Men of the Otherworld (20 page)

Choosing activities for me proved a test of Jeremy's intuitive
abilities. First, he tried soccer. I put my foot through the ball. Then he tried model building. After two weeks gluing plastic bits onto a model of the
Titanic,
I decided to stage a historical re-creation—using the classroom wall as my iceberg.

By this point I'm sure Jeremy gave up trying to pick a program to suit me, closed his eyes and randomly pointed at one in the recreation guide. The result? Drama. And, to Jeremy's surprise, I liked it. Not that I enjoyed performing—I loathed that part, and managed to contract an inexplicable case of laryngitis every time family performance day rolled around. What I liked, though, was the opportunity to learn how to play a role. For me, that was a far more useful skill than knowing how to kick a ball or build a ship.

So Jeremy kept me in drama classes one season a year, and for the other three we tried different things. He quickly learned what worked and what didn't. Team sports, like baseball, didn't. Individual sports, like swimming, did. Purely artistic endeavors, like music, didn't. Functional skill-building classes, like cooking, did. Yes, I enjoyed home ec, even if I was the only boy there and the girls fell into fits of giggling every time I walked in. Cooking was a useful skill. And, living with Jeremy, who couldn't heat canned soup without scorching it, I knew that cooking was an
essential skill.

With these classes, I learned life skills and basic socialization. I also learned that children could rival Malcolm for sheer malicious cruelty. Despite Jeremy's hopes, I never made a friend in those classes. I was different, and other kids sensed that like a Pack wolf can sense a mutt.

Not understanding what made me different, the children seized on the differences they could see. They mocked my accent. They made fun of my height, being still a head shorter than most boys my age. They ridiculed my interest in cooking and
drama, which the other boys considered “girlie” classes. On a slow day, they'd even make fun of my hair, which was either worn too short or too long, depending on their mood.

I knew there was nothing I could do or say to win their favor—and I had no desire to, which didn't help matters. When Jeremy was around, I gritted my teeth and made nice with the other kids. The rest of the time I ignored them and did my own thing.

As for friends, I had my Pack brothers. While I never did befriend Daniel, Joey and I got along fine. As for Nick, after that first Pack meeting, when we were together, we were inseparable.

The October after Jeremy killed the mutt Pritchard, Antonio and Nick came down for a weekend, as they did at least once a month. Saturday morning, Nick and I were out back, having some trouble deciding how best to use our time together.

“No way,” Nick said, slumping cross-legged onto the ground. “You're not hunting me again.”

“But I need more practice.”

“Yeah, well I don't need you giving me another black eye.”

“I didn't give you a black eye. You tripped.”

“And you pounced and slammed me face-first into a rock.”

I leaned against a tree trunk. “That's because
you
need more practice.”

“At what? Getting the crap beaten out of me?”

“At escaping. If you let me hunt you, then I can teach you how to do that.”

“How about you teach me how to hunt?
You
play the helpless victim and I'll chase you—”

“You're not a werewolf yet, so you don't need to know how to hunt. You need to know how to run away.” When he didn't
answer, I sighed. “Okay, how about wrestling then? Jeremy taught me this new move—”

“Which you can't wait to try out on me. Uh-uh. No hunting. No wrestling. No games where Nicky gets the shit beat out of him, okay? Think up something else.”

I thought about it. And thought about it some more. While I continued to think, Nick stood and stretched his legs. He wandered to a nearby oak and peered up into its nearly bare branches.

“Bet you can't jump from that branch,” he said, pointing up to one about twenty feet from the ground.

Nick loved testing the limits of my werewolf abilities. Not a pastime that lacked challenge, though it ran a distant second to hunting-and-stalking games.

“If I can, will you let me try my new wrestling move?”

“Only if it doesn't make me bleed.”

“It's not my fault you bleed easily.”

“If I bleed, I'm not sneaking you any extra food tonight.”

“Fine, you won't bleed.” I grabbed the lowest tree limb and swung up onto it. “Come on.”

We climbed to the branch. Nick tried to stop halfway, but I egged him on until we were sitting side-by-side on the branch he'd chosen for his dare.

