Tales of the Otherworld (32 page)

I hated the silence.

I had loved it once, during those blessedly short years between my grandfather’s death and Clayton’s arrival. Silence then truly did mean peace—that my father was gone again and I could relax. But then Clayton came, and Elena…and it was never quiet again.

I turned from the window and, for a second, time stuttered and I was standing here, in this same spot, ten years ago. Elena was on the couch, giving the first genuine smile I’d seen from the quiet, confused young woman who’d appeared on my doorstep with Clay.

She was smiling at something. I turned to see a golden wolf slinking into the room. The pieces didn’t connect and it took a moment to realize it was Clay, and by then, it was too late. He’d bitten her, and one thought had filled my brain: This is my fault.

I know it wasn’t entirely my fault, though I do share some of the blame, as we all do. I should have seen it coming, should have understood months earlier what was happening in his life.

But I’d been too busy worrying about what his change in mood portended. I’d seen him drifting away, and specters of a silent, ghost-filled house had risen. I’d told myself that I was happy for him, and hated the selfish pit of grief in my gut every time I thought of him leaving.

“Jer?” Antonio called from outside the window.

He was waiting for me to come out. It was time to plot an end to this threat. Yet I wasn’t ready. Not ready to get down to business, and not ready to face him.

I’d suggested sending Nick to Toronto with Clay and Elena. Antonio refused. We needed him here. So I hadn’t pushed. I should have. My family, my “children,” were gone, tucked out of harm’s way…and his son remained.

He’d refused my suggestion. That was the logical thing, and Antonio put logic first, emotion second. He hadn’t always been like that. A self-taught life lesson, and a harsh one. As much as he wanted to send Nick away from this, his brain had said no; we’d need the extra fighter. I should have insisted.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” I called. “I’ll just switch the laundry over and bring out some lunch.”

He called that the laundry could wait, but I was already out of the room.

I headed down to the basement. As I passed the cage, soft crying followed me. I turned, but of course there was no one inside. Just ghosts. The crying stopped, muffled by a snuffle, hands swiping away tears, throat unclogging in a cough.

“Jer—Jeremy.” My name came awkwardly from Elena’s lips, as if she’d
prefer not to use it, to call me something more formal, keep that distance between us: captor and captive. “Can I come out, please?”

I walked faster. Ten years ago I hadn’t walked away. I’d stayed and tried to reason with her, knowing how ludicrous that was—insisting on applying the dictates of reason to what must have been, for her, sheer madness. She’d come to meet her fiancé’s family, and ended up locked in a basement cage, changing into a wolf every few nights—her lover banished, the keys to her dungeon held by a stranger who insisted she be
reasonable
, of all things.

I made it as far as the laundry room before the next ghost called out to me, still from that damnable cage.

“Jer?” It was Clay now. “Jeremy, please. Let me go with you. I’ll find her. I’ll make it up to her. She’ll understand. Just let me talk to her.”

That time, I
had
turned away. I’d bolted up the stairs two at a time, hearing Clayton’s pleas turn to shouts as he begged me to let him help find Elena. Upstairs, I’d packed a bag and left before I turned around, marched down those stairs, and screamed back at him, venting all my frustration and rage and helplessness.

I’d itched to say the words—to shout them—to make as much noise as he did for once. Why had he opened the cage door and let Elena out? Did he think me a monster, locking her up? I’d had no choice. He’d left me no choice.

He’d bitten this girl, and I was the one who had to listen to her sob, rage, scream until she had no voice left and, worst of all, cry quietly in the corner, calling his name when she thought no one was listening. I had to restrain her during her Changes, fight her, bear her bites and scratches, none of them more painful than that look of utter terror on her face as her body changed forms.

Still, that wasn’t why she was in the cage. I could deal with the rages and the fits. But she wasn’t weak or foolish enough to simply lie down and let the madness envelop her. Every time she thought I wasn’t watching, she tried to escape.

That’s why I locked her up: because I knew if she made it away from this place, she’d find true hell. Bitten werewolves rarely survived. Clay had, but only because he was a child—a bright, resourceful, and, most important, accepting child. He’d accepted what he was and dealt with it. Elena could not accept it. Who could blame her? Turned into something
that, in her world, existed only in nightmares and horror films. And made that way by the man she’d entrusted her life and future to.

