While Marsten did a good trade robbing celebrities in Jackson Hole, after a year he'd decided maybe he'd join the Pack after all, see whether he could get territory farther east. Jeremy hadn't fallen for that. He'd laid out the responsibilities Marsten would be expected to follow as a Pack member. That made Marsten back off, but not give up. For three years he'd been fence-sitting, attending our meetings, and helping us when we asked for it.
His help, though, usually came slow...like a week after we needed it. Then last spring he'd come to me. He'd met a half-demon tabloid reporter who wanted to help the council and asked me to "mentor" her. An odd request from a guy who never lifted a finger to help anyone unless it would benefit him. Since then, Marsten had been quick to come when I called.
When he declared the job looked sound, we left for Toronto.
Larceny
A DROPLET OF SWEAT PLUNKED INTO MY EYE. I GAVE A SOFT snarl at the salt-laced sting, then swiped my hand across my forehead and looked up at the sky, half obliterated by leaves. The sun was long gone, but the humidity held on, determined to see the season to the very end.
Though I was sure my huge belly had something to do with the rivulets of sweat streaming down my face, the heat wasn't unexpected. After all, this was August, and it was Toronto. Unlike visitors who crossed the Canadian border with skis strapped to their roof rack--in July--I knew what to expect. The city as urban furnace--six hundred square kilometers of baking pavement, skyscrapers ringing the core like sentinels, on guard against any cool breeze.
It had been a cool summer, here and at home in Bear Valley, but as Labor Day approached, August had thrown off her lethargy for a farewell heat wave. What had been a pleasant summer week in Bear Valley was downright uncomfortable in Toronto. The smog didn't help. I visited Toronto a few times a year, and the smog always seemed worse than I remembered. This time, pregnancy had ratcheted up my sense of smell, so even here, amid the designer trees and golf-course lawns, the air quality seemed to have plunged to New York City levels.
Patrick Shanahan's house, half hidden by evergreens, wasn't what I'd expected. Sure, I'd seen the blueprint. I even knew the neighborhood--modest homes where you pay more for the address than for the square footage. And yet...well, I couldn't help it. Tell me that a place contains a priceless historical document, and I expect a labyrinthine mansion on a hill, surrounded by an electrified fence and patrolled by armed guards. The letter would be in the center of that mansion, in a fortified, hidden room, rigged with infrared heat detectors, and I'd have to lower myself from the ceiling, Mission Impossible style, to retrieve it.
I looked at the ranch-style house and sighed. There was a camera at the front door, more to ward off salespeople than to foil thieves. The only security system was a key-coded entry point alarm--the kind that, if triggered, would call forth an unarmed twenty-year-old security guard, accustomed to showing up and finding sheepish homeowners who'd forgotten their codes. It was all very Canadian.
From behind me came the soft padding of paws on grass.
"Doesn't look like you can hope for much mayhem in this adventure," I said.
A grunt and I turned to see, not the golden-haired wolf I expected, but a jet black one.
"Er, and that's good," I said quickly.
Jeremy's dark eyes rolled. As he passed me, his tail whacked the back of my knees.
"I was talking about Clay, not me," I said. "I'm not looking for any mayhem. I already promised. I won't do anything to make this adventure more fun--I mean, dangerous."
He tilted his head, eyes meeting mine, then gave a soft chuff, knowing I was only teasing, and padded to the line of trees to peer out at the house.
Was I kidding about wanting something more exciting? On a conscious level, yes. My nightmares were all the warning I needed. This had to be as uneventful a pregnancy as I could make it. Yet there was that gnawing restlessness, not to do anything dangerous, but to get my adrenaline pumping, to burn off all this excess energy. With any luck, this excursion would be just what I needed--a safe adventure to tide me over for the next few months.
Another sound came behind me, this one the sharp scuffle of dead leaves. Then the ground vibrated as Clay pounced and landed at my side.
"You don't dare tackle me now, do you?" I said. "I should have known Jeremy wasn't you--you're never that quiet."
