Free Men of the Otherworld by Kelley Armstrong Page B

newspaper from my hand. “Ask for it properly, Clayton. A full sentence.
I want to go out.
‘Please’ would be nice.”
    I growled and stamped my foot. Jeremy turned the page.
    “Want—”
    “No, Clayton.”
    I grabbed the newspaper and ripped it from his hands.
    “I want to go out! Now!”
    Jeremy plucked the torn paper from my hands, folded it and laid it aside. “You don't speak to me that way, Clayton. Go upstairs, please. You can come down for dinner.”
    My request had seemed simple enough. All Jeremy had to do was give me permission. I could open the door and let myself out. I knew the boundaries: the broken statue, the bronze urn, the kitchen window and the back door.
    For weeks, he'd given me what I wanted when I wanted it. Now, all of a sudden, these simple wishes were granted only when I complied to outrageous demands like having to speak in full sentences. The unfairness of it raged through me.
    I grabbed the newspaper and ripped it in half. Jeremy ignored me and reached for his coffee mug. I knocked it from his hand as it touched his lips. It smashed into the wall, shards flying in all directions.
    “Clayton!” Antonio leapt to his feet.
    Jeremy put out a hand to stop him. His face stayed impassive, which infuriated me more. I flung myself in his face.
    “Out!” I screamed, spraying spittle flying. “Want out nowwwww!”
    I snatched up the nearest thing to me, which happened to be an end table, and flung it against the brick fireplace. It smashed into sticks and splinters. I swung back to face Jeremy. He arched one eyebrow.
    “Done?”
    I stormed to the back door, grabbed the handle, then stopped.
    I couldn't do it. My fingers refused to turn the door handle. I could not disobey Jeremy. It was like a subconscious override that shut down my synapses.
    With a snarl, I spun from the door and stomped up the stairs, making as much noise as a forty-pound body can make.
    I ran into the first room on the right, an empty guest room, and threw myself onto the bed. Burying my head under the pillow, I gulped stale air. The rage dissipated. On its heels came horror.
    Somewhere deep in the recesses of my damaged memory, I knew that you never lashed out at an adult. You did not argue. You did not shout. And you absolutely did not break things. To do so was dangerous… painful. It was an old lesson, etched in my brain, yet one I'd never been able to follow. Now, I had a reason to follow it. I had a home. Shelter and food. Someone to protect me. Yet I seemed hell-bent on screwing it up.
    I pulled the pillow around my ears and sobbed, dry heaving sobs that racked my body until I was too exhausted to move. Then I lay there, feeling sorry for myself.
    After a while, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I lifted the pillow a bit and listened. The footfalls sounded too heavy for Jeremy,but I still peered out hopefully. When Antonio rounded the doorway, I yanked the pillow down over my head and flipped over, turning my back to him.
    “Good, you picked the old room,” he said. “Nothing valuable to break.”
    “Go away.”
    “What's that? A complete sentence? Short, but grammatically complete. Very good.” He thudded onto the foot of the bed. “That's a wicked temper you've got there. Great pitching arm, though. When you grow up, Jeremy can send you down to try out for the Yankees.”
    I lifted the corner of the pillow. “Send me away?”
    “No, no.” Antonio shook his head and pulled the pillow away. “I was joking. Teasing.” He studied my face for some sign that I understood him. “Jeremy's not sending you anywhere.”
    I relaxed. “He come? Up?”
    “’Fraid not, scrap. That's why I'm here. I figured you might need some help.”
    “Not come up?”
    “No. He'll call you for dinner, like he said, but he won't come up after you. Here's what I'd suggest. You go downstairs and apologize. Understand?”
    I shook my head.
    “Go downstairs. To Jeremy. Tell him you're sorry. Say ‘I'm sorry, Jeremy’ A complete