Men of the Otherworld Read Free Page B

room. There was the girl, naked again, her torso covered with lines and circles. She wasn't lying on a bed, but crouched over a mat, as if she was trying to take a crap. The old woman—the grandmother— held the girl, giving her balance, while the black-haired woman lit a fire in a small dish. When whatever was in the dish began to smoke, she lifted it to the girl's nose.
    The girl filled her lungs with the smoke, then went still. Her face relaxed. Then she lifted her face to the ceiling, raised her hands, and began to chant. Even when a contraction rocked her thin frame, her expression didn't change. The words only came louder, harsher, more determined.
    Another contraction and she punched her fists into the air, her chant a near-howl. The lights flickered. Malcolm shook his head sharply, certain it was a trick of his vision, but then the lights flashed again, and again, dimming with each blink. The flames on the candles shifted, angling toward the girl as if she was suckingthe energy from them. Malcolm's gut went cold and he knew then, as he'd known deep down from the start, that these women were another supernatural race—some kind of magic-makers.
    There were others out there. Most werewolves admitted this. The Pack werewolves might keep to themselves, and feign ignorance of other supernatural races, but they knew. They knew.
    As for what these women could be, Malcolm had no idea. He had only the vaguest idea what else was out there, but he knew there were people who used magic—spells and rituals and potions. That must be what they were.
    An excited chirp from the old woman knocked Malcolm from his thoughts. Between the girl's legs, deep in her dark thatch, another dark thatch had appeared. The top of a baby's head.
His
baby's head. The girl slammed her hands down, her chant now a snarl, face tight and shiny with sweat. But she didn't cry out.
    Malcolm held his breath as he waited for the first wail. Dominic, who always managed to witness the birth of his children, claimed that you could foretell a child's strength by his first cry. The loudest of his three had been Antonio, who'd already beaten his brothers’ babyhood milestones, lifting his head sooner, sitting up sooner, crawling sooner, walking at not yet a year. So Malcolm braced for his child's first scream, and prayed it would surpass anything Dominic had heard from his.
    After one final heave, the baby fell into the waiting hands of the attendant. And it made not a peep.
    The child was dead. After all these months, all this hoping…
    And yet he couldn't help feeling almost relieved. Having a half-breed baby was one thing, but this was an interracial mixing he wanted no part of. A werewolf who could cast magic? It was wrong. It reminded him too much of his father, always poring over his books, always living in his head, always thinking. A werewolf acted through physical power and strength. Cunning,yes. Magic spells… ? That smacked of weakness. For all he knew, such a mix would mean this child couldn't even change forms. The humiliation of that would be too much to bear. Better to have no child at all.
    His gut told him it was better this way, and Malcolm always trusted his gut, so he stepped back—
    The baby kicked and made a noise, a little gurgle, almost a coo, as if to say “here I am” as quietly and politely as possible. The woman holding him laughed and said something to the baby's mother, who'd lain back on the mat to rest, unperturbed by her child's silence.
    As Malcolm tensed, his gaze traveled down the child's blood-streaked torso. Then he let out a whoosh of breath. It was a girl. Good, he could leave and forget all—
    The attendant lifted the child to show the mother. A tiny penis and scrotum fell from between its legs… and Malcolm's gut fell with it. There was still one last hope. Maybe the child wasn't his. As the woman wrapped the baby in a symbol-covered blanket, Malcolm closed his eyes and inhaled, and his stomach dropped to his