Ascension (5 page)

"I’m sorry," Jeremy said softly as he fingered a rising bruise on my wrist, making sure the bone wasn’t broken. "I shouldn’t have brought you along."

"I’m okay."

A wry quarter-smile and a pat on the back. "I see that. But it shouldn’t have happened. I should have guessed what he was up to back at the house."

"And what
was
he up to?" Peter said. "Besides trying to kill me."

Jeremy motioned for Peter to sit on a rock and began checking his head injury. "That, I’m afraid, was his only goal. To kill you."

"Why?" I asked.

Jeremy looked at me, as if trying to decide whether this was information I needed to have just yet. "What Peter did—killing a human after leaving the Pack—is grounds for execution."

"I know," I said. "If Dominic found out, he’d order someone to kill Peter." I paused. "And that’s Malcolm’s job, isn’t it?"

"Oh, it’s not a job," Peter muttered. "It’s a pleasure."

"So Dominic found out about Peter, didn’t he? He sent Malcolm after him."

"Shit," Peter said, staring at me. "How old is this kid again?"

Jeremy shook his head. "Dominic didn’t send Malcolm. Ordering a Pack member—or a former Pack member—to be killed isn’t, well, it isn’t easy for an Alpha. It would be simpler for all concerned if that Pack member died before the Alpha had to deliver the order. Dominic would . . . appreciate that."

"Oh, I get it now," Peter said. "Malcolm kills me.
Then
he tells Dominic, probably saying I ‘resisted arrest’ or some shit like that. Saves Dominic from ordering an execution. So Malcolm earns himself a pat on the head from the Alpha for solving an ugly problem."

"I believe he hopes to earn more than a pat on the head. He may win Dominic’s gratitude, but I think he’s more interested in making a point to the rest of the Pack, proving that he can take care of problems like this swiftly and efficiently."

"But why?" I asked.

"Don’t tell me he’s angling to make Alpha," Peter said.

"He’s been angling for years," Jeremy said. "Now he’s campaigning."

Both Peter and I opened our mouths, but Jeremy waved away our questions. He proclaimed that Peter might have a mild concussion, but seemed otherwise uninjured. Finally, his attention turned to his own wounds, which were much worse than ours. Besides bruises around his neck, he had a jagged gaping wound down his leg and he winced each time he bent over or straightened, probably from bruised ribs. The leg would require stitches, but for now he wrapped it with strips from his shirt. Then shrugged on his jacket, brushed off our concern and declared himself fit for the walk back to the car.

Malcolm was waiting for us. He wasn’t lurking in the bushes, ready to leap out. That wasn’t his style. Had he wanted to kill Peter, he could have done so back in the clearing.

No one had wondered aloud why Malcolm had cut short his mission, but Jeremy had enough experience with his father to know this wasn’t over. As we walked to the road, Jeremy kept looking from side to side and discreetly sniffing the air as he searched for signs of Malcolm. He had us stick to the middle of the deserted dirt road, as far from the shadows of the embankments as possible.

Jeremy moved slowly, and although part of that was caution, it was also necessity, as his injured leg kept giving way. As we rounded the corner to where he’d pulled the car off into the trees, his foot caught on a root. He tripped and instinctively threw his weight onto his injured leg for balance. His knee buckled and he inhaled sharply.

"Physician, heal thyself," called a voice in the trees.

I caught Jeremy’s arm to brace him, but he only patted my shoulder, slipped from my grasp and pulled himself up straight. When I peered into the darkness, I could make out Malcolm, perched on the trunk of our rental car.

"Leg giving you some trouble?" he said. "That’s funny.
I
feel fine."

To prove it, he leapt off the car and sauntered over. Peter hung back, but Jeremy kept moving forward. When he skirted Malcolm, their eyes met and Malcolm laughed.

"Was that a glare, boy? An actual glare? Well, that’s a start. Of course, a real man would take a swing at me, but that would be to much to hope for, wouldn’t it?"

Jeremy put a hand between my shoulder blades and steered me toward the car.

"Not even going to ask what I want?" Malcolm said.

