Kelley Armstrong - Otherworld 1 - Bitten

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Bitten

Women of the Otherworld—Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

To Jeff—For always believing I could

Prologue

I have to.

I've been fighting it all night. I'm going to lose. My battle is as futile as a woman feeling the first

pangs of labor and deciding it's an inconvenient time to give birth. Nature wins out. It always does.

It's nearly two a.m., too late for this foolishness and I need my sleep. Four nights spent cramming

to meet a deadline have left me exhausted. It doesn't matter. Patches of skin behind my knees and elbows

have been tingling and now begin to burn. My heart beats so fast I have to gulp air. I clench my eyes shut,

willing the sensations to stop but they don't.

Philip is sleeping beside me. He's another reason why I shouldn't leave, sneaking out in the middle

of the night again and returning with a torrent of lame excuses. He's working late tomorrow. If I can just

wait one more day. My temples begin to throb. The burning sensation in my skin spreads down my arms

and legs. The rage forms a tight ball in my gut and threatens to explode.

I've got to get out of here—I don't have a lot of time left.

Philip doesn't stir when I slip from the bed. There's a pile of clothing tucked underneath my dresser

so I won't risk the squeaks and groans of opening drawers and closets. I pick up my keys, clasping my fist

around them so they don't jangle, ease open the door, and creep into the hallway.

Everything's quiet. The lights seem dimmed, as if overpowered by the emptiness. When I push the

elevator button, it creaks out a complaint at being disturbed at so ungodly an hour. The first floor and lobby

are equally empty. People who can afford the rent this close to downtown Toronto are comfortably asleep

by this time.

My legs itch as well as hurt and I curl my toes to see if the itching stops. It doesn't. I look down at

the car keys in my hand. It's too late to drive to a safe place—the itching has crystallized into a sharp burn.

Keys in my pocket, I stride onto the streets, looking for a quiet place to Change. As I walk, I monitor the

sensation in my legs, tracing its passage to my arms and the back of my neck. Soon. Soon. When my scalp

starts to tingle, I know I have walked as far as I can so I search for an alley. The first one I find has been

claimed by two men squeezed together inside a tattered big-screen TV box. The next alley is empty. I hurry

to the end and undress quickly behind a barricade of trash bins, hide the clothes under an old newspaper.

Then I start the Change.

My skin stretches. The sensation deepens and I try to block the pain. Pain. What a trivial

word—agony is better. One doesn't call the sensation of being flayed alive "painful." I inhale deeply and

focus my attention on the Change, dropping to the ground before I'm doubled over and forced down. It's

never easy—perhaps I'm still too human. In the struggle to keep my thoughts straight, I try to anticipate

each phase and move my body into position—head down, on all fours, arms and legs straight, feet and

hands flexed, and back arched. My leg muscles knot and convulse. I gasp and strain to relax. Sweat breaks

out, pouring off me in streams, but the muscles finally relent and untwist themselves. Next comes the ten

seconds of hell that used to make me swear I'd rather die than endure this again. Then it's over.

Changed.

I stretch and blink. When I look around, the world has mutated to an array of colors unknown to the

human eye, blacks and browns and grays with subtle shadings that my brain still converts to blues and

greens and reds. I lift my nose and inhale. With the Change, my already keen senses sharpen even more. I

pick up scents of fresh asphalt and rotting tomatoes and window-pot mums and day-old sweat and a million

other things, mixing together in an odor so overwhelming I cough and shake my head. As I turn, I catch

distorted fragments of my reflection in a dented trash can. My eyes stare back at me. I curl my lips back

and snarl at myself. White fangs flash in the metal.

I am a wolf, a 130-pound wolf with pale blond fur. The only part of me that remains are my eyes,

sparking with a cold intelligence and a simmering ferocity that could never be mistaken for anything but

human.

I look around, inhaling the scents of the city again. I'm nervous here. It's too close, too confined; it

reeks of human spoor. I must be careful. If I'm seen, I'll be mistaken for a dog, a large mixed breed,

perhaps a husky and yellow Labrador mix. But even a dog my size is cause for alarm when it's running

loose. I head for the back of the laneway and seek a path through the underbelly of the city.

