Forbidden (8 page)

Morgan glanced over his shoulder as Clay followed him back to his room. He’d like to take this sudden show of interest as a positive sign—Clayton was worried about him. But he knew better. The guy just didn’t trust him to conduct a thorough sniff-search on his own.

Morgan opened the door. Clay walked in, looked around and grunted. It could be approval for Morgan’s housekeeping—the room was spotless except for the duffle in the corner. Or he might just have gas.

Clay walked to the duffle, bent and opened it.

Sure, go ahead. Look through that. I don’t mind.

Morgan pretended to sniff-search the rest of the room. He’d already done that, but he didn’t dare just stand by and let Clay do the work.

“Our intruder rifled through your duffle,” Clay said. “Was there anything to find?”

“I know better than that.”

“Just checking.” Clay rose. “You gonna be okay here tonight?”

Morgan glowered at him. “I am capable of looking after myself. I know I’ve screwed up but—”

“It was a question, not a jab.”

Clay turned to leave.

“Wait,” Morgan said.

Clay stopped at the door, one hand on the knob. He turned.

“Look,” Morgan said. “I know I stayed out of the fight in Alaska. I know that didn’t impress you.”

“You’re not Pack. I didn’t expect you to fight for the Pack.”

Yes, but it hadn’t just been a fight for the Pack. That was what kept Morgan awake some nights. He’d known about the gang of werewolves. And he hadn’t done anything. That’s how he’d been raised, but it wasn’t an excuse. Even when the Pack showed up, he’d helped, but hadn’t joined the fight.

Clay started to leave. Then he stopped, as if considering. He backed inside, closed the door again and turned
to Morgan.

“Elena seems to think you might be interested in joining the Pack.”

“I…haven’t really decided…”

“But you might be. That’s why you were coming to Stonehaven, wasn’t it? To check things out.”

When Morgan didn’t answer, annoyance flickered across Clay’s face. Morgan didn’t blame him really. Obviously that’s why he was on their territory, heading to their home. So why couldn’t he admit it?

“The Pack needs wolves,” Clay said. “Finding them is Elena’s job. Pretty soon the whole Pack will be her job.”

Morgan blinked, taking a moment to process that. “She’s going to be Alpha?”

“Is that a problem?” Clay’s voice had dropped to a growl.

“Um, no. I just…” He straightened. “It’s not a problem. Just a surprise. But I guess it shouldn’t be. I saw how she handled things in Alaska. And now here. She’ll make a good leader.”

A little too kiss-ass? Maybe. It was hard to tell from Clay’s expression, but he didn’t exactly light up with pride. Yeah, too kiss-ass. Morgan swallowed. Damn it, why was this so complicated? It was like walking a tightrope, never sure exactly where to find the sweet spot between submission and assertion. That must come naturally to guys who’d grown up in the Pack. Not for him.

Clay took another step into the room, making Morgan inch back. “In five years, she’s found two suitable wolves,” Clay said. “Reese and Noah. You met them in Alaska. One’s in college and one’s not even out of high school. They’re great kids, but they won’t be full Pack members for years. That’s all she can get. She’s frustrated and discouraged.” He took another step. “You want in? You step up. Don’t toy with her. Understood?”

Morgan nodded. “Understood.” 

I was in bed, on my laptop looking up our predator-obsessed cabin dweller when Clay came back. He didn’t say anything, just went into the bathroom, then came out, undressed and crawled into bed, being careful not to disturb me.

An hour later, when I stretched, I was sure he’d fallen asleep. But he opened one eye and said, “Find anything?”

I shook my head. “No. I think that’s why we call them hermits. We know he’s not a mutt. We can’t find out if he’s in the council records until morning, and even then, I doubt this”—I pointed at the list—“is his real name if he’s a supernatural. Hell, it probably isn’t his real name either way, so how am I going to…” I shook my head. “I’m too tired. Just getting frustrated.”

Clay pulled me against him. “We’re gonna find whoever did this. Supernatural or not. Then we’ll make sure the kid’s parents know. Give them some closure.”

