Stolen

HOCUS-POCUS

I wanted to run. Throw open the door, run, and not stop until Ruth and Paige Winterbourne were gone, not just out of my sight, but out of my head as well. I wanted to run until my legs ached and my lungs burned and I could think of nothing but stopping, unable to spare a moment's energy dealing with what had happened. Not the most mature response. I know that. But it was what I was good at. Running. I'd been doing it all my life. Even when I didn't run, when I dug in my heels and confronted my fears, there was always a part of me running as fast as it could.

I knew what I should do. Stay and work this out, refute Paige's claims and discover how much these women knew. If Paige had simply said she knew I was a werewolf, as disturbing as that would have been, I could have handled it. But when she recited my bio, though it was all accessible through public records, the violation was somehow more personal. Then bringing up my history with Clay as matter-of-factly as she'd recited my birth date, well, every fiber screamed for me to run, get out of there, get some distance, deal with it later. Only Ruth's demonstration of power kept me from running. It also gave me a moment to stop and think.

Did I want to return to Jeremy and say that two strangers had accused me of being a werewolf and I'd bolted? Oh, he wouldn't be angry. He'd understand. That was the worst of it. I didn't want him to understand why I'd screwed up. I wanted him to be proud of me. Yes, I know, I was much too old to be seeking approval from a surrogate father-figure, but that's the way it was. After Clay bit me, Jeremy had taken care of me, putting his life on hold to put mine back together. Each time I undertook one of these investigations, I was showing Jeremy that he hadn't made a mistake, that I'd prove my value to the Pack by repaying his efforts tenfold. Now, faced for the first time with imminent exposure, was I going to return to New York and say, "Sorry, Jer, but I couldn't deal"? Not in this lifetime. If I ran, I'd keep running. Everything I'd worked so hard for in the last year-letting myself accept my life at Stonehaven, with the Pack, with Clay-would all be thrown away and I'd go back to being as miserable and screwed-up as I'd been eighteen months ago.

So I stayed. Ruth and I came to an agreement. I'd hear her out, admitting nothing. If I wanted, I could treat her story like the ramblings of a senile old woman and pretend I was sticking around just to be polite.

We sat at the table, Paige on the far side, chair pulled back. She hadn't said a word since her aunt arrived.

"Do you believe in witches?" Ruth asked as she poured me a cup of tea.

"Wicca?" I said carefully.

"No. Witches. Hereditary witches. Like hereditary werewolves."

She put up a hand as I started to protest.

"I'm not asking for an admission, remember? You're humoring an old lady. Well, if you don't-or didn't-believe in witches, then I have to assume you don't believe in anything more fantastical. All right, then. Let's start from scratch. Pretend there are witches and… other things. Pretend, too, that these beings-races we call them-know about one another and gather periodically to disseminate information and deal with potential exposure. Now, at one point, werewolves were part of this collaboration-"

I opened my mouth, but Ruth again raised her hand.

"All right," Ruth said. "You don't need a history lesson. We didn't come here for that. As Paige may have said, we came to warn you. Did she get to that part?"

"I showed her the photos," Paige said. "We didn't get to the explanation."

"Allow me then. These men-humans-have been giving us some trouble. Quite a bit of trouble. Confrontations, accusations, kidnappings. It would seem they know more than they should."

"Those two?" I said, pointing at the folder. "Ty Winsloe? Kidnapping witches? You're losing me. This doesn't make sense."

"What does anymore?" Ruth said with a tiny smile. "Once upon a time all we had to worry about was bonfires and Grand Inquisitors. Now we have evil computer magnates. I won't go into detail, partly because I suspect you won't stick around long enough to listen and partly because I'm hoping a little curiosity might bring your pack to our meeting."

"I really-"

"They know about the werewolves and they're looking for them, just as they're looking for the rest of us."

I leaned back in my chair and looked from Ruth to Paige. Ruth watched me, green eyes bright and sharp. Paige pretended to be watching me, but those same green eyes on her were hooded and distant, looking at me but not seeing me.

"You know how this sounds, don't you?" I said. "Pretend I am a werewolf. You two lure me here with some bullshit story and tell me you're witches. Not only are you witches but you're part of some supernatural United Nations. As delegates of this UN, you've decided to contact me with this story about demonic computer geeks-"

"They're not demonic," Ruth said. "As I said, they're human."

