Raising Wolves Read online

  Jeffery waited for him to continue. He didn't know what any of this had to do with him, but he was confident that Bates would eventually get around to telling him.

  "Dr. Vasquez delivered a child in May, three years ago. A girl child. Alex was the carrier, which shocked the dear doctor immensely, as Alex was in line to be Alpha. A pregnancy would have ruined him, which explains why he disappeared. We know that he conceived in Nevada and delivered in California, but the doctor's daughter didn't have the address. At this point we know nothing about Alex's partner, his whereabouts, or whether he kept the child. It is vital that we find her. Steel has already heard the rumor, and is putting great pressure on our organization. If she was given up after Alex's death, she would wind up in human foster care; arguably the most dangerous place in the world for a feral pup. Otherwise, we have another stray to find. One who never made it into our records. Whoever Alex mated with will have the princess, know where the princess is, or will be able to point you in the right direction."

  "Do you have any leads on who that might be?" Jeffery asked, with a frown.

  "None at this point, I'm afraid. As far as we know, our strays are all accounted for. Whoever this is has managed to stay off of both our radar and the human radar. Sprinkle performed the binding ceremony at some human desert festival four years ago. Find her. Maybe she'll remember who the partner was."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Get on it right away. The rest of the agenda only concerns you peripherally, and we will send you a memo if anything important is decided. Get on it."

  "Yes, sir," Jeffery said, scooping up his papers and pushing his glasses up his nose.

  He went back to his office the same way he came up, slower this time. He collected the papers that he'd dropped, absently sliding them into his folder as he walked. Of all the strays he'd ever lost, Alex's death affected him most. He was not looking forward to digging into the last year of his life; this was one mystery he would have been happy to leave in cold storage forever. The fact that Alex was pregnant and gave birth explained a lot. It didn't make the betrayal hurt any less though. Once upon a time, he would have been the one to carry Alex's child. That had been the plan, spoken in giddy whispers late at night, between passionate lovemaking and contemplating the deficiencies of society. They had big dreams, once. The last conversation he'd ever had rose in his mind, as clear and real as if it had happened yesterday.

  "You know I love you, Jeffery. I want to be with you. I just have some things I need to figure out first."

  "Let me figure them out with you," Jeffery had pleaded. "I'll take some vacation time, we can sow our wild oats together."

  Alex had touched his face, his brown eyes melting with something that looked like pity. Jeffery had gotten angry then; a fact that he would never stop regretting.

  "You know I can't...." Alex had begun.

  "If you want to go, go," Jeffery had said, icily. "But don't expect me to be waiting when you get back."

  He'd watched his words cut Alex, and he'd felt vindicated. He didn't even kiss Alex goodbye. A month later, the alarm was sounded. Alex had disappeared. Thirteen months after that, they had received a call from their ally at the morgue. Alex had been killed. Car accident, they said. Drunk driver. No one had bothered to check for recent pregnancy during the autopsy. There was no reason to think that the alpha son of an alpha would ever carry a child. He was taken and buried in the royal plot. It was the last time that Jeffery had been forced to face him, and his own guilt. Now it rushed back, fresh as the day it was born, and he was going to have to push through and find the child.

  Alex's child.

  Anger and grief battled for dominance in his heart, and he pushed them both aside in frustration. He didn't have time to work out his issues right now. He had calls to make, so he shoved the disaster on his desk onto the floor, telling himself to deal with it later, and closed and locked his office door. He didn't want anyone bothering him, not yet, while he was barely holding himself in check. The slightest distraction would set his emotions bursting free, while on lock down until beer-thirty. He clicked on the document on his desktop which held all of the contact information for their human allies in California, and found the number he was looking for.

  "Namaste. You've reached Spring Showers Spiritual Oasis; this is Shania speaking, how may I direct your call?" The woman's voice was at once earthy and airy, a tone he was sure came from years of practice.

  "Hello Shania. I am trying to reach April Sprinkle, is she available?"

  "Whom shall I say is calling?"

  "Nero Hunt," he said, double-checking the code name as he spoke.

