Forbidden (3 page)

Jess led her three guests out of the station. Then she stood at the door and watched them leave. Once they were out of sight, she exhaled, and leaned against the wall.

A close call. Damned close.

She should have made the connection. Guy turns up in their woods surrounded by paw prints, with a map marked with Syracuse and the name Elena. As in Elena Michaels, the only female werewolf in the supernatural universe.

Years ago, when Jess was at college in Buffalo, she’d made contact with a few local supernaturals. That always helped, for support and companionship. When she told them she’d gotten a job with the Westwood police, one guy had said, “Isn’t that werewolf territory?” She’d thought he meant the local football team. He hadn’t.

“The werewolf Pack lives up there,” he said. “Somewhere near Syracuse.”

Someone else said they’d heard the rumor, but it was just that—a rumor. The Pack lived on the west coast, one claimed. Another said there
was
no Pack—werewolves weren’t bright enough to organize like that. They were just dumb brutes running around slaughtering people. Like in the movies.

Jess did her research anyway. She wasn’t taking a job as a cop in werewolf territory. But how exactly
did
you research that? Google “werewolves in New York State?” That was a ticket straight to Weirdsville. She’d searched police files instead, looking for signs of possible werewolf kills. Nothing.

So she’d chalked it up to rumor. Yet, having heard it, she couldn’t help paying attention when other supernaturals talked about werewolves. She’d eventually learned there definitely was a Pack. One member was a woman named Elena Michaels. It was a common enough name and, really, not worth researching—she didn’t have time for idle curiosity. She’d heard other names over the years, including Elena’s mate, a guy named Clayton who was supposed to be a really nasty son-of-a-bitch. But none of those stories ever mentioned Syracuse or upstate New York, so they didn’t concern her.

Until now.

Even when the woman had introduced herself, the light bulb hadn’t flashed. Racial stereotyping, she supposed. Jess didn’t think she was one of those who believed werewolves were all Neanderthal brutes, but apparently she did have some preconceptions. And they didn’t cover a friendly blonde who, with her ponytail and worn blue jeans, looked like a movie star going incognito. It definitely didn’t cover the guy with her, a seriously hot thirty-something who wouldn’t look out of place on a billboard—preferably wearing as little as possible.

When Walsh called him Clayton, Jess had nearly choked on her cocoa. Even then, there was a moment when she told herself she had to be mistaken. Right up until she saw Walsh shrinking back as the guy bore down on him.

There were werewolves in Westwood. Three of them. Real werewolves. It would be damned funny if it didn’t scare the shit out of her.

Jess took another deep breath.

No reason to overreact. It was a freak encounter. Walsh must have been driving past, seen the signs and been unable to resist a detour. He’d stopped at the diner and had a few shots. More than a few, according to the server, Marnie. The booze had washed away his common sense, and he’d extended his visit to include a run in their forest.

Now the Pack had come and scooped him up. From the looks of things, he was in serious shit. They’d completely bought her “theory,” meaning they had no reason to stick around. They’d bustle Walsh out of town and steer clear for a very long time. Which suited her just fine.

Jess straightened and strode back into the station. 

When Jeremy first told me I was his choice for Alpha, I thought he’d lost it. Maybe it was stress. Maybe a fever. Clearly something, because the idea was ludicrous. Okay, I’ll be honest for a moment and put aside the false humility. I didn’t think, “I can’t handle it.” I could. Oh, I’d struggle. I’d screw up. I’d never really replace Jeremy. But I
could
be Alpha. That didn’t mean it wasn’t crazy.

First, I’m not a hereditary werewolf, obviously. The gene passes through the male line. I didn’t grow up in the Pack either. Even after Clay bit me, I spent ten years boomeranging between the Pack and my old dream of a “normal” life. Eventually I came to realize that Pack life
was
normal for me. Everything I’d wanted—stability, family, acceptance—I found there.

But that still means I’ve only really embraced werewolf life for a decade. Plus there’s the gender issue. The werewolf world is truly a male-dominated society, mostly because there aren’t any other women in it. With the Pack, I think that actually worked in my favor—they didn’t quite know what to expect, so they didn’t really expect anything. I could be myself.

Beyond our territory, though, I can win a dozen challenge fights, and I won’t be accepted as “one of the guys.” I’m a chick in wolf’s clothing. That makes me mate material. It also makes me revenge material, for all the mutts who’d love to hurt Clay. But it does not make me a “real” werewolf, much less an Alpha.

