by Dani Harper
Birkie continued to rattle off facts about everything and everyone and Jillian’s frame of mind improved with each block they passed. Dunvegan might be remote, but it looked both friendly and prosperous, not the tiny rundown village she had feared it would be. And there were definitely no igloos or dogsleds anywhere—so much for the northern stereotype. Slowly she relaxed and forgot her headache. Forgot her missing boxes. And nearly forgot her own name when she caught sight of the clinic. The North Star Animal Hospital was a sprawling modern building, and inside it turned out to be as well-equipped as the college labs had been.
Agitated, the white wolf paced the shadows in the trees just behind the clinic. The massive creature didn’t know why he was here, only that he needed to be. He had been here countless times on numberless nights, watching, guarding when Connor stayed late. But his brother wasn’t here. None of the family, none of the Pack, was here. Yet something had tugged him away from the hunt, drawn him from the tall forests along the steep coulees, pulled him away from the deep shadows and bright starlight. Even the newly full moon couldn’t compete with this urge. He couldn’t ignore it, didn’t want to resist it. The wolf had felt this sense, this something before, followed it before. . . .
Not something but someone.
Scents lingered around the outside of the building, on the pavement, in the yard, in the corrals. Hours old, days old, even weeks old. Many animals had been here. Many humans. And Changelings. He could identify every smell—except one.
The massive wolf stopped in his tracks. His nostrils flared, taking in the subtle traces. Human. A woman. It was her scent that lingered here and there in the corrals, in the doorway, in the yard. She was somewhere in the building now. He inhaled deeply, drawing the tiny molecules over the delicate olfactory tissues, seeking information. The scent was fresh, and it was not one that he had ever encountered here. He snorted and inhaled again. There was something vaguely familiar—and important—about this strange woman. But the wolf could not discern what it was and whined softly in frustration.
Not a wolf.
The sudden thought jarred him. Intruded on his senses, confused him. The thought came again, stronger this time. I am not a wolf. It felt dangerous, threatening in some way. The white wolf growled low in his throat and crouched as if to leap at an enemy. Suddenly another awareness stirred, deep inside. It reached out to the creature, calmed it. And for the first time in years, took control.
James Macleod blinked. Still in wolf form, he was fully awake as he hadn’t been in a very long time. Aware. Cocooned in the body of a wolf, James didn’t have to think unless he wanted to, could sink down beneath the surface of the animal, enough so that human thoughts and human emotions were dulled, or he could sink even deeper and silence them altogether. So that the raw edges of grief and pain couldn’t slice at him, couldn’t even find him. So that he could breathe, could keep on breathing.
Aware. His human self was no longer submerged beneath the wolf, and after all this time it was strange, almost alien to him. He turned his head slowly, taking in his surroundings with this new and foreign perspective. Dawn was burning a thin bright line along the eastern horizon. It was a color; there was a word for it. Red. The sky was red. He pondered that for a moment, had no idea what to feel about it.
I’m not a wolf. He didn’t know how he felt about that either. But he did know that whatever—whoever—had drawn him here, coaxed him back to full awareness, was inside Connor’s clinic. Animal instincts warned James that he was far from the forest with daylight almost upon him. The urge to head for cover was strong. But the man within the wolf wanted to see this woman, learn what she was to him . . . and was surprised at how powerful the desire was.
James wavered for a few moments until a pair of headlights appeared on the road beyond. He slipped smoothly back beneath the animal persona. The wolf shook himself hard, then wheeled away and raced across the open fields to the trees beyond, a white streak in the morning mist.
Chapter Three
Closing time at last. While Birkie was putting the sign on the waiting room door and drawing the blinds, Jillian leaned against the counter in the lunchroom and wiped her face with a paper towel. Frowned at the dirt that appeared on it. Technically only eight hours had passed, but it felt a lot more like twelve. So far, each day of her first week at the North Star Animal Hospital had felt about the same and today was Day Five. Or was it Day Six? Thursday? Friday? Or later? Lack of sleep was definitely fogging her brain. She had expected the wolf dreams to stop once she got to Dunvegan. Instead, she was now being awakened by them every single night. They were good dreams, but there was no getting back to sleep afterward. Too restless to read, she’d begun practicing her hyung in the open area of the livestock wing before the sun rose. At least she was remembering the 29 moves more easily now. Or perhaps she was too tired to notice when she missed any.
