by Morgan Hawke
Kiss of the Wolf
Kiss of the Wolf
MORGAN HAWKE
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
For my Angel of Inspiration
Angela Knight
—See what you made me do?
And a very special thank you to
Brent, Erin, Jet, and Maura.
—I could not have done this without all of you!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Prologue
It was so cold….
Her breath steamed from her lips. Naked and shivering, she rose from her crouch. Her long pale brown hair that fell over her bare shoulders, and the tall white dog pressed against her side, were her only sources of warmth.
The windowless basement of the abandoned textile factory was thick with shadows. She couldn’t see the walls or ceiling at all. The only light came from the circular design inscribed on the worn plank floor, blazing an eerie blue all the way around them.
She needed to get out of there.
Just beyond the edge of the glowing circle, her patched corduroys, sweater, boots, and squashed cap lay in a crumpled heap on top of her canvas shoulder bag still full of undelivered newspapers. Arms across her bare breasts, she padded across the icy planked floor toward the edge of the design, heading for her clothes.
Her dog, Whitethorn, followed her toward the circle’s edge, her black claws clicking on the wood floor. The dog’s head stayed low, though her tall pointed ears swiveled back and forth, her silver fur glowing like the moon in the odd light.
Two rings from the edge, she rammed face-first into—nothing. She stepped back and held out her palms. An invisible wall shivered and clung to her skin like spider webbing. She pressed against the shivery nothing. Current vibrated in her bones. She pressed harder against it. The buzzing current increased, vibrating up her arms, down her spine, and in her teeth. Her hair lifted from her back. Pain sparked sharply across her palms. “Ow!” She jerked back and rubbed her hands together. Damnit!
There had to be a way out of this.
Hands outstretched, she wandered the entire glowing inner circle, Whitethorn’s claws clicking at her side. There was no opening in the nothingness, no way out, no escape.
Whitethorn shoved her head under her hand and rubbed, begging for a pet.
She knelt and swept her hand across the thick, silky ruff around Whitethorn’s neck. Her silvery white fur was sleek, warm against her bare skin.
Whitethorn’s yellow eyes looked into hers, and a long pink tongue swept out to lap along her jaw.
She smiled and kissed the dog’s cheek. She didn’t care that the men who had kidnapped them insisted that Whitethorn was their escaped wolf. She had found her. Wolf or not, Whitethorn was the sweetest, gentlest, and smartest animal she had ever known. Finders, keepers…
Whitethorn looked off to the side, laid her ears back, and growled. Her black lips curled back, revealing long curved fangs.
Together they hurried to the design’s center. No one had touched them, other then to take Whitethorn’s collar and her clothes, but that could change. She’d heard horror stories about what men did to naked girls.
A tall man stepped out of the darkness in a long black overcoat. Under the curving brim of his bowler hat, the circle’s blue light reflected on his dark spectacles. His orange beard and handlebar mustache seemed to glow. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.” He pulled his gloved hands from his pockets.
She hunched down and clutched her dog around the neck, pressing against Whitethorn’s soft, furry side. She glared at their kidnapper, the man who had put them in this cage of light. “Are you going to let us go now?”
“Let you go? But I only just acquired you.” He walked around the glowing circle’s edge.
She turned her head to follow him and shouted. “Who are you people, and what do you want with us? I’m just a paperboy, and she’s just a dog!”
He stopped, and his red brows rose. “How many times do I have to tell you, young lady? That is not a dog.” He peeled off his black leather gloves. “That is an arctic wolf, canus lupus arctos, from the Alaskan tundra.”
Her fingers tightened in Whitethorn’s fur. “Fine, whatever you say. What has that got to do with us?”
“I am the Doctor.” He shoved his gloves into his coat pocket, and his smile turned cruel. “And you are my test subjects.”
A chill shivered down her spine. “You’re a scientist?”
“After a fashion. Allow me to show you.” He lifted his hands and recited a string of words in a language she didn’t know.
The design started to shift and move, rotating in counter circles. The light brightened from blue to white.
Every hair on her body stood up.
Whitethorn’s fur ruffed out, and she snarled.
The light on the floor blazed to blinding brightness.
Pain exploded in her heart and ripped through her. She fell, screaming.
Whitethorn collapsed on top of her, yelping in obvious pain.
Consumed by fire, their terrified voices joined—and ended in a single long agonizing howl.
1
November 1876
The Fairwind, American Line steamship
En route to Constantza, Romania
Thorn gasped and jerked upright, knocking the pillows off the small brass bed and onto the floor. Her entire body shook. She pressed one palm over her slamming heart. “A dream…just a dream.” She shoved the long pale brown strands of hair from her damp cheeks. It was long since over and done.
