Frostbitten

SNUBBED

WE WOKE BEFORE seven, which seemed plenty early given our long day and late night, but there were already two messages from Jeremy. I tried calling him back before checking the messsage-usually one from Jeremy is a simple "call me when you get a chance." But no one answered at the house.

I added the four-hour time difference and figured he'd taken the kids for their usual play-at-the-park-then-go-out-for-lunch routine. By nature, we prefer to stick with our own kind, so we need to schedule socialization time for the kids.

Logan isn't keen on the socializing part, but he loves getting out and exploring the world. Kate, like her father, doesn't see the point. Once she's at the park, she's fine. She enjoys watching and following the older kids. I call it social interaction. Clay calls it stalking. Either way, she has fun, and when she starts getting bored, the promise of lunch perks her up again.

I retrieved the first message.

"Elena, it's Jeremy. No, I don't recall mentioning the Wendigo article to Dennis. More likely, Clay's-"

"Is that Mommy?" Kate's voice pipped up in the background.

"Yes, but she's sleeping and I'm leaving a message-"

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

"Would you like to leave her a message for when she wakes up?"

"No. Want her home. Mommy?" Her voice rose, taking on that imperative tone I knew too well. "Come home."

"Kate, she's-"

"Now. Come home now. Tell Daddy. Come home. Mommy and Daddy. Come home right now."

"I'll call back."

The message ended. Parental guilt for breakfast. Yummy.

Message two.

"It's me again. I apologize for that. I thought she was downstairs. As I was saying, it's likely Clay was right-that Dennis was investigating whatever you two saw in the woods. As intriguing as that is, though, I'm more concerned with these apparent new immigrants. I decided to call-"

"Is that Mom?" Logan 's voice sounded in the distance, then stockinged feet padded across the floor.

"Yes, I'm just leaving her a message. If you can wait a minute, you can say something."

"I want to talk to Mom. Not her voice mail."

There are times when it's nice having a preschooler who can communicate so well. This was not one of them. It's like when they were infants and we couldn't wait for them to walk… then we were running ourselves ragged chasing after them, wondering "what the hell was I thinking?"

"You will talk to her," Jeremy said calmly. "Later, after she wakes up. Now can you sit on the bed and wait, please? We'll be leaving soon." He returned to the message. "I decided to call Roman."

Roman Novikov was the Alpha of the Russian Pack. He'd made contact with Jeremy last year, through the interracial council, wanting to ask about a new mutt they presumed was American.

This may seem perfectly natural. It's the twenty-first century, we have computers, telephones, a million ways to keep in touch long distance, so why wouldn't Alphas share information and resources? But it just doesn't happen, no more than wild wolf packs interact. We each have our own territory and most are content to pretend the others don't exist. Roman is one of the more progressive Alphas. We weren't the first Pack he'd reached out to, trying to open the lines of communication, but Jeremy was the first Alpha who'd welcomed the contact, and they'd talked a few times since.

"Roman thought-"

"When is Mom coming home?" Logan asked. His voice was far enough away to tell me he'd obeyed the command to sit on the bed. As for waiting quietly, well, the quiet part had been implied, as Clay would say. Since it hadn't been explicitly stated, it wasn't an actual order.

"In a couple of days."

"You said a couple of days two days ago. A couple is two. So she should be coming home now. Is she coming home?"

"Not yet. Now-"

"When is she coming home? Is Dad still with her? Why do they both need to be away?"

"I know you miss them, but they're very busy. They want to come home and they will as soon as they can."

"Kate!" Logan called.

The distant thump of answering footsteps.

"Jeremy's on the phone with Mom again, Kate."

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

I sighed. Why kick up a fuss and risk getting into trouble when you can get your sister to do it for you? Sneaky little beggar. We were going to have to have a chat about this. A firmly and carefully worded chat, so he couldn't find a loophole.

Besieged by Kate, Jeremy tried calling Jaime, but she was apparently out of earshot, so he quickly finished leaving his message. With Kate screeching in the background all I caught was something about a call, presumably that he'd phone later.

I tried calling him back. Still no answer. I had Jaime's cell phone number, but that wouldn't solve the problem, as the kids were with them. I left a message at home saying I would try again later.

"I miss them, too. But we'll get back as soon as we can."

