Wolf's Bane

by Nancey Cummings

  “I’m sorry my father is so difficult,” she said, breaking the silence. “Call it guilt, depression, or grief, he’s…I’ve been making excuses for his behavior for years and I’m tired of it. When I came back from university, the house and the finances were in chaos. Papa was stinking drunk most of the time. The tenants left, except for the shepherd. Thank heaven, because while the sheep mostly take care of themselves, we do need a shepherd. We’re barely holding onto the charter. Charlotte told me that the village council is considering taking it away.” She gave a weary sigh. “And I can’t get Papa to care. At least he’s not drunk all the time now.”

  He understood what she did not say explicitly. She felt obligated to remain to care for her father, Luis, and the household. “Your kind heart is one of the many things I love,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  “But you don’t know why I’m so devoted to Papa,” Solenne replied.

  “He’s complicated.”

  “That’s a polite way of saying he’s an asshole.”

  “He did rescue me after my parents were killed.”

  “Because he thought you would be useful, which you are.”

  “See? Complicated. No one’s action can be strictly black and white.”

  She twisted around to face him. “Please stop making excuses for Papa. I won’t live in a house where you’re merely tolerated. We’ll go to Hardwick House. I want to see it.”

  “It’s not much, truly.”

  “Your grandfather lived there. Perhaps there’s a secret journal hidden in the floorboards. It could answer some questions.”

  Just like in one of her novels.

  “I highly doubt it, but yes, after the wedding, we can visit. It won’t be much of a honeymoon,” he said, already mentally preparing the letter to have the house made ready for their arrival. The exterior needed a new coat of whitewash, as did all the interior rooms. Fresh paint would make the rooms seem brighter, but the furniture shabbier. New furniture then, at least for the master bedroom. Perhaps all the work would turn up a secret journal, however improbable.

  Solenne

  Boxon Hill

  Marechal House - The Undercroft

  * * *

  The unlocked door called to her. Dim light flickered at the bottom of the stairwell. For days, Godwin had avoided Solenne, and she hadn’t sought his company.

  “You’re being childish,” Luis said, before pushing her forward.

  “He does not want to be disturbed.”

  “Talk to him.”

  “I cannot guarantee I will be civil.” She grabbed onto the door frame, refusing to be bullied into a conversation with her father.

  “Oh no, my delicate sensibilities,” Luis said dryly. “Be an adult and talk to Papa. I’m worried. He hasn’t been eating and you know how he gets.”

  She did indeed, and did not comment on the irony that Godwin’s child had to be the adult in the relationship to take care of him.

  “Please. You know him better than me.”

  “You know Papa.”

  Luis ran a hand through his dark curls. “I mean, you’ve seen him day in, day out for years. I only ever saw him on holidays from school and then he was on his best behavior.”

  “Holiday Papa,” Solenne said, repeating the moniker she and Luis gave Godwin’s jovial mood.

  “Exactly. What I saw was upsetting. I’m worried about him.” Luis somehow made his eyes larger and silently pleaded with those enormous eyes.

  It was unbearable.

  “Fine. Stop pushing me or I’ll fall down the stairs.” She switched on the solar-powered lantern to navigate her way down the stairs. Shadows hid the steps, so she made her way down cautiously, one hand on the shaky rail and the other holding the lantern aloft. The light was just enough to illuminate the cobwebs but not much else.

  The basement held many relics from an age of wonder, all broken. The most dangerous—weapons her ancestors brought with them from the old world—had been locked away in a vault. Presumably, they held enough power or ammunition to be dangerous because Solenne couldn’t see how the decrepit relics were dangerous now, unless she hurled them or used them as a bludgeon.

  The bits of technology that worked were used until the very end, then patched together and pressed into service again. Hence, the flickering lights. The aging solar panels no longer captured enough energy to meet the needs of the house. Replacement panels were beyond the household budget. Solenne remembered scavenging panel parts with her mother. Too young to understand, she had thought it a grand adventure exploring empty buildings in abandoned villages.

  The short corridor opened into a large workshop. To one side, the nexus batteries sat stacked on shelving units. Small readout screens glowed with violet light. Godwin perched on a stool by a workbench, bent over a device. Light pooled on the wooden surface around the lantern. The overhead lights flickered, casting strange shadows and illuminating little.

  His hair was a tangled mess and his clothes dusty, but Godwin hardly looked emaciated and near death. Luis had drastically overstated the problem.

  Solenne turned to leave, until Godwin spoke.

  “Your mother had the patience for this.” He pushed away the device.

  “What is it?”

  Godwin held up an ancient tablet, the screen a blank gray, and the back removed. “It’s a reader, so my father claimed. It worked when he was a child. Contains hundreds of books in the memory banks, if we can get it to power on.” He set it down, looking sheepish. “I thought you might like it for a wedding gift.”

  Solenne’s anger softened. Her father spoke with actions rather than words, but she needed to hear the words. “An apology would also do.”

  He cleared his throat, voice gruff from disuse. “Yes, I suppose that’s in order. I worry about losing you. Amalie was everything to me, and you and Luis are all I have left of her.” He rubbed his chin, the bristles there more silver than Solenne remembered. “But you were correct. The tighter I hold on to you, the more you’ll slip away. I’m sorry for not listening. I apologize for keeping Alek’s true nature from you. I thought I was protecting you.”

