Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  7

  In a general sort of way,” Spencer George announced, burrowing more deeply into his coat, “I do not enjoy this weather. In case you wondered.” His eyes watered as yet another blast of cold air hit them.

  Bare-headed and gloveless, the larger, younger man beside him laughed. “Why not? It’s beautiful! Look at that moon—full tomorrow! Look how bright the stars are! When do you see that in the city? And listen to that wind! Come on, it’s a gorgeous night.”

  “Michael, I am fully prepared to accept that for your people, priding yourselves as you do on your oneness with the natural world, it’s conceivable shrieking wind and glowing stars are sufficient to neutralize the discomfort of numb toes and frostbitten ears. I would further stipulate that I myself am a decadent white man who long ago lost touch with Mother Earth.” Longer ago than you can imagine, he added sourly to himself, and I can’t say I’ve missed her caress. “I acceded to this absurd notion of a walk through Central Park purely out of my high regard for you and respect for your wishes. Also my fear that you’d change your mind about joining my friends and myself for a drink if I didn’t.”

  “You weren’t afraid of that.” Michael grinned.

  “That’s true. It sounds good, though, doesn’t it? It makes me appear unselfish and noble. Willing to suffer for those I cherish.”

  “Only if I believed it.”

  Spencer sighed. “Then what am I doing out here? Really, Michael, if this is your idea of a good time, we might be less compatible than I hoped. Talking of ‘hoped,’ did you see your mask, by the way? Was it as exceptional as you’d anticipated?”

  Michael didn’t speak immediately. With a small smile, he said, “It’s beautiful.”

  “Hmm. Beautiful. I detect a note of disappointment, however. Are you—” He stopped as Michael grabbed hold of his arm. “What?”

  “Shh.” Michael stood still. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. He turned his head slowly left, then right, and loosened his grip. “Go,” he said.

  “What are you—”

  “Leave. Go home. I’ll come soon.”

  Spencer didn’t move and didn’t answer. His own Noantri hearing, acute as it was, detected no sound beyond the howling wind and the hiss of the city’s unceasing traffic. Nor did he scent anything unusual riding the rushing air. But he felt something: a current on his skin, a dark voltage new to him but charged, unmistakably, with danger.

  A roar blasted the night. A blur of movement: Spencer spun, but not in time. Something smashed into him, knocked him painfully to the ground. Something alive, he knew, because, while he lay on his back, breath knocked out, he saw it bound up and after Michael, who was racing away into the darkness under the trees.

  8

  Michael Bonnard took off along the darkest route he could find. He sprinted up and over a small hill, loped down the far slope in great long strides. Icy wind whistled around him. He had to lead Edward away from Spencer.

  This was Edward, no doubt. It astounded Michael to find him in the city—Edward hated the concrete streets, the crowds, the cars, the steel—but he was here and he was raging. On the bitter air Michael could smell Edward’s scent, sense his heat, feel his fury. A fury so great, an anger so overpowering, that Edward had Shifted.

  Disaster. For Edward it was always, always anger that triggered the Shift. Michael could use anger, but other states also: panic once, as a child; another time, the exhilaration of first love. It was harder for him, though, no matter what. His flash point was higher. For Michael the Shift had to be intentioned, a matter of determined will.

  Plunging into a tangle of shrubs, he tore at his clothes, trying to free himself, trying at the same time to summon that overwhelming, cresting sensation that would be his own trigger. Anger. Fear. Shock. Whatever he could use. Michael didn’t know why Edward had come here, what powerful need had driven him so far from home to a place he detested: but right now, Michael knew with certainty, Edward was burning for a kill and he was hunting.

  9

  Spencer gathered himself, drew a deep breath, used it to mutter an oath, and raced after Michael.

  At the time of his Change, Spencer George had been a landed aristocrat with an estate in Sussex. He could ride a horse, wield a sword, shoot accurately with a flintlock pistol, and creditably execute every dance in Ebreo da Pesaro’s De Practica. Once he’d become Noantri, his grace, strength, and stamina all increased. He was grateful for, and delighted in, that fact in the bedroom; but outside that sanctum, with the exceptions of shooting, swordplay, riding, and dancing, physical exertion had for five hundred years remained on Spencer’s list of ways he would rather not spend his time.

