Men of the Otherworld (15 page)

“I'm sure you would,” Jeremy said. “But you know we can't have pets in the house.” He turned to Miss Fishton. “Allergies.”

“Oh, that's too bad. But it's good to see him taking such a keen interest.”

“Yes, it is.”

After we left the classroom, Jeremy bustled me out to the car without so much as a “how was your day?” Once he'd pulled from the near-empty lot, he looked over at me.

“I know you must get hungry at school, Clayton. It's not easy getting through the day without as much food as you're accustomed to. Perhaps I can slip in another half-sandwich into your lunch box. Would that help?”

“I would like another
whole
sandwich,” I said. “Or two.”

Jeremy sighed. “Yes, I know, and I wish I could give it to you, but you can't eat so much more than the other children. Are you getting enough to eat at breakfast?”

I shook my head.

“Then I'll start making you more.”

I smiled.

“Now, about these animals,” he said. “I know they're a temptation but—”

“I am not allowed to eat them,” I said. “I know.”

“Good.”

He leaned over, popped open the glove compartment and handed me a candy bar.

“Two?” I said. “I am very hungry.”

He gave me two.

“So we're clear on this?” he said. “No eating the pets in your
classroom.” He paused, then added. “Or any other classroom.” Another pause. “Or any pets anywhere at all.” Still another pause. “No killing them either.”

I nodded. “No killing and no eating any pets. I understand.”

“Good.”

As Jeremy continued his dissection lessons at home, I continued my live-animal studies at school. The rodent that interested me the most was the guinea pig. I'd never seen one in the wild, but it looked like the ideal prey, much fatter than a mouse and much slower than a rabbit. This one was even slower than most of its kind. It was dying. I could tell by the smell, and the fact that the teacher seemed oblivious to this only proved her intelligence was about as high as that of the birds she resembled.

The more I studied the guinea pig, the more I became convinced that I'd found the ideal food source for a young wolf. There was, however, one problem. I didn't know where its vital organs were. I could guess, based on the similarities between the guinea pig's anatomy and those of the other rodents, yet this was, at best, an imprecise science and Jeremy had taught me that precision begets accuracy. For a swift kill, you needed to know exactly where to strike.

The answer, of course, was very simple. Jeremy had forbidden me to kill the guinea pig, but I didn't need to. It was already dying. All I had to do was wait.

One day in mid-November, the guinea pig climbed into its house and died. I could tell by the smell that it was dead, but Miss Fishton paid no attention, knowing the creature wasn't the most active of the classroom pets.

When recess came, I went out with the rest of the children, then slipped back in and went to my lunch box, where I'd been
secretly transporting a knife in preparation for this moment. I took the knife, opened the guinea pig's cage, dumped its body out of its house and set to work.

By the time the first-grade teacher snuck in to swipe some chalk, I was so engrossed in my work that I didn't hear her, even as she walked up behind me. I did, however, hear her scream … as did everyone else in the building.

“You weren't ready,” Jeremy said as he drove me home, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “I was too eager. I wanted to get you in right at the start of the school year and I should have waited until you were ready. There's no rush. No rush at all.” He exhaled and glanced over at me. “I think we'll stick with home-schooling for a while.”

So our lives settled back into the old comfortable pattern, and I was glad of it. There was nothing a school could teach me that Jeremy couldn't. As for socializing, the only people I needed to socialize with were those in the Pack, and I'd be doing that soon enough. With the end of November came a quarterly Pack meet. After the school fiasco, I think Jeremy would have preferred not to rush me into yet another new experience, but the Alpha, Dominic, insisted. All Jeremy could do was prepare me and hope for the best.

The Sorrentinos lived on an estate north of New York City. All three generations of the family lived together, as was Pack custom. The family was headed by Dominic, who had three sons, Gregory, Benedict and Antonio. Benedict had left the Pack several years earlier and moved to Europe with his two sons. Gregory had also fathered two sons, but the eldest had been killed in a dispute with a mutt five years ago.

Dying young wasn't uncommon for werewolves. Under Dominic's rule, fifty percent of Pack werewolves didn't live to see their fortieth birthday, and most of those deaths were at the hands—or jaws—of another werewolf, usually a mutt, but sometimes a Pack brother.