My brain is dulled, disoriented not by my change of form but by the unnaturalness of my

surroundings. I can't get my bearings and the first alley I go down turns out to be the one I'd encountered in

human form, the one with the two men in the faded Sony box. One of them is awake now. He's tugging the

remnants of a filth-encrusted blanket between his fingers as if he can stretch it large enough to cover

himself against the cold October night. He looks up and sees me. His eyes widen. He starts to shrink back,

then stops himself. He says something. His voice is crooning, the musical, exaggerated tones people use

with infants and animals. If I concentrated, I could make out the words, but there's no point. I know what

he's saying, some variation of "nice doggy," repeated over and over in a variety of inflections. His hands are

outstretched, palms out to ward me off, the physical language contradicting the vocal. Stay back—nice

doggy—stay back. And people wonder why animals don't understand them.

I can smell the neglect and waste rising from his body. It smells like weakness, like an aged deer

driven to the fringe of the herd, prime pickings for predators. If I were hungry, he'd smell like dinner.

Fortunately, I'm not hungry yet, so I don't have to deal with the temptation, the conflict, the revulsion. I

snort, condensation trumpeting from my nostrils, then turn and lope back up the alley.

Ahead is a Vietnamese restaurant. The smell of food is embedded in the very wood frame of the

building. On a rear addition, an exhaust fan turns slowly, clicking with each revolution as one blade catches

the metal screen casing. Below the fan a window is open. Faded sunflower-print curtains billow out in the

night breeze. I can hear people inside, a room full of people, grunting and whistling in sleep. I want to see

them. I want to stick my muzzle in the open window and look inside. A werewolf can have a lot of fun with

a roomful of unprotected people.

I start to creep forward but a sudden crackle and hiss stops me. The hiss softens, then is drowned

out by a man's voice, sharp, his words snapped off like icicles. I turn my head each way, radar searching

for the source. He's farther down the street. I abandon the restaurant and go to him. We are curious by

nature.

He's standing in a three-car parking lot wedged at the end of a narrow passage between buildings.

He holds a walkie-talkie to his ear and leans one elbow against a brick wall, casual but not resting. His

shoulders are relaxed. His gaze goes nowhere. He is confident in his place, that he has a right to be here

and little to fear from the night. The gun dangling from his belt probably helps. He stops talking, jabs a

button, and slams the walkie-talkie into its holster. His eyes scan the parking lot once, taking inventory and

seeing nothing requiring his attention. Then he heads deeper into the alley maze. This could be amusing. I

follow.

My nails click against the pavement. He doesn't notice. I pick up speed, darting around trash bags

and empty boxes. Finally, I'm close enough. He hears the steady clicking behind him and stops. I duck

behind a Dumpster, peer around the corner. He turns and squints into the darkness. After a second he

starts forward. I let him get a few steps away, then resume the pursuit. This time when he stops, I wait one

extra second before diving for cover. He lets out a muffled oath. He's seen something—a flash of motion, a

shadow flickering, something. His right hand slips to his gun, caressing the metal, then pulling back, as if the

reassurance is enough. He hesitates, then looks up and down the alley, realizing he is alone and uncertain

what to do about it. He mutters something, then continues walking, quicker this time.

As he walks, his eyes flick from side to side, wariness treading the border of alarm. I inhale deeply,

picking up only wisps of fear, enough to make my heart pound, but not enough to send my brain spinning out

of control. He's safe quarry for a stalking game. He won't run. I can suppress most of my instincts. I can

stalk him without killing him. I can suffer the first pangs of hunger without killing him. I can watch him pull

his gun without killing him. Yet if he runs, I won't be able to stop myself. That's a temptation I can't fight. If

he runs, I will chase. If I chase, either he'll kill me or I'll kill him.

As he turns the corner down a connecting alley, he relaxes. All has been silent behind him. I creep

from my hiding place, shifting my weight to the back of my foot pads to muffle the sound of my nails. Soon

I am only a few feet behind him. I can smell his aftershave, almost masking the natural scent of a long

day's work. I can see his white socks appearing and disappearing between his shoes and pant legs. I can

hear his breathing, the slight elevation in tempo betraying the fact that he's walking faster than usual. I ease

forward, corning close enough that I could lunge if I want to and knock him to the ground before he even

thought to reach for his gun. His head jerks up. He knows I'm there. He knows something is there. I

wonder if he will turn. Does he dare to look, to face something he can't see or hear, but can only sense?

His hand slides to his gun, but he doesn't turn. He walks faster. Then he swings back to the safety of the

street.