  Comparable to going to church.

  But Michael was in trouble. Spencer ground his teeth as his pounding footfalls up a stone outcropping rattled his bones. He had no idea what had knocked him down—a rabid dog, perhaps?—but two things were unmistakable: Michael was heroically attempting to lead the danger away from Spencer, and Michael had no chance of outrunning whatever this creature was.

  Pausing at the top of the huge boulder, Spencer surveyed the undergrowth below. A wild rustle down to the right: Michael, hiding in a tangle of bushes at the center of a copse, his scent exaggerated by effort and fear. Why didn’t he stay still? On the other hand, what good would it have done? Spencer could clearly see, even in the shadows, a large shape slinking slowly, patiently, toward the thicket.

  Spencer inched down the rock toward the animal, which looked for all the world like a wolf. The trees and the brush cast wind-tossed shadows, though, confusing his sight. More to the point, this was New York City. A more likely explanation made the animal a husky or some other crossbred dog, possibly rabid, and certainly feral or it wouldn’t be hunting in the park.

  Spencer moved carefully and silently. His intent, once he’d put himself within the dog’s striking distance, was to call attention to his presence. He would be an easier target than Michael in the thicket, and the beast would leap. Spencer, whose strength certainly equaled that of a large dog and whose Noantri body could withstand whatever physical insult the dog might inflict, would defeat it. Unfortunately, that would likely mean killing it. It wouldn’t do merely to drive it away, back into the streets of the city, now that, rabid or not, it had reached the point of stalking human prey.

  Explaining to Michael his victory over the thing might get tricky, but Spencer had had more than five hundred years’ practice in such matters. If he was lucky, Michael would remain hidden in the undergrowth and see nothing, in which case no explanation beyond a lucky bash with a large branch might be required. Spencer’s gaze scoured the ground for some such branch, and he found one and hefted it. Excellent: a weapon he could wield as he once had his saber. As he crept forward, his mind began to fill with the possible intimate consequences of this episode. Michael had acted courageously, leading the danger away from him, and he was about to play the hero himself, rescuing Michael. Adrenaline-fueled mutual gratitude and relief, in a warm bedroom on a cold night, offered a promising prospect. This ridiculous exertion might be worthwhile, after all.

  Near the base of the rock he spied a flat shelf, perhaps three feet above the ground and ten feet from the dog. He leapt lightly down onto it, held his weapon at the ready, and called, “AHOY!” The animal snapped its head up, snarling. Spencer braced for its spring.

  But before it could move, Michael burst from the thicket, shouting. Not at him, at the dog. Spencer didn’t know what he was saying, wasn’t sure it was in a language he spoke, and didn’t spend any time on the question: Michael was charging the dog, and Michael was naked.

  Spencer found himself momentarily paralyzed, both by the sight—not entirely unfamiliar, but the relationship was new enough that he still found it breathtaking—and by the inability of his own mind to account for it. The animal similarly froze, torn between the two men, but Michael threw himself forward
and tackled it and its decision was made.

  So was Spencer’s. Michael might have suddenly lost his mind but that didn’t mean he had to lose his life. Spencer hurled himself off the rock and onto the swirling mass of fur and flesh. The rich scent of earth, Michael’s acrid sweat, and the aroma of blood—had the dog already made a kill?—assaulted him. He used the branch as a club, pounding its end on the dog’s head, but the dog just snarled and shifted its weight and the three of them rolled, tangled together, into the thicket. Brambles scratched Spencer’s face. The combined bulk of the other two thudded onto his chest and he realized three things.

  One: the dog was huge. And coarse-furred, and gray. And muscular beyond expectation. This was no dog. This was a wolf.

  Two: Michael was holding his own, clamping the wolf’s jaws shut with powerful hands, but he had no weapon. What had he expected to do, talk to the beast?

