Tales of the Otherworld (30 page)

The next morning, when I woke, Elena was gone. I jumped up so fast I tumbled out of bed. Then I saw her coming out of the bathroom, showered and dressed.

“Wait,” I said, scrambling up. “I’ll be ready in a second, and I’ll make you breakfast.”

She nodded and, without a word, sat down to wait.

Jeremy had already eaten. When we finished, he took me aside as Elena cleared the table.

“Last night you said you wanted me to understand,” he murmured, too low for her to hear from the kitchen. “You’re right. I need to understand, and the only way I can do that is to spend some time with this girl, talk to her, get to know her.”

A day ago, I’d have jumped at those words. But now I knew the truth. Jeremy would never understand. Like the rest of the Pack, he obeyed the Law by avoiding temptation and drawing a firm line between sex and emotional involvement.

While others had a string of casual girlfriends, Jeremy never even did that. He had no idea what I felt for Elena, and I’d been deluded to ever
think otherwise. As he stood there, telling me he wanted to get to know her better, I knew he only wanted to learn more about her so he could figure out the best way to get rid of her. Still, I held out hope—

“I can’t talk to her with you hovering. I want to speak to her alone.”

“I’ll keep quiet—”

“No, you won’t. You can’t. I’m going to speak to her, and you will stay away while I do. Then I’ll figure out a solution for your problem.”

My gut dropped. I opened my mouth to argue, but knew it would do no good. I had to find another way. So I nodded, and went to tell Elena.

I left them in the study. Then I went into the kitchen and filled the sink, as if I was going to wash dishes. There was only one thing I could do to stop Jeremy from sending Elena away—something that would make sure he couldn’t let her go. She had to know what I was. Then she would understand and Jeremy would see that she wasn’t a threat, that she loved me too much to ever betray us.

I’d found the loophole to Jeremy’s command. He’d forbidden me to tell her what I was. So I wouldn’t tell her. I’d show her.

I eased open the back door, slid into the sunroom, undressed, and began my Change.

As I padded down the hall, I heard Jeremy talking. I concentrated to understand the words, still clinging to the hope that he really was just trying to get to know her better and all this could be avoided. He was talking about Elena’s schooling, and how she expected to continue after we were married, and did she understand what she’d be giving up. Searching for the weakness, the way to make her leave me.

I eased open the door with my muzzle and slipped in, head low. Jeremy had his back to the window. As I crept forward, Elena saw me and gasped. I paused in midstep. Then she smiled. Smiled right at me and in that second I was sure she recognized me. After all those months of worrying about how she’d react, now she finally knew, and she wasn’t angry, wasn’t even surprised. Maybe she’d known all along—

“She’s…gorgeous,” Elena said. “Or is it a he?”

She kept smiling, fingers out, coaxing me forward, and I knew she didn’t see me at all. She saw a dog.

As she spoke, Jeremy turned and saw me for the first time. He said my name and again, for that brief second, I thought I’d succeeded—surely now she’d make the connection. But she only said something about me letting the dog out, and I knew then that she would never see—that it was too far outside her realm of possibility.

I crept forward, drawn by her smile and her dangling fingers, calling me closer. Jeremy tensed, as if not knowing what to do. But I knew, and even as my brain screamed for me to stop, instinct took control and I grabbed her hand, my teeth sinking in, breaking the skin. As she let out a yelp of surprise, I ran my tongue over the wound, working in the saliva.

And it was done.

E
LENA PASSED OUT AFTER I BIT HER. HOURS
later, she was still unconscious, fevered and delirious. That wasn’t what I expected. I don’t know what I did expect. Even when I realized what I’d done, I told myself she’d be fine. I’d been bitten and I was fine.

Elena was not fine.

Elena would not be fine for a very long time.

Would I have done things differently if I’d known how much she’d suffer? Yes. Without question.

I can try to justify what happened. I panicked. I was in wolf form, not thinking rationally. Excuses that can never excuse what I did.

I was the only person Elena had ever allowed herself to trust, and I’d broken that trust. When Jeremy banished me that night, I left determined to make it up to her…and knowing I never could.