I follow him to the end and observe from the darkness. He strides forward, keys in hand, to a

parked cruiser, unlocks it, and hops inside. The car roars and squeals from the curb. I watch the receding

taillights and sigh. Game over. I won.

That was nice but it wasn't nearly enough to satisfy me. These city back-streets are too confining.

My heart is thudding with unspent excitement. My legs are aching with built-up energy. I must run.

A wind gusts from the south, bringing the sharp tang of Lake Ontario with it. I think of heading to

the beach, imagine running along the stretch of sand, feeling the icy water slapping against my paws, but it's

not safe. If I want to run, I must go to the ravine. It's a long way, but I have little choice unless I plan to

skulk around human-smelling alleyways for the rest of the night. I swing to the northwest and begin the

journey.

Nearly a half hour later, I'm standing at the crest of a hill. My nose twitches, picking up the vestiges

of an illegal leaf fire smoldering in a nearby yard. The wind bristles through my fur, chill, nearly cold,

invigorating. Above me, traffic thunders across the overpass. Below is sanctuary, a perfect oasis in the

middle of the city. I leap forward, throwing myself off. At last I'm running.

My legs pick up the rhythm before I'm halfway down the ravine. I close my eyes for a second and

feel the wind slice across my muzzle. As my paws thump against the hard earth, tiny darts of pain shoot up

my legs, but they make me feel alive, like jolting awake after an overlong sleep. The muscles contract and

extend in perfect harmony. With each stretch comes an ache and a burst of physical joy. My body is

thanking me for the exercise, rewarding me with jolts of near-narcotic adrenaline. The more I run, the

lighter I feel, the pain falling free as if my paws are no longer striking the ground. Even as I race along the

bottom of the ravine, I feel like I'm still running downhill, gaining energy instead of expending it. I want to

run until all the tension in my body flies away, leaving nothing but the sensations of the moment. I couldn't

stop if I wanted to. And I don't want to.

Dead leaves crackle under my paws. Somewhere in the forest an owl hoots softly. It has finished

its hunting and rests contented, not caring who knows it's around. A rabbit bolts out of a thicket and

halfway across my path, then realizes its mistake and zooms back into the undergrowth. I keep running. My

heart pounds. Against my rising body heat, the air feels ice-cold, stinging as it storms through my nostrils

and into my lungs. I inhale, savoring the shock of it hitting my insides. I'm running too fast to smell anything.

Bits of scents flutter through my brain in a jumbled montage that smells of freedom. Unable to resist, I

finally skid to a halt, throw my head back, and howl. The music pours up from my chest in a tangible

evocation of pure joy. It echoes through the ravine and soars to the moonless sky, letting them all know I'm

here. I own this place! When I'm done, I drop my head, panting with exertion. I'm standing there, staring

down into a scattering of yellow and red maple leaves, when a sound pierces my self-absorption. It's a

growl, a soft, menacing growl. There's a pretender to my throne.

I look up to see a brownish yellow dog standing a few meters away. No, not a dog. My brain takes

a second, but it finally recognizes the animal. A coyote. The recognition takes a second because it's

unexpected. I've heard there are coyotes in the city, but have never encountered one. The coyote is equally

confused. Animals don't know what to make of me. They smell human, but see wolf and, just when they

decide their nose is tricking them, they look into my eyes and see human. When I encounter dogs, they

either attack or turn tail and run. The coyote does neither. It lifts its muzzle and sniffs the air, then bristles

and pulls its lips back in a drawn-out growl. It's half my size, scarcely worth my notice. I let it know this

with a lazy "get lost" growl and a shake of my head. The coyote doesn't move. I stare at it. The coyote

breaks the gaze-lock first.

I snort, toss my head again, and slowly turn away. I'm halfway turned when a flash of brown fur

leaps at my shoulder. Diving to the side, I roll out of the way, then scramble to my feet. The coyote snarls. I

give a serious growl, a canine "now you're pissing me off." The coyote stands its ground. It wants a fight.

Good.

My fur rises on end, my tail bushing out behind me. I lower my head between my shoulder bones

and lay my ears flat. My lips pull back and I feel the snarl tickling up through my throat then reverberating

into the night. The coyote doesn't back down. I crouch and I'm about to lunge when something hits me hard

in the shoulder, throwing me off balance. I stumble, then twist to face my attacker. A second coyote,

gray-brown, hangs from my shoulder, fangs sunk to the bone. With a roar of rage and pain, I buck up and

throw my weight to the side.

