by Jane Godman
They followed Lowell into the den where the walls were lined with crammed bookshelves and every available surface in the room was piled high with books.
“What are you going to do when you run out of places to put books?” he asked, as he and Valetta took a seat on one sofa and Lowell sat in a chair opposite.
“Move.” Lowell snapped his book closed and placed it on a teetering pile. “When you called, you said you wanted to know about the Shadow Born, but you didn’t tell me why.”
Valetta’s hand stole into Samson’s and he gripped it, giving her a reassuring smile, a smile that told her Lowell could be trusted. She nodded in return, signaling that it was okay for him to tell Lowell everything. “Valetta’s father is Hendrik Rickard.”
Lowell spoke directly to Valetta. “Your father and I served together in the brotherhood. Now, of course, I know him through his politics as well. He’s done some good work through his role on the committee for the preservation of the tundra ecosystem.”
“Recently, Hendrik started getting harassed by a motorcycle gang known as the Guardians of Hati. They appear to be Arctic werewolves. They bombarded him with messages all saying ‘Death to the Shadow Born.’”
“But your father is not Shadow Born.” Lowell’s penetrating eyes probed Valetta’s face.
Samson heard the anguished click as she swallowed. “No.”
“Then these Guardians of Hati are either stupid, misinformed, or have another agenda.” Lowell redirected his gaze back to Samson.
Samson gripped Valetta’s hand a little tighter. “Valetta’s mother, Teresa, was a Shadow Wolf.”
“As the child of a Shadow Wolf, I am the one who is Shadow Born.” Valetta’s voice was quiet, the words tinged with bitterness.
Lowell tented his fingers under his chin. “I see you know a little about it.”
“I know that much.”
“While the Guardians clearly believe Hendrik is harboring the Shadow Born, we don’t believe they know Valetta is the Shadow Born werewolf they seek, because they have accepted her into the gang. They have even made her their leader,” Samson said.
Lowell was shaken slightly out of his scholarly calm. “An unprecedented move.”
“Everything about these bastards is unprecedented.” Samson went on to explain in detail about the unwolflike behavior of the Guardian members, the way each of them appeared not to know their own background, when or how they had been recruited, and the way in which they were apparently controlled by an external force. “Then there is Konrad.”
“Konrad?”
“The guy who was their leader before Valetta. He was in charge, yet he isn’t an alpha.”
Lowell sat up straighter in his seat. “A pack leader who is not an alpha? I’ve never heard of that happening before.”
“That’s what we thought.” Samson nodded.
Lowell frowned. “I’d like to get a look at this guy. You’re absolutely sure he’s a werewolf?”
“I’ve seen him shift. He’s definitely a werewolf,” Valetta said. “Although there are things about him that bother me. His eyes are too light for an Arctic werewolf.”
“Yeah, and there’s fuck all behind them.” Samson’s lips curled back in a snarl at the memory of Konrad’s bland, unsmiling face. “Even taking Konrad out of the equation—which I fully intend to do in the near future—this whole thing has been carefully planned for some time. These guys didn’t just land here out of nowhere and randomly decide to issue incidental threats. Which is why we need to know more about the Shadow Born.”
“Okay. It’s a tricky one because it’s a legend that is shrouded in mystery. Since you called, I’ve been doing some reading to refresh my memory. Firstly, nothing in any of the literature I have”—Lowell waved a hand around the room, indicating the hundreds of books—“confirms that the Shadow Wolf actually exists. Like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, it is a mythological creature.”
“I already knew that. I didn’t come here to hear my mother compared to a giant ape or a prehistoric reptile.”
Samson placed a hand on Valetta’s arm, preventing her from bounding up from her seat. “We came here to listen.”
She subsided, but her expression remained mutinous. Samson was not known for his tact. Among the other members of the brotherhood he was considered the joker of the pack. He was tactless and could be guaranteed to say the wrong thing. It wasn’t an act. It pretty much summed up his personality. The person he had become after Anna’s death. I get results through strength and intimidation. I don’t do diplomacy. This whole compassion thing was new to him. With Valetta, he was learning as he went along, and he wanted to get it right for her sake. Wanted to smooth away those tiny lines of tension that had appeared at the corners of her eyes, ease the unyielding line of her jaw, and take away that haunted look from those glorious golden eyes. He also wanted to grab his good friend Lowell by the throat and tell him to sugarcoat the message. He attempted to convey this information to Lowell with a warning frown. Samson knew from experience that it was an expression that would have had a lesser man running for cover.
Lowell gave a slight nod to signal his understanding. “It was a crass comparison. I’m sorry.” Samson felt Valetta relax slightly under his grip. “But I’m afraid this next part of the story isn’t going to sound a whole lot better.” He paused as though waiting for permission to continue.
Valetta bit her lip. “Go on.” Samson still had his hand on her arm and the rigidity of her muscles told him exactly what it cost her to utter those words.
“Have either of you heard of the Beast of Gévaudan?” Lowell’s eyes went from Valetta’s face to Samson’s and back again. They both shook their heads. “In eighteenth century France, a region that was known as Gévaudan was terrorized by a huge wolflike creature. It was described as being about the size of a buffalo, with razor-sharp claws, reddish-brown fur, and very large fangs. Before the killing stopped, this wolf claimed the lives of at least a hundred people and injured many more.”
