No Humans Involved (10 page)

"Genetic flukes evolving into races. But that must take generations."

"True, but sometimes it's more than a random genetic 'fluke' that causes change."

He lifted the rose to his nose, then offered it to me.

"Smell anything?" he asked.

I sniffed. "It's very faint."

"A mutation. Not by nature, but by man. Create a hardier rose, a more disease-resistant rose, a longer lasting rose. A decided improvement over wild roses and yet…" He sniffed and sighed. "There are drawbacks."

He looked at me. "You say man-made magic is impossible because it has never existed. But what if…" he dropped the rose onto my lap, "… something clicked? The collision of nature and science?"

Learning Curve

TWO HOURS LATER, I was sitting across from Jeremy, in the corner of a half-empty restaurant. We were keeping our voices down as I told him about my visit from Aratron. I don't know why we bothered— anyone hearing us talking about the evolutionary theory of supernatural races and the potential emergence of a new power would only mistake us for screenwriters trying to cash in on a paranormal trend. As for my garden visit from a demon? It was Hollywood. Deals with the devil were a way of life.

We were in a tiny restaurant with better food than atmosphere. When my seafood linguine had arrived, I'd slipped some of it onto his plate. He didn't protest, just accepted it with a murmur of thanks, as he always did. A werewolf's high metabolism made dining out less than satisfying, and it wasn't like
I
needed the food. My stylist was already complaining about the three pounds I'd gained in the last year. I was trying to ignore him, but after a lifetime of panicking if the scale needle so much as quivered, it wasn't easy.

"So," I said as I picked at my plate, "the gist is that Aratron thinks someone—some group—has broken the barrier, by either in-depth scientific experimentation or plain old dumb luck."

"You mean they've hit on a form of human magic that works."

I nodded. He set down his wineglass and stared at the blank wall behind me, his dark eyes equally blank, shutters pulled as he thought.

After a few moments, he said, "I'm not the best person to investigate this. Man-killing werewolves I understand. Humans killing with magic? I barely know where to begin."

A chill settled in the pit of my stomach. "You'd rather not help, then."

"Of course I want to help." His knee brushed my leg. "What I'm saying is that I'm in over my head." A twist of a smile. "And it's not a place I'm accustomed to being. I'm the Alpha. I lead in full confidence." The smile sparked in his eyes. "Usually. But with this, I should do what any good leader does—take it to an expert. But to whom? It's a matter that might concern all the races. Where should that go?"

"To the interracial council. Which, unfortunately, is us."

"Sad, isn't it? There should be some…" He waved his hand.

"Body of elders? Wise old men and women who do nothing but send out troops of highly trained investigators to protect the interests of the supernatural world?"

"Instead they get us. Part-time volunteers, untrained, unbudgeted and usually flying by the seat of our pants."

"It's nice to know I'm not the only one on the council who doesn't always feel up to the job."

"Did you think the rest of us do? In werewolf matters, yes, I am an expert. In necromancy, you are an expert—"

"I wouldn't say—"

"You've never let us down. If you don't know the answers, you find them. That's all we ask. Paige? Magic is her specialty and, between her and Lucas, they do just fine—remarkably fine, given their youth. So if this is magic, does it go to them? They know little or nothing of human magic. So
who
is the expert?"

"I guess it's about to be us. Self-taught. With a huge learning curve looming in front of us."

AFTER DINNER we walked for a couple of city blocks, then Jeremy headed into a park. Trust a werewolf to find green space anywhere.

A park probably isn't the safest place to be after dark in L.A. but Jeremy didn't hesitate. For him, safety was rarely a concern. I envied him that—and Elena—able to go anywhere after dark, walk into deserted parking lots, cut through alleys, knowing that any rapist or mugger who thought that pretty blond looked like an easy mark was in for a shock… maybe his last.

We passed a couple of street thugs, not yet old enough to be out of high school, hidden in the shadows of a willow. Jeremy put his arm around my waist. I couldn't help noticing how he drew me a little closer, so his hip brushed mine, or how his hand gripped my waist, pulling me into his circle of protection.

He didn't speed up or slow down, but met the leader's gaze full on, dipped his chin and murmured a greeting. They let us pass.

