Personal Demon (Otherworld 8)

His face swam in front of me, then vanished, and I was behind the bushes again. I could see my hand, holding back a branch as I peered through. My fingers were long and slender, masculine but smooth, not a child's but not yet a man's.

"Hey!" a voice boomed. "So this is where you're hiding."

The dark-haired man at the table lifted his head, lips curving in a crooked smile that finally made the recognition click. Jeremy Danvers, the werewolf Alpha. Another young man, thickset and muscular, grabbed him in a headlock, leaned over, snatched Jeremy's drink, took a swig and made a face.

"Get this man a beer," he called to two others stepping onto the patio.

"Next year," Jeremy said. "When I can legally--"

"Stop being so damned proper. It's hot. I'm buying you a beer. You're drinking it."

The man swung a chair around and plunked down.

"Please, sit, Antonio," Jeremy said. "No, you aren't interrupting my work at all."

They continued bantering as the other young men joined them, but the conversation faded under the swirling emotions from the watcher. Envy. Longing. Loneliness. His fingers whitened on the branch as he strained to listen, lapping up the camaraderie from the patio, caught up in his feelings. Then others overlapped--those of an adult looking back on the memory. Regret, grief and guilt, as intense as the chaos of the panic room, and it swept me along, giving me something to feed on, a rich substitute devoid of moral consequences.

After a moment, though, it wasn't enough and the shaking started anew, my chest constricting, breathing ragged--

"Focus, Hope. Focus on me."

Another vision. This one black emptiness. Only voices. One I knew, but much younger than I'd ever heard it.

"You don't understand, Dad."

"Yes, I do. You're the one who doesn't. The Pack isn't for us."

"It's for werewolves, isn't it? And we're werewolves. That's how it's supposed to be--living like that, with others, others like us. I feel it--"

"It's an instinct. You have to fight it. Rise above it. It's not a club with a special handshake, Karl. They won't let us in. They'd kill us."

"How do you know that if you've never tried?"

"I know. We have to stay out of their way. We have to--"

Run. Always running. The coward's way.

Are you calling your father a coward?

No, of course not. I'd never...

The thoughts disintegrated into a muddle of rage and guilt. I drank it up, knowing it was a memory, something Karl was offering me, a gift...

When my stomach stopped churning, I rubbed my hands over my face.

"I--I think I'm okay now," I said. "Can we--?"

"Leave?" He got up from his crouch and rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks. "I plan to."

I saw the back of a paramedic who'd just passed through with the stretcher. I got up, wanting to ask how Troy was, but my knees wobbled and Karl had to catch me.

Paige appeared in the doorway. She managed a wan smile, and motioned for Karl to sit me back on the bed. As she checked my pulse, I flashed back to the panic room, to how I'd left it, over Karl's shoulder, flailing like a chaos-crazed demon. Paige had seen that. They saw, and now they knew my secret.

But as shame flooded me, I remembered how they knew. Not from Karl, who'd never betray my secret. From Benicio. Who'd told Karl to get me out of the room. Who had thrown me into a chaotic situation, knowing I'd thrive on it and, like a junkie, want more.

He'd used me just as much as Tristan had. There was a difference between seducing a prospective employee with promises of huge bonuses and preying on her weaknesses, feeding her the drugs she wants, knowing she'll become addicted.

Lucas walked in, but my gaze went past him to Benicio. Then I looked away. I didn't want to lay the blame on him. So what if he'd tempted me? I wanted to be above temptation. In control. Responsible.