  "Nero Hunt?" she repeated sharply, the new-age front falling away from her voice. "One moment, please."

  Jeffery triple-checked the code name. It was the right one, according to the sheet.

  "Sir? Ms. Sprinkle is currently in a meeting with Nero Hunt. I don't know who you are, but do not call again."

  She hung up the phone with a slam, and Jeffery winced. He scowled at the phone, trying to sort out what just happened. Nero Hunt was an agency-specific code name, and none of his people had contacted him to say that they were meeting with Ms. Sprinkle. Annoyed, he sent out a group text to his team of fifteen.

  Status update, location and connection.

  One by one, his people replied. None of them were even in the same city as the Spring Showers Spiritual Oasis, and none of them were in contact with a Ms. Sprinkle. He counted fifteen replies, double-checked to ensure that each response was from a different operative, and thanked them. Rubbing a hand over his face, he knocked his glasses to the floor, picked them back up, then dialed the front desk.

  "Hi, Toby, get me a ticket to San Perdido, leaving immediately if not sooner. Please."

  "I'll text you the ticket info," Toby said, pleasantly. "On the trail of a stray, huh?"

  "Something like that," Jeffery said. "Text me as soon as you can. I'm leaving the office now."

  "You got it, Mr. Moranis," Toby said. "Have a good trip."

  Jeffery sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. He didn't know what he was going to need for this trip. Ms. Sprinkle could be in real danger, and he wasn't exactly the fighting type anymore. He'd suppressed those skills long ago, and was hesitant to revive them. But the question remained; who would know that code name outside of the agency? He tried to wrack his brain, but it was scattered as usual. Frustrated at himself, his job, his pack, and irrationally frustrated with Alex, he collected everything that looked like it could be useful, shoved it into a satchel, and left the office. Locking it behind him and rushing out of the building, he wouldn't have a lot of time to pack. As if bidden by his anxiety, his phone buzzed with Toby's text. He checked it, and his anxiety redoubled. There was no time to go home, pack, change, or shower. If he was going to make his flight, he would have to go now.

  "I'll buy what I need," he muttered. "It's not like I blow my expense account every month or anything."

  Peeling out of the parking lot and making a beeline for the airport, he hoped for a miscommunication, but inside he was steeling himself for a battle.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Alright, Darla. I know you're sleepy, but I promise we'll be super quick. Okay?"

  "Okay, Daddy."

  It was ten o'clock, way past her bedtime. But the check hit his account ten minutes ago, and he wasn't about to wait; he'd woken up that morning to a twenty-four hour inspection notice, and Mrs. Mullins would probably be punctual. He had eleven hours to get the place looking nice, and he only had a small budget with which to do it. Besides, taking Darla shopping when she was tired was always safer than taking her shopping when she was energized; even if she did get upset in the store, she wouldn't have the energy to shift. At least he hoped she wouldn't. It was a tactic that had worked well for a few months now, but that was no guarantee. He found himself having to constantly adjust his parenting as she developed, forcing him to think creatively whether he was working or not. He knew it was h
elping him grow, but he wished daily that he had someone to lean on. Even just a friend, or a babysitter. But there was no one he could trust with her, and he couldn't trust her not to mortally wound anyone who looked after her.

  So he'd had to turn to alternatives. After Alex's death, Jordan had moved out of their expensive, shared apartment and into the little basement apartment. He'd transferred out of his position at work, accepting a part-time home position instead. His salary severely slashed, he'd had to turn to freelance work in order to survive. Sometimes he could work during the day, when she was awake and active; other times, he would have to stay up all night to finish a project. They were getting by, but it was getting more difficult by the day. He knew he should move out of San Perdido. It was ridiculously expensive, to the point that his years of professional experience and hours of hard work left him with nothing at the end of the pay period. But that was the problem. He would never be able to leave if he couldn't save up enough to move, and he hadn't been able to save a dime for three years. Part of that, of course, was the amount of money he spent cleaning up Darla's destruction.