"We know what you want," Peter said, struggling to throw some bravado into his voice. "Me. But you’re too late. You caught me off guard once. It won’t happen again."

"Of course it will. You’re a child. I could take you down any time. Could have done it back there if I’d wanted. Bet you’re wondering why I didn’t, aren’t you?"

"I know why you didn’t," Jeremy said as he unlocked the car. "You could justify killing him quickly, and argue self-defense, but once Clayton and I became involved, things became more complicated. Kill Peter under those circumstances, and the Pack will wonder why you carried out his punishment yourself, instead of bringing him in. So now you’re falling back on plan B—demanding that I turn him over so you can bring him to Dominic."

"You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?"

"No, but you asked what I thought, so I told you. Clayton? Peter? In the car, please."

"He’s not going—" Malcolm began.

Jeremy turned to his father. "I called Dominic this afternoon. He knows I’m with Peter, and that I want to negotiate his return to the Pack. If you bring Peter in and tell Dominic what he did, then he has to order Peter’s death. Given the choice between negotiating a pardon and killing a former Pack member, which do you think he’d prefer?"

"You’re bluffing," Malcolm said. "You haven’t called him."

Malcolm searched his son’s face for some sign that he was lying but Jeremy’s shuttered expression gave nothing away.

Malcolm rolled his shoulders and leaned against the car. "You know you’re being played, don’t you?"

"By Peter? No, I told him to call—"

"I don’t mean Peter. I’m not a fool, boy. I know why you’re doing all this. You think it’ll help you weasel in closer to Dominic, prove what a good Alpha you’d make."

"I—"

"You think you’re being clever, proving yourself to Dominic, taking over his duties. But the truth is, you’re being played and you don’t even know it. Sure, Dominic might name you as his choice. In the end, though, that doesn’t mean piss-all and we both know it. Even
he
knows it. So why is he going through all this trouble, making the Pack think he wants you to succeed him? Because it buys him time. No one seriously considers you Alpha material, so no one’s going to push for Dominic to step down and let you take over. He trains you as Alpha, and he looks like he’s doing his job, planning for the future, but the truth is, he’s just securing his place for another ten years."

"No one’s playing me," Jeremy said softly.

Malcolm threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, but you’re a fool. A fool twice in one night, too. That must be a record. You know, I could have killed your boy out there. You led him right to me, and then you couldn’t even protect him."

Jeremy flinched. He tried to cover the reaction, but couldn’t.

Malcolm smiled. "Piss-poor guardian you are. Hell, he protects you better than you protect him."

Jeremy saw me still standing beside him and waved me into the car.

"He’s not moving until you’re safe in that car," Malcolm said. "You should have seen him when I had you down—a regular little ball of rage, all fangs and fury. He’s got it. Whatever you lack, boy, he’s got in spades. You know that?"

Jeremy met his father’s gaze. "Yes, I do." He rumpled my hair, a rare show of affection, and nudged me toward the car. "I’m getting in now, Clay. Go on."

"I want to train him," Malcolm said.

Jeremy stopped, hand on the door, and slowly turned to his father. "You want . . .?"

"You heard me. I want to train the boy. Teach him how to fight."

Jeremy stood there, struggling to make sense of this request. I saw the sense, though. As much as I loathed Malcolm, I saw the benefit in what he was offering. Jeremy and Antonio had taught me a lot, but after that night, I knew it wasn’t enough. If I wanted to protect Jeremy against Malcolm, there was only one person who could teach me how to do it: Malcolm himself. As for why he was offering, even at that age I knew he had to have an ulterior motive, probably to turn me against Jeremy, but that would never—
could
never—happen.

"Let him train me," I said.

Jeremy blinked and, for a split second, I feared I’d made a horrible mistake, that even accepting Malcolm’s offer would make Jeremy doubt my allegiance. But after that first blink of surprise, he gave a slow nod.

"Let me take Peter back to Dominic," Jeremy said. "What happened here—all of it—is never mentioned again. In return, I’ll allow you to train Clayton. But only under my supervision."

