Men of the Otherworld (4 page)

Malcolm swung at her, but she seemed to expect this, and nimbly dove to the side and raced for the child. He wheeled and shoulder-slammed her out of the way, but she kept coming, clawing, kicking, fighting to get to the child, stopping only when he reached into the bassinet and grabbed up the tiny body.

She went still. “Give me my son.”

She held herself rigid, every muscle locked tight as if to keep from flying at him. Her eyes blazed and her lips were parted, teeth bared in a frozen snarl. She looked… magnificent, pulsing with fury and hate. A worthy mother for his son.

Looking at her, he realized how badly he wanted a child, how it ate at him, how he dreamed about it. There was a part of him that didn't care about the mixed blood—of either kind. He just wanted a son.

Malcolm ripped his gaze from hers. It was a trick, some magic, just like her grandmother had used on him, trying to bend him to her will, to break
his
will.

He looked down at the child in his arms. The boy gazed back at him, bright-eyed and calm. Malcolm forced his hands to the child's throat. He had to do this. His gut told him it was right, that if he didn't kill the child, he would always regret his weakness.

“Stop! He's your son!”

“I'll have more. Your grandmother said so.”

“My grandmother—?”

“She foresaw it.”

“Foresaw—?” The girl let out a bark of a laugh. “Is that what she told you? We have our gifts, but that is not one of them. No one can foresee the future, and that child you hold may well be the only one you'll ever see.”

“Maybe I'm willing to take that chance.”

He put his hand around the baby's throat. The girl flew at him. One brutal shove and she hit the wall hard enough that she should have stayed down. But she didn't. She pushed herself up, blood dribbling from her mouth, and came at him again. Her nails ripped furrows down his bare forearm. So he dropped the child. Just dropped him.

The girl screamed and dove for the baby. She almost caught it, breaking its fall before he kicked her with all he had, square in the gut. She sailed backward into the wall, arms still outstretched toward the child, who tumbled the last foot onto the floor, rolling, still silent. When she hit the floor this time, she lay there only a moment, then started dragging herself toward her son, whimpering now. Her nails scraped the floor. Malcolm reached down to scoop up the baby.

The front door swung open.

“Malcolm!”

He stopped, bent over the silent child, and looked over at his father. Edward's gaze was riveted to the girl.

“Oh, my God. What have you done?” Edward's cane clattered to the floor, and he limped to the girl, then dropped down at her side. His hands went to the side of her neck. “Malcolm! Call Emilio. Now!”

The girl's eyelids fluttered. She said a word and reached for the child. Edward gently laid her down and scrambled over to the baby. As he picked it up, the child kicked and swung his fists, but didn't make a sound. Edward hurried back to the girl and pressed the child to her.

“Help is coming,” he said.

“Don't—” Her tongue flicked over her bloodied lips. “Don't let him…”

“He won't hurt the boy. Ever. You have my word on that.”

“Take—” Her voice was ragged, eyes almost closed. “You. Take…”

Edward squeezed the girl's hand. “I will.”

The words had barely left his lips when she went limp. Edward's head fell forward. Then the baby whimpered and he looked up sharply. He slipped the child from his mother's arms and gathered him up in his own. Then he pushed to his feet.

“Clean this up,” he said, his voice tight.

Without a glance Malcolm's way, Edward limped to the door. Then he stopped, his back still to his son.

“Get a blanket. It's cold outside. He needs a blanket.”

He watched his father, cradling the baby, murmuring to it. He could see a sliver of Edward's profile. His expression made something wither inside Malcolm, an icy rage seeping in to take its place. He saw the way his father looked at his grandson, and he knew this child wasn't
his
son, never would be. No more than he'd ever really been Edward's.

Malcolm looked at the blanket at his feet, the one that had fallen from the child. It was the one covered in those damnable symbols. He kicked the blanket under the sofa. If his son had to live, then no one could know about this “infusion” of magic-maker blood. He'd been used by these women, but that would be his secret, his shame—and his alone.

He grabbed a plain blanket from the bassinet, walked to the door, threw it at his father and strode past, leaving them behind as he walked on alone.

