Otherworld Nights (26 page)

Which should have been a relief. They were already abandoning the fight. If I kept up this course of action—avoid questions, distract when I could, maneuver out when I couldn’t—they’d forget.

Would Kate really forget, though? Or just give up?

When they finally did learn the truth, would she remember this?
Of course she would. She wasn’t a baby. She’d remember and she’d be furious, rightfully so.

Clay would back me up and pretend it was a mutual decision. Present a united front—that was our tenet of parenting. He’d take a share of Kate’s resentment and anger, which wasn’t fair, meaning I’d have to admit that he’d wanted them to know all along.

So yes, Kate would be angry, and probably Logan, too, but how deep a betrayal was it? We can pretend we’re honest with our kids, but we aren’t. Not really. We tell them stories about Santa Claus, and we know they’ll be upset when they learn the truth, but we hope they’ll look back and see the magic we added to their childhood.

Clay and I had never considered forgoing the Santa myth. He’d never had it himself. When he was bitten, there’d been no place for jolly gift-bringing elves in his new reality. There hadn’t been much Santa in my life, either—my first Christmas in a foster home, an older foster brother told me the truth. Yet we’d never considered not perpetuating the legend with our own children.

So we did lie. We lied to bring magic to their lives and we lied to protect them. When we finally told Logan and Kate the truth about what we were, would they understand my reasons? Or would they only understand that I’d lied? That Kate had trusted me … and I’d failed?

I could fix this. I could tell them the truth. Yet at the very thought of it, my gut twisted and my brain shrieked. Our children were too young for the truth. I just had to weather this storm.

And yet …

I couldn’t sleep. I lay there long after the kids had drifted off and Clay had joined them. Then I eased out of bed and opened the door.

I could hear Reese and Noah, still down in the family room, talking in front of the fire. Only one place to go. I pulled on a sweater and the thick woolen socks Clay had discarded. Then I slipped out onto the master-suite balcony overlooking the back woods.

I
stood there, torn between wanting to make a decision and not wanting to rush and make the wrong one, not when I was distracted by other problems. This was so damned important.

The more I thought about it, the further I got from a decision, which infuriated the hell out of me. Any day now, Jeremy could say, “I’m stepping down. You’re Alpha.” What kind of Alpha would I make if I was freezing my ass off at 2 a.m., unable to reach a conclusion on a parenting issue? An Alpha had to be decisive, to say, “This is my choice,” in a way that convinced every Pack wolf that there was no other option.

So what the hell was Jeremy even thinking naming me Alpha? I
always
had doubts. There was no black and white in my world. There were a thousand shades of gray, a thousand permutations for every decision, a thousand possibilities for every choice. You want someone who can make an absolute decision and stand by it, damn the consequences? You want Clay. And if Clay has other qualities not befitting an Alpha, then you make it a joint position. I’d suggested it. Jeremy said no. Clay said no. One wolf to rule them all. That’s how it’d always been and how it always would be.

When a warm body pressed against my back, I jumped. Clay’s arms tightened around me as he pulled me against him.

“You’re freezing, darling.
I’m
the one who doesn’t feel the cold, remember? Come back inside.”

“Soon.”

A soft sigh. The heat vanished as Clay stepped away and I had to
fight the urge to back against him again, tell him to stay. He retreated inside. A moment later, he returned, and moved up behind me again, pulling a comforter around us, his body so blissfully warm that I closed my eyes, everything else sliding away.

“Hear the wolves?” he murmured.

I lifted my head and picked up the distant howling of a wolf pack, miles away.

“If you didn’t hear that, you really are thinking hard.”

“Worrying,” I said.

“Thinking.”

I smiled and leaned against him.

“She’ll be all right,” he said. “They both will. We’ll fix this mutt problem, the kids will move on, and we’ll return to our regularly scheduled Christmas getaway.”

I turned in his arms. “I’m starting to wonder if you were right.”

He paused. “I’d say I must be dreaming, but you don’t seem in the mood for jokes.”

“I think we should have told them from the start. Made it part of their lives. We should have discussed it more. I should have listened more.”

