Gifted
Author: Kelley Armstrong
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Urban Fantasy; Paranormal; Fantasy; Short Stories; Anthologies; Shapeshifters; Werewolves; Novella; Supernatural; Fiction
Description: Contains two holiday stories, one Otherworld Pack and one Cainsville. Gabriel’s Gargoyles - (Cainsville short story, Gabriel Walsh as 10 year old narrator.) Cainsville was where a boy could walk the streets safely at any time, day or night. Where everyone was genuinely glad to see you, and didn’t think you were odd if you wanted to keep to yourself. Because Cainsville was odd, too. For one thing, there are the gargoyles. Unlike the others, Gabriel doesn’t believe the carven creatures came to life to protect the town. It’s up to a boy to protect himself. Now he’s determined to find the last hid
Publisher: Traverse Press
Rights: Copyright &#x00A9; 2014 by Kelley Armstrong

GIFTED © KLA Fricke Inc 2014, all rights reserved.
Published by Traverse Press
www.traverse-press.com
ISBN: 978-1-62274-072-7
eBooks created by www.ebookconversion.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Author’s Notes

Gabriel’s Gargoyles, a Cainsville holiday story

Excerpt from Omens

The Puppy Plan, an Otherworld Pack holiday story

First two chapters of Forsaken

Author’s Note

This mini-anthology began with an orphaned story. I wrote Gabriel’s Gargoyles for an anthology of holiday fantasy fiction. The editor never received the submission, and by the time I realized that, he’d thought I backed out, and it was too late for my contribution to be included. That left me with a story that was too short to sell as a single and unlikely to find a home in another anthology. So I decided to create a home for it, as one half of a holiday-themed duo.

Gabriel’s Gargoyles is a prequel to my Cainsville series. Gabriel Walsh is one of the major characters, and this story is set twenty years ago, when he was ten and searching for the last “hidden” gargoyle in Cainsville. To parallel his story, I decided the Otherworld one should be narrated by the character closest to Gabriel’s age. That would be nine-year-old Logan Danvers, one of Clay and Elena’s twins.

Gabriel’s story is also about trying to come up with the money to buy his great-aunt Rose the perfect Solstice gift. I further paralleled the Otherworld tale by having Logan struggling to figure out how to give his sister, Kate, the perfect gift. So we have two resourceful pre-teen boys thwarted in their efforts to get the perfect gift for the most important person in their lives. That’s where the similarities end, though. Gabriel and Logan’s home lives could not be more different, and these stories gave me the chance to explore and juxtapose those lives, while working with two relatively “new” characters.

While I have released previously published stories as e-books, this is my first time trying it with all-new material. I’ll be curious to know what readers think of this holiday-themed experiment!

Gabriel’s Gargoyles

Gabriel Walsh shielded his eyes against the late-afternoon sun and squinted up at the gargoyle, peering back at him from under the eaves of the towering bank. One of Chicago’s oldest buildings, his teacher had said. No longer a bank, though. There was no need for such an elaborate financial establishment in this neighborhood. It was elaborate, with intricate stonework and swooping eaves. And, apparently, a gargoyle.

Gabriel hadn’t seen the gargoyle before, which meant it hadn’t been there. If it had, he’d have spotted it. He was something of an expert. In Cainsville, where his great-aunt Rose lived, there was an annual May Day contest to see which child had found the most town gargoyles. Gabriel had won for the last four years. This year, he was determined to take the grand prize: the honor of having found every gargoyle in Cainsville. The town elders had assured him he had only one left to go.

He sidestepped to get a better look at this gargoyle. The fact it did not seem to have existed a day ago came as no great shock. Cainsville would hardly make such a big deal out of the competition if the gargoyles were always there, waiting to be counted. Some kids claimed they were living things, that when no one was looking they spread their wings and flew about the town and guarded it against all comers. Which was ridiculous, of course. The real explanation? Simple illusion. A visual sleight of hand. A concept Gabriel was far more familiar with than flying stonework.

“Gabe!”

He tried not to stiffen at the voice. Jay Hoover, toughest kid in the fifth grade. Also the stupidest, which had made Gabriel’s school days slightly more bearable. And much more profitable.

“Yo, Gabe!”

He didn’t turn. That wasn’t his name. Which Jay knew very well, and which was why he insisted on calling Gabriel by it.

Jay swung in front of him. He was a big kid, a prerequisite for bullies at this age. The second-biggest kid in class, and that, Gabriel had decided, was the root cause of the issue.

Jay stepped up toe-to-toe with Gabriel, as he did with all his victims. Not too bright and, apparently, lacking proper memory skills, because he always moved right in front of Gabriel and then looked up at him before remembering who was the biggest kid in fifth grade and quickly stepping back before anyone else noticed the height difference.

“So, Gabe, you didn’t tell the class what you’re getting your mommy for Christmas.”

Gabriel said nothing, just eyed the trio of Jay’s hangers-on, bouncing on the sidelines, waiting for the first blow, rather bored by the verbal preamble.

“I’ve got something you can give her.” Jay pulled a crack pipe from his pocket. The others laughed obligingly. It was a poor joke. Anyone who knew his mother would realize a needle was the proper tool and, therefore, would have been much funnier.

“You don’t like that?” Jay pulled a ten from his pocket and waggled it. “What do you think I could get from her for this?” He made an obscene gesture. Two of his friends giggled. The third said, “Nah, you don’t need that. Everyone knows Gabe’s mother isn’t a whore. She does it for free.”

More laughter now. Gabriel waited it out. Again, neither allegation was entirely accurate. His mother did not take cash from her “boyfriends.” That would be asking for a prostitution charge. She did, however, accept and expect “gifts”—either drugs or something she could hock for drugs. Yet there seemed no point in clarifying. So he waited.

“You listening to me, Gabe?” Jay said as the laughter died down.

“Only to see if you’re going to say something interesting.”

Jay hit him. His first blow went for the stomach, as always. Gabriel deflected it and landed one of his own on Jay’s jaw, which was the signal, as always, for the others to join in. Gabriel avoided the worst of the blows but made only a half-hearted attempt to return them. After a few minutes, they tired of the game and strolled off, high-fiving each other on their victory.

Gabriel lay on the cold pavement and stared up at the old bank. No sign of the gargoyle. Something landed on his bruised face. He sat up, put out his hand and caught a fat flake of first snow. He watched it melt on his palm. By then, the other boys were long gone. He rose and pulled Jay’s ten from his jacket, along with two fives and three singles he’d picked from the pockets of the others.

A faint smile, one last look toward the perch of the now-vanished gargoyle, and Gabriel headed home.

With the extra twenty-three dollars in his pocket, Gabriel allowed himself to detour out of his neighborhood and into one his mother called, “Where the rich folks live.” Which was laughable, really, and a perfect example of his mother’s low aspirations. It was a middle-class enclave, barely teetering above the line from working-class. Gabriel set his goals higher. At least two zip codes higher. Preferably downtown, close to the Loop. Suburban living would never be for him. A downtown address, then, was his goal. Not a dream or a wish. Those were for the weak. Gabriel had goals.

One goal he intended to achieve very soon lay in that neighborhood, nestled in the glass display case of an antique shop. Before opening the shop door, he checked his reflection in a nearby window. He wiped dirt from the fight off his face. Removed his winter jacket and folded it under one arm, hiding the frayed hems. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing his cowlick. Another quick check in the glass assured him he didn’t look like a street urchin out of a Dickens novel, which was the most he could usually hope for.

The bell over the door rang as he walked in. The elderly shopkeeper poked his head out from the back.

“Andrew,” he said, which was the name Gabriel had given him. “Looking for work?”

Gabriel nodded.

“I don’t have anything today, but I’ll need a pair of strong hands tomorrow to help me move a few pieces from the basement. Think you can do that?”

The old man smiled. Gabriel often felt a twinge of remorse at that—genuinely kind grown-ups who tried unsuccessfully to coax a smile from him. He dipped his head in a nod, murmuring his thanks and hoping civility would be enough. The shopkeeper smiled again and said he’d see Gabriel the next day.

Before leaving, Gabriel detoured past the glass box. Inside was a Victorian tarot card deck. His Christmas gift for Rose. Or, it would be, once he’d saved up enough to dicker over the hundred-dollar price tag.

He didn’t need to pay for it, of course. Despite the fancy glass box, the deck could easily be stolen. Incredibly easily, given that the shopkeeper had already retreated into the back and would never suspect a ten-year-old boy of stealing old cards. But the man had given him work, and that meant he was off-limits as a mark. There were rules, Rose would say. First, don’t cheat family. But a close second: don’t cheat anyone who’s helped you.

Gabriel took one last look at the cards, mentally ran through the calculations of his funds, what he could earn, and the amount of time remaining before Christmas. As long as the deck remained there for another week, the goal was achievable. With a nod of satisfaction, he left the shop.

Television bored Gabriel. He saw little appeal in the dull, overacted dramas and even less in the screeching laugh-track-plagued sitcoms. His mother felt differently, which meant he could hardly escape the medium, not when she’d turn it up so loud it reverberated through their tiny apartment. In those shows, children would come home after school, bang open the door and yell, “Mom, I’m home!”

Gabriel did not do that. First, he didn’t remember ever calling Seanna “Mom.” In his head, she was Seanna. In front of others, she was “my mother.” To her face, she was nothing at all. It was remarkable how one could simply avoid calling someone by name, if one tried hard enough.

When Gabriel came home, he unlocked the door and eased it open an inch. Then he listened. If he heard a man’s voice, he would withdraw and go to the library. Same if he heard Seanna thumping around or grumbling or slamming drawers. That meant she was jonesing for a fix, and he should steer clear. If she was already high, whether he went in depended on his mood. It was only when Seanna was high that the fact of Gabriel’s existence didn’t annoy her. She could be downright maternal, wanting him to talk to her, asking how his day had been, offering him a Coke or a candy bar from her stash. Some days, Gabriel could tolerate that, if only for the free food. Other times, he saw her smile and heard her wheedling voice, and he wanted to shout and snarl at her. To get angry. Perhaps even to lose his temper. But that would mean she’d won, that she’d made him feel something, that she’d made him care. On those days, he’d rather face the cold and pay for his own snacks.

Today, though, was one of the best days. A day when he opened the door and heard nothing. When he walked to her bedroom, he found no one inside. She was gone. That’s when he smiled. A genuine smile as he slung his backpack off his shoulder, grabbed his books and tossed them onto the table with none of his usual quiet care. Then he went into his bedroom, eased the loose floorboard free and took out a warm can of Coke. He turned to go . . . and noticed the corner of his threadbare throw rug flipped back.

With a sigh, Gabriel checked under the rug. This morning, there had been seven dollars and fifty-three cents in an envelope there. Now there was an envelope. And a penny that Seanna had dropped. Gabriel took two singles from his pocket and put them into the envelope before fixing the carpet. Then he hid the rest of the money—minus a five for dinner—in his proper hiding place, a tiny tear in his mattress. He had seventy-six dollars in there now. Another ten and he’d have enough for the tarot cards if he bargained properly. But he couldn’t eat the cards. He’d need twenty more in backup for food before he made his purchase.

As he left his room, he felt a pang of . . . something. Not anger. That was too strong an emotion. Too uncomfortable. What he felt was mostly a weary sense of annoyance. He kept that small stash under the carpet for Seanna to steal because as long as she found money there she’d never think to look elsewhere. After years of addiction she wasn’t that smart. The drugs addled not only her mind but also any sense of self-respect, and that’s what brought the annoyance close to contempt. She stole from family. There was nothing worse than that.

Yet, as he left his room, his step lightened, and he popped open the Coke can, guzzling half. The missing money meant his mother would be gone for a few days. At school, the teacher had asked what they wanted for Christmas. Gabriel hadn’t answered, but if he did, it would be this. An empty apartment. The only thing better was . . .

He glanced at the calendar in his binder. He’d circled this weekend in red. No notation was needed. Red meant Cainsville. At least two days Seanna-free, and then Rose would pick him up for the weekend. Then he’d be back to Cainsville for Winter Solstice. He smiled. Happy holidays, indeed.

Gabriel perched on a stool in Rose’s kitchen. It was his stool, an antique his great-aunt had picked up the first time he visited, when he was three and couldn’t reach the counter on a normal chair. Now, at five-and-a-half feet tall, the stool was admittedly a bit ridiculous. He had to hunch to read the yellowed recipe cards spread across the counter. But the stool was his, and, no matter how many times his mother moved, leaving everything behind as they fled in the night, it remained exactly where he’d left it, in Rose’s kitchen.

Rose herself was in the parlor with a client. Gabriel could hear her telling an old woman that she saw strife and dissent in her future, and it wouldn’t improve until she kicked her freeloading grandson out of the house. Gabriel suspected the cards said no such thing. His aunt might have the Sight, but, when it came to telling fortunes, the only real gift needed was a working pair of ears. Listen to the mark and tell them what they needed to hear. Rose would not approve of his choice of wording there. Clients were not marks. Not all of them, anyway.

Gabriel flipped through the recipe cards. A pointless exercise. He knew which he’d want. Rose knew which he’d want. But it was tradition, and, at this time of year, one did not break with tradition. Not in Cainsville.

Gabriel slid off the stool and poured himself a glass of milk and grabbed an apple from the bowl. Good food, better than he was usually able to afford, though he made the effort. Staying healthy was as important as staying clean if one wanted to avoid the attention of those who might think Seanna should be relieved of her parental duties. That included Rose.

Once in second grade, he’d shown up at school with a bruise on his jaw and fingermarks on his arm, courtesy of a drunken “boyfriend.” The teacher had taken him into a private conference room and asked about the bruises. He’d said nothing of course. But then she’d explained that if his mother was abusing him, he could go live somewhere else, perhaps with a relative.

Live with Rose?

The possibility shone like a star that had always dangled far out of reach, now dropping so close he could almost touch it. A few years ago, Rose had tried to keep him, failing to return him to Seanna after the weekend. Seanna came for him, and she’d been furious and Gabriel hadn’t gone back for a year. After that, Rose didn’t try again. But if she could have him, legally . . .

She couldn’t. Gabriel discovered that as soon as his mother learned of his chat with the teacher. Her brain might be muddled by dope, but she had a certain cunning intuitiveness, that part of her that was still a Walsh. She knew what Gabriel had in mind, took him aside and explained exactly why Rose would never get custody of him.

“She has a criminal record,” Seanna said.

“So do you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m your mom. She’s never been married, and she doesn’t have kids, which is a huge strike against her, but the criminal record is worse. Plus, she’s a dyke.”

“She does date men,” he’d said. “I’ve seen them.”

“And what about the women? You think they’re just really good friends?”

“No, she dates them, too. I just meant that I’m not sure ‘dyke’ is the correct term. I think it’s ‘bisexual.’”

She’d cuffed him for that, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t be smart, Gabriel.”

One of us has to be, he’d thought.

“You’re too smart,” she’d grumbled as she walked away. “It’s creepy. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

Gabriel hadn’t taken her word about Rose and custody, no more than he’d believe her if she claimed it was snowing. Every tidbit that came from Seanna’s mouth had to be verified. This one, unfortunately, had turned out to be true. Combine “unmarried woman” with “criminal record” and “nonstandard sexuality,” and, even in 1991, there was no chance Rose could get custody of him. If child services took him away, he’d never see her again. Never see Cainsville again. That wasn’t happening. He decided he could manage the situation.

Managing it meant being particularly careful around Rose, because if she had any idea how bad Seanna had gotten, she’d do something, even if it meant losing him forever. When she’d picked him up that morning, he’d been waiting outside. No need for her to discover Seanna wasn’t home. He’d showered, trimmed his hair, worn and packed his best clothes, the ones he kept especially for Rose’s place. He’d brought his homework bag, complete with two A-graded tests that he’d “accidentally” let fall out when she could see them. He’d even brought a banana to eat on the drive to Cainsville. See, everything is fine. Not ideal—you know what she is, and there’s no hiding that— but she’s doing a perfectly adequate job of raising me.

Rose had noticed the bruise on his face, but when he said he’d made twenty-three dollars off the skirmish, she’d laughed and said as soon as the relationship no longer proved profitable, he needed to show Jay why picking on him was a very bad idea. Which he would, of course.