I reached up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

He tugged me on top of him, one arm around my waist, the other hand on the back of my head, pulling me down into a kiss. “Now, let’s see about helping you get a good night’s sleep.”

•

The problem with small-town motels? Lack of room service. It’s not usually a huge issue. I’ve always balked at paying the insane prices anyway, so I normally roll out of bed and hunt down breakfast myself. But this particular small town wasn’t exactly bulging with dining options. The motel didn’t even have vending machines, as Morgan had discovered last night. So Clay and I were dressed within minutes of waking, and heading out the door about sixty seconds later.

We’d been up until almost dawn, so it was past ten. That meant our ride—scheduled for service at eight—should be done. Except, as we jogged along the main street, we could see the SUV ahead, still buried in snow.

“That doesn’t look ready to drive,” I said.

“No,” Clay growled. “It does not.”

I kept going, just in case the mechanic had miraculously managed to change our tires while not disturbing its snow blanket. He hadn’t, of course. There weren’t even boot prints in the surrounding snow to suggest someone had taken a look.

I called the garage. It took a while for someone to answer. When a woman did, I explained the problem.

“We really do need to get home,” I said. “We have small children and this wasn’t supposed to be an overnight trip. What time is the mechanic coming?”

“You need to make an appointment.” The receptionist sounded bored, TV blasting in the background.

“I did, as I explained. For eight this morning. He said we didn’t need to be here—he’d change the tires and bill us. Is he running behind?”

“If he is, he hasn’t told me. But
that’s
not your problem. Your problem is that you canceled the appointment.”

“What?”

She spoke slower, as if to someone of limited intelligence. “You called this morning and said you didn’t need service.”

“If I did, I would remember it, wouldn’t I?” I bit my tongue and softened my tone. “Okay, clearly there’s been a mixup, so—”

“No mixup. You called. Elena Michaels, just like on the work order. You said you didn’t need service.”

“And I spoke to you? Did it sound like me?”

A pause. I knew it hadn’t—my Canadian accent doesn’t stand out nearly as much around here as Clay’s southern drawl, but it was distinctive enough.

“I don’t pay no mind,” the woman said finally. “Woman calls, says she’s Elena Michaels, getting her tires fixed this morning, that’s good enough for me.”

“All right then. When can I reschedule for?”

A deep sigh, then a creak, as if I’d made her get out of her chair. A moment later, paper shuffled. “Same time tomorrow.”

“What? No. Look, I understand there was a mistake, and it’s not your fault, but I have children at home and I need to get back today.”

“Then you shouldn’t have canceled the appointment.”

Clay, who’d been listening in, held out his hand. I hesitated. Then I decided she deserved it—and I really did want to get home—so I handed over the phone.

•

Clay went easy on her. He had to—there was little to stop her from hanging up and stranding us here. But even his “easy” is, admittedly, more effective than my worst. He managed to get her to agree to have someone out before nightfall. That was the best we could do. So we continued toward the diner on foot.

“I’ll call Jeremy,” I said. “He might be able to get someone sooner. If not, at least he can be ready to pick us up for the night himself. It’s not like we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere.” I looked around at the empty, snow-filled streets. “It just feels like it.”

“I know. We’ll get home tonight. Even if we don’t, the kids will survive.”

I nodded. Just yesterday, I couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. That seemed to be the way it went. We’d go stir-crazy if we were home too long, but it didn’t take much time away before we wanted to go back.

“The dispatcher didn’t seem too bright,” I said. “Do you think she just screwed up? Or did someone call and cancel our appointment?”

“Hard to say. But if a woman called, there’s only one woman who knew we were getting our car serviced this morning.”

“Chief Dales.”

“Yep.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the police station.

“Food first,” Clay said. “I’m too hungry to stand back and watch you be diplomatic.”

“And I’m too hungry to be diplomatic. Food it is, then.” 

Morgan rolled over and looked at the clock. It was after ten. No wonder he was so hungry. He stretched and yawned. As he did, he noticed a white piece of paper under the door. The bill?

He padded over and picked it up. It was a handwritten note.

Checking car, then going to diner for breakfast. Join us when you’re up.