It was a late summer night. Hot and sticky, like most summer nights in Baton Rouge. My family had retreated to an RV campsite on the city's edge, as they did every summer weekend. It was past midnight and I was wandering the woods alone. Nothing unusual about that. I suppose there should be something unusual about a young child roaming the forest at night, but my parents had a vague idea of my whereabouts, and didn't care about the specifics. As long as I stayed out of trouble and didn't bother them, I could do as I liked.

Saturday nights at the campground were always the same. My parents and their friends would gather at one of the sites, start a bonfire and drink and talk until morning. We kids were left to amuse ourselves. My older brothers were supposed to look after me but, as usual, they were with their friends, enjoying filched beer and cigarettes, and were quite happy to let me take off on my own, as long as I hightailed it back to the campsite when my parents finally whistled us in to bed.

I wandered the wooded paths for a while, but didn't expect to see anything. Not what I wanted to see, at least. I'd only seen it once, and when I had, I'd run and not stopped until I was safe
with my brothers. I'd cursed my cowardice a million times since then. All my nights of exploring, and when I finally found something worth seeing, I'd bolted like a baby. Each Saturday night after that, I screwed up my courage and ventured into the woods … and saw nothing more wondrous than fireflies.

Time was running out. Just yesterday, my brothers had said there were only two weeks of summer left, which meant only two more weekends at the campground. Tonight, I decided I'd take the next step. I'd go to the string of cabins along the front road, see if he was in his, maybe catch him heading into the woods.

As soon as I neared the edge of the woods, I saw him. A gray-haired man, sitting alone behind his cabin, smoking and staring out into the night. I watched from the forest, heart hammering. Finally, the man stubbed out his cigarette, got to his feet and turned to head into the cabin.

In that moment, I made a decision—a decision only a child would even consider.

I stepped from the forest. The man stopped, but didn't turn around.

“Tired of hiding in the trees?” he said.

His voice was sharp, with an accent I'd never heard in these parts. He turned then. His gaze traveled over me, eyes hooded to bored slits.

“Well? What do you want, boy?”

“I saw what you did.”

His expression didn't change. “How nice for you.”

I'd expected him to deny it, or at least play dumb, so when he didn't, I was left standing there, arguments jammed in my throat.

“I—I saw you do it,” I said finally. “I saw what you turned into. I know what you are.”

“So you said.” He yawned and rolled his shoulders. “How fast
can you run, boy? Hope it's not too fast, because, truth is, I'm not really in the mood—”

“I want to do it.”

He stopped stretching. “You want… ?”

I stepped closer. “I want to do it myself. If you help me, I won't tell on you.”

“Tell—?” He threw back his head and laughed, then looked down at me, lips still twitching in barely contained laughter. “And how do you think I'm supposed to help you? Wave my magic wand and poof, you're a—”

“You have to bite me.” I pulled myself up as tall as I could. “I'm not stupid. I know how it works.”

His gaze met mine and for a second he faltered. Then he shook his head sharply. “Well, boy, something tells me I'm going to wake up in that chair a few hours from now, and this will all be part of the strangest dream I've ever had, but sure, let's give it a whirl. If somehow I am awake, this is a hell of a lot easier than chasing you. Now, you just wait right here while I get ready, okay?”

I nodded.

“If you run away, I'll have to come after you. Neither of us wants that, right?”

I nodded.

“Good. Now, it'll sting some, but don't you worry. Before you know it, it'll all be over.”

A final nod from me, and he disappeared into the forest.

Long minutes passed, and I began to worry that he'd cheated me. Then the brush rustled. From somewhere deep within me came the urge to bolt. I forced my feet to stay still, despising my weakness.

I turned slowly. I knew what to expect, but still didn't expect it.

Before me stood a wolf as tall as me. His eyes met mine—eyes
that were unmistakably human. Those eyes and his monstrous size were the only things left of the man. The rest was wolf.

