Master Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  It was Bainbridge. He looked well-pleased with himself… until Marguerite stuck her head out of the carriage. At that point, his face visibly fell.

  “Help me down, mon amour,” Marguerite demanded, and Drew turned to assist her, or at least appear to, setting his hands lightly at her waist as she leapt down to the ground.

  “Mrs. Niven,” Bainbridge said coolly. “This is a surprise.”

  “A nice one, I hope,” she replied.

  He didn’t answer that. Instead he turned to Drew “I thought you were going to ride over,” he said, his frown deepening. “I’m afraid I don’t have a groom to see to your horses and carriage.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Drew said in an easy tone. “My coachman can see to them, and we won’t be here long. I presume the stables are round the back of the house?”

  Bainbridge scowled.“Yes, but I’m afraid the house is rather unsuitable for a lady visitor. I have no female servants here and, well, it’s fine for a couple of gentlemen but for Mrs. Niven—”

  “Oh, no, no, no!” Marguerite exclaimed, moving ahead of Drew and mounting the three steps to the front door where Bainbridge stood. He tried to retreat but had nowhere to go as she took possession of his arm.

  “You insult me if you think I am the sort of poor creature who will have an attack of the vapours in the house of a single gentleman! What made you think such a thing?”

  Bainbridge immediately protested. “I did not intend to suggest any—”

  “Were you aware that I travelled with my first husband to India?” she demanded of him. “I can assure you that during our travels I put up with many inconveniences and hardships and never—never!—did a single complaint pass my lips!”

  “Madame, I am quite sure that you are a very capable lady and—”

  “Exactly,” she said, then turned her head and called to Wynne, “John, please do take the carriage and horses round to the stables. Mr, Niven and I will let you know when we are ready to leave.”

  “Very good, ma’am,” Wynne said, touching his crop to his hat. He began to move the horses away from the front door of the house, to Bainbridge’s obvious dismay.

  “Mrs. Niven,” Bainbridge said desperately, “Permit me to be blunt with you.”

  Marguerite turned back to him, regarding him with a mildly curious expression. “Of course. What is it?”

  By this time, Drew had mounted the steps behind her, adding more force to their forward movement, and Wynne was already turning the corner. A slightly hunted look came into Bainbridge’s eyes.

  “The, ah, item I offered to show your husband is not for a lady’s eyes,” Bainbridge said. His gaze flitted to Drew, flashing accusation and betrayal, and Drew tried to seem embarrassed.

  “Is that all that is bothering you?” Marguerite offered Bainbridge a charming smile, glancing at him from under her lashes. “Well, you need not worry. Mr. Niven has already told me I am not allowed to see your item. He says I will only have another turn, as I did when Mr. Muir showed us that horrible skeleton.” She shuddered dramatically. “Anyway, I did not come to see it—I only wanted to come for the drive as I was bored and did not want to wait at home. So, if it is all right, Mr. Bainbridge, I will sit quietly in your parlour in front of the fire and perhaps one of your servants can bring me a little pot of tea? Or if not, a little glass of ratafia or wine will do very well instead.”

  Bainbridge, who had relaxed slightly when Marguerite said she had no interest in seeing the item, nodded stiffly. “Very well,” he said. “The parlour’s like an icehouse, but there’s a fire going in the library, as I was working in there, so if you don’t mind waiting amongst my books, I daresay my manservant can manage a tea tray while Mr. Niven and I are occupied.

  “Excellente!” Marguerite exclaimed. “Thank you, Mr. Bainbridge.”

  She strolled over the threshold ahead of Drew, entering what looked to be a spacious hall. Drew hung back, leaning close to Bainbridge and muttering, “My apologies. She went into a jealous rage when I said I was coming over here—she was utterly convinced you had half a dozen harlots in the house to entertain us.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry though—now that she can see that’s not the case, she’ll be quite happy to sit and wait with a glass of wine. She hasn’t the slightest interest in why I’m really here.”

