Otherworld Nights (27 page)

I blinked and yawned.

“Uncle Nick and Reese are up,” she whispered.

I glanced at Logan, sitting beside her. Behind him, Clay was sound asleep.

I nodded. “Go on.”

Once they’d left, I padded to the door and locked it. Then I reached under the bed to retrieve something I’d stowed there the day before. The next maneuver was tricky, but Clay was so soundly asleep that I managed it with barely a hitch in his breathing.

When I was done, I tugged back the covers. He didn’t notice the sudden draft and kept sleeping.

He’d worn sweatpants to bed, for the sake of the kids, but his chest was bare and he was lying on his back, arms over his head. It was a very nice image. Being Pack enforcer means Clay is in amazing shape. He has to be—he doesn’t have the natural advantage of size, like some werewolves. Average height, average build. Above-average body. Perfectly toned biceps, muscled back and chest, flat stomach.

When we’d take the twins to parent–tot swimming lessons, Clay would walk out of the changing room and mothers who’d gawked at him clothed would almost fall into the pool. But when they took a closer look, the frowns would come, then the confusion and
concern, and the questions. Is your husband a war vet? Was he in an accident? Because, as perfect as Clay’s body appeared, on a closer look, you saw the scars. Decades-old white ones. Pinkish newer ones. Pits and divots, from chunks ripped out in wolf fights. And on his right arm, the ruts of missing tissue, cut out after an infection that left the limb forever weakened.

The overall damage isn’t disfiguring, but on an otherwise jaw-dropping guy, it’s discomfiting. Women look at that map of scars and they’re horrified. I look at it and I see his life story. I can trace every scar with my eyes closed. I know where each one came from. A few are even from me. Some friendly fire, some not.

I have scars, too. Not nearly as many, but enough that I used to be uncomfortable in a bathing suit. I’ve gotten over it. They’re part of my life story, too. Who I am. Who I’ve chosen to be.

I leaned over Clay now, the tips of my hair tickling his chest, my fingers running across a few of those old scars, remembering. But that wasn’t what I was here for, so I pushed the memories aside and settled for admiring then touching him, tasting him, testing exactly how soundly asleep he was. When I flicked my tongue over his nipples, he groaned softly but didn’t wake. Very soundly asleep. Good.

I carefully tugged down his sweatpants and boxers. Then I set about waking him up. It took a few minutes. The soft groans slowly deepened to a delicious growl, a sound more felt than heard, vibrating through him. Finally, a gasp. His eyes opened. He chuckled. He tried to reach for me. Then he grunted in surprise.

I lifted my head. He was arching back to look at the rope binding his wrists to the headboard. He gave an experimental tug. Then his fingers slid to the knots.

“Do they pass muster?” I said. “I used a constrictor knot, like you suggested.”

He looked down at me, lips curving in a sleepy grin. He flexed his fingers, motioning for me to come up.

I shook my head. “I’m good. And since you’re stuck, I can do what I want. And what I want to do”—I lowered my head—“is finish what I started. Acceptable?”

“Don’t have much say in the matter, do I?”

“Tragic.”

“It is.” He grinned, thumped back on the pillows, and let me continue.

We spent the morning with the kids. I did cheat a bit, skipping a walk to “do a few things around the house.” Clay bustled the twins off before they could protest. I did tidy up, but spent most of the time on my laptop. Research on the Eatons and on disappearances in North Bay, nothing much turning up on either.

I called Jeremy. He shared my opinion of the situation. There was definitely something going on with the Eaton brothers. Likely Mark was the culprit and his big brother was hiding him.

Jeremy shared my risk assessment, too. Minimal. Eaton knew there were at least three adult werewolves here. He wouldn’t risk a strike against us. If Mark was a man-eater, the chances he’d kill again soon were small.

Given all that, Jeremy also seemed to share Clay’s hope—that the Eatons would bolt and we could relax, enjoy our Christmas, and take care of them in the New Year. Jeremy couldn’t say that, of course. Man-eating was a serious offense that we had to pursue with full vigor. But he made it clear that if the Eatons ran, chasing them would be a waste of time until we had more information.

