wasn’t anything normal.
He’d felt the strength in Clayton’s punch and in his iron grip whenhe’d led Logan upstairs. He’d seen Danvers’s nostrils flare when he’d first seen him, heard him say he’d already “smelled” the problem. And he knew, whatever they were about to tell him, he didn’t want to hear it. But as alluring as ignorance was right now, if he left, he’d regret it. So he stayed, and strained to hear the distant conversation of the two men.
“—fucking irresponsible mutts,” Clayton was grumbling. “What kind of father sends his kid to the Pack? If Dominic was still in charge, that boy would be dead.”
“But Dominic isn’t, and presumably Logan’s father knows that. He must hope I’ll be more sympathetic.”
“Sympathetic?” Clayton snorted. “He’s putting you in a hell of a situation. That’s inconsiderate, irresponsible…and stupid. He wants to advise his kid to join the Pack? Fine. But do it after he knows what he is. This way, if the kid reacts badly, what are we supposed to do? Say ‘oh well,’ and let him leave?”
Logan didn’t catch Danvers’s response. He strained to hear more, but they’d stopped talking.
A moment later, the two men appeared in the doorway. Danvers took the recliner. Clayton sat beside him on the fireplace hearth.
Danvers began. “Do you have any idea what…condition your father was referring to?”
Logan shook his head. Danvers probed for more, asking how much he knew about his father, and the circumstances of his upbringing. Then he leaned forward and murmured something to Clayton. The younger man’s jaw set, and he was obviously unhappy with what he was hearing. He didn’t object, though. Just stood and glared at Logan, and in that glare, Logan read a warning, and he knew that the talk of cutting off fingers and burying bodies in the backyard wasn’t just talk. He swallowed hard, but Clayton only stalked past him and out the door.
With Clayton gone, Danvers asked about symptoms now, probing for details, as if assessing the progress of Logan’s “condition.” Then he moved to less concrete areas, with questions about changes in behavior, urges and longings, emotions and dreams.
After about ten minutes, something clicked along the hallway floor. Danvers stopped, then glanced out the door and lifted a finger.
He turned to Logan. “I have no experience doing this, Logan, and I know that any way I do, it will be a shock.” He paused. “It would be betterif you’d figured it out on your own. Do you have any idea, however wild or preposterous it might seem, about what’s happening to you?”
Logan shook his head.
“I think you do,” Danvers murmured. “If you prefer it this way, though, I’ll confirm your suspicions.”
He turned to the doorway and motioned. A wolf walked in—a huge gold-colored wolf. Logan’s brain screamed denials, though he had no idea, at least consciously,
what
it was denying.
The wolf walked to Logan. Its muzzle jerked, and it flipped something from its mouth onto Logan’s lap. Logan looked down to see his wallet. Then he glanced up at the wolf, looked into its blue eyes—familiar blue eyes fixed in a familiar suspicious glare. Clayton’s eyes.
It’s a trick
, his brain screamed.
Get out now. Fight! Run!
He managed to hold himself still until the wolf turned away. Then he sprang at Danvers. Even as he did, some deeper part of his brain cried out in protest.
But it was too late. He was already in flight. Danvers easily dove out of the way, and even as that deep part of Logan’s brain sighed in relief, he felt something hit his side. He heard Clayton’s snarl. As he fell, Clayton’s fangs flashed. Logan saw them slash down toward his throat, felt them close around it. And his final thought was that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life…and the last.
Logan buried his face in the pillow, now smelling more of himself than of laundry detergent.
This feels familiar
, he thought. This
He’d felt the strength in Clayton’s punch and in his iron grip whenhe’d led Logan upstairs. He’d seen Danvers’s nostrils flare when he’d first seen him, heard him say he’d already “smelled” the problem. And he knew, whatever they were about to tell him, he didn’t want to hear it. But as alluring as ignorance was right now, if he left, he’d regret it. So he stayed, and strained to hear the distant conversation of the two men.
“—fucking irresponsible mutts,” Clayton was grumbling. “What kind of father sends his kid to the Pack? If Dominic was still in charge, that boy would be dead.”
“But Dominic isn’t, and presumably Logan’s father knows that. He must hope I’ll be more sympathetic.”
“Sympathetic?” Clayton snorted. “He’s putting you in a hell of a situation. That’s inconsiderate, irresponsible…and stupid. He wants to advise his kid to join the Pack? Fine. But do it after he knows what he is. This way, if the kid reacts badly, what are we supposed to do? Say ‘oh well,’ and let him leave?”
Logan didn’t catch Danvers’s response. He strained to hear more, but they’d stopped talking.
A moment later, the two men appeared in the doorway. Danvers took the recliner. Clayton sat beside him on the fireplace hearth.
Danvers began. “Do you have any idea what…condition your father was referring to?”
Logan shook his head. Danvers probed for more, asking how much he knew about his father, and the circumstances of his upbringing. Then he leaned forward and murmured something to Clayton. The younger man’s jaw set, and he was obviously unhappy with what he was hearing. He didn’t object, though. Just stood and glared at Logan, and in that glare, Logan read a warning, and he knew that the talk of cutting off fingers and burying bodies in the backyard wasn’t just talk. He swallowed hard, but Clayton only stalked past him and out the door.
With Clayton gone, Danvers asked about symptoms now, probing for details, as if assessing the progress of Logan’s “condition.” Then he moved to less concrete areas, with questions about changes in behavior, urges and longings, emotions and dreams.
After about ten minutes, something clicked along the hallway floor. Danvers stopped, then glanced out the door and lifted a finger.
He turned to Logan. “I have no experience doing this, Logan, and I know that any way I do, it will be a shock.” He paused. “It would be betterif you’d figured it out on your own. Do you have any idea, however wild or preposterous it might seem, about what’s happening to you?”
Logan shook his head.
“I think you do,” Danvers murmured. “If you prefer it this way, though, I’ll confirm your suspicions.”
He turned to the doorway and motioned. A wolf walked in—a huge gold-colored wolf. Logan’s brain screamed denials, though he had no idea, at least consciously,
what
it was denying.
The wolf walked to Logan. Its muzzle jerked, and it flipped something from its mouth onto Logan’s lap. Logan looked down to see his wallet. Then he glanced up at the wolf, looked into its blue eyes—familiar blue eyes fixed in a familiar suspicious glare. Clayton’s eyes.
It’s a trick
, his brain screamed.
Get out now. Fight! Run!
He managed to hold himself still until the wolf turned away. Then he sprang at Danvers. Even as he did, some deeper part of his brain cried out in protest.
But it was too late. He was already in flight. Danvers easily dove out of the way, and even as that deep part of Logan’s brain sighed in relief, he felt something hit his side. He heard Clayton’s snarl. As he fell, Clayton’s fangs flashed. Logan saw them slash down toward his throat, felt them close around it. And his final thought was that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life…and the last.
Logan buried his face in the pillow, now smelling more of himself than of laundry detergent.
This feels familiar
, he thought. This
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