Tales of the Otherworld (11 page)

The dark-haired man stopped short, nostrils flaring as he saw Logan. Dismay flickered in his eyes.

“New,” he murmured.

“Very new,” Clayton said. “And stupid. Walked right up to the door and asked for you.”

“For—?” Logan began. “You’re Jeremy Danvers?”

The dark-haired man gave a small twist of a smile. “Not quite what you expected?”

Logan told himself that didn’t matter, that he already knew this was a prank and hadn’t still hoped to find his father. And yet …

“What’s your name?” Danvers asked.

Logan only glared at him.

“Logan Jonsen,” Clayton said, lifting a driver’s license. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Jonsen?” Danvers said. “No.”

“Hey,” Logan said. “That’s my wallet.”

“Be glad that’s all I took. I was thinking of taking fingerprints, too…with your fingers still attached.” He looked at Danvers. “What do you want done?”

Danvers paused, then said, “I think we’ll give Mr. Jonsen the chance to reconsider.”

He stepped closer to the cell. Clayton tensed, as if Logan might grab Danvers through the bars.

Danvers continued, “I don’t know what you thought you were doing, but if you ever do it again, it will be the last time. And if you share this story with any of the others, I will reconsider my decision. Is that clear?”

Logan met Danvers’s eyes, and any argument dried up. He dropped his gaze and saw that his hands were shaking. He clenched his fists. Again, Clayton tensed, ready to lunge forward.

Danvers took a deeper breath and his chin jerked up.

“You haven’t Changed yet, have you?” he said.

Before Logan could answer, Danvers stepped closer and inhaled, then glanced at Clayton.

“I can tell he’s new, but that’s it,” Clayton said. “If he hasn’t Changed, he’s damned close.”

Danvers looked at Logan. “You
haven’t
had your first Change yet, have you?” He studied Logan’s eyes, then blinked. “Not only that, but you have no idea what I’m talking about …”

“Shit,” Clayton muttered.

“How did you get here?” Danvers asked.

“Someone sent me the name and address,” Logan said. “Supposedly my father, some bullshit about medical information, but obviously it was someone’s idea of a joke.” He looked up at Danvers, but couldn’t meet his eyes, and shoved his hands into his pockets, unable to muster any kind of fight. “Can I go? I just want to go, okay?”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Logan. Not just yet. Clayton? Bring him up to the study.” Danvers turned and lowered his voice. “Nicely.”

Logan looked longingly at the window. Beyond it, he could see a field and a forest, and in that forest, the promise of freedom. They’d left him alone in here, and he told himself he could open the window, climb out, and run, even if Clayton had warned he’d hear him.

In that forest, he’d find not only freedom, but the bliss of ignorance, where he could keep telling himself this had been an elaborate frat hazing…or a freak encounter with crazy people. If he stayed, he knew he’d discover the truth—that he was here for the very reason his father had sent him: to get medical information. And he knew that whatever condition he had, it wasn’t anything normal.

He’d felt the strength in Clayton’s punch and in his iron grip when
he’d led Logan upstairs. He’d seen Danvers’s nostrils flare when he’d first seen him, heard him say he’d already “smelled” the problem. And he knew, whatever they were about to tell him, he didn’t want to hear it. But as alluring as ignorance was right now, if he left, he’d regret it. So he stayed, and strained to hear the distant conversation of the two men.

“—fucking irresponsible mutts,” Clayton was grumbling. “What kind of father sends his kid to the Pack? If Dominic was still in charge, that boy would be dead.”

“But Dominic isn’t, and presumably Logan’s father knows that. He must hope I’ll be more sympathetic.”

“Sympathetic?” Clayton snorted. “He’s putting you in a hell of a situation. That’s inconsiderate, irresponsible…and stupid. He wants to advise his kid to join the Pack? Fine. But do it after he knows what he is. This way, if the kid reacts badly, what are we supposed to do? Say ‘oh well,’ and let him leave?”

Logan didn’t catch Danvers’s response. He strained to hear more, but they’d stopped talking.

A moment later, the two men appeared in the doorway. Danvers took the recliner. Clayton sat beside him on the fireplace hearth.

Danvers began. “Do you have any idea what…condition your father was referring to?”