  To keep from looking directly at her father, she inspected a shelf cluttered with bits and bobs, old cardboard boxes stained with dust and damp, and tools set down to never be put away in their proper place. Bits of shattered glass littered the shelf, and she realized with a jolt that she was looking at the detritus of the explosion that killed her mother. No one ever cleaned the workshop. Would she find bits of shrapnel in the walls? Blood on the stone floor?

  “Solenne,” Godwin said, grabbing her attention.

  “Thank you,” she said, not ready to forgive. Godwin’s lack of an apology for his ugly words had not escaped her notice. If his actions changed, then yes. Her anger would dissolve.

  She lined up boxes on the shelf. Labels, written in Amalie’s neat hand, had faded with age. “I’ve been reading the handbooks. Older werewolves have absorbed more nexus energy, making them stronger and more resistant to silver.”

  “Yes, that’s what the book says.”

  “The books never mention an anchor.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they would,” Godwin answered slowly.

  “Why?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his chin again. “Politics, I imagine. The first editions discussed anchors. What we have are later printings, after mention of anchors were purged.”

  “Politics.”

  “Yes, Solenne, politics. Not everyone is comfortable with the notion of a beast living among them, even a tame beast.”

  Her shoulders pulled back, ready for a fight. “Do not call Alek a beast.”

  Godwin held up his hands to placate her. “Maybe people and—what did you call him, a werewolf?—lived peacefully together in the beginning, but that changed. The mutations couldn’t be contained. Entire settlements were lost in the West Lands. A few accounts of werewolves losing their anchors and destroying an entire village and people decided that they would
n’t tolerate any beast, anchored or not.”

  “So a purge.”

  “These notions are hard to unlearn. Wherever you go, if people find out about Alek’s nature, they’ll turn on him.”

  “His true nature, Papa, is a decent, caring man.”

  “Who turns furry and howls at the moon.”

  Father and daughter stared at each other.

  “It’d be best if you stayed. People know him here. They’ll be kind,” Godwin said.

  Still controlling, even when trying to make amends. The subtle digs at Alek, she didn’t know if she could tolerate. No, correction. She refused to tolerate it, and she did not know if the protection Godwin reluctantly offered to Alek would be worth it.

  “Thank you for the reader. I’m sure it’ll be marvelous when you get it working,” she said, retreating up the stairs.

  Chapter 20

  Aleksandar

  Boxon Hill

  Marechal House - The Library

  * * *

  “Alek, a word.” Godwin did not wait for Alek to respond to his command, but headed into the library. He poured brandy into two glasses, handing Alek one. “My daughter has dug in her heels. Her heart is set on you.”

  Alek sipped the liquor, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. “I told you my intentions ten years ago. Nothing has changed.”

  “I’m not happy, Aleksandar. When you entered this house, you gave me your word.”

  “And I informed you that you misjudged your daughter.”

  The two men stared at each other until Godwin sighed heavily. He sat in a worn leather chair and rubbed where the patch rested against his check. “Never could tell that girl anything. Stubborn like Amalie.” Another sigh. He drained his drink and contemplated the empty glass. “She won’t forgive me until we make peace.”

  Alek’s bit back his first instinct, which was to tell the old man that they did not need his permission or forgiveness, but he knew Solenne. She loved her family above all else. She could have gone anywhere in the last ten years, done anything, but she remained to help her father and brother. Her selflessness was more than familial duty. It was devotion.

  She’d want to repair her relationship with Godwin. Perhaps not tomorrow or even the next year, but eventually.

  “For Solenne,” he said.

  “Yes, I think we can agree on that,” Godwin answered. “For reasons I don’t understand, my daughter has her heart set on you. I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always together as children, thick as thieves.”

  “Peapod,” Alek said. Amalie had called them that, her peas in a pod.

  “If I allow…no, I know you will tell me that there is nothing to allow. A poor choice of words.”

  “You need Solenne’s forgiveness, not the other way around. I am not a child for you to scold or discipline.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” Godwin snapped. “She was ill with that fever. I thought I could lose her and the last words we exchanged were hateful.” He rubbed at the eyepatch again. “So, yes, I need Solenne’s forgiveness and she won’t do that until we are on speaking terms.”

  “We’re speaking now.” Yes, he was being obstinate and rather enjoying Godwin’s face redden with frustration.

  “Did you bite Solenne?”

  “No, I did not,” Alek answered.

  “The family is largely resistant to the curse, but it is contagious. We’re not a lucky lot, either. If you bite her—” Godwin stared at him with his one eye.

  “I know the risk. I would never.”

  “And that other beast?”

  “Laceration from the claws. Nothing else. Did you not discuss this with Dr. Webb?”

  Godwin nodded. “I need two reassurances from you. One, you will never bite her and you will behave with decorum until the wedding.”

  “If I give you my word, you’ll…tolerate my presence?”