I’d come to realize, though, that Jeremy didn’t have a lot of choice for successors. Clay wouldn’t take the job and, let’s be honest, I don’t think Jeremy would give it to him anyway. There was nobody more important to Jeremy than his foster son, but there was also nobody he understood better. If Clay became Alpha, all the reforms Jeremy had instituted would begin a slow backward slide. Clay would try to respect them, but he didn’t always understand the rationale behind them.

As for the rest of the Pack, no one else was suited to the post either. Antonio was a year older than Jeremy. Nick was…not Alpha material. Nor was Karl Marsten. Maybe someday Reese and Noah would be, but one was in college and the other in high school. That left yours truly. Which meant that, when faced with a problem like Morgan Walsh, I could no longer just call up Jeremy and say, “Hey, what do you want me to do?” I was expected to make my own decisions. Which, sometimes, really sucked.

But the problem was mostly resolved. Morgan had “found” his ID and Chief Dales had processed his official release. We were leaving Westwood.

Snow was still falling, coming down a little heavier, which put some extra speed in our strides. It was mid-afternoon. There was definitely time for a stop in Syracuse. Which should not, admittedly, be my first priority. But I wasn’t Alpha yet, I was allowed the occasional spurt of bad judgement. I needed to decide what to do with Morgan in the meantime, but that was best done after we’d hightailed it out of Westwood.

Morgan hadn’t said a word since we’d left the station. None of us had. We were just walking, with Clay on one side of me and Morgan on the other, as far from Clay as he could get.

“Look, I know I screwed up,” Morgan said finally.

“You think?” Clay muttered.

“But I did
not
ask them to call Elena. I would never have gotten you guys involved.”

“Which was the last in your long string of mistakes,” I said. “If you get in trouble like that, you call us. Otherwise, if the problem gets out of hand, you don’t get me coming to your rescue. You just get him.” I nodded toward Clay.

Morgan tried for a smile. “Complete with chainsaw?”

“Nah,” Clay said. “You risk exposing us? On our territory? You don’t get the chainsaw. I hang you from the nearest tree, rip you open and let the vultures feast.”

“Er, I can explain.”

I stopped beside Jeremy’s SUV and opened the back door. “We’ll get to that part. But not here. We’re going to take you to your car. Then I’ll drive it, following you and Clay, to someplace where we can chat. Far from here.”

We all climbed in. I kept one eye on Morgan, in case he decided to bolt, but he just fastened his seat belt. Clay started the SUV and put it in drive. It lurched forward with an odd thump. He frowned and pressed the gas. Another lurch. Another bump.

“Shit,” Clay muttered.

He threw it into park and got out. I did the same and looked down at the front passenger-side tire.

“Flat tire,” I called over the hood. “Good thing we have a spare.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have two.”

“Seriously?”

I walked to the front of the SUV. Both tires were flat. Not much chance that was accidental. I peered along the snowy road, but we were the only people in sight.

“Guess we’re taking your car,” I said to Morgan as he climbed out. “We’ll call a truck for this. It’s a long tow, but I don’t want to stick around.”

•

We made the trek down the main street to the diner, where Morgan had left his car. As we walked, he explained the events of the night before.

“And that’s how they found me.” He took a deep breath. “I screwed up. No alcohol involved—I know better than that. And I wouldn’t have Changed so close to town if I thought I was in any shape to drive out. But obviously I’m not accustomed to being in human form yet and I let myself get too tired. Add in a big meal and something just…went wonky. In my defense, I can say that it’s never happened before. I’ve been Changing every three days since I left Alaska, and that’s worked out just fine. But, yes, I screwed up. I know that. I’ll—”

He stopped. “Son of a bitch!”

Morgan broke into a run. I squinted through the falling snow to see a single car in the diner parking lot. Morgan’s car, I presumed. Someone in a parka was crouched beside it, slashing the rear tire.

“What the hell?” Clay muttered.

He took off after Morgan. I followed.

“Hey!” Morgan shouted when we drew close.

The vandal looked up. He was dressed in a dark parka, the hood tunneled, hiding his face. Seeing us, he took off running toward the forest.

I raced to the car and crouched beside it. The rear passenger tire was slashed. When I ducked to look underneath, I saw the same on the other side.

“Damn it!” I said. “Two tires here, too. We’ll need to—”

I straightened and looked around the parking lot. I was talking to myself. The guys were gone. 

It was a scene straight from a horror movie. The heroic—and slightly brain-dead—guys go racing into the forest after the madman with the knife. The clueless blonde stumbles after them, yelling, “Guys! Hey, guys!
Wait up!”

