Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  They entered a parlor of dark blue walls hung with prints and paintings. A Persian carpet covered the floor, various coffee tables and side tables stood about, and two upholstered armchairs matched a sofa on which, propped up by pillows, Spencer George was reclining.

  He looked terrible.

  Spencer George had become Noantri at the age of fifty-two and hadn’t changed in the centuries since. Right now, though, he looked twice that age. The brown of his thinning hair only pointed up the pallor of his skin. Nearly healed but still-visible scratches on his long face echoed the raw, angrier ones on Bonnard’s. A large bandage circled Spencer’s throat and his hands were wrapped like mummies. He didn’t lift his head as Thomas and Livia entered, but he smiled.

  “Livia, my dear. How good to see you. And Father Kelly. It’s been too long.”

  “Oh, Spencer!”

  To Thomas’s ears Livia’s tone conveyed as much exasperation as concern. Michael Bonnard turned an odd look on her as Spencer said, “Livia, would you mind?” He waved a bandaged hand vaguely. “Downstairs, behind the wine cellar.”

  Thomas didn’t understand what Spencer wanted but Livia clearly did. She turned to Bonnard. “Where’s the cellar door?”

  Bonnard hesitated, then shrugged. “Under the staircase.”

  Livia found the door and disappeared through it. Thomas stood uncomfortably under Bonnard’s dark scrutiny, but didn’t speak. He looked to Spencer for guidance but Spencer’s eyes were closed. Best, then, to keep silent and not add to whatever difficulties were under way.

  The cellar door creaked. Livia returned. “Gentlemen, please. If we might be alone for a few minutes.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bonnard said.

  “Michael, it’s quite all right.” Spencer roused himself to speak. “Livia means me no harm.”

  “Spencer—”

  “Really, Michael, I must insist.”

  Bonnard stared at Spencer long and hard. Spencer, blue eyes watery in his ashen face, looked back calmly. Shaking his head, Bonnard turned and led Thomas back through the archway and down the hall to the kitchen. Behind them Thomas heard Livia shut the curtained doors.

  12

  My God, Spencer.” Livia opened her bag and took out a brown glass bottle the size of a bottle of beer. “What went on?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m not entirely sure.”

  On the sideboard next to decanters of cognac and brandy Livia found a silver corkscrew. She opened the bottle. “Can you hold this?”

  “It would be easier without these annoying bandages. Michael, as it turns out, is an EMT.”

  “I thought you said he was a microbiologist. Doing a postdoc at Rockefeller.”

  “That, and an MD, also. With residency rotations in emergency medicine. On the reservation, apparently, one must wear many hats. Of course,” he added, brightening, “you yourself were once a nurse, weren’t you?”

  Livia sighed. “Yes, I was.” She picked at the tape and unrolled the bandage from Spencer’s right hand. She could see the new pink patches of skin, angry red at their centers, what looked like animal bites. She handed him the bottle. He lifted it to his lips and without stopping downed its entire contents.

  “Ah.” He sighed in contentment and let his eyes close. His hand dropped back to the blanket.

  Livia took the empty bottle from him. “Better?”

  In a few moments the color started to return to Spencer’s face. He opened his eyes, now their accustomed bright blue. “Much better, thank you. It was one of the fresh ones, though. I should have told you the aged bottles are on the bottom.”

  “Well, I apologize if it wasn’t quite to your taste, but this wasn’t really about a gourmet experience. It was about avoiding a couple of months’ sleep, which would have been hard to explain to your friend out there. Come on, I’d better rewrap that hand.”

  “No.” Spencer, instead, began unwrapping his other hand. When he was finished he peeled the bandage from his throat. “It’s rather too late for dissembling explanations.”