Jillian rubbed her eyes and refilled the coffee machine. Connor hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her his practice was busy. She had served practicums at many busy clinics before graduating—but those practices boasted several veterinarians each and a brigade of animal health technicians to support them. Still, she wouldn’t dream of complaining. After all, according to Birkie, Dr. Macleod—who preferred to be called Connor, even by the clients—had been practicing pretty much solo for the past ten years. How he’d managed it was a mystery to Jillian, at least logistically. There was no doubt in her mind that the man had enough talent for three vets, maybe four.
Pretty easy on the eyes too, as Birkie so bluntly put it. Connor was one of the tallest men Jillian had ever met, yet his lean frame was packed with muscle almost as if he bench-pressed cows for fun. He was dark-haired but fair, with pale gray eyes that were startling in their intensity. Nope, looking at him was no hardship at all.
Not that she had much time to look at Connor. The busy practice consisted mostly of a constant parade of cows and horses, cats and dogs. But to Jillian’s delight, that parade was also punctuated by wildlife. A young deer, an injured fox, two fledgling owls, and a hawk with a sprained wing. And yesterday, a trio of honest-to-god beaver kits. She was going to gain some experience with wild animals after all. Caroline—a levelheaded and competent assistant who freely admitted to having a crush on Connor—had mentioned that a wolf cub had been brought in last fall. Jillian couldn’t help but hope that might happen again.
She studied every printed word on canis lupus she could find and surfed the Internet for more studies, more data, but there was just no substitute for observing the real thing. Only one had ever passed through the wildlife center Jillian had worked for, a young black female with a permanently lame front leg. The wolf had been checked over by the head vet and sent on to a zoo, but not before Jillian got to examine the beautiful animal thoroughly. She was determined to someday specialize in these creatures. Closing her eyes, she envisioned a future where she was the director of her own wildlife center. Pictured herself giving lectures, imagined someone introducing her: Dr. Jillian Descharme, world-renowned authority on wolves.
The picture in her mind blurred, shifted. The lecture theatre became a forest. Instead of standing at a podium, she was seated on a large flat rock—and the white wolf sat beside her. Without hesitation she leaned into the massive creature’s fur, felt the warmth that radiated from its muscled body even as she sensed the warm presence in her mind.
“They say you shouldn’t wake sleepwalkers, but I’m just not sure what to do about sleepstanders.”
Jillian’s whole being felt jolted as she snapped into the here and now to find herself leaning against Connor. “What? Oh, jeez.” Awkwardly, she tried to sidestep away from him—until she realized that he had a firm hold on her arm, holding her up. “I’m okay, I’m fine, thanks.”
He nodded and steered her neatly to a chair. She sank into it gratefully, feeling disoriented and slightly ridiculous. “I’m sorry,” she stammered as she rubbed her hands over her face. “I must have drifted off. I hav
en’t been sleeping well, and I guess it caught up with me.”
“I’m not surprised. You’ve had a lot thrown at you in a single week. It’s not usually this busy around here. I’m out on farm calls a lot, and when I’m gone, most small pet owners take their animals over to the clinic in Spirit River.” He placed a cup of coffee in front of Jillian, took a long sip from one himself. “But the word’s gotten around that we’ve got another vet here, and now everyone wants to check you out.”
“Great. They’ll be really impressed if they find me asleep standing up.”
“Hasn’t been bad for business so far. It’s the busiest Saturday we’ve had in years.”
“Saturday. It’s Saturday already?”
“Oh, you have had a long week.” Connor grinned at her. “Trust me, it’ll get better. Wait till the novelty wears off. Business will settle down to its normal manic pace.”
She drank the entire cup of coffee and half of the next one he poured for her. It cleared her head and revived her somewhat, although she knew it wouldn’t last. “Guess I’m going to bed early tonight. I just have to check on Poodle—”
“Damn! I forgot all about Poodle. Look, I can come in and do that. You don’t have to get up.”