If it was a horror movie, I’d be about two cinematic minutes from meeting a grisly end as I realized—too late—that the deranged killer had purposely led my menfolk into the woods to separate me from them. Also, I’d be topless.

As it was, I was tramping through knee-deep snow in a very unsexy pair of hiking boots and a decade-old ski-jacket. I was also wearing sock monkey mittens—a gift from Kate last year. It’s a new kind of horror movie. Forget screaming, half-naked co-eds. Time to slaughter a few “did I even put on makeup before I left the house?” moms.

“Couldn’t just let it go, could you, guys?” I muttered as snow melted down the back of my neck. “Oh, no. Gotta catch the bastard. Can’t let him get away with that.” I snorted. “Men. You don’t see me tearing off into a strange forest in the middle of a snow—”

I looked around. “Never mind.”

I crouched and peered down at the snow-covered ground. I could smell the guys’ scents, but their footprints were already covered as the snow came down hard.

I stood. “Clay! Morgan!”

No answer. Damn them. I should just go back to the car and wait. That would be the non-dumb-blonde thing to do. It would also be the non-Alpha-elect thing to do. I sighed. At least I was pretty sure knife-wielding guy was a vandal, not a serial killer. Even if he was, this blonde came with super-strength and a kick-ass secret disguise.

I continued along, following Clay’s scent. Soon I could only see a few feet ahead of me.

Snow blind.

Damn it, guys. Five more minutes and I
am
turning back—before I can’t find my way out.

I walked, mittens off, hands out, making sure I didn’t waltz into a knife. Or, more likely, a tree. I did narrowly avoid a white birch that blended with the snow. As I touched it, my fingers ran across deep grooves in the bark. I moved closer for a better look.

There was a symbol carved in the trunk. It didn’t look like mere woodland graffiti. When I brushed the snow away, I could see someone had rubbed a deep red substance into the grooves. Not blood—I’d smell that. Meant to look like blood, though?

I turned around, the snow no longer driving into my face, giving me a clearer view of my surroundings. I was in a circle of white birch, all with that red mark carved onto them.

I took out my cell phone for a photograph. That was almost instinctive. It had nothing to do with being a werewolf and everything to do with being the wife of an anthropolo-
gist specializing in religion and ritual. I was mildly curious, and knew Clay might be able to satisfy that curiosity. So I took pictures.

As I was pulling my mittens back on, something moved, off to the side. When I looked, the forest seemed empty. But I’d seen something. I knew I had.

“Clay?” I called. “Morgan?”

Brush crackled to my left. A shadow loomed over me. I spun, fists up.

Morgan looked down at my hands.

“Nice mittens,” he said.

“They hit just fine,” I said. “Which you will discover if you ever sneak up on me again.” I lowered my fists. “A little warning next time, please.”

“Sorry.” He walked over and brushed snow off a partly-covered symbol. “Huh. Weird.”

“Not really. Many pagan practitioners conduct rituals in the forest. Perfectly harmless rituals. I’ve never seen these marks before. Clay might know what they are. I wouldn’t suggest asking him, though, unless you’re prepared for a twenty-minute teaching moment.” I looked past him. “Speaking of which, he’s not with you?”

He shook his head. “I lost him a while ago. I figured I should head back and find you.”

At least the guy had good Pack instincts. Always a bonus in a potential recruit, but I had a feeling that his viability had dipped since last night’s episode. At least, it would in Clay’s eyes. I was more interested in young mutts who could be shaped into good Pack members, having given up on recruiting experienced ones who were already suitable.

“Let’s head back to town.” I stepped from the birch grove and stared out into the seemingly endless expanse of white forest. “If we can find it.”

I took my mittens off again and pulled out my cell phone. I raised it to get a lock on the GPS.

“Gotta love modern technology,” I said.

I led Morgan out of the grove.

“You know,” he said. “You could probably use that handy gadget to find Clayton, too. By calling him.”

“That only works with people who also embrace modern technology. Clayton—”

I stopped as a smell drifted past on the breeze. I lifted my face to sniff better.

“You smell him?” Morgan said. “Damn. You
are
good. I can’t pick up a damned thing out…”

He trailed off. I was already on the move, walking fast through the evergreens, pushing branches out of my way as Morgan jogged to keep up.

“It’s not Clay,” I said. “Thankfully.”

I followed the scent to a massive evergreen.

“Oh, wait,” Morgan said. “Now I’m catching a scent. Is that…?”