As the second coyote flies free, the first launches itself at my face. Ducking my head, I catch it in

the throat, but my teeth clamp down on fur instead of flesh and it squirms away. It tries to back off for a

second lunge, but I leap at it, backing it into a tree. It rears up, trying to get out of my way. I slash for its

throat. This time I get my grip. Blood spurts in my mouth, salty and thick. The coyote's mate lands on my

back. My legs buckle. Teeth sink into the loose skin beneath my skull. Fresh pain arcs through me.

Concentrating hard, I keep my grip on the first coyote's throat. I steady myself, then release it for a split

second, just long enough to make the fatal slash and tear. As I pull back, blood sprays into my eyes, blinding

me. I swing my head hard, ripping out the coyotes throat. Once I feel it go limp, I toss it aside, then throw

myself on the ground and roll over. The coyote on my back yips in surprise and releases its hold. I jump up

and turn in the same motion, ready to take this other animal out of the game, but it scrambles up and dives

into the brush. With a flash of wire-brush tail, it's gone. I look at the dead coyote. Blood streams from its

throat, eagerly lapped up by the dry earth below. A tremor runs through me, like the final shudder of sated

lust. I close my eyes and shiver. Not my fault. They attacked me first. The ravine has gone quiet, echoing

the calm that floods through me. Not so much as a cricket chirps. The world is dark and silent and

sleeping.

I try to examine and clean my wounds, but they are out of reach. I stretch and assess the pain.

Two deep cuts, both bleeding only enough to mat my fur. I'll live. I turn and start the trip out of the ravine.

***

In the alley I Change then yank my clothes on and scurry to the sidewalk like a junkie caught

shooting up in the shadows. Frustration fills me. It shouldn't end like this, dirty and furtive, amidst the

garbage and filth of the city. It should end in a clearing in the forest, clothes abandoned in some thicket,

stretched out naked, feeling the coolness of the earth beneath me and the night breeze tickling my bare skin.

I should be falling asleep in the grass, exhausted beyond all thought, with only the miasma of contentedness

floating through my mind. And I shouldn't be alone. In my mind, I can see the others, lying around me in the

grass. I can hear the familiar snores, the occasional whisper and laugh. I can feel warm skin against mine, a

bare foot hooked over my calf, twitching in a dream of running. I can smell them: their sweat, their breath,

mingling with the scent of blood, smears from a deer killed in the chase. The image shatters and I am

staring into a shop window, seeing nothing but myself reflected back. My chest tightens in a loneliness so

deep and so complete I can't breathe.

I turn quickly and lash out at the nearest object. A street lamp quavers and rings with the blow.

Pain sears down my arm. Welcome to reality—changing in alleyways and creeping back to my apartment.

I am cursed to live between worlds. On the one side there is normalcy. On the other, there is a place where

I can be what I am with no fear of reprisals, where I can commit murder itself and scarcely raise the

eyebrows of those around me, where I am even encouraged to do so to protect the sanctity of that world.

But I left and I can't return. I won't return.

As I walk to the apartment, my anger blisters the pavement with every step. A woman curled up

under a pile of dirty blankets peers out as I pass and instinctively shrinks back into her nest. As I round the

corner, two men step out and size up my prospects as prey. I resist the urge to snarl at them, but just

barely. I walk faster and they seem to decide I'm not worth chasing.

I shouldn't be here. I should be home in bed, not prowling downtown Toronto at four a.m. A normal

woman wouldn't be here. It's yet another reminder that I'm not normal. Not normal. I look down the

darkened street and I can read a billet on a telephone post fifty feet off. Not normal. I catch a whiff of

fresh bread from a bakery starting production miles away. Not normal. I stop by a storefront, grab a bar

over the windows, and flex my biceps. The metal groans in my hand. Not normal. Not normal. I chant the

words in my head, flagellating myself with them. The anger only grows.

Outside my apartment door, I stop and inhale deeply. I mustn't wake Philip. And if I do, I mustn't

let him see me like this. I don't need a mirror to know what I look like: skin taut, color high, eyes

incandescent with the rage that always seems to follow a Change now. Definitely not normal.

When I finally enter the apartment, I hear his measured breathing from the bedroom. Still asleep.

I'm nearly to the bathroom when his breathing catches.

