Women of the Otherworld - Bitten Part 29

When the house idea didn't pan out, I looked for a possible cottage rental. The bad news was that we lived in cottage country. The good news was that it was still early in the season and the BearValley area itself wasn't prime cottage land, having too many trees and too few lakes and waterways. I called the Bear Valley Cottage a.s.sociation. With a little ingenuity, a lot of lying, and even more politeness-Jeremy had taught me well-I discovered that only four local cottages were being rented, three to honeymooning couples and the fourth to a bunch of middle-aged men from New York who came up every May for some kind of male-bonding-in-the-wilderness therapeutic retreat. Another dead end. I'd have to try another tack. I just wasn't sure yet what that might be.

Purposeful action made the hours fly past, leaving little time to brood over Clay's situation. By evening though, I was left alone with my thoughts. I was tending the fire in the study. It didn't need tending. It didn't even need to be lit, the temperature outside still hovering in the mid-seventies. But there was comfort sitting on the hearth, poking at the logs and watching the fire dance and spark. Unnecessary action was better than no action. Besides, staring at the flames had a mesmerizing effect, giving me something to concentrate on other than the thoughts and fears that kept slipping past the mental barriers I'd carefully erected in the past twenty-four hours.

I wasn't alone in the study. Nick was there, half dozing on the couch. Every so often he'd open his eyes and say something. We'd talk for a few minutes, then the conversation would begin moving dangerously close to Clay and we'd both fall silent. As the clock on the mantel chimed midnight, Nick woke again. He tilted his head backward over the arm of the sofa and looked at the window.

"Full moon coming," he said. "Two, three days?"

"Two."

"I'll need to run. How about you?"

I managed a small smile. "You know perfectly well that I don't need to run, since I did more than enough of that three days ago. What you really want to know is: will I run with you and save you from the horrifying prospect of having to run alone."

"I don't know how you did it in Toronto all those months," he said with a shudder. "I had to do it a couple times last winter. Tonio took off on business and Logan was wrapped up in some court case and Clay-Anyway, I had to Change by myself."

"Poor baby."

"It was awful. It was, like, walk out to the woods, Change, stand there until enough time pa.s.sed, Change back. It was about as much fun as taking a s.h.i.+t."

"Nice a.n.a.logy."

"I'm serious. Come on, Elena. Admit it. That's what it's like if you're by yourself. I remember when I was a kid, before my first Change, and Clay used to-"

He stopped. This time, he didn't pick up again. Silence fell and I turned back toward the fire, poking it and watching the sparks cascade from the logs. The door opened. I heard Jeremy come in, but didn't turn around. A moment later, the sofa springs groaned as Nick got up. He walked across the room and the door closed again. Jeremy sat beside me on the hearth. His hand touched the back of my head, hesitated, then stroked my hair.

"I know how difficult this is for you, Elena. I know how scared you are, how afraid you are of losing him."

"It's not that. I mean, of course I'm afraid of losing him. But if you think it's because I've suddenly realized how much I love him and that if-when we get him back, I'll come home and everything will be fine, then you're wrong. I'm sorry. I know you want that, that it would be easier for you and everyone else, but it's not going to happen. Yes, I care about him. Very much. And yes, I want him back. I want him back for you and for Nick and for the Pack. I'm upset because I hold myself responsible."

Jeremy said nothing.

I looked over my shoulder at him. "So you hold me responsible, too?"

"No, not at all. I didn't answer because I thought it best to hold my tongue about the rest. If you think that's why you're upset-"

"It is."

He was quiet for a moment, then reached over to rub my back, fingers moving to the tight ball between my shoulders. "Whatever the reason for your worry, I don't hold you responsible for what happened. We've been through this before. I should have sent you two someplace else. I thought I was being clever, but I didn't even realize something happened until I tried contacting Clay that night-"

"Have you done it since?" I asked, straightening up and turning to face him, "Have you contacted Clay since he's been captured? You've tried, haven't you? What did he say? Is he-"

Jeremy put his fingers to my lips. "Yes, I've tried. Tried and tried again. But I can't get through to him. It's the drugs."

There was another possible reason why Jeremy couldn't get in touch with Clay, but I didn't dare speak it. Jeremy seemed to read it in my face, though, and shook his head.

"Don't think that. You saw today's picture. He doesn't look good, but he's alive."