I looked over to see Clay propped up on his elbow in bed; watching me. I nodded and said nothing, just put the phone down. He reached over and fingered a couple of bruises on my hip.

"You okay?" he said.

"That?" I managed a smile. "That's nothing. I'm sure I did worse to you."

"So you're okay? Not too battered and bruised?"

"I'm fine."

"Good." He scooped me up. "The water pressure in this place sucks. We're sharing a shower, and you're going to forget that phone call."

"Is that an order?"

"Nope, that's a challenge. For me. And one I will happily meet."

WE HAD BREAKFAST a few blocks down at the Snow City Cafe. A white chocolate and vanilla latte, pumpkin pancakes and side orders of smoked salmon and farmers sausage. Heaven.

On the way to the cafe and on the way back, Clay tried to bring up the subject of what else was bothering me. Again, I almost answered. Again, I chickened out. A letter from a former foster parent had nothing to do with our current situation, and even admitting that it was bothering me gave it too much power. We could talk about it later.

AT EIGHT FORTY we were outside Joey's office waiting for him to arrive. We stood across the road, under the shadow of a crab shack awning. As Clay scanned the streets, his face was immobile, but I knew what he was feeling-dreading the horrible news he had to break to Joey, yet looking forward to seeing his old friend.

"He's coming," I said when I caught a werewolf scent on the breeze.

Clay pivoted, searching. "That's him. With the bald guy and the older lady."

If we hadn't been looking for Joey Stillwell, I would have never noticed him. He blended with everyone else on the street, one of those cookie-cutter businessmen who filled every American business core at this hour.

He was average height. Slender, though softening at the edges as he settled into middle age. I knew Joey was only a few years older than Clay, but he really could pass for fifty. He was bespectacled and serious, with frown lines that said serious was his usual expression. His brown hair was shot through with even more gray than Jeremy's, making me wonder if he dyed it trying to look his true age.

"Go on," I said to Clay.

"Come with me. We should-"

"Go. I'm in charge now, remember?"

He smiled and loped off. We'd decided earlier that Clay should approach Joey alone. It seemed right-he came from a part of Clay's life before me. Even if Dennis had told Joey about me, I didn't need to complicate the reunion.

"Joey!" Clay called as he jogged across the road.

Joey should have heard him, but he kept walking as if not recognizing the old diminutive.

"Joseph!"

Now even his companions heard, both turning, the older woman catching Joey's elbow as he kept walking. Her lips moved, telling him he was being hailed.

Joey glanced over his shoulder. He saw Clay. No sign of recognition crossed his face. I'd met Clay a few years after Joey left the Pack, so I knew Clay hadn't changed much. Hell, other than aging, he hadn't changed at all, from his hairstyle-close-cropped gold curls-to his fashion sense-jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket.

Joey kept walking. I tensed. But Clay only broke into a jog again, not slowing until he was close enough for Joey to smell him. He laid a hand on his shoulder, in a quick squeeze.

"Joey," Clay said. "It's Clay. Clayton Danvers."

Still Joey's expression didn't change. In a voice so soft I could barely hear it from across the road, he said, "I'm afraid you have the wrong person."

Clay grinned. "Sorry. It's Joseph now, isn't it? A bit old for Joey. You never much liked it as a kid either."

"You've mistaken me for someone else."

Before Clay could respond, Joey gave a curtly polite nod and strode back to his coworkers.

"He seemed to know you," the man said as they approached the office doors.

"Does that accent sound like anyone I'd have grown up with?"

The woman laughed. "It's damned sexy, though." She glanced back, admiring Clay's rear view as he walked away. "You couldn't pretend to know him for my sake? Invite him to coffee? Make an old lady's day?"

The other man laughed and they headed inside.

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER cappuccino. And another unique and wonderful place to enjoy it. If we had more caffeine-fill-up locations like this back home, I'd become a total coffeehouse nut.

This cafe doubled as a Russian orthodox museum and was across the road from the museum where Reese had been attacked. We were the sole patrons that morning, the silence broken only by the occasional murmur of conversation between the clerk and a Russian Orthodox priest.

I had hoped the quiet surroundings and the religious artifacts would draw Clay out. But we were almost done with our coffees and he had yet to say a full sentence.