"Elena?" His voice is a sleep-stuffed croak.

"Just going to the washroom."

I try to slip past the doorway, but he's sitting up, peering nearsightedly at me. He frowns.

"Fully dressed?" he says.

"I went out."

A moment of silence. He runs a hand through his dark hair and sighs. "It's not safe. Damn it, Elena.

We've discussed this. Wake me up and I'll go with you."

"I need to be alone. To think."

"It's not safe."

"I know. I'm sorry."

I creep into the bathroom, spending longer than necessary. I pretend to use the toilet, wash my

hands with enough water to fill a Jacuzzi, then find a fingernail that needs elaborate filing attention. When I

finally decide Philip has fallen back asleep, I head for the bedroom. The bedside lamp is on. He's propped

on his pillow, glasses in place. I hesitate in the doorway. I can't bring myself to cross the threshold, to go

and crawl into bed with him. I hate myself for it, but I can't do it. The memory of the night lingers and I feel

out of place here.

When I don't move, Philip shifts his legs over the side of the bed and sits up.

"I didn't mean to snap," he says. "I worry. I know you need your freedom and I'm trying—"

He stops and rubs his hand across his mouth. His words slice through me. I know he doesn't mean

them as a reprimand, but they are a reminder that I'm screwing this up, that I'm fortunate to have found

someone as patient and understanding as Philip, but I'm wearing through that patience at breakneck speed

and all I seem capable of doing is standing back and waiting for the final crash.

"I know you need your freedom," he says again. "But there has to be some other way. Maybe you

could go out in the morning, early. If you prefer night, we could drive down to the lake. You could walk

around. I could sit in the car and keep an eye on you. Maybe I could walk with you. Stay twenty paces

behind or something." He manages a wry smile. "Or maybe not. I'd probably get picked up by the cops, the

middle-aged guy stalking the beautiful young blonde."

He pauses, then leans forward. "That's your cue, Elena. You're supposed to remind me that

forty-one is far from middle-aged."

"We'll work something out," I say.

We can't, of course. I have to run under the cover of night and I have to do it alone. There is no

compromise.

As he sits on the edge of the bed, watching me, I know we're doomed. My only hope is to make

this relationship so otherwise perfect that Philip might come to overlook our one insurmountable problem.

To do that, my first step should be to go to him, crawl in bed, kiss him and tell him I love him. But I can't.

Not tonight. Tonight I'm something else, something he doesn't know and couldn't understand. I don't want to

go to him like this.

"I'm not tired," I say. "I might as well stay up. Do you want breakfast?"

He looks at me. Something in his expression falters and I know I've failed—again. But he doesn't

say anything. He pulls his smile back in place. "Let's go out. Someplace in this city has to be open this early.

We'll drive around until we find it. Drink five cups of coffee and watch the sun come up. Okay?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"Shower first?" he says. "Or flip for it?"

"You go ahead."

He kisses my cheek as he passes. I wait until I hear the shower running, then head for the kitchen.

Sometimes I get so hungry.

Human

I stood at the door before ringing the bell. It was Mothers Day and I was standing at a door holding

a present, which would have been quite normal if it was a present for my mother. But my mother was long

dead and I didn't keep in touch with any of my foster mothers, let alone bring them gifts. The present was

for Philip's mother. Again, this would have been very normal if Philip had been there with me. He wasn't.

He'd called from his office an hour ago to say he couldn't get away. Did I want to go alone? Or would I

rather wait for him? I'd opted to go and now stood there wondering if that was the right decision. Did a

woman visit her boyfriend's mother on Mother's Day without said boyfriend? Maybe I was trying too hard.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Human rules confounded me. It wasn't as if I'd been raised in a cave. Before I became a

werewolf, I'd already learned the basic mechanics: how to hail a taxi, operate an elevator, apply for a bank

account, all the minutiae of human life. The problem came with human interactions. My childhood had been

pretty screwed up. Then, when I'd been on the cusp of becoming an adult, I'd been bitten and spent the

next nine years of my life with other werewolves. Even during those years, I hadn't been locked away from

the human world. I'd gone back to university, traveled with the others, even taken on jobs. But they'd

always been there, for support and protection and companionship. I hadn't needed to make it on my own. I

hadn't needed to make friends or take lovers or go to lunch with coworkers. So, I hadn't. Last year, when I

broke with the others and came back to Toronto alone, I thought fitting in would be the least of my

concerns. How tough could it be? I'd just take the basics I'd learned from childhood, mix in the adult

conversational skills I'd learned with the others, toss in a dash of caution and voilà, I'd be making friends

and chatting up new acquaintances in no time. Hah!

