Frostbitten

BLAME

WHEN THE WAREHOUSE door opened, I jumped. Clay closed it and paused, back to me, collecting himself before turning and fixing a neutral expression on his face. It was a struggle, and he soon gave up, lines deepening around his mouth and between his eyes, face pale and drawn. Blood flecked his shirt and neck. More speckled one cheek. I tried not to think about how it got there.

"Done?" I asked.

"Almost. He's out cold. I'm checking in before I finish."

"Did he give you anything?"

"A bit. Not enough."

Dan had admitted that Tesler killed Dennis in a territorial dispute. He said Dennis had found them and ordered them out of Alaska. He'd challenged Tesler, they'd fought, Dennis died and Tesler had tied his body up in the cabin to make it look like a break-and-enter gone bad.

Which was bullshit. Dennis might have gotten more "in touch with his inner werewolf," but that inner werewolf still would have taken one look at Tesler's hulking outer wolf and run the other way. What we'd seen on Dennis's body were the signs of torture, not a fair fight.

When asked about this, though, Podrova had laughed. Were we not torturing him for information? What, then, did we think Tesler wanted? As for what, Podrova got vague again, but he hazarded a few guesses-bank account details, keys to Dennis's truck… If Tesler was going to waste time killing the guy, he sure as hell was going to make sure he turned a profit. Sadly, given everything we'd seen and heard of Tesler, this made sense. Though it had been hard to gauge the extent of the torture, it had seemed the kind of thing thugs would do, tying up a homeowner and making him give PINs and passwords so they could empty his accounts.

Podrova also admitted they'd had contact with Joey. They left him alone because they had an agreement with him. As for what that agreement was, he had no idea-that was Eddie Tesler's area. Apparently, baby brother was the brains of the operation, which didn't surprise me-Roman said the gang was smart and Travis Tesler didn't strike me as a deep thinker. All Podrova knew was that for now, Joey was untouchable.

Podrova had also admitted that their pack was responsible for the wolf kills. Well, the first, at least. One of the other members had killed him, and that's why he'd been sent away on business-in punishment. Eddie didn't tolerate man-killing. Like the rapes, it wasn't conducive to a settled lifestyle.

As for the other two victims, Podrova knew nothing about them. Yes, the last one had been found close to where they Changed and ran, at a spot away from their cabin, which Eddie insisted on. But none of them knew why a human would be killed, apparently by large canines, in that same spot.

Clay suspected Podrova himself was responsible for the two unclaimed killings, that he'd acted on his own and covered his ass so he wouldn't be sent away like his comrade. Now he continued covering it, afraid that being outed as a man-eater would seal his fate with us. But of all the issues and questions, this was least important. We knew they were responsible.

There was a limit to how far Clay could push, and how much pain he could inflict while keeping the subject conscious and lucid, so he'd moved to what he knew was another important issue for me: the missing young women. And here is where, driven to his limit, Podrova no longer bothered being cagey. Yes, he was sure Tester had taken those girls. When their little pack moved to Alaska, Eddie insisted his older brother lose the habit. Law enforcement would be stricter and more advanced here, and if they were settling in for the long term, they had to be more careful.

So while Podrova had no proof of it, he was certain those girls hadn't just coincidentally vanished after they arrived. Just as he was sure there would be more.

"And that's all he said. But what you really want to know is: where the hell is that cabin so you can stop this bastard? He says he doesn't know where it is, and as stupid as that sounds, and I believe him. The Testers do all the driving. This guy just goes along for the ride. He knows it's south of the city. He knows it's about an hour's drive. He knows they pass that service center before they turn off because they like the pizza there, so they stop in on the way back. Then, after they get back on the highway, drive awhile, then turn. And turn. And turn… "

I groaned.

"Yeah, it's like getting to Dennis's place, only it seems even farther in the woods. It's the same deal, too, where you can't get there in the winter except by snowmobile."

"But they bought the cabin, so if we research real estate transactions in the right time period… " I saw his expression and stopped. "They didn't buy it, did they?"

"This guy has no fucking idea, darling. All he knows is they came to Anchorage and they moved into a big cottage that was already furnished. The Teslers might have bought it. Or they might have killed the owners. Or they might just be squatting in some out-of-towner's summer cabin. This mutt does as he's told and he doesn't clutter his brain with details. He's just happy to have an Alpha to tell him what to do." He swiped the blood from his cheek. "I'm not going to get anything more from him on that, but if there's something else… "

There was more I wanted to get, but nothing he could get. If the mutt was unconscious, he'd passed the breaking point. Even if Clay could rouse him, he'd had a taste of painless oblivion and he'd spout whatever lies Clay seemed to want to hear if it would take him back there.

