Thirteen (Otherworld 13)

When the guard's footfalls faded, Elena nudged Savannah through the door, then glanced back at Clay. They'd been together so long that's all it took--a glance. He mouthed, "Go on." She nodded and led Savannah as he hung back to guard the rear.

They rounded the corner. Ahead was a stairwell, the sign warning Authorized Use Only.

"That's it," Savannah murmured.

"Good, we'll--" Elena caught the sound of boots climbing the steps. "Shit!"

She glanced at Clay, thirty feet back, and waved for him to duck into a room as she jogged to the nearest closed door. She put her ear to the door, then slowly twisted the knob. Behind her, Savannah bounced impatiently, those footfalls on the stairs now close enough for her to hear.

"If it's locked, I can probably cast--"

The door opened. Savannah nudged her, whispering to hurry, the guards were coming. Elena turned to tell her to cool it--she had to check the room first--but someone in the stairwell said, "Through here, sir?" and Savannah gave her a shove, knocking her through the doorway.

"Sorry," she whispered as Elena recovered.

Savannah turned to close the door behind them, and as she did, Elena caught a scent that made her brain short-circuit for just a second, telling her the impossible--that Jeremy was here, when she knew he was two thousand miles away in Miami.

"Don't close that door completely," a voice said. "It locks from the inside."

Elena spun. They were in what looked like a staff lounge. The lights were dim and at first all she saw was a figure rising from a chair. That scent wafted around the room. Not Jeremy--she could tell that now--but smelling like him, that rich sandalwood scent she knew so well. There was another familiar aspect to the scent, too. The distinct musky smell of a werewolf.

The man stepped forward into the dim light as her eyes adjusted. He was a little taller than Elena, with a muscular build. Black, silver-threaded hair. Blue eyes. In the eyes, she saw nothing she recognized. But when her gaze moved back to take in the whole of the man, her heart stopped. Just stopped and she stood there, frozen, as every hair on her body rose.

She knew that face. She saw a version of it almost every day--a longer version, more angular, with dark eyes, slightly slanted, different, yet familiar enough that it was like the scent--that first thing she thought was Jeremy. Yet it wasn't just the similarity that made her heart stop. It was this face, one she'd seen when Clay first took her into the locked bedroom to try to help her understand Jeremy all those years ago. The face she'd seen again when they'd cleaned out that bedroom to make way for their children, Jeremy finally ready to let go--happy and relieved to let go. She'd seen this face in the photos in that room, and it didn't matter if she'd never met the man himself. She hated the face and she hated the man who wore it and now, looking across the room and seeing it in the flesh, the only thing she felt was hate.

"Hello," Malcolm Danvers said. "You must be Elena."

"He's--" Savannah began.

"Oh, let her guess," the man said. "That'll be so much more fun." He stepped toward Elena, his nostrils flaring, drinking in her scent. "Do you know who I am?"

She forced the words through clenched teeth. "I do."

"Really? Are you sure? I must be much younger than you expected. And much more alive."

"Temporarily," she said, a growl escaping with the word.

He laughed and walked toward her.

Malcolm Danvers. She w

as looking at Malcolm Danvers. The how, the why--none of that mattered. This was the man who'd made Jeremy's life hell. The father who'd despised him and never let a day pass without letting Jeremy know it. The man who'd found Clay in the bayou and tossed him aside to die. The man who'd later decided, after Jeremy rescued Clay, that Clay was the kind of son he wanted. Clay never told her that, but she'd heard it from Nick and Antonio, how Malcolm tried to turn Clay against Jeremy. It didn't work, of course. Madness to try. But Clay and Jeremy still suffered for it.

Now Malcolm was back? Not if she could help it. He was going to die in this room, and Jeremy would never be the wiser.

Elena watched him as he came toward her. As he circled her, she pivoted, following him, every muscle tight, gaze locked on his.

"Clayton's chosen mate," Malcolm said. "You're what I would have expected. Pretty. Physically fit. Smart enough to know when to watch and listen. But giving me a look that says you'll rip my spleen out as soon as I give you the chance. Yes, exactly what I would expect from Clayton."

He laughed, and the sound was like claws scraping her spine, a perversely warped version of Jeremy's deep chuckle.

"You'll give my regards to your mate, won't you?" Malcolm said. "Tell him I remember him fondly, despite his every attempt to ensure I wouldn't. I look forward to seeing him again." He glanced at the door and smiled. "Someday soon."

He started toward the door.

Elena swerved into his path. "You're not going anywhere. Jeremy and Clay think you're dead, and I'd hate to disappoint them."

He threw back his head and laughed. Then he dove at her. She slammed a fist into his gut. He doubled over. A good kick would have dropped him to the floor, but when she tried, he grabbed her leg and sent her flying into the wall. As she scrambled up, Savannah hit him with a knockback.