The mark/client departed, and Rose walked into the kitchen. Gabriel didn’t need to look up from the recipe cards to hear her enter. Walshes didn’t come in “small.” His aunt still towered over him, nearly six feet tall, with the Walshes’ usual jet-black hair, light-blue eyes and pale skin. “Black Irish,” Rose called it. Or “Gypsy,” if she was playing Rosalyn Razvan, as her business card proclaimed her. In build, like him, his aunt was, again, not small. In a novel, she’d be called sturdy, implying she was not thin, but not fat either. Solidly built. Big boned. Whatever adjective worked.

“Picked one?” she asked as she started the kettle for tea.

He handed her a card.

She sighed. “There is nothing festive about chocolate chip cookies, Gabriel.”

“You asked what I wanted. There were no restrictions placed on the choice.”

“All right, then. I’ll decorate them with—”

“No.”

“I’ll cut them into reindeers and—”

“No.”

A quirk of a smile. Year after year, the dialogue never changed. By now, it bordered on absurd. Yet it was tradition, so they stuck to their lines.

“What if I colored the dough green and red and—?”

He handed her a second card. “Sugar cookies. You may make these as well.”

Her brows lifted. “May I?”

“If you must.”

She laughed and headed for the fridge to take out the eggs and butter. “That bag on the table is for you. A gift for your mother for Christmas. One’s from you and the other’s from me. I know you never know what to give her.”

This too was tradition. He suspected Rose knew perfectly well that, without her contribution, he would buy Seanna nothing. He used to, when he was little. When she still played Santa for him. Then, one year, his gifts mysteriously went missing a week later and turned up at the pawn shop, and he went home and told Seanna he didn’t believe in Santa, and there was no need to continue the charade. So she stopped. And so did he. Yet Rose wouldn’t let him pass a holiday without a gift for his mother.

There was only a ten-year age difference between Seanna and Rose. His mother had been like a little sister to his great-aunt. An adored little sister. While it was difficult for Gabriel to put himself in the shoes of others, he made the effort with Rose. He had come to understand that, no matter how far Seanna fell, part of her was always that little girl to Rose, who still hoped Seanna could be that again. A vain hope, but Gabriel let her have it.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“An afternoon’s work making cookies.”

He slid off the stool to fetch the flour.

While the cookies baked and Rose cleaned, Gabriel wandered into the parlor. There wasn’t far to wander in the tiny Victorian house. The parlor took up half the main floor space. It was like walking into the antique shop—if the shop specialized in the occult. Rose called it her collection of “old junk,” but she was proud of that junk, and for good reason. The pieces were valuable relics from the history of her craft. All the ways people had sought to peer into whatever mysteries lay beyond the everyday, whether it was reading tea leaves or communicating with spirits or catching a glimpse of invisible fae.

Gabriel took down a book on Cornish folktales and laid it on the desk, as if to read, but it was only an excuse for sitting at the desk and poking through the drawer. Getting a look at Rose’s cards and making sure she hadn’t added to the collection since he’d last been there. She hadn’t. There was the Thoth tarot and the Visconti-Sforza tarot and the Tarot of Marseilles. Her favorite—the one she used most—was a replica Victorian deck.

“Yes, a replica,” she’d say with a sigh. “Not that the clients know the difference.”

The problem was that an authentic Victorian-era tarot was difficult to find. Most from that period originated in France or Italy. A true Victorian tarot was rare, and she’d been hunting for years. Now Gabriel had found one.

He’d filched fifteen dollars from holiday shoppers last week. In Chicago, of course. He didn’t pick pockets in Cainsville. The shopkeeper had given him five dollars for helping move things up from the basement and promised another ten for work the following week. After that, Rose would finally have her cards.

After dinner, Rose had another appointment with a mark. Gabriel went gargoyle hunting. Night had fallen, but there was no need to be wary. In Cainsville, he could walk around at two in the morning, and the biggest danger he’d face would be locals popping out to see what was wrong.

He read his notebook as he walked. Again, no danger there. He could cross the road, deep in his book, and traffic would stop. Not that he did any such thing. Only a fool tempted fate.

He studied his list of gargoyles and compared it to his hand-drawn maps. While it had seemed likely that the final gargoyle was in one of the areas where he hadn’t found any, all of these areas had proven empty, and he’d developed the theory that the last gargoyle was located uncharacteristically close to another. The first would be easily spotted, and children would move on, thinking that area covered. The second would lurk above or below, visible only from a certain angle or during a certain time of day or under certain weather conditions. The solution, then, was a methodical accounting for all possibilities. Today, a light snow fell, which introduced yet another test variable.

He tramped along, snow squeaking under his shoes. A couple of kids passed by with a sled. They didn’t ask him to join them. They knew he wouldn’t. But they grinned and waved and called a hello, and he knew that if he wanted to go sledding, he could, and there was a comfort in that, a satisfaction, even if he’d never do so.

He continued on down Main Street, nodding at the adults who passed and lifting his head for a more respectful hello when the elders did. Without the notebook in his hand, they’d have stopped to talk, but they saw it and left him to his hunt.

Gabriel had investigated all the gargoyles on Main Street and had turned down Walnut, to take a closer look near the community center. There was one on the rear, there all the time, a sleeping gargoyle on the roof, its misshapen head on its folded arms.

“If you’re quiet enough, you’ll hear it snore,” said a voice behind him.

“Only if there’s enough of a wind to make the eaves groan.”

The man sighed. “Always need a prosaic explanation, don’t you, Gabriel?”

“No, but if there is one, I can’t deny it.”

“True.” The man walked beside Gabriel and peered up. “Yes, I suppose it is the eaves groaning. How dull.”

The man had a name. Gabriel didn’t know it. Had never heard it. Didn’t bother to ask it. If he was being honest, he’d admit that sometimes he forgot about the man altogether. If a few visits to Cainsville passed without seeing him, he’d spot him again and, for a moment, wonder who he was. More sleight of hand, this one in the mind, truth playing peek-a-boo with memory. It was Cainsville. Such things happened.

He looked at the man. He wasn’t old. Perhaps college aged or a little more. He had a notebook of his own, sticking from his pocket, and he was often writing in it furiously. Gabriel’s own book had been a gift from him, given for “any stories he wanted to tell.” Gabriel used it for financial calculations and homework reminders and gargoyle hunting.

“Do you want a hint?” the man said, pushing his hands into his pockets and shivering against the cold.

“No. That’s cheating.”

“You don’t cheat?” A smile played on the man’s lips.

Gabriel tilted his head, considering. “It would depend on the definition of the word. In the broadest sense, everyone does. Some more than others. But cheating to reach an achievement implies that you cannot do so otherwise. That you are not good enough. While I appreciate the offer, I am quite capable of finding the last gargoyle on my own.”

“You are indeed,” the man said. “You’re capable of doing anything you want to Gabriel. Don’t you ever forget it.”

“I know. Thank you.”

The man walked to the community center wall and leaned his back against it as he fixed Gabriel with an appraising look. “Perhaps a small hint? It’s allowed for the last gargoyle.”

“No, thank you.”

“We could bargain for it.” The man grinned. “Tit for tat. That’s fair.”

“No, thank you.”

“I hope you aren’t bothering the boy, bòcan,” a voice said from behind Gabriel. Another voice he recognized. This one a woman’s, strong and firm despite her advancing years. Ida walked around the community center, her husband Walter at her side. “You know better.”

“Old people,” the man whispered to Gabriel. “So annoying.”

“I heard that,” Ida said.

“I’d hardly bother if you couldn’t.” The man strolled to Gabriel and said, “I’ll leave you with the old folks. You’ll be back for Solstice, I hope.”

Gabriel nodded.

“Good,” the man said. “Christmas is all well and good, but around here, it’s all about the Winter Solstice. The beginning of winter. Longest night of the year.” He met Gabriel’s gaze. “A very important day . . . and an even more important night.”

“Yes, yes,” Ida said. “Get along and stop pestering the child. He’s cold and in need of cocoa.”

The man left, and Ida walked over. “You’ll come have cocoa with us, Gabriel? We’d love to hear how your history project went. We know you worked so hard on it.” She started back to Main Street as he fell in beside her. When Gabriel glanced down at his notebook, she said, “Ah, out hunting the last gargoyle. We could help with that, you know. It is permitted, with the last.”

“No, thank you.”

“Not even a hint?”

“I believe I have one already.”

She smiled, her wrinkles deepening. “Good. Now, can we drag you away from the hunt?”

“Yes.”

The cards were gone. They’d been there Tuesday, when Gabriel came to work for the shopkeeper. On Thursday, the old man had him running errands, so he hadn’t been able to check the glass box, but, when work ended and he got his ten dollars, he’d walked to the cards and found an empty display case.

“Andrew?” the shopkeeper said as Gabriel stood there, staring down.

“The cards.” Gabriel turned. “Have you moved them?”

“Someone bought them yesterday.” The old man made a face as he walked over. “You didn’t want those old things, I hope. They aren’t real, you know.”

“They weren’t authentic?” A tickle of something like relief. “The label said they were.”

“Well, yes, they were really Victorian. I don’t sell fakes, son. I meant, they can’t tell the future. Nothing can.”

Not entirely true, as Gabriel well knew. He knew better than to say that, though. “I know. They were for my aunt. She’s a collector.”

“Oh.” Genuine dismay crossed the old man’s face. “I’m sorry, Andrew. If I’d had any idea you were saving up for them . . . Never mind those. They were too expensive. I’m sure your aunt doesn’t want such an extravagant gift from you. Better to save your money for a video game. That’s what kids play these days, isn’t it? Video games?”

Yes, and Gabriel could not imagine a bigger waste of time or money.

The shopkeeper continued. “How about I find you another set? Genuine antiques, of course. I know where I can get a nineteenth-century Hungarian deck for about thirty dollars. Or an art deco pack for twenty. I’ll ask around and make a list. Would you like that?”

Gabriel wanted to say no, but that would be rude, and, despite what others thought, he did understand the basics of civility. He merely applied them sparingly. He nodded, and the old man patted his arm, not noticing Gabriel’s reflexive flinch.

“I’ll do that then,” the shopkeeper said. “And you use that extra money to buy yourself a video game.”

Disappointment swirled about Gabriel like a fog. He almost stepped in front of a speeding car on the way back to the apartment. He walked inside without his usual Seanna-check. It’d been almost a week, and he’d grown accustomed to pushing open that door into an empty apartment. When he heard the squeal of her laughter, he stopped short.

“Gabriel, baby.” Her voice reached him before she did, and he hovered in the doorway, considering backing out when she appeared.

At one time, Gabriel supposed his mother had looked more like his aunt. She wasn’t as tall, maybe five-ten, but her shirt and jeans hung off her like grown-up clothes on children’s hangers. Her face was just as thin, with sunken cheeks and eyes that seemed more gray than blue. Today, they were grayer than usual, dull with that heroin glaze. She was only twenty-eight, but she looked twice that.

“This is my baby,” she said, and Gabriel realized they weren’t alone. A man walked from the kitchen. Maybe thirty, with the bulky build of a construction worker. He had a beer can in one hand and that same film over his eyes. New to the drug. New to the life. His mother knew her marks well.

“Isn’t my boy a cutie?” she said.

“He has weird eyes,” the man said.

Seanna punched his arm. “Don’t be mean. He has beautiful eyes. And he’s smart, too. Smartest kid in his class.”

“Must take after his daddy.”

Seanna spun on the man. “Now that’s mean. You’d better watch yourself, or you’ll be sleeping on the street tonight.” She turned to Gabriel. “Can you go get us some burgers, sweetie?”

He nodded and put out his hand. Seanna looked at the man and waited until he passed over a ten.

“That won’t feed Gabriel, too,” she said. “He’s a big boy. Only ten, and look how big he is already. He eats more than I do.” She leaned over to whisper. “And the more he eats, the better he sleeps.”

The man exchanged the ten for a twenty. “Get yourself something good, kid.”

Behind the man’s back, Seanna raised two fingers. Two dollars. That’s what he was allowed to take for his meal. The rest of the change went to her.

Gabriel pocketed the money and headed out.

In Cainsville, Solstice was indeed bigger than Christmas. In first grade, Gabriel’s teacher had asked his favorite holiday, and that’s what he’d said. She’d looked at him blankly. He’d repeated his answer and explained it—longest night of the year, the basis for Christmas, with feasting, exchange of gifts and all that. The next day, she’d taken him aside for a “chat” about Jesus and how he’d given his life for Gabriel’s sins, and that was the proper celebration of Christmas. Gabriel had corrected her, as politely as possible. Easter was the holiday recognizing the death of Christ, and, while he understood the concept, he thought it rather presumptive to die for strangers. One of the younger teachers had overheard the conversation and reported it, and, ultimately, his teacher had to take him aside and apologize for questioning his religious beliefs. He’d accepted the apology, though he hadn’t understood it, not until he was old enough to realize Solstice was considered a Pagan festival. In Cainsville, it had nothing to do with religion. It was a celebration of winter. Nothing more.

The festivities began at sundown. Rose took him down to Main Street, which had been blocked off all day to prepare. Bonfires dotted the road, with a huge one in the middle. Candles covered every surface. Gifts were placed on tables according to age. They were unmarked, suitable for anyone of that age. Children had to bring one for the age group below theirs. Gabriel had brought two books: The Phantom Tollbooth and A Wrinkle in Time. Both came from the used-book store, but neither looked as if anyone had cracked open its cover, so they could pass as new.

On arrival, every child was given a suet ball and had to find a place to hang it to help the birds through winter. They also got an orange, to represent the sun, and mulled cider, to keep them warm as they hunted for a suitable hanging spot. When they returned, Main Street was filled with tables and tables of food. Afterward, there would be caroling. And, of course, mistletoe, strategically hung for kissing. Gabriel avoided both by helping clear the food away. The night ended with stories and the burning of the Yule log. And that was when Gabriel’s night truly began—hunting for the last gargoyle, because he was certain the man had given him a hint. The final gargoyle would appear on the most important night of the year. The longest night of the year.

And it did. In fact, it was rather hard to miss, if you went looking. After the festivities, though, everyone headed home, leaving the streets bare, the bonfires smoldering. That’s when Gabriel found the gargoyle, in the most obvious place of all. Right in the middle of Main Street. Town Hall. On the bell tower.

Gabriel stood below the gargoyle as it leaned down from the tower, its twisted face grinning at him as if to say, “Found me!” He looked up through the falling snow and let out a low chuckle that reverberated through the silent street.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” said a voice behind him. It was the man, snow crunching under his shoes. Gabriel didn’t turn, just kept staring at the gargoyle.

“The bell tower?” the man prompted.

“The Hunchback of Notre-Dame,” Gabriel said.

“Very good. You do like stories then, even if you don’t write any in that journal I gave you.”

“I read the comic book.”

The man’s laugh rang through the night. “Liar.”

Gabriel smiled and shrugged. Then, he made the appropriate notes in his book, giving the exact location and describing the gargoyle, as was needed to claim his victory.

“You did it,” the man said as he walked up beside Gabriel.

“Yes, I did.”

“You know what the prize is, don’t you?”

Gabriel let out a soft sigh.

The man laughed again. “Not as keen on that part, are you?”

“Can I skip it?”

“Nope. You find all the gargoyles, and the town gets a new one, modeled after you.”

Gabriel made a face.

“Victory comes with a price,” the man said. “You’ll survive this one.” He looked down at Gabriel. “I’m proud of you. You know that, don’t you, Gabriel?”

It seemed an odd thing to say, but Gabriel only murmured, “Thank you.”

“Did you get a good present at the festival?”

Gabriel held up a train set.

“Ah,” the man said. “Not exactly your style, is it? How about I take that and give you something better. An exchange.”

Gabriel hesitated. The gift, while unwanted, had been given with good intentions, and it seemed insulting to refuse it. Before he could answer, though, the man plucked the box from his hand.

“Happy Solstice, Gabriel,” he said as he walked away, the train set tucked under one arm. “And you’re welcome.”

Gabriel watched him go, frowning in some confusion. Then, as he turned, he saw the gargoyle again, and he nodded. That was the gift—the hint about Solstice. Fair enough.

He tried to put his notebook into his pocket, but it wouldn’t fit. Something else was in there. Gabriel reached in and felt a box. He pulled it out.

