Men of the Otherworld (37 page)

My fingers started moving again, twitching in my pocket, but I held them still and took a closer look at the illusion, examining it for cracks. And they were there—the slight scent of exhaust, the faint outline of buildings against the twilight sky, the “branch” underfoot that my shoe passed right through.

Was I creating this illusion? I
would
much prefer a forest path to a city alley. And while I didn't always feel like a true werewolf,
there were parts of that self that I embraced—the love of wild places, the joy of the run, the wonder of changing form.

But why would I suddenly start conjuring fantasy visions for myself? Far more likely that someone was doing it for me. Zoe? Vampires had no such powers. Visions were the realm of the magical races. The more I studied this illusionary forest, the more convinced I was that I hadn't actually seen Zoe. If a pursuer wanted to set me at ease, what better way than to cloak himself in a visage that was friendly and familiar?

At the blast of a car horn, the forest vision popped like a soap bubble, and I found myself teetering on the curb, about to step into traffic.

As I backed up, a voice behind me said, “You okay, son?”

It was the homeless man, still watching me. I hesitated. Being called “son” at my age is always enough to throw me—even more when I looked at this gray-haired “old man” and realized he was probably younger than me.

“Daydreaming?” he said.

“Yes, I suppose so.” I walked over. “Did a young woman come this way? Out of that lane a couple of minutes ago?”

He nodded. “Pretty girl. Asian. Real pretty.”

Zoe was attractive enough, but the heartfelt emphasis he put on the words gave me pause. I pulled a twenty from my pocket and, as I handed it to him, described Zoe.

“Mmm, maybe,” he said. “But her hair was longer. A lot longer. And she was real tiny. At first I thought it was a child.”

Zoe was small, but not that small.

The man said she'd headed into the next alley. I thanked him and stepped away. I checked my watch. Jaime would be done soon and wondering where I was, and as tempting as this mystery was, there was an equally strong temptation pulling me back to that dressing room…

I shook off the impulse. The temptations that waited in the dressing room
would
wait, however much I'd like to turn my attention back to them. This was a potential threat and therefore had to take precedence.

I headed in the direction the old man had indicated and turned my focus back to that. I'd been right, then—it wasn't Zoe, but an illusion, and one only I saw. Magical suggestibility—a spell that induces the subject to pluck a similar, familiar image from his memory and transpose it over the caster. A glamour spell could make one mistake a person for someone he
expected to
see. This must work on a similar principle.

As for why it was being used on me, I could only suppose that this caster wanted me to follow her into that alley, and while the “other” side of me insisted that following strange spellcasters into an alley could never turn out well, the werewolf—and moreover, the werewolf Alpha—couldn't walk away. Be prepared and be cautious, but never ignore a threat. Investigate and neutralize.

I strode toward that presumed alley, three store lengths away. The second shop was a convenience store and the beer sign in the window made me think of Jaime again. I scanned inside, quite certain champagne wouldn't be part of their inventory. When I slowed, though, I noticed a slight figure step out onto the sidewalk farther down.

Zoe stayed there, on the sidewalk, watching me. My fingers started moving and I let them, and when they finished, the Zoe image wavered and shrunk until the woman was the one the homeless man had seen—still Japanese, about the same age, but smaller, with hair to her waist. She had an undeniable beauty that I registered dispassionately, much the same way I'd done when I first met Jaime.

Her lips curved, then parted, mouthing “Jeremy.” I stepped
forward. She took a slow step back, still smiling, then turned and sprang away, feet barely seeming to touch the ground. This was body language the wolf understood, language I'd seen many times before, Elena and Clay playing “come catch me” as wolves. When I caught a glimpse of her in the windowed storefront, I swore I
did
see an animal scampering away, tail flicking, teasing. A red tail with a white tip. A fox.

I stopped short, heart ramming against my chest, fingers tracing madly, that anxiety from earlier slamming back tenfold. Every fiber in me screamed to get away. Run as fast as I could.

I glanced at the window again and saw my reflection, not as a human, but a huge, black wolf. A wolf running from a fox? Never.

