· BEGINNINGS ·

1

ELENA

YOUR HOURS WILL BE FOUR TO EIGHT TUESDAYS, nine to five Saturdays, and the occasional Sunday afternoon.” Ms. Milken looked up at me, watery blue eyes swimming behind her thick glasses. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Twelve hours a week?” I said. “When you interviewed me, you said a minimum of twenty.”

“Business needs change, Elena,” she said, enunciating slowly as if I might be too dim to understand this concept. “I believe I said a possibility of twenty hours a week.”

I clamped the tip of my tongue between my teeth. I knew she’d said a minimum of twenty, and damn it, I needed every one of them.

I pushed my chair back, hitting one of the two-foot drifts of paper that blanketed the floor. It didn’t look like business was slow. And how the hell could her “business needs” have changed so much since she interviewed me two weeks ago?

As I composed myself, I glanced around the office. Blown-up copies of news articles covered the walls, struggling to convince the visitor that this was a real newspaper, instead of a weekly classified ad rag that scattered a few amateurish features among the advertisements.

When I saw those articles, so proudly displayed, I knew what had happened. I’d walked in for that interview—a third-year journalism student applying for a minimum-wage job—and Ms. Milken had seen her chance to hire a trained reporter at a bargain-basement rate. I needed twenty to thirty hours a week? Well, what a coincidence; that’s just what they had in mind. She’d flat-out lied, and I desperately wanted to call her on it, but I didn’t dare. I needed this job…any job.

So I forced a shrug and said, “Maybe I misheard. But if you ever need someone to work extra hours, I can always use the money. I’ll leave a copy of my schedule. I’m free anytime that I don’t have classes. Even at the last minute. Just give me a call.”

Ms. Milken pursed her lips, then reached over to a stack of paper, plucked a single sheet from the middle, and handed it to me.

“Tips for winterizing gardens,” she said. “Turn it into an article. Ten inches. For this week’s edition.”

I took the sheet. An article on gardening tips? I smiled my keenest cub reporter smile. “I’ll drop it off first thing in the morning.”

“This week’s edition goes to bed in two hours.”

“Two—?” My smile collapsed. “I have a class at three.”

“Is this going to be a problem, Elena? I’ve hired students before, and I was reluctant to do so again. I need to know that your priorities are here. Not with boys or parties or bar-hopping or sororities.”

“I have my priorities straight,” I said, slowly and—I hoped—calmly. “My job is second only to my classes.”

“That won’t do.”

My fingernails bit into my palms, but I kept my voice even. “Maybe, after today, I can skip the occasional class, if it’s for something critical.” Like a gardening-tip article. “But this is the first week of classes, and it’s my first time in this particular class, so I really can’t miss it.” I met her gaze, and knew she was already mentally thumbing through her list of applicants. “But…well, maybe I could give it a shot. I still have an hour.”

“There’s a desk out front.”

At 2:37, I handed the article to Ms. Milken. I’d worked on it for fifty-five minutes, but she’d informed me that the company paid in fifteen-minute increments, so I’d be reimbursed for forty-five.

Any other time, I’d have suddenly remembered that I’d forgotten to add something, and tinkered until I reached a full hour. But nothing makes a worse impression than being late for your first class…especially one you aren’t officially registered in. So I accepted my loss and hurried out the door.

The office was on Grosvenor Street, within easy walking distance of the University of Toronto, which had been a major factor in my accepting the job. I’d been offered a proofreading position at a small press in Pickering, and it had paid better, but the round-trip on the Go train three times a week would have seriously cut into my earnings. And a job writing articles, however crappy, would look better on my résumé than proofreading.

Now, though, proofreading—as much as I hated it—didn’t sound so bad. Nor did the coffee shop job or the clothing store job or any others that had phoned me back after I’d showered the city with my résumé.

Maybe I could call them, see whether any jobs were still open. Or I could do what I’d done last year—work two jobs. Oh yeah, and that had gone so well for me—stressing over scheduling, giving up all pretense of a social life, dropping off the running team, studying over breakfast, lunch, dinner…even reading while walking to class.

I’d nearly worked my way into a breakdown…and almost lost my A average, which would have ended my partial scholarship and made it impossible to finish my degree.

That officious, conniving bitch. From “Of course you can expect twenty hours a week” to “Is this going to be a problem, Elena?” I should have complained. Hell, I should have told her where to stuff her gardening tips and her twelve-hour-a-week job and her ugly mauve suit and her condescending—

I took a deep breath and rubbed my hands over my face. Think of something else, like this next class.

I was looking forward to it, the only optional course on my schedule. Like last year, I’d chosen anthropology. It wouldn’t help my future career one whit, but that was why I chose it, as a mental break in a life where everything was—and had to be—focused on the goal of a degree and a job.

In last year’s anthro course, I’d had to do a paper on ancient religion. After some research, I’d decided to focus on animal symbolism in religious ritual, which sounded marginally more interesting than anything else. There I’d stumbled across a doctoral thesis by a guy whose specialty was gods that were part human and part animal.

He had some really fascinating ideas, and I’d based my paper on them. A few weeks later, I’d been writing a student paper article on staff changes when a name had jumped out at me. Clayton Danvers, the guy whose thesis I’d used. Seemed he’d participated in a lecture series the year before, and the school had invited him back to cover a partial term for a prof on sabbatical. I’d noted that in my planner so I could sign up for one of his courses. Then just before registration, my life had careened off course.

A former foster brother had tracked me down. After a lifetime of dealing with guys like Jason, I’d learned that most were cowards. Taking a firm stance usually scared them away. Jason was different.

Short of holding a gun to his head, there was nothing I could do to make him back off. After two weeks of darting between friends’ apartments and cheap motel rooms, I’d finally persuaded the cops to enforce the damned restraining order.

Then I’d gone back to school, and registration had been the last thing on my mind. When I’d finally remembered, I’d discovered that Danvers’s general-level anthropology course was full.

I was third on the waiting list, though, and in my two years at university, I’d learned a bit about waiting lists. Being third usually meant you were in, but sometimes it took a couple of weeks before a spot cleared, and by then you’d have missed those critical first classes. What you had to do was go to class anyway, on the assumption you’d eventually get a place. Most profs didn’t mind. Hell, most profs didn’t even notice. So that’s what I planned to do: show up, sneak in, and start learning.

2

CLAYTON

AN EIGHT O’CLOCK CLASS,” I SAID, GRIPPING the phone as I dropped into my office chair. “I only asked for one thing: no classes before ten. Probably think they’re doing me such a big favor, letting me teach at their damned school, that I shouldn’t dare ask for anything special.”

“Uh-huh,” Nick said. “Well, at least—”

“What the hell am I doing here anyway? Oh, sure, I’d love to teach in Canada. It’s only a few hundred miles from every goddamned person I know.”

“Jeremy was right. You are in a pissy mood.”

I swung my feet onto the desktop. “Bullshit. He’d never say that.”

“No, he said you were in a foul mood. Not like I needed anyone to tell me that. I can even predict them now. Every fall, you’re this way for at least a month. Like an annual round of PMS.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Point is, I know what you need, and if you’d stop being so damned stubborn, we could fix this little problem. Why don’t I come up this weekend, we’ll hit the town—” He paused. “Do they have bars in Toronto?”

“How the fuck should I know? But if you mean what I think you mean—”

“Hey, you’re going to need something—or someone—to keep you warm up there. How bad is it, anyway? Blizzards and stuff?”

“It’s the second week of September.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Was it snowing when you went with your dad to Minneapolis last week?”

“Course not.”

“Well, Toronto is a few latitudes south of that.”

He snorted. “Right. I might have failed geography, but I know where Canada is. North. Now, stop trying to change the subject.”

A tentative rap at the door.

“You gonna answer that?” Nick said.

“No.”

The door creaked open and a student popped her head in. “Professor Danvers?”

Nick’s laugh echoed down the line. “Oooh, sounds cute. You—”

I dropped the phone, got to my feet, and turned on the intruder—a dark-haired girl in a skirt too short for any student who hoped to be taken seriously.

“Professor Danvers, sir? I was just wondering—”

“Was that door shut?”

“Uh, yes, but—”

“When you knock on a closed door, you’re supposed to wait for it to be opened. Isn’t that the point of knocking?”

The girl took a slow step back into the hall. “Y—yes, sir, but I wasn’t sure you heard me. I just wanted to ask about your class this afternoon. I heard it’s full—”

“It is.”

“I was hoping maybe—”

“You want a spot? That’s what waiting lists are for. If a place opens up, someone will call you.”

“Is it okay if I just sit in—?”

“No.”

I slammed the door. When I picked up the phone, Nick was laughing.

“Oh, Professor,” he said. “Nasty boy. No wonder the little coeds line up for your classes, all hot for teacher.”

“Yeah, you think it’s funny? You wouldn’t think it was funny if you were teaching classes full of those idiots, taking spots away from serious students—who might actually listen to my lecture instead of giggling with their girlfriends about me.”

“Oh, you’ve got a rough life, buddy. If I was teaching your classes, and having your ‘problem’…let’s just say I’d be a very tired, but very happy, guy.”

“Yeah? Well, thanks for taking my problems so seriously, buddy. Next time you get the urge to call and cheer me up? Don’t bother.”

I slammed the phone into the receiver. Ten seconds later, it rang again. I ignored it. I’d call him back tonight. I knew Nick didn’t mean anything by it, but we’d had the same damned discussion a million times, and you’d really think that by now he’d know how I felt—or didn’t feel—about women.

In Nick’s world, it wasn’t possible for a guy not to want all the women he could get. Well, there was one logical explanation, and five years ago he’d tricked me into a gay bar, just to check. But when that didn’t seem to be the answer, he’d returned to his quest, certain that if he just kept pushing, I’d “stop being so damned stubborn” and give in.

I slumped into my chair and stared out the window. Since the day Jeremy brought me home to Stonehaven, I’d never spent more than a week away from it or him, and balked at even being gone that long. Now here I was, voluntarily embarking on a two-month sojourn where I’d be lucky to get home every other weekend.

When the offer first came, I’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Jeremy, and the moment I’d seen his reaction, I’d known I was going to Toronto. He’d thought I was considering it, and he’d been so damned proud of me that there’d been no way I could back down without disappointing him.

This was what he’d once wanted for me—a life and a career that extended beyond the Pack. I’d kiboshed that plan before I’d even graduated from high school. Stonehaven was my home, Jeremy was my Alpha, and I wasn’t going anywhere. He’d accepted that, but he still liked to see me make the occasional foray into the human world. As much as I loathed every minute away, I did it to please him. So I was here in Toronto until November. And I sure as hell hoped it would tide him over for at least the next decade.

I knew I was overreacting. I’d survive this, much like I’d survived having Jeremy pull out the odd batch of porcupine quills when I’d been a child—grit my teeth and suffer through it. But right now, I was, as Nick said, in one of my fall moods.

They’d started after my eighteenth birthday, but back then, they were mild enough that I’d passed them off as just another bout of moodiness. By my midtwenties, though, that annual dip had become a month-long crater. Edgy all the time, snapping at everyone, haunted by the constant gnawing feeling that I was missing something, that I was supposed to be doing something, looking for something.

As I looked out the window, my gaze lifted to a distant line of treetops. That’s where I wanted to be—in the woods, someplace deep and dark and silent, where I could lose myself for a few hours. A run wasn’t the answer to whatever was bothering me, but if I ran far enough and fast enough, if I hunted and killed and fed, the blackness would lift for a day or so.

I’d do that tonight. Then, when I was feeling more myself, I’d call Nick back and make amends.

A good plan. If only I didn’t need to get through the rest of my day to reach it. I scowled at the stack of notes for my next class. It was the general-level course, the one the girl had been trying to squeeze into. According to the clock, I had about five minutes before class began. Might as well get it over with.

I grabbed the notes, stuffed them into my satchel, and left.

3

ELENA

I CUT THROUGH QUEEN’S PARK. ONCE THROUGH the university gates, I veered toward Sidney Smith Hall, then stopped dead. I didn’t have the classroom number. My timetable was in my knapsack, which I’d left in my dorm room, wanting to look professional for Ms. Milken. I’d assumed I’d have plenty of time to grab it. But my dorm was on the other side of the campus, and I only had a few minutes to get to class.

I hurried into University College, found a phone, dialed my room, and crossed my fingers. Penny, my roommate, picked up on the fourth ring. I directed her to my knapsack and my timetable.

You’d really think that someone who was in her third year would know how to read a timetable. But Penny’s inability to decipher the paper probably explained why she was still in her dorm room half asleep. That and the fact that she’d told me on our first meeting that she was a night person, and would I mind not turning on any lights or opening the blinds before noon? Her parents wanted her at university, so she’d go, but damned if she was going to let it affect her social life.

