"Consider it done."
I'D BARELY HUNG up when I got a call from a number I didn't recognize, one that looked like it came from overseas. A wrong number, I was sure, but I answered anyway.
"Elena Michaels?" an accented voice asked.
"Yes?"
"It is Roman Novikov. Jeremy said that I would be calling?"
Shit. That was the part of the message I'd missed--not that Jeremy would call back, but that Roman would. I gestured for Clay to stop walking and ducked into the mouth of an alley, getting away from the traffic noise.
"Yes, he did," I said. "Thank you. We appreciate this."
"It is not a problem." He chuckled. "Though it is different, speaking to a werewolf and hearing a woman's voice. A nice difference, though. You are well?"
"I am, and yourself?"
A brief exchange of pleasantries followed. My heart thumped throughout it. I'd never had any contact with Roman before, and now, talking to an Alpha, knowing I'd soon be Alpha myself, wondering whether that would put a sudden end to any international relations ... Let's just say I knew I had to make a good impression.
He asked how Clay was and how the kids were, then about the weather in Alaska.
"That is weather for the beach!" he exclaimed. "I thought your Alaska was supposed to be like our Siberia. It is colder everywhere in Russia this time of the year. But I suppose you do not mind the cold. It is in your blood. Jeremy says your mother is from Russia. An Antonov. What city did she come from?"
I admitted that I didn't know. My mother died when I was five, and I wasn't sure whether she'd come to Canada as an immigrant or her parents had. While there'd never been grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles at my childhood Christmases, I had a vague recollection that such people existed. To research my family tree, though, would mean confirming the suspicion that I had family who, on the death of my parents, turned their back on me and let me spend my life in a succession of increasingly worse foster homes. I don't care to face that truth, so all I know is that my mother was of Russian ancestry. I explained that to Roman.
"And there was no family to take you? That is not right."
"I survived." I thought of my foster families. Thought of that letter and felt the rage boil, needing only the smallest reminder to surge to the surface again. I squeezed my eyes and forced it back.
He continued. "I ask only because, I have been thinking after Jeremy mentioned it, that it is rare for a bitten werewolf to survive. We have one in my Pack. He was the grandson of a werewolf's daughter, and I have always thought that is why he survived, because he had the blood. I have two Antonovs in my Pack. It is an old family of werewolves." He chuckled. "But it is also a common enough name, so I am likely mistaken. I only thought it was interesting. I should like to meet you someday, see if you look like our Antonovs, if you would like to come. With your mate, of course, and Jeremy."
"Sure. I'd love to." But would the offer evaporate when he found out I was to be Alpha? Did Jeremy really know what he was doing?
"Enough of my old man ramblings. I am calling about this problem you are having. With the... I do not know what you call them. Stray dogs?"
"Mutts. It means a dog that isn't purebred."
"Ah, that is the same thing we call them. Interesting. But it would seem these 'mutts' of yours really are ublyudokii of ours, a group we thought we had gotten rid of. The leaders, though, are yours. Americans. Originally, that is, though it has been many years since they were on their home soil. They are a pair of brothers. The Teslers. Travis and Edward."
Travis--that was the name of the big guy who'd cut off Reese's fingers. "I have a Tesler in my records, but I think the last time he was seen was before I joined the Pack."
"That is not a surprise. It would seem this Tesler brought his young sons to Ukraine many years ago. We heard nothing of them until a few years ago, when the sons decided they wanted a pack of their own, a pack of criminals. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves." He spat something in Russian, and I was sure it wasn't complimentary.
"A gang of troublemakers, then?"
"No, that would have been easier to deal with. They are smart, organized criminals. Their specialty is guns--the buying and selling of them, not the using of them."
"Gun-runners."
"Yes. If they had stayed in Ukraine, perhaps we would have, how do you say it? Looked the other way. But they were not happy with that. They started to move around. First Romania, then Belarus, then Georgia."