"Fine by me," Malcolm said. "Who knows, you might even learn something." He looked down at me. "I’ll see you back at Stonehaven then, Clay. Make sure you rest up. We have a lot of work ahead of us, unlearning all those bad habits."

He smiled, clapped me on the back, then turned and strolled off into the night.

Angst

Malcolm kept his end of the bargain and we kept ours. Jeremy negotiated Peter’s return to the Pack. Dominic never found out what happened in
Los Angeles
, and if he ever suspected anything, he pretended otherwise. As Jeremy had said, given the choice between reuniting a young werewolf with the Pack or executing him, Dominic would pick the former any day.

So Malcolm taught me to fight. I still took the majority of my lessons from Jeremy and Antonio because they were around more often, but when Malcolm was at Stonehaven, he trained me every afternoon, from lunch until dinner. His motivation? Well, that wasn’t immediately apparent. He didn’t use the lessons as an opportunity to mock Jeremy; although Jeremy was always present, Malcolm acted as if he wasn’t there. Nor did Malcolm use the lessons to woo me from Jeremy’s side in any overt way. He was a harsh taskmaster and I often left my lessons exhausted and covered in bruises, but every bruise was earned in combat, and he never treated me in any way that could ever be interpreted as abusive.

One person who was never happy with the arrangement was Antonio. I’m sure he was put out by the insinuation that his teachings were less than perfect, but there was more to it than that. When Antonio had been a teenager, Malcolm had made him the same offer: to train him. Antonio had flat out refused. When Antonio found out Jeremy had agreed to let Malcolm train me, he hit the roof. Argued with Jeremy like I’d never heard them argue before, then stomped out the door, left Stonehaven and didn’t return for nearly a month.

When he did return, he barreled in, found us in the study and lit into Jeremy as if he’d only just left.

"I can’t believe you’d do that. After everything that son of a bitch has done to you, I cannot believe you’d let him near Clayton."

Jeremy laid down his book and looked up calmly. "I’m always there."

"And that makes it okay? Goddamn it, Jeremy, you’re giving him what he wanted.
You’re
his son. Not me. Not Clayton. If he can’t accept you, that’s his problem."

"So you think I’m offering up Clay as a substitute? Sacrificing him to placate my father?"

"Hell, no. Never. You want Clay to learn how to fight. I get that. But I can teach him and you can teach him, and he doesn’t need some psycho—"

"Yes, he does. Malcolm is the best fighter we have, and that’s what I want for Clay. To learn from the best so he can be the best, because the better he can fight, the less he’ll have to."

"What?"

"You heard me. The better he can fight, the less he’ll have to."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it says. If you want to stay for dinner, there’s stew on the stove. Clay? Can you set the table, please?" He glanced at Antonio. "I managed to stash a few bottles of wine in the basement storage room, where Malcolm wouldn’t find them. It’s a beef stew, so red would be best, if you’d like to grab a bottle."

Antonio threw up his hands and stomped off to the basement.

So Malcolm continued to train me, and seemed happy enough to do it just for the sake of doing it, of having someplace to direct his energy when he was at Stonehaven. As the first year passed, his treatment of Jeremy changed too. Not that he treated him any better. Instead he began to extend his attitude toward Jeremy on the training grounds into our daily lives. He ignored him. Now and then, he couldn’t resist tossing off a barb or an insult, but as time passed, he no longer seemed to take the pleasure in it that he once had and preferred to carry on as if Jeremy wasn’t there, which suited us all just fine.

I started high school at thirteen. As concerned as Jeremy was about my social maturity, I think he was more concerned about me getting bored if I didn’t find school challenging enough, so he applied to have me start a year early at a private school outside
Syracuse
. At first, the school balked. They didn’t like to advance anyone that way, particularly someone who’d been home schooled. But, as Jeremy argued, having been born in January, I was only a few weeks younger than some other kids who would be starting ninth grade that fall. Still, they hemmed and they hawwed, and they put me through a whole battery of tests. Then they gave me an IQ test. When they didn’t believe the results of the first one, they administered a second. Then they declared I was indeed ready for high school.