“I don’t know your name yet, but I know who sent you,” a deep, rich voice said. “How long have you been watching me?”
Paul let his arm fall back to the bed, but kept a grip on his bag of clothes, just a denim shirt and khaki trousers with some light hiking shoes and socks. He realized he was covered with a thin white sheet.
“Fenris,” Paul said, his voice still thick.
“We haven’t met before,” the man’s voice said from somewhere off to the right. “I would remember. I’m very good at that sort of thing. You, I think, are relatively new to the Gift.”
Paul pushed himself to a sitting position with his eyes closed. He waited for his senses to settle, then opened his eyes. Fenris sat in a brown leather chair beside a small chrome-and-glass table in front of a massive window that opened onto the patio Paul had seen from his place on the hill. Beyond the patio the sun was sinking into the calm Pacific Ocean. The little blonde girl was still at her patio table, but now she was playing with two equally blonde Barbie dolls.
“How did Ulrik find me?” Fenris asked. He was dressed all in black now. His long-sleeved Western shirt was open at the throat and his cowboy boots were polished so that they gleamed in the light. His calm face creased a little when Paul didn’t answer. “How?” he demanded.
“We have our methods,” Paul said.
“Hmm. British?” Fenris asked. “Somewhere outside Liverpool, I imagine. Am I right?”
“Maybe. It really doesn’t matter.”
“No. No, it doesn’t. It’s just a game I enjoy. So, you have your methods. I, too, have methods.”
Paul said nothing, only watched Fenris closely. His senses were losing the groggy feeling from the tranquilizing dart. He could smell another man outside the bedroom door. He looked toward the door just as it opened and a huge man dressed in faded jeans and a dark blue shirt entered with something rolled under his arm.
Walter Hess wasn’t unknown to Paul Danvers, but Paul had never actually seen the mercenary werewolf. The man wore a dark, scraggly beard, long black hair and had deep, black eyes. His chest was as thick as a buffalo’s and his shoulders nearly brushed both sides of the door frame as he entered the room. He had to lower his head to come through. His forearms were like hams and his biceps were tree trunks. The Othala rune was tattooed on his right bicep.
“I discovered a very interesting trick,” Fenris said. “It’s something Walter had been trying for years. I stole the idea, you might say. But he’s certainly learned the trick now. Show our guest what you have, Walter.”
With a flourish, the brute unfurled the furry bundle under his arm so that it settled over Paul’s form under the sheet. Paul looked down at it and felt his blood run cold. It was the pelt of a werewolf, somehow taken from the body in its in-between stage. The brown hair was not matted, appearing to have been combed and washed after being removed. Paul looked from the pelt to the mercenary, who grinned back at him.
“You don’t want to end up like your friend there, do you?” Fenris asked. “I promise you it’s a painful procedure.”
“Do you mind if I get dressed?” Paul asked. It was a pretty obvious stall tactic, he knew, but the best one available.
Fenris gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Fine with me,” he said. “Of course, if it comes to this, we’ll just have to tear your clothes back off.” He motioned to the skin as he said it.
Paul opened the plastic bag and removed his clothes. Hess was a mountain of muscle, but speed and his special ops martial arts training might give him enough advantage, Paul thought. But could he dispatch Hess fast enough to deal with Fenris, too? How many others were nearby?
Is there really any chance of me getting out of here?
It wasn’t likely.
“I’ve always wondered about your real name,” Paul said as he pulled on his first shoe. “Fenris. That can’t possibly be your real name. The wolf of Ragnorak, eater of Odin. Who are you, really?”
“You wouldn’t give me your name, but you expect me to give you mine,” Fenris said and smiled just a little, showing his teeth.
“Paul Danvers. And you were right about Liverpool.” He finished tying his second shoe and sat up straight to face Fenris, but made sure he knew exactly where Hess was, too. The werewolf pelt lay on the bed, an empty husk.
“Paul Danvers. I have not heard of you. Did Ulrik make you?”
“No,” Paul said. “The one who did introduced me to Ulrik a few years after.”
