Syphilis. I took a slow step back toward Clay.

“Your ’andsome man can’t protect you, girl. Not with that mark you’re bearin’.”

“Mark?” I said.

“ ’Twas your blood that opened the portal.” She smiled. “Long as you’re alive, we can find you. Just follow the mark.”

“Yeah?” Clay said. “Works both ways, though, doesn’t it? You can only find her as long as you’re alive, which-” He wrapped his hands in her hair. “-isn’t going to be long.”

A quick wrench, and her neck snapped, then he leapt out of the way before her falling body touched him. She’d barely hit the gravel before she started to disintegrate.

“We done here?” Clay said.

Jeremy nodded. “We’re done.”

We’d left the car back near Cabbagetown. A bit of a hike, so we stopped partway for cold drinks, taking seats on the outside patio just as an employee had been about to close it down for the night.

“So she had syphilis,” I said. “And she’s been spreading it.”

“If she has, it was the guy’s fault for not wearing protection,” Clay said. “Anyone stupid enough to do that deserves syphilis or whatever else he gets.”

I gave him a look, but didn’t argue. It wasn’t worth it.

“But if someone does get syphilis-”

“Then it’s his own fault.” Clay’s gaze met mine. “Not yours, because your blood opened some portal and let her out. Wasn’t even your fault the portal opened. I hit the mosquito. You want to blame someone, blame me.”

“Even if someone does contract it, it’s treatable today with penicillin,” Jeremy said.

“She’s dead,” Clay said. “Threat eliminated. Now what about this mark business? That must be why that guy came after Elena yesterday. Not following the letter, but the mark.”

I nodded. “If they-whoever-want the letter back, the fastest way to find it is to find the person whose blood opened the portal. But that doesn’t matter now. Like you said, the zombies are dead and gone to dust. So what are we going to do with the letter?”

“You want to head back tonight?” Clay asked as we walked back to the car, lagging behind Jeremy. “Or find a hotel and take off after we’ve slept?”

“If you feel up to driving, tonight’s fine with me. I know you want to get home.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t sleep well in hotels, but you probably won’t sleep any better sitting up in the car. Your choice.”

I squeezed his hand. “Thanks. I am ready to go home, but maybe…” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d rather wait until morning, make sure everything’s back to normal.”

Jeremy slowed to let us catch up. “We should sleep first. We’ve had two late nights. Rest up, and then we’ll head home.”

Back at the hotel, Clay and I did what we did most nights before bed-when we weren’t going for a late-night run. We shared a drink and conversation, winding down for sleep. These days, the drink was more likely to be hot chocolate or herbal tea than brandy. Tonight it was tea, from the bags the hotel provided. Another deviation from the norm was that we were alone; Jeremy had retired as soon as we returned to the hotel.

So we were stretched out in bed, drinking our tea and eating cookies, trying not to scatter crumbs on the bedding.

“Well, I hate to admit it,” I said, “but I think I’ve had enough excitement to last me through the rest of this pregnancy.”

“Tired, huh?”

“Not really-” I bit back a yawn and laughed. “Okay, I guess I am. I’ve had my little burst of activity and now I’m ready to go home and hole up for the duration.” I smiled over at him. “Bet you’re glad to hear that.”

He handed me another cookie. “I am…but if you start going stir-crazy again? You let me know and we’ll do something. Get your mind off stuff with the baby.”

“Fretting about the baby, you mean. It drives me crazy. We spent three years of hashing it out. What if I have a girl? How would she feel, growing up with werewolves and not being one? Is that fair? Or what if it’s a boy and the genes don’t pass on? What if he does carry the genes-is that fair, putting that burden on our child? What if I can’t carry to term? What if-?” I growled and shook my head. “Every conceivable question debated and debated until we had all the answers.”

“Or thought we did.”

I gave myself a shake, turned around and slid under his arm, resting my head on his shoulder. “Time to stop talking and get some sleep. A few months from now, I’ll be dying for a quiet night like this.”

“We will. It’s a joint venture, remember? I just wish I could do my share now, take half the burden of this part, half the worrying.”

I snuggled into him and was asleep before he turned out the light.

Decision

WHEN WE WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, IT WASN’T MORNING at all, but early afternoon. That’s what happens after two nights of staying up until nearly dawn. While I was stretching and yawning, struggling to wake up, Clay pulled on clothes, went downstairs and got breakfast. Jeremy wasn’t in his room, but had left a note, so Clay wouldn’t worry. Yes, fifty-seven years old and he still couldn’t walk out the door without letting someone know where he was. Such is the life of a Pack Alpha.

We ate and talked while we got ready to leave. Showers and shaves could wait until Stonehaven.

“It’ll be nice to get back to my own bed,” I said, stretching out the kinks in my back. “Speaking of which, I want to start on the nursery. Should we use my bedroom? I hardly ever sleep in it.”

Clay shook his head and crammed half a croissant in his mouth, talking as he chewed. “Keep it. That’s your space. You need it.”

Five years ago, those words would have never left his mouth. Hell, he would have suggested turning my room into a nursery the moment we decided to try for a baby.

I tore off part of my blueberry muffin and handed it to him as I started dressing. “We’ll use the guest room then. It’s at the other end of the hall, but-”

“Jeremy suggested Malcolm’s room. It makes sense-right next to mine, closer to yours than the guest room…”

I sniff-tested yesterday’s shirt, then pulled it on. “Is Jeremy okay with that? Using his father’s room?”

“I think he wants us to.” He finger-combed his curls and gave the job a cursory mirror check. “Room’s been closed for twenty years. Time to make use of it. Open it up, clear out Malcolm’s shit, air out the…” He shrugged.

“Air out the ghosts?”

A light rap at the door. Clay opened it.

“Good morning, I see you’re-” Jeremy snatched the coffee from my hand. “That water hasn’t been boiled, has it?”

“Boiled?”

“There’s a problem with the drinking water. Likely the municipal supply.” He held out a newspaper. “Remember those nurses last night? Talking about an influx of stomach complaints?”

I glanced down at the headline. My gut went cold. “Contaminated city water? That can’t be. After Walkerton, Toronto ’s water supply is locked down tight.”

I’d done a series of articles on Walkerton, an Ontario town with a mismanaged water supply a few years ago. Seven people had died, and there’d been ongoing health problems. Since then, water safety had been a hot-button issue in the province.

“When they investigate, they’ll find it’s bottled water,” I said. “ Lot more Torontonians drink that anyway.”

“Perhaps,” Jeremy said. “But in the meantime-”

“We avoid all drinking water, tap or bottled. Got it. No big deal. We’re leaving this morning anyway.”

“Soon, but not just yet,” Jeremy said. “That woman who disappeared in Cabbagetown is still missing.”

“So?” Clay said. “Maybe she was disoriented after she came back, and wandered off. Or maybe she never went through the portal at all.”

“True, but a second resident has gone missing, in the same area. A man in his thirties, apparently out for a jog, which rules out dementia-induced wandering.”