No Humans Involved (Otherworld 7)

"Jeremy," I managed.

"I'm sorry," he said, still holding my arm. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"We need to bell you, like a cat."

A twitch of his lips. Not much of a smile, but I knew it was one.

"So," I continued, "you could follow my trail from the coffee shop."

"Not easy in the daylight, when I can't crouch to sniff the sidewalk. Fortunately, your perfume is distinctive."

"It's worth the price, then."

He released my arm and gave me a once-over, and while I'd love to think he was checking out my hot new outfit, I knew the truth--he was trying to figure out what had happened. He plucked a leaf from my hair.

"I ran into some trouble," I said.

"So I see."

His voice and expression were impassive, but he was worried. With Jeremy, the emotional signs were never obvious.

His gaze flitted toward Molly's house.

"She's...tied up for a while. But you're right, talking here probably isn't a wise idea."

"I didn't say that."

"No, but you were thinking it. Come on, then. Let's get someplace safer and I'll explain."

As we walked down the street, I snuck another look at him. Just over six feet, he was lean and athletic, though that side of him rarely showed...unless he wa

s leaping over six-foot fences. Not the kind of maneuver you'd expect from a fifty-eight-year-old, but it was easy to forget how old Jeremy was. Werewolves age slowly and--with silver just starting to thread through his dark hair, and shallow lines around his mouth--I'd peg him at my age, if that.

Paige swore Jeremy had Asian blood, presumably from his mother, but there was no use asking him; he knew nothing about the woman. She'd disappeared from his life shortly after his birth. That was the world of werewolves, where mothers and sisters played no role, wives were unheard of and even lovers came and went quickly. Elena was the exception--the only living female werewolf.

It was a world of men. The Pack and its bonds were everything, and everyone else was an outsider. And this was the man I'd fallen in love with--the leader of a world in which I would always be "the other." My heart, it seemed, could be as feckless as my brain.

"Here," he said, guiding me into a darkened playground.

His fingers rested on my arm as he steered me, and I found myself trying not to read too much into the casual contact that tingled up my arm. Yet it did mean something. Werewolves, while very physical with one another, don't extend that attitude toward others. Clay, the most wolflike of the Pack, avoids even handshakes. Elena's politer about it, but I figured out early on that she wasn't someone I should greet with a hug.

Jeremy doesn't avoid contact, but doesn't initiate it either. In the last year or so, though, that's changed.

I found myself evaluating his touch. Gripping me tighter than usual? Lingering longer? I searched for a sign that something had changed--that something was about to change, proof that he'd come here to take that next step. A lot to read into a touch, and, of course, I couldn't.

The park was barely half the size of the small surrounding lots, just enough room for the developers to plop down swings, a slide and a bench and say, "Look, we gave you a playground." It was dark now, the equipment deserted.

Jeremy motioned me to the bench. "I'd like to check that blow to your head."

"How--? Oh, you smell the blood."

I pointed to the spot. He brushed my hair aside, then examined it, his touch so light I barely felt it. Then he checked my pupils and asked whether I was feeling nauseous or experiencing any pain other than at the point of impact. I wasn't.

"I'll need to keep an eye on you, to ensure it isn't a concussion, but it seems fine. Now..." He sat beside me on the bench. "What happened?"

I told him.

AS WE waited for a taxi, I pulled the jacket tighter against the bitter wind. Jeremy's jacket. He'd offered, and I'd hated taking it, but as the sun dropped so had the temperature.