  Bainbridge gave a stiff nod, though he still seemed unhappy. He said shortly, “Thankfully, the creature is muzzled in the cellar, so your wife won’t hear anything.” Turning away, he added over his shoulder, “Come on.”

  Swallowing back the nausea that had arisen at the word muzzled, Drew followed him, closing the heavy door behind him and entering the gloomy hallway, where Marguerite was already waiting, looking about her curiously.

  “It is very quiet here,” she observed. “How many servants do you have attending you, Mr Bainbridge?”

  “Two,” Bainbridge replied. His face wore a strained expression that was probably supposed to be a smile.

  “Only two!” she exclaimed, “For such a large house?”

  “I am simple bachelor, Mrs. Niven, and only visiting the city for a short while,” Bainbridge said. “My needs are very modest.”

  Marguerite shook her head. “It is time you married, Mr. Bainbridge. A wife would take care of these matters for you. Gentlemen always say they are happy living simple bachelor lives, but once they experience the homely comforts a wife provides, they realise how much better married life can be.” She patted Drew’s arm, “Do you not agree, mon amour?”

  “Yes of course,” Drew said, taking her cue. Glancing at Bainbridge he added, “Mrs. Niven anticipates my every need. Before I have even realised what I want, it is there, at my hand—isn’t that right, my dear?”

  Meeting his gaze, Marguerite said sweetly, “Well, what is a woman for, if not to be her husband’s right hand?”

  Bainbridge was watching her with a more approving expression now, unbending enough to offer a small, polite smile. “Let me show you to the library, madame.”

  He led them up three full flights of stairs. “My apologies for all the steps,” he said as they neared the top of the third flight. “I elected to work in the library as it has the best light—and the owner’s excellent book collection is one of the reasons I am visiting.”

  There were only two doors on the short corridor and he opened the first of them to reveal a small library which was indeed full to the gunwales with books. Nearly every inch of the shelves that lined the chamber walls was crammed with volumes—only the doorway and the area of the far wall where the window was situated were bare. The towering rows of leather-bound books made the chamber feel dark and oppressive, and the window’s thick, mullioned panes did little to improve matters, only letting through some weak and dismal wintry light. Even in summer, it would be quite impossible to read in here without a candle—and this was the room with the best light?

  While Drew and Marguerite took in their surroundings, Bainbridge busied himself locking away various papers that had been lying on the desk. When he was done, he pulled the servants’ bell, then crossed the floor to the hearth to set more wood on the low fire that was smouldering inadequately in the grate.

  The library was at least a little warmer than the rest of the house, though that was not difficult given that the hallway and staircase had been as cold as outside. Maybe even colder.

  “You mentioned the owner of the house a few moments ago,” Marguerite said. “Is he a member of your family?”

  “No, a friend,” Bainbridge said. He glanced briefly at Drew. “We are members of the same fraternity. He is in England just now and offered me the use of the place while I am in Edinburgh.”

  A White Raven, Drew surmised. He saw Bainbridge glance quickly at Marguerite—no doubt wondering if his comment might provoke some sign of recognition in her. Marguerite, however, didn’t react, only hummed and went to examine some book spines on the nearest shelf. A moment later, she turned back to them, pouting.

  “They
are all in Latin,” she complained.

  Drew had to bite his lip against a smile—Marguerite was fluent in numerous ancient languages, including Latin. But Bainbridge simply accepted her words at face value, chuckling and saying, “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Niven.”

  Bainbridge probably thought his words sounded indulgent, but Drew heard the derision in them.

  Marguerite half-turned away from Bainbridge, meeting Drew’s eyes as she did so. Her gaze spoke volumes. Contempt for Bainbridge flashed there—and something else Drew couldn’t read. He tried instead to interpret her wildly shifting scent, catching a touch of desperation and a deep well of banked rage, but finding it impossible to read the rest. He did see the subtle gesture she made with her hand though, thumb and pinkie briefly extended, the other fingers closed into her palm.

  Alys was here then.

  “The creature is muzzled in the cellar.”

  Drew swallowed hard, nerves shivering.

