Men of the Otherworld (2 page)

“I—I work,” she said. “Done soon.”

“No, babe, you're done now. Let me handle Vinnie.”

He reached for her apron and snapped it off. She gave a shy little smile, then nodded.

“Get drink,” she said. “For you.”

She took his hand. Hers was tiny, almost birdlike. He wondered how hard he'd need to squeeze to hear those thin bones snap like twigs. Not very hard, he'd wager.

He turned to let her lead him into the bar, but she stopped at a locked door a few feet down and took out a key.

“Room,” she said, gaze still lowered. “Upstairs. My room. Yes?”

He smiled down at the girl. “Sure, babe. Whatever you want.”

Malcolm sat in a tiny room, empty except for his chair and a sleeping mat. A few candles cast a wavering, sickly light that lined the room with shadows. When the girl went to get his drink, he'd flicked the light switch, but nothing had happened.

That cheap bastard Vincent probably cut off the electricity when he let the girl take the room. Maybe, if the girl was as good as the others claimed she'd be, he'd see about “persuading” Vincent to spring for lights and heat up here. Wouldn't be any inconvenience to him, and the girl sure would be grateful. She'd leave the welcome mat out for anytime he felt like coming back.

The girl slipped from the back room. She'd changed out of her work clothes and into a white cotton robe with an embroidered
belt. Her bare feet seemed to glide across the floor. Tiny feet, like the rest of her, slender and hesitant, as graceful and defenseless as a doe. Pretty as one, too. Now that he'd looked past his prejudice, he had to admit she
was
damned pretty, especially in that white robe, holding a tray like the offering of some virgin priestess. When she bowed before him, the liquid in the glass didn't so much as ripple. He peered at it. The drink was amber, like beer, but clear and… steaming.

“Tea?” he said, lip curling. “I don't drink—”

“No, no tea,” she said quickly. “Special drink. For you. Make—” A meaningful look at the sleeping pad. “Make good.”

“Make
me
good?” He started to rise. “I don't need any damned drink to make me good.”

“No, no. Please.” She backed away, gaze downcast. “Not you.
You
good. Drink make me good. For you. Make you…” She struggled for the word. “Feel better. Make it feel better. For you.”

She babbled on some more, waving at the mat, but he got the gist of it. The drink was supposed to make the sex better. He'd heard of things like that, and as the others had said, these girls were supposed to know all there was to know about pleasing a man. This must be one of their tricks.

Malcolm took the drink and sniffed it. Herbs. His werewolf nose didn't detect any taint of anything noxious. He took a sip. Fire burned down his throat, like hundred-proof whiskey.

He closed his eyes and shook himself. The heat spread to his groin and he smiled. Not like he needed the help, but sure, why not. He took a bigger sip.

“Yes?” the girl said.

He looked up to see that she'd unfastened her belt. He could see a swath of pale skin running from her throat, down between her small breasts, over her flat stomach, to the dark thatch below. His cock jumped and he raised the glass in salute. Another sip
and she let the robe fall off one shoulder. A third sip, and she dipped the other shoulder, and the robe slid down her body to pool at her feet. For a moment, she stood before him, naked and pale in the wavering candlelight. Then, without a word, she knelt and reached for his zipper.

Malcolm rolled over. A moment's sleep-fog of thinking
Why am I lying on the floor?
then he remembered and smiled. Whatever foreign hoodoo that girl had put into his drink, it was something else. He closed his eyes and sighed, the tip of his tongue sliding between his teeth as he stretched. Shit, he
hurt,
and it had nothing to do with sleeping on the floor.

After all those things he'd been thinking in the bar, about what he could do to a little slip of a girl like this, he hadn't even tried. Couldn't be bothered. He'd just laid back and let her work her magic. He'd roused himself for a bit of energetic thrusting, but that'd been the extent of his participation. She'd done all the work.

And work she had. Gave him three damned fine rides… maybe even four—he'd been getting hazy near the end. But three times was bragging rights enough. He rolled onto his back and grinned.