While I’d been out, Clay had snuck back, hoping to explain—as if such a thing could ever be explained—and hoping to make amends. He’d opened the door. She’d knocked him out, locked him in, and ran…only to discover that this nightmare wasn’t one you woke up from, nor one you could leave behind by simply fleeing the madhouse.

I’d never considered taking Clayton with me to find Elena. Just as I hadn’t considered forcing him to stay and help mend what he’d broken. After the bite, I’d been so furious, I’d inflicted the worst punishment I could imagine on him: banishment. Later, when Antonio suggested I let him come back so he could see the damage he’d wrought, I refused. By then, any thoughts of punishing him had passed, and I cared only about healing Elena. Having him around would only remind her of his betrayal.

So when he begged to come with me, I’d refused.

It took a few days to find Elena. She’d returned to Toronto. As for how she made the trek with no money—I hadn’t wanted to think about that. Once I arrived in the city, tracking her down had been a matter more of patience than of skill. I’d returned to her school, found her old dorm, even located a couple of friends, all to no avail.

After a few days of tail chasing, I was eating dinner, having skipped lunch. I was so hungry that for a few minutes, I’d stopped worrying about Elena. That’s when I realized that I knew where she was. Just
knew
, as if picking up a beacon.

Holding on to that beacon wasn’t easy—it wavered and faded, and seemed to slip away a few times. I tried too hard, as I always do. The strange connection I have to my Pack is a fragile thing, rarely coming when I need it, and always threatening to leave before I’m done with it. It was like being given a complex piece of equipment with no manual—I fumbled and experimented, and sometimes it worked.

Eventually, I found Elena.

When I did, I wished I’d brought Clay along. He should have seen her there, cowering in the shadows, driven half mad by her Changes and the horror of what she’d done under their influence, starving and brain-fevered. Then he would have truly seen what
he
had done.

In that moment, I wanted him there. But later, I’m not sure I could
have made that choice. Would it have forced him to understand? Or would it have broken him?

I pulled myself from my memories, filled the laundry, and headed back upstairs, hurrying past the cage, now as silent as the rest of the house.

Had I been right to send them away? I could have used their help. Yet how much help would Clay be, knowing Elena was a target? And how much help was she, still burning to avenge Logan, our first casualty? Passion can inflame a warrior to greatness, but if the flames burn too hot, they consume common sense. Plus, there were greater things to consider.

Choice can be an impossible thing. A leader must be decisive. Yet how can anyone with foresight, hindsight, and the ability to link the two ever truly be decisive? You see the mistakes of the past, and the possible outcomes of your decision on the future, and no choice can ever be absolutely right.

Even decisions that seem blatantly obvious can have ramifications you never imagined.

As a young man I’d seen problems with the Pack, particularly in the way they treated non-Pack werewolves, right down to the derogatory term they used for them: mutts. To a modern, Westernized human, our class system and rules would seem abhorrent. Yet even I realized we could never live by human standards of equality. A class system is hardwired in our brains. We understand wolf ways best—living in a hierarchical society based on power, territory, and survival of the fittest.

Yet it had made sense to stop indiscriminately killing non-Pack werewolves and target only those who posed a threat. It made sense to open a dialogue with them through a delegate who’d speak on the Alpha’s behalf. It made sense to treat them as fellow beings worthy of our notice and even our protection.

But had my simple and sensible changes been interpreted as weakness? Were my choices responsible for the situation we now found ourselves in? Would Daniel have found outside werewolves willing to rise up against the Pack if Dominic was still Alpha?

Now I had to prove that despite the changes there was no weakness. I had to end this threat with all the force and finality Dominic would
have used. And if that failed? A good leader always has a backup plan, and in sending Clayton and Elena away, I’d launched mine.

I walked into the kitchen and found Antonio and Nick making sandwiches.

“Five minutes, and we’ll be eating,” Antonio said.

Nick glanced at the microwave clock. “Their plane should have landed by now.”

“Elena will call,” I said.

