Otherworld Nights (24 page)

“If I want to investigate, though, I need to be a detective. That
means I should have a degree. I don’t think I can get one. Hell, it’d be a miracle if I got into college.”

“Nick says you’re getting good grades.”

He looked over at me. “And what kind of grades did Nick get?”

“Um, good enough.”

“Which is what I’m getting. I’m passing. For me, that’s an improvement. Holding me back a year was a good idea, but it only means I get Cs instead of Ds. I just … I don’t do well in school. I understand stuff if I’m doing it, but remembering terms and lists and equations?” He shook his head. “They just don’t stick.”

When we gave Noah new ID, we’d made him a year younger—sixteen instead of seventeen. We said it was because all the trouble in Alaska had put him behind. In truth, he was young for his age, in every way. His father said his mom drank while she was pregnant and Noah had FAE—fetal alcohol effects, which is a less severe form of fetal alcohol syndrome.

I’m not fond of labels. I feel like, when you stick one on, it glosses over the underlying issue. In my case, I avoid movies or novels about abused kids, because it brings back nightmares. Does it help to call it post-traumatic stress disorder? Not really. I have issues that I’m still working through and I’m going to keep working through, and that’s what matters.

What matters with Noah is helping him cope with his problems. He’s easily frustrated and has difficulty concentrating, which really doesn’t help in school, but Antonio, Nick, and Reese are all working with him, and I’d say that C grades were a marked improvement for a kid who’d been failing.

I could tell him that. Be supportive and encouraging. But I’d seen Clay with him and I’d seen what worked.

“Do you want to go to college?” I said.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s up to you. If you want it, you’re going to need to
work for it. You’re right. Becoming a cop wouldn’t be easy. We’d have to fix your background to withstand security checks. You’re a little small, so you’d need to really bump up your workouts with Antonio. He’s not a big guy, either, but he’s the only one in the Pack who can take on Clay.”

“But Antonio’s build is different. I’m skinny—”

“And if you don’t put in the effort, then you’ll stay skinny.”

He squared his shoulders. “I can put in the effort.”

“Then do that. Same as school. No one expects you to be as strong as Antonio. No one expects you to be as smart as Clay. Just make the effort. That’s the only way you’re going to find out if you can get what you want.”

A few more steps. Then, “You’re right.”

“Whew.”

He smiled over at me. We walked in silence until I pointed out the coffee shop across the road. As we crossed, he said, “I was thinking of asking Antonio if I could do part-time security at the office. I hate to ask, because I’m not really qualified, so he’d just be giving me a job because I’m his …” He struggled for a word. “Ward. Honorary nephew. Whatever.”

“And as his honorary nephew, you’re entitled to a job in the family business. It’s called networking. You take advantage of every ‘in’ you have. Ask him. He’ll set you up.”

“Okay.”

We stepped into the coffee shop. It was a Tim Hortons—the chain that seemed to have found its way into every town big enough to support one. Clay sat in the corner by the side exit. That door wasn’t shutting properly, and I could feel the draft ten feet away. That explained why Clay had chosen it—it was an unpopular spot. But the corner was no longer as empty as it had probably been when he sat down. A group of young women had taken the table beside his. They were talking loudly, overdoing their excited chatter and laughs, casting glances his way.

“Oh, look,” I said as we walked in. “Clay’s making friends already. He’s such a sociable guy.”

Noah grinned. “Does he really not notice those girls? Or is he just pretending he doesn’t?”

“He might not be pretending. He used to get nasty about attention, but he’s learned that can backfire. Lots of women like a bad boy. Since they’re not about to stop noticing him anytime soon, he’s just stopped noticing them noticing.”

“Rough life.”

I could have said it
was
rough. Clay would be much happier blending into the woodwork. But no awkward teenage boy wants to hear about the hardships of a middle-aged guy who has twenty-year-old girls drooling over him.