He sounded so tired. The Pack was under siege, and the mutts were ripping down the defenses as fast as Jeremy could erect them. It was wearing him out. I wished I didn't see that. I wished I could believe, as Antonio and Nick did, that the Pack Alpha was indestructible. That's the way Pack werewolves were raised, secure in the knowledge that no matter what happens, their Alpha will protect them. That was wrong. Plain wrong. It worked great under normal circ.u.mstances, when the Pack was never troubled by more than one mutt at a time and the Alpha's job was more focused on settling internal dissent and presenting a united front against the mutts. Faced with a problem of this size, though, the Alpha needed help, not just in fighting the threat, but in deciding how to fight it. Such collaboration was unthinkable. Jeremy might bounce his ideas off Antonio, but he'd never think of asking for advice, nor would any Pack member dream of offering it. I did. I wanted to tell Jeremy what I thought and try to help him, but I knew I couldn't. If he felt overwhelmed now, having me second-guess his plans would only make things worse. Like Antonio and Nick, Jeremy was bound by the same misconception of leaders.h.i.+p. The responsibility of saving the Pack fell squarely on his shoulders. The only way I could help was to plot strategies on my own.

Awakening

The next morning, Jeremy and Antonio took off again. I went to work. Or, at least, I prepared to go back to work. I called the hospital to check on Philip, then sat at the desk in the study, fired up Clay's laptop and sat there, looking from the phone to the laptop and back again. These were my only tools for finding Clay and I had no idea what to do now with either one. I pulled out a pad of paper and reviewed what I knew, hoping some new avenue of exploration would leap out at me.

We had two experienced mutts left, half of the original number. This was rea.s.suring, until I reminded myself that we'd eliminated the lesser mutts, leaving the more dangerous ones alive. Not so good. We also had two new mutts. LeBlanc, I knew, and understood how he worked. Again, I felt a momentary burst of complacency before remembering that I hadn't even met Cain's protege, Victor Olson. So there it was, the next step: find out more about Olson. Of course, deciding what what I was going to do wasn't the same as determining I was going to do wasn't the same as determining how how I was going to do it. Of the two tools I had available, the Internet seemed the best bet, namely because I wasn't sure where to even begin with the telephone. I was going to do it. Of the two tools I had available, the Internet seemed the best bet, namely because I wasn't sure where to even begin with the telephone.

Cain had said that his protege's name was Victor Olson and that he'd broken him out of jail in Arizona where he'd been imprisoned for s.e.x crimes. Since Daniel had found Olson, his crimes must have been big enough to warrant media attention. A simple search on the name and city brought up seven complete matches. The first one was for some long-dead city father named Victor Olson. The next four matches were for Vic "Mad Dog" Olson, which sounded promising, until I clicked on one site and found an advertis.e.m.e.nt for a personal injury lawyer. On the last two I hit pay dirt. Victor Olson had escaped from jail four months ago, cutting short a life sentence for raping and killing a ten-year-old-girl. I reread his victim's age several times. Cain said Olson had been in jail for "s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with a couple girls." I'd a.s.sumed by "girls" he really meant women. Obviously not. Suppressing my revulsion, I read the article. Olson was a lifetime pedophile who'd been charged several times with acts of indecency, but the charges had always been dismissed when the judge ruled his victims' testimony "unreliable." With the last victim, the judge had to admit the testimony provided by her dead body was reasonably reliable. I skipped to the news article on the other site and discovered why Daniel had chosen Olson. He was a stalker. He chose his victims with care and trailed them for weeks before making his move. One detective said he'd never seen someone so skilled at "the hunt"-his choice of words, not mine.

I spent another hour going over what I knew. When that led nowhere, I tracked down Nick in the exercise room and repeated everything to him, hoping either he'd think of something or the very act of verbalizing it would help me think of something. Nick listened, but didn't have any ideas. Nick wasn't used to having ideas. That sounded worse than I intended. What I meant was that he was accustomed to following the plans of others. He was an enthusiastic lieutenant and a loyal friend, but he wasn't exactly-how do I put this nicely-not exactly a deep thinker. Talking to him didn't help me think of anything either. So I put aside my papers, turned off the laptop, and did the most mind-numbing, menial ch.o.r.e I could imagine. I did the laundry.