I pivoted. She'd stopped again, walking slowly backward, enticing me to follow. Her reflection was faint now, but I could still see a fox, tail swishing. Her lips moved, my name on them again. Then she darted between the buildings.

When I reached the same spot, I found myself at the entrance of a very long, very dark alley. I bit back a chuckle. Cliché, but I supposed luring your opponent into a sun-bathed field of wild-flowers just didn't have the same impact.

From the alley mouth, I could see her figure, cloaked in shadow at the end, the pale orb of her face turned my way, her teeth glittering as she smiled. One delicate hand lifted and waved me closer. I strode toward her.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

Consternation flashed as she realized the illusion had failed.

I repeated the question.

“I am for you,” she said.

“Foryu?” I stopped a few feet from her. “Is that your name?”

She gave a girlish laugh. Her dark eyes lifted to mine. Then her long fingers moved to the top button of her knee-length coat
and with one deft move, it fell open. Through the gap, I could see her body. Naked.

“I am for you,” she said.

“I believe you have the wrong person.”

She stepped toward me, the coat sliding open as she moved, her pale body shimmering beneath it.

“No, I do not have the wrong person,” she said. “I am for you. Jeremy Malcolm Edward Danvers. Alpha of the American werewolves. Last of the Kogitsune.”

“Kogitsune?”

She stepped forward, shrugging the coat down to her shoulders. I didn't pull back and glance away, which would imply I was tempted. Instead, I looked at what she obviously wanted me to look at. She was lithe and perfectly shaped, with small, high breasts, a taut stomach and gently swelling hips. Beautiful. Too beautiful, really. If I painted her, I'd look like an amateur trying to capture idealized female beauty, and instead depicting a perfectly flawless and perfectly dull figure.

And while I must admit that having a beautiful, naked stranger offer herself to me in an alley was not unappreciated, it was like offering a juicy hamburger to a man already sated by prime steak. The desired response was not forthcoming.

She put her arms around my neck and lifted up. Her coat spread wider, naked body moving toward mine.

“You said Kogitsune,” I said. “What is that?”

More consternation. She pressed her body against mine. Her lips moved to my ear.

“I will tell you everything you want to know, Jeremy Danvers. First let me…”

She whispered her suggestion, something about entwining limbs and heights of ecstasy. It reminded me of passages Jaime would read me from her romance novels—passages that made
sex sound very pretty and very flowery and were about as arousing as reading Emily Dickinson. Then she'd reinterpret and reimagine the scenes, in far earthier language, and that always worked wonders.

So as the young woman promised to take me on a guided tour of her lush hills and deep valleys, I resisted the urge to laugh— which again would certainly be the wrong response.

Instead, I politely heard her out, then took her by the shoulders and moved her away so I could better make eye contact.

“While I appreciate the—” I began.

She shrugged her coat off, letting it pool at her feet. I paused to admire. I might not be as moved by the sight as she hoped, but I was still male.

“No,” I said, my gaze returning to her eyes. “All I want is answers.”

She lowered herself onto her coat, one knee raised, her legs spread, giving me a clear view of the offer at hand.

Her eyes lifted to mine. “Please.”

I was about to ask what she wanted, but I supposed the answer was rather obvious… at least, the answer she'd give. As for what she
really
wanted—while there was some latent teenage boy fantasy that insisted having a beautiful stranger strip and offer herself to you in an alley was perfectly normal, even at sixteen I would have known she had an ulterior motive… though I probably wouldn't have cared.

“What are you?” I asked instead.

She smiled and rose to her feet so gracefully that she seemed to slither up like a cobra rising from a vase. Some deep-rooted instinct told me the analogy was an apt one.

Her lips parted, small white teeth showing. “What do you want me to be, Jeremy Danvers?”

“Someone who answers my questions.”

She slid closer, until her breasts brushed my shirt. “Later. First, tell me what you most desire.”

“I just did. To have my questions answered. Starting with what you are, and moving onto why you're following me. If we can't manage that, then what I'll most desire to do—and what I will do—is leave.”

A spark of anger in her eyes made my fingers move against my legs. She caught my hand and squeezed it. I pulled it away.

