I looked up at Jeremy.
"That it was a small price to pay, considering what he could have lost."
When you live in a world of magic, you come to expect magic. You can fight that, try to concentrate on what's real, but deep down, you still hope that the flick of a wand can make everything better and everyone will live happily ever after.
Clay's cure did come--at the hands of a doctor. Tolliver cut out the infected tissue, and found clean flesh below it. So it was over. A price paid but, as Jeremy said, a relatively small one. I only hoped Clay agreed.
He woke up later the next day, when the drugs wore off. Groggy at first, he just lay there, listening as I told him that Hull was dead. He was too weak to manage more than muttering, "You took a stupid risk, Elena."
Then Jeremy explained what they'd done to his arm, that some of the muscle had been damaged. While he'd have plenty of physiotherapy to undergo, he'd never get his full strength back in that arm.
He took it all in, unblinking. I tensed, waiting for the dismay, the rage that this had happened, all because of a letter I'd insisted we steal. As he turned to look at me, I steeled myself for what I'd see.
He met my gaze. "Ready to go home, darling?"
News
TWO WEEKS LATER, I WAS SITTING ON THE WEIGHT BENCH in the basement at Stonehaven reading the Toronto papers Jeremy had brought me. Clay was battling the punching bag, starting the long process of training his brain to favor his left arm. I was reading the news aloud--at Clay's request. Not that he cared about the aftermath of events in Toronto, but my reading distracted him.
As Jaime and Robert had predicted, once the portal closed, things had started getting back to normal in Toronto. It wasn't instantaneous--no magic-wand solutions there either. But the city's efforts to clean the water had begun working, and the rats--though still infected--had stopped rampaging. Like Clay, the city had begun the long road to recovery.
As I reached for the National Post, I rubbed my abdomen.
"Still bothering you?" Clay said, stopping.
"Just uncomfortable."
I'd been "uncomfortable" since last night, unable to sleep and restless, an intermittent dull ache in my groin. Since our adventure in Toronto, I'd been feeling the pregnancy more--weighed down, tired and generally ready to get it over with. Nothing alarming, but Jeremy and Clay panicked every time I mentioned a stray twinge...so I'd stopped mentioning them.
I opened the paper. "The Post is blaming the provincial Liberal government for--"
A sudden gush of liquid between my legs made me jump up, those horrible miscarriage dreams zooming back from their hiding place. No, probably just another bladder leak--I'd been experiencing the joys of mild incontinence all week. Yet I hadn't laughed or sneezed or any of the other things that normally set it off. When I inhaled, I smelled something that wasn't blood or urine...something I didn't recognize.
"Shit!" Clay said, turning so fast the ricocheting bag hit him in the back. "Your water broke."
"My--?"
I looked down at the wet stain down my legs, and was still staring, not quite comprehending, when Clay started yelling for Jeremy.
So it began.
When I'd first become pregnant, Paige had offered to be my midwife. She'd done it several times when she'd still lived with her Coven. Yet when Jeremy had suspected, early that morning, that my labor had begun, he'd put off calling her. Savannah had started school, and Lucas was out of town, finishing that investigation they'd been on last month, as he tried to find the shaman a local lawyer to handle his legal case.
So Paige couldn't throw together a bag and leave for what could be a false alarm. Jeremy postponed the call until he was sure. By then though, judging by my dilation, the babies would be here before Paige would, meaning we had to settle for a long-distance midwife.
My "discomfort" solidified into recognizable contractions. They were intense, but a few minutes apart--hardly debilitating. While Jeremy prepared tea from the brew Paige had sent, I prepared for our new arrivals.
We'd cleared out Malcolm's old room, but hadn't started decorating yet, so my room would stand in as a temporary nursery.
I put bottom sheets on the bassinets, shook out baby blankets, gathered sleepers and opened the package of diapers. Clay kept trying to figure out my next move so he could beat me to it. He got in the way more than he helped, but I didn't even snap at him. That hour seemed almost surreal, me calmly laying out tiny diapers and bath towels, unperturbed by Clay--and later Jeremy--as they tried to persuade me that none of this needed to be done now. When a contraction hit, I'd just wait it out, breathing deeply, then carry on. Maybe it was a sudden nesting urge, but I was probably in shock.