She jerked the white cotton sheets from her naked, sweat-soaked body and slid from the cot to stand. The waxed hardwood deck of the steamship’s tiny iron-walled cabin was cool and rocked gently under her feet. She turned to stare out the cabin’s porthole. The moon floated among rags of cloud, and the sound of the sea rushed in her ears.
Once upon a time, she had been Kerry Fiddler, an ordinary girl, with an ordinary paper route, who had found an extraordinary white dog. And then the Doctor had found them.
But that was years ago.
She couldn’t stop shaking. She moved to the corner and the small washstand. “It’s over and done, over and done, damnit!” She had long since become used to being someone else, something else, something wilder, something fiercer, something feral. She splashed water on her face.
The moon’s light silvered the mirror’s glass. Beneath her dark slashing brows, her dark gold eyes caught the light, and the hearts caught fire, glowing like two green-gold coins—wolf eyes.
The night shadows within the ship’s small cabin seemed to close in on her. Her sweat-slicked skin chilled in the cool air of the cabin. She shivered and gasped for breath. She couldn’t get enough air. She shook her head and forced herself to take deep, slow breaths. It was over, it was done, and she had escaped. It was nothing but a memory.
Thorn turned to look back
at the moon floating outside her small window. The damned nightmare came whenever she spent too much time in too small a space. She needed to get out of this tiny iron box. She needed to run.
She took three long steps to the cabin door and jerked it open. The wind from the ocean caressed her naked skin and swept through her waist-length hair. Moonlight tinted the fine straight strands with silver. She lifted her face to the moon and let her wolf rise from her soul in a tide of fur and joy. She dropped to four paws and shook her silvery fur into place. Ears forward and long tail lifted, she trotted down the deck, her black claws clicking on the slick wooden surface.
“A large white dog was seen running loose on the ship last night.” Seated behind his elegant golden oak desk, carried onboard for his express use, Agent Hackett, fine, upstanding representative of the United States Secret Service, wrote with a hasty hand. His Parker fountain pen scratched busily across the very fine parchment. “What do you have to say for yourself?” He did not look up.
Thorn Ferrell’s hand tightened on the brim of her charcoal-gray leather hat. “I needed some air.”
Agent Hackett scowled at his writing while working the top back onto his fountain pen. “So you ran around the deck on four legs? You couldn’t do it on two like a normal human?”
Thorn didn’t bother to answer him. He wouldn’t have liked the reply. Why should she act like something she wasn’t?
In complete contrast to her farmboy appearance, he was fashionably dressed in the attire of most governmental associates. His restrained frock coat of midnight green was buttoned over a severely understated waistcoat of black damask, and a floridly knotted cravat of black silk was tied around the high collar of his white shirt. With his blond hair combed back into a ruthless wave, and neat mustache, he was considered handsome by many.
Thorn considered him a self-righteous prig.
Agent Hackett tucked the fountain pen inside his jacket’s breast pocket. “This makes four times you’ve exposed yourself.” He gently blew across the damp ink.
Thorn rolled her eyes. “They saw only a dog….”
“That is not the point.” Agent Hackett ruthlessly folded the paper and reached for his stick of sealing wax. “If you cannot be trusted to control your baser urges and at least act like a human, I do not see why you should be treated as one.” He struck a lucifer match against the side of his desk.
The stench of sulfur burned in her nose. She winced back. The bastard knew damned well she hated the smell of those things.
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps your return trip should be done at the end of a leash.” Melted wax dripped onto the folded paper. “Or better yet, in a cage.”
A leash? A cage? Thorn’s temper flared white-hot. Did he honestly think she would allow either to happen? She swallowed to hold back the growl that wanted to boil up from her chest. His attitude clearly begged for a reminder of whom, and what, he was dealing with, but a show of temper would only work against her. She needed something far more subtle.
She dropped her white canvas pack and dark gray, black fleeced, sheepskin coat on the expensive carpet. Casually she stepped slightly to one side, choosing a spot by the corner of his desk very carefully. She adjusted her position to allow the light from the small oil lamp to shine directly into her highly reflective and inhuman eyes. It had taken ages to figure out the exact angle, but the results were always worth the effort. Pleased, she jammed her thumbs into the pockets of her faded dungarees, relaxing into her pose.
“Now then, Courier Ferrell…” Agent Hackett looked up from his desk and froze, staring into her gaze. The pupils of his eyes widened, and the acrid scent of his sweat perfumed the air, betraying his instinctive alarm.
Perfect. Thorn smiled. Yes, my dear Agent Hackett, your brain may be dense, but your body knows very well that it’s in a small room with a dangerous predator.
Agent Hackett tore his gaze from her eyes and lunged to his feet. Scowling, he yanked open a desk drawer and pulled out a small brown-paper-wrapped parcel with a white card. He came around the desk to tower head and shoulders over her and offered it to them. “This is the package. You already know the route. The card has the address you are to deliver it to. It is vital that you arrive as swiftly as possible.”