The test had come. I felt my body betray me, arm hairs prickle, legs tremble, a heavy weight bearing down in my groin as if I was seconds away from pissing myself. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to meet his gaze. He had to bite me. I knew what a werewolf was, and how you became one. My older brothers delighted in scaring me with monster stories, never guessing that I wasn't scared at all, that I listened to their tales and thought only of how lucky the monsters were, that they never had to cower under a bed or hide in a closet, listening to drunken curses and punches, and knowing if they were found, they'd be next. Monsters didn't fear. They
were fear.
Now I had a chance to try that for myself. So I took a deep breath, held out my arm and waited.

Something flickered in the wolf's eyes—surprise, shock, maybe even the barest hint of uncertainty. He growled. I didn't budge. He snapped at my arm, teeth sinking in. Pain ripped through it. I stumbled back, tripping over my feet and falling as he let go. Warm blood trickled down my arm and hot urine soaked my jeans. I looked at my arm and saw blood flowing from twin gashes in the soft underside. I struggled to my feet. The wolf stared at me, as if confused. His tongue lolled out, blood-pink saliva dripping from its tip.

I met his eyes and grinned. I had done it. I'd been bitten. The gift was mine.

He lowered his head, his eyes never leaving mine. A low growl started in the pit of his stomach. He hunkered down. Then he sprang.

I should have died that moment. That was his plan, not to turn me into a werewolf, but to kill me, to put a quick and easy end to the minor inconvenience of my existence. So what happened?
Was I so brave and strong and smart that I outmaneuvered my fate? Hardly. I tripped.

I saw him spring. As I stumbled back, my foot caught on a root and I twisted sideways. Instead of landing on top of me, the wolf crashed down beside me, fur brushing my arm.

Somehow, I managed to keep enough balance to come out of the tumble running. Instinctively, I ran for the front of the cabin, for the main road heading past the campground.

Before I'd gone twenty feet, I heard a snort and knew the wolf had recovered from his fall. My throat dried up. My brain shut down. My legs seemed to move of their own accord, running so fast that slivers of pain shot through my calves and my lungs.

I raced for the road. I heard pounding, either the blood rushing in my ears or his paws on the hard-packed dirt—it didn't matter. I knew he was behind me.

I heard a scream. No, not a scream. The screech of tires and brakes. The flash of headlights. A car heading into the campground.

I tripped over the curb and sprawled onto the road. Some one shouted. I lifted my head to see two men jump from the car, arms waving. The wolf hesitated, then turned and ran for the forest.

“What the hell was that?” one man yelled. “It was huge!”

“Forget it,” the other said. “Go call an ambulance. The kid's bleeding.”

I wobbled to my feet.

“Whoa. Hold on there, little guy.”

I looked up, saw them approaching, two large faceless shadows. I bolted for the opposite side of the road, heading for the highway across the embankment. Behind me, the men shouted. Instead of following on foot, though, they ran back to their car. By the time they got the car turned around, I was long gone.

I don't remember what happened next. I assume there was a search for me, maybe my picture made it onto a milk carton somewhere. If so, I knew nothing of it and, in later years, never checked back to see how big a fuss my disappearance had caused. As for my parents, I'm sure they played up the tragedy for all it was worth, but stopped searching the moment everyone else stopped caring. If there was a search, I escaped simply by avoiding people—an aversion that became second nature after I was bitten.

Of those first few weeks, all I remember is the pain. Pain and hunger. My mind retreated to some dark hole in my psyche, emerging now and then to spout ribbons of gibberish, then muttering away into silence. The world turned to permanent shadows, even while the Louisiana sun parboiled my skin. Ordinary shapes contorted into funhouse mirror reflections. Alley cats grew to the size of ponies, with gaping mouths and fangs that threatened to swallow me whole. Children's laughter twisted into the taunting laughs of the old werewolf. I had only to hear a human voice and I'd run scuttling to the shadows. And still the hunger grew.

As a human child, I'd already begun learning to fend for myself. With my transformation came the boost I needed to survive. A young child can't live on his own, but a half-grown wolf already has the tools and the instincts he needs. Instinct made me avoid humans and other potential predators. Common sense told me to take shelter from the elements. My sense of smell sharpened and tuned to the scent of food, leading me to trash bins and Dumpsters and roadkill.

I never went home. Never tried to. I could say that I'd forgotten where home was or that I was afraid of how my family would react, but that's a lie. I chose not to return.