No one had done laundry since we'd gone to Toronto, probably because it was the last thing on anyone's mind. I didn't realize the full implications of that until I was folding the first load and came across one of Clay's s.h.i.+rts. I stood there in the laundry room holding the s.h.i.+rt. Clay had worn it the day before we left. I don't know why I remembered that. It was a dark green golf s.h.i.+rt, one of the few departures from Clay's plethora of plain white and black cotton T-s.h.i.+rts. It must have been a gift from Logan, who'd considered it his thankless job to add some fas.h.i.+on to Clay's wardrobe. I stared at the s.h.i.+rt, thinking about Logan and the grief surged fresh. Then I thought about Peter, remembered him ribbing Clay about his monochromatic wardrobe, threatening to give him a stack of the most garish concert T-s.h.i.+rts he could find. Blinking hard, I tucked the s.h.i.+rt under a stack of Nick's pants and kept going After I'd folded the first load, I took it upstairs to put the clothes away. I left Clay's pile for last. For several minutes, I stood outside his closed bedroom door and screwed up the courage to go inside. I rushed through the job, stuffing s.h.i.+rts, underwear, and socks into his drawers. His jeans went in the closet. Yes, he hung up his jeans, probably because if he didn't, there wouldn't be anything in there. I was putting the jeans on hangers when I saw the pile of wrapped presents on the closet floor. Without even checking the tags, I knew what they were. Part of me wanted to slam the door shut and run. I didn't want to see them. Yet I couldn't resist. I reached down and picked up the top gift. It was wrapped in Christmas paper, bright candy canes and bows. On the tag, one name scrawled across, obliterating the to: and from: label. Elena.

Nick had said Clay expected me back. I'd half expected to come back last Christmas myself, not through my own volition, but magically, as if I could fall asleep in Toronto on Christmas Eve and wake up in Stonehaven the next morning. Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays, they'd all pa.s.sed unnoticed, untainted by the urge of return. Christmas was different.

Growing up, I'd hated Christmas. Of all the holidays, it was the one that most glorified the family, all those movies and TV specials and advertis.e.m.e.nts and magazine covers showing happy families going through the rites of the season. That's not to say I was deprived of the normal trappings of Christmas. My foster families weren't complete ogres. I got presents and turkey dinners. I went to parties and midnight ma.s.s. I sat on Santa's knee and learned to sing "Up on the Rooftop" for the school concert. But without real family bonds, all the rituals of the season were as phony as sprayed-on snow. So when I moved out on my own at eighteen, I stopped celebrating. Then I met Clay. That first year together, I finally felt that a true Christmas was possible. Sure, I wasn't surrounded by parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles, but I had someone. I had the first link to everything else I wanted so bad.

I should say that Clay had no idea how to celebrate Christmas. It wasn't an official werewolf holiday. Okay, there were no official werewolf holidays, but that wasn't the point. The Pack recognized Christmas only as a time to get together as they did umpteen other times a year. They exchanged presents, the same as they did on birthdays, but that was the extent of the celebration. So what did Clay do when I hinted that I wanted a full-blown Christmas? He gave me one.

Although I didn't know it at the time, Clay spent weeks researching the holiday. Then he gave me Christmas with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. We went out and cut down a tree-then realized the impossibility of getting it back to his apartment on his motorcycle. We had the tree delivered and decorated it. We made shortbread, gingerbread, and sugar cookies, and discovered how hard it is to form gingerbread men without a cookie cutter. We made a fruitcake, which was probably still on the balcony of his old apartment, where we'd eventually used it to hold open the door. We bought lights for the balcony, then had to go back to the hardware store for an extension cord, then had to go back for wire cutters to snip a hole in the screen to slip the cord through. We listened to Christmas music, watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas How the Grinch Stole Christmas and rented and rented It's a Wonderful Life, It's a Wonderful Life, though Clay fell asleep during the latter-okay, we both fell asleep during the latter. We drank eggnog by the fire, or by a magazine photo of a fire that Clay stuck on the wall. No tradition went un.o.bserved. It was the perfect Christmas. We didn't make it to Easter. though Clay fell asleep during the latter-okay, we both fell asleep during the latter. We drank eggnog by the fire, or by a magazine photo of a fire that Clay stuck on the wall. No tradition went un.o.bserved. It was the perfect Christmas. We didn't make it to Easter.

There was no Christmas the next year. I a.s.sume Christmas still occurred in the outside world, but at Stonehaven, it pa.s.sed unnoticed. I'd barely got out of the cage by winter. Clay was still banished. Logan came to see me, but I drove him away, as I'd driven him away the half-dozen other times he tried to visit. Nick sent a gift. I threw it out unopened. Before Clay bit me, I'd met both Logan and Nick, had even started considering them friends. Afterward, I blamed them for not warning me. So, Christmas came and went and I barely realized it.