Then, all of a sudden, the contractions progressed from "that's not so bad" to "holy crap!"
When it came to childbirth, being a werewolf gave me a few advantages. First, I was used to going through "holy crap!" pain, the kind that makes you vow never to do something again. As with Changing, this pain had a reward at the end, so I concentrated on that. And when that promise of reward no longer worked, well, the guys were used to seeing me in a cursing, shouting temper, so they handled it remarkably well.
Jeremy acted as midwife while Paige coached over the speakerphone. When the time came, I started to push. Baby number one slid into position...then I realized, with sudden clarity, that I was about to shove a baby out of a hole usually used by something much smaller. I panicked, and I was about to scream, "I can't do this," when I couldn't help giving a last push and...
"We've got...a boy!" Clay said, grinning.
He was about to come to me, then stopped, as if uncertain where his attention should be. Jeremy finished cutting the umbilical cord, then passed Clay the baby--wiped down, but still bloodied.
Clay handed him to me and for a second, I was lost in those big unfocused eyes. I nuzzled the top of his head, inhaling the scent of him, a new smell with the barest whiff of the scent that marked him a werewolf. It didn't smell the same as a mature werewolf, but I expected that--Jeremy said it would be subtler.
As I kissed his head, I remembered this wasn't done.
"Better take him," I said to Clay. "The first impression he gets of his mom shouldn't be cursing and screaming. He'll hear enough of that later."
Clay took him, and juggled him around a bit, trying to figure out a safe hold. The baby only whimpered, eyes wide and unblinking, taking in his new world.
"Shouldn't he be...louder?" I asked. "Squalling?"
"It'll come, I'm sure," Jeremy said.
Clay grinned. "And if it doesn't, you won't complain, right?"
"True."
"Elena?" Paige said through the speakerphone.
"I'm still here."
She laughed. "Good, because you're only half done. Do you feel the other one coming yet?"
I did. And we started all over again. This time was better. The way had been cleared and I knew the end would come fast. In what seemed like minutes, I had another baby.
"A girl!" Clay looked over at me, his grin as wide as the first one. "We have a daught--"
His words were drowned out by a squall so loud even Jeremy started.
"I think you have your screamer," Paige yelled over the phone as Clay passed our son back to me.
Getting this baby cleaned up and ready for presentation wasn't nearly so easy as her brother. She screamed and kicked and flailed so much that I could tell Jeremy was worried something was wrong. But when he handed her to Clay, she fussed only a moment, as if getting comfortable, then snuggled in.
When she'd settled, we traded babies. Our son only wriggled a bit in complaint, but she howled, face red, enraged at the disturbance. Again, after she was nestled in--to my arms this time--she quieted.
As I held her, I bent to kiss the top of her head, and inhaled deeply. I blinked. Was that--? No, it shouldn't be. The genes didn't pass to daughters. I took a deep breath of room air, then tried again. There seemed to be...No, I couldn't tell. It d
idn't matter. Either way, it didn't matter.
"Do you have names picked out?" Paige asked.
I looked up. "Um, pretty much."
We'd decided if we had a girl, we'd name her after my mother. And yet, looking down at the baby in my arms, "Natalya" just didn't seem to fit.
"Paige?" I said. "What's your middle name?"
"My--? Um, Katherine...with a K."
I glanced up at Clay. He nodded.
But there was still one more question. We hadn't settled on a surname, not because we'd been arguing over it, but because neither of us really cared whose name the babies bore. As Clay said, Danvers wasn't even his name, so if I wanted Michaels, he didn't mind. And yet...
I looked over at Jeremy. Danvers might not be our name, but it was the name of this house and this family. Clay slid onto the bed beside me. I smiled up at him.
"Logan Nicholas Danvers and Katherine Natalya Danvers."
