Broken (Otherworld 6)

Being the only female werewolf always made me a target. Becoming Clay's mate had upped the ante. There were plenty of mutts who wanted to get to him, and wouldn't mind doing it through me. But we'd learned to deal with that...or I'd learned to deal with it, and Jeremy and Clay had learned to trust that I could deal with it.

But now I was carrying Clay's child, and my growing belly already hampered my ability to fight, or to run from a fight. So they'd laid down the law. I was to stick to New York state--Pack territory. As much as I wanted to argue with that, I knew what mutts were capable of. Maybe I was willing to take the risk, but I had no right to subject my unborn child to it.

But Xavier wouldn't have to see me. I could conduct all arrangements by phone and courier. Plus, it was mere larceny, with no violence or personal threat involved.

"The plan will stand as we decided two months ago," I said. "I'm not arguing with that. Jeremy takes the letter and Clay stands guard. My job will be to escort Jeremy into the house, so he doesn't have to worry about opening doors in wolf form."

"And what if--" Clay began.

"The doors are rigged with deadly gamma ray trip wires?" I bit back the sarcasm. "Sorry, I mean, what if it's not safe for me to go inside the house? Then I don't. Jeremy, you wanted Karl to go over the plans. I agree. If he has any safety concerns, then I won't go in."

"That's any concern," Clay said. "Not a high risk or a moderate risk. Karl even brings up a potential risk, you don't go, right?"

"Right."

"And anything goes wrong, we get out of there."

"Absolutely."

"And it's there and back, just an overnight trip."

"Fine by me."

"And you stay in my sight or Jeremy's sight at all times, the entire trip."

"Except for bathroom breaks."

He hesitated. I glared.

"Fine," he said. "Except for bathroom breaks."

We looked at Jeremy.

"All right," he said. "Let's get this over with, then. Elena? Call Karl, and see how soon he can look at those plans."

Karl Marsten arrived two days later. Prompt for Marsten, who had spent the last three years dragging his heels on another matter: joining the Pack. Five years ago Jeremy had granted him territory for helping us when a group of mutts tried to overthrow the Pack. Since he'd been part of that group, though, his last-minute change of heart had only won him territory in Wyoming, which I'm sure is a lovely state...if you aren't a cosmopolitan jewel thief.

While Marsten did a good trade robbing celebrities in Jackson Hole, after a year he'd decided maybe he'd join the Pack after all, see whether he could get territory farther east. Jeremy hadn't fallen for that. He'd laid out the responsibilities Marsten would be expected to follow as a Pack member. That made Marsten back off, but not give up. For three years he'd been fence-sitting, attending our meetings, and helping us when we asked for it.

His help, though, usually came slow...like a week after we needed it. Then last spring he'd come to me. He'd met a half-demon tabloid reporter who wanted to help the council and asked me to "mentor" her. An odd request from a guy who never lifted a finger to help anyone unless it would benefit him. Since then, Marsten had been quick to come when I called.

When he declared the job looked sound, we left for Toronto.

Larceny

A DROPLET OF SWEAT PLUNKED INTO MY EYE. I GAVE A SOFT snarl at the salt-laced sting, then swiped my hand across my forehead and looked up at the sky, half obliterated by leaves. The sun was long gone, but the humidity held on, determined to see the season to the very end.

Though I was sure my huge belly had something to do with the rivulets of sweat streaming down my face, the heat wasn't unexpected. After all, this was August, and it was Toronto. Unlike visitors who crossed the Canadian border with skis strapped to their roof rack--in July--I knew what to expect. The city as urban furnace--six hundred square kilometers of baking pavement, skyscrapers ringing the core like sentinels, on guard against any cool breeze.

It had been a cool summer, here and at home in Bear Valley, but as Labor Day approached, August had thrown off her lethargy for a farewell heat wave. What had been a pleasant summer week in Bear Valley was downright uncomfortable in Toronto. The smog didn't help. I visited Toronto a few times a year, and the smog always seemed worse than I remembered. This time, pregnancy had ratcheted up my sense of smell, so even here, amid the designer trees and golf-course lawns, the air quality seemed to have plunged to New York City levels.

Patrick Shanahan's house, half hidden by evergreens, wasn't what I'd expected. Sure, I'd seen the blueprint. I even knew the neighborhood--modest homes where you pay more for the address than for the square footage. And yet...well, I couldn't help it. Tell me that a place contains a priceless historical document, and I expect a labyrinthine mansion on a hill, surrounded by an electrified fence and patrolled by armed guards. The letter would be in the center of that mansion, in a fortified, hidden room, rigged with infrared heat detectors, and I'd have to lower myself from the ceiling, Mission Impossible style, to retrieve it.

I looked at the ranch-style house and sighed. There was a camera at the front door, more to ward off salespeople than to foil thieves. The only security system was a key-coded entry point alarm--the kind that, if triggered, would call forth an unarmed twenty-year-old security guard, accustomed to showing up and finding sheepish homeowners who'd forgotten their codes. It was all very Canadian.

From behind me came the soft padding of paws on grass.

"Doesn't look like you can hope for much mayhem in this adventure," I said.