Luck of the Wolf

CHAPTER TWO

ARIA WOKE SUDDENLY, her head pounding and her eyes stinging. Her mouth was dry and her tongue leaden, coated with a foul taste that made her gag.

For a moment all she could do was lie still, listening to her pulse boom behind her ears. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to see what might lie on the other side of her eyelids. Memories fought a furious battle in her brain, some so unbearable she tried to force them away.

But she couldn’t. They were too strong, etched into her senses in sound and scent and taste. Hunger. Confusion. Harsh, mocking voices, and a rag soaked in bitter poison slapped over her mouth.

Had those been the last memories, she might not have struggled so hard against them. But there were others far worse.

She tried to swallow the bile in the back of her throat. She didn’t know where she was, but it might be somewhere even worse than the last place she had been before they had forced her to take the potion.

You must face it, she told herself. Hiding from her fear would gain her nothing, and knowing the truth would allow her to make a plan to escape. How many others were here? She had a hazy vision of many men looking at her, and the low hum of many voices. There had been one man in particular, though she could not recall his face. Someone who had touched her gently.

Open your eyes.

She did, and the room swam into focus. Peeling paint on a low ceiling. A few scraps of mismatched furniture. A wall covered with torn and faded paper. She was lying on some sort of couch, and a blanket covered her up to her chin.

She breathed in slowly. Mildew, dust, stale cooking. Bread and cheese closer by, setting her stomach to rumbling.

And another scent she recognized, cool and clean and masculine.

The room spun as she turned her head. The man sat a few feet away, long legs stretched before him, his head resting on the back of his chair. He was tall, well formed and elegantly dressed; his hair was deep auburn, and what she could see of his face was as handsome as that of any man she had seen in her long journey west.

He was not one of the men who had captured her. But she knew his face.

Cautiously raising herself on her elbows, Aria pushed the blanket aside. Sickness spiraled up from her stomach, and she had to sit still for several minutes. She watched the man’s face for any sign of waking, but he seemed completely unaware of her. Once again she tested her strength. This time she was able to sit up, and after a moment the hammer beating inside her skull fell silent.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t what she had expected. Despite the voices she could hear outside the room, she felt no sense of threat. She still wore the gown they had put on her, but when she touched her face she realized that it was clean again.

They meant to sell me, she remembered. They had spoken of it when they were certain she couldn’t hear. She was to become the “property” of the man who won her in some sort of card game, like the ones she and Franz had sometimes played on snowy evenings. Property just like the sheep who belonged to Matthias the shepherd, or the pony she had left behind in Trieste.

She looked hard at the man. Had he been the one to win her? Was he waiting to do the kinds of things to her that she had seen men doing with women in the back alleys of New York and San Francisco?

Even if he was, he seemed to be alone. She had some chance of escape.

Biting her lower lip, Aria pushed the blanket below her knees and swung her legs over the side of the couch. Her feet touched the bare, pitted floorboards. She put a little of her weight on them, testing her steadiness and the surface beneath her soles.

The boards made no sound as she pushed herself up. Another wave of dizziness caught her, and she stopped, half crouched, her heart drumming under her ribs. There was a door across the room, not far. All she needed to do was open that door and find her way to freedom.

Aria straightened, ignoring the protest of her stiff muscles. She took a single step. The man didn’t move. She took another step, and another, until she was passing him and only a few feet from the door.

“You had best stay here, ma petite,” the man said behind her. “You are not well enough to leave just yet.”

The words were as soft as lamb’s wool, the English touched with the pleasant lilt of an accent, yet she was not deceived. There was steel behind the voice, and she knew she would never escape without a fight.

“You need not fear me,” the man said, getting to his feet. He turned, and she could see he was indeed very handsome … and very dangerous. Though his face was almost expressionless, his eyes, more yellow than brown, seemed kind—but Aria did not believe for a minute that this man was kind.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“One who means you well.”

She retreated until her back was against the door. “You’re one of them,” she said.

“You remember?” he asked, arching his dark brows.

Aria curled her hands into fists. “You were with them,” she said. “You were in that place.”

“If you remember so much, you know that I took you away from those who would have harmed you.”

She knew no such thing. She thought this was the man who had touched her during the few brief seconds when she had fought her way free of the mist that filled her head. She thought he might have lifted her up in his arms.

But that meant nothing. She bared her teeth.

“If you want me,” she said, “you will have to kill me first.”

The man sighed. “I do not want you, and I have no intention of killing you. Come sit down before you fall.”

Taking stock of her body, Aria realized that she might very well lose her strength at any time. The mist was gathering behind her eyes again, and her legs felt far less steady than they had when she first stood up.

“Stay away from me,” she warned.

The man sighed. “What is your name?”

“What is yours?” she retorted.