If someone had been paying my tuition, I’d have been so happy—

I cut the thought short. With any luck, by the end of the term I’d have enough saved to move into the off-campus apartment two of my friends shared. Or so I’d thought, until Ms. Purple Polyester cut my hours.

Penny finally deciphered the schedule enough to give me the room number. I had three minutes to get there.

“Oh, and the bookstore called,” she said. “About some job you applied for.”

“Oh? That’s great. Do they want—?”

“I told them you already had one. Oh, and tonight? Don’t lock the door when you go to sleep, okay? I had a bitch of a time getting it open when I came in.”

She hung up.

I let out a string of curses. Not out loud, of course. Too many people around for that.

I’d really wanted that campus bookstore job. It would have been perfect. And now I was stuck with—

Hold on. What if I called the bookstore back and said my roommate was mistaken, that I didn’t already have a job? But that wasn’t fair. I’d accepted this other position in good faith.

Yes, and she screwed you around! Cut your hours before you even started!

I rubbed my temples. Did everyone else have these mental battles? The two sides of my brain were at war, one telling me to stand up for myself, not to be afraid to get angry, the other side telling me to be nice and to be polite and everything else I’d been taught. The good-girl side usually won, much to my relief. It was easier that way.

This time, though, the fight wasn’t so easily won. I didn’t want to take the moral high road—I wanted a decent job that would give me enough money to free me from a full year of hell trapped with an inconsiderate party-girl roommate.

By the time I reached the classroom, I was seething, and more than prepared to let a little of that ire seep onto the next person who pushed the wrong button. I didn’t need to wait long. I arrived at the lecture hall less than a minute late, and the TA was already closing the door.

The prof wasn’t even there yet, just his teaching assistant, a blond grad student who had the audacity to glare at me as if I’d waltzed in midclass and did a cheerleading routine in front of the lectern. That did it. I might have to put up with a condescending new boss and a brain-dead new roomie, but I didn’t need this shit from a damned assistant.

So when he glowered at me, mouth opening to make some sarcastic comment like “Glad you could join us,” I cut him off with a glower of my own. Our eyes met. He blinked. And closed his mouth. I swept past him and stalked up the steps into the lecture hall.

“Elena!” someone hissed.

I turned to see a girl from my anthropology class last year. Tina…no, Trina. I vaguely recalled her saying she’d signed up for this class, too. She tugged her knapsack off the seat beside her and waved me into it.

“Thanks,” I whispered as I sat down.

“Seemed like it was filling up fast, and I knew you were coming. Did you get off the waiting list?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“Did you check out the TA? Oh my God. I heard the prof was cute, but that TA is gorgeous. I’m already planning to have some trouble with this course.” She grinned. “I’ll need serious assistance.”

I smiled and shook my head as dread settled in my gut. A TA might not wield as much power as a professor, but he had some clout. I’d just pissed off one of the people who would be grading me in this course. How could I be so stupid? I took a deep breath and told myself it wasn’t that bad. After all, it was only a TA.

When I looked up from my fretting, the guy had closed the door and returned to the lectern. Where was the prof? Please don’t tell me he was skipping the first class, after I busted my ass to get here on time.

The TA began. “If you’re here for Anthropology 258, Ritual and Religion in the Americas, you’re in the right place. If not, you have fifteen seconds to get out the door without disturbing those who know how to read a room number.”

“Oh my God,” Trina whispered as two kids snuck, shamefaced, out the door.

“Unbelievable, huh?” I said. “Nothing like a TA with an attitude.”

“No, I mean his accent. That is the sexiest drawl I’ve ever heard. Where do you think he’s from? Tennessee? Texas?”

I shrugged. The southern drawl definitely pegged him as American, if the rudeness didn’t. Okay, that wasn’t fair. I knew plenty of Americans, and most of them were great, but occasionally, you met an asshole like this who explained the stereotype. I took out my notepad as he continued talking.

“So, now that the rest of you know where you are…or think you do, let’s get started. My name, in case you didn’t read the syllabus, is Clayton Danvers. I’m your professor for this class.”

My head whipped up so fast I nearly dropped my notebook. I looked down at the podium, and I swear he was looking straight at me.

Oh, shit.

4

CLAYTON

WHEN I ENDED THE LECTURE FIVE MINUTES late, half the class had already packed away their notes, not even waiting to write down the reading assignment. As the last words left my mouth, students vaulted from their chairs and flew for the door. And for what? There were few, if any, five o’clock classes. They just wanted to leave. I’ve never understood that mentality, that school was a chore to get through. If you’re not there to learn, what the hell are your parents paying thousands of dollars a year for? Babysitting?

As the students thundered from the lecture hall, a gaggle of girls enveloped me, questions flying.

“Is this the right textbook?”

“What are your office hours?”

“Is the final exam going to be multiple choice?”

Life-and-death questions, and every one right on the goddamned sheet that I’d handed out at the beginning of class. I slammed an extra sheaf of those sheets onto the lectern, pointed at it, and strode toward the door.

I wasn’t leaving. But someone else was…the blond girl who’d glared at me coming in—and then hadn’t responded to any of the names on my class list.

She’d ducked out the door without so much as a glance my way. I swung into the hall to see her disappear into a mob of students, her white-blond ponytail swinging. In a sea of brunettes and bottle-blondes, that ponytail was as easy to follow as deer prints through a maze of mouse tracks.

“You!” I called as I strode after her.

A few students turned. One girl pointed at herself, mouthing a hopeful “Me?” But my quarry kept moving, neither slowing nor speeding up.

I jogged right up behind her and called again, but she just continued weaving past the other students, giving them wide berth, careful not to jostle or even brush against anyone else. I found myself watching that, the subtle but clear buffer she kept around herself. Paid so much attention to it that I let her get a dozen steps ahead of me before I realized it.

She zipped around a corner and was gone. Damn it. I had to find out who she was, and why the hell she’d been in my class.

When I rounded the corner, I saw her ponytail bobbing through a small crowd. I called again, but it was clear that unless I used a name, she wouldn’t respond. So I grabbed her arm. A last resort—as physical contact with strangers always was—and I would have let her go as soon as I had her attention, but she whirled, wrenching her arm away.

A flash of something crossed her face—pique mingled with wariness. I recognized that look as well as if I’d been standing in front of a mirror, the same reaction I’d have to a stranger grabbing me from behind.

The look vanished as she recognized me. Her shoulders slumped.

“Professor Danvers,” she said, sliding backward out of the main thoroughfare.

“You know who I am? Good. Now maybe you’ll extend me the same courtesy.”

She tilted her head, nose scrunching. A smattering of freckles dotted that nose, invisible to anyone more than a few feet away. I don’t know why I noticed that, just as I don’t know why I noticed that she was tall, only a couple of inches shorter than me, with a lean, athletic build; that she wore little or no makeup and smelled only of soap, a clean tang that I found myself committing to memory.

“Your name,” I said finally. “You didn’t answer roll call.”

“Oh. Right. Elena. Elena Michaels.”

In human society, an introduction is typically a jumping-off point for further conversation, at least followed by a handshake and an inane question or two. But she said it as a closing, her gaze sliding past me, hefting her bag to her shoulder, clearly hoping that answering my question would secure her release.

When I made no move to step back, she gave the softest sigh, inaudible to anyone with normal hearing, then backed against the wall, hugging her bag to her chest.

“I’m not in your class. I’m on the waiting list. Third.”

“Classes are for registered students only.”

One thin shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Sure, but I tried to register—”

“Not hard enough. The class didn’t fill until near the end of the registration period, meaning you obviously couldn’t be bothered—”

“Couldn’t be bothered?” Her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to say more, then snapped it shut, and looked away. “Fine.”

“Fine? Fine what?”

Another blaze, doused just as quickly as the first, but lingering in a brittle clip to her words. “Fine, meaning I’ll stay out of your class until I get a spot. If I get a spot.”

This wasn’t the answer I’d been aiming for, though I realized it only as the words left her mouth. I suppose I’d been digging for a reaction. Well, I got one. Just not the one I wanted.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, jaw tight as she slipped around me.

She got two feet away before I swung into her path.

“Why?” I said.

“Why what?”

She snapped the reply, then tensed and winced, just barely, and I knew she was telling herself she shouldn’t snap at me, shouldn’t let me goad her. I’ve never been good at empathy, so to see someone—a human no less—react, and to understand, was a shock that knocked aside the last traces of my foul mood.

“The class,” I said, softening my tone. “Why did you want to take the class? Is this your area in anthropology?”

She hesitated, eyes studying mine, wary. After a moment, she relaxed and leaned against the wall again. “No, I’m not in anthro. Sorry. Journalism.”

“Journalism?”

The softest laugh. “Yes, people do choose to become reporters. Shocking, isn’t it?” She shifted her bag to her shoulder. “I take anthropology as my annual extra. Last year I did my term paper on religion. I came across your thesis, read it, thought it was interesting, and used it. Then I saw you were teaching the first half of this course. I wanted to take it, but—” Another half-shrug, gaze disconnecting from mine. “Things came up. I registered late.”

“You read my thesis?”

Her gaze met mine, and her smile dissolved. “You think I’m lying? It’s published. There’s a copy right here at—”

“Do you still have your paper?”

“You do think I’m lying.”

“If you still have last term’s paper, I want to see it. Then you can sit in while you wait for an opening.”

Her eyes blazed again, and this time she had to struggle to put the fire out. I knew she wanted to tell me where to stuff my course, but she didn’t want to cave either and walk away having me think she’d lied.

The battle raged in her eyes for longer than I’d expected. Had I made a misstep? I didn’t doubt for a second that she’d read my thesis or that this was the reason she was in my class. No more than I doubted that I’d let her into that class. I’d just wanted to— I don’t know. Maybe see whether I could rile her up. Maybe find an excuse to continue this conversation.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll drop it by your office tomorrow—”

“What’s wrong with now?”

Her jaw tightened, and I knew then that I had gone too far. When she told me, through clenched teeth, that she had a seven o’clock class and hoped to eat dinner, I agreed to let her drop it off tomorrow at ten, after my morning class.

5

ELENA

I STRODE DOWN THE QUIET HALL, LAST YEAR’S anthro paper in hand. Danvers’s office was at the far end, probably a spare used for storage, then cleared out when the department had to find space for visiting lecturers.

For almost an hour last night, I’d sat in the computer lab, my paper on the screen, my fingers ready to strike the print sequence, but holding back. Finally I’d grabbed my floppy disk from the drive and left, getting all the way to the coffee kiosk in the next building.

Did I still want to take this course? My gut reaction was “no,” that it was too much bother, that the prof was an arrogant jerk and I didn’t need this.

And yet…well, the truth was that the more hurdles he made me jump to get into this class, the more I wanted in.

As for “proving” that I’d read his thesis, that just got my blood boiling all the more. Who did this guy think he was? There might be some girls who’d sneak into his class for the eye candy, but did that give him the right to assume that all female students were interested in him rather than his lectures?

I’d continued struggling until the lab was about to close, and I printed out the paper just in case. I’d only made up my mind that morning, after the campus bookstore called me back, and set up an interview for ten-thirty. Since I was passing Sidney Smith Hall anyway, I might as well make that ten o’clock drop-off for Professor Danvers. Whether I still wanted to take the class didn’t matter. At this point, it would be enough to prove I hadn’t lied.

I brushed past two students trying to decipher a professor’s handwritten office-hours chart. The next door was Danvers’s. I didn’t even get a chance to knock before he yanked it open. He must have been leaving. Five minutes later and I’d have had an excuse for leaving my paper with the department secretary instead. Damn.

“Just dropping this off,” I said, stepping out of his way.

“Come in.”

“That’s okay. You were heading out, so I’ll—”

He frowned. “I wasn’t heading out. I was opening the door for you.”

“How did you—?” I shook my head and held out my paper. “Here it is.”

“Come in.”

He turned and walked back in without waiting for an answer. The door shut behind him. Seemed like a good chance to escape. If only I wasn’t still holding the damned term paper.

I opened the door. Danvers was taking his seat behind the desk. That desk, and two chairs, were the only furnishings in the cubbyhole office. On the bookcase sat two opened boxes of books. The desk was littered with papers, books, and professional journals.

“If you’re busy unpacking …” I said.

“Unpacking?” He frowned.

“Never mind. Here’s that paper.” I started to lay it on the desk, then thought better of it and put it on an empty bookshelf instead. “My phone number is inside the cover. If I don’t hear from you by Friday, I’ll assume it’s okay to show up in class.”

“Sit.”

“What?”

He waved at the chair across the desk. “Sit.”

I resisted the urge to bark, and answered by not answering…and not sitting.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Pass me that paper.”

I did. He opened it. I waited, expecting him to flip through. Instead he leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk, paper crumpling beneath his loafers, and began to read. I checked my watch.