  Livia nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Livia understood what had happened to Spencer; it happened to every Noantri at one time or another. Somehow, one’s Noantri nature revealed itself to an Unchanged. One healed from an injury impossibly fast, or emerged alive from what should have been a fatal event, or was forced to use a Blessing no Unchanged should have been allowed to see. Whatever the cause, no recourse remained but for the Noantri to disappear: to leave for foreign parts, or remain nearby but change residence, identity, and sometimes, courtesy of Noantri plastic surgeons, even features. And, of course, to break off contact with the Unchanged who’d been a witness. The process, called Cloaking, was required of every Noantri every few decades in any case. A condition of the fifteenth-century Concordat between the Noantri and the Catholic Church was that the Noantri, though in plain sight, remain hidden, passing unnoticed among their neighbors. Once your neighbors stopped complimenting you on your ageless appearance and began whispering about it, you were no longer upholding that bargain. Since the Concordat also assured each Noantri a supply of blood for sustenance—such as the bottle Livia had just brought up from the hidden room behind Spencer’s wine cellar—most Noantri took seriously their Concordat obligations. Those who flouted the agreement faced the displeasure of the Conclave, which every Noantri took very seriously indeed.

  Spencer would have had to leave New York sooner or later, but he’d only recently arrived, and he’d come here from a life in Rome he’d been enjoying and was decades away from needing to abandon. He’d left Rome as part of a scheme that, among other things, allowed Livia’s own life to continue unhindered. She’d been grateful to him, relieved and pleased to hear that he was enjoying New York, happy that he’d found a new romantic interest. Now she felt dismay that he would have to uproot himself so soon.

  All this had been expressed when she said, “I’m sorry.” Now she added, to commiserate, “Your friend—Michael—he’s already seen?”

  Spencer fingered his neck, where shiny pink scars made ragged patterns. “I was positively gushing blood. Like a fountain. I might have thought it quite lovely if it hadn’t been mine. We were in Central Park. Michael wanted to take me to a hospital. Of course I refused and demanded to be brought back here. I assured him the damage appeared much worse than it actually was. Since I was conscious and could, with his support, walk, he acquiesced. I was lying; the damage was quite serious. I expended all my strength making our way home, and once here was barely able to move. I was unable to prevent him from applying bandages. When he did, he couldn’t help but see. The wounds were already healing.”

  “Gushing—Spencer, maybe you’re exaggerating. Worrying for no reason. Maybe it never was that bad. Michael’s all scratched up, and I didn’t see his shirt—I guess he took it off to bandage his shoulder. But I didn’t see any blood on his pants. If it was that bad and he helped you walk—”

  “I’d stanched the flow by the time he put them on.”

  Livia stared. Then she started to laugh. “Spencer! In Central Park in February?”

  Her old friend snorted. “Hah! Don’t I wish. No, nothing that alluring. But Livia?” Spencer sat up, rearranging himself on the sofa. “We were not mugged. What happened is not precisely clear. Before you arrived, as I wandered in and out of consciousness, I thought perhaps I had dreamt certain events. I no longer think so.”

  Livia opened a drawer in the coffee table, to get the bottle and its crimson-tipped cork out of sight until Spencer was strong enough to return them to the cellar. “Are you sure you should be sitting up? You seem—I don’t know, a little agitated.”

  “I’m perfectly fine. Pour us a brandy, if you don’t mind. There’s something I wish to discuss.”

  13

  As soon as the kitchen door shut behind them, Michael Bonnard spun on Thomas and demanded, “Who is she?”<
br />
  “Who? Livia? They’re old friends. From Rome. She’s a historian, an art historian. They’ve known each other for . . . years.” Was Bonnard also Noantri? Thomas couldn’t tell, though he knew Livia could. If he was, Thomas didn’t need to equivocate; but if he was, why had Livia been so curt? “She used to be a nurse,” Thomas added. “Maybe she just wanted privacy to look at his injuries.”

  “And that trip to the cellar?”

  Thomas, a second late, shook his head, as though he didn’t know. He did. He’d seen a bottle’s shape outlined in Livia’s purse when she returned. The idea of what was in it, even with his knowledge of and respect for the Noantri people, made him a little queasy.

  Bonnard’s sharp black eyes with their golden rings held Thomas and Thomas knew the man didn’t believe him. Bonnard didn’t speak. He turned his back and, using his good hand, ran water into a moka pot and set it on the stove. He reached for the coffee canister.

  “I’ll do that,” Thomas said, taking it and twisting off the top. “Sit down. You look like you could use some rest.”

  “I’m fine.” Bonnard, who did not look fine, took the open canister from Thomas and spooned coffee into the pot. Thomas shrugged and sat gingerly in a chair that looked antique but turned out to be surprisingly sturdy. Well, why not? Just one more surprise in a surprising evening. This sort of thing—some inexplicable occurrence that Livia nevertheless seemed to have a handle on—had happened pell-mell in Rome, but now Thomas had resumed his quiet scholarly life and he’d thought all that was behind him.