A
S I LISTENED TO VICTOR TUCCI’S STORY, A
single refrain ran through my head.

And what do you expect me to do about it?

I wouldn’t say such a thing, of course. Perhaps some politer variation, without the inherent connotations of indifference. Yet the gist would be the same. What did he expect me to do about it?

A rhetorical question. I knew precisely what he expected and that when he made clear that expectation, we’d both be disappointed. Perhaps I even more than he, for I was about to receive yet another glimpse into my future, where my value would forever be measured by my parentage and what it could do for men like Victor Tucci.

I was Lucas Cortez, son of Benicio Cortez, CEO of the most powerful American Cabal. Heir to the throne, despite being the youngest of his four sons. I’m sure my father has a very shrewd political reason for this farce, but until he tires of it, I’m forced to deal with the expectations it engenders.

I thought of stopping Tucci. I suppose I should have, to save us both the bother. It was two
A
.
M
., I had an exam at eight, and when it came to sleep, I was well below my quota—a combination of a busy exam study schedule and a stressful visit from my father two days ago.

Yet my father taught me to hear people out, whether it was a VP with a new marketing concept or a junior custodian complaining about a switch in toilet paper brands. Cutting people short demonstrated a basic lack of courtesy, and suggested that their thoughts and opinions weren’t
worthy of your attention. Ironic, isn’t it, that as fast as I run from my father’s influence, it’s still his words I hear and his words I follow.

I swallowed a yawn and blinked hard.

Maintain eye contact. Don’t fidget. Don’t check your watch. Don’t glance at the clock. Don’t do anything that might make it seem you have better things to do. Don’t just try to
appear
interested; try to
be
interested.

That last part was easy. I
was
interested in what Tucci had to say. Any conversation involving the words
rare
,
black market
, and
spellbook
were guaranteed to get my attention. Of course, I could have informed him that the proper term for what he was describing was
grimoire
, but it’s never polite to correct someone when you know perfectly well what he means.

From the sound of it, though, this book didn’t contain the sort of spells I’d care to add to my repertoire. I have no aversion to dark magic, not in principle nor in practice, provided that the principle and the practice are guided by ethical standards. All martial forms of magic are considered dark magic. Dark, not evil. The morality depends on the application. One cannot argue that using an energy-bolt spell to kill a business competitor is moral (unless you happen to be my father, in which case morality is a clay that can be molded to suit the requirements of circumstance), but nor would most people argue that using that same spell to foil an assassination attempt is equally immoral.

Still, there is a limit to how many such spells one needs. A nonsupernatural who foresees the need for self-defense may acquire different weapons for different circumstances. Yet the only person who requires a dozen varieties of guns is one who is not fending off assassination, but carrying it out.

Given the type of spells Tucci was describing, a more accurate analogy would not be guns, but instruments of torture—to put out an eye or disfigure a face or create a wound that causes untold agony. That is one form of weapon I have no use for—proof that I have not absorbed
all
of my father’s teachings.

“So you can see why I’m concerned,” Tucci said as he finished.

“Naturally. Such spells should not be in the public domain, and yet …”

I paused, about to ask some variation on “What do you expect me to do about it?” when a thought struck. Perhaps what he wanted was …

“You’d like me to retrieve these grimoires,” I said, straightening, the drowsiness I’d been fighting finally falling away. “To remove them from circulation.”

A blank look. I was about to rephrase myself, substituting
spellbook
for
grimoire
, when Tucci nodded.

“Yes, yes, that’s it exactly, Mr….” He faltered on the word, as if he couldn’t bring himself to use the formal mode of address for someone half his age. “Cortez.”

“Lucas. Please.” I snatched my notepad and pen from the side table. “Now, first, let me be very clear that I’m not certain I could undertake a task of this magnitude. My work thus far has been limited primarily to simple legal advice. Yet that is not to say I have no experience with more
active
work, including surveillance. The removal of property not my own would entail slightly more expertise than I currently possess, but one cannot gain experience without taking that first step.”

Tucci stared at me, uncomprehending. A not-uncommon reaction when I open my mouth.

