Forbidden (2 page)

Westwood Police Chief Jessica Dales stood inside the station house door, struggling to close it against a gust of wind. She finally won the battle and paused to stamp the snow from her boots before she walked in. A blast of furnace-hot air greeted her. She closed her eyes and let her cheeks thaw before she stepped into the office.

Wes Kent looked up from his paperwork at the front desk.

“Weatherman’s right,” Jess said. “Another storm’s blowing up. Crazy weather.” She swiped snow from her hair, then hooked her thumb at the holding cell, just past an open
doorway. “Speaking of crazy, is our streaker talking yet?”

“Nope,” Kent said. “No ID either. I ran the plates. Seems he bought the car in Vancouver for a grand last week. Guy let him ‘borrow’ the plates for a few hundred more.”

“Nice of him.”

Jess walked to the open doorway and looked into the cell. Their new prisoner—their
only
prisoner—sat with his back to the bars. Before they’d located the car, they’d found his clothing in a nearby tree. It’d been soaking wet. They’d offered him a dry shirt and pants from some extras they kept in back, but he’d refused, putting on the wet ones instead.

“If he bought the car in Vancouver, he crossed the border,” she said. “So he must have a passport.”

“Should. By that accent, I’m guessing he’s Scottish.”

It was an odd accent, not one she remembered hearing before. She supposed it could be Scottish, but that seemed a strange fit for a guy who looked like he had a generous dose of Native American blood, despite the reddish hair and green eyes.

“I’ll head back out and search his car,” she said. “We know where he started his trip. If we can figure out where he was going, that will help. A place. A name. Anything.”

“How about both?” Kent asked. “Plus a phone number.”

He held out a map with a thick black circle around Syracuse, New York. Beside it, someone had written “Elena” and a phone number.

Jess took out her cell. 

I stood just beyond the study doorway, out of sight. The low-burning fireplace tried to lure me in, with its inviting crackle and pop, rich smoky smell and tendrils of heat. Clay’s low voice was an enticement, too. After three days of snowstorms, I just wanted to curl up on the sofa with him, drowse in the firelight and—

“You already moved!”

“I didn’t take my fingers off it!”

“That still counts. Dad! Tell her it counts!”

Three days of snowstorms. One sprained ankle. Two serious cases of cabin fever.

“Let’s go outside, guys,” Clay said. “I’ll pull Kate on the toboggan.”

Make that three cases.

I steeled myself and walked through the doorway. Clay was on the couch, leaning over as they played chess on the floor. Logan and Kate had just turned five in September. With every birthday, there’s a part of me that hopes this is the one where their energy levels will drop a little. I might as well hope that the moon will turn purple. They’re the children of werewolves—those energy levels aren’t dropping until they’re a
hundred
-and-five.

“I don’t wanna get pulled,” Kate said. “I wanna walk!”

“You can’t,” Logan said. “You sprained your ankle, stupid.”

Kate jumped on her brother. “I’m not stupid!”

Clay grabbed Kate’s sweater and lifted her off her brother, snarling and spitting, more wildcat than wolf.

“Logan,” I said as I walked in. “Did you forget the rule? Call her stupid and you earn an hour in your room.”

He looked up at me. “That’s not the rule. The rule is an hour if we call each other an
idiot
.”

“Logan…”

He scowled. “It’s her fault we can’t go outside. She’s the one who fell.”

“Because you pushed me off the slide,” Kate said.

Logan leaped up. “I did not! You fell and I grabbed your coat. I was trying to
help
you.” He spun on me. “I wouldn’t push her. Tell her, Momma.”

“I know. She does, too. She’s just angry.”

I scooped him up, ignoring his wriggling, and sat on Jeremy’s recliner with him on my lap. I looked over at Clay, holding an equally squirming Kate.

“I’ll grab the duct tape if you find the rope,” I said.

He chuckled.

“I heard that,” Logan grumbled.

I kissed his cheek and got a scowl in return. We sat there for a minute, just holding the kids. Cuddling and calming them. Or restraining them. It’s a fine line some days.

I looked at Kate, her blond curls swinging as she struggled to get free. Above her, Clay bent down, whispering. There was no mistaking them for anything but father and daughter, with matching blue eyes and golden curls, Kate’s down past her shoulders, Clay’s cropped close. Similar in temperament as well as looks. Jeremy says that Clay was more like Logan as a child, quiet and serious, but Kate definitely takes after him now, squirming and shooting furious glances his way, refusing to settle until she damned well wanted to settle.