Was it too late to leave? I didn't want to leave. Taking a deep breath, I rang the doorbell. Moments

later, a flurry of footsteps erupted inside. Then a round-faced woman with graying brown hair answered.

"Elena!" Diane said, throwing the door open. "Mom, Elena's here. Is Philip parking the car? I can't

believe how packed the street is. Everyone out visiting."

"Actually, Philip's not—uh—with me. He had to work, but he'll be along soon."

"Working? On a Sunday? Have a talk with him, girl." Diane braced the door open. "Come in, come

in. Everyone's here."

Philip's mother, Anne, appeared from behind his sister. She was tiny, not even reaching my chin,

with a sleek iron gray pageboy.

"Still ringing the doorbell, dear?" she said, reaching up to hug me. "Only salesmen ring the bell.

Family walks right in."

"Philip will be late," Diane said. "He's working."

Anne made a noise in her throat and ushered me inside. Philips father, Larry, was in the kitchen

pilfering pastries from a tray.

"Those are for dessert, Dad," Anne said, shooing him away.

Larry greeted me with a one-armed hug, the other hand still clutching a brownie. "So where's—"

"Late," Diane said. "Working. Come into the living room, Elena. Mom invited the neighbors, Sally

and Juan, for lunch." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Their kids are all out West." She pushed open the

French doors. "Before you got here, Mom was showing them your last few articles in Focus Toronto."

"Uh-oh. Is that good or bad?"

"Don't worry. They're staunch Liberals. They loved your stuff. Oh, here we are. Sally, Juan, this is

Elena Michaels, Philip's girlfriend."

***

Philip's girlfriend. That always sounded odd, not because I objected to being called a "girlfriend"

instead of "partner" or anything as ridiculously politically correct. It struck me because it'd been years since

I'd been anyone's girlfriend. I didn't do relationships. For me, if it lasted the weekend, it was getting too

serious. My one and only lengthy relationship had been a disaster. More than a disaster. Catastrophic.

Philip was different.

I'd met Philip a few weeks after I'd moved back to Toronto. He'd been living in an apartment a few

blocks away. Since our buildings shared a property manager, tenants in his complex had access to the

health club in mine. He'd come to the pool one day after midnight and, finding me alone swimming laps, he'd

asked if I minded if he did some, as if I had the right to kick him out. Over the next month, we'd often found

ourselves alone in the health club late at night. Each time, he'd checked to make sure I was comfortable

being alone there with him. Finally, I'd said that the reason I was working out in the health club was to

ensure I didn't need to worry about being attacked by strange men and I'd be defeating the whole purpose if

I was nervous about having him there. That had made him laugh and he'd lingered after his workout and

bought me a juice from the vending machine. Once the post-workout juice break became a habit, he

worked his way up the meal chain with invitations to coffee, then lunch, then dinner. By the time we got

around to breakfast, it was nearly six months from the day we'd met in the pool. That might have been part

of the reason I let myself fall for him, flattered that anyone would put that amount of time and effort into

getting to know me. Philip wooed me with all the patience of someone trying to coax a half-wild animal into

the house and, like many a stray, I found myself domesticated before I thought to resist.

All had gone well until he'd suggested we move in together. I should have said no. But I hadn't.

Part of me couldn't resist the challenge of seeing whether I could pull it off. Another part of me had been

afraid of losing him if I refused. The first month had been a disaster. Then, just when I'd been sure the

bubble was ready to burst, the pressure eased. I forced myself to postpone my Changes longer, allowing me

to run when Philip was away on overnight business trips or working late. Of course, I can't take all the

credit for saving the relationship. Hell, I'd be pushing it if I took half. Even after we moved in together,

Philip was as patient as he'd been when we were dating. When I did something that would raise most

human eyebrows, Philip brushed it off with a joke. When I was overwhelmed by the stress of fitting in, he

took me to dinner or a show, getting my mind off my problems, letting me know he was there if I wanted to

talk, and understanding if I didn't. At first I thought it was too good to be true. Every day I'd come home

from work, pause outside the apartment door, and brace myself to open it and find him gone. But he didn't

leave. A few weeks ago he'd begun talking about finding us a bigger place when my lease was up, even

hinting that a condo might be a wise investment. A condo. Wow. That was almost semipermanent, wasn't

it? A week later and I was still in shock—but it was a good sort of shock.