This time, though, I think Clay did notice. Sidelong glances are easy to ignore. A table of giggling girls is not. The second I got inside, his head shot up. He waved us over to where two coffees waited, one beside him and one across the table. I started for the one across the table, but he tugged me to his side and gave me a kiss.

“Public displays of affection?” I murmured. “Those girls must really be getting on your nerves.”

“They started off talking about how hot older guys are, then moved on to discussions of their favorite sex positions.”

“Ooh. Learn anything?”

He growled under his breath and moved me into the seat between him and the girls. I smiled at them. They gave me a once-over, with sniffs that said I wasn’t worthy.

I took a sip of my coffee, then told Clay what we’d learned. I kept my voice low. That’s an advantage to werewolf hearing—we can discuss things in public that we don’t want overheard. Noah had to lean forward to listen in, but he could follow the conversation. Or he did until he got distracted by a girl passing the window.

“Uh, Elena?” Noah said.

He nodded toward the door. The girl was coming into the coffee
shop now. She wore a cropped leather jacket, boots with three-inch heels, and a miniskirt. At least she had on tights to keep her legs warm. I couldn’t blame Noah for getting distracted. She was pretty, with long blond hair and—

“Shit,” I murmured. It was Lori Romero. Noah had recognized her from her Facebook photo.

“Makes it easy, huh?” Noah said.

It would have, if she hadn’t plunked herself down with the girls beside us.

“Great,” I muttered. “No way they’re chatting with me.”

“I’d give it a shot, but I’m a little young for them,” Noah said, then looked at Clay.

“No,” Clay said.

Noah grinned. “Oh, come on. Take one for the team.”

“The team will survive.”

“But if she’s dating Mark Eaton, then we know she likes older guys.”

Clay started to growl a response, but I cut him off.

“She
is
dating Mark Eaton,” I said. “Check the earrings.”

“Fishing lures,” Noah said.

“Which is not absolute proof,” I said. “But she’s the only girl there that favors dangling, sparkly earrings, and we know she’s rumored to be seeing Mark. Now we need to talk to her.”

“Get Reese to do it,” Noah said. When I hesitated, he continued, “He won’t be thrilled, but it might be good for him. Whatever happened in Australia, he’s got to get over it and start dating again. Nick says it isn’t healthy.”

Clay snorted. “He would. Just leave Reese alone. He’ll come around.” He shot a quick look at the table of girls. “But, yeah, maybe we should bring him to talk to—”

My cell phone ring cut him short. It was Nick.

“Hey,” he said. “Just thought you should know, your local mutt stopped by.”

“What?”

Clay’s head shot up. I pulled the phone from my ear so he could listen in.

“He was playing good neighbor,” Nick said. “See how you guys were making out, if you needed directions to local services, suggestions for good hiking spots, recommendations on local attractions …”

“Bastard.”

Nick chuckled. “Yeah, I felt like a jerk telling him to get lost. He really did seem like he was being friendly. But over-friendly, if you know what I mean. Kate says he’s still scared.”

“Kate was there?”

“He brought gifts for the kids. They heard and came running in before Reese could catch them. The guy wanted to talk to them. Kate was willing to chat, and she isn’t too happy with me for sending him packing.” A pause. “She said … She said he’s one of us. That we should be nicer to him. I’m … not sure if she overheard you guys talking …”

“She didn’t. She said that as soon as he came around last night.”

“Huh.”

“Did she elaborate?”

“Nope. Want me to ask her what she means?”

“Better not. I tried, and it did not go well. I’ll explain later.”

“Well, this mutt’s not making it easy, either. You know what he brought them for gifts?”

“What?”

“Stuffed wolf pups.”

W
e pulled over a hundred feet from Eaton’s cottage. Through the trees, we could see his pickup in the drive.

I looked back at Noah. “Remember that part where you need to stay in the truck? This is it.”

“I know Clay’s going to work the guy over.”

