Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  And what the hell was going on here, now? Charlotte had a guess. Lane was a wannabe, one of those collectors who amassed Indian stuff because it was as close as he could get. Stealing this mask—especially if Lane knew the priest had died—had soaked it in bad juju and it had to be cleansed. Some bogus chanting and drumming around a fire under a full moon and it would be good to go.

  So she had her theory and it was sound, she was inside, and her partner was about to let her back up in the front gate. She was a few steps away from a dynamite collar. Why was she so pissed off?

  Because when you want a cleansing chant by a fire, who better to sing it than a long-haired Abenaki just down from the rez? Petersen and Klein hadn’t described anyone like Michael Bonnard, but a big guy in braids and a leather jacket sounded like Tahkwehso all over. Which meant whatever his brother had done, Edward Bonnard was probably up to his medicine-bag-wearing neck in it, too.

  66

  Following Livia, Spencer swung himself down over the fence. If he hadn’t been sure of his feelings for Michael before this, he’d have found undeniable evidence in his willingness to engage in absurd derring-do on two successive bone-chilling February nights.

  Spencer watched Giovanni Antonio de Carbonariis, with a hard smile, jump up onto the stone base of the fence and extend a hand to Thomas Kelly. Thomas took it and Carbonariis yanked him up with such force that Thomas yelped; but the momentum hefted Thomas high enough to grab the pickets at their tops. With a scowl at Carbonariis he propelled himself over. Carbonariis did the same, and they were all inside.

  The howling wind brought the sounds of drum and chant. Spencer took the lead, choosing to follow the line of the woods that bordered the lawn. That way they could reach the fire unseen and evaluate the situation. But as he rounded the corner of the house he thrust out his hand to stop the others. Not ten yards away Michael stood, his back to Spencer, facing another tall man unlike Michael in feature but so identical in form and stance that he could only be the elusive brother.

  In the glow of the still-hidden fire Spencer could read that man’s face. If Michael’s face were as hardened with anger and determination, as Spencer imagined it must be, an epic battle was about to begin. Though neither brother appeared to move, Spencer’s Noantri senses detected an effect unfamiliar to him: both seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the chant and the drum.

  At Michael’s side a smaller man was standing. Spencer recognized him as Lou, Michael’s friend. Oh, young man, he thought, move on if you can. Michael must have been thinking the same, because at that moment, not taking his gaze from his brother, he spoke. “Lou. Go.”

  Lou looked at Michael and shook himself as if waking from a dream. He darted forward, toward the side of the house where the fire burned, but Edward Bonnard leapt to block his path. He seized Lou’s arm and with astonishing speed slammed his fist into the smaller man’s face. Lou stumbled, tried to recover, threw two punches that were ineffective. Edward pounded him again and again. Lou sank to his knees. Michael launched himself forward, knocking his brother down.

  Michael landed a punch as his brother lay on the frozen ground, but Michael was already injured and Edward was wild with a jubilant anger. He swept a backhand across Michael’s jaw. Michael was knocked off-balance and Edward threw him down. In each of the rapid-fire blows Edward rained onto his brother Spencer could see the decades of fury, abandonment, and wounded love.

  Michael’s right hand shot out and gathered Edward’s collar. He jerked to one side and with Edward off-balance, Michael rolled the other way. Edward fell but scrambled back and tackled Michael as he started to stand. Michael fell heavily onto his injured shoulder. Edward punched and pounded and now Michael had no counterattack; even his efforts to defend himself were weak.

  Spencer, cursing as he had the night before, threw himself onto Edward’s back. Wrapping an arm around Edward’s neck, he choked and wrenched until he’d pulled Edward off of Michael.

  “This time leave him to me!” Spencer shouted, and it appeared Michael had the sense to do so, because Michael lay panting and then clambered to his feet. For a moment he met Spencer’s gaze with such a depth of sorrow in his eyes that Spencer was momentarily stunned. Then Michael turned and ran toward the fire.

  As Edward struggled in Spencer’s grip, Spencer made out Carbonariis and Thomas Kelly taking off after Michael. Livia appeared beside Spencer and wrapped her arms around Edward to help subdue him.