“You really think you can do it?” Nick asked, looking down. “Seems pretty high.” He slid a smile my way. “I wouldn't blame you if you chickened out.”

I flexed my legs and measured the distance to the ground. It
was
too high. Not that I'd ever chicken out, but I had to be careful how I landed. The last time we played this game, I'd miscalculated my leap and twisted my ankle, then had to tough it out for three days so Jeremy wouldn't know what I'd done.

I was visualizing my jump when a car pulled into the driveway.
I cocked my head, listening. The engine died. A car door slammed. Neither noise sounded as if it came from any car I knew. I jumped from the tree, hitting the ground hard enough to send pain stabbing through my calves.

“Whoa,” Nick called down. “That was—”

I dashed off toward the house.

“Clay?” A moment's pause. “Clayton! Don't leave me here!”

I kept running. I'd return for Nick later. He could wait; this intruder couldn't.

I tore from the woods and around the side of the house, scrambling over the low fence and heading for the front yard. I was certain I'd be too late, that the trespasser would already have made it to the door and disturbed Jeremy, but as I rounded the house, I saw a figure still standing by a car. It was a young man, maybe a year or two younger than Jeremy, with red hair past his shoulders. He stared up at the house, chewing on his lower lip.

One whiff and I knew he was a werewolf. My first thought was
mutt,
but then I saw his face and recognized him from a sketch in Jeremy's room. This was the elusive Peter, the only Pack member I hadn't met.

When I slipped from the hedge, his nostrils flared and, scenting me, he turned. He blinked, then offered a tentative smile.

“Hey, you must be Clayton. Hello.”

I returned the greeting with a nod and took a few cautious steps closer. Yes, this was a Pack wolf, but I didn't know the man, so I wasn't going to rush out and hug him. Okay, even if I did know him, I wouldn't rush out and hug him, but the point is, I had reason to be wary. All I knew about this guy was that whenever Jeremy mentioned his name, there was a note of concern in his voice. I moved closer to the front door, putting myself between it and him.

“Is Jeremy here?” Peter asked, enunciating each word slowly, as if speaking to someone of limited mental capacity.

I nodded.

“Is Mal—is Jeremy… alone?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, okay, then.” Peter turned back to his car. “Well, maybe I'll come back later.”

“Malcolm's not here,” I said. “Just Antonio and Nick.”

Peter blinked, as if surprised that I could speak. “Oh, ummm, well, maybe I should still come back. He's probably busy with Antonio—”

“He's not.” I pulled open the front door. “Jeremy!”

Peter winced at my shout, then gave one last longing look at his car, and pocketed his keys. Jeremy appeared at the front door. Seeing Peter, his lips curved in a smile.

“Peter,” he said. “This is a surprise. Good to see you. Come on in.”

As he ushered Peter inside, his gaze went to me. Then behind me. His brows arched in a look I knew only too well.

“I'll go get Nick,” I said.

“Good idea.”

Nick had managed to make it down from the tree easily enough. The trouble was finding his way out of the forest. You'd think that anyone who had been visiting Stonehaven since he was old enough to toddle would know his way around the woods there, particularly when that someone had werewolf blood, but Nick often had trouble finding his way out of the forest at his own house. He obviously needed more practice, but no matter how often I abandoned him out there, his sense of direction never seemed to improve. That, of course, only increased my resolve to keep
leaving him there. What were friends for, if not to help you overcome your weaknesses?

Antonio met us as we exited the forest.

“I was just coming to find you boys,” he said. “Jeremy's going to be busy with Peter for a while, and they don't need us bugging them, so how about we take a ride into town? Pick up dinner, maybe grab an ice cream cone?”

I glanced at the house. As tempted as I was by Antonio's offer, I had a responsibility here that outweighed any duty I owed to my stomach.

If Antonio went into town, Jeremy would be alone in the house with another werewolf. A Pack wolf, to be sure, but my experience so far hadn't led me to decide that Pack membership meant a werewolf could be trusted. Until I knew more about this Peter, I wasn't leaving him with Jeremy.

“I'll stay,” I said.

I expected Antonio to tease me about turning down food, but he just gave me a long, hard look that led me to suspect he knew exactly why I was staying. His gaze traveled to the house, then back to me, and his mouth opened, as if to say something. Instead he only patted me on the back.