“I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”

He glanced at the clock. “I’ll keep you for fifteen, then.”

“It’s way over in the Koffler Center. At the bookstore.”

“You can buy your texts later.”

“It’s for a job interview.”

He lowered the paper. “What the hell do you need a job for?”

“Excuse me?” As soon as I said it I regretted my tone. Well, kind of.

“College is for learning. If you work during school, sure, maybe you’ll be able to afford a few extra drinks at the pub, but your grades will suffer.”

I pried my jaws open enough to speak. “While I appreciate your concern, sir, I’m afraid I don’t have much choice. If I don’t work, I don’t go to school.”

“Your parents won’t pay for it?”

“My parents are dead.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I wished I could suck them back in. I braced for the inevitable “I’m sorry” or “That’s too bad.”

He just nodded. “Well, I guess you would need to work, then.”

“So, may I leave?”

“Come back when you’re done.”

The interview did not go well. I couldn’t even blame it on Professor Danvers. By the time I’d walked across campus, my initial outrage had worn off and I realized he probably didn’t mean to be rude. Some people just say whatever comes to mind, bypassing the propriety filter.

The problem with the interview had nothing to do with my mood, but rather with my lack of experience. I knew my way around books, and I could be as courteous and helpful as any nervous first-year student could want, but when it came to sales and cash handling, my résumé boasted only a single summer job at a ballpark concession stand. I could tell that this wasn’t enough.

So it was back to Ms. Purple Polyester and her gardening tips. Not for long, though. After calling back the bookstore yesterday, I’d felt rather silly for having struggled with the decision and resolved to work for that classified ad rag only until something better came along.

This time when I arrived at Danvers’s office, I had a chance to knock. As my knuckles grazed the wood, the door creaked open. I called a hello, then peeked inside. The office was empty. Not very safe, leaving the door ajar, though I suppose there was nothing in the office worth stealing—not unless there was a black market in dog-eared, coffee-stained copies of Anthropological Quarterly.

From the door, I could see my paper on a stack of papers. There was a note on it. I slipped inside and picked it up.

Two words. Elena and wait.

“Woof,” I said.

I looked at the note again. At the bottom was a letter. C. It took me a moment before I remembered his given name. Clayton.

Wasn’t that an odd way to sign a note for a student? I reminded myself that, given his age, this was likely his first teaching gig. He probably wasn’t used to calling himself “Professor Danvers” or “Dr. Danvers.” And for a guy who considered a single-word command an appropriate mode of correspondence, signing with a letter was probably more a matter of economics than of familiarity.

The real question was: Would I do as he’d asked—or demanded? My first reaction was to get my back up. Yet when I thought it through, I simmered down. This wasn’t a personal slight. Rude, yes. Condescending, maybe. Yet from what I’d seen in the classroom, no more rude or condescending than he’d be to anyone else.

My next class wasn’t until after lunch. No reason why I couldn’t pull out a textbook and study here for ten, fifteen minutes. If he didn’t show up by then, I’d leave a note and go.

I’d only read two pages when the door banged open, hitting the wall so loudly I jumped.

“Good,” he grunted, seeing me there. He tossed an armful of books onto the desk, sending an avalanche of paper to the floor. “You get the job?”

“It was just an interview.”

He gave me a look, as if this didn’t answer his question. Not much experience with the job market, I guess.

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “They’ll call.”

His eyes studied mine. “But you don’t think you got it?”

I shrugged. “Probably not. Now, about—”

“Forget the bookstore,” he said, thumping down into his desk chair. “I have a job for you.”

I hesitated, not sure I’d heard right. “Uh, thank you, but—”

“I need a TA.”

I stopped, mouth still open. A teaching assistant position had always been my dream job—good pay, work on campus, flexible hours….

My brain slammed up a big stop sign. A teaching assistant? In anthropology? I was a journalism major. And an undergrad at that.

Maybe I’m too suspicious, but after years of dealing with abusive foster daddies and brothers, I’ve earned the right to be. When a guy offers me something that doesn’t sound kosher, my brain automatically jumps to one conclusion: He wants sex.

In this case, I dismissed it, even felt a little silly for thinking it. Clayton Danvers didn’t need to offer teaching positions to get sex. From the way he’d brushed off those girls yesterday, bedding coeds was not on his agenda. He probably had a girlfriend or fiancée at home—some gorgeous neurosurgeon or physicist who modeled for Victoria’s Secret in her spare time. Might even have a picture of her for his desk…once he found it under that blanket of papers.

“I’m not an anthropology student,” I said slowly, in case he’d forgotten.

“So?”

“I need to be in this discipline to be a teaching assistant. Isn’t that a requirement?”

He brushed my words aside with a wave. “The school wouldn’t be hiring you. I would. I’m a temp, so that’s how it works. They hire me, and I hire an assistant if I need one.”

I’d never heard that, but it sounded logical.

“What about grading papers?” I said. “I’m not qualified for that. And I sure can’t teach your classes if you’re off sick.”

Another wave. “I never get sick. And you won’t need to grade essays. I’ll just give you the multiple-choice parts of tests. That and…uh, administrative work.”

“What kind of administrative work?”

“You know…departmental…stuff. Whatever I need done.”

I cast a pointed look at his desk. “Like filing?”

“Sure. Filing. More important, though, I need research—”

A tentative knock at the door cut him short. His nostrils flared, then his mouth set in a hard line. He made no move to stand. Another rap. I arched my brows. He shook his head. We stayed quiet until footsteps tapped away down the hall.

“That’s another thing you can do,” he said. “Handle my office hours. Talk to students.”

“They probably want to speak to you. Especially if they’re having problems with the course.”

“Oh. Right.”

He looked so disappointed that I felt a glimmer of empathy.

“I suppose I could screen student visits,” I said. “If it’s taking papers or answering easy questions, I can handle it. Otherwise, I could have them make appointments, maybe discourage the ones that don’t seem too serious.”

He smiled then, his eyes lighting up like a kid’s. “That’d be great.”

My cheeks heated. “Uh, and research. You were saying something—”

“Right. That’s really what I need. I’m working on a paper, and I need someone to do the legwork for me, track down articles, print them up, maybe do some extra digging. You cover all that in journalism, right? Research?”

“Right up my alley.”

“Good. We’re all set, then. You can start—”

“Wait,” I said. “Can I think about it? I should hear what the bookstore says first.”

He rapped his pen against the edge of the desk, then leveled it at me.

“What’s the pay?” he said.

“Huh?”

“The bookstore. What are they offering to pay you?”

“Uh, minimum…well, slightly above.”

From his expression, that didn’t answer his question.

“Five dollars an hour,” I said.

“How the hell do you live on that? I’ll pay you eight.”

“That’s very generous. But wages aren’t the only thing I need to consider. Hours are another factor, and you might only need me for five, six hours a week—”

“Hours are negotiable. I need help with this paper, and I want to work on another one after that. How many hours would you need?”

I calculated quickly. “Fifteen, if you’re paying eight dollars. That would leave me plenty of time to study.”

“Fifteen it is, then. When you’re busy with school, take less. When things are slow, take more. I’m not running a nine-to-five business. As long as the work gets done, I’m in no hurry.”

That sounded damn close to the most perfect school job I could imagine, which had me wondering what the catch was. Well, I suppose the catch was that I had to work with him, but I could handle an abrasive boss.

Next question: Why me? He could hire a hundred students who were better qualified. Maybe part of that was just dumb luck. I’d mentioned that I needed work, and that had reminded him that he needed a TA, so he offered me the job.

As a future employee, I wasn’t that bad of a choice. I clearly wanted to work—a quality that could be hard to come by in students. Plus, I wouldn’t sit and moon over him, and I suspected that was a major qualification. I also knew his work better than most students.

Anyone could grade multiple-choice tests, file his papers, and shield him from students. And if he needed a researcher, a journalism student was a good fit. Why me? Why not me?

“Does this mean I get to sit in your class until I get a spot?”

“Huh?” He frowned. “Oh, right. The class. Hell, yeah. You’re in.”

I smiled. “Good. About the job, then…when can I start?”

6

CLAYTON

ELENA WAS DUE TO ARRIVE FOR WORK IN FIVE minutes, and I still had no idea what work I was going to ask her to do. I didn’t need a TA. Now, here I was, having volunteered not only to spend at least fifteen hours each week cooped up in this tiny office with a human, but paying her for the privilege.

I blamed temporary insanity, a new symptom of my fall moods. I could tell myself that I’d offered her a job because I’d been flattered that she’d picked my thesis for her term paper. Or that I’d been struck by a sudden wave of generosity, compelled to help a stranger in need. And if either of those explanations was right, then my fall moods weren’t just making me moody, they were fucking up my entire personality.

I knew only that the moment she’d said her interview hadn’t gone well, the idea had jumped into my brain and out my mouth before I could stop it. Every hurdle she’d raised had only made me more determined. When I’d succeeded, it felt like pulling down a buck single-handedly—a thrill of victory that had lasted right up until ten minutes ago, when I’d fully comprehended what I’d done.

Maybe I could tell her I’d made a mistake, that I’d reevaluated my workload and decided I didn’t need a TA after all. Even as I considered that, a lick of shame ran through me. I pride myself on being fair in my dealings with humans. Sure, my idea of fairness and theirs may not always coincide, but I was never intentionally cruel to anyone who hadn’t earned it. Elena had done nothing to earn it.

I’d hired her, so I’d have to find work for her to do…preferably someplace else. She could do research in the library or—

Footsteps sounded in the hall. The soft slap of sneakers. I inhaled and caught the faintest touch of her scent coming through the half-open door. My pulse revved up, as if I’d scented an intruder…and yet not like that at all.

She paused outside the door. Hesitating? Why was she hesitating? Had she changed—

A knock. A tentative knock, as if hoping it wouldn’t be answered. She had changed her mind about the job.

Wait, that’s what I wanted, wasn’t it?

I yanked open the door to see her turning away.

“Elena!”

She spun. I mentally kicked myself for yelling at her. Was I trying to scare her off?

“Come in,” I said. “We have a lot to do.”

She stepped inside, shucked off her backpack, and looked around for a place to put it.

“Just toss it wherever,” I said.

Another nod, and she tucked it into the corner, under the empty coatrack. My heart was galloping like a spooked stag. Something was wrong. She was too quiet. Not that she was usually noisy, but she was giving off palpable waves of distraction, as if she really didn’t want to be here.

She was going to quit. The bookstore had called to give her the job, and she didn’t quite trust my offer—

“Is this okay?” she said, tugging at her short-sleeved blouse to straighten it. “I wasn’t sure if there was, you know, a dress code or something—”

“There isn’t. Wear what you like.”

She looked around. When her gaze skated past mine, I noticed purplish half-moons under her eyes. She’d slept poorly. Nightmares? Anxiety?

My gaze slid to a faint reddish blotch, the size of a fingerprint, on the side of her throat. A bruise? A lover’s kiss?

Did she have a lover? My gut clenched. I shook it off. She was young, pretty. Why wouldn’t she have a boyfriend?

“Do you, uh, want me to start filing?” she asked.

She turned toward the desk, and the light illuminated the mark on her throat. Not a bruise or a kiss, but a birthmark or an old, long-healed burn.

“Filing?” she said again. “Should I start—”

“No. Not today. Today we have to talk.”

Her blue eyes clouded. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. We just need to talk about—” About you. Tell me about yourself. Do you have a boyfriend? What kept you up last night? Is something bothering you? Is it me? “—your paper. We didn’t get time to discuss that yesterday, so I wanted to spend a few minutes on it today.”

“Sure.” She moved the spare chair over to the desk, sat down, then looked up at me with a faint smile. “So, how badly did I mangle your theory?”

Elena had only been scheduled to work for two hours that day, and we spent the whole time talking, first about her paper, then shifting into the more general area of my work, my interests, theories, past and current projects. As happy as I’d have been to segue our next discussion into her own life, I knew I wouldn’t get away with it.

Any other student would have been content to sit and chat with a prof. Well, she would if she was being paid eight bucks an hour to do it. But Elena expected to work. That was obvious when her shift ended and she thanked me, not for the stimulating conversation, but for the “background.” That’s how she saw it. That’s what she was comfortable with. Still, it was a start…even if it did mean I’d have to find actual work for her to do.

When Elena came the next day, I let her file. Can’t say I really understood why this seemed so important to her, but no one has ever accused me of being intolerant of other people’s eccentricities. So I let her put my papers into neatly labeled folders. Since my handwriting was somewhat indecipherable, I had to stick close by and explain each page to her so she could file it properly.