“And who gave you the Gift?”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Paul prodded. “I’m not as good with accents as you, but I hear something European in your speech. Northern Europe, I think.”
Fenris smiled again. “I was born in Skida.”
“Norwegian.” Paul stood up and stretched, then rubbed his neck where the dart had pierced him. “That would explain the Nordic mythology.”
“Mythology? I suppose,” Fenris said. “Now, how did you know where to look for me?”
“Have you found Kiona Brokentooth yet?” Paul asked. He saw Fenris’s jaw clench just a bit at mention of the name. Had Kiona betrayed him as well as Ulrik?
“You seem to know a great deal about my affairs, Mr. Danvers. Maybe too much for your own good.”
“Know thine enemy,” Paul offered.
“Quoting your own mythology now?” Fenris said, smiling again. “I’m getting tired of asking you the same question, Mr. Danvers. How did you find me?”
“Would you believe dumb luck?”
“No.” Fenris’s eyes flicked from Paul to Walter Hess.
The giant started around the foot of the bed. Paul waited until the corner of the bed would not be a factor, then turned into a solid stance and delivered a perfect spear-hand to Hess’s throat. Hess backed away, his hands going to his throat as he gasped for breath. Paul lashed out with his left leg in a side-thrust kick and heard the crunch of Hess’s right knee breaking. The giant went down.
Paul looked to Fenris, expecting to see the legendary silver wolf springing toward him, but the man in black remained seated, his face set. The only difference was that he now held a small revolver in his hand. The barrel of the gun was casually pointed in Paul’s direction.
“Impressive,” Fenris said. “Sit down.”
“Why?” Paul demanded. “If I rush you know, you’ll put a silver bullet in me and it’ll be over. If I don’t, I’ll end up tortured and skinned. Either way, you’ll get nothing from me, but I know which end I prefer.”
He lunged at Fenris, letting his shape change as he did, hoping for one good swipe at the man before he died. The impact of the bullet against his chest was a solid punch, but it didn’t completely stop his momentum. He’d been shot before, but not like this. There was an aftershock that dropped him to his knees on the white carpet. Paul’s hand went to his chest, covering the bloody wound.
“The silver burns instantly,” Fenris explained. “Your body tries to fight it, but it just can’t. The silver gets into your blood and travels through your system very quickly. Every beat of your heart now brings death a little closer. Tell me, Mr. Danvers, does it hurt?”
It hurt. There was fire in his veins. Paul thought he could actually feel the poisoned blood moving through his body, filling him with burning agony. He maintained his composure, though.
“You’ve lost it all, Fenris,” Paul said. “The Indian woman has double crossed you just like she did us. The Alpha will never be yours.”
Fenris uncrossed his legs and stood up. He came to stand over Paul, reached down and hooked his fingers in the dying man’s nostrils so that he had to look up at him. “The boy will never be Alpha. He and the Indian bitch will die soon enough. Just like you. I’ll ask you one more time: How did you find me? Answer now and I’ll end the misery you’re feeling.”
The pain had reached his head. Paul’s vision began to darken. He stuttered when he tried to speak. “I w-w-w-will n-n-not cure y-your inc-c-c-ompetence.”
He was b
lind, but not deaf. He heard the sound of Fenris’s black clothes ripping as the man became a wolf. Then there was the feeling of two huge, deformed claw-like hands on either side of his head, pulling, as the wolf-man roared in rage.
Then there was nothing, and it was quiet for Paul Danvers. But those still alive in Fenris’s house trembled at the sound of his fury.
Shara
Shara Wellington sat beside the bed and sang softly, repeating the ancient song over and over. How many times had the song saved her? Too many, she thought. Too many.
Sunlight streamed through the open windows, providing the only light in the room. Below her she could hear the clatter of dishes being stacked in the kitchen and the music of a radio in the living room of the huge house. Her full attention, though, was on the old man in the bed beside her.