"You guys really take this stuff seriously, don't you?"

"It is serious," Paige said, cool stare freezing. "Maybe we made a mistake choosing you-"

"And about that. Why choose me? Or did you put that story on the Internet and assume only a werewolf would reply? Let's say this conspiracy exists and there are guys out there looking for werewolves. What's to stop them from responding to your ad?"

"We did get a lot of inquiries," Ruth said. "But we were waiting for yours."

"Mine?"

"A few years ago, our council had a run-in with a werewolf. Not one of your pack. An outsider. We've kept tabs on him, in case we ever needed to contact the werewolves. When this trouble began, we found him and… persuaded him to share some information with us. He knew about your pack, who led it, who was in it, where they lived. Moreover, he knew all about you and your background. Being the only female werewolf, it seems you've achieved quite legendary status among your race."

She smiled. I returned a blank stare.

Ruth continued, "He knew you followed up on realistic werewolf sightings, watching for misbehavior. Quite interesting. We do the same, monitoring witches who've left the Coven. So we decided to try getting in touch with you that way before attempting direct contact."

"Why me?"

"You're part of the pack. As well, being the only female, you seemed a… better choice of contact. Perhaps easier to talk to than your male counterparts."

In other words, more gullible? Less likely to counter threat with violence? If they wanted the latter, they should have gone straight to the top. Jeremy was the most levelheaded among us. He was also the most open-minded. He'd have been the best choice for this meeting. Wouldn't it have made more sense to take their concerns directly to the Alpha anyway? Unless, for some reason, they didn't want to do that.

"You still realize how this sounds," I said. "Forget how and why you chose me. You bring me here, issuing B-movie lines like 'We know who you are.' Sorry, but I'm looking for the hidden camera. Let's say I believe all this hocus-pocus. Why, if this UN doesn't include werewolves, would you suddenly want to contact them now? If you are witches, you must have run into bad guys before."

"We risk exposure as often as you do," Ruth said. "But it's always been one race at a time. This is different. This involves all of us, which is why we must band together."

"One for all and all for one," I muttered.

"This isn't a joke," Paige said.

"You still don't believe us, do you?" Ruth asked. "Even about the witch part, despite our little demonstration."

"We could do a bigger one," Paige said. "Say, zip your mouth shut. Permanently."

"Paige," Ruth warned. "Forgive my niece's youthful exuberance. If you'd like, though, I could certainly give you a better demonstration. Nothing as uncivilized as a binding spell, of course."

"No thanks," I said.

"Why?" Paige asked. "Because you don't believe? Or because you don't want to?"

"I did what I said I'd do. I stayed. I listened. Now I'm leaving."

As I stood, Ruth touched my arm. "At least tell your leader what we've said. We're meeting in two days. Delegates from the major races will be there to discuss the problem. We'd like your pack to join us. Here's my card."

She handed me a business card. I half-expected to see "Ruth Winterbourne, Spells and Potions." Instead, it was a card for "Winterbourne Designs, Custom Apparel for Women." The address listed was in Massachusetts, though disappointingly not Salem.

"Yes," Ruth said with a smile. "It's a real business card for a real business. Not much money in hexes these days."

"I don't-"

"Put it in your pocket and we'll pretend you're going to throw it away once I'm out of sight. If you call, use my cell phone number. We're heading straight from here to the meeting in Vermont. It wouldn't be a long drive from New York if you decide to come out. I hope you do."

I mumbled something noncommittal, pocketed the card, and left.

Afterward, I spent more time thinking about witches than billionaire conspiracy theories. The thought of other "supernatural" beings intrigued me, though I found it hard to believe. Okay, skepticism from someone who routinely morphed into a wolf may sound hypocritical, but I couldn't help it. I'd been a werewolf for nearly six months before I believed they existed. I'd changed forms, I'd seen Jeremy change forms, yet I still managed to convince myself that it wasn't real. Serious denial. Maybe it was easier to believe werewolves were a onetime aberration of nature, the way some people-myself included-think the universe contains only one populated planet. The thought of zombies and vampires wandering the earth was just too weird. But Ruth hadn't mentioned zombies or vampires. She'd only said witches and… other things. I could believe in witches. The idea that some people could harness the earth's powers was much easier to accept than the idea that, say, some people could transform into wolves.

