I grabbed my overnight bag and went upstairs to my old room, ignoring the fact that although supposedly no Ine knew I was coming, the bedroom was aired out, the window cracked open, fresh bedding on, and the covers turned back.
I took the cell phone from my bag and called Nicholas. With each unanswered ring, I felt a stab of disappointment. He was probably in bed already when the machine clicked In.
I thought of hanging up, calling back, and hoping the additional ringing would wake him. But I knew I was being selfish, wanting to talk to him to re-establish my link with the outside world. So I settled for leaving a brief message to let him know I'd arrived safely and that I'd call again before I left the next day.
The silence of the house woke me the next morning. I'd become accustomed to waking in the city, cursing at the sounds of traffic. When nothing conspired to get me up this morning, I bolted awake at ten, half expecting to see the world had ended. Then I realized I was at Stonehaven.
I can not say I was relieved.
I struggled up from the embroidered bed sheets and thick feather pillows and pushed back the curtains from my canopy bed. Waking up in my room at Stonehaven was like awakening into a Victorian romance nightmare.
The canopied bed alone was bad enough, something straight out of the Princess and the Pea, and it only got worse. A Hepplewhite cedar chest at the foot of my bed held wood-scented down comforters, just in case the two Egyptian cotton duvets on my bed weren't enough.
Layers of opulent lace billowed around the window, streaming over a satin-covered window seat. The walls were pale pink, adorned with watercolors of flowers and sunsets. Across the room was a huge carved oak vanity, with a floor-length gilt mirror and silver vanity set.
Even the top of the dresser was cluttered with Dresden figurines. Scarlett would have felt right at home.
The window seat was the reason Jeremy had picked this room for me, that and the cherry trees that had been blossoming just below the window. It had seemed appropriately pretty and feminine.
The truth is that Jeremy had known squat about women and expected me to go gaga over cherry blossoms and this had been the first of many mistakes.
In Jeremy's defense, he could not be expected to know any better. Women played the most insignificant of roles in the world of werewolves.
A werewolf's only reason for delving into the mind of a woman is to find the best way to get her in bed. Most of them can not even be bothered learning that.
If you are ten times stronger than the gorgeous redhead standing at the bar, why waste your money buying her a drink? At least, that is the mutt's point of view.
Pack werewolves have developed more finesse. If a werewolf wants to live in one place, he can not make a habit of raping a woman every time the urge strikes.
Pack werewolves even have mistresses and girlfriends, although they never form what humans would call close relationships. They certainly never marry. Nor do they let women raise their sons.
As I've said, only sons inherit the werewolf gene. So, while daughters were ignored, it was a law of the Pack that all male children must be taken from their mothers in infancy and all ties with the mother must be severed.
Jeremy couldn't be expected to know much about the opposite sex, having grown up in a world where mothers, sisters, and aunts were the only words in a dictionary. And there were no female werewolves except me of course.
When I'd been bitten, Jeremy had expected a docile childlike creature who would meekly accept her fate and be happy with a pretty room and nice clothes. If he'd foreseen the future, he might have tossed me out the door or even worse.
The person who bit me had betrayed me in the worst possible way. I had loved him, trusted him, and he'd turned me into a monster and then left me with Jeremy. To say I reacted badly is an understatement.
The bedroom arrangement didn't last. Within a week, Jeremy had to lock me in the cage. My Changes became as uncontrolled as my rages, and nothing Jeremy could say would make me listen.
I despised him. He was my captor, the only one around upon whom I could heap the blame for every torment, physical and emotional, I was undergoing.
If the cage was my hell, Jeremy was my Satan. Finally, I'd escaped. I'd hitched rides back to Toronto, trading in the only commodity I had, which is my body.
But within days of my arrival, I'd realized my assessment of the cage had been inaccurate. It was not hell, it was only a way station on the voyage.
Living unrestrained and being unable to control my Changes was the ninth circle of the inferno.
I started by killing animals to stay alive, rabbits, raccoons, dogs, and even rats. Before long I lost all illusion of control and sank into madness. Unable to reason, barely able to think. I'd been driven entirely by the needs of my stomach.
The rabbits and raccoons were not enough. I killed people. After the second one, Jeremy found me, took me home, and trained me. I never tried to escape again. I'd learned my lesson. There were worse things than Stonehaven.
After struggling out of bed, I trotted across the cold hardwood floor to the throw rug. The dresser and closet were stuffed with clothing I'd accumulated over the years.
I found jeans and a shirt and yanked them on. Too lazy to comb my hair, I raked my fingers through it and tied it into a loose braid.
Once semi-presentable I opened the bedroom door and glanced across the hall. As Clay's deep snores reverberated from his bedroom, some tension eased out of my shoulders. That was one problem I could avoid this morning.
I slipped out into the hall and past his closed door. With an uncanny abruptness, the snoring stopped. Cursing under my breath I hurried down the first few stairs.
Clay's door creaked open, followed by the padding of bare feet on hardwood. Don't stop, I warned myself, and don't turn around. Then I stopped and, of course, turned around.
He stood at the top of the stairs looking exhausted enough to tumble down them at the slightest touch. His close-cropped gold curls were an unruly mess, rumpled and plastered down by sweaty sleep.
Sandy's blond beard shadow covered his cheeks and square chin. His eyes were half-lidded, struggling to focus. He was dressed only in the white boxer shorts with black paw prints that I'd bought him as a joke during one of our better periods.