It was the cards. The Victorian tarot for Rose.

Gabriel turned back toward the man to call out his thanks. But the street was empty. He pocketed the cards, smiled and headed back to give Rose her present.

Looking for more Gabriel Walsh? He’s a major character in the Cainsville series, starting with Omens. Twenty years after Gabriel’s Gargoyles, he’s one of Chicago’s most notorious defense attorneys. He’s also exactly the guy Olivia Taylor-Jones needs to help her solve the murders her parents were convicted of twenty-two years ago.

On the next page, you’ll find an excerpt from Omens—the scene where Olivia first meets Gabriel.

For more details, check out my website at KelleyArmstrong.com

Excerpt from Omens

I couldn’t shake that sense of something creeping along behind me. Finally I spun. There was something there—a black shape crouched on the fence of the now-distant park. A chill crept up my spine and I squinted. The shape lengthened, stretching until it became the black cat, languidly arching its back, then settling in on the fence post to watch me.

The urge to run tingled down my legs. Instead, I forced myself back toward the cat. It just sat there, watching me.

“If you’re looking for handouts, this”—I waggled Grace’s bag—“is not kitty food.”

The cat yawned and stretched again before settling back on its perch. Something passed overhead and the cat sprang up so fast I stumbled back. It gave me a scornful glare, then looked up into the sky. I followed its gaze to see what looked like a crow, soaring high overhead.

“A little out of your reach,” I said to the cat.

It ignored me, tail puffed, yellow eyes following the distant bird.

Crow, crow, get out of my sight

Or else I’ll eat thy liver and lights

“Great,” I muttered. “Just great.” I shook my finger at the cat. “You guys really are bad luck.”

The clouds overhead shifted, sunlight coming through again. As I headed back to the pathway, I glanced over my shoulder once, but the cat hadn’t moved. It just kept staring at that crow, as if hoping it would come lower. If it did, the cat would be in for a surprise. The bird was probably as big as it was.

When I was about halfway down the path, I could make out the Victorian house across the road, the one with the psychic in residence. Again, I saw a face in a window. And two black circles. Binoculars. They pulled back and I smiled to myself. Psychic, my ass. In a town this small, all you needed to pull off that gig was the gift of nosiness.

A cloud moved across the sun again and I looked up. Maybe it would rain after all. That might establish me as a psychic. Look out, lady—

A throat-clearing. And as my gaze dropped from the sky, I realized it wasn’t a cloud blocking the sun at all. There was a man barely a yard away.

“Ms. Taylor-Jones?”

The first thing I saw was his suit. It was a good one. Excellent, in fact. Worth more than some of the cars parked along the road behind him. I thought, James has hired someone to find me.

There was a reason the guy seemed to block the sun. He had to be at least six foot four with shoulders so wide I had to bump up my estimate of the suit’s worth. Nothing off the rack would fit him.

Whoever sprang for a fancy suit, hoping to make him look less intimidating, had wasted his money. One look and you knew exactly what he was—a high-class thug. Property of a very wealthy man. This wasn’t the sort of person James would send. Not unless he wanted me running the other way.

My gaze went to his eyes. Instinct, honed by my dad. Look strangers in the eyes right away, Livy. That’s the only way to get a good read on them. Usually a good rule. Except when the stranger was wearing shades so dark I couldn’t see through them.

The man took a long step backward and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Is that better?” he said, his voice deep, tone amused. “You look ready to scamper back down the path. Not what I’d expect from the daughter of Pamela Larsen.” Before I could react he pulled a card from his inside pocket and presented it with a mock flourish. I glanced at it, noting only his name—Gabriel Walsh—a Chicago address and the words “Law Firm.”

Not a thug, then. An investigator . . . probably with a little thug thrown in, for getting information people didn’t care to give.

“You work for a lawyer,” I said. When one brow arched, I continued, “Whatever your boss—”

“I don’t have a boss, Ms. Jones.”

He reached out, and I struggled against the urge to move back. He tapped the card with one huge but perfectly manicured fingernail.

I read it again. Gabriel Walsh. Attorney-at-law.

“Oh,” I said.

“A common mistake. I represented your mother. The biological one.”

I glanced up sharply. “You were—?”

“Not her original lawyer, of course.” He wasn’t old enough for that. “I represented Pamela Larsen in her most recent appeal attempt. Lost, unfortunately.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s unfortunate at all.”

His only response was an oddly elegant shrug.

“I suppose she sent you,” I said. “That heartrending jailhouse plea to see her only child? You can tell her—”

“I said I represented her, past tense. She fired me when our request for an appeal was denied.”

“And now you want to get her back.”

“No, I was fired only because she didn’t give me time to quit.”

“I really do need to be going,” I said as I hefted my paper bag. “If you’ll excuse—”

“I’ve come with a business proposition.” He turned toward Rowan Street. “There’s a coffee shop down the road. The food isn’t as good as the diner’s, but it’s quieter.”

He knew Cainsville? I checked the card again. The office address was definitely Chicago.

“How did you find me?” I said.

“I had a tip.” He waved toward the psychic’s house. “Now, about that coffee . . . ?”

I shook my head, said, “Not interested.” I stepped to the side, to go around him. He hesitated, and I thought he was going to block me. My heart picked up speed, brain calculating the distance back to the park. He let me pass, but followed, still talking.

“You may be aware that your mother wrote a book. You may not be aware that it continues to sell quite well. The proceeds, naturally, do not go to Pamela. In the absence of an heir, her royalties are donated to charity. However, now that her heir has been found . . .”

“You’ll help me gain control of those assets,” I said, still walking. “For a price.”

“Fifty percent.” He said it without hesitation. I should have been appalled, but all I could think was, At least he’s honest.

“Those proceeds are going to the victims, aren’t they?”

“Their families.” He clarified this as if it made them less worthy of compensation. A pause for dramatic effect, then he lowered his voice, “The only living victim here is you, Ms. Jones.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He only dipped his chin, as if granting me a point in a game, which I supposed this was. For him, at least.

“I can see that your standard of living has dropped significantly as the result of this revelation. Your adopted mother has apparently disowned you—”

“No, I’m just taking some time away.”

“Oh?” He looked around. “So this is where you usually come on vacation?”

I kept walking. He followed in silence until we reached the sidewalk, where a sleek Jaguar had taken the last spot on Rowan—the one in front of the fire hydrant.

“May I suggest that poverty is not the grand adventure you expect, Ms. Jones?”

“I know what poverty is.”

“Do you? My mistake then.”

I glanced back. His lips were slightly curved, this time not in a smile but in disdain. Bastard. I climbed the apartment steps. Grace was still there on her battered lawn chair, pulled back into the shadows. She nodded. But it wasn’t me she was looking at.

“Gabriel.”

“Grace. I brought you a scone.” He lifted a small brown bag, which looked remarkably like the one . . . I looked down at my empty hand.

How the hell had he done that?

“Fresh from the oven,” he said. “Still warm.”

Grace took it with a queenly nod, then glowered my way. I started to claim the scone, but realized it would sound like whining. If he got it from me, that was my own fault. Bastard.

“You two know each other?” I said.

“We’re acquainted.” Gabriel turned to me. “I’ve made my offer, Ms. Jones, and I hope you’ll take some time to reconsider it.”

“I don’t need to.”

“I think you might.”

He nodded to Grace, then walked down the steps and headed for the Jag. Got in, peeled from the curb. I watched him go, then turned to Grace.

“You know who I am,” I said.

“Maybe.” She peered into the bag and pulled out the scone. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

I stood there as she took a bite, gray eyes closing in rapture.

“He said she called him.” I waved toward the fortune-teller’s house. “Tipped him off about me.”

She opened one eye, then the other, piqued at the interruption. “If you think it was me, say so. Don’t beat around the bush. Makes you look weak.”

“Okay. So you called him.”

“I wouldn’t call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire.” She pursed her lips. “No, I might. To sue everyone responsible—from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I’d wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he’d just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement.”

“So he’s an ambulance chaser.”

“He’s a money chaser, doesn’t matter where it comes from. Young as he is, he runs his own practice. Makes him look like some kind of prodigy, but the truth is with his reputation, even the sleaziest firm in Chicago wouldn’t hire him. He is honest, though, in his own way. If he said Rose called him, I’m sure she did, because she called me about you, too. The part Gabriel left out? That old gossip is his great-aunt.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Gabriel Walsh comes from a long line of hustlers. He’s just the first one to go to law school and get a license for it.”

So the last lawyer to represent Pamela Larsen had an aunt who just happened to live across from my new apartment? Seems my luck in finding Cainsville came with a price. I supposed I should have expected as much. Fate is capricious. Nothing comes free. And Gabriel Walsh was an irritation I could deal with.

Grace took another bite of her scone and sighed with pleasure. “Damn. You must have made a good impression on Larry if you got him to bake me up a fresh batch.”

“You knew . . . ?”

“That you brought me this? Course I did.”

“But you thanked—”

“He got it from you. You let him. You need to pay more attention, girl. Especially around that one.”

“In other words, keep my distance.”

“Never said that. Men like Gabriel have their uses. You just need to keep your eyes open and your hand on your wallet.”

Thunder cracked. Lightning split the sky. When I looked up, the clouds had rolled in again.

“Huh, looks like we’re getting a storm,” she said.

She stood and walked to the door, then waved impatiently at her chair. I folded it and carried it inside just as the downpour started.

The Puppy Plan

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it caused serious problems for werewolves, too. Logan had been wandering through the forest behind Stonehaven, goofing off, tramping through the newly fallen snow. At nine, he was a little old for that. Or he considered himself too old for it. But his twin sister Kate had gone into the city with their parents to buy Christmas gifts, so there was no one to see him. And it was new snow. So he wandered about, breaking fresh paths, startling mice and maybe even scooping up a few, like he and Kate used to do when they were kids. Little kids, that is.

As he neared the edge of the property, he noticed the sun dropping over the open road. Time to head back. He was supposed to be in before dark, and, while there was at least an hour left, he hated even skirting the edges of irresponsibility.

It was then, as he turned, that he caught the scent. He stopped in his tracks, lifted his nose and inhaled.

It smelled like a dog, which was weird. With the Pack roaming these woods, other canines steered clear. Once, he and Kate had spotted a fox ambling across the road, and, when it caught their scent, it practically went into spasms before it tore back to its own side.

This definitely smelled like dog, though. That made Logan curious. Okay, most things made Logan curious. He liked learning and discovering. He also liked testing boundaries, though not in the same way as his sister. Kate pushed the ones that would get her into trouble. With Logan, boundaries were about knowledge and exploration. Lately, he’d been testing how close he could get to domestic animals before he startled them.

He walked toward the scent, but it remained faint. Then it was gone. He looked around. He saw the road, and trees and snow. Lots of snow. When he backed up, the smell wafted by on the breeze.

Had a dog passed this way earlier, its tracks now covered in snow?

No. His gut told him that whatever caused this smell was still here, and he paused, analyzing that. Gut feelings were for Kate; Logan preferred fact. He decided that it was the strength of the scent. As faint as it was, it was more than the detritus shed by a passing dog.

That still didn’t answer the question of where the dog could possibly be, when all he saw was snow. The forest started ten feet back from the road, the edge too sparse to hide anything bigger than a rabbit.

Maybe it wasn’t bigger than a rabbit. Like the one when Uncle Nick took them to visit Vanessa, and they’d been out walking on a busy street and passed a woman with a tiny dog in her purse. The dog freaked, escaped and ran into traffic, followed by Kate, who’d nearly gotten hit catching it. Uncle Nick had decided it was a story their parents really didn’t need to hear. Logan agreed. He’d also pointed out to Kate that, while rescuing the dog had been a fine impulse, she’d nearly given the tiny beast a heart attack when she scooped it up, which would have rather undone the point of saving it.

It could be a small dog, then, cowering behind a tree, waiting for Logan to pass. Which meant he should just move along. Except that, well . . . curiosity. He had to see if his theory was right.

As he started through the ditch, snow billowed over the top of his boots. He should have worn snow pants, but, on the first snow last month, he’d declared he was too old for them. The price for maturity, apparently, was wet jeans and snow sliding down the inside of his boots.

His foot hit something buried in the snow. A rock or a root. When he went around it, the smell faded. That’s when he decided curiosity wasn’t always such a good thing.

He had a good idea what he’d just kicked in the snow. A dog. Or the body of one that was struck by a car and made it into the ditch before dying. He scowled at the thought. Sometimes, you can’t avoid hitting an animal on the road, and it isn’t safe to try, however much Kate would protest otherwise. But if you did hit a dog, you should at least stop. Help it if you can, and find the owner if it’s too late.

He didn’t need to see a dead dog. But, when the snow melted, Kate would see it, and that would upset her. A lot. She’d been trying for the past year to convince their parents to let them get a puppy. Reese had dogs growing up, and he said if you raised them from pups, they were fine with the werewolf smell. But werewolves and pets were two things that didn’t normally go together, and, with everything else that was going on, this was one time when their normally indulgent parents held fast. Maybe in a year or so. Not now.

Kate didn’t need to see the dead dog. Logan would move it deep into the woods on the other side of the road. It wasn’t something he wanted to do—at all—but it was something he should and could do, and that’s what counted.

He peered up into the sky. The sun had not miraculously stopped dropping, which meant he ought to leave this task until morning, when he could bring a bag. First, he’d check and see how big a one he needed, and if he should bring the toboggan, too.

He returned to the spot where he’d kicked the poor thing, and he bent to scoop out snow. It was light and powdery, easy to move. He shifted the snow off and saw a bag. A canvas one, like the kind potatoes came in. Which meant this wasn’t a dog hit by a car. As for what it was . . .

Let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong.

He undid the tie at the top and opened it to see . . .

Logan’s stomach clenched so hard he doubled over. Tears prickled as he squeezed his eyes shut, but the image stayed emblazoned there. Two puppies, one on top of the other, the top one’s eyes open, pink tongue sticking out between its tiny teeth.

Logan dropped the bag and scrambled to the road and started pacing, heaving deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. Get his temper under control. Everyone said Kate was the one with the temper. Not completely true. His didn’t come out nearly as often as hers, but, when it did, it was like a fire in his head and in his stomach, burning through everything.

How could people do this? No, really, how? If they couldn’t keep the damned puppies, they could damned well find someone who could or leave them at the goddamned shelter, because this, this was unforgivable. Someone should put them in a bag. Toss them by the roadside like garbage. That’s what he’d like to do if he found them, and he didn’t care if it was wrong. It was fair.

He paced until he stopped raging. And stopped cursing. Then he rubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath and . . .

Harsh bass boomed from his pocket, making him jump. The opening chords for Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl.” Kate’s ring tone. She set up everyone’s ring tones, an idea she got from Savannah, though his sister’s taste in music was somewhat more eclectic.

Logan answered quickly.

“I thought you were staying in the city for dinner,” he blurted.

“Dad and I got tired of being out. Mom did, too. She just wouldn’t admit it.”

He turned his back on the bag.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Sure. Just out walking.”

There was a pause. Kate trying to emotion-read him through the phone. That was not, he was aware, the technical term for what she did. There probably wasn’t a technical term, because her ability to interpret mood and emotion bordered on the preternatural. But, after a moment, she gave up and said, “I’ll join you.”

“It’s almost dark.”

“Which is fine as long as we are together and have our phones. I know the rules, Lo. I even kinda follow them. Oh, and I’ll bring your hot chocolate. We picked it up in town. The good stuff from the new coffee place. I’ll have to reheat it and put it into a thermos. There was whipped cream, but it melted. I could say I ate it, but that would be gross.”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“Does it help if I say I used a spoon?”

“Did you?”

“Where are you? I’ll be there in ten.”

Logan started to tell her. Then he spun back toward the bag. “No! I’ll . . . I’ll come there. I was just heading in.”

“So you can go out again. With me.”

“My jeans are wet.”

“Because you didn’t wear snow pants.” She sighed. “For such a smart kid, you can do some really dumb things, Lo.”

“Because I’m still a kid. It’s allowed. Give me ten and I’ll be there.”

“Fine. But if I drink your hot chocolate, it’s your own fault.”