“That makes no sense. I’m right here, and Birkie says you live several miles out of town. I promise I’ll have a nice long nap before supper, and then I’ll be just fine. I can check Poodle a couple times during the night and go right back to bed.”
He looked unconvinced. “I just don’t want to wear you out completely in your first week,” he said. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely certain. And I’m the one that worked on him, so I really want to follow up and make sure he’s okay.”
Connor nodded. “I get that. I’d feel the same way. At least you can sleep late tomorrow.”
“I can?”
“Just because we started working you the second you got off the bus doesn’t mean you’re a slave.” He laughed. “You’ve got two whole days off, Sunday and Monday.”
“What about you?”
“I’m on call tomorrow, and I’ve got surgeries scheduled for Monday. So I’ll be holding the fort.” Before she could protest, he raised a warning finger. “Next weekend, you can be on call and do Monday morning surgeries. For now, just take a breath and get settled in. There must be dozens of things you’ve been waiting to do.”
“Explore,” Jillian said at once. “Hike probably, maybe along the river. See the countryside, take some photos. Are there any good trails around here?”
“Plenty but if you’re into photography, I think Elk Point will be your best choice. You can see lots from there. I’ll draw you a map before I go home.”
The moon sailed across the night sky, full and bright, the Huntress in her silver chariot. Behind her she drew the tides, tugged at the night breezes, lured the creatures that roamed the other side of day. Normally she pulled at the white wolf too, demanded he follow the hunt. But not now. Something else was drawing him, calling him. Not a sound or a scent but a nameless sense as tangible as the migration season which called the geese, and as powerful as the instinct for survival. A restlessness teased at his consciousness during the night, the same one that had whispered in his wolfen dreams during the day.
Finally he could no longer resist. It was almost summer, a time of warmth and plenty, but the white wolf was compelled to leave the forest. He glided through the moonlit fields like an icy shadow, passed ghost-like over roads and ditches, skirted sleeping farms and approached the town itself. Unseen, unheard, he unerringly made his way through dim and darkened streets to the far outskirts of Dunvegan. To the North Star Animal Hospital.
The building was dark. Silent. Animal senses told him that the woman was within, and other senses surfaced in response. James took control more easily this time, and his human self studied the clinic for options. He paced slowly, thoughtfully, circling the building once. Then he suddenly bounded up the hay bales that were stacked outside, leapt a span that would have been impossible for an ordinary wolf, and landed in the loft above the stable area. And discovered that the loft was not only open to the outside, but opened to the clinic within as well.
Dr. Jillian Descharme blindly reached for the alarm, slapped it into snooze mode, and lay in the dark until her eyes focused. Three in the morning was traditionally known as the midnight of the soul. It was actually four in the morning, and she had no idea what that might be called, only that it was too damn early. Groaning, she scrambled out of the bed that took up half of the room in her tiny apartment within the North Star Animal Hospital. It was time to check on Poodle again.
She winced as she realized the name sounded just as ridiculous in the middle of the night—or perhaps even more so—than it did in broad daylight. Throwing a threadbare pink robe over her pajamas, Jillian headed down the hallway under a series of skylights. The pale moonlight silvered everything it touched and deepened the shadows, like walking through an old black and white movie. The clinic seemed larger than ever, stretching off into darkness in all directions. It was quiet. Peaceful. And the tiled floor was a lot colder than she expected. Her bare feet were starting to cramp by the time she padded by the X-ray lab. She made it past the pharmacy, cursing aloud, but finally had to stop for a few moments. The mat in front of Connor’s office was like a tiny island in an icy sea.
Jillian balanced on one foot and placed the sole of the other against her calf muscle in an instinctive attempt to warm it. She stood like a flamingo for a while, squinting at the collection of comic strips and articles that almost completely covered the door. Birkie had said there were “enough letters after the bossman’s name to start a whole new alphabet.” On a whim, Jillian lifted a sheaf of papers to read the nameplate: Head Janitor. She grinned and shook her head—no one would ever accuse Connor of taking himself too seriously.