Thorn took the package and card from his hands and then knelt to tuck them into her small canvas pack. She knew the “preferred” route, all right. It hadn’t taken much to memorize the map they had provided and to deduce that she would cover the territory a hell of a lot faster if she didn’t bother with roads. But Agent Hackett didn’t need to know that.
He held out a second card. “When you return to Constantza, I will be at this address.” His blue eyes narrowed, and his painstakingly neat mustache twitched. “No delays on the return trip, either, you wanton little beast. I don’t want to remain in this godforsaken country any longer than necessary.”
Still kneeling, she looked up at him. He was standing so close her lips were but a kiss away from his crotch. Well aware of her suggestive position, she smiled. “Do I really look like a wanton to you?”
Agent Hackett’s eyes widened, and the perfume of lust rolled off him. She could smell the evidence of an erection growing under his knee-length midnight-green coat. He jammed the card into her hand and jerked back a step. “You look like a street urchin.” His voice dropped to a growl. “However, your reputation for shameless exploits precedes you.”
“Dungarees are better suited than skirts for what I do, Agent Hackett.” She rose to her feet and dragged on her fleeced coat. “And I’m not ashamed of my exploits.” She shouldered her pack and smiled. “I like sex.”
He jerked his chin up, refusing to look at her. “Why in God’s name did they saddle me with you?”
Thorn snorted. “My guess is you pissed off somebody upstairs.”
His cheeks flushed, and his jaw clenched. He pointed at the stateroom door. “Get out of my sight!”
Thorn headed for the door and jammed her hat on her head, chuckling softly. Agent Hackett simply could not accept his physical attraction to her. His morals wouldn’t let him. Too bad. He obviously was in dire need of a good fuck.
She stepped out onto the steamship’s crowded deck and blinked against the late-afternoon winter brightness. The icy wind from the dark Romanian port city smelled bitterly of coal smoke. The Black Sea, behind her, smelled just as strong, but far cleaner. Damp chill crept down past the collar of her sheepskin coat and up the legs of her faded dungarees. She’d thought to bring her good boots and flannel shirts, but she should have brought a heavy sweater, too.
Among good-natured farewell shouts and horrific blasts from the steamship’s horns, she eased in among the ship’s debarking third-class passengers and marched toward the narrow roped walkway leading down from the steamship to the dock. Setting her hand on top of her battered hat to keep the wind from blowing it away, she tromped down the gangplank into a maelstrom of humanity.
Keeping her head down, she jogged across the busy docks, dodging drays hauling freight and coaches with passengers. The occasional steam carriage chugged by, disturbing the horses with their whistling pops and loud, grumbling hisses. The train at the far end loosed a long, high whistle that raised the hair on her neck.
She entered the city proper and jogged swiftly through the wasteland of crumbling buildings, garbage heaps, and casual violence. She dodged gazes as she hurried by, just another kid in a battered sheepskin coat and faded dungarees. She snorted. The illusion would have been a lot more effective if she’d been a little more flat-chested and narrow-hipped.
Thorn reached the city’s limit just at nightfall. Farmland stretched before her, and, beyond that, clean forest. Strands of her hair escaped her braid and flitted around her cheeks. Snow scented the wind.
The next leg of her journey was the easy part. Run. A lot.
The snowstorm finally ended, and moonlight bathed the snow-covered mountains and forest, creating near-daylight brilliance.<
br />
The she-wolf ghosted out from under the snow-heavy, ground-sweeping conifer, her silvery winter coat blending perfectly with the fresh snow. The chill hadn’t been a problem, not with her thick arctic coat, and the long nap under the draping tree had given her a much-needed rest. She gave herself a firm shake to settle the white pack strapped to her long slender back and then launched into a gliding lope.
Her long strides and wide paws carried her atop the snow and through the moon-bright forest with blinding haste. Her sensitive nose caught occasional traces of the far smaller, and darker, red-coated European wolves that lived in the small mountain range she was passing through. They weren’t too difficult to avoid. They stank from eating human garbage. She smelled them long before they could scent her.
A trace scent of human drifted on the breeze.
She stilled and lifted her nose to sift the wind. What the hell was a human doing all the way out here? Along with wool and sweat, there was something odd about the scent, something subtly wrong…. Her tail switched in annoyance. She figured out where the scent was coming from and moved away, deeper into the trees. She preferred avoiding humans as much as possible. She had no interest in their noisy, cramped spaces, their stinking food, and their lies about what they wanted and didn’t want.
Her loping pace ate distance, and the moon drifted across the sky, marking the passage of hours. Her long strides carried her out of the forest and higher, into the mountains. The pass she was headed for was impassable for humans in winter but not for a wolf.