Valetta’s already pale complexion lightened several shades. “Why are you telling us this?”
Lowell’s gaze was steady, but apologetic. “Because the man who eventually killed this beast claimed it was a Shadow Wolf.”
Chapter Six
Valetta wanted to cover her ears, to run from the room, to keep running until she could find a place where this nightmare would be over and she never had to hear the words Shadow Wolf or Shadow Born again. There is no such hiding place. You can’t run from yourself. She felt Samson’s eyes on her profile and knew he was concerned for her. Drawing a deep breath, she steadied her emotions and anchored herself back in this room, in her own nightmarish reality.
“What makes you think the Beast of Gévaudan was a Shadow Wolf?” She was pleased with the way she managed to keep her voice unfaltering as she asked Lowell the question. “Legend says that the characteristics of the Shadow Wolf are that it finds a pack and blends in with it so perfectly that it becomes indistinguishable from its host. It doesn’t want to stand out. Its purpose is to breed with the host. This creature you have described sounds like a lone wolf, bent on destruction, not integration.”
Lowell picked up the book he had been reading when they arrived. Looking more closely at it now, Valetta could see it was very old and the text appeared to be handwritten in a foreign language. “There is an exception. I have found reference to it only once, in this volume. This arises if the host discovers the Shadow Wolf and casts it out before it can breed. Then the Shadow Wolf will retain the identity it assumed within the host pack, but it will grow to monstrous proportions and become feral.” He snapped the book closed again. “Once this happens, the Shadow Wolf, like other werewolves, can only be killed by a silver bullet or decapitation. The problem is, its size and strength make it difficult to capture.”
Valetta swallowed hard. “I guess you’d better finish telling us the story of this Beast of Gévaudan.”
“Can we hear it with a beer in our
hands?” Samson asked.
“You know your way.” As Samson left the room, Lowell leaned forward slightly. His eyes were sympathetic. “These old legends often hold the solution as well as the problem.”
Valetta attempted a smile. It wasn’t her best effort. “Right now, it doesn’t feel like there is an ending to this.”
“There is always an end, but it may be around a corner rather than in plain sight.”
Samson returned, carrying an ice bucket filled with bottles of beer. “I figured we were here for the long haul.” He passed out bottles to Lowell and Valetta, taking one himself and draining half in a long slug. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
Lowell quirked an amused brow at Valetta and this time she managed a genuine smile in return. “The Beast of Gévaudan preyed on easy targets such as women, children, and lone men tending livestock. The creature’s method of killing was unusual for a wolflike predator. It went for the head, ignoring the throat.” He threw Valetta an apologetic glance. “Its preferred method of attack was to crush or completely remove the head of its victim.”
While Valetta processed this unpleasant piece of information about a possible ancestor, Samson fired a question at Lowell. “Is there a precedent for that?”
“Possibly, and I’ll come to that later. Obviously, the residents in the Gévaudan area were desperate to put an end to this reign of terror. Hunters went out in groups searching for the beast and there were several reports of encounters during which it was shot, sometimes at close range. Each time, the beast would fall to the ground, only to rise again within minutes and either attack the hunters, or run off into the forest. After each shooting, the number of victims would rise, as if the beast were taking revenge.”
“How was it killed?” Valetta asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Hunters from far and wide traveled to Gévaudan and the hunt went on for months. Eventually, the story made its way to the ears of the king. He sent a number of highly respected hunters to the region with instructions to finish off this beast. They were joined by a young local man called Jacques Denis. He had a personal reason for wanting to kill the beast since his sister was one of its victims. It is his account of the hunt that has been maintained for posterity. The king’s own gun bearer fired his gun and one of the shots went through the beast’s right eye, penetrating its skull. The beast of Gévaudan was dead at last. For over a year after its death everything remained calm. Then the massacres started again.”
“They killed the wrong wolf?”
“In his account written at the time Denis believed so. This time, the story had attracted the attention of a notorious bounty hunter called Jean Chastel. Chastel killed werewolves. He described it as his purpose in life. Unlike the previous hunt, this was conducted with no dogs, no horses, no hundreds of followers. It was just Chastel and Denis and their guns loaded with silver bullets. They went to the edge of the forest and waited. Sure enough, the beast stepped out of the trees and faced them. Chastel and Denis fired their silver bullets into its head and the creature dropped like a stone before them.”
Samson frowned. “But you said the Shadow Wolf is difficult to kill.”
Lowell nodded. “By killing it in that way, Chastel gained the reputation of being a great hunter. The Beast of Gévaudan was embalmed so that the king’s scientists could examine it, but eighteenth-century embalming techniques were not reliable. Before the corpse reached the king it had begun to rot and was destroyed.”
Silence reigned while Valetta and Samson absorbed the gory details of the story. At last, Valetta spoke. “Why did you need to tell us about the Beast of Gévaudan?”
