Tales of the Otherworld (17 page)

We spent the rest of Elena’s shift talking. Okay, I did most of the talking, but she listened, and she was interested, and every now and then she’d let a little of herself slide into the conversation.

Early the next morning, I headed home. There wouldn’t have been much use in staying behind. As Elena said, it was the Canadian Thanksgiving, so she’d be going home herself. I’d asked about her plans but, as usual, she’d ducked the question. I’d try again when I came back.

And, if I could, I’d broach the topic of that phone call again. That bugged me, someone tracking Elena down just to tell her off. I was sure Elena had done nothing to warrant that kind of treatment.

More on that later. In the meantime, I had a Meet to attend. And unlike the past few fall Meets, this time I was in the mood to enjoy it.

B
Y THE TIME THE PLANE TOUCHED DOWN IN
Syracuse, any urge to skip the Meet had passed, and I couldn’t believe I’d ever considered it.

No one met me at the terminal, and I hadn’t expected it. I’d come in on the red-eye flight, which I preferred, since it usually meant I didn’t need to sit next to anyone. It made sense, then, for someone to drop off my car the day before, rather than get up at four
A
.
M
. to come and get me. Of course, it would have made even more sense for me to take a cab, but no one dared suggest that. Airplanes were bad enough.

At just past seven, I reached Stonehaven. As I drove down the long tree-lined drive, the road vanished behind me and the stone walls of the house appeared. The upper windows were black rectangles. Everyone was still in bed, probably sleeping off a late night. On the main floor, strips of light glowed around the drawn dining room blinds, borrowed illumination from another room, probably the study.

As I passed the cars flanking the drive, a light came on in the farthest upstairs room. Jeremy’s bedroom. I hit the garage door opener, then pulled in beside his truck, left my bag on the seat, and bounded for the house.

Once inside, I saw that my earlier guess had been right. Someone was in the study. The door was ajar, light seeping out into the dark hall.

Logan sat in Jeremy’s armchair. Being still fairly new to the Pack, Logan didn’t fully understand the protocol, so he always chose the chair he liked best. His favorite just happened to be Jeremy’s. He meant no
disrespect, but still, whenever I saw him there, my hackles rose. No matter how many times I booted him out of it—with a snarl or a good-natured chair-tipping, depending on my mood—he kept doing it.

Logan was studying, hunched forward over his textbook, highlighter in hand, braids hanging in a short curtain around his face. No…not braids. What did they call them? Dreadlocks. A fitting name—they did look pretty damned dreadful.

Apparently, Logan wasn’t over his new “search for cultural identity” phase. Made no sense to me. Who cared who your parents were, what their racial or cultural background was? I didn’t give a shit about mine. As Jeremy explained, though—and explained often—my own attitude toward this, and most other things, was not the best ruler by which to measure others.

I should be supportive of Logan’s identity quest, and if I couldn’t be supportive, at least I could keep silent. And if I couldn’t
voluntarily
keep silent, then I would do so under direct order. So I was forbidden to comment on the dreadlocks. Which was fine; Logan and I found enough to argue about as it was.

Logan had been with the Pack for three years. Although he was a hereditary werewolf, he’d grown up as a human—the product of an affair that ended after his conception. A few months before his first Change, when he’d been grappling with the initial physical and sensory changes, he’d received a letter from his father. It directed him to 13876 Wilton Grove Lane, near Bear Valley, New York, where he’d find answers to his questions. So he arrived on our doorstep.

To me, this was the height of parental neglect. First you leave your kid with his human mother, who has no clue about her son’s true nature, and therefore risk exposure with every childhood trip to the doctor. Then, you let him go crazy wondering what’s wrong with him when his werewolf secondary powers kick in. And finally, when you
do
decide to intervene, you foist him off on strangers.

The identity of Logan’s father was still a mystery. Logan assumed the guy was black. His mother refused to confirm it, but considering she came from a line of blond-haired, blue-eyed Norwegians, and Logan had deep brown eyes, brown skin, and brown hair, he figured it was a pretty good guess.

With that to go on, Jeremy had been helping to narrow down the paternal possibilities. His most recent theory was that Logan’s father was Caribbean. Hence the dreadlocks. As for why Logan would even want to know his father—a mutt who’d abandoned him—that was beyond me. But, apparently, no one cared to hear my thoughts on the matter.