“How would it be—? Never mind. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He set the timer on his phone, knowing if he wasn’t within sight of the house by the time it went off, his sister would come looking for him. Patience was not one of her virtues. He was still fussing with his phone when he bent distractedly over the bag and caught the smell and stopped short at the reminder of exactly what he was doing.

He couldn’t think about it. Just couldn’t. Sometimes doing the right thing meant doing stuff you really didn’t want to. He might have a bad dream or two after this, but finding the dead puppies would give Kate screaming nightmares, wondering if they’d been alive when—

Nope, he wasn’t thinking about that. Wasn’t.

He picked up the bag . . . and it seemed to move. Which he was clearly imagining, because he’d just been thinking about the puppies being alive.

So he was going to presume they were dead without checking? That would give him nightmares. He steeled himself and peered inside, recoiling as he saw the puppy with its eyes open. There was no doubt it was dead. No doubt at all.

The one underneath it had its eyes shut, but its lip was curled back as if in a final snarl of defiance. He saw that, and he wanted to cry. Not rage and curse but cry, because, when he looked at that puppy, he felt what it must have.

Like his sister, he’d always had an affinity for dogs, that sense that they shared a common bond in their canine side. But it wasn’t until now that he really felt that bond, and all he could think about were the last minutes of life for that puppy.

He’d planned to leave them in the bag, but now that seemed as wrong as if he’d put them there himself. He reached in and took out the body of the first puppy, cold and stiff. Then the other . . .

The other was not cold and stiff.

Logan nearly dropped the first puppy in his hurry to get the second one out. He scooped it up with both hands.

It was warm. Warm and pliant, its head lolling. He put one hand under its muzzle to support it while he pushed his fingers deep into the thick fur around its heart, searching for a beat.

The puppy lay on his hands, a dead weight.

Dead weight.

He blinked back tears. Tears of frustration and disappointment now, and maybe a little of anger, as if he’d been tricked, some cruel joke making him think that the puppy lived.

No, the joke was worse than that. The puppy was still warm, meaning that maybe, if he’d gotten to it faster . . .

He swallowed and wrapped his hands around the puppy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If I wasn’t fast enough, I’m sorry.”

The puppy whimpered.

Logan froze. His heart pounded, and he was sure he’d imagined the whine, that it was an echo of his own voice. His fingers dug into that thick fur again, checking in case, just maybe . . .

There was a heartbeat.

A faint heartbeat.

Logan sat down fast, put the puppy on his lap and examined it for injuries. No obvious broken bones. No soft spots on its small skull. As he looked down at the puppy, he swore he heard his sister’s voice in his ear.

It’s cold, you dope. It’s been lying in the snow. Stop playing doctor and start playing nurse.

Right. Yes. Of course. Hypothermia. He unzipped his coat fast and put the puppy inside. Before he could zip it up, he took it out again and put it under his shirt too, right against him. Then, being careful to leave his zipper undone enough so it wouldn’t smother, he wrapped his arms around it and started to run.

Get to the house. Get Jeremy’s help. He was the Pack medic. He’d know what to do. As for what he’d do about Logan bringing a puppy home? They’d deal with that later.

He was under no illusion that his parents would say, “You found a puppy? All right then, you can keep it.” And when they didn’t say that, when Kate had a puppy in the house, only to see it sent to the shelter? When she blamed their parents? Let’s just say it wasn’t going to be a very Merry Christmas.

But he couldn’t think about that. The important thing was the puppy. Maybe he could convince Mom and Dad to set a timeline for Kate. To tell her, “Not this puppy, but another. In a year.” Definitely in a year. Logan knew they would both love to give her that puppy, but they just couldn’t right now, not with the Malcolm problems and everything else going on.

He was halfway to the house when the puppy woke up. Fast. Like he’d dropped it into a frozen pond. All four tiny limbs shot out and sixteen tiny—and remarkably sharp—claws ripped at his chest.

“Whoa!” Logan said as he skidded to a halt, snow flying. “Hold on!” With one hand, he rubbed the puppy, trying to calm it—and keep from being totally shredded—as he got his coat open and pulled it out.

Once free, the puppy froze, motionless, as if trapped in the jaws of some massive predator. Logan tried to pet it, but it started trembling, like a rabbit under a wolf’s paw. Logan’s own heart pounded along with the puppy’s. What if he did exactly what he’d warned Kate about with that purse dog? If he rescued it, only to give it a heart attack from his scent?

“It’s okay,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”

He kept his voice low and soothing, but the puppy whimpered, as if his talking only made things worse. It twisted in his arms, wriggling and struggling. He couldn’t let it go—it wasn’t old enough to survive out here—but if he scared it to death . . .

He growled with frustration. The puppy stopped wiggling. It went still. Then, slowly, it looked up at him, confused. He growled again, and it tilted its head, but stayed motionless, watching him. Its nostrils flared as it sorted out his scents—canine and human—and he wondered if it wasn’t the canine one that had made it freak out.

He growled, keeping the noise low, the kind of reassuring growl a parent might give. The puppy gave a yip of joy and started wriggling madly, in excitement now, small tongue bathing his face.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “We’re good. That’s great. Now just . . . Can you—” The tongue slid into his mouth. “Ugh. No, stop—” He held the puppy at arm’s length. When it stopped, he settled it, firmly, in his arms. “You’re obviously fine. Which is great. But . . .”

But it was also a problem, because as much as he’d tried to remain sensible and mature about the whole thing, a part of him had still been shouting, I found a puppy! The part that hoped maybe, if he brought home an injured and abandoned dog, and it had to stay with them to recover, their parents would see it wasn’t a big deal and let them keep it. Now, though, he had a perfectly healthy abandoned dog, which would be easy to just whisk off to the shelter. That was, he had to admit, not what he wanted. Not at all.

He looked down at the puppy. It was black and white with medium-length fur. Border collie was the breed that sprang to mind. Border collie mingled with something else, because it was already an armful, meaning there was a larger dog mixed in there. German shepherd, maybe?

Kate had researched the various breeds, trying to find the right one. He’d helped, allegedly just because he enjoyed research but admittedly because, well, because he wanted to dream a little, too. Border collies and shepherds were at the top of their list. Intelligent and loyal working dogs. Shepherds appealed more to Logan, but Kate had her heart set on a border collie or Australian shepherd, like Reese used to have. Something loyal and intelligent but also cuddly.

Logan looked down at the ball of fur in his arms. This was her dog. There was no other answer. He’d found exactly the perfect dog for her two days before Christmas. That meant something. It had to.

His sister was supposed to have this dog.

His phone jangled, the alarm sounding.

Shit! Er, crap.

He hit speed-dial as fast as he could, juggling the phone with the puppy. It rang. Rang again.

Come on, Mom. You haven’t put your phone in a drawer yet. I’m out in the forest, which means you’ll keep it in your pocket—

“Hey,” came the answer.

He exhaled. “Mom. Good. You’re there.”

“Not sure where else I’d be, but, yep, I’m here. Your sister’s on her way out to find—”

“No!”

“Hmm?”

“That’s what I’m calling about. Can you stop her? Keep her there? Distract her or something?”

The puppy wriggled, and he adjusted his grip on it.

“Is everything okay?” Mom asked. “You sound—”

“I’m feeling a little off. Restless.”

“Is it—?”

“No, no. Just restless, like Kate gets. Anyway, it’s nice and quiet out here and . . .”

Mom chuckled. “And your sister will shatter that silence?”

“I just need time by myself to walk it off. I’ll be in before it’s totally dark. I promise.”

“I know you will. And you are, as always, entitled to time on your own. I’ll keep your sister at bay.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

He hung up. That should do the trick. Even for twins, Logan and his sister were close. Best friends who understood each other in a way no human playmate ever could. But Mom worried that they might need time to themselves now and again, especially as they got older. She’d keep Kate away. Now he had to figure out what to do.

Two days until Christmas. Two days to figure out how to tell his parents that he planned to give his sister a puppy.

His stomach twisted at the thought, because it felt disloyal and a little underhanded. No, a lot underhanded. They weren’t saying, “No pets” without good reason. If he said he wanted to give this puppy to Kate, it would kill them to refuse.

What he needed was a defense. Not an impassioned plea, but a reasonable argument. Which meant he had two days to come up with a way to convince his parents, while not making them feel they’d been tricked into agreeing . . . or like they were monsters if they refused.

What to do with the puppy until then . . .

The playhouse.

He and Kate had a fort in the forest. Uncle Nick, Reese and Noah had built it for them a couple of years ago. Or they’d tried. When it failed to actually stand upright, they’d recruited Morgan, who had more experience with construction. The result was a perfect shelter from the elements. Also the perfect place to hide a puppy.

Putting the puppy in the fort was a fine idea . . . except that it required the cooperation of the other party, and the puppy was having none of it. After trying several times to leave the dog—only to have it start howling—Logan decided the answer was the same one his parents had used when their “puppies” wouldn’t go to sleep.

He brought the dog into the snow and played with it, and while he told himself he was just trying to wear it out, he was a little disappointed when it did finally collapse, exhausted. He scooped it up and took it into the fort, where he’d made a nest with his hoodie, and the puppy fell into snoring slumber.

“I’ll bring you food later,” he whispered as he filled an old Frisbee with snow and mashed it down for drinking water.

Bringing food would mean sneaking out at night, and he hated that, but, if the alternative was letting a puppy starve, it really was no question at all. The rules had to be broken. Just this once.

Next, he had a much less pleasant task: burying the dead puppy. He did that, burying both the bag and the puppy deep in the snow across the road. Then, he started back to the house, deep in thought, until the smell of deer made him pause, instinctively lifting his face to inhale the scent.

Scent.

Oh no.

He stank of dog.

He looked up. Pine needles? Would that smell be strong enough? Maybe if he rubbed them on his clothes and then made a beeline for the shower. But how would he explain to Mom and Dad that he really needed to wash his clothing? By himself.

Well, I have to learn sometime, right?

Dad might let it pass, but Mom had a keenly tuned sense for when something wasn’t quite right with her kids, and she’d sniff out answers like a hound on a trail.

What he needed was a dead animal. Gross, yes, but it would cover up the dog scent. When he sniffed the air, though, he picked up a smell that would do that job even better. Except . . .

He walked to the source of the scent, looked down and shuddered.

Kate had really better appreciate this Christmas gift.

“Oh my God,” Kate said as Logan walked in the door. Her hand flew over her nose. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Kate!” Mom called. “Language.”

“You said there’s a time for cursing,” Kate yelled back. “I think this is it. Logan’s covered in deer poop.”

Mom sighed, probably just relieved Kate had said “poop.” Then she rounded the corner and stopped short, her hand flying up to her nose in a matching pose. “Oh my God, Logan.”

“Language, Mom,” Kate said.

Logan lifted his hand, “Don’t come any closer.”

“Don’t worry,” Kate said. “We’re not. What happened?”

“Ice.”

Kate’s lips twitched. Then, she burst out laughing. Mom tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to stifle hers, snorting half-choked laughs.

“Thanks, Mom,” Logan said.

“Sorry, baby. It’s just . . .” She struggled to swallow more laughter.

Dad’s footsteps thudded down the stairs. He poked his head into the mudroom. “What’s . . .” His nostrils flared, and then he drawled, “Well, that’s unfortunate. Ice?”

Logan nodded. He turned and pulled off his boots.

“On your back too?” Mom said. “How’d you manage that?”

“Ice. It’s slippery. Very slippery if it’s covered in snow.”

“So you fell on your face in deer poop,” Kate said. “Got up and fell in backwards?”

“My face is fine.”

“Uh, no, actually there’s a little . . . Eww. Sorry, Lo. You really stink. I’ll go watch Jeremy make dinner.”

“You could help Jeremy,” Mom called after her as she left.

Kate laughed and kept going. Dad followed. Mom turned to Logan.

“Okay, baby, strip down, and I’ll get your clothes into the laundry.”

“I can handle it. It’s my mess, so it’s my cleanup.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ve got it.” He gave her a wan smile. “It’s not something you want to do before dinner.”

“Just toss your clothes in the washer, and I’ll run it after we eat.”

“No, I—”

Dad reappeared with a wet washcloth.

“Please tell me Kate was kidding about my face,” Logan said.

Dad shook his head and walked toward him, as if to wipe it off, but Logan took the cloth and backed up. “Got it. I’ve got the laundry too, Mom. I want to learn. I’ve been thinking I need to take on more responsibilities.”

“All right. I’ll show you how to run it. I am sorry about laughing.”

“But it was funny,” Dad said.

“And it’ll get funnier each time your sister retells it.”

Logan sighed.

Mom gingerly reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You just need to find something to hold over her so she doesn’t tell everyone at Christmas. Not that I’d recommend blackmailing your sister . . .”

“Yeah, we absolutely recommend it,” Dad said. “It’s the only defense.”

Logan smiled, and they left him to strip down and run upstairs to the shower.

Logan was quiet over dinner, but no one noticed. Kate spent the meal regaling him and Jeremy with stories of the “strange behavior of humans”—all the weird things she’d witnessed while out Christmas shopping. Mom’s eye rolls said Kate was exaggerating. Dad’s smirks said she wasn’t exaggerating very much.

That was part of growing up in a werewolf Pack. Humans sometimes seemed a foreign species to Logan and Kate, the way they did to Dad, who’d been bitten when he was a kid. Mom had grown up human, so she didn’t pay any attention when humans did things like let their kids wander off in a mall, or yell at them in public or cuff them upside the head. Logan got the feeling none of that was weird—or foreign—to his mother. He wondered what her childhood had been like, but she never talked about it, and if he or Kate asked, she’d just tell them a funny story from her school days.

With Kate entertaining at dinner, no one noticed he was quiet. Quiet and deep in thought, his brain racing to come up with all the necessary facets of “the puppy plan.”

He had to get his parents onside. Jeremy didn’t count. No, that sounded wrong. Jeremy definitely counted—it was his house, and he was Dad’s foster father and also the former Alpha. He always counted. When it came to raising Logan and Kate, though, Jeremy kept out. He was like . . . Logan wasn’t really sure what Jeremy was like, because he had no frame of reference other than what he could glean from other families. Jeremy seemed more involved than a grandparent. He wasn’t like a parent either, because he left all the decisions to their mom and dad. One of Logan and Kate’s school friends had a stepdad, who did everything a dad did, except when it came to discipline and decisions about raising him. That’s what Jeremy was like. As close as you could get to a parent without actually being one.

When it came to getting a dog, Jeremy’s position was simply “whatever your parents say,” as it was on everything else. He wouldn’t even be here for Christmas. He was leaving tomorrow to spend a few days with his girlfriend, Jaime, and then they’d both come back for the big Pack holiday Meet on the twenty-sixth.

The two people Logan had to convince, then, were his parents. He’d considered going straight for Dad. His father might be the most feared werewolf in the country, but his kids saw a very different side of him. Last summer was the first time he’d really raised his voice to them—getting into a shouting match with Kate long after their mother had lost all patience with her acting out. But Kate had had a reason for her bad behavior, and they’d sorted it out, and Dad went back to being his usual self, which meant if Logan had to pick who he could more easily woo to his side, it was definitely Dad.

That was a problem. The rest of the werewolf world might think Dad was the scary one, but he wasn’t Alpha. Mom was. That meant that Logan shouldn’t go around her to his father to ask for something. Yes, Mom wouldn’t want him saying that. She wanted to be his mom, not his Alpha. But she was his Alpha, and he felt that.

Even if she hadn’t been Alpha, he shouldn’t go around her to his dad. He’d never heard his parents disagree on something to do with him and Kate. So either they never disagreed, or they just didn’t do it in front of the kids. They wanted to stand together as parents, and he shouldn’t pit them against each other. Which meant he had to ask them together. That did not, however, mean he couldn’t work on Dad first.

The next problem was getting Dad away from Mom. Like Kate and Logan, they weren’t always together, but it usually seemed like it. Luckily, this was Christmas, which meant routines had changed. Last night, they’d all gone out to cut down a tree. Tonight, they’d trim it. Dad’s job was getting the decorations out of the attic while Mom and the twins made hot chocolate.

“I don’t think three of us need to do this anymore,” Logan said as Kate stirred chopped chocolate into the milk.

Mom got out the mugs. “Someone needs to make sure all that chocolate goes into the pan.”