“For a number of reasons. Firstly, as I’ve said, the Shadow Wolf is a rare creature, one about whom very little is known. Secondly, the Beast of Gévaudan is probably the only incident of a feral Shadow Wolf ever recorded. Finally, I wanted to bring Chastel and Denis to your attention.”
Samson had been focused on draining his beer, but, at those words, he placed the bottle down with a frown. “Why? Wasn’t their part in this over and done with three hundred years ago?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Behind his scholarly manner, Valetta decided Lowell had one of the most penetrating stares she had ever seen. Those eyes missed nothing and that keen brain appeared to store within it a whole world of information. “But Chastel is alive and well. And where he goes, Denis is never far behind.”
Samson escorted Valetta to one of the many guest rooms in Lowell’s huge house. “Get some sleep.”
“How can I sleep with all this going around in my head?” Even though she asked the question, he could see she was clearly exhausted. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and her whole body drooped with tiredness. “And who knows what the hell is going on back at the Guardian compound while we are here?”
“Whatever is happening at the compound will happen whether we are there or not,” he said. “You know this whole business of you being in charge is bullshit.”
Valetta sighed. “I suppose so.” She raised fearful eyes to his face. “But what if tonight is the night they decide to go after my father?”
“I’ve taken care of that. Hendrik is safe. Trust me, Valetta.”
She nodded, rising to the tips of her toes to press her lips to his cheek. “I do. In all of this madness it’s the one thing I have.”
After she had gone inside the room and closed the door after her, Samson pressed his fingers to his face, feeling the tingle where her lips had touched. With a shake of his head, he roused himself from his thoughts. There was no time for this. He was surprised that was his first thought. Not I don’t do sentiment or She’s Hendrik’s daughter. Not even, I am not looking for a mate. Just a trace of regret that they didn’t have the luxury of time to explore their feelings. After everything Lowell had just told them, it was possible they never would.
When he returned to the den, Lowell was still seated where Samson had left him.
“Now tell me the rest of it.” Samson snagged another beer as he sank back into his own chair.
“The rest of it is speculation.”
“We both know your speculation is worth more than all of these books put together.” It was true. Each member of the brotherhood had their own unique skill. Samson had his intuition. Lowell had an uncanny ability to sift through the reams of werewolf history and folklore and instinctively know which parts were true.
“You flatter me, Samson, really you do.” Lowell laughed. “Okay. You asked if there was a precedent for the type of attack used by the Beast of Gévaudan. That was a very perceptive question.”
Samson stretched his long legs in front of him. “I’m not just a pretty face.”
Lowell reached out a hand and spun the antique globe on the table next to him. When it came to a standstill, he pointed at its surface. “Here.”
Samson leaned forward. “The Gulf of Alaska?”
“No, it’s an island called Ulu, close to the Tuxedni Glacier.” Lowell moved his finger slightly so that Samson could see the exact area.
Samson frowned. “There are wolves on that island? Surely not.” The small island was isolated, miles from any other land.
“Not now. But an excavation of prehistoric caves on the island has found the fossil remains of wolves. And cave drawings of wolves. Both of which show some interesting details.”
“Let me guess. Wolves biting the heads off their victims?”
“Right the first time.” Lowell pointed the neck of his beer bottle in Samson’s direction in a salute of congratulations. “And one drawing shows a wolf being stalked by another wolf. The second wolf is indistinct. You might say it’s a shadow.”
Samson whistled. “Sounds like this island might hold some clues about our Shadow Wolf.”
“Perhaps more than we know. Has Hendrik ever mentioned the island to you?”
“No.” Samson shook his head. He was certain he’d never heard of Ulu until tonight. “This is like a fuck
ing jigsaw puzzle. Except each time we try and put a piece in place, a giant hand comes down, takes it away, and throws in a random bunch of new ones.”
“I don’t believe any of this will turn out to be random.”
Samson straightened. “You have a theory? Do you think Valetta’s mother was the key to all this?”
“It’s too early for theories. And, no, I don’t think the Shadow Wolf is the key. I think these notes, threats, this gang, all of it has been an elaborate distraction.”
“What are they distracting us from?” Samson leaned forward, all trace of weariness gone now, his full attention on his friend. “And who are ‘they’?”
“If I’m right, the real target is a creature that is even rarer than the Shadow Wolf.” Lowell’s eyes were sorrowful as he returned Samson’s gaze. “In the wrong hands, the powers of the Shadow Born would be lethal.”
“You mean this has been about Valetta all along?”
Lowell nodded. “I think that’s the most likely explanation. As for who . . .” He stretched out a hand to the table at his side, and drew two pictures toward him. One was a copy of an old painting and the other was a modern-day photograph. Lowell placed them on the table in front of Samson. There were enough similarities for him to see that it was the same man in both pictures. Lowell tapped the first picture. “Jean Chastel. France, 1767.” His fingertip moved across to the second. “This was taken two days ago here in Fairbanks.”
“Chastel is here in Alaska?” Samson stared at the picture. A three-hundred-year-old wolf hunter was right here. It couldn’t be coincidence. “How do you keep up with these things, Lowell? Do you subscribe to every werewolf-related magazine and website?”