Clay slipped his head under my dangling arm, letting my hand slide over the top of his head and down to the ruff behind his neck. I ran my fingers through the thick fur, over the coarse top hairs and burrowed down to the soft fluff underneath.
Five years ago, I'd have pulled away the minute he brushed against me. Having him in wolf form while I was human had made me uncomfortable. I'd accepted what I was, but it had taken longer to hit the next step, to embrace it, and see the two forms not as separate identities, but dual aspects of one.
These days, I could talk to Clay as a wolf, touch him as a wolf, and know him as my lover. Know him in a nonbiblical sense, I mean. Any other way...well, that was a wall neither of us was interested in breaching.
I crouched beside him. He leaned against me and I let my hand rest on his shoulder. We sat there for a minute, looking over at the house. Finally, he let out a sigh.
"Pretty disappointing, huh?" I whispered, too low for Jeremy to hear.
Clay leaned into me hard enough that I had to put out my free hand to keep from toppling over. As I recovered my balance, he rumbled deep in his chest--a wolfish laugh. Then he craned his head back over his shoulder and licked my other hand.
"Apology not accepted," I growled.
I caught his muzzle. He wriggled free, grabbed my hand between his teeth and gave it a fierce shake. And that was as rough as our play got these days. As I stifled the urge to say "to hell with it," knock him flying and have a real tussle, I reminded myself that things would be back to normal soon enough.
I smiled, gave Clay one last brisk rub, then pushed to my feet.
"Okay, who's up for a little grand larceny?"
Turned out the experience wasn't as dull as I'd expected. My adrenaline started pounding when I touched the security keypad. As my latex-clad finger punched the buttons, my mind raced through every conceivable risk. What if I mis-hit a key? Could that seven on the paper really be a one? What if the homeowner had changed the code?
I punched in the last digit and held my breath as I braced for the alarms. Even when they didn't go off, I paused, half expecting a wailing car to rip into the driveway.
When the key caught in the lock, my gut did a back-flip. Had the lock been changed?
One last desperate jangle and the lock popped open. I turned the handle and pushed, still ready for the alarm. None came. I listened for footsteps, then looked around for any sign that Shanahan was there. According to Xavier, Shanahan gave a monthly investment seminar to prospective clients tonight, something he never missed. But there was always a first time...
Finally, with Jeremy right behind me, I zipped to the keypad. A green light flashed. Good. Or was it? Why was it flashing? Maybe flashing green meant security had been breached. If so, why was there a dimmed red light? It could be reverse psychology--green meant danger, red meant okay, letting unwary thieves think they were safe.
Something hissed and I jumped.
A cat stood in the doorway, some long-haired pampered thing that wouldn't last five minutes in an alley. One halfhearted growl from Jeremy and the cat tore off.
Jeremy's nails clicked against the parquet flooring as we set off. He slowed, put more weight on his pads and all went silent. My heart was pounding, every muscle tensed and ready for trouble.
We found the locked room easily enough. It was just a spare bedroom with the window bricked over and the door locked. The locking mechanism was so simple Xavier hadn't bothered providing a key--a sharp doorknob wrench of werewolf strength snapped it open.
We entered a library. Bookcases lined the walls, containing lots of knickknacks and a smattering of actual books. There were a
couple of uncomfortable-looking leather chairs and a full bar. As I spied it, I tried to remember the last time I'd had a drink. I'd never been much for alcohol, but it's funny how much more you miss things when you can't have them.
Jeremy grunted.
Ah, right, the letter.
A table near the center held numerous glass boxes, containing artifacts, small statues and bric-a-brac. Among them was the box that held the letter.
All this I saw from outside the door. I couldn't go any farther, as we didn't know how much of the room the spell covered.
Jeremy took one careful step inside and paused. Both of us strained to hear some indication of a tripped alarm, yet we didn't know what would happen if the alarm was tripped. Lucas had said that depended on the spellcaster, and could be anything from flickering lights to wailing sirens to the room being sucked into a hell portal. I think he was kidding about the last part, but we'd seen enough in the past few years that a room-sucking hell portal really wouldn't come as a surprise.