  Three: Michael was, in fact, talking to the beast. Half speaking, half chanting, and accomplishing nothing that Spencer could see beyond tiring himself out while the wolf thrashed, kicked, and clawed at him with razor paws.

  With Spencer still on the bottom of the pile, the wolf stopped moving. For the briefest second it seemed to stare into Michael’s eyes. Then it arched its back and dug its rear legs into the dirt. Snarling, it shook its head left, right, left, until with a roar it broke free. It stood, eyes glowing, jaws slavering. Then it lunged. Michael rolled desperately and lifted his arm in protection. The wolf rolled with him and Spencer was freed. The wolf’s pointed teeth, aiming for Michael’s throat, instead clamped onto his naked shoulder. Blood began to flow; Spencer could smell it. Without rising, he kicked hard into the wolf’s flank. The startled beast yelped, lost its grip on Michael and its footing. It stumbled, scrabbling to right itself.

  Man and beast turned shocked eyes to Spencer.

  He used the moment to jump to his feet and launch himself at the wolf. He aimed for the ears, vulnerable points on any animal. He’d yank the creature’s head up, get its jaws away from Michael. Then he’d break its skull. If he was lucky he’d find a rock to use; but he could do it with his hands. That was his plan. But the wolf was astoundingly fast. By the time he reached it—a second? two?—it had spun to face him. Its huge head angled and Spencer’s own momentum drove him into the gaping jaws. They caught his throat. The pain almost blinded him but, choking, he seized the snout and lower jaw, one hand on each, and pulled them apart. Knife-sharp teeth pierced his fingers. He managed to loosen the wolf’s grip, kicked at its belly, but his kick was weaker than before. He was dizzy; he was losing blood.

  His hand on his own throat confirmed: the wolf had cut his jugular. In the long term—and for Spencer, what was not long-term?—nothing more than a nuisance, but here, now, with Michael in danger, Spencer felt the blood flowing between his fingers as a true loss, a failure, a tragedy. He tried to stand, but couldn’t. A strange sound began behind him. He expected the wolf to lunge at him again but its head lifted. It snarled, stood quivering. Spencer, lying on cold rock, turned his head painfully. The hallucinatory vision that met his eyes was Michael, naked, bleeding, bare feet planted on the soil, arms raised to the skies, howling at the moon.

  10

  Livia exited the taxi, leaving Thomas to pay the driver. That little demand (“A vow of poverty doesn’t mean I can’t buy you a taxi ride”) had been Thomas’s final price for acquiescing to this visit. Livia was glad he’d decided to come; he and Spencer were very similar in many things, especially their love for academic study and scholarly details. You just had to get past the fact that one was a young Jesuit priest and the other an eternal Noantri. It was actually Spencer who’d been the more unfriendly when they’d met in Rome. Thomas’s reactions had been largely prompted by fear, while Spencer’s sniping hostility was the result of centuries of disdain for the Church. They’d each come out of that experience with a deeper appreciation of the other, though, and it was absurd they should be living in the same city and never see one another.

  Pulling her coat collar tight, Livia rang the doorbell of the East Side town house just off Central Park that Spencer had recently bought. He’d told her she’d enjoy the brownstone vines carved at the entranceway and the small-paned casement windows. They were indeed beautiful, but she was sure she’d enjoy the warmth of his parlor even more.

  That warmth was not prompt in arriving, though. As Thomas joined her she rang the bell a second time. Ten o’clock was the appointed hour and the first floor was ablaze with light. Where was their host? Livia leaned on the bell, long and hard, in case it was old and unreliable.

  “It’s ringing,” Thomas said. “I hear it.”

  “Me, too.” Livia frowned. Head down, she focused on what her Noantri senses were finding—what she could hear, what she could smell. “Something’s wrong,” she told Thomas.

  “What do you—”

  Thomas’s words were cut off when the door opened. Livia smiled with expectant relief. She found the doorway filled not by Spencer, however, but by a younger, larger man. He stood shoeless. His short black hair was messy, his face scratched. The jacket thrown over his wide shoulders didn’t hide the deeper scratches crosshatching his chest, or the clumsily applied bandages on his left side and shoulder. Mud streaked his slacks.