I crouched and pushed aside the ground-level branches to see something sheltered and hidden at the very base of the tree. It was a corpse. A long-dead, frozen, decomposed corpse.

“Definitely not Clay,” Morgan murmured.

I pushed back the branches to get a better look at the body. It looked as if it had been out here a while—not long enough to completely decompose, but a good ways along that route. Judging by the clothing, it was a man. Fully grown. That’s about all I could guess. Except for one last thing—it didn’t look as if he’d curled up under this tree and died. The pose was too awkward for that. Someone had shoved him in here post-mortem.

Morgan crouched beside me. “I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“Thank you.”

“Body’s too decomposed. You only got to town yesterday.”

“I’m not a man-killer.” Morgan sounded annoyed.

“Yeah?” said a voice behind us. “Well, I’ve never met a mutt who claimed otherwise.”

Clay walked over.

“No offense,” I murmured to Morgan. “We’ve learned to be skeptical.”

“So, what’ve we got here?” Clay didn’t wait for an answer, but crouched down and pushed back the branches. “Huh.”

I hunkered beside him as he examined the body. No expression crossed his face. No revulsion. No pity either. There was a time when that bothered me, when it seemed a sign that there was something missing in Clay, something vital, something that made us human. There was. Because he wasn’t human.

Clay could barely remember a life when he wasn’t a werewolf. He lacked the ability to look at a stranger and see anything more than a potential source of aid or threat. That’s how the wolf sees anyone who isn’t in his pack—either they can help you or they can kill you, and it’s probably the latter.

That doesn’t make him “less than human.” He’s perfectly capable of forming relationships—stronger ones than most humans could imagine. And he has no interest in hurting anyone who doesn’t threaten his Pack. It just means that he can look at a body like this and he won’t see the tragedy of a life cut short. He just sees a potential problem that could affect us.

“Something’s taken a few bites,” he said, leaning close enough to the corpse that my own gorge rose. “Can’t tell if it’s a scavenger or a predator. Seems to be missing a hand, too.”

“We can’t poke around too much if we’re going to report it. Which is the big question.”

Clay nodded and moved back, letting the branches cover the body.

“Report it?” Morgan said. “Why? It’s been there a while, obviously. No one’s going to know we found it.” He paused. “I mean, yes, reporting it would be the right thing to do. He has a family out there somewhere, wondering what happened to him, and maybe a killer who’s gone free—”

“Not our concern,” Clay said, standing.

“Unfortunately,” I added. Because it
was
unfortunate and that’s exactly what I thought every time I had to hide a body or leave one hidden. That somewhere out there, a family would never be able to bury their dead, would never be able to mourn properly. But it couldn’t be our concern. Werewolves had to put their Pack first.

“If we could bury it, that would be best,” I said. “But the ground’s frozen solid.”

“Why can’t we just leave it?”

“Because we’ve been here,” Clay said. “We’ve left a shit-load of tracks to a dead body. We were chasing someone who might be watching us as we stand over a corpse. And we left our names—our real names—at that police station.”

“It might continue to go undiscovered,” I said. “But we can’t take that chance. If he’s found today, they’ll contact us. If he’s found next month, they’ll probably check their records and remember the naked guy in the woods. We didn’t have anything to do with this, so it’s safest to play it on the level. As if we were just regular citizens. I’ll—”

A noise off to my left made me pause. I looked out. Nothing was there, but once again, I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. I took a few steps into the woods, lifting a finger for Clay and Morgan to wait.

I walked about twenty paces in the direction of the noise. While it was still mid-afternoon, I swore the sun was dropping, shrouding the forest in long shadows.

When I saw what looked like snow-dimpled footprints, I bent. I brushed the layer of snow off and inhaled.

As I did, I sensed someone walking up behind me. Even with the wind going the other way, I knew who it was.

“Do you know what this meant?” I asked, lifting my bare index finger.

“Yeah,” Clay said. “Wait one minute. I waited two.” He came closer. “Are those tracks?”

“Yes.” I pushed to my feet. “Ours.”

I walked to Clay. Morgan hovered a few steps back.

“I just felt like we were being watched again,” I said. “I heard something, too. But there’s no sign of a trail. No scents on the breeze either.” I shook my head. “I think I’ve been house-bound too long. I’m turning into a paranoid hermit.”

We walked back to where we’d left the body.

“Better get this over with,” I said. “Can one of you stay with it? So we don’t lose the spot?”

“I’ll stay.” Morgan gave me a look. “And I promise not to snack.”