"Circling your borders."
"Yes, as I said, they are smart. They did not dare trespass, but they caught our attention. We watched. Then they recruited two of my Pack, new members."
"Culling from the edges. They were getting brazen."
A humorless chuckle. "Brazen, yes. I sent my wolves after them. When they escaped, they only got more brazen, crossing our borders to do business. It was then, as we were tracking their activities, that I discovered the real reason they moved so often. When you hire rapists, you hire men with a habit they will not easily overcome."
I thought of the missing Alaskan girls. "They were raping locals."
"At least one was. Raping and killing. While I would like to take the credit for scaring them out of Russian lands, my wolves were only an added incentive, as you would say. The police got too close. That is why they fled and, it would appear, became your problem."
"Well, they're on our radar now, and it seems they're tired of running. They're taking a stand, killing off the local werewolves. With any luck, that means they'll stay still long enough for us to eliminate them."
"If you need help with that, I could send some of my wolves."
"I appreciate the offer, but for now, let us get a better look at what we're up against. Do you have any idea how many there were? We're only finding traces of three, but from what you say, there are more than that."
"My sources tell me they did not all leave with the Teslers. A falling-out, perhaps? Five or six went, including the brothers. Others stayed behind. Another four or five. Of course that does not mean they intend to stay behind forever."
"Let the Teslers and a few others come over, scope out new territory and clear it before the others make the trip. In that case, it seems we've found them at just the right time. Our Pack can handle five or six. If we need help, though..."
"We are only a phone call away."
CLAY STOPPED IN the lobby to grab a snack from the coffee stand while I went up to our room. I stepped off to the sounds of a couple fighting so loudly that I backed into the elevator to give them privacy before I realized the foyer was empty. So was the hall. The voices came from a room at the end of the corridor. Even without werewolf hearing, I'd have caught every word. Small rooms and lousy soundproofing. Great. I wondered how many guests we'd woken during our room-wrecking romp last night.
As I walked down the hall, the fight continued, the man giving the woman shit for flirting. If that was her perfume I smelled soaking the hall, I didn't blame him for being concerned. Or maybe her husband dumped the bottle in the hall. I hoped not--if we could smell it from our hotel room, we were definitely switching. The stench was already giving me a headache.
I opened our door, stepped in and took a deep breath of what I hoped was clean air. It wasn't. And what I smelled made me realize the perfume hadn't been spilled accidentally--someone had been covering an odor that might stop us from opening this door.
I backed up into the open doorway, still sniffing, trying to catch any scent in the air that would suggest a mutt was still in our room. Even when I didn't smell that, I eased in, my back to the wall, moving slow. I kicked open the bathroom door. Empty. The maids had left the shower curtain open, so I could see the tub was bare.
I ran into the main room and leapt onto the bed to check the other side. The room was empty. But it still stunk of werewolf--two of the ones who'd killed Dennis.
It stunk of something else, too. The scent wafted up from under me. I looked down at the sloppily made bed. Then
I bent and yanked back the covers. The smell of semen rushed out. I swore and hopped off the bed.
As I leapt, I caught a glimpse of something floating in the water bottle I'd left on the nightstand. I picked it up. Inside were two partial fingers. Reese's.
At the whirr and click of Clay's card in the lock, I raced over. I grabbed the door, pushing my way out and pressing him back into the hall.
"The mutts were here," I said. "We'll find a new hotel."
He caught the door before I could close it.
"You don't want--" I began.
He shouldered his way inside. I strode after him. He stopped in the middle of the room, his back to me. He looked at the bed, and inhaled sharply. The tendons in his neck pulsed. Another sniff. He grabbed an open drawer I hadn't noticed earlier--the one I'd been stuffing my dirty clothes in.
He lifted a pair of blue cotton underwear. I could smell the semen from here. He threw them down and strode past me to the door. I caught his arm. He shook me off.
"Clay, don't--"
The door banged open, hitting the wall.