  But to no avail. With a massive roar half of rage, half of joy, Edward twisted and thrashed and exploded to his feet with staggering power. Both Noantri were thrown to the ground. Thudding painfully onto his back, Spencer lifted his head, saw Edward throw a scornful glance at Livia, and then turn his glowing eyes to Spencer with a wild and hungry snarl.

  67

  No. No!

  Edward fought the burning ice inside him. He would choose. He’d always chosen. He would Shift tonight only if necessary. For their work. For this dream he’d carried all his life, this dream he shared with Abornazine. They were so close now, and he was in control. In control.

  The chant, the drum—no, he wouldn’t hear them.

  His blood pulsed with them.

  No.

  His anger, his fathomless rage, always the trigger he used—no.

  He tried to step away. He had to get back to the fire. Abornazine would need him.

  But the scent of the man on the ground, the man whose blood he’d tasted yesterday, nearly drove him mad.

  No!

  The man had landed on his back, dazed. He stared up at Edward, and in the man’s eyes, something changed. With a small smile, he started to stand. The smile became a grin as he waved the woman back.

  Using all his strength, Edward took two steps, three steps, back, toward Abornazine, toward the fire. The man kept walking slowly toward him, as though he understood. As though he knew. Edward couldn’t take his eyes off of him as he shrugged out of his coat. The shirt under it was soaked with sweat, and as he stepped closer the wind brought his scent to Edward so powerfully that Edward felt the freezing fire sear his blood.

  No. No.

  No!

  But he had lost. His limbs sizzled, his breath came fast and shallow. Colors faded, sounds sharpened. His craving to devour overwhelmed and conquered. His dream, his friend, everything deserted him. Nothing remained but the desperate need to finish this kill.

  He gathered himself. He Shifted. And he sprang.

  The man crashed to the ground and Edward slammed a massive paw onto his chest to hold him, but he didn’t struggle, just grinned into Edward’s eyes. Standing over him, jaws spread, Edward searched his face for fear, searched his scent for terror, found none. Edward saluted his courage and bent toward his throat.

  And heard two loud explosive roars, and felt a searing pain.

  68

  Charlotte stood dumbfounded, rooted. Her ears rang with the sound of gunshots. What had she seen? What had happened?

  In front of her, Framingham bent over the fallen form with his hands still ready on his weapon. “What the hell?” he kept saying. “What the hell? It’s a wolf. It’s a goddamn wolf. What the hell? This freak kept a goddamn wolf?”

  “Shut up!” she shouted, and that stopped him. He’d arrived just after she had, and he hadn’t seen, then. Had she, really? Two men, one of them Michael Bonnard, fighting on the ground near the inert form of a smaller man. Bonnard leaping up, running toward the fire while Spencer George and Livia Pietro tried to hold the other fighter. Two more—those priests, Kelly and Carbonariis—taking off after Bonnard. Charlotte should have followed but the other fighter bellowed and jumped up and it was Tahkwehso. Charlotte’s heart stopped, and when it started again she couldn’t move. Her blood seemed to pulse with the drum as Spencer George rose and walked slowly toward Tahkwehso and oh my God, oh my God. It couldn’t be. Couldn’t be. But the voice of Uncle James and
the voice of her grandmother and other voices, forgotten or never heard before, whispered and spoke and echoed within her and they all said the same: It is. What you saw, you saw. Some of the stories are legends, or lessons. But others are memories. As the voices spoke her spine and fingertips began to tingle and colors grew more vivid. Charlotte felt what she’d so often felt before, and she knew it was true. She had seen a shapeshifter. She’d seen Tahkwehso, seen Edward Bonnard, turn into a wolf.

  The wolf, now, lay nearly motionless at her feet. Framingham’s bullets had knocked him off of his prey and he’d crashed to the hard earth. His flank rose and fell and she could see weak puffs of breath. Blood steamed as it flowed from under him. Charlotte knelt and reached to stroke the soft silver of his head. He shuddered, and then the breath stopped, and he died.