“I’m not five, Mom,” Kate said . . . and tossed a chunk of chocolate his way before eating a piece herself.

“I thought I’d help Dad this year,” Logan said.

“Why?” Kate said. “You liked the smell of deer poop on your clothes so much that you want to see if mouse poop smells just as good?”

He flicked the back of her head and dodged as she kicked backwards.

“Go on,” Mom said. “Just ignore the cursing.”

Dad was definitely cursing. He was snarling, too, as he stomped around in the dark attic.

“Where the hell did she move everything?” he was muttering to himself as Logan climbed up. “Goddamn it.”

“Language, Dad.”

His father only looked over and snorted. Logan got the feeling the “no swearing” rule came from Mom. Logan understood it, though—if they were allowed to curse at home, then they’d slip up at school, and Mom didn’t need more calls from the teacher.

“Mom didn’t move the decorations. You just toss them up here after the holidays and then forget where you put them.”

A grunt, but no argument. Logan picked up a flashlight and scanned the boxes, saying as casually as he could, “I meant what I said earlier about wanting to do more chores . . . taking on more responsibility.”

Another grunt.

“We’re old enough, and I think it’s a good idea.”

Dad walked deeper into the attic. “I asked Jeremy for more responsibility when I was about your age.” He shone the light on a box and heaved it up, placing it by the ladder. “Because I wanted something.”

“What? No, I don’t—”

“I wanted to go camping with the Sorrentinos. Jeremy said no.”

Logan picked up a box marked “Xmas” and moved it to the ladder. “Why?”

“Something about me being responsible for us getting asked to leave the campground.”

“You got kicked out?”

“Asked to leave. It’s different.”

“Uh-huh.” Logan plunked down on a box as his dad kept hunting.

“I just wanted to sleep. That’s the idea of camping, right? You hike and swim and go for a run, and then you sleep at night. Except, we couldn’t, because the people next to us sat around the campfire all night talking. Loudly. So I decided, if we were going to have a quiet night, I needed to move their beer.”

“Steal it?”

“Move it.”

“But how would that help? They could still have a fire and talk.”

“Not without the beer.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Dad shrugged. “Some people . . .” His gaze went distant. Then he shook it off. “That’s how it works with some people. The point of the campfire is the beer. Now, do I get to finish the story?”

“About how you stole their beer and got kicked out of the campground?”

“Moved. Asked to leave.”

“There’s a difference?”

“There is.” Dad caught Logan’s grin and gave him a mock glare. “I moved the beer to another site, where there happened to be a bunch of teenagers. If they chose not to find the rightful owners, that wasn’t my fault.”

“Did you get to sleep?”

“We did. It was very quiet . . . until the next day when the people next door saw the kids with their empties, and one of the girls who had seen me with the case ratted me out. Then we were asked to leave. So the moral of the story is . . .”

“Don’t let anyone catch you when you move the beer?”

“Exactly. But the point is that I decided I’d show Jeremy I could go camping again by proving I was more responsible. I did more chores, and he let me go.”

“It worked, then.”

“Sure. After I broke a bunch of dishes, threw a red shirt in the white laundry and doubled the salt in the stew, Jeremy was just happy to get rid of me for the weekend.”

“You’re not really making your case here, Dad.”

His father laid down the last of the boxes. “I’m kidding. Well, not entirely. I tried, though, and that was the main thing. The problem here, Logan, is that this isn’t the same. I wasn’t allowed to go camping because I messed up. You not being allowed to get a puppy has nothing to do with you messing up.”

“Whoa. What? Puppy? No, I didn’t say anything about—”

“You don’t need to. It’s the only thing you and your sister really want that we aren’t giving you. Therefore, it’s the only reason you’d suddenly decide you needed to show more responsibility. In this case, though, lack of responsibility has nothing to do with why we’re saying no. I’m sure if you get a puppy, you’ll look after it. Even Kate might laugh when her mom asks her to help Jeremy with dinner, but you know what? She went in and helped him. Irresponsibility with her is all about image.”

Logan would have smiled at that, but his heart pounded too hard, seeing his puppy plan dissolve before his eyes.

“It’s not about responsibility, Logan. It’s about timing.”

“I know.” His voice was so soft even he barely heard it, because he did know that, and yet he’d told himself otherwise. Responsibility was something he could fix. Timing was not.

Dad sighed and lowered himself onto a crate opposite Logan. “Sometimes, when your mom says we’ll talk about something later, what she really means . . .”

“Is that she doesn’t want to talk about it, and she’s hoping we’ll forget.”

“But that’s not what she means this time. It isn’t no. It’s not now.”

Logan nodded.

“What if we laid out a timetable?” Dad said. “Figured out when we might be able to make this happen?”

That was exactly what Logan had been hoping for. Before the puppy.

“Maybe the end of the school year,” Dad said. “We’d need to discuss it with your mom, but she was already talking about that. Spring’s a good time for puppies. She says we can put in our name with a breeder and then pick out the puppy as soon as it’s born.” Dad smiled. “Apparently, she’s done her research.”

Logan forced a return smile.

“And that’s not what you wanted,” Dad said slowly.

“It’s just . . .” Logan squirmed.

“Did you see puppies for sale? Is that where this is coming from?”

No, Logan wanted to say. I already have one. It’s out back, and if you come and see it, you’ll know it’s perfect for Kate, and it would be the best Christmas present, and it would make her so happy, and I really want to give it to her.

That’s why he couldn’t say it. Because it really would be the best gift ever, and there was no way his parents would want to say no once they saw the puppy, and then he’d feel as if he’d forced their hand.

Instead, he nodded and said, “I saw a sign.”

Silence. It was so long he thought Dad wasn’t going to answer. Then, he said, “I wish I could say yes, Logan.”

And that hurt, really hurt, because he didn’t want to make Dad feel bad. His parents did have lots going on, and Logan saying, “But I want a puppy!” was selfish and spoiled, and he never wanted to be either. He wanted to be mature and understanding and acknowledge that, compared to most kids, he was pampered and spoiled, and a kid couldn’t ask for a better life or better parents. He always wanted to remember that, especially when things didn’t quite go his way.

“Dad!” Kate shouted from the bottom of the ladder. “Logan!”

“We’ll be down in a few—” Dad started to call back, but Logan rose and yelled, “Coming!” Then, he said to his dad, as maturely and sincerely as he could, “I understand,” picked up a box and headed down.

After everyone went to bed, Logan snuck out with leftover roast beef and a hoodie from Kate’s hamper. He’d give the puppy the sweater to sleep on, along with the one of his own he’d left. That would get the dog accustomed to both their scents. Not that the puppy would be staying but just . . . Well, he wasn’t sure why. He told himself he was taking the hoodie so, if she did see the puppy, it wouldn’t be afraid of her.

He also brought a backpack with a separate set of clothing, which he’d change into for puppy-detail and store near the fort.

He tried not to feel guilty about sneaking out. He still did. That was his wolf brain. It wasn’t just breaking the rules that made him feel sick. He’d made a mistake. A big one. He should have taken the puppy to the house right away. Told his parents what happened and let them deal with it. He’d gone behind their backs, hiding it in the fort, and now he was digging himself deeper into a hole. There was no way he could go through with his plan now. He shouldn’t even try. Which was a good and mature realization. Except . . . well, that still left the puppy.

As soon as he drew near the fort, the puppy started whimpering. He trudged those final steps, because he didn’t want to see it. He wanted to shove the meat through a hole in the wooden walls and run back to the house. That wasn’t fair, though. This wasn’t the puppy’s fault any more than it was his parents. He’d started it; he had to follow through.

He opened the fort and the puppy launched itself at him. He fell back on the snow as it jumped on his lap and wriggled, whimpering and whining in excitement. It licked away the tears on his cheeks, because, yes, there were tears, as much as he’d tried to hold them back. After a moment, when he didn’t respond, the puppy’s wiggling and whimpering became more frantic, a little panicked. So, he wiped away the tears, gave it a fierce hug and took out the meat. The puppy licked a piece, gulped it and started to choke, which meant a major freak out, until he managed to pull the strip out of its throat. That’s when the tears threatened again, when he looked at the puppy on his lap, coughing and shaking its head, and all he could think was, I can’t do anything right.

“Feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to help, is it?” he said, his voice echoing in the night.

The puppy whined and licked his face, its whole body shaking with fresh excitement. Logan took the puppy in his hands and looked at it.

“You’re not old enough for meat. I should have thought of that.”

The puppy kept dancing in place, tiny claws scrabbling against him, just happy to hear his voice, to have his attention.

“We don’t have any baby bottles. I don’t know what else . . .”

How did wolves feed their young once they were ready to start meat? He knew the answer. Regurgitation. He made a face. “I can’t do that. But I guess . . .” He took a piece of meat from the bag, chewed it and spit it into his hand. The puppy gobbled it up almost before it hit his palm.

“Well, that works,” he said. “Still gross.”

He repeated the process, and the puppy ate all the meat in the bag, slowing only as it neared the end.

“Tomorrow I’ll mash it up in the house,” he said. “I’ll research it and . . .”

And how long was he going to keep the puppy in the fort?

“It’s just until I have a plan. I’ll—I’ll figure out what to do. How to get you a real home and . . .”

His voice broke and the tears prickled again, but he blinked them back and cleared his throat.

“You don’t need that. You need exercise.” He put the puppy down, got to his feet and started to run, the puppy tumbling along at his heels.

Back at the house, Logan stayed up late, doing his research and preparing food for the puppy, so no one would catch him doing it in the morning. After breakfast, Kate practiced her music. Normally, he’d have stretched out on the floor nearby and read or studied. But, while that was perfectly fine for piano and guitar—and even, if he wasn’t studying too hard, for drums—Kate had recently decided she needed to add a wind instrument to her repertoire, and, of course, she hadn’t chosen the flute. Maybe it would be better once she had more practice at the trumpet, but, at this point, well, no one expected him to hang around. He zipped out with a quick, “Going for a walk!” to Mom, who hesitated, as if thinking she’d like to escape with him, but he was gone before she could.

He fed the puppy until its tiny belly bulged, and then they played until it collapsed. He wouldn’t get back out until around dinnertime. It was his day for Christmas shopping. Jeremy was taking him later this morning. Mom might pretend she was perfectly fine with crowded malls, but she didn’t volunteer to go twice in as many days.

While they shopped, Logan tried not to fret about the puppy problem. Of course, he did. At lunch, Jeremy said, “You’re quiet today.”

Logan found a smile. “I’m always quiet. You’re just used to having Kate around, too.”

“True, but there’s the kind of quiet that says you just don’t have anything to say and the kind that says you have too much to say and don’t know how to start.” Jeremy cut into his steak. “Your dad used to have that same look when there was something he wanted to say.”

“Like: ‘I didn’t do it’?”

Jeremy returned Logan’s smile. “Actually, no. At your age, your dad never had any problem telling me when he’d done something wrong. It weighed too heavily on him. He’d blurt it out like a confession.” Another bite of his steak. “You have that look, too, though.”

Jeremy kept his gaze on his food, but Logan still felt it and tried not to squirm.

Jeremy continued, “Whatever you’ve done, I suspect you feel worse about it than you need to. There’s something you’d like to talk about, but you want to work it out for yourself.” He lifted his gaze. “Am I close?”

Dead on. As usual. Logan could feel the words churning inside him, desperate to escape. I rescued a puppy, and I wanted to give it to Kate, but I know I can’t, and now I have this puppy in the fort, and I should have said something, and the longer I wait . . .

“Logan?”

He should tell Jeremy. He was the person Mom went to for advice—the person everyone went to for advice. He would keep Logan’s secret and help him solve this.

Except Jeremy was right. Logan wanted to figure it out for himself. His mess; his solution.

“I understand you don’t like to ask for help,” Jeremy said, as if reading his mind. “That you get from your mom. It’s not that she doesn’t value anyone else’s opinion. Or that she thinks she can do everything herself. It’s that she wants to be able to do it herself. She expects more of herself. Asking for help is weakness.” He looked at Logan. “Does that sound familiar?”

Logan said nothing.

Jeremy took another bite of his lunch before saying, “Your mom has learned to ask for help, but it’s still difficult. Do you know what she often does instead? She tells me or your dad her ideas and then waits to see what we say. That way she’s not really asking, but we’ll still offer advice.”

Jeremy waited again, and Logan knew he was hinting for Logan to do the same. Which would be great . . . if he had ideas to share. Instead, he just sat there, fingering his sandwich. Then he said, “Can you tell me a story about my dad?”

Jeremy’s lips quirked. “One that illustrates the principles I’m trying to communicate? Or one to distract me from pestering you?”

“I just . . . I need to think some more. A story would help.”

“Distract you, then. All right. Let’s see if I can find one you haven’t heard . . .”

When they got home, Kate zoomed into the hall and launched herself at him. Not unlike the puppy, he reflected. Just with less slobber.

“What’d you get me?” she said as she bounced.

“Was I supposed to get you something,” he teased.

“Um, yeah. Only the best Christmas present ever.”

He faltered at that.

I did. I tried.

“Oh, I’m kidding. Geez, Lo, you take everything so seriously. Of course, may I point out that your amazing sister did get you the best gift evah.”

“Ignore her,” Mom said, walking into the front hall. “We went to town to grab a few groceries and let her talk us into another hot chocolate. Then made the mistake of giving her a ten and letting her run in herself. She got an extra-large. She’s been bouncing off the walls ever since. Too much sugar.”

“Sugar doesn’t trigger hyperactivity, Mom,” Logan said.

“Smarty pants. Caffeine, then.”

“There isn’t enough caffeine in hot chocolate—”

“Yes, yes. I’m wrong. Very, very wrong. You do know we’re supposed to get a few more years of you thinking your parents know everything, right?”

He smiled. “I never thought that. Sorry.”

She smacked his shoulder and waved him into the study. “Your dad needs to talk to you about something. Jer, can I speak to you? And, no, you aren’t going to just stay quiet and hope to escape the chaos. If it doesn’t work for Logan, it won’t work for you. Kate? Go . . . run around the house ten times or something.” She steered Logan toward the study and motioned for Jeremy to follow her.

“What’s up?” Logan said as he walked into the study. He said it as casually as he could, considering his palms were sweating so hard he had to shove his hands in his pockets.

He’s found the puppy. He went for a walk and found it, and now I’m in trouble. He doesn’t want to bother Mom about it, not when tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.

Christmas was important to Mom. Logan and Kate had always known that. Dad went out of his way to make it perfect, and he was a little more inclined to discipline them himself at this time of year, to keep everything running smoothly. Logan and Kate never asked why it was important. It just was, which meant they had a magical Christmas themselves every year, because that’s what Mom wanted for them.

Dad was busy cleaning out the fireplace—his head stuck in it—and he didn’t seem to hear Logan’s question. Logan had to smile at that and said, “You, uh, don’t need to do that this year, Dad. We know. Remember?”

“What?” Dad backed up. “Oh. Right.” He rubbed his chin, leaving a smudge of soot, and he looked . . . disappointed. As if he’d forgotten this year would be different, part of the magic left behind in the world of childhood that the twins were quickly leaving.

“You probably should, though,” Logan said. “Kate may have been the one to insist on an honest answer, but . . . ,” he said, lowering his voice, “I think she still believes.”

Dad smiled and shook his head. He’d know Logan was humoring him, but he’d do it anyway. It was tradition, and they still believed in that.

Dad backed out and Logan said, “Should I, uh, shut the door?”

“What?” Dad’s face screwed up. “No, no. You aren’t in trouble, Logan. I just need to talk to you about something. Before we went to town, your mom, Kate and I took a walk out back, and we smelled something.”

Logan clenched his fists, breath jammed in his throat. I’m sorry. That’s what he’d lead with. I’m so, so sorry.

“A mutt,” Dad said.

“What?”

“Yeah, I know. There hasn’t been a mutt near Stonehaven in years.”

“R-right. They know better.” At first, when Dad said mutt, all Logan could think of was the puppy. It was a mutt: a crossbreed. But that was also their word for non-Pack werewolves, and it showed how distracted Logan was that it took him a moment to remember that.

“I’m 99% sure we’re wrong,” Dad said. “It was just a whiff, and it passed so fast that all I can say for sure is that we smelled canine and human, and hell, it might have just been some guy walking a dog along the road.”