“Cortland Beauregard Renier, at your service.” He bowed deeply, then walked to the couch and picked up the blanket. “And as I am a gentleman, I recommend that you cover yourself.”

Aria stared at the blanket and glanced down at her dress. Heat rushed into her face. She had not been aware enough until now what the gown revealed, and though she was not ashamed of what nature had given her, she had seen the look in the eyes of the men who had handled her. The same look she saw in the stranger’s eyes.

With a burst of courage, she darted forward to snatch the blanket from the man’s hand. As soon as she grasped it she lost her balance, tottered and began to fall. He caught her, lifted her up with a strength she could not resist and returned her to the couch. She scrambled away from him to the end of the sofa, drawing up her knees and pulling the blanket over them.

“Bien,” the man—Cortland Renier—said, and sat down in his chair. “Now we will talk like civilized people.”

Civilized. How she had come to hate that word. Franz had used it to refer to the world she was about to enter, as if it were a good thing. But “civilized” meant you went hungry because there was nowhere to hunt, nothing to do but root through heaps of discarded food along with the stray dogs. It meant asking questions no one could or would answer, and most of all it meant people who looked nice but proved to be otherwise.

“Let me go,” she said.

“You can hardly leave until you are properly dressed.” He settled back as if he meant to reassure her. “I have no suitable clothing at the moment, but if you will be patient—”

Aria wanted to laugh. “I can make you let me go. When I am stronger—”

His brows arched higher still. “I do not plan to keep you prisoner,” he said mildly. “It is my intention to restore you to your family, a plan I will set in motion when I know your name.”

“My family?” The laugh burst out of her, thick and wrenching. “I have no—”

The look in his eyes stopped her. They were piercing and sharp, as if he already knew everything that had happened to her since Franz’s terrible accident in New York.

“What is your name?” he asked again

She wanted to tell him. She wanted so desperately to trust someone, anyone, and he had not restrained her or tried to hurt her in any way. She could almost believe he meant her well.

But she had believed that before. Believed because she had to think that she would find the people Franz had said would welcome her in San Francisco. Her own kind. The ones who could answer all her questions. She had thought then that she couldn’t make it all the way to the West Coast without help, not in this strange and unknown country with its unfamiliar customs and terrible cities, and seething crowds of humans.

Still, she had made it here, though she had quickly learned that it was better to be alone than to rely on any stranger.

“I don’t need your help,” she said.

“The Hemmings?” he asked, as if she hadn’t said anything at all. “The Phelans?” He shifted his weight on the chair. “Did you run away?”

Aria jerked up her chin. “I didn’t run away from anyone.”

“Ma chère, this bickering will do neither of us any good. I saved you from a terrible fate, and—” He stopped abruptly. “Did those men do anything that.” His gaze shifted to her waist, then below.

A great rush of heat made Aria feel as if the blood was boiling under her skin. “No,” she said. “They didn’t hurt me.” She looked away quickly, but not before she saw the relief on Cortland Renier’s handsome face.

“Thank God for that,” he said. “But you might not be so fortunate next time. That is why I have no intention of allowing you to return to the streets. Your people—”

“I don’t know my name!” she burst out.

The silence lasted so long that Aria had to look at him again. Renier was still frowning, but now she could see that he was bewildered, as well.

“How is that possible?” he asked.

Now that she had decided to lie, she had to do everything she could to make the lie seem true. And in the most important ways, it was. She slumped against the cushions. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“The drugs,” he said. “You are obviously not well.” He began to rise. “You must eat and rest. Tomorrow, when your mind is clear—”

“It wasn’t what they did to me,” she said. “I don’t remember anything.”

His eyes narrowed. “Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe, chère.”

“I don’t care what you believe. I don’t know where I came from.” She shivered for effect. “I remember the water. It was cold. And then I was walking, and I didn’t know anyone. I was hungry. A man said he would give me food and a place to get warm.”

“What did this man look like?”

“He was.” She screwed up her face. “I don’t know. He was one of them. They gave me something that made me sick. That’s all I remember.”

“Were you on a ship?” he asked. “Did you fall into the water?”

“I don’t know!” She buried her face in her hands. “Can’t you leave me alone?”

He got up. “I am afraid I cannot, chère,” he said. “If, as you claim, you remember nothing, you will face certain ruin if you return to the streets.”

“Why do you care?”

“I am not like those who took you. Any honorable man would feel bound to protect a woman in your position.”

“I don’t want protection,” she said, meeting his gaze. “No one will ever trick me again.”

“Your naiveté is touching, mademoiselle, but misguided.”

“I told you, I can make you let me go.”

“Ah.” He nodded with revolting smugness. “Forgive my discourtesy, but how do you propose to do that, chère?”

It was foolish, and she knew it. If there had been any other way, she would have taken it. But she had nearly lost herself after Franz’s death, forced to pretend to be human during the weeks that followed. She had almost forgotten what she really was. But once she showed Renier, he would never trouble her again.