  “Insolent cur,” Godwin muttered. He lurched to his feet. “If you behave like a gentleman and do not chew my daughter or sully her honor, then I will treat you like a gentleman.”

  Alek held Godwin’s gaze, listening to the man’s heart. It beat rapidly and his breaths were even. He sensed no dishonesty.

  “Agreed, but I cannot make Solenne forgive you. Her mind is her own.” He held out his hand, and they shook.

  Solenne

  Respectable ladies did not listen at doors. Fortunately, Solenne could never be bothered with appearances.

  As heavy footsteps approached the door—she recognized her father’s gait—she scurried away and ducked into a nearby door, which happened to be a linen closet. Lavender and soap made her nose itch, but she patiently waited until Godwin’s footsteps vanished.

  She entered the library, finding Alek holding a glass of dark liquor and staring at Tristan.

  “Horrid, isn’t he? Poor Tristan,” she said.

  He grunted assent then said, “We shouldn’t be unchaperoned.”

  “Nonsense, I’m having a brandy. You’re having a brandy. We just happen to be in the same place with the brandy. It’s hardly scandalous.” She poured herself a measure of what she assumed was brandy and took a drink. “Ugh, that’s awful. You like this?”

  “I never made that claim,” he said with amusement in his voice.

  “Waste not, want not,” she said, downing the rest of the brandy before she could think better of it. The liquor seared a trail down her throat and warmed her gut. “We should ask Papa to give Tristan a proper funeral pyre and return his ashes to his family. It’d be, you know, a symbol of forgiveness and…” She groped for the correct word. “Wow, that is rather strong. I think brandy is growing on me.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Alek said, taking the bottle from her hand.

  “Marvelous.” She frowned. She had never been the type of person who proclaimed things to be marvelous. That was Charlotte. She was more the frown in vague disapproval and mutter under the breath sort of person. Perhaps brandy was not for her. “What did Papa want?”

  “You know very well as you were listening at the door the entire time.”

  She grinned, unable to help herself. “Papa is trying to make amends.”

  “He’s rather bad at it.”

  “But he’s trying. You know, he tried to butter me up with a, what’s it, a relic. A reader, he called it. No bigger than my hand, and it holds thousands of books. Can you imagine?” The device seemed too good to be true and she wouldn’t expect it to work, but Godwin had picked the perfect token to win his daughter.

  And then he reached out—albeit badly—to Alek.

  Papa listened and, honestly, she could not recall that ever happening since she returned home from university.

  “We should celebrate,” she said, positively glowing with happiness and brandy. Mostly brandy.

  She grabbed his hand and drew him to the overstuffed chair by the fire. Alek allowed himself to be pushed down, and she sat on his lap. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she leaned in for a kiss.

  He responded with a quick press of lips, dry and chaste.

  Disappointing.

  “I promised your father to be respectful. A respectful man does not kiss his fiancée in her father’s library.”

  She gave an anguished groan. “You can kiss and be respectful.”

  “Solenne—”

  “This moral uprightness is rather bothersome. I can’t say I approve.”

  “One kiss, then you’ll go to bed.”

  “Just one,” she agreed, already planning to wheedle more out of him.

  Another dry peck on the lips.

  “No, unacceptable,” she said, slapping a hand to his chest. “A proper kiss or we keep practicing until you improve.”

  He leaned in, mouth on her. His tongue licked her lips, asking for entrance, and she opened for him. He tasted of brandy and the forest and wild things. Warm from the brandy or perhaps warm from proximity to him, her skin sparked at every touch. Fingers tangled in hair. Chests pressed together. Colla
rs were hastily unbuttoned to allow for kisses. The chair groaned. She straddled him in an undignified manner and his fingers dug into her hips. She could feel him, the hard evidence of his want and desire.

  She pulled back, chest heaving. Alek watched her, eyes dark with a touch of violet of a predator’s eyes.

  “Hmm. I believe this requires more practice,” she said.

  And they did.

  Chapter 21

  Solenne

  Boxon

  Vervain Hall

  * * *

  Charlotte had always displayed a high level of organization, but preparing for the double wedding catapulted her onto another level. Honestly, it frightened Solenne. When Charlotte appeared with her ever-expanding notebook and took out her rainbow-hued quill to make notes, Solenne trembled. Charlotte was not a woman to be crossed, which was how she and Alek ended up at Colonel Chambers’ dinner party.

  “I do not like this,” Alek grumbled, tugging at the knot of his cravat. “This is strangling me.”

  “Stop fussing.” She retied his cravat, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. Lacking evening wear, she dug an outfit out of the back of Godwin’s wardrobe. Fashion moved slowly in the country, and Godwin was no longer as slim as he had once been.

  The dark blue velvet coat, blue brocade waistcoat, and tan breeches suited Alek, even if he kept tugging at the cravat. “You look very handsome.”

  “This shirt itches.”

  “Can’t be helped. Try not to ruin it. You only have the one shirt.”

  “I have many shirts.”

  “One presentable shirt,” she clarified. She had witnessed Alek parade around in shirts with the collar open, sans cravat, the fabric so threadbare that he wore practically nothing. While she heartily supported his radical aesthetic, society placed many undue pressures on a person, including itchy shirts.