When I walked into my hotel room, the phone was ringing. I stood in the doorway, contemplated a quick about-face, then resigned myself to answering it. Besides, it might not be who I expected.

"What the hell are you doing in Pittsburgh?!" the caller roared before I even got the receiver to my ear. I looked for a volume button on the phone, couldn't find one, and considered "accidentally" hitting the plunger.

"Nice to hear from you, too, Clayton. My flight was fine, thanks. How's Detroit?"

"Hotter than Hades," he muttered, his Southern drawl resurrected as his voice dropped to non-eardrum-shattering decibels. "Smells worse, too. Why didn't you call and tell me you were going to Pittsburgh?"

"Because you would have insisted on meeting me here. I don't need-"

"Too late. I'm already packing."

"I don't need your help, and I don't need your protection."

"And my company, darling? I suppose you don't need that either."

"Give it a rest. You only left yesterday, and I'll be joining you on Monday."

"Then I can save you two flights. I'll drive down tonight, and when you're done there, I can bring you back to Detroit-"

"No."

"I'm just trying to be-"

"Controlling, possessive, overprotective."

"I miss you."

"Nice try. The answer's still no. I can handle this."

"So what exactly are you handling?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow," I said. "After I speak to Jeremy."

"Anything good?"

"Maybe."

"Fun?" he asked.

"Definite mayhem possibilities."

"Come on. Tell me."

"Later."

"Tease," he growled.

"You want to hear teasing?" I asked.

"Sure, if you want me in Pittsburgh in an hour."

"It's a six-hour drive."

"Wanna bet?"

We went on like this for a while, forty-five minutes actually. Before we ended the conversation Clay had agreed-most grudgingly-not to follow me to Pittsburgh. I had to admit that since we'd been back together, he really had been working at being less controlling, possessive, and overprotective. Not that he was giving up and letting me lead a semi-independent life. We kept separate bedrooms, but that was as far as it went. He still expected me to be with him twenty-four hours a day. Even the separate bedroom thing was a joke. Having my own room only meant I had a place to store my stuff. Wherever I slept, Clay slept.

As part of my own relationship-saving efforts, I'd had to admit that this togetherness thing was part of Clay's nature. Bitten as a child, he'd forgotten ever having been human, and nothing in his later experiences convinced him he was missing out on anything. He was more wolf than human. About the togetherness thing, Clay would argue that you'd never see a wolf telling its mate that it had to "get away for a while" or needed "some personal space." They formed lifelong bonds that seemed to work out just fine despite the grievous lack of relationship therapy.

Clay and I had been together nearly twelve years. Well, "together" was a mild exaggeration. We'd started out twelve years ago, then there was the biting thing. After ten years of bouncing back and forth, I'd broken down and admitted to myself that I loved him and couldn't live without him-all that Harlequin romance stuff. Still, our relationship was hardly the sort of thing Harlequin would endorse. Clay and I went together like fire and gasoline-intense heat, incredible fireworks, and, occasionally, devastating destruction. I'd come to realize that was how we were. It wasn't a calm, stable relationship, it never would be, and, frankly, neither of us wanted that. Blissful domesticity was for other people. Give us fireworks and explosions, of both the positive and negative variety, and we were as blissful as could be.

I couldn't sleep that night.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, fighting off an unease that kept me from closing my eyes.

First, there was the question of the witches. Were they witches or not? Either way, I didn't trust their motivation. Too much of what they'd said didn't make sense. I should have called Jeremy as soon as I'd left their hotel. He wasn't going to be happy when he found out I'd waited a full day to tell him. At least two people knew I was a werewolf and I hadn't told either Clay or Jeremy. Where the hell was my head at? Should I call Jeremy now? It was 2:45 A.M. My flight left at 8:00. This could wait. Could it? Should it?

I went for a run to clear my head. Jogging, I mean. While Changing into a wolf and running around Pittsburgh might be fun, it was definitely not the kind of excitement I needed. I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, left my hotel room, and followed a maze of alleys to a deserted industrial area. Big cities weren't the place for late-night jogs. Anyone seeing a young woman running around Pittsburgh at 3:00 A.M. was going to be looking for the guy chasing her.