When she finished, I had a file drawer every bit as beautifully organized as the file cabinet at Stonehaven. Not that I’d seen the inside of the one at Stonehaven lately—it’d been locked ever since Jeremy made the mistake of asking me to retrieve the property tax records, and spent nearly a week refiling the mess.

I’d be more careful with this one. First, though, I’d have to figure out where she’d put everything. Still, the desktop looked very neat and clean, with the pencils and pens in a mug, the stapler and desk calendar arranged just so. Jeremy would have been impressed. Well, actually, he’d probably have a heart attack, but he made it a rule never to visit me during one of my human-world sojourns, so I didn’t need to worry about him seeing it.

After that, we had thirty minutes of Elena’s shift left, so I spent it making a semipermanent schedule for her. I took into consideration her course load, extracurricular activities, and study habits, giving her a flexible schedule with short shifts, sometimes two per day to reach her goal of fifteen hours a week.

“Wow, that’s great,” she said, reading it over. “This will work out perfectly.” She smiled up at me. “Thanks.”

I’d have enjoyed that smile more if I hadn’t known that I’d split her shifts to guarantee I’d see her at least once every weekday. And because it’d given me the excuse to ask her a ton of personal questions—what courses she was taking, what sports and activities she enjoyed, etcetera. Good enough, though. For now.

I soon discovered that my ingenious “teaching assistant job” plan was not as foolproof as I’d thought.

I was heading for the cafeteria to grab a second dinner, when a hand thudded onto my shoulder. I wheeled, jerking away.

“Professor Danvers.” My assailant flashed a greasy smile. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

When he sidled closer, I stepped back and crossed my arms. He moved closer still, checking over his shoulder for students, as if thinking I was getting out of their path. As body-language illiterate as most humans.

The man was middle-aged, dressed in corduroy pants and a tweed jacket that wouldn’t have buttoned over his gut no matter how hard he sucked it in. A professor. Had I met him yet? Maybe, but obviously not someone I’d deemed important, or interesting, enough to remember.

“I hear you have a new teaching assistant,” he said.

“What?” I hadn’t told anyone on staff.

He laughed. “Rumors travel fast. One of my students went by your office yesterday to see whether you needed a TA and you told her you already had one.” His fleshy features twisted into a mock frown. “Which seems odd, considering the department has no record of such a position being offered.”

“It wasn’t. I hired her myself. I’ll be paying her myself.”

“That’s…generous of you, Dr.—may I call you Clayton?”

I settled for a shrug he could interpret as he liked.

He continued, “While we appreciate you funding your own TA, surely you can see where that might raise certain questions.”

“Of what?”

He gave me a look, as if to say the answer should be obvious. I stood my ground and met his gaze with a level stare. He broke first, beads of sweat popping out across his broad forehead. I took a slow step forward, closing the narrow gap between us.

“Of what?” I said.

His gaze flicked to mine, then skittered away. Confusion fluttered behind his eyes, instinct warning him to back down, human reason wondering why.

“I hired her myself because she’ll be working for me,” I said. “As a research assistant for studies unconnected to the school. That seemed the only fair way to handle it.”

“Yes, well …” The man blinked, struggling to recoup his composure. “That’s all very sensible, I suppose, but there’s another problem. She’s taking one of your classes. If she graded papers for her own class—”

“She won’t.”

“Perhaps if she dropped out of your class—”

“That isn’t necessary. She won’t mark or grade papers or do any other teaching assistant duties for that class.” Did that mean she couldn’t cover my office hours? Shit.

A slow, reluctant nod. “I suppose that would be acceptable.” His gaze rose to mine. “But, remember, we must always take care when dealing with students, particularly attractive young women.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

He clapped me on the back. “Of course it won’t. I just thought I should mention it. Eyes will be watching. Eyes are always watching. And minds are always thinking—usually the worst. Don’t forget that.”

The next day I told Elena about her job changes. When I finished, she busied herself hanging up her backpack.

“Okay,” she said. “That makes sense. I guess I should have known that—”

“I should have known,” I said, boosting myself onto the edge of my desk.

A brief smile, one that almost met her eyes. “Not your fault. You’re as new at this as I am. So, uh, I guess we’ll need to rework that schedule. How many fewer hours—?”

“That won’t change. I’ll just give you more research work.”

The smile grew a quarter-inch, still hesitant. “Really? I mean, you don’t need to—”

“More time for research means more research I can do. Publish or perish, that’s the law of academics. We’ll stick to the original schedule, and if you need more hours, just ask.”

Her smile flashed full strength, so brilliant my breath caught.

“Thank you,” she said, started to turn away, then stopped. “Oh, and what about your student drop-ins? That’s more reception work than teaching assistance, right?”

“It is.” Whew.

“We’re all set then. So—”

Someone rapped at the door. I inhaled and scowled. Student. One who’d been here before, on business no more pressing than a sudden need to have me confirm, in person, the test schedule I’d handed out on the first day.

Elena pointed at herself, then the door. Did I want her to answer it? My nod was so emphatic she choked back a laugh. Then she arched her brows and pointed to a spot behind the door, mouthing “Wanna hide?” with lips twitching in a teasing grin. When I hopped off the desk and ducked behind the door, a small laugh finally escaped her. She tossed me one last breathtaking smile, then answered the door.

Over the next week, our working relationship hit a comfortable stride. When it came to any type of personal relationship, though, the ramparts stayed firmly in place. The moment I worked a conversation away from business, her body language cues were strong enough for a blind man to read, and they screamed “Back off.” So I did.

But that left me with a quandary. I didn’t just want to get to know her better, I needed to—a need that gnawed at my gut worse than hunger, that woke me up in the middle of the night.

As for why I wanted to know so much about her, I tried not to think about that. It made me nervous. A weak word, but there’s no better way to describe it. Trying to understand my interest only brought on a strange feeling of apprehension. So I settled for accepting the situation at face value—I found her intriguing, and I was alone in Toronto, lonely, missing my Pack, and in need of companionship.

Yet it soon became obvious that she wasn’t letting our relationship deepen until I’d earned her trust. And that, I suspected, would take a while—at least as long as it would take me to learn to trust a human stranger. But the need to know more was so overwhelming that within a week it took me to a place I’d rather not have gone. I started following her.

I’m not proud of that. Studying her when she was in my office or classroom was one thing, but I crossed a line when I started to follow her. I told myself it wasn’t stalking. I didn’t want to hurt her or scare her. I just wanted to learn more about her.

Despite my best justifications, I hated the way that following her made me feel, and after only a few evenings of it, I vowed to quit. Whether I would have been able to stick with that vow is debatable, but on that final night, fortune favored me with an alternative.

That evening, I spent an hour in the Laidlaw Library, sitting in a carrel, pretending to study a book I’d grabbed off the shelf. My real object of study sat at a table twenty feet away. Elena was working on an essay, driven from her dorm room yet again by her selfish roommate.

Her writing was going badly, a sentence stroked out for every two written, the strokes becoming harsher, angrier, each time. Any second now she’d give up and…And then what? I knew how I’d work off my frustration, but how would she?

I peeked over my book. She leaned back, pen in hand, staring at the paper. Then she shoved the pages into her backpack, threw it over her shoulder, and strode out of the study area. I counted to ten and followed.

When Elena returned to her dorm, I felt a trickle of disappointment. Was that how she resolved her frustration? Give up and go home? Maybe she’d gone upstairs to blast her roommate, tell the brat that this was her room, too, and she wasn’t being run off. That’s what I would have done, but I suspected Elena wasn’t ready for that.

I’d just started back toward my apartment when I caught Elena’s scent on the breeze. I turned to see her hurrying across the dorm lawn, backpack over her shoulder, but carried higher, as if she’d emptied out the load of books. She crossed to the sidewalk, jaw set, gaze forward, ponytail bouncing with each firm stride, moving fast into the gathering darkness. I waited until she vanished around a building, then followed.

Elena cut through the campus up to Bloor Street, then headed west. Although many of the small stores had closed, the nightlife was heating up as people spilled from restaurants and wandered the streets looking for entertainment.

Elena had already eaten. Was she heading to a bar? A date maybe? The question brought a now familiar tightening in my gut. Of all the questions I had about Elena, this topic obsessed me more than most.

I was pretty sure there was no steady boyfriend at school. I’d managed a few casual questions about Friday- and Saturday-night plans, and usually found that they entailed hanging out with friends.

I’d never smelled a man on her. Did that mean there wasn’t one? Maybe he was going to school elsewhere or was working back at home…wherever Elena’s home was.

The answer to that question had proved the most elusive. She had to have someone who’d raised her, someplace she called home. Whenever I broached the topic, though, she changed the subject.

Elena passed through the bar and restaurant district without slowing. As the crowds waned, I had to pull farther and farther back, until I was following her by scent, catching glimpses of her distant form only when she passed under a streetlight. Dusk had deepened to dark, yet she kept walking. At least two miles passed before she turned off. When I saw where she turned off, my heart did a double flip.

As I followed her trail into the park, I had to check my pace. I kept speeding up, anxious to see where she was going, hoping that I knew. I told myself I had to be wrong. Surely there was another good reason why she’d be here.

Like what? Nighttime lawn bowling league? Moonlight skinny-dipping? I knew where she was going.

When she ducked behind a building, I thought I was wrong. But then she stepped out again, the jeans and long-sleeved jersey gone, replaced by shorts and a T-shirt. She looked around the dark, empty park, then headed for the hiking path.

Near the head of the trail, she stopped. Another scan of her surroundings, more careful this time, head tilting to listen. She took something from her backpack, and tucked the bag beneath some undergrowth. When she straightened, she gave another long, careful look around. Then she held out the small cylinder she’d removed from the bag and pressed a button. A blade shot out. A nod of satisfaction, and she snapped it shut again, cupped it in her palm, walked to the head of the trail, and began her warm-up exercises.

When she finally stopped her stretches, she looked around one last time, then faced the trail, took a deep breath, and vaulted forward, off and running.

For a moment, I stood there, hidden in the trees, watching her. Only when she disappeared around a corner did I snap from my reverie and find a changing place of my own.

7

CLAYTON

I CHANGED IN A SMALL CLEARING, AS DEEP IN the strip of woods as I could get. When I finished, I stretched, front paws sliding out as far as I could reach. My skin itched, like clothes kept in the closet too long, dusty and stale. More than any other, I hated this part of being away from home—Changing in the shadows, furtive, always on alert. A dangerous undertaking, meaning it couldn’t be undertaken any more than necessary. Not like at Stonehaven, where I could Change anytime the urge struck.

I sprang to my feet and ran back to the path. I’d been gone long enough for Elena to get a good head start. Luckily, she was running upwind, meaning I could catch her scent on the breeze. I breathed it in, inhaling so deeply the cold air scorched my lungs.

When I was in human form, Elena’s scent teased and intrigued me with unformed thoughts and vague urges. Now there was no vagueness or uncertainty. The smell of her cut through the night air like a drug, and I raced after it, as blind to my surroundings as if I’d been on a treadmill.

Finally, she was there, just ahead of me, ponytail bobbing in the darkness. I threw my front paws out, nails digging into the path, forcing the rest of my body to a skidding halt.

I should have slipped into the woods, then approached hidden along the side, but the tree cover was so far from the path’s edge…so far from her. Just a little closer, then I’d cut to the shadows.

When I was close enough to hear the chuff of her breathing, I knew I should stop. But it was so dark, with only a sliver moon illuminating the path. She’d never see me. I could get closer.

She was sweating now, dripping scent. I drank in the smell, eyes narrowing to slits as I inhaled. I slipped off the path to run along the grassy edge, where I’d make less noise. Just a little closer, and then I’d—

Elena stopped, so fast she stumbled. I raced for the tree cover, stopped just inside, and hunkered down, holding myself still.

After a moment, I peered out. She was still there, where she’d stopped, squinting to see in the near-darkness. She held her switchblade out, finger over the trigger, the blade still sheathed. Her gaze traveled over both sides of the path, searching the shadows. She cocked her head, listening. Then, with a soft sigh and a slow shake of her head, she tucked the knife back into her palm, checked her watch, then sighed again. After one longing look down the path, she turned around and started running back the way she’d come.

I stayed in the woods. As much as I wanted to be closer, I wouldn’t risk spooking her again. So I ran alongside her, far enough away to keep silent, but close enough that I could hear the pound of her feet, and if I glanced over, see her pale form against the night.

Partway back, she slowed. I could tell from her breathing that she was far from exhausted. Had she heard me? I’d been running silently, skirting dead leaves and undergrowth.

Elena looked around, a casual sweep of the forest. She checked her watch. Her nose scrunched up, head tilted, as if considering something. A pause. Then she strode off the path, heading to my side. I stayed absolutely still. A few feet from the tree line, she lowered herself onto the ground beside a boulder.