We'd gone a few more yards when another figure appeared on the path. A man, shoulders hunched, dressed in black, face hidden in the shadow of his hood. I glanced at Jeremy, but his gaze was fixed on a point past the man, his face as relaxed as the arm around my waist. A single unarmed assailant doesn't pose much risk for a werewolf. But as confident as Jeremy is, he's never cocky, which meant he couldn't see him.

Sure enough, as we drew closer, the man lifted his head, his face pale under the dark hood, and stared at me, confused. He knew the glow he saw around me meant something, and was racking his brain to remember what it was.

Not slowing, I looked up at Jeremy. "Did I tell you I talked to Paige? About the children?"

"No, what did she say?"

The man stopped. "Hey, aren't you—?"

"She's going to look into it and ask around. We should run it by Robert too, see whether he knows anything."

The man had gone quiet, staring after me. I kept walking and talking. After a moment, he mumbled something under his breath and continued on his way, convinced that either he was mistaken, or I wasn't strong enough to hear or see him. I sighed—part relief, part regret, as always.

WE STOPPED on a slope down to a small, manmade lake. Downwind, as always, so Jeremy could smell anyone approaching from behind. We sat on the grass. I hadn't done that in… well, probably not since I was old enough to worry about walking around with grass stains on my rear. Jeremy offered to put down his jacket for me, but I refused, insisting my pants were old and the night was cool. Neither was true, but I wanted to just kick off my shoes, settle in the grass beside him and, if I got dirty, laugh about it.

I started talking, as usual. It takes awhile to draw Jeremy out if the topic is anything
but
business. That used to discourage me, but Elena says he's like that with everyone—so good at getting people to talk about themselves that they rarely realize he never offers anything in return.

Even when he does share, none of his stories are about himself, but when he talks of his family or his Pack, he's always there, in the background. So I get my insights that way. Sometimes, in talking of Clay as a child or the twins, he'll make a brief segue into his own childhood, enough for me to know it hadn't been a pleasant one. That glimpse behind the shutters meant more to me than he could imagine.

I asked him about the twins' birthday and he told me about Elena's misadventures with the baking, how she'd tried to sneak the failed cake outside for the birds, but Clay, smelling food, had rescued it and shared it with the twins, reasoning that they needed to get accustomed to bad food in case Jeremy ever cooked them dinner. I watched him tell the story, his face animated, relating even the jibe at his cooking with a wry smile.

We sat there for over an hour, just talking. A cool wind blew off the water, bringing a fine mist as it slid over us and into the trees, rustling the leaves, then departed with a sigh. Beneath my fingers, the grass was growing damp. Jeremy's legs were outstretched, mine bent, our shoulders brushing when we moved.

"Thanks for tonight," I said. "For taking me out. You have no idea how nice it is to eat without a dead man hanging over the table."

His brows shot up and I explained. "But on the upside, I'm pretty much guaranteed to lose those few pounds my stylist keeps nagging about."

He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it, Jaime."

"Don't have much choice."

"Yes, you do. You could hide from it. Take your meals elsewhere and make some excuse to the others. But you never do. You'll sit there, smile and chat—with a ghost hanging a foot from your nose— and no one will ever be the wiser."

"It's a residual, not a ghost. And it's more like two feet."

He smiled and shifted, moving the arm stretched behind me to my back. His hand went to my waist, his face turning, lips a scant inch from mine, the look in his dark eyes sending a shiver through me.

I waited through five long heartbeats, but he didn't move, neither coming toward me nor pulling back. It was up to me.

The kiss started firm yet gentle, sweet yet strong, everything I'd expected from Jeremy. Then, as I pressed against him, an edge crept into it, an urgency and a passion that maybe… wasn't quite what I'd expected. Like being hit with a blast of hot air when I was anticipating a gentle breeze. I threw myself into it like someone who's been plucked from an icy river, lapping up the heat.

After a several intense minutes, he pulled back.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That wasn't—"

"You don't need to apologize. I started it."

"Ah, yes, right."

He sat there for a moment, hair hanging forward, then gave it an impatient brush back. I resisted the urge to put my arms around his neck and bury myself in another kiss. His expression told me he wouldn't argue, but that this wasn't a step he was entirely ready to take.

I settled for resting my hand on his thigh. He laid his hand on mine, fingers sliding under my palm and squeezing.

"I love it when you're indecisive," I said.