He also agreed that taking the morning off was fine. I’d seeded my journalist story. We could relax, let that spread, and see what came of it. Honestly? I didn’t expect anything, and I don’t think Jeremy did, either, but he let me have the excuse.

We talked about the kids, and about Kate’s questions, too. Jeremy listened and said little. Part of that was transitioning me to
Alphahood, when he’d still be there to give advice when asked but wouldn’t offer it. And part of it was just his general approach to the rearing of our children. He played a huge role in their lives, but Clay and I were their parents. We made those decisions.

Instead, I posed questions about children in the Pack, the process of telling them, and the Pack’s history with it. What had gone wrong? How had the Pack dealt with it? I didn’t ask for his opinion or advice. I’d gotten that when the twins were born. Now it was up to me.

We left after lunch. As planned, we swapped Noah for Reese. Telling Reese he was being taken along as bait had been my job and not one I’d enjoyed.

It seemed simple enough. I was asking him to flirt with girls, not brawl with a biker gang. For Reese, though, I think the brawl would have been less painful.

Like I said, Reese comes with baggage. The issue that caused Nick the most consternation, though, was his complete disinterest in dating. When we sent Reese and Noah to the Sorrentinos, Antonio had decided to step back and let Nick take on the role of guardian. It’d been the right move. When I was pregnant, Nick admitted he’d started thinking about a child of his own. Once the twins came along, he realized single fatherhood was not for him. Taking in Noah and Reese had eventually satisfied that parenting instinct. But at first, the only thing Nick felt confident helping them with was girls.

I tease Nick about being a player. He isn’t. No woman who dates him is ever under the illusion that she has him to herself. He’s had exclusive relationships, but they’re definitely the exception. If a woman hopes to change that, then chances are she won’t even get into his bed, because by his age he’s developed a razor-sharp sixth sense for women who say they’re good with sex and friendship
when they’re really hoping for a wedding ring—or at least a set of house keys.

When Reese first went to live with them, Nick had gone through his little black book, looking for a woman with younger sisters, nieces, et cetera. Because, really, what better way to welcome a young guy and take his mind off his maimed hand? There were parties and double dates in those early days, when Reese wasn’t comfortable refusing. But Nick figured out fast that the dates weren’t leading to hookups or even second dates. I knew why—his parents had died because Reese fell in love with the wrong girl. Nick didn’t know that, but I’d convinced him to respect Reese’s decision and be patient with him, even if he did worry that prolonged celibacy really couldn’t be good for the young werewolf’s health.

So asking Reese to flirt with girls was not as easy as it sounded. But I did it because part of being an Alpha is giving orders you know your Pack won’t like. While you can respect their issues, and help them work past them, you can’t let those issues get in the way of their Pack responsibilities.

F
inding Lori was less of a problem than we expected. She was at the Tim Hortons with her friends again. I sent Reese in ahead of us. Clay and I circled the block, then followed. We weren’t averse to her knowing Reese was with us, but we didn’t want to advertise it, either.

When we got into the coffee shop, Reese was standing beside the girls’ table. He’d bought a coffee and stopped to ask them something—recommendations for a bar, it sounded like. He was playing it cool, takeout coffee in hand, looking ready to leave once the conversation ended, but I could already tell they had no intention of letting him get away that quickly. They’d known every guy in town from birth, and now here was a cute Aussie. By the time we’d bought our coffee, they’d persuaded him to take a seat.

We took a table across the shop. The noise level—lots of patrons chattering and calling out holiday wishes—meant we couldn’t hear Reese, but that was intentional. If I could listen in, I would, and they might figure out we were eavesdropping. Better to trust Reese.

We’d barely taken our seats when I noticed a girl watching us. Watching
me
, not Clay, which was good, because she looked about fourteen. All it took from me was a smile and she zipped over.

“Are you the reporter?” she asked. “The one writing about the wolves?”

“I am.” I gestured to the empty seat beside me.

She didn’t sit, just stood there, clutching a hot chocolate.

I waited a beat, then said, “Are you interested in wolves?” It was
a decent bet. She was too young to have been at the party. Well, no—that’s the mother in me, who’d like to think fourteen-year-olds wouldn’t party with college-aged kids. But this one didn’t look like the type.

