Frostbitten (9 page)

There were truths in this, as in all mythology. The child werewolf. The axe-job and photos. The bite. But it was all vastly more complicated than any mutt’s urban-legend version allowed. Now, seeing us together, hearing us talking, we seemed like a normal couple… or as normal as any couple who knew how to field-dress severed fingers.

“So,” Clay said as he repacked my medical bag. “Your hand. Mutt do that?”

Reese flinched at the word. Some do, taking it as derogatory. Others wear it as a badge of honor. Most don’t care, the word having long since lost its bite, a label no different than “Pack wolf.” But seeing Reese’s reaction, I quickly said, “Another werewolf, I take it?”

He nodded. “I was in the museum this morning. The art and history one on Seventh Street.”

He explained that he’d gone, pulled by a mild interest in history coupled with the conviction that if any werewolf had followed him to Alaska, a museum would be the last place we’d look.

For Liam and Ramon, I was sure that was true. These were two guys who’d have trouble spelling
museum
. For Clay, though, there was no city attraction he was
more
likely to be found at. But I didn’t mention that.

Reese’s logic, while sound, didn’t help him. He was found there, by two mutts who’d introduced themselves as Travis and Dan. They’d crossed his trail a couple of blocks away and followed it to check him out, as any werewolf would upon scenting another in the same city.

They seemed relieved to find he was just a kid—in our world twenty years old is still “just a kid”—meaning he’d have little fighting experience and no reputation. They were fine with Reese being in Alaska—temporarily, they hoped. He was no threat to them and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he was welcome to visit. They even gave him some advice on cheap motels, good buffets, safe places to run…

Friendly enough without being overly hospitable, which struck the right balance for a kid who’d already been burned. In the course of the conversation, Travis noticed Reese’s class ring. He asked about the insignia. Reese let him take a closer look.

“Travis was checking it out, holding the end of my fingers. That’s when it happened, so fast I didn’t see the knife until…” He paled at the memory. “If I hadn’t yanked back right then, he would have taken both fingers right off. I ran. I shoved my hand in my pocket and I ran as fast as I could. I could hear them coming after me. So I raced past this guard—an old guy. By the time he got up and yelled at me, I was out the door, but it made Travis and Dan pull back. There was a cab right out front. I got in and came here. I—I guess they wanted the ring, but it wasn’t anything special. Just a high school ring.”

“It wasn’t about the ring,” Clay said. “It was a warning. Get off our territory.”

“Then why not just tell me to? Why act all nice, then—” He lifted his hand. “Do this?”

“How do you feel?” Clay asked.

Reese’s face darkened. “How the hell do you think I feel? I lost my fucking fingers.”

“Scared? Confused?”

“Hell, yes.”

“And what were you going to do after you got it cleaned up? Tell the desk clerk you’ll be staying a few more days, extending your Alaskan vacation?”

“Fuck no. I would have been on the first plane—” He stopped and nodded. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Strike hard and fast, catch you off guard and scare the crap out of you. Lot more effective than giving a friendly warning and hoping you don’t stab them in the back.”

I asked about the mutts. He gave me a description. Travis was “huge.” At least six foot four and buff. The rest of him hadn’t left much of an impression—brown hair, he thought, neither long nor short. No idea what color his eyes were. No distinguishing marks.

Travis’s size had blinded Reese not only to what
he
looked like, but to his companion. All he could say about Dan was two things. First, he was smaller. Second, he was Russian—he’d spoken little, but when he did, it was with a heavy accent. Oh, and while Travis’s English was perfect and had an American accent, he’d had a few exchanges with Dan in Russian.

They didn’t match anyone from my dossiers. Between Dan’s accent and Travis’s Russian, I guessed they’d been living abroad.

“We’ll go back to the museum,” I said to Clay. “I doubt they’re hanging around, but I want to check the scents. Chances are these are the same guys we smelled in the woods.”

“Hope so,” Clay said.

I agreed. Multiple groups of werewolves in the Anchorage area were more than I cared to contemplate. Our simple trip had already become far too complicated.

“I’ll take you there,” Reese said. “I can show you where I was attacked.”

“Just tell us where to look, and we’ll pick up the scents. They’re probably gone, but they could be staking it out, and you’ve already gotten hurt.”

“And that’s why I
want
to go back.” He flushed. “I ran away.”

“You’d just lost two fingers. Running away was the right thing to do.”

Reese glanced at Clay. I knew better than to hope he’d back me up just to make the kid feel better. Reese probably knew that, too, which is why he ignored my reassurances and looked to Clay.

“If the guy’s as big as you said, then, yeah, nothing wrong with running,” he said. “But if you think you’re going back now, hoping for payback? With us to watch your back and jump in if you can’t handle it?”

Reese flushed again, deeper now. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. But you didn’t think it through either. If we meet up with these mutts, we can’t be looking over our shoulders, keeping an eye on an injured kid itching for revenge. Elena came to Alaska to save your ass. I’m not letting you get killed now, making her feel bad.”

I cleared my throat and shot him a look that said, really, this should not be the reason he didn’t want Reese dead. But one glance at Reese told me that, if anything, he was relieved by Clay’s honesty.

“All right then,” Reese said. “I’ll tell you whatever you need, then I’ll hit the road.”

I shook my head. “While Clay’s right—you do need to leave Alaska—I’d like you to stay with a Pack member until we finish here.”

“I appreciate the offer, but that’s not necessary.”

“Actually, it is. You’re injured and you’re still in danger—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

“As fine as Yuli Etxeberria?”

“Who?”

“The last guy Liam and Ramon blamed for their man-eating. He was a few years older than you and a recent immigrant. Lost some fingers, too. In his case, the whole hand—postmortem. Liam and Ramon mailed it to us. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They’ve done it before, and blamed another kid, and if you stick around, you’ll be their next scapegoat.”