She had never thought of Josef Ulrik as an old man before. He had always been too strong. His personality was nearly overpowering. He was too virile, too enigmatic to be thought of as old. Now, however, he looked old and frail. His beard was too gray, his face too pale, too tight, and saliva trickled from his open mouth. Shara used a tissue to wipe at his cheek.
“I will die soon.”
She stopped singing. The sudden silence was heavy, oppressive. Did I imagine that? No, his mouth had moved. But his eyes were still closed.
“No,” she said. “I won’t let you.”
Ulrik’s eyes opened, but they were so different that Shara hardly recognized them. Before, they had always been dark and deep and full of mystery. Now they seemed lighter and filled with nothing but sadness and pain.
“You have always been my favorite,” he said. “But even you and your love song cannot heal me, my cub.”
“It isn’t a love song,” Shara said, but smiled, remembering when he had said the same thing to her once.
“But it is love in your voice,” he quoted her own response back to her.
The tears came suddenly and were relentless. She fell over the bed and lay on Ulrik’s chest and sobbed. His hand, as weak as he was, came to rest on her back. “I do love you,” she cried. “You can’t die. Don’t say that.”
“The pain, Shara. It is unendurable,” he said.
“It’ll go away,” she argued.
He didn’t answer for a moment, then he agreed. “Yes. It will.”
Shara sat up and wiped at her face, then took another tissue for herself. She blew her nose. “You moved your arm. Can you move the other one? How about your legs?”
Ulrik shook his head. “My legs are dead to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Shara said.
“It is not your fault, my cub.”
“My husband shot you. Chris shot you.”
“It is ironic, but life often is,” Ulrik said. “What of Joey?”
“Gone. Chris and Kiona took him. They got away. We didn’t get word to town fast enough. They drove right through the village. We’ve tracked them, though. They’re in a little cabin in east Texas.” She looked away from Ulrik, toward the window and the bright day outside. Somewhere out there was her son and a husband who now hated her. Almost unconsciously, she put a hand over her stomach. “We haven’t moved in on them yet. I wanted to go, but I can’t leave you. And the others. Chris may hate me now, but he won’t let anything happen to Joey.”
“There are people I do not recognize in my house,” Ulrik said. He sniffed loudly twice and Shara flashed back to her college days, when Professor Ulrik would pace his classroom and snuffle as if he was identifying his students by smell.
“There are Old Ones here,” Shara said.
“Old Ones?” His eyes showed the first flicker of real life. “Are they wolves?”
She shook her head. “Two came as wolves, but …” She paused and thought about how to say it, then just went ahead. “They came to me and bowed, then they became human. Ulrik, for the first time in centuries, they became human. Two others came as humans. They were in Spain and just suddenly changed. Somehow, they knew where to come, so they got on a plane and came here.”
He smiled at her and now a tear rolled down his cheek. “You carry the Alpha in you now, Shara. It was not Joey. I suspected it, but did not want to tell you of my fears.”
“He’s not expendable, though,” Shara said. “I want my son back.”
“I did not say he is expendable,” he said. “He is your son and should have a place of honor in the Pack. He is a good boy.”
Shara nodded. “Thank you.”
“I would speak to the Old Ones.”
“They know so much about you,” Shara said. “They’ve been watching you for a long time.”
Ulrik’s face suddenly contorted in pain and he pushed his head deep into the pillows beneath him. A grunt escaped his stretched lips and his thick hands clawed at the bed, changing rapidly from human to wolf, back and forth, growing and shedding hair. The room filled with the smell of excrement as he lost control of his bowels again. After a few moments the fit passed and he lay still, panting from the exertion.
“I cannot live like this, my cub.”
“We’ll find a cure,” Shara promised.
“There is no cure. I am alive only because the silver bullet barely broke my skin and because of the potion you found in my room. This is as good as it will get for me. I am a cripple, laying in my own filth, unable to control my shape. This is not the end I envisioned for myself.”
Shara wanted to argue, but couldn’t. He had spoken often of returning to Siberia and ending his days as a wolf. Other times, he talked of staying in Mexico, where it was warm, because he had begun to suffer from arthritis.