About the Author
KELLEY ARMSTRONG lives in Ontario with her family.
Visit her website at www.kelleyarmstrong.com.
Also by Kelley Armstrong
BITTEN
STOLEN
DIME STORE MAGIC
INDUSTRIAL MAGIC
HAUNTED
Kelley Armstrong introduces readers to
an all-new heroine who is completely
of this world...
Coming soon,
EXIT STRATEGY
is an all-new Kelley Armstrong series
you won't want to miss.
Here's a special preview:
EXIT STRATEGY
Coming soon
Mary
Mary Lee pushed open the shop door. A wave of humid heat rolled in--another hot Atlanta night, refusing to give way to cooler fall weather.
Her gaze swept the darkened street, lingering enough to be cautious, but not enough to look nervous. Beyond a dozen feet, she could see little more than blurred shapes. At Christmas, her children had presented her with a check for a cataract operation, but she'd handed it back. Keep it for something important, she'd said. For the grandchildren, for college or a wedding. So long as she could still read her morning paper and recognize her customers across the store counter, such an operation was a waste of good money.
As for the rest of the world, she'd seen it often enough. It didn't change. Like the view outside her shop door tonight. Though she couldn't make out the faces of the teenagers standing at the corner, she knew their shapes, knew their names, knew the names of their parents should they make trouble. They wouldn't, though; like dogs, they didn't soil their own territory. As she laid her small bag of trash at the curb, one of the blurry shapes lifted a hand and waved. Mary waved back.
Before she could duck back into her store, Mr. Emery stepped from his coffee shop. His wide face split in a Santa Claus grin, a smile that kept many a customer from complaining about stale bread or cream a few days past its "best before" date.
"Going home early tonight, Miz Lee?" Emery asked.
"No, no."
His big stomach shuddered in a deep sigh. "You gotta start taking it easy, Miz Lee. We're not kids any more. When's the last time you locked up and went home at closing time?"
She smiled and shrugged...and reminded herself to take out the garbage earlier tomorrow, so she could be spared this timeworn speech. She murmured a "good night" to Mr. Emery, escaped back into her shop and closed the door.
Now it was her time. The customers gone, the shop door locked, and she could relax and get some real work done. She flipped on her radio and turned the volume up.
Mary took the broom from behind the counter as "Johnny B. Goode" gave way to "Love Me Tender." Crooning along with Elvis, she swept a path through the faint pattern of dusty footprints.
Something flickered to her left, zipping around the side of her head like a diving mosquito. As her hand went up to swat it off, she felt the prick at her throat, but it was cool, almost cold, a sharp pain followed by a rush of heat. At first, she felt only a twinge of annoyance, her brain telling her it was yet another hiccup of age to add to her body's growing repertoire. Then she couldn't breathe.
Gasping, her hands flew to her throat. Sticky wet heat streamed over them. Blood? Why would her neck be--? She noticed a skewed reflection in the metal rack. A man's face above hers. His expression blank. No, not blank. Patient.
Mary opened her mouth to scream.
Darkness.
He lowered the old woman's body to the floor. To an onlooker, the gesture would seem gentle, loving, but it was just habit, putting her down carefully so she didn't fall with a thud. Not that anyone was around to hear it. Habit, again. Like unplugging the security camera even though there was no tape in the recorder.
He left the wire embedded in the old woman's throat. Standard wire, available at every hardware store in the country, cut with equally standard wire cutters. He double-and triple-checked the paper overshoes on his boots, making sure he hadn't stepped in the puddle of blood and left a footprint. Not that it mattered. The boots would be gone by morning, but he looked anyway. Habit.
It took all of thirty seconds to run through the dozens of checks in his head, and reassure himself that he'd left nothing behind. Then he reached his gloved hand into his pocket and withdrew a square of plastic. He tore open the plastic wrapper and pulled out a folded sheet of paper within. Then he bent down, lifted the old woman's shirt and tucked the paper inside her waistband.
After one final look around the scene, he walked past the cash register, past the bulging night-deposit bag, past the cartons of cigarettes and liquor, and headed out the back door.
