Frostbitten (21 page)

For twenty years I’d been the only female werewolf in a world of men who viewed women not as mothers and sisters and girlfriends and wives, but as receptacles for satisfying two basic drives: sex and reproduction. Some saw me and yearned for what they couldn’t have—a partner, a mate, a woman who would understand and accept them and share their lives completely. Others felt a very different yearning—the drive to take revenge on Clay for enforcing Pack law or to step up on the hierarchy ladder by hurting the man one rung from the top.

After all those years, all those encounters, attempted rape should be par for the course. I should have dealt with it again and again, until I finally expunged the demons of my childhood and those old wounds scarred over, tough and impenetrable. But they hadn’t.

There had been a few halfhearted attempts—mutts who weren’t rapists, by nature, but thought it would be an easy way to hurt Clay. Property trespass more than sexual assault. It hadn’t taken much of a fight to dissuade them, and I’d never felt seriously threatened.

For the rest, they’d dreamed of sex not rape, of sweaty hand-to-hand combat, bites turning to bruising kisses, punches to rough gropes and eager caresses. Mutual passionate sex—their egos would never accept anything less. They wanted to show me that they’d be a better mate than Clay—a better lover, a better partner, certainly a saner one. When seduction failed, most backed off, leaving the delusional few who were convinced it was only a matter of time before I came around.

For twenty years, I’d shattered illusions. Illusions of revenge. Illusions of love. Illusions of sex. But not illusions of rape. These men had never felt inferior to a woman—a mere human—so they’d never felt the need to prove their superiority. Now I’d met a mutt who did and he was still out there, thwarted and waiting for his chance to try again.

I had only to think about it and somewhere inside me, I was twelve years old again, shivering under the covers, praying he wouldn’t come tonight and knowing if he did, there was nothing I could do.

When the warehouse door opened, I jumped. Clay closed it and paused, back to me, collecting himself before turning and fixing a neutral expression on his face. It was a struggle, and he soon gave up, lines deepening around his mouth and between his eyes, face pale and drawn. Blood flecked his shirt and neck. More speckled one cheek. I tried not to think about how it got there.

“Done?” I asked.

“Almost. He’s out cold. I’m checking in before I finish.”

“Did he give you anything?”

“A bit. Not enough.”

Dan had admitted that Tesler killed Dennis in a territorial dispute. He said Dennis had found them and ordered them out of Alaska. He’d challenged Tesler, they’d fought, Dennis died and Tesler had tied his body up in the cabin to make it look like a break-and-enter gone bad.

Which was bullshit. Dennis might have gotten more “in touch with his inner werewolf,” but that inner werewolf still would have taken one look at Tesler’s hulking outer wolf and run the other way. What we’d seen on Dennis’s body were the signs of torture, not a fair fight.

When asked about this, though, Podrova had laughed. Were we not torturing him for information? What, then, did we think Tesler wanted? As for what, Podrova got vague again, but he hazarded a few guesses—bank account details, keys to Dennis’s truck… If Tesler was going to waste time killing the guy, he sure as hell was going to make sure he turned a profit. Sadly, given everything we’d seen and heard of Tesler, this made sense. Though it had been hard to gauge the extent of the torture, it had seemed the kind of thing thugs would do, tying up a homeowner and making him give PINs and passwords so they could empty his accounts.

Podrova also admitted they’d had contact with Joey. They left him alone because they had an agreement with him. As for what that agreement was, he had no idea—that was Eddie Tesler’s area. Apparently, baby brother was the brains of the operation, which didn’t surprise me—Roman said the gang was smart and Travis Tesler didn’t strike me as a deep thinker. All Podrova knew was that for now, Joey was untouchable.

Podrova had also admitted that their pack was responsible for the wolf kills. Well, the first, at least. One of the other members had killed him, and that’s why he’d been sent away on business—in punishment. Eddie didn’t tolerate man-killing. Like the rapes, it wasn’t conducive to a settled lifestyle.