  He did know, though, that it would be a waste of intellectual energy to try to puzzle out what was going on. Sooner or later, the two Noantri would tell him, or they wouldn’t. They were of necessity a guarded people, and he had already been allowed access to more of their secrets than most Unchanged would ever know. It would be presumptuous to expect to be brought into every confidence.

  Still, his curiosity, at once a useful tool and a hazard of his scholar’s mind, was burning.

  For something to occupy himself, he examined the room. Botanical prints added color to the white-glazed walls, and pots and pans showing evidence of serious use hung beside the stove. Thomas watched Bonnard, a tall, broad-shouldered man whose graceful movements radiated a tight-coiled strength, like a spring—or an animal ready to spring. Bonnard seemed to know his way around this room. Thomas wondered how long he and Spencer had been together.

  Bonnard turned to face him. “Abenaki,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your eyes were drilling holes in my back. Usually that means someone’s trying to figure out whether I’m an Indian. Abenaki tribe. Upstate New York. You?”

  “I—I’m not—” Thomas caught on and grinned. “Oh. I see. Jesuit. Society of Jesus. From Boston, myself.”

  Bonnard nodded. “Jesuits were good to us. I was baptized by a Jesuit. You came to convert the savages, like all the missionaries, but a lot of you took on our ways, and you brought us a Jesus we could use. We called you ‘Blackrobes.’”

  “To the extent that that’s true, I’m grateful.”

  Bonnard took two porcelain mugs from a cabinet. “You take milk?” Thomas admitted he did and Bonnard retrieved a glass bottle from the refrigerator. He poured the coffee and sat.

  Thomas said, “Maybe Livia should have a look at your shoulder, too.”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “You can’t dress your own wound, even so.”

  Bonnard didn’t answer and retreated into silence, drinking coffee. Something was obviously worrying him. Spencer’s condition? The priest in Thomas wanted to offer reassurance—the one thing he did know was that Spencer George, being Noantri, would make a complete recovery—but this was complicated ground.

  “I think he’ll be all right,” he ventured. “He’s very strong.”

  Bonnard snapped his head up. His eyes showed confusion at first. Then he relaxed. “Spencer? Yes.”

  Something occurred to Thomas. “Did you call the police? About the mugging?”

  “No, or an ambulance, either. He wouldn’t let me. Just told me to bring him back here.”

  “But that’s a dangerous man, whoever did this. Violent. He needs to be stopped.”

  Bonnard nodded slowly. “Oh, yes, he’s dangerous.”

  “Then why . . .” Thomas let the question trail off. Of course. Calling attention to himself and especially in the face of injury would be the last thing Spencer George would want. Thomas had once seen Spencer’s Noantri body react to a serious wound, had watched it begin to heal itself in seconds. That was something you wouldn’t want a doctor to see.

  Even a doctor you were close to.

  Thomas and Bonnard regarded each other wordlessly. As though reaching a decision, Bonnard put his coffee down. “All right. If she’s an old friend and a nurse, he’s in good hands. I wanted to talk to him, but I’d better go. I’m sorry we didn’t meet under better circumstances, Father.” He stood.

  That wasn’t what Thomas had been expecting. “Wait, you’re leaving? He won’t—”

  “No, he won’t, which is why I’m not saying goodbye. Tell him I hope—”

  The kitchen door opened. “Gentlemen.” Livia stood in the doorway. “I apologize if I seemed rude. It couldn’t be helped. Will you please join us?”

  Bonnard said to Thomas, “Well. I guess I’ll get to say goodbye after all.”

  Livia threw Thomas a questioning glance. Thomas rose and the three made their way back across the hall.

  14

  Ah.” Spencer watched the group enter the room where he now sat comfortably on the sofa, dressed and shod, a snifter at his elbow. “Please, everyone, have a seat. Michael, Father Kelly, would either of you care for a brandy?”

  Both the priest and Michael stopped and stared. Really, thought Spencer, Thomas Kelly, who’d been all but initiated as a Noantri—would have been, if he’d requested it—should have known better. Spencer supposed that understanding something was possible and seeing it happen were two different things, but the priest had seen Noantri healing on a smaller scale the day Spencer met him, and he had no business standing in the doorway with his mouth open.