  Just then, a knock at the door sounded. At Bainbridge’s “Enter,” a large, rough fellow came in. He was unshaven and slovenly-looking and did not even remove his cap from his head as he waited for Bainbridge’s order. His rough, hard-wearing clothes appeared more suitable for industrial labour than domestic service and he gave off a sour scent of angry resentment as he steadily watched his employer with small, oddly porcine eyes.

  This was not a man who saw himself as a servant. He had all the hallmarks of a paid thug.

  “Ah, Donald,” Bainbridge said. “If you could kindly fetch Mrs. Niven a pot of tea, she is going to wait here while Mr. Niven and I conduct our business downstairs.”

  Donald glanced at Marguerite and his small eyes gleamed in a way Drew did not like. He nodded and lumbered out again.

  “So, Niven,” Bainbridge said, straightening his cuffs, “Shall we get to the business at hand?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “We keep the beast in the cellar,” Bainbridge said by way of explanation, handing Drew the lantern he’d just lit and lighting a second for himself.

  The beast.

  The creature.

  It.

  Drew’s skin crawled with uneasiness. He dreaded what he was about to see, and with his wolf pacing anxiously inside him, he was worried as to how he would react when he entered the cellar. He, Marguerite and Wynne had all agreed that Bainbridge must be kept alive for questioning, but without the steadying influence of the others, Drew worried how his unruly wolf would react when he saw Alys. Muzzled.

  And then there was the thug-manservant. Drew had not liked how the man had looked at Marguerite, and even knowing that she could eviscerate him without breaking a sweat did not entirely relieve Drew’s qualms about leaving her alone, particularly when there was a second man at large somewhere. Two men who might well know about their kind.

  “What can I expect to see?” he asked Bainbridge, as the man fiddled with the hook on the door of his own lantern. “The beast is a werewolf, is it not? Will it look like a wolf? Or a man? The skeleton I was shown had a human body, though the head was canine.”

  Bainbridge met his eyes. His smile was disturbing, knowing and amused. The smile of a man who knew he was about to shock his audience.

  “This beast is not like the skeleton—that was clearly some other sort of hybrid creature,” he said. “This beast—which I can assure you is a werewolf—has two distinct and separate forms: a wolf form, and the form of… a human female.”

  Drew did not have to feign shock. Despite everything, having that confirmed aloud rocked him to his core and he felt himself pale.

  Bainbridge’s eyes gleamed with pleasure.

  “What form is she in now?” he asked faintly.

  “Presently, it is in its human form,” Bainbridge said, adding, “My apologies for correcting you but it is important that you do not anthropomorphise these creatures. They will take advantage of any pity you show.”

  Swallowing back nausea, Drew said, “How am I to know it is a wolf? For all I know you may just have some woman chained up to trick me.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Bainbridge said, “When we unmuzzle the beast, it will transform near enough immediately to its wolf form. They do that when they are weak, you see, to heal their injuries. We can leave it in its wolf form for a few hours before we must bind it again.”

  “Bind it?”

  “They can be trapped in their human forms with bonds made of silver. But you will see all of this momentarily. Come—follow me.”

  Lifting his lantern. Bainbridge led Drew to the rear of the kitchen where there was a hatch in the floor. Taking hold of the heavy brass ring, he lifted the wooden hatch, the underside of which was marked with a number of complicated glyphs daubed in what looked like dried blood.

  “What’s that?” Drew asked.

  “A protective spell,” Bainbridge said, his tone matter-of-fact. He stood aside, revealing a flight of narrow stone steps—or at least the first few steps, before the profound darkness from below swallowed them up.

  A wordless groan came from the gloom below, a terrible noise that made the hair on the back of Drew’s neck stand up. It sounded like some dumb creature in agony, pleading for death. He glanced at Bainbridge in alarm but the man only quirked a brow.

  “After you,” he said.