***

It was mid-afternoon. The neighbors were gone. Diane's husband, Ken, had left early to take their

youngest to work. Philip's other sister, Judith, lived in the U.K. and had to settle for a Mother's Day phone

call, phoning after lunch and speaking to everyone, including me. Like all of Philip's family, she treated me

as if I were a sister-in-law instead of her brother's girlfriend-of-the-hour. They were all so friendly, so

ready to accept me that I had a hard time believing they weren't just being polite. It was possible they really

did like me but, having had rotten luck with families, I was reluctant to believe it. I wanted it too much.

As we were washing dishes, the telephone rang. Anne answered it in the living room. A few

minutes later, she came and got me. It was Philip.

"I am so sorry, hon," he said when I answered. "Is Mom mad?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. I promised to take her to dinner another time to make up for it."

"So are you coming over?"

He sighed. "I'm not going to make it. Diane'll give you a ride home."

"Oh, that's not necessary. I can take a cab or the—"

"Too late," he said. "I already told Mom to ask Diane. They won't let you out of that house without

an escort now." He paused. "I really didn't mean to abandon you. Are you surviving?"

"Very well. Everyone's great, as always."

"Good. I'll be home by seven. Don't make anything. I'll pick up. Caribbean?"

"You hate Caribbean."

"I'm doing penance. See you at seven, then. Love you."

He hung up before I could argue.

***

"You should have seen the dresses," Diane was saying as she drove to my apartment. "God-awful.

Like bags with armholes. Designers must figure by the time women need a mother-of-the-bride dress they

don't give a damn what they look like. I found this one gorgeous navy number, probably meant for the

father-of-the-bride's new young wife, but the middle was tight. I thought about crash dieting to fit, but I

won't do it. It's a matter of principle. I've had three kids, I earned this belly."

"There's got to be better stuff out there," I said. "Have you tried the non-bridal shops?"

"That's my next step. I was actually leading up to asking if you'd come with me. Most of my friends

think bags with armholes are great. Middle-age camouflage. Then there's my daughters, who won't look at

anything that doesn't show off their belly-rings. Would you mind? I'll throw in a free lunch. A three-martini

lunch."

I laughed. "After three martinis, any dress will look good."

Diane grinned. "My plan exactly. Is that a yes?"

"Sure."

"Great. I'll give you a call and we'll set it up."

She drove into the roundabout in front of my apartment. I opened the door, then remembered my

manners.

"Would you like to come up for a coffee?"

I was sure she'd offer some polite refusal, but instead she said, "Sure. Another hour of peace

before reentering the trenches. Plus a chance to give my little brother proper hell for tossing you to the

sharks today."

I laughed and directed her to visitor parking.

Summons

Maybe I've given the wrong impression by making such a big deal out of my quest to live in the

human world, as if all werewolves cut themselves off from human life. They don't. By necessity, most

werewolves live in the human world. Short of teaming up and creating a commune in New Mexico, they

don't have much choice. The human world provides them with food, shelter, sex, and other necessities. Yet,

although they may live in that world, they don't consider themselves part of it. They view human interaction

as a necessary evil, with attitudes ranging from contempt to barely concealed amusement. They are actors

playing a role, sometimes enjoying their turn on the stage, but usually relieved to get off it. I didn't want to

be like that. I wanted to live in the human world and, as much as possible, be myself doing it. I didn't choose

this life and I damn well wasn't about to give in to it, surrendering every dream of my future, ordinary,

mediocre dreams of a home, a family, a career, and above all, stability. None of that was possible living as a

werewolf.

I grew up in foster homes. Bad foster homes. Not having had a family as a child, I became

determined to create one for myself. Becoming a werewolf pretty much knocked those plans into the

dumper. Still, even if a husband and children were out of the question, that didn't mean I couldn't pursue

some part of that dream. I was making a career for myself in journalism. I was making a home in Toronto.