“Just stay outside, okay, scrap? They need to talk. Nicky? You coming?”

Nick shook his head.

“All right, but behave yourselves and don't bother Jeremy and Peter. I'll be back soon.”

We did as we were told, staying outdoors and not bothering Jeremy and Peter. Yet that could be done while sitting outside
the study window, where we could listen to the conversation within. Kids who don't eavesdrop on adult conversations are doomed to a childhood of ignorance.

Of what I heard that afternoon, I understood only one key point: that Peter was leaving the Pack. Why he was leaving, what that meant for his life, how difficult that decision was for him to make, all that I wouldn't fully understand for years to come. From the tone of the conversation, though, I knew that this decision marked the end of a long personal struggle with the issue of Pack-hood. I knew too that this was a decision Jeremy had both known and feared was coming.

Roughly half of all Pack youth left the group in their early twenties. It was like membership in any regimented segment of human society—children stay with the group because they have to, then when they hit adulthood, they realize that they have a choice. Some, like Antonio, chafe at the rules, but not enough to consider leaving. Some, like Jeremy, disagree with many of the principles, but believe in the institution itself enough to stay and try to effect change from within. Others look around and say, “I don't belong here,” and this was the case with Peter.

In the tight-knit Pack, family is all-important—not just the figurative brotherhood of the group, but the literal bloodlines. The Sorrentinos, the Santoses and the Danverses were the founding families of the American Pack. Being part of one of those families automatically elevated your status.

Peter's father had brought them to the Pack when Peter was little more than a baby, the new responsibility of fatherhood having made him decide that he wanted a more secure life for his son. Yet he'd never really been accepted, and Peter had grown up seeing and feeling that ostracism. With his father having died five years ago, there was nothing to tie Peter to the Pack.
Now, halfway through a college degree in audiovisual technology, he'd been offered a job on the road crew of a band.

When Peter had told Dominic of the job offer, the Alpha's answer had been clear. A twenty-year-old werewolf, barely old enough to control his Changes, could not leave the safety net of the Pack and go off roaming the country with a rock band. If Peter took this job, he would be banished from the Pack. That was just the excuse Peter needed.

Jeremy argued with him, offered to intercede on his behalf with Dominic and negotiate a compromise, but I could tell by the tone of Jeremy's voice that he knew his offer would be refused. Peter hadn't come to discuss the matter. He came to Stonehaven to see the only Pack member who cared whether he stayed or left.

Finally, his arguments at an end, Jeremy walked Peter to his car. Nick and I slipped around the house to watch and listen.

“Say good-bye to Antonio for me,” Peter said as he climbed into his car.

Jeremy nodded.

“You're doing a great job with the boy. Really great.”

Jeremy nodded.

Peter started his car and leaned out the window. “I'll call you when I'm settled.” A weak smile. “Send you cool postcards from the road, show you what you're missing out there.”

Jeremy nodded, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he didn't expect to ever get that call or see those postcards.

“If you ever need anything,” Jeremy said. “Anything at all…”

“I know where to find you,” Peter said. “Don't worry about me, Jer. I'll be fine.”

Jeremy nodded, then watched the car back down the long drive.

*   *   *

The next day Antonio decided Nick and I needed new winter boots. Jeremy bought almost all our clothing by catalogue, which was fine by me because I knew of few tortures worse than spending an afternoon crammed into a dressing room while some middle-aged woman tried to persuade Jeremy that a blue shirt would bring out my eyes so much better than the plain white one I'd chosen.

When it came to footwear, though, it was safer to make the trip to the store and find a pair that fit properly. With winter coming, Antonio saw the perfect opportunity to get Jeremy out for the day, with a combined boot-buying, lunch-eating and movie-watching excursion.

Our first stop was lunch. Then off to the shoe store. I found a pair of boots within minutes. Nick took longer, insisting on a brand that “all the other kids had.” To me, that would have been the very reason
not
to buy that brand, but Nick was already growing particular about such things, and Antonio always went the extra mile—or block—to get Nick what he wanted. So it was off to the department store down the road, a five-story monstrosity that sold everything from washing machines to hammers to children's boots.