The next year, Clay was still banished. I was well on the road to recovery by then. I'd forgiven Logan and Nick and even Jeremy. I'd started getting to know Antonio and Peter. I was coming to accept life as a werewolf. Then came Christmas. I expected it would pa.s.s again with little fanfare, like the year before. Instead, we had a full-blown Christmas, complete with presents under the tree, colored lights sparkling against the snow, and a turkey on the table. The whole Pack came to Stonehaven for a week, and for the first time, I knew how hectic, stressful, loud, and wonderful a family Christinas could be. I thought this was how the Pack normally celebrated Christmas, when they didn't have an angry new female werewolf to contend with. It wasn't until January that I learned the truth. Clay had contacted Jeremy and asked him to do this for me. That was his gift to me. My gift to him was to ask Jeremy to repeal his banishment.

For every year after that, we had a full Christmas at Stonehaven. The Pack indulged my fantasy completely, without ever making me feel that they were only doing it to humor me. I can't say that every Christmas was a good one. Sometimes Clay and I were getting along, more often we weren't, but we were always together. If this last Christmas away from Clay had been hard, one thing had made it bearable: knowing he was out there, somewhere. As I stared at the pile of presents in his closet, I realized this applied to my life every day of the year, not just at Christmas. Somehow, knowing Clay was there, waiting for me should I ever return, gave me a cus.h.i.+on of comfort in my life. In a perverse way, he was the most stable thing in my life. No matter what I did, he'd be there. What if he wasn't? The thought filled me with something so icy cold that my breath seemed to freeze in my lungs and I had to gasp for air. I hadn't lied to Jeremy the night before. This wasn't one of those fairy-tale romances where the heroine realizes her undying love for the hero after he's placed in mortal danger. There were no heroes or heroines in this story and there would be no happily ever after ending, even if we got Clay back. I still couldn't imagine living with him, nor could I envision my world without him. I needed him. Maybe that was unspeakably selfish. It almost certainly was. But it was honest. I needed Clay and I had to get him back. I looked at the gifts again and I knew I wasn't doing enough.

"I'm going to BearValley," I said.

It was the next day. Nick and I were on the back patio, lying on lounge chairs, luncheon plates on our laps. Jeremy and Antonio had left an hour ago. Since then, I'd been trying to figure out how to tell Nick what I'd planned. After a half-dozen false starts, I went with the blurt-it-out approach.

"I told Daniel I wanted to see him," I said.

"Is that what was in the note?"

When Antonio and Nick had gone to deliver Jeremy's latest missive to Daniel's post office box, I'd slipped Nick a note to add to Jeremy's. Nick hadn't asked what the note said, probably because he didn't want to know.

"Yes," I said. "I'm meeting him at two o'clock."

"How'd he get back to you?"

"He didn't. I said I was meeting him at two. He'll be there."

"And Jeremy's okay with this?"

I could tell by Nick's tone that he knew perfectly well I hadn't mentioned it to Jeremy. The question was his way of prudently broaching the topic. Or maybe he was just hoping against hope that this was something I'd already planned with Jeremy and we'd both somehow forgotten to mention it to him. Jeremy. The question was his way of prudently broaching the topic. Or maybe he was just hoping against hope that this was something I'd already planned with Jeremy and we'd both somehow forgotten to mention it to him.

"I'm not sitting around anymore," I said. "I can't do it. I tried, but I can't."

Nick swung his legs over and sat on the edge of his lounge chair. "I know how hard this is for you, Elena. I know how much you love him-"

"That's not it. Look, I've already been through this with Jeremy. We need Clay back. Whether or not you want to help is up to you."

"I want to help get him back, but I'm not going to help you get yourself killed doing it." help get him back, but I'm not going to help you get yourself killed doing it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what it sounds like. I saw the way you were a few days ago-"

"Is that what this is about? Because I flipped out three days ago? Look at me now. Do I seem flipped out?"

"No, and that probably scares me more than if you were."

"I am going," I said.

"Not without me."

"Fine."

"But I'm not going. So neither are you."

I got up and started for the back door. Nick leapt to his feet and blocked my path.

"What are you going to do?" I asked. "Knock me out and lock me in the cage?"

He looked away, but he didn't move. I knew he wouldn't do anything. If it came down to it, Nick wouldn't use physical force to stop me. It wasn't in his nature.