  He bundled her into her car seat in the back of his four-year-old extended cab pickup. It had been his pride and joy when he bought it; now, it was more of a burden than anything. It guzzled gas, it was difficult to park in most places and the insurance was through the roof. He'd considered trading it in a few times, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Darla had been conceived in the bed of the truck under the stars. He couldn't bear to let that memory die in some used car lot somewhere.

  "Daddy, look!"

  Jordan glanced over his shoulder to see where she was pointing, then out the window. He was just turning into the parking lot of the home improvement store, and Darla's attention had been captured by a tiny cab-over camper which had been dolled up to look like a gypsy gingerbread house, complete with an AstroTurf-covered porch. It had a sign on it which said it was for sale. Jordan knew he couldn't afford it, and drove on by.

  "That was pretty cool, wasn't it?" he said.

  "Daddy, want!"

  "Maybe we can get something like that someday," he said, with a tired smile. "I'll work on it, okay?"

  "Pwease?" she asked, blinking her big, watery eyes in the rearview mirror.

  Jordan sighed. He understood the need she felt, because he felt it himself. Their apartment was too small, too dark, too urban. She needed to breathe and run and howl at the moon. He wasn't entirely sure that he didn't need the same thing.

  "Tell you what. I'll look at it, okay? I'll read the sign and we'll see."

  "Yay!"

  Jordan shook his head at himself, irritated that he was getting her hopes up. His as well, if he was honest. A tiny little house on the back of his truck could be the answer to his problems, assuming he could figure out how to get an internet connection. But there was the money problem. He certainly couldn't afford it, not with what he was going to have to spend to set the house to rights. On the other hand... he shook his head, interrupting his thought process. He couldn't just bail on the apartment. It wouldn't do much to his credit if he left voluntarily, but his landlady was going to inspect it tomorrow and would probably evict him if he didn't fix it tonight. No, he was going to have to do the responsible adult thing. This knowledge settled heavily on his chest as he turned the truck around so its headlights were shining directly onto the sign.

  "Stay here, baby, I'll be right back," he told her.

  She bounced in her seat, her eyes shining as she gazed at the tiny, magical house. Jordan suppressed the twinge of guilt he felt for showing her something that he couldn't give her, and climbed out of the truck. What he saw on the sign had him pulling his phone out of his pocket instantly, all thoughts of responsibility cast aside.

  "Hello?" an alert voice answered.

  "Hi, sorry to call so late, but I was wondering if you could tell me what was wrong with this camper you have for sale in the DIY Haven parking lot?"

  "Nothin' wrong with it, just regular wear. Wiring's good, plumbing's good. Fridge, stove, bathroom. Queen bed up top, twin bunk below, window in the middle for checkin' your tail while you drive. Sleeps however many you're willin' to shove into a queen size bed, plus one or two more."

  "It'll just be two of us," Jordan mumbled. "Why are you selling it so cheap if there isn't anything wrong?"

  "Because I don't need it," the man said, matter-of-factly. "Bought a house with my new bride, traded the truck in for one of those hybrid deals, settlin' down to the suburban life. It's a pain in the ass, I don't recommend it. You need a place?"

  "Yeah," Jordan said, dazedly. "Yeah, I really do."

  "Great. You there now?"

  "I am."

  "I can be there in an hour if you wanna wait. Otherwise'll have to show you tomorrow, but I got another guy coming then."

  "Now's good," Jordan said, quickly. "I can wait an hour."

  "Groovy," the man said. "Don't make me drive out there for nothin'."

  "I'll be here," Jordan assured him.

  They ended the call and Jordan stood for a moment, chewing his lip and re-reading the sign.