Logan had already calmed down. He was still angry, saving his energy for the glares he kept firing at his sister. He has my dark-blue eyes and my straight hair, though his is a deeper shade than my silver-blond. I’d like to think his off-the-charts IQ comes from his Mom, but I have to cede that to his PhD father. As for his uncanny ability to maintain long, angry silences, I have no idea where that comes from. Really.

“Okay,” I said. “We need a plan. How about some apart-time? Dad will take Logan for a walk while—”

“That’s not fair!” Kate said. “I want to go for a walk, too!”

“I was going to suggest you help me bake cookies.”

“But I want to bake cookies!” Logan said. “And we haven’t finished our chess game. You can’t let her quit just because I was winning—”

“You weren’t winning,” Kate said. “I had a plan.”

Her brother snorted.

Kate’s eyes blazed. “I did. You’ll see.”

She jumped back onto the floor. Logan scrambled down beside her.

The phone rang. Clay and I collided pouncing on it. I won, grabbing the receiver and jogging away. Yes, it’s a sad day when getting the phone is a victory. Especially in a household where it normally rings through to voice mail, with three people sitting within reach of a receiver.

“Is this Elena?” said a woman’s voice when I answered.

“Yes…”

“This is Jess Dales, chief of police for Westwood, New York. I have someone here…”

I listened as she explained. When I hung up, Clay said, “Trouble?”

“Maybe. I need to talk to Jeremy.”

•

Clay shuttled the kids to the kitchen and left them there to make sandwiches while he followed me to Jeremy’s studio.

“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” I nodded toward the kitchen. “There are knives.”

“I don’t think the situation has reached that point.” He glanced back. “The really sharp ones are locked up, though, right?”

“They are. It’d be minor injuries. More likely a jam-flinging fight.”

“After which we can make them take turns having baths and cleaning the kitchen, which means at least twenty minutes of apart-time.” Another glance over his shoulder. “Should I go back and get out the honey, too?”

“Tempting.”

The door to Jeremy’s studio was closed. Well, not exactly—he’d left it open a few inches, but for Jeremy that was a clear “do not disturb” sign. And one even the kids would respect. I rapped first.

“Come in.”

Jeremy was standing at his easel, with his back to us. His shirt sleeves were pushed up, feet bare, socks lying on a nearby chair. We’d gone for a walk outside earlier talking about Alpha business. When we’d come in, I’d grabbed him a dry pair, but obviously he’d gotten too wrapped up in his painting to put them on. Just like he’d gotten too wrapped up to realize he really shouldn’t run his hands through his hair when they were dappled with paint. There were blue streaks through his silver-threaded dark hair. Maybe I’d tell him about them; maybe I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t see what he was working on, and I didn’t try to peek. He’d show it when it was ready. For now, he just lifted a finger and finished his brushstroke. Then he pulled out his earbuds. Jeremy never paints to music. Another sign that the chaos around here had become a little too much even for our unflappable Alpha.

“Remember Morgan Walsh?” I said as I perched on the window seat. “Newfoundland werewolf in Alaska?”

“The mutt who was living as a wolf?” Clay said. “Kinda hard to forget.”

True. It wasn’t something that happened very often. So rarely, in fact, that we’d added a page for Morgan to the Legacy—our book of Pack and werewolf history. There was a section for oddities. He fit right in. While his “experiment” was unusual, the guy himself had seemed normal enough. Until this call came.

“He was
what
?” Clay said when I finished explaining. “On Pack
territory
? Did I say the guy was a little crazy, darling?”

“He’s not crazy. Just young. Trying to find himself. Some guys go backpacking in the Himalayas. He tried living as a wolf.”

Clay’s snort said “a little crazy” still described it. This from a guy who was himself more wolf than human. Yet as much as he loved being in wolf-form, it wasn’t anything he’d choose long-term. I wouldn’t either, but I could better understand Morgan’s identity crisis. Clay has always known exactly what he was. It took me a lot longer to figure it out. Some days I’m still trying.

“We can overlook the trespassing,” I said. “It seems he was heading to see us.”

“And the rest of it?” Clay said. “Being found by the cops? Naked? In the snow? Surrounded by paw prints?”

“That might require intervention.”

“You think?”