Logan shook his head. Danvers probed for more, asking how much he knew about his father, and the circumstances of his upbringing. Then he leaned forward and murmured something to Clayton. The younger man’s jaw set, and he was obviously unhappy with what he was hearing. He didn’t object, though. Just stood and glared at Logan, and in that glare, Logan read a warning, and he knew that the talk of cutting off fingers and burying bodies in the backyard wasn’t just talk. He swallowed hard, but Clayton only stalked past him and out the door.

With Clayton gone, Danvers asked about symptoms now, probing for details, as if assessing the progress of Logan’s “condition.” Then he moved to less concrete areas, with questions about changes in behavior, urges and longings, emotions and dreams.

After about ten minutes, something clicked along the hallway floor. Danvers stopped, then glanced out the door and lifted a finger.

He turned to Logan. “I have no experience doing this, Logan, and I know that any way I do, it will be a shock.” He paused. “It would be better
if you’d figured it out on your own. Do you have any idea, however wild or preposterous it might seem, about what’s happening to you?”

Logan shook his head.

“I think you do,” Danvers murmured. “If you prefer it this way, though, I’ll confirm your suspicions.”

He turned to the doorway and motioned. A wolf walked in—a huge gold-colored wolf. Logan’s brain screamed denials, though he had no idea, at least consciously,
what
it was denying.

The wolf walked to Logan. Its muzzle jerked, and it flipped something from its mouth onto Logan’s lap. Logan looked down to see his wallet. Then he glanced up at the wolf, looked into its blue eyes—familiar blue eyes fixed in a familiar suspicious glare. Clayton’s eyes.

It’s a trick
, his brain screamed.
Get out now. Fight! Run!

He managed to hold himself still until the wolf turned away. Then he sprang at Danvers. Even as he did, some deeper part of his brain cried out in protest.

But it was too late. He was already in flight. Danvers easily dove out of the way, and even as that deep part of Logan’s brain sighed in relief, he felt something hit his side. He heard Clayton’s snarl. As he fell, Clayton’s fangs flashed. Logan saw them slash down toward his throat, felt them close around it. And his final thought was that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life…and the last.

Logan buried his face in the pillow, now smelling more of himself than of laundry detergent.
This feels familiar
, he thought. This time, when he lifted his head and saw bars, his gut reaction was not fear but relief.

He should be dead. As crazy as that sounded—the thought that he could be killed just for lunging at a guy—it was true. And, in the strangest, most surreal way, he was neither shocked nor outraged, but only grateful to be alive.

He sat up. Blood rushed to his head, blurring his vision, and all he could see was an indistinct figure sitting outside the cell, reading.

“Clayton?”

A soft laugh. “No. Clay’s not very happy with you right now. It seemed best if I stood guard for a while instead.” Danvers laid his book on the floor. “If you’re feeling up to it, Logan, we need to talk.”

Logan could only nod.

Danvers continued. “I don’t know your father, so I can’t judge his intentions. I believe that he was somehow unable to tell you the truth about your birthright himself, and that he wanted you here, in the Pack. That’s what it’s called. The Pack—a werewolf Pack.”

He paused, studying Logan’s face for his reaction. While part of Logan’s brain still dug in its heels and refused to believe, that deeper part was the stronger voice now, squelching logic and telling Logan with unshakable gut-level conviction that this was true.

When Logan didn’t respond, Danvers continued. “As for why your father would send you here, the Pack offers things other werewolves don’t have—security, training, companionship. Your father must have wanted that for you. But, in sending you here, without knowing what you are, he put us both in a difficult position. You know what we are, who we are, where we live—”

“I’m a threat,” Logan said, his gut clenching. “You’re going to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t have kept you alive just to explain why you can’t remain that way.”

“But Clayton—”

“Didn’t try to kill you. You’re young enough that he’ll grant you a warning shot. But only one.” Danvers met Logan’s gaze. “If you ever attack me again, he
will
kill you. That is both his job and his nature. And I won’t stop him. The same goes for Clayton himself or any other Pack member. An unprovoked attack warrants death. That is our Law. We face enough danger from without; we won’t tolerate it within.”

Logan rubbed his bandaged throat. “So if I promise not to tell anyone—”

“No. I can’t take that risk. You cannot be given any opportunity to reveal what we are until you know, for certain, that doing so would risk your own safety as much as ours. You’ll remain here until your first Change—when you become a full werewolf.”