Tossing the blanket aside, she began to pull off her nightgown. Renier started in surprise, and that gave her such satisfaction that she almost didn’t mind that he would see her naked.

The Change was as swift and easy as it had ever been. Aria felt new strength flowing into her body as the transformation drove the last effects of the poison out of her. Her senses grew so keen that the smells and sounds of the place were almost painful. In a handful of seconds she was no longer naked and vulnerable but powerful and unafraid.

She grinned, showing her teeth. No words were necessary, even if she could have spoken them. Renier would be just like the men who had seen her Change in New York. His shock would soon give way to horror. He would scramble away in terror, and she would knock down the door and make her escape.

But it didn’t happen as she planned. Renier didn’t try to run or collapse into a gibbering puddle. He was as cool and collected as he had been since she’d awoken, his head slightly cocked as if he found her performance amusing.

“Bravo,” he said. “You have made your point. Unfortunately.” He rose, turned his back to her, removed his coat and hung it over the back of the chair. He loosened his tie and removed the studs in his collar. His waistcoat came off, and then his shirt. His fine shiny boots and stockings followed, and finally his trousers.

Aria knew what was coming. She hadn’t guessed. She hadn’t met a single werewolf since the ship had landed in New York. When Renier Changed, it was like looking in a mirror for the first time in her life. His fur was auburn instead of gold, but he was everything she had imagined when she had come to San Francisco, so full of hope and dreams.

He was her kind.

Shaking out his fur, Renier sat on his haunches and stared into her eyes. She thought she might be able to dodge around him; he was bigger than she was, but her smaller size might make her faster.

If she’d had the will. If she hadn’t been paralyzed with wonder and a fearful, dangerous joy.

Renier wasn’t paralyzed. He Changed again while she hesitated, turned his back to her and put on his clothes. When he was fully dressed, he returned to his chair.

“So, chère,” he said softly. “You didn’t know I was loup-garou.”

Loup-garou. That was a word she hadn’t heard, but she could guess what it meant. She couldn’t very well deny that she hadn’t known that Cort was a werewolf.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Now,” he said, stretching out his legs again, “there can be no secrets between us.”

No secrets. Franz had promised that she would learn important things when they got to America, things only the wehrwölfe in San Francisco could tell her. He had even hinted that he himself knew more than he had ever let on.

But he had never had the chance to explain. He had taken all those secrets with him in death, and his special documents with them.

Maybe Cortland Renier could help her. If he knew about werewolves in San Francisco, it seemed possible that he would know about the Carantians, too. And he had mentioned families. Was that what Franz had meant? Was it possible her family wasn’t dead after all? Would she find cousins, uncles, brothers or sisters among those who waited for her?

She licked her lips. Franz had said the Carantian colonists in San Francisco were good people, honorable and steadfast. But he had said there were bad werewolves, too, just as there were bad humans. How was she to distinguish one from another, when she couldn’t even be sure when a man was human or not?

You don’t have to tell him everything, she thought. You can wait and see if he really means what he says.

Moving quickly, Aria grabbed the blanket in her jaws and raced to the door. She Changed, snatched up the blanket and wrapped it snugly around herself. Renier crossed his legs casually and smiled.

“Now that we understand each other,” he said, “you can have no further doubts that I wish to help.”

Aria pretended to relax. “Did you know what I was all the time?” she asked.

“Long enough. The fact that you could not recognize me, however, greatly complicates your situation.”

“Why? The people who took me … they weren’t werewolves, were they?”

“It seems unlikely.”

“Then I could have escaped as soon as the poison went away.”

“Perhaps. But where would you have gone?” he asked. “If you have no memory…”

“How many others like us live in San Francisco?” she asked quickly.

“A dozen, perhaps.”

“You said there were families….”

“Two that I am aware of, and various lone wolves.”

Any of whom might know or even be the Carantians she was seeking. “Do they hide what they are from humans?”she asked.

He regarded her with new interest. “Why do you ask, ma chère? Surely you know that all loups-garous conceal what they are, even as they move in human society. Was it different with your people?”

“I don’t remember.” But of course that was exactly what Franz had told her, that werewolves had to hide what they were, and she had seen what had happened the one time she’d been careless in New York. “Does anyone know what you are? Humans, I mean?”

“One man only, in this city. But—”

“Is it the man in the other room?”

“Baron Yuri Chernikov. You will meet him later.”

Yuri. It was a Russian name. Aria could speak fluent Russian, but she had never met a man from that country. “He is your … friend?” she asked.

“You have no more to fear from him than you do from me.”

But what did that really mean, given that she had no real idea whether she could trust Cortland Renier or not? Why should she trust this Russian, when he was human like the men who had taken her?

She had much more to learn before she could decide.