Whatever was in that drink was some powerful stuff… and so was the girl. Masterful, but never dominant, always letting him know he was in charge. After the second time—or was it the third?—he'd thought he was down, but she'd managed a revival, rubbing, licking, cajoling… begging. He felt a fresh surge and leaned back, savoring the memory until he was hard again. Then he rolled over for another go … and found himself alone.

Malcolm grunted and lifted his head. The simple movement felt like tumbling headfirst out of a tree. He steadied himself.
When the world stopped whirling, he opened his eyes and peered around the dark room. Where was that girl? Helluva time to take a piss.

A voice wafted in from the adjacent room. A singsong voice. He chuckled. Singing while she sat on the john—guess she was still feeling pretty good, too. Maybe she was cleaning up for the next round. Better give her some time; there'd be a lot to clean up. As he lay down, a second voice joined the first. He blinked. A radio or record player? But if there was no electricity up here …

Malcolm pushed himself up again, so fast this time that he almost blacked out. He wobbled to his feet and had to rest a moment to get his bearings. His first step nearly sent his legs skidding out from under him like a newborn fawn's. He'd been hung over worse than this, though. Mind over matter, as with everything else in life. If you have the guts and the will, you can do anything.

He closed his eyes and ordered his muscles to obey. Still, it was slow going. His head pounded, and every fiber of his body urged him to lie back down and sleep it off.

Finally, he made it to the wall, then inched around to the door. When he reached it, he peered around the corner. The first thing he saw was the wallpaper. Strange white wallpaper with black geometric shapes. He blinked. No, not wallpaper. Someone had drawn on the walls. Drawn … symbols.

A smell wafted out. Something burning, giving off a sweetish odor so faint even his nose could barely detect it. The voices started up again. Singing, but with no tune. Chanting.

There, across the room, was the girl, sitting on a high stool, naked. But she looked… different. There were circles drawn around her breasts and stomach, but that wasn't what gave him a start. It was the way she sat, chin high, gaze steady, her poise exuding confidence, no sign of the shy girl he'd just bedded.

The girl's lips were still. She wasn't the one chanting. It was the two women in front of her, their backs to him, one white-haired, one dark. The white-haired one had her head bowed. The other swung a pendulum in front of the girl's stomach. The girl said something and the dark-haired woman snapped at her. The white-haired woman murmured a few words and the girl sighed, then said something that made both women laugh. The old woman patted the girl's bare knee and they started chanting again.

As Malcolm watched, his legs began to tremble, begging him to go lie back down. When he resisted, the room went hazy, and he seemed to float there, the chanting filling his head, lifting him up, symbols swirling around him…

A soft growl and he shook the sensation off. Goddamn that drink. First a killer hangover, now hallucinations. That's what this was—a dream or hallucination, caused by the drink. Had to be. His mind set, he stumbled back to the mat and crashed into sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, the girl was gone. He wandered down to the bar, but no one was there. He pushed back a stab of annoyance. Normally
he
was the one to vanish before breakfast. He told himself the girl hadn't taken off for good, just gone to get him something to eat, but he didn't stick around long enough to find out whether he was right.

That night, he returned to the bar alone, but the girl wasn't there. According to Vincent, she was scheduled to work, but hadn't shown up. Malcolm went upstairs to the girl's room, and found it exactly as he left it: a small room with a mat, a chair, and candles, now blackened stubs.

He glanced at the adjoining room, then hesitated before striding
over and walking through the doorway. Inside was … nothing. Just another room, completely empty. No smell in the air, no symbols on the walls, not even the stool. Just as he'd figured—it'd been a dream, induced by whatever the girl had put in his drink.

One thing was for sure, though—the girl had cleared out, likely for good. And she might have taken something of his with her. The chance was slight, he knew, but they'd certainly been busy enough to start a baby and he sure as hell wasn't letting it go at that. Pack Law said that if he bedded a woman during her fertile period, he had to keep track of her. If there was a child, and it was a son, then it was a werewolf, and therefore had to come back to him. So whatever “pressure” he had to apply on Vincent to tell him where to find the girl… well, he was just obeying Pack Law.