"Clay--"
He was gone. I paused to get my own temper under control. Racing into the hall screaming at him wasn't going to help. When I did hurry out, the hall was empty. I could still hear the couple fighting, the woman now protesting that she hadn't been flirting, but simply trying to help the man find his friend's room--he obviously hadn't spoken good English.
Broken English? Looking for a "friend's room"? The mutts hadn't been here long ago, not if this couple was still arguing about it.
I raced into the stairwell after Clay. The door five floors below banged shut. I flew down and caught up with him outside. He stood on the sidewalk, nostrils flaring as he tried to catch the scent.
I walked up behind him.
"Don't," he growled, not turning.
Rage poured off him, his profile rock-hard, the pulse in his neck pounding.
"I'm not going to stop you," I said. "I just want to be sure you know you're walking into a trap."
His shoulders stiffened.
"They broke into our room in the middle of the day," I said. "They left Reese's fingers in my water bottle. They jerked off in our bed and in my dirty underwear. Do you think they're trying to scare you off?"
"No, they're trying to piss me off."
"As much as they possibly can. Invade and soil your territory. Insult your mate. Insult you. Then sit back and wait until you come charging after them, too enraged to see that you're walking into a trap."
He was breathing hard, condensation streaming through the cold air as he fought every instinct that insisted each moment he delayed was hesitation, a sign of weakness.
I reached to touch his back, then stopped myself.
I lowered my voice. "If you go after them now, you'll have no problem finding them. They'll have laid a clear trail leading straight to the perfect ambush spot."
He said nothing.
"We have to pull back," I said.
He shook his head. "I can't ignore this. I need to--"
"--meet the challenge or they'll think you've lost your edge, and they'll come after me."
A curt nod, his gaze still moving along the street.
"They're giving us the best chance we've had to get to them," I said. "Or at least to get a good look at them. Do you think I'd turn that down?"
His shoulders moved, barely more than a twitch, but enough to tell me I'd made my point. I laid my hand against his back for a moment. Then we set out.
BAIT
THE MUTTS HAD indeed left us a clear trail. And I didn't much like where it led. Our hotel window overlooked the northwest corner of the city, and while I'd marveled at the distant view--that thrilling triumvirate of mountain, forest and sea--the closer landscape had been less inspiring.
A couple of blocks past the hotel, the city seemed to end in a wasteland of scarred and scrubby fields crossed with train tracks and dotted with industrial buildings. A flat, open basin ran from the train station to the ocean, and this was where the mutts had gone.
When the sidewalk ended, we entered no-man's-land. The bitter wind lashed us and froze our ears until all we could hear was its howl. A faint icy drizzle rained down. The ground underfoot was slick and muddy on the surface, still frozen underneath.
"They're going to see us coming a mile away," I said.
"That's likely the idea."
"We need a plan."
"Yep, we do."
"And that's my department now, isn't it?"
He glanced over, face softening for the first time since he'd walked into our hotel room. "Yep, it is."
"Damn."
*
CLAY DIDN'T LIKE my plan. When I invited him to suggest an alternative, though, he just grumbled that I was the boss. In other words, the plan was fine. He just didn't like it.
West of the train station, we put on a performance for our hidden audience. Clay gestured for me to go wait inside the station. I argued that I wanted to stay with him. We bickered. He picked me up, set me down facing the station and gave me a slap on the ass, along with firm commands, including go, sit and stay. Being an obedient mate, I obeyed.
As Clay loped off to take care of those nasty mutts for me, I circled to the front of the station and took a seat on a raised monument displaying--according to the plaque--the first train engine used by Alaska Railroad. There I was, out in the open, where Clay couldn't see me--a perfect lure for the mutts. Clay would follow the trail for a while, then pretend to lose it. With him out of sight, at least one of the watching mutts was sure to break cover and come after me.
Clay hated the part about using me as bait. I had to admit that even I couldn't help thinking, Gawd, not this old trick again. But it worked, again and again.