"That's enough," I said. "I'll help with the rest."

"I've got it."

"You're going to need to bury-"

"It's a dirt floor and tools. I'll make do."

"But I can-"

"Got it."

He went back inside. When he came out later, he carried a bag, presumably holding any belongings that could identify the dead man. We walked to the shore where I helped him clean off the blood. By the time we'd finished, his mood had lifted. He wasn't ready for cracking jokes, but he'd returned to a quiet equilibrium.

I used to think that Clay didn't feel anything when he had to torture mutts. He does; he just doesn't let it linger. It's part of the job and part of the man he's chosen to be-the sadistic psycho that mutts use to scare their sons. With a reputation like that, no one dares cross him to get to the Alpha, which is the point. But the problem with being a legend is that you have to live up to it.

I might wish sometimes that it could be different, that we could rule by reason and justice instead of might and fear. But it won't happen. Not in my lifetime. Like Jeremy, I can rule with reason and justice, but no one will listen without that sharp end of the stick.

WE'D BARELY STARTED walking back to the hotel when I finally blurted it out.

"I got a letter last week. From one of my foster parents."

"One of the men?" he asked. He knew I didn't like calling them "foster fathers."

I nodded, then stuffed my hands in my pockets. "We can discuss it later. I know this isn't the time. I just-I should talk about it and I keep avoiding it, so now that you know, you can… I don't know. Just forget-"

"There's a damned good reason you mentioned it now."

He looked over, catching my gaze. He was right, of course. What happened to me with Travis Tesler resurrected an issue that hadn't been buried very deeply.

Clay asked who sent the letter. He wasn't asking for a name. He wouldn't recognize it. There'd been a time, back in the beginning, after he bit me and was frantically trying to make amends, that he'd asked for names. He hadn't been surprised when I wouldn't give them.

Years ago, I'd sent letters to the Children's Aid Society and warned them about the families I'd had trouble with. By then, most weren't fostering anymore. But for those that were, I was assured my concerns would be investigated, and in follow-ups, the remaining few had been removed from the list. So no other children were in danger, and that's all that had mattered to me. All that should matter.

Clay wouldn't necessarily agree. When we'd been dating, he'd gone after an old foster brother who'd been stalking me. Beat him brutally. I was there. I saw it. And I don't know what horrified me more-watching it or wishing I'd been the one delivering the blows.

That was the beginning of where things had gone wrong for us. In asking for the names of the men who'd abused me, Clay had only been grasping at straws, desperate to find a way to prove his love.

Even later, when I would talk to him about what had happened, I think he felt that something should be done. By unspoken agreement, then, we never referred to them by name, so now, when he asked which one sent the letter, I said only, "Maple Street."

He swore. Slipped his arm around my waist. Pulled me closer as we walked up the hill to the hotel.

"He's going through therapy," I said.

"Electroshock?"

I couldn't suppress a smile. "Unfortunately, no. But as part of this therapy, he's supposed to contact his victims and ask-" I choked on the word. "Ask for forgiveness."

Clay's reaction to that was predictable. And, again, it made me smile, and wish I'd told him the day the letter arrived. It was like his reaction to Mallory Hirsch's bitchy treatment of me-there was a great deal of pleasure to be found in imagining unleashing him on those who wronged me, even if I knew I'd never actually do it, that the guilt would outweigh the pleasure.

"I hope you told him where to stuff it," he said finally.

"I don't forgive him," I said.

"Hell, no, you don't. And why should you? So he can feel better? Get on with his life? And what's he done to help you get on with yours?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I wished I'd kept the letter so I could fly to Ontario, march up to him and…

And I don't know what. Not hurt him. Just show him that I didn't need his apology, I guess. Show him that I was okay. Better than okay. I was happy, in spite of everything he'd done to me, and no, I didn't forgive him. God help me, I would not forgive him.

"Sending you that letter was wrong," Clay said. "I don't give a fuck how bad he feels. What kind of therapist rips open the past by making him send a letter like that?"

"I'm sure it helps some victims."

"Well, not all. And it's irresponsible to pull that shit."

I nodded. And, again, I wished I'd told him earlier, because this was exactly what I wanted to hear, vindication that I had a right to be pissed off, vindication that I had a right not to want to reopen those old wounds.

Maybe a therapist would tell me this proved I wasn't healed. How I'd reacted to Tesler also proved I wasn't healed. When I said as much to Clay, though, he shook his head.