I'd jogged about a quarter-mile when I realized someone was following me. No big surprise. Like I said, young women jogging at night attract attention, usually the wrong kind. Sure, if some guy jumped me, I could slam him into the nearest brick wall and there'd be one less potential rapist for the world to worry about. But that meant a body to clean up in a strange city. Not only that, but I couldn't do it. I can talk the talk, but I ain't that tough. Even if some mugger pulled a gun on me and I had to kill him, I'd regret it. I'd wonder if I'd overreacted, if maybe this was the guy's first offense and a good scare would have set him straight, if maybe he had a wife and kids at home and only wanted a few bucks for food. Better to avoid getting into a situation where such action might be necessary. Wild wolves survived by avoiding confrontation with humans. Smart werewolves did the same.

When I heard soft running footfalls nearby, I first made sure it wasn't a coincidence. I turned down the next three streets and circled full around to where I'd been. The footsteps followed. Next I got downwind and checked the scent, in case it was another werewolf. As the only female werewolf in a country with a couple dozen males, I was considered a trophy. The fact that my lover was the most feared and hated werewolf around only added to my value. If mutts didn't want to fuck me, they wanted to fuck Clay over-and the chance to do both at once was more than some could resist. Though I didn't know of any mutts in the Pittsburgh area, they were a nomadic lot and my dossiers were always out of date.

My pursuer wasn't a mutt. Werewolves have a distinct underlying scent and this guy didn't. It was a guy-a man, I mean. Other than that, his smell didn't give me much to go on. No aftershave. A touch of body odor, as if his deodorant had reached its time limit. Otherwise clean. Very clean. I didn't expect that with a rapist or mugger. Yes, I know not every creep is a scruffy, unshaven vagrant. Most aren't. But they aren't usually hygiene fanatics either. Curiosity aroused, I decided to get a look at my stalker.

Still eager to avoid confrontation, I did both at once, getting a closer look while sneaking away. To find him, I stopped in the middle of the empty street, bent over, and retied my shoes. Then I muttered under my breath, yanked them undone, and redid them. By the third tie-up, stalker-guy got antsy, probably cursing me for stopping in the road instead of in some nice shadowy corner. He leaned out of his hiding spot, giving himself away with a blur of motion in the otherwise still street. He was hiding in a building alcove to my left.

Straightening, I launched into a set of hamstring stretches. Midway through my second set, I took off. Running full out, I raced into the alley alongside the building where my stalker hid. By the time he came after me, I was behind the adjacent building. I stopped in a rear doorway and searched the ground. A few yards to my left, I saw what I wanted. Something dark and missile-like. A half-dozen beer bottles were scattered around the door. Grabbing the nearest one, I pitched it down the back alley. It crashed somewhere behind the next building. Fortunately, my stalker wasn't deaf. When he got to the end of the side alley, he turned toward the crash and headed in that direction, moving away from me.

Keeping in the shadows, I watched the man as he walked away. Six-two, maybe six-three. Average weight. Dressed in dark pants and jacket. Some kind of hat. Baseball cap? He slowed, paused, getting his bearings. Then he hunkered down and crept forward, head moving from side to side, like a sniper creeping through the jungle. Something dangled from his hand. A gun. A big gun. Right, Elena. You're being stalked through Pittsburgh by an armed Vietnam vet. That's what I got for watching Platoon with Clay last week. The guy was probably carrying a bottle of Wild Turkey.

Sticking close to the wall, I slunk toward my stalker. Light from a naked bulb flashed off what he held in his hand. Definitely a gun. I narrowed my eyes to get a better look at his outfit. He wore black fatigues. Okay, enough with the Platoon flashbacks. Fatigues didn't come in black, at least I didn't think they did. The guy wore black baggy pants, an equally baggy jacket, a dark ball-cap, and dark, thick-soled boots.

He stopped. I flattened myself against the wall and waited. Tugging off his ball-cap with one hand, he scratched his head with the other. In the silence of the night, his fingernails rasped through his short hair. Very short hair. Like military buzz-cut short. Keeping his cap off, he took something from his pocket, flicked his wrist, and lifted it to his ear.

"She come out that way?" he murmured into the two-way radio. I assumed it was a radio because I didn't see him punch in a phone number. "Yeah… no. She musta made me. Spooked and ran. Caught me off guard… yeah… no, no. I woulda noticed that. Kinda hard to miss a wolf out here."

Wolf? Did he say wolf?

This really wasn't my day.