“But you don’t need to witness it.”

His jaw set. “I’ve seen worse.”

I glanced at Clay. His expression was impassive, but I knew what he wanted.

“Can we have a second?” I asked Clay.

He got out of the truck and walked into the woods, circling the cottage, as if scouting.

I turned back to Noah. “You may be okay with seeing what Clay does. But he’s not okay with you seeing him do it.”

“Oh.” A pause, as confusion flickered over his face. Then understanding. “Oh.”

I lowered my voice more, in case Clay could hear. “What he does works. It keeps the Pack safe. Doesn’t mean he likes doing it. No one should like doing that.”

“Right. Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

Noah nodded. “Okay. I’m sorry. Tell him—”

I reached back to squeeze his hand. “I don’t need to tell him anything. Just stay in the truck. Please. No matter what. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I rapped on the door. I could hear Eaton inside. Probably considering his chances of escaping out a window. I was about to knock again when he opened the door. Clay charged, slamming Eaton across the room. The guy was on the floor—Clay on his chest—before he could blink. I stepped in and closed the door behind me.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Clay snarled. “If you’ve got a death wish, mutt, just take a goddamn gun and blow your brains out in the woods, because I do not have time for this shit.”

“I-I—”

Clay cut him short with a left hook to the jaw that sent blood spraying. “I told you last night to stay the hell away from my family, and what do you do? Come strolling by today like you’re the fucking Welcome Wagon. And you come when I’m not at home—”

“I didn’t realize that. Your car was there. The truck was gone, but I knew your wife—” His gaze started to dart toward me, then he stopped himself. “I knew she drove the SUV. So I figured it was okay.”

“After I
told
you—”

“I wanted to apologize for spooking you.”

“You didn’t spook—”

“Alarm, I mean. Or, um, catch you off balance. Coming by your place last night was stupid. An invasion of territory. I get that now. Like I said, I don’t know any other werewolves, so I don’t understand all the rules.”

Clay hauled him up and threw him into an armchair. Eaton stayed down. He kept his gaze lowered. Cowardice? Faking submission? Or smart enough to know he didn’t want to give Clay an excuse?

Clay glanced at me for orders. I walked between them, letting Eaton know I wasn’t hiding behind my mate.

“You gave our children wolves,” I said. “Toy wolves.”

“What? No. They’re huskies. Dogs. Check the tags. A friend of mine runs a team of sled dogs and I was inviting them—I mean, you two and them—out for a visit. These ones have been raised with me around, so they’re fine with the werewolf scent, and I thought that might be a treat for your kids. I know, when I was growing up, I always found that tough, not being able to get near animals.”

When we didn’t reply, he said, “Ask your friend at the house. I gave him a pamphlet.”

“And you still don’t think that was going to piss us off?” Clay asked. “I told you last night that our kids don’t know, and you give them toys that look like wolves?”

Eaton protested that the toys had blue eyes and didn’t really look like wolves. I said nothing because the truth is that our kids
do
have toy wolves. When they were babies, it’d been something of a joke with our friends—Pack and other supernaturals. We all thought it was cute. But now, coming from Eaton, it seemed like a threat.
Leave or I’ll tell your kids your secret
.

“What do you want to tell us about Dillon Mitchell?” I said.

He hesitated, frowning, as if trying to make the mental shift. Then he went still.

“Yes, we know about the boy,” I said. “I saw the autopsy reports. Saw the photos. Saw the paw prints. So a young man dies in the forest, eaten by an oversized canine, and there’s a werewolf in town. One who’s very nervous having us around.”

“N-no. I mean, yes, I’m nervous. I told you, I’ve never met other werewolves. But I’ve heard the stories. I know, if I bump into one, he’s not going to shake my hand and invite me out for a beer. There’s one of me and at least four of you. So, yes, that makes me nervous. But I had nothing to do with that boy dying or being eaten. That was scavengers. I’m no man-eater.”