Or a puppy, covered in your son’s scent.

“Your mom is sure it’s nothing, but”—Dad shrugged—“I’m not taking any chances. We don’t need to go for a run until the Pack Meet, so there’s no reason to head out back. We’ll be on alert, but Jeremy’s still leaving later, and no one’s changing any plans. The only thing is that I need to ask you and Kate to stay out of the woods.”

Logan went still.

Dad peered at him. “Is that a problem? I know your mom said you’ve been restless. We can go for a drive later, the two of us.”

“No, I’m fine.”

More peering. Then Dad nodded, not seeming entirely convinced, but only saying, “If you change your mind, day or night, and you need to go out, you just tell me, okay?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Now, if you’re still feeling like being extra responsible, you can help me with this fireplace.”

The puppy needed to eat. It needed food and fresh water, and he couldn’t let it go without either until morning. He had to tell his parents.

He should have talked to Jeremy. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Logan might come by his independent streak honestly, but that was no excuse. Now, Jeremy had left, and he’d told Logan to call if he wanted to talk, but, when Logan worked up the nerve to do it, Jeremy had been in an out-of-service area.

His parents kept going in and out, scouting the perimeter, and Logan couldn’t stop thinking about the puppy getting lonely and scared. Would it start howling? Would his parents find it?

After dinner it was time to bake cookies, one of their favorite Christmas traditions. Logan couldn’t ruin that by bringing up the puppy.

He had to slip out again after dark. There was no mutt. There hadn’t been one on the property in years—it certainly wouldn’t happen now. Mom and Dad had smelled the puppy. Logan was safe. He just couldn’t get caught, because that would be a serious infraction, worse than anything he’d ever done. Worse than anything Kate had ever done. For this, he’d be punished—not as a boy disobeying his parents—as a Pack wolf disobeying the Alpha.

He couldn’t get caught. It was that simple.

Logan watched the clock tick toward midnight. He had his own bedroom now. He and Kate had shared one for as long as they could—up until two years ago, when Mom finally declared they were too old. He stayed in their room, which used to be Malcolm’s. Kate moved to Mom’s old room, from before she and Dad got together. Or before they got together for good.

Logan was a little confused on the exact timeline. His parents had been together and then broken up, but, because Mom was Pack, she’d stayed at Stonehaven, at least some of the time, and . . . it was confusing. All he knew for sure was that Mom had kept her old bedroom, though she hadn’t used it for years.

Deciding to move Kate in there had been something of a family joke. The room was super girly. Mom said that when she joined the Pack as the only female werewolf, it was the kind of room Jeremy figured she needed. Kate was about as girly as Mom was—which was to say, not at all—and now Kate had that room, and, like Mom, she couldn’t complain too much for fear of hurting Jeremy’s feelings. Logan figured by now Jeremy knew that it wasn’t really their style, but it was like he was in on the joke, and everyone played along. Still, Kate was slowly but surely redecorating, piece by piece, poster by poster.

Logan’s room was at the back, across the hall from Jeremy’s. Kate’s was on the other side of Jeremy’s, across from Mom and Dad’s. This meant that, when Logan snuck out, he’d have to pass Mom and Dad and Kate on his way to the stairs. This was a problem. His parents slept soundly. It was Kate who was overly attuned to his sleeping patterns. He’d be jumping out of the window instead.

Being a werewolf meant window-jumping wasn’t nearly as dangerous as it might be. It wasn’t now, that is. The first time they’d tried it, they’d been three. Logan twisted his ankle, and Kate sprained her wrist, and Mom totally freaked out. They hadn’t hopped out any windows for years after that. But now, at their age, it was as simple—and safe—as jumping out a main floor one.

Logan opened his window, took out the screen and set it inside. Then he poked his head through to check below. He spotted a figure in the yard and jerked back fast. When he peered out, he saw . . .

Kate.

His sister was making her way across the back yard.

What the hell? He almost said that. Almost shouted it out the window. He started to jump out after her. Then he realized he was wearing his jacket and boots, which would take some explaining. He stashed them under his bed, pulled on a hoodie and slippers and jumped out the window.

He hit the ground and tore off after Kate. The fresh-falling snow was too powdery to squeak under his slippers, and she had her hoodie pulled tight, so she didn’t hear a thing until she was flat on her face in the snow. She twisted, fists clenching. Then she stopped.

“Logan?”

“What the hell are you doing?” he snarled, and she didn’t tell him to watch his language. She heard that tone and her gaze dropped, and she pushed up from the snow carefully, her posture submissive, which meant she knew what she’d done was wrong, because there was no submissive or dominant wolf in their relationship. They were twins. Equals in everything.

Normally, he’d have let it go at that. The wolf in him said that if she submitted, acknowledging her error, he should take the high road. She might deserve a cuff on the ears and another snarl, but that was it. Tonight though, with everything going on, he didn’t feel like dropping it quite so fast.

“No, really,” he said. “What the hell were you doing, Kate?”

“I . . . I was restless?” Her voice rose, in a question, as if looking for the answer that might appease him.

“So, you took off in the night again? After what happened this summer?”

“I—”

“No, this is worse than last summer, because this time you were expressly told not to come out here at any time. To sneak off in the night—”

“I’m sorry.” She stepped toward him, her gaze down. “You’re totally right.”

He eased back, then, grumbling, his temper fading.

She looked up at him. “Are you okay, Lo?”

“No, I’m not. My sister tried to sneak into the forest when there’s a mutt—”

“There isn’t a—” She swallowed the rest and dropped her gaze again. “Whether there is or isn’t, the point is that I disobeyed a direct order.”

“From your Alpha.”

She shifted. They both understood the difference, even if Mom might not. If she told them to brush after meals, that was their Mom. If she told them to stay away from a potential mutt, that was their Alpha.

“Are you okay, Lo?” Kate asked again. Then she shook her head. “No, stupid question. I know something’s bugging you. It’s what happened at school, isn’t it?”

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. More than a minute, because he’d honestly forgotten about it. His sister had problems at school with the other girls. Kate was smart and talented and—according to the other boys—pretty. But she hung around with Logan and a few of the other kids who didn’t quite fit in, and that drove the popular girls nuts, like she was thumbing her nose at them. They could be mean. The last day of school, one of them had tripped Kate, and his sister had hauled off, whacked her and sent her flying. The girl had been too scared to tattle, but Logan had a talk with Kate after that.

“I know I need to rise above it,” she said. “Ignore them. Never hit them, because I can really hurt them. And because Mom will get a call, and she doesn’t need that.”

“Right.”

“It won’t happen again. But you’re still mad, aren’t you? I disappointed you.”

“What? No.” He gave her a rare hug. “I actually forgot all about it, Kate. If I’m a little off, it’s just that: I feel a little off. Like you did this summer. I’m running behind. Boys do mature slower than girls.”

She laughed at that and hugged him back. “I don’t think anyone would accuse you of maturing slowly. All right then, as long as you aren’t mad at me.”

“About the school thing? No. About sneaking out tonight? Yes.”

“I know. It was dumb. I’m a kid. I’m allowed to do dumb things. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get inside before Mom or Dad catches us or we’ll both learn exactly how dumb it was.”

An hour after giving his sister proper hell for disobeying an order, Logan was doing exactly the same thing and painfully aware of the hypocrisy. But the puppy had to be fed.

He gave Kate time to fall asleep. Then he put on his coat and boots and climbed out the window. Snow was still falling, already obscuring their tracks from earlier. He had a ways to go, and he really wanted to get this done quickly, so he circled out to the road, which was easier. Any other time, he’d have enjoyed walking on a crisp and clear night with lightly falling snow. The nip of the cold didn’t bother him at all, and he walked with his hood down, moving between a fast walk and a jog, depending on the depth of the snow.

He’d hit a good run at a plowed section, and he was ripping along, hearing nothing but the wind whistling past his ears. The snow started driving his way, and he narrowed his eyes against it. The cold wind numbed his ears and nose, and he was truly running “blind,” all senses deadened. Just keep moving. A little farther, and then he’d veer into the woods and—

There was a figure on the road.

It seemed to appear from nowhere, but the truth was, he just hadn’t been watching where he was going. Not watching. Not listening. Not smelling. He’d had his eyes on the road, and then he glanced up, and there was a man standing ten feet away.

Logan stopped fast. He rubbed his hands over his face, and, when he pulled them away, he caught the scent. His stomach did a double flip.

No, that wasn’t possible. It had been a misunderstanding. His parents had caught a whiff of the puppy and mistaken it for . . .

Logan inhaled deeper and swallowed.

And mistaken it for nothing. There was a mutt, standing on the edge of their property.

A mutt, twice his size, staring right at him.

Logan knew he should run. That’s what they’d been taught. But he couldn’t, and it wasn’t fear—it was something deep in his gut that saw a rogue werewolf on their territory and refused to flee. He planted his feet, and lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. And he waited.

The mutt took three steps toward him. Slow and careful steps. As the mutt drew near, Logan realized he was young. Maybe twenty. Still twice his size. Both twins were small for their age, one of the more unfortunate traits they’d inherited from their father, who’d been the smallest in his class until he hit his growth spurt in high school.

The mutt stared at him and then inhaled deeply, his eyes widening.

“You smell like a werewolf,” the young man said.

“Uh, yeah . . .”

“No, I mean, you’re a kid. You shouldn’t already smell like a werewolf.”

“I’m special. Now, since you obviously know who I am—”

“You’re the boy,” he said.

“Pretty sure I don’t look like a girl.”

“No, the boy. Their boy.”

“Three for three. Not exactly genius, considering where you are. You do know where you are, right? Trespassing? On the Alpha’s territory.”

“Your dad, you mean.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “And there’s your first strike. My mother is the Alpha, moron.”

The mutt’s lips twitched. “Sorry, kid, no one buys that story. The Pack would never make a woman Alpha. It’s really your dad—they just don’t want to scare people by saying that.”

“Fine. You’re about to meet both of them. You can pick your challenge. Either way, you’ll get your ass kicked. That’s why you’re here, right? To challenge the Alpha.”

“No, I’m not stupid.”

“Um, yeah. The fact you’re here says you are. Now, should I call them over? Or do you want to rethink this particular course of action?”

The mutt’s gaze darted to the forest. “They’re out here?”

“Duh. You think they’d let their nine-year-old wander around at two in the morning? Now, I’m giving you a chance to leave. It’s Christmas time, don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Um . . .”

“Never mind. Just go. Head off that way.” He pointed. “Don’t step on the property or my parents will track you down and make an example of you. If you leave now, I won’t tell them you were here. They thought they smelled a mutt earlier, but they weren’t sure. Don’t make them sure.”

The mutt peered at him. “How old are you again?”

“Nine.”

“You don’t talk like it.”

“I take after my parents—both of them—who are very smart as well as very good fighters. It’s a lethal combination, and I wouldn’t suggest you stick around long enough to find out for yourself.”

“Is it true what they say? About your dad? What he did to the last wolf who trespassed here?”

“Whatever they say, it’s true. Now just—”

“Do you know what they say? What he did? You must not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be nearly so proud of him. He’s a psycho. You know that, right?”

“He is whatever he needs to be to keep us safe. Now get—”

“No, really. He’s crazy. You obviously don’t know what he did, so let me give you a little present, kid. An early Christmas gift.”

“Not interested.”

The mutt smirked. “Oh, but I am. Let me tell you what your daddy did. Him and his buddy, Nick, they found two wolves here, come to issue a challenge. Your daddy was younger than me, and he took those wolves—”

A crash sounded in the undergrowth, and a figure barreled out so fast both Logan and the mutt fell back. Before the mutt could recover, Dad had him by the shirtfront. He threw him onto the road and planted a foot on his stomach.

“Logan?” he said. “Get back to the house.”

“I—”

Dad’s look stopped the words in his throat. It was the look mutts must get when they crossed him. A look his son never expected to see, and Logan took a slow step back.

“To. The. House.” He caught Logan’s gaze. “Now.”

Logan tried. He really tried. This was an order from his father and the Beta, but it wasn’t the same as an order from the Alpha, and all Logan could think was that there might be other mutts, and he really should stay by his father. Watch out for him.

“Logan . . .”

The mutt slammed his fist into the back of Dad’s knee, and it caught his father off guard. His leg buckled. Logan shot forward, ready to throw himself at the mutt if his dad went down. He didn’t. He just stumbled, and swung around and grabbed for the mutt, but Logan was already diving at him, and when Dad swung around, his fist caught Logan in the shoulder and sent him crashing into the snowbank.

That did distract Dad for real, and he twisted toward Logan as the mutt leapt up. Logan opened his mouth to shout a warning, but Dad backhanded the mutt down again, and Logan scrambled up as fast as he could, saying, “I’m okay. I’m okay,” even as pain stabbed through his shoulder. Dad spun back on the mutt, who was staying on the ground now, his hands raised.

“I’m sorry,” the mutt said. “I’m really, really, really sorry.”

“Not yet you aren’t,” Dad said, taking a step toward him, his fists clenched.

The mutt stayed down. Stayed submissive. His gaze was fixed on Dad’s chest, not rising even to his face.

“It was stupid, really stupid,” the kid said. “They dared me—my cousins—and I don’t have a rep, because I lost my first two challenges, and I thought this would help. All I had to do was get a photo of the house to prove I was here. I wasn’t even going to go on the property. Well, not far, because you can’t see the house from the road. I tried. But I was going to walk as far on this road as I could, and only go—”

“How old are you?”

“N-nineteen.”

“Fuck. Name?”

“Davis. I mean, Cain. Davis Cain.”

“Of course. A Cain. Do you guys share a single brain among you?” He lifted his hands. “Don't even answer that. Did you set foot on the property?”

“N-no. No, sir, I mean.”

Dad winced a little at that, as if the “sir” took it too far, was too submissive, didn’t portend well for the kid’s future as a werewolf.

“I’m going to check that,” Dad said. “In the meantime, you will get into your car, wherever it is, and you will start heading home. You will not stop, even to take a piss, until you are past the state borders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you will tell your cousins that you got as far as Bear Valley and turned around, because you realized just how stupid an idea this was, that you weren’t just risking your own life, but, because you’re a kid, I’d hold your family responsible for not teaching you better.”

“R-right.”

“You decided to go home and start training instead of taking on challenges already. Train until you’re ready to beat someone. And maybe, if you can manage it, hit the books and get a little smarter, too, because that will help you fight. And help you not make fucking stupid choices.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, start heading to your car. I’m going to retrace your steps, and if I find you even set foot on our property, I’m coming after you.”

“I-I didn’t. Honest.”

“Good, then you won’t be in a rush to get to your car. Walk.”

The kid did, heading in the direction he’d come from, which meant Dad followed at a short distance, checking his trail. Dad got about twenty feet before he turned and saw Logan still standing there. He barely had time to open his mouth before Logan broke into a run to follow, his teeth gritted as the fast movement jostled his shoulder.

They kept going until the mutt turned down another road, and they saw his car. Dad walked a little farther, still sniffing. Once he was satisfied the kid had walked straight down the road—no side trips into their forest—he stopped and watched as the car’s taillights disappeared from sight.

Then, still silent, Dad walked over and motioned for Logan to take off his jacket. He prodded Logan’s shoulder as Logan squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry out.

“Can you lift your arm?” he asked.

Logan did.

Dad stepped back. “Do you know how lucky you are that I didn’t dislocate it? Or break it?”

“It would have served me right if you did.”

Dad gave a disgusted grunt. “Sure, that’s what counts: that you deserved it. It wouldn’t have bothered me at all. Break my son’s shoulder. No big deal.”

Logan dropped his gaze. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten in the way.”

“That was just the last in a very long string of mistakes you made tonight.”

Logan could hear the anger in his father’s voice. Icy anger, pushed down deep, turning his voice bitter cold. Logan wished he would yell—lose his temper and snarl and shout. He did with others. Even with Mom. Especially with Mom, though they tried to hide it. They’d get into a fight, both of their tempers exploding, furniture crashing, and even when Logan had first heard that, listening in with Kate, it hadn’t bothered either of them. Because they knew it didn’t mean anything. Mom and Dad never hurtled insults, never threatened or tore each other down. It was just anger. Two volatile tempers clashing, until one of them would stalk off into the woods, and the other would follow, and, when they came back, everything would be fine.

