none-too-bright puppy, convinced that he could correct the misbehavior simply by taking the right tone.

Edward continued, “There is nothing wrong with a mixed-race child.”

Not
this
mixed race,
Malcolm thought, but he said nothing, just let his father continue.

“I don't care if the babe is purple, Malcolm. He's your son, and my grandson, and probably the only one we'll ever see.”

“There'll be more.”

Edward shook his head. “I only had two children; you've shown no signs of faring any better, and certainly not for lack of trying. It's in our blood.”

Malcolm met his father's gaze. “In
your
blood. Granddad had three sons and a whole passel of daughters. So the problem,
Father,
is clearly yours. Not that it surprises me.”

He saw the barb strike home and smiled.

“Perhaps you don't want the child, Malcolm, but I do. Give me my grandson and I'll never trouble you with a moment of his care.”

Malcolm hesitated, but knew his father would never give in so easily. As weak as Edward was, he could be relentless when it came to something he wanted, pursuing it as single-mindedly as Malcolm had pursued his reputation. Tell him no, and he'd go out and find the boy.

Malcolm couldn't allow that to happen. The thought of claiming
that strange baby as his own made his skin creep, and made his gut roil with something almost like fear. No, not fear. Con tempt. Contempt for those women and their petty magics and that peculiar child. He knew what had to be done, and that he should have done it when he'd first laid eyes on the boy. There was only one way to eliminate the problem—by
eliminating
the problem.

Malcolm shrugged. “You want him, fine. I'll go get him. Just don't bother me with the brat.”

His father smiled. “I won't.”

Malcolm's father insisted on accompanying him to New York. That he hadn't foreseen, but it turned out to be only a minor bump. Edward was quite content to stay at the hotel and wait for Malcolm to deliver his grandson. He never suggested helping Malcolm take the child. Didn't have the stomach for it, Malcolm figured.

He often wondered how his father got him away from his mother. Pack Law was clear on that. A son had to be taken, and all contact with the mother severed. Ideally, you'd convince the unwed mother that this was for the best—take the boy, and leave her free to marry without the burden of an illegitimate child. If that didn't work, kidnapping was the next option. The missing child of an unwed mother was a low priority for police. If she caused trouble, though… well, there was a final solution, though Malcolm had never known a Pack werewolf to resort to it. He didn't know why—it seemed the easiest route, and safe enough if you were careful. And he knew all about being careful. He'd had plenty of practice.

When he reached the apartment, only the grandmother was there. It was growing dark—night was always the best time for
this sort of thing. He could have waited outside the building, taking care of the girl and the child without ever setting foot in that apartment, leaving the old woman alone, but that would be the soft way, the coward's way. His father's way. Strength meant doing what needed to be done with no half measures or shortcuts that could come back to haunt you.

He went in the window again and saw that he'd come not a day too soon. The room was piled with moving boxes. He could hear the old woman in the kitchen. It would be easy to slink down the hall, slip up behind her, and snap her neck. So easy…

He strode to the kitchen door, and shoved it open so hard it banged against the counter. The old woman spun around. Seeing him, her eyes went wide. He expected her to lunge for a knife, but she only stood there, wide-eyed.

“Where's my son?”

As he spoke, he advanced on the old woman, backing her into the corner. She went willingly, as if it never occurred to her to fight back.

“Where's my son?’ he said, slower, enunciating the words.

“He—he is not here,” she said, her voice heavily accented, but her English good. “We did not think—”

“That I'd be back? That I'd want him?”

She swallowed. “I know this… is your way. To take the sons. But this one—you do not want this one. He will be different. Better for us to take him.” She managed a strained smile. “You will have more sons. Many more sons. Big strong boys like yourself.” The smile grew and she tapped her temple. “This, I see.”

He hesitated. “See?”

Her face relaxed and she nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I know this. I know many things.” Her eyes grew crafty. “You have not heard of our race, have you?”

“But you've heard of mine.”

“Who has not heard of the mighty werewolves? That is why we came here. We chose you. We are a rare race, a dying race. We needed a…” Her eyes rolled as if searching for a word. “An infusion. Stronger blood to mix with ours, and what is stronger than the werewolves? We chose your race, and then we chose you from your race, to strengthen our blood.” Her gaze met his. “We honored you in this.”

“You did, did you? Well, maybe it's not an honor I asked for, a freak of a son, a half-breed—”

“And no concern of yours.” Her voice took on a tone at once soothing and authoritative. “This child need not be any concern of yours. We will take him.”

She waved at the boxes on the counter. “We're already preparing to leave. We will go and never bother you again, and you will have more sons and grow to take your rightful place as Alpha, unencumbered by this child.”

Caught in her gaze, he felt the urge to give in. Why not let her take the child? It would be easy. So easy…

He reached out and snapped her neck.

He'd barely finished stuffing the old woman under the sink when a sound came from the front hall. A panic-choked shout. The girl and the child. She called again, in English this time.

“Grandmama!”

A whimper cut through the silence. The child. Not screaming or wailing, just giving one soft whimper. Malcolm heard a torrent of foreign words as the girl tried to calm the child, then a bustle as she laid him down.

The girl shouted again. Light steps ran up the hall, racing for the old woman's bedroom.

Malcolm slipped from the kitchen and headed for the living
room. There was the child, in his bassinet by the sofa. His dark eyes were as wide and worried as the old woman's had been, and he writhed in his tightly wrapped blanket.

Malcolm stepped toward the child. The patter of light running footsteps sounded behind him. Then a shriek.

Malcolm turned. The girl stood in the doorway.

“Get away from my son,” she said, her English perfect, barely accented.

“
Your
son? Oh, I beg to differ on that.”

She stepped toward him. “Where is my grandmother?”

Malcolm only smiled. Her jaw worked and she spat an epithet he didn't understand.

“Get out,” she said. “We've done you no harm.”

“No harm? You hid my son—”

“My
son. Your only part in his making is long over, and you were well compensated for that.” Her lips twisted. “Not exactly a hardship for you.”

“Nor for you, as I recall.”

“You think I enjoyed—” She spat another foreign word, and pulled herself up straight. She barely reached his chest, but acted as if she stood on eye level with him. “You weren't even my choice. I wanted the big man, the one who'd proven he could sire sons. But they said no. Strength wasn't enough. It wasn't you who even made them decide your blood was right for our kind. They had their eye on another—wiser, with the right kind of strength for our kind. But he was too old, they said, so I had to settle for his son.”