I wiped a trail of mustard Antonio had splattered. He made a face, telling me he would have gotten it, but I just kept cleaning. It gave me something to do.

“You sent them to Elena’s apartment, right?” Nick asked. “Where she was living with that guy.” He meant Philip, the man Elena had met while trying to live as a human again.

I nodded. “Perhaps not the wisest—”

“No, it’s good.” Nick managed a laugh. “
I
wouldn’t want to be there, but maybe it’ll help. Give Elena a chance to see her choices better. And show Clay she’s really thinking of moving on—not just screwing around to piss him off. He has to shape up.”

Antonio and I nodded, though I’m sure we were both thinking the same thing, that Clay might not be able to “shape up”—at least not in any way significant enough to overcome what he’d done.

“They’ll work it out,” Nick said as his father handed him a tray of sandwiches. “Just watch. Imagine how much mileage I’ll get out of this one—reminding them of the time I helped put down the mutt revolt, risking my life to save theirs, while they were holed up in Canada.”

Antonio waved him from the kitchen. I watched him leave. When the door closed, I turned to Antonio.

“Nick should go after them. If Elena’s a target, she needs protect—”

“That’s why Clay’s with her.” He took the dishrag from my hand and pitched it into the sink. “If you really thought there was a risk of them following Elena, you wouldn’t have sent her away.”

“It’s a possibility—”

“So is a plane crash. Or a nuclear attack. When Daniel and his gang realize Clay and Elena are missing, they’ll smell an ambush. While they’re watching their backs, we strike from the front.”

I nodded.

“Good plan, right?” he said. “Of course it is. It’s yours. Remember that.”

As I took a pitcher of water from the fridge, I noticed something on the floor. One of Elena’s hair bands. I picked it up.

Antonio shook his head. “I don’t even want to ask why that’s there. Let’s just hope they wiped off the counter afterward.”

I turned the elastic over in my hand. Long hairs still clung to it, as if it had been yanked out and tossed aside.

“They’re coming back, Jer.”

“I know.”

He walked over, took the band, and met my gaze. “And we’re going to be here when they do.”

I looked into his eyes. He knew. Of course he did. Yes, I’d had good reasons to send Elena and Clay away. Very good reasons. But there was one added advantage that had made me quick to decide when the question arose.

An Alpha must put the well-being of the Pack first. At all times. At all costs. Each individual member within that Pack must be protected, but an Alpha’s priority is the Pack itself, as an entity, as a construct. If no members of the Pack remain, the Pack ceases to exist. I cannot allow that. Ever.

“They’re coming back,” Antonio said again, “and we’ll be here to see it. That’s the plan.”

I gave a small smile. “It’s a good plan.”

“Of course it is.” He slapped my back. “Now get outside and make it work.”

Countdown: three weeks

C
ROSS-LEGGED ON THE BED, I STARED AT THE
white blanket of papers around us, another stack in my hand.

“Roses, carnations, or orchids? Chicken, fish, or beef? Music playlist, guest requests, or a mix of both? Photos inside, out, or off-site? Rent a limo, car, or use our own?”

I sighed. I was usually very good at dealing with adversity. I was Paige Winterbourne, daughter of the Coven leader. Witches knew all about adversity, and I did better than most. At the age of twenty-two, I’d found myself with custody of Savannah Levine, twelve-year-old daughter of a dark witch—her mother dead, her father to follow soon after. Flash forward a couple of years and I’d been kicked out of the Coven, watched my house burn, and been driven from town. I still had Savannah, though. And, as a bonus, I got an amazing guy who wanted to spend the rest of his life with me…which was where the current problem started.

I flourished the papers. “We rented the hall, reserved the chapel, picked caterers and florists and photographers and DJs…and still the work never stops. Isn’t that what we hired all these people for?” I looked over at the page Lucas was studying. “What’s that one for?”

“Matchbooks.”

“What for? To light the centerpieces?”

“No, as I recall, we have yet to reach the critical ‘table arrangement’ decision.”

“Candles. Or maybe the goldfish bowls Savannah wants. Or your mom’s disposable camera idea, to get candid shots—” I slapped my palms to my temples and thumped back onto the bed. “Ack, more choices.”