  69

  Had he heard gunshots? Thomas didn’t know. His heart lurched. Livia! But no, she’d be all right, and so would Spencer. But here, at the fire, what was happening here? Michael Bonnard, about to step over the outer ring of logs, had been seized by Carbonariis. The two men argued, in Mohawk, and not long: Michael threw off the priest’s arm and crossed the outer ring. His strength seemed to be failing, though. Pushing forward as if through a headwind, he walked toward the man with the drum, the man who wore the wolf mask. The man danced away and chanted louder, faster. Michael’s steps hesitated. The drum’s volume grew, too, its tempo increasing. Michael stopped. In the flickering glow of the flames he sank to his knees and began to shiver. His shudders grew but there was a woman a few feet away, also kneeling, wrapped only in a blanket, who didn’t move at all. Thomas peered at her: Katherine Cochran! Could it be?

  And what should he do? What was right? Stop the Ceremony, that’s what Michael had been attempting. Then Thomas would. He jumped over the outer logs and as he did Katherine Cochran let loose a long and echoing scream. The man with the mask and drum increased volume and speed again. Thomas ran toward him but Carbonariis leapt the outer ring and reached him first. The Augustinian yanked and pulled and tore the mask from the man’s head, lifting it high above his own. The chanting and the drumming stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence Michael Bonnard slumped forward and lay unmoving on the ground. Thomas ran to him. He had a hand on Michael’s shoulder when a sound from behind made him whip his head around.

  70

  Katherine felt the moment the rhythm of her heartbeat merged with the cadence of the drum. She didn’t understand the words of the chant and she wasn’t sure the singer did, either, wasn’t sure they even carried meaning in any way she knew. The tones of the song, rising and falling, louder and softer, the changing thumping pulse—these were what rang deep within her, resonating, igniting.

  And extinguishing. The Katherine Cochran she had been for four decades began to dissipate, edges blurring, carried away on the music and the wind. She was frightened, afraid of loss; but deep within her a place was being revealed that she had never known, an endless crystalline expanse, as the clouds of who she was shredded and blew apart. Pure, clean, so cold it burned. The chanting continued, the drum picked up speed. The flames blazed higher. When she’d come from the house with the blanket tight around her, she’d shivered in the wind. Now she was still, and the wind meant something else. It pulled her, coaxed her, commanded her presence. The burning ice inside her spread. It filled her chest, seared along her limbs.

  Dimly she became aware of dark figures beyond the outer barrier. She heard voices, commonplace human voices, arguing over something that could not matter. A figure leapt into the circle and the singer moved away. The drum faltered, then took up stronger. It gladdened Katherine’s heart to hear the sound of the drum, but she didn’t need it any longer. The first figure stopped, but another came. Katherine opened her arms and heard her own voice, but it was not hers. A man approached the singer, and they struggled. The drum stopped, but no matter. She threw off her blanket and remained crouched at the fire, knowing her skin was no longer bare before the wind. Then the wind, with a howl, reached down for her, and she spread her mighty wings and answered.

  71

  Livia climbed to her feet. The woman detective, Charlotte Hamilton, was kneeling by the wolf-body of Edward Bonnard, stroking his unmoving head. Her partner, Framingham, who’d shot him, stood gaping at the inert form. What Livia had heard him say reassured her he hadn’t seen the Shift. Nor, most likely, had the two uniformed officers who’d run up behind him. Had Hamilton? Livia thought she had. What would come of that, they’d find out later.

  Spencer leapt up and took off for the fire. As Livia ran after him she heard the drumming stop. Framingham shouted. His running footsteps, and those of the other officers, pounded the earth behind her, but he didn’t shoot. Livia was grateful: she wouldn’t have wanted to have to explain away Noantri healing to police officers, one of whom had just seen a man turn into a wolf.

  Spencer reached the fire before she did. He leapt over the outer ring of logs and knelt beside Michael, who lay unmoving. Livia felt a stab of fear before her ears picked up Michael’s breathing, faint but regular. Spencer slipped his arm around Michael’s shoulders and helped him to sit, then pulled him close. He whispered to Michael words Livia could not make out, nor, she knew, was she intended to.