I waited, then slunk closer and peered out. She sat on the grass, leaning back against the rock. After another minute, her eyelids began to flag. They closed halfway, then she sat there, relaxing in the quiet night.

I hunkered down to my belly and crept forward until my muzzle poked out into the clearing. Sweat trickled down her cheek. I watched it fall, wondered what it would taste like, imagined it, tangy and salty, imagined the feel of her cheek under my tongue. A shudder ran through me and I closed my eyes.

Something tickled my tail. My eyes flew open. A chipmunk scampered along my side. I stared, marveling at its stupidity. It must have figured I was a dog and stayed focused on its quarry, the human a few feet away. Around here, humans meant food, not danger. It’d probably smelled her and woken up, hoping to be given a late-night snack.

As the chipmunk raced toward Elena, I let out the softest growl. It just kept scampering along, determined to intrude on her solitude.

I slapped down my paw, pinning it. The chipmunk let out a tiny shriek and twisted in panic. I stretched forward, bringing my jaws a hairsbreadth from its head, and drew back my lips in a silent snarl. When I was sure it got the message, I lifted my paw. The chipmunk tore back into the woods.

I looked over at Elena. She was still resting, undisturbed. I stretched out, lowered my muzzle to my forelegs, and watched her.

The way to get to know Elena better was now obvious. She liked to run; I liked to run. Maybe not in the same way, but I could be flexible. The important thing was that this was a common interest that could get us out of that damned office and into an environment where I could be myself. Well, not really myself, but closer to it.

The problem was how to work the topic into conversation. Not only that, but how to formulate it into a request. I didn’t have much experience with that—making requests. I told people what I wanted—whether they chose to give it to me was their concern.

I’d had friendships with humans before. Okay, maybe friendships is stretching it, but I’d had acquaintances. I never initiated the relationship, though. Even with something as inconsequential as partnering up for a school project, I’d always sat back and waited for someone to come to me, and eventually someone would, a classmate who’d learned to overlook my rudeness, or one who wanted my brains badly enough that he didn’t care how unfriendly I was.

Even with Nick, I never said, “Hey, do you want to catch a movie tonight?” I told him I wanted to see a show, and he knew me well enough to understand that the matter was open for negotiation…at least in theory.

Yet I knew there was no way in hell I could go up to Elena and tell her to take me along on her next run. Even if I did manage to come up with a rational story to explain how I knew she ran, I suspected the demand-and-wait-for-results approach would leave me waiting for a very long time…probably on the opposite side of a slammed door.

This would take finesse. Finesse and patience. Had I possessed either, I’m sure things would have gone much smoother.

When Elena came to work the next day, it was obvious that her run had done its job, clearing her head and her mood. But if I’d hoped that somehow our shared experience had gone both ways, I was soon cured of that fantasy.

Elena came in and did her work, as pleasant as could be. But the moment I tried turning the conversation away from the paper she was researching for me, she steered it right back on track. Even a desperate “So, what did you do last night?” only earned me a murmured “Not much.”

The next time she asked me a research question, I’d work conversation in the right direction…though I had no idea how I’d segue from prehistoric bear cults to jogging. So she continued skimming through the stack of books, making notes, while I graded quizzes. It went really well for the first ten minutes. Then I got tired of waiting and slapped the stack of quizzes down onto the desk.

“Do you run?” I said.

From the look she gave me, you’d think I’d asked whether she wore men’s underwear.

“Do I what?” she asked after several long seconds of silence.

“Run. You know, jog, run, whatever.”

She continued to stare at me. I probably should have worked it into the conversation better. Or started a conversation first, so I’d have one to work it into. So now I had to think up one on the fly, which would have been easier if she wasn’t sitting there, nose scrunched, waiting for me to say something profound.

“Running is good,” I said. “A good hobby—sport. A good sport. Good for you.”

Her lips twitched. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, it is, right? Gets you outside, in the fresh air, exercising. All good.”

The phone rang—a sound I have never been so grateful to hear. As I lifted the receiver, she shook her head, smiling, and I knew my fumble hadn’t been fatal—more of a pratfall, the kind of thing she was getting used to.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said on the other end of the line.

I started to hang up, but she spoke again, louder. Elena motioned at the phone, as if maybe I’d thought there was no one there. Damn.

I lifted the phone to my ear. “What?”

Elena sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Is Elena Michaels there?” the woman asked.

“No.”

“Her roommate said she was there. She gave me this number and …”

The woman droned on, but I didn’t hear. As tempting as it was to hang up, this could be urgent. I couldn’t argue that talking to me about running was more important than a sick relative…not a close relative anyway.

So I passed the phone to Elena. She hesitated, brows knitting, then took it with a cautious “Hello?” No sooner did I hear the woman respond than Elena’s eyes went wide with dismay, and I knew I’d made a mistake.

“This isn’t—” Elena began. “No, I’m at work. I can’t talk about this now. I—”

The woman’s voice cut in. I caught a few words, none that made any sense out of context. But the next one required no context at all. And when I heard it, I reached over to slam down the plunger. Before I could, Elena caught my eye, and her cheeks went scarlet as she realized I was listening. She grabbed the phone from under my hand and twisted around, moving as far from the desk as the cord would allow.

“I can’t—” she whispered. “Look, whatever he said, I didn’t—”

The woman continued to rant. This time, though, when she called Elena a bitch, Elena’s back went rigid.

“This is not my problem,” Elena said, voice icing over. “No, you listen to me. I have never done anything—” The woman yelled something and Elena’s back went so tight it looked ready to snap. “He’s the one with the problem, not me, and I’m not going to—”

The line went dead. Elena stood there, fingers white around the receiver. After a moment she lowered her arm stiffly, and replaced the receiver in the cradle.

“I am so sorry,” she said as she turned to me.

“Sorry? Don’t be sorry. What the hell does that woman think—?”

“I’m sorry and it won’t happen again.”

Elena enunciated each word with care, and as her gaze met mine, my own words died in my throat. From her look, I knew if I continued, I’d cross a line that wasn’t ready to be crossed.

“I don’t know how she got this number,” Elena said.

“Your roommate gave it to her.”

Anger sparked in her eyes. “Then I’ll have a talk with her.”

She turned, still stiff, and looked around the room, as if trying to remember what she’d been doing before the phone rang. Her gaze lit on the stack of books. She reached for the open one.

“Running,” I said.

She stopped, lips pursing in a frown, then cracking into a tiny smile. “Ah, right. Running. It’s good.”

I hoisted myself onto the desktop. “It is, and the reason I was asking is that I run, but I can’t seem to find a decent track around here. So I thought, even if you don’t run, you might be able to recommend a spot for me.”

Elena took her seat. “Well, I do. Run, that is. There are a few good places around here. It depends on whether you like the street or the beach or—”

“Where do you run?”

“Uh, well, that depends. Usually in a park—”

“Good. I’ll go with you, then.”

She stared at me, as if replaying my words, making sure she’d heard right. Then she pulled back in her chair.

“I’m not sure that’s such a …”

She let the sentence trail off and her gaze searched mine, wary, almost reluctant, as if looking for something she didn’t really expect to find, but had to be sure.

“You like to run alone?” I said. “That’s fine. Me, I like company. Back at home, no problem, but here…?” I shrugged. “Not a lot of running buddies to pick from.”

She smiled. “I’m sure I could find one for you. I’ll make an announcement at the next class and—”

“I want someone to run with, not from.”

She laughed.

I continued, “Now, this park you mentioned. Maybe you can show it to me sometime, or draw me a map.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t mind company, I guess. Sure, I’ll take you there, show you the trails. I usually run at night, but—”

“Night’s fine.”

“The park’s actually closed after dark. That’s one reason I go there. It’s very quiet, and I usually have the whole place to myself. Technically, of course, I am trespassing.”

“So if we hear sirens, we run faster.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

“I’ll go with you next time, then. So when’s that? Tonight? This weekend?”

A laugh. “Eager to get back to it? Well, you should have plenty of running buddies this weekend.”

“Huh?”

“You are going home this weekend, aren’t you? That’s what you said on Monday. Going home for Thanksgiving. Well, not your Thanksgiving—that’s in November. For you, this is just a long weekend.”

“Uh, right. That’s right. I’m going home.”

Any other time, it would have been a welcome reminder. Right then, though, I wondered whether there was some way I could get out of it.

“So we’ll do it next week,” she said. “And this weekend, you can run with your regular partners. Assuming you’ll see them.”

“I will. It’s a Meet…ing. Meeting. Bunch of buddies coming over.”

“Sounds like fun.” She settled back into her seat. “You have trails near your place?”

“At our place.”

Her brows went up.

“Big backyard,” I said. “A few hundred acres.”

“Oh, wow. Woods?”

I nodded. “Mostly forest, some field. Got a pond, a couple of streams. Lots of trails.”

“Now that’s the kind of place I’d like to have. Not that I’ve ever lived in the country. I’m probably one of those people who’d get out there and start missing the city life.” She paused. “You’re in New York, right? The state, not the city.”

“We’re up by Syracuse. Nearest neighbor is at least a half-mile …”

We spent the rest of Elena’s shift talking. Okay, I did most of the talking, but she listened, and she was interested, and every now and then she’d let a little of herself slide into the conversation.

Early the next morning, I headed home. There wouldn’t have been much use in staying behind. As Elena said, it was the Canadian Thanksgiving, so she’d be going home herself. I’d asked about her plans but, as usual, she’d ducked the question. I’d try again when I came back.

And, if I could, I’d broach the topic of that phone call again. That bugged me, someone tracking Elena down just to tell her off. I was sure Elena had done nothing to warrant that kind of treatment.

More on that later. In the meantime, I had a Meet to attend. And unlike the past few fall Meets, this time I was in the mood to enjoy it.

8

CLAYTON

BY THE TIME THE PLANE TOUCHED DOWN IN Syracuse, any urge to skip the Meet had passed, and I couldn’t believe I’d ever considered it.

No one met me at the terminal, and I hadn’t expected it. I’d come in on the red-eye flight, which I preferred, since it usually meant I didn’t need to sit next to anyone. It made sense, then, for someone to drop off my car the day before, rather than get up at four A.M. to come and get me. Of course, it would have made even more sense for me to take a cab, but no one dared suggest that. Airplanes were bad enough.

At just past seven, I reached Stonehaven. As I drove down the long tree-lined drive, the road vanished behind me and the stone walls of the house appeared. The upper windows were black rectangles. Everyone was still in bed, probably sleeping off a late night. On the main floor, strips of light glowed around the drawn dining room blinds, borrowed illumination from another room, probably the study.

As I passed the cars flanking the drive, a light came on in the farthest upstairs room. Jeremy’s bedroom. I hit the garage door opener, then pulled in beside his truck, left my bag on the seat, and bounded for the house.

Once inside, I saw that my earlier guess had been right. Someone was in the study. The door was ajar, light seeping out into the dark hall.

Logan sat in Jeremy’s armchair. Being still fairly new to the Pack, Logan didn’t fully understand the protocol, so he always chose the chair he liked best. His favorite just happened to be Jeremy’s. He meant no disrespect, but still, whenever I saw him there, my hackles rose. No matter how many times I booted him out of it—with a snarl or a good-natured chair-tipping, depending on my mood—he kept doing it.

Logan was studying, hunched forward over his textbook, highlighter in hand, braids hanging in a short curtain around his face. No…not braids. What did they call them? Dreadlocks. A fitting name—they did look pretty damned dreadful.

Apparently, Logan wasn’t over his new “search for cultural identity” phase. Made no sense to me. Who cared who your parents were, what their racial or cultural background was? I didn’t give a shit about mine. As Jeremy explained, though—and explained often—my own attitude toward this, and most other things, was not the best ruler by which to measure others.

I should be supportive of Logan’s identity quest, and if I couldn’t be supportive, at least I could keep silent. And if I couldn’t voluntarily keep silent, then I would do so under direct order. So I was forbidden to comment on the dreadlocks. Which was fine; Logan and I found enough to argue about as it was.

Logan had been with the Pack for three years. Although he was a hereditary werewolf, he’d grown up as a human—the product of an affair that ended after his conception. A few months before his first Change, when he’d been grappling with the initial physical and sensory changes, he’d received a letter from his father. It directed him to 13876 Wilton Grove Lane, near Bear Valley, New York, where he’d find answers to his questions. So he arrived on our doorstep.

To me, this was the height of parental neglect. First you leave your kid with his human mother, who has no clue about her son’s true nature, and therefore risk exposure with every childhood trip to the doctor. Then, you let him go crazy wondering what’s wrong with him when his werewolf secondary powers kick in. And finally, when you do decide to intervene, you foist him off on strangers.

The identity of Logan’s father was still a mystery. Logan assumed the guy was black. His mother refused to confirm it, but considering she came from a line of blond-haired, blue-eyed Norwegians, and Logan had deep brown eyes, brown skin, and brown hair, he figured it was a pretty good guess.