I shot him a glare, then looked back at Jeremy, who’d been quietly listening. “We could ignore this. Let Morgan dig himself out of the mess. But considering it’s on Pack territory…”

“We should handle it,” Jeremy said. “If he had your phone number he was planning to announce his visit. That means his detour was a youthful indiscretion, not a deliberate act.”

“A big indiscretion,” Clay grumbled. “The guy’s older than Reese. That’s not
youthful
enough to excuse it.”

“How old is he again?” Jeremy asked me. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

“Yeah, about that.”

Jeremy took off his music player and wrapped the earbud cord around it. “I seem to recall that’s young enough to do something rash and impulsive. Something that might have far-reaching consequences.”

Jeremy’s voice was low, his tone casual, but his words still made Clay flinch. Clay had been that age himself when he bit me.

“I’ll drive up and take care of it,” Jeremy said.

Clay and I both stared at him.

“Yes?” he said, pocketing his player.

“You’re the Alpha,” I said. “You make decisions and send out your trusty minions to enforce them. That would be us.”

Kate shrieked from the kitchen. “Give that back!”

“I believe I should handle this,” Jeremy said. “You’ve been preparing to take over as Alpha. Likewise, I should prepare to resume duties as a Pack member.”

“Nice try,” I said. “No adventures while you’re still Alpha. That’s the rule.”

Clay clapped him on the back as we headed out. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of this.”

“It’s not a matter that requires both—” Jeremy began.

Logan raced past the open doorway, a sandwich in each hand. Kate stumped after him, bound foot pounding the floor.

“The Alpha-elect needs a bodyguard,” Clay said. “That’s another rule. Sorry. Love to stay. Gotta go.”

We slipped out after the kids passed. We snuck to the front door and grabbed our coats and boots. Jeremy followed.

“Enjoy it while you can,” he said to me. “Once you’re Alpha, no more adventures.”

“Pfft. That’s
your
rule. When I’m Alpha, I’m changing it. That’s the beauty of being the bitch in charge.”

Clay grinned and handed me my gloves. At the sound of footsteps, Jeremy stepped into the foyer with us. We all stood silently watching as Kate clomped past. She had both sandwiches mashed in one hand and was taking a bite. When she didn’t notice us, I exhaled in relief and grabbed the door handle.

“Mom!” Logan shouted.

“We’ll be back before bedtime,” I whispered to Jeremy.

“You’d better be,” he said as we made our escape. 

Stonehaven is a rural estate outside the small town of Bear Valley, New York. The closest city is Syracuse. According to the GPS in Jeremy’s SUV, Westwood was almost an hour west of that, off a regional highway. We’d been driving for about thirty minutes when the snow started falling again and the radio announcer declared another
blizzard was set to hit before nightfall.

“I don’t like the sounds of that,” I said.

“It’ll be fine.” Clay turned up the windshield wipers. “I’m planning on getting this done before dinner. And since we didn’t say we’d be back until bedtime, that gives us a few extra hours.”

“For a nice meal, without screaming kids and flying food?”

“I was thinking more like…” He pointed to a roadside motel as we passed. “Unless you’d rather go out to dinner.”

I grinned. “Not unless we’re done early enough to swing into Syracuse and get a hotel with room service.”

He put his foot on the gas.

•

We finally reached Westwood…complete with a werewolf leaping off the town welcome sign.

“Walsh chose to Change
here
?” Clay said as we passed the sign.

“There must be a good explanation.”

Clay jerked his chin toward an old feed mill on the edge of town. Through the snow, I could make out a wall mural of a snarling werewolf.

“Yeah, there’s an explanation, all right,” Clay said. “The guy’s an idiot.”

I refrained from comment. Whatever Morgan’s excuse, it had better be a good one. By this stage, I was starting to think Clay had a point. Which meant Morgan Walsh’s bad day was about to get a whole lot worse.

•

We parked on the main street, a few doors down from the police station. As we tramped along the snowy sidewalk, we passed a shop with a huge “Warning: Werewolf Territory” sign in the window.

“Did I mention the idiot part?” he said.

I sighed.

“If I were in charge, I’d let this mutt hang himself.”

“Which is why you’re not going to be in charge.”

“And damned glad of it,” he said. “I don’t care how good his excuse is—”

I spun to ward off…Nothing. There was nothing and it took a moment for me to even process why I was standing there, fists starting to rise. I hadn’t heard anything. It was just…a feeling. The hair on the back of my neck rising, some deep-rooted instinct flicking on my fight-or-flight response.