As for the other two victims, Podrova knew nothing about them. Yes, the last one had been found close to where they Changed and ran, at a spot away from their cabin, which Eddie insisted on. But none of them knew why a human would be killed, apparently by large canines, in that same spot.

Clay suspected Podrova himself was responsible for the two unclaimed killings, that he’d acted on his own and covered his ass so he wouldn’t be sent away like his comrade. Now he continued covering it, afraid that being outed as a man-eater would seal his fate with us. But of all the issues and questions, this was least important. We knew they were responsible.

There was a limit to how far Clay could push, and how much pain he could inflict while keeping the subject conscious and lucid, so he’d moved to what he knew was another important issue for me: the missing young women. And here is where, driven to his limit, Podrova no longer bothered being cagey. Yes, he was sure Tesler had taken those girls. When their little pack moved to Alaska, Eddie insisted his older brother lose the habit. Law enforcement would be stricter and more advanced here, and if they were settling in for the long term, they had to be more careful.

So while Podrova had no proof of it, he was certain those girls hadn’t just coincidentally vanished after they arrived. Just as he was sure there would be more.

“And that’s all he said. But what you really want to know is: where the hell is that cabin so you can stop this bastard? He says he doesn’t know where it is, and as stupid as that sounds, and I believe him. The Teslers do all the driving. This guy just goes along for the ride. He knows it’s south of the city. He knows it’s about an hour’s drive. He knows they pass that service center before they turn off because they like the pizza there, so they stop in on the way back. Then, after they get back on the highway, drive awhile, then turn. And turn. And turn…”

I groaned.

“Yeah, it’s like getting to Dennis’s place, only it seems even farther in the woods. It’s the same deal, too, where you can’t get there in the winter except by snowmobile.”

“But they bought the cabin, so if we research real estate transactions in the right time period…” I saw his expression and stopped. “They didn’t buy it, did they?”

“This guy has no fucking idea, darling. All he knows is they came to Anchorage and they moved into a big cottage that was already furnished. The Teslers might have bought it. Or they might have killed the owners. Or they might just be squatting in some out-of-towner’s summer cabin. This mutt does as he’s told and he doesn’t clutter his brain with details. He’s just happy to have an Alpha to tell him what to do.” He swiped the blood from his cheek. “I’m not going to get anything more from him on that, but if there’s something else…”

There was more I
wanted
to get, but nothing he
could
get. If the mutt was unconscious, he’d passed the breaking point. Even if Clay could rouse him, he’d had a taste of painless oblivion and he’d spout whatever lies Clay seemed to want to hear if it would take him back there.

“That’s enough,” I said. “I’ll help with the rest.”

“I’ve got it.”

“You’re going to need to bury—”

“It’s a dirt floor and tools. I’ll make do.”

“But I can—”

“Got it.”

He went back inside. When he came out later, he carried a bag, presumably holding any belongings that could identify the dead man. We walked to the shore where I helped him clean off the blood. By the time we’d finished, his mood had lifted. He wasn’t ready for cracking jokes, but he’d returned to a quiet equilibrium.

I used to think that Clay didn’t feel anything when he had to torture mutts. He does; he just doesn’t let it linger. It’s part of the job and part of the man he’s chosen to be—the sadistic psycho that mutts use to scare their sons. With a reputation like that, no one dares cross him to get to the Alpha, which is the point. But the problem with being a legend is that you have to live up to it.

I might wish sometimes that it could be different, that we could rule by reason and justice instead of might and fear. But it won’t happen. Not in my lifetime. Like Jeremy, I can rule
with
reason and justice, but no one will listen without that sharp end of the stick.

* * * *

We’d barely started walking back to the hotel when I finally blurted it out.

“I got a letter last week. From one of my foster parents.”

“One of the men?” he asked. He knew I didn’t like calling them “foster fathers.”