With that to go on, Jeremy had been helping to narrow down the paternal possibilities. His most recent theory was that Logan’s father was Caribbean. Hence the dreadlocks. As for why Logan would even want to know his father—a mutt who’d abandoned him—that was beyond me. But, apparently, no one cared to hear my thoughts on the matter.

I snuck up behind Logan and loomed over the chair, casting a shadow on his book. He jumped, streaking highlighter across the page.

“Jesus fucking—!” He twisted and saw me. “Goddamn it, Clayton. Do you have to do that?”

“Honing your senses. A duty and a pleasure.” I grabbed the text, swung over to the sofa, and dropped onto my back. “Business Law: Ethical and Economic Considerations. No wonder you were drifting off.”

He stood. “There, I’m leaving the sacred chair. Now can I have my book back?”

“Sit down. Jeremy’s shower’s still running.”

I flipped the page, keeping my finger in at his spot. When he didn’t say anything, I lowered the book. He stood next to the chair, hovering like a dragonfly looking for a place to land.

“Well, sit down,” I said, reaching out and kicking the chair.

“It’s a test, right?”

“Huh?”

“If I sit down, you’re going to pounce.”

“That wasn’t the plan, but if it’s what you expect, I’d hate to disappoint you. Better yet, I could yank the chair out from under you.” I looked up at him. “Let’s test those reflexes. See if you can sit before I can pounce.”

Logan snorted. “Yeah, like I’m stupid enough to—”

He dropped toward the chair, but not before I kicked it away from him. He hit the floor.

“Damn,” he muttered, then peered up at me. “That was cheating. You said yank, not kick.”

“Misdirection,” I said. “A good try at it yourself, but you tipped your hand by glancing over to see how far back the chair was.”

I helped him off the floor.

“Sit.” I waved at Jeremy’s chair.

He cautiously lowered himself onto it.

“So how’s school going?” I said. “You get all your courses okay?”

“Most of them. I missed out on an elective I wanted, but squeezed it in next term. How about you?” He slid a sly smile my way. “Maybe Jeremy should send you away every fall. That seems to cure your moods. Torture you with teaching for a month, and you’ll be so glad to come home you’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

I shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

He arched his brows. “Come again?”

“The teaching.” I tossed his book onto his lap. “I’m happy to come home and torment you and Nick for a couple of days, but it’s going okay.”

“Uh-huh.” He studied me. “Did you have anything to drink on the plane?”

“Water.”

“Did you leave it unattended? Close your eyes for a few minutes? ’Cause I’m pretty sure someone slipped something into it.”

“Funny. I’m—”

At a noise from the hall, I shot off the couch and bounded to the door as Jeremy walked through. Behind me, Logan slid over to the sofa.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m home.”

Jeremy’s lips curved in a half-smile. “So I heard. As did everyone else, I think. You seem to be in a good mood. I’m glad to see it.”

I glanced over at Logan. “At least someone is.”

“I’m glad to see it, too,” Logan said. “Just exercising a healthy dose of caution. We’ve all been bracing for the storm, and I’m not quite ready to unlash myself from the mast.”

Jeremy shook his head. “I told them you seemed better on the phone, and Nick agreed. A change of scenery was what you needed. I suspected that might be it. Seasonal restlessness.”

“I was voting hormones,” Logan said. “One of those weird wolf things you’re so attuned to. Of course, that could still be it.” He grinned at me. “Things getting a little steamy up in the frozen north? Taking Nick’s advice when he’s not around to gloat over it?”

“No, and if you want me to stay in a good mood, you’ll leave Nick’s advice where it belongs—with Nick.”

“Speaking of whom, I believe I heard him stirring,” Jeremy said. “And, if not, I’m sure you can fix that. I’ll start breakfast—”

“Why don’t we let Nick sleep in? I’ll make breakfast.” I turned to Logan. “Come and give me a hand.”

He groaned.

“Fine, I’ll go bug Nick then, and Jeremy can make breakfast—”

Logan leapt up. “I’ll start the bacon.”

“Good. I’ll take the eggs and toast.”

“And I’ll try not to take it personally,” Jeremy said.

“Nah, it’s not about you,” I said, grinning as I squeezed past him. “It’s about me. I’m hungry and I want food I can eat.”

I ducked his lethal glare and herded Logan toward the kitchen.

As the weekend slipped past, I found myself, for once, able to relax and enjoy it, not anxiously watching the clock, wishing I could stretch my time at home into infinity.

Nick, Logan, and I began Sunday afternoon with a workout. Within an hour, though, it was down to me pumping iron in the basement alone. Nick worked out to build muscles for girls, not fights. By the thirty-minute mark, he’d done all the body-polishing he wanted. He stuck around a little longer, lounging on the benches and talking to me before wandering off in search of more interesting diversions.

Logan was more dedicated to improving his fighting strength. As the newest and youngest Pack member, he was the one most likely to be targeted by mutts looking to challenge a Pack wolf. He went to Northwestern, in Illinois, which was outside Pack territory, so mutts considered him fair game. I’d tried to help with that, but he’d have none of it, and insisted on defending himself.

It was that streak of independence that usually had him fleeing the exercise room first. When Logan had joined the Pack, Jeremy put me in charge of his physical training. Logan had gone along with it, as he went along with everything Jeremy asked, but the moment he’d considered himself trained, he’d dumped his trainer.

Now, when we worked out together, I tried to give him tips and pointers, but he always acted as if I was criticizing him. It never took long before he was stomping back upstairs. That afternoon, though, he did a full workout, accepting what few tidbits of advice I offered with only the barest roll of his eyes.

I kept on for another half-hour after Logan left. At school, my workouts were barely adequate—I had to pick times when no one was around to see how much I was bench-pressing. I was wiping my eyes, getting ready to quit, when I lowered the towel to see Antonio in the doorway.

“You gonna work out?” I asked. “Let me wipe down the machines.”

He shook his head and took a seat on the leg-press bench.

“What’s up?” I said.

A half-shrug, but his eyes bored into mine as if they could see clear through to the other side.

“So…how are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine.” I grinned. “Better than fine. Damned near perfect.”

“I see that.”

I whipped the towel at him. “Not you, too. Come on. Am I not allowed to be in a good mood without everyone wondering what’s wrong? Logan’s been joking about spiked drinks all weekend. Nick keeps giving me funny looks. Peter took me aside yesterday for a little heart-to-heart on how lonely it can be living away from the Pack, and how tempting it can be to start taking something to make things easier. The only person who seems happy to see me happy is Jeremy.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong, Clay.”

“Good.”

He started to say something, then grabbed a dumbbell and began doing arm curls.

He smiled at me. “Still at ninety pounds?”

“Yeah, yeah. And I’m not going any higher for that one. I’m not built the same as you.”

His smile grew. “Good excuse. So…I hear the teaching is going very well.”

“Very well would be stretching it, but it’s going fine.”

He nodded, attention fixed on the weight. “Meeting new people, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh.”

He did a few more reps, then cleared his throat. “If there’s ever anything you want to talk about, Clay, anything you don’t feel you can discuss with Jeremy, anything you don’t think he’d understand …” He met my gaze. “I’m always here. You know that. Just because Jeremy’s my best friend doesn’t mean I tell him everything. I know better than anyone that there are some things Jeremy doesn’t understand. If you haven’t experienced a thing, you don’t know much about it. Like I wouldn’t know how to paint a picture and he wouldn’t know how to run a business.”

After a moment’s hesitation, I glanced at the door, then looked overhead.

“Jeremy’s outside,” Antonio said, laying down the weight. “He can’t hear us.”

“Well, there is something,” I said.

“Yes?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to discuss it with Jeremy. I just— Like you said, he just doesn’t get some things. I know he wants what’s best for me, and I know he worries about me, but …”

Antonio shifted to the edge of his seat. “Go on.”

“I need your advice. You have some experience in this area.”

Something flashed behind his eyes. “Yes, I probably do.”

“It’s about motorcycles.”

“Motor—” He blinked. “Motorcycles?”

“You had one, remember? Until you wiped out, and Dominic didn’t want you getting another one, went on and on about your responsibilities as a father—”

“I can still hear him every time I take my car up over a hundred.”

I laughed and grabbed a fresh towel. “I’ve been thinking of getting a motorcycle for Toronto. I know Jeremy doesn’t want me taking my car up there. He thinks using public transit is good for me, that the more I do it, the more comfortable I’ll get with it.” I looked at Antonio. “It’s not working.”

His lips twitched. “And exactly how many times have you taken public transit since you’ve been there?”

“Once or twice, but that’s not the point. I need my freedom. My own transportation. I could afford a motorcycle. Buy it there, ride it until I’m done, then bring it home. Jeremy said no cars, but he never said no bikes.”

The smile broke through. “If you think that’s really what he meant, then why not just tell him—”

“Too complicated. Point is, a motorcycle would be perfect. Nick and I rode dirt bikes in Arizona last summer. Easy enough.”

“You need a license and—”

I waved him off. “If I get pulled over, I’ll play ignorant foreigner. But I’d need some help picking the right size bike, the right type, and all that. If I decide that’s what I want to do, can I call you?”

He nodded. “A motorcycle might be just what you need. A car, well—” He looked over at me. “It’s not as if you need room for more than one, right?”

I shrugged. “I can always buy an extra helmet, just in case, but—”

Nick barreled through the doorway. “You still down here?” He looked at his father. “Giving Clay workout tips? Hey, Logan! Come quick. Clay’s getting told how to lift weights.”

“Yeah, but is he listening?” Logan said as he walked in. He paused and looked from me to Antonio. “I think we’re interrupting something, Nick. How about we—”

“We’re not interrupting,” Nick said, dropping down beside me. “We’re rescuing. Time to get Clay out of here before my father tells him all the things he’s been doing wrong and shatters his delusions of perfection.”

I snapped the towel at him and got to my feet. “We’re done. So what’s up? You guys ready for more?”

Nick snorted. “Not more of this. We have”—he made a show of checking his watch—“exactly six hours before we need to drive Logan to the airport. The question is, how to make the most of those hours. I say—”

“I say we let Clay pick something,” Logan said.

“Like he’s not going to do that anyway,” Nick said.

“Yes, but letting him pick, and letting him bully us into letting him pick, are two different things.” Logan looked at me. “We were thinking of heading into Syracuse. What’ll it be? Dinner? A movie?”

“Dinner and a movie. Then dinner again.”

Logan laughed. “Sure, why not? My last chance to pig out before school. Nick? Pick a movie.”

“Are we actually going to see what I choose?” Nick said. “Or just pretend to consider it?”

“You pick the movie,” I said. “I’ll pick the first restaurant. Logan can pick the later one.”

“Whoa,” Logan said. “That sounds almost democratic. I’m switching my theory to alien possession. This has gone too far for spiked drinks.”

I tried to smack him, but he dodged past me and we raced up the steps, leaving Antonio in the exercise room.

9

ELENA

AS I WALKED THROUGH THE DOORS OF SIDNEY Smith Hall, I quickened my pace and surveyed the rapidly filling corridor. The chances of running into Clayton out here were next to nil, but I looked anyway. More significantly, I let myself look.

Part of me still rebelled, urged my legs to slow down, not to get to class early. But I wasn’t giving in to that. Not today.

I spent too much of my life worrying about how things look, how they might be interpreted, never wanting to seem too enthusiastic, to let anyone know I gave a damn. It was hard work maintaining those defenses, and some days I wanted to tear them down, act as I pleased, and not care what anyone thought.

I’d begun to feel that maybe, with Clayton, I could. When it came to acting strangely, I was pretty sure I couldn’t outdo him. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him, so he wasn’t likely to judge me. And, even if he did, he was leaving in another month or so, and I’d probably never see him again.

Was it only another month? Alarm raced through me, but I chased it back. I had other things to worry about.

At least the weekend was over. Any holiday that revolved around family saw me sitting in my dorm room alone, keenly aware of the empty halls, afraid to even turn on the television, knowing I’d be confronted with images of the holiday, even the commercials leaping out to remind me that normal people were home with their families.

I hated dwelling on this, but never seemed to be able to get past it. My one bit of “family” contact that weekend had been a former foster mother phoning, not to invite me to Thanksgiving dinner but to accuse me, yet again, of ruining her son’s life. As if it was my fault—

“Elena!”

A dark-haired young woman pushed past a group loitering outside an open classroom door.

“Hey, Jody,” I said, stopping.

“Hey, yourself. You didn’t call when you got in last night. I was hoping we could grab coffee. So how was your weekend?”

“Good. And yours?”

“I survived.” She stepped closer, moving out of the lane of foot traffic. “So, what’d you do? Visit lots of relatives? Eat lots of turkey? Pray you don’t have to see either again until Christmas?”