“So you just wanted to warn me?”

“And see what you know about Liam and Ramon,” Clay said. “Get your help finding them and proving they’re man-eaters.”

I’d planned to keep that part quiet until I’d won the kid’s confidence, but now that Clay said it, Reese looked relieved again.

“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked me.

“Well, maybe because you kept taking off before I could explain, convinced Clay was lurking around the next corner.”

“I don’t lurk,” Clay said.

“I’ll tell you what I can about Liam and Ramon,” Reese said. “Then I’ll find someplace and lie low.”

“If you’re going anyplace on the continent, it’s New York state,” I said. “As a guest of the Pack.”

Reese looked at Clay.

“If you die, she’ll feel bad. I don’t like it when she feels bad.”

“Either that or I put you on the next plane back to Australia,” I said.

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m—I’m here for good.”

That could mean he’d done something back home and couldn’t return, but from the look in his eyes—determination mingled with dread—I knew it was more personal.

“All right then,” I said. “You’re staying with the Pack until Clay and I get back and take care of this business with Liam and Ramon.”

“So where do you want me to stay? Syracuse?”

“That’s where the Alpha lives,” Clay said, as if this answered the question, which for him, it did.

“Another Pack family lives outside New York City,” I said. “They have a big place, with lots of room. You’ll stay with them.”

“The Sorrentinos.”

“That’s right.”

“And they’ll just let me move in for a while?”

“Antonio will put you to work,” Clay said.

Reese nodded, visibly relieved. In his world, this made sense—no one helps out of the goodness of his heart, and if he says he does, run the other way, as fast as you can.

Reese agreed and we made the arrangements. Nick would meet him at the airport. Tomorrow morning Jeremy would leave the twins with Jaime and drive to Antonio’s place to check Reese’s fingers.

We drove Reese to the airport. On the way, Clay gave him “the lecture,” including all the do’s and don’ts of meeting the Alpha, which was only slightly more complicated than an audience with the queen. Don’t sit until you’re invited to. Don’t talk unless he asks you a question. Don’t eat before he does. Don’t make direct eye contact. Jeremy demanded none of this, but that wasn’t the point.

Hierarchy is very important to wolves, and it’s just as important to us. Give a werewolf the choice of two leaders—one who’ll take him out for drinks and one who’ll take his ear off if he drinks first—and he’ll pick the latter every time. An Alpha is his master and protector. Pushovers, buddies and wimps need not apply.

Next Clay gave the house rules for living with the Sorrentinos, which sounded a lot like the Ten Commandments. Thou shall not lie, steal anything, kill anyone, disrespect your hosts or covet any of Nick’s girlfriends. And if you break the rules, you’ll get your ass kicked and handed to you in pieces—a part I suspect God left out.

Reese was fine with all this. It was a firm and clear language that a werewolf understood better than “Be a good houseguest.”

After we left him at the airport, it was time to return to the scene of the crime: the museum.

The museum turned out to be only a few blocks from our hotel, which we hadn’t checked into yet. So we parked in the hotel lot and walked.

At the museum, we found the spot where Reese had been attacked. There was still blood spatter on the display, tucked back in a corner. It would be awhile before people noticed it, and then they’d likely brush it off as a nosebleed.

The location made it easy to get down and sniff. I did that while Clay stood guard.

“And?” he asked when I stood.

“It’s the same scents from the woods, which I suppose is something of a relief—at least we aren’t dealing with more mutts.”

Clay nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t relieved. His gaze kept sweeping the room, never resting on any of the exhibits, which wasn’t like him at all.

“You’re worried about Dennis and Joey,” I said.

“I’m sure they’re okay. I just…” He glanced around, shook it off, then headed out. We took another route through the exhibits, and were almost at the front when Clay stopped.

“Dennis was here.”

“Dennis? I hope he didn’t follow those mutts in.”

“He wouldn’t.”

I inhaled as he turned left and headed for a separate room.

“I don’t smell anything,” I said. “Are you sure?”

He was already in the next room. I followed him into a display of Native artifacts. Clay was crouched in the middle. Luckily, the room was empty—not that the presence of others would have stopped him from dropping down and sniffing.

When I moved into the room, I
did
smell Dennis—the same scent we’d picked up outside his apartment, and just as faint, meaning it was at least as old. As for how Clay had detected it from the lobby, it only proved that as hard as he was trying to keep his perspective on this, Dennis and Joey were front and center in his mind right now.

As he followed the trail, I looked around. It seemed to be a temporary exhibit focusing on local mythology and legends. If we did have time for sightseeing later, this room would top Clay’s destination list. Even now, he kept glancing at the artifacts, reading the cards.

Myth and ritual was Clay’s academic field. His specialty was anthropomorphism in religion—belief systems that included man-beast hybrids or shapeshifters.

“Was Dennis interested in this?” I asked.

“Not that I knew.”

And he
would
have known. Clay’s area of expertise wasn’t exactly a popular conversation topic among werewolves. Before I’d come along, he’d had two choices if he wanted to talk about it—Jeremy, who’d struggle to feign interest, or Nick, who wouldn’t even try. If Dennis had been even mildly intrigued, Clay would have pounced like a starving wolf spotting a lame doe.

I peeked out the door, making sure the coast was clear, then bent and sniffed the carpet. In a public place, this is definitely not pleasant, but I’ve done it often enough that I can mentally filter out the less savory smells and zoom in on what I’m searching for.

“No sign of the other mutts’ trails,” I said. “If Dennis ducked into the museum to hide from them, that would be incredibly coincidental, although I suppose he could have been following the same logic as Reese, thinking it’s the last place a werewolf would follow. We’re the exceptions. Well, if you don’t count Karl, but his interest in artifacts is hardly academic.”