“But—but I have school—”

“This takes precedence for now. Even if you were to leave, when your Change does come—” He shook his head. “School would be the last thing on your mind. You’ll be here, not just for our safety, but for yours, and you’ll see that soon enough.”

“So you’re keeping me
here
? In a cage?”

A small laugh. “I’m afraid you aren’t that great a threat yet, Logan. So long as you don’t attempt to run, you’ll be under what you might call house arrest, while we wait for your Change and I prepare you for it.”

Danvers rose and walked to the cell door.

“So that’s it?” Logan said. “I’m part of this Pack now?”

“That will be your decision, when you’re better able to make it. For now, you have other things to worry about.” He unlocked and opened the door. “Let’s go find some dinner. You’ve had a long day, and I imagine you’re hungry.”

He headed for the stairs. Logan hesitated in the doorway, then shoved his hands into his pockets. There, at the bottom of one, his fingers grazed the wadded note.

So this was his birthright? Not the riches of an inheritance or the glory of a proud past. Not even a name. The blood of a werewolf; that’s all his father had given him.

He touched the folded paper. No, maybe that wasn’t all. An affliction, yes, maybe even a curse, but an involuntary one passed along with something every loving parent wants for his child: the chance of a better life.

Logan pulled his hands from his pockets and followed Danvers up the stairs. His life was changing. Here, with strangers, he might find what he needed to get through it. He might also find something his father never had—a place where he belonged.

Y
OUR HOURS WILL BE FOUR TO EIGHT TUESDAYS
, nine to five Saturdays, and the occasional Sunday afternoon.” Ms. Milken looked up at me, watery blue eyes swimming behind her thick glasses. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Twelve hours a week?” I said. “When you interviewed me, you said a minimum of twenty.”

“Business needs change, Elena,” she said, enunciating slowly as if I might be too dim to understand this concept. “I believe I said a
possibility
of twenty hours a week.”

I clamped the tip of my tongue between my teeth. I knew she’d said a
minimum
of twenty, and damn it, I needed every one of them.

I pushed my chair back, hitting one of the two-foot drifts of paper that blanketed the floor. It didn’t look like business was slow. And how the hell could her “business needs” have changed so much since she interviewed me two weeks ago?

As I composed myself, I glanced around the office. Blown-up copies of news articles covered the walls, struggling to convince the visitor that this was a real newspaper, instead of a weekly classified ad rag that scattered a few amateurish features among the advertisements.

When I saw those articles, so proudly displayed, I knew what had happened. I’d walked in for that interview—a third-year journalism student applying for a minimum-wage job—and Ms. Milken had seen her chance to hire a trained reporter at a bargain-basement rate. I needed twenty to thirty hours a week? Well, what a coincidence; that’s just what
they had in mind. She’d flat-out lied, and I desperately wanted to call her on it, but I didn’t dare. I needed this job…any job.

So I forced a shrug and said, “Maybe I misheard. But if you ever need someone to work extra hours, I can always use the money. I’ll leave a copy of my schedule. I’m free anytime that I don’t have classes. Even at the last minute. Just give me a call.”

Ms. Milken pursed her lips, then reached over to a stack of paper, plucked a single sheet from the middle, and handed it to me.

“Tips for winterizing gardens,” she said. “Turn it into an article. Ten inches. For this week’s edition.”

I took the sheet. An article on gardening tips? I smiled my keenest cub reporter smile. “I’ll drop it off first thing in the morning.”

“This week’s edition goes to bed in two hours.”

“Two—?” My smile collapsed. “I have a class at three.”

“Is this going to be a problem, Elena? I’ve hired students before, and I was reluctant to do so again. I need to know that your priorities are here. Not with boys or parties or bar-hopping or sororities.”

“I have my priorities straight,” I said, slowly and—I hoped—calmly. “My job is second only to my classes.”

“That won’t do.”

My fingernails bit into my palms, but I kept my voice even. “Maybe, after today, I can skip the occasional class, if it’s for something critical.”
Like a gardening-tip article.
“But this is the first week of classes, and it’s my first time in this particular class, so I really can’t miss it.” I met her gaze, and knew she was already mentally thumbing through her list of applicants. “But…well, maybe I could give it a shot. I still have an hour.”