  FOR SALE

  Tiny house camper

  Living ready

  $5,500

  That was a little more than two months' worth of work. He didn't have the money, but he might be able to arrange payments. Maybe if he paid half, the owner would let him live in it until he had the rest. It would eat most of his paycheck, but if he didn't bother to fix the apartment up, that wouldn't matter. He could tell his landlady that he intended to move out when she came by in the morning. Alternatively, he could just move out and not say anything. The idea appealed to him. The part of him that was still a rebellious young adult, the part that hadn't quite caught on to the fact that he was full grown with a daughter to take care of. He tried to imagine what the consequences would be for something like that, but he couldn't come up with anything. The idea just filled him with an overwhelming sense of relief, which made him forget how the real world worked. The real world wasn't too forgiving to people who ran away from their lives on a whim; at least, that's what they all wanted him to think. He suddenly found himself questioning just how much power Mrs. Mullins really had over his life.

  "Daddy!" Darla called, sounding irritable.

  "Coming, sweetie."

  He opened the back door of the truck and unbuckled her.

  "Where we go?"

  "We're going to play in the truck lights for a little while, then we're going to see the inside of the tiny house," he told her, doubting his decision as the words left his mouth. Darla squealed with delight and ran up to the tiny house, flinging her arms around it and sighing happily.

  "Love you, house!" she said.

  Jordan's heart melted, and the stress and guilt washed away. He could simplify his life. He had the power to change everything, right here, right now. All he had to do was take a massive gamble and run very fast. He used to be good at that, he remembered. He'd lived his teens and twenties by the seat of his pants, bluffing and gambling his way into schools and jobs that he wasn't qualified for, learning as he went, and blowing people's minds along the way. He had a natural affinity for computers, and he read code like it was English, but even so he would never have landed the jobs and projects that he did if he hadn't been good at twisting the world's perceptions to suit his needs. If he could do it then, he could do it now, he decided. He would have to. Darla simply couldn't live in that cramped, dark apartment any longer, and he couldn't risk having her secret exposed.

  A sleek, quiet silver hybrid with a shimmering wolf's head painted on the hood drifted into the parking lot almost exactly an hour after Jordan had hung up the phone. It parked, shining its lights on the door of the little cabin, and a man stepped out. He stepped in front of the harsh headlights, illuminating the pale skin of his chin and neck, highlighting the fact that he had very recently shaved and trimmed. He wore brand new jeans and a button-up shirt which had been pressed and starched profes
sionally, but his feet were clad in beat-up old cowboy boots. He twitched his left hand as if the weight of his wedding ring bothered him. Jordan judged him to be about his age; late twenties or early thirties. As he came closer, Jordan was struck by his eyes. They looked infinitely older than the rest of him.

  "Hey there. Monty Domingo. Didn't catch your name?"

  "Jordan Hacker," Jordan said, extending his hand. "And this is my daughter, Darla."

  "Well hello there, little lady," Monty said, crouching down to her level. "What are you doing up so late?"

  "I a werewolf," she said, matter-of-factly. "Werewolves like nighttime."

  Jordan cringed, and his heart pounded loud enough for him to hear it.

  "They sure do," Monty laughed. "They also like eating their vegetables and listening to their daddies, don't they?"

  "No," Darla said, her eyes flashing. "Werewolves like cupcakes."

  Monty threw back his head and laughed from his belly, then stood and gestured for Jordan to follow him into the house. In doing so, he missed the instant of paranormal activity on Darla's face, and Jordan sighed with relief. He held out his hand to her and she took it. Monty unlocked the door and pushed it open, ushering them inside. The night, being overcast though the moon was nearly full, didn't illuminate the cabin at all and Jordan groped around for a light switch for a second before Monty flipped the lights on for him.

  "Daddy!" Darla gasped, delighted.

  It was like a fairy house. The inside was carved from whole, knotted wood. There were no hard lines or angles; every support, shelf, wall and surface followed the natural contours of the wood. Even the refrigerator had a pine door. The kitchen was to their left, charmingly tiny and full of intricate little details. Stubs of branches had been polished and carved just enough to make hooks for hanging mugs or pans. The tiny stove lived beneath the counter top beside the sink, which was carved from the same tree trunk and coated with mother-of-pearl. Across from the sink sat a little table, almost heart-shaped, cut from the trunk of a tree. He could still count the rings. A bench circled it on three sides, carved from trees and topped with canvas cushions. He wondered how long it would take Darla to rip the cushions off.