Ten minutes later, Morgan was still in his shorts, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the note. Elena wanted him in the Pack. No, that was overstating it—she wanted him to put his name forward so he could be evaluated for Pack membership. The “evaluated” part didn’t bother him. It was like any other club—if it’ll take just anyone, there’s a catch. Of course, one always hoped that, having made your acquaintance, they’d be happy to have you, no admission tests required. But if Elena offered him membership based on their short acquaintance, he’d be suspicious. He should be flattered they were even offering to consider him.

He
was
flattered. Maybe even a little surprised. That’s where the problem lay. The Pack offered brotherhood and protection, which he wanted. But it was a reciprocal relationship. You got the brotherhood and the protection because everyone joined in to provide it. You couldn’t take without giving back.

So what did he have to give? Most werewolves couldn’t join a real wolf pack for almost two years as he had. The social isolation would drive them mad. Morgan had missed the human world, but not enough to quit his experiment. That was a good clue that he wasn’t the most sociable guy. If he did join the Pack, how often would he excuse himself from the meetings and other gatherings? Not often—he did want that brotherhood. But there would be times when he just wasn’t in the mood to offer it back.

The bigger problem was the second part of the equation. Protection. The Pack needed fighters and Morgan was not a fighter. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He’d gone to a rough-and-tumble rural school, but managed to avoid brawls, namely because he was so damned average. He wasn’t smart enough or different enough to be bullied. He wasn’t big enough or athletic enough to be challenged. He’d been raised to stay under the radar. Be invisible. Avoid confrontation. He couldn’t afford to risk revealing his enhanced strength. So he could count on one hand the number of brawls he’d gotten into, and he’d lost every one, because he hadn’t stuck around to finish the fight.

Elena wouldn’t expect him to be in prime fighting condition. She’d anticipate that training would be required. So would Clay—Morgan doubted any recruit would meet his standards. But when Clay found out they’d have to begin at square one, with “how to throw a punch without breaking your fingers”? Morgan didn’t even want to think how he’d react. He wouldn’t laugh. That wasn’t his style. But Morgan would sink so low in his regard that he’d never climb back out again.

Clay was right. If Morgan wasn’t sure he wanted to join the Pack, then he was messing with Elena. She didn’t need that. And Morgan didn’t need to piss off Clayton Danvers. They’d already been pulled into this mess because of him. He should back out while he could.

He got up and dressed, then wrote a note of his own and put it under Elena’s door.

•

So now what?
Morgan thought as he headed along the sidewalk, hunched against the cold. Walk to the highway and hitch a ride to…? To where? Back to Alaska? To Newfoundland? No, there was nothing for him there.

He stopped and looked around. What the hell was he doing? He’d driven nearly a week to get to the Pack and now he was having second thoughts? No, not having second thoughts. Chickening out. Running away.

Maybe he didn’t think he was Pack material, but wasn’t that up to the Pack to decide? There wasn’t any penalty for trying. Elena had told him that in Alaska. He could go to Stonehaven, hang out with them for a weekend, and if he wasn’t interested, that was fine. If he did apply and was rejected, he’d be no worse off than he was now. They weren’t going to chase him to the state border and vow to kill him if they ever saw him again. It would be an amicable parting. Elena would see to that.

He would tell Clay upfront about the fighting issue. No, he’d tell Elena. That felt a little cowardly, but it also seemed safest. He could explain the situation to her, and she could warn Clayton. They might count it as a strike against his membership, but at least Morgan would have been honest about it.

Before he realized he was even walking again, he found himself back in the motel parking lot.

I made a bad impression
, he thought,
but I can fix it. I will fix it. Just—

He stopped as a scent wafted past. Turning, he saw a teenage boy sliding a keycard into Morgan’s motel room door. He was wearing a parka, but the hood was down, showing his face. Morgan didn’t recognize that face, but he did know the parka—and the scent. It was the vandal who’d slashed his tires.

The kid turned, as if sensing Morgan there. Morgan leaped forward. The kid bolted. Morgan tossed his duffel into the bushes and he tore after him.