  Framingham and the two officers ran up, guns drawn. Hamilton followed, not far behind, looking dazed. The four of them surrounded the group at the fire. Livia took inventory. Sitting with his back to the waning flames, a silver-and-turquoise-draped man, his hair in long gray braids. She hadn’t met Peter van Vliet when they’d gone up to his estate but who else could this be? He appeared exhausted and was leaning on a large drum. Just stumbling into the circle, bleeding from his nose, his right eye swollen, was the Asian-featured man whom Michael had tried to protect from Edward. Outside the outer ring Bradford Lane and the indomitable Hilda sat on chairs. Lane was leaning forward, his face shining with excitement. Hilda spoke to him rapidly but calmly, as though engaged in a simultaneous translation. Beyond Michael and Spencer a blanket lay discarded on the ground.

  Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Carbonariis. And if there had ever been an Ohtahyohnee mask here, it was gone, too.

  72

  Thomas ran down the hill toward the river. He fought his way through the trees and brush. What he’d seen by the fire was seared into his mind.

  The sound he’d heard, an odd, inhuman cry, had come from Katherine Cochran. She’d shuddered and seemed for a moment to vanish. Solid once more, she’d thrown off the blanket—but the form under it was no longer a woman. As Thomas stood openmouthed, a giant eagle spread its wings and rose into the inky sky.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the huge bird. It turned, swooped, circled. It fought the wind, then rode it, cutting back and forth above. Its screech sliced the night. Higher and higher it swept, until it was small, carried on the wind. Thomas’s heart leapt as the bird spiraled up.

  But as he watched he saw it falter. It turned, wheeled, seemed unable to find its way. Its massive wings beat in the emptiness; then they stopped. For a moment the eagle hung motionless against the stars. Then it tumbled out of the sky.

  Thomas ran now, judging distance, time, led by hope alone. He reached the railroad tracks and sprinted across them to a stony clearing between the track bed and the water. A pale shape lay on the dark ground. He bent over it. Not an eagle. A woman again. Naked, broken, still. The wind gusted, pushing, tugging, asking and demanding, but Katherine Cochran, in the end, was bound to the earth.

  73

  Framingham didn’t know what the hell was wrong with Charlotte. Was it possible she’d been even more freaked out by the wolf than he had? Jesus, the thing almost made him piss his pants, but it was dead now and they had business to do. They were carrying warrants for two of the seven people in front of them and two more warrants for people who weren’t there, meaning somebody’d better start looking for them.

  He was used to Charlotte
taking charge and he waited another thirty seconds because nobody seemed to be going anyplace, but when Charlotte stayed silent he began to give orders. He told everyone to stay where they were, which might have been redundant, and had Petersen call for an ambulance and more backup.

  “More backup?” Petersen repeated, looking around warily, as though for danger he hadn’t noticed. “Why?”

  “We need the manpower and the transport,” Charlotte broke in hoarsely, holstering her weapon and stepping up beside him. “We’re taking everyone in. Matt, get Ostrander and Sun down here, too.”

  “Welcome back,” Framingham said.

  “Where the hell are the priests?”

  “Were they here?”

  “If you’d moved faster you’d have seen them. They were both over there and they ran in this direction. Where are they? And where’s the woman, and where’s the mask?”

  “Excuse me, Detectives.” A woman walked toward them. Livia Pietro, the Italian art historian they’d met at Sotheby’s. Well, if Thomas Kelly, who’d also been at Sotheby’s that night, was tangled up with Spencer George, and George with Michael Bonnard—and the two of them certainly looked tangled up right now—he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised to find Pietro here, too. “It’s cold out here,” Pietro said. “Perhaps some of these people should be indoors?”

  Charlotte looked at Pietro, then fixed on the two figures on chairs. “Are you Bradford Lane?”

  “If it’s me you’re shouting at, young woman, I certainly am. Who exactly are you?”

  “Charlotte Hamilton, detective, NYPD.”

  Framingham watched the coat-swaddled old man in the thick dark glasses. The heavy woman beside him kept up a constant stream of whispers even as Charlotte spoke. Description, Framingham realized. The old man could hear the dialogue; she was setting the scene.