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"I didn't do it," Clay s
aid.
I motioned to the phone.
"Jeremy," he said. Getting medical advice, I presumed.
"What happened?" I asked Reese.
He glanced down at his towel-wrapped hand, as if startled to see it. His pupils were dilated and he blinked hard, having trouble focusing on his hand, still holding it up and staring. I glanced at Clay, but he'd turned his back to me as Jeremy gave instructions.
When I took Reese's hand, he didn't resist. His skin above the towel was clammy, despite the warm room. I slowly unraveled the towel until I saw his hand, and winced. Two finger joints of his ring finger and the last joint of his pinkie had been cut off.
"I didn't do it," Clay said.
"Feel the need to make that perfectly clear, do you?" I said.
He grunted and tossed the phone onto the bed.
"What happened?" I asked.
"No idea. I haven't gotten that far. Jeremy says we need to get him stitched up. We can get the details after."
CLAY RETRIEVED MY bag--with my first-aid kit--from the car. He had one in his luggage, too. Jeremy would sooner let us travel without clothing than forget emergency medical supplies.
I got Reese's hand cleaned, stitched and bandaged while Clay played nurse, taking away the dirty cloths and getting new ones. As for how he lost his fingers, Reese was staying mum. It seemed more shock than reticence, though, so Clay and I tried to distract him by discussing the latest injuries in our lives--our kids' fall.
"Logan wouldn't talk," I said. "But I finally got Kate to admit what happened, which was exactly what we thought."
"They jumped because they'd seen us doing it."
I explained to Reese. "Our kids have realized that our days don't end after they go to bed. We go for walks in the forest, we talk by the fire, the food comes out..."
"Especially the food," Clay said.
"Naturally they felt left out and kept getting up. Rather than turn bedtime into a battleground, we started going to bed at the same time, then sneaking downstairs or outside."
"Only they heard us if we went downstairs," Clay said.
"Being so young, they shouldn't have secondary powers. We aren't even sure they're werewolves--one or both or... it's complicated. Anyway, at this age, we don't know whether they have enhanced hearing or we're just louder than we think we are. But we thought we were safe, avoiding the stairs and jumping out our bedroom window. Apparently not."
"They tried it?" Reese said, his first words since I'd come in. "Are they okay?"
"One sprained ankle, one sprained wrist and one very guilt-stricken parent."
"Two," Clay said. "We're going to have to come up with another solution."
"Other than tying them to their beds?"
"That'll be option two."
I cut off the bandage. "I know, we should probably just clamp down--bedtime is bedtime--but I was thinking of a compromise. We'll let them stay up until eleven two nights and we'll go to bed early, and the rest of the week, they're down at the normal time. If they don't settle, then we get tough--no special late nights."
"That might work."
"I hope so. Or it'll be time to invest in bars for the windows."
I stood and stretched my legs. Reese had followed our conversation with equal parts interest and bewilderment, and now he just looked confused. He'd heard stories about us--any mutt who's been in the United States more than a month has. Tales of Clayton Danvers, child werewolf turned vicious psychopath, who at seventeen chopped up a trespassing mutt and passed out photos of it. Then he bit some poor girl in Toronto, made her his mate, imprisoned her with him at Stonehaven, forced her to bear his children, and dragged her along on his assignments as Pack enforcer, so she could--I don't know--wash his socks and serve him breakfast in bed, I guess.
