Myka did not want to leave him alone in here with Jillian.
But Jillian had hours to live, not days, the cancer taking away the last of what she had been.
Myka made herself turn around and leave, walking rapidly down the corridor to the little room where Jillian’s mom Sharon waited, surrounded by vending machines, a television that blared a news channel, and other tense people who’d come to see their families.
Sharon got rapidly to her feet and followed Myka out. “Damn, I need a cigarette. Jillian kicked me out when you called from the parking lot, but I couldn’t go outside with . . .” She wriggled her arm, jostling what she was pulling.
“I don’t like this,” Myka said.
“I know. But it’s what Jillian wants, and I think she’s right.”
Myka had to shut up, because they’d entered Jillian’s room again. Spike swung around, inhaling sharply.
His eyes changed to Shifter—brown tinged with gold, the pupils slits—as his gaze riveted on the small boy Sharon gripped by the hand.
At four years old, Jordan had lost his baby chubbiness and was turning into a sturdy, strong-boned lad. He had dark hair brushed with red and dark brown eyes framed with black lashes. Until Myka had seen Spike looking at her with the same eyes, she’d doubted Jillian’s claim.
Jillian drew a breath to speak, but Sharon shook her head, seeing it was too much for her. She walked Jordan forward.
“This is your son,” Sharon said, her voice heavy from too many years of smoking. “So says Jillian.”
“He is, Mom,” Jillian’s whisper came.
Jordan stared up at Spike, who filled the room not only with his presence, but with the bulk of him. Though smaller than the bear-man he’d fought, Spike was still big—six and a half feet tall, arms as big as a wrestler’s and covered in tatts that disappeared inside his T-shirt, shaved head on a muscular neck encased by an inch-thick Collar. Jordan’s soft mouth hung open, his small teeth white in the moisture behind his lip.
Spike stared back at Jordan just as hard, the shock mutual.
“Jordan,” Jillian said from the bed. “Do your trick for Mommy.”
Jordan, caught in the spell of Spike’s gaze, remained frozen for another moment. Then he looked away and stripped off his shirt. Almost proudly, he shoved down his pants and underwear and stood without clothes, as unashamed as the Shifters had done at the hay barn.
The little boy lifted his arms over his head, closed his eyes, then gave a little squeak as his body changed shape.
His legs bent and became haunches, his little feet morphed into awkwardly big paws. Jordan’s hands became paws before his arms did, the smooth spotted pelt sliding down to join the one that rose up his chest. His face elongated into a cat’s nose, ears popped up on his head, and his eyes became rounder, fuller, eyelashes and whiskers growing swiftly. The fur that covered him was dark yellow with the broken black bands of a jaguar.
In only a few seconds, Jordan dropped to all fours and let out a tiny wildcat yowl.
The suspicion on Spike’s face turned to amazement then a hungry longing. Before Myka could stop him, he bent down and scooped up the cub between his big hands.
He lifted Jordan to his eye level, staring at the cub, who wriggled and squirmed but not in alarm.
They studied each other, Shifter and cub, the big man’s eyes wide, the cub’s unworried. Jordan opened his mouth and emitted another little growl.
“I named him Jordan,” Jillian said. “He’s yours. Take care of him for me, all right?”
Spike didn’t take his eyes from Jordan. Myka saw the pulse in Spike’s neck, the hard beats pressing under the Collar.
Sharon waited, her fingers playing with the clasp on her cigarette case. Myka waited too, for Spike to deny it, to tell Jillian to prove it, to bail the hell out of there. Men didn’t like suddenly to be told that they were fathers, didn’t want to be held accountable for whatever grew from their sperm.
Spike lifted Jordan higher. Jordan’s paws and hung down from Spike’s giant hands, his tail snaking around Spike’s wrist.
“My cub,” Spike said. “My cub.” His voice rose to a deep roar that shook the window across the room. “My cub.”
“Yes,” Jillian whispered, then her eyes drifted closed, and she slid back into her morphine sleep.
Chapter Three
Jillian never woke again. She slipped away around two in the morning. Spike didn’t see her go, because he’d been sent to the waiting room with Jordan while Myka and Sharon stayed with Jillian. Spike was alone with Jordan now, the other people who’d been waiting having gone home or to sleep elsewhere in the hospital.
Jordan slept in Spike’s lap on top of Spike’s wadded-up sweat jacket, the boy back in human form and dressed again.
Holy Mother Goddess, he had a cub.
Made total sense for Spike to take the kid back to Shiftertown. Jillian’s mom would never be able to hide the fact that Jordan was Shifter, and she wouldn’t know how to raise a Shifter cub anyway. And if someone found out about Jordan being a Shifter, humans would step in and take him the Goddess knew where.
No. He’s mine!
Wherever this protectiveness had come from, Spike didn’t care. Jillian had been smart to send for him. Spike could take Jordan home, watch over him, raise him, and keep him from harm. Sean Morrissey, the second-in-command of Shiftertown and its Guardian, had access to a database he called the Guardian Network, and could futz birth certificates and paperwork and make everything seem legit. Sean was talented with that stuff. If humans thought to question where Jordan had gone, they’d see him as a registered Shifter with Spike as his father. Jillian, with her interest in Shifters, had probably known that could be done.
He had a cub.
In spite of the tragedy—Jillian had been a sweet little thing, and far too young to pass—Spike’s mouth kept wanting to spread into a smile.
That is, until Myka walked in, a scowl on her face.
“She’s gone,” Myka said curtly.
Spike touched his chest, which had constricted with pain, then lifted his fingers to the sky. “The Goddess go with her.”
Myka eyed Spike in complete distrust. Spike rested his hand on top of the sleeping Jordan’s back. Myka was not going to take Jordan away from him.
“So you want to keep him then?” Myka asked.
“Well, yeah, I do. I’m his dad.”
She kept staring at him, arms folded, which pushed her br**sts to the top of her cute tank top. “That doesn’t mean you’ll be a good father. You have other kids?”