When her feet felt warm enough to brave the tiled floor again, she padded quickly through the staff kitchen where a low wattage bulb acted as a nightlight. Made a left at the examining room, zipped through the small animal surgery and came to a halt in front of a stainless steel kennel. A faint raspy mew sounded from the depths of the big wool blanket within.
“Hey, Poodle. There now, Poodle, it’s okay. It’s good to see you awake.” Jillian reached in and stroked the velvety fur of a Siamese cat of indeterminate age. “Mrs. Malkinson must be missing you a lot.” The animal was the constant companion of Mrs. Enid Malkinson, also of indeterminate age. All Jillian could figure out was that both of them were exceedingly old for their respective species, both a thin collection of angles and sharp points, yet with a curious dignity. It was difficult to accord them that dignity with a straight face however when both had watery blue eyes that were crossed just enough to be comical. If ever there was a case study for pets and their owners looking alike, this was it.
They didn’t act alike, however. Enid was best described as a classic worrywart, fearful and cautious, while Poodle seemed to thrive on finding trouble. This time trouble had come in the form of a rhinestone earring—a heavy vintage piece with the screw-on backing and flashy stones of its era—that had lodged in Poodle’s throat. Why the cat insisted on trying to swallow it in the first place, Jillian had no idea, but she’d spent over an hour in surgery to remove the stubborn piece of jewelry.
Jillian trailed her fingers through the water dish and dripped a little onto the cat’s tongue, which hung out the side of his mouth. “Come on, Poodle, you must be pretty dry. There now, doesn’t that feel better?” A rusted-out purr threatened to shake the bony body apart. How he managed to manufacture the sound so soon after throat surgery, Jillian couldn’t imagine, but the sound vibrated up her arm as she petted him. Forgetting her cold feet, she spent a long time gently running her hand over the cream and sable fur, until the old feline fell back asleep with his tongue still hanging out. Jillian smothered a laugh and gently poked the errant tongue back into the mouth where it belonged.
Satisfied that Poodl
e was fine, she closed the door and wandered back through the halls toward her apartment. Shadows draped in the corners, pooled on the floor. Deep and black. Except one. One was white.
Jillian stopped dead, her heart seeming to stop as well, as the white shadow suddenly stood and shook itself, resolving into an immense specimen of an impossible animal. Canis lupus. A wolf.
She couldn’t form a single thought. Couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Could only stare as the creature turned its massive head in her direction, stared back at her for a long moment with strange blue eyes that seemed lit from within. Then it vanished. The abruptness of the disappearance shook her from her paralysis.
“No.” Jillian lunged forward, ran to the spot where her mind had insisted a white wolf had stood. “Wait! Wait, don’t go! Please! You can’t go!”
Connor had understated this place. The view was nothing short of astonishing. It had taken much of the day for Jillian to make her way to this rocky spot, but a view like this was worth every bug bite, every scratch from a wild rosebush and every stretch of muscle it took to climb the steep grade. She emerged from the brush, sank onto a sandstone boulder, and took a long draw from her last water bottle. She drank in the view too. Numberless coulees converged into the valley floor far below. Forests of spruce and groves of poplar, chalky cliffs and fertile floodplains, tumbled-down cabins and tidy farms—all were linked together by the broad Peace River. The sweeping S-curves of flowing water glistened in the sunlight of the late afternoon.
She regarded her old 35mm camera affectionately. It was too late in the season to capture images of prairie crocuses in the grass, but Indian Paintbrush and other wildflowers were just coming into bloom. She had photographed an old riverboat that was beached near the bridge, then veered off the tourist’s graveled path in favor of following some of the game trails that led up and down the hills, to and from the river. The detour had paid off with the sighting of a female moose with twin calves foraging for cattail bulbs at the edge of a pond. Jillian hoped her shots would turn out, wondered if she should have taken more to make certain. If she ever got out of debt, she was so getting a professional grade digital camera, one with every lens attachment known to man and extra memory cards. Back east, she’d drooled many times over just such a camera in the electronics store down the street from the bus stop.