This was an improvement over previous Alphas, who'd often seen at least two-thirds of their Pack dead by forty. Dominic himself was close to seventy and had been Alpha for nearly two decades, an almost unheard-of longevity, in both age and length of rule.

I learned none of this from Jeremy, of course. On the drive to the Sorrentino estate, he talked about the Pack, but not its problems. Instead, he relayed facts. Most important, he told me who
would be there, how they were related and their place in the social structure. Hierarchy is very important for werewolves, as it is for wolves. Jeremy didn't attach meanings like beta wolf or omega wolf or outline a rigid structure of who topped whom. He simply told me whom I had to respect, and whom I had to obey, and from that my wolf's brain assessed status.

Jeremy expected most of the Pack members to show up at the Meet. Those would include Dominic, Gregory, Antonio, Nick and Gregory's remaining son, eighteen-year-old Jorge. The Santos family would also be there, the elder generation, brothers Wally and Raymond, and Raymond's three sons, sixteen-year-old Stephen, thirteen-year-old Andrew and seven-year-old Daniel. The Danverses, the Sorrentinos and the Santoses comprised the three main families, their ancestors having been members since the American Pack began. Of the peripheral members, Ross Werner, Cliff Ward, Peter Myers and Dennis Stillwell were to attend, plus Dennis's son, twelve-year-old Joey.

The Meet was scheduled to run from Friday to Sunday. Jeremy and I arrived at noon on Saturday, not because we'd had more pressing business, but because Jeremy hoped that by reducing the length of my first visit, he could reduce the possibility of disaster.

For the last hour of our trip Jeremy ran through the do's and don't's. Most of them were don't's. The simple act of dining now came with even more rules than Miss Fishton had for the kindergarten sandbox. I couldn't raid the refrigerator. I couldn't ask anyone except Jeremy for snacks. I had to eat with utensils. I had to chew with my mouth shut. I had to sit with the other Pack youth. I couldn't touch any food before everyone older than I had taken their share. I couldn't take seconds until everyone older than I had taken seconds. I couldn't eat other people's
scraps. I couldn't eat food I found on the floor. I began to hope it would be a short weekend.

Finally, we arrived. The Sorrentinos’ house was a sprawling Italianate manor set amid acres of forest. The house was probably three times as large as Stonehaven, but the grounds were less than half the size of our property, which convinced me that we had the better deal. Better to have more room to roam than more rooms to vacuum. The minute we stepped from the car, though, I discovered that it was unlikely Nicholas Sorrentino ever had to do vacuuming duty. The place stank of human.

When I asked Jeremy about the smell, he told me that the family employed a part-time housekeeper. We wouldn't see her, since she came only during the week, while the Sorrentinos were out of the house, at work and school. Still, given the choice between letting a human in the house or vacuuming a few carpets, I'd stick with my hated household chores.

We walked from behind a row of cars and along a walkway through the gardens. At the front door, Jeremy didn't knock, he just opened it and walked in. That was normal Pack etiquette. Knocking or ringing the bell would imply you didn't think you were welcome, which would insult your host. Instead, you walked in and shouted a greeting. Jeremy has never shouted a greeting in all the years I've known him. He does what he did now, stepped inside, closed the door and paused to see whether anyone heard him enter. When no one came to greet us, he followed the scent of his host toward an open door, then paused again and called a hello.

There was a scuffle of movement from within the room. Then a large man with graying dark hair wheeled around the corner, grinned and embraced Jeremy.

“Finally!” the man boomed. “I was about to send Tonio upstate
to drag you here.” He shouted toward the front of the house. “Gregory! Jorge! Come!” He turned back to Jeremy. “Now where is this troublemaking pup of yours? The one who attacked my Nicky?”

I looked over my shoulder, measuring the distance to the door.

“Is that him? Hiding behind you? That little runt?” The man's laugh boomed so loudly it hurt my ears. “Come here, boy. Let me get a better look at you.”

I tried to take another step backward, but Jeremy put his hand between my shoulder blades and propelled me forward.

“Clayton, this is Dominic.”