“Elena?” Clay said.

Down the street, someone was coming out of a shop. On the road, a single car was trying to get traction, engine whining. That was it. Just one car and one person.

“Sorry,” I said, shaking it off. “That’s what happens when I don’t leave the house in a week. I get outside and I feel like someone’s watching.”

“Small towns. Someone’s always watching.”

“No kidding.” I took a deep breath. “All right then. Let’s sort this mess out and go home.”

•

The police station was actually just a storefront along the main street, wedged between the hardware store and the bank. I was a little concerned about signs in the hardware store advertising bolt-cutters and shotguns. Maybe the Westwood cops were bored, hoping to convince some drunken local that breaking into the bank next door was easier than he thought.

The station’s front door opened into a small foyer. A sign asked visitors to leave their boots on the mat. Clay ignored it. I was pulling mine off when I saw the puddles leading inside, suggesting no one else had obeyed either. So I left mine on, though I did feel guilty about it. I’d spent most of my life doing as I was told; it’s a hard habit to break.

There were only two officers in the main room, neither of them working very hard. One was a man in his early fifties, sitting behind the desk, talking to the other officer—a young woman sipping what I presumed was coffee until my nose told me it was hot cocoa.

When we entered, both officers looked over.

“Elena Michaels,” I said, walking over, hand extended. “Chief Dales called me?”

“I did,” the young woman said, stepping forward to shake my hand. That threw me for a moment. In a small town, I’d been surprised the police chief was a woman; I certainly didn’t expect one who didn’t look past her thirtieth birthday.

A noise came through an open doorway. I looked to see Morgan gripping the bars of a cell.

“Elena? Um, hey. What are you…?” His gaze traveled over my shoulder, where Clay stood. “Uh, Clayton…”

Clay walked toward the cell. Morgan took a slow step back, suddenly looking very grateful for those metal bars.

“Er, I can explain,” Morgan said.

“You’d better hope so,” Clay said, too low for the non-werewolves to pick up.

I turned back to Chief Dales. “I’m really sorry about this. We were worried sick when he didn’t show up last night. I guess he made a pitstop for a few beers.” I mustered a glare in Morgan’s direction. “Good thing those coyotes didn’t decide to take a taste of him.”

“The paw prints were too big for coyotes,” Chief Dales said. “And we didn’t find any human tracks. Just the paw prints. All around him.”

I sighed and looked at Morgan, shaking my head. “You were out there long enough for the snow to cover your footprints? You’re lucky you didn’t get frostbite anyplace you really don’t want frostbite.”

When I looked at the police chief, she caught my gaze and held it. I gazed back, calm and cool.

“Is that what you think happened?” she asked, after a ten-second stare-down.

“What else?”

“What else, indeed?”

More staring. Which I’m sure would have worked out a whole lot better for her if I was a small-town perp, not a werewolf who’d spent twenty years covering up mutt kills and, sometimes, dead mutts. I waited patiently until she spoke again.

“Do you want to hear my theory?” she asked.

“Sure.”

She stepped back. She tried to make it casual, just moving, not retreating. But that’s another thing about being a werewolf for so long—I’ve become almost as fluent in body language as I am in English, especially when it comes to expressions of dominance and submission.

“You’ve seen our town has an…affinity for werewolves,” she said. “I think that has something to do with your boy’s run through the forest.”

I laughed and glanced at Morgan, who looked worried. “What? You got drunk and decided to go werewolf hunting?”

“Not hunting,” Chief Dales said. “Staging. He’s not the first person to try it. Frat boy passing through, decides to pull a prank on the local yokels.”

“Frat boy?” Morgan said. “How young do you think I am?”

Clay moved in front of Morgan. I couldn’t see the look he gave, but it shut Morgan down fast.

“Not young enough for this crap,” I called to him, then turned to Chief Dales. “I’m so sorry. He’s a friend of the family. We haven’t seen him in years. Obviously, he has a few issues”
—a glare in Morgan’s direction—“to work through. If there’s anything we can do to fix this…”

She walked back behind the desk with the older officer, who’d been watching in silence. “It’s his lucky day. Got another storm coming in. Otherwise, I’d slap a public indecency charge on his ass. I expect him to present his ID so I can file a report, but otherwise, just get him out of my sight. And out of Westwood.”