When nothing happened--nothing obvious, at least--Jeremy padded over to the table. Now came the tricky part.
Jeremy had to start the Change, with particular attention to his hand, then stop at the point where he could fish the glass cutter from the bag around his neck, cut open the box and put the letter in the bag. I was glad Jeremy was the one doing it. While I wouldn't mind the challenge, Jeremy had the most control over his Changes and was most likely to be able to manipulate the glass cutter and letter while still in largely wolf form.
I didn't watch. My comfort level with the dual form may never extend to that in-between Change state. Having accidentally seen werewolves in it, I had no desire to watch it intentionally. I don't consider myself vain, but I don't want to be seen like that, and I assume others feel the same. Well, except maybe Clay, but Clayton's way can never be confused with the norm.
So when Jeremy stopped at the foot of the table, I turned away and stayed turned away until a cold nose pushed against my hand.
"You got it?" I whispered, then saw the rolled paper in the bag around his neck. I grinned, and patted his head. "Good boy."
He nudged me with a "get moving" growl.
Clay met us at the edge of the evergreen patch. After a quick "everyone okay?" snuffle, he dove into the trees to Change back. I untied the bag from around Jeremy's neck, and he loped off to his own spot.
I turned over the bag containing the rolled-up letter and squinted to see words. From my research, I knew what it was supposed to say, but Ripper enthusiast or not, when you get hold of something like this, you want to see it for yourself. But if the bag was opened, it needed to be done carefully. Last thing I needed was to leave my own DNA on it.
I was still trying to read the letter when Clay grabbed me from behind, swung me up and around to face him. A resounding smack of a kiss, and he put me back on the ground.
I looked him up and down. "Don't tell me you misplaced your clothes here."
"Nah, just thought I'd come see you first. Everything went okay then? No complications?" He took the bag and started opening it. "So this is the letter?"
I snatched it back. "Yes, and it's a valuable historical document, so don't touch."
He snorted. "A letter from a fucked-up killer or a fucked-up wannabe. Historically valuable only in that it proves humans were no less screwed up a hundred years ago than they are now."
He plucked the bag from my hand and tossed it to the ground, then put his arms around my waist--or as close as he could get to it. I knew I really should protest the ill-treatment of the valuable historical document but, well, he was naked, and my heart was still tripping from the excitement of the heist.
"So," he said, lips against my ear. "How'd it go?"
"Complication free..."
"Disappointed?"
"I'll live." I put my arms around his neck and leaned in as close as my belly would allow. "I probably had as much excitement as the doctor would allow. How about you?"
"Could have used a couple of good guard dogs. Got all ready for trouble, thinking Xavier would have lied to us about something and then...nothing. Damned disappointing."
"Definitely. All revved up..."
"No place to go." He nipped my ear. "Can't be healthy." His hands slid under the back of my shirt. "Should do something about it."
I twisted my hands in his curls and tilted my face up, lips a hairsbreadth away from his. "Got a cure in mind?"
"Got two. First, the obvious--get the hell out of here, back to our hotel room and lock the door until noon."
"And number two?"
He pulled back. "What? You don't like that one?"
"Didn't say that. But you said you had two ideas, so I'm checking out all the options first."
"I'm not sure you'd like the second one...it's not really your kind of thing. Nah, maybe I shouldn't mention it..."
I tweaked a lock of his hair. "Talk."
"Well, number two ends the same as number one--"
"Shocking."
"--but it starts with a run. In the city."
I shivered and pressed against him. "Mmm, yes."
"You'd like that?"
There was genuine surprise in his voice. Normally, I did love city runs. They were forbidden fruit, not being the kind of "safe werewolf activity" Jeremy endorsed. Lately, though, my attitude toward running in general had been far from my usual. Yet now...Well, I'd had a taste of excitement and wasn't quite willing to hurry home.
I slid my hands down his back, my lips going to his ear. "I'd love it."
From behind us came a sigh, then a mutter that sounded like "Figures," followed by "Elena, get off Clay. Clay, get dressed. Now."
"We were just--"
"Oh, I know what you were doing, but you can wait ten minutes, until we get to the hotel."