By the time he finished with Vincent, he was certain that when the man said he didn't know where the girl had gone, he was telling the truth. He did, however, have an emergency contact for her, from when she first took the job.

Malcolm took the address—supposedly the girl's grandmother's— and arrived there just in time to find an old lady in the process of moving. He tracked the woman to her new apartment and saw the girl there. They'd moved only a few miles away, to a larger apartment. Obviously the girl had found a better job and invited Granny to move in. That explained why she'd been so eager to get him into her bed, having known it would be her last night at the bar, and her last chance with him.

Malcolm made a note of the new address and returned to the Sorrentinos’ estate outside New York City. At the end of the weekend, he went home to his own family estate near Syracuse. The next month, when he visited his Pack brothers in NYC, he stopped by the girl's apartment. He saw her, but made no effort at contact. Finding out he'd tracked her there might give the girl a romantic thrill… or it might spook her.

Maybe he was being overly optimistic, but when he saw her, something seemed… different. Dominic always said he could smell it when he'd knocked up a girl, even before she started to show. Malcolm had always figured Dominic was full of shit, but now he wondered.

He stopped in again after the second and third month, just to make sure she hadn't shipped out. He was compiling a list of details in case she did—where she worked, where she shopped, places and people he could shake down for information if she moved again. But she didn't, and when he came by after the third month, he noticed she was wearing baggier clothing. Still too soon to hope—she might have only put on some weight—but hope he did. On his fourth visit, he was more convinced. By the fifth, he was certain. He was going to be a father.

When the eighth month came, he found excuses to stay at the Sorrentino estate, and went by the girl's apartment almost daily. There was no need for him to be there when the baby came— most Pack werewolves waited a month or so after the arrival before claiming their sons. But Malcolm couldn't be so nonchalant, not when so much could still go wrong. There could be birth complications. Or it might be a girl. Or it might not be his again. So he hovered close and waited, and in the middle of the third week, his vigilance paid off. He was there when his child entered the world.

Weeks ago he'd found a route up the fire escape and to a window that never quite closed. Normally, he'd just crouch on the fire escape, hidden in the darkness of night, where he could watch and listen. When he heard that first scream of labor, though, he wrenched open the window and squeezed through into the grandmother's bedroom.

The scream, and the voices that answered with soothing reassurances, came from down the hall. He slipped to the doorway and looked out. Risky, but if the baby was on the way, intruders would be the last thing on anyone's mind.

From the bedroom doorway, he could see into the living room, and the first thing he saw were the symbols covering the walls— the same black symbols from his “dream.” He inhaled sharply. So that hadn't been a dream; big deal. They were foreigners. Who knew what religion they followed, what gods they worshipped? Painting stuff on the walls and on their bodies, chanting and waving pendulums around, it was all no stranger than a Catholic Mass. No reason for his heart to be thudding like a cornered stag's.

Another scream. Then the same two voices from his dream launching into the same chanting singsong. He moved into the hall and crept forward until he could see the living room. There was the girl, naked again, her torso covered with lines and circles. She wasn't lying on a bed, but crouched over a mat, as if she was trying to take a crap. The old woman—the grandmother— held the girl, giving her balance, while the black-haired woman lit a fire in a small dish. When whatever was in the dish began to smoke, she lifted it to the girl's nose.

The girl filled her lungs with the smoke, then went still. Her face relaxed. Then she lifted her face to the ceiling, raised her hands, and began to chant. Even when a contraction rocked her thin frame, her expression didn't change. The words only came louder, harsher, more determined.

Another contraction and she punched her fists into the air, her chant a near-howl. The lights flickered. Malcolm shook his head sharply, certain it was a trick of his vision, but then the lights flashed again, and again, dimming with each blink. The flames on the candles shifted, angling toward the girl as if she was sucking
the energy from them. Malcolm's gut went cold and he knew then, as he'd known deep down from the start, that these women were another supernatural race—some kind of magic-makers.

There were others out there. Most werewolves admitted this. The Pack werewolves might keep to themselves, and feign ignorance of other supernatural races, but they knew. They knew.