Give mutts the choice between attacking Clay and attacking Clay's mate, and they'll pick me every time. It's not only easier; it's going to hurt him more. Even if they can rise above that cowardly temptation, there's one temptation they can't fight--the siren's allure of my incredible hotness. Okay, the siren's allure of my incredibly hot bitch-in-heat scent.
I'd been sitting there only about five minutes when a man walked around the train station and headed toward me. I inhaled, but the wind was going the wrong way. He fit Reese's description, though--early thirties, big and brawny, short brown hair and a square face.
My first thought was, Oh, shit, Clay's supposed to grab him before he gets to me. My second thought was, No problem, I can take him. My third, as he got closer, was, Um, probably... And my fourth, when he was near enough to smell, circled back to that initial Oh, shit. He was human.
Apparently, my incredible hotness proved alluring to more than just werewolves these days. Or Alaska had a shortage of single women.
"Hey there," he said. "You look cold sitting up there, all alone."
I smiled--civil, nothing more. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Come inside and wait. I'll buy you a coffee."
Espresso, I was sure. "Thanks, but my husband will be here in a minute."
His gaze dropped to my hand, covered in a glove. Then he studied me. Whatever look a married woman is supposed to have, apparently I lacked it, because he stepped closer.
"How about lunch? There's a great diner just up the hill. Nice and warm."
"I'm fine. Really. Where I come from, this is a pleasant spring day."
"And where's that?"
Damn, I'd walked right into that conversation-prolonger.
"Canada. Anyway, I'll just wait--Oh, hold on. My phone's vibrating."
I answered, talking to silence. "Sure, and where's that?" Pause. Laugh. "Okay, then." Pause. "Yep, I'll be right there."
As I hung up, I slid off the wall. "That was my husband. He needs me to check out something he wants to buy." I rolled my eyes. "Men."
"Where is he?" the man asked.
"Over there." I waved at a collection of buildings, and hoped one of them was a store. Then I started out.
"
Why don't I give you a lift?"
"I'm fine."
"It's a long walk."
Clay's piercing whistle cut through the howling wind. That was his signal that the mutts had taken the bait and that he needed his backup in place.
"Sorry, I really have to--" I tried stepping around the man, but he blocked me.
"I'll give you a lift."
"Thanks, but I'm fine."
Another sidestep, another block, this one moving into my personal space, making the hair on my neck bristle. I shifted back.
"I'm fine," I said, my tone taking on an edge.
"No need to get snippy. I'm just being friendly."
"And I'm just saying 'Thanks, but no thanks.'"
Clay double-whistled. The BOLO signal--be on the lookout... because these mutts have split up and one could be heading your way.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He smiled. "No need to apologize. We all get a little cranky now and then."
"No, I meant for this." I kicked his kneecap. As he twisted and crumpled, I slammed my foot into the back of his knee and he crashed to the ground, cursing me as I took off.
Clay whistled again. A locator beacon this time. He seemed to be behind the cluster of buildings I'd pointed out a moment ago. There were several routes there. I picked the one across open ground where I could keep an eye out for mutts.
The wind had whipped up again, buffeting me as I ran, making me slide in the mud, barely able to stay upright. The whine of the wind filled my ears. The stink of rotted fish filled my nose. I kept running, eyes slitted against the gale.
At a roar behind me, I spun to see a truck barreling across the open field. My eyes teared up from the wind and I couldn't see the driver--just that the truck was heading straight for me. I ran full out. It kept gaining. At the last second, I leapt aside and the truck skidded past, brakes squealing, veering as it spun into a sharp turn. It came at me again, tires spewing a hail of mud and rock. I dove away and it raced past like a charging bull.
When I glanced back, I could see a man in the driver's seat, but mud now dappled the windows. The truck roared at me again. As I darted out of the way, the window went down. Inside was the man from the train station.
Frostbitten Page 12