I pulled away from Clay. "Please, do you really think we'd interrupt our getaway for sex?"
Jeremy just gave me a look.
"Okay, maybe we would, but not tonight."
Jeremy scooped up the letter. "Clay? Get your clothes on. Meet us at the car."
"You go on," I said. "I'll wait--"
Jeremy grabbed my arm and led me away.
Victoriana
JEREMY HAD WANTED TO HEAD STRAIGHT TO THE HOTEL, but I convinced him I wasn't ready to turn in yet. Wrangling permission for a city run wasn't something I could do on the fly.
So I claimed restlessness and dehydration, circumstances that would prevent me from getting the good night's rest I needed. The cure? A warm milky drink and a long walk. Since we hoped to turn that walk into a city run, I asked if we could grab that drink at a popular late-night coffee bar close to downtown. Then we headed into the quiet residential Cabbagetown area for our walk.
I strolled down the narrow street, listening to Clay talk about some article on bear cults he'd read last week. Jeremy and I nodded at appropriate junctures and sipped our coffees. Mine was a latte, of course--for the milk. Whole milk. Seems odd, specifically requesting whole milk, but Jeremy insisted. He also insisted on plenty of ice cream and cheese and other whole-fat dairy products. He said it was for the milk content, but I suspected he was trying to fatten me up for motherhood.
Besides my stomach, the only thing that had plumped up were my breasts. Yes, for the first time in my life, I actually had breasts--the kind that could be seen even under a baggy shirt. Not that it mattered. My belly stuck out farther.
As the midnight hour passed, the heat lifted and a cool night breeze found its way through the armor of skyscrapers into the narrow residential streets. I liked Cabbagetown. I'm not much of a city dweller anymore, but this is the kind of place I'd choose, a quiet old neighborhood just a few minutes' walk from the bustle of downtown.
The narrow street was lined with small, two-story, multihued houses, the tiny front yards jealously guarded by fences of every description, from stone to wrought-iron to white-picket. The era was Victorian, and every architectural detail I associated with the period was evi
dent in a single sweep--gingerbread, gables, wraparound porches, balconies, cupolas, spires, stained glass.
Though we could hear the roar of Yonge Street a few blocks over, there was a hush here, as if the trees arching over the road were an insulating blanket, letting the residents sleep amid the chaos of the city core. We walked down the middle of the road, our footsteps echoing softly, our voices barely above a whisper.
To our right was a line of parked cars. The houses predated driveways and didn't have enough room between to add them. Most of the cars were midpriced imports, with few minivans or SUVs. This was a neighborhood for seniors and couples, not families.
Jeremy drained the last of his coffee and looked around, but of course there was no place to toss the cup.
"Here," I said, and opened my bag.
I'm not a fan of purses, and certainly not big ones, but tonight I was carrying a small knapsack-style bag for the From Hell letter. Jeremy had decided this was the safest way to transport it. We hadn't wanted to leave it in the hotel or the Explorer, so I'd brought it along.
Jeremy took a tissue from his pocket and wiped out the inside of the cup before crushing it and tucking it into my knapsack. The letter was still in its plastic bag, but I guess he wasn't taking any chances with stray coffee droplets. I started to zip up the knapsack, then stopped and took out the letter.
"Are we going to...? I mean, can I take a look? Before we drop it off?"
Jeremy hesitated.
"I'll be careful," I said. "I've got these." I tugged the latex gloves from my pocket.
He still hesitated, but I could tell he was as curious as I was, so after a moment he nodded.
We moved to the side of the road, under a streetlamp. I set down my latte on the curb, then put on the gloves, opened the bag, reached in and took out the letter. I expected it to be brittle, but it was oddly supple, almost clothlike, as if it had softened with time.
I unrolled it. The paper was brownish, the color uneven. I doubted a drop or two of Jeremy's coffee would have made much difference. It was already spotted with ink and other substances. I remembered reading that the letter had come packed in a cardboard box that included part of a kidney preserved in wine. I really hoped the reddish splotches were wine.
Broken Page 5
