Men of the Otherworld Read Online Free PDF Page A

at her, but she seemed to expect this, and nimbly dove to the side and raced for the child. He wheeled and shoulder-slammed her out of the way, but she kept coming, clawing, kicking, fighting to get to the child, stopping only when he reached into the bassinet and grabbed up the tiny body.
    She went still. “Give me my son.”
    She held herself rigid, every muscle locked tight as if to keep from flying at him. Her eyes blazed and her lips were parted, teeth bared in a frozen snarl. She looked… magnificent, pulsing with fury and hate. A worthy mother for his son.
    Looking at her, he realized how badly he wanted a child, how it ate at him, how he dreamed about it. There was a part of him that didn't care about the mixed blood—of either kind. He just wanted a son.
    Malcolm ripped his gaze from hers. It was a trick, some magic, just like her grandmother had used on him, trying to bend him to her will, to break
his
will.
    He looked down at the child in his arms. The boy gazed back at him, bright-eyed and calm. Malcolm forced his hands to the child's throat. He had to do this. His gut told him it was right, that if he didn't kill the child, he would always regret his weakness.
    “Stop! He's your son!”
    “I'll have more. Your grandmother said so.”
    “My grandmother—?”
    “She foresaw it.”
    “Foresaw—?” The girl let out a bark of a laugh. “Is that what she told you? We have our gifts, but that is not one of them. No one can foresee the future, and that child you hold may well be the only one you'll ever see.”
    “Maybe I'm willing to take that chance.”
    He put his hand around the baby's throat. The girl flew at him. One brutal shove and she hit the wall hard enough that she should have stayed down. But she didn't. She pushed herself up, blood dribbling from her mouth, and came at him again. Her nails ripped furrows down his bare forearm. So he dropped the child. Just dropped him.
    The girl screamed and dove for the baby. She almost caught it, breaking its fall before he kicked her with all he had, square in the gut. She sailed backward into the wall, arms still outstretched toward the child, who tumbled the last foot onto the floor, rolling, still silent. When she hit the floor this time, she lay there only a moment, then started dragging herself toward her son, whimpering now. Her nails scraped the floor. Malcolm reached down to scoop up the baby.
    The front door swung open.
    “Malcolm!”
    He stopped, bent over the silent child, and looked over at his father. Edward's gaze was riveted to the girl.
    “Oh, my God. What have you done?” Edward's cane clattered to the floor, and he limped to the girl, then dropped down at her side. His hands went to the side of her neck. “Malcolm! Call Emilio. Now!”
    The girl's eyelids fluttered. She said a word and reached for the child. Edward gently laid her down and scrambled over to the baby. As he picked it up, the child kicked and swung his fists, but didn't make a sound. Edward hurried back to the girl and pressed the child to her.
    “Help is coming,” he said.
    “Don't—” Her tongue flicked over her bloodied lips. “Don't let him…”
    “He won't hurt the boy. Ever. You have my word on that.”
    “Take—” Her voice was ragged, eyes almost closed. “You. Take…”
    Edward squeezed the girl's hand. “I will.”
    The words had barely left his lips when she went limp. Edward's head fell forward. Then the baby whimpered and he looked up sharply. He slipped the child from his mother's arms and gathered him up in his own. Then he pushed to his feet.
    “Clean this up,” he said, his voice tight.
    Without a glance Malcolm's way, Edward limped to the door. Then he stopped, his back still to his son.
    “Get a blanket. It's cold outside. He needs a blanket.”
    He watched his father, cradling the baby, murmuring to it. He could see a sliver of Edward's profile. His expression made something wither inside Malcolm, an icy rage seeping in to take its