  Michael, on the other hand, had a right to his amazement.

  Not that anyone who didn’t know him as well as Spencer had come to, and didn’t have, in addition, Spencer’s Noantri ability to sense changes in body temperature, adrenaline level, and heartbeat, would have been able to read Michael’s reaction. Michael’s people had a reputation for stoicism. To Spencer’s mind that was, like any stereotype, rooted in erroneous expectation: in this case, that the outward expression of emotion was identical across cultures. However, it couldn’t be argued that Michael was doing an admirable job of keeping his face blank.

  Thomas Kelly bestirred himself and sat, as invited. Livia also moved into the room, poured two more brandies, and took a seat on the sofa. Michael, though, stayed standing. He stared and finally shook his head. “Spencer. You look much better. I’m glad. But I have to go.”

  “If you’re in pain, Livia is quite handy with things medical.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I doubt that, but on the other hand, equally implausibly, I am. Michael, please, I’d like you to stay for a bit. I’m sure you’ll find the topic of discussion interesting.”

  “No. I’m sorry, but—”

  “It concerns that wolf.”

  Michael’s eyes widened. Spencer was sure that even Thomas Kelly, with his Unchanged senses, could tell Michael’s surprise was feigned. “In the park? That was a dog. A husky, or some kind of—”

  “It certainly was not. It was a wolf, you spoke to it in some ancient language—no doubt the words of your people—and what’s more, it understood you.” Michael didn’t react, so Spencer added, “Though it didn’t seem disposed to agree with your remarks. It snarled and
snapped and returned its attention to the task of tearing off my head. At which point, Michael, you uttered some loud imprecation and became a wolf yourself. Now please, sit down.”

  15

  Livia studied Michael Bonnard, waiting for his reaction to Spencer’s words. If he chose to turn and walk out the door there would be nothing she or Spencer could do. Or would try to do.

  The monumental implications of what Spencer had seen—that the Noantri and the Unchanged were perhaps not the only categories in the human typology—had long been whispered in both Noantri and Unchanged circles. But so had, among the Unchanged, the notions that the Noantri did not appear in mirrors and could fly. The Noantri found these false characterizations useful as diversions and as shields. Revelation of the truth had proved, over and over through the centuries, to be terrifyingly dangerous.

  If Michael Bonnard had the power of what could only be called shapeshifting, he also had the right to reveal or conceal that power.

  He didn’t leave. But he didn’t sit, even though from his drawn face and set jaw she suspected he really ought to. Nor did he agree with Spencer’s account. “You were delirious,” he said. “You’d lost a lot of blood. The dog—”

  “Please, stop,” Spencer interrupted. “As you say, I had lost a lot of blood, and with it much physical strength. I was not, however, in any way intellectually impaired. I am now well on my way to the complete restoration of my health, which will be fully accomplished, no doubt, by morning.” He pulled at the neck of his sweater to show his scars, now almost completely healed. “As has happened to me on other occasions of bodily harm. To one of which Father Kelly was a witness.”

  Bonnard turned to Thomas. The priest was white as a sheet, brandy notwithstanding, but he managed to nod.

  “Michael,” Spencer continued. “I saw you wrestle with the wolf. Two wolves, contending together. I also saw this: when the other ran off, you—wolf-you—started after it, but quickly returned, to stare down at me. At that point, to my eyes, you ever so briefly lost definition just as you had in your first transformation. Then you were back, Dr. Michael Bonnard, a man of whom I’ve grown quite fond, and you ministered to my wounds. Which you could not have failed to notice were already healing. I myself could not help noticing your valor in leading the wolf away from me as soon as it showed itself, nor the effort it cost you to overcome it. Not the least part of that effort was your clear desire to vanquish that wolf without hurting it, although for its part it appeared ready to kill both you and me. That wolf is the cause of some distress for you. I extend my sympathy, but more than that, Livia and I have . . . a number of unusual gifts, shall we say. The Laws of our people dictate that we not reveal ourselves thus, but we both believe this is a situation extraordinary enough that we are willing to contravene those Laws. If we may be allowed to put ourselves at your disposal? Whatever your troubles, you may find us surprisingly helpful.”