I nodded, then stuffed my hands in my pockets. “We can discuss it later. I know this isn’t the time. I just—I should talk about it and I keep avoiding it, so now that you know, you can… I don’t know. Just forget—”

“There’s a damned good reason you mentioned it now.”

He looked over, catching my gaze. He was right, of course. What happened to me with Travis Tesler resurrected an issue that hadn’t been buried very deeply.

Clay asked who sent the letter. He wasn’t asking for a name. He wouldn’t recognize it. There’d been a time, back in the beginning, after he bit me and was frantically trying to make amends, that he’d asked for names. He hadn’t been surprised when I wouldn’t give them.

Years ago, I’d sent letters to the Children’s Aid Society and warned them about the families I’d had trouble with. By then, most weren’t fostering anymore. But for those that were, I was assured my concerns would be investigated, and in follow-ups, the remaining few had been removed from the list. So no other children were in danger, and that’s all that had mattered to me. All that
should
matter.

Clay wouldn’t necessarily agree. When we’d been dating, he’d gone after an old foster brother who’d been stalking me. Beat him brutally. I was there. I saw it. And I don’t know what horrified me more—watching it or wishing I’d been the one delivering the blows.

That was the beginning of where things had gone wrong for us. In asking for the names of the men who’d abused me, Clay had only been grasping at straws, desperate to find a way to prove his love.

Even later, when I would talk to him about what had happened, I think he felt that something should be done. By unspoken agreement, then, we never referred to them by name, so now, when he asked which one sent the letter, I said only, “Maple Street.”

He swore. Slipped his arm around my waist. Pulled me closer as we walked up the hill to the hotel.

“He’s going through therapy,” I said.

“Electroshock?”

I couldn’t suppress a smile. “Unfortunately, no. But as part of this therapy, he’s supposed to contact his victims and ask—” I choked on the word. “Ask for forgiveness.”

Clay’s reaction to that was predictable. And, again, it made me smile, and wish I’d told him the day the letter arrived. It was like his reaction to Mallory Hirsch’s bitchy treatment of me—there was a great deal of pleasure to be found in imagining unleashing him on those who wronged me, even if I knew I’d never actually do it, that the guilt would outweigh the pleasure.

“I hope you told him where to stuff it,” he said finally.

“I don’t forgive him,” I said.

“Hell, no, you don’t. And why should you? So he can feel better? Get on with his life? And what’s he done to help you get on with yours?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I wished I’d kept the letter so I could fly to Ontario, march up to him and…

And I don’t know what. Not hurt him. Just show him that I didn’t need his apology, I guess. Show him that I was okay. Better than okay. I was happy, in spite of everything he’d done to me, and no, I didn’t forgive him. God help me, I would not forgive him.

“Sending you that letter was wrong,” Clay said. “I don’t give a fuck how bad he feels. What kind of therapist rips open the past by making him send a letter like that?”

“I’m sure it helps some victims.”

“Well, not all. And it’s irresponsible to pull that shit.”

I nodded. And, again, I wished I’d told him earlier, because this was exactly what I wanted to hear, vindication that I had a right to be pissed off, vindication that I had a right not to want to reopen those old wounds.

Maybe a therapist would tell me this proved I wasn’t healed. How I’d reacted to Tesler also proved I wasn’t healed. When I said as much to Clay, though, he shook his head.

“The reason Tesler freaked you out is
because
of that letter. It brought all that shit to the surface, and it was just fucking bad luck that Tesler came along and tapped into it. But that’s over. He’s a coward and you know it now. Hopefully, you’ll never have to deal with him again—not alone, anyway, but if you do, then just show him who’s boss and he’ll run like hell. You’re a better fighter than him. Don’t forget it.”

I nodded, but this time, I wasn’t so sure I agreed. When Clay seemed ready to pursue it, though, I gestured at the bag he was holding.

“You took the mutt’s clothing?” I said. “We’ll need to find a place to burn it.”