“We talked plenty. You listened. Honestly? I wasn’t completely convinced that my view was right. If I was, I’d have fought for it.”

“You did.”

He lifted his brows. “If I really thought it was the absolute best thing for our kids, you’d have had a battle on your hands. That was just debate.”

“With chair throwing.”

“Heated debate. Chair throwing is just getting your attention. Fights involve chair breaking.”

“Ah.”

He pulled me closer. “There’s no right answer. I was working from the basis that assimilation into a culture is easier if it’s introduced from birth. But the kids
have
been assimilated from birth.
They’re treated like werewolves. They live like werewolves. They just don’t understand the rationale behind it. It’s like …” He paused. “Like growing up in a society with ancestor worship, and you do all the rituals and celebrate the holidays, but the ‘why’ isn’t explained until you’re old enough to really understand it.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I’m not thrilled with waiting, but it isn’t as if you and Jeremy said we had to pretend to be a normal human family for them. Then I’d have fought like hell. If they’d known we were werewolves from the start, the only real advantage is that you wouldn’t be on this balcony, freezing your ass off, wondering when is the right time to tell them. The disadvantage is that it’s an exposure risk.”

“Which is minimal, when you really think about it. No one’s going to believe four-year-olds who claim their parents turn into wolves. The real exposure risk comes when they’re old enough to Change. I mean,
if
they …”

I trailed off.

“That’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Clay said.

I looked up at him.

“You’re right about the exposure risk,” he said. “Hell, I think you just parroted my own words back to me. The true risk comes when a werewolf begins his Changes. When he can throw a classmate into a wall and kill him. When he can start shape-shifting in the middle of a party. By then, they
have
to know. The real reason you don’t want to tell them? Because we don’t know if they’re ever going to Change. You’ve heard Nick and Reese talk about what it’s like, hitting their teens, the excitement, the anticipation. It’s like waiting to be old enough to drive or to drink, multiplied by ten. Everyone warns you it’ll be painful as hell, but you don’t care. You’re finally going to be able to turn into a wolf. You’re finally going to join the Pack.”

He paused. I turned to listen to the wild wolves and felt tears prickle.

Clay lowered his voice. “For our kids, that might not happen. That’s what you’re afraid of. Bringing them up in a life they might never fully share.”

“I think …” I paused, gathered my thoughts. “They smell like werewolves. They seem to be showing secondary powers years before they should. But that’s …”

“Different.”

I nodded. “I want to see that as proof that they’ll be able to Change. Which, in some ways, is crazy. Life would be easier if they couldn’t. Take the secondary powers. Leave the pain of the Change. Leave the constant struggle for control. Leave the risk that someday you’re going to lose that battle and look down to see a person, a dead human being—”

I choked. Clay hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to remember those days in Toronto, when I’d run from Jeremy, when the Change was still a fever-blind blackout. When I’d woken up to see what I’d done.

“I don’t
ever
want our children to go through that,” I said. “So I should be happy if they don’t Change. But I’m not, because I know how important it will be to them. I know that, in spite of the risks, I’d never give up …”

I couldn’t finish that. I’ve reached peace with what Clay did, but that further admission is too much. Too exculpatory.

“You wouldn’t give up being a werewolf,” he murmured. “You just wish it’d happened another way.”

I nodded.

Another bone-cracking squeeze. “So do I, darling. More than anything.”

I rested my cheek against his chest. The wolves had gone silent now, so I listened to the thump of his heart.

After a moment, he said, “It should have gone the way I planned. Let you know what I was. If, at some point, you wanted to join that part of my life …”

I would have. I know that now. It wouldn’t have been a quick decision, but the time would have come when I’d have wanted to share that with him, wanted to experience it for myself. When I’d have realized it would complete me. That’s exactly what I was afraid of with our children. That they would realize this was what they needed to complete their lives, and that they’d never be happy without it.

“I think …” I cleared my throat, moved back, started again. “I think Logan will be all right. I think he’ll Change. It’s Kate I’m worried about. What if she doesn’t? If he does and she doesn’t?” I shook my head. “Maybe I’m being silly. She’s only four. She won’t be the same person when she’s old enough to realize it won’t happen. Maybe she’d be okay with it.”