She sat quickly and blurted, “I think it was wolves. That killed and …” She swallowed. “Everyone says the wolves don’t come down here, but my little sister saw one in the woods behind our house.”

“A wolf?”

She nodded. “A black one.”

That had Clay’s head snapping up. “Black?”

“There is such a thing,” she said, her chin lifting. “I looked it up. Eastern wolves are never black, but gray wolves can be.” She hesitated, then added, “It might not have been a full wolf, though. She said it had blue eyes, and it was really big.”

Shit.

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“In September. Before my stepdad came for Peyton—that’s my sister.”

Peyton. The little girl who’d gone missing. And she’d seen what seemed to be one of the Eatons in wolf form shortly before she disappeared?

“Your sister,” I said. “Have you heard from her?”

“Oh, sure. Her and my stepdad call every week. They’re hoping to come up for Christmas, maybe New Year’s. My mom and my stepdad are still working out custody stuff, but I think Mom’s okay with Peyton staying with him.”

The girl was definitely with her father, then. I exhaled in relief. Yet if the Eatons were getting that close to children while in wolf form, that was a problem. A big one.

I talked to the girl and made notes, so I’d seem like I was really a reporter. While we chatted, I noticed someone waiting his turn to speak to me. A bearded man in a plaid jacket. I smiled and nodded, acknowledging him. I didn’t rush the girl, but I didn’t prolong the
conversation, either. When she was ready to go, I thanked her for her information and gave her my e-mail address.

She’d barely vacated her chair before the bearded man slid into it. He nodded to Clay first.

“I’m Bobby Walters,” he said. “I hear Doc Woolcott talked to you about the Mitchell boy.”

The man’s name sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure why until he said, “My dogs didn’t eat that boy. I know the doc thinks they did, and I’m sure that’s what he told you, but they didn’t.”

“Okay.”

He leaned forward, as if waiting for me to challenge him. When I didn’t, he pulled back and ran his tongue over his wind-chapped lips.

“They didn’t,” he said. “When I went out that morning, they were all in the pen. They were all hungry. None of them had got out. I’m real careful about that, because they did escape a few times after I built the new kennel. There’s bear in these woods and damned fool city hunters who don’t know a wolf from a husky. I gotta look after my dogs. I can’t let them get out. I’ve taken care of that.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

I looked at him. “I’m not from the SPCA. I’m not from an animal rights group. I’m not trying to blame anyone for what happened. I’m just gathering data for an article that covers over a dozen incidents like this. If I find that wolves seemed responsible, that’s okay. If it seems to be dogs, that’s okay, too. It’s all just data. Even if you told me your dogs did it, I wouldn’t report that to anyone. It’s not my concern.”

“They didn’t do it.”

“Okay.”

“They were in the kennel all night.”

“Okay.”

He stayed for another minute, and I realized he wanted me to argue, because he wanted the chance to defend himself and his
dogs. Not to me, but to everyone sitting around us, listening in. People blamed them, and he knew it. When I wouldn’t argue—and Clay didn’t say a word—there was nothing he could do but leave.

As Walters was leaving, Reese got my attention, motioning that he was done. I nodded, and gestured discreetly to let us leave first.

We got out the door, and saw a familiar face heading our way—Douglas Eaton, his shoulders hunched against the cold, no coat on, walking fast, Tim Hortons debit card in his hand.

When he saw us, I expected him to decide he really didn’t need that caffeine hit after all. He did glance behind him, but only to look at Walters, who was climbing into his truck. Walters waved and shouted something about poker. Eaton replied. Once Walters had driven off, Eaton sped up again until he reached us.

“Morning.” He managed a smile for me. “Getting your Timmy’s?”

“I was.”

“You’re Canadian, right? I mean, I’d heard that.” A spark of panic, his gaze shooting to Clay. “Not that I was prying—”

“It isn’t a secret,” I said. “I grew up in southwestern Ontario. Went to U of T. So, yes”—I lifted my almost empty cup—“getting my Timmy’s. Not a double-double, though.”

A nod and a more genuine smile at that, but still cautious. “I, uh, see Bobby was in there. He’s the guy I mentioned to your friend. With the sled dogs.” He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was close enough to overhear, then lowered his voice. “He was telling you his dogs didn’t eat that boy, wasn’t he?”