I propped the notepad on my knee. “Why don’t you tell me some more about where this grimoire is being held, and by whom?”

He continued to stare. I mentally replayed the last sentence, but it seemed straightforward and simply worded enough. So I waited, presuming he needed more time to organize his thoughts.

“You’re going to…get them…yourself?” he said finally.

“Preferably. Although, if necessary, I do have a few contacts with experience in this sort of …” I let the sentence drop away as I saw the look in his eyes. “You wanted me to take this to my father.”

“Well, yes,” he said, as if that should have been obvious. And it was. I’d been misled only by my own misguided surge of optimism.

Tucci continued, “I’m sure your father would let you help. As you said, it would be good experience for you, getting to know the business from the bottom up, so to speak. Can’t learn everything sitting behind a desk, can you, son? At your age, I’m sure you don’t want to either.”

I waited, to be sure none of my disappointment leaked into my words. “True, I’m certain, for any young man who intends to follow the path into the family business. However, as you are doubtless aware, I have disavowed all connections to the Cortez Cabal.”

“Yes, yes. That tiff with your father—”

“It isn’t a—” I swallowed the word. “I realize that my alienation from my father and the Cabal is widely considered an adolescent act of rebellion, but I should think that having outlasted my teens, it is apparent that this is more.”

From his look, I knew that the only thing apparent to him was that I was proof that some young men didn’t outgrow teenage rebellion. To him, I was a resentful, ungrateful brat, someone he’d rather not deal with at all, but he stood no chance of an audience with my father or brothers, so I was as close as he could get to the Cortez Cabal inner family.

“I’m sorry,” I said, rising to my feet. “If you wish to bring this to the Cabal’s attention, I would recommend you notify—”

I stopped. Did I want him bringing this grimoire to the Cabal’s attention? Granted, my father probably had a copy hidden somewhere. If he didn’t, though, did I want to hand it over to him? And possibly get the current owner killed?

I forced the worry back with logic. My father wouldn’t order the owner killed as long as he could get the grimoire without resorting to such drastic and potentially untidy measures.

“Notify who?” Tucci said, his gaze impatient. “See here, I don’t think you’re understanding the seriousness of this, young man. This is a very important spellbook, and it’s in the hands of a witch.”

My head jerked up. “A witch?”

“I said that, didn’t I?”

“You said Evan Levy.”

“Who the hell is Evan Levy? I said—” His jaw shut with a clack, reminding himself that, inattentive brat or not, I was still a Cortez. “I’m sorry, but you must have misheard. I said Eve Levy.”

“Eve Levy?” I frowned. The name sounded familiar.

“Levy, Levi, some—” Tucci’s hands fluttered. “Some Jewish name.”

“Levine,” I said slowly. “Eve Levine.”

I sat down. Tucci rambled on, but my father’s lessons flew out of my head, and I made no effort to pretend I was still listening. Victor Tucci wasn’t bringing this to my attention because it was a dangerous spellbook, but because it was in the hands of a witch.

While my father’s attitude toward witches was pragmatic—he’d try to buy the book from her and, failing that, intimidate her into handing
it over—my brothers and the board of directors would not be so willing to treat Eve fairly.

Eve Levine made her living instructing sorcerers in magic they weren’t skilled enough to use properly. She gave them the power to torture and kill. An executable offense? I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that my brothers and the Cabal board of directors would not kill her for this. They would kill her for the indignity of a mere witch presuming to teach sorcerers, and an indictment on those grounds was as despicable as a lynching.

“A witch,” I said, adjusting my glasses as I pretended to ponder this. “That does make a difference. You’re quite correct. She needs to be stopped, and anything I can do to help, I will.”

Tucci tried not to smirk. “Glad you feel that way.”

I picked up my notepad. “If you can provide me with the particulars, I will pass them along to my father immediately.”

My motorcycle idled at the curb as I looked up at Eve Levine’s apartment building. A modest high-rise in a good neighborhood. One might expect something more luxurious for a world-class teacher of the dark arts. If you’re going to sell your soul, you might as well put a decent price tag on it. Teaching, though, isn’t the most lucrative way to make a living.