“What am I doing?” I asked.

She smiled and slid her hand up my chest. “It's what you're
not
doing that is the problem.”

I removed her hand and traced a shape in the air. Her fingers shot forward, as if to grab mine, but she stopped herself and fixed a smile in place. She moved closer still, lifting onto her tiptoes, breasts rubbing against my chest until her nipples hardened.

“You know what I'm doing, don't you?” I said. “The runes. The symbols.”

She opened the top button on my shirt. Her tongue flicked out, strangely cool against my skin. I stepped back and fastened the button.

“If you won't answer my questions, then it's time for me to leave.”

She grabbed my wrist. Her grip was unnaturally strong, but I peeled her fingers off.

“Don't go,” she said.

“I am,” I said.

“Yes,” said a voice behind me. “He is.”

From behind me, Jaime's hands slid around my waist. She lifted up to kiss the back of my neck, then looked over my shoulder at the young woman.

“He's just not that into you, is he?” Jaime added.

The young woman's lips curled and a hiss escaped, one that set the hairs on my neck prickling. As Jaime moved up beside me, the young woman's gaze traveled over her.

“You're not worthy,” the young woman said.

“Probably not,” Jaime said. “But I am very, very lucky.”

As we walked away, I kept my senses on alert, ready for a rear attack, but all stayed still behind us. I didn't look back.

Jaime didn't speak until we were on the sidewalk, then she let that possessive arm drop from my waist. I glanced over, gauging her mood. When she took my hand, I relaxed.

“I can't even let you out of my sight for ten minutes before naked girls are throwing themselves at you in alleys.”

“I'd heard New Yorkers were getting friendlier …”

A laugh, ragged around the edges. “So are you going to tell me what that was about? A fan trying to entice you into a private portrait session?”

“Yes, that happens all the time. Art groupies. It's worse than being a rock star.” I spotted the theater marquee and headed for it. “No, that young woman was far more interested in my other occupation. As the werewolf Alpha.”

“She's a supernatural?” A soft rush of air whistled through Jaime's teeth. Relief. She could deal with that better than with random humans throwing themselves at me.

“Some kind of magical race. She wanted something from me.”

Jaime snorted. “You think?”

“Sex was merely the enticement.”

“Were you… ?” Her voice drifted off.

“Enticed?” I glanced at her. “I think you already saw the answer. How long were you watching?”

Her cheeks flamed as bright as her hair as she stammered denials. Then, after a few steps in silence, she said, “I was there a few minutes. It's not that I don't trust you …”

“But you've been burned before.”

There had been many men in Jaime's life, but as large and diverse as that cast might be, they'd shared one thing in common: none of them had treated her well. Not entirely their fault. Jaime admits that even when she told herself she wanted a stable relationship, she chose men who couldn't provide it. And then I'm sure she showed them only that most superficial side of herself—the vivacious, party-loving celebrity. Those who were unfaithful probably assumed she was doing the same, and never realized how much they'd hurt her.

Jaime knew she didn't need to worry about that with me. She was the only woman in my life and I intended to keep it that way for as long as she'd have me. I'd never been one to ogle or flirt even before she came along, so I gave her no reason to feel threatened. Still, she did, and it was something I suspected we'd only overcome with time, when she realized I wasn't going anywhere.

I explained what had happened.

“Foxes?” she said. “At the risk of sounding like a total airhead, is there any chance it was … a werefox? I know there's no record of such a thing, but…”

“But that doesn't mean one couldn't exist. In this case, though, I suspect a simpler answer. It's an illusion, presumably one she thought, like the Zoe disguise, would intrigue me. As a werewolf, perhaps I'd find a fox…”

“Foxy?”

I laughed. “Or simply a nonthreatening smaller predator that should be investigated. As for what kind of demon or spellcaster she was…”

“My money's on succubus.”

I pulled open the theater door. “Is there such a thing?”

She waved at the security guard. “With my luck, yes. I spend four years chasing the guy of my dreams, finally get him, and now I have to compete with a gorgeous, twenty-year-old supernatural sex fiend.”