"Waylaying him like that might not have been wise," I said finally. "I wanted to tell him about his father-and warn him about the mutts-as quickly as possible, but we caught him off guard. He's used to hiding that part of his life, so he did it instinctively in front of his coworkers."

Clay said nothing.

After another minute of silence, he spoke. "I should have made contact years ago."

"He could have done the same."

Clay shook his head. "I was pissed off when he left and I didn't make any secret of it. It was up to me to make the first move."

"Which you just did."

"Too little too late." He sipped his coffee, his gaze disappearing into the cup's depths.

"Well, we still have to talk to him, whether he wants to chat or not. He needs to be warned about the mutts, if he doesn't already know they're here."

"He doesn't. Otherwise, he wouldn't be carrying on, business as usual. We'll talk to Jeremy later. Get his advice."

I was about to say I could handle this-if I was going to be Alpha, I had to make simple decisions like this-but as gung-ho as Clay had been about the transition last night, change didn't come easily for him. By nature, he deferred to Jeremy and right now, it was best to leave him in his comfort zone.

As we drank, I noticed a community bulletin board beside the counter. Prominently displayed was a mini-poster with pictures of three young women.

The clerk had vanished into the back rooms, so I excused myself and went over. If Clay noticed, he gave no sign.

As I suspected, the poster was for the three missing women the reporter had mentioned yesterday. They ranged in age from seventeen to twenty. Two were Native, one Caucasian. All three had gone missing from Anchorage on Saturday nights.

The poster listed the streets where they'd last been seen, but not the exact locations. I'd venture a guess and say they were in bars, despite being underage. The women's group that printed the poster had left that bit of information off because they knew it wouldn't rouse the right degree of sympathy. It shouldn't matter. At that age, what was wrong with visiting a bar on Saturday night? Yet it wouldn't invoke the same reaction as saying they'd gone missing from the library.

I looked at the three photos. All the girls were pretty, but in that average way that most young women are. Cute enough to catch a guy's eye. And they had caught someone's eye.

Did they leave the bar with the wrong man? Did someone follow them home? Did their disappearances have anything to do with the mutts? That was the million-dollar question.

The dates overlapped with the supposed wolf kills. I'd been ready to dismiss the connection earlier because the city disappearances were too different from the forest kills, but now I wondered.

Different, yes. But two distinct types of victims serving two distinct purposes: one for hunting and one for sex. Both would end up dead. In the forest, though, there was no need to hide the body-blame would fall on the wolves.

Yet if people found the same partially eaten victims within the city limits, concern would leap straight into panic, with every gun-owning citizen ready to shoot the first large canine he saw. Even the cockiest mutt wouldn't dirty his bed that badly.

"You think there's a connection?" Clay said as he came up beside me.

"I'm not ruling it out." I turned to him. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Got a lot of stops to make today. Better get moving."

"Let's start with an easy one." I leaned over the counter to get the attention of the clerk, who was counting stock in the next room.

The priest stepped from his office. "May I help you?"

"Sorry. We were just hoping for tourist information."

"Such as… "

"A museum of natural history maybe? Or a children's museum? Someplace we'd find wildlife displays."

"The Federal Building."

"The… "

He laughed. "Yes, not the first place you'd look, is it? As you can see… " He gestured from the cafe to the museum. "We Alaskans have eclectic tastes in our pairings. The Federal Building has an excellent collection of wildlife displays. It's free to the public and only a few blocks from here."

"Perfect. Thank you."

MUSEUMS AND TRUCK stops weren't the only places to find lattes in Alaska. In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether a city bylaw required all businesses to have an espresso machine.

"Oh, look," I said, pointing as we walked. "Faxes, copies, postal services… and espresso."

Clay jerked his chin toward a window across the road. "Hunting licenses, ulu knives… "

"And espresso. Just what you need when shooting and carving up big game. Do you get the feeling Alaskans like their coffee strong?"

"Long, dark winters, darling. They need something to keep them going."

We found the Federal Building a mere block from our hotel. At the foot of the steps, a young man was setting up a sausage stand, the meat already sizzling on the grill, the smell making my stomach growl. Then I saw the sign.

"Reindeer sausage?" I said.

"Works for me." Clay pulled out his wallet. "You want one?"

"Sure. We just won't tell the kids we ate Rudolph."