  Heart racing, gut roiling, Drew set his foot on the first step. Immediately, he recoiled, overwhelmed with powerful scents of terror and despair. He almost cried out from shock but somehow managed to stay silent, realising that the spell must be keeping the scents contained somehow, so that he could only discern them when he made physical contact with some part of the cellar chamber.

  “What’s wrong?” Bainbridge said behind him.

  “Nothing,” Drew said and began to descend, holding his lantern high. At first the dark was so profound—and the cellar so large—that the lantern did little to illuminate the space, but as he gradually moved downwards, and Bainbridge followed him with the second lantern, he began to see the edges of the place—the walls on each side, the stone-flagged floor, the long, low shape of a trough against one wall… and finally, what looked like a mound of rags slumped against the further wall from which another of those terrible, agonised groans emerged.

  Drew froze, unable to move for a moment, till Bainbridge nudged him, saying crossly, “Come on, let me down. You can stay back if you wish.”

  “Sorry,” Drew muttered, and descended the last few steps, stepping aside to let Bainbridge move past him.

  Bainbridge began busying himself with the familiarity of man going about a daily task. He hung his lantern up on a hook, then stuck a taper into it to borrow a flame which he used to light two separate sconces of candles on opposite walls.

  “Now, now,” he said when the bundle of rags groaned again. “If you don’t stop making that noise, I’ll have to leave you as you are rather than unmuzzling you for a while. You don’t want that now, do you?”

  Silence.

  “That’s better,” Bainbridge said approvingly, bustling forward and taking a handhold of the fabric covering the creature. It wasn’t rags, Drew saw as he dragged the material aside, but a tattered, dirty old blanket.

  Bainbridge slung the blanket aside to reveal a small naked figure, curled up on her side, her thin arms covering her head defensively.

  “Up!” Bainbridge barked, prodding her buttocks with one booted foot.

  Drew couldn’t breathe. His heart was racing so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest, his wolf so close to the surface he felt like he might shift any moment.

  The figure did not move.

  “Up!” Bainbridge snapped again, and this time he reached down, grasping one of the woman’s wrists and yanking her up into a sitting position. For a moment, her other arm flailed as she desperately tried to cover herself with it. At first she tried to cover her face, then dropped her arm to shield her breasts, bending her chin to her chest to hide her face instead.

  For a moment, Drew just stared at her downbent
head, trying to make sense of what he was seeing: four metal bands enclosed her skull, intersecting at the top of her head. The rear band ran from the top of her head to the nape of her neck and the side bands ran down each side of her head, covering her ears. But it was only when Bainbridge grabbed the chain attached to the contraption and wrenched her head back, that Drew saw what this was: a branks—a scold’s bridle.

  The front band ran down the centre of the woman’s forehead to the middle of her eyebrows where it divided into a two-pronged “V”. Each of those two bands ran down either side of her nose where they met a horizontal band that encircled her chin and neck, joining with the side and rear bands to fully enclose her head. Her mouth was tightly covered by a thick metal plate that was riveted to the same horizontal band. There would, Drew knew, be another metal plate inside her mouth, pressing her tongue down. Muting her.

  This was, after all, designed as a punishment for nagging wives—and others who spoke out of turn. Though in this case, it was something more.

  Though the metal was dull and tarnished, Drew knew it was silver, not only because Bainbridge had said so but because Drew could feel its repellent power from where he stood—and because he could see what it was doing to this woman—to Alys. The silver had burned away her hair and skin, leaving inflamed red welts on either side of each tight band that crossed her head.

  Her eyes were dull and hopeless, and she did not seem to recognise that Drew himself was a wolf, but then she was clearly extremely weak, her wolf imprisoned and her body poisoned by the silver.

  Drew made himself breathe deeply, fighting an instinctive desire to shift and attack Bainbridge. He needed to be calm. His first priority was to get the branks off Alys, something that neither he nor Marguerite would be able to achieve with its being silver.

  “So,” Bainbridge said. He was watching Drew carefully. “What do you think?”

  Drew met his gaze. “I’ve never seen such a wretched creature in all my life. Do you really expect me to believe this is a werewolf?”