first day, Stonehaven was no mansion, but it was a roomy five-bedroom house, just big enough that two people could pass their days without spending more than a minute or two in the same room.
Most times, Malcolm ignored us. Several times a day, though, he'd corner Jeremy with some petty complaint or slam him with a sarcastic put-down. With Malcolm there, Jeremy was always wary, stiffening at the sound of a footstep, lowering his voice, scuttling me off to another room when Malcolm approached.
The cure for Jeremy's discomfort seemed obvious enough. We had to get rid of Malcolm. Foolishly simple… or so it appeared to me. As Antonio had said, the house belonged to Jeremy. I understood little of what went on between Malcolm and Jeremy, but the concept of territory was hardwired in my wolf's brain. This was Jeremy's territory, and if Malcolm made Jeremy miserable, then he had to go. Foolishly simple.
By getting rid of him, I don't mean killing him. However dangerous I liked to imagine myself, I knew I stood no chance against Malcolm. For now, I'd have to settle for getting him out of the house. To do that, I needed to understand him. The wolf in me knew this, and told me how to do it. To understand your adversary, you watched him. You studied him. You stalked him.
* * *
My first opportunity came a few days after Antonio left. Jeremy was out back practicing with his new revolvers. Usually, I was content—if not downright happy—to sit and watch whatever he was doing. Today, though, I had a more important mission, so I left Jeremy in the courtyard and slipped into the house to find Malcolm.
Malcolm was watching television in the back nook, a room Jeremy and I rarely entered. Though I vaguely recalled the delights of cartoons, sitting in front of a television no longer held any appeal for me, probably because it held no appeal for Jeremy, and he was the yardstick by which I now measured the attractiveness of any activity.
For nearly an hour, I peered around the doorway and watched Malcolm watch TV. Finally the show ended. Malcolm turned off the TV. I darted into the hall closet and waited until he started down the hall, then slid out and followed. Several times he paused and seemed ready to turn, but only shook his head and kept walking.
On to the kitchen. When he wasn't looking, I ducked inside and crouched beside the counter. Malcolm fixed himself a sandwich. Though I failed to see the importance of his selection of cold cuts, my brain told me it was critical information. Finally, he finished making his sandwich, poured a glass of milk and headed for the dining room. I scurried after him, then watched from the doorway.
Malcolm sat down. He took two bites. Then he turned fast and caught me watching. I raced for the back door.
“Jeremy!” Malcolm shouted.
* * *
“He's following me,” Malcolm said before Jeremy got through the back door.
Jeremy unzipped his jacket and wiped a line of sweat from his forehead.
“Who?” he asked.
“Who? How many people live in this house?”
“Clayton? Where—?” Jeremy looked around and frowned, then saw me hovering behind him. His gaze swiveled to Malcolm. “What did you do to him?”
“Do? I didn't do anything. He's been following me around for the last hour, watching me.”
“Of course. He's a child. He's curious.”
“Curious, my ass. He's stalking me.”
“Stalking?” Jeremy's lips twitched. He coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, erasing all signs of a smile. “He's a little boy, Malcolm, not an animal. He's playing a game with you. Spying. All children do it. If you ignore him, he'll tire of it soon enough.”
Before Jeremy could lead me away, I snuck one last glance at Malcolm. He returned a glare. In that glare, I saw my victory. My stalking had unsettled him. Jeremy hadn't forbidden it, which meant I was free to do it as often as I liked.
This was going to be easier than I thought.
In stalking Malcolm, my only goal had been to
Most times, Malcolm ignored us. Several times a day, though, he'd corner Jeremy with some petty complaint or slam him with a sarcastic put-down. With Malcolm there, Jeremy was always wary, stiffening at the sound of a footstep, lowering his voice, scuttling me off to another room when Malcolm approached.
The cure for Jeremy's discomfort seemed obvious enough. We had to get rid of Malcolm. Foolishly simple… or so it appeared to me. As Antonio had said, the house belonged to Jeremy. I understood little of what went on between Malcolm and Jeremy, but the concept of territory was hardwired in my wolf's brain. This was Jeremy's territory, and if Malcolm made Jeremy miserable, then he had to go. Foolishly simple.
By getting rid of him, I don't mean killing him. However dangerous I liked to imagine myself, I knew I stood no chance against Malcolm. For now, I'd have to settle for getting him out of the house. To do that, I needed to understand him. The wolf in me knew this, and told me how to do it. To understand your adversary, you watched him. You studied him. You stalked him.
* * *
My first opportunity came a few days after Antonio left. Jeremy was out back practicing with his new revolvers. Usually, I was content—if not downright happy—to sit and watch whatever he was doing. Today, though, I had a more important mission, so I left Jeremy in the courtyard and slipped into the house to find Malcolm.
Malcolm was watching television in the back nook, a room Jeremy and I rarely entered. Though I vaguely recalled the delights of cartoons, sitting in front of a television no longer held any appeal for me, probably because it held no appeal for Jeremy, and he was the yardstick by which I now measured the attractiveness of any activity.
For nearly an hour, I peered around the doorway and watched Malcolm watch TV. Finally the show ended. Malcolm turned off the TV. I darted into the hall closet and waited until he started down the hall, then slid out and followed. Several times he paused and seemed ready to turn, but only shook his head and kept walking.
On to the kitchen. When he wasn't looking, I ducked inside and crouched beside the counter. Malcolm fixed himself a sandwich. Though I failed to see the importance of his selection of cold cuts, my brain told me it was critical information. Finally, he finished making his sandwich, poured a glass of milk and headed for the dining room. I scurried after him, then watched from the doorway.
Malcolm sat down. He took two bites. Then he turned fast and caught me watching. I raced for the back door.
“Jeremy!” Malcolm shouted.
* * *
“He's following me,” Malcolm said before Jeremy got through the back door.
Jeremy unzipped his jacket and wiped a line of sweat from his forehead.
“Who?” he asked.
“Who? How many people live in this house?”
“Clayton? Where—?” Jeremy looked around and frowned, then saw me hovering behind him. His gaze swiveled to Malcolm. “What did you do to him?”
“Do? I didn't do anything. He's been following me around for the last hour, watching me.”
“Of course. He's a child. He's curious.”
“Curious, my ass. He's stalking me.”
“Stalking?” Jeremy's lips twitched. He coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, erasing all signs of a smile. “He's a little boy, Malcolm, not an animal. He's playing a game with you. Spying. All children do it. If you ignore him, he'll tire of it soon enough.”
Before Jeremy could lead me away, I snuck one last glance at Malcolm. He returned a glare. In that glare, I saw my victory. My stalking had unsettled him. Jeremy hadn't forbidden it, which meant I was free to do it as often as I liked.
This was going to be easier than I thought.
In stalking Malcolm, my only goal had been to
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