A pause, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right, then a laugh so abrupt it was almost a bark. "Oh?"

I eased closer, leg against his. His hand slid from my waist to my hip, bringing me closer still.

I said, "When I first met you in Miami, you were so sure of yourself, so… in charge. You spoke; everyone listened. Even Benicio Cortez. Hell, even
Cassandra
lets you tell her what to do."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"She just likes to pretend it's her idea. A vampire can't seem to be obeying a werewolf—it's just not done."

He laughed, rubbing my hip.

"It's a bit daunting, you know, being around someone that self-assured. So it's nice, now and then, to get a hint that the armor isn't as impenetrable as it looks."

"The armor is full of chinks, I'm afraid. The trick is to keep it polished to such a brilliant shine that everyone is blind to the holes."

"Is that it?"

He looked down at me, his crooked grin almost boyish. "Yes, that's it."

He stayed there, head angled, lips slightly parted. My heart started thumping. But he turned away.

"That's one problem of being Alpha. You have to act with complete confidence. It's the wolf in us. Uncertainty makes us nervous. Smacks of weakness. An Alpha must be resolute in all things. He should have no misgivings, no second thoughts, no doubts."

"But sometimes you do," I said softly.

He met my gaze. "Most times I do." He turned to look out at the lake. "I've always been happy being Alpha. It's a lot of responsibility, but I love that—not the power, but the ability to affect change. Sometimes though… lately…" He took his hand off mine and brushed back his hair. "Under certain circumstances, the restrictions can be… not what I'd choose, if I had the choice. Like coming here. For most people, a simple matter. Make travel arrangements and go."

"But you have responsibilities."

"Not just that. To come here alone, without backup, without a bodyguard…" He shook his head. "To explain to you how much work it took would make the whole thing sound ridiculous. But I am the Alpha. I cannot do as I like, go where I like. Even an outside werewolf who has no particular grudge against me would consider attacking me if I crossed his path. To kill the Pack Alpha would solidify his status in our world. For the rest of his life, every werewolf he met would clear out of his way. The Alpha before me—Antonio's father— was inarguably the best fighter of his time, but he never left Pack territory without a guard. To do otherwise is to threaten the stability of the Pack for something as petty as privacy."

My cheeks got hot. "I'm sorry. I never thought—"

He squeezed my leg. "No one expected you to. I didn't come to L.A. to be polite, Jaime. I came because I wanted to spend time with you. Alone."

His gaze met mine and held, making sure the words sunk in. "The area is as safe as we could make it. I even managed to convince them that I didn't need Antonio lurking in San Diego, awaiting an emergency call, though I suspect Karl isn't in Arizona this week by accident. Elena probably sent him there, hoping—being Karl—it wouldn't seem suspicious."

I nodded.

"I won't be Alpha forever," he said. "But I will be for longer than I planned."

"Because of the babies."

He nodded.

I said, "Elena needs to concentrate on them, on being a mom, not an Alpha."

"Which doesn't mean I can't continue to train her. Antonio and I will keep nudging her into leadership, getting her accustomed to the idea, but we can't push."

"And you shouldn't." I paused. "Does she know yet?"

He shook his head. "I don't plan to tell her for some time. If I did, she'd suspect I want out, and she'd do everything she could to help me achieve that. And, as you said, her priority should be her family, not her Pack. At least for a few more years."

I wanted to say, "That's okay. I'll wait," but I knew that wasn't what he was asking.

"That's best," I said. "It'll give Clay more time to recover too. How's his arm?"

"As good as it will get. He knows that. Whatever that zombie did to him, it's beyond what medicine can fix. The trick now is to learn to compensate. And to regain his confidence, get him back to a place where he feels he can defend his family, his Pack, his Alpha. If that Alpha is Elena, he's going to need to be in top fighting condition."

"Because other werewolves, outside the Pack, will see a female Alpha as a sign of weakness."

"Or, at least, of change and, as I said, we don't respond well to change. Elena's used to being in danger. It comes with being Clay's mate. His enemies might not dare take on Clay himself, but there are other ways to hurt him."

"Through Elena."

"Most werewolves will not believe that a woman, even a were-wolf, poses a threat, and therefore Elena is seen as an easy target." He smiled at me. "Fortunately, she isn't." His smile faded. "But she's always been in danger, just by being his lover."