"Where's this meeting? he asked at last. "Is it in a public place? Because if it's not-"

"It's in The Donut Hole. As public as I can make it. No matter what you might think, I'm not doing anything that might endanger myself. I wouldn't do anything to endanger you. you. The only risk I'm taking is in breaking Jeremy's orders. And I'm only doing that because he's wrong to exclude me." The only risk I'm taking is in breaking Jeremy's orders. And I'm only doing that because he's wrong to exclude me."

"So you'll meet Daniel in the coffee shop and I'll be there. We'll park right out front. We won't go anyplace with him, even for a walk down the street."

"Exactly."

Nick turned and walked to the house. He wasn't happy, but he'd do it. I'd make it up to him someday.

As I pulled into a parking spot in front of the coffee shop, I could see Daniel through the window. He was sitting in a booth. His shoulder-length auburn hair was pushed back behind his left ear-his only ear, actually, after that little biting mishap a few years ago. His profile was sharp, high cheekbones, pointed chin, and thin nose, not unhandsome in a feral way, but his looks were more fox than wolf, which better complemented his personality.

As I got out of the car, his green eyes followed me, but he didn't acknowledge me in any other way, having learned long ago that I didn't respond well to fawning. His body was lean and compact. Standing, we'd be on perfect eye level, making him no more than five feet ten. Once, when I'd needed to meet Daniel to deliver a warning from Jeremy, I'd worn two-inch heels and had quite enjoyed the sensation of talking down to Daniel, until he told me how s.e.xy I looked. Since then he'd never seen me in anything but my oldest, grubbiest sneakers.

Today Daniel was wearing a plain black T-s.h.i.+rt and blue jeans, which was pretty much what he wore all the time. He copied Clay's monochromatic, construction-worker-casual wardrobe as if it would lend him a certain cachet. It didn't.

Marsten sat across from Daniel. As usual, he was groomed and dressed like he'd stepped from the pages of GQ, GQ, which only made Daniel look like a slob in comparison. Okay, Karl Marsten made everyone look like a slob. which only made Daniel look like a slob in comparison. Okay, Karl Marsten made everyone look like a slob.

As Nick and I walked in, Marsten stood and strolled to the door to meet us.

"You came," he said to me. "I'm surprised Jeremy let you. Or does he know?"

I mentally kicked myself. I hadn't thought how it would look if I showed up against Jeremy's wishes. Dissension in the Pack. Wonderful. Trust Marsten to pick up on it in five seconds flat.

"You look good, Elena," Marsten continued, not waiting for me to answer. "Tired, but that's to be expected. Hopefully all this will be over soon."

"That depends on you," I said.

"In part." He turned to the server behind the counter. "Two coffees. Black for the lady and-" He looked over at Nick. "One cream, two sugars, correct?"

Nick only glared at him.

"One black. The other with one cream, two sugars," Marsten repeated to the server. "Put it on my tab." He paused, then turned to me with a wry smile. "I can't believe I just said that in a doughnut shop. I have to get out of this town."

I looked away.

"It's been a long time, Nicholas," Marsten continued. "How's your father? I invested in one of his companies last year. Thirty percent return. He certainly hasn't lost his touch."

Ignoring him, Nick sat on a stool at the counter and studied the doughnut display. Marsten took the stool beside him and waved me toward Daniel.

"I'll keep Nicholas company," he said.

Daniel didn't look up as I walked over. He stirred his coffee and acknowledged me only with the barest nod. The server delivered my coffee. I pushed it aside and sat on the bench across the table from Daniel. He kept stirring. For a few seconds, I sat there. Under any other circ.u.mstances, I would have waited to see how long he could stretch this coffee-stirring feigned indifference before he cracked and looked at me. But the time for games was over.

"What do you want?" I asked.

Still stirring, eyes on the mug as if it might skitter away if he stopped watching it. "What do I usually want?"

"Revenge."

He glanced up and met my gaze, then broke eye contact to give me the usual slow once-over. I gritted my teeth and waited. After a few seconds I was tempted to snap my fingers in front of his face and tell him there wasn't that that much of me to look at. much of me to look at.

"You want revenge," I repeated to get his brain back on track.

Daniel leaned back in his seat, pulling one leg up to look oh-so-cool and relaxed. "No, I don't. I've never wanted that. Whatever the Pack did to me, I'm over it. They're not worth my time. But you are."

"Here we go," I muttered.

Daniel ignored me. "I know why you're with them, Elena. Because you're afraid to leave, afraid of what they'll do, and afraid of what will happen to you without their protection. I'm trying to show you that they can't hurt you and they can't protect you. If you want a partner, a true partner, you deserve better than some freak who has to turn around three times before he lies down. I can give you better."