Logan understood those flash fights. They didn’t say, “I hate you,” or even, “At this moment, I hate you.” They were just a difference of opinion, strongly worded. “I love you, but I disagree with you.” Or, “I love you, but you did something I don’t love.”

That’s what he wanted right now. For his dad to shout and snarl and get it out of his system. To be furious with Logan for doing something stupid, because it had scared him. That’s not what he saw, though. What he saw was worse than anger, much worse. It was disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying not to cry. “I’m really sorry, and I know everything I did tonight was stupid and—”

“We told you not to come into the woods. We told you why.”

“I-I thought . . . I didn’t think it was true. About the mutt.”

Dad pulled back, his blue eyes icing over even more. “You thought we lied to you?”

“N-no, I thought there was another explanation. I was absolutely sure there wasn’t a mutt out here.”

“You are nine, Logan. I don’t care how smart you are—you are not in a position to make that determination. If I’m not sure whether there’s a mutt, and your mother isn’t sure, then you aren’t either.”

“I know. I’m—”

“Furthermore, I don’t care what you thought. It was an order. You do not disobey an order.”

“I know, and I’m sorry—”

“No, Logan, I mean you don’t. Not that you shouldn’t. You don’t. So if you did tonight, then something is wrong, and you are going to tell me what it is, or we are going to spend a very long and cold night on this road.”

Logan swallowed. He closed his eyes, and steeled himself and said, “I’ll show you.”

“No, you’ll tell me.”

“I-I . . .” He lifted his gaze. “Please. I have to show you.”

Dad gave a wave, looking tired and frustrated, and let Logan lead the way.

Dad followed behind Logan. Maybe watching for trouble. Maybe just not really in the mood to walk with him. When they were halfway to the fort, Dad’s hand fell on his good shoulder.

“It’s late,” he said. “Just tell me what—”

“I have to show you.”

“No, Logan.” He stepped in front of him, his face drawn in the moonlight, lines deepening around his mouth. “Tell me, because I need to get inside and talk to your mother.”

“It’s a puppy,” Logan blurted.

Dad went still. “What?”

“A puppy. In the fort.”

“You found a puppy in the fort?” Dad said it slowly, carefully, his face giving nothing away.

“No, in the ditch. There were two. In a bag. I thought they were dead, so I was going to move the bag before Kate found them, and I was carrying it across the road when I realized one puppy was still alive.”

“One was . . . ?”

Logan nodded, and the look that passed over his father’s face . . . It was a half-dozen expressions, all flickering fast, shock and surprise and anger and outrage and then something like grief and regret as he said, “You were moving dead puppies for your sister.”

“I didn’t want her to see that.”

Dad’s expression said he’d rather Logan hadn’t seen that either, but Logan started walking again, still talking, “At first, when I thought the puppy was hurt, I was going to take it to Jeremy. But then it was fine, and I . . . I put it in the fort.”

“The fort?”

“I wanted to give it to Kate for Christmas.” Again, he blurted the words before he could stop himself. Then he hurried on. “I mean, that was my first thought. I know I can’t now. It’s a bad time. But I didn’t know what to do with the puppy, and I was trying to figure it out while I was looking after it, which is why I went out tonight. I thought you didn’t smell a mutt this afternoon—just me and the puppy. I was sure that’s what it was. So I was going to feed it.” He took the baggie of meat from his inside pocket. “Otherwise, I’d never have gone out.”

Dad gave a slow nod. They were within sight of the fort when he finally said, “You wanted to give it to Kate. For Christmas.”

“I know I can’t, so I’m not asking. That isn’t fair.”

“Isn’t fair?”

“To make you and Mom say no. Especially Mom. She wants a perfect Christmas, and a puppy would be, well, perfect. For Kate. So Mom would either have to say no and feel awful or say yes when she really doesn’t want to. That’s not fair.”

Dad’s hand fell on his good shoulder again, and before Logan knew it, Dad had pulled him into an embrace. Tight and brief and fierce, saying nothing, just that hug that said everything.

“All right, then,” Dad said. “Show me your puppy. Before it breaks down that door.”

The puppy was indeed trying to break down the door, throwing itself at it as it yipped and howled. Logan opened it, and the puppy flew out. So did the stink of puppy poop, and Logan’s hand flew to his nose. The puppy jumped and leaped against his legs, yelping to be picked up.

“I’ll clean that up,” he said quickly.

“You look after your puppy,” Dad said. “I’ll handle the rest. I’ve changed plenty of diapers.”

Dad cleaned out the fort while Logan fed the puppy. He came out again as Logan was trying to get the puppy to eat more.

“Food first, then play,” he said to the puppy, dancing around his feet. He looked up at his dad. “It likes to play.”

“It?” Dad’s brows shot up. “You can’t tell if it’s male or female?”

“I haven’t looked. I don’t want . . .” Logan busied himself shoving the meat back into the baggie. “It’s not important.”

Not important if they couldn’t keep it.

Dad scooped up the puppy in one hand. He flipped it onto its back. “Female.”

Logan nodded. Dad tried to put the puppy down, but it—she—climbed onto him, licking his face.

“Okay, okay,” he said, handing her back to Logan. “You haven’t named her, I’m guessing.”

“I didn’t want to form an attachment.”

Dad snorted, as if to say it was already too late. “Play with your puppy for a while. Tire her out.”

Logan wished he wouldn’t say your puppy. It meant nothing, but it felt like something, like that dream of something just out of reach that you know you’re not going to have, and the tease hurts so bad. But he pushed that aside, and he played with the puppy, and Dad did a little too, feinting and chasing, the way he used to when Logan and Kate were little, wearing them out for their nap.

When the puppy collapsed, too exhausted to even move, it was Dad who scooped her up and took her back to her bed. Then, as they headed for the house, he called Mom.

“We have a situation,” he said.

A pause, as Logan heard Mom’s muffled voice. Then Dad said, “Yeah, actually there was a mutt, but that’s taken care of. The problem is our son.”

Logan tensed. He tried to fall back, to not listen, but Dad caught him and kept him there, walking beside him.

“He found a puppy by the road a couple of days ago. Abandoned in a bag.” Dad went on and explained as they walked.

Mom met them out back. She said nothing as they approached. She didn’t stand with her arms crossed. She didn’t look disappointed. Not angry either. Just thoughtful. She looked maybe a little sad, and, when Logan saw that sadness, he faltered and felt like he was going to be sick.

“I’m sor—” he began, but she was already there, in front of him, arms going around him in a hug just as tight as his father’s, longer, though. Holding him against her, she bent to whisper, “I’m sorry you had to see that,” and he knew she meant the dead puppy, and he nodded, and then she backed up, her hands still on his shoulders.

“Uh . . .” Dad said, and motioned for her to take her hand off his left shoulder. “The mutt. He—”

“I got in the way,” Logan said.

Mom winced, but Logan said, “I’m fine. Just going to have a bruise. Lesson learned, right?” He tried for a smile, but she didn’t return it.

“We’ll discuss that tomorrow,” she said. “For now, the puppy. It’s late, and we’re not going to talk about it tonight. I’m just going to say that you don’t need to handle things alone, Logan. No one expects you to. No one but you.”

She looked down at his expression and sighed, “But that’s what counts, isn’t it? What you expect from yourself.” Another hug, lighter and quicker. “We’ll work on that. Go on inside. Your dad and I need to talk.”

Logan was almost asleep when his door creaked open. Footsteps crossed the room and even before he caught the scent, those footsteps said it was Dad. He kept his eyes shut until he felt him standing there, beside his bed, looking down at him. Not checking whether he was awake. Just watching him.

When Logan opened his eyes, Dad sat on the edge of the bed. There was a long minute of silence. Then Dad said, “That kid. The mutt. What he said . . . I caught a little of it. I heard you two talking. I ran that way and just caught the tail end.”

“He was just talking. He didn’t threaten me or anything.”

“I know. I heard enough to tell . . .” Dad eased back. “I’m not sure if I should say you handled yourself well, because that might encourage you to do it again.”

“I got lucky. He was just a kid. A scared kid trying to prove he was brave.”

Dad nodded. “But the rest. I caught enough to hear what he said about me.”

“Just the usual. I’ve heard it. Variations on it.”

Dad went still. “What have you heard?”

“That you’re crazy. The psycho-werewolf thing. That’s how you keep them away. By making them think you’re the big bad wolf.” A small smile. “Which doesn’t mean you aren’t, just that we don’t see it.”

Dad shifted on the bed. “He said I’d done something. At Stonehaven. To keep mutts off the property.”

“You got there before he told me the details.”

Silence. At least two minutes of it. “Do you want to know the details?”

“Not really.”

There was a soft exhale of relief. “Okay. Someday, yes, you’re going to need to hear them, and I’d rather you did from me but . . .”

“Whatever you did, it was to keep them away. To keep us safe—Jeremy and then Mom and then us.” He lifted his gaze to his father’s. “I get that, Dad. You did something—something bad—because it meant you didn’t have to keep doing smaller things until they got the message. One big message that lasted a long time. It makes sense.”

Dad watched him for a moment, and there was this look in his eyes, like maybe he’d rather Logan didn’t understand, like he’d rather his kids lived in a world where that wouldn’t make sense, because they’d never need to consider it.

Logan sat up and put his arms around his dad’s neck and squeezed and said, “Everything’s good.”

Dad gave him a quick hug back and tucked him in, kissed his forehead like he used to when they were little and then padded from the room.

There was no resolution to the puppy problem the next day. It was Christmas Eve, and it seemed Mom and Dad didn’t want to think about that. Mom said she and Dad would look after the puppy that day—they needed him and Kate to stay out of the woods, in case the mutt came back.

Logan was fine with that. As much as he told himself she was just postponing disappointing him, he couldn’t help but think that if she really didn’t want to disappoint him, she’d get it over with before he got his hopes up. So yes, he did get his hopes up. Way up, if he was being honest.

Then, lying in bed that night, stuffed with hot chocolate and Christmas cookies, he began to feel, well, a little sick, and it wasn’t from overeating. He kept thinking about the tree, with Kate’s gift under it, and how much he wished he could have given her the puppy, how happy that would have made her. He decided he needed an answer. Just an answer, so he could stop hoping if there wasn’t any point in it.

When he snuck downstairs, he heard his parents in the study.

“—don’t know how to tell him,” Mom was saying, and he stopped short.

“I know.”

“I keep going over it and over it,” she said.

She’s decided against the puppy.

Logan took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could still talk—

“There isn’t a solution,” she said.

“I know,” Dad replied.

“And you’re really not helping.”

“I know.”

A whack, as if she’d smacked him, and Dad let out a soft laugh, and then there was another sound, another smack—a kiss—and Dad said, “You don’t need to figure it out right now, darling.”

“I do.” A sharp intake of breath. “Distracting me isn’t going to help.”

“Mmm, yes, I think it will. I’ll distract you, and you’ll stop fretting, and then we can both come up with a solution later.”

“It has to be tonight.”

“Which has only begun. Now, come back here and . . .”

A laugh, cut short by a kiss. Logan’s shoulders slumped, and he trudged back to bed.

Logan tossed and turned all night. He drifted through nightmares of the puppy back in the bag, a new owner getting tired of it. Then, dreams of him handing the puppy to Kate, which were almost as bad, because he’d wake up and remember that wasn’t happening. Couldn’t happen.

When he first woke thinking he heard the puppy, it was obviously more self-torture. He snarled and pulled the covers up over his head. But, as soon as he started falling asleep, the puppy returned, howling, the sound muffled, as if she were calling to him from the fort, begging him to come out and play, not to send her away to strangers who might do the same as—

He bolted up with a growl, shaking his head sharply. His room was silent, the puppy only in his head. He looked at the window. It was still dark out.

He reached for the books on his nightstand. There was always a stack. He hunted down the titles for the one least likely to contain canines of any kind. Müller’s A First German Reader. That would do. He opened the book at random, and his gaze traveled down the page.

Leine: line, rope or leash.

He slapped the book shut, and he was reaching for another when he heard a yip and the scrabbling of nails. He lifted his head and blinked hard. Then he heard another yip.

No, that wasn’t possible.

More blinking. More yipping and scrabbling, like tiny nails against a door. Had she escaped the fort? Maybe Mom or Dad had been distracted and didn’t quite shut it up right, and the puppy had escaped and followed their trail to the house.

He had to get down there before Kate heard her. That would be the worst Christmas morning ever: his sister waking to a puppy she couldn’t have.

He raced into the hall, slowing only to tiptoe past Kate’s room, and then trying his best not to thump down the stairs. He could clearly hear the puppy now, and he followed the sound, expecting to hear it at the back door, but it seemed to come from the study.

Logan saw the door cracked open just enough to let in a very determined puppy, who, from the sounds of it, was in there growling at something.

How did she—?

Logan glimpsed a window as he raced for the study. Snow swirled and blasted against the glass. A storm. Mom or Dad had brought the puppy in. He looked over his shoulder to see the basement door also cracked open. They’d brought her in and put her in the basement to keep her warm.

And now she was in the study. Worse than that, as Logan saw when he pushed open the door, she was attacking Jeremy’s recliner, ripping at it with her tiny teeth.

Then she saw Logan and forgot all about the chair as she hurled herself at him, yipping and yelping.

“Shhh!” he said as he scooped her up. “Shhh! Please. We need to get you—”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Only one person in the house made that much noise.

“Kate,” he whispered. “Oh, no.”

He looked both ways, as if he could find someplace to stash the puppy where his sister wouldn’t smell it. He went to call a warning, to tell her to keep out, make up some story about wrapping one final present or—

The door flew open. Kate stood there, grinning.

“I see you found your gift,” she said. “Or did she find you?”

He froze and stared.

Kate thought their parents had given them the puppy.

This was worse, so much worse. His mouth opened and closed, and the puppy leaped out of his arms and scrambled over to Kate, who lifted her in a hug, laughing exactly like he’d imagined, her expression even happier than he’d imagined.

“It’s not . . . ,” he began. “She’s not from Mom and Dad.”

“Of course not, silly,” she said, making a face as the puppy licked her lips. “She’s from me. I found her in the fort.”

“Wh-what?”

Kate handed him the puppy, who seemed fine with the transfer, wriggling and whining and licking.

“She got inside the fort and couldn’t get out, poor thing. Luckily, we’d both left a couple of sweaters in there, so they kept her warm, and there was snow to drink. I was out walking with Mom and Dad while you and Jeremy went shopping, and they thought they smelled a mutt, so they were getting me back to the house when we smelled the puppy in the fort. I thought that’s what the scent was. I guess not, but, well, that’s why I was going into the woods the other night—I thought it was safe, and I had another one of your sweaters, because I wanted to make sure she got your scent most of all.” She motioned at the puppy. “Merry Christmas, Lo.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath and looked to see their parents in the doorway. Mom was in front, watching him, shock and dismay on her face.

“Hey, Mom, Dad,” Kate said, without glancing their way. “Looks like she escaped, and Logan found his gift early.”

“I . . . see . . . ,” Mom said, that look still on her face, as if frantically trying to figure out what to do, and he realized that’s what she’d been talking about last night. Not how to tell Logan he couldn’t keep the puppy. How to tell them they’d gotten each other the same gift. The same puppy.

“Kate,” Mom said. “Can I speak to you a moment?”

Kate looked over, and worry crept into her eyes, picking up on Mom’s. It was like dowsing a fire. She’d been happy giving him this gift. Even happier than he’d imagined she’d be getting it. Now they had to tell her it was a mistake—that he’d rescued the puppy for her. As her gift.

“It’s okay, Mom.” Logan looked at Kate. “So, you got me a puppy, huh?”

“Found you one. Exactly the kind you wanted, too.” Her face lit up again. “When I saw her, I couldn’t believe it. It was like . . . well, like it was meant to be.”

“She’s the kind you wanted, too. Maybe, since you found her . . .”

That light dimmed, just a little, as she nibbled her lip. This was what she wanted. The puppy for him.

“Maybe since you found her, we could share her,” he said. “I think Mom and Dad will agree one puppy in this house is quite enough. One more pup, that is.”