Chapter One
I twisted my fork through the blueberry pie and wished it was apple. I've never been fond of blueberry, not even when the berries were wild and fresh from the forest. These were fresh from a can.
Barry's Diner advertised itself as "home of the best blueberry pie in New York City." That should have been the tip-off, but the sign outside said only "Award-winning homemade pie." So I'd come in hoping for a slice of fresh apple pie and found myself amid a sea of diners eating blueberry. Sure, the restaurant carried apple, but if everyone else was eating blueberry, I couldn't stand out by ordering something different. It didn't help that I had to accompany the pie with decaf coffee--in a place that seemed to only brew one pot and leave it simmering all day. The regular coffee smelled great, but caffeine was off my menu today.
A man in a dirt-encrusted ball-cap clanked his metal lunchbox onto the counter beside my plate. "He got another one last night. Number four. Police just confirmed it."
I slanted my gaze his way, in case he was talking to me. He wasn't, of course. I was invisible...or as close to it as a non-superhero could get, having donned the ultimate female disguise: no makeup and thirty-five pounds of extra padding.
"Who'd he get this time?" the server asked as she poured coffee for the newcomer.
"Little old Chinese lady closing up her shop. Choked her with a wire."
"Garroted," said a man sitting farther down the counter.
"Gary who?"
The other man folded his newspaper, rustling it with a flourish. "Garroted. If you use something to strangle someone, it's called garroting. The Spanish used it as a method of execution."
I glanced at the speaker. A silver-haired man in a suit, manicured fingernails resting on his Wall Street Journal. Definitely not the sort you'd expect to know the origin of the term "garroted." Next thing you know, his neighbors would be on TV, telling the world he'd seemed like such a nice man.
They continued talking, but I ignored them. The old Nadia Stafford would have been right in there, following every media blip, debating motivation, second-guessing the investigation, searching for the crucial missing clue or overlooked lead. But for the new me, the only important aspect of the case was the resolution, finding out how the killer screwed up. So I tuned them out, finished my mediocre pie and coffee, and left.
Duty called.
&nb
sp; I stood in the subway station, and waited for Dean Moretti.
Moretti was a Mafia wannabe, a small-time thug with tenuous connections to the Tomassini crime family. Three months earlier, he had decided it was time to strike out on his own, so he'd made a deal with the nephew of a local drug lord. Together they'd set up business in a residential neighborhood that, oddly enough, no dealer had previously tapped--probably because it was under the protection of the Riccio family.
When the Riccios found out, they went to the Tomassinis, who went to the drug lord, and they decided, among the three of them, that this was not an acceptable entrepreneurial scheme. The drug lord's nephew had caught the first plane to South America and was probably hiding in the jungle, living on fish and berries. Moretti wasn't so easily spooked, which probably spoke more to a lack of intelligence than an excess of nerve.
While I waited for him, I wandered about the platform, taking note of every post, every garbage can, every doorway. Busywork, really. I already knew this station so well I could navigate it blindfolded.
I'd spent three days watching Moretti, long enough to know he was a man who liked routines. Right on schedule, he bounced down the steps, ready for his train home after a long day spent breaking kneecaps for a local bookie.
Partway down the stairs he stopped and surveyed the crowd below. His gaze paused on anyone of Italian ancestry, anyone wearing a trenchcoat, anyone carrying a bulky satchel, anyone who looked...dangerous. Too dumb to run, but not so dumb that he didn't know he was in deep shit with the Tomassinis. At work, he always had a partner with him. From here, he'd take the subway to a house where he was bunking down with friends, taking refuge in numbers. This short trip was the only time he could be found alone, obviously having decided public transit was safe enough.
As he scouted the crowd from the steps, people jostled him from behind, but he met their complaints with a snarl that sent them skittering around him. After a moment, he continued his descent into the subway pit. At the bottom, he cut through a group of young businessmen, then stopped amidst a gaggle of careworn older women chattering in Spanish. He kept watching the crowd, but his gaze swept past me. The invisible woman.