I forced a smile. “Something like that. You joining us for dinner?”

“Of course. Share some holiday war stories before my night class. Get your best one ready, ’cause I think I’ve got everyone beat this time.”

We chatted for another couple of minutes. I hated lying to my friends, but the alternative was worse. Admit you have no place to go for the holiday, and they’ll do what any good friend would do—invite you to share their family celebrations. While I appreciated the gesture, the only thing worse than sitting alone in my dorm was sitting with strangers who were all trying very hard to make me feel like family, and only reminding me all the more that I wasn’t.

After talking to Jody, I was no longer early for class. By the time I swung through the door, the room was nearly full. Clayton was at the front, sorting papers. I paused, expecting him to look up. He always did, with that weird sixth sense of his, seeming to know when someone was heading to the office even before I heard footsteps. He kept working, though. I swung past the desk. He lifted his head, but he didn’t meet my gaze, let alone sneak me a smile.

I climbed to my seat, disappointment mingling with reproach. So he didn’t notice me. Big deal. I was his TA. What did I expect? A hug?

As I took my seat, he began the lecture. He didn’t look my way, and I tried not to worry about that. Of course, I did worry. Had he talked to someone at home who’d convinced him that a friendship with a female student wasn’t such a good idea? Or, worse, convinced him that I might interpret his interest as more than friendship?

He began passing out papers, handing them down the rows. He gave me one, then passed the rest to the person beside me, his gaze never dropping within a foot of my head. Okay, something had happened.

I took my sheet. Instructions for an assignment…with a handwritten line, dark against the faded copy.

How was your weekend?

I looked up just as he was heading back down the middle row. As he passed me, he glanced over, brows lifting. I grinned, and his smile broke through before he turned away.

A second page followed the first, this one a list of possible topics. Again, mine came with an extra note.

Run tonight?

I laughed, startling my neighbor, then stuffed the pages into my binder. As Clayton stepped up to the lectern, his gaze shot my way, brows arched, expecting an answer. I bit back a smile and pretended not to notice…just as I pretended not to notice the glower that followed when he realized I wasn’t going to respond.

When class ended, I took a few minutes to tidy my notes, waiting for the room to empty. By now students rarely lingered to ask more than a quick question, having learned that anything else only earned them a scowl.

As the last students filed out, I slipped from my seat. Clayton had his back to me, gathering his papers from the table.

“So?” he said, without turning.

“Passing notes in class? Isn’t that a no-no?”

“Only for students.”

“Still, you’d better be careful. Hand that to the wrong person and you’ll get yourself in trouble.”

“Which is why I passed it directly to you.” He leaned against the lectern. “So? Can you run tonight?”

“Hmm, no. Sorry. But I could pencil you in for three weeks from Thursday.”

“Watch it or you’ll find yourself joining the ranks of the unemployed.”

“There are laws against that.”

“So?”

I swung my knapsack onto my shoulder. “Tonight is fine. I’m meeting friends for dinner, but I should be done by seven-thirty. How about I meet you in front of the ROM at eight?”

He agreed, and I left.

It was a cold night for October, single-digit temperatures with a wicked north wind blowing in, reminding the unwary that it wasn’t too soon for a blast of early snow. With daylight saving time over, the sun was long gone by eight, taking any hope of heat with it. When I arrived at the museum, I was ready to head back to my dorm and dig up my winter coat, but once we started the long walk, talking as we went, I forgot the cold.

“Change facilities are a problem,” I said as we entered the park. “The washrooms are locked, so I usually slip into the woods. Hardly decorous but—”

“Whatever works. I never see what the big deal is anyway. Someone sees a flash of bare skin, what are they going to do, run away screaming?”

I laughed. “I’d hope not. But if the flashing involves certain sections of skin, they’ll run screaming to the nearest cop. On a night like tonight, though, I’d be more worried about frostbite than unintentional flashing.”

“You want me to break into a bathroom for you?”

I glanced over, wondering whether he was joking, but pretty sure he wasn’t. When he just looked back at me expectantly, I shook my head.

“Thanks but no. I run year-round, so I’ve learned the art of speed-changing. If we head around that pavilion, we should be out of the wind.”

So we did, each finding a place in the woods to change into our running clothes. Had I been with anyone else, this is the point where I would have gotten nervous, undressing in the forest a few feet from a near-stranger. But one advantage to being with a guy as good-looking as Clayton is that I was sure he didn’t need to lure girls into the forest to get them out of their clothes.

When I stepped out of the woods, he was already there, and I quickly realized one disadvantage to being with a guy as good-looking as Clayton. The gape factor. In the last few weeks, I’d become less aware of his looks. As Shaw said, “Beauty is all very well at first sight; but whoever looks at it when it has been in the house three days?”

So far I’d only seen him in his professorial clothes—usually a jersey or pullover and loose-fitting casual pants. As he stepped out in a tank top and shorts, I became keenly aware that, as nice as the picture had been with those baggy clothes, I’d been missing half of it. It was obvious Clayton wasn’t the kind of guy whose only exercise was the occasional jog around the block. I tried not to look. Failing that, I tried not to stare.

As much as I like the solitude of running alone, there’s something to be said for having company of the right sort. Preferably someone who can keep up a light chatter and keep up the pace. Clayton managed both easily, and we were back where we started before I knew it.

“—hadn’t seen it, so we ended up watching Die Hard again,” he said as we slowed to a walk.

“Is that the kind of movie you like?” I asked.

“Pretty much. Action and adventure flicks, mostly, though comedy’s fine, sometimes horror. A few months ago, we went to see the new Crocodile Dundee one, but it was sold out, so we saw…now what was it? Something about a baby. We’re Having a Baby, I think. Now, that wasn’t my kind of movie.”

“A chick flick.”

“Huh?”

“A film aimed at the female portion of the moviegoing public.”

“Oh.” He peered over at me. “You like those kind of movies?”

“No, I’m saying that’s who they’re made for. Not that every woman likes them, no more than every guy likes movies where stuff blows up.”

“What kind do you like?”

I grinned. “The ones where stuff blows up.”

“We should go to a movie, then.”

I glanced over at him, but already knew what I’d see. No hint that this was anything other than a friendly suggestion. Like the invitation to run together, he blurted out such things with a guileless innocence that couldn’t help but put me at ease.

“Sure,” I said. “We should do that someday.”

“How about Friday?”

I laughed. “I said someday.” A pause, then I glanced over at him. “Maybe Saturday.”

“Saturday, then. Any idea what’s play—”

He stopped. As I took another step, his fingertips brushed my arm, and I looked back to see him still standing there. He motioned for me to stop and scanned the grassy hill leading to the pavilion.

“Someone’s here,” he murmured.

“Oh?” I squinted into the darkness. “Where?”

“Over by the parking lot. You go get changed. I’ll wait.”

When I came out, he was standing by the pavilion, watching the distant parking lot.

“Still there?” I asked.

“There again. He left a couple times, but keeps coming back. Like he’s waiting for someone.”

“Probably is. Get dressed, then. I’ll stay here.”

After about a minute of squinting at the parking lot, I saw a figure. Male, it looked like. A cold night for a tryst, but I suppose that never stops anyone who’s determined enough. I ducked behind the pavilion wall. No need to advertise my presence.

A moment later, a man appeared, walking along the path beside the pavilion. He didn’t see me, and I only caught a glimpse of his back as he passed. Something in his stride made my heart jump into my throat, but I shook it off. Couldn’t be. Not out here.

He reached the end of the path, then headed back. As he turned, I stiffened. No one knew I was here…no one except my roommate. Damn it! I quickstepped back into the shadows, but not before he saw me.

“Elena!” he called, grinning as he broke into a jog. “There you are. You’re a hard girl to find.”

Apparently not hard enough.

10

ELENA

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, JASON?” I ASKED, shooting a quick look over my shoulder and praying Clayton didn’t pick that moment to step from the shadows.

“I should be asking you that.” He walked over to me. “What are you thinking? Jogging in a park at night? When your roommate told me where you were, I thought she was putting me on. Who the hell does crazy stuff like this? It’s not—”

“Normal?” I said.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He stepped forward, hand rising to brush a stray wisp of hair off my cheek. “You know I didn’t.”

I backpedaled out of his reach. His gaze dropped in that wounded look, as if he was the victim here, the poor besotted guy under the spell of the evil ice bitch.

“I’m not canceling the restraining order,” I said. “So you can tell your mother to stop calling me.”

“Ah, shit. Is she—?” He smacked his palm against the pavilion wall. “Goddamn her! Why does she always do this to me? You were right to get that.”

“Don’t.”

“No, I deserved it. I got carried away. I couldn’t help myself. You weren’t returning my calls. You wouldn’t see me. I got confused—”

“Confused?” I said, nails biting into my palms. “What the hell is confusing about the word no?”

The wounded look again. “You don’t have to swear, baby.”

“I am not your baby.” I dug my nails in harder. “I have never been your baby. I have never been your anything. No, wait…I was your something. Your foster sister.”

“I know that. But I couldn’t help it. You were so—”

“Available? Trapped? I couldn’t slam the door in your face and walk away, because there was no place for me to walk to. You were there, all the time, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Complain to your mother, and she tells me I’m overreacting. You’re a seventeen-year-old boy; I’m a seventeen-year-old girl. What do I expect? I should be flattered. Well, I’m not seventeen anymore. I wasn’t flattered then. I’m not flattered now. And I want you to get the hell out of my life before I do something that is really not normal.”

“You’re upset, baby. I understand that. My mother pisses me off, too, so I don’t blame you one bit.”

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to haul off and deck him.

But it wouldn’t help. I could knock Jason off his feet and he’d just look up at me with those hurt eyes and say, “I understand why you did that, baby.”

I spun on my heel and strode away. Got about ten feet before his hand closed on my shoulder.

“Let me go,” I said, voice low, back still to him.

“No, Elena. Not until you’ve calmed down.”

I jerked forward, but his grip only tightened, fingers digging into my shoulder. I flung his hand off. His jaw set. I stood my ground. He stepped forward, closing the gap between us.

“You don’t want to do that,” drawled a voice to our left.

I looked to see Clayton in the shadow of a pine tree, arms crossed, as if he’d been there for a while.

“I can handle this,” I said.

My words came out sharper than I intended. I glanced over at him and lifted a finger. He nodded, and stayed where he was.

“Go home, Jason,” I said, “or I’m walking to the nearest phone booth, dialing 911, and seeing how well that restraining order works.”

The perfect threat—calm yet clear—and I’d have been very proud of myself…had Jason heard a single word of it. Before I was half finished, he was striding toward Clayton.

“Who the hell are you?” Jason said.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in what?” Jason swung to face me. “Is this guy with you, Elena?”

“Could be,” Clayton answered before I could. “Or I could be just a fellow jogger, heard the ruckus, and came over to see if I could help. Or maybe I’m not a jogger at all. Maybe I just like hanging out in empty parks, see what kind of sludge crawls out of the pond after dark—” He grinned, teeth flashing. “See what kind of trouble I can get into.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Not a damn thing. Now, I think Elena was talking to you, and I think you’d better start listening.”

Jason stalked over to Clayton and pulled himself up, eye to eye. “Or what?”

Clayton only shrugged. “You’d have to ask her that.”

Jason looked from Clayton to me, face scrunched up in confusion. “Who is this guy?”

“An interested party,” Clayton said.

Jason’s finger shot up, pointing in Clayton’s face. “Don’t you start—”

Clayton grabbed his finger. I tensed, but he only held Jason’s finger, then pushed it slowly down.

“Lift that hand to me again, and you’d better be prepared to use it. Now go on back to Elena. This is her fight, and I’m not making it mine unless you insist.”

Jason looked from me to Clayton. He paused, then stalked off, calling over his shoulder a promise that he’d talk to me later. I wanted to run after him, grab him by the shoulder, the way he’d done to me, swing him around, and set him straight—tell him he wasn’t going to talk to me later and why. But I was just happy to see him go. Happy and relieved, and dead-set against doing anything that might interfere with his leaving.

“You want to go get something?”

I wheeled to see Clayton at my shoulder. I hadn’t seen him move from his place by the trees.

“Hmm?” I said.

“You want to go get something? I’m sure I can find a place on the way back.”

I shook my head. “No. Thanks, but I’m really not …” I shrugged.

“Not hungry?”

“Eat? Oh. I thought you meant a drink.”

I should have known he didn’t mean the obvious. He never did.

“We could get a drink, if that’s what you’d like,” he said.

“Definitely not. Doesn’t do a thing for me except put me to sleep. But something to eat would be good.” I forced a smile. “Vent my frustration on a hapless burger.”

“Good. Grab your knapsack and we’ll go.”