  “You must be Livia.” His voice was clear and deep. “I’m Michael Bonnard. I’m sorry we’re meeting like this. I know Spencer envisioned something different. But we had trouble tonight—we were mugged coming home. He’s all right but he’s not feeling well. If you don’t mind, I think tonight’s not the right time.”

  Livia looked steadily at him. In his dark eyes a ring of gold surrounded each pupil; they were odd eyes but they seemed kind, his attitude protective, guarding someone he cared for. She liked him right off; still she didn’t move. “I’m sorry, but Spencer’s an old friend and now you’ve made me worried. We’ll just come in and say hello. If he doesn’t want visitors we won’t stay, but I’d like to see him.”

  Spencer was Noantri; almost nothing could truly endanger him, certainly not a common mugging. He’d survive and eventually flourish no matter what had happened tonight. But unpleasant sensations—pain, discomfort—were as heightened by Noantri nature as agreeable ones; and to flourish, depending on the situation, could be a slow path. Livia owed Spencer a great deal and even out here on this landing in this frigid wind she sensed too much pain to allow herself to walk away. “Let us in, please. I’d like to see my friend.”

  “Michael?” Spencer’s voice, weak and rasping, barely carried to the sidewalk. “Is that door open to allow the breeze to soothe my fevered brow? Because I’d prefer a brandy, actually.”

  “Spencer!” Michael Bonnard snapped his head around. “You’re awake.”

  “Spencer,” Livia called, “it’s me. I’d like to come in.”

  “Livia! Michael, you’re keeping my friend waiting in the cold? I hope this is some greeting custom of your people, and not simple discourtesy. Tell me, has she got a priest with her?”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t be thinking you’re dying? You don’t need a priest.”

  “I’ve never needed a priest. I rather like this one, though. Please, let them in.”

  Thomas tugged at his scarf, revealing his clerical collar, as Bonnard said, “Are you sure you’re—”

  “Am I to rise and come to the door myself?”

  “No! No, don’t get up.”

  “Then I beg you to remember whose home this is.”

  Bonnard stood for a moment, focusing on Livia and Thomas a dark and steady gaze. Radiating a reluctance so strong Livia felt it as a wall she had to push through, Michael Bonnard stood aside and let Livia and Thomas into Spencer’s house.

  11

  Thomas was happy to be indoors and out of the cold.

  He wasn’t sure, though, that he was happy to be in this house. His last experience in a h
ouse where Spencer George lived had been one he’d never forget, nor want to repeat. The circumstances here tonight did not portend a relaxed evening of cognac and catching up, either.

  Michael Bonnard led them through the small foyer and under an archway on the left. Open glass doors revealed a high-ceilinged parlor. The house wasn’t among the grandest of Upper East Side residences, but it was comfortable enough, and these days in New York it must have cost a pretty penny.

  In Rome last fall Thomas had been granted a look into the lives of the Noantri—lives ordinary enough to those who lived them, but to Thomas, full of amazements large and small. The finances, for example, of eternal life. One Noantri could exuberantly expend all his resources and find himself facing eternity penniless, while another might husband and invest and grow rich. The Noantri leadership—the Conclave, before whom Thomas had stood in awe—were wise, judicious men and women. Prudent investment over centuries had filled coffers ample enough that any Noantri in need had but to ask. None was refused; what purpose would that serve? This was a policy that Thomas might have wished his own Church, possessed of inestimable secular wealth, would adopt; but Thomas was a Jesuit, devoted to a life of scholarship, forswearing issues of Church governance. Perhaps things were being done as they should be. If not, it wasn’t his place to agitate for change. Certainly not based on a comparison between the hierarchy and rules of the Catholic Church and those of a Community of vampires.

  Spencer George, in any case, had never needed the Conclave’s help. A respected historian of the Noantri people, he had come from wealth, and through the years protected and grown his fortune. The building he’d chosen for his New York home was unremarkable among its neighbors—neither more grand nor more shabby, well kept but, in its context, discreet. In all ways, perfect.