Free Frostbitten by Kelley Armstrong Page B

should probably just clamp down—bedtime is bedtime—but I was thinking of a compromise. We’ll let them stay up until eleven two nights and we’ll go to bed early, and the rest of the week, they’re down at the normal time. If they don’t settle, then we get tough—no special late nights.”
     
    “That might work.”
     
    “I hope so. Or it’ll be time to invest in bars for the windows.”
     
    I stood and stretched my legs. Reese had followed our conversation with equal parts interest and bewilderment, and now he just looked confused. He’d heard stories about us—any mutt who’s been in the United States more than a month has. Tales of Clayton Danvers, child werewolf turned vicious psychopath, who at seventeen chopped up a trespassing mutt and passed out photos of it. Then he bit some poor girl in Toronto, made her his mate, imprisoned her with him at Stonehaven, forced her to bear his children, and dragged her along on his assignments as Pack enforcer, so she could—I don’t know—wash his socks and serve him breakfast in bed, I guess.
     
    There were truths in this, as in all mythology. The child werewolf. The axe-job and photos. The bite. But it was all vastly more complicated than any mutt’s urban-legend version allowed. Now, seeing us together, hearing us talking, we seemed like a normal couple… or as normal as any couple who knew how to field-dress severed fingers.
     
    “So,” Clay said as he repacked my medical bag. “Your hand. Mutt do that?”
     
    Reese flinched at the word. Some do, taking it as derogatory. Others wear it as a badge of honor. Most don’t care, the word having long since lost its bite, a label no different than “Pack wolf.” But seeing Reese’s reaction, I quickly said, “Another werewolf, I take it?”
     
    He nodded. “I was in the museum this morning. The art and history one on Seventh Street.”
     
    He explained that he’d gone, pulled by a mild interest in history coupled with the conviction that if any werewolf had followed him to Alaska, a museum would be the last place we’d look.
     
    For Liam and Ramon, I was sure that was true. These were two guys who’d have trouble spelling museum . For Clay, though, there was no city attraction he was more likely to be found at. But I didn’t mention that.
     
    Reese’s logic, while sound, didn’t help him. He was found there, by two mutts who’d introduced themselves as Travis and Dan. They’d crossed his trail a couple of blocks away and followed it to check him out, as any werewolf would upon scenting another in the same city.
     
    They seemed relieved to find he was just a kid—in our world twenty years old is still “just a kid”—meaning he’d have little fighting experience and no reputation. They were fine with Reese being in Alaska—temporarily, they hoped. He was no threat to them and as long as he stayed out of trouble, he was welcome to visit. They even gave him some advice on cheap motels, good buffets, safe places to run…
     
    Friendly enough without being overly hospitable, which struck the right balance for a kid who’d already been burned. In the course of the conversation, Travis noticed Reese’s class ring. He asked about the insignia. Reese let him take a closer look.
     
    “Travis was checking it out, holding the end of my fingers. That’s when it happened, so fast I didn’t see the knife until…” He paled at the memory. “If I hadn’t yanked back right then, he would have taken both fingers right off. I ran. I shoved my hand in my pocket and I ran as fast as I could. I could hear them coming after me. So I raced past this guard—an old guy. By the time he got up and yelled at me, I was out the door, but it made Travis and Dan pull back. There was a cab right out front. I got in and came here. I—I guess they wanted the ring, but it wasn’t anything special. Just a high school ring.”
     
    “It wasn’t about the ring,” Clay said. “It was a warning. Get off our