“You asked me if I ran away,” she said, circling around the room. “Wouldn’t someone be looking for me if I was lost?”

“One would presume so.” He watched her progress with keen yellow eyes. “I will make inquiries of the families I mentioned before.”

The Hemmings and the Phelans. She couldn’t keep the hope and yearning out of her voice. “So you know them?”

“Not personally, but that is no object.” He stretched his arms, and joints popped. “You must strive to regain your memory, beginning with your name.”

Aria stopped. Should she tell him her name? There must be a reason why Franz had warned her never to tell anyone what it was, why he’d made her go by another even in Carantia.

“What kind of name is Renier?” she asked.

“It is of European derivation.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From another part of this country, to the east.” He raised a brow. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s the way you talk. It’s different from most of the people I’ve met here.”

“Your manner of speech is also a little different, mademoiselle, though I can’t place the accent.”

Aria rubbed her arms, though the room wasn’t cold and she seldom felt uncomfortable even in freezing temperatures. “Where are we?”

“In the rooms I share with Yuri. You are quite safe.” He rose. “You obviously need other clothing. I will buy a minimal wardrobe for you until we determine what course of action to take.”

In all their time in the mountains, Franz had bought everything they had needed. She’d almost never had money of her own. After Franz had been robbed of the papers and his money, then killed by the thieves, she’d had only what Franz had given her for herself. When she’d used it up getting to San Francisco, she’d quickly learned just how necessary money was to survival.

“I haven’t any money to give you, Mr. Renier,” she said.

“I have sufficient funds to cover what you will need. And you may call me Cort.”

Cort. So much easier to say than Cortland Beauregard Renier.

“Will you give your word not to attempt to leave while I am absent?”

She would be foolish to do so. But Cort was still her only possible connection to the other wehrwölfe in San Francisco.

And she wanted so badly to trust him.

“I will stay,” she promised.

He nodded and strode toward her. She moved out of his way, and he went through the door to the other room. The Russian’s voice, his speech heavily accented, rose in question. Aria could understand every word he and Cort spoke, and she knew Cort was perfectly aware of that.

“She’s awake,” Cort said, “and well enough, but she doesn’t remember her past.”

“Chyort. I don’t believe it.”

“Believe as you choose. Whether or not she is telling the truth, we must help her.”

There was a long pause, and then the Russian said grudgingly, “I suppose you are right. But if she remembers nothing, how do you intend to find her people?”

Cort went on to tell Yuri the same things he had told Aria. When the discussion ended, the two men emerged from the adjoining room.

The human, Aria thought, was nothing special. He was a little round in the belly and plump in the face, but he carried himself like Cort, straight and proud. He walked into the room, paused and looked Aria up and down. His gaze came to rest on her face, and he stopped breathing. A moment later he seemed to remember that he could not live without air.

“So,” he said, and clicked his heels together. “Baron Yuri Chernikov, at your service.”

It was the same thing that Cort had said, but Aria didn’t believe it this time. There was something about the Russian she didn’t like, even if he was Cort’s friend. He had doubted that she was telling the truth about losing her memory. He was right, of course, but every instinct told her not to trust him.

“I don’t know my name,” she told him bluntly.

“So I have been told.” He glanced at Cort. “You are going to buy her clothes?”

“I was about to leave,” Cort said. He smiled at Aria. “She has given her word to remain. You will have a chance to get acquainted.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Yuri said. “And I will be certain that the young lady receives whatever she needs to make her comfortable.”

“There is bread and cheese in the cupboard,” Cort said. Aria’s stomach rumbled again, too loudly for him to miss. “You must be hungry,” he said.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll bring more to eat when I return,” Cort said, exchanging a glance with Yuri—a glance Aria knew she was not supposed to understand—and retrieved a hat from a hook on the wall. He turned at the door. “Trust me, chère,” he said. “We will uncover your past, whatever it may be, and restore you to your people.”

He left, and Yuri went to a cupboard that stood against one of the otherwise bare walls. He removed a wooden platter with the bread and cheese, and set it down on the table in the corner.

“It is true that you remember nothing?” he asked, taking a seat on the couch.

Aria hesitated, sat in the chair at the table and sniffed at a piece of cheese. She remembered, with a pang of sadness, the fresh, pungent cheese she had eaten nearly every day in the mountains.

But there was no returning to that life, even if she had wished it. And instinct, even when it went against her desire to believe what Cort had said, told her to continue to withhold information about that life.

“It’s true,” she said, biting into the cheese.

“So.” Yuri rubbed his knee. “You can be sure that Cort will learn the truth about you and your origins.”

It felt almost like a threat. “You have known Cort a long time?” she asked, as she swallowed a bite of stale bread.

“Da. A long time.” She caught him staring at her, and he quickly looked away. “I know more about him than anyone else in this world.”