We walked down out of the park in silence. Comfortable silence, not that dead-weight quiet that comes from waiting for me to talk about what had happened. He didn’t mention it, and I appreciated that. Like I appreciated the invitation to a late-night snack—something, anything, to keep my mind off Jason and to give me an excuse not to head back to my dorm room, where he could be lying in wait.

Clayton found an all-night diner. We couldn’t see it from Bloor Street—not even the sign—so I assumed he’d been there before, but when we got inside, he looked around, orienting himself the same as I did.

He started toward a table in the back corner, then glanced over his shoulder.

“There okay?” he said, jerking his chin toward the table.

“Perfect.”

We settled into our seats.

“Burgers page three,” he said after a glance through the menu.

“On second thought, I may change my mind. They serve all-day breakfast.” I skimmed through the grease-spattered menu. “I think I might go for pancakes. Weird, I know, but—”

“Have what you like.”

“Comfort food. Does the trick better than alcohol.”

He started to say something, but the server arrived, coffee pot in hand.

“No, thanks,” I said, covering my cup. “Too late for caffeine. I think I’ll have …” I flipped to the back of the menu, then smiled. “Root beer floats. Haven’t had those in years. I’ll take one. And the pancakes and ham steak.”

The server peered over her half-glasses. “With a root beer float?”

I hesitated. Kicked myself for letting a server make me rethink the “appropriateness” of my order, but I did it nonetheless.

“Same here,” Clayton said, smacking down his menu. “Pancakes, ham, and a root beer float.”

The server rolled her eyes and left mumbling about college kids.

“You like root beer floats?” I asked.

“Never had one.”

I stifled a laugh. “Well, I’m not sure how well it’ll go with maple syrup, but we’re about to find out.” I glanced around the diner. The few other customers were all across the room. “I should have said it earlier, but thanks for trying to help back there. At the park. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“You wanted to handle it yourself. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Hmm, well, as you saw, handling it myself doesn’t seem to be—” I bit off the sentence and looked away. “Anyway, thanks.” I glanced back at him. “You confused him, and that’s probably the best way to get rid of Jason.”

“Not too bright, is he?”

I laughed and eased back in the booth. “No, not too bright, though I’m pretty sure he can’t be as dense as he acts. It’s just an excuse: Pretend he honestly misinterpreted our relationship—or lack of one.”

“So you and he never …”

“Absolutely not. When you’re a foster kid, you can’t get into that.”

I paused, realizing I’d let slip something I preferred to keep to myself. But if he’d overheard any of my conversation with Jason, he already knew I’d been in foster care. So I continued.

“Any relationship Jason thinks we had took place only in his head.”

“But he keeps following you? What’s it been now? Three, four years?”

“Three. And two since I turned eighteen and got the hell away from him and his screwed-up family. As for Jason, I don’t know what his problem is. He doesn’t have a problem getting dates with willing girls. So why me?”

“Because you’re not willing. Buddy of mine is like that. Not like that—stalking and shit. But if you put him at a party with ten girls, and nine of them are falling over him, he’ll make a beeline for number ten, spend the night trying to charm her.”

“The thrill of the hunt.”

“I guess so. He likes the challenge. ’Course, if she tells him to get lost, he does.”

“Most guys do. A chase is fine, but if she fights when cornered, they back off.”

Our floats arrived. Clayton waited until the server left.

“Has he ever hurt you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Not really. He sometimes grabs me, like he did in the park. Leaves bruises, but not the ‘fear for my life’ kind of hurting.”

Clayton’s jaw worked, and he dropped his gaze, but not before I saw a flash of rage there, so intense it startled me. It should have scared me—I know that. But it didn’t.

“That’s bad enough,” he said. “You can’t let him do that or it’ll only get worse.”

My head jerked up. “You think I’m letting him—”

“No.” He reached out and, for a second, I thought he was going to put his hand on mine. At the last moment, he plucked a napkin from the dispenser. “I didn’t mean it like that. The problem is, the harder you fight, the harder he’s going to pursue. You can’t give in, and you can’t fight back, so you’re stuck.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

He crumpled the napkin. Then he looked at me. “I could fix this for you. Make sure he doesn’t come back. Not kill him—if he isn’t threatening your life, then that isn’t necessary. But I could make damn sure he never wants to see your face again.”

Again, I should have been shocked. Again, I wasn’t. I knew he wasn’t just offering to give Jason a stern talking-to. And the casual mention of killing him, as if this was an option I should keep in mind? That should have sent me bolting for the door.

Instead, I only shook my head. “Thanks, but I still want to try handling it on my own.”

“If you change your mind, you let me know.”

“I will.”

Clayton walked me back to my dorm. Luckily Jason wasn’t there. Nor did he make good on his “promise” to talk to me later. Maybe he was still trying to figure out what Clayton had been threatening in the park. Or maybe he’d seen something in Clayton’s eyes, the same thing I’d seen later at the restaurant, and decided he didn’t want to find out what he’d been threatening. Either way, I was glad for the respite.

Clayton and I did go to see a movie that weekend. Had a good time, too, though by now I’d come to expect that. Over the next few weeks, we saw a couple more movies, went out for a few meals, and jogged together almost every other day. I knew I should have been concerned about getting him in trouble—socializing with a student—but he was careful and I was careful, and the selfish truth was that I didn’t want to worry about it, didn’t want him worrying about it, not if it meant we’d spend less time together.

After that night in the diner, I started opening up. Not that I poured out my guts at his feet; I just didn’t change the topic when conversation turned personal.

He gave as good as he got. Before that night in the diner ended, I’d found out that Clayton understood my situation better than I could have imagined, having been orphaned himself when he was only a couple of years older than I’d been.

Like me, Clayton had no biological family…or none that he knew of. Unlike me, though, he’d found a home, with a guardian that sounded like everything I’d ever dreamed a foster parent could be, plus a close extended family. I suppose I could have felt jealous about that, but instead it reaffirmed my own hopes that just because you didn’t have blood relatives didn’t mean you couldn’t, someday, have a normal life with a family of your own.

As October drew to a close, I became increasingly aware of Clayton’s imminent return to New York. We hadn’t discussed that. Maybe there was nothing to discuss. His term would come to an end, he’d hand me my final paycheck with a “Nice to know you,” and that’d be it. Maybe if I expected otherwise, that was my mistake.

I held out as long as I could, until exactly two weeks before he was due to leave. Then I asked whether I could use his office computer to rework my résumé. He mumbled something, but when I tried to get an intelligible answer, he changed the topic.

Two days later, I showed up at work to find the office empty. With no note. For a few seconds, I stood by the desk in shock, wondering if he was already gone. Silly, I know, but he was always there when I arrived for my shift. If he couldn’t be, he left a note, telling me he was gone—as if I couldn’t see that for myself—and telling me to wait—as if I might take his absence as an opportunity to snag a day off.

So when there was no note, I kind of panicked. Then I saw that his books were still on the shelf. He might leave papers and old journals scattered all over the office when he finally did vacate it, but he’d never abandon his books.

I sat down and started to work. Less than ten minutes later, the door banged open.

“I hope that’s not your résumé you’re typing,” he said as he tossed a file folder onto the desk.

“Not without your permission.”

“Good, ’cause I don’t give it. You may not revise your résumé.”

“I meant I’d need your permission to use your computer and printer, not to write the résumé. That I don’t need.”

“And you need it to use my printer? Why? I might complain about you using up the ribbon? Hell, I have a box of them.” He dropped into his chair and spun it to face me. “But, back to the original subject, you do not have my permission to revise your résumé. I expressly forbid it.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s great, but I do need a job—”

“You have one.”

“After you leave.”

“Not leaving.”

“What?”

“Is that disappointment I hear?” He bounced off the chair and scooted his rear onto the desk, looming over me. “Too bad, ’cause I’m not leaving. The university likes the research paper we’re working on, and they want me to finish it here, so they can slap their name on it. Plus Dr. Fromme wants me to keep teaching his fourth-year class. Meaning you’re stuck with me until the end of the term.”

“Damn.”

“Damn?”

“Well, see, there’s this other job. Better working conditions. Less demanding boss—”

“You’d better be kidding, because I just went through a helluva lot of work to make sure you kept your job.”

“Oh, so you did it for me.”

“Of course. You need a job.” He jumped off the desk and headed for the door. “So get back to work and earn your keep. I have to meet with Fromme. It might take a while, but I’ll be back by lunch, so wait for me.” He threw a grin over his shoulder. “You’re buying, too. A token of appreciation for your continued employment.”

He zipped out the door before I could answer. I sat there, smiling, then turned back to the keyboard.

At ten, I decided to go grab a coffee. I was pushing the office door when it flew open, nearly sending me into the wall.

“Thanks a helluva—” I began, then stopped, cheeks heating.

In the doorway stood, not Clay, but one of his students. A guy about my age with short dreadlocks and an easy grin.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Is Clay—Professor Danvers here? This is his office, right?” A glance over at the paper-littered desk and the grin returned. “Oh, yeah. This is definitely his office.”

“You must be in his fourth-year class,” I said. “I’m Elena, his TA.”

His brows arched. “TA?”

“Well, TA, receptionist, typist, research assistant. All-round girl Friday, pretty much.” I waved at the office. “Housekeeping not included.”

As he laughed, I unearthed a pen.

“Professor Danvers has office hours tomorrow, but you can leave a note for him, or I can pencil you in for an appointment.”

“Sure, you can pencil me in for an appointment, but will he keep the appointment? That is the question.”

I smiled. “Yes, he does keep them. I make sure of that. So can I schedule—?”

“Actually, I’m not a student. I’m a friend of his.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Clayton has friends. Shocking, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No?” He met my gaze, grinning. “Oh, come on. Admit it. Friends and Clay are not words that go together.”

“Okay, I was a little surprised. Not that I didn’t know he had friends. I just haven’t met any of them. And, now that you mention it, I’m going to hazard a guess that you’re Logan.”

The grin fell away. “Uh, yeah. He’s mentioned me?”

“Now you’re the one who sounds surprised.”

“I am. Not that I’m not perfectly mentionable, but Clay doesn’t usually talk about his personal life. Huh. Well—” He looked around. “So what kind of— Oh, wait, you were going somewhere when I rudely barged in, weren’t you?”

“Just to grab a coffee.”

“Perfect. I could use one…and I have no clue where to find it here. Mind if I tag along?”

“Sure. Or I could bring you back one—”

“I’ve just spent six hours in the car. Please don’t ask me to sit and wait.”

I smiled. “I won’t, then. Come on.”

After we got our coffees, Logan persuaded me to sit in the cafeteria. Normally, I would have pulled the “Gee, I’d love to, but I really have to get back to work” routine. I’m not antisocial, but neither do I go out of my way to have coffee with strangers. Yet Logan was one of those people with the gift for making you feel, almost from the first word, that you’ve known him for years. So we sat and talked, mostly about school. He was also in his third year, at Northwestern, which gave us plenty of common ground.

“You live on campus or off?” he asked halfway through our coffees.

“On. Though I’m hoping to change that next term.”

“Same here. And I bet I know the reason. DMFH, right?”

“Hmm?”

“DMFH. Dorm mate from hell. There’s gotta be a better acronym, but that’s the best I could come up with on the fly. So how bad’s yours?”

“Not too bad …”

“She has to be bad,” he said, “because that’s the rule.”

“The rule?”

“You’re a serious student, right? Obviously, if you’re a TA. You work your ass off because that’s what college is for—learning and getting a job, not an all-expense-paid party tour.”

“Sometimes I wish it was.”

“But it isn’t. Especially if you’re paying your own way. You are, I’ll bet. Otherwise, you sure as hell wouldn’t take a job with Clay.”

I smiled. “Yes, I’m paying my way.”

“Me, too. Well, someone’s helping me, but I have every intention of paying him back. Point is that we’ve paid for this education, and we’re damned well going to get the most out of it. So we’re guaranteed to get dorm mates who don’t give a shit, who stay up all night, expect us to get up quietly in the morning, blast music while we’re trying to study, give their friends the room key…. Happens to me every year.”

“Same here.”

“It can’t be by accident. I think it’s a baby-boomer conspiracy.”

I sputtered a laugh. “Baby boomers?”

“We’re studying to take their jobs, right? What better way to keep us out of the workforce than to make sure we have a rough time at college? They pair us up with the worst party animals and hope we fold.”

A flash of motion across the cafeteria caught my eye. I looked to see Clayton barreling toward us, eyes blazing, mouth set in a grim line.

“Looks like Clay got my note,” I said. “But I don’t think his meeting went very well.”

Logan glanced over and grimaced. “No, I do believe that scowl is intended for me.” He looked around. “Think it’s too late for a speedy escape?”

“’Fraid so.”

“Damn. Hold on, then. I’m about to get blasted.”