I hadn't needed the introduction to know this was the Pack Alpha. Dominic Sorrentino was one of the biggest men I'd ever seen, as tall as Jeremy, yet as stocky and muscular as Antonio. Of course he was the Alpha.

Dominic looked me in the eye, his gaze so fierce I could barely hold eye contact. At least two excruciatingly long minutes passed. Then I had to drop my gaze. Dominic's laugh roared through the hallway and he clapped one huge hand against my back.

“Did you see that?” he said to Jeremy. “Did you see how long it took him to look away? Tonio's right. The boy has balls. He'll make a good playmate for Nicky.” With his hand still at my back, Dominic steered me past him. “Head down that hall, turn left, go downstairs and you'll find the other boys in the basement. Nicky will do the introductions.”

“Perhaps later,” Jeremy said. “He's quite shy—”

“All the more reason for him to go. You and I need to catch up, and I'm sure Clayton will be happier playing with the other boys.”

“Yes, but perhaps I should make the introductions. He's not entirely comfortable with other children—”

“You worry too much, Jeremy. Clayton? Off you go now. Find the others.”

I looked at Jeremy.

He hesitated, then forced a smile. “Go on, Clayton. Just… be good and I'll see you soon.”

I stood there as Dominic prodded Jeremy into the room, then closed the door behind them. I hesitated, torn between wanting to obey Jeremy and wanting to just sit on the floor and wait for him. From the front hall I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and remembered Dominic had called his son and grandson down. Better not to be caught challenging the Alpha's authority quite so early in my visit. I turned and hurried down the hall to seek out Nick and the other boys.

I'd forgotten the directions Dominic had given for reaching the basement, having been too disturbed by the prospect of being separated from Jeremy to pay attention. I still remembered Nick's scent, though, and although it permeated the house, I was able to find and follow the most recent trail to the basement steps.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and inhaled. I could pick out five separate scents—the five Pack sons Jeremy had told me to expect: the three Santos boys, Nick and Joey Stillwell. These five comprised the Pack youth—all the sons who had yet to undergo their first Change. Jorge Sorrentino had made his first Change the year before, so he was now considered an adult, and would be upstairs with the men.

Of the five boys I smelled, one was taking on the distinctive odor of a werewolf. This would be the oldest Santos boy, Stephen. Although werewolves don't make their first Change until their late teens, it's only the end of the lengthy process of
maturation. With puberty, a werewolf begins developing his secondary traits, primarily the sharpened senses and increased strength necessary for life as a wolf. Right now, Stephen Santos was the only one of the Pack youth who had begun this process.

The basement was a series of rooms branching off a central corridor. Most of the doors were closed. Of those propped open, only one near the end led into a room that wasn't dark. I started down the hall. Halfway to the end I heard Nick's voice.

“Can I have my radio back, Steve?”

“What's the magic word?” an older voice said.

“Come on, Steve,” another voice said. “Don't be a prick.”

“You calling me a prick, Joey?”

I peeked around the doorway. Inside, a tall teen with long red hair was approaching a slowly backpedaling acne-pocked boy. Nick stood beside the threatened boy, hovering there, as if wanting to stand with him, but not sure he dared.

Across the room two other red-haired youths looked on, wearing twin toothy grins. The youngest wasn't much bigger than me.

I'd drilled Jeremy's litany of names into my head, understanding the importance of knowing who was who in this new world, so now I could look across the faces and identify all the players. The boy backing away was Joey Stillwell. The boy bearing down on him was Stephen Santos, and the two on the sofa were Stephen's younger brothers, Andrew and Daniel.

“You think I should give this back?” Stephen waved a light-blue transistor radio over his head. “Come on and take it then.”

Stephen held out the radio. Joey didn't move.

“Can I have my radio, Steve?” Nick said. “Please.”

“Why? You don't need it. Your daddy can buy you fifty of them.” He turned to his youngest brother. “I think Danny would like a radio. You want a radio, Danny-boy?”

Daniel jumped from the sofa. “Sure.”

“Then here's what we'll do. Danny gets the radio, and Nick tells his daddy he gave it to him, as a gift.” He turned to Nick. “Got that?”

“No.”

Stephen's eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

“N-no. It's m-mine.”