"The reason Tesler freaked you out is because of that letter. It brought all that shit to the surface, and it was just fucking bad luck that Tesler came along and tapped into it. But that's over. He's a coward and you know it now. Hopefully, you'll never have to deal with him again-not alone, anyway, but if you do, then just show him who's boss and he'll run like hell. You're a better fighter than him. Don't forget it."

I nodded, but this time, I wasn't so sure I agreed. When Clay seemed ready to pursue it, though, I gestured at the bag he was holding.

"You took the mutt's clothing?" I said. "We'll need to find a place to burn it."

"Nah. It was all generic stuff. I only wanted this." He handed me the bag. Inside was Dan's jacket, washed denim with leather trim and a shearling lining.

"Nice, but it looks a little small for you."

He rolled his eyes.

"Okay," I said. "I give up. What did you want with his jacket?"

"It's not his. It's Dennis's."

"Dennis?"

"I smelled him on it when I was checking Podrova for ID. So I took it. No mutt is being buried in Dennis's coat."

I pulled it from the bag. "This isn't Dennis's. First, I saw his coat in the cabin-a plain, Sears catalogue parka. All his clothing was department store and that-" I pointed to the jacket. "-might have come from a catalogue, but if so, it was from one of those fancy collegiate stores. It's a young man's jacket. Dennis was trying to recapture his wolf, not his youth."

"Well, it smells like Dennis. Like he wore it."

He motioned for me to sniff the inside. I did and Dennis's scent was indeed there, as if he'd pulled it on once or twice, but under the mutt's more recent smell was another, deeper one embedded in the fabric. The real owner. And when I caught a whiff of that, I swore.

A smile creased Clay's eyes. "Admitting you're wrong, darling?"

"Not about that. Something bigger. At Dennis's place, I smelled another werewolf. A family member. I presumed it was Joey, but having now smelled Joey and smelling this, I was wrong. This coat be longed to a werewolf and it belonged to a Stillwell. But not Dennis and not Joey."

It was Clay's turn to curse, taking the jacket, inhaling deeper and cursing again.

"We need to talk to Joey," I said.

I'D ALREADY NEEDED to talk to him-about this "deal" with the mutts and his lie about not encountering them. And now this: the existence, or former existence, of a Stillwell that Jeremy knew nothing about.

But this wasn't the sort of conversation we could have in Joey's office. We'd need to waylay him as he left work, and hope he didn't decide to put in too much overtime.

It was only midafternoon, meaning we couldn't talk to Joey for a few hours. That was fine, because right now, neither of us was in the mood for that conversation. We were tired and hungry and sore, and all we wanted was to crash in our hotel room… which was a problem.

"Already taken care of," Clay said. "I called Jeremy when we first split up. He'll have something booked for us by now."

First, though, we had to retrieve our stuff. My steps slowed as we entered the lobby, certain I could pick up the faint smell of Travis Tesler, my stomach knotting at the thought of going up there, smelling him, smelling what he'd done.

"Take a seat," Clay said, waving at the armchairs in the middle of the lobby. "Call the kids."

I hesitated.

"Plenty of people around," he said. "It's safe."

"That's not what I meant. I should help-"

"Sit."

When he started walking away, I called him back and leaned in closer to whisper, "My clothes. The ones he… "

"In the nearest trash, along with anything he so much as touched."

"Thanks."

"Hey, if you have to walk around naked for a few days, I'm not complaining."

I managed a smile, then picked a seat with my back to the manned counter, facing the doors. I couldn't imagine Tesler sneaking up on me here, but I felt better being careful. Then I called home.

I talked to Kate first. I started by reassuring her that we were coming home as soon as possible, fending off the problems Jeremy had with her earlier. It worked.

She told me about her day, specifically dinner yesterday after Jeremy had left for New York, when Jaime made them pancakes, which were good, but she hadn't done it quite right, because it wasn't breakfast so they weren't in their pajamas and Jaimes had forgotten the blueberries, but no, Kate didn't want me to tell Jaime where the blueberries were because she wanted to save them until we got home, and as soon as we got home, we had to have our special pancake breakfast with blueberries and ham, and we had to be in our pajamas, and we had to pretend there wouldn't be enough for Daddy and smack his hand when he tried to steal ham from the frying pan, and then he had to carry me out of the room and lock the door and…

It was a silly little ritual. The kind three-year-olds love, one that keeps evolving and every step must be performed every time and it's just as hilarious the tenth time as the first.

When Clay came down, I started to stand, but he motioned that he'd check us out and I should keep talking. I still passed him the phone and hurried off before he could argue. I wasn't the only one who could use the grounding of our daughter's chatter. As I walked away, I heard her saying, "And Jaime made us pancakes, but she… " and I smiled.