He said nothing.

I met his gaze. “She won’t, will she?”

He still said nothing, as if even he couldn’t put a voice to that fear, that our daughter would not be okay with it.

“She’d want to be bitten,” I said. “She’d want us to …” I couldn’t finish. After a minute, I said, “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of. That’s why I don’t want to tell her any sooner than I have to. We can tell her it won’t happen for her and hope it will be a surprise if it does, but that won’t matter. She’ll think it will happen and when it doesn’t, she’ll want it. She’ll come to us and she’ll ask, and if we say no …” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “I’m afraid we’d lose her.”

A pause. Then, “That’s a lot of ifs.”

I let out a short laugh. “Worrying about worst scenarios? That’s not like me at all, is it?”

His turn to laugh. “Okay, so let’s work it through. Worst scenario. Kate grows up expecting to Change into a wolf. Logan does Change. She doesn’t. She asks us to bite her. We say no—it’s too dangerous. She hates us forever because we’re standing between her and happiness.” He stopped. Looked me squarely in the eye. “Only that’s not true, is it? If we say no …”

“She can go to someone else,” I whispered. “A mutt.”

“I can hope our daughter would be smart enough not to let some random mutt bite her. But could she con a mutt into it? Maybe even a Pack member? Reese, Noah … her brother? We could say no all we want, Elena. That wouldn’t stop it from happening. And it won’t matter if we tell her now or in a few years. She’s still going to want it. All we can hope is that it won’t be an issue—she
will
Change. And if she doesn’t? We’re going to need a game plan … in sixteen years, when we’re certain it’s not going to happen on its own.”

“So there’s no sense stressing about it now.”

“Right.”

I exhaled. “Which brings back the original question. When do we tell them?”

“I’m okay with telling them now. I’m okay with telling them in a year, two, three, even four. Longer than that? I have a problem. So, you have four years. When you’re ready, we’ll figure out how we’re going to do it. And any time you want to talk about it?”

“I know where to find you.”

“You got it.”

I put my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”

He arched his brows. “For making myself available to discuss a parenting issue with the mother of my children?”

“No. For knowing what was really worrying me, even when I wasn’t sure myself.”

I kissed him. His hands slid under my T-shirt, fingers hot against my skin. He hoisted me onto the railing.

“Feel sturdy enough?” he said.

“It’s not a long fall.”

He laughed and reached to shake the railing. When it didn’t budge, he murmured, “Good,” and pulled the comforter around us again.

As we kissed, a shadow moved against the balcony doors. “I think we have company,” I murmured.

He turned as Logan cupped his hands against the glass and peered out. I hopped off the railing. Clay opened the door and whispered, “Hey, bud, you want to come out?”

Logan nodded. Clay picked him up and shut the door quietly, then swiped snow off a chair. He sat, Logan on his knee, tugged me onto his other knee, and wrapped the comforter around us.

“Warm enough?” he asked.

Logan nodded.

Clay leaned over to his ear and whispered, “Listen. Do you hear that?”

Logan cocked his head. His eyes widened. “Wolves?”

Clay nodded.

Logan stared out at the sky, listening intently, with this wistful look on his face, and I could tell myself I was imagining it, but I knew I wasn’t. He might not understand what he felt, but when he listened to those wolves, he felt something.

Everyone said Kate was so obviously her father’s daughter. Our friends teased Jeremy that it must be like having Clay all over again. Jeremy would smile and nod, but he’d told me that Clay had been more like Logan, serious and quiet, even when he was cutting up the classroom guinea pig and tying Nick to trees. The boisterous energy came later, but there was still that quiet side of Clay, and I could see it now, as he rested his chin on his son’s head, looking out into the night, listening to the wolves.

I twisted sideways, rested my cheek against Clay’s shoulder, and watched them until I drifted off to sleep.

W
hen I opened my eyes, Kate was crouched on the bed, her face a few inches from mine, staring as if she could will me to wake.