“I’ll get you cleaned up,” she said.
“No. I will not have the Mother of the Pack cleaning me,” he said. “Send someone else.”
“Ulrik, I can – ”
“Please, Shara, do not make me beg. As you love me, please do this for me. The humiliation is great enough already.” His eyes showed defeat. Shara had never seen that in him before. There was no arguing. She simply took his hand in both of hers and squeezed.
“I’ll come back later,” she said, then stood up, his hand still in hers. “I love you.”
He didn’t answer, only stared at her, his expression full of sorrow. She placed his hand on the bed beside him and left the room.
* * *
Shara sat at the kitchen table and rolled an orange back and forth between her hands over the surface of the table. Back and forth, back and forth.
“I could peel that for you?” Thomas McGrath, father of the baby growing in Shara’s womb, sat down across from her.
“You have to eat half.” Shara rolled the orange across the table to him and watched as he tore the peel off. The room filled with the smell of citrus. “I love the smell of oranges,” she said. “It reminds me of being a kid and my mom giving me half an orange with breakfast.”
“Sounds nice.” Thomas tore the fruit in half and put Shara’s half in her hand. He bit into his. Juice dripped from the short black hair of his goatee.
“Ulrik woke up. He talked to me a little,” Shara said. “He’s in so much pain.”
“I cannot believe the man still lives,” Thomas said, his voice giving away his Irish ancestry despite the many decades since he’d left the land of his birth.
“He had another fit. Still no feeling in his legs.”
Thomas took another bite of his orange. Shara couldn’t hold his gaze and dropped hers. She peeled a slice from her own orange and ate it slowly. She could feel that Thomas was still looking at her, and she knew what he wanted to tell her, but she didn’t want to hear it. She changed the topic.
“Any news?” she asked.
“None, and that’s a bad thing. Danvers should have reported in almost twelve hours ago.”
“You think he was caught?”
“Aye, I do,” Thomas said. He finished his orange. “The question now is whether Fenris made him talk.”
“Danvers doesn’t know where we are,” Shara said. “He d
oesn’t know about the Old Ones.”
“We believe he doesn’t know those things,” Thomas argued.
“He doesn’t. That’s why we gave him my Montana cell phone number, so he wouldn’t even call a Mexican phone.”
“Losing him would be bad. He’s a good man, for an Englishman.”
“Not if he got himself caught,” Shara said, then cringed. That was a cold-blooded thing to say. “He seemed nice on the phone. I hope he’s okay.”
“The strong and the lucky will survive,” Thomas said.
“Do you think it will come to war?” Shara asked. “Or will it be little attacks like the one with Kiona and her bear until I’m dead, my children are dead, or Fenris is dead?”
“Someone else would replace Fenris,” Thomas said as he toyed with bits of orange peel.
“Eventually there might be someone to replace me, to be the Mother,” Shara added.
“It could be centuries.”
Holle, the first of the Old Ones to appear at Ulrik’s house, entered the kitchen and took a chair beside Shara. Her long, thick gray hair was pulled back and braided, the twist lying heavily against her neck and upper back. Her face was solemn. She looked at the orange peels on the table, took a fruit from the bowl, then put it back and sighed deeply.
“I am sorry, child,” she said, looking to Shara.
“For – ?” Shara’s question was cut off by the sound of a gunshot. It came from upstairs.
A tear ran from Holle’s left eye. “He was an extraordinary man,” she said.
“Noooooo!” Shara wailed. She tried to jump from her chair, but Holle grabbed her, then Thomas was there, and others. Too many hands held her, too many voices told her it was for the best, that his pain was over now. “No, no, no,” Shara sobbed.
She sagged into a nest of hands and arms and was picked up and carried to the living room and placed on the sofa, limp and stunned. People milled around her. Thomas knelt beside her and held her hands while Holle petted her head.
“Ulrik,” Shara cried. “Not Ulrik.”
Nadia's Children Page 2