The light returned as Kate laughed. “Also, giving me half the puppy means giving me half the responsibilities, right?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

She laughed again and threw her arms around his neck, and the puppy wriggled between them, and Logan decided that half a puppy was, indeed, the best Christmas gift ever.

Looking for more of the Danvers twins? You’ll find it in Forsaken, an Elena novella coming from Subterranean Press in January, 2015. Forsaken takes place a few months before The Puppy Plan—it’s the “trouble” Logan refers to from that summer, when his sister got herself into some trouble.

On the next page, you’ll find a sneak peek—the first two chapters of Forsaken.

For more details, check out my website at KelleyArmstrong.com

First two chapters of Forsaken

The only thing worse than being summoned to a pointless meeting? Being summoned three thousand miles away to a pointless meeting when you’re about to embark on your annual family vacation.

Clay and the twins were in a lovely log cabin in Vermont. And me? I was sweating in a tiny oven of a meeting room somewhere in London. For absolutely no goddamned reason except that the British Alpha insisted I come, and I was trying to claw my way out of the hole I’d fallen into three years ago when I became Alpha of the American Pack.

“As long as we have your assurances that he’ll behave himself, he’s welcome in the States,” I said. “We won’t bother him.”

“I should hope not, considering he’s my son.” That was Hollis John Parker, British Alpha, Lord something-or-other. I could never remember his title. Nick called him Lord Asshole. Not exactly poetic, but apt.

“The fact that he’s your son doesn’t mean he isn’t . . .” I struggled for a polite way to phrase it. “Young and spirited. I understand the French Pack kicked him out of Paris for changing into a wolf in the catacombs?”

“He was a child then.”

“It was six months ago.”

“He’s eighteen now.”

And so it went. Parker’s son had been accepted to Berkley, and he’d summoned me to England to discuss the transfer, which I’d thought proved he was actually taking me seriously as Alpha, but as it turned out, he’d ordered me there because he seemed to be under the impression America was still a British colony.

He didn’t care to convince me his son could handle life abroad without another “Paris incident.” He expected my Pack to act as bodyguards for the boy. For me to order one of my guys to move across the country to do it.

Two hours later, I was striding down a London street with Nick beside me. When my phone rang, I yanked it out of my pocket so fast it slid from my fingers. Nick managed to grab it before it hit the pavement.

He started to hand it back, still ringing. Then he glanced at the screen and made a face. “Private caller. You want me to—”

“Please.”

He answered with a, “Hello?” Then another one.

“Hang up,” I said. “Bad enough I still get telemarketers when I’m on the do-not-call list. Worse when I get charged international rates for them.”

As soon as I took the phone, it rang again, Private Caller flashing on the screen.

“Okay,” I muttered. “Someone is about to get the brunt of my very bad day.” I answered with a snarled, “What?”

“It’s six o’clock,” said a sing-song voice. “Do you know where your puppy is?”

Click. I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it. Then I laughed.

“Not a telemarketer, I take it?” Nick said.

“No, a kid making a prank call. My first in about thirty years, I think.”

“What’d he ask?”

“If I know where my puppy is.”

Now Nick laughed. “Okay. Well, I think we can declare the fine art of phone pranks has officially died out. That makes no sense.”

“Unless I had a puppy.”

“Do you want a puppy?”

“No, but I’ll take a drink.”

He smiled. “I have a feeling that’ll cheer you up better than a puppy. And that looks like a pub right there. Shall we?”

“Please.”

Alpha of the American Pack. The only female werewolf in the world, ascending to arguably the highest position in our world. Sounds impressive. The truth? It’s like getting elected town sheriff because no one else wants the damn job. And like taking it—not because you’ve always dreamed of being sheriff—but because, well, someone has to.

I like being Alpha. There are days—hell, even weeks sometimes—where I feel like I’ve found my place. Like I’m blessed with a damned-near perfect life. I’m forty-three, fit and healthy. I’m crazy about my mate, even when he drives me crazy. Same goes for my eight-year-old twins. I have great friends and an incredible Pack. And, of course. . . . Alpha.

I can say there were no other contenders, but the others would argue that they didn’t want the job because they knew it was mine, that Jeremy had been grooming me since I got my shit together and recommitted to the Pack thirteen years ago. The only other possibility had been Clay, who really didn’t want the job.

While he’d never admit it, I think Clay removed himself from the running so Jeremy didn’t have to make a very tough choice. Clay is perfect twentieth-century Alpha material. He’s the best fighter in the country—remorseless and relentless. Also brilliant. But that doesn’t fly in the twenty-first century, when Alphahood is more about politics than pugilism. Jeremy says he’d have given me the position anyway, but I’m not sure he could have done that to his foster son. I suspect it would have been a joint ascension—an Alpha pair, like in a real wolf pack.

Sometimes I wish he’d actually done that. Made us both Alpha. Because to most of the world, I’m a figurehead, placed in a false position of power to appease those werewolves who’d freak out if “that American psycho” got the job. We’ve spent three years unsuccessfully trying to convince the world Clay isn’t the real Alpha, and the situation has gone from damned annoying to downright dangerous.

We’ve made enemies of the Australian Pack, which is a lot scarier than one might expect. It started by us defending our own young Australian member—whose only crime seemed to be his very existence— and had somehow escalated into warmongering. The Australians wanted our territory, and they used me to gain allies, saying that even pretending to have a woman in charge proved the American Pack was weak.

The Australians have amassed an army of allies from smaller Packs, mostly third-world and developing countries who’d love a piece of the American dream. On our side, we had the Russian Pack. That’s it. Other Packs—French, German, Italian—support us in theory, but in practice, if we’re invaded, their troops are staying home and cheering us on from the sidelines.

The biggest problem is the Brits. They’re a big Pack and they’re spoiling for a fight, and they haven’t yet decided whose side they’d take. Parker has said there is a way to secure his help. Just let him deal with the real Alpha: Clay. And if my leadership isn’t a ruse, then I should make Clay the Alpha and step the hell down. I don’t dare tell him what I think of that suggestion, so all I can do is show up here without Clay in tow and try to prove I’m the real deal. So far, I’m failing miserably.

Noon the next day. Back in a meeting with Parker and struggling to hold my temper.

“I want Marsten,” Parker said. “Antonio Sorrentino has a better reputation as a fighter, but he’s old.” Beside me, Nick stiffened at the insult to his father. Parker smirked. Lord Asshole indeed.

“Karl Marsten has a wife and three-year-old daughter. He’s not moving to California for the school year.”

“Are you saying you can’t make him? That you would allow a Pack member to claim family responsibilities and ignore a direct order?”

That barb hit home. Of all my Pack, Marsten was the only one not completely under my control. I can boss him around better than Jeremy could, but if I was to order him to California for eight months? I’d fail.

“I could send Morgan Walsh for a month, to help Kevin get settled in.”

“Who?” Parker’s face screwed up. “Oh, yes. The Canadian.” He added a derisive twist to the word, knowing full well where my own passport came from. “He’s a nobody. I want someone with a reputation.”

“Reese, then.”

Parker sputtered. “Send my son to school with the Aussie brat at the center of this whole crisis? Not unless I want him to major in rape.”

I struggled to keep my tone steady. “Reese was seduced by the Alpha’s mate when they were in college together, because she wanted to secure her position by handing over Reese’s parents. Which she did. And the Australian Pack slaughtered them.”

“So Reese says. You believe him because he’s a confused young wolf and you’re a mother. It makes you susceptible.”

“Excuse me? If I had absolutely any doubt—”

Nick’s hand tightened on my leg. I had to calm down, and what made that even harder was knowing that if Clay was here, he’d go for Parker’s throat—figuratively and perhaps even literally. And Parker would respect him for that. If Clay snarled and raged, he was a proper werewolf. If I did, I was a hysterical woman.

“You can have Morgan or Reese for two months,” I said. “Or you can have Karl for one. Your choice.”

“Karl for the entire school year. September to May.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “Of course, he’ll get the holidays off, to visit his family.”

“If he goes for one month, his family will go with him.”

Nick murmured, “I’ll do it. Two months.”

I looked over. He nodded.

“All right,” I said. “Nick for two months.”

Kevin—sitting beside his father—snickered. “The omega? I’d rather take the retard.”

Nick shot to his feet, his face hard. “Don’t you—”

“—call you the omega?”

“I don’t give a damn what you call me, boy. But you don’t use that other word for anyone. Presuming you’re talking about Noah, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but he’s in college with an IQ of a hundred and ten, which I’m going to guess is about twenty points higher than yours.”

“Enough,” I said. “Noah has school, so he’s not an option. Nick is, and considering he sent Malcolm Danvers running, I don’t think you really want to call him the omega. Let’s cut through the insults and—”

“About Malcolm Danvers,” Parker said. “He’s still on the run, I hear.”

“We’re—”

“On the run for three years now, since he escaped Nast custody. Two years since Nicholas here found him.”

I tried not to growl. Parker knew exactly what was going on with Malcolm, because I’d kept him in the loop. When Nick and Vanessa tracked down Malcolm, she’d implanted a tracking device. But just because we could find him didn’t mean we could catch him, not without losing some of my Pack. Malcolm high-tailed it to Bulgaria, where the local Pack refused to extradite him.

For over a hundred damned years, the American Pack had little to no contact with our international brethren. Now I seem to spend half my time putting out cross-border fires.

“We’re handling Malcolm,” I said to Parker.

“Not very well.”

True, and if you’d get off your ass and pull your weight with the Bulgarians, maybe we could get the psychotic bastard extradited.

“Back to the point, again,” I said. “I’m offering—”

My cell started playing Bad Moon on the Rise. Clay’s tone. Our daughter, Kate, had set it up. She thought it was hilarious. The British Pack stared like I’d broken out in song myself.

“Interesting choice,” Parker said.

“My daughter’s,” I murmured, taking the phone. I looked at the accompanying picture. Clay with Kate—her choice again.

“It’s Clay,” Nick said. “And he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was urgent Pack business.”

Thank you. “Right,” I said. “Sorry, but I need to grab this.”

I took the phone and hurried into the hall. I answered just as it was about to go to voice mail.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s—”

“Where are you?”

I paused. The voice on the other end wasn’t my mate’s Louisiana drawl, but a little girl’s, pitched high with annoyance.

“Kate?” I said, then lowered my voice quickly, before anyone heard me talking to my kid. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes. We’re on vacation. Our one family vacation a year. And you’re not here. You’re on business.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Not now, Kate. Damn it, not now.

Kate has always been very vocal in her objections to either Clay or me traveling. I could point out that ninety percent of our lives are spent at Stonehaven, where the kids have only to shout to find us. Jeremy says that’s the problem—they’re so accustomed to having us close that they get out of sorts when we aren’t. As they’ve gotten older, though, Kate’s complaints have softened. She understands why we leave, and she still doesn’t like it, but she’s more likely to tease and cajole than actually complain. Until now. My not-quite-nine-year-old daughter had apparently hit adolescent mood swings early.

“When are you coming home?” she demanded.

“Watch your tone. If this meeting wasn’t urgent—”

“It’s one week a year. One damned week—”

“Kate!”

She barreled on. “—and you can’t even be bothered showing up.”

“I will be home tomorrow,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Your father has my flight information. And you and I are going to have a talk—”

“Hard to do when you’re not here. You won’t be on that plane. You never—”

“I have never, ever missed a family vacation or any other important event—”

Kate let out a howl that made me jump. The line crackled. Another voice sounded in the background. Logan, who seem to have wrested the phone from his sister. Then Clay’s pounding footsteps and, “What the hell—?”

“She called Mom to whine,” Logan said.

A commotion in the background as Clay apparently trotted Kate off. Another crackle on the line, then, “Hey, Mom.”

I rubbed my face hard and forced a smile. “Hey, baby.”

“Sorry about that. She’s being a brat, which is nothing new these days. Hormones.”

“She’s too young for that.”

“Then she has no excuse, does she?”

I laughed and leaned against the wall. My kids. Neither is your typical prepubescent, but they’ve never been your typical anything. Having werewolves for parents pretty much guarantees that, but it’s their upbringing, too. In a Pack—wolf or werewolf—children are cherished and adored, but never treated like babies. It doesn’t help that despite all my efforts to socialize them they’ve never shown much interest in kids their own age. They have school chums, but mostly to humor me. They’re content with their Pack and with each other.

Kate has always been my wild child. Fiercely intelligent and prone to hobbies that involve noise and activity, like music and sports. People joke she’s her father’s daughter, but I see as much of him in Logan, my quiet, brilliant boy.

“She shouldn’t have called,” he said. “Dad’s giving her proper hell now.”

“I can hear that.”

For most of their lives, my children had never heard their father raise his voice. To others, yes, but with them, he was a damned-near perfect parent. Better than me at keeping his temper. Yet in the last few months, as Kate’s behavior escalated and our bafflement grew, she’d begun getting the sharp side of his tongue, and though it hadn’t escalated to shouting matches, it occasionally got close.

“She’ll survive,” Logan said, as if reading my mind. “She deserves it, because she’s being a total brat. Even I can’t get through to her. Whatever she said to you, she doesn’t mean it. You know that.”

“I do. I’m trying to get there as fast as I—”

“You don’t need to convince me, Mom. I know you are. She knows you are. Here’s Dad. I’ll go speak to her and give her crap.”

I chuckled as he handed the phone over. Logan and Clay exchanged a few murmured words. Then the sound of a door shutting and Clay came on.

“I’m sorry, darling. Guess I have to keep my phone in my pocket.”

“I keep telling myself it’s a phase, but she’s getting worse, and if this is a sign of what we’re going to endure for the next five years—”

“Don’t even say that. Please.”

“I shouldn’t let her goad me.”

“You usually don’t, but I suspect you’re getting plenty of goading from Lord Asshole over there. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. Reschedule the family vacation. I’ll drop the kids off at home with Jeremy and come out there, stand behind you and glower over my ruined vacation. Shut him up and teach Kate that Pack business comes first.”

“Which punishes Logan, too, when he’s had to put up with his sister’s shit as much as we have.”

“Yeah . . .”

“It also gives Parker ammo. Not only do I need to call in my mate for backup, but I’m cranky because I missed out on time with my kids. Typical woman. Once they have kids, you can’t rely on them anymore.”

“I said I’d be the one cranky about missing the family time.”

“They’ll think you’re just upset because you had to ‘babysit’ our kids for a few days while your mate gallivanted off to London. You and I can say the exact same thing, and somehow—” I bit the words off. “God, I’m tired of listening to myself whine.”

“Bitch not whine. Justifiable bitching.”

“It feels like whining. I wish— Hell, you know what I want? You to drop Kate off with Jeremy and bring Logan to London. Screw this meeting. We’ll take Logan to the British Museum and let him explore while we hole up in the nearest hotel and work very hard on helping me forget this crap.”

He chuckled. “If I thought you were serious, I’d plunk Kate on a plane to Jeremy, and put Logan and myself on the next one to London.” He sobered. “I’m serious, too . . . though not about sending Kate alone, as tempting as that would be. You say the word and we’re there. Tell Lord Asshole he has until tonight to wrap up or you’re gone.”

I transferred the phone to my other ear.

“Elena?”

“I’m thinking. Shit. I know I shouldn’t . . .”

“Yeah, you should. Not that I’m giving you advice on how to do your job, because that would be wrong . . .”

I smiled. Technically no one advised the Alpha, except the previous one, but Clay knew full well that I’d never want him to keep his thoughts to himself. It’s not as if he could anyway. Physically impossible.

“If you want to call Jer, go ahead,” he said. “But we both know what he’d do. Stay and wear them down. Quietly bend them to his will. Me? Hell, I’d have refused to go. If I had to, I’d have stormed out the minute Parker started pulling his shit, which is why I’m not Alpha. But Jeremy’s way isn’t yours and neither is mine. You’ve got to do it your way.”

“I know. You’re right, though. I’m giving him a deadline and then I’m walking away. Tell Kate I’ll be on that plane and at the cabin tomorrow morning. Guaranteed. If she still complains, then we go with option two, which is dropping her off at home and you two joining me in London. We need to crack down on her more.”

“Yeah, no more excuses. It’s been going on too long.”

Nick leaned around the corner. I motioned that I’d be right there and signed off.