And I was making a family, albeit not the traditional family, with Philip. We'd been together long enough

that I'd begun to believe some stability in my life was possible. I couldn't believe my luck in finding someone

as normal and decent as Philip. I knew what I was. I was difficult, temperamental, argumentative, not the

sort of woman someone like Philip would fall for. Of course, I wasn't like that around Philip. I kept that part

of me—the werewolf part—hidden, hoping I'd eventually slough it off like dead skin. With Philip, I had the

chance to reinvent myself, to become the kind of person he thought I was. Which, of course, was exactly

the kind of person I wanted to be.

The Pack didn't understand why I chose to live among humans. They couldn't understand because

they weren't like me. First, I wasn't born a werewolf. Most werewolves are, or at least they're born

carrying the blood in their veins and will experience their first Change when they reach adulthood. The

other way to become a werewolf is to be bitten by one. Very few people survive a werewolf's bite.

Werewolves are neither stupid nor altruistic. If they bite, they intend to kill. If they bite and fail to kill, they'll

stalk their victim and finish the job. It's a simple matter of survival. If you're a werewolf who has

comfortably assimilated into a town or city, the last thing you want is some half-crazed new werewolf

lurching around your territory, slaughtering people and calling attention to himself. Even if someone is bitten

and escapes, the chances of surviving are minimal. The first few Changes are hell, on the body and the

sanity. Hereditary werewolves grow up knowing their lot in life and having their fathers to guide them.

Bitten werewolves are on their own. If they don't die from the physical stress, the mental stress drives them

either to kill themselves or raise a big enough ruckus that another werewolf finds them and ends their

suffering before they cause trouble. So there aren't many bitten werewolves running around. At last count,

there were approximately thirty-five werewolves in the world. Exactly three were non-hereditary, including

me.

Me. The only female werewolf in existence. The werewolf gene is passed only through the male

line, father to son, so the only way for a woman to become a werewolf is to be bitten and survive, which, as

I've said, is rare. Given the odds, it's not surprising I'm the only female. Bitten on purpose, turned into a

werewolf on purpose. Amazing, really, that I survived. After all, when you've got a species with three

dozen males and one female, that one female becomes something of a prize. And werewolves do not settle

their battles over a nice game of chess. Nor do they have a history of respect for women. Women serve

two functions in the werewolf world: sex and dinner, or if they're feeling lazy, sex followed by dinner.

Although I doubt any werewolf would dine on me, I'm an irresistible object for satisfying the other primal

urge. Left on my own, I wouldn't have survived. Fortunately, I wasn't left on my own. Since I'd been bitten,

I'd been under the protection of the Pack. Every society has its ruling class. In the werewolf world, it was

the Pack. For reasons that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the status of the werewolf

who'd bitten me, I'd been part of the Pack from the time I was turned. A year ago I'd left. I'd cut myself

off and I wasn't going back. Given the choice between human and werewolf, I'd chosen to be human.

***

Philip had to work late the next day. Tuesday evening, I was waiting for his "I'll be late" phone call

when he walked into the apartment carrying dinner.

"Hope you're hungry," he said, swinging a bag of Indian takeout onto the table.

I was, though I'd grabbed two sausages from a vendor on the way home from work. The predinner

meal had taken the edge off, so a normal dinner would now suffice. Yet another of the million tricks I'd

learned to accommodate to human life.

Philip chatted about work as he took the cartons from the bag and set the table. I graciously shifted

my papers to the side to let him lay out my place setting. I can be so helpful sometimes. Even after the food

was on my plate, I managed to resist eating while I jotted down the final line of the article I was working

on. Then I pushed the pad of paper aside and dug in.

"Mom called me at work," Philip said. "She forgot to ask on Sunday whether you could help her

plan Becky's wedding shower."

"Really?"

I heard the delight in my voice and wondered at it. Throwing a shower wasn't exactly cause for

high excitement. Still, no one had ever asked me to help at one before. Hell, no one had even invited me to

one, excluding Sarah from work, but she'd invited all her coworkers.

Philip smiled. "I take it that's a yes. Good. Mom will be happy. She loves that kind of stuff, all the

fussing around and planning."

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[BookJacketandcovertext][VersionHistory]BittenWomenoftheOtherworld—Book1byKelleyArmstrongToJeff—ForalwaysbelievingIcouldPrologueIhaveto.I'vebeenfightingitallnight.I'mgoingtolose.Mybattleisasfutileasawomanfeelingthefirstpangsoflaboranddecidingit'saninconvenienttimetogivebirth.Naturewinsout.Italwaysdo...

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