I snuck up behind Logan and loomed over the chair, casting a shadow on his book. He jumped, streaking highlighter across the page.

“Jesus fucking—!” He twisted and saw me. “Goddamn it, Clayton. Do you have to do that?”

“Honing your senses. A duty and a pleasure.” I grabbed the text, swung over to the sofa, and dropped onto my back. “
Business Law: Ethical and Economic Considerations.
No wonder you were drifting off.”

He stood. “There, I’m leaving the sacred chair. Now can I have my book back?”

“Sit down. Jeremy’s shower’s still running.”

I flipped the page, keeping my finger in at his spot. When he didn’t say anything, I lowered the book. He stood next to the chair, hovering like a dragonfly looking for a place to land.

“Well, sit down,” I said, reaching out and kicking the chair.

“It’s a test, right?”

“Huh?”

“If I sit down, you’re going to pounce.”

“That wasn’t the plan, but if it’s what you expect, I’d hate to disappoint you. Better yet, I could yank the chair out from under you.” I looked up at him. “Let’s test those reflexes. See if you can sit before I can pounce.”

Logan snorted. “Yeah, like I’m stupid enough to—”

He dropped toward the chair, but not before I kicked it away from him. He hit the floor.

“Damn,” he muttered, then peered up at me. “That was cheating. You said
yank
, not kick.”

“Misdirection,” I said. “A good try at it yourself, but you tipped your hand by glancing over to see how far back the chair was.”

I helped him off the floor.

“Sit.” I waved at Jeremy’s chair.

He cautiously lowered himself onto it.

“So how’s school going?” I said. “You get all your courses okay?”

“Most of them. I missed out on an elective I wanted, but squeezed it in next term. How about you?” He slid a sly smile my way. “Maybe Jeremy should send you away every fall. That seems to cure your moods. Torture you with teaching for a month, and you’ll be so glad to come home you’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

I shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

He arched his brows. “Come again?”

“The teaching.” I tossed his book onto his lap. “I’m happy to come home and torment you and Nick for a couple of days, but it’s going okay.”

“Uh-huh.” He studied me. “Did you have anything to drink on the plane?”

“Water.”

“Did you leave it unattended? Close your eyes for a few minutes? ’Cause I’m pretty sure someone slipped something into it.”

“Funny. I’m—”

At a noise from the hall, I shot off the couch and bounded to the door as Jeremy walked through. Behind me, Logan slid over to the sofa.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m home.”

Jeremy’s lips curved in a half-smile. “So I heard. As did everyone else, I think. You seem to be in a good mood. I’m glad to see it.”

I glanced over at Logan. “At least someone is.”

“I’m glad to see it, too,” Logan said. “Just exercising a healthy dose of caution. We’ve all been bracing for the storm, and I’m not quite ready to unlash myself from the mast.”

Jeremy shook his head. “I told them you seemed better on the phone, and Nick agreed. A change of scenery was what you needed. I suspected that might be it. Seasonal restlessness.”

“I was voting hormones,” Logan said. “One of those weird wolf things you’re so attuned to. Of course, that could still be it.” He grinned at me. “Things getting a little steamy up in the frozen north? Taking Nick’s advice when he’s not around to gloat over it?”

“No, and if you want me to stay in a good mood, you’ll leave Nick’s advice where it belongs—with Nick.”

“Speaking of whom, I believe I heard him stirring,” Jeremy said. “And, if not, I’m sure you can fix that. I’ll start breakfast—”

“Why don’t we let Nick sleep in? I’ll make breakfast.” I turned to Logan. “Come and give me a hand.”

He groaned.

“Fine, I’ll go bug Nick then, and Jeremy can make breakfast—”

Logan leapt up. “I’ll start the bacon.”

“Good. I’ll take the eggs and toast.”

“And I’ll try not to take it personally,” Jeremy said.

“Nah, it’s not about you,” I said, grinning as I squeezed past him. “It’s about me. I’m hungry and I want food I can eat.”

I ducked his lethal glare and herded Logan toward the kitchen.

As the weekend slipped past, I found myself, for once, able to relax and enjoy it, not anxiously watching the clock, wishing I could stretch my time at home into infinity.

Nick, Logan, and I began Sunday afternoon with a workout. Within an hour, though, it was down to me pumping iron in the basement alone. Nick worked out to build muscles for girls, not fights. By the thirty-minute mark, he’d done all the body-polishing he wanted. He stuck around a little longer, lounging on the benches and talking to me before wandering off in search of more interesting diversions.

Logan was more dedicated to improving his fighting strength. As the newest and youngest Pack member, he was the one most likely to be targeted by mutts looking to challenge a Pack wolf. He went to Northwestern, in Illinois, which was outside Pack territory, so mutts considered him fair game. I’d tried to help with that, but he’d have none of it, and insisted on defending himself.

It was that streak of independence that usually had him fleeing the exercise room first. When Logan had joined the Pack, Jeremy put me in charge of his physical training. Logan had gone along with it, as he went along with everything Jeremy asked, but the moment he’d considered himself trained, he’d dumped his trainer.

Now, when we worked out together, I tried to give him tips and pointers, but he always acted as if I was criticizing him. It never took long before he was stomping back upstairs. That afternoon, though, he did a full workout, accepting what few tidbits of advice I offered with only the barest roll of his eyes.

I kept on for another half-hour after Logan left. At school, my workouts were barely adequate—I had to pick times when no one was around to see how much I was bench-pressing. I was wiping my eyes, getting ready to quit, when I lowered the towel to see Antonio in the doorway.

“You gonna work out?” I asked. “Let me wipe down the machines.”

He shook his head and took a seat on the leg-press bench.

“What’s up?” I said.

A half-shrug, but his eyes bored into mine as if they could see clear through to the other side.

“So…how are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine.” I grinned. “Better than fine. Damned near perfect.”

“I see that.”

I whipped the towel at him. “Not you, too. Come on. Am I not allowed to be in a good mood without everyone wondering what’s wrong? Logan’s been joking about spiked drinks all weekend. Nick keeps giving me funny looks. Peter took me aside yesterday for a little heart-to-heart on how lonely it can be living away from the Pack, and how tempting it can be to start taking something to make things easier. The only person who seems happy to see me happy is Jeremy.”

“I don’t think there’s anything
wrong
, Clay.”

“Good.”

He started to say something, then grabbed a dumbbell and began doing arm curls.

He smiled at me. “Still at ninety pounds?”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m not going any higher for that one. I’m not built the same as you.”

His smile grew. “Good excuse. So…I hear the teaching is going very well.”

“
Very
well would be stretching it, but it’s going fine.”

He nodded, attention fixed on the weight. “Meeting new people, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh.”

He did a few more reps, then cleared his throat. “If there’s ever anything you want to talk about, Clay, anything you don’t feel you can discuss with Jeremy, anything you don’t think he’d understand …” He met my
gaze. “I’m always here. You know that. Just because Jeremy’s my best friend doesn’t mean I tell him everything. I know better than anyone that there are some things Jeremy doesn’t understand. If you haven’t experienced a thing, you don’t know much about it. Like I wouldn’t know how to paint a picture and he wouldn’t know how to run a business.”

After a moment’s hesitation, I glanced at the door, then looked overhead.

“Jeremy’s outside,” Antonio said, laying down the weight. “He can’t hear us.”

“Well, there is something,” I said.

“Yes?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to discuss it with Jeremy. I just— Like you said, he just doesn’t
get
some things. I know he wants what’s best for me, and I know he worries about me, but …”

Antonio shifted to the edge of his seat. “Go on.”

“I need your advice. You have some experience in this area.”

Something flashed behind his eyes. “Yes, I probably do.”

“It’s about motorcycles.”

“Motor—” He blinked. “Motorcycles?”

“You had one, remember? Until you wiped out, and Dominic didn’t want you getting another one, went on and on about your responsibilities as a father—”

“I can still hear him every time I take my car up over a hundred.”

I laughed and grabbed a fresh towel. “I’ve been thinking of getting a motorcycle for Toronto. I know Jeremy doesn’t want me taking my car up there. He thinks using public transit is good for me, that